Kiss Me Again, Nana!

It was bedtime and Nana was babysitting while Mom & Dad were on a date. Good for Nana, good for Mom & Dad. We’d done the jammies-on-thing, the snack-thing, the be-sure-to-brush your-teeth-thing, the story-thing. Now it was time for bedtime prayer and the Nana’s-kissing-you-goodnight-thing. Lukie decided it was also time for the you-kiss-me-I-wipe-it-off-thing.

My girls and I used to play this same game when they were little. I gave them a big smooch, they made an exaggerated swipe at wherever Mom’s buss landed and it was on! “You know what happens if you wipe my kiss off,” I would playfully warn. The response? Giggles. Wiping off of kisses and more giggling, with an expectant look of, “You’re going to kiss me again, right? Aren’t you? I hope you are!” And I did. Repeatedly! An “I love you, you love me, God gave us this family” satisfying demonstration of affection and belonging at its best.

It was no different with my grandsons than it used to be with my daughters, with the laughing and kissing and maybe even a couple tickles thrown in for good measure (except maybe, with boys being boys the “wiping off” was stronger, the bravado about “you can’t kiss me” a bit more decided!). So delightful, even if I was risking getting them all riled up when they should be settling down.

After the initial onslaught the 4 year old squealed, “Kiss me again, Nana!” The almost 8 year old was on the top bunk, playing hard to get and succeeding, but at the last minute he threw down his hand and had me kiss it, whereupon he placed it on his own little smiling lips. Ahhh, grandmotherly bliss. And that’s why I’m a part-time Montananana.

Kisses are hard to give and get from 1300 miles away. There’s email, there’s the phone and, at the moment, the US Postal Service is still in business, albeit a somewhat more pokey form of communication than it used to be. (Of course, you also never know how long this game is going to be “allowed” since little boys seem to have this tendency to grow up and all.) But none of those other methods allow for quite the same heart-hug as an in-person, “I’m gonna get you,” wet smackaroo on a chubby cheek, followed by a small hand (getting bigger way too quickly but for now still inviting) reaching down for a goodnight kiss. Then there’s especially that little voice, “Kiss me again, Nana.” Oh, honey, I will. For as long as you’ll let me, I will.

Psalm 127:3 Behold, children are a heritage from the LORD, the fruit of the womb a reward.

Park Paradise

As we picked up our sandwiches for lunch later in the day the clerk asked, "Are you guys headed to the park?" Receiving an answer in the affirmative, she grinned and said, "Lucky!"

Well, I don't know about luck but we sure are fortunate to live part-time in a place where you can hop in your car, drive through a most-appropriately named Paradise Valley and arrive in the nation's first National Park one hour later.

Yesterday two of my daughters and I, my 4 year old grandson in tow, set off early for an anticipated day of wildlife spotting and scenery enjoying. Yellowstone National Park never disappoints. Before we even drove through Roosevelt Arch at the northern entrance in Gardiner, MT we'd been treated to bison and antelope sightings, to say nothing of the fabulous snow-capped Absaroka mountains. And you can't "say nothing" about them - they are simply breathtaking on a gorgeous sunny day, which we had. They are so perfect-looking we always comment that it all looks like an artist-painted backdrop, which it was, since God made them!

Our park entrance pass expired in March so I had to purchase a new one. I told the ranger that I was sorry to hand over the old card as it bore a fabulous shot of a Yellowstone bison, or buffalo as we commonly call them, just emerging from the river. "That's OK, " he replied. The new ones have otters on them and I like those even better." We exchanged comments on our appreciation of the park. He told me how much he loved Yellowstone and how he just couldn't believe his fortune at living and working in such a special place. It makes me happy when people who live and work in a place still appreciate it every day!

My grandson has an appreciation for buffalo, just like his Nana does. Most days they are not difficult to spot and often you can see "buffawo on da road," as Lukie said when he was really tiny. And they were everywhere, including on the road. When they are, you wait until they decide to move. The largest land mammals in North America go where they want, when they want. Despite their bulk, they are pretty agile and pretty quick. Several foolish visitors have found out to their detriment thatthe big guys run fast - faster than they can.

We always hope to spot a bear, but though both the black and grizzly varieties are out of hibernation, they remained elusive to us on this day. We were most content and actually thrilled to see a zillion of our bison friends (that's an exaggeration - there are only a little more than 3,000 of them in the park; they're massive size just make it seem like more!), antelope, bighorn sheep, sand cranes, big elk herds, mule deer and a beautifully bushy wolf who crossed the road directly in front of us.

Then there there was Nana and her old bladder to give us a laugh. Not kidding. We had stopped at an "outhouse" sort of restroom, out in the Lamar Valley. I knew what to expect, but Lukie did not. As we entered the hut,which really wasn't all that repulsive as non-flushing, no sink restrooms go, I spotted all the trash in the pit toilet. I hoped Lukie had not, but he grimaced and said in a most confused tone, "That is for garbage." And not for what it was really for apparently, as he refused to use it. He went over to the peculiar-looking urinal and relived his little self. "This is really splashy!" he commented. That initiated my giggle relex, which led to all-out belly laughing, which led to...well, let's just say I had to sit on a blanket when I returned to the driver's seat. "Some people don't know where to put their garbage," he reported to the aunties. Wise little Luke, you are so right! Shame on them - they apparently don't possess the sense of a 4 year old! Ah, laughter. Good for you even when wet pants aren't so much.

The end of the day was complete with the purchase of more "Buffys" - a stuffed mama buffalo and her baby, gifts from auntie to her nephew. Nice auntie. Happy nephew. And happy, most blessed Yellowstone visitors.

"He makes springs pour water into the ravines; it flows between the mountains. They give water to all the beasts of the field; the wild donkeys quench their thirst. The birds of the air nest by the waters; they sing among the branches. He waters the mountains from his upper chambers; the earth is satisfied by the fruit of his work. He makes grass grow for the cattle, and plants for man to cultivate-bringing forth food from the earth." (Psalm 104:10-14)

No Bones about It

Bones pretty much always gets her man – or woman – as the case may be. Dr. Temperance Brennan, a forensic anthropologist on the Fox TV network crime drama “Bones”, and her cohorts at the Jeffersonian, find answers to the mysteries behind discovered human remains. Using their higher-than-the-average levels of intelligence and the latest and greatest in technological equipment, they sleuth their way into discovering the name of the deceased, what he or she looked like, cause of demise and just exactly “who done it” - often from just a pile of bones, and sometimes not all of them at that.

Officials in real-life Washington D.C. recently announced that they were able to reconstruct faces of two drowned sailors from the Civil War era ironclad gunship, the USS Monitor. The Monitor was involved in a battle with the Confederate warship known as the Merrimack in March of 1862; later that year it sank in a New Year’s Eve storm off the North Carolina coast, killing 16 people. When the ship was recovered from the ocean floor in 2002, skeletal remains of two sailors were found in the gun turret. Recovered DNA from the remains was sent to the POW-MIA Accounting Command in Hawaii but a descendant match has yet to be made. Scientists believe one sailor was between the ages of 17 and 24 stood about 5’ 7” tall and had decent oral hygiene; the other, a pipe smoker, appeared to be older – about 30-40 years old and a bit shorter at 5’6” tall. Photographs of reconstructed clay facial models (done by the Louisiana State University’s Forensic Anthropology and Computer Enhancement Services Lab) of the two gentlemen have been released in the hope that someone might recognize a face as resembling one in an old family album somewhere.

As much as believers in Christ might be curious to know how tall He was or what His face looked like we will never really know the true shape of His eyes, the set of His cheekbones or the fullness of His mouth until the day we meet Him – in heaven or in the air at the rapture. While we can reasonably suppose He physically resembled other Jewish men of the day, no reconstruction techniques exist to obtain results from recovered bones. It’s an impossibility. There aren’t any.

The Bible tells us that at age 33, Jesus was executed on a cross, buried and bodily rose again three days later, leaving no physical trace of him - not one single bone - in the tomb. Those who arrived on Easter morning to anoint His body found nothing of Him, save His burial wrappings. No body snatching here, either – He was seen by many in the days that followed.

We don’t know what He looked like, but we do know for sure Who He was. And is. The Bible describes Jesus as our Advocate (1 John 2:1), the Bread of life (John 6:48,51) the Brightness of the Father’s glory (Heb 1:3), the Counselor (Isa. 9:6) the Creator (Isa. 43:15), our Deliverer (Rom 11:26), the Friend of Sinners (Matt 11:19), the Image of God (Heb. 1:3), our Salvation (Luke 2:30) and so much more. Those who have accepted Jesus’ finished work on the cross and who daily walk with Him clearly recognize Him and know Him better than if they carried a photo of Him in their wallets or possessed an old picture of Him in a family heirloom album: they carry an imprint of Him on their hearts.

Absolutely, positively – and no bones about it.

The Master Came to Our House

On this Maundy Thursday, I share with you a piece I wrote for a young lady to perform live some years ago at East Troy Bible Church; it was later tweaked into the form it takes today.


Things have not been the same since He was here. I haven't been the same.

It was just before Passover and the house of my master was in an uproar. We had many extra duties that day because of the feast that was coming. There had been much bickering between we servants over who had to do the most work. My best friend Rachel had asked me to help her finish her tasks, but I just couldn't tire myself out any further, even for her.

And then there was my mistress. She was especially in a dither over a special guest who would be here. The "Teacher" they called him.

I already knew who he was. I'd even seen him. I'd been out earlier in the week doing some errands for my mistress and there was such a commotion in town that I pushed my way through the crowd to see what was happening.

People had cut down palm branches and were waving them in the air, shouting, "Hosanna! Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord! Blessed is the king of Israel!" I think they were talking about a man I saw riding a young donkey. At least I didn't see anyone else. But was he a king? They kept waving and waving, and even laying down their cloaks to make way, so I guess they meant him, but I was confused.

On my way back home I heard some people saying he'd healed a blind man, and even raised someone from the dead! Someone told me he'd claimed to be our Messiah, but I just didn't know what to believe. And what could I know anyway, a lowly servant girl.

The time for the big dinner came at last. Though I was supposed to be tending to my duties in another part of the house, I peered through the crack in the dining room door. I just had to see this man again. There was something about him I had to know. I was hoping my mistress wouldn't catch me and send me away.

They had just begun to serve the meal. Someone was remiss in their duties! They had neglected to do the footwashing! How I hoped my mistress wouldn't find this out, for she would be so angry and embarrassed about the oversight that she very well might punish us all!

Well, I couldn't believe my eyes! He, the one they called the "Teacher", the one I had seen on the donkey, our special guest - he got up. He took off his outer clothing and wrapped a towel around his waist. Pouring some water into a basin, he began to wash his friends’ feet. Everyone was astounded!

When the honored guest got to Peter it appeared that Peter tried to object, as he vigorously shook his head. But, his feet were washed anyway, with such gentleness, such love and care. I had never heard of a person of such importance stooping down to do the work of a servant, and to do it in such a way.

As he finished, he turned and fixed his gaze on me, with those eyes so full of compassion. You know, I believe he would have washed my feet!

Rest Stop

Ahhh, thank goodness for those welcome blue signs along the interstate: "Rest Area." Sometimes, after a long drive, you just need to rest w/a capital R. As in REAL sore Rear from Ridin' Real Far.

You wouldn't think sitting on your afforementioned backside would cause that much discomfort, but last weekend my left cheek was giving me fits and I don't mean the cheek up by my nose. Rest was required - as in stop the car right now, get out and perambulate a bit. Out in the middle of a sunny South Dakota prairie the American Creek recreation Area rest stop near Oacoma and Chamberlin provides the perfect place for such perambulation, especially on an especially fine early spring March day.

It wasn't so fine back in September of 1804 when Meriweather Lewis and Willam Clark (remember them, of Lewis & Clark expedition & exploration fame?) stopped in the same place. Their gear soaked, bodies and spirits bedraggled, they decided they and their crew had just about had it. Though they didn't have the benefit of the blue signs to guide them, they found this Missouri River pit stop the perfect refuge for resting up, refueling on buffalo meat, wild plums and acorns (mmm, my,

don't they sound scrumptious?). Refreshed, renewed and all dried out, they packed up after a spell and continued their way west. This oasis was apparently so appealing that they scheduled a return visit on their trek back home after proving that, indeed, Thomas Jefferson had not wasted the new country's money after all in a "foolish" land purchase (assuming that one appreciated rushing rivers, majestic mountains and wondrous wildlife!).

We didn't kill any wild buffalo at the rest stop (forgot my shootin' iron at home). Mcdonald's apple slices had to substitute for the wild plums. We had some mixed nuts, but the Wal-Mart brand sadly includes no acorns (actually wasn't aware humans could eat them; in my 21st century world they are solely and happily reserved for neighborhood squirrels). We did get "dried out," so to speak, courtesy of the clean South Dakota restrooms; we stretched our legs (and those of the derierre) on a pleasant stroll out to the the concrete teepee overlooking the river (don't knock concreete teepees 'til you see 'em - they're kind of sturdy, out west looking cool). We took our rest and were soon ready to resume our own journey west.

Jesus knew about our need for rest and renewal. Even He needed it from time to time. Mark 6:31 says, "Then, because so many people were coming and going that they did not even have a chance to eat, he said to them, “Come with me by yourselves to a quiet place and get some rest.”

Jesus, Himself, is our rest. Matthew 11:28 & 29: “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls." He provides this rest day by day, hour by hour and minute by minute. It is free. It is always available. And no blue signs required.

Breathtakingly Beautiful

Today is breathtakingly beautiful - sunny, warm - and it's only March 13! It brought to mind an article I wrote several years ago about the Hawaiian island of Moloka'i and the Kalaupapa Peninsula.


Kalaupapa is breathtaking. What is officially called Makanalua Peninsula on the Hawaiian island of Moloka’i (between Maui and Oahu), Kalaupapa juts out into the churning Pacific Ocean; it is cut off from the rest of the island by 3,000 foot majestic sea cliffs, the tallest in the world. Standing on the shore, watching waves crash relentlessly against the craggy lava rocks, one feels a sense of truly being in a place the world has left behind. Which is precisely why, in 1866 King Kamehameha V chose this spot to leave some of his subjects behind - permanently.

Hansen’s Disease, or “leprosy” as it was commonly known, had come to the islands in the 1830’s. Much feared, the dreaded malady attacked the skin, flesh and nerves. Nodules, ulcers, scaly scabs and deformities resulted. Death was not uncommon. With no cure in sight, Kamehameha signed the “Act to Prevent the Spread of Leprosy”, setting aside land to isolate people who might spread the communicable scourge if “left at large.”

People with advanced cases of leprosy (and later even those merely suspected of having it or those related to a sufferer) were exiled to Kalaupapa. It was a place devoid of amenities - no buildings or shelters, no drinking water and certainly no medical treatment of any kind. Plucked from their families and abandoned to the land, these unfortunates were forced to fend for themselves as best they could, or as was the case for many, as they could not.

Stories tell of some victims arriving by ship, being forced to jump overboard to swim for their lives or dangle from ropes stretched from anchored ship to the shore, painfully inching their way to land and comparative safety.

No amount of reward or payment could induce healthy people to stay and keep order in the settlement. Everyone was afraid - deathly afraid - until one man, Joseph DeVeuster, set aside his fear and gave his heart to the people.

Born in Belgium, this Catholic priest known as “Father Damien” arrived at Kalaupapa in 1873 and remained there until his death. Appalled at deplorable conditions in which the people were forced to live, disregarding his own health and safety, Damien built proper homes and churches and worked tirelessly to extract government funding for medical services. He was a doctor, a pastor, a confidante, a comforter, and advocate. He became one of the people - in every sense of the word - as he himself contracted the disease and died after 16 years of service, in 1889.

Jesus came, too, in a sense, to a group of “lepers.” Knowing humankind was lost, abandoned to perdition because of the fatal scourge of sin, He became one of them, one of us. Fully man, He walked, talked, ate, felt pain, cried and slept. Fully God, he became the perfect sacrifice, sent to save forever his beloved, wayward creation. “For the Son of Man,” says Jesus in Luke 19:10, “came to seek and to save what was lost.”

Damien came to Kalaupapa to bring the outcasts a better life, to make the best of what they had left on earth. But when he died, their help was gone. Others had to come after him, to carry on. When Jesus came and died, he rose again and no more help was needed. He is our living Advocate, our help, our hope. Where we were once cut off and left behind, because of Jesus we are free and have no need to fear ever being left again. Jesus doesn’t make better of what we have left - He guarantees us His best, breathtakingly beautiful yet to come!

Glossophobia Be Gone!

American Idol, we weren’t. But we had contestants (of sorts) and judges (once again – of sorts!), one guy on either side of the grandma (Steven, Randy and J-Lo needn’t schlep up to the unemployment line!); the supportive audience was there, too.

It was an area-wide Christian schools speech meet. Students, 1st-6th graders, gathered together to present their memorized poems, stories and Bible passages – with not much “glossophobia” in sight.

“Glossophobia” is the fear of public speaking (“glosso” = tongue and “phobia” = fear) and statistics say 3 out of 4 people suffer from it. In fact, some folks would rather die than have to speak in front of a group. Getting your mouth to work properly and intelligently while your knees knock in front of others is usually listed as the #1 fear. The malady can hold people back in their careers and can be seen as a social negative.
That’s not to say that several of the youngsters this morning didn’t suffer with nervous tummies or sweaty palms. In fact, a couple of them appearing before our judicial trio looked as if they’d rather have been back in their classroom taking a math test, getting a cavity filled at the dentist or just about anywhere at all rather than reciting an Aesop fable from memory in front of all those strangers.

But, you know – each one of the 13 3rd graders we had the privilege to hear spoke up, looked up and pushed right through those butterflies flying around their insides. Not a one gave up, even if a couple of the beginnings were a tad shaky. Each child learned that fear doesn’t have to be fearsome, that quitting is for quitters and super things can come from sticking to it.

John Wayne once quipped that “courage is being scared to death, but saddling up anyway.” Congrats to those young ones today for “getting their saddle on” and showing some of us “old ones” just how to ride!

Psalm 31:24 “Be of good courage, and he shall strengthen your heart, all ye that hope in the LORD.”