Chisel Please

Some thoughts , like the one I am experiencing about peace need to be memorialized because they spring from other worlds. A permanent record seems appropriate, but where is that place. The famous have stone monuments which are maintained by institutions spanning the generations. What about the common man's revelations from the throne of God? Is the peace and mercy felt in the face of cancer returned after the big operation worthy of consideration by generations yet unborn? Perhaps it is a story that is not learned by hearing. For it is recorded for all to hear in the Ancient Book breathed by the Creator Himself. That is where I first learned of the possible intervention by the Creator in the lives of men.

But I must say hearing about the peace in time of tribulation and knowing the peace deep within the soul are far apart. As I live through the many years I understand that logic and knowledge about so many of life's events is very shallow, yea ignorant of knowing the event from within the real experience.

I remember one epic lesson in this vain as I became a father for the first time. Having studied family and children for years and having vicariously experienced the joy and love a parent has for a child, I thought I knew the emotion one feels for their own offspring. After all, I had a close-knit family and loved my parents. How different could the reverse attachment be? I was warned of my lack of understanding by my Christian brother, Mike Stevenr who became a father several months before me; but discounted his testimony (as I frequently did many of his statements!) This time he spoke profound truth. I had no clue of the true emotion until the moment of her birth.

In an instant I learned for the first time, what was the meaning of agape love. I learned from Rachel Catherine Nelson the attachment that was deep and lasting. A love so strong as to prompt me to think I would gladly sacrifice my life, fortune and future to give her a chance at the very next breath. Yet, she had done nothing to merit my love. She had not given me or her mom even a smile. We loved her in a way that no words could describe.

So it is with this peace I have in the face of mortal danger from cancer that has persisted despite the radical surgery. I cannot adequately tell another of the loving arms that have not given me a chance to fear. I cannot explain adequately that I did not muster up some self-convincing thought, so peace would prevail. It is just there. I can backfill the emotion with explanations of what God, through His Spirit is doing for me; but it is an after-the-fact explanation. The peace came before the rationalization. Truly, God has gifted my mind from His loving kindness.

I can say things like Blessed be His name, Hosannah in the highest, praise Him etc. but those words seem frivolous compare to the quiet, intense warmth of the love of the Father and my brother, His Son - Y'shua the Messiah. How blessed am I to know the source from which peace and joy come.

I feel the need for a stone monument and chisel to record the words He writes on my life events.

Your Willing Servant
s.d.g.
j.j.

Measuring a life

Dr. Ben Siu - a man of God who signed his notes "Donkey serving Jesus" fashioned after the tale of the donkey colt that carried Y'shua into Jerusalem for the Triumphant Entry. The donkey was quite impressed with the crowd's adulation when the Master was on his back. The cloaks and palm leaves that made a blanket for his feet felt nice as did the crowd's shouts and praises to God for the duo as they traveled into history - as predicted by the prophets of old.
Later the donkey reentered Jerusalem without the Lord on his back, and to his dismay no one noticed him at all. He realized that all the attention he experienced before was merely because he was part of the plan to glorify Jesus.
Ben Siu, MD knew that all his fantastic accomplishments (and believe me, they were many) were nothing more than carrying Jesus into places He wanted to go and speaking the words Jesus wanted to say. Ben's humility in the face of a superior life, well-lived magnified the glory of his Savior.
Though this means little coming from a fellow servant donkey, I join Ben's Master in saying, "Well done."
How do we measure a life? Number of years? Wealth gathered? Accolades of men? Educational degrees? Even lives saved?
No - as described in Ephesians 3:10 - it is by the glory we bring to our Lord and Savior - Jesus Christ or in more Hebraic terms - Y'shua the Messiah.

Be anxious for nothing - an invincible promise

Cancer

The word was expected. There was no warning or symptom, only a routine test for men of my age. The steps, - deliberate steps that brought me to this point were well traveled by many men before me. I am grateful to those men. The medical approach has such a routine that one feels that the disease must be routine. However, the numbers belie the routine. For the path of this arduous trail is through times of suffering and often ends in death despite every effort.

Realization that next Christmas might become a goal for survival, rather than a sacred holiday with family does change something deep inside. Though adolescent immortality has long been vanquished, this novel reality has a distinct taste. Thoughts of “lasts” soak the mind. The last lunar eclipse, the last Passover, the last snow fall, the last thunderstorm and the last sunrise become real thoughts. Everyday risks to life such as the morning commute have never taken on such a flavor. I may die soon.

Strangely, . . . there is no sorrow or fear. The words to the Philippians, “Be anxious for nothing,” metamorphosize into a discovery of peace. There is no conjuring here, no mental exercise, no thought process, no forced act of obedience - only calm and discovery that panic and anxiety are missing. Where are those emotions? Is a man not required to feel the grip of fear when faced with a life-threatening disease?

It is no command “Be anxious for nothing.” At least, not yet. It is a fulfilled promise. The presence of the living God envelops my mind and heart with a certainty that I do indeed have a name in the Heavenlies. That the Creator knows which minute fiber of DNA was the first to go awry. He is not overtaken by surprise. He is ready to take the next step in the journey He promised. He has the resources in place. I am not in charge of making my future, He is. - - -

"He is" – He told Moses this is His name – YHWH. The same yesterday, today and tomorrow. Such a gift He gives us – Himself, His presence, His personality. He is not hidden. He is not reserved. He shows His emotion. He demonstrates His heart. It is His story we live. He writes another line with our lives. He once put on a suit of flesh to show us exactly who "He is." We did not like Him as Y’shua, because we refused to see the truth. He did not fit the image that we shamefully built. Yet, He never stops offering Himself to us and for us. He knows what He put within us that yearns. He does not hide, but rather stalks our hearts.

So, as I have tritely said for years, “If God has something He wishes me to do, I am invincible. If He does not, then why do I want to be here anyway?” To die is gain. His life in me is all there is. Why else does my body crave oxygen if it is not to utter His name? The reality that my existence is His handiwork bathes my soul. What have I to fear?

My Favorite Hands

Hold up your favorite hand. Look around at the hands around you. Some are delicate. Some are rough and strong. Most are carrying deadly bacteria and must be scrubbed and gloved to handle lines – oh I got distracted. Laurie would be proud. But regardless of the characteristics of our hands, we all seem to enjoy their functions and capabilities. Hands are remarkable creations.

Aron Ralston was no novice heading out to the remote wilderness. He was well trained in survival techniques and even participated in search and rescue for other climbers and adventurers. This was another of his great adventures in a remote part of Utah. He actually came across other climbers on his hike, but eventually was all alone in nature. The idyllic fun suddenly became horror. Deep in a crevice hidden from the world, a boulder moved. This was not planned nor foreseen. the unexpected movement pinned Aron's hand - his favorite hand to the canyon. The pain was intense. With minimal supplies and exposed to the unforgiving elements, Aron carefully calculated his options. For five days he struggles and calculated. Finally, he concluded that the only way to see another day required a great sacrifice. He had to cut off his hand to escape.

Imagine the mechanics. Breaking the two bones on the forearm – strong bones that had been stress-trained all those years. Then a careful dissection of the skin and muscle until you reached the arteries and those three big nerves that screamed each time he touched them. With the mental toughness that few of us can imagine, he did it. Emotion, that can only be imagined, exploded through him and the adrenaline (epinephrine to you guys) rushed allowing him to climb and walk to rescue.

Each day or night in that endless parade - when you walk into the PICU, you enter into the remote wilderness of the heart. Few come here and the majority who do come are not volunteers. They are family and friends of a dying child. They were on their adventure and without warning the boulder moved and they become trapped in the nightmarish poaaibilty of losing their child.

You choose to come. At first of this career there is always excitement – oh, do you remember the day you started down this road? You decided to help really sick children. Then you became aware of the danger. You learned that each day you approach a bedside must reach under a giant emotional boulder to touch one of these dear children. On occasion, far too frequently, the boulder shifts on you and you are stuck - Stuck loving a child and their family in a situation without an escape. The child turns cold and the family - the family experiences the pain of amputation. They have no choice. Disease and injury attacks and takes that precious piece of them – apiece from their heart.

You have a choice. Yet, you choose give a piece of your heart as well. You know that sticking your hand under that boulder has risk. You know that you will become trapped, eventually. You know that pain coming, though you don’t know when or with which child. But you choose to come back day after day to stick your hand – no your heart under that boulder to help children and families needing rescue.

Bravery is not the absence of fear. In fact, there can be no bravery without fear.
Without fear, the event is routine and easy – no bravery required. Real bravery occurs only when fear must be overcome. There is no love without risk. There is no caring without getting stuck. And with each attachment, each touch, you give to these children requires you to do what few can do or even understand. You must severe another piece of your heart and leave it behind.

Thank you for your bravery. Thank you for choosing to risk and choosing to sacrifice. You truly are heroes. My heroes.

Between the Markers

The "holidays" created by Hallmark and a concerned daughter to honor parents have a pungent meaning to me these days. My dear mother died hours before Mother's Day and my father's death was just after Father's Day. So, now for that period between "Their Days" (this is actually the first episode since my mother died) each day resonates with their memories.
I can picture Mother's kitchen as my parents shared the humor in their own interment plans. In a mausoleum, high enough to "see" the interstate passing by, they wished to be laid to rest head to head. My Dad "facing" south toward his alma mater the University of Texas and my Mom "facing" north eyeing her beloved Baylor University. Thus positioned, they would continue to "butt heads" for eternity.
I do miss their laughter and nods of feigned disgust at each other's humor. Perhaps I could find a little comfort in a visit to their site to listen for the sounds of clashing craniums!

The Sweet Rest

Why is the sleep that are stolen from the day's earliest moments, the sweetest? Is it that, like all things outside the boundaries of expected behavior, this sleep has the suspense of adventure. Do we sleep with the challenge of making it on time or having to pay the consequences of being late quickening our pulses and feeding our addiction to adrenaline? Or is it the sensation of having settled the conflicts within our hearts in the earlier hours of REM sleep that allows peaceful rest? Is the bed now more conformed to our needs?
I don't know how those last moments become so dear, but I cherish them. At this hour when serene repose has escaped my existence and I am all alone in the dark, I can only "dream" of the joy of the sleep in the moments just before (and maybe a little after) the alarm.

Dad First - After the Family (June 25,1921 - June 23, 2004)

In 1945, when he was 75 years old, my grandfather William Harcreator Nelson died from a stroke. His grandkids called him B-daddy. At that time my dad was a fighting man in the US Navy in the Pacific Fleet. He received notification of his father’s death too late to join his family as they mourned. He regretted that.
Knowing that fact about my dad makes me want to tell you a few stories about him. I listed characteristics that he possessed and thought of stories for each. But at the top of the list was modesty – so I know he would not be pleased if I told you 10-12 stories . . . so I picked three-ish.
First – his sense of duty
Dad knew the duties of a man, a husband, a friend and a father. He carried them out. For example he knew that every gentleman carries a clean handkerchief. And he always did.
His sense of duty led him to enlist in the US Navy to fight WWII. To get into the Navy one had to demonstrate the ability to swim. . . . My dad could not swim, but he felt compelled to serve. So, he got a buddy to swim for him! This came back to haunt him.
For, you see, the first ship on which he served, the USS Strong, was torpedoed and sank in about 15 minutes. When he was rescued from the water, he was wearing three life vests. He and the other survivors drifted in enemy waters a while before being rescued. All three of his children can swim .
Frugal
Terry, the baby of our family (or prince as he says it), says my dad wrote the book on frugal. His management of automobiles shows that. For the first 15-20 years of their married life my parents had only one car. Every day we all took dad to work and picked him up at the end of the day. When we finally got a second car, it was a hand-me-down from my 80 year old grandmother.
We were taught to care for our cars from an early age. Well, Terry and I were. “Princess Jan” did not attend these lessons. We washed and waxed our own cars, changed the oil and filters, replaced worn out batteries, generators, water pumps, fuel pumps, shock absorbers, headlights, on and on . . .
When I was a freshman in college, I had to borrow my sister’ car. (The “princess” got when it was BRAND NEW!) Since he had bought her a car, I mistakenly thought I was due one. I pestered him for months. He rarely wrote letters, so I was pleased to find a letter from him in my mailbox at Baylor. I the envelope I found a clipping from the paper. The article addressed the cost of raising a child. Considering the stay-at-home mom’s lost income and the expenses, the total estimate was $650,000. Across the bottom of the clipping my dad had written, “ Go pick out a Rolls-Royce (which cost about $100,000 back then), in fact get six and deduct it from the total you owe us.” That shut me up.
That Spring we went to the new Japanese car company in the US – Datsun (Nissan to you) and bouth a B-110. (The car whose battery was bigger than the motor.) We paid $1250 – which was added to the $650,000 tab.
Family
OK, boys. Remember what I gave you? (Each received one of his granddaddy’s handkerchiefs) Now’s the time to get them out.
This last story involves two heroes in this family – Both doing what was right for the family.
Dad was noticed by the upper management of Exxon, so they offered him chances at the “fast track” – to climb the corporate ladder, skipping steps. They took him to Houston (the next phase in his career) to shoe him around. They did this as least three times that I remember. Each time he rejected the offer. He refused because he felt it was not the best place to raise his children. He would stay in Midland. Of course, such refusals always cost. My dad’s boss voiced his displeasure and warned that dad would suffer.
Another hero in our family, our Uncle Charlie East went into the boss to explain my dad’s values and reasoning. Legend has it that Uncle Charlie’s kind words cost him advancement as well.
These men understood family and that a job was a job. It was necessary to support the family. There was no idea that career required the family to sacrifice.
Humor – OK there are 4 stories, but I cannot stop here.
My dad offered his “fortune” to any of his children who would name their child Hargrove as the first name and call that child by that name. (My wife Melinda and I tried the “William” for our first son, but that was not good enough.) You may have noticed that my niece is about to add another child to the family. She and her husband will not tell anyone the names they have selected. I am suspicious.
So, I must declare that the “Hargrove name thing” has expired.

Three stories (or four) don’t do it. 100 stories wouldn’t do it. God’s creative gift of stories and language He gave us to explore Him. My dad’s exploration of God led Him to stake his claim to eternity on faith that Jesus Christ was exactly who He said He was: God on Earth as a Son serving the Father. The certainty of that is what my dad lived. So we, his family follow him to the Heavenly Father.