There is silence over the air waves today. Another voice has been stilled. Paul Harvey, a soothing and calming sound upon those waves, has been silenced. His voice, with its mid-America timber and often fatherly advice, has unplugged his microphone, leaving this life at the mature age of 90.
I have been privileged in my lifetime to have heard such voices. The voices of those who sought, not for selfishness or gain, but for good. Whose talents were not “popular”, except with those who appreciated and gained from those talents. Whose voices sounded, not for notoriety, but for goodness.
I remember watching Shari Lewis as a child. She and her cuddly sock-puppet, Lamb Chop. She taught us how to have Fun. Shari would not be popular today, with the digital world we live in. She would not be welcome in a world where everything is at our finger-tips. Where cell-phones connect us to people all over the world, even sometimes (as in getting technical help) when we did not desire it! But she taught us how to have fun with a sock. How to pretend that said sock was a friend, a joy, a comfort. She taught us how to enjoy the simple things in life, instead of locking ourselves away in a world run by megabytes and giga-whizzies. She communicated more with a sock, than any mega-gimmick today.
I remember watching Paul Winchell and his two puppets, Jerry Mahoney and Knucklehead Smith. He taught us about Imagination. To take those pieces of wood, and with the cunning and guile of a wizard, to bring them to life. Paul was a genius. He patented the first artificial heart, and then donated that patent to Dr. Robert Jarvik. Paul’s mind was not his own, but shared with those around him. For children, he was my generations Edgar Bergen. We knew those were only wooden puppets, but we laughed and enjoyed life and did not worry about the future. We were not taught how to kill, wreck or destroy anything. We were taught how to get along, how to live together though different. And we felt everyone else benefitted from such lessons.
I watched Fred Rogers. My children loved his show. He taught us about Self-worth. To be happy with who we were and to enjoy the simple every day actions of life itself. The normalcy of life. The traditions of life. I would creep into the room in the late afternoon of the day as my children sat and watched him, in his simple cardigan sweater. As I type, I am wearing a cardigan, not by design, just by choice. Mr. Rogers was a friend in world where children were finding fewer and fewer friends. He was a few moments of normalcy, in a world where the normal was slowly fading away. And he left a legacy that many children, all over the world, will never forget.
Now Paul Harvey. This generations Will Rogers. A man whose voice soothed a country. He was our cup of coffee in the morning, our pick-me-up during the mid-day, and our comfort as we went home at night. Many times I sat in my car and listened to “The Rest Of The Story” even when I was sitting in my garage. Paul Harvey taught us that it was still good to be an American. That our country, our history, our people, still have hope. His voice was a calming and soothing influence in a world where we felt things were slipping away. His voice was the clarion call, which dispelled the cacophany of the air waves. He was the elixer that settled our national upset stomachs over the selfishness and foolishness that has often enveloped our society.
Now he’s gone. Now they’re gone. Their voices stilled. Their images quickly fading into memory. All we seem to be left with are the disruptive. The self-serving. The “watch me now” generation. The “give it to me now” generation. The “fill in the blank” generation. Who will teach them the fun of the simple? How to use their imaginations? How to learn their own self-worth? How to sound reasonable and happy in an unhappy world? Slowly those who can are fading away, and we wonder who will take their place.

Our home was visited by the pall of sadness this past month, as we lost our friend and companion. Moose was our dog, and what a great dog he was. We liberated him, several years ago, from the county Animal “pound”. He was in an outdoor cage, a young dog of about 7 or 8 months. He was leaning against the sides of the cage with a look of fear and anxiety. We took him home, and over time, he became part of our family.

Moose was a dog who easily communicated his feelings. Though a mixed breed, he was pure loyalty. Each day he sat at the edge of our driveway. We had a radio controlled collar on him so that if he violated the boundaries and tried to “take off”, he got a little shock. The collar made a beeping noise to let him know he was getting close to the “edge”, and eventually, this noise always caused him to back away from the boundary. But there he stood, at the edge of the driveway, our daily sentinel. His bark would warn us, “A strange car is coming, I’ll watch it for you”, or “The UPS man is coming, I’ll let you know if he gets too close”. Any one who dared to come to our house, whether friend or foe, was always first met by Moose. He was a watchdog of the first order.

But Moose had more character than just to bark at things, he had a warmth that melted your heart. At first, adamantly I might add, I stated he would be an “outdoor” dog. No dog hairs inside our house. Well, by the third year, he was firmly ensconced on a little bed in our family room. Each night brought about the same
series of events. If I went out to another room to watch a sports event on another TV, out came Moose to sit with me and keep me company. He would fall asleep on a day bed, but as soon as the TV would be turned off, up he jumped to move to the next room. There, sitting in a recliner would be my lovely better-half, and there Moose would lay his eyes upon just enough room by her legs, to find a snuggly place. Many nights I would
pass by that room, and there was Moose, his head hanging over the end of the recliner with his “mom” petting him gently, caressing his fur and providing simple love. He had a way of nudging and leaning against your leg, that always caused you to drop your hand down, without knowing it, and begin petting or scratching him.

Each morning, as I was first to get up, Moose would get up off of his “bed”, and yawn and stretch. We went outside together to greet the new day and retrieve the newspaper. Any squirrels or birds who dared approach our property were quickly warned to “get off”, with a “roor-roor-roor” of the mighty Moose. At night before I headed up to bed, we went outside, rain or snow, to allow Moose to re-scent the property to allow other dogs
to know they had no business being there. This was Moose’s home, and they had better know that. At dinner time, no matter how often we told him there would be no scraps, he knew better. Someone always provided a piece of fat or some mashed potato or a piece of bread with gravy, and Moose, his eyes glistening with excitement and his tail communicating his desire, waited for the plate to be put on the floor and his moment of joy to begin. Yes, he had dog food, but like many pets he preferred people food and who could blame him?

We regularly took him on walks down our cul-de-sac. It was a treat for him to be “off-collar” and walk with us. But dogs are dogs, and sometimes they do things we cannot predict. The fateful night, he was walking simply next to my wife and daughter when a truck came down the street, turned around and went back the way it came. Maybe Moose smelled a skunk, possum or cat, but for whatever reason, just as the truck was passing them, he jumped out in front of it. And he was hit. He crawled off into some tall grass to lay down. My wife, wanting to help him, tried to pet him. In his fear, he lashed out at her and bit her. By the time I came, he had calmed down somewhat and allowed us to put him in our van for an emergency trip to the veterinarian. He was banged up pretty good, with broken shoulder, back and internal bleeding. “Oh Moosie”, the vet said, “You sure are banged up”. It did not take much for me to know that nothing could be done. With kindness the vet sent him off to an eternal rest, where there would be no more pain or suffering. For him. For us, it would be several days of tears and grief. He was such a good dog. Such a friend. We always anticipated coming home to find him in the driveway, wagging his tail and waiting to “tell” us everything that happened. Now the driveway is silent. No sentinel standing watch. No one letting us know what happened when we were away.
No eyes, bright with anticipation, looking for a simple scratch or touch. We shall miss him. Goodbye, dear friend. Goodbye.

The Brain is a marvelous device. It is so complex, that it can decipher man-made codes, and also accurately determine the proper shoes and belt to go with a summer dress. It can co-ordinate the left hand and right hand to work independent of each other. It can recall the most minute of details from seasons ago, and remember the date and time that a child was born.

The Brain can, given the proper stimulus, figure out how to correctly unscramble a Rubik’s Cube in under 3 minutes. It can recite lines from Shakespeare’s most famous stories. It can remember the last lines of a Robert Frost poem that was learned back in 1959.

However, sometimes, for reasons unknown, it can also malfunction. You know your home telephone number, but if asked for it, will fumble around trying to get just the right combination. You can remember the exact time and date that a certain superstar hit a game-winning, or record-tying homerun. But for some unknown reason, you cannot recall that TODAY is your 24th wedding anniversary, which you have forgotten for the 3rd year in a row! Or, that you promised, at 3 o’clock, to pick up your child but have forgotten said darling and are sitting at McDonald’s chatting with some friends when the principal calls to reminder you that your tax deduction is sitting in his office.

Or, finding words in the strangest of places, which are obviously misspelled, yet everyone sees it and no one notices it. We recently were in an area where road work was happening, and a sign clearly said that there would be “No Left TRUNS Allowed”. I don’t even know what a Trun is, let alone have any inclination to possess one.

Yes, the Brain is a marvel of God’s design. But it also can work in a strange way when we least expect it. Take for example the concept of your trying NOT to say something, and yet you find a way to say it anyway.

A wife is doing her best to pretty herself for hubby. She spends a good amount of time in meticulous preparation: hair, makeup, dress, shoes. Everything done just right. Husband, not wanting to dwell on the fact that they are actually a little late, wants to compliment his sweetheart. He desires to tell her how beautiful she looks, how really good she looks, but when he says, “Well, you actually look good …” somehow the thought he had is not communicated with the facial expression she gives him!

Or, the brother in a congregation, frustrated at the belief that the elders are not working hard enough to help the congregation to grow, tries hard to put his feelings aside when asked to lead a public prayer. He wants to mention the work the preacher, elders, deacons and other members are doing, but somehow, what he meant to say, and the words that actually came out, were, well, a little different. He probably was thinking of the elders as overseers, or their job of watching over the congregation, but what he said instead was for God to “bless them, as they overlook their work...”. Hopefully, they are not overlooking too much.

Thankfully, I am not one who is plauged with such problems. I have a Brain which functions proprely. I never have to worry about forrgeting things, or mispeeling words. I no what kneeds to be sead, and how to say it. I am turly blessed.

Recently I was present when someone defined, with what I think is the best definition yet, of the concept of “... singing and making melody in your heart unto the Lord.” (Ephesians 5:19) But first, some background.

A couple of months ago I determined to sign up (a little bit of humor) for an American Sign Language course at our local Community College. I had been interested in Sign Language for many years. I first became aware of it when as a teenager, I saw a man standing outside the Department Of Motor Vehicles in Boston, handing out little cards with the ASL Alphabet on it. It was a business size card, with all the graphic hand signs of the Alphabet.

For several years I had thought of taking a Signing course with the hopes of becoming proficient enough to be able to communicate the Gospel. I had been checking at the Community College, and finally a course was being offered. After attending our first class, we learned that the final class would require that we Sign a story that the teacher would provide to each student, and that we would have to do it in front of several of her friends who were deaf. It was a challenge to learn this new language, and each week I felt it w as “one step forward, two steps back”.

The final week of the eight week course had finally come. On the day of my final class, the local newspaper had, as a front page article, a story about the local “Church of Christ” High School and its disciplinary measures being advocated against 5 teachers who attend a congregation which allows occasional use of an instrument of music. The “Church of Christ” School wants these 5 teachers to sign a pledge stating that they will not worship with such a congregation, or else they will have their positions terminated.

While at our ASL class, a couple of the ladies began to discuss the newspaper article, and asked another lady present, who was deaf and had attended the High School in question when younger, what she thought about the newspaper article. Another man who was a guest began to get involved in the “conversation”. He began to sign, emphatically. I could tell the signs for “love”, “heart” and “music”. Our teacher interpreted. “He says that he signs at church all the time. They do not have voices, and they have no need for instruments, because even without any sound, they are singing from their hearts unto the Lord.”

You can imagine my reaction. A smile immediately came over my face. I do not know if he had Ephesians 5:19 in mind, but from further conversation I could tell that he knew many Bible passages.

He had conveniently, succinctly, and completely defined the idea of “Singing In Your Heart Unto The Lord”. He had put the question of “Musical Instrument” to its rest. Here were people, all over the world, who could not make a sound out of their throats. They cannot say “God” or “Father” or “Jesus the Christ”. Yet, they can SING. The place of the melody is not found in a box with strings and keys. It is not found in some “pre-packaged” tape or CD. The place of the melody is found in the human heart. Such hearts which are crafted by God to overcome any obstacle in desiring to serve Him, even the obstacle of the silence of the voice. They Sing, because they realize it is not an instrument of Music which God desires, but the sacrifice of a true and contrite heart.

And I suspect, that God has no problem “hearing” their songs.

Often, children say what they think they heard, without asking if it is right or wrong. And just as often, when they do, they teach us something.

The story is told about a Bible Class teacher who was trying to instruct her charges in learning how to pray. One particular four-year-old prayed, “'And forgive us our trash baskets, as we forgive those who put trash in our baskets.”

The other students laughed, as did the teacher. But later, when this story was related, it caused quite a discussion, for this boy had put into perspective the concept of holding onto
hurts and slights: they are like trash that just fill up unnecessary baskets.

No one knows how he had ‘mis-heard’ the prayer, but however it happened, this boy thought what people were praying for – what they were asking God for help with – was people filling up trash baskets. And, isn’t that exactly what we do pray for!?

When we offer up prayers to God, it is often to help us with something that is difficult that we really do not want. Oh yes, I know that we are also commanded to pray for others,
and that we are to offer up prayers of thanksgiving. We should do that daily. But more often than not, we offer up our hearts needs and concerns unto God, because we are carrying “trash” – unwanted items – that we need to get rid of.

Someone has said something unkind, unnecessary or just plain wrong about us. We hurt. But we need to develop the spiritual maturity to learn to “get rid of the trash” that we continue
to carry around, filling up the unnecessary trash baskets. We hold onto that “trash” – something that we don’t need, don’t want, and can’t use – and carry it around, inside us. Every time we see that person, we then go to our “trash basket” and look around for the trash they gave us, in order to hand it back to them – sometimes in an unkind remark or look. It is difficult for us to just throw the trash away because it belongs to “them” and we want to give it back!

Jesus told us that we need to be like little children. “... Except ye be converted and become as little children, ye shall not enter into the kingdom of Heaven.” (Matthew 18:3) We often apply this passage to talking about being “born again”, and rightly so. However, could it not also be that Jesus is teaching us something about our attitudes?

Maybe, just maybe, the next we pray, we ought to start asking for help in emptying our “Trash Baskets