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January 24, 2007

The day I learned to ride a bike

I guess a lot of my young life was not that different from other boys. However, I did live in the mountains of Colorado in my early years, and that perhaps made some difference.

For instance, waking up to the sound of a cow, and seeing a herd of cattle out the bedroom window, grazing in the yard. The ranchers in our area let their cows run loose. Another was knowing that the our “playground” was haunted by rattlesnakes and mountain lions. That scared the snot out of our sissy relatives who came to visit – Eastern city folks – but we kids didn’t much care. We were, after all, bullet proof, like all boys.

And speaking of relatives, the summer when I was 16, one of Mom’s eastern, citified uncles came to visit, and he wanted to spend a night camping out. He was, oh, maybe in his 40s, and had never slept outside. My mother told Dean – he’s my brother, two years younger – and me to take him out, so we did.

When we arrived at our chosen spot – not in a “campground,” but in a pretty spot we liked. It was way back, several miles down a rutted dirt trail, alongside a mountain lake. We were Alone. There, Dean and I cut a bunch of branches from bushes and trees and made ourselves a foot-thick pile. Then we threw a tarp on top and our sleeping bags on that. By then it was getting dark, and without a thought, we undressed, climbed into our sleeping bags, and went quickly and happily to sleep, the stars in our faces. We didn’t give a second thought to our guest.

We didn’t know until later – after he had left town – that our uncle had locked himself in the car and stayed awake all night, terrified of what sort of monster or wild beast might devour us, unprotected out there in the wilderness. When Mom told us about it later, we were surprised, and thought the guy was either some sort of pansy, or just had a screw loose. Dean made a comment, something about the uncle’s undergarments and lace. I don’t remember exactly what he said, but Mom didn’t think it was funny.

But back to riding a bike. In my younger days, we faced one problem, living where we did, and that was that there was no flat ground, and no straight roads. Unlike Kansas, where the ground goes from side to side, like all well-mannered dirt, in the Rockies it goes mostly up and down. And it’s not so much dirt as it is a whole bunch of rocks.

Our town, Idledale, was a couple hundred people scattered up steep, windy dirt roads running off of a canyon with a “crick” and a two-lane highway in it. “Downtown” included a small general store, a liquor store and a post office. The liquor store burned down one night when I was about 6 or 7, and it was the biggest event in town all year. I had nightmares for a week.

Our location and the lack of flat land and decent roads were a problem when we got old enough to want to ride a bike. But we were bright and innovative, and with the help of some older boys in town, we adapted. It was a team effort because there were only a couple guys in town who owned bikes, and they had to be willing for us to use them.
So that’s how I found myself up a rocky, steep, winding dirt road one day, with a half dozen other guys. I was going to learn to ride a bike. The routine was simple and fast, there was only one lesson, and there was a big incentive for success.

The victim, er, learner was placed astride the machine while a couple guys held it upright and still. Then, when the “rider” was in place and set – that was me, remember – the two-boy launch crew stepped back and gave the bike a little push. It went like a jet off an aircraft carrier, and reached warp speed in about 3 seconds, bouncing from rock to rock on the way down the hill. I think the tires were even on the ground for a little bit of the time.

Now this somewhat terrifying course of study had a couple tests. To pass, you had to meet two standards. First, you had to make it to the bottom of the road with all your skin and bones unbroken, and with you still on the top and the bike on the bottom. Second, you could not have peed your pants.

Simple, right? No grading on the curve – in fact, you might say the curve did the grading – and no staying up all night, cramming for the test. Just step up to the bike, turn off any hint of good sense you had, and in a state of utter stupidity, climb on. The experience had a wonderfully focusing effect on a young mind.

You might understand the situation better if you knew that on the right side of the road was a solid wall of rough, jagged rocks, because the road was cut into the side of a steep hill. They were big rocks, a sort of light rust color, and just sat there, waiting to rip the skin off your body. Trust me, you did not want to hit them.

On the other side was a sort of barrier, consisting of a cable strung between posts about 18 inches above the ground, beyond which the ground fell straight away in a drop of 10 to 75 or so feet, depending on where you were dumb enough to go over the edge. At the bottom was the only paved road around, the highway through town. If the fall didn’t get you, the cars would.

So to fail the test was no small matter. But we thought that was good. Those sissy city kids, with their training wheels and all sorts of helpers and protection, never learned to ride as quickly as we did. No way. Of course, they spent a lot less time in pain, too.

Oh, I forgot to tell you: I passed. I reached the bottom, unbloodied and unpeed. Perhaps that explains why now, old and gray-bearded, I am most at home on my mountain bike, hauling down a fast trail. It’s great fun, and I have an impressive array of scars to prove it.

Posted by Larry Baden at 07:53 PM | Comments (4)

January 03, 2007

Where is God when it hurts?

“Where is God when it hurts?” Seems like there was a book some years ago with a title something like that. Was it by Phillip Yancey? Seems right. I don’t remember much about the book, but I think it was about physical suffering.

I am not physically suffering, but I might argue that emotional pain is harder to deal with than physical pain. And perhaps the most painful condition is living in the absence and silence of God.

The question is one that spends a lot of time wandering through the corridors of my mind. Every time I turn around, I hear the echo of its footsteps. And I am tired of hearing it. I want it to go away. I want to see the face of God, to feel his touch in the midst of pain. I want to know that I am not alone, abandoned by the One to whom I have given my life.

Have you ever been in a situation where you were trying your best to be faithful to God, and yet the situation was so painful you didn’t know what to do? You know, you reach a place where you think you cannot continue, that unless God does something for you, you will die?

When I get into one of those places, it’s so hard to maintain my focus. It’s especially hard to maintain the one thing that I believe is essential to continuing: hope. Without hope, we die. It’s as essential to life as air and food.

Yet, it seems that sometimes God just disappears and goes silent. David wrote about some of these times in the Psalms, crying out to God. It’s not a new occurrence, nor is it limited to any particular group within the people of God. But it does seem that the more we seek to be near to God, to know him and to serve him, the harder life becomes.

I am reminded of Teresa of Avila, the saint who once told God it was no wonder He didn’t have more friends, looking at the way He treated the few He did have.

So, where is God when it hurts? Well, I have to conclude that He’s the same place He always is. God doesn’t move away when we enter into a hard time. He is right there. But I think sometimes our hearing and vision both go dim. We focus so much on the pain and frustration that we are oblivious to the One standing by us. But He is there, without question.

I would like to say I follow God out of the joy he gives me, and the purpose in life, and the forgiveness from sin. And sometimes that would be true. But not always.

Sometimes, I identify with the disciples of Jesus who watched the crowds melt away at the hard things Jesus was teaching. And when He asked them if they were going to leave, too, they said, “Who else has the words of life?”

Sometimes I follow God in joy and delight. Sometimes I follow him in desperation: Who else is there who has words of life? Where else would I go?

So, hurt or not, sensing God’s presence or not, hearing his voice or not, I follow him. Who else is there?

Posted by Larry Baden at 05:14 PM | Comments (7)


discussion forum study guides ministry news reviews church history new testament theology sermons online quizzes e-texts online internet resources theoweb newsletter quodlibet journal about theoweb foutz.net	« December 2006 \| Main \| February 2007 » January 24, 2007 The day I learned to ride a bike I guess a lot of my young life was not that different from other boys. However, I did live in the mountains of Colorado in my early years, and that perhaps made some difference. For instance, waking up to the sound of a cow, and seeing a herd of cattle out the bedroom window, grazing in the yard. The ranchers in our area let their cows run loose. Another was knowing that the our “playground” was haunted by rattlesnakes and mountain lions. That scared the snot out of our sissy relatives who came to visit – Eastern city folks – but we kids didn’t much care. We were, after all, bullet proof, like all boys. And speaking of relatives, the summer when I was 16, one of Mom’s eastern, citified uncles came to visit, and he wanted to spend a night camping out. He was, oh, maybe in his 40s, and had never slept outside. My mother told Dean – he’s my brother, two years younger – and me to take him out, so we did. When we arrived at our chosen spot – not in a “campground,” but in a pretty spot we liked. It was way back, several miles down a rutted dirt trail, alongside a mountain lake. We were Alone. There, Dean and I cut a bunch of branches from bushes and trees and made ourselves a foot-thick pile. Then we threw a tarp on top and our sleeping bags on that. By then it was getting dark, and without a thought, we undressed, climbed into our sleeping bags, and went quickly and happily to sleep, the stars in our faces. We didn’t give a second thought to our guest. We didn’t know until later – after he had left town – that our uncle had locked himself in the car and stayed awake all night, terrified of what sort of monster or wild beast might devour us, unprotected out there in the wilderness. When Mom told us about it later, we were surprised, and thought the guy was either some sort of pansy, or just had a screw loose. Dean made a comment, something about the uncle’s undergarments and lace. I don’t remember exactly what he said, but Mom didn’t think it was funny. But back to riding a bike. In my younger days, we faced one problem, living where we did, and that was that there was no flat ground, and no straight roads. Unlike Kansas, where the ground goes from side to side, like all well-mannered dirt, in the Rockies it goes mostly up and down. And it’s not so much dirt as it is a whole bunch of rocks. Our town, Idledale, was a couple hundred people scattered up steep, windy dirt roads running off of a canyon with a “crick” and a two-lane highway in it. “Downtown” included a small general store, a liquor store and a post office. The liquor store burned down one night when I was about 6 or 7, and it was the biggest event in town all year. I had nightmares for a week. Our location and the lack of flat land and decent roads were a problem when we got old enough to want to ride a bike. But we were bright and innovative, and with the help of some older boys in town, we adapted. It was a team effort because there were only a couple guys in town who owned bikes, and they had to be willing for us to use them. So that’s how I found myself up a rocky, steep, winding dirt road one day, with a half dozen other guys. I was going to learn to ride a bike. The routine was simple and fast, there was only one lesson, and there was a big incentive for success. The victim, er, learner was placed astride the machine while a couple guys held it upright and still. Then, when the “rider” was in place and set – that was me, remember – the two-boy launch crew stepped back and gave the bike a little push. It went like a jet off an aircraft carrier, and reached warp speed in about 3 seconds, bouncing from rock to rock on the way down the hill. I think the tires were even on the ground for a little bit of the time. Now this somewhat terrifying course of study had a couple tests. To pass, you had to meet two standards. First, you had to make it to the bottom of the road with all your skin and bones unbroken, and with you still on the top and the bike on the bottom. Second, you could not have peed your pants. Simple, right? No grading on the curve – in fact, you might say the curve did the grading – and no staying up all night, cramming for the test. Just step up to the bike, turn off any hint of good sense you had, and in a state of utter stupidity, climb on. The experience had a wonderfully focusing effect on a young mind. You might understand the situation better if you knew that on the right side of the road was a solid wall of rough, jagged rocks, because the road was cut into the side of a steep hill. They were big rocks, a sort of light rust color, and just sat there, waiting to rip the skin off your body. Trust me, you did not want to hit them. On the other side was a sort of barrier, consisting of a cable strung between posts about 18 inches above the ground, beyond which the ground fell straight away in a drop of 10 to 75 or so feet, depending on where you were dumb enough to go over the edge. At the bottom was the only paved road around, the highway through town. If the fall didn’t get you, the cars would. So to fail the test was no small matter. But we thought that was good. Those sissy city kids, with their training wheels and all sorts of helpers and protection, never learned to ride as quickly as we did. No way. Of course, they spent a lot less time in pain, too. Oh, I forgot to tell you: I passed. I reached the bottom, unbloodied and unpeed. Perhaps that explains why now, old and gray-bearded, I am most at home on my mountain bike, hauling down a fast trail. It’s great fun, and I have an impressive array of scars to prove it. Posted by Larry Baden at 07:53 PM \| Comments (4) January 03, 2007 Where is God when it hurts? “Where is God when it hurts?” Seems like there was a book some years ago with a title something like that. Was it by Phillip Yancey? Seems right. I don’t remember much about the book, but I think it was about physical suffering. I am not physically suffering, but I might argue that emotional pain is harder to deal with than physical pain. And perhaps the most painful condition is living in the absence and silence of God. The question is one that spends a lot of time wandering through the corridors of my mind. Every time I turn around, I hear the echo of its footsteps. And I am tired of hearing it. I want it to go away. I want to see the face of God, to feel his touch in the midst of pain. I want to know that I am not alone, abandoned by the One to whom I have given my life. Have you ever been in a situation where you were trying your best to be faithful to God, and yet the situation was so painful you didn’t know what to do? You know, you reach a place where you think you cannot continue, that unless God does something for you, you will die? When I get into one of those places, it’s so hard to maintain my focus. It’s especially hard to maintain the one thing that I believe is essential to continuing: hope. Without hope, we die. It’s as essential to life as air and food. Yet, it seems that sometimes God just disappears and goes silent. David wrote about some of these times in the Psalms, crying out to God. It’s not a new occurrence, nor is it limited to any particular group within the people of God. But it does seem that the more we seek to be near to God, to know him and to serve him, the harder life becomes. I am reminded of Teresa of Avila, the saint who once told God it was no wonder He didn’t have more friends, looking at the way He treated the few He did have. So, where is God when it hurts? Well, I have to conclude that He’s the same place He always is. God doesn’t move away when we enter into a hard time. He is right there. But I think sometimes our hearing and vision both go dim. We focus so much on the pain and frustration that we are oblivious to the One standing by us. But He is there, without question. I would like to say I follow God out of the joy he gives me, and the purpose in life, and the forgiveness from sin. And sometimes that would be true. But not always. Sometimes, I identify with the disciples of Jesus who watched the crowds melt away at the hard things Jesus was teaching. And when He asked them if they were going to leave, too, they said, “Who else has the words of life?” Sometimes I follow God in joy and delight. Sometimes I follow him in desperation: Who else is there who has words of life? Where else would I go? So, hurt or not, sensing God’s presence or not, hearing his voice or not, I follow him. Who else is there? Posted by Larry Baden at 05:14 PM \| Comments (7)
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