From the front sidewalk of the church you never quite know what your nose will encounter. I’ve heard that a person’s sense of smell is one of the strongest emotional triggers, but I don’t think the cacophony of odors that move in and out of our air space are particularly emotional.

The wind makes all the difference, of course. Depending upon its chosen direction, the smells differ. In fact, you could probably tell the wind direction just from the smell. (It’s tempting here to sermonize on Jesus saying "The wind blows where it chooses, and you hear the sound of it, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes.")

In those moments you’re on the church sidewalk, take a sniff of the air. What do you smell?

If you smell the telling odor of burned natural gas (i.e. exhaust fumes), the wind is from the NW and is blowing over the lower level heating units.

A southwest breeze brings the vacuous, sinus clearing smell of the porcelain plant. People tell me that the plant was a while lot stinkier during it’s hay day. I can’t imagine that was a lot of fun. I’m sure the smell is enough to trigger a migraine. It is very hard to describe the odor to anyone who hasn’t experienced it since it is so completely unique.

Now a wind from the west doesn’t bring a wicked witch. It does carry the smell of Burger King. The broiling of burgers may cause a bit of salivating, and if it hits during a mealtime the "emotional" trigger is a growling stomach.

Finally, my favorite, and another food related smell, travels on the wings of a gentle northeast breeze. Village Hearth way out on the far side of Sun Prairie’s industrial park has bread baking all the time, when the wind is just right, the need to buy a warm loaf of bread, spread it with butter, and snarf the whole thing is nearly overwhelming.

Hmmm! I think I’ll go outside and check the wind direction.

Oh, I guess I should add just one more to my list of wafting aromas which overtake OSLC. When there’s a mild breeze somewhere between the bread baking ovens and porcelain plant, we have another smell. Let’s just say it reminds me of the failed tourism slogan that the state wanted to put on t-shirts and bumper stickers a few years ago: "Wisconsin! Come Smell Our Dairy Air!"

The following email came to me a couple of weeks ago.

Dog Diary
8:00 am - Dog food! My favorite thing!
9:30 am - A car ride! My favorite thing!
9:40 am - A walk in the park! My favorite thing!
10:30 am - Got rubbed and petted! My favorite thing!
12:00 pm - Lunch! My favorite thing!
1:00 pm - Played in the yard! My favorite thing!
3:00 pm - Wagged my tail! My favorite thing!
5:00 pm - Milk bones! My favorite thing!
7:00 pm - Got to play ball! My favorite thing!
8:00 pm - Wow! Watched TV with the people! My favorite thing!
11:00 pm - Sleeping on the bed! My favorite thing!

Cat Diary
Day 983 of my captivity. My captors continue to taunt me with bizarre little dangling objects. They dine lavishly on fresh meat, while the other inmates and I are fed hash or some sort of dry nuggets. Although I make my contempt for the rations perfectly clear, I nevertheless must eat something in order to keep up my strength.

The only thing that keeps me going is my dream of escape. In an attempt to disgust them, I once again vomit on the carpet. Today I decapitated a mouse and dropped its headless body at their feet. I had hoped this would strike fear into their hearts, since it clearly demonstrates what I am capable of. However, they merely made condescending comments about what a "good little hunter" I am.

There was some sort of assembly of their accomplices tonight. I was placed in solitary confinement for the duration of the event! However, I could hear the noises and smell the food. I overheard that my confinement was due to the power of "allergies." I must learn what this means, and how to use it to my advantage.

This morning I was almost successful in an attempt to assassinate one of my tormentors by weaving around his feet as he was walking. I must try this again tomorrow -- but at the top of the stairs. I am convinced that the other prisoners here are flunkies and snitches.

The dog receives special privileges. He is regularly released - and seems to be more than willing to return. He is obviously retarded.

The bird has got to be an informant. I observe him communicate with the guards regularly. I am certain that he reports my every move. My captors have arranged protective custody for him in an elevated cell, so he is safe for now....
- Cat

The email tickled my funny bone, and I found myself nodding in agreement with the way
canines and felines seem to interact with humans. Then I thought how these two ways of
looking at life reflect somehow the various ways we come to the world around us.
Some people, it seems, are like the dog in that they enjoy wherever they are at the moment.
Whatever is now is worth it. They find something enjoyable or even humorous in every
situation.

Some people, it seems, are like the cat in that they can never see anything positive in the present, everyone's out to get them, and life is a trap. I suppose most of us are between those two poles. On a scale of one (dog) to ten (cat) where do you think you are? Or, let me ask you where you think I am? Could be a good discussion starter.

Pastor B.

I never took biology in high school. I never took biology anywhere else either. It has nothing to do with squeamishness, it had everything to do with memorizing all those body parts. I learned the "head, shoulder, knees, and toes, knees and toes" song when I was a kid, and that more-or-less completed my anatomical vocabulary.

My high school only demanded that students take one science class in order to graduate. Out of tradition, I guess, nearly everyone took biology. I fulfilled my requirements by taking chemistry and physics. Instead of memorizing lots of Latin and Greek based terms, I was learning lots of formulas named after dead people.

All this is a prelude to a wonderful biology lesson I experienced a few days ago. It took place at a museum, the Milwaukee Public Museum to be exact. The exhibition is called Body Worlds and feature real human bodies that have been preserved with a process called "plastinazation".

The chemical process isn’t as important as is the unique and exact anatomy it reveals. Muscles, bones, nerve endings, and blood vessels were all there in a display that could easily have been pronounced as an art form.

The plastinates (as they call the bodies) generally have no skin. So the whole idea of inner beauty was certainly there for the experience. And it was beautiful indeed. The displays inspired a certain awe along with education.

While I was there a group of young high school students entered. There must have been 25 or more. I could easily hear their noisy voices as they entered, but within a few minutes they had become nearly silent. No one had hushed them. I think the fact that they were in the presence of dead human bodies encouraged them to a kind of reverence we reserve for funerals.

If you have a chance to visit this show, please do so. I think it’s going until the early part of June.

Pastor B.

At my house we have a Noah’s ark made of wood. It has wheels so a child can pull it around the house (with a terrible squeaking that rivals fingernails on a chalkboard). The ark has a door on the side, and pairs of seven or eight different kinds of animals are piled inside. There is one human figure - Noah. All the pieces are also wood.

The animals can take a lot of abuse. They have few extended limbs that would lend themselves to breaking. The exception is Noah. The ark builder has an extended arm that holds a very breakable wood staff.

When our house was filled with grandchildren over Easter, the ark became a focal point for several of them. As a precaution, we take Noah out and hid him somewhere that kids can’t reach.

Somehow, during this latest innundation, Noah found his way into a child’s hands despite our precautions.. In the midst of play, Noah’s arm broke. This is not an end-of-the-world event since we found the broken off piece intact still holding his staff. Glue will mend Noah to nearly as good as new.

Now I glean two bits of wisdom from all this. First, no matter how much you try to protect yourself, your loved ones, and your prized possessions, all things will eventually break. It’s a fact of life.

Secondly, glue is a gift from God. Somewhere in the timeline of human history, the Lord created an imaginative mind that discovered some things in creation could be mixed together to make glue. Today hardware stores have aisles of various glues. All represent the miraculous creativity of God and humans.

Which brings me to a tragedy of a few weeks ago in Weston. You may recall the news story of a very religious couple who chose to pray for a miracle to heal their daughter’s diabetes rather than take her to a doctor’s office. The whole event is so very sad, and I believe God is crying, too.

Why is it that we expect God’s miracles to come like transfiguration events? We want the voice of God. We want a white robed shining angel. We want change that we can see immediately.

Yet God has presented us with miracles right before our eyes. A hundred years ago a person with diabetes was consigned to death. People prayed for a miracle. In a laboratory somewhere in Toronto, God miraculously gave Frederick Banting the creative wisdom to discover insulin. In the course of a few years (a blink of an eye in God’s time), diabetes became a very treatable disease. The miracle happened and the miracle continues to this day.

There are miracles all around us. It just depends on what you’re looking for.

Pastor B.