How I Lost My Dad

I imagine every person can remember a time in their childhood when they experienced the gut wrenching fear of losing their parents. Perhaps the separation happened in a clothing store walking through deep canyons of clothes or momentarily hiding in the center of a clothes rack lured in by the imaginary secret hideout. It could have been in a busy crowd at Disneyland where the distractions were so mesmerizing that the hand you reach up to hold, that should have been your parents, was actually that of a complete stranger. The reaction is universally the same. A slow comprehension of what just happened followed by an overwhelming flood of emotion that you are alone rushes through your every limb accompanied by paralyzing fear that the severed relationship will never be restored.


Today, I lost my dad. Not a physical misplacement while hiking through the woods or shopping in a big box hardware store, but a very real loss in the fundamental ability to communicate. His Alzheimers has finally taken its toll and has rendered my Dad speechless and unresponsive... which has left me speechless. No more stories of escaping from concentration camps, near capture by the Germans while traveling on a train, or his dad whisked away by the Russians never to be seen again. But I’ll never forget his reason for etching these stories in my memory. They all pointed to God’s faithfulness and providence. No matter what “life” threw at him, Dad rested in the fact that God was in control and all things would work together for his good. Even recently when feeling agitated and restless, scurrying about in his wheelchair with great determination to get... somewhere, the mere mention of the Bible or Christ completely changed his demeanor and seemingly a blanket of peace would envelop him.
I don’t believe Dad has long on this earth, especially since he’s virtually stopped eating, but the sweet memories of him will last long past his presence.

Roger Flies Home on July 23, 2011

The good man brings good things out of the good stored up in his heart, .... For out of the overflow of his heart his mouth speaks - Matt. 6:45

Roger had a BIG heart. And Roger loved to talk. But unlike many of us who like talking about ourselves, the overflow of Roger’s heart caused him to speak of the God he loved and served and about those God placed in his life. Rarely did his speech start with the dreaded “I”. Rather, his conversations consistently spoke of others. “How’s work going Erich? How’s the ministry? How are Jessica and Bryan? How about Valerie and Page? How is Pam doing? You have such great kids." Even if a sentence started with “I”, it would be in reference to a memory he had of someone else or an event. “I remember when you...”

Of all his kids (because that’s how he made his kid's spouses feel, like one of his kids), I was the lone recipient of being questioned about one of our favorite past times... “Have you been flying lately?”

One flight we experienced together was of special significance. It would be his last flight as pilot-in-command (PIC). It was a typical severe clear California summer day in the year 2000. We departed Columbia Airport (O22) for a quick hop to Pine Mountain Lake (E45) and back. On the way we flew to Twain Harte and circled the Comfort Cabin, barely visible through the tall pines. After completing the exercise of steep turns, we broke off toward Columbia and Roger began announcing our intentions as we neared the airport. For the 98% of you non-pilots, the world of flying has standard phraseology when communicating with the tower, or in the case of the non-towered Columbia, to advise other aircraft around the airport of our position. The normal advisory would go something like:

“Columbia traffic, Cesnna Skyhawk 5 miles south at four thousand, inbound, Columbia traffic ”

Roger’s overflowing heart could hardly allow him to state such a succinct advisory. Instead, Roger keys the mic and announces:
“Columbia airport, we’re in a rented Skyhawk and just got done flying circles over our cabin in Twain Harte and are on our way back to Columbia”

Entering the traffic pattern at Columbia, the announcement would normally be:

Columbia traffic, Cessna Skyhawk entering the down wind for right traffic,  runway one-seven, Columbia traffic”

Roger’s broadcast:

“Columbia, we’re in a Cessna over the lake and heading for runway 17. The weather is beautiful today. We’re going to cut the traffic pattern a little short”.


And that we did. Instead of flying the conventional rectangular pattern and announcing every leg (downwind, base and final), Roger sharply banks the plane the right in a loop “pattern” and firmly plants the wheels on the runway, and we roll down the runway. And roll. And roll. No sensation of braking, just rolling. Suddenly a 4,670 foot runway doesn’t seem so long anymore when Roger asks “would you like to take over and stop the airplane?”

Now it may come as a surprise to you, but I actually refrained from making any sarcastic remarks like “oh heck no Roger, I’ve always wanted to wrap a prop into a cyclone fence to see if it will cut through and then plummet 500 feet off the edge of this plateau”. Instead, my feet reacted before my mouth and jumped on the brake pedals.

And so ended Roger’s last flight as pilot. His neuropathy hindered his ability to feel his feet and press down on the upper portion of the rudder controls to activate the brakes. Though his days of an octogenarian pilot had ended, his love for flying never did. And now he can fly without an airplane.

Never Say Never

     I still remember the sweaty, humid summer day in Poughkeepsie, NY. So already I geographically lost 90% of you unless you worked at IBM. It’s a town 80 miles straight up the Hudson River from Manhattan where IBM had a golf course, country club and acres of manufacturing dedicated to its

mainframe computers. However I wasn’t there to play golf or build computers but to attend a Project Management Boot Camp. Appropriately so named for its six-10 hour days on a facility surrounded by high fences, gates and security guards. But then, what does one do with their free time in Poughkeepsie anyway? I digress… back to the humid day. It was lunchtime when I called Ruth from a phone booth (remember those?) and exclaimed to her “I could never live back here with all this humidity”. Four months later we moved to Connecticut, just 40 minutes from the plant site and was worked in New York.
     A few short years later, we made a trip to the SF Bay Area to visit family and friends. Sitting next to Ruth on the return flight to NY, I turned and said to her, “ I could never live back in the bay area.” We had new friends and had grown accustomed to the rural setting of 2 acre parcels, acres of lawn to cut and long driveways to shovel clear of snow. The following summer we moved into a 1,500 sq.ft. house on a 50x100 ft. lot back in the Bay Area.
     Being the astute and quick learner that I am, shortly after completing the project in the Bay Area I announced, “I could never live in Tahoe”. So now we live in Redding.
     I only knew of one more “I’d never” statement lingering in my life. I always admired people who worked for themselves, but I had no desire to take on the 24/7 responsibility. Sure I had long hours at IBM, but when the day was over, it was over. My responsibilities would remain behind the closed door of my home office with rarely a second thought. And now, at an AARP qualifying age, I find myself in partnership with my friend Mark starting a cost reduction consulting practice called

     

Funny thing is that every one of my “never” statements has resulted in a significant life change and looking back I wouldn’t exchange the experience for what I thought would've been better. And, though I would never want a Boulton fishing boat (20ft Skiff w/
115 Honda) or a Cirrus SR22 airplane, I'm certainly open to the idea that having them would be better than ever imagined.

Faith of a Dog

Pashuuuush, [pause] pashuuush, [pause] pashuuush. Strange sound, I think to myself groggily. It’s some time between when I fell asleep and when this annoying something-dragging-on-the-carpet sound awakens me. It’s still dark outside and a burglar would hardly be so obnoxious. It must be Ruby. I silently scold her. “Ruby! Lie down. Crazy dog”, believing she must be dragging some part of her body across the carpet. Obedient combined with silence lulls me back to Sleepville.

As it’s been all my life, morning arrives. I stumble out of bed not because I’ve slept off my coordination, but find the area rug from our entry wadded up under my bare feet. Huh? What the.... ahhh. Stupid dog. “Ruby, since when did you start dragging rugs around the house? And why in the middle of the night?” Like a good housekeeper, I return the rug to its rightful place and while walking back to the bedroom, I find Ruby’s dog tag in the hallway. Checking her collar confirms it’s fallen off, but where’s the wire loop that connects the tag to the collar? And then all the pieces of a bizarre night come together. Wrapped up in the carpet loops I find the wire “ring”.

Ruby

While sleeping on the entry rug, my poor dog got her dog tag stuck in the carpet loops. The pulsating, dragging sound was Ruby attempting to walk with the rug dragging from her neck. As she stepped on the rug, her progress would stop but began the process of stretching out the dog tag ring. I have no idea how long it took her to reach her rescuing master in the bedroom, but my compassionate command to lie down coincided with the ring finally falling off and releasing the millstone wrapped around her neck. I was a hero and didn’t even know it.

Consider the following things Jesus said. “Come to Me, all who are weary and heavy-laden, and; "If you then, being evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father who is in heaven give what is good to those who ask Him!

When I get tangled up with the issues of life, why do I insist on dragging it around? My Master is always with me and promises to never leave me. He is my help in time of need. God doesn’t enjoy watching us trying to free ourselves. He already knows we don’t have the strength or ability. Nor does God ever sleep or wonder what’s going on. He’s the best Master ever.

Trench Talk

In an old John Wayne war movie (not really, but any reference to a war movie should include John), a company of soldiers is on a mission to “take the hill”. Progress has been slow but intentional. Gaining ground has not gone without significant loss. Best friends have been injured or even killed in battle, but the men press on with devotion to each other for the freedom they’ve grown to love. Little sleep, c-rations, and stale water from a dented canteen sustain their physical needs. A shower, mattress, pillow or the warmth of an embrace from those they love is but a distant memory. Only gunfire, dust, destruction, and ear-splitting explosions crowd their senses. Their clothes are tattered, skin stained by blood and dirt, and yet they press on. Men fighting shoulder-to-shoulder in order to carry out the mission their Commander designed in the war room.

As the story continues, the enemy retreats and the battle subsides. But worse, all communication from the command post is cut off and the company is left leader-less. With the imminent threat of enemy attack gone and a commander unable to lead his troops, the focus and common goal of “taking the hill” dissipates.
Soon the trench, once regarded as a haven from injury, becomes too confining. Murmuring and complaints begin to emanate from the ditches. The troops are tired of eating out of a can. Complaints of aches, pains and smells weave their way along the trench. Accusations are fired at each other for talking too loud and depriving them of sleep. Tempers explode and suspicions flare… and the enemy gains ground.
So, what changed? How did a company of soldiers, under threat of life and miserable conditions move from shoulder-to-shoulder camaraderie to a nest of finger-pointing, blame-shifting complainers?
No doubt those in the trench with authority, such as a Field Sergeant, would address the troops’ behavior with stern commands to stop complaining. Perhaps he would be creative and address the “issues” of bathing or eating out of a can in hopes of eliminating the morale-busting trench talk. But why weren’t these issues in the heat of battle? What changed?

Vision and leadership. 

A glimpse of where you’re going and someone to take you there. What the troops needed was a Commander to point to a hill and give them a reason to go. They needed communication from a General who strategizes with his specialists and makes difficult decisions knowing there will be causalities.

This last week, I was the Field Sergeant. Lord, grant me wisdom and insight to be a better leader.

Life Thought #1 - Your Brain is Like a Sausage

    Though there are physical similarities of a sausage and your brain (some form of protein neatly packed in membrane), the real semblance is in their function. Your brain, like a sausage tube, has a certain capacity for rational and logical thinking. 

    When your brain is filled with rational thinking, that’s the time to create life-guiding principals and decisions such as how much of a house can you afford or what kind of car you need BEFORE you see the flashy Mini-Cooper S.

    This is especially true in the realm of relationships. How late will you date? Should you be alone with your significant other when not in a public setting? Will kissing be allowed on your first outing? Before the emotions of enamor, infatuation, longing, liking, lusting and love begin to squeeze out the rational material from your brain, boundaries must be set. The longer your relationship grows, the more rational material is methodically squeezed out of the other end of your brain until one day your emotion filled meat head is able to rationalize any thought or action without regard to the consequences.

A Bruise Of Honor

Meet Jimmy. See Jimmy’s bruise? Jimmy plays racquetball. Jimmy is old. I want to be like Jimmy. As of this writing, Jimmy is 85 years old with a mind as quick as a whip splitting the air with a crisp snap while his body remains relatively motionless as the handle end of the same whip. Oh, he moves. His feet are just a bit more stationary than the activity going on in the tip of his head, like any good whip is. Jimmy also has the ability to sting you. His reflexes never cease to amaze me. No matter how hard you hit a ball at Jimmy, his racquet-filled hand flies up to meet the ball and instantly tames the ball into submission as he dinks the ball to the front wall with no possible return. Ouch. That hurts. I’ve won many games with Jimmy as my partner and I’ve lost many games with Jimmy as my partner. But you NEVER feel like a loser when you play with Jimmy. When Jimmy misses a shot, there’s no drama. No pouting, no swearing, or strutting, complaining or self abasement as he walks back into position. Just a shrug of the shoulders knowing he tried his best and an occasional stink-eye given to his opponent. Did I mention I want to be like Jimmy?

Off the court, Jimmy is as much a delight as on. How does he remember I have a daughter attending UCLA? I almost get the feeling he would watch a game on TV just because he knows my daughter attends the school. And every time he asks “how is your daughter doing at UCLA?” his face breaks out in a smiling grin from ear to ear as he hears how much she loves it there. “That’s great, that’s so great, isn’t that great? I’m so happy for her”. And how many times does Jimmy give up his turn to play so that the younger old guys can play? No proclamations of entitlement. No whining. Just letting others go before him just for the joy of watching others play… and maybe catch his breath.

I’m not sure what all Jimmy has been through in his life. I’ve heard that WWII and Pearl Harbor may have had an influence on who he is. Perhaps it’s his hippy haircut or inability to hear what we’re saying half the time. Whatever it is, the result has been a humble, gracious, caring and patient man. I count it a privilege to know Jimmy. In fact, I’d like to be like him.

Ok, so about the bruise on his arm. I did it. It was one of those rare times my ball moved faster than his whip-like body and mind. Ouch. Sorry Jimmy.

How Badly Do You Need Water?

"As the deer pants for streams of water, so my soul pants after you, oh God." 

( Ps 42:1)

    Today during our weekly Exec team meeting we shared what time with the Lord practically looked like in our lives. Some read a set amount of chapters a day, some read for a set amount of time. Others read until they sense they've had an encounter with God. Fasting, praying, singing, meditating on a specific verse or on some theological concept were all variations of our collective experience. What quickly became evident was that the method was not as important as the conscious determination of maintaining a regular and intimate relationship with the Christ we serve. The psalmist did not say "As the camel gorges himself with water once a week, so I gorge myself with you". Instead, his pursuit of God happened throughout the day, every day. It's a consistent concept throughout scripture. 

    Paul's encouragement to pray without ceasing (1Thess 5:17) is the same idea. Our communion with God is to be like a drippy faucet... drip... pray... drip... read... drip... pray... drip meditate. It's not long before the Living Water sooths our soul.

What does your time with the Lord look like?

In Memory of my Uncle Adolf

It was one of those beautiful days out on Whiskeytown Lake yesterday. I was spending the morning with a couple friends catching Kokanee Salmon when my phone rang. Caller ID revealed it was my dad, so I answered with every intention of harassing him about not being out on the

 

lake with me.

    “I have some sad news Erich”.
I immediately thought something had happen to my Uncle Henry who just had the valves replaced in his heart. “Uncle Adolf died. They found him on the floor at his condo”. Apparently Uncle A had died a week ago, resolving the mystery as to why my Dad’s newspapers were never picked up while he was on vacation.

    Uncle A died? This wasn’t computing. I just saw him at Peet’s Coffee 2 weeks ago. I called him while passing through the bay area after our trip to CT and NY to get together for a cup. From that moment to now, my mind began to flood with fond memories of an uncle that treated me with love and respect.

    I remember the reversible silk jacket he to brought me from Japan as he finished his tour with the Navy. Red on one side and royal blue on the other with a giant eagle embroidered over the whole back. A 5 year old couldn’t have been prouder. A visit to the shoe store where he worked always resulted in a pocket full of balloons or a fancy metal shoe horn. On Saturday mornings he would be out mowing our lawn and I couldn’t eat fast enough to get outside and “help” him with my own plastic mower.
    Not long after moving to CA, Uncle A followed and worked at the Alameda Naval Air Station as a avionics technician. Electronics always fascinated me, but working on equipment that belonged in airplanes made it especially impressive. I would stop by his shop on occasion when working on the base for IBM. He always had a strong cup of Navy coffee brewing and welcomed my visits. It was here that I heard him called “Al” by his peers. Al? Who’s Al? This is my Uncle Adolf.
    But I soon learned another dimension of my uncle. Christianity was real and consumed his life. He loved talking about Christ. Sure, he had been my Sunday School teacher while attending Melrose Baptist Church. In fact, after one of his lessons, it was at his invitation that I invited Christ into my life. But Christianity wasn’t compartmentalized to church. His peers referred to him as Preacher and they would continually bombard him with theological questions and life issues.
    I always felt welcomed by my uncle; at work, church, his house anywhere and anytime. Not many adults in my life were humble enough to ask questions about God to his younger nephew. Not many uncles would invite a 9 year old to drive across the United States with him. 

    I witnessed his love for my aunt as he drew the words “I love you” on the sands of the beach for all to see. I saw the longing in his eyes for his kids to love God as he did. I experienced his patience in teaching me to drive a clutch. I remember my first lesson when he simply stated (with an open cup of hot coffee in his hand) “lesson is over when you spill this coffee onto my lap” and then would break out into one of his infectious smiles.
    Uncle Adolf taught me the Morse code, the phonetic alphabet and how to build a house. He taught me about electricity, how to solder wires and record music on an old reel-to-reel tape recorder. But what I will miss the most will be the genuine joy he expressed at seeing me or anyone of my family and embracing us with a loving hug.

Have any memories of your own? I'd love to have you post them as comments...

Wall to Wall Fun or the Mad Mixer

Power and stupidity make a great recipe for disaster. But don’t let me get ahead of myself.

I’ve been building a wall out of cinder blocks for, oh, maybe 2 years now. Up to last week the only thing a casual by passer would notice would be a row of blocks in a ditch with rebar protruding into the air, like mini calf and ankle impalers. I would argue that the concrete holding the blocks in place needed to cure over the winter and the summer heat would compromise the drying of the mortar mix, but since that logic eliminates the only two seasons most Californians experience, I finally broke down and began building The Great Wall of Redding.

Avoiding the self-checkout lanes (I mean really, why would I act as a cashier and not be compensated for it?) I stand in line with my fellow DIYers at Home Lowes to purchase 50 blocks and the equivalent of a million bags of mortar mix to be loaded, one bag at a time onto the bed of the ‘ol Ford F250HD.

Apparently counting is not a required skill from employees at our local store so when asked how many blocks had been loaded off the pallet, “I dunno” was an acceptable answer, except for me, who paid for the portable back-breakers. Having to rearrange the haphazard laid blocks in the pickup bed in order to count them, the process continues until I ask “so how many are we up to?”.

“I dunno”. Recount begins. Fully loaded the truck actually has a pleasant ride instead of the usual bumping, skipping, bone jarring dance across potholes and bumps.

Arriving home, my dream of having all my neighbors lined up to transport the blocks and mortar to the back yard was quickly dashed leaving the task to me and my wheelbarrow. After endless trips back and forth, I’m finally ready to fire up the cement mixer my neighbor gave me under the condition that I bring it to the dumps when I’m done. As soon as I plug it in and flip the switch, I notice a ladder appear propped against the fence, like a scene from Lord of the Rings where the fort is under attack and my mixer donor ascends the rungs to hurl an offer of help.

“Howdy Neighbor. Need some help?” (as a matter of fact yes… where were you an hour ago when I had to lug all this stuff back here)

“No, I think I’m fine. Thanks anyway.”

“Here, let me show you how to mix the mortar and get the right consistency.” (Huh? I’ve already laid the first run of 20 blocks by myself. Does it look that bad?)

“Oh, OK, come on over”.

Up to this point the mix process was add water to mixer and then add mortar a scoop at a time to ensure a good mix, but my neighbor had a better idea.

“Just dump the whole bag in. I’ve done up to 3 bags at a time.”

Following his suggestion (after all,it was his mixer), every ounce of the 80 lbs. get dumped in which instantly turns into a clumping soup with water skimming across the top.

“The mixer doesn’t seem to be mixing” I astutely observe.

“We need to stick a shovel in there to help stir it up. Do you have an irrigation ditch shovel? The blade isn’t so wide to get caught by mixer tangs."

I seemed to remember having one to dig the footing from a couple years ago and soon found it buried in the tool shed.

“Just stick it down the middle of the (spinning) mixer to help mix it up”

-START SLOW MOTION CAMERA-

As the shovel descends into the dragon’s mouth, the mixer fangs clench around the shovel handle and begins to violently shake the spade in broad, sweeping strokes, in perfect cadence of the spinning mixer. Instinctively, my racquetball trained reactions cause me to duck at lightning speed as the shovel handle swoops above my head, but not so for my dormant neighbor.

Before an alerting utter could be made, the dragon-mixer plants the shovel handle broadside into the knight’s chest, driving him backwards and off his feet. With a desperate attempt to break his fall, the knight gallantly grabs onto the rotating handle as it spins away from his chest. His fall is broken, but so is his reasoning, for at the speed of the rotating drum, the dragon lunges at the knight, pinning him helplessly to the hillside and attempting to roll over his body. With not-so-lightning speed, I kill the fire breathing beast by pulling its umbilical power chord.

Two days, an x-ray, a shot of cortisone, and a bruise from foot to knee later, the gallant knight once again ascends the wall ladder and shouts instructions to me while mixing mortar my way,

“Ya know, I got to think’n. You shouldn’t put in a whole bag at once. You should put water in first and then slowly add the mortar mix”.

When Friends Break Things (or, That Sickening SNAP Sound)

-->

Things that break seem to fall into one of 3 categories. It was badly made (defective or cheap); it was old and worn out; or the user was just stupid.

I’ve always hated borrowing things. Mostly because of this engrained obligation taught to me by my father that something should always be returned the same or better condition than when it was borrowed, regardless of which category the break falls. So a borrowed knife should be sharper; a car washed and polished; a power saw lubed and cleaned. It’s kept me from borrowing many things knowing I’d spend more time getting it in better shape than when I got it. And then if it breaks, I’d have to replace it and I still wouldn’t have the benefit of owning whatever I borrowed!

My wife and I don’t always see eye-to-eye on this subject. Probably because she doesn’t realize the hours I spend disassembling a weed-eater to clean it up, replace the cutting line and lubing it before returning it to the owner. Even something as simple as borrowing a wrench makes me jittery. I always seem to peel off the chrome finish or put a nick in it.

But when it comes to people borrowing things from me, It doesn’t bother me if it breaks in the process. My pickup has had the inside door handle snap off 3 times in the past few years, twice when someone borrowed the truck (yes, it’s true what they say about having a pickup). Hearing the story of their horror when the handle breaks off in their hand and the gyrations they experience trying to get out of the vehicle is humorous enough without me heaping on a dose of guilt.

I find the older I get, the more tolerant I’ve become when things get broken out of stupidity, probably because I’ve become so masterful at being stupid myself. I recently was given access to a friend’s home when visiting the SF Bay Area. The key was cleverly hidden in the trash. I’m convinced this was a perverted test of our friendship. “Oh sure Erich, you can stay at our house. We’ll be home late so just dig through our garbage can where we’ll hide the key”.

We arrive late in the evening. Thankfully there’s a street light shining onto my friend’s driveway. Unthankfully, there’s 3 garbage cans. Nice. The scavenging begins. To my amazement, I actually find the key with the skill of a seasoned dumpster diver. Inserting the key into the lock on the iron gate, the key turns but with a lot of resistance. Something is not right. I remove the key and find the key twisted 90 degrees. Yikes. Cleverly, I stick the key in from the inside, assuming the lock would turn easier. It turned easier only because the key was now cracked and SNAP. This is one borrowed key that will not be returned in better shape than when it was received. And since the critical part was now lodged in the lock, retrieving it to make a new one was impossible. Things got worse before they got better. Just imagine a 54 year-old attempting to climb over a wrought iron fence in the dark, in a strange neighborhood… but that’s another blog.

But the cost of a key is a bit different than a $250 custom made fishing rod. But stupidity doesn’t seem to have a sense of value. In this case the rod was mine. It was the first (and probably last) rod I have ever built, which means, I spent way too many hours in the garage smelling doping products and epoxy, meticulously wrapping thread around eyelets and constructing the cork handle. The setting was on Shasta Lake on a beautiful fall day. A couple we’ve known and loved for years were up in Redding on business (riiight, come to Redding on business. That’s like going to Hawaii for a sign convention). Anyway, for the sake of not wanting to embarrass them, I’ll give them the fictitious names of Ron and Lani. It was good to see them and an opportunity to show off the neighborhood. Rumor had it that Ron had never caught a fish before so we threw our poles in the boat and off we went.

The first clue that Ron had limited experience fishing was when I saw the handle of his fishing reel fly by my head and into the lake on his first cast. It took some convincing but Ron finally succumbed to the idea that casting might not be a problem, but retrieving the line with no handle could pose a challenge. Of course, that meant Ron would have to borrow one of my poles. Yup, you guessed it. My custom rod was now in the hands of someone who chummed the water with fishing reel parts.

As the good Lord would have it, Ron soon snagged a spotted bassand squealed with girlish delight. Ok, maybe I’m exaggerating. Regardless of the gender of his squeal, the focus now was on the fish and not the pole… you know, the custom fishing pole with 100s of hours spent crafting the finest fishing instrument I’ve ever had. Not to prolong an agonizing moment, it wasn’t long, seconds actually, that the physics of a thrashing fish on a short line resulted in a distinct SNAP.

“Hmmm, looks like I’ll have to stop by the local drug store and buy you a new pole.”

Ron has a great heart, but is clueless when it comes to assessing the cost or value of a fishing pole. But aren’t we guilty of the same when we access the value of Christ’s death on the cross as something we can replace by doing something good or dropping a tip into the offering plate? Our gestures of good works are as meaningless as a drug store fishing pole. In fact, they’re insulting. In the 64^th chapter in the book of Isaiah it says:

“We are all infected and impure with sin.

When we display our righteous deeds,

they are nothing but filthy rags.

Like autumn leaves, we wither and fall,

and our sins sweep us away like the wind.”

When we broke our relationship with God by our sin, there was no replacing it. We became as separated from God as the two broken ends of the fishing pole in my garage. We are utterly and totally dependent on God’s grace and mercy to mend our relationship, and only the work of Christ can do that. God never intended us to replace what we broke but simply accept Christ’s forgiveness. “For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith—and this not from yourselves, it is the gift of God—“ (Ephesians 2:8).

“Jesus paid it all, all to him I owe. Sin had left a crimson stain, He washed it white as snow.” Elvina M. Hall, 1865.