The freeways will teem with cars, campers, and boats as folks take in the three day weekend which officially marks the opening of our summer season. Some cities, like here in Sun Prairie, will host a parade.

While we honor all the dead, we pay special tribute to those who have served in the armed forces of this country. There’s been an increase in recognizing our living veterans of late. The Honor Flights to DC and the recent LZ Lambeau event come to mind. At many cemeteries around the country Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address to consecrate a cemetery in that Pennsylvania town will be followed by taps. Stiff salutes will recognize a flag dropped to half staff.

Our national freedoms do come at a cost, and protecting them requires a vigilance that is prepared to make sacrifices. On those two things we can pretty much agree even while we may argue specific battles or actions. We all know how easily we can throw young men and women into battle for the sake of politics and not freedom, for the sake of sustaining an industry and not liberty.

Today another war in a far off land siphons men and women, many just barely beyond being boys and girls, into high risk and daily situations of life and death. It’s another war that requires very little from us back home. We go about our days immune from the horror. Yet, when they finally return, the soldiers, marines, sailors, and airmen who have witnessed the full brunt of war’s trauma, often return with emotional scars that run deeper than shrapnel.

On this week of Memorial Day, let us remember those who have served our nation. They have served well and without question. They have sought to protect and build a greater good.

And even while all Christians must always seek non-violent roads to peace and must question all actions that may end with death, let us not turn our backs on those who come back changed in unimaginable ways. They often return to families who have changed in different directions. Divorce and suicide risks run high these days among returning soldiers and marines.

So let us go beyond open arms. Let us enclose them with our love. Let us use our hands to do God’s work of firmly clasping a calloused mitt or hugging big shoulders.

Let us not only honor those who have died but also those who live.

In peace,

Pastor B

By Saturday afternoon we still could not get to our emails, so I decided to call the 24 hour support number printed so conveniently on the back of my Verizon bill. That’s when things got interesting.

A very pleasant female voice answered the phone. I say "voice" because no actual breathing, heart beating, caring person talked. The computer recording sweetly thanked me for calling the number. When a digitalized voice says thanks, you begin to wonder if a company really cares.

The voice asked me to punch in my phone number (you’d think the telephone company would have caller ID), and after I obeyed she told me, "I have your records right in front of me now." My response? "You don’t have my records! You are a nonentity. You are an "It." Okay. I didn’t say that, but the words came to mind. It then gave me a choice of numbers and asked me to punch the number that corresponded to my problem. I did. This brought me back to It’s original thank you and request - like getting lost and ending up back where you started. After blindly obeying It a second time, I got a busy signal.

This scene repeated itself three or four times until I gave up in befuddlement. Again, giving Verizon the benefit of the doubt, I surmised that so many people were calling about the problem that their computer switching was overloaded.

Sunday afternoon. Still no internet. The scene above repeated thrice more. In a fit of frustration, on the fourth try I punched in a number that corresponded to a different problem. Eventually, It returned with a new message and gave me a different number to try. Then It hung up. I, of course, did not have a pen and paper ready, so I had to go through it all the fifth time to get the number right.

With a new 24 hour phone number to try, I began again with a renewed confidence. Guess what? The same It answered with the same instructions.  My hopes were dashed.  However, the series did not end with a busy signal. Finally, Alleluia, I got to talk with a flesh and blood person…in India.

Now, you may be reflecting upon this true tale and relating to the blog’s title. You might be postulating that this a comment on a cold, disconnected, uncaring, unattached, disinterested world. To a point, you are correct. But there is more.

After taking a few seconds to acclimate myself to the Indian accent, the very nice lady on the other side of the world asked for the model number of my modem. That’s when the 100 watt lightbulb went on in my brain. The modem. It needs to be rebooted. I haven’t done that for years. I’d forgotten about that fix.

Now I felt like I was in a pickle. I would gladly have hung up on It, but this was a real person. I couldn’t just hang up on her. And I also couldn’t admit that I was too dumb to remember this fix. In my vanity I just kept going with the conversation so she would think she was actually teaching me something new.

Who keeps a modem where it’s easy to find? Not me. It’s under the desk, on the floor amid a knot of wires, and in the dark. The patient woman in India waited, and she showed even more patience as my squinting eyes couldn’t find the model number. When my eyes wouldn’t focus because they were too close to the modem, I instinctively raised my head which resulted in sorely bumping into the bottom of the desk. In fact, my eyes couldn’t even read of the smaller numbers in that claustrophobic, dim cave.. Through a long series of "try to find" and "just a second while I look", she gently helped me through the process that would end exactly as I knew it would. She suggested that I turn off the modem, wait 30 seconds, and turn it back on. For 30 seconds we conversed about India. I rebooted. Everything works fine. I felt humiliated for not doing what I know how to do.

And now, put it all together, and THAT is how the world works.

Pastor B

It’s been awhile since I’ve commented on the little corner of creation Susan and I call a backyard. The interaction of birds, mammals, and plant life in that sward of green brings inspiration on a grand scale if you pay attention.

Last fall we lost three ash trees to age – the age of the trees not me. I hope to replace them with a variety of trees this summer. Until then, and until they grow large enough, our yard unfortunately has less wildlife habitat.

Now that the northern migration has arrived, it appears that we will not have a wren to warble us awake this year. The little bird with the big voice joyfully ushered in the morning for the past few years. A wren-sized bird house provided sanctuary. Alas, the house is no home without a resident.

Our neighborhood hawk probably never left over the winter. We didn’t see much of it, though. His presence has shown a little more now that the days are longer. Rabbits, mourning doves, and other creatures keep an eye to the sky.

A new resident has perched on our bird feeder. A rose-breasted grosbeak. I discovered him early one morning nervously munching as the sun rose.

The male grosbeak looks like no other bird, so it is easy to distinguish. The first time I ever saw one was while picnicking at the Bong Recreation Area near Kenosha. I thought the bird was bleeding. Really. Then a few others showed up, and even my dull mind could figure out that it’s one thing to have one bleeding bird and quite another to have ten all reddened in the same place.

I don’t know if this recent sighting is a resident or a transient on his way to better places. We shall see over the next weeks. Until then, we will enjoy anew the marvels God brings to our own backyard.

Pastor B.

I don’t know if you know what the Sudoku puzzles are, but I enjoy wrapping my brain around them on a daily basis. The number game of three lines, three columns, and three boxes comes with clues to help you fill in missing numbers.

You regular Sudoku doers know that the placement and the amount of clues determine whether the game is easy, nearly impossible, or somewhere in between. The daily paper carries one every day, and the difficulty rates from one to six stars. Monday is always the easiest. One star.

If you don’t do Sudoku puzzles, you should also know that, if you discover a mistake, it is very difficult to go back and fix it. More often than not, a mistake means to give up and try again tomorrow.

That brings me to the point of this blog. One of the many humbling experiences of my life that regularly repeats itself is the failure to complete the Monday puzzle. Failing Friday or Saturday is par for the course and not nearly so humiliating. But to mess up a one star Sudoku cuts deeply into my fragile ego.

There are many reasons for the failing of an easy puzzle. Most of them have to do with going too fast because I know it’s easy. Then, like a bad surprise, a couple of 9s show up in the same row or a pair of 5s inhabit the same box. Game over. Hope for better things tomorrow.

I go away humbled, as I should. I am reminded that even in the easiest of situations my humanness can rear up and make fail. If I can take good things from this, it sis to go into each day with humility depending on God’s grace. Indeed, maybe the daily Sudoku puzzle reminds me what it is to be a Lutheran Christian. We cannot fix our failures, we can only move on to the next day and start over again.

Pastor B