On Your Eightieth Birth Anniversary

 

It's another 4th of July.

As we all know so well, the 4th was always your birthday. Born in Holdenville, OK, among the few of your siblings not born at home in Browns, IL.

I've never been to Holdenville. But it's on the list to go to one day and see.

You died just shy of your 47th birthday. 

I'm now past that age by two years. Nathan is the same age you were. We both realized how short that timeframe really is. Neither of us could drink an adult beverage or drive (even as you occasionally let us take a turn steering whatever vehicle we had at the time).

With every milestone or significant family activity, we ask how different it would be if you were alive with us. Beyond the grave awareness or presence is still robed in mysteries to the living. Our personal, or professional achievements? The graduations, marriages, and grandchildren you never met in life? Those grandchildren are now young adults, shaping their life goals and achievements. 

Indulging an active imagination, let's celebrate your 80th birthday. It would be a cookout, at 248 E Franklin or some farmhouse you always wanted.  I'm sure you would insist on minding the grill, as Mom and daughters-in-law prepared the other dishes. Your sons would join you in adult beverages, chatting over your Michelob Ultra with our chosen beers, spirits, or wine on a porch, deck, or the ever-conversational pit of the garage. Talking about our work, seeking your wise counsel, and you reminding us how great retirement will be. The grandchildren would interrupt, anxious to share their lives with you. And you would let great-grandchildren do whatever they wanted to do with you. You gleam with pride as the center of attention, your laughter filling the yard.

Cake and ice cream (maybe homemade) served. Or is it apple pie? We know that whatever place you lived would have some dwarf apple trees.

Evening comes, and with it the fireworks. You probably share your idea of taking a plane and watching all the towns set off their fireworks at dusk, having that birds-eye view.  But whatever local display we would have chosen to go to, a little caravan of cars would travel together to sit under the stars and wait for the spectacle.

The fireworks are completed, and we linger as an extended family trying our best to say our goodbyes but delaying the inevitable, though brief, separation (I can't imagine you not checking in at least weekly by phone or some technology!?). The invitation is always the same: you can stay over if you don't feel like driving at night. Since your birthday falls on a Thursday, most of us would have to say our regret, since we all have to work on Friday. You would remind us that you don't have to work anymore. 

Back to the present, I return. While there is an empty chair at every milestone, it reminds me of the precious value of life and living in this place now. Make memories. Have experiences, whether good or bad, as they have the power to form or inform you. Take risks. And as long as we can recall you, you live among us again. 

Oh, and we would celebrate Mom's birthday (it's on the 7th) and you would join us in Decatur on the 8th for your grandson's 21st birthday.

Level Unlocked & Badges Earned

Forty-seven.

Four sylables.

Two score + Seven.

It is not a number that usually merits notice. Hardly ever considered a milestone. There are those "special" birthdays, but they tend to spread out after your teenage to 21 years. Maybe the decade count is about the only one that matters until retirement eligibility. Most birthdays are "just a number" most of the time.

Except when they have another meaning. Mine does.

I have already outlived Jesus Christ (well, except for the lives and reigns forever part) but the life of Jesus before resurrection was about aged thirty at crucifixion. Outlived Elvis, and other celebrities "gone too soon." Tragedies, accidents, disease seem to have no prefered status necessary or required. They take them young, middle, and old all of the time.

This year had two milestones for me to cross over. The first was January 2, 2023. The second is today.

The number to exceed was 17,114. That happened on January 1. 

It was the number of days my father lived his life, July 4, 1944 - May 12, 1991. 

My new years came a day late. But I crossed over to day 17,115 all the same. Few even knew I was celebrating. But I was. 

This birthday I come marching in as I have for twelve years; with cardiovascular issues. Managed, stable, but still with a damaged heart working in spite of its incumberances. My capacity is compromised, but it does not greatly impact my day to day health. Recently my cardiologist commented that for my condition, I have a "remarkable" quality of life, with the prospect of decades yet to come. I need to work on a few disciplines of exercise and diet, as this bodily unit seems to resist and rebel from time to time. 

But a "curse" is now behind me. It was official on January 2: I have outlived one of my parents. 

I have been given extra days one of them never saw, never experienced, never lived. I need to honor days more, give time wisely to what outlasts the momentary, incidental, and the negligable. I am probably guilty of overcomitting, under-performing, over-promising and leaving too much unfinished, half-started, and abandoned too soon or too late. I should say "No" more often, and "Yes" a little less.

Sometimes I accept busyness at the fear of boredom or irrelevance. Half-baked, half accomplishments feel somewhat better than none.

Each day is an opportunity to fill, a time to experience, a moment to consider what your life is bringing to others and what you will one day leave as a legacy. The intimacy of nearly losing it all at just thirty-five makes you a little more considerate of what a gift life truly is. 

My wife has been blessed with twenty-one years (to twenty-two in October) of marriage. My parents only had sixteen.

Our son turns twenty in July. I only had fifteen years to share with my father in his life. 

Today is day 17,168. Age: 47. A day with labor and play, obligations, expectations, deadlines and tasks.

And either a red velvet cake or a slice of Coconut Cream pie in the future.

I am at another level, and I earn a new milestone badge.

I will celebrate. Each new day can also be an opporunity to enjoy it.

The Curious History of James Millikin and My Childhood Home

My sandbox stood on property once owned by James Millikin. I was standing on his property in my backyard, and most of the familiar streets and residences I remember from my childhood and youth.

The original owner, who purchased it with 629 acres in at the Federal Land Office in Danville, Illinois, was then future founder (along with Anna, or Annie, as he liked to call her), of Millikin University. The federal patent could take some time to receive in those days, Franklin Pierce was President, but purchased on May 10, 1854 was duly recorded, and patent was issued on March 1, 1855. Purchased for 1.25 per acre. He had already sold a 73-acre portion of his near $800 purchase to Josiah Hunt, Chief Engineer for the Great Western Railroad, on October 30, 1854, for $300 cash and a stipulation that "provided the Great Western Rail Road Company shall establish a depot near the center of the south line of the premises herein conveyed.” Bement's first railroad station was built as his location specified. Mr. Millikin sold an additional 80 acres for $1 to the railroad. 

Mr. Millikin was just one of several investors who were able to purchase property along the former Northern Cross Railroad, the bold (but ultimately doomed) attempt to develop infrastructure through the Internal Improvements Act of 1837. A railroad was proposed to begin at Quincy and proceed west to the Indiana state line. The railroad line route was surveyed in 1838-39. A twelve-mile line between Meredosia was built, but the economic panic of 1837 stopped progress. By 1842, the state had built the line from Springfield to Jacksonville. After 10 years of woeful operation, the state sold the original line to Nicholas H. Ridgley, who paid $21,000 for it, which had cost the state $750,000 to build. Ridgley and his partner, Thomas Mather, would rename the railroad the Sangamon and Morgan Railroad Company, and it would connect Springfield to Decatur in 1854. By 1853 the road was renamed the Great Western Railway. 

Land purchased by Lucius Wing of Charlemont, Massachusetts, Joseph Bodman and Henry Little of Williamsburg, Massachusetts, and James Millikin was purchased by Josiah Hunt to form the original town of Bement. Hunt was also involved in the development of other towns along the railroads, including Mattoon, Litchfield, Fairmont, Catlin, and Cerro Gordo. Each sold portions to Hunt between October 1854-January 1855. It was Hunt who laid out the streets, alleys and gave the public park property for church or school. Since each landowner negotiated with Hunt at different times, it is probable that the four "founders" never met face-to-face beyond with Hunt himself negotiating on behalf of the Great Western Railroad. Only the Bodman family remained in the area.

 Anecdotal stories have a tendency to become "fact" while the historical record is filed away in government offices. The lore of Mr. Millikin's investment in Bement's development as a railroad town, including the placement of its first railroad station, became "history" in which a portion of his later fortune had been acquired from his land purchase of (or near) Bement. 

There is no record of James Millikin visiting Bement. In 1856, he arrives in Decatur, as Anna Aston has settled with her father and mother, Rev. Samuel Aston and Hetty (Bartlett) Aston on a farm that stood at the northeast corner of Harryland and Turpin roads. Samuel would die at the farm in November 1856 of "lung fever," an old description for pneumonia. James, age 30, would ride out with Rev. E. W. Thayer, pastor of First Presbyterian Church of Decatur, to marry Anna on January 1, 1857, at the farm. As part of their honeymoon, the Millikin's traveled from Decatur to Council Bluffs, Iowa, as Mr. Millikin later recalled, where the couple stayed with various families just setting out farms in western Iowa, and inspected and surveyed his other federal land purchases in the area. It is during this trip that Anna Millikin ties her handkerchief to the wheel of the buggy and counts the revolutions to measure the land while James Millikin watched a compass to keep the wagon going straight north. After opening the bank on Merchant Street in 1860, Mr. Millikin gradually sold his land holdings, acquiring the fortune of $75,000. 

I never knew as a child that my childhood home was once part of a federal patent received by James Millikin of Danville, Vermillion County, Illinois. I did not know of this connection even while attending Millikin University! The original street names given by Josiah Hunt on his village of Bement plat filed January 1, 1855, still include "Bodman" and "Wing" today. But not Millikin, or even James. The railroad station was later built at another location, west of town where the Chicago and Paducah Railroad ran along. Village historians would recall Wing, Bodman, and Little as "founders" of Bement. They would recall Edward Bement's promise to donate a bell to the first organized church in the village. A pledge left unfulfilled due to Edward Bement's death but redeemed by the Wabash Railroad for the village's centennial in 1955. 

I now wonder if there are other communities in Iowa and Illinois that James Millikin once had property. Is he mentioned as part of their history? Or is he, like the village lore of Bement, a silent "founder" who saw what the railroads could do for a village, invested along its surveyed route, and received a due profit in selling land for another man's dreams?

Thirty years on...

 

Richard Wayne Butterick, 1963

When you died, George H.W. Bush was President of the United States. We had completed Operation Desert Storm in February. The Soviet Union still existed. The Dow Jones Industrial 30 topped 3,000 for the first time. Something called the World Wide Web was launched and Microsoft.com. Many people said when gasoline prices get over $1.50 per gallon, they were going to walk!

I could not even drive. Nathan was in 7th grade. Brian was in his first apartment, I think. 

I still struggle whenever Mothers' Day weekend arrives, because it is always around this date. Our family day of infamy. Followed by seasons of grief, anger, guilt, and regret.

Life moves at the same pace, yet it is hard to believe that this coming weekend one of your grandsons will graduate from high school. You did not get to meet any of your grandchildren on this side of life. You live for them whenever we recall you to life, and every once in a while, whether it is a gleam in the eye, a particular physical gesture or response, we see a little bit of you in them.

The dark clouds of your unexpected passing have faded towards the horizon as we moved through other seasons of our lives. The feeling of absence has never left us, but the reality of life pushed us forward, onward into what felt like a distant future now present today. I have lived twice as much time without you as I was able to have with you. In those first days, weeks, months, and years, I wondered if I could.

Absent from us in body, present with us in our hearts. From time to time finding ourselves wondering how you would have responded, what you would have said and whether you would be pleased with our life choices and responses. We suspect some paths we would have not followed or gone. We suspect other paths could or would have been. 

We have had other joys as well as sorrows. Other worries as well as peace. A few hellos and a few goodbyes. Comedy and tragedy. Life experience in all of its sunshine and shades. We still live, laugh, and love, even with the hole in our hearts your leaving all too soon opened. 

How can it be thirty years since we heard your laugh, your voice, or felt your hand or see you coming to us? The glasses off-center, as you sat napping in the recliner, still clutching the remote that Nathan and I could never retrieve from your firm hand. That annoyed look when Mom was trying to talk to you while you read the afternoon Champaign-Urbana News-Gazette. The short pants and t-shirt dripping with sweat as you have put up the weed-wacker and enjoying a cold one (Michelob, if I remember correctly...) after a few hours of yard work. You popping a tape cassette with your distinctive handwriting declaring "Who Else? Big "O" on the label. Making the greyest shredded potatoes for breakfast, along with corned beef hash in the muffin tins. That weird habit of making lime jello with shredded carrots in it. Or the kidney bean salad. Wondering why I wanted to be a lawyer instead of a musician when I got done with high school. 

And yet it is true. It has been thirty years. And I can still remember you. And those thirty years now distant fall away, and I am back in the family room at 248 E Franklin, Bement, Illinois, impressed with the picture-in-picture on our new 30-inch Magnavox in the entertainment cabinet, listening to the dryer run and the patio door open to let the springtime air into the home again.

You are dozing off in the recliner again. And this time I will get that remote....

 

Remembering William Stuart Hudspeth (October 19, 1921 - May 4, 2019)

The William & Helen Hudspeth Legacy: Daughter- Georgina Zeuner, Great-Grandson-Jonathan Clemens, Grandson-Nels Dale, Daughter-Judy Dale, Granddaughter-Laura Clemens, Son-in-Law-Larry Dale

You have to be a little bit of everything to be a minister. The qualities, character, personality, ambition, compassion, empathy, sympathy, and presence required for the position can be daunting and at times, near impossible to fulfill under ordinary human skills or talents.  It is a sad truth today that many who graduate from seminary studies are often no longer serving as pastors just five years later.

Bill Hudspeth had everything needed to be a pastor, a messenger of the gospel of Jesus Christ, a presence of faithfulness, a deliverer of compassion, empathy, sympathy and presence. Of course there were times of trials, toils, and troubles, but these were also opportunities to draw closer to God, to seek guidance, to pray and to receive.

God would have been disappointed in Bill Hudspeth, Chemist.

For that was what he was thinking of doing when he was about to finish high school. Away from the chicken hatchery of his parents, away from Bridgeport, Illinois, and a few years of college, then professional work experience in some corporation laboratory.

His high school church pastor saw something more than a Chemist’s life in Bill Hudspeth. A Minister of the Gospel, handling congregation members rather than chemist tools and substances. The ability to remember formulas could just as well be used in the ability to memorize and preach scripture.

Bill wasn’t too sure about this alternate route his high school pastor was proposing.Then a near-brush with death and a Grandmother's earnest prayers that if God would save her grandson, she would see to it that he became a minister.

Recovering from this experience, Bill had no choice but consider ministry as his vocation. And the more he was talking it, praying and reading scripture for guidance and answers, the more appealing it became. And soon Bill Hudspeth was walking around the campus of Cincinnati Bible College and pursuing his degree of Bachelor of Arts.

There was also another pursuit. A pursuit of love. Helen May Bushey, a co-ed attendee of Cincinnati Bible College. They married soon, and the start of their shared life as husband and wife also had the expectations and duties of Pastor and Pastor’s wife.

And I’m not sure we can completely list everywhere that Rev. & Mrs. Hudspeth went in their pastoral duties. Of course, at the time, Bill was what those who are familiar with the various divisions of the Stone/Campbell movement would call an “independent” minister. These were congregations who rarely contributed to what was a unified effort to support missionaries and work of the church greater than local congregations, the United Christian Missionary Society. Indiana and Southern Illinois churches became places of residence, often literally living in church-provided parsonages as Georgina and a little later Judy was added to the family.

But there was something about the “independent” movement that started to bother Bill and his ministry. There was little, if any, accountability for ministerial misconduct, which he soon discovered was more common and kept quiet than he felt it should be. Reaching out to what was then state secretaries among churches who cooperated with the United Christian Missionary Society, Bill was persuaded to change his status from “independent” to a member of the clergy for the Christian Church (Disciples of Christ).

About the time the International Assemblies of the Christian Churches (Disciples of Christ) were discussing formerly becoming a denomination, rather than a brotherhood, the Hudspeths moved to Bement. Bill has a distinct honor in the history of the Bement Christian Church: he served two different times as its minister, much like Grover Cleveland served two non-consecutive terms as President of the United States.

By the time they returned again to Bement, Bill had been serving as minister to congregations for over thirty years, and approaching retirement. They also had a new chapter in parenting; as foster parents.

As he was always fond of telling stories, it may be best to share one of his favorites; my family coming to this church. Georgia Mulvaney had befriended a young mother who was married with two sons under 10, and invited them to come and see where she and her husband went to church. She thought if they did come to the church it would be good if he would stop by and visit them after they visited.

I was 8 or 9. Nathan was 6 or 7. But we went one Sunday, and probably Sunday afternoon, Rev. Bill and Helen Hudspeth came visiting. Helen was my first Sunday School teacher. He was my first youth group leader and pastor. Saturday afternoons at the parsonage, about 2 pm, hanging out in the basement and making willow tree flutes, or bullet casing knives.  Overstuffing their little Chevette automobile for a nature walk in Allerton Park. Meeting in his office, with the lamp made from an electric meter than spun as it was turned on.

And on August 26, 1985, with Ward Dare as Elder, accepting Jesus Christ as my Lord and savior and being baptized, along with the rest of my family.

And in 1987, Rev. Bill Hudspeth retired as minister of Bement Christian Church.

But that was not the end of his or Helen’s ministry. He did pulpit supply, driving to Humbolt in that same Chevette for a few more years.  And didn’t stop serving churches in need until he could no longer drive.

They settled into their retirement home near the water tower for a few years, and I still have stamps he gave us for helping with the move, including those interesting typewriters that he could talk about whenever someone asked about them.

Ever the journalist, he continued typewriting a newsletter, even when they moved from their home into a nursing home. I recognize that my articles bear a strong resemblance to the interesting subjects my first pastor would often write about in the Bement Christian newsletter.

My life, like his, moved from Bement to the city of Decatur. And occasionally I would meet them at events and activities, and often he would ask what I was planning to do after college.

Ministry was the furthest thing from my mind, but it kept pursuing me.

But when Bill heard I was finally going to accept the “call,” he was delighted.

And started calling me “his Timothy.”

Just about three years ago, Georgina or Judy, or both, or one, tracked me down and talked about me visiting their parents regularly, and how much Dad would enjoy catching up with me and talking.

And so began my journey of “Fridays with Bill.” Mitch Albom had his Tuesdays with Morrie, talking about life and its meaning.

He would ask what I was preaching. Then often quote the passage from memory.

He would keep the details of my young family straight and remember them.

He would ask about my mother, my brother, and all their happenings.

And he would remember where we left off from our previous meeting.

At 95 years old…

But he would always ask the same question, “Jason, do you have your Timothy?”

Now those unfamiliar with this “Timothy” thing, it’s the Bible reference of the Apostle Paul giving advice to a young follower by the name of Timothy. Often churches recognize members who have entered ministry as their “Timothy.”

Bill said I was his Timothy, and that he was his High School minister’s Timothy, who was the Timothy of the minister who baptized him, who was a Timothy of a minister…

An unbroken chain of Elders passing the faith to their students, Ministers to congregation members.

Except Bill remembered each name better than I can.

But I will always remember that I am one of several people whose lives are better, whose faith was developed and strengthened, who saw integrity, honesty, trustworthiness expressed in the actions, prayers, and spoken or written words of this servant of God.

I am Bill Hudspeth’s Timothy. And many will be blessed because of his testimony of faith.

And our lives are richer because we were able to be part of one or many of his 35, 626 days he lived and moved, breathed and prayed, spoke and prepared to share the gospel of Jesus Christ.

Let us continue the work, treasure the days, and hold fast to the faith as Bill Hudspeth has now joined that great cloud of witnesses. Thanks be to God.

Welcome to the family, Lupus...

From the moment Patrick came into our lives, he has always brought sunshine, a large and generous heart, a sensitive soul, and an upbeat disposition in the midst of struggles and difficulties.

His passion for all things history, especially the specific knowledge of weaponry of the World War II combatants, is nearly legendary. His consideration of other's feelings and their situations reveals my limitations in compassion and generosity. There is the innate sense of seeking justice for others and coming to the side of those who are unjustly treated. Fairness is a necessity in life.

He brought new experiences to us. Some were scary, like unexpected febrile seizures around 2 years old. A little asthma, and ear infections until tubes widened his narrow infection-prone passageways. Every time he faced threats to health, he rallied (and we prayed) and came through unscathed.

And every challenge had no impact on his optimistic, cheerful embrace of life and the wonders of living and growing in this still young 21st century.

His most recent battle began with his legs.

He started to move slower, shuffling rather than striding. It seemed an effort to cross the school parking lot to our car.

Being a fourteen-year-old boy also meant the beginning of a height climb, passing his mother's height and sneaking up on his father: 5ft 6 1/2 to Dad's 5ft 8 1/2 in just six months. Then the acne appeared. No problem, just a prescribed cream will clear up the inevitable teenager scourge.

But it didn't. It became a beautifully inflamed red nose and cheeks under the eyes. A steroid began to work, but the rash still was present, though faded.

Then the long-lasting winter of 2018 brought its last hurrah; a series of nasty head colds to the Butterick homestead on Prairie. An examination revealed enlarged lymph nodes and the symptoms of pneumonia present.

So on May 1, Patrick was admitted to Decatur Memorial for treatment of pneumonia. It didn't respond to available antibiotics, and since pleurisy and fluids were still present, transfer to St. Johns Springfield was necessary for a possible chest tube and drain.  At St. John's, it stopped with a different set of antibiotics. The rash was treated with some zinc cream, making it fade a little more. Two viruses and a bacterial had been identified, but it seemed the bacterial was responding well and of course, viruses just need to fade on their own.

Then blood test results revealed markers. Markers leaving no room for dispute: lupus. And the nearest pediatric rheumatologist?  St. Louis Children's Hospital.

"Am I going to have to be transferred AGAIN?" said Patrick. Another ambulance ride. Another round of tests, but a proper introduction to our new live-in: lupus in our teenage son. A lifetime occupant who will challenge us and not pay any of its associated living expenses. Yes, lupus is more prevalent in women, but it can appear anywhere, anytime, and to anyone.

But you have chosen a hell of a fighter in my son, Lupus. He will not take this lying down. Patrick will study the battleground, maintain his defenses, and force a retreat no matter what the cost.

Welcome to the family, Lupus. We plan to make your stay as unpleasant and uncomfortable as possible. Prepare for battle.

Remembering Robert Dean Day

Most of the time our full Christian names are used in ceremonies and legal work.

You were first known to me as Bobby Day. And I probably first met you in first grade. Sure, you were in Kindergarten class, but in those ancient early 1980s, there was still Morning Kindergarten and Afternoon Kindergarten at Bement School District No. 5. Morning was for "townies" and Afternoon was for "country." I was one of those "townies" and you were one of those "country."

I'm sure if I could track down all of the class group photographs through our Elementary and Middle School years I would remember when we had the same grade school or middle school teachers. I know we shared many field trips.

Even in those early years, I can recall you being between our emerging class athletes and our emerging scholars. Sure, there was a little scholarship among the athletes as there was a little athletic prowess among the scholars. You didn't shun either, and seem to move freely between both worlds, often laughing and sharing those invaluable tokens of friendship that seem to radiate from your positive, if a little shy, developing personality.

Whatever you seem to focus upon, you did well. No, some academic subjects were not your best, but no one would doubt your tenacity in trying. Some excelled while others struggled. You may have barely crossed it, but you finished all the same.

As those children of the eighties became the awkward young adults of the early nineties, you changed from Bobby to Bob. The event that I will always recall involving you and I in those early adulthood days was both of us struggling a bit in Mr. Hensley's biology class Freshman year. And so we agreed to cheat. I would allow just enough of my test answers to show and you would somehow arrive at the same answers.

But having the exact same answers gave away our cheating conspiracy. We were both summoned into Mr. Hensley's office in the Chemistry lab and were informed that the next time we planned to do that, one of us should at least change one of our answers so they would not be exactly the same.

And we never cheated in science classes again.

Our 1994 Bement High School yearbook makes a good gateway back to those memories long forgotten. Of course my high school activities centered around music; your activities were athletics. But if Bement High School had a Future Farmers of America chapter in the early 1990s, there would be no doubt in anyone's mind who would be involved. You. That calling into agriculture was present early and impossible for you to resist.

Being fellow classmates in a small town school forms unbreakable bonds of friendship. We completed our studies together, and each moved into other chapters, other places to start new life, form new relationships, find loving partners, and raise our own children. Many of those small town values of faith, community service, and helping others remain as markers of our identity. Your legacy is a rich tapestry of those values loved and lived.

In the busyness of life, we often believe that we will always have time to reconnect, to reminisce, and perhaps naively, live long into our healthy, seeming invincible lives.

But mortality has already brushed near to our 1994 class. Strokes and heart attacks have touched a few of our classmates, me included

And then came the tragic news of you passing from us. Suddenly the fragile nature of life came into our everyday, seemingly invincible middle ages.We knew someday the common fate of all living things would begin its painful harvest. We did not know that you would be the first to cross the threshold of eternity.

We were all given a special person to share our lives with in just forty-one years.

We are shocked, upset, angry, and grieving at your passing from our lives.

We will feel your absence every time we gather again as the Bement High School Class of 1994.

There will be that empty chair, that silence where there used to be the sounds of your contagious laughter and gregarious personality.

We will keep vigil and share our stories of you and our love with your grieving widow Kristina and your beloved son Lukus Dean.

Bobby, Bob, Robert Dean Day, you will be carried in our hearts, in our thoughts, until each of us cross the threshold.

And when we do, I know the first sound we will each hear.

The sound of your laugh.

Twenty-five Years Later

Richard Wayne Butterick, graduation 1963

"You left, just as you were becoming interesting."
Sunday, May 12, 1991, my own personal day of infamy. My childhood was suddenly, and in a sense deliberately attacked, by a combination of forces and powers that have had a long history in my family tree. Your heart, from birth given a murmur, and unknown to us at the time, already suffering from previous cardiovascular "incidents," stopped its work. You apparently suffered very little in the end, but those who have survived these last twenty-five years have suffered the unreachable separation created in a moment one early Sunday morning.

You were only 46 years old.
Mom was 35.
Brian was 23.
I was 15.
Nathan was 12, turning 13 in just 3 days.
Our lives had only just begun their journey from childhood into adulthood. And now my adulthood has its own birthday: May 12, 1991.

Standing shell-shocked in the sanctuary of First Christian Church of Bement as both Nathan's and my own classmates visited. Emotionally numb sitting next to Mom at your graveside. Forever altering how I respond to the Mother's Day holiday, since it was on Sunday, May 12, 1991. Casting a long shadow on Nathan's birthday, even though Mom was careful to not have any of your funeral or graveside service on the day.

Each significant event to come into our lives had a felt absence. Learning to drive your beloved 1991 Ford Ranger truck with its stick shift. Graduating high school. You would probably be happy to see the son who wanted to be an attorney on May 11, 1991 transformed his career path towards music instead, keeping up the talent you were so proud to watch and grow. And then into ministry, which at an early age you also explored as a possible career, but hesitated when you thought about the necessity of speaking in public and at funerals.

You loved each of your sons as the individuals they were, and never had a favorite one. Each one of us were your favorite in our own way. Since your high school prophecy predicted a career in automobile repair, you would be delighted that Nathan has his own business doing something he loves; fixing automobiles. But he probably wouldn't be able to finish any jobs with you sitting or standing next to him while he worked! Brian acquired your love-hate talents in home repair and remodeling.

And you always desired a bit of the country as a place to live. Mom and Nathan live into that dream.

But these twenty five years without you have not been without unexpected blessings. Mom met a remarkable man to be another companion for her and a fatherly figure for your teenage and twenty-something sons. Norman Harpster was the best fit we could have asked for in a step father. He never put himself into your shoes, because he knew he could never fill them anyway. He believed what you believed: each of your sons were a unique bundle of talent and skills, and he encouraged us to be whatever our talents and skills took us. I hope you two have already met and traded stories.

Richard Wayne Butterick, around 13 years old

Your fondness for redheads probably unduly influenced my preferences and I married one.
Both of your grandsons carry parts of your name as part of theirs.
Our musical tastes were greatly influenced by the massive record collection you took such joy in setting upon the turntable. And yes, we all have Roy Orbison in our own collections.

The same icy finger which stilled your heart at last has touched one of your son's hearts. It now has a lifetime injury upon it, but it still beats. There are much better outcomes in cardiovascular health and treatment than in 1991. And I benefited from these improvements.

Each of us catches a glimpse of you in our bathroom mirrors every day. There are certain behaviors, both good and bad, that are clearly drawn from you as their source. Sometimes we are consciously aware of your presence, other times we subconsciously respond.

And as long as each one of your survivors live, share your stories, share our memories of you, in a sense, you never leave us. We still talk to you from time to time. There are times when I find myself repeating my first written sentence to you: IMADATYOUDAD. Our day of mortality is yet concealed from us, when we will also separate our life from living on this blessed earthly home. I only hope that my custody of your rich legacy has been adequate, and passes into the third, fourth, fifth generation of those who will forever claim you as their common ancestor.

And you are still proud of your widow and your sons.

Building Site - 1 Corinthians 3:10-23

We move to another metaphor this week: God’s building. Not only God’s building, but God’s temple. From babies, to field, and now to the holiest of places. Paul places his work at Corinth as a wise master builder, setting a foundation based on the cross of Christ. The foundation was crafted by Christ crucified, the edifice built above the foundation will be crafted by the giftedness of leadership and the shared life of the community, bringing both wood and precious stone, straw and gold, hay and silver. Some parts of the structure will be refined by the cleansing fire of Judgment Day. Some parts will stand tall in the midst of those very fires.

A temple in those days was more than a building. It was a place where whatever god it was dedicated for was thought to live. It was a place where those who wanted to declare their trust and offer their best gifts shared in the rituals and life of the god.

We may think of ourselves as more advanced in our knowledge of the physical world than our ancient ancestors. Yet, we still love beautiful and pleasing buildings, spending energy and resources into all kinds of institutions. We are also turf conscious. The structures we build also include fences, storage and space. Oftentimes structures can divide and separate. Fences cordon off our land from our neighbors, and often are called “good neighbors.” We build larger barns and bigger bedrooms to give us a sense of security. The size of our city lots has become larger in order to keep strangers at a distance.

All of these fences, large residences, and acres of open space between neighbors prohibit us from venturing out, taking risks, or breaking away from our self-built mausoleums of self-interest better known as comfort zones. Rather than build relationships, we build empires. Instead of living in faith, we find more reasons and arguments to live in fear; afraid to meet new people, resisting opportunities that stretch us, and living in our own little worlds that we have created, thus forgetting the source of everything.

To truly be the church where the Spirit of God is in our midst we have to take some risks and not be consumed with being successful. Paul wanted his listeners to realize that everyone has talent and their talents need to be included in the building of the church.

It should come to us as comforting words that Paul draws Corinth from babies, these fighting members within the church that are yet still the very place where the Spirit of God lives, God’s temple.

I sometimes wish that all the you’s in the Bible would be clearer in meaning. Sometimes you means you only, as in not me. Other times you means you all, or you plural. When Paul writes “Do you not know that you are God’s temple and that God’s Spirit dwells in you?,” he is referring to you-all, the people of God, the community of faith, the congregation of Corinth. Paul uses this again in chapter 6, and often it is that later passage that is quoted to talk about taking care of your physical body by avoiding alcohol, tobacco, and other “sins.” In the shared life of the community, God lives.

Think about it. In the shared life of our community here at Prairie Avenue, God lives. Whenever we treat each other poorly, God lives. Whenever we share with our neighbors, God lives. In whatever we do, in whatever circumstances we confront, God lives, moves, and reside in our shared life. Our community is more than the building surrounding us, protecting us from real physical threats, whether heat, cold, wind, or water. Our building is not the temple of God; we are. And if the temple of God is found wherever there are a faithful people, God’s presence can be found anywhere. It is that presence alone that gives life to the church.

We are building a temple of God at this place. We bring both perishable and imperishable materials. We can only offer ourselves, both good and bad.  Often we also bring our own barriers and obstructions to the building site, gating off our time, talents, and treasure from being used, or, allowing usage only according to our preferences. For Corinth, their divisions over preferred leaders was actually tearing God’s temple down, halting the construction work of any leader and prohibiting their materials from being used.  Is the construction work of God’s temple at Prairie Avenue suffering from the same work stoppage? Are you stopping God’s work in your life, barricading certain aspects of your lifestyle and living for your own selfish desires? How many fences, storage units, and wide spaces are you using to separate yourself from the will of God?

There are some things we do today that will not stand the test of time, or the fires of judgment. Hopefully we come to realize what things do not ultimately matter nor help spread the good news of God’s grace to everyone and remove it.  

Too often we revere furnishings in a church parlor more than our own members needs.

Too often we are more concerned about our fragile reputations and egos than sharing the good news with someone with a checkered past.

Too often we look longingly into a misremembered past instead of responding to the present needs around us.

Too often we are already pre-approving of God’s disapproval of others not like ourselves, and pre-approving God’s approval with our own flawed character and sinful nature.

The building materials of judgment, intolerance, holier-than-thou, us against them, reputation and bloated self-importance cannot be build on a foundation placed on the truth of Christ crucified.

Let us gather instead the ability to respect and value all persons, regardless of reputation and status, and love them as much as Jesus Christ already has loved them.

Let us not be the probation officers of God’s laws and rules, but rather see any sin as forces opposing God’s will and intent and do all things possible to lift someone out of the living hell they may already experience each and every day.

If we commit ourselves to building our lives on the foundation of Jesus Christ, we cannot fail. If we refuse to provide the necessary time, talents, and treasure to build ourselves and others on this foundation, we will fail. Whatever fences, secured storage, or measured space we withhold from God will ultimately be taken from us and given to another in God’s realm of justice and righteousness.

The building site is ready for construction. Are you ready to build lives for God? Bring the best materials you can to the construction site. Stop halting the work of God in self-serving ways. Let us build together a community of faith in Jesus Christ in such a way that all who look upon our lives and living may declare, “I was glad when they said to me let us go to the house of the Lord.”

Requiem & Epilogue for a Home

On the morning of January 13, 2015, my childhood home was destroyed by fire. The aftermath was pretty shocking. Rooms full of memories reduced to burnt timber and open sky. Loving shelter now open to the elements of nature. For 23 years, this was the memorized address, phone number, and identity of "home" I would have. From learning to bicycle on the back yard sidewalk, to venturing around the "hometown" as a growing teenager, to finally commuting to college mostly from my still vibrant revolutionary war soldier wallpapered bedroom with star curtains gradually changing to blinds and solid valances, my life revolved around a small speck in a Central Illinois village until I moved out as an adult.

It is an odd coincidence that in the midst of hearing my childhood home being destroyed, that I also heard my Grandmother's (and even my Great-Grandparents) home had been demolished in the little village in southern Illinois where generations of my family were born, nurtured, died, and buried. Again, it was not something destined to be a landmark to tourists. But it was a landmark to our family story.

Funny how such places can, in a sense, live with you even after your daily life has settled elsewhere. In my mind's eye, I can recall the various pieces of furniture my parents bought and sold and their locations within walls now damaged, probably irrevocably, by fire. I can recall the black telephone that sat on an end table in my grandparent's house, the staircase in their dining room, and the way the curtains flapped against the cabinets in the kitchen when caught by a warm Southern Illinois breeze.

Physically, they have vanished. The timbers, plaster, vinyl floors, and berber carpets are gone.

I said goodbye to both houses years ago. My grandmother left her house for a nursing home not long after I began college. My mother sold the fondly remembered Butterick Homestead in 2004, but I had already moved into my own home in 1999.

But now I cannot go back "home" ever again. My grandparent's town, with its stores, even a bank, gas station, was already fading away in the 1950s, as better opportunities grew in larger towns a few more miles away. My hometown seems to change a little slower, but still changes nonetheless. I can still stand in the high school, walk the elementary school hallways. But I know the school district has fewer students than when I attended. Nostalgia is casting its polish over the cherished childhood memories and story.

Many of my friends will recall fondly the neighborhood parties my parents hosted at their home. Many of my cousins will recall visiting our home and wandering the streets and parks of Bement. I knew that my family had arrived in the pantheon of small town citizens when someone referred to the fire location as "the old Butterick house."

Cast a set of good memories, stories, struggles, and celebrations where you live. Take them with you whenever you leave. Let nostalgia tickle your soul a little. It is in those things that one can truly always find a way to home, again.

Developing Healthy Hearts

Create in me a clean heart, O God. Psalm 51:10
Not surprisingly, I have sustaining interest in heart health. Healthy eating, lifestyle changes, and medications have become a lasting part of my daily routine. As we turn our 2014 calendar to the month of February, there is always a resumption of cultural interest involving hearts.

Marcus Borg, in his book The Heart of Christianity: Rediscovering A Life of Faith, explores the many metaphors associated with the heart, especially “closed” versus “open” in the Bible. The
Bible also describes the heart as “fat,” “proud,” and “made of stone.” Each metaphor seems to describe a condition, or a way of being that you may have noticed in yourself or in others.

When our hearts are closed, other senses suffer, like sight and hearing. Self-centered hearts neither see nor hear very well.

Closed hearts also can affect the mind. We tend to believe our own deceptions. This is always easier
to recognize in others than in ourselves. But our lack of understanding and a darkened mind result
quickly from a closed heart.
Remember the story of the Exodus? What did God do to Pharaoh’s heart? It was hardened and
Pharaoh refused to set the Hebrews free. Many times Pharaoh can live very well within us, enslaving us to seek only the desires of our own hearts.

Closed hearts lack gratitude. When blessed by success, closed heart persons often feel self-made and entitled; when life seems to be tragic, feelings of bitterness and “being cheated” reign.

Wonder and awe seems to disappear from the world when our hearts are closed.

Closed hearts forget God easily. We lose connection with the source of life and being.

A closed heart almost always seeks exile. Already self-preoccupied and turned inward, it
disconnects from a larger reality.

Closed hearts lack compassion. Often in the Bible, compassion is seen as the ability to feel the
feelings of another at a level lower than one’s head. It is a gut reaction to act in empathy and
respond. A closed heart can be charitable, but it does not feel the suffering of others.

Without compassion, the closed heart is insensitive to injustice.
There is not just one measure of hardness in a heart. Much like the examination of arteries for
blockages, there can be a spectrum of hardness. Severely hard hearts are likely to associated with
violence, brutality, arrogance, and a rapacious, world-devouring greed. The milder forms of these
conditions are judgmentalism, insensitivity, self-centeredness, and even ordinary (and seemingly benign) self-interest.

Throughout a given day, I know I have experienced both open and closed and in between
conditions of the heart. Life can throw so many curve balls and unexpected grief or joy in just a
single afternoon on a random Tuesday.

Perhaps some time of self-examination is needed to evaluate the condition of your spiritual
heart. It may not be as advanced as modern medical cardiology, but in this month of hearts,
maybe a review would help diagnose a spiritual illness from a closed heart condition.

Review your senses. Are you truly seeing and hearing? Do you take the self-talk of yourself at
face value, like an endless feedback loop?

Do you lack gratitude, but excel in entitlement?

Is life just ordinary, with no wonder or awe?

Do you remember God daily?

Have you withdrawn from much of your life?

Do you have trouble seeing the suffering of others around you?

It will take more than Aspirin, beta-blockers, or statins to cure a closed spiritual heart. Some may find relief and treatment in a community of faith like a church, synagogue, or other religious affiliation. Others may find it a study or accountability group.

The Cosmic Significance or Amazing Coincidence of May 17 in My Life

"It could mean that that point in time inherently contains some sort of cosmic significance. Almost as if it were the temporal junction point for the entire space-time continuum. On the other hand, it could just be an amazing coincidence."- Dr. Emmett Brown, Back to the Future II

May 17 comes and goes every year. But for me, it seems to have either cosmic significance or amazing coincidence in turning points in my life.

My first kiss was delivered by someone whose birthday is May 17.
My first college graduation was held on May 17.
My Masters of Divinity Degree from Christian Theological Seminary was presented to me on May 17, ten years after my first college degree, almost to the exact hour!
Our family friend contractor also has a birthday on... you guess it, May 17.
Several of my dear friends celebrate their birthday with my family friend contractor... May 17.

I take a wary eye towards May 17, 2018... is an unknown doctorate to be presented on that future date?  It happens to be a Thursday...

For me, the jury is out on my temporal junction point for the entire space-time continuum or an amazing coincidence...

God, Churches, and Nash Metropolitans

Many of you are aware of my love affair with a piece of Anglo-American engineering from the

1950s. In our single car garage rests our 1959 Nash Metropolitan, a guaranteed head-turner of

automobile history.
 

The Metropolitan was developed by Nash in the post World War II era as the first compact car

to be marketed as a second car for suburban housewives. While father went to work in the
family Nash Ambassador, mother would be able to pick up small children, groceries, etc. during the
day in a second vehicle that would average 35 mpg, literally pennies per gallon (back when fuelcosts were at most 17¢).

Metropolitans remained part of the line-up after the merger between Nash and Hudson to
form American Motors Company (with George Romney as president), and were designed by an
American, William Flajole, built in Longbridge, England (where Austins and MGs were already
made), and imported for the showroom price of $1495. They were built between 1954-1961, before
Romney eliminated the line for the more popular and profitable Rambler.

There is much to love about owning a Metropolitan. It is a guaranteed car show crowd

pleaser. When I picked up our vehicle from a high ridge in Missouri and my brother was towing it
home, he was amazed at the numbers of car horns, women waving and guys giving thumbs up to a car best described as what happens when a Bel-Air and a bathtub get together. Its z stripe division of paint, continental spare tire on the rear, and sparse interior gives major points to its "cute" appeal.

There is much to hate about owning a Metropolitan. It has a British engine, which
guarantees oil leakage. No power steering, so turning is like docking the Titanic. Wiring was by
Lucas, also known as Prince of Darkness for its odd electrical faults. Original wiring system includes a
generator and a positive-ground system. Its braking system is a single cylinder, drum brakes. Metropolitans hate cold weather to start in, and with Illinois winters can be expected to demand winter quarters for several weeks. Early models (before 1959) did not have access to the rear trunk except through the rear bench "seat," which has limited head room to begin with for accommodating more than three passengers.

I wonder if my Nash Metropolitan is like how people outside the church view God and churches.

They think of God and church as relics of a by-gone era. Some concepts of God seem as quaint as a
1950s car: nice to look at but I would not want to live that way. Some concepts of church may feel
that way, as many congregations strain resources in trying to keep a 1950s General Motors style of
governance running. What current industry leader still divides the work among "functional" committees, with chair persons (only recently updated from chairman in the previously mimeographed copies of constitutions and by-laws).

Some people do seem to even attend church as if it was a vintage car show. Come see the

Christmas service for a flashback to nostalgia! Join Grandma, or Grandpa for the Easter Sunday
service, singing the same hymns as you did when you were a child!

I do not believe that either church or God are relics of a by-gone era. Metropolitans may have
had their time on America’s roadways, but it does not mean that transportation is no longer needed. The same is true with the church. In a world hungry for meaning, and purpose, the gospel of Jesus Christ still leads each of us forward. Maybe door-to-door distribution of salvation materials are like tailfins added to a Toyota Prius, but sharing your faith struggles is still a powerful stimulus to others.

Maybe the church is guilty of “selling” Nash Metropolitans versions of God and church in a

Toyota Prius world. We are answering questions that no one even asks anymore. We are
questioning things that no one even questions now. In this season of Easter, may we be reminded
that God is living with, for, and calling us ahead to be not relics but living examples of God's love for all

The "Adventing" Season

"So who is adventing this Sunday?" asked one of my congregation members.

For a moment, I had to chuckle. Adventing? Like the season of Advent is now a verb? "So, what did you do today?"  "Oh, I did a few errands and some adventing..."

Now before there is some confusion with a denomination, the Seventh Day Adventists, or something involving them, the question referred to who was the assigned readers for this Sunday's Advent Wreath ceremony.  The four candles in the wreath represent four Sundays until Christmas and carry the title of hope, peace, joy, and love. The center candle is the Christ candle. Advent is a liturgical season of waiting, hoping, expecting. Less somber than the season of Lent (the season prior to Easter), but more serious than Common Time (a terrible title for the time between Pentecost Sunday and Christ the King Sunday), Advent is not just a time to remember the coming of Christ as a babe, but more importantly, the coming of Christ now and in the future.

The meaning of Advent is coming, arriving, or appearing. It is a forward leaning season, even as it turns backward towards Christ's earthly birth. It is best practiced as a season of anticipation. I know I have shared before my tradition of the traveling nativity figurines of the Butterick household. None of the pieces arrive at the same time.  Joseph and Mary arrive on Christmas Eve Day. Baby Jesus arrives Christmas Eve evening. The wise men arrive at the nativity on January 6, the day of Epiphany.

Each Sunday is a moment to recognize what is coming, arriving, or appearing. In the darkest of nights, hope still arrives.  In the midst of wars, fights, and troubles, peace still arrives. In the midst of sadness, joy still arrives. In the midst of hatred, love still arrives. Advent helps remind us that we have not arrived but are arriving.  We are journeying along the paths of becoming, arriving, or appearing.

Beyond Advent Sundays, we may recognize other moments and occasions of coming, arriving, or appearing. Two people coming together into a relationship. Arriving at a new place. Appearing in an unexpected role or accomplishment. Life can easily been seen as an extended train of coming, arriving, or appearing.

So perhaps my congregation member was not incorrect in "adventing" this season. Maybe it is good to think of this time not as a moment to be still (although rest is just as important as action) but rather a time of coming, arriving and appearing. I think we all could call it "adventing."

May your "adventing" season be blessed with moments of coming, arriving, and appearing.

Pacing Intervention

It has been a while since I have placed an update on my cardiovascular situation. To be as simple as possible: stable, but unimproved. My doctor stated that it is still "weak," and recommended a visit to the cardiologist. The cardiologist, in turn, recommended further intervention via an ICD, or an Implantable Cardioverter Defibrillator. With my weakened, post-heart attack heart, I am more likely to develop sudden cardiac arrest or a sudden rapid heart beat or arrhythmia. Either would likely result in death.

Needless to say, faced with additional intervention or death, I chose invention. An ICD was placed on my left side, just next to my arm. Leads were extended via an artery to my left, damaged side of my heart. It does have pacemaking capabilities, but is basically on stand-by until either situation actually develops. Apparently my heart attack's location is really close to the area where the electrical charge is generated, hence the greater risk of an unexpected electrical fault.

I know it is there, and ready to respond, which has brought some peace of mind. But like many survivors, I still have anxious moments whenever "something" feels funny in the chest. I can be thankful that such technology is now available, making life-threatening conditions treatable and manageable. It is truly amazing that my heart, though enlarged as a result of injury, continues to function as best as it can. I am still making the changes necessary for best outcomes, and hope that this "new" normal is part of my life for a long time.

For more information about ICD: http://www.nhlbi.nih.gov/health/health-topics/topics/icd/

Marriage takes more than buying Chicken Sandwiches...

There has been a lot of attention on chicken sandwiches and marriages. More importantly, owners of a large chicken franchise that utilizes its profits to support political causes they desire to support and whose views they endorse. It seems to have come to a shock to some that your money may be used to support causes or views which you may not endorse. Call it the law of unintended consequences, but Dollar Almighty does have a way of going in directions many would like for it not to go.

My question? How many marriages have a chicken sandwich purchase saved?

It is truly ironic in the fullest sense when the leading group with divorces (Evangelical conservative "Christians"), is full of defense and bluster about defending the "sanctity of marriage."  Something Jesus said comes to mind... something about specks and logs... I can't remember...

Another question. If marriage needs to be "protected," why have I not heard a word about a statewide divorce ban?  Many divorces are filed as "no-fault." Should it not be made more difficult to walk out of such a serious commitment?

Please do not misunderstand me. People who are in destructive relationships and are in life-threatening circumstances should not be required to remain with a destructive or dangerous person. Domestic violence is real, and should never tolerated.

A larger issue than marriage is here. I would call it "bumper sticker" causes. "We Support Our Troops." "I love my country, but do not trust my government." And the list could continue. You encounter them literally on the road, in windows. It is usually a pointed one-liner that puts in stark terms a complex issue into a simple punch line.

It is easy to put a sticker espousing patriotism on a personal car. It is more difficult to visit a Veterans Administration Hospital to see the actual victims of foreign policy and international war. And unfortunately there is a pattern of overwhelmed, understaffed, and underfunded treatment of returning "heroes" throughout the VA system.

It is easy to show up at a popular fast food place to stand for "marriage." It is more difficult to sustain a long term relationship with someone who is unwilling to keep it.

Our society and culture loves a quick and easy fix. Our world thrives on get it now, get it quick, get it done solutions. The problem with this get-it-quick solutions is that they rarely satisfy in the long term. Besides, if the problem was truly simple, it would be simply solved. My experience with relationships between human beings is that things are always more complicated than they seem. It is easier to forward an e-mail that says you love Jesus, God, country, candidate, but it is more difficult to actually live it.

And that is where I always try to live my beliefs and values. Not on the back of my car. Nor on a shirt sleeve or through my wallet. But from within my heart, informing my life and its work.

There will always be things to get angry about. And anger is not wrong, it's an emotion. But emotions tend to go somewhere. Too many people are angry about the wrong things. A bad referee call, slow restaurant service, long lines. I have noticed in life that those who rarely get bothered by such fleeting events are those fully alive and involved in fighting true injustices in our society and world: hunger, homelessness, addictions.

I hope whatever meaningful relationship you are in, it takes more than buying a chicken sandwich to defend.

After Heart Attack: One Year Later

Today is an odd sort of "anniversary" for me. It is one year since my heart attack. I've written about it before on this blog, so the details can be revisited, if needed. The basics of the story is that I was then a 35 year old who woke up that Friday morning not feeling "right," and ended up having one stent placed in the left side of my heart before sundown on July 15, 2011. I was also told that my quick action and response saved my life.

The last 365 days have been transformative. From no medications to four. From invincibility to mortality. From calm to panic. From shock to acceptance. My family history is riddled with stories of those who have died from heart attack and/or heart disease. These last 365 days have created a strange and new chapter in the family tree: a heart attack survivor.

Let's not go into the odd version of hell that is the US health care insurance industry that seems to willfully punish illness and is unwilling to pay for unexpected or unplanned treatment (like I could plan a heart attack?!). Thankfully, that chapter is also fading away.

As life moves on at its seemingly unstoppable one-day-at-a-time pace, I find myself seeing temptation of running once again fast and hard and as much as possible calling to me. Our "get it quick" and "get it now" society seems hell-bent on its own self destruction, leaving victims in its wake. Thankfully, I at least notice the warning signals of "too much" and find myself stopping before I'm once again do-it-all, be-it-all and on a fast track to another heart issue.

My healthy habits are improving once again, and I am willing to focus on that at the cost of other important (but not life-giving) matters or issues. Medications seem to be keeping things under control, although more healthy lifestyle changes cannot hurt (and perhaps can eliminate some medications altogether at some point).

One year later, it is an odd fraternity to be in as a heart attack survivor. I know many more survivors that I ever expected. I can truly say from experience that every little pain or odd sensation can send a terrifying panic into the mind. Many have said to me that you will never get completely rid of that from your psyche. I also know that much of life is how you embrace living, and if you have reason (or reasons) to live, will power is a powerful counter.

Sure, 2011 was a bit of a setback in my health and life. But it did not take either health or life fully away from me. I live with its consequences now and for the rest of my life. But there is life after life-threatening conditions. It can take one's life, and this past year is also filled with stories in which many loved ones have had that most precious gift taken from their lives and families.

In the midst of death, there is also life. In the midst of darkness, there is also light. Broken, yet whole. Hurt, yet healed.

Happy anniversary to Jason's heart. Let's keep moving together.

Home Again?

Recently, I returned to Christian Theological Seminary for a public seminar. While a majority of my wife's family reside in the Indianapolis metropolitan area, it had been more than a year or two since I had walked down the grey stone hallways decorated with modern art and sculpture, peered up to the bells in Sweeney Chapel, admired the looming pipes of the Holtkamp organ, or gathered in the Shelton auditorium.  In many ways, it appeared unchanged. In other ways, everything had changed.

I suppose it is what to be expected. Time is a relentless scorekeeper. For four years, this spiritual center had been a weekly experience of challenge, comfort, and community. Those years have long been sealed by time. Each experience is now some form of memory. With the years between, unexpected changes have intervened in my life, and I am not exactly the same person I was when I was last striding across the stage of Shelton Auditorium to receive my MDiv degree.

The same is true when it comes to my first college experiences at Millikin University. Construction has certainly intervened to physically change the appearance of campus and even department locations. Where my car nearly always parked is now where the Leighty-Tabor Science Center now stands. With the current capital campaign, the Richards-Treat University Center, like Mueller Hall and the homes on West William Street, will be just a memory in my Millikin memories.  I can stand in Staley Library, sit at my favorite study table, and yet marvel at the road my first alma mater and one of her son's has traveled since we met in the recent past.

Perhaps your childhood home is no longer where your parents live. Driving by it today, it seems like a distant part of your story. Or a favorite park, or store, or a popular festival or event. Traveling home again, you realize that home is not exactly what it used to be. Like a stage play, the scenery is changed for the next chapter, the next scene. Each moment is never fully captured, but slips often too quickly from our grasp and control. No amount of money or education can make time stop. It moves, irregardless of wealth or poverty, doctorates or drop-outs. While it is easy to form judgments, whether some place was "good" or some event "bad", time seems to allow each to happen in its own time and its own place.

I used to chuckle when I heard the phrase, "You can't go home again." Naively I believed time is a bit slower in the midwest. Now I believe it runs the same speed, but its consequences may be slower to comprehend fully.  On some level, yes I can go back to 248 E Franklin. The physical location has not changed. But my relationship between my childhood room and my adult life has changed.

The same is true about high school, college, and graduate school. Each is still physically in the same location as they were when my life traveled with them. But each now has a different relationship to my life now than then. Some educators, some instructors, some professors have moved away. Some still remain, a spot of familiarity in a place that has become less familiar.

These places in our lives, our career paths, our experiences, remain with us. Each is in some way a loving parent, each has given us some part of our current life.  But like our parents, they also change, and our relationship to them evolves. We will always be children of the institutions who were formative in who we have become. Yet we cannot remain children forever. Home again? Yes and no. As a stepping stone, yes. As an unchanging shelter, probably not.

Nearing A Crossroads in Clokey Park

On July 31, 2007 nearly thirty neighbors gathered in the grassy expanse of Clokey Park to discuss forming a neighborhood organization. A mix of hope and despair mingled in the breeze as some remembered earlier times, others discussing recent incidents of crime, vandalism, and more impatiently the apathy expressed among most of the neighborhood to become involved in activities that might help the Clokey Park neighborhood become a better neighborhood.

This July, I approach my five year anniversary as "organizing" president of the Clokey Park Neighborhood Association. At times it seems only yesterday I was contacting University of Illinois Extension to place the organization on the Adopt-A-Street program. Other times seem more like I have "organizing" for many, many years.

Yet in five years time, Clokey Park neighborhood and its still-young neighborhood organization has witnessed both the positive and the challenging (I refuse to say negative, since that would imply defeat) events and activities that many historic inner-city neighborhoods across the Midwest have experienced. Some events and activities experienced by Clokey Park have been fully out of its control; economic times, employment conditions, education issues.

Nearby redevelopment is happening. The most visible changes are the Pines Shopping Center redevelopment and street scape work on East Eldorado Street. Less visible to the neighborhood, but will indirectly impact it is the redevelopment of downtown Decatur and Nelson Park. Development money, whether public or private, chases development money. With a new shopping center, other developers will want a piece of redevelopment nearby. With a redeveloped regional park, people interested in being close to park amenities will take a second look at property near a dog park, beach, and recreational trails and facilities.

Rather murky is the situation involving the former Roach School property. Our shuttered elementary school had become an eyesore by 1999, and the topic of continuous conversation during the first four years of our group. Such a large piece of property cleared within a neighborhood is rare, but challenging redevelopment issues are part of its future.

Since being first platted into streets, alleys, and utilities in the 1870s, Clokey Park neighborhood has benefited from wide sidewalks for people to literally walk to the factories located near the railroads, the brick streets to keep the neighborhood accessible and clean, and utilities to bring clean water, eliminate wastes, heating fuel and electricity. But such services require maintenance and upkeep at all times and much of our infrastructure requires repair and replacement. Much of our infrastructure is still basically sound, making Clokey Park a basically livable and sustainable community. Its fragility is more and more apparent, and a basically livable and sustainable community is not a fully attractive community for citizens to live and thrive. Our reputation is based on the infrastructure we keep. History has its charms, but it also has limitations.

Our historic character has another challenge; desirability. I find it amusing to watch Househunters on HGTV with young couples seeking historic homes of 1500 (or more)square feet with many closets, master bath, a suburban sized lot, but within walking distance of stores and businesses. Hopefully, you recognize the physical impossibilities in such convoluted desires. Most homes in Clokey Park are 1,000 feet or less, have small closets, and small lots. And stairs, lots of them, whether to the front porch/entryway or down to the unfinished basements. A recent positive change is the desire to live closer to one's work. A challenge is suburban lifestyle desires for neighborhoods that have structures built for earlier suburban lifestyles; small, easy to maintain, basic necessities met. The good life can be found in living under 1000 square feet of space, but our oversized, bigger-is-better mentality of living is rarely overcome.

One challenge is finding re-investors to our historic neighborhood. As stated, most of our property, by historic design, is not appealing to current housing trends and desires. Most of the neighborhood was divested by homeowners desiring larger properties in the newer suburbs constructed in the post World War II, automobile as king era. Clokey Park has a nearly 70% rental rate, with most "residents" residing less than 3 years in a given home. The recent economic downturn has forced some to remain in their current locations, but it is not an uncommon sight to see a moving truck in front of a home four times in a year, as renters find other property. Roach school closed in 1983, and with it began the neighborhood disinvestment of its children by being bused to newer school buildings separated from their own neighborhoods. Without a local school as a community center, the neighborhood tends to drift to anonymity. Neighborhood pride declines as neighborhood infrastructure is divested. Why stay when you can move away? Those who could, did.

A positive re-investment project for Clokey Park Neighborhood has been its participation in the annual Miracle Day program. The Miracle Day program, initiated by the Christian Church (Disciples of Christ) of Illinois and Wisconsin and organized by Prairie Avenue Christian Church, is a one day service program targeting the remaining homeowners, many whom are limited in income to maintain historic homes and their aging infrastructure of porches, gutters, etc. Over thirty homeowners have benefited from new paint, repairs, and maintenance projects done on the last Saturday of August. These small beautification efforts tend to ignite interest among neighbors to complete other projects long delayed to enhance their own properties.

Revitalizing pride within the neighborhood is key. Pride takes ownership in community. Rather than focusing on what has been lost, one should honestly see what is yet to be and take pride in being part of the community. Clokey

In five years, much has happened in Clokey Park. City officials and officers are a phone call away, and actively inquiring about possible projects and programs to help the neighborhood. Park district officials have interviewed us about needs and issues involving their property within our boundaries. In many ways, we have gained ourselves a place at the table of many groups who are seeking to assist and help this neighborhood change from surviving to thriving. But thriving will take time.

At this crossroads moment, I firmly believe the possibilities outweigh our liabilities. Challenges many. Opportunities, many more. The seeds are being planted around us. What seeds will we plant within us?

Know-It-All's & Doubters Welcome

  One of the earliest nicknames I earned was from my younger sibling, Nathan. A little bit more than two years younger, he declared me, “Mister Know-It-All.” I did have an easy time with academics, while my brother struggled a bit more in his studies. I am not sure when I first heard Mister Know-It-All from him, but I can probably recall parts of the occasion. It was probably while I was reading several entries in our World Book Encyclopedia set. This was when they actually printed encyclopedias.

  To this day, my brother still seeks my insatiable ability to search and find information. He knows that if he calls and asks a question that I do not know immediately the answer, I will hunt it down like some safari leader until I have the information that prior to his question, I knew little or nothing about. My Mister Know-It-All status was probably a title of derision from my envious brother, but I proudly wear the title to this day.

  As we enter the season of Easter, we come as people who do know-it-all. We knew Jesus was going to die. We knew Jesus was going to be resurrected. We knew the women would be the first eyewitnesses. We knew, just as we knew when the movie Titanic was released, that the end would have the ship sinking. That is the gift of the past; it is already happened.  Later this season (and Easter is a 50 day season for the church, not one Easter Bunny laden Sunday), we will encounter the apostle Thomas, the one with the title “doubting.”

  Sometimes our know-it-all status has consequences. We can be totally confident in our finesse of a given subject, that “everyone knows that” and find ourselves totally condescending when someone does not know even the basics of the story. Sometimes our head knowledge starves our heart knowledge, and we present the gospel as a “I read it, I believe it, that settles it” among those who have not read, may not believe, and are certainly unsettled about it.  Some know-it-all church members can be intolerant of the doubters in their midst.

  Some churches are know-it-all churches. They know exactly what every verse in the Bible meant and their interpretation is the correct interpretation. Questions are not tolerated, because, in their minds, doubting is next to the slippery slope of believing whatever you wish to believe.

   Some churches are doubting churches. They are venues where questions are acceptable, people are allowed to utilize their thoughts and experiences, and joining in the journey with God and neighbor is part of its life and practice. While certain practices are kept, these very practices are explained to all who seek to know. Why do we celebrate the Lord’s Supper every Sunday? Why do we have an office of deacons? The last thing a community of faith like this would say is “because I said so.”

  Both types of churches seem to grow in our postmodern world. You can see know-it-all churches on the local religious channel. It might be more difficult to find a “doubting” church, but I assure you, they also exist and are thriving.

  As Jesus accepted Thomas’ demand for more, so Jesus extends to all “doubters.” Know-it-alls and doubters are welcome together each Sunday. Come and seek the answers to those things you doubt. Come and learn again the stories you think you know-it-all. You may be surprised how little you actually know.  As a movement of wholeness in a broken world, one of our foundational philosophies of the Christian Church (Disciples of Christ) is Faith seeking understanding. Bring your mind and your heart. God needs both for the effort.