“THE MAN IN THE TRENCH COAT”

I Corinthians 13:13: “But the greatest of these is love!”

Have you ever seen a man in a trench coat with six legs? A nurse at a VA hospital did.

It all started as a young man. He was a carpenter at heart, but a laborer by trade. His job? Grinding brake linings in an auto parts manufacturing plant. Not exactly his passion, but it brought in the bread and fed the babies. While his hands were grinding asbestos lined parts, his mind was envisioning finely-crafted cabinets of cherry, oak, ash and maple. He was a hardwood connoisseur. Pine was for construction; hardwoods were for custom cabinets, his passion.

Years later he lived his dream: he built kitchens. Not just any kitchens, custom kitchens. Why, one kitchen was so nice a photo of it made it into a national magazine. He was good! Real good. Don’t check the archives, you won’t find him there. He wasn’t famous, just a man with a knack for wood and a fondness for fine furnishings.

For years he was just like you and me. Got up early, read the paper and his Bible. Dressed in those blue work pants and shirt that he bought at Sears, then filled his thermos full of black coffee and out the door he went. Until one day he got the flu. Nothing unusual, we all get the flu. He coughed, sometimes heavy and hurtful. But it was just the flu.

He kept working. That’s what people from his generation did. Sickness on a grand scale was never in his thinking. He tried hot tea, hot soup, expectorants and all the normal things that we fellow sufferers have downed in our times of influenza. One day it had gone on long enough. Time to see a doctor, this cold just wasn’t taking flight. “Breath in, breath out,” the doctor said. “Your lungs are a little congested. We’ll take an X-ray.” Within days a cough became cancer--asbestosis. Asbestos from grinding brake linings had found it’s way to his lungs, and now he had a fatal disease.

Not much changed for a while. The cough hung on and became gradually worse, yet many a kitchen was still touched by the hands of this master carpenter. Sadly, there was no cure. Eventually, this dread disease would slowly but surely take his life. The concluding scene was on the third floor of the Veteran’s Hospital. A ward, not a room.

It was in the final days that the man in the trench coat stopped to see the finest craftsman he had ever known. The clerk at the desk stopped him and said: “Where are you going?” “To the third floor to visit,” came the response. “No children!” came the curt reply. The visitor smiled, leaned over and whispered, “It’s their grandpa. He’s real sick. I mean real sick (he didn’t want to use the die word). What do ya’ think? Can we get ‘em in?”

“If you can get them there without anyone seeing them, have at it,” the clerk responded.

Their daddy looked down at the two pre-schoolers and said: “You guys each grab a leg. Every time I step, you step.” He then wrapped the coat around them and headed for the elevator. A man in a trench coat with six legs. They boarded what they hoped would be an express to the third floor. The little ones were giggling and fidgeting and making far too much noise, but they were all alone. It was O.K.. To the dismay of the father, at the second floor the elevator stopped, the door opened slowly, and in came the meanest looking nurse in all of nursedom. She looked at the twenty-something man (whose heart began to pound like a low-rider), gazed down at his legs and said, “Never seen a man with six legs before. Must be real hard keeping them all going in the same direction.” Then she smiled. “Where you going, sir?” she asked. “Third floor,” the nervous father responded. “That’s where I’m going,” came her response. Just then a girlish giggle came from under the coat. The nurse just smiled and asked, “Who you going to see?” “Ah, Ed, ah, Ed Lobley,” the father chortled. “I’ll take you right to him,” the now-not-so-mean looking nurse replied.

Off they went, past nurses stations and custodians, who were all snickering at the young father with six legs. Into the ward they shuffled. The over coat was opened and out popped a blonde boy and a brunette girl. “Hi Grandpa!” they giggled.

“How did you guys get in here?” He asked through gasps for air. “Children aren’t allowed on this floor.” They told him the whole story, and then said something that made his thin face flinch to hold back tears. “We snuck up under Dad’s coat because we love you, and we wanted to see you!”

A few days later, my father-in-law, one of the finest finish men the carpenter’s world has ever known succumbed to cancer. That six-legged journey was the last time my children got to be tickled and teased by Grandpa. All because they loved him.

What journey do you need to make to show your love? It might just be a trip down the hall to a child’s bedroom to kiss a sleeping cheek. Or maybe a stroll to the lady loading the dishwasher to share a hug and a thank you. It might cost you a plane ticket, a bus ticket, three hours in a car, or it may only necessitate a little sneak to the third floor.

By the way, if you see a man in a trench coat with six legs, don’t be concerned. It’s just some dad with his kid’s going to the third floor to visit Grandpa!

“SURVIVING THE FAMILY CALAMITY”

Genesis 7:6 “Noah was six hundred years old when the flood waters came on the earth. Noah and his sons and his wife and his sons’ wives entered the ark to escape the waters of the flood.”

Sometimes I ought to just leave those leadership journals sitting on the shelf! One day after reading one, I came home from my office and told my wife that the latest copy of “Preacher Today” said that every dad that was worth his salt should take his family on a camping trip. Of course my mind went immediately to that lot down the highway that rented motor homes with all the amenities. A veritable house on wheels. But the author of the article said “this family adventure” needs to be one where our creature comforts meet the rustic road. Tents, firewood, S’mores and sleeping bags. This had to be the real thing. I conceded (which was a real switch, since I always said, “my idea of camping was a Holiday Inn without an indoor pool”)..

Our children were seven and five. I made the announcement, and they got pumped. Dad in a tent. Bugs, snakes, chipmunks and sleeping on the ground. A family of four in a three man tent. I didn’t even own my own sleeping bag (still don’t). I went to the basement, pulled out Brandon and Erin’s tent (a three man tent we had purchased with green stamps), gathered up blankets, fresh fire wood, cut coat hangers to cook hot dogs and marshmallows over the fire, then stuffed a cooler full of camping food. We were ready. After we had all our gear packed in the “second car” (a 1988 Pontiac T1000 compact, two doors and four seats), off to “Red Rock Mountain, Pennsylvania” we went. The kids singing songs and me asking questions. How do you set up a tent so it doesn’t blow away? Are you really allowed to have a fire outside? What if I can’t sleep? What if we don’t fit? It must have been an interesting scene, me smiling at the kids in the rear view, all the while my city slicker’s soul squirming inside my head.

How come I didn’t come home and say, “Hey, let’s set the tent up in the family room, eat popcorn from the microwave, make milkshakes and watch the ‘Brady Bunch’ on T.V.?” They would have went for it, and I would have met the standards of full-fledged fatherhood.

I am convinced to this day that although my wife was gung-ho on this whole idea on the outside, she was laughing herself to tears on the inside. “Stephen sleeping in a tent? This should be good.”

We arrived at Red Rock, paid the customary fine (I mean fee), found our site, and unpacked. The children were already feeding the live animals peanuts when it hit me, “What if it rains?” Perish the thought. God would never subject me to a punishment like that.

After four hours of stories, S’mores, snacks and a stroll through the woods, it was time to settle in.

I know they were watching. Who? You may ask. Who was watching? You know, Eddie Bauer and Mr. Coleman. The guys on the sites next to us. Grown men with families, camping in 35-foot houses on wheels. I could just hear them saying: “Honey, look. Remember when we used to do that? Boy, am I glad those days are over!” They had to be watching. A family of four sleeping in a green-stamp tent. Well, at least we were good entertainment.

Off to bed we went. Four little people, tucked in a little red tent, wrapped up in a pile of blankets that would remind you of Joseph’s coat of many colors.

We were long since settled when it hit. The thing we feared had come upon us. First the sound of a few little splattering drops hitting the side of our shelter from the storm. Within minutes, the whole sky cut loose. I held Susan close, and she said, “Don’t worry, Honey. Everything will be all right.” After about 35 minutes of torrential downpour we felt it. The family camper had sprung a leak. No, not just a leak, our green stamp shelter had become a sponge. We did all we could to fend off Mother Nature, but there was no way out. The old “tentster” just wasn’t going to cut it. We were swamped, the blankets now weighed 35 pounds a piece, and I was facing the question that every seasoned woodsman has asked himself, “What do we do now?”

At that point in my life there was only one thing that I hated more than camping and that was “giving up.” I looked over at Susan, and gathered up my two offspring. I flipped down the rear seat of the Pontiac, grabbed the dry clothes we had left in the car, made a bed in the back and told her we would sleep in the reclining buckets. This storm wasn’t going to beat us. I was determined--no motel was going to suck up our family fun.

I’m sure we looked a bit odd. Can you picture it? Bauer and Coleman next door in their Winnabago’s watching the ball game and eating marshmallow cookies, when out of the corner of their eye they see “tentman” and his family of four sleeping in a compact.

Embarrassing? Yes. Me, quit? Never. A good challenge doesn’t destroy a true woodsman.

Are you facing a family calamity? If not, don’t worry, you will. Noah did. It is obvious that his story wasn’t all that funny, but he did survive! Why? Because he was prepared and determined!

WHAT DO THESE STONES MEAN?”

Joshua 4:7 “These stones are to be a memorial to the people of Israel forever.”

Don’t ever start the Star Spangled Banner in the wrong key! Francis Scott Key would have held his ears the last time I did. On July 27^th, 1990 (the hottest day of the year), I was asked to sing the great song that honors our flag. At the end of a parade commemorating Armistice day, a crowd of several hundred gathered in the driveway of the local VFW hall where speeches were made, and I was called upon to sing the national anthem.

As the first “Oh say” passed through my lips, I knew that I was heading to notes that were an octave out of my range. By the time I arrived at “the rockets red glare,” the veins in my head were “bursting in air.” I was literally screaming to try and reach the high notes. My version sounded a lot like Alfalfa in The Little Rascals. You can only imagine how horrible I sounded and how terrible I felt. After I finished the final line I was glad to be “free” and not quite sure if I was “brave” enough to ever sing our nation’s song in public again.

I tried hard to slip into the crowd unnoticed, hoping to get to my car without crossing paths with a veteran. I just wanted to go home. What happened next renewed my hope that there were better times ahead.

As I hastily made my way to the car, an older man, well into his sixties, laid his hand on my shoulder, stopping me in my tracks. As I sheepishly looked up at the tall, gray-haired fellow, he had huge tears in his eyes. He looked down at me and said, “Reverend, I want you to know that was the best I have ever heard anyone sing the national anthem.” What could I say? He was either lying or deaf. In my ears that was the worst I had ever heard anyone sing that powerful song. He said one more thing that remains etched in the granite of my soul. “I fought in the Korean War, and saw many of my fellow soldiers die. Every time I hear those words and see that flag, I cry like a child. You warmed my heart today. Thanks for taking your time and coming to our parade. You sure are a great singer.”

I thanked him, knowing full well that his exposure to great singers was severely limited. As I rode home, I made a pact that I would turn down any future opportunity to do acappella projects. I kept that promise for several years.

It wasn’t until the winter of 1993 that I sang the national anthem again in public. I was standing in the middle of a wrestling mat preparing to officiate a high school wrestling match. The athletic director asked the crowd to rise and honor our country. He pressed the button to play a Whitney Houston C.D., and it just wouldn’t play. He pressed it again and still nothing. You could hear the ripple of nervous laughter roll through the crowd as he said, “Well, I’m not going to sing it. I guess we’ll just have to go without it tonight.”

I had a flashback to that driveway and the encounter with a my tone-deaf friend. My heart said, “You sing it.” Without hesitation I looked at the school official and said, “May I have the microphone? I’ll sing it.” He looked at me and said, “Have at it.” I let it rip. Right key. Right place. Right time. I don’t know whether it was for my reffing or my singing, but from that night on I officiated at least one home match at that school every season.

The sincere words of a tall, gray-haired veteran helped me realize that notes weren’t the only thing that moves a heart. It’s the memories. I gained a new appreciation for those who served this nation, especially the ones who gave their lives. I am forever grateful for the tenderhearted soldier who took his time to mend my mistake and give patriotism a seat in my soul. He helped me understand the statement of the ancients that said, “Tell the next generation what these stones mean.”

“POOLING PENNIES FOR PERFUME”

Proverbs 31:8 “Her children arise and call her blessed….”

Affordability and diversity. They were the determining factors in Mother’s Day gifts. However, the range in both categories were “slim and two.” In a family of nine children the weekly allowance consisted of three squares and a roof over our heads. Outlays of cash were few and far between!

When Mother’s Day arrived, the common procedure was a pooling of pennies and a request for Mom to drop us off at the local shopping center. For the next few hours we walked the sidewalks hoping to outdo last year’s purchase. After treks through jewelry stores, Penny’s, and Sears, inevitably, we wound up at Old Faithful--Woolworth’s.

The whole brood would wander the aisles hoping to stumble upon a treasure for less than five bucks, but each year the consensus would steer us back to the front counter for another gaze at our old standby. Our wallet and the front counter had two things in common, Prince Machiavelli or Evening In Paris. The toughest decision on those warm Saturdays was which incredible fragrance we would bless our mother with tomorrow.

We made our purchase right before Mom picked us up at the back entrance to Sears. As we hid our prize all the way home, we’d play twenty questions to see if she could guess what we had come up with. Although I think she knew all along that it was one of the two affordable fragrances we gave her every year, she never once said either of their names. She kept the surprise alive.

When we arrived home, we scurried to find wrapping paper (sometimes it was yesterday’s newspaper), wrapped it as best we could, then hid the purple bottle somewhere that Mom would never look.

The next morning before church, out came the gift and up went Mother’s praise. She splashed a little on, and out the door we flew. The whole way there we could smell Mom’s new fragrance and feel the joy of giving from a poor man’s wallet.

I don’t think they make those fragrances any longer, but I’m sure if they did, I would recognize them. That aroma would bring back warm visions of Mom’s loving acts. Homemade spaghetti and meatballs, chicken pot pie, warm hugs and encouraging words. You may not believe this, but the thought of Evening In Paris still makes me think of how much Mom loved me and the ways she proved it.

At 72 pounds in seventh grade, I probably wasn’t much of a threat to the competition. But in my mother’s eyes, I was an athlete. I didn’t look like one. My wrestling uniform was three sizes too big. The straps were gathered at my shoulders and held tight with athletic tape. We couldn’t afford real wrestling shoes, so my P.F. Flyers were secured tightly to my feet with more athletic tape. How I looked didn’t matter to Mom. She was my biggest fan. And she never missed.

It didn’t snow often in my hometown, but the day of my first official wrestling match we got whacked with several inches. There was some question as to whether our meet would be canceled, but the coaches and officials decided to stay on schedule. I knew Mom wouldn’t be able to attend because we only had one car, and Dad was out of town.

Adorned in my mummified uniform, I joined the team in the locker room to prepare for the pre-match rituals just before it was time to run out around the mat to warm up. Every ounce of adrenaline that could be produced by a 72-pound weakling was pumping through my veins. I was the first one out the door. Running full speed, I spied Mom out of the corner of my eye sitting in the second row of the bleachers. I remember seeing her rubber see-through boots (with the little elastic eye hook that held them tight to keep out the snow) still on her feet. Mom was here! As I peered her direction to make sure she could see me, suddenly, my feet hit the curled-up edge of a wrestling mat that had been in storage all winter. I went flying, which caused the rest of the team to cascade into a helpless heap. I was so embarrassed. That was the last day I went out of the locker room first.

My first match wasn’t exactly an Olympic performance. I lost 17-2 and got turned every which way but loose. But it didn’t seem to matter to Mom. She just wiggled through three periods of me fighting off my back, and walked back home smiling proudly.

I learned something valuable that day: “Whether I won or lost, it had no effect on how much my mother loved me!”

It wasn’t a stretch for me to give all I had for a purple bottle of perfume. A snow-soaked mother made it all worthwhile.