The Rock Won't Move

In the city of Waterloo, Iowa, just two blocks from the Christian school where I served for 18 years, rests the large granite boulder seen in this picture.

It has been a point of interest in Waterloo since the first dirt road went past it more than 150 years ago. Over the decades, the expanding town grew around that rock. When the dirt roads became paved in the 20^th Century, engineers tried to remove the rock, but they discovered that there is more of it below the surface than what is seen above. Its actual dimensions are unknown, but the exposed portion alone would weigh well over 100 tons.

When the two lane road became four lanes, a portion of the bolder was blasted away to create legal distance from the curb. Since that time the city engineers have left the rock alone. Rising as it does from Iowa’s soft loam with no other natural granite features in the area, it has become a landmark, an erratic remnant from a time much closer to creation and the climate changes that followed the Great Flood. The boulder at the corner of West 4^th Street and Ridgeway Avenue, will be there when all around it fades away. The rock won’t move.

One of the most powerful Biblical images of our steadfast God is that of a rock—not a small stone—but an immense and immovable rock even greater than I have described.

I Samuel 2:2 says, “… there is none besides you; there is no rock like our God.” And II Samuel 22:47 adds, “…blessed be my rock, and exalted be my God, the rock of my salvation.” Deuteronomy 32:31 confirms this exclusive attribute: “For their rock is not as our Rock; our enemies are by themselves.”

The God as our Rock metaphor is made even more vivid when put to music. It is echoed more than 20 times throughout the Book of Psalms: “⁶ He only is my rock and my salvation, my fortress; I shall not be shaken.⁷ On God rests my salvation and my glory; my mighty rock, my refuge is God.” Psalm 62:6

More than 2,000 years later, the image of God our Rock continues to find its way into the songs of believers. “He hideth my soul in the cleft of the Rock” (Crosby, 1890) comes from Exodus 33:22. “Oh, Jesus is the Rock in a weary land, a shelter in the time of storm” gives voice to Isaiah 32:2, put to music in 1885. And children have been singing “Jesus is the Rock of my salvation” for decades.

One of the newest worship songs using the God as our Rock image was written by a young worship leader named Tyler Miller and his fellow members of VerticalChurch Band. It’s one of those songs that incorporates a refrain from an old hymn: “On Christ the Solid Rock I Stand” which was first published in 1836. I appreciate it when new songwriters “back-stitch” with lyrical threads to reinforce the generational fabric of our faith and pay homage to the gifts of saints who have gone before us. Here is the song: 

When the ground beneath my feet gives way
And I hear the sound of crashing waves
All my world is washing out to sea
I'm hidden safe in the God who never moves
Holding fast to the promise of the truth
That You are holding tighter still to me

The Rock won't move and His word is strong
The Rock won't move and His love can't be undone
The Rock won't move and His word is strong
The Rock won't move and His love can't be undone
The Rock of our Salvation

My hope is in the promise of Your blood
My support within the raging flood
Even in the tempest, I can sing
I'm hidden safe in the God who never moves
Holding fast to the promise of Your truth
That You are holding tighter still to me

Woah, woah
Woah, the Rock of our salvation

On Christ the Solid Rock I stand
All other ground is sinking sand
The Rock won't move, the Rock won't move
When darkness seems to hide His face
I rest in His unchanging grace
The Rock won't move, the Rock won't move

Enclosed in this month's Newsletter mailed out to 600 homes is a small booklet i wrote called: “Roots around Rock: Teaching toward Ideals in a Less-than Ideal World.” Copies are also available in the CCS office.

Last month I wrote some thoughts about roots; this month I wanted to focus on The Rock.

The closing pages of that booklet summarize some thoughts about Biblical ideals by saying, “Ideals…are not just lofty words or feel-good maxims. They are not stepping stones conveniently placed along some garden walk.”

Stepping stones are put in place by man to help him walk his self-made path. This is not true of Biblical ideals which, like their source, “are immovable boulders deep in the ground, exposed over time in the grip of roots…and forever bound through the ages. They line the rugged, narrow path from where we are to where we know we ought to be…”

On the cover of that booklet are pictures of massive boulders held fast in the grip of roots of a towering tree above, but the words of the song above describe a paradox which must be affirmed: While it is true that we strive to be rooted in and holding fast to the Truth, it is more importantly true that the Rock is holding tighter still to us.

What a humbling and reassuring thought that is in this season set aside for praise.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Tom Kapanka 

I was in second grade when President Kennedy was killed

Because this coming Friday, November 22, 2013, is the exact 50-year anniversary of the Kennedy assassination, you may be seeing many special programming or articles in the media. So I thought I'd post this blank-verse piece I wrote several years ago.

Just as the attack on Pearl Harbor was to my parents, and as the events of 9-11-2001 are to this generation, the day President Kennedy was killed is a moment frozen in the minds of many Baby Boomers who may now be age 55 or older.

"Wooden Box" was an attempt to recall how it felt as a second grader at Huron Park Elementary School in Roseville, Michigan, to be flying from a swing at recess one minute and then shrouded in silence the next. The title reflects the wooden speaker on the wall from which we heard the news, the wooden desks that held our silent heads, and the wooden casket we later saw on a black-and-white screens of the wooden consoles of televisions from that day. May we as parents and teachers be ever aware of the indelible impressions our children form during times of crisis or loss.    


Wooden Box

The shrill chirp of a whistle

drew us running to our lines,
but just as it should blow again
the recess lady stepped inside,
and left us standing
in November's cold.
No second whistle blew.
Instead, a hand beckoned
from the doorway
and we entered single file.

Outside each classroom
the teachers' faces were
more sullen than stern.
“Heads on your desks,”
mine whispered as we passed.

"Heads on your desks"
was never harsh;
as always after recess
it was her way of saying,
"Hang up your wraps
(as teachers back then called our coats).
Don't talk. Settle down from play.
Let your feet forget their running.
Let your hands let go
the cold steel of monkey bars,
merry-go-round, and ladder slides.
Let your ears erase
the squeaking drone of swings
and chalky chants of hop-scotch girls
and jump-rope songs and
'teeter-totter, bread and butter'
echoing to the hill.
Let your face feel the smooth,
warm wood of your closed desk.
Listen to the quiet breath
inside your pillowed arms
and find a space inside your mind
to put the final lesson
of this day.

There was nothing unusual
about hearing her say
"Heads on your desks,"
but she'd never whispered it before.

From the wooden box
above the blackboard
came a strange and distant voice.
It was not the principal but was, in fact,
a radio broadcast piped-in to every room
from his office “P.A.”
Soon the somber words and phrases
seemed to settle in the room
so that even a second-grade boy
with his head on his desk
knew why his whole school was
suspended in silence
but for the wooden box:

Sniper. Dallas. Fatal shot.
The strange voice
left no room for doubt.
The president
of the United States,
John Fitzgerald Kennedy,
was dead.
Assassinated,
a word I'd never heard before.

One by one, eyes rose
in puzzled understanding.
Our teacher paced the room
and touched the heads
of those with questions.
Her tender voice helped pass
the helpless pauses in the news.
And when a priest
(from where they rushed him)
came on the air to pray,
she walked up to her lesson book
and bowed her head.
We knew to do the same.

Closing my eyes I saw
she did not cross herself
as some around me did.
Hard against her upper lip
she pressed a crumpled hanky,
and her shoulders shook
a little with each breath.
Closing my eyes
I saw...

"Wooden Box" Part 2

Once day was done at school,

we walked in twos and threes and fours

to street corners where

“safety boys” with outstretched arms

kept us till the traffic cleared

then scurried us along.

It seemed at first

that not a thing had changed.
The sidewalks that we knew so well
still wound the same way home.

But that day more than most
mothers stood

waiting on front porches;

TVs flickered in the corner

as tables were set for supper;

and fathers coming home from work

sat a little longer in their cars,

trying to recall the things

dads are supposed to know.

In three days' time,,

we saw the widow veiled in black
with two children at her side.

We watched them say good-bye

at the cathedral steps.

From there the horse-drawn caisson

bore the wooden box

to Arlington.

We winced at the three shots

of the soldiers' seven guns.

We watched them fold the flag.

We heard the broken note of taps

and the final nine that fill the sky,

"All is well, safely rest, God is nigh"

Then in farewell,

the lady laid her face,
as we had on our desks,
against the smooth, cold wood.

© Copyright 2007, TK, Patterns of Ink

John-John Kennedy salutes his father's casket as

it passed toward Arlington. November 25, 1963.

Thoughts from a Corn Maze

On-line version of Newsletter Cover Article: Volume 1 Issue 1:
First of all, let me inform all of our on-line readers about the new monthly CCS Newsletter made possible by one of our school families and the advertisers, writers, and photographers represented in each edition. This post is an amplified version of the cover article of the November newsletter. Whenever possible, I will post an on-line version of my newsletter article with links [click on underlined text], additional photos, cross-references, etc.

On a beautiful Saturday back in October, my wife and I took our children and grandchildren to Lewis Farms in New Era.  Among the thousands of guests on those sprawling 700 acres of fall fun, we typically see lots of CCS friends each time we go. The corn maze shown below is one of their big attractions.

If you find yourself In a corn maze this fall, take time to stop and smell the roses—okay, okay… there are typically no roses in a corn maze but I guess what I mean is time to be aMAZED by God’s design in the corn. For instance, did you know that the number of rows on an ear of corn may vary (average is 16) but it will always be an even number? For the purpose of this article, however, I want you to direct your attention to the roots of a corn stalk.

What you see in this picture are called “brace roots.” They develop well after the stalk of corn has emerged from the soil. As you walk through the corn maze you’ll see that the corn is from 8 feet to 10 feet high and yet the stalk is roughly the width of a broom handle. How can millions of cornstalks (more than a million per 40 acres) stand so tall with all that weight and those broad leaves like sails in the wind? The answer is brace roots.

 God designed corn to grow brace roots that function the same way man-made braces prop up a palm tree in hurricane season.The brace roots on a stalk of corn are not the main part of the root system—not the main source of nourishment to the plant. That root system is below the brace roots as seen in the illustration below:

I know some of you may be thinking: “So you mean to tell me you were out in a corn maze with your family and grandchildren and you took time to think about all this corn stuff?” And the answer is yes. I had never paid any attention to the “brace roots” of corn before this past Saturday, but I’ve been thinking and writing about roots lately so these brace roots jumped out at me.

Metaphorically speaking, our roots keep us grounded, they nourish us, they reach deep to find moisture between needed rains, they keep things around us from falling apart (erosion of soil. Colossians says Christ literally holds all things together.), and as seen with the brace roots of corn, they help us stand tall against adversity.

The Bible has much to say about roots and healthy plants and bad plants and pruning and good soil and standing firm “like trees planted by the rivers of living waters.” I’ve barely touched on the subject in these thoughts and pictures, but the real purpose of these thoughts from the corn maze is to introduce the small booklet that will be enclosed in next month's newsletter.
It’s called “Roots around Rock: Teaching toward Ideals in a Less Than Ideal World.” I’d be honored if you’d read that booklet and perhaps share it with a friend. Extra copies will be in the literature rack at the school in December. Toward the end of that booklet, it says, "Ideals... are not just lofty words or feel-good maxims. They are not stepping stones conveniently placed along some garden walk. Ideals are immovable boulders deep in the ground, exposed over time in the grip of roots…and forever bound through the ages. They line the rugged, narrow path from where we are to where we know we ought to be as taught in Ancient Words proven true through centuries."

 We hope the booklet will help our community better understand what CCS means when we talk about “common ground” and being rooted in the things that matter most. It’s just a little booklet printed by the same CCS family that makes this newsletter possible, but the thoughts in it may help illustrate our goal of holding fast to the never-changing truth of God’s Word in an ever-changing world.

Tom Kapanka

CCS Administrator

Please Send Our Roots Your Rain

Parched

The ground is clumps of hard and crackled clay
where creeks and ponds and puddled mud once lay
in meadows draped in a purple haze
of cocklebur in bloom. Gone are the days
of soft, dark loam when just as spring's begun
the plowshare sliced from morn to setting sun.
Too long the wind and weathered walls
have whispered in the empty stalls
of barns and whined at windows in the night
where just beyond in the flickering light
a shadow prays…as another sighs,
and with calloused hands against their eyes
they plead again in soft steadfast refrain…
“Ours, O, Lord, yes ours… please send our roots Your rain.”
Tom Kapanka
©Begun 1-26-12;/ completed 2-8-13

I realize that this poem comes out of nowhere and doesn't fit the season or the recent exciting events at school. I found a draft of it in a file on my external hard-drive today. It was just a bunch of lines that I did not recall even starting until I read them again. The date on that file was January 26, 2012. So the thoughts had sat there undisturbed for over a year, and then as I read them today, I remembered where I was going with it and finished them. Like so many things I write, if not properly read aloud, the lines seem to run-on, but I trust the images come through. It happened to fall into a sonnet of sorts.

Two summers ago, while visiting Julie's folks in Kansas in July, I was in the car with my father-in-law. Many farms in that part of wheat contry still have the remnant of a barn with gaps between the boards that let in light and wind, but they are typically still maintained by someone no longer living there.

I saw rolling hills of cocklebur and said something about the purple cast they gave the landscape. My father-in-law told me the weed was an invasive species that takes over acres and acres of pasture, leaving them unfit for crops or livestock. He pointed out that the fields I was admiring were once good farm land but had gone feral many years ago. I had heard that term applied to wild animals (like cats found in abandoned houses) but never to land, and it made me ponder the farmer's plight: even in the best of times he struggles to keep the growing things he wants from those he doesn't--to separate the wheat from tares, so to speak. He knows that, left alone, the weeds win. That much he expects as part of life and Eden's curse. But there are other times, times of drought, when even the daily struggle of separating good from bad is lost for lack of rain, and in such times he is reminded of his total dependence on God. This is hard for farmers because they are problem solvers who believe hard work gives hands their worth.

Such were my thoughts when I began this piece more than a year ago before forgetting I'd begun it. I chose not to set it in time, and kept the praying couple vague (shadows). The flickering light could be a candle, a lantern, or a bare dim bulb. They could be settlers from a 150 years ago; they could be the grandchildren of settlers in the Dust Bowl of the Great Depression; they could be living on a barren farm right now.

But I mostly left the time and characters vague to take the notion of being parched beyond dry land to a sort of personal, spiritual drought. This latter image needs no season, and like the farmer's plight can only be solved from above. So many good things are currently happening for our school, and we thank all of those who are praying for God's continued blessing. He is indeed sending our roots rain. May this be true for each of us in every way.

The refrain at the end is a variation on a line from Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844–89) I first read the poem entitled ‘Thou art indeed just, Lord, if I contend’ over 30 years ago, and though I cannot say I'm an avid reader of Hopkins, his earnest plea for rain and personal restoration has come to mind at various times of "drought" through the years.

Psalm 42: 1
"As the deer pants for the water brooks,
So pants my soul for You, O God."

Note: This post was originally published here in February, and it remains in that February 2013 space. It was re-posted in October to follow the post about roots.

Revisiting the Meaning of Neighbor


One time Jesus was talking to a lawyer who had heard him summarize the Ten Commandments with “Love the Lord your God completely AND love your neighbor as yourself.” The lawyer had a follow-up:

“Let’s define the terms. Who is my neighbor?"

Wouldn’t life be easier if Jesus had said, "Your neighbor is any person whose primary residential property is contiguous with your own and perpendicular to the street of address." Loving “next-door neighbors” unconditionally would not always be easy, but the duty would at least be limited to a few occupants of two homes. Hard as it would be to love all next-door neighbors "as yourself," Jesus makes the task even more daunting by dropping the "next-door" part and completely re-defining the word neighbor through a story.

You know the one. It's called the Good Samaritan, a parable of unmerited kindness in an atmosphere of prejudice. As a creative exercise (not an attempt to "improve" upon the original in God's word), a few years ago I took some liberties and wrote a paraphrase set in New York City. I think it may serve as a good reminder that our Lord does not ask us to be "neighbors" only to those who share our beliefs but also to those whom he brings into our lives through circumstances beyond our control. In a different part of Scripture, we are reminded that sometimes we are interacting with angels unaware. How we treat those we are most inclined to avoid or not want in our midst says much about our progress as followers of Christ. So here's a modern retelling of that old parable:
.................. ............................................ ...................

The suburban lawyer was glad to hear Jesus talking about loving his neighbors. He liked Joe to the south and Jim to the north—they got along great, but he wanted to make sure it didn’t include Josh on the back lot line. Josh was a jerk. He once cut down a Scotch Pine that was in this lawyer’s lot and all he said was “Sorry I didn't ask, but my dog kennel needed some sun.” It was that blasted dog kennel and the ugly mutt inside that the lawyer wanted most to block with the bushy tree, but he let it go. Oh, how he hoped Jesus’ answer only meant “next-door” neighbors on the same street.

But Jesus threw him a curve. The story had nothing to do with houses or lot lines. It was about this man who got knocked out, and robbed on a side street in New York City. He was lying there like one of those homeless guys you try not to look in the eyes.

Most of the passers by had learned how to step aside without looking down at those awkward glances, but some crossed the street because he was moaning and reaching out for help.

One man thought, “I can't tell if he's drunk or hurt, but I’m not getting close enough to find out.”

“I’m not getting involved,” another thought, “Last time I did I had to be a witness in court. ‘I know nothing... nothing,’” he said in a German accent. (He was actually Italian, but he loved that line from Sergeant Schultz on Hogan’s Heroes.)

Then this “red state” rancher comes walking along in a cowboy hat and boots. He was in New York on business, a trip that had flopped the second he walked into the client’s office with his Southern accent and a “Support the Troops” button on his lapel. So he cut the trip short and had a few hours to see the sights before his flight.

Everywhere he goes people stare at him. It may have been his bow-legged gate. It may have been the puzzled smile he returned to folks with pink and purple hair who snickered at his hat. He walks by some protesters on a corner and one of them screams "Accept Me," shaking a sign so close to his face that he can't read the words. He simply tips his hat and says, “Much obliged, Ma’am,” thinking to himself “Toto, We’re not in Kansas anymore.” (He was actually from Texas, but he loved that line.)

Then he comes upon this beat-up man by the curb and quickly stoops down to help. He takes a bottle of water from his coat and a bandanna from his back pocket. As the blood's wiped off the fallen man's face, he looks up and whispers,"Gracias." It’s clear that there are no serious injuries and the fallen man insists on NOT going to the hospital and NOT calling the police. The Texan fully understands what that means. Being from San Antonia, he knew the confident look of his Hispanic neighbors and the skittish look of their visiting friends who came and went with work. So he helps up the raggedy man and walks him down the block to the fine hotel where he was staying.

The regal doorman stopped them. “Sir, he can’t come in here.”

But the Texan said, “He’s with me, and my room’s booked for another two nights.”

The Mexican man smiled as they crossed the grand lobby and the kind stranger approached the front desk.

"I'm registering this gentleman to stay in my room. I won’t be needing it. He could use a hot bath and some rest, room service meals—and how ‘bout one of them back-rubs the brochure talks up. He’s kinda sore. Oh, and some clothes from that men's shop there—which by the way doesn't even know what a Stetson is. And if he wants it, a train ticket to anywhere he says. Put it all on my card. Here’s my cell phone number. Let me know if he needs anything else. Now…could you please call me a cab. I have a plane to catch.”
.
Turning to leave with a smile, he gave his new friend his hat. A few days later the man was feeling fine. He sat a long time at the top of the hotel's back stoop before beginning his walk to Grand Central.


It was a short story using the things most familiar to his listeners, and after telling it
Jesus paused and asked, “Who was neighbor to the man?”

The lawyer answered. “The one who picked him up and helped him without judging or asking what he already knew.”

“Good answer. I call it showing mercy. Now you go and do likewise.... even if a guy cuts down your Scotch Pine.”

“Yes, Lord. Hey... how did you know about my pine tree?… Oh, yeah, I forgot,” he said sheepishly as Jesus put something in his hand.

"Here's the penny for your thoughts."
(He was actually omniscient, but he loved that line.)
.
[Author's note: Why NYC? Because they have a "Good Samaritan" law that gets its name from the Bible story and stems from a similar real-life incident in which many eye witnesses refused to offer help a person in need. Why Texas? Because I think people in "red states" (more conservative states that tend to vote Republican--especially those in the south) are often treated by northern more-liberal elitists as "red necks" and bigots, an attitude which is as bigoted as any other form of prejudice. Why a Mexican? Two reasons: They are our neighbor to the south and in some respects our neighbors in need, but the story could have included a refuge from the Congo or a new arrival from an Arab country or any other person toward whom the passers-by have visceral feelings of rejection (because that was an important part of the original story; and second, I wanted to use the word "Gracias" which shares its roots and meaning with "Grace," and that one word is what this story is all about.]

Another Rainbow. This One in Kansas...

A few months back, I wrote a piece called “Parched” based in part on the dry, feral land I’ve seen in Kansas where once fertile farms had been. Like all poems, the metaphor was meant to be taken beyond the obvious, and without saying much more…

I will say, however, that I was in Kansas yesterday, making a brief stop at my wife Julie’s folk’s house for the night. It is from this place near Waverly, that I have learned nearly all I know of Kansas and heat and horses and the struggles of farmers through the 20^th Century. I have stood in the place where the picture below was taken for thirty-five summers in a row, since the summer of 1978 when I first flew from Michigan to Kansas to visit Julie.

It was in the summer of 1980 that we were married here, a summer that saw temperatures exceed 110^o F for the entire month of June. On our wedding day, June 28, the temperature was 114^o F. When we arrived at our reception, a large but not air-conditioned building, dozens of candles, not yet lit, were lying flat on the tables, wilted in the heat, holding their 12” tapered shape, their wide end still secure in the star-shaped glass candle holders, but otherwise limp and unable to be stand tall for lighting. We removed them from the tables. I wish the photographer had gotten a picture of that sad sight, soon forgotten as our guests arrived, fanning themselves with our wedding programs. It was hot …. But I digress…

 (You, Tom, digress? Never…)

The point I was making was that I had all of those dry, hot, and callused Kansas images in mind when I wrote “Parched,” and then yesterday, for the first time in my 35 years of visiting here in Kansas, a passing rain fell leaving behind only damp grass and this rainbow. It is only the second rainbow that I’ve seen in several years. The other one was last September at our school (seen here in the previous post). I’m not a mystic, and I won’t attempt to add anything to the beauty of this rainbow, but I immediately thought of “Parched” and that Scripture itself tells us that the first rainbow was a promise from God, formed at the end of Noah’s epic struggle. I suppose that is why rainbows always inspire such hope… hope that the storm has passed and bright days lie ahead.

 

This photo is from the back door of Julie's parent's house. We will be celebrating their 60th Wedding Anniversary this week.

Heart and Hand Together in His Plan

In Genesis chapter one, we read: ²⁶ Then God said, “Let us make man in our image, after our likeness....²⁷ So God created man in his own image, in the image of God he created him; male and female he created them."

Imago Dei: "The Image of God." The meaning of this term has been explored by theologians through the centuries, but one of the commonly accepted "image of God" attributes given to man is that he is creative at a conceptual level. This gift is most often seen in the arts--whether it be the aesthetic elements of the fine arts or the inventive and functional aspects of industrial arts.

We know that God the Creator created other creatures in his creation that have the power to create and to procreate and even to enjoy recreation. (Did you notice the seven variations on the word "create" in the previous sentence?) The infinite details of creation are truly beyond our imagination or comprehension.A bird's nest, for example, is an amazing creation in the animal world, and the fact that birds know how to build the different nests known to various regions, resources, and types of birds is a fascinating study all its own. The ability to paint a picture of such a nest, however, or to write a poem or symphony about it... or to use that nest as an understood metaphor in language is a god-like level of creativity and communication unique to those created "in the image of God." It is in that sense that human creativity is more profound than the miracle of a bird knowing how to build a nest (having never been "taught" to do so).

Understanding this attribute of Imago Dei brings greater appreciation for human creativity wherever we see it expressed. For instance, when a student gets an idea in art class for a drawing, his or her ability to render the finished product is only part of talent involved. The idea, the concept, the notion of creating a picture that is worth a thousand words and having the urge to bring it from the mind to a chosen medium is in and of itself an attribute of Imago Dei. The process of rendering an abstract concept into a representative reality is a small reflection of God's creative process.

Back in March at our "Open House," we displayed dozens of examples of student artwork on the walls--each with merits of its own--but in light of this unique year in the history of CCS, and in light of the extraordinary story of God's provision this year at so many levels of our program, I trust you won't mind if I focus on just one of those student works. Please take a moment to look at this drawing by Ally Richards before reading the remainder of these thoughts..

Perhaps the first thing you saw was the heart-shape in the center of the picture. It's formed by two hands positioned basically at the center (or "heart") of our CCS building. They are young hands, student hands. Several details indicate that this is the left hand of a boy and the right hand of a girl.  The two hands are "working together" to form the heart just above the text of  Romans 8:28, and perhaps the most commonly used translation of that verse begins with "And we know that all things work together for good..." The hands themselves are working together to form the universal symbol of affection. In this case the affection is not necessarily between the two students--the "heart" depicts the feelings that the students have for their school.

I have not talked with Ally about this drawing to confirm if I have noticed every detail, but that is the nature of art, and poetry, and music. The eyes and ears that process the created work never really stop bringing fuller meaning to it.

I think it is safe to say, that the CCS family does not "love" the bricks and mortar and carpet and tile of this building, but architecture is also one of the human arts. In fact, making the form of a building complement its function is both an art and a science. A restaurant, a lumber yard, a bowling alley, a church, a house, a mall, a grocery store, a medical center... we see such buildings serving their designed purposes every day, and while it is possible for buildings to be modified for various uses as needs change, school buildings themselves are highly regulated with codes and zoning considerations. They are unique buildings serving unique needs.

From kindergarten through 12th grade, the average student spends over 16,000 hours in their school--second only to the hours spent in their home. So it is understandable that over time, such space becomes familiar and the surroundings become inseparable from the people and experiences that we associate with our years at school. As Edgar A. Guest put it years ago, "It takes a heap of livin' to make a house a home." The same is true for any building.

It is in that sense we consider the building in the background of Ally's drawing a place we love, a place we call home, a place in which hundreds of people have learned to work together and hold together through the most formative (and sometimes the most uncertain) times of our lives. This year has taught us that, and we commit ourselves to this cause indefinitely: to love God and pursue His purpose for our lives.

Photography is another form of art and I'll close these thoughts with a picture that a parent took one morning last fall after a storm had passed our school. It is worth a thousand words... so I'll be silent.

 

Thoughts on a Frayed Rope...

It was perhaps the windiest day of this record-setting spring as a wide-spread storm swept into Michigan from the plains. In Nebraska, twenty train cars had been blown off the tracks. Here in Michigan, on their way to school, students had seen fallen trees and limbs in the road. The large flat surface of the twenty-foot CALVARY sign at the main entrance was undulating like a musical saw in the relentless 40-50 MPH gusts.

Sometime in the early morning of April 10, one of those gusts snapped the 70-foot nylon rope that holds our flag on the tall aluminum pole in front of the school. No one saw it happen; they only saw the line and Old Glory strewn in a tangled mess below. This old rope that had weathered 14 winters since the building was completed in 1999. During all those years, it had held over twenty different U.S. flags, replaced routinely through the years, but the rope itself was the same. Mostly the same, that is. Not all of it was worn, but there were weak spots at friction points, and the strenuous winds of this day were too much for one of those unnoticed frays in the old line.

Craig Morton, CCS parent and member of our armed forces, was doing some volunteer tasks around the building that day when he saw the fallen flag. He retrieved it, observing proper protocol, and offered to bring a boom-truck to restring a new rope the following Saturday.

Mrs. Becky Smith, mother of purple-heart Marine, Jared Smith (CCS Class of 2002), is our own in-house Betsy Ross. She loves to sew and took the flag home to make sure it was clean, repaired and ready to fly again.

Mrs. Deb Stenberg, staff sponsor of the National Honor Society, learned of the need for a new rope and thought this might make a good NHS project. She called her husband who works in the shipping industry. He introduced us to AAA Sling & Industrial Supply, Inc. of Grand Rapids, supplier of ropes for the flagpoles and ships down at the Muskegon docks. Not only did AAA Sling & Industrial Supply donate a new nylon rope to CCS, they also sent a steeple-jack to climb the pole (without a lift) and restring the new 75-foot rope through the top pulley about 40 feet above the ground. (We wish we had pictures of the steeple-jack’s brave feat, but it was done after school when no one saw.)

It is easy to take for granted things like poles and ropes and flags, and we never really think about the work it takes to fly a flag. Worse yet, we sometimes forget the risk, courage, sacrifice and freedom the flag represents. The years pass, the flag waves and weathers the storms; we are safe in our homes and churches and schools, and we are lulled into false security until unseen forces find our weak points, cause a line to break, and lives or treasured things are strewn on the ground. Whether its Boston or Benghazi we grieve when the worn lines snap, but we must never be afraid to fix what is frayed and hold high the ideals we share under God.

Our thanks to all who helped raise our building's flag again. May we never forget the true cost of the freedom it represents, the Father who grants us that freedom... and the Son through whom we are made free indeed. (John 8:36) 

Parched

The ground is clumps of hard and crackled clay
where creeks and ponds and puddled mud once lay
in meadows draped in a purple haze
of thistles in full bloom. Gone are the days
of soft, dark loam when just as spring's begun
the plowshare sliced from morn to setting sun.
Too long the wind and weathered walls
have whispered in the empty stalls
of barns and whined at windows in the night
where just beyond in the flickering light
a shadow prays…as another sighs,
and with calloused hands against their eyes
they plead again in soft steadfast refrain…
“Ours, O, Lord, yes ours… please send our roots Your rain.”
Tom Kapanka
©Begun 1-26-12;/ completed 2-8-13

I realize that this poem comes out of nowhere and doesn't fit the season or the recent exciting events at school. I found a draft of it in a file on my external hard-drive today. It was just a bunch of lines that I did not recall even starting until I read them again. The date on that file was January 26, 2012. So the thoughts had sat there undisturbed for over a year, and then as I read them today, I remembered where I was going with it and finished them. Like so many things I write, if not properly read aloud, the lines seem to run-on, but I trust the images come through. It happened to fall into a sonnet of sorts.

Two summers ago, while visiting Julie's folks in Kansas in July, I was in the car with my father-in-law. Many farms in that part of wheat country still have the remnant of a barn with gaps between the boards that let in light and wind, but they are typically still maintained by someone no longer living there.

I saw rolling hills of thistles taking over fields and said something about the purple cast they gave the landscape. My father-in-law told me the weed was an invasive species that takes over acres and acres of pasture, leaving them unfit for crops or livestock. He pointed out that the fields I was admiring were once good farm land but had gone feral many years ago. I had heard that term applied to wild animals (like cats found in abandoned houses) but never to land, and it made me ponder the farmer's plight: even in the best of times he struggles to keep the growing things he wants from those he doesn't--to separate the wheat from tares, so to speak. He knows that, left alone, the weeds win. That much he expects as part of life and Eden's curse. But there are other times, times of drought, when even the daily struggle of separating good from bad is lost for lack of rain, and in such times he is reminded of his total dependence on God. This is hard for farmers because they are problem solvers who believe hard work gives hands their worth.

Such were my thoughts when I began this piece more than a year ago before forgetting I'd begun it. I chose not to set it in time, and kept the praying couple vague (shadows). The flickering light could be a candle, a lantern, or a bare dim bulb. They could be settlers from a 150 years ago; they could be the grandchildren of settlers in the Dust Bowl of the Great Depression; they could be living on a barren farm right now.

But I mostly left the time and characters vague to take the notion of being parched beyond dry land to a sort of personal, spiritual drought. This latter image needs no season, and like the farmer's plight can only be solved from above. So many good things are currently happening for our school, and we thank all of those who are praying for God's continued blessing. He is indeed sending our roots rain. May this be true for each of us in every way.

The refrain at the end is a variation on a line from Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844–89) I first read the poem entitled ‘Thou art indeed just, Lord, if I contend’ over 30 years ago, and though I cannot say I'm an avid reader of Hopkins, his earnest plea for rain and personal restoration has come to mind at various times of "drought" through the years.

Psalm 42: 1
"As the deer pants for the water brooks,
So pants my soul for You, O God."

Found after Half-A-Year...

It was Christmas Break, and a dozen volunteers and I were in the building working on the “Under One Roof” project. I was looking for a roll of duct tape in a large box that has been in the corner of my office since mid-August when we moved back into our building. Along with the tape, I found an object wrapped in paper towels with a rubber band around it. I studied the thing in disbelief—not wondering what it was but amazed that half-a-year had passed since I’d last seen it.

I had put this object in that box at 6:00 PM, June 29, 2012. How could I possibly remember that exact point in time?

Just a few weeks before that date, all the teachers had been asked to turn in their keys and remove their classroom belongings by June 20^th. With the help of dozens of parents and students, the classrooms were empty and four storage units a half-mile away were packed from floor to ceiling. The task took three days, but we met the stated deadline, and we were trusting God to direct our path between then and September. There is no earthly way to explain the peace and good spirit that the staff had as we stepped into the summer of 2012, but never did we better understand  I Peter 5:7, "Casting all your care upon him; for he careth for you."  I will admit, however, that the school was sadly quiet for the next nine days as the office staff packed and wrapped up the loose ends of the 2011-2012 school year.

On that last business day of the school’s fiscal year, Friday, June 29^th, the office staff had offered to stay and help me pack what little remained, but I assured them I was almost done and could roll out my last boxes on a kitchen cart. That final hour was quiet until the custodian stepped in to remind me he was scheduled to lock up and code out at 6:00. He and I were the last to leave the building that night, and it felt strange not knowing when or whether ever I would return.
 
That’s how I remember what time it was when I wrapped the thing in paper towels. That’s how I knew it had been a half-a-year since I had seen it.

The six months seemed a blur until I pulled off the paper towels and stared down at my found treasure. It was the blue coffee mug I used for more than 4,500 days since my first week at Calvary Christian Schools in July of 2000.

My wife  Julie bought it for me the week we moved to Michigan. One glance at its image and inscription and you’ll understand why she knew the then-new administrator of the Calvary Eagles needed it on his desk.
 

Isaiah 40:31 (ESV)

³¹ but they who wait for the Lord shall renew their strength;
they shall mount up with wings like eagles;
they shall run and not be weary;
they shall walk and not faint.

You all know the passage, but I’d like to share some thoughts about the first three verbs in that verse: wait, renew, and mount up.

Most translations imply that waiting is active not passive; it is doing not dreaming. In this sense, we wait not like restaurant patrons waiting for their meal but like the waiter who is “waiting on” tables. This kind of waiting is about service. Believers are those who wait upon the Lord with hope and expectation that what God says He will do. It is waiting in obedience to "occupy ‘til He comes." (Luke 19:13)

The second verb is renew. The promise that our strength can be renewed implies that it can also be depleted.  The truth is serving others can be exhausting. Some may ask, "What about the promise in the second part of the verse that says, 'They shall run and not be weary; they shall walk and not faint. Doesn’t that mean that we will never get tired while serving the Lord?"  I don’t think so. Even well-trained  runners are exhausted after “pressing on toward the mark.” (Philippians 3:13-15)  I don’t think the word weary implies physical exhaustion as much as complete mental or emotional fatigue. In other words, being weary is not being tired from what you’re doing—it is being tired of what you’re doing. Weary is a dangerous place to be; it is dark and pathless valley cluttered with quit and overshadowed by the bad decisions of centuries past.

It is for this reason the Apostle Paul encourages us not to “grow weary in well doing.” (Galatians 6:9)   He is not saying “Never tire yourself for a worthy cause" but rather "Never become tired of the cause." It is healthy to be spent at the end of a hard day or a hard week. Such tiredness is to be expected in service. It is why God created the seventh day to rest.  He knows we need recovery time... renewal time. Sometimes we need a change of pace.

This pattern of work and rest, anticipation and reward, is also implied in the second part of Isaiah 40:31. If you can’t run another mile, then walk instead, but don’t stop. Don’t faint. Regroup. Refocus… ReNEW your strength... then carry on. That is what  my coffee mug says. The verse implies a pattern of exertion and renewed strength.
 
This brings us to the third verb of Isaiah 40:31: mount up. The female bald eagle can have a 7’ wingspan and weigh up to sixteen pounds, the maximum legal weight of a bowling ball. She can also carry over four pounds of prey in her clenched talons. Assuming that circumstances have grounded an eagle, stopped it in its tracks, the most difficult part of flight is what Isaiah calls “mounting up with wings.” The hardest part is taking off, regaining momentum.

Mounting up, and up in search of the wind or an updraft takes non-stop effort—it is more grueling than graceful. There is a big difference between “mounting up with wings” and soaring. To the observer, it’s  like the Olympic contrast between watching the 200 meter butterfly in a churning pool and a 700 ‘ ski jump from a snowy slope.

There are over 7,200 feathers on a bald eagle, the largest being those used for lift and thrust on the wings and maneuvering on the tail. Imagine the strength it takes to power those 7’ wings and raise the weight of a bowling ball to altitudes above 10,000 feet (over two miles up in the sky). Our favorite pictures of eagles show them soaring at that height. Wings outstretched in effortless flight—like that poster behind the coffee mug above or this one below.
From high in the air an eagle can swoop down at 35 MPH, and use the speed to regain its former altitude. As Newton put it,“A body in motion tends to stay in motion.” But from ground level… from a stand-still… “mounting up with wings like eagles” is hard work, but the hope of soaring gives strength to weary wings. Someday we may share more of the details of lessons learned and God's provision in those six months that my mug went missing, but for now let us take Isaiah 40:31 to heart. We have soared and will soon soar again, but for six months we have been in the hard-work phase. Never have so many supporters been doing so much for Calvary Christian Schools. We are waiting on the Lord, but not idly waiting. We are fully occupied, serving Him with hope and anticipation. We will not grow weary of the effort but when we need to catch our breath,  we will change our pace, renew our strength, and not faint. We will press upward toward our high calling and will give Him the glory when in HIs time we soar.

With that in mind, let us turn our thoughts from the little mug on my desk toward much bigger things.

On behalf of the School Board, staff,  consultants and many supporters now assisting CCS, allow me to give you a sneak preview of  a billboard that you will soon see at two locations on the main highways near our school:

Tom Kapanka, CCS Administrator