Monday, June 04, 2007

The Long and Winding Road

Finally finished!

After nine years I graduated from Westminster Seminary in California on Saturday. The ceremony was very nice, the best part of it being Hywel Jones' address on I Corinthians 15:1-11 and God's grace. What he said continues to bounce around in my head. It was a very powerful and moving exposition of God's Word.

I'll write more later, but suffice to say here that one of the other highlights was that all my family was able to be there, including my mom and dad from Seattle. That was gift enough, but they also gave a very generous gift that KMR and I have decided to put towards a use that will benefit the church I hope to plant later this year.

We had a very nice lunch after commencement with all the family and some very good friends as well. All in all it was a wonderful weekend.

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Posted by Martin at 7:20 AM | | Comments

Monday, April 30, 2007

Southern California Travels

This was a busy weekend, but very fun:

Friday night KMR, Half Pint and a friend picked me up from work and we drove to West L.A. to see a girls high school drama production of The Wizard of Oz. Why? My little sister played in their "orchestra" or "band" or whatever it was. The play was great. All of the actors stayed in character very well and - bonus! - they could actually sing. They put in some additional dialogue that was also very good. Late night, but very enjoyable.

Early Saturday I went out to Hemet for Vikinglord's frosh-soph invitational track meet. I got stuck in traffic in Riverside for a half hour due to construction, so by the time I got there he'd already finished the long jump and ran in the 4X100 relay. His long jump was his best this year, but not his best ever. He was happy though: "I finally got my technique back." I got to see him in the triple jump and also run the first leg of the 4X400 relay. He had a good TJ and ran his best 400 time ever. If I remember right, he got 8th in the long jump and 6th in the TJ. If he'd jumped at or near his best in both events he probably would have come in 2nd in the TJ and 3rd or 4th in the LJ. So right now he's motivated to work on those events over the summer. The meet was sponsored by West Valley HS in Hemet, and they did a terrific job. It was incredibly hot, but they ran the events quickly and the meet was over by 12:30pm - often these meets go until mid to late afternoon. As I drove away I saw a sign saying the temperature was 95 degrees.

From there it was down to Escondido to see if I could catch the last couple hours of our presbytery meeting. They usually go until 3 or 4pm. I got to the church at about 2pm, and the parking lot was almost empty. I called a friend, already on his way up the freeway back home, who said they finished before 2pm. That's pretty unusual, but apparently there wasn't much business to conduct. The MNA Committee, which has oversight of church planting, did report to presbytery about my "preliminary proposal" to do a new church plant in north OC. That's pretty cool. God willing I will meet with them in July, while also continuing to talk with the session at my church. So, all that driving only to miss presbytery, but that's OK.

To back up a bit, on Friday during lunch I looked at a potential place for the new church plant to meet. The father of a co-worker owns some commercial property on Imperial Highway in La Habra. While we won't need it until much later this year, it would be a very good place to start a new church. They can't hold it for us, but if it doesn't rent out between now and then it could be ours. Very exciting!

Saturday night was supposed to be the annual dinner auction for Half Pint's school. But Tia, her sitter, got sick and had to go home. So I stayed with Half Pint while KMR went to the dinner. Half Pint is not as into Little House on the Prairie as she used to be. Lately it's been DVD's of The Adventures of Brisco County, Jr. She also likes the Robin Hood series on BBC America. So we're hanging on the couch and flipping through the channel guide and what's on? The classic Robin Hood movie with Errol Flynn. Of course we watched it. After that they had several Robin Hood movie versions, which we recorded on the DVR.

Then Sunday morning we got up early and went out to Palm Desert to visit Providence Presbyterian Church (see at right), and our friends Clayton and Kristi Willis. We hadn't been out there in quite a while, so it was good to see them and the other people at the church. We've been visiting regularly since they started just over 4 years ago, but much less often recently. Clayton preached a very good sermon on Ephesians 2:1-2. It's a small congregation, but maturing strongly in Christ and the Word. If you know anyone who lives out that way, point them to PPC.

Today it's back to work, and then down to Escondido again for class. This may be my last drive down there to attend class, although we may decide to meet for two more weeks. It's hard to believe seminary is almost over.

Many miles and a very busy weekend. But, as I said above, very fun.

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Thursday, January 18, 2007

Trees, Comets and Tidepools

I'm fairly old-school in my view of Creation: relatively young earth, six literal, consecutive days, etc. I examined evolution fairly intently in college almost 20 years ago, back when I had to take a lot of science classes for my engineering major, and found it severely wanting. It's a really crummy theory. I haven't studied intelligent design all that much, but from what I have it's not that attractive to me, either, in the end. I wish someone would start with the biblical narrative as a base presupposition and test it. For example, if a world-wide flood really did happen, how did it impact things like continental drift, climate change leading to ice age, and the tilt of the earth? And a big part of the reason why I'm not attracted to anything other than the Genesis account is that when I go out and observe the world around us, it is just too amazing to be explained by these odd theories.

Recently I've had the opportunity to see some exciting things.

Not too long ago, Half Pint, Vikinglord and I went up to the Sequoias to see the biggest giant sequoia - in fact the biggest tree by volume - in the world, the General Sherman tree.



I've seen big, tall trees, having lived for over two years in the redwoods and visited there a few times since, including going through the famous drive-through tree. But the giant sequoias are simply astonishing. The base of the General Sherman tree above has a diameter bigger than the length of the condo we live in - sheesh! We also drove over to the grove, and went on a short hike, to see the General Grant tree.

There was some road construction while we were there, and for several minutes we had to wait while traffic going the other way went through the construction zone. As we were parked, people a couple cars ahead got out of their car and started pointing up the hill to our right. Curious, I got out to see what it was all about. Right there, no more than 20-25 feet away, were a couple deer, a decent sized buck with a doe. Taking pictures through the bushes and trees was a bit of a challenge, but I think you get a good view of the buck here:



Then a few days ago I went out on the river trail near our home to get a good view of the horizon at sunset. Why? Because one of the brightest comets in years is currently visible, Comet McNaught. I didn't take a picture of it, but if you add homes and trees to the horizon below, plus a little pale orange in the sky, this is pretty much what I saw:



When Comet Kahoutek was here back in the 1970's and was a big deal in the news, I didn't get to see it, though I did try. And Halley's was a bust when it came. So it was a real kick to look into the horizon and see with my naked eye a real comet. It was even better with binoculars, and I watched it slowly set into a couple palm trees.

Finally this past weekend there was a pretty good low tide so again Vikinglord, Half Pint and I went down to check out the tidepools. The day turned out to be perfect for finding tidepool critters. We saw a ton of hermit crabs, and a good number of little tidepool sculpin. My son found an octopus that at first looked like a small ray or flatfish pressed against a rock. This was after we saw a gull gulping down a dead octopus. The live octopus was cooler. There were all sorts of gulls and other shorebirds, including a few brown pelicans. The tide was low enough that hundreds of mussels were exposed. We found a starfish - sorry, "sea star" glommed in a hump on the side of a rock, probably enjoying a little mussel dinner. I was able to take one decent photo of a sea star, and tried to get one of a California sea hare, a type of sea slug that we saw several of.



All three of us are ready to go back; my son and I will probably make an effort to get down that way for more of the day to give us time to see the tidepools and go for a decent hike in the large state park nearby.

As we drove out, we got a good look at a Kestrel perched on a sign near the parking lot. Not exactly a common sight in Orange County.

These things exist by chance? No way. The variety of God's Creation is beyond imagining, and too vast for mere chance, and too wonderful a display of His greatness, power and love.

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Posted by Martin at 11:34 PM | | Comments

Monday, January 08, 2007

Holiday Spirits

The span between Thanksgiving and New Year's is one of my favorite times of the year. I actually like to go gift shopping, and of course love all the food and presents and bowl games and Christmas TV specials and everything else. It all seems to climax in the week between Christmas and New Year's, a week we have typically spent in Seattle with my family, and engaging in a whirlwind of visits with extended family and friends.

This year we stayed home. Our two oldest daughters have to work, and we thought it would be good for us all to be in one place and be able to see each other.

It made the holidays quieter and less hectic, but they were also very satisfying. I realize looking back how thankful I am for my family. I have been blessed with a wonderful wife who is a helper more than suitable for me, and four wonderful children who are a true joy.

So despite all the shopping and eating and gift giving and gift receiving, what stands out for me this year is how blessed I am and how thankful I am for the family God has given me.

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Posted by Martin at 7:24 AM | | Comments

Thursday, November 16, 2006

Big Brother Brag

My little sister, a violinist, will be playing as one of the backup musicians for singer Josh Groban on the Tonight Show this evening. Check it out!

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Posted by Martin at 8:01 AM | | Comments

Saturday, November 11, 2006

Grandma Was A Commie

I turn to my maternal grandmother, Grandma Birnie, last. Though she had the shortest life of any of my grandparents, dying when I was just 12 years old (more than 12 years before my next grandparent died), she had more of an influence on me growing up than anyone but my two parents. She was a remarkable woman.

In 1932 at the age of 21 she joined the Communist Party - or as she put it, the Communist Party joined her. She had met and become friends with the mother of Tom Mooney and Richard Moore of the International Labor Defense, a Communist front organization that was integral in the defense of the Scottsboro Boys. Later that year she was "tutored" in Communist dogma by William Z. Foster, the party leader who was running for U.S. president. They saw in her an energetic, opinionated woman who hated Capitalism and understood what class struggle was all about. Even though she was very green she was made a district organizer for the IDL.

Now, I put all those links in because very few people remember the very significant threat that Communism was in and to the United States, who the players were and what their strategy was. My grandmother was mixed up right in the middle of it all, and worked with the tireless enthusiasm of a fanatic throughout the Midwest and Rocky Mountain areas on behalf of the Party, even at the expense of her own health and well-being.

What led her away from the Communist Party was the realization that they really weren't about helping people like they said they were. Grandma had been discriminated against as a girl growing up, and seen others - Native Indians and Blacks - mistreated as well. As a result she was both terribly bitter about the world around her, and passionate about helping the less fortunate in society. During her time with the Communist Party she spent much, maybe most, of her time with and for black people. This was an era of lynchings and virtual show trials where young black men were often charged with crimes they did not commit. The Communist Party tried to take advantage of that by coming to their legal defense. But my grandmother found that their heart was not in it. The Party was also trying to organize and rally farmers and other blue collar workers to its cause, many of whom were white. Grandma Birnie was very good at what she did for the Party, but this also caused jealousy.

Eventually she was brought up on charges by the Party. Her crime? Fraternizing with black people and upsetting the Party's efforts to reach out to white folks who were, quite frankly, racist. So, because she rode streetcars with blacks, ate at restaurants with blacks, stayed at the homes of blacks, she was brought up on charges. Before they could officially kick her out of the Party she tore up her Communist Party book in front of them all and effectively declared war. She followed through on that war.

In the meantime, she drifted from Marxism/Socialism to nominal Christianity (my mom was baptized in the Catholic Church with a due complement of saints' names - five of them!). But she didn't really become a believer until a man, who would become her second husband, literally stuck his foot in her front door and wouldn't leave until she heard the Gospel. He was a pastor, and built a church in Riverside County that I think is still there. My grandmother readily saw that the answer to Communism was not another political ideology, but rather Christianity itself.

She became as tireless a spokeswoman for Christianity as she had been for Communism. For many years she traveled throughout the Western and Midwestern U.S. and up into Canada, speaking at churches, community centers, anywhere she could get an audience, to warn them about the dangers of Communism and the answer in Jesus Christ. She testified before Congress and had her life story dramatized on national radio (she played herself - I can't imagine anyone else doing it).

Grandma had a knack for meeting people. She remained active in the black community, knew Nat King Cole when he was a young man and loved his music for years afterward. Somehow she got to know people like James Arness (of Gunsmoke fame) and George Putnam (a radio/TV commentator who is still at it out here in SoCal). Merlin Olson, while a member of the L.A. Rams was going door to door for his Mormon faith. He knocked on Grandma's door, and since she was never one to back down from a good debate, she let him in. He was so intrigued by her he came back, but neither one converted the other.

By the time I came along Grandma was along in years and her health was suffering. She was no longer speaking, so I only knew her - at least at first - as my grandmother. She was an amazing story teller, would knit stuffed animals of her own creation, liked to draw and paint, and made some mean popcorn balls. She was fascinated by American Indian culture and nature in general, and would read to me from various books she owned or that she bought for me. She taught me a bit on how to draw, and also taught me how to identify birds as we sat in the porch at the back of Grandpa and Grandma's house. The porch looked out into a back yard that was like a mini Garden of Eden, full of an amazing variety of flowers and plants, and so it attracted a wide variety of birds.

Grandma Birnie had a very compelling personality. When I was young, and we would visit in Long Beach with my grandparents, invariably we'd receive a visit, or go and visit, a man (and his family) that she and everyone else called Uncle Jesse. Because she called him that - and no one seemed to contradict her - I believed he was my uncle. He was black. I almost got into a fight with a kid when I was about 9 or 10 who wouldn't believe me that I had an uncle who was black. But I believed it, even though there was some sort of cognitive dissonance that informed my kid brain that black babies don't come out of white women. But that's how persuasive she could be, just by the force of her personality.

I only saw my Birnie grandparents about once a year. But during the summers when I was 10 and 11 we spent several weeks visiting. During that time my grandmother began to tell me stories about her life, and about her family. The stories about her life, many of them, were quite disturbing. She would tell of some of her activities as a Communist, almost all of them with great regret. Grandma would sleep in a recliner on the porch with me, my brother and sister in sleeping bags on the floor. Late into the night she would talk and tell stories. Every now and then she'd ask me if I was still awake and if I wanted to hear more. I always did. Because for every story about her regret in riling up a mob of people (one mob she was convinced had caused an innocent bystander's death), and how sorry she was and how terrible a person she had been, there was at least one story about her life growing up in Minnesota, or about her extended family and her latest visit with or letter from them.

I learned a lot from Grandma Birnie. She taught me how to draw, how to identify birds, to love nature (besides birds, especially animals and trees), about Indians, and introduced me to stories that I still love today, like the delightful Thornton Burgess animal stories that beat Beatrix Potter by a good American mile. Her stories about her family piqued my interest in my family history and genealogy. She gave an old family piano to my parents so that I could learn to play the piano. That is one of the things I am most thankful for, because music is a big part of what I did growing up, and who I am today.

More than those, however, I learned to hate bigotry and racism. I also learned to despise those who use race for political gain. I learned that the real answer to, not just Communism, but every other "ism" in this life is Christianity. Whether political, philosophical, psychological or some other false religion, these all have one thing in common: they are devised by man to make himself feel better about himself. They all deny the one truth that Christianity alone admits, not only admits but proclaims: man cannot save himself. God must do it for us.

Finally, I learned that no one is beyond the mercy, grace and love of God in Jesus Christ. From those late night conversations on the back porch, I know that my Grandma Birnie lived with deep sorrow and pain for what she had done earlier in her life. Her tears and cries of sorrow were real. But I also know from those late night talks that she had a deep and abiding love of Jesus and thanksgiving for what He had done for her. Her tears of joy were also real.

I wrote above that Grandma Birnie was a talented storyteller. She was also a gifted writer. Toward the end of her life she wrote this poem, which seems an appropriate close:
Dear Lord Jesus:

I copied a poem,
I bought a song
For each did seem to say
Something that has been
In the depths of my heart
For many and many a day.

But as I walked back
On yesterday's road
As memory led me along
I found myself loving
Each shadow there
And thankful for each wrong
So long endured in pain and tears
Which somehow enriched life's song.

For that long, long road
I walked alone
Led to this glad new day.
For I found in the rays
Of morning light
Emerging out of my night
A bright new life
Standing straight and tall
With eager hands to grasp and hold
None of the chaff but all of the gold
To be mined from unselfish service
To the untarnished dream
Of Freedom's Light that began
When God in a far away guileless world
First breathed His breath into man.

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Posted by Martin at 10:22 PM | | Comments

Friday, November 03, 2006

Grandma Was A Lady

See my previous posts about my paternal and maternal grandfathers.

My Grandma Hedman lived longer than any of my other grandparents, which is not what I would have expected while growing up. She had seemed rather frail at the time: she would fall and break an arm, or seemed constantly to be fighting a nagging cough. As the years went on she became hunched over as the bones in her hip and back gave way.

And yet I learned as I got older that she was really quite a strong woman. Her strength was not so much physical as spiritual.

I remember from sleeping over at their house, that Grandma got up very early every morning. She would bake bread made from scratch, and the aroma (and the bread) was wonderful. She would also often make homemade custard, which I loved. Overall she was a wonderful cook; her roasts and mashed potatoes were, I think, legendary in our extended family. As a kid I liked her peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, not just for the homemade bread they were made with, but also because she would pile on super generous helpings of PB&J - yum!

Grandma was also the most even-tempered person I think I've ever known. I used to think that if I went to her with the wonderful news that I was just elected president of the United States her response would be, "Isn't that nice?" Or, if I were to bring some terrible, horrible news her reaction would be, "My...tsk, tsk." She was the female embodiment of Kipling's "If" poem, keeping her head while all about her were losing theirs.

I also remember that Grandma would take a nap just about every day - not a long one, but just enough to recharge her batteries. As she got older these naps became more frequent or longer, as needed. After I moved to California and my children got older, one of the highlights of every trip to Seattle was a visit with Grandma who, right up until close to the end of her life, had a firm handshake and a ready mind.

Looking back, the lessons I think I learned most from Grandma Hedman were the value of knowing when to rest, and the value of keeping an even keel about life.

I've tried to learn to listen to my body and rest or sleep when it's telling me to. In the hectic life most of us live today that is a forgotten lesson. It is biblical as well, since God has commanded us to rest one day in seven, and this for our good. There is an element of faith in being willing to stop when everything around is saying "go." As my pastor puts it, resting one day in seven is trusting that God will give seven days of provision out of six days of work. The world will not stop - more importantly God will not stop - while we stop and rest.

I don't know how much of it is nature vs. nurture, but in some sense I've inherited my grandmother's even temper. It used to bother me that I didn't get more outwardly excited about different things. But then over the years, both from seeing Grandma Hedman and from experience, I realized that this is the way God made me. There is value in it, and I think it relates to what Paul writes about himself, that he had learned to be content in whatever situation God placed him in. I can't claim to be as content as Paul, but I think there is a connection. It's not that there is no internal passion, but that it is expressed differently, and with an underlying sense that God is in control, and being willing to accept that. Underlying everything for my Grandma Hedman was a deep faith in God, and trust in what He was doing in her life and the lives of those around her.

My Grandma Birnie was a mercurial personality. Grandma Hedman was much quieter and restrained. But of the latter it was the former who called her a lady. And she was right.



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Posted by Martin at 7:09 AM | | Comments

Thursday, October 19, 2006

Gadabout Grandpa for God

My mom's dad was not her natural father, who died when she and her older brothers were still little. Grandma re-married and had another son, but that husband died as well. Finally she married Grandpa Birnie, who adopted all four children and treated them as his own.

Grandpa was born in Holland, but eventually migrated to America. He graduated from Stanford University and had a career at Goodyear. All this was behind him by the time I have any memories of him. What I remember is the blue and white VW van with removable seats, a knob on the steering wheel, and a tiny engine in back. He used it to do gardening work for a number of regular customers. He was a fine gardener, too, which was a good thing because Grandma was a great lover of plants and flowers. Their backyard in Long Beach was a veritable nursery of flora, full of all sorts of flowers, ground cover, bushes, shrubs and trees. Grandpa was always full of energy, fueled by the mountain of Wheaties he ate every morning, tan and strong even when advanced in years.

There are two characteristics of Grandpa Birnie that leave a deep impression on me: his love of his family and his energetic witness for the Gospel.

As a kid I think my image of him was that he was overly subservient. He could definitely be scatterbrained at times, and would be roundly scolded by Grandma for it. But looking back I realize he wasn't a mere bower and scraper. He truly loved her, and all of us. As a result he was more than happy to serve. I think he would have done anything for her or any of us.

When we'd come to visit, almost once a year, especially in the latter years before he moved to Seattle, a trip to the beach, usually Hermosa Beach where our great aunt lived, was a regular feature. My brother and I loved to body surf. I can still see my grandfather standing stolidly on the shore anxiously watching as my brother and I, late grade-school age, waded out as far as we could - and then farther - in order to catch the best waves. I had no doubt then, and none now, that my senior citizen grandpa would have jumped in to rescue us if we got in trouble. If the current carried us too far north, he'd wave us back closer to the pier and where the rest of our family was. He cared about us deeply.

After Grandma Birnie died, and he eventually sold their house, Grandpa took to traveling. A lot. He visited family in Canada, Holland, France and Guatemala. He traveled other places as well, often by bus. He had the innate ability to strike up a conversation with a complete stranger at a bus stop and get to know him like an old friend. Eventually the conversation would wind its way toward the Gospel. Did the person know Jesus? Was Jesus his savior? Grandpa was eager to share the Good News with anyone and everyone.

How do I know this? He told me. I loved to hear him tell about his visits after he returned, especially if his trip included seeing his sister in France or his brother in Guatemala. Grandpa knew I was learning French in school, and would test me (he could speak Dutch, English, French and Spanish, to varying degrees). He showed me the French Bible he bought for his sister and let me try to read from it before he took it to her.

Grandpa Birnie loved Jesus and he loved his family. He dearly wanted his family to know Jesus, too. One year for either my birthday or for Christmas, I think (though with Grandpa this sort of gift could be just because), he gave me a copy of John Stott's Basic Christianity. I remember reading it, and liking it, thankful for a man like my grandfather who cared enough to give it to me.

I'm not anywhere near as outgoing with others as Grandpa Birnie was. Like him I do love Jesus and my family dearly. I'm not as adept at sharing the Gospel with others but still, largely I think from his example, have a deep desire for others to know the Good News. I believe it's a part of the reason planting a church is such a strong desire for me. Not only does a pastor get to preach and teach about the wonderful salvation offered in Jesus Christ, but a church plant is the kind of environment where - hopefully - opportunities to share the Gospel with others will be more plentiful than they typically are in a more established church.

Grandpa Birnie may not have been my "natural" grandfather, but he was my grandpa. I'm so very glad he was.

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Posted by Martin at 10:24 PM | | Comments

Tuesday, October 17, 2006

Veggie Poetry

Half Pint has a nightly reading assignment for school. A few days ago beets were part of the story. I don't remember why, but it's now become a running gag of sorts. She might be struggling with how to pronounce a word and looking for help. My kind, fatherly assistance? "Beets." She thinks I'm weird.

I don't think she's had beets since the Gerber days, so she doesn't know what they are. Nevertheless, the beet is part of the dreaded childhood foodgroup: vegetables. I think one of the laws of the Medes and the Persians was that kids are entitled not to like a food just because it's a vegetable. Now it's ingrained in the childhood DNA.

Vegetables were in her reading tonight - no beets, though. Peas were. Half Pint doesn't like peas either. I did. And my dad wrote a poem about it, to wit:


Peas, peas, little green peas
Sitting in my bowl.
They are so yummy tasting good
I like to eat them whole.

Peas, peas, little green peas
I eat them all the time.
I eat them with my fingers
But I really am sublime.

I never use a fork or spoon
Like older people do.
You see, the actual reason is
I'm not yet even two.

Peas, peas, little green peas
Sitting in my bowl.
They are so yummy tasting good
I like to eat them whole.
Now, tell me. After reading that, how could anyone not like peas?!?

Besides, it sure beats that "Pease porridge hot" downer of a poem.

Today's kids have Veggie Tales. I had Veggie Poetry.

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Posted by Martin at 10:47 PM | | Comments

Monday, October 16, 2006

A Couple More Things on Grandpa H

One thing I forgot to mention about my Grandpa Hedman was his love of the Lord's Prayer. I don't think I realized it until I was in my late teens. The Lord's Prayer was "routine" for me; we recited it regularly in our worship. But Pentecostals don't put regular recitation of the Lord's Prayer in their worship - I think it was seen as all too Roman Catholic. Grandpa loved it though and in the latter years of his life was asked to lead public recitations of it, for example at my first wedding and other similar occasions. It was his example that motivated me to take the prayer more seriously and really think about what it meant and why, in our church, we said it regularly.

Secondly, the photo in which the man praying looks like my grandfather is copyrighted, but you can see it at this website.

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Posted by Martin at 7:26 AM | | Comments

Wednesday, October 11, 2006

Grandpa Was a Preacher Man

I've been wanting to write about the influence each of my grandparents had on me, but the idea slipped to the back of my brain until the post below on old churches in Sweden.

Those who have heard my testimony know that I don't have a story of dramatic conversion to Christianity from a radically anti-Christian or rebellious background. I grew up in a stable Christian family with parents, grandparents, and extended family made up of strong believers. My testimony is not a Pauline Damascus road change, but more like Timothy's: a testimony of God's grace to me in the family He gave me.

I won't write about my parents - they're still alive and still influencing! But all four of my grandparents impacted me in different ways. I'll start with my paternal grandfather, my Grandpa Hedman.

His listing in the phone book, as I recall, was "Hedman, Rev. A.W." Though, despite the implication in the title above, I don't think he actually actually worked as a pastor the last 40 or so years of his life; he retired after many years at an envelope making company. I can only remember hearing him preach once, at the church my uncle serves, I think on the occasion of the church's new baptistry that had just been installed. He preached with conviction and no little fire, accenting his words like many a Midwestern preacher with an extra syllable at the end, as in "Lord-ah." I don't remember the sermon now, but I do remember I liked it.

His pastoral ministry took place before he brought his family from Minnesota to Seattle, following after his older brother. Back in the Midwest he had done missionary work among the Chippewa Indians, and founded and/or served at a number of churches in small-town Wisconsin and Minnesota. Still, so far as I know, once the family arrived in Seattle he did other work.

There are two things that come to mind when I think of his influence on me. One was his quiet, humble, but dedicated service to God; the other is what I learned about prayer.

As to the former, while not a pastor by employ, for many years Grandpa sent cards and gospel tracts to every new parent, newlywed, and to those bereaved. There was a time in Seattle when every birth, and probably most marriages and deaths (if not all) were listed in the two daily newspapers. Using those, Grandpa sent them cards and information about God and the Gospel on behalf of the church he attended. I remember a small room in the basement of their home, where he had a desk and many different published materials, cards and envelopes. I watched him as he worked once or twice, carefully addressing, signing, stuffing and mailing these simple gifts from the church. I don't think there was much, if any, public recognition or acknowledgement of what he did, but I understand that many came to the church and either came back to their faith or newly embraced it due to that simple ministry.

There was no flash or sparkle, no slick methodology - just conscientious, diligent, time consuming work to reach out to the surrounding community. Yet it had an impact, as God chose to use it in people's lives. God doesn't need our public recognition to accomplish His ends, just our faithful service to Him. He is, as Os Guinness puts it, the Audience of One. He is the only audience that ultimately matters.

That's one lesson worth learning.

The other was more indirect. I can't say I learned to pray from Grandpa Hedman. He never sat me down and gave me lessons. I can't even say I carefully listened to all the prayers he invariably gave at the many family gatherings we had as he blessed the food. They were reverent prayers, and you could tell just by listening (at least my young ears thought they could) that the man speaking them was a reverend. Later in his life, when he grew a beard he looked just like that older gentleman you see in those paintings of a white-haired, white-bearded man sitting at table praying over a loaf of bread. Grandpa resisted (he didn't like the idea of pretending to pray), but eventually he was talked into posing like that painting while his picture was taken.

(As an aside, not too long ago we were in the home of some friends where KMR saw that painting on their wall. She looked at me in shock: "Where did they get a picture of your grandpa?")

There are two specific things I remember related to my grandfather and prayer.

When I was in my third year of college I got a full time internship to work in the engineering department at Boeing. Most days I took the bus to work, and decided to use that time to pray. People might have thought I was staring out the window, but really I was trying to pray. Sometimes I could concentrate. Sometimes not. Then Grandpa had another round of very difficult heart trouble. That motivated me to pray, and regularly. I prayed that he would be healed, and believed fervently that he would be. In God's providence Grandpa was healed. The regular practice of praying for him grew into a regimen of praying for other people and other things. Some prayers God answered as I asked. Others He did not.

I learned two things: the wonderful discipline of regular prayer; and the wonderful reality that God answers prayer how He sees best. It was regular prayer where I really did believe that God not only could but would answer postively. I was praying with faith. So what to do with those prayers that weren't answered the way I wanted? Well, I had to learn deeper, more mature faith, that God is not One to be manipulated by me, that He knows His purposes better than I do, that He works all things for good for those who are called according to His purpose. I may not see that good right away - I may never see it. But I saw it often enough to know the truth of that Biblical promise.

The other remembrance is less a lesson, but was more of a shock to my system. My oldest daughter (we'll call her Sissy, which is what her youngest sister calls her) was born six weeks early by C-section. Her mom, a diabetic, had been suffering toxemia and the doctor thought her pregnancy was farther along than it was. It wasn't, but that's another story. We knew in advance what day the C-section would happen, and that day I went out to eat with my parents, my little sister, and Grandpa Hedman. I don't know where Grandma was or my other sister (bro was in Indiana at IU), but there we were, our meals just brought to the table, when my dad did what he pretty much always did and asked his dad to pray for our food.

Grandpa, the man who seemed to pray at every meal at every family get-together, did something totally unexpected, and said, "I think the new father should pray."

What?!?!?! Me? Out loud? In front of other people? In front of Grandpa, the pastor, the Rev. A.W.? My dad (natch!) agreed with him and I must have stammered out something, I can't imagine what. I was at the same time completely embarrased and terribly honored. That my grandfather would not just let, but ask, me to pray while he followed was pretty incredible. It was one of those moments where I realized I was growing up - as if the birth of my first child wasn't enough of a realization!

Now every time I am able to maintain a good, disciplined practice of prayer I often recall those bus rides praying for my grandfather. And it's not unusual, when I pray in public - especially when I'm asked to pray in public for a meal - for me to recall that terrifying moment in that restaurant. Sometimes I remember both at once. The lesson there? I'm not sure, but maybe God is encouraging me and keeping me humble at the same time.

I have a ton of other memories of Grandpa Hedman, but the above are the ones that seem to have impacted me most. Among all those other memories I remember him as a man of quiet, determined, humble, diligent faith who had a deep reverence for God and His Word.

If that isn't a blessed work of God's love and grace in my life, I don't know what is.

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Posted by Martin at 10:44 PM | | Comments

Monday, October 02, 2006

Potpourri for $400, Alex

A mixture of several topics.
(Be sure to put your response in the form of a question.)
  1. What was Half Pint's seventh birthday? Several weeks ago, we asked her what she'd like to do for her birthday. She wanted to visit grandma and grandpa up in Visalia, so that's what we did this weekend. Besides grandparents, there were aunts, uncles and cousins. Pizza and ice cream cake were consumed. Pictures were taken. Presents were opened. Pretty standard fare - and pretty fun, too.
  2. What is 3 and 1? The Hamilton Bobcats varsity high school football record. This is Vikinglord's school. He's a sophomore on the team so he doesn't get to play much. But a couple games ago he saw a good bit of action on the punt and kickoff coverage teams, and made a few nice tackles. Hopefully I'll see him play this Friday.
  3. What is 4 and 1? The surprising record of the Washington Huskies. Woo-hoo! When I heard Coach Willingham say before the season began that their goal was a bowl game this year I thought: nice motivational tool, but really? Now it looks like a real probability. This week they play the Evil Empire (aka: Southern Cal). It would be so nice if they break the Trojans' Pac-10 winning streak.
  4. What is vocation? Calling. From God. What I've been reading a lot about and therefore been thinking a lot about, since that's part of what the class I'm taking this semester is about. We write reflection papers on our weekly reading assignment. This week I wrote about an article on death as a calling; and another paper interacting with a chapter in one of our books on how vocation can inform ethics. Very interesting and thought provoking.
  5. What was 1988? The last time the L.A. Dodgers won the World Series. This weekend they made the playoffs as a wild card, and this year's team bears some resemblance to the 1988 team. Both have a mixture of veterans and young guys; neither team is all that stocked with stars; yet both teams have that certain determination, comraderie and will to win that can take a team far in the postseason. I hope so!
  6. Who is "Hedman, Rev. A. W.?" My grandfather. That's how his name used to be listed in the phone book. My recent post about churches connected to my family history made me think of my grandparents, all four of whom were strong believers and had an influence on me and my faith. I think I'll write about them in turn. Look for a post about my Grandpa Hedman in the next few days.

And that's all for now.

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Posted by Martin at 7:05 AM | | Comments

Monday, September 25, 2006

Kyrka & Kirk

My dad sent me an e-mail with updated family history information in it - we're hoping for a big family reunion next summer. It reminded me of some other research I've done where I've come across links to actual places my ancestors lived. One of the things that I enjoy about learning my family history is how it so often connects with "real" history. But the following is more along the line of fun connections.

First are some pictures from Sweden. My great-grandfather (direct paternal line) came to America from the region called Bohuslan. From the records that I have, most of my relatives were baptized and married in this church, Krokstad parish:





However, when my great-grandfather came to America he changed his last name from Svensson to Hedman. He wanted something that sounded more American. When I asked my grandfather about this once he said the name his dad picked had something to do with where the family is from. Nearby Krokstad is the town/parish of Hede, which could be where the name came from. So it's possible many ancestors went to this church:





I love the older pictures of both.

Speaking of old...on my mom's side we're connected to the Birnie family, a branch that left Scotland and settled in Holland. Though remembering their Scottish heritage they also thought of themselves as Dutch, or Dutch-Indonesian. The name Birnie is associated with a now disappeared, small castle in Scotland, and also the Birnie kirk, one of the oldest continually functioning churches in Scotland.



My dad is Scandinavian (or as we like to put it: Viking-American); my mom is more Scottish than anything (probably). There's a link on the right to Highland Theological College, where I'd like to someday do doctoral work. HTC is not too far from Birnie kirk, just north of Inverness in the town of Dingwall, aka the Viking Capital of Scotland.

How appropriate!

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Posted by Martin at 12:33 PM | | Comments

Wednesday, September 06, 2006

A Different Perspective

After Legoland the other day, Half-Pint and I had dinner together. She said something out of the blue that really struck me.

Aside: Now when I say "out of the blue" I don't mean she was sitting there quietly eating and then suddently piped up with a comment. This is not my youngest daughter. Rather, out of a virtual stream of consciousness soliloquy broken only by my verbal punctuation of her oral paragraph, she ventured a new observation on a new topic.

What she said was, "I wish you still worked at Wal-Mart."

Now, I worked at Wal-Mart out of necessity. I left seminary early in the summer of 2001 to go back to full-time work. As the job search dragged on, made worse by September 11, I took a "temporary" job at Wal-Mart stocking shelves, just hoping to help make ends meet until a "real" job came along. I was at Wal-Mart for 13 months. They were some of the most difficult months for us as a family. We scrimped and went without and cut and at times we barely scraped by. But God kept us and we made it. Nevertheless, those were very hard times in many ways.

So why, I asked, did Half-Pint want me to still work there?

Because she and mommy could visit me any time they went shopping, or even just for fun. And she liked those visits, when she would run down the aisle and jump in my arms.

Now I work in an office. She can still visit, but it's harder and much more formal. And unlike Wal-Mart, where I never worked overtime that I can recall, in my new job I sometimes have to work late.

So even though my new job can support our family, for my daughter it's all about seeing daddy.

That's pretty cool.

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Posted by Martin at 9:52 AM | | Comments

Monday, September 04, 2006

Building Blocks

Today Half-Pint and I went to Legoland.

It was a good daddy-daughter day. A very good daddy-daughter day.

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Posted by Martin at 11:45 PM | | Comments

Saturday, September 02, 2006

Multicultural

This morning KMR * and I went to the Orange International Street Fair. This has been a long-time annual tradition. This year we had a date since all the older kids were elsewhere and our youngest, Half-Pint (she discovered "Little House on the Prairie" this summer) had spent the night with Tia.

The street fair is fun, with lots lots of good food (KMR had Norwegian rosettes, baklava and roasted sweet corn; I had some of hers plus Teriyaki chicken kabob and Australian pulled pork). And we always run into someone we know. Neale and Ruth volunteer there every year, so of course we saw them. We also ran into an old friend Steve, who is an elder at a new church plant here in Orange County. It was great to catch up with him and also to hear about what's happening at the new church.

God seems to keep putting people connected to church plants in our path. I think He's telling us something...

At the Norwegian booth, we contemplated buying a horned Viking hat for our son, who styles himself Vikinglord on an on-line game he plays. He's proud of his Viking-American heritage. I told him if he's a Viking lord then I'm a Viking king. But then awhile later I realized that with my dad living he must be the Viking king. I guess that makes me a Viking prince. We didn't get the hat -- too much to pay for cheap plastic. Pillaging and plundering just doesn't pay like it used to.

* Katie My Rib. Huh?, you say? I'm named after Martin Luther. Huh?, you still say? Read a book.

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Posted by Martin at 4:01 PM | | Comments

Tuesday, August 29, 2006

Musings of a Bystander?

So. What's with the title?

The first part of the answer is in the Peter Drucker quote above. It's from the introduction to his autobiography Adventures of a Bystander.

Those who know or have heard of Peter Drucker would hardly think of him as a bystander. The man was tremendously influential. How can that be if the bystander, as per above, "has no effect except on himself?" Perhaps it would have been better put: "has no direct effect." Let's face it. Peter Drucker impacted a lot of people; he had a great effect on a lot of people.

But that effect was indirect. He had no mega-bucks consulting firm. He led no global corporations. He held no high government office.

Peter Drucker observed. He analyzed. He saw. He saw things that were already happening but that others hadn't seen yet. And then he shouted from the rooftops. He taught. He consulted. He wrote. All prodigiously.

Later in the introduction to his book, Drucker gives the comment an old family friend gave to him as a young boy, when he expressed a rather bold political opinion: "To watch and think for yourself is highly commendable. But to shock people by shouting strange views from the rooftops is not."

In reaction to this he writes: "This is the admonition the bystander always hears, for it is his lot to see things differently...This admonition is well taken. But I have rarely heeded it..."

Peter Drucker shouted his strange views from the rooftops. Many, many people listened and took heed, and the management of businesses, governments and public sector (non-profit) organizations have been profoundly impacted.

Now -- I'm no Peter Drucker. Nor do I have aspirations to be.

But his comments about being a bystander struck a chord with me several years ago when I first read them. I saw something of myself in them. Peter Drucker was a teacher. But I believe there is another appropriate profession for the bystander: preacher of the gospel. There is no other message so strange, shocking and unwelcome as the gospel of Jesus Christ. And yet, as one of my old pastors put it when dealing with a difficult passage in one sermon, "I didn't write the book. I'm just called to preach it." Or shout it from the rooftops.

And this is the calling to which I am convinced I have been called. A good preacher steeped in the study of God's Word sees things differently than others. John Calvin talked of seeing the world through Scriptural spectacles. And that, as Drucker puts it, is refraction, what a bystander does.

-----

The other reason for the title of this blog is that it forms the acronym MOAB. The Moabites resisted the Israelites as they sought to enter Canaan. For that, God cursed them - for ten generations no Moabite could join the Israelite assembly. And yet, Ruth the Moabitess, upon profession of faith to her mother-in-law Naomi, was accepted. More than accepted, since she became an ancestor of King David, and therefore of Jesus Christ Himself.

I am no Israelite (despite recently discovering one of my great-great grandfathers was Jewish). I'm a Gentile dog. But because I confess my faith in Christ I am now counted part of the people of God, a wild olive branch grafted into the cultivated tree, the wall of hostility having been broken down. MOAB reminds me of who I am (think of Paul's "Therefore, remember..." in Ephesians 2:11ff), and of what Christ has done for me.

Oh...and my mom's name is Ruth.

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Posted by Martin at 12:04 AM | | Comments

About me

  • Martin
  • From Orange, CA
  • Husband; Father; Son; Brother. Ruling elder at church. Loan Officer for Christian lending institution. Seminary student. I hope to be a pastor and plant a church in the near future.
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