Baby blessings

When our Calvin was born, Phil was already 16 months old. He didn't actually walk as yet, but he would crawl over to the tiny crib, pull himself up and reach in to touch his baby brother's head. He stroked it very gently and said, "Baby...baby." "Yes, Phil, that is your baby brother." We thought it was great the way he took ownership of this new intruder into our lives.

Tragedy loomed over us, however, when tiny Calvin had to return to the hospital with jaundice when he was but 8 days old. His bilirubin count kept increasing. Philip, however, didn't know what had happened, and so he crawled over to the crib, pulled himself up and reached in, only to find empty sheets. He searched with his little hand, and then looked up at us and said with a plaintiff question in his tone, "Baby?" It broke our hearts. We were skating on the edge as it was.

We had a private prayer meeting, committing our Calvin to the Lord. We admitted that he was only on loan anyway, and acknowledged our heavenly Father's right to take him if it was his sovereign will. Little did we know that God would not only spare his little life, but drag him into the ministry of the gospel. Yes, he did go kicking and screaming, as it were. We did not mean this when we had that prayer meeting. And I know better than to suggest that God mistook our prayer.

I remember Barbara driving over to the local hospital (just incidentally, it is the same hospital in which Bruce Springsteen was born) three times a day or more just to nurse her tiny, crying baby. She did this for the three straight days he stayed there. Since he had been released and re-admitted, he could not be placed in the nursery. He was in a huge adult bed and did a lot of loud crying. She would hear this cry as soon as she stepped off the elevator. I understand that a woman finds it difficult to lactate when she is under stress, and I would say there was supernatural providence to enable her to spread her mother's love so far. The doctor was no encouragement, telling her that she ought not to be nursing. "We can give him a bottle here." What do doctors know?



Just before his bilirubin count mounted to the marker for a blood transfusion, the corner was turned in his condition and the count began to subside. One doctor was convinced there was a blood incompatibility at work (AB-O is a common problem combination). But our pediatrician said he just has a slow liver which finally caught up to his needs.



That was a crisis time in our lives in which we praise God for answered prayer. A year later we began playing my boys' favorite game: Boys Climb on Daddy. My senile memory banks will probably never forget those days.

Fishing one more time

Bobby had never been fishing before, and I suspect he has never been fishing since. But on one given day, Bobby enjoyed a pinnacle experience of fishing when we were yet living in Modesto. We never talk about fishing, and he has never relayed any stories of taking his kids fishing, so I am concluding that he doesn't go fishing. Of course only fanatics tell everyone about their fishing experiences (oops! Am I painting myself as a fanatic? I may be a fanatic, but not really about fishing).

One day during our time in Modesto, Brad took Bobby fishing with him to Don Pedro reservoir. Maybe it was another location, but it doesn't matter for the purpose of my story. Brad was a great friend for my children, and he was very generous spirited. He took Bobby trolling in a rented or borrowed boat. As an experienced fisherman, Brad explained how to catch bass in this lake, and he even loaned Bobby a rod and reel from his own stock. They spent much of the day out on the lake, and we were glad that he was having a good time in the company of a young man we admired very much. We knew that Brad would be a good influence because he is a sincere Christian young man. What we hadn't anticipated was that Bobby would be a source of testing for Brad's sanctification. When the day was ended and the boys returned to Modesto, Bobby had landed a record bass and Brad was empty handed.

Brad did quite a bit of muttering, but his integrity and good humor gained the best of him, and he feigned angry complaint against providential blessing that fell on Bobby and passed him by.

Fishing, part 2

One of our wonderful vacations in Maine was spent in a lodge right on the banks of Owls Head bay. At the invitation of Barbara's brother and sister-in-law we enjoyed the accommodations of the family vacation cabin. Barbara's parents also joined this party. My father-in-law, the Rev. Russell D. Piper, a charming and engaging scrounge, accepted the invitation of the neighbor to spend the day on his lobster boat. He returned with eight lobsters which he "stole" for $6. They were boiled in an iron pot which had probably been used identically for 60 years or so. So here we all were, dipping lobster meat in reservoirs of drawn butter, licking our fingers, and thinking, as the bay gently lapped the shore not 200 feet behind us, "It doesn't get better than this." Our kids ate all the hot dogs they wished, and only years later bitterly complained that they were deprived of this feast.

The next day I took our three boys fishing. There were challenges against this project. Our only boat was a leaky row boat with no anchor. To exacerbate the challenge, the shore was quite rocky and the wind was determined that we steadily head for those rocks. Not to worry. There was a cut out gallon milk jug for bailing the water, and Daddy was here to protect his crew. We loaded the boat with clams for bait, and rowed out 100 yards. After a while I developed a routine. After rowing, I would bait three hooks and help my apprentice fishermen cast out their lines, usually in different directions. When that was finished, I took to bailing out the considerable amount of water we had already taken aboard. This was barely manageable, but the additional "problem" was that these fish were exceptionally hungry. I had to abandon my bailing to help the boys land each fish and then bait each hook again. By this time the rocks were ominously close. "Lines in!" It was already time to row out again. This was the kind of work that kept me busy all day. But it was delightful work because the kids were having so much fun.

Later that day Calvin asked his grandfather why he didn't catch as many fish, since he was reputed to be a great fisherman. Russ just laughed, having a good sense of humor, and not willing to explain that he was fishing for a variety that required a good deal more finesse.

When my sister-in-law treated us to a typical Maine clam dinner, steamed over an outdoor fire (with seaweed for the steam), I ate very few. It was not possible after the events of the day to associate these critters with anything besides slimy bait.

Fishing

I don't really have a bucket list, but there is one thing I yearn to do before I do kick the bucket. I would like to learn the finesse of true fly fishing. I have this image of wading in the creek of a mountain meadow somewhere in the Sierras, gently laying my tantalizing fly on the waters over hungry rainbow trout. Now there is real sport in that.

Oh I've been fishing many times. As a kid my parents used to take me to June Lake when there was only a dirt road and we had to make our own camping spot. We hauled the water and took a trowel up the hill for lack of an outhouse. Now it's a city, but that is another story.

I remember learning how to catch my limit of large trout on Twin Lakes from an obvious expert. He was camped near our tent, and he saw my fishing persistence and my trifling results. Every day we would see his long string of huge trout as he packed them in his ice chest. He must have been doing something right. I guess he had compassion for my plight, and I was a nice thirteen year old boy, so he volunteered to take me out on the boat with him.

His tackle was unorthodox, and his bait was a bit different too. He used salmon egg clusters which he had sun dried, but only partially. When they were pasty but nimble they were ready. He broke them into quarter sized clusters. "Small hook, small fish. Big fish need a big hook." he insisted. Well, I was used to using a tiny hook, and only one salmon egg at a time. He used a fly pole and tapered fly line for tackle. Everyone else had fiberglass rods, conventional reels and nylon filament line. He would take his large hook and wrap it with one of these clusters, rolling it in his palms like mom forming a dough ball for cookies. There was a swivel and leader at the end of his fly line, but no sinkers. The weight of this salmon cluster was sufficient for his purpose.

We rowed out to a certain spot on the lake that he knew to be a "hole" where the big fish used to hang out. He would roll out a cast for several feet, and then let the bait slowly sink toward the lake bottom. Then, holding the pole upside down (the loops were looking down at the water), he would ever so slowly draw in the line a foot at a time and stop. After doing this twice with no results he pontificated, "There aren't any fish here today."

We moved to another favorite hole of his. He repeated his routine, only this time he got a strike. After a second strike, he jerked on the line and hooked a mammoth trout. "Okay, let down the anchor. The fish are here." he announced with proven authority. When I tried his method, even though I didn't execute with the same degree of finesse, I caught several large trout. It was amazing how I could actually feel the fish bumping my bait. Experience would tell the fisherman the difference between a bump and a bite. When it was a bona fide bite, he would jerk the line and hook the fish's mouth. I would like to try that again someday, but as long as I am dreaming I would make it genuine fly fishing for my fantasy.

Gay marriage

The great debate here in California is whether or not to redefine the concept of marriage. It is not a case of discrimination against a minority. Gays already have the right of domestic partnership. If there are some insurance and tax advantages they miss in that category, this "left coast" state will gladly give it to them. But that is not what this debate is all about. How shall we define marriage? Proposition 8, which the populace itself passed, defines marriage as a relationship between a man and a woman. This did not surprise anyone. That has been the understood meaning of marriage since time began. Even our liberal culture knows the definition of marriage, and that is why the proposition passed. Gays are NOT prohibited from getting married. Using the heretofore universal definition of the term they simply do not want to be married, that is, to a member of the opposite gender.

Changing the definition of marriage is not a simple measure. It is a cultural paradigm shift. If--by definition--marriage includes same sex couples, then we will be shifting the foundation of culture itself. It will necessarily require a revamping of our educational system. Sex education is not the only subject that will have to be revised. The assumed definition of marriage creeps into many disciplines, literature is an obvious example.

It is not gay coupling that produces a family. "Families" with two mothers or two fathers must always be artificially contrived. Nature itself teaches us that it takes a male and a female to propagate the race.

In spite of recent propaganda for "unisex" rearing of children, those who have actually done it know full well that boys are wired differently than girls. Men from Mars and women from Venus stuff strikes a responsive chord in all of us. Boys like trucks, dirt and daredevil tricks. Girls like Barbies, tea parties and shopping. My point is simply this: the most favorable couple to raise a child is
a loving heterosexual couple. To cite a dysfunctional home as proof for either side is sloppy logic. Anecdotal cases are not a scientific sampling. In the very nature of the case it is only the heterosexual couple who are able to supply a fully rounded milieu. So for begetting children or for raising them, it requires a mom and dad. That's why marriage, by definition, is a male/female relationship.

I live on the left coast of a pagan nation. The Christian memory of our culture is quickly fading away during my lifetime. And for some it can't come a moment too soon. Contrary to popular opinion, I do not want to shove my moral standard down anyone's throat. That is why I have written this post without appealing to biblical teaching. I believe God finds homosexual acts an abomination in His sight for reasons which are discernible to all of us in nature itself. If gays want to enter a committed domestic relationship, it is not against California law even as we speak.

If you do not love Jesus first and best, if you do not trust Him alone to wash away your sin and govern your life, you are headed for eternal damnation. Whether or not you adopt a homosexual life style will not change that. A homosexual life is just symptomatic of a heart that does not submit to Christ. Heterosexual fornication is also a symptom of the rebel heart. This is not gay bashing. To accuse me of that is just a lot of political sympathy mongering.

Sequoia revisited

I love Sequoia National Park. We camped there several times, usually for a week at a time. That was in the old days when we could still get down on our hands and knees and crawl into a pup tent. The hardship was getting up and down. The pup tent was not a hardship. We had a three inch foam mattress that covered the entire floor of the tent. With a double sleeping bag we were cuddly and quite warm. The very large drawback and the actual reason we stopped camping at Sequoia (or anywhere else) was Barbara's allergies. She went to an allergist, who gave her the test, and when her whole arm turned white and hot he said, "You are allergic to every tree God made." So I composed this poem from her perspective. She disdains it as doggerel, but I think it is encapsulated truth.


I love to see these giant trees
If only for a day.
They aggravate my allergies
And so I cannot stay.

The storm brought heavy thunder
The rain came steady down.
The clouds of moist congestion
Brought pain and forced a frown.

For though the sun is shining
And skies are clear and blue,
The raging tumult in my head
Drones on without a clue.

Some day the clouds will dissipate.
Some day the rain will stop.
But now my nose precipitates.
My head swears it will pop.

Fresno is so flat and hot!
Who’d ever choose this place?
But wait, my sinuses unstop.
A painless smile now forms my face.

That world is worth a photograph
A periodic visit to revel,
But I was made to live and laugh
In cities at sea level.

Pastor's Study

There was a time when I took seriously the motto that the OPC stands for the "only perfect church". But I quickly learned that the only perfect church is the church triumphant in glory. But in my early days I enjoyed a fierce denominational loyalty that created in me an attitude of condescension toward others. It is a healthy thing to learn existentially that the holy catholic (universal) church is so much wider than the OPC.

That revelation hit me hardest while I was in Westminster Seminary. You must understand that when I attended Westminster (Philadelphia was the only location of a seminary by that name) the institution was virtually an OPC seminary. Almost every professor was a minister in the OPC (Young, VanTil, Stonehouse, Wooley, Clowney), and that fact tended to encourage my loyalty. It was the student body that opened my eyes to honestly respect other denominations as part of the great body of Christ. My buddy, Rex Boda, was just as loyal as I, but to his denomination, The Christian Missionary Alliance. I found him to be every bit as reformed in his theology as any minister in the OPC. He had a good heart, and a godly walk. Another very intelligent, godly man was in the Mennonite church. Another guy was a Baptist, of all things. They were all good guys with reformed convictions. This experience took the wind out of my sails, the sails that had been full of the wind of denominational snobbery.

Later in life, I joined the Minister's Fellowship in locations where the Lord had placed me. Again I have met good men who shared my convictions about the sovereign grace of God. This is always refreshing and encouraging, but it was far too infrequent.

Have you ever heard a "sermon" that was a series of cute stories, awkwardly tied together with scripture verses? It is no accident of spontaneity. It is calculated. The Minister's Fellowship visited one pastor's study and observed his desk with book holders that propped up the most recent work of his research. I was startled to discover two of them were joke books! You have to know that a Westminster graduate expects to see in-depth reference works and commentaries on a pastor's desk, so you can imagine how jarring this discovery was for me.

I remember the time (early in my ministry) that I had been wrestling with an Old Testament text, and some OPC ministers happened to visit my study during a Presbytery meeting. When they saw a Hebrew Bible and Hebrew lexicon among my books on the desk, I was accused of deliberately setting it up for display. I was insulted. I thought every OPC minister might be found with a similar study condition. I must admit that those books are less frequently found on top of my desk, but then again I have a much smaller desk, and most of it is cluttered with stuff to put away some day. These days, if you know where to go on the web, you can find the Hebrew text and get a lexical reference to the words.