I walked the CFBC labryienth last night. It was cold and dark and often hard to follow. Sorta like life at times. When I finally arrived at the center  I felt relief somehow and sad and happy all  at the same time.

I  kept on walking around the centered candlelight feeling like I had finally arrived. Like I was home. 

The year has been a true challenge of faith but through  it all the I never felt afraid. I knew I had Joyce and my family holding me up. My faith in God   and the unbelievable strength of my wife and her love for me lifts me up each day and reminds me how blessed I am.

I stayed in the center on the stone circle for a while maybe because it 

felt safe but soon realizing I wasn't at the end of my journey. Nor was I at the beginning.   even though the center of the Labrienth had caused me a few tears of remembrance....of my mom and dad,  of this years challenges  of all the friends we have lost in our church family,

I was still happy to be allowed  to continue my journey.  

I am not sure I fully understand the spirituality  of the Labrienth yet but I do understand the feelings I seem to get when I walk it. It is such a

 metaphor  for life.

..

Its a Howdy Doody Christmas

I believe this was Christmas 1951. I was with my two best friends at the time  Howdy Doody and my big brother David.  It mow seems pretty progressive of my parents to give a boy a doll. But Howdy Doody was a bid deal that year and even though my parents were pretty poor at the time, the splurged and gave me a doll. Here I am 70 years later and I still am not marked or changed forever by this gesture of love.

I did not have a lot of close friends at that time or even later in.life. A beautiful.little blonde headed girl with Shirley Temple long curls in her hair and my cousins who continue to be "best friends" were my blessings.  Howdy soon filled the spot  of best friend.  I remember talking to him and giving him presents on later Christmases.

Joyce found him in the attic  near my 35th  birthday and took him to a doll hospital and had him restored, probably from a bit of too much 

 friendship and a cracked composite head made years before plastic heads.   Howdy is hidden away  now now from fear stolen nut from.my Grand daughters that  thought he looked a little too much like" Chuckie".   

I really think my childhood gift from parents that loved me probably taught me how  to be a loving careing  father and maybe even husband.    I do know we should all cherish the memories of Christmas and continue to make new memories with our families and friends.  Merry Christmas!!!

VIET NAM VETERAN

I would never hope to speak for all vetetans.  But I do think that many would agree that as a veteran it is nice to receive the discounts and thank you's  on November 11th. It is nice to be acknowledged as an important part of the American fabric.  So I say "Thank you"

Being a US veteran is hard⁰ sometimes. I sat on Friday with a group of veterans who probably saw and experienced the  horors of terrible  wars and spent their lives trying  to live a normal life.
It took me until I was in my fifties to even  accept the  fact that I was also deserving  to be called a "veteran:

Many of the men I sat with were wounded , maybe not physically but within their soul where
it really counts.

I avoided the draft in 1967 by joining the air force.   I  was pretty sure I was not very well suited for combat or for
carrying a rifle. But I also had been raised to believe serving in the military was a calling from God.
Nievely I took.my Christian belief  into a war zone  somewhat out of choice and somewhat out of necessity.

Little did I know my life and faith would  be made better by a war that  to this day is morally questioned and still determined to be a  black spot in American History.

I get alot of "thank you for your service" comments . I appreciate hearing that but it  sometimes seems  more like a scripted greeting when you meet a Viet Nam Vet. As Americans we are sorry that the welcome home parades after World War I and II were not lavished on the Viet Nam Vetetans.  In fact I vividly remember being told to not wear my uniform  or advertise that I was a returning Vietnam veteran. At the time I did not care.  I was just glad to be reunited with my family.

It took me a lot of years and soul searching before I could even tell people that I did not know, I was vet.
So glad I got to the place of being proud to be part of such a great and diverse group of people.

I will be the very first to admit now after forthyseven years that I was lucky to have served in the US Air Force.   I was assigned a job to assist the commander of a  fighter squadron.  I was responsible for a room full of M=16 rifles.   I did my job to support the war effort as I was told but never fired a rifle or  hurt a soul.  I never saw blood or anyone die.
I was lucky. But I was there. I was  in the midst of a war torn county that was just as afraid  as I was with one huge difference.   This was their home.  This was was where their babies  were born and where  they sought  to survive  the anguish of war.

Now I look back and  the time I spent "in country"  seems so brief. but as I remember counting off tne days away from Joyce and Michael,  it seemed like an etetnity. 

Now trying to  put this part of my life in perspective,  I know without the weekend trips to Kim Chou Orphansge, with my friends and with a young Irishman named Patrick,  my life could have been much diffetent.

I could never celebrate the Viet Nam War. I could never celebrate any war.
But I also have no regret  for the time I spent there.   Are the people of Viet nam better because of this war or because I was there. I doubt there life is better but I know I  am  better for having met Patrick and  the children of Viet nam.

We heard stories of so many children who died at the end of the war.  I was haunted  with that reality and by the fact I did not know what had happened to the orpahans I fell in love with at the orphanage. 

Patrick had maintained some contact with the orphanage. The small boy named Nam that I had so wanted to bring home with me, is in his fifties living  in Saigon, working as a barber.

Being a veteran has changed  me but it has also taught me that being an American  citizen  is also an awesome responsibility and should never be taken for granted.  We can all serve our country  by participating in  making it a better place to live not just for ourselves but for all citizens  of our great country.  

The Cross

For most Christians the old rugged cross brings back memories of Christ’s suffering. I too think of that, but more than likely it first reminds me of my Dad, not for his suffering but for his ability to always look for the good in everything.
Most people would have called him a “pack rat“. I always knew the clutter of “junk” in his repair shop on Morgan Street in Rushville had a higher purpose. Most things he saved he could just not bear to give up hope on. If he could not “fix’ or remake what was broken, he was sure to find a piece or a part that would complete or repair something else he had “saved”.
As it was with the broken alter cross from my home church in Rushville. You see the church burned to the ground when I was a teenager. Lost in that fire was the home of a lifetime of memories of growing up. Lost were the “stain glass windows” that had been added . Surprised were the members that watched them melt in to liquid vapor reminding them they were not “the real thing but plastic made to look like real stain glass. For me as an early Christian this whole event cemented how fragile our lives are and how much more a church is than a building and its contents.
Searching through the ruble of what once was First Baptist Church of Rushville, My Dad came upon the alter cross, blacken and in pieces. I know he knew it wasn’t really “holy” or sacred. It was just a cross and a symbol of what is holy and sacred. Yet the shiny cross had reflected a lot our our family’s lives thru the years. It had seen me as I went forward to be baptized. It had seen both my parents dedicate a life time of living and giving to their church. My Dad had served communion many times from the table that held this cross.
Since I was a jeweler, Dad had mentioned several times through the years about having the cross restored. I had never picked up on what he was asking and to be honest had let it pass. It wasn’t until Thanksgiving Day when He had a heart attack that I saw the cross. Nestled in the turmoil and chaos of his shop was the cross. I realized the importance of the cross when I first saw it.
Next to it I found a bronzing kit that he had purchased from the the back of some magazine. You know the one that says” become a millionaire over night. Bronze baby shoes as a business.”
I could tell he had applied the bronzing solution to the cross.
My first thought was I will try my hand at restoring the cross. A few days before Christmas my Dad’s heart burst and he was rushed to Methodist Hospital for open heart surgery. When He finally came through the surgery, I began to look at the cross. I soon realized the bronze paint that had been applied peeled off rather easy and after peeling off the entire cross with my thumb nail, there it was the shiny alter cross that I remember growing up. Evidently the solution Dad used ,took off the black and damaged surface and restored it’s luster .
On January 16, I was so proud to show my Dad “The Old Rugged Cross”. By than I had repaired the base and except for a few scratches , it looked pretty great. As he walked out of my shop for the last time he said “maybe now it could be back in the front of church where it belongs.” Little did I know that this would be his last words to me. My Dad went to sleep that night and didn’t wake up.
In morning his death I first clutched this cross as a symbol of all that my Dad stood for. In my heart I knew he was right. It needed to be back on the alter where it started. But I also was realistic enough to know not everyone would feel the same way about it that I did.
That was over ten years ago and I still have a problem letting go of the cross. I can make a thousand excuses why it should remain in my closet, protected from the trash heap. I have just never found the time or place to return it to. Yet I still hear his last words and feel I let him down.
Wherever this cross ends up, it remains a cherished memory of my Dad and his ability to see the good in all things. I have been called a “pack rat” also. Yet I confess that my motives for saving things are not always as pure and gracious as my Dad’s. I just seem to accumulate a lot of “stuff”. If it is for good use, that remains to be seen. I do hope if I leave no other character trait to my children, I hope they grasp the ability to see the best in all people and not to give up on them

I did return the cross .eventually to the church.

Not sure it was appreciated as much as I appreciated returning it.  No it did not go on the main alter as my dad had said.  It was put in small chapel where my brother was married to wife number three. I also was overjoyed to know it was in the church as we laid my mom to rest.  

I am in the process of letting go of the residue of The Acorn Tree and all the "junk" I accumulated.  It brings me back certainly to thoughts of my dad and I can not help but wonder if anyone will see the value in any of my "stuff".  

THE OTHER SID⁸E OF PRAYER

I have prayed.

 

                    Prayed so hard my knees hurt.

I have prayed.

                    For you, and you

and you and you.

I have prayed.

                     For lives and loves . For heals and hearts.

For days and nights , for fears  and frights.

I feel the prayer.  It often makes my heart ache.

   Ache with tears of sadness.

It often makes my heart leap 

   Leap with joy and blessing.

But today I only see my reflection in the shadowed mirror of life.

Today I stand before you.

           you, and you and you!

I am standing in the world

    of needed prayers..

feeling hands of healing.

   Feeling carried.

            feeling cradled.

                  Filled with love.

Standing on the other side of prayer.

       Standing on the promise

              of peace and the healing of my soul.

If you know me you're my friend.

If you love me, I can face the 

trials .

     I'm blessed to be standing

   On the

               other side of prayer.

The Minister

 The Minister March 1, 2021 Stephen J Jeffries

I was probably sixteen when I came out to my pastor. I remember being alone in a car with Reverend Renard on a bright sun-filled day. I do not remember why I was with him, and never was alone with him again.
I remember stumbling with the words but feeling like God was sitting on my shoulder, coaching me and filling my mouth with the words.
"I feel called by God to be a minister!"
 Most pastors at that time in my life were like priests. I was raised in a Baptist church, but pastors and priests sat on a pedestal that stood just above Mom and Dad and the Doctor,Dr. Green, who delivered me.
After I said it, I felt relieved but vulnerable and a bit scared of the reaction. Would he laugh and say " oh, thats a good one. You aren't deserving."
But of course He would never say that. He smiled and I am sure said he was pleased and he knew God was pleased.
After that day, I don't remember much about that decision.  It seems, I just went on with my life ,maybe thinking about the future but not what that commitment to become a minister really meant.
It wasn't long after that I was forced to decide on what to do after High School. 
My mom was insistent on me going to school after graduation.  I had no problem with that, but the reality of the cost of most colleges and the fact that   I had worked in my dad's repair business since I was nine years old, I started looking for business trade schools.
So I was enrolled in International Business College in Fort Wayne Indiana. I could have gone to a college in Indianapolis but I was excited to move away from home and explore life a little.
Two years later I found myself in Rome New York at Griffiss Air Force Base.  
I don't remember thinking about "the ministery." Had I forgotten? Had I ignored that commitment, which as hard it was to say at the time  I knew I took seriously.  
It was years later that I realized that somewhere in the blurr of living and growing from that wide eyed teenager to a near adult, that I was reminded that I was still committed to that goal that God had given me.
It was years later, when I read the inside cover of my wife's high school  yearbook, that I realized I had discussed this goal with Joyce when we we dating.
As friends often do, someone had written in her yearbook, 
" Best of luck with becoming a ministers wife".  Wow!  I had felt strong enough about that calling to discuss it with the woman I loved. 
When I first remembered reading this years later, after we had settled into living  life in Greenfield, where I first worked at a loan company, than as a jeweler and finally as a business owner of The Acorn Tree,A gift/wedding business..  
But was I a failure? Did I ignore that call to God's ministry I had felt so strongly all those years ago.  
Somewhere between being a teenager, raised in a fairly fundamental Baptist church, and an adult who had built a strong mature and growing faith in God I had 
redefined what it meant to be a minister.
Just as mysteriously as it was when I heard God calling me into the ministery, it was even more baffling when I heard God say" you are a minister".
All those years later, I still had the feeling I was not worthy but I also had the feeling God knew what he was doing.
I realized the pedestal that I had put most ministers and the ministry on was more about respect and not so much about being better or different than I felt I was.
I learned that He calls us all to be ministers to each other and to our earth and all life around us. 
Way back when I worked for the loan company. I dealt mostly with people in financial trouble. I remember now how good it felt to help them not just with money, but with a presence in their life.
I think now even in the jewelry store I had a quiet ministry. Just the act of helping people choose gifts for those they loved, or choosing that all important ring to mark the beginning of a life together was some how a ministery. I know by the time I started The Acorn Tree, which became my life ministry, I knew what it meant to be a minister.  God blessed me for over thirty five years in the gift and wedding business. From the God given since of creatively to touching so many people on the happiest days of their life.  All these years later I still have customers and friends remind me of how I mattered years ago when I helped them with a wedding or event  or  by  just making something special for someone they loved.
We are all ministers.  Every day is a new chance to touch someone's life and make a difference in the world.
Every day we are called to be ministers. I still often feel unworthy, but God's love makes us all worthy.  I still know for sure that " I AM BECAUSE GOD IS."

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