The View From the Bus: Gray Christmas

It's the Wednesday before Thanksgiving in 1991 and we're on our way to western Kansas to spend the holiday weekend with relatives. As we pulled off I-70 for a restroom break in Independence, Missouri, I pulled to a stop at the red light at the top of the exit ramp. When the light turned green, I stepped on the accelerator and the car inched forward like a turtle.

The transmission was shot. We spent the holiday in a hotel and then coaxed the car to crawl two miles to a transmission shop.

Thus began the most dismal holiday season of what has been a lifetime of holiday catastrophes for our family.

The repair shop took over a week to complete the repair.

After getting a lift back to Independence, I picked up the car and drove it 100 miles back to the exit ramp near my home. I pulled to a stop at the red light at the top of the exit ramp.

Stop me if you've already heard this.

When the light turned to green, I stepped on the accelerator and the car inched forward like a turtle: the transmission had once again failed. I coaxed the car toward the local shop of the same franchised transmission service.  They took another two weeks to do the warrantied repair, which then failed miserably during the test drive. The original shop had the car towed back to Independence, and then, after another two weeks, delivered it back to me, repaired.

So, from Thanksgiving through a few days after New Year's Day, we were without a car. I rode the bus every day to work and back. Our spirits were not merry and bright. Most of the things we would normally do to be out and about celebrating the season were called off. Our boys weren't happy campers.

One particularly wretched day in mid-December stands out to me.

Snow was falling when I boarded the bus at my workplace. The streets were already covered by the grayed and blackened snow leftover from previous snowfalls.

The windows of the bus were covered with a layer of the splashed-up dirty snow from the streets, quickly being topped by a coating of new-fallen snow. The only visibility to the outside of the bus was through the driver's front windshield, which the wipers were making a valiant effort at keeping clear.

A loose connection was causing the already dim interior lights of the bus to flicker on and off each time the bus hit a bump or shook. If you've ever ridden a city bus, you know that means the lights were constantly flickering, casting the scene with a surreal horror-movie atmosphere.

The interior heating system was also not keeping up, which meant that every rider sat bundled tight in their winter coats. Every time the doors opened for someone to board or exit, a gust of frozen air invaded the bus.

A young woman sat near the front of the bus with an infant in a car carrier. The poor child was doing what I and everyone else aboard wanted to be doing: he was cycling between crying, screaming, and whimpering in reaction to the nightmare surrounding him.

As the bus rumbled through the neighborhoods, we all sat staring out the front windshield, trying to keep track of where the bus was on the route. With darkness already upon the city and our view of the outside world constricted, I was more than a little concerned I would miss my stop and be stuck on this bus ride through hell for another circuit through its route.

Given the road conditions and the rush hour traffic, the ride took much longer than normal. The time finally arrived, though, when I saw the neighborhood of my bus stop past the driver's hunched shoulders.

I was almost late in pulling the cord to signal my stop, because judging distance was nearly impossible through the driving snow. When I did pull the cord, the driver looked up, startled, and began braking for the bus stop. The behemoth slid a few feet past its target, but finally found purchase among the snow and came to halt.

I was glad to leave the ghost of Christmas bus behind, but quickly discovered I was stepping into the gusts of Christmas present, with several inches of snow on the ground, more snow falling quickly around me, a bitter wind, and a two and a half block walk ahead of me.

When I finally opened our front door, my boys stared at me like I was the abominable snowman. I must have looked a fright, covered with snow, my body hunched down, and my face betraying the desolation of the long ride home.

From my point of view, though, the warmth of the house and the warmth of the welcome into my home was the greatest Christmas blessing I could want. And I knew full well that there were other people out there riding the bus on this dismal night who had much less than I. Did they have people to welcome them? Did they have a warm place to live?

God, bless them every one.

Originally posted 12/1/2014

The Holiday Curse: Thanksgiving

As mentioned before, my family has a Holiday Curse.  And Thanksgiving seems to have somehow been particularly cursed in regard to our cars.

Perhaps it's because so many of the cars we have driven have been real turkeys.

On a Thanksgiving weekend in the early 90's, we set out to spend a long weekend with relatives in Bennington, KS.  Leaving after work on Wednesday, we traveled west for over an hour and pulled off at the Noland Road Exit  in Independence, MO - an area renown for its plethora of fast food choices.

At the top of the exit ramp we waited for the light to turn green.  Then I pressed my foot to the accelerator and continued to wait.  And wait.  The car was going nowhere.

With a slight push I was able to pull on through the intersection and coast downhill and into the entrance to a Super 8 and Shoneys.  Which was a fortunate combination, since we wound up spending the next 48 hours in that Super 8 motel and eating at the Shoneys.

The transmission  had gone south on us as we were going west.  Thus began a the mother of all holiday curses, one that lasted through December, through Christmas and on through New Year's Day.  The car was in two different AAMCO shops to have the transmission repaired TWICE, over a total of over 40 days.

The two AAMCO shop owners bickered and fought over who was responsible to do the re-repair after the warrantied initial repair (which took two tries over 10 days) failed miserably during the trip back east to Columbia.  I received an education in the truth about those warranties - the shop is going to lose money on the re-work, which means they have very little motivation to complete the job quickly.

Back in those days, we were a one car family.  That meant I rode the bus to work, my wife took two small children to the store and other errands on the bus, and anything we wanted to do to celebrate the holiday season was only accessible by bus.

Any missional Christ-following blogger worth his salt would have some great stories at this point about the people I met on the bus during those weeks, about the relationships I made with people who are down-and-out enough to be riding the bus during the holidays.

But all I could think about during those weeks was how depressed I was.  How totally out of control my life had become.  How miserable this holiday season was.

I learn slowly.  but I have a patient Teacher.

O Master,
these are the conditions in which people live,and yes,

in these very conditions my spirit is still alive —

fully recovered with a fresh infusion of life!

It seems it was good for me 

to go through all those troubles.

Throughout them all you held tight to my lifeline.

You never let me tumble over the edge into nothing.

But my sins you let go of,

threw them over your shoulder - 

good riddance!

The dead don't thank you, 

and choirs don't sing praises from the morgue.

Those buried six feet under

don't witness to your faithful ways.

It's the living —

live men,live women —

who thank you, just as I'm doing right now.

Parents give their children full reports on your faithful ways.

Isaiah 38:16 (The Message)

A sign you're growing in grace:  Even when you fail to live up to your calling, you trust in God's patience and learn from your mistakes. #asygig

Last Night: Orphans

I will not leave you as orphans; I will come to you.
John 14:18

In 2002, my oldest brother died, just days before his 50th birthday.

Just before Thanksgiving, 2009, my father became sick. He was diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumor by Christmas. He was gone by Martin Luther King Jr Day.

On Memorial Day, 2010, my other brother died.

On the night before New Year's Eve in 2011, my mother died.

The entire family in which I grew up is gone. Many times since then, I've felt like an orphan.

Oh, I'm not without family. I have a wife and several young men who call me Dad.  I have two little boys to whom I'm Grandpa, plus several more little kids who call me Papa Tim.

But still, at times, I feel like an orphan.

I cried twice while watching the movie Interstellar this past weekend, I felt empty inside without being able to talk about it with Scott, who taught me to love sci-fi. Every time I've been to the Roots 'n' Blues festival, I wanted to tell Mark about it. Every time one of my articles is published in The Lookout or Christian Standard, I want to take copies of the magazines to share with Dad and Mom.

But they're all gone.


When Jesus was crucified, the disciples felt like orphans, even though he had promised them he wouldn't leave them alone.

They were overjoyed when he rose from the grave, but then, after a few weeks, he left them again.

I have no doubt there were times in the days that followed when Peter and John and the others turned to tell Jesus something, or to ask him a question, and their shoulders drooped as they remembered he was gone.

It was hard for them to understand that he still was not leaving them alone.

They were looking intently up into the sky as he was going, when suddenly two men dressed in white stood beside them. “Men of Galilee,” they said, “why do you stand here looking into the sky? This same Jesus, who has been taken from you into heaven, will come back in the same way you have seen him go into heaven.” Acts 1:10-11

I still carry my family's hopes and dreams, their legacy, within me. I don't know how many times I've wanted to call one of them and let them know when I experience a victory. I want to let them know when I've managed to live up to the dreams they had for me. I'm carrying on the spirit of the Robertson family.

Jesus is always with me, too, only in a more real way. Like those first disciples, it's not just Jesus' spirit that lives on in me, but his actual Spirit that lives in me.

He not only knows when I'm living up to his legacy, living up to the dreams he had for me. He's actually participating with me, going along with me as I carry on the work he began.

He'll never be gone.

Before long, the world will not see me anymore, but you will see me. Because I live, you also will live. On that day you will realize that I am in my Father, and you are in me, and I am in you. John 14:19-20

Making Black Friday a Good Friday

I've written before about my family's Holiday Curse.  We have been stranded far from home due to car breakdowns, wrecked our cars (twice on a single holiday weekend), been violently ill, dealt with deaths in our extended family, wound up in the emergency too many times to count, and on and on and on.

It took me many years and many unexpected holiday situations to finally realize the lesson God was trying to drill into my head. 

When those "curses" happen, they nearly always put us in a location where wouldn't otherwise have expected to be on a holiday, encountering people who are either forced to work on a holiday or are themselves dealing with some sort of cursed holiday.

What if, instead of lamenting finding ourselves in yet another un-festivity, we would open our eyes to see the opportunities He has place in front of us?  The people He wants to bless, the struggling holiday nomads who need a touch of God's grace, the opportunities to actually do something for someone.

Black Friday is coming, a day many people approach with dread.  It's the topic of negative Facebook status posts and complaining tweets, blogs devoted to the frustrations of the commercialization of Christ's birthday.

Perhaps we should see Black Friday as an opportunity to live out a Good Friday:  Go to the mall or other stores with no intention of shipping (unless you happen to discover an Avengers Christmas tree skirt you just can't resist). 

Spend your time intentionally looking for the people who need assistance with something. Lend a hand to someone who looks lost.  Strike up a friendly conversation with the sad-faced husband who is worn out from being the designated pack horse.  Speak of word of thanks and encouragement to the employees who have been on their feet all day. 

Share a table in the cafe court with a harried shopper and help them with their kids while giving them a chance for a few minutes of conversation with a cheerful adult.

Live incarnationally among the people caught on the Black Friday treadmill.  For a few moments, make a memory with them, a blessing for a Good Friday.

The Holiday Curse: Halloween

A couple of years ago, on October 31st, I was on my second day of taking  a new medicine my doctor had prescribed at my annual check-up.  I had taken the pills at about 4:00 PM, and was relaxing in the living room with my wife.

My skin began to tingle lightly and my face flushed, which had happened the first few times I took the medicine.

"I'm tingling again," I said.  She looked over at me with a bemused smile, and returned to her book.

Then the tingling became stronger, like needles all over my skin.  I turned to mention this new feeling to Karen.

The next thing I knew, my eyes opened and she was in my face, shouting my name.  Apparently I had begun to shake and then slumped in the chair, my mouth hanging open to one side.

Understandably, she was frightened.  She told me later she thought I was having a stroke.  She somehow got me to walk to the car and drove me to the Emergency Room. (My son asked her later why she didn't call 9-1-1).

We sat at the front desk while the registrar started on her list of questions.  I slowly began to slump and then slide down the chair toward the floor, like a melting man.  Someone finally came and transported me to an examining room.

About half an hour after we arrived, my adult son came walking in.

"Are you OK?" he asked.  I assured him I was going to be fine and explained what had happened.  They confirmed it was a reaction to the new medicine, nothing overly serious.  Needless to say, I'm not taking that particular drug any longer.

Having settled that matter, he asked another question, the one I knew was coming next.

"Dad?  Do you realize what day this is?"  And he started to laugh.

Anyone else would have thought him rude and unfeeling.  Me?  I began to laugh along with him.

You see, our family has a curse.  A holiday curse.

We have learned to approach holidays with caution.  We tend to stay at home.

We have found ourselves stranded with major car problems in distant cities on our way to visit relatives for holidays.  More than once. 

On a single Thanksgiving weekend a couple of years ago, we managed to get into separate wrecks with both of the family cars.  

We have been sick with an impressive variety of illnesses and maladies during various holidays.  The local emergency room staff has learned to expect us during the holidays – and not just to wish them a happy holiday.
 

This “holiday curse” is not limited to just Thanksgiving and Christmas, but strikes on Memorial Day, Labor Day, Easter, Valentine's Day and more.  Any time the mall stores have special holiday sales, we get ready for the worst.

The sad part of this story is that it took us so many years to realize that hidden somewhere in each of these holiday mishaps was a Divine Appointment created by God.

A sign you're growing in grace:  You've learned to see the inevitable holiday debacles as God-created opportunities for mission. #asygig

Not giving back evil for evil, 

or curse for curse, 

but in place of cursing, blessing; 

because this is the purpose of God for you

that you may have a heritage of blessing.

I Peter 3

By the way, Halloween this year falls on a Monday night.  So we're laughing in the face of the curse and celebrating the holiday by doing what we always do on Mondays.

We're going to prison.