Delivery was as predicted. The furniture arrived and it exceeded our anticipation. The colour was as we had hoped. Sharon had done a great job in researching, such that the size was perfect. Everything worked. Nothing was damaged in the packaging or shipping. After two years, we have a “furnished living room” (or something like it).

“The practice of hope” and the purchase of new furniture — a perfect paradigm as we move through the first week of Advent.

Sunday, Pastor Reagan did a great job of bringing the theme of hope to bear as he opened up Micah 4 to us. In passing, he used a phrase which captured my attention: “the practice of hope.” “How do I practice hope?” I asked myself. And that got me thinking about furniture.

It was a simple request from my loving wife: cut the fresh peanut butter rice crispy brownies into squares; remove them from the pan and place them in freezer containers. What could go wrong?

He’s an honoured and famous, champion football player. But this season hasn’t gone well for his team and, for the first time in his career, they are in jeopardy of missing the playoffs. After the team’s most recent loss by a field goal, in a game where he had the chance to lead a game winning drive with less than two minutes to play, he met the media. He made no excuses. He blamed no one else. His confession: “I have to be better.”

It was the middle of a conversation. I was talking about two young men who are very dear to me — one of my grandsons and his very good friend —and I couldn’t remember their names. I could see their faces in my mind, knew all kinds of facts about them but couldn’t remember their names in that moment. Honestly, it was a bit troubling.

The boat hit the rock with a glancing thud and lurched sideways. For a brief instant, I filled the air with language that shouldn’t be coming from the mouth of a father (there were two boys in the boat), let alone a pastor, language that definitely shouldn’t be heard by young boys. Meanwhile, the other father in the boat was laughing maniacally, which didn’t do much to dampen my internal temperature at that moment. It wasn’t my finest hour — by a long stretch. Honestly, it’s a bit embarrassing to even talk about.

I just found out that my friend died on this Sunday past. I was reflecting in my journal about the weight I was feeling because of his illness and how little time I had spent with him (he’s a new believer) because of all that has been going on in my life lately. I closed my journal and opened my email to find a note from his wife, telling me that he had died.

The town was small and the roads were dark. I drove past a large church where the parking lot was full but dark. I found the Tim Horton’s I was looking for in a strip mall, attached to a cash and carry gas station, a beacon of light in an dismally lit parking lot. My bladder was signaling that it had been an hour and a half drive to this town from my last coffee meeting and that coffee is, indeed, a diuretic. Thankfully, I was early, so I had time to use the restroom and go over my notes before my meeting.

It was normal chit-chat during the coffee break at church last Sunday. I was catching up with my friend, Evan, when his wife came up to us, turned to me and blurted, “Has he confessed to you yet?” The weird thing was that she was smiling while she asked.

After the briefest of moments (which seemed like eternity to me as I mentally assessed as many combinations and permutations of possibilities as seemed reasonable during the time allotted), he confessed, “I tried to duplicate you.”

I sat by my friend’s hospital bed and he said, “Sixty years — I fear I’ve wasted so much time and so many opportunities that were given to me. I’m not nearly as good as I could or should be.”

Are you becoming “as good as you could or should be?” Are you doing things that matter?

In order to answer my questions, you may need to ask some others: How do I know which are the things that matter? Why does it even matter if I get better?

Leave it to a mathematician, who died only two months after his 39th birthday, to give us a method for reaching our culture today with the gospel.

Time for a quiz, since everyone is back in school mode by now. “What is the “last spike?” You get bonus points if you can tell me where the “last spike” was driven and you get even more bonus points if you can tell me when it was driven.  … So, how did you do?

“Is it worth it?” “What am I doing this for?” These are the questions that cause you to wake up at night or, in the event that you are already awake, keep you from going right back to sleep. They are good questions, razor sharp in their ability to cut through all our pretence and get to the core of our motivation and values.

Today is the first day of school and I’m a bit nervous. Will the class like me? Will I even be able to find the classroom (I have a number but no idea of the actual location.)? Am I really open to learning at this point in my life? It’s going to involve a lot of work. Will I be able to keep up? I’ve been away from formal education for so long. What if I say the wrong thing or screw something up? What if my technology doesn’t work properly? How soon do I need to get there so that I can feel “ready? 

After his mother, the last of eight siblings, died, Gordon MacDonald had a life-explaining conversation with one of his cousins, who pulled no punches in describing that whole group of siblings as “quitters.”  MacDonald described his response to that moment in this way: “The best way I could put it was this: I had a quitter’s gene in me. Forgive me if this is not a clinical statement that a psychologist might recognize. But it explains things to me, even if it is a harsh self-assessment . . . of my mother, of myself.” (Gordon MacDonald; A Resilient Life)

“Eugene was always off on some adventure, and he often pulled a friend along with him, Jerry Olsen was a constant companion during high school. Jerry was the barber’s son, his father an imposing presence who chain-smoked cigarettes while chatting with customers and snipping sharp scissors round their heads, their hair falling like leaves. Like the butcher shop (where Eugene grew up), the Olsen barbershop was a rough and human place. To Eugene, this made it holy.” (A Burning In My Bones; Winn Collier)

Two young men (well, they’re both under 50, so they’re “young” to me!), both recent connections in my life; both of whom received words from me in the last twenty-four hours. The newest acquaintance of the two served excellently in a volunteer capacity in his church. I sent a brief note to encourage him. The man I’ve known longer has been suffering — I sent him a note of inquiry and assured him of my continued prayers. Just words — simple words — words meant to thank and to encourage. I could not have anticipated the response.

Are you an “ugly American?”

“That does it,” you think, “Doug’s finally lost his grip on reality.” But please, bear with me for a moment. I have numerous American family and friends and, while I’m aware of all the turmoil that seems to be plaguing our kin south of the border, I’m not attempting to make a political comment of any sort.

“Grampa, are you my grampa?”

“Can we go look at the flowers?”

“Can we go look at the bamatoes?”

“Are the fish sleeping under the rock?”

Do you have any scars on your body?

I don’t know if it’s still the case, but it used to be that, when completing a passport application, one needed to catalogue any “visible identifying scars’ on one’s body. The first time I completed an application, I did a full physical inventory, using a hand mirror in combination with a bathroom mirror, just to make sure I was thorough. All these years later, that inventory would take me a lot longer to complete. My life, and at least some of the lessons I've learned are documented by scars on my body.