It has been here for years, ever since Mom made it.  Like any other of her other work, it was painstakingly shaped by her skilled hands, with great attention paid to detail.  But most of that was lost on me.  It was a scene like any other out there.  Baby Jesus, Mary, Joseph, barn.  Why was it special?  Because Mom made it, and Mom is awesome.

I’m at Mom and Dad’s for a few days, and having the luxury of actually stopping, I did, to look at things with new eyes.  The walls are made of clay.  Mary and Joseph are made of clay.  And Christ is made of clay.  Here I think for a while.  He condescended to be made man, made of dirt.  His flesh like ours, tempted like ours, sacrificed for ours.  There is something about the very medium that is significant in the representation.

In most scenes like this, everyone seems to be milling about.  But here, there is nothing that is not deliberate.  I love that, although Mary has no facial features, she is clearly pondering.  And Joseph . . . is he looking upward in wonder . . . praise . . . thanks?

I love that the shepherds have not arrived yet – this is very early on that night.  There are certainly no wise men and no camels.

“Mom, are these the angelic host?”

“Yes they are, but they are us too . . . in the future.”

Wood timbers.  Here they are pieces of cedar holding an invisible roof.  The Lamb, already under a cross.

Jesus came not to be just to be the cute cuddly baby in the manger, but the Christ of the Cross.  I heard a sermon preached by one of my colleagues years ago, I guess it was not a terribly popular sermon, it certainly wasn’t a warm fuzzy one, where he said, “On Christmas day, when you look out at all this white snow, I want you to see the snow as red.  Red with the blood of Jesus Christ, because Jesus came at Christmas in order to die on the cross.  So forget about the cute cuddly baby in the manger.  Focus on Jesus Christ and all the gore and all the blood on the cross because that is God for you.”  And so we can never separate Good Friday from Christmas or Easter or anything else.  Christ comes to do it all, focused on the Cross and the empty tomb.

–Pastor Kirk Clayton on Issues, Etc., November 30, 2012.

“Good afternoon, Nathan.  It’ll be interesting to see how we have changed in 6 years.  I know I have a little less hair.”

“And I have a little more.”  That’s what I should have said, but I was about 5 seconds too slow, and the moment was gone.  To be honest, I don’t remember him having any hair at all.

I don’t think surgeons like to see their patients again for the same problem that they supposedly fixed.  Seven years ago, I expected to wake from having my left knee scoped, and after a short recovery, be back to normal in three weeks.  On coming out of anesthesia, however, the surgeon informed me that my case was one of the 2% where a tear in the cartilage is repairable due to the small size of the tear and high blood flow in that area.  I did not know that this was a possibility.  By repairing the tear instead of excising it, long term health of the knee should be better, with decreased risk of arthritis.  The trade-off was that instead of a three week recovery to 100% functionality, it was a six month timeframe, including eight weeks in a splint.  A few months later, when he operated on my right knee, for what seemed like the same problem, it was not in that 2%, and after a short recovery, the knee was back to normal and has been ever since.

But that left knee, the repaired one, has never quite been right.  Lately it has been getting worse, and I am not able to bicycle as fast now, so here I am.  The surgeon sent me to radiology for some x-rays.  About six of them.  Bent, straight, facing one way, then another.  The good news was that there does not appear to be arthritis, which apparently is already possible at my age.  His conclusion mirrored the one I had brought to the exam room with me that day: there is probably a new tear, or the old one never really healed all the way.  It seems that I may have been favoring that knee, protecting it because of its weakness, and now that I really push it, the weakness is showing.  So the surgeon informed me an MRI is in order.  If it shows what he expects, he will excise the tear this time.  I said I would be happy with that, since the right knee has worked out so well.

At the MRI scheduling desk, they have a questionnaire to fill out.  There are questions like “Do you have a pacemaker?” and “are you scared of confined spaces?”.  I have had an MRI for each knee before, but I didn’t remember this question: “Do you weld or grind metal, or do sheet metal work for work or hobby?”  I figured that they were concerned about the possibility some piece of work may have got loose and lodged itself somewhere inside me.  I do metal work occasionally, but to the best of my knowledge, have nothing stuck in me that shouldn’t be there, so I marked “no”.  When I went to turn the form in, I asked the scheduler for clarification on that part.

“I do machine and grind metal, but mostly just aluminum.”

“Aluminum is metal”

“I know, but it’s non-ferrous, so it shouldn’t be a problem with the magnetic field should it?”

“It just says metal.  They want to make sure there are no little bits of it that may have gotten in your eyes and stayed there, because the MRI may cause them to move and exit your eyeball.”

“That would be wild!”

Mouth agape, and staring wide-eyed through her forehead, she replied, “No.  That would be gross.  Very, very gross.  That would be bad.”

So today I went to have the MRI, but first an orbital x-ray of my eyes needed to be taken, just to be safe.  The technician had me sit in a chair with a blank panel in front of my face.  She was very specific about how I had to stay in a certain position and not move.  But the panel was so close to my face that I could not focus my eyes on it.  And it was also so far away that I could not feel it with my nose.  So I wasn’t sure I was being still.  She went to take the picture, and didn’t come back right away.  Is she done yet?  After a couple minutes, she came back, and had me turn to the side, once again very specific about angle, tilt, and being very still.  So I stared at this spot on the wallpaper. This time she was gone even longer.  I didn’t want to blink, in case the picture wasn’t done yet, but time was getting on, and the wall was starting to look purple for staring in one way.  My neck started to hurt holding it exactly how she put it.  Eventually I was released to go in to the MRI machine, since no metal was found in my eyes, ferrous or otherwise.

On one of my previous MRI scans on this same machine, the technician was less than thorough about empty pockets.  I had my wallet in my back pocket, and all the magnetic stripes on all the cards got erased.  This time I was asked about 10 times if my pockets were empty.

The test began as before, a series of noises accompanied by a countdown timer over my face.  The clock started with four minutes.  I closed my eyes.  I had folded my hands on my belly, fingers interlocked.  This isn’t very comfortable, but I shouln’t move to change it now.  Must remain still.  But it’s too bothersome to leave this way for the whole 30 minute scan.  I can fix it after this countdown is done.  I opened my eyes to see how much longer.  Two minutes.

The next thing I knew, the technician was waking me up . . . the test was done!

My colleague and friend approached my workbench this afternoon.  “Hey, did you hear about the shooting?”

“The one in Connecticut?”

“Yeah, all those kids.  What do you do when something like that happens?”

He was wide open.  He came to me.  He asked the question.  This was a rare moment.  The word was on my tongue.  But my lips did not part for it.  I’m still conditioned from watching a co-worker years ago, a Southern Baptist who had no qualms about sharing his faith with atheists and agnostics, and who loved to talk, but did not know where to draw the line and when to stop.

Not one hour before, I had read the Witness, Mercy, Life Together blog at my lunchtime.  This was where I found out about the shooting.  The post opened with a statement about the shooting, then a prayer.  After Psalm 102, there is another prayer.  Then more readings from scripture.  After two more prayers, there are three hymns, When Aimless Violence Takes Those We Love, In the Very Midst of Life, and Children of the Heavenly Father.

So the answer of what Christians do was right there.  In a moment, a gob of thoughts went through my mind.  That’s not what he means.  He means what do helpless children in the school do.  He means what do teachers and staff do in a place where the only weapon is in the hands of the killer.  If I say this, it won’t make sense to him.  It doesn’t physically stop bullets, not directly.  I don’t want to push buttons or force this, or make him uncomfortable.  And this opens me up to discussing theodicy.  Those are deep waters.  I’m not ready to swim there. 

The wheels in my mind turn too slowly.  I don’t know how to put this.  I should have stopped.  I should have simply said that word, what we do:

Pray.

Have no fear of them, nor be troubled, ¹⁵ but in your hearts honor Christ the Lord as holy, always being prepared to make a defense to anyone who asks you for a reason for the hope that is in you; yet do it with gentleness and respect . . .  1 Peter 3:14-15 (ESV)

Fail.  Again.  I probably said something dumb.  I don’t remember.  Today this conversation happened millions of times.  I’m sure that it was handled well by many Christians.

The hardwired response is fight or flight, but this man was mowing them down with bullets.  And where might the children fly to?  I don’t know what they thought or felt in the midst of the terror.  But if children want something, might they not ask their Heavenly Father for it?  Wanting security, isn’t it best to ask?  They may be secure in leaving that school building to eventually go home, which everyone understands.  Or they may be securely embraced in the very arms of their Savior, Jesus Christ, which most of the world does not understand.  Isn’t this why we baptize them, because all are born in tresspass and sin and the penalty for that is death?  Isn’t this why we teach them to know whose they are?  Isn’t this why we teach them Jesus Loves Me?

And those of us outside, we pray too.  We cry out:

Kyrie Eleison!

Lord, have mercy!

I encourage a visit to Witness, Mercy, Life Together.  For more on theodicy, the question of how evil happens even though God is good and all-powerful, please listen to the excellent December 14 episode of Fighting for the Faith.

I am trying to decide what to take.  I will be there for three and a half years.  My clothes will be provided, and I don’t think my laptop is allowed.  But I think books are permitted.  I have my Bible and hymnal, my Treasury of Daily Prayer, the Book of Concord, two other prayer books. . . how many is too many?  I have neglected these at times, too often really.  Too many hours at work.  There should be time enough now, and fewer distractions.

I don’t remember what I did, but it must have been bad.  I don’t remember the trial, but I’m sure it happened.  I have to report for the start of my incarceration today, so I must have been convicted.  The sinking regret is distracting.  I need to finish deciding because my ride will be here any time now.

The knocker raps on the door.  It is my pastor.  His expression seems to reflect the pain of many who walk difficult roads.  He hesitaties a moment or two, and then says, “Well, Nathan, are you ready to go?”

I don’t usually remember dreams.  I don’t think they mean anything in and of themselves.  But this one was interesting.  What did I do?

Probably manslaughter, bicycular or otherwise.

In the hours before bed, I had nearly struck a pedestrian while riding at night.  I had already biffed it on my morning commute, while turning on a patch of wet leaves in the parking lot at work.  Unable to recover, I laid the bike down.  I was going too fast, and I should have gone over the speed bump instead of around it.  This time though, it wasn’t my fault.  I had my lights on and flashing, I was in the bicycle lane, I was only going 20, and the pedestrian was jaywalking in an unlighted section of a neighborhood thoroughfare.  At the last second I saw his silhouette against a distant streetlamp.  The braking effort applied was the sort that causes the back wheel to swing around to the side, and it is a wonder that I remained in the saddle and upright.  I think there was an extra pair of hands on the handlebars.  As the pedestrian crossed a few feet in front of me, I saw that he was talking on his mobile phone, which was probably blocking his view of me.

I was furious.  What if I had hit him?  What would I be liable for?  I didn’t say anything but chugged on my way.  How badly could I have hurt him?  My concern wasn’t for him, but for myself.  My anger boiled.  And then, supposing he wasn’t injured in the collision, I imagined myself getting up, dusting myself off, and making sure he was injured.

Just a moment.  Just a flash.  I wanted to hurt him.

Then I remember Matthew 5.  Guilty.

And why is it that it was my pastor that showed up to give me a ride?  I have family that don’t live too far away, and I’m sure they would have been there.  I have no doubt of that.  And pastor is so busy.  He isn’t a taxi service, after all.  Maybe it was just because I had picked up the November issue of The Lutheran Witness from my mailbox the day before, and the issue was on the Office of the Ministry, with a smiling pastor on the cover.

But there is great comfort in the under-shepherd who cares for his flock.  I suppose mine was taking an opportunity for a visit, this time passing from the many locations of previous visits at home and work, to a different place of visitation.  I would be on his shut-in list.  The pause at the door tells me we have talked about this day.  I know I have received forgiveness from Christ, given to me by this man.  I know that my pastor is caring for this sheep who faces temporal consequences in the left-hand kingdom.  And by his careworn look, I know I’m not the only one he looks after.

The names of uncles did not get sorted out over my Thanksgiving vacation with family at my sister’s house.  The consensus is that Austin is synonymous with uncle.  But we played, ate lots of good food, had adventures, ate some more, talked, and enjoyed the company.  The loosely chronological list of highlights here is long because the blessings are many:

Making chili on day one, assisted by my sister-in-law, Heather.  Three large crock-pots, three variations on a theme: hot italian sausage and steak, medium venison, and mild lean turkey.

Learning sign language from Baby Signs DVDs with the nephews

Nephews, all week long.  Playing, fighting, laughing, crying, throwing, pushing, hugging, reading.

Playing trains and building forts with the boys.  Trains are fun, and There are these cool interlocking wooden train tracks with short 45’s long 45’s multi-level trestles, drawbridges, wyes, crossings, and all sorts of things to fill up an entire 8 x 10 rug.  I think they are based on the old-school Brio tracks, but nowadays there are faces on all the engines.  Endless fun of older minds making more involved tracks, and newer minds destroying them and rearranging the cars on the tracks that no longer go anywhere.

Rebuilding a clock on rainy days.  It rained most of the first five days in steady showers.  This was a project that started with disassembly 11 months ago, and needed finishing.  Grandpa looked on at my side most of the time as I dressed pivots, recentered and fitted bushings, and assembled the works.  When I left things unattended, his sharp eye caught small hands before they wreaked havoc.

The ferry ride to Seattle on a rainy Wednesday.  Traveling in a spot of sun and fierce wind toward a shower, a bright rainbow was visible that seemed to land inside the railing on the deck of the ferry.  In trying to shoot it, I found that a circular polarizer can make it disappear completely, and by turning it 90 degrees, can also make can make the rainbow appear more vibrant by cutting interfering light on the opposing plane.

Gumwall somewhere at Pike Place market.  The wall is really covered in chewing gum, to which visitors and passers-by may freely contribute.  I don’t know how this shot happened, all I remember is that the aperture is 1.4, and somehow the wall is exploding.  No post processing done.  Aw, man!  I got something stuck on my shoe. . .

Sunset from Pike Place Market.

Dinner at The Crab Pot, a restaurant where they tip all the seafood out onto the table and give you a mallet to open it with.  So much food!  Dungeness crab, shrimp, steamer clams, pitchers of Black Butte Porter, Widmer Hefeweizen, and something else I can’t remember.

Thanksgiving dinner!  Allison’s table was great, and she made it look easy!

Black Friday shopping.  This is out of the ordinary for me.  I have never shopped on Black Friday.  This year I am pretty much giving everyone the same thing for Christmas (man shopping), so that wasn’t the intent of my Friday.  Ever since I started bicycling, I outgrew all my old pants, and I needed new jeans badly.  I got an inside scoop from that Wal-Mart had Wrangler 5-Stars for $9.50.  Awesome!  I think I’m set for about 2 years, and I like them better than the Levi’s 501s.  On to Goodwill where I picked up LP’s for 50¢ each.  Tammy Wynette, Don Williams, Bach Magnificat on Archiv, Charlie Rich, Christopher Parkening, Buck Trent, Renaisance Christmas music on Nonesuch, this list goes on for 16 albums.  Good stuff!  I also found five swing-arm workbench lamps for an average of $2.75 each.  Now I need four more workbenches to go under them. That is the total of my Black Friday finds.

Fishing at sunrise on a 99% perfectly calm lake with Dad.  In a canoe . . an aluminum one . . . in the cold.  Catching no fish.  Seeing no fish jump.  At all.  Really, it was serene.  Anyone know what the heat transfer coefficient of your average aluminum canoe bench is?

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Motocross at Crista Ministries’ Island Lake Camp.  I have never been too swift at driving vehicles with manual transmissions, except for tractors, but I can manage when I have to.  Neither have I ever driven any sort of motorcycle, so this was quite the adventure.  After a short introduction to the controls, on to the beginner track.  This was easy.  After that we went on to the other track that had big bumps, mud bogs, and hard turns.  This was manageable as long as I did not stop.  All of my starts either stalled out, or involved a wheelie.  When we went on to the trails in the surrounding hillsides, my biggest problem was that as a bicyclist, the lever in my left hand is supposed to be the rear brake, but now it was the clutch.  This was a problem when going down a steep narrow trail with many roots and rocks.  Luckily a couple trees stopped my descent when I missed a turn.  And my brother was there to help me haul the bike back onto the path.  Seriously, this was a blast!

Clamming and Oystering.  Nearest where I grew up, clamming is done in a mud flat, so if something feels hard under your boot or scratches your rake it was probably once a clam or maybe still is.  This was different.  The beach was rocky, and most of the rocks looked like clams in the dark.  After a while, we figured out what we were doing, and between four of us, collected a 5 gallon bucket of clams.  We also collected some sea snails, dug up a geoduck, and persisted in collecting almost half our limits in oysters when at first it seemed there were none to find.

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Shucking and Cleaning Clams for two hours.

Theological conversations late at night.  I’m thankful that my family thinks this is important and talks about it.

Going to Church with family.

Heather’s Oyster Stew made fresh from our haul the previous night.  I didn’t know you could put cayenne pepper in it.  It was really good!  And wouldn’t you know, the very last oyster in the very last bowl had a pearl in it.  It measures 71 mils in diameter, barely 1/16th of an inch!  Try drilling a hole in that one!

A Race to catch the ferry on Monday, brother shotgun.  “Anemic” best describes my car’s acceleration.  Attempting to go up hills from dead stops, in the cold, overloaded with cargo, accelerator on the floor . . . we . . . barely. . . moved.  But we did get there in time to board.

Lunch at the Space Needle.  We went around almost two times.  Fish & Chips is the standard by which I often judge a restaurant, and I think this was the best I’ve ever had.  And it was here I discovered Mac & Jack.

Bowling at The Garage.  More Mac & Jack.

Going with Austin and Heather to find the light rail platform in order to get to the airport.  I don’t think any of us knew there was underground lightrail in Seattle.  When asked how to identify the correct train, the security guard was nice enough to let us know that trains run on tracks and the busses have tires.  Really, he was very nice, and assured us that another guard would be there in the morning in case of questions.

A box of Mom & Dad’s Melrose apples in the backseat.  They made the car smell good on the drive home and not all of them made it there.

There and back again on one tank of diesel, though the car was sputtering after every right turn at the end.  A refill at $3.799, the lowest price since the beginning of August.  Back home again, I’m exhausted and worn out from playing too hard, but it’s a small price for the great time spent with family.

My joke today was that at least my local water utility will be run by someone I voted for.

For many years I listened to a lot of political talk radio.  I knew all the goings on.  I even listened to the station on the other side once in a while for as long as I could take it. But after a while, I began to recognize that one of the hosts was pushing for a sort of civil religion.  So about three years ago, I unplugged from that one, and then another, and soon the others fell by the wayside.  My attention was drawn toward more important matters.  So I have been out of the loop for a while.  I still keep track of whats going on, but not in the intense and urgent way where doom or prosperity turns on the latest report or inside scoop.  I did not even see a single television campaign ad during this general election season.

This really isn’t about parties or platforms.  It is about a few key issues that are of prime importance to me, and way down the list for almost every one else.  Mostly, it is about life.

My state, Washington, was one of four with initiatives concerning “gay marriage”.  I was directly warned of my duty to do something about R-74, passage of which would allow same-sex couples to marry.  I did a little.  Very little.  Maybe I wasn’t plugged in enough.  I had other things going on.  I was seriously busy with work.  I didn’t do my part.  Right now, it is passing by 52% to 48%.  There are still hundreds of thousands of votes to count, but a third of them are in King County, home of Seattle.  And King seems to be finding more and more uncounted ballots.

I think this is about the welfare of children.  How children may be treated as a commodity.  How children are created.  How children are raised.  I think this is about the protection of future generations.  I think this is really about things the state has a legitimate interest in.  And yes, I think that marriage was instituted, not by a state only 122 years old, but by God according to His Word.

On the other side are feelings.

It seems like a rising tide.  Even if it had been stopped this time, how would it have been stopped every time after that?  Will this tide swallow the whole land?  If it does, will it recede?  And if the tide does recede, will what is uncovered be recognizable?  To the best of my knowledge, any great civilization that has passed this graduation mark has fallen shortly thereafter.  Can the United States buck such a devastating correlation?

Tonight, I couldn’t sing all of my evening hymn.  I still can’t.  My voice withered in verse three.  I turned the organ off.  I wept.  One of my favorites, The Day Thou Gavest is a gentle reminder, in a time of defeat, of what is ultimately important, what is guaranteed to endure, and where my hope really lies despite what happens this week, next month, next year, or in the rest of my life.

The day Thou gavest, Lord, is ended,
The darkness falls at Thy behest;
To Thee our morning hymns ascended,
Thy praise shall sanctify our rest.

We thank Thee that Thy Church, unsleeping
While earth rolls onward into light,
Through all the world her watch is keeping,
And never rests by day or night.

As o’er each continent and island
The dawn leads on another day,
The voice of prayer is never silent,
Nor dies the strain of praise away.

The sun, that bids us rest, is waking
Thy saints beneath the western skies,
And hour by hour, as day is breaking,
Fresh hymns of thankful praise arise.

So be it, Lord! Thy throne shall never,
Like earth’s proud empires, pass away;
Thy kingdom stands and grows forever,
Till all Thy creatures own Thy sway.

                                            LSB 886

When I bicycle to work, I use a prominent surface-street overpass.  Today I saw my state senator there.  He was waving to the rush-hour motorists on the freeway below.  As I approached on his side, he turned around and gave me an energetic thumbs up.  I guess he liked my bike, or thought I was making good time.  I was making good time, so I gave him a thumbs up in return.  I like my bike too.