Good morning church family,

“Don’t be reckless,” I remember my dad telling me. “But remember – momentum is everything.”

This sage advice was given to me back when I only had a learners permit in my pocket and was about to try and get the family’s 12-passenger van from the campus of Vermont’s Castleton State College, where I had a job working in the cafeteria, to our home which sat high on a hill several miles away. It had been snowing throughout my dinner shift and by the time I was ready to punch out and head for home, most of the roadways had a couple of inches of greasy, slushy snow on them. As I walked out of work, I spied our big, blue van parked across the way. Approaching the van, I noticed that my dad, who had come to pick me up, was sitting in the passenger seat. “Oh no,” I thought to myself. “He’s going to have me drive.”

Unlike most teenage boys, I was not particularly motivated to do what was necessary to get my license and be let loose on the open road. I’m not entirely sure why that was, but I imagine it was a combination of the general malaise I was experiencing following a severe bout with depression and an inborn inclination to stay away from the edge of the nest. Whatever the case, I may be the only Vermonter in history to walk into the DMV and ask to have his 3-year learner’s permit renewed.

That Chevrolet Beauville van was a lot of car for a kid like me to try and handle. You’d turn the key in the ignition and the engine would roar to life; the van gently rocking in rhythm with the revving engine. It was as though the van was a strung-up bull stamping its hoof on the arena dirt; eyes red with rage and ready to be unleashed on the enemy hills and roadways ahead. I’d done okay riding that bull, but I had often witnessed my mom and dad struggle to keep it between the ditches when snow was piling up on the roads. The prospect of going tobogganing in the Chevy was a frightful thing to me. Without a lot of weight in the back and the Tate family economy unable to afford proper tires for the winter track, the van had a tendency to skid about and lose the lane. The worst of it was that our house was down a road that followed a river; wending and bending through the hollows of dense Green Mountain woods. The little country road was without a shoulder and thus without much room for error. If all that wasn’t enough, the driveway going up to our house was a couple hundred yards of steep incline with two hairpin turns switching back across field and meadow. Many times our van was left abandoned somewhere below while the family trudged up the hill with the groceries and everything else in tow.

“Hey Dad,” I said as my father emerged from the van with a car brush in his hand.

“Good evening son,” he replied; going right to work in clearing the snow from off of the windshield and over the door frames and side mirror. “Why don’t you hop in and drive, okay?”

I stood there in the dark wearing my uniform, black sneakers, and light coat; looking up at the parking lot light which showed a heavy snow falling down out of the sky. I was encouraged by the confidence my dad showed in me in that moment and the nonchalant manner in which he asked made me feel like more of a man than I was.

“Alright,” I said; walking over and brushing off the driver’s side mirror with the sleeve of my coat, “if you think so.”

With both of us in the car, my dad handed me the keys and I brought the big van to life. Settling in behind the wheel; I adjusted the seat and mirrors and turned on the wipers and headlights. Before putting the engine in gear, my dad went over the keys to winter driving. I listened the best I could but my heart was revving now in rhythm to the engine.

“Don’t be reckless,” he concluded soberly. “But remember – momentum is everything.”

On that drive and many more like it since, I’ve come to recognize the wisdom of my father’s words. Drive too fast and you can easily lose control. Drive too slowly and you can easily get stuck. The key is keeping a pace that has you scaling the treacherous steeps without skidding over the cliffs.

This advice has also served me well in my walk with the Lord. As it was with Abraham leaving Ur without an itinerary, the disciples leaving the Mount of Olives without a program, or Peter leaving the boat without a life preserver; God often calls us to take leaps of faith in our life. We’re given mountains to climb, rivers to cross, and valleys to navigate. And because these all exist within the environment of a desperate and fallen world – the way is often perilous and treacherous. To be prideful and reckless is to welcome disaster. But to be paralyzed with timidity is to be stuck on the wrong side of opportunity. What we need as believers is momentum. We must, with confidence, accept the keys from our Father, start the engine, put it in gear, and let our foot off the brake. We must give our faith some gas; careful to never get too far in front or too far behind the Lord. We must strive. We must struggle. We must endeavor. We must step out. In short – we must be leaping.

And when we do – fear not. God will see us home safe and sound.

We’re looking forward to gathering again in God’s house and having our hearts swell with gratitude for the hope we have in Jesus and with rejoicing for the fellowship we enjoy with both God and one another. It will be good to take a holiday from sin and its sad effects and enter into a Sabbath rest for our souls. Hallelujah! May the Lord, mighty God, bless and continue to keep us!

• Pastor Tate

Good morning church family,

Having shaved and showered for the day, Danny quietly turned off the light before opening the bathroom door; being careful not to wake his wife who was sleeping peacefully in the bedroom beyond. Stepping back into the dark room, the blue glow coming from the digital clock on the dresser was the room’s only light. “4:48,” read the clockface. His eyes working hard to adjust to the darkness, Danny felt for the knobs of the dresser drawers and slid them open; pulling out a pair of jeans, a t-shirt, and socks. With the skilled quiet of a cat burglar, he got dressed. The brief clattering of his swinging belt buckle was the only sound he made. Danny paused for a moment and looked at the outline of his wife’s body as she lay under the covers in their queen-sized bed. He sighed as he spied the hollow place in the sheets beside her. The tired husband felt atop the comforter for the curve of his wife’s hip; gently waking her as he kissed her on the cheek. “Goodbye sweetheart,” he whispered lovingly, “see you tonight.”

Padding down the stairs in his stocking feet, Danny walked through the living room, turning on the lights in the kitchen and starting the coffee maker. The sudden flood of light energized him as he fished things from the refrigerator and pantry for his lunch. He quickly packed his little Coleman cooler and sat down at the island. Danny couldn’t remember how it had started, but for years now he had always packed the dessert into his kids’ lunches. He bought little bakery boxes with flip-top lids and every morning he would put a cookie, candy bar, or some special confection in the box and write a note and draw a picture on the underside of the lid. Even though Avery was seventeen, Stephen fourteen, and Kirsten eleven, they still loved it just as much as when they were big enough to bounce on his knee.

The last of the dessert boxes stuffed in the kids’ lunch bags, Danny grabbed his keys to start his truck. He listened as the V8 engine rattled to life in the driveway just outside the kitchen door. The glasses in the cupboard chattered just a bit and the handle of the refrigerator vibrated as the engine worked to get in rhythm. Danny grabbed the breakfast sandwich he’d made the night before and put it in the microwave. He poured the coffee out into his thermos and turned off the pot. Taking his coat off the peg on the inside of the pantry door, Danny put his Coleman under his arm, his sandwich in his mouth, and with coffee in one hand, he opened and closed the door with the other.

It was a clear and cold autumn morning. Hopping in his truck, the temperature on the dash read 36° and the time read 5:21. It was election day in Michigan and all across America. Danny wished the polls were already open so he could shoot over to the Knights of Columbus and vote, but the doors wouldn’t be open for another hour-and-a-half. He put the half-ton Ford in gear and let the revving engine roll him out onto the street. He needed to be at the town sheds in Saginaw before 6am where he’d meet with the crew and start his day. “If I hustle with that grading job, I should be done mid-morning,” Danny said to himself as he reached to turn on the radio. “I bet I can buy a little time and swing back over to vote before lunch.”

Danny had worked for the Saginaw County Road Commission for over twenty years and had a good crew of guys working for him as he worked to keep the local roads and roadways safe and up to snuff. As part of that work, a couple-hundred miles of dirt road throughout the county needed grading once in the spring and once again in the fall. Danny hoped to tackle a rough patch of road in Chesaning on this particular morning and maybe do some repair to some portions of the shoulder that had washed out over the summer. The office had gotten a number of complaints from homeowners and motorists who said the washboards on the road were something awful. “It’s like driving over a hundred speed bumps!” was one of the screeds left on the office voicemail.

After setting up his crew for the day’s work, Danny drove out to where he’d left the grader on the side of the road the night before. It was a beautiful autumn day and the early sun promised to warm things up quickly. Danny climbed up into the grader and quickly got to work. He’d graded, sanded, plowed, brushcut, and repaired this stretch of road hundreds of times over the years. He’d scooped up a good amount of road kill off of it too. With an able confidence, he got right to work.

Danny wasn’t twenty minutes into the effort when, up on a nearby hillside, he noticed an old man struggling with a wheelbarrow as he walked toward a little house on the ridge. Danny kept one eye on his work and the other on the man. He didn’t like what he was seeing. The man appeared unsteady on his feet and looked to Danny to be laboring. Danny struggled with whether or not to make it his business to walk up and check on him. He needed to get this stretch of road finished before getting on to the next thing and, of course, he was hoping to shoot back home and vote.

But Danny pulled the grader over just shy of the old man’s driveway and turned off the motor. He scrambled down out of the rig and began walking briskly up the gravel drive. Walking along, he spied four or five cords of split firewood sitting in a pile not far from the house. Getting nearer the single-story ranch, Danny saw the man feebly attempting to stack wood out of the wheelbarrow and into a lean-to that sat beside the house.

“Morning,” Danny said, startling the old man a bit. “I was just down there grading the road and I saw you up here working. I just wanted to make sure you didn’t need anything.”

“Oh, thank you,” the old man said, turning to face Danny but unable to straighten up. Danny thought he must be nearing ninety. “I think I’m alright. Just picking away at that pile over there.” The old man put his hands on his hips and tried to smile. “I’ll get it all in before snow flies, I reckon.”

“That’s a lot of wood,” Danny said, returning the smile. “You don’t have anyone to help you?”

“Naw,” the man said while staring blankly at the pile; a hoarse rasp in his voice. “I manage alright.”

“I’m sure you do,” Danny said, joining the old man in looking over at the tall pile. “You living alone here?”

“No; my wife’s in there,” the old man said; swatting his hand back toward the house.

Danny looked at the desperate state of things around the house and at the proud old man dressed for work he really could no longer do. He looked up at the smoke curling out of the chimney stack and felt the conviction of the Lord. He knew He needed to offer some help.

“What do you say you let me and my son come over this Saturday and stack all this wood for you?” Danny asked humbly.

The man hesitated and looked Danny square in the eye; trying to measure him.

“We’ll let you direct us – we’ll stack it any which way you like.”

“Well,” the old man replied; cocking his head ever so slightly, “I suppose I might let you do that.”

“Wonderful!” Danny said with a big, honest smile. “We’ll be here right around 9am. Is that alright?”

“Sure enough,” came the humble reply. “You can come whenever you like. I’ll be here. I really do thank you, sir.”

“It looks like you’ve got more than enough wood there for this week,” Danny said with another smile, “and there’s no snow in the forecast, thankfully. I’d be pleased if you put that wheelbarrow away and leave the rest of the fun for me and my boy.”

“Alright,” the old man replied, “I won’t argue with you.” The two men shared a laugh and shook hands before Danny went back down the driveway to finish grading the road.

The work went quickly and Danny was back in his pickup truck before eleven. He didn’t need to be at his next job until one in the afternoon. He decided to hightail it back home to Saginaw and see about voting.

On the radio, the hosts were talking poll numbers, electoral college maps, and demographics. Danny opened his cooler and began fishing out items for his lunch. He listened to the chatter and looked out at all the signs, banners, flags, and billboards barking out their support. “Good Lord,” he said as he began peeling back a banana, “grant us favor today.”

As he drove on, eating his lunch and listening to all the breathless talk on the radio, Danny began growing anxious. It seemed as though someone was trying to tell him something. He reached over and killed the radio.

“What do you say, Lord?” Danny asked nonchalantly. “Who are You voting for today?”

The only reply coming was the sound of the rolling and running of the car as it rumbled down the road.

Danny smiled and reached for a piece of his wife’s zucchini bread. “I guess that’s right.”

“Well,” Danny said, keeping one eye on the road and the other on the Saran wrap encasing the zucchini bread, “I sure wish I could go in there and vote for You.”

“What do you mean?” the Lord replied loud and clear. “You’ve been voting for Me all day.”

It’ll be good to come into the house of the Lord tomorrow and share the communion meal with Him and each other. I can’t think of better medicine for all that ails us! And there’s so much more than that in store. God is so good! May the Lord, mighty God, bless and continue to keep us!

• Pastor Tate