Unexpected blessings

I've been a little slow to remove the pumpkin from the porch.

Why hurry? The bright orange adds color to the creeping brown of winter.  The lawn is succumbing to the cold nights. The decorative flowers are now crumpled to the ground.

The days are shorter. I have to hunt out the things that cheer, since joy is not found as easily as in the carefree days of Autumn.

So this festive orange sphere serves as a signpost marking an entrance to a increasingly hopeful, happy place.

But last week, I saw strange markings on the pumpkin. Each day, there were shavings on the ground around it.  Then I caught the culprit. It was a squirrel, bushy tail swaying as he eyed me eyeing him. He had laboring at the skin, scratching off flakes, digging to get inside the cavarn.

He scampered up in the tree as I came out of the house,  knife gleaming in the afternoon sun. But I wasn't after him. I slit open the side of the pumpkin, revealing the still wet flesh and prized seeds inside.

It didnt' take long for him to shimmy down the tree and enter the grand opening. I watched him gleefully dig in. Paws and nose orange-stained, stringy evidence on his back. He glanced up at the eyes looking through the window -- stood up on his back paws and fluffed his tail in silent appreciation.



"Unexpected Blessings," David Rupert



It would have been impossible or at least exhausting for the squirel to scratch open that pumpkin on his own, but with one simple act, I was able to give simple gift to a simple creature. And in return, he gave me the blessing of watching him enjoy the gift.

Now, if I could just be as perceptive to one of God's children tomorrow, where a single act could be an unexpected blessing.

What  kind of unexpected blessings have you received?  Care to comment?

Creation: Questions, Answers and Mystery

As the High Calling newsletter editor, I have the pleasure of reading and featuring other bloggers from around the network. It's a great position that allows me to encourage others, and at the same time be inspired by great writing. 

I recently read a couple of bloggers who took two approaches to the same topic of Creation. 

Michelle Cox was ready to do battle, reading books about science and creation. She found debates and arguments and drank them up. But then it hit her. "

I am neither a scientist or a Hebrew scholar"

Looking for an answer, she found it: 

"Mystery."

Photo by David Rupert. .

Mystery is that cloud that neither the scientist nor the theologian can see through. The scientist cannot explain the spark of life, that combustible moment when dead matter finds living substance. The theologian cannot explain a universe that seems to be self-sustaining, spinning without obvious intervention.  

She quotes Ray Stedman, who says, "Here is a book that is simply dealing with matters science has not wrestled with and indeed cannot wrestle with-- the key to the mystery of human life."  

Go on over to Michele's Blog, "Quiet Heart," and encourage her to keep writing.  

Kat also experienced questions surrounding Creation, writes “I may not have all the answers, but I know truth.”  

She's comfortable in her own skin of faith, aware that He isn't always obvious, that He cannot be measured.

"How can you look up at the stars and question their Maker? How can you look at a newborn and not see the image of the One in who we are created to be like? Do you really believe that all this happened by chance... that we really came from nothing? I do not know... can not know everything about Him." 

Read, "He is, because he is."  

What do you think about Mystery? Or do you need all your questions answered scientifically. Do we need science? Do we need faith? How do you integrate the two?

Comment here. 


By the way, I'm always looking for interesting, unique and new blogs to highlight. You can drop me a note here.

Related articles

• Unexpected Journey (highcallingblogs.com)
• Can evolution and creationism be reconciled (wiki.answers.com)
• The ongoing joy of creation (redletterbelievers.blogspot.com)

Speeding by the scenic overlook

I treasure my sight. Test me and I'll prove it.  Throw an object at me and I'll instinctively protect my eyes. The flinch is a built-in radar to guard our most precious organ.

Although I value what I see, I take it for granted. I'm far too busy to actually look at the world around me. Speeding across the interstate, I just drive on by the "scenic overlooks," missing out on the wonder.

After all, there are places to go and precious little time to get there.

My life is lived with far too little time for “scenic overlooks.”  I ignore the simple beauties of nature.  I brush off the miraculous.  I disregard the all too obvious signs of a Mighty God intervening in my everyday existence.  The breakneck speed of a modern existence is not conducive to the wide-eyed wonder of the romantic or the saint in ages past.  

But the deep, tranquil wonders I pass by.

We all need a healthy dose of awe and wonder. 

Unfortunately, in our media-crazed, entertainment- driven, Hollywood-effects-dazed culture, we look for the wrong things.   There is awe to be found in ample helpings all around, but it is most often found in the simple things.  Nature is resplendent with mystery:  The human brain and its potential; the interrelationship of the natural world; the intricate design of the atom; the deer feeding in the meadow on a crisp morning.

The Psalmist expressed similar awe in Psalm 40.5.  “You have multiplied, O Lord, your wonderful deeds and your thoughts toward us....were I to proclaim and tell of them, they would be more than can be numbered.”

Tomorrow, I'll post again on an interesting project about those who were once blind who have had their sight restored. They were given a camera and an assignment.  "What did you miss the most when you were blind."

What do you treasure in this world? What do you see right now that you have missed? I would love to hear it. Comment here. 

Is there really anything to be thankful for?

The turkey is a little slimmer this year. The trimmings are a little leaner. Thanks to trillions of dollars lost in market equity, rising unemployment and record drops in home prices, the times are signficantly tougher. The economic slump really sees no end, despite the claim of a "summer of recovery. " It's  been a fall, and probably a winter and beyond of continued doldrums.

If you are without a job, your pain and frustration is even more evident. 

On top of that, our faith is definitely "on the outs" in society, attacked by the elite, mocked by atheists and ignored by an entire generation, post Christianity might be our best descriptor. Things haven't looked this bleak for a lifetime for most.

Personally, this has been a year of loss, of sadness, of trying to find my way again. 

So what's there to be thankful for?

Leave it to the Bible to find a reason. Colossians 2:7 says, "Be strengthened in the faith and overflowing with thankfulness."


To be honest, the last time I can say I was "overflowing with thankfulness" was when I found a $20 in a coat pocket. The term "giddy" is actually more accurate, as I had money for lunch and a couple of gallons of gas.


How can I be overflowing?


Rocky Mountain Elk, David Rupert

No sooner do I throw down the gauntlet, challenging the blessings of an Almighty God, does he retort with divine speed. An elderly woman flashes me a smile, a God-inspired joy that breaks through her tired body. A bird perches on my back porch, singing heavenly praises. A friend reminds me that love can be found again. A phone call from a grown child, confirming his place in the world even though I thought he was lost. A cow elk, feeds in the bushes in the nearby valley.

Overflowing thankfulness often comes from the unexpected - the surprises.

I just need to take a look around. It's everywhere! 


How about you? What is in your life RIGHT NOW that causes your thankfulness to overflow?

Comment here.


Bonnie Gray at Faith Barista has been leading a blog series. Check her site for more links to posts on thankfulness.

“Somebody help me”

Have you ever asked for a little help?

Right now I’m reading Billy Coffey’s Snow Day. He tells the story about an elderly man in a crowded store shouting out, “Help me. Somebody help me.” 

People cautiously began to venture over to see his need.  An EMT rushed over, thinking medical emergency. A store manager was quickly on the scene, fearing lawsuit.

When he had a growing audience, he yelled again. “I need help. How much is this skillet?”

Relief washed over the crowd. Then they had a little anger at being duped.

Coffey writes:

“There was no doubt in my mind that the shoppers and employees who had answered the shouter’s calls for help thought he was a lunatic – or a jerk. All that commotion over a skillet? What a waste of time. How embarrassing."

But the narrator of the story thought differently.

“I didn’t see his actions as foolish. I see them as gutsy. It takes some people a lot of effort to ask for a little help. And to even think of standing in the middle of a crowded Super Mart and scream for it? No way. That’s crazy."

In the novel he writes of various people in town who had suffered in silence – the alcoholic who took secret sips in the dark; the girl from the nice family who slipped into drug addiction; the man who had suffered from so much loss that he took his life. All of them suffered in silence. None of them shouted, “Help me. Someone help me.” And that’s Coffey’s point when he thinks that man shouting the story isn't as nuts as he seems.

“Maybe. But maybe it’s less crazy than not shouting for help when a disease cuts your life too short. Or when depression grips you to the point where you think you cannot possible go on. Or when addiction claims you and you keep saying yes when all of your being is shouting no. Silence may sometimes be golden. But it can sometimes be deadly, too.”

I've needed help. But by my silence, I've stolen the joy away from those who could have provided it. Content to look for the skillet alone, I selfishly walk the path by myself.

You might have stumbled on this blog, typing in the words, “Someone help me,” in your search bar, hoping that out there in cyber-space someone would listen, someone would care.

You might have got here by accident, but before you click away know this: There is a God who cares. There is a God who can help. 

If you want to send an e-mail, click here. If you want to comment, click here.

The molester down the hall. Should I ignore him?

It was nothing short of appalling. Twenty years ago something unspeakable happened at a sleepover. A stupid thing really, but a child was damaged. A family torn apart. A community horrified.

A permanent label was applied to this once upstanding citizen. And he rightfully suffered through the humiliation, stood before the condemnation of a jury of his peers and went to prison where who knows what happened. It’s hard to feel sorry for the guy.

The good news is that somewhere along this tragic journey he found a Savior that yes, died for and loved such a wretched man as he. The man had made amends as best he could, righted his ship and found the narrow road again.

The bad news is that he works down the hall. Someone had heard a rumor and a quick google search confirmed the wagging tongues. The state had him on a list that warned all the neighbors that he once was a very bad man. And the assumption that goes with the label is one not easily shaken.

He eats alone. He works hard, head down just doing his job. Doesn’t laugh out loud.

It’s obvious, he needs a friend.  

But that can’t possibly be me, because I’m pretty busy these days and a guy with that kind of label comes loaded with lots of issues.

Surely there’s someone better qualified to do this. That’s a great job for my pastor, because he’ll talk to anyone. Or Mary Ann because in her The-Spirit-just-told-me-you-needed-a-good-word-today way, she might just be perfect.

Or not. 

I was reminded about a woman who stood at a well. She had her own label. Wrong race. Had a string of husbands behind her and was shacking up with another guy. Probably had dirt under her nails. And God in the flesh asked for a cup of water without any qualms.

I forget that I have my own label and I was asked for a cup of water, too.

“Hey Sam. Got lunch plans today?”

• Do you have untouchables in your workplace, neighborhood or family?
• How do you react when you meet a divorcee, an alcoholic or someone struggling with pornography?
• Do you categorize sin?

Care to comment? Click here.

The sum of a life (in 125 words or less)

It’s a curious mess. Many writers start out with a grand vision and they attack the keyboard without any regard. They simply throw ideas, furiously typing anything that comes into their head.

Photo by Brenda,

I'm no different. Stray thoughts. Disconnected ideas. Sentence structure that would cause my 8^th grade English teacher to shudder. Missing subjects. Missing verbs.

Then I begin to trim, sorting out the good from the bad. The ugly stuff is easy to lop off  like a busy gardener with heavy shears. But then I  have to make decisions. There are  ideas that are well-crafted, yet distracting to the overall message. Those fall to the trimmer’s slicing and they hurt.

Working with a word limitation is when the real pain begins. The word-by-word analysis is excruciating. But in the end, you should have something that sings, that says exactly what it needs to say.

Admittedly, most of my blog posts  don’t have this level of self editing. And as you’ve read me over time, you may have cringed at misspelled words, hanging participles, and jumbled thoughts.

The toughest edit
Recently I was charged as the family writer to pen my father’s obituary. It was a honor, but the newspaper gave a 125-word limit. This would be one tough assignment. How can you express a lifetime of love, compassion, sacrifice and gentle cheer in such a small space? How can you compress 93 years into three paragraphs, an intro and a closing?

Although I tackled the project with trepidation,it turned into one of great joy because I had to write about the things that really mattered.

I started with the writer’s brainstorm, telling the whole story of this man’s life. It was 800 words long – still insulting short for such a man that he was.

Then, with family at the table, we began to winnow it down.
We cut out the things that were important to the world structure – what jobs he held, the clubs he was in, the honors he held.

We cut out the things that were important to family – where he was born, what school he went to, what he accomplished.

We wanted to find things that were important to God.

We sifted the facts until we found the man.

How about my own life summary?
As an exercise, I think I’m going to pre-write my own obituary. It’s not morbid or self-defeating. It’s a challenge. Am I living a worthwhile life? Are the things I’m striving after really that memorable? In the end, does God care about my titles? Does He care about a degree or a plaque that hangs in my office? Which of my efforts are going to last beyond the grave.

I'm trying to see things as He would. And a nagging thought is that God might not have enough to fill the 125-word limit.

So I'm counting that He'll fill in the rest with just one word.

Grace.

What do you think? Click to comment?

UPDATE: Here is dad's obituary, as it appeared in the Tahoe Daily Tribune.

Can death be holy?

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She said we should help create a “holy space.” 

The nurse who was charged with the dying had perhaps the best and worst job anywhere. On one hand, she helped families sort out the messy details of a loved one’s final days. There was the business side with Social Security administrators, Medicare and the purposefully obtuse word that everyone still understands -- “arrangements.”

But the good part of her job is that she's able to help families deal with the inevitable, a reality check that, yes, he was dying and it was time to say "goodbye."

I was surprised at her usage of the term, “holy space.” I don’t think of death as holy. Better words come to mind like "painful," "sad," or "emotional." But holy?  She encouraged a creation of an environment of simple rest, of friends and family, of quiet laughter and joy. This she said, would usher in a holiness to the experience.

And why not? The dignified, gracious man desired a dignified, gracious end. The man who brought peace to so many deserved a little peace.

The big Norwegian with steel gray eyes looked a little different in his final days. Wrapped in a loose gown, the oversized bed frame made him seem so smaller. Frail. 

He had little to say near the end, weakness choking off his vocal chords. But he always was a man of few words and when he did say something, it was slow and measured. He always contemplated the impact of words, not wishing for them to complicate a situation that could be resolved instead with a smile.

This man’s faith was so simple it frustrated the Pharisees in his life. When faced with life’s challenges – and we all remember them because we lived them – he was a rock. When the cupboards were bare, and the bills were due, and all looked lost, he would simply reassure us. “God will work it out.” And He did. And He still does.

The Redhead, 63 years by his side, was still there, stroking, touching, and giving her undying love. Her mind and body still active, she could have skipped on to her own life, instead choosing to care for him. More than anything, that's what I hope for in my life.

His heart was always with the open range of his childhood home in North Dakota. “Where never is heard, a discouraging word.” This was his life.

Amazingly, his wrinkles disappeared a little each day until his face was taut and tan like a young man. His pain was gone, almost as if he were being measured for his new body. His last words to me were mouthed, but I knew what he said.  “I love you.” His twinkled eyes still full of admiration as he managed a weak smile.

That night, his systems shut down, one at a time, until he closed his eyes and never woke up.

And when it was over, it was strangely wonderful. We cried. And so did those who fed him and turned him and changed his sheets, because they saw the man he was. Yet, through the tears, we all smiled. This honest, genuine man finally at peace. 

Yes, it was holy. 

I love you Dad and hope that I’ll carry your namesake in a worthy manner.
Care to comment?

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Ode to my father

I've been out of touch this week, as I've had the sadness -- and the honor of saying goodbye to my father who lived for 93 years. I'll write some observations about this process over the coming days, but for now, I want to share a little.


He was a roofer by trade, a cowboy at heart and a gentleman by nature. 

For more than 50 years, he crawled over rooftops, and literally hung on the edge of danger. We figured over the years he made more than 100,000 treks up and down a ladder, often with bundles of shingles on his shoulder and tools strapped to his waist.

His was a simple approach. He rarely hired a crew, choosing instead the lonely road of a dedicated craftsman. Advertising? His calling card was an old 1951 Chevy truck with a custom roof that he drove down the highway with a ladder strapped to the top. He was famous for that truck and regularly people would pull up at a stoplight, roll down their windows and ask him to come over and give an estimate for work.

He never cheated his customers. He always backed up his work – sometimes repairing leaks that had made it through four or five tough winters before breaking down. He always had a smile and gentle way that exhibited Christ’s love.

His skill, his honesty and his integrity won him many loyal customers and fed our family.

I remember sitting on a roof with my dad as a small boy, eating half his sandwich and stealing coffee from his Thermos. I would catch his grey eyes, staring off at some distant shore. Where ever it was, I wanted to be there with him.

He spoke slow, not wishing for words to complicate a situation that could be resolved with a smile.


He breathed many a silent prayer on those roofs, simple thanks for the blessings of living another day. Such is the way of my father.

Dad never made a lot of money. But I learned that work wasn’t just about getting ahead. It was about glorifying God through your labor. It was about a High Calling that didn’t have to be articulated, but was lived.

His his ethics, his serenity and his faith lives on in his children.

There is more to say...and I'll write more this next week.

Comments here.