Tomorrow, April 1, is an unhappy anniversary for us. It marks the 11th year since my dear mother-in-law died. Karen Boettger lived a life filled with love, kindness, joy, hardship, sorrow, and fulfillment–much like so many people in the world. She was a beloved child of God, and she rests now in his loving arms. My wife misses her Mom every day. They used to talk on the phone almost daily, and the absence of Karen’s guidance in Laurel’s life has been felt very keenly. Karen’s absence from my life and our kids’ lives has left a large hole where her love and joy once was; I miss her very much, too.

March 17th is an unhappy anniversary, too. This year on that date marked 34 years since my own mother died. Like Karen, my mother Sally belonged to God, so she is with him in eternity, too. These godly women shaped us immeasurably, and we’d love to have them shaping our kids’ lives, too. It is bittersweet for us that they went to heaven so long before us–especially that my Mum never met my wife or my boys.

These unhappy anniversaries are reminders for us that life on this earth is very temporary, and only life lived in Jesus Christ has lasting value. If we become too attached to life on earth, then we would lose sight of our heavenly home and the love of our Savior. Lord, as we remember with sadness the loss of our Mothers, give us grace to look to YOU for True Hope for our future. Thank you for loving us and give us yourself that we, too, can be reconciled to God the Father through Jesus the Son by the power of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Proverbs 31:10-31 English Standard Version (ESV)

The Woman Who Fears the Lord

^10 [a] An excellent wife who can find?
    She is far more precious than jewels.
¹¹ The heart of her husband trusts in her,
    and he will have no lack of gain.
¹² She does him good, and not harm,
    all the days of her life.
¹³ She seeks wool and flax,
    and works with willing hands.
¹⁴ She is like the ships of the merchant;
    she brings her food from afar.
¹⁵ She rises while it is yet night
    and provides food for her household
    and portions for her maidens.
¹⁶ She considers a field and buys it;
    with the fruit of her hands she plants a vineyard.
¹⁷ She dresses herself^[b] with strength
    and makes her arms strong.
¹⁸ She perceives that her merchandise is profitable.
    Her lamp does not go out at night.
¹⁹ She puts her hands to the distaff,
    and her hands hold the spindle.
²⁰ She opens her hand to the poor
    and reaches out her hands to the needy.
²¹ She is not afraid of snow for her household,
    for all her household are clothed in scarlet.^[c]
22 She makes bed coverings for herself;
    her clothing is fine linen and purple.
²³ Her husband is known in the gates
    when he sits among the elders of the land.
²⁴ She makes linen garments and sells them;
    she delivers sashes to the merchant.
²⁵ Strength and dignity are her clothing,
    and she laughs at the time to come.
²⁶ She opens her mouth with wisdom,
    and the teaching of kindness is on her tongue.
²⁷ She looks well to the ways of her household
    and does not eat the bread of idleness.
²⁸ Her children rise up and call her blessed;
    her husband also, and he praises her:
²⁹ “Many women have done excellently,
    but you surpass them all.”
³⁰ Charm is deceitful, and beauty is vain,
    but a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised.
³¹ Give her of the fruit of her hands,
    and let her works praise her in the gates.

“If it doesn’t have a pun, it’s not done.” Yup, I actually said that to my class today. I have a group of five men that regularly attend a midday, 90-minute class. Four of them come from the same housing area, and three of them frequently hang out together. They are academically ambitious, so I enjoy challenging their senses of humor with clean memes and puns. It’s probably more accurate to say that I challenge their patience, but since that’s par for the course with anyone that groans at puns, I’d say, “Mission accomplished!”

There are rules in place at work that restrict the number of memes that I can display in my classroom windows, because outside visibility must be kept open for safety and security reasons. Therefore, I use discretion and careful planning when posting my pictures to maximize the humorous effects (along with the occasional inspirational ones) without interfering with facility directives. I get a kick out of my students’ reactions, especially the delayed ones, and do my best to choose memes that will offer the greatest groan, guffaw, or gasp without crossing the bounds of propriety.

The fun today included rattling off a series of puns that were concluded with my zippy statement above. Moments later, one of the men asked to borrow a ruler, which led me to say as I handed it over, “I’m sorry, but they don’t make these any longer.” As he groaned and walked away, I asked if he was “inching back to his desk,” or if he “wanted me to measure my words more carefully.” He sat down a glared at me. A few puns later, one of his buddies rode to the rescue.

“How much does the Sesto Elemento cost?” he queried.

“I’ll have to look it up,” I replied. I googled it. “$2.2 mill.”

“That’s all?” He continued the conversation a minute or two longer before striking up a chat with one of the other men next to him.

“Nice diversion,” I said. He ignored me. “Got tired of the puns, did you?” He glanced my way. “You know, I can make a pun on almost anything. Drive the conversation where I want it to go. Exhaust it. Grill you on it, that sort of thing.” He rolled his eyes. I laughed out loud. “If it doesn’t have a pun, it’s not done.” And I laughed again.

Sometimes I feel like a pressure cooker.

Packed with c4

And a bag of nails.

Knowing my time is coming

And so is everyone else’s

They’d better watch out

‘cuz when I blow

They’z gonna go, too.

Sky high

We allz gonna die.

Pressha cookaz gonna blow

And wez all gonna go

To heaven.

Ka-BOOM

(this is poetry, not some kind of manifesto, k, peeps?)

You and I were not friends, Jamie,
But friendly acquaintances? Sure.
You were in my English classes,
For as long as your ADHD could endure.

A great ambassador for my classes,
Getting others to join and learn.
But as for you, Jamie, you couldn’t slow down.
Your mind always raced, always burned.

Your passion was your Native past;
I gladly shared all the info I had.
But in the end, it could not save you,
Your demons stayed until the last.

We remember your enthusiasm, energy, and smiles,
But if we are upset for now–
You OD’d so soon after release;
We’d hoped you’d make it many more miles.

Triumphs here are measured in inches, not feet,
For people incarcerated or out on the street.
To rise up above takes commitment and grit,
With help from outsiders who don’t give a sh*t
About why you’re there–you are human, so they care.

And when you lose one you’ve helped, it hurts.

No matter their mistakes, their wrongs, or their sins, To love one another is where healing begins.

https://hellopoetry.com/MEMoosePatrol/poems/?tab

When I was 10 years old, I knew in my heart that I wanted to be a teacher. When I was 23 years old, I graduated from Covenant College with a teaching degree in secondary education history. When I was 30 years old, I became headmaster of a Christian elementary/middle school that helped form my goals to become a teacher many years before. At 40, I was unemployed and casting about for the right landing place. 

Little did I know that the best job for me was waiting behind the walls of a correctional facility. First as a substitute teacher for juveniles, and then as a full time instructor for adult learners, the Lord has led me each step of the way in my desire to teach. There are many challenges, but also many rewards, to what I do. It never entered my imagination 41 years ago that becoming a teacher could involve students in prison, but I would not trade this for any other job in the world today. 

As a colleague says somewhat tongue-in-cheek sometimes, we’re ‘making a difference, changing lives.’ We never know of the true impact we make with the men in our classes. We see some appear to make true changes in the lives, and we hope it lasts for them. Every now and then, we hear of a success, or we hear of one that loses his battle after his release. We do our best.

I was raised in Maine, USA, in a little town called Carmel, emphasis on the CAR, unlike in California where they put the emPHAsis on the MEL. And perhaps more accurately, I should say we pronounce it CAHml. But that’s beside the point.

The point, friends, is, where in Maine is my town? With a population of about 1200 during my childhood, it wasn’t large enough to include on most maps of the state, so we just told people we were “about an inch west of Bangor (BANGore)” on the map; you know, using your index fingertip. For people “from away” that were unfamiliar with the situations of towns and cities of Maine, though, that wasn’t necessarily helpful, so they’d ask questions like, “So, are you in the south? The east? Central? North?” And it was never an easy answer. Directions & Angles always played a part in that.

If you don’t know what Maine looks like, this is going to be especially difficult for you to follow, so I suggest you Duckduckgo.com yourself a political map or photo or two of the state so that you get an idea of what I’m talking about. Might want to include a snowy forecast map, too, since that comes into play. For examples:

So, as we look at the above image, how do we describe the directions to locations in Maine? If you live in Portland, then you are most definitely in Southern Maine, right? Or would it be more accurate to say you are Coastal Maine? Western Maine? Southwestern Coastal Maine? Coastal Southwestern? Forget Portland. Rumford. Rumford is DEFINITELY Western Maine. Case closed. Whew. Eastport. Well, it goes without saying, doesn’t it? Coastal! Ha! I kid. Eastern Coastal. No, I joke some more. Easternmost town in the United States, so yeah, it’s Eastern Maine. On the coast, too.

Madawaska, Fort Kent, Presque Isle, Caribou, et al, are definitely in Northern Maine, but you’d be surprised to hear how often Bangor is put into that category, too. It’s a 2-hour drive from Bangor to Presque Isle, per the 70-mph limit. But if you look around that northern area of the state, called Aroostook County, you’ll notice there aren’t a lot of towns; it’s largely unpopulated wilderness. The area of the state of Maine is equivalent to the rest of the New England states (Massachusetts, New Hampshire, Vermont, Connecticut, and Rhode Island), but with a present population of just 1.3 million people. Aroostook County, along with the northern regions of several other counties, is wilderness. But that’s beside the point. I digress once again!

Let’s look again at Bangor (not BangER; BANGore–or as one local Democrat inadvertently says, “BAN Gore”). Depending on one’s point of view, Bangor, ergo my hometown of CAHml, could be in Northern, Eastern, or Central Maine, all at the same time. It all has to do with Directions and Angles. For the OuttaStaytah that thinks Maine is just from the New Hampshire border to Bah Hah-bah, then Bangor is “Northern Maine.” For the political campaigner that’s tryin’ to rally the troops, as it were, Bangor is “Central Maine” when the race is for the U.S. Senate, and “Eastern Maine” when it’s for the Maine Senate or House. But when it’s the weather forecaster, that’s a whole different animal, as we’ll see below.

When the roads dictate north and south, east and west, that’s one way of knowing where in the state Bangor is. But when the weather patterns show up, all bets are off! God’s hands turn the winds wherever He wants them to go, and the map above shows how He often sends them to us, swirling from Montreal to New Brunswick, via Vermont and New Hampshire, with an occasional swipe at Massachusetts. Here is where listening to the meteorologists gets interesting, because when they speak of “from Bangor north,” they sometimes mean “north by northeast, due north, and north by southwest,” but that’s not how they say it. Oh, wait. Did I say “north by southwest”? I meant south by northwest. Well, you get my drift. It’s confusing as all get-out. I will tell you what’s not confusing, though, is that the meteorologists firmly place Bangor in East-Central Maine, settling that argument once and for all.

So, then, where did I grow up in Maine? In the town of Carmel, about 15 miles due west of Bangor (which is inarguably located approximately 200 miles north by northeast of Portland, a city on the southwestern coast of the state), in a region known emphatically as East-Central Maine, where politicians blow hot air that doesn’t melt the ice and snow in the winter, but occasionally will give me a day off when the roads are too treacherous to drive to work, thus giving me the time to write foolishness like this.

I have known David Stonehouse since we were both just wee lads. His mother used to babysit me when I’d get out of kindergarten at noon and have to wait to catch the bus for the ride home at the end of the regular school day. There was a school van that would drive us kindergarteners home or to our sitters, and I frequently yearned to be dropped off at my house–we drove right by it before I’d be returned to the Stonehouse’s on Wiley Street, but I would have been at home alone for several hours, which would’ve been a crime (or at least frowned upon).

So, I’d go to see Mrs. Stonehouse, where she’d give me lunch, playtime, and a nap. I’d see Mr. Stonehouse, too, sometimes. I liked both of them. He was our pastor, and he had a deep, resonant voice, a warm smile, and a kind heart. But Mrs. Stonehouse was the one I truly adored. She was no-nonsense about my getting my nap, but she was also a very loving, cheerful woman.

Her son David is, I believe, a year younger than I am, while his brother Tim is a year older than I. That meant that Tim was in school all day and I didn’t see him, but David, whom his mother referred to as “Davey” at the time, was at home when I was there, and their youngest sister, Susie, was in diapers (most of the time…lol). They had older siblings that weren’t in my “social circle,” as it were, but are all dear people in their own rights.

In David, then, I had a playmate while I waited for the bus. Then, when it was time to catch the bus, his mother would help me get my stuff together, bundle up when the weather called for that, and then walk me the two blocks to the bus stop. All of my life, I’ve remembered with gratitude my time with the Stonehouses at their home in Bangor that year, but I don’t think I’ve ever mentioned it to any of them. So, dear readers, knowing that David Stonehouse is a Faithful reader of this meager blog, Thank you to you and your dear Mother. May God bless you all for the love shown to me!

But wait. There’s more.

In 1980, my young life experienced many changes. It still makes me shudder with discomfort to consider how much happened. It wasn’t all “bad,” but a lot of it was painful.

First, Pastor Stonehouse took a call to serve as a Regional Home Missionary to plant new churches in the Philadelphia, PA, area for our denomination. It was a great opportunity and fit for his gifts and skills, but a painful loss for our church to see him and his family leave.

Second, a new school opened and my mother became a teacher there. I had just finished my worst year in school ever with a horrible teacher at a different school, so when my parents gave me the option to attend the new one, I immediately said yes. Still, it meant leaving friends I’d had since kindergarten and the next four years were no picnic. The new school faced constant struggles to survive, my mother battled breast cancer, and as much as I liked the school, my education suffered gaps in math and science.

Third, my eldest sister got married.

For a sensitive, introverted (yes, I was introverted) ten-year old it was a lot of emotion to deal with. As the 80s progressed, the emotional load did, too. In the course of time, as I graduated high school and enrolled in college, I found that the Stonehouses’ new home was a perfect “landing spot” on my drive between home and the campus for summer and Christmas breaks. Once again, Mrs. Stonehouse provided care and comfort for me as she had so many years before.

I had lost my mother a few years before, so we shared sorrows, but also memories and laughter and prayer. When her husband passed away suddenly, she still opened her home to me as I traveled through. Her Christian kindness never ceased.

It has been very many years since I was last in Philly or visited Mrs. Stonehouse, and I am sure that she, like all of us, is not perfect. But because of the passive and active obedience of Jesus Christ, her Savior and mine, the Lord views her as perfect, and I see her as a woman of grace, mercy, love, kindness, and true Christian charity.

David Stonehouse, a Happy Valentine’s Day to your Mother, sir.

I’ve had this nagging itch to write but nothing to write about. Of course, as I noted here not too long ago, there’s not much evidence that anyone reads this blog, so it’s not like anyone’s beating down my door to get Maine Moose Patrol’s NEXT BIG THOUGHT posted.

At the correctional facility where I teach there’s a program called WorkReady(tm) (hereafter, WR) that I facilitate several times a year, instructing a handful of men for 11 weeks at a time on the soft skills of obtaining and maintaining employment when they leave inside for outside. After fits and gasps in December for a variety of reasons, the winter group began two weeks ago. We seemed to get into a rhythm the last two days, and I hope it lasts.

One of my WR students just completed a college course I facilitated that introduced entrepreneurship skills. When he gets out later this year, he’ll be taking over a family construction-related business. The college that sponsored the entrepreneurship class has signed on to provide more courses for men here, so this young man is pursuing a certificate in business with them, possibly transitioning to an associate degree or more, at some point.

By his own admission, he was “never an ‘in-school’ guy.” Like so many of the men in this place, great with hands-on, not so great with book learning. He was driven by intrinsic motivation to take hold of the work in the entrepreneurship class, but had started off WR with a pretty negative, lazy attitude, culminating in a warm discussion after class on Tuesday of this week, in which I invited him to choose whether he was going to participate or quit the class.

On Thursday, he was back in class, ready to learn once again. Then he began his other college classes and found that he needed help with writing. He immediately turned to me; “Mr. MacDonald, could you help me, please? I don’t want to be a bother–“

I cut him off. “It’s not a bother to help someone that wants to learn! I’m happy to help.” I’ve been helping him since WR ended this morning. He’s once again driven to do his work and to comprehend all he needs to know to learn for this course. It’s good to see.

As he writes an autobiographical piece of finding his place in society, he struggled a little to explain how working construction fulfilled that for him. I suggested some ideas to him, ending with, “You have a particular vocabulary all to yourselves, just like we teachers have one to ourselves. You speak a language that is yours. That’s part of what it means to “be a society.” What other ways can you think of to describe your social or work circle as “a society”?

The character of the Christian cannot be separated from what the Christian does without creating a dualistic existence, a split personality that reveals an error in basic understanding of what it means to be a follower of Christ. There is no such reality as being a Christian in private and not in public (nor vice versa). Secularized Americans call for Christians to “hide” their beliefs when in the public square, but followers of Christ could no more do that than leopards could change their spots. If Christians demanded that secular humanists should hide their lack of Christian faith from public view, such a demand would rightly be met with derision. It runs both ways.

On the other hand, there are far too many Christians that have voluntarily lived dichotomously, failing to comprehend how all-encompassing the Lordship of Christ is for the life of the believer. There is no corner, no element, no strand of the heart, soul, mind, nor strength that can be withheld from service and submission to God. “For you have been bought with a price…” I Corinthians 7:23. To live as if we have partial control of our lives is to express the lie of the old bumper sticker, “God is my Co-Pilot.” NO! God is the Pilot, the Navigator, the Flight Engineer, and the Airplane. We are the passengers, carried by God to the destination intended by Him for His glory.

As Christians, we must give up the notion that we can retain any control over anything in our lives, and we must recognize that only God is sovereign. He calls us to obey: To love Him, to love one another, to care for the widow, the orphan, the sick, the needy, the poor, and the stranger within our gates. He calls us to seek His face. He promises to love us, to forgive us when we confess our sins, and to work all things for our good.

This is not fatalism. This is a relationship with the living God who provided atonement for our sins through the blood of His sinless Son on a Roman cross. The resurrection of Jesus on the third day proved His power over sin and death, and affirmed the sovereignty of God. When we turn to Him humbly in repentance and faith, He hears us, forgives us, and makes us His own! He alone is trustworthy. He alone is faithful. He alone loves eternally.

God holds presidents, kings, queens, and all other rulers of the nations in His hands. Why do we think that we have to establish a kingdom for God on earth when He has already done so for Himself? Why do we threaten war upon our fellow Americans when our politics go awry? Why do we advocate for violence and claim it is biblical? Do we fear that Man is more powerful than God? Are we afraid that the Lord’s plans will falter if we do not help Him?

Brothers and Sisters, I implore you, set aside the anxieties and frustrations in your hearts; give them to your Savior. It is not ours to rule the nations. It is not ours to set politics aright in America. It is ours to love the Lord with all our heart, soul, and mind, and to love our neighbors as we love ourselves. If we glorify and enjoy God as we should, then He will take care of the politics. If we care for the sick, the poor, the unborn, the unwed mothers, the shamed, the hurting, the homeless, the marginalized, the overlooked–in the love and name of Jesus, God is sufficient to sort out the rest.

Let us not be strident. Let us be humble, loving servants of our dear Savior. Do not dare to bind the conscience of fellow believers where Scripture is vague. Give grace first, with forbearance. As far as it is up to us, live at peace with everyone.