Rivals

Jonah thought about his Biblical namesake and let loose a quiet chuckle as he watched the men approach. He mumbled to himself “This is right about the time where I get thrown overboard – and here comes the rag-tag crew that’ll do it.”


“Right on cue, I see” he announced as the men - hungry, scared and angry - closed around him in a loose but nervous circle. Jonah stood calmly in their midst, turning slowly around, looking each of them square in the eye.

“We wants t’know if yer the reason fer all this mess. Seems like we didn’t have no trouble ‘t’all ‘till you came aboard back in Lafayette.” Scum pronounced it as ‘Lay-fah-yetty’ and Jonah laughed inwardly at the man’s murderous mispronunciation of the name.

“What’s the matter, Scum? You scared about a little storm and a few angry waves?”

“T’aint scared ‘bout nut’in. We just wants t’know why we had no trouble ‘fore you came aboard – and now we gots all this trouble after yer here. Seems kinda s’picious.”

“Well, Scum, maybe it’s not me. Maybe it’s God’s anger finally catching up to you. Maybe He’s finally put you under his magic microscope and found, easily enough I might add, all of your - shall we say - character deficiencies.”

Scum scowled and said to the rest of the crew, “Sees how he’s tryin’ to mock us. I tell ya, he ain’t no good. We oughta do like we said we was gonna do. Throw him overboard; that’ll fix his smart-mouth ways. Then we won’t have no more of this trouble. Are ya’s agreein’ with me?”

Jonah glanced around the circle of men. He could see they weren’t sure what they wanted to do. Some were nodding their heads, some were looking around, and others stood with hands in their pockets looking down at their feet. He gauged that they weren’t ready to take immediate action, but didn’t know how much longer they would wait, particularly with Scum stirring their emotions.

From the wheel deck above, they heard the captain’s voice. “Well, well, well – what do we have here? Did someone forget to invite me to this little lynching party?”

Immediately Jonah knew the risk was now increased ten-fold. Scum was just a dumb sailor, easily out-witted and out-maneuvered with a few well placed words. The captain, however, was a different story. He and Jonah went way back and none of it was good. They had been childhood combatants, rivals on highly competitive sports teams, attended different Ivy-league colleges, and worked for the same highly successful legal firm. Jake had been demoted to a basement office for losing a high profile case while Jonah quickly ascended to the corner office, the one with the big windows and an even bigger view. Jake always thought that Jonah had sabotaged his case. He couldn’t handle Jonah’s success and gave some made-up reason for resigning. He took up captaining a fishing boat, something he had always dreamed of as a boy growing up on the banks of the Lake Erie.

“I see you’re in a bit of a bind, Jonah. You’ve got my boys all riled up with your high falluting talk and your demeaning ways. You haven’t changed a bit, have you? I tell you, boys, he’s been like this ever since we were young – always having to have his way, doing whatever he wanted without caring a thing about anyone else. I can see you’ve finally had enough of him.”

“You haven’t changed either, Jake - always getting somebody else to do your dirty work because you’re not man enough to handle it yourself.”

The two locked eyes, neither willing to be the first to back down.

“You don’t know what real work is, Jonah. You always preferred the bright lights of the corporate office and the sterile environment of the court room. I tell you, out here – those rules don’t apply. You’re on the high seas now and this is my turf.” By this time, Jake had descended the ladder and entered the circle surrounding Jonah. He stood right next to Scum, first mate of the Hangman’s Noose, Jake’s boat.

“Cap’n, say the word and we’ll toss this bucket o’ fish guts. Won’t be no trouble and no one’ll say a thing.” Scum scooped up a coil of rope in one hand and a scaling hook in the other. “I tell ya, boys, t’aint no good reason why we’s can’t take care o’ this little problem ourselves.”

Jake smiled wickedly. “Tell me, Jonah – what fancy court-room argument is going to get you out of this one. Looks to me like you’ve lost your case and the judge is just about to pass sentence. Got any judicious remarks for the court?”

“Well, Jake. As a matter of fact, I do have a few things to say.”

“By all means; after all, the condemned man does have a right to his last words.”

copyright Dave Pingel, 2006
Excerpted from Jonah's Whale by Dave Pingel

Thy Sting, O Death

Thy sting, O death, doth pierce my heart
and tears flow swiftly from my eyes -
when dear souls with life departed
settle in the dust to lie.

Parting is indeed sweet sorrow -
to see them on this earth no more.
How gloomy might appear the 'morrow
but bright their soul on heaven's shore.

Though mortal yet our bodies be -
of finite flesh and blood and bone -
at times, too soon, eternity
calls those we love forever home.

Bereaved, out hearts are heavy-weighted;
we long to hold them once again.
But death still reigns unberated
and the grave, all silent, is home to sin.

Yet flesh and blood do not inherit
what God has promised through His son.
For perish not the' Eternal Spirit,
O'er death and grave the battle's won.

Thy sting, O death, will cease to be;
the grave will one day hold no more.
And thanks to God Eternal be
Who's given Life through Christ, our Lord.

copyright Dave Pingel, November 1992

Not for Moses' Sake

Friday
July 5, 2002

Dear God;

I'm back again.

Fixing the human heart is a daunting task. Were I talking about the physical heart, fixing it would be a matter of hiring the right physicians and surgeons and letting them perform their tasks. But I'm not talking about the physical heart. If I were talking about the "mental" heart (your thinking, reasonings, emotions), I could employ the finest psychologists and psychiatrists. But I'm not talking about that heart either.

I'm talking about the heart as being the spirit of a man. How does one fix that heart? And not how does just anyone do that. How do I do that?

Before I can answer that last question I must first deal with another question. Is it my calling to do so? Let me answer that question so:

"You are a deliveror, a Moses. Take up your staff and deliver a lost generation!" Such are the words that have been spoken to me. Twice. Once, several years ago, they were said to me by my brother-in-law during a family meeting. Most recently they were spoken again by the principal of our school, as she poured her heart out to those of us who would be teachers to a generation of youth teetering on the brink of destruction.

Moses - the Deliveror - I've spent some time lately thinking about Moses. We all know what a great man he was. Here's something we don't think about though. God didn't call Moses to be great. He called Moses, not for the sake of Moses, but for the sake of others. So here's the first point I have about the call to fix the human heart: It's not about me, it's about them - those who have the broken hearts.

Here are some more thoughts about Moses. Moses was 80 years old and well established in his second career as a shepherd (the first career being a rejected Egyptian prince). He had a nice family; he was wealthy; he didn't have to worry about much. He was settled. He was fixed for life. All he had to do was stay put and everything would have been ok. Gee, I could say a lot of the same things. I'm well established as a police chief. I've got a great family. I'm not wealthy by American standards (though by the standards of many countries I'm rich beyond measure). I'm settled. All I have to do is stay put.

But I can't.

It must have been the same with Moses.

Perhaps during the first of those 40 years in the desert Moses was happy and content with a beautiful wife, a quiet job and no Pharahos trying to kill him. Sounds like a nice, pleasant life in rural Midian - or Kirksville. Perhaps even during the middle years Moses enjoyed the shepherd's life and the peace that comes from loving deeply and being deeply loved.

I think, though, that during those last years things began to bounce around in his soul. Things like: "I wonder how my people are; I wonder if Pharaoh is still alive; are the people still suffering so." Other things too - like: "how can I be so content in this place when my brothers and sisters are slaves; is there anything I can do or should do. Maybe I should go back and see. But then again, maybe I shouldn't. After all, they did try to kill me. But maybe I should go. But, then again, maybe I should just stay put."

I think Moses tried to stay put, tried to blot out his thoughts and concerns. But I don;t think he was successful in doing so. Somehow, those things that once contented him so were just no longer enough. I don't think he quite knew it . . . but I think God did.

Here's the second point: when the "staying put" isn't in you anymore, put the stay away.

I think Moses heard in his heart the cries of his people as they echoed painfully from the very heart of God. Perhaps Moses didn't recognize them with his "mental" heart. But I think God was stirring his spirit. The Bible says that God heard that generation of Israelites cry out in their bondage. He looked for a deliveror, one who knew of their misery but not similarly enslaved. God looked upon Moses. Today's generation of youth are likewise in bondage, crying to be delivered . . . from emptiness, from desperation, from hopelessness, from hypocracy, from pornography and abortion and lust, from divorce, from gangs, from a future with no hope.

Here's the third point: before one can be a deliveror there must first be someone needing delivery.

And when the time was right for Moses, God sent a fire.

Why fire?

Why not a desperate plea from an escaped captive? Why not a commission from a tribal war council to rise up against a tyrannical Pharoah? Why not a contingent of fellow Israelites appealing to a former prince to lead a rebellion? Why not a deep heartfelt conviction in Moses that a hero was needed and he was that hero?

That's what I would want. Wouldn't you?

So why fire? Why did God use fire to call Moses?

I'm tired. I'm going to think on that one a while.


Dave

"The God File"

(Author's note: Here is a letter from "The God File." From time to time, particularly when I'm struggling with thoughts and decisions, I write letters. The writing helps me focus. In so writing, I find a certain release and peace for which I am deeply thankful. So, if you don't mind, I'll share this one - and, from time to time, others as well.) 
 
Thursday, July 4, 2002
Independence Day

Dear God,

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about what to do with the rest of my life. I’m 45 years old, almost 46, and I’ve spent the last 24 years of my life with the Kirksville Police Department in various positions, including police officer, squad sergeant, and bureau lieutenant. These last 13 years I have served faithfully as the chief of police and I firmly believe that this has been your call upon my life. I love this city and only want to see her prosper and do well.

I continue to do my work as chief, but I find that my heart longs for something else. Even with a great relationship with my boss, solid personnel at the department, the potential for a new police building, and a community that is generally supportive, I find my ability to really make a difference in the lives of individual people greatly restrained. I didn’t use to think this way. In fact, it has only been within the last year or so that this has become an increasing frustration for me.

The crux of my frustration is that I have become keenly aware of the fact that the law and police work are powerless to effect lasting change upon the hearts of people. The police protect and enforce. We keep people physically safe and we are constantly vigilant for those who break the law. These are necessary functions in our society. The problem is that the police can never keep everyone safe from harm at all times and often cannot prevent people from breaking the law if they are truly intent on doing so. Though we may be able to keep most people safe from physical harm (most, but not all, of the time), we have neither the power nor the authority to keep safe the hearts of the people. People are free to think and do as they will as long as they stay within the boundaries that our society has deemed socially acceptable.

What is socially acceptable is much too often damaging to the heart and soul.

Law enforcement is all about behavior modification. If you behave “correctly” you are free from the interest of police officers. The problem is that behavior modification is only an outward conformance to a set of rules and regulations. Most people can conform to something outwardly even if inwardly they have no desire to do so. Take away the fear of being caught and punished, though, and the outward conformance quickly succumbs to the inward wants.

Crimes are first committed in the heart before they are committed in body. “As a man thinketh in his heart, so he is.” I can catch the person who committed the crime; I can put him behind bars so he won’t commit that crime again; I can force him to modify his behavior so that he is in social conformance; I can sanction him in all sorts of ways for disobeying the rules - but as a law enforcement officer, I am powerless to change his heart.

Except that the heart is changed, it is impossible for man to truly change.

But this has been the case all throughout my career as a law enforcement officer. Why, in these last months, has this become an issue for me? Has the last 24 years of my life been time wasted?

I have no concern that I have wasted these years working as a civil servant. Serving and protecting and enforcing are right and noble things. Enforcing the law is simply, for me, no longer enough. It is a stop gap. It is sticking your thumb in a hole in the dam so the water won’t leak out. Is it a good thing to stop the leak in the dam? Most assuredly. The problem is that you can stop only that number of leaks as you have thumbs. And stopping the leaks is not the same thing as fixing the dam. It is only temporarily modifying the behavior of the water (from leaking out all over the place). The problem is also the fact that I have to keep my thumbs in place to keep the water from leaking. If I leave without the dam being repaired, I leave behind a soon and coming flood.

I do not wish to be merely a stop gap. I want to fix the dam.

But I’m fearful.

I’m fearful that my motives are selfish. I’m fearful of making mistakes. I’m fearful of missing God? I’m fearful of doing something only in my own strength. I’m fearful of having a “pie in the sky” mindset. I’m fearful of an impure heart. I’m fearful of being so comfortable that I become complacent and unwilling to take risks and thus, by my indecisiveness, others are lost. I’m fearful of staying in a job only for the money. .I’m fearful that I’m teaching my kids to be concerned only about their own selves. I’m fearful of doing only the things I want to do and not the things I’m supposed to do. I’m fearful for giving up on what could be. I’m fearful of not reaching for what my heart longs for. I’m fearful of being faithless rather than faithful. I’m fearful that I’ll stand one day before an Almighty God who will but weep over that which I did not or would not do.

I wrestle all these things, and others, in my heart. I realize how strong the fear is within me of being wrong. I don’t want to be wrong. More than that, I want to know that what I want is right. I know that the “grass is always greener on the other side.” Will I get to the other side and think that I’ve made a grievous error that cannot ever be corrected.

But will I dare to believe!

“Ok, I can understand the bit about behavior modification. But this “changing the heart stuff” - how can you do that?” I cannot answer that question by giving a list of things I will do. I wish it were that simple. Oh how my love to organize, bringing order to chaos, would leap to the task were it that simple. The human heart, is however, far too complex to be fixed by inserting a thumb in the hole or by creating a list or formula. So the short answer to the question is: I don’t know how I’m going to do it. But that doesn’t stop me from wanting to do it.

I think I’ll stop for now, God. Thanks for helping me think this through.

With love,
Dave

If Only

Atop the hill he stood
alone and yet not lonely.
Tho’ quiet all without,
within, heart-wrenched, he cried
“If only
you had known, dear ones,
the day of your visitation -
open arms and homes
you would have shown
without any,
even the slightest,
hesitation”

Atop the hill he dies,
crucified, alone and lonely.
Through stillness all about,
within, heart-wicked, we cry
“If only
we had known, dear Lord,
that you are who you said you were.”
We did.
And still we cried,
and lied,
and died -
and hid
ourselves from You.

Alas, atop our sins we topple
now dying, alone and lonely;
and yet -
‘midst the din of death I hear:
“If only
you will reach for me
with all you are inside,
the Life I live, I’ll give to you
and
in peace,
in love,
in Him
together we will abide.”


copyright: Dave Pingel, October 31, 2003

The Unemployment Chronicles

(Note: A few years ago, a huge transition in my life brought me into a phase of unemployment. I decided to find at least some humor in my circumstances. Thus, this story was born. Enjoy.)

Chapter One: The Business of Being Unemployed

What an ugly word. Unemployed. It just sits there, like a fat toad on a rotten, water-soaked log. It doesn’t do anything. It doesn’t go anywhere. The word oozes ugliness. It conjures up all sorts of mean accusations. It used to be just a word I heard or read referring to someone else, either an old-joe acquaintance who had fallen on hard times and for whom I had only a little sympathy - or to a down-and-out, why-couldn’t-he-hold-on-to-his-last-job, he’s-surely-got-to-be-a-bum stranger whom I knew nothing about and, in reality, cared for even less. (After writing that last sentence I realize what a schmuck of a person I really am.)

Unemployed. That word now describes me. It’s still an ugly word, but in a friendlier sort of way. I’m not a fat toad (ok, at least I’m not a toad); I sure am not anybody’s “old-joe”, I did very well at my last job, thank you. I left it for very valid reasons, ones which I don’t care to expound upon here. (Yeah, sure, right! you’re smugly saying to yourself. Well . . . I can only answer that by saying I didn’t think I was an uncaring schmuck when I was an uncaring schmuck either.) And being a former, long-term chief of police turned high school vice-principal and teacher takes care of the “he’s-got-to-be-a-bum” label.

For the first couple of weeks of my unemployment I was very busy moving from one city to another and doing all the things one does when one moves. Making matters a little more complicated and because permanent housing was not yet available, I moved in with my in-laws, two sets of them to be exact. You see, my wife’s brother and his family also moved from that same one city to the same second city. And since permanent housing wasn’t available for his family either, he moved in with his parents. He’s without a job, too. So here we all are - three big happy families in one big (thankfully so) house. Did I mention my father-in-law doesn’t have a job either? (Sharing a house with a good many of my in-laws is another story, one that I’ll write about later. Back to the ugly word.)

The second couple of weeks felt more like vacation. I rested and slept and watched tv, went to a couple of movies, read a little and continued to relax. In general I took it pretty easy. My sister-in-law and mother-in-law are great cooks; they kept us overfed and under-worked. (My wife is a really good cook, too. And besides, if I didn’t write this about her - I’d be relegated to a little bitty house way behind the big house - the dog house.) I did a little housework, a little laundry (actually, a lot of laundry), chauffeured the kids around, took care of personal business, reconciled my checkbook and even learned on-line banking.

The couple of weeks after that, I really began to think about job-hunting. I found myself, though, in a catch 22. My wife and I are trying to decide if yet another move is in order - or should we stay here, hunker down and ride it out. After all, we do own a house here (from which we are waiting our renter to move- thus the temporary insanity of living with the in-laws) and my wife does have a solid job. If we are going to move away again, why should I look for a job only to leave it when we move? But why should we move if at least one of us had a good job? You see, I’m caught, yes - surely trapped, in a pure, unadulterated, bonafide catch 22.

It would be nice to move out of the in-laws and back into our house which has our own private space which the kids never seem to mind interrupting for which I often get mad but which I really wouldn’t have it any other way anyway. Did I mention my wife wants to sell the house?

Why move back in if I’m only going to move back out again? There it is, that catch 22 again.

Maybe I should call my Dad and ask for his advice. (As you can see, I’ve now slipped into another moment of second-childhood insanity.) My parents have been nicely retired for a number of years. They’re not rich by any means. They do have, though, a certain level of comfort with their living style. Of course, their investments in the stock market are of concern for them. And their health is becoming an issue as well. Mom is beginning to have some osteoporosis problems and dad’s diabetes may be worsening. They worry about old-age. They worry about old-age housing. And now they worry about me and about my unemployment.

Dad, in his 70+ years (65 of which have been spent either walking to school or to work 365 days a year, year in and year out - uphill both ways in a blinding snowstorm without any shoes), has never been unemployed. He has been a loving father, a hard worker, a servant in the community, and a good provider. I imagine a phone call to my Dad would go something like this:

“Hi Dad. It’s me.”

“Hey, how are you son? Have you found a job yet?”

“No, Dad. You see, we might move again and . . .”

“Move? Why move when your wife has a good job and leave that security?”

“I know. That makes it a lot harder. We might not move.”

“Have you been out job hunting?

“Yeah, Dad - I have. And actually one place has called me for a second interview. But I don’t know if I want it. It’s kind of a long drive. And if we’re going to move again . . . well, you know.”

“Don’t want it? It’s a good job, isn’t it? And doesn’t it pay? Now, how much did you say you were making while unemployed?”

“Well, Dad, umm . . .”

How ya gonna move if you don’t have any money? Takes a job to get money.”

“I know, Dad. Umm, I don’t know - but we’ll manage.”

“Have you moved back into your house yet?”

“No Dad, we’re thinking about selling it. It’s time, you know.”

“Where ya gonna live if you sell the house?”

“I don’t know. We’ll buy another.”

“How ya gonna buy another when you don’t have a job? Bank’s not gonna loan you any money if you don’t have a job.” (Did I mention my dad was a banker for 39 years?)

“I don’t know, Dad. Maybe we won’t sell.”

“Son, I’m worried about ya. You need to start thinking straight. You need a job. Your family needs stability. Times are tough, you know. And they’re not getting much better.”

“Yeah, Dad. I know.”

“It’s not good for your family, you being unemployed.”

“I sure know that! Good talking to you, Dad.”

“You too, son. Call when you have a job.”

“Ok. Bye.”

God bless my dad. His love is real; his concern sincere. I’d have the exact same questions and concerns were it my own son without a job and a family to support. Dad wants only the best for me. (Actually, he wants the best for his grand-kids. I’m of secondary concern. If I don’t do his grandchildren right, I’m in BIG trouble.)

Let’s see now. Let’s pause for a moment and take stock. (Of course, stocks aren’t doing well these days either.) Here I am - an eye blink from being 47 years old. I’m everything I never dreamed of being - fat, bald, and wearing tatty, used-to-be white, tank-top, old-man t-shirts. I no longer have any late night stay-awake stamina and I enjoy never being too far from a bathroom. I’m worried. My wife’s worried. My mom and dad are worried. I’m living with my in-laws and they’re worried. I may or may not move back in my house which may or may not be up for sale. Oh yes, and I’m unemployed. Did I mention that?

Gee, I’m exhausted. This unemployment business is hard work. Guess I’d better take a nap and rest up some. This may last awhile.

----------

In upcoming chronicles:

- Flexible Stability
- The Gnawing Need Within
- Analysis Paralysis
- What Do I Do With These Kids!
- Alone, Living With Nine Relatives
- Housework Horrors
- My Life With Hoby

copyright Dave Pingel, 2010

The Traveler

A traveler left home on a journey one day
in search of what lay beyond.
Mysteries untold lured him their way
to explore the hither and yon.

'Twas the quest for adventure that whispered his name -
the sirens of life sang their all -
Tempted sweetly he was by fortune and fame;
Seduced by their she-devil calls.

To the East traveled he to dance with the Dawn -
the daybreak of life his pursuit -
masquerading as light, but oh, deadly wrong
was the living of life without Truth.

To the West went he next to seek out the Night
and find why there's darkness in man;
The answer he found - "He hides from the Light
in the shadows that are cast by his hand."

North now he journeyed to search for the source
from whence blew the winds of change.
Tho' withstood with great strength, this unstoppable force
is birthed in life's deserts and plains.

South he last sojourned ‘long the uncertain way
to see where life’s path really lead.
Sometimes narrow or wide; sometimes ease, sometimes strife –
Final destiny unswervingly ahead.

Well, Traveler, I must ask; it's your journey, you know -
this life that you thought was your own.
Eternity is calling - which way will you go?
Will Heaven or Hell be your home?

copyright Dave Pingel, 7-21-00
Reworked 8-1-10

Her Glorious Journey (and a Jig to Boot)

Lorene McClease was a wiry, fun-loving, no-nonsense, chain-smoking tough old gal who lived life with a sparkle in her eye and a smile on her face. She loved a spirited card game, a funny joke (crude or not), a lively jig where she could kick up her heels, and a good cold beer. She lived, married and raised a family in the back-country hills of southern Missouri in a time when the luxuries of life - running water, electricity and in-door plumbing - were simply an impossible dream. While she adhered to the basic sentiments of her Catholic upbringing, she didn't place much stock in being religious. Her general philosophy of living was one of "what you see is what you get" and "if you don't like what you see, that's your problem, not mine."

Lorene's oldest daughter, my mother-in-law, married a young, friendly, spunky, telephone-repairman-turned-preacher and together they raised 6 children in an old-style holiness environment. Quite often Lorene didn't know what to think of the rigidity of the religious beliefs of her daughter and son-in-law, which were significantly different than those of the Catholic faith. She just knew that "all that religious stuff" sure wasn't for her (although she did enjoy the old-time hymns). She didn't care for all those rules: no makeup, no jewelry, the requirement to wear long dresses EVERYWHERE, the commitment to go to church EVERY Sunday - and the no alcohol EVER - mindset. While she loved her daughter and her grandkids and wanted them to choose their own paths, she was going to live her life like SHE wanted. Nobody was going to tell her what to do or how to do it. Though their love for each other was genuine, unfortunately this caused occasional strain and division between mother and daughter and daughter's children. As a result, relationships and visiting times between parents and children and grandchildren were not as free or as often as might be expected or desired.

As often happens in the older years, Lorene's husband, Earl, died and after a short while of living on her own, Lorene moved in with her daughter. By this time, the grandkids were all grown and on their own. Over the next few years, the mother and daughter grew close again, constantly sharing time and heart and a common passion for family. Grandkids (and great-grandkids), once at arm's distance, now gathered round and lived and loved and laughed with grandma on a daily basis. In the midst of this, the strain and division of the earlier years melted away. Time, once again, had done its work and the former structured mindsets and beliefs were softened by grace, maturity and love. Rather than allowing their relationship to be defined by what separated them, their lives were now joined by the things they believed in - loving each other and loving family.

After a short but difficult illness, Lorene passed away. In her last years, her family regularly prayed that Lorene would come to know the saving love of Jesus. They often shared their love for Him and Lorene would listen carefully, amazed at the sincerity of their faith and the openness with which they shared. Perhaps she had misjudged them in years gone by. And perhaps they had been too hard in their judgments as well.

Just a couple of years before her death, Lorene accepted Christ as her Savior. There was no fanfare. There was no solemn ceremony. There were no religious trappings. Being a straight-forward, no-nonsense woman, Lorraine accepted Him one evening while sitting around the kitchen table at a family gathering. Simple as can be. And that was that.

To her last days, though her body was worn out and weary, Lorene kept that all-familiar sparkle in her eye and that ever-so-slight smile on her lips. Both will do her well in Heaven. How do I know that? I know because God allowed me a brief but powerful glimpse of her journey through those Glorious Gates. I shared this with her family a few days after her death and I like to think it brought a smile to their hearts. I know it did to mine.

Upon a glittering golden road leading surely into Heaven, lined with towering, majestic angels in great rejoicing - upon that road, I saw Lorene. No more was she the stooped, gray-haired old lady with the uncertain walk. She was headed Home with a great big smile on her face, a bigger sparkle in her eyes, gleeful laughter in her voice, with one arm raised and twirling her finger in the air.

Oh - and one more thing.

She was kicking her heals and dancing a jig.

copyright Dave Pingel, 2009

Faith Is. . .

Faith is a place.

It is not

some mystical,

ethereal,

or nebulous “mental state”

where one suddenly

or miraculously

finds inner peace and balance.

No,

faith is a very real place.

It is the precarious ground

upon which

the convictions of our hope

are strenuously opposed

by all assailing doubts,

our own

as well as those of others.

It is often the place

where we know not

the outcome of the battle

or if we and what we believe in

(or want to believe in)

will live

or die.

Faith is not a refusal to give in;

it is a refusal to give up.

It is the place

where there is always a way

to move

beyond the now

even though one knows not

the how,

the way

or the why.

Faith is

always fought for,

never easily gained,

continuously tested,

often uncertain,

but ever promising.

copyright: Dave Pingel, June 8, 2010

Pieces of Pete

By most standards, Pete was a burden since birth. He was born in the Ozark Mountains of southern Missouri in the early 1900’s, the offspring of an incestuous relationship. No one really knew his birthday. Birth certificates were a formality most mountain folk didn’t bother with in those days. Such was the way of life.

Pete never went to school. He didn’t really have the capacity. He was what most people back then would call “dumb,” or “stupid.” He was very slow, couldn’t speak well at all, never dressed in anything but overalls, and was always dirty.

Somewhere in his early life, maybe around the age of 15 or so, Pete was turned out by his family. They didn’t want him. No one really knows why. In the hills and dales of Ozark life, there just wasn’t a place for Pete – no special schools, no mental health facilities, no sheltered workshops for the disabled. Even the word “disabled” wasn’t for people like Pete. Disabled was what one became after a serious accident or when horribly wounded in war. Nope, Pete wasn’t so lucky. He was just born the way he was. And nobody in those days had much use for such a one as Pete.

It was a difficult life.

After being rejected by his family, Pete somehow found refuge with my wife’s great-grandfather, Luther Youngblood. Just before Luther died, he passed responsibility for Pete onto his son and daughter-in-law, Grover and Bonnie Youngblood. Seeing that there was no place else for Pete to go, they agreed to take on the chore of providing for him. Pete didn’t, however, live in the same house. No, he was too dirty and too backwoods for that.

There was a one-room house out back and that became Pete’s place. Bare studded walls, a few plank shelves, an old woodstove in the corner, a rusty iron-frame box springs along one wall, and a mattress that had to be thrown out on a regular basis – were just about all the furnishings Pete had. He didn’t have to cook and probably would have burned the place down if he tried. He took all his meals in the kitchen of the “big house,” where Bonnie and Grover lived.

Pete never willingly took a bath or shower. Once a year, the men in my wife’s family would empty out his little house and burn everything, clothes included. They would then manhandle Pete into a shower or tub and scrub him down real good before he got two or three new pair of overalls.

Pete’s keep was to do odd chores around the farm, mainly keeping the barn clean and working in the garden. Pete loved the garden. Beyond that, he was pretty much left to do whatever he wanted.

My wife tells the story that once, when her grandfather Grover took her and her sister into town for a soda, Pete was invited to go along. Pete absolutely loved soda. He was, however, hardly ever off the farm and wasn’t too keen on leaving it. He was finally coaxed into making the trip, but was too afraid to get out of the car when they got to town. My wife and her sister drank their soda in the store, but Pete drank his sitting alone in the car.

In fact, that was pretty much how Pete lived life – mostly just by himself.

Pete never wrote his name or read a book. He never went to a movie or a shopping mall. He never had a “real” job. He never had a checkbook or paid a bill. He never had friends, outside of my wife’s family. No one ever came just to visit Pete. No one ever sought him out to ask for his advice or help. No one really ever thought much at all about Pete. Pete was Pete and that was it. One look at him and most people chose to look right through him, as if he didn’t exist at all.

In the eyes of most, Pete was simply a fool.

It is somewhere said, however, that God uses the foolish things of the earth to confound the wise. Such is the case with Pete. Pete, of course, was no angel. Like the rest of us, he had problem areas where he was often his own worst enemy. He also had times where he knew what he was doing at the moment was wrong. In pondering his life, however, I have found pieces of Pete, moments in his life, which were significant and profound – at least to me. There are three that I would like to share.

Pete lived in his one-room house on the property of my wife’s grandparents for many, many years – longer than he lived with anyone else. With Grover and Bonnie, Pete always knew he had a place to live, meals to eat, and clothes to wear. And what little he could do, he would do it on their farm. In all her growing up years, my wife will say that she never heard her grandfather say anything harsh to or about Pete. Pete was always there every time she visited. He never said much, preferring to keep his own company. Years later, when Grover died, Pete greatly mourned his passing.

Think about that for a moment. Pete mourned.

To mourn, someone must first love. As unworthy as others found him, he found others worthy of love. Pete truly mourned because he truly loved. As incapable as Pete was in many things, he wasn’t incapable of love. It was his choice to love – even after he was rejected by his own family and most everyone else, even after many said he wasn’t good for anything, even after he lived literally in a one room place with but a few dirty overalls, even after all this – he loved.

On another occasion, my wife and I were visiting Grandma Bonnie. Grover had been gone for many years. Pete still lived in the little house and took his meals through the back door. He was getting on in years, but continued to do a few chores around the farm as well as help in the gardens. My wife and I were newlyweds and it was our first visit as such to Grandma Bonnie’s. We were saying our goodbyes on the front porch. Pete was there, sitting in the shade. He wanted us to wait a moment before we left and then he disappeared around the corner. When he returned, he was carrying an old milk carton filled with black dirt. Planted in the dirt was a fresh shoot from a crab apple tree. Apparently knowing that this was a special occasion, he wanted to give us a gift.

Think about that. It is both profound and significant. He gave. To give, one must first think of others rather than self. From the heart of one who had so little came the desire to give to others who had much more than he. From the life of one who had long ago been rejected and despised came the gift of giving something fresh and alive. Where do these things come from? Who placed them there in his heart? From nothing, he gave much.

My wife was talking to her brother Mark on the phone the other day. They were talking about Pete. Mark confessed that he and others often made fun of Pete in Pete’s younger years. He then spoke of visit he had with Pete a few years ago. I was with Mark on this particular visit to Pete’s nursing home.

Mark hadn’t seen Pete in several years. Even so, there was no possibility of not recognizing him. Would Pete, however, know Mark? Pete recognized Mark immediately. His eyes lit up and he greeted Mark from his wheelchair. We sat together for a while, mostly trading eye contact and smiles. Pete was never one to carry on a conversation; he just listened. Mark had come with purpose in mind and sincerity of heart to apologize for the times in years gone by that he made fun of Pete and did mean things to him. Pete’s response? He listened. He smiled. Even with his limited speaking abilities, one could clearly hear, “Aww, Mark. That’s okay.”

Just like that – in a moment, all was forgiven, all was okay. I had the distinct impression from Pete that none of those things Mark confessed ever really mattered to begin with. He had taken no real offense in those times. Forgiveness, if it really was needed, was given long ago and way before it was ever sought.

Think about that. From he, who was once abused, came ready forgiveness. From one who was often made fun of came no lasting offense. Even as forgiveness was sincerely sought, it was freely given. From the heart of one intended for wound came the healing balm of forgiveness.

Pete died a few years ago and I doubt many attended his funeral. By most standards, Pete’s seventy-some years of living didn’t amount to much. He could never provide for himself and was almost totally dependent on others. He was a simple child and a simple man with but few possessions. Still, if the only treasures found are those for which one searches, we should deeply explore these simple truths of his life: Pete loved. Pete gave. Pete forgave.

We would do well to be like him. If so, we’d be much the richer for it.

Reach for the Glory, Stand in the Light

When principalities and powers plant their evil seeds

and demons dark and deadly perform their filth-filled deeds;

When "angels" of the darkness dance their dread delight -

Reach quickly for the Glory, stand firmly in the Light.

When demons are advancing, gaining hallowed ground

and arrows from their quivers are quickly raining down;

When shrieks of tortured terror fearfully fill the night -

Reach quickly for the Glory, stand firmly in the Light.

When fighting’s at its thickest, many falling right and left

and mighty men of valor stand surely on edge of death;

When no one but the enemy fills the field of sight;

Reach quickly for the Glory, stand firmly in the Light.

When Satan stands his strongest, conqueror in the land -

in a bolt of lightning flash - Jesus takes command.

Those principalities and powers flee in fear and cower -

demons dark and deadly tremble 'neath the Power.

"Angels" of the enemy dressed in the fear of night

race quickly from the Glory, defeated by the Light.

"Advance no more" the trumpet blasts, "advance no more" it sounds

How surely Satan's strongholds are fallen to the ground.

Race swiftly, men of valor, through the valley of death;

Raise up O men in victory - filled with Jesus' breath.

Lift the Sword of Majesty - gleaming sharp and bright;

Reach quickly for His Glory, stand strongly in His Light.

copyright Dave Pingel, 3-25-95

The Invitation

It didn’t come by regular mail or email. It didn’t come by telephone. Neither was it face to face. It arrived softly in a single, solitary moment. Although eloquent, there was no special fanfare. It was an invitation delivered to the doorstep of my heart, wrapped in simplicity.

Tenderly, I held it in my thoughts, marveling at its meaning. It contained three simple words embossed in the Spirit’s glow:

You Are Invited

There were no other words. None were needed. I knew instantly what the invitation was and who it was from. The invitation was to my future, sent by the One who holds all things in his hands.

I wrestle greatly with the future, particularly with what and where that future is to be. I have strong suspicions on both, but uncertainty reins. Consequently I hold the future at bay, knowing it is days and weeks and months away. No need for decisions now. Each passing tomorrow, however, brings it that much closer. One day there will be only one tomorrow left before the future arrives. You see, I fear the future. It is full of the unknown.

A thought floated across my mind. The delivery was an invitation, not a command. Considering whom it was from, however, was there really a difference? I remembered another invitation of long ago, written about in The Book – a king’s invitation to a wedding banquet. Some of those invited guests refused. Things didn’t bode well for them thereafter.

Then another thought crashes in. There are significant differences between a command and an invitation. One commands a servant. One invites a friend. A command is issued, an invitation given. A command demands, an invitation honors.

I am in awe. He holds me as a friend. He honors me with the invitation and I am deeply touched to be his guest. He wants us to attend the special occasion of the future together. He looks forward to it. He doesn’t fear it. He celebrates it.

And although he is well aware of my uncertainty, he doesn’t fear my fear.

So how does one respond to such an invitation? Do I worry that I don’t have the proper attire? The right transportation? Is it too far to travel? What about the weather? Should I get a haircut? A makeover? What if I get sick? Should I send a written response? Should I call?

I know none of these things matter. And I know they matter not to Him.

Only one thing truly matters and it is not the fretting of an insecure mind. Be careful of the mind. It considers first one thing, then another, and then another – all in endless supply. Not so the heart. The heart does not debate as does the mind. The heart knows but two responses – yea or nay.

In the midst of fearful protests, I silence my mind. With all its issues and fears, it does not deserve to make the decision. This one belongs to the heart. Quietly, I listen for what it has to say. It struggles not and responds decisively. And the same Spirit who softly came gently accepts my heartfelt response and carries it back to the Sender.

“Yes, Lord, I am deeply honored to accept your invitation. I look forward to meeting you there on the occasion of our future. You are so kind.”

copyright Dave Pingel, March 14, 2010