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“. . . she, out of her poverty, put in everything – all she had to live on.”  – Mark 12:44 

According to my uncle, Glenn Terrell, the youngest among my mother’s siblings, when he was leaving for college (thanks to an ROTC scholarship) in the late 1930’s his father, my maternal grandfather, took out his wallet and handed him twenty-five dollars.  It was, as my uncle described it, “all he had.”  And as my grandparents were far from being well off, plus it being the Great Depression, I’m pretty sure that twenty-five dollars was no mere pocket change, but most likely literally every penny he had to his name.

Now I must confess to being a bit of a tight-wad, and Tee would be quick to admit the same about herself.  So, between the two of us we have always been pretty frugal about our finances.  That is not to say we have denied ourselves in terms of living a comfortable lifestyle, nor have we held back in providing for our children.  And in terms of philanthropy, we have mostly followed the principle of tithing, that is giving ten percent of our income.  Generous folks, so we would like to think . . . except, every time I get a little smug about that, my uncle’s story about my grandfather resurfaces, reminding me that there is a huge gap between giving ten percent and everything you have.

I love the story where Jesus is hanging out with his disciples near the entrance to the temple.  They’re watching people file in and drop their donations into the collection basket, and some of them have written some big checks.  About that time Jesus points toward a poor widow waiting her turn to enter.  “Watch this,” I can imagine him whispering to his disciples, as she takes two tiny copper coins from her purse and deposits them in the treasury basket.  “I tell you the truth,” he says, “this poor widow has put more into the treasury than all the others.  They all gave out of their wealth; but she, out of her poverty, put in everything – all she had to live on.” 

There are probably a thousand lessons to be learned from this little incident, but one that jumps out at me is how it redefines generosity from the substance of the gift to love in the heart of the giver.  And I would like to think – although I have no way of knowing for sure – that my grandfather was demonstrating exactly that when he gave away his last dime so his youngest child might get a decent start in life.  “For where your treasure is, there your heart is also.” (Luke 12:34)

“Let us not become weary in doing good . . .”  – Galatians 6:9 

Sometimes we can’t see the trees for the forest.  Or is it, we can’t see the forest for the trees?  Both, actually; for while at times we get so focused on individual trees that we lose sight of the big picture of what is going on – the “forest,” that is.  Other times, though, we stare at the forest and fail to recognize those gorgeous individual trees that without them there would be no forest.  Unfortunately, most of the in-your-face media we are subjected to these days draws our attention to the forest, which appears to be on fire with all the political and cultural divides and nations on the brink of war.  Get too absorbed in that, as most of us do, and we are apt to overlook those magnificent trees.

I became keenly aware of this – the trees, that is – after a bicycle accident this past week landed me in the hospital for two very long days and nights.  Credit that I am now on the mend with no long-term damage goes not to some dark forest where one gets lost, rather those individual magnificent trees who one after another came to my rescue, aid and comfort, medical care, and most importantly love, support, and prayers.  How often, I was reminded, we place our hope in the likes of politicians and world leaders, systems and policies – the forests – when our real hope is simply in one person helping another.

Karla, with a K she said when she introduced herself, a stranger, was the first to witness my accident and render aid.  I will never forget her.  Tee, of course, for her selflessness and constant care.  The amazing medical staff, doctors, nurses, and other helpers at Baylor Hospital McKinney.  All the many concerned neighbors, friends, and family members calling, texting, dropping by to offer prayers and support.  Dear friends bringing us dinner.  And then there was Ronaldo, the produce guy at our local grocery where Tee had stopped to pick up a few items.  When Ronaldo saw her alone he asked, “Where your husband?” in his broken Latino accent.  “He’s in the hospital,” she responded.  Startled at first, then dropping everything Ronaldo ran and threw his arms around her, as if Jesus himself was right there in the produce department at Kroger!  A magnificent tree!

Big, magnificent trees, each one of them.  The forest can be a dark scary place, but when we stop and look up at a single tree, that’s when we can see the light shining through.  So, may we never, ever “become weary in doing good,” for that is where our real hope lies.

“You intend to harm me, but God intended it for good . . .”  – Genesis 50:20 

Those of us who remember the late Dizzy Gillespie, one of the greatest jazz musicians and trumpeters of the twentieth century, will probably associate him with his two distinctive trademarks, one being the way his cheeks puffed out like two balloons when he was playing his horn.  The other, and my favorite, was his oddly shaped trumpet with its 45-degree up-tilted bell.  It was not until I once read an article about him that I learned the origin of his bent trumpet.  “A bandmate fell on his horn, bending it” according to the article, “and Gillespie found that he liked the sound projection.  From then on, each of his trumpets was custom-made with an up-tilted bell.”

Now when I read about that, the first thing to cross my mind was that had it been me I would have been furious with the clumsy musician for damaging the instrument of my livelihood, accident or not.  Apparently not so with Dizzy Gillespie, who instead discovered a whole new unique sound from the bent trumpet, which eventually became his trademark.  But then it occurred to me, isn’t that the nature of jazz as a musical artform?  For unlike rote musical scores intended to be performed exactly as written, jazz is improvisational, being modified, or even made up as it is played.  So, where a wrong note or missed beat in a written score would be considered a blunder, for a jazz musician it may actually be transformational into a whole new sound – exactly like Dizzy Gillespie’s bent trumpet.

And that got me thinking about God, and how He must be the consummate jazz musician, improvising as we humans clumsily blunder through life, bending creation and one another into all sorts of misshapen forms, sometimes accidentally and other times intentionally.  Yet, regardless how bad we bend things out of shape, God finds ways to improvise and redeem our blunders, to transform wrong notes and missed beats into new sounds, damaged instruments into distinctive trademarks.  Look, for example, at the redemptive work of Alcoholics Anonymous, based on the concept of one addict helping another addict find sobriety.  Such are the “grace notes” God includes in the music of life.

“But I tell you the truth:  It is for your own good that I am going away.”  – John 16:7 

“You’re on your own.”  Have you ever heard those words?  Of course, we all have.  I’m reminded of Sammy, the crusty old foreman in the metal shop where I worked during college.   My first day on the job Sammy took me around to the various machines and taught me how to operate each one.  Only, he didn’t exactly teach, he simply demonstrated the procedure – once! – then sort of muttered as he walked away, “you’re on your own.”  After several blunders I finally figured it out, but it surely would have been easier if Sammy had hung around a little longer before leaving me on my own.

One of the great “you’re on your own” stories involved the prophet Elijah who had taken on Elisha as his apprentice.  “When the Lord was about to take Elijah up to heaven in a whirlwind,” scripture says, “Elijah and Elisha were on their way from Gilgal.  Elijah said to Elisha, ‘Stay here; the Lord has sent me to Bethel.’  But Elisha said, ‘As surely as the Lord lives and as you live, I will not leave you.’  So they went down to Bethel.”  Elijah tried the same trick to leave Elisha “on his own” two other times – once in Jericho and another at the river Jordan – but Elisha cleverly clung to his mentor as long as he could until being promised a double portion of Elijah’s spirit; whereupon a chariot of fire separated them and Elijah was swept away to heaven in a whirlwind.  After that, Elisha was left “on his own” for sure.  (Source:  2 Kings 2)

It’s the story of all our lives where our various teachers and mentors – parents, grandparents, teachers, coaches, pastors, bosses – for whom we served as apprentices go away, leaving us on our own.  Yet, as Elisha did with Elijah we try to cling to them as long as we can, not wanting to give up the comfort and safety of their wisdom.

It is only natural that we cling to our teachers and mentors as long as we can, but the time will inevitably come when they are no longer available to lead, guide and advise us.  “But I tell you the truth:  It is for your own good that I am going away,” Jesus said to his disciples as he prepared them to be on their own.  In the same way, Sammy prepared me to operate those machines on my own.  So, we must in turn teach and mentor the next generations in the proper ways – until that moment arrives when we must say to them, just as old Sammy did with me, “you’re on your own.”

“Watch yourselves closely so that you do not forget the things your eyes have seen or let them slip from your heart as long as you live.”  – Deuteronomy 4:9 

Breakfast is quite a ritual at our house.  It hasn’t always been that way, like when we were raising kids trying to get them off to school, with me running out the door before sunrise headed to the office.  Breakfast back then was chaos at best, a catch-as-catch-can affair.  No longer!  In these later years Tee and I have fallen into a routine with breakfast, a ritual, a leisurely time with newspapers (the old-fashioned paper version) spread out on the table, mugs of fresh coffee sitting in front of us, and a healthy menu that never varies consisting of fresh cup-up fruit, yogurt, an orange, oatmeal or cream-of-wheat for me, and granola for Tee.  Same ritual every day.

The one thing I can say about this little daily ritual is that it has done wonders for our short-term memories.  No, I don’t mean to imply that a diet of fruit, yogurt, and oatmeal is some sort of magic formula for preventing dementia; rather, what I mean is that because of the importance of breakfast as a ritual, whenever we go to the store we seldom forget to buy bananas.  But that is what rituals, routines, and other good habits are supposed to do, isn’t it?  They help us remember.  We celebrate birthdays to remind us of the importance of that person’s life.  We celebrate July 4^th to remind us of our nation’s independence and the freedoms we have.  We celebrate Memorial Day to remember those who sacrificed their lives to maintain that freedom and independence.

Moses wanted to make sure the Israelites did not forget all God had done in leading them out of Egyptian bondage.  “Watch yourselves closely,” he instructed, “so that you do not forget the things your eyes have seen or let them slip from your heart as long as you live.”  The Passover has been celebrated every year since Moses led his people out of Egypt so that no one would ever forget, and so their children would also learn and never forget, about God’s great miracles – an annual ritual.

“There are two ways of remembering,” says Frederick Buechner.  “One is to make an excursion from the living present back into the dead past. . . The other way is to summon the dead past into the living present.”  And it is the latter form of remembering for which we create rituals, so that we may never let those memories slip from our hearts.