Mystery Fire part 2

This is the conclusion to last week's story about a mystery fire in my neighborhood. See the post below for part 1.



The fire crew finds no flames inside Ann's house, no over-heated walls, no smoke. Nothing.

Finally, after poking the three-story patient with several sharp surgical instruments and taking her temperature multiple times, they slide the biggest truck in the fleet neatly into curb-side position, and crank the extension ladder up over the chimney to take a peek down the steel pipe.

Empty.

"Could'a been a bird's nest in there that fired up every time the heater kicked in," the chief observes out loud.

I wince a little and ask if it had been right to call the department at all.

"Absolutely," he replies.

And that was it.

Many times since that day I've looked out my picture window to try and catch a repeat performance of furnace gas transfigured by sun splash. It ought to look like a flag of flame up there atop Ann's roof.

But every time: nothing more than white exhaust floating on the wind, maybe with a dash of pink, at most. Certainly not. . . "FIRE!"

                                                * * *

The lesson: I acted on what I believed to be true. I had no proof, but I did have evidence that something was wrong at Ann's house--and my observation was corroborated by my wife Sharon.

Foolproof? Infallible? Absolute certainty--is that what Sharon and I had?

No way. But we had enough to go on. And as it turned out, in this case we may have been wrong--I still don't know.

For our atheist friends and acquaintances who wait around for proof before believing in anything, I'd fear for Ann's life.

It seems to me we have a lot of evidence that the Christian faith is true. But the evidence falls short of proof. Let's just admit that.

Still, we've got enough to go on--enough reason to pick up the phone and call the Fire Department.

Enough reason to believe.

Mystery Fire part 1

See that chimney atop my neighbor's house? There's a mystery associated with it.

One day in Dec. I'm sitting in my comfy chair looking out my front window when something glittery catches my eye. I look up and see what appears to be a reddish/orange flame streaming out of the extension pipe of Ann's chimney.

Ann is a lovely, elderly woman who lives alone in that three-story edifice.

Thing is, the flame is intermittent. It seems to sync itself with the on-off cycle of a typical furnace in a Minnesota winter. Furnace on: red blaze. Furnace off: zippo.

One more factor.  A spectacular pink sunset is framing the house from behind.

I call for backup.

Sharon agrees with me. Fire.

Not some trick of Mother Nature. Not harmless white exhaust seen through the rose-colored glasses of a splashy sunset. Nope, definitely fire.

I phone the fire dept and explain everything. I'm being overly cautious, hesitant. It's only intermittent I keep saying. The sunset. . .

The dispatcher cuts me off. "We'll be right there."

"But. . . "

Seven minutes later there's five giant red trucks with hoses and ladders protruding like tentacles, overrunning my Lilliputian neighborhood. Four guys in heavy fire gear, wielding axes, march into Ann's front entrance, while another eight of their comrades (and I) observe from the street.

In a moment of shameful weakness I secretly hope they find something . . .

Meanwhile, the crew chief questions me. Seems like he's been down this road before. He probes my story from different angles, rubs his chin--not quite a skeptic, not quite a believer.

And of course the big candle atop Ann's house had been extinguished five minutes before the Invasion, when we pulled her out of the place, shut off the furnace, and watched the fireworks on the horizon fade into gray.

                                                      * * *

Next week: the end of the story--and a spiritual angle to consider.

Love Your Enemies, or Not

Tuesday night I found myself unexpectedly $49 and two cab fares lighter in the wallet as I spent the night at the Chicago O'Hare Motel 6, waiting out a snow storm.

You know the drill: cancel-cancel-delay-delay-cancel. Now it's 11:30pm.

Earlier, about 10pm, with the snow falling outside and tempers flaring around O'Hare, a boarding ramp closed on the last flite to Denver, just as it's supposed to, about ten minutes before liftoff.

Two minutes later, breathless Middle-Aged White Professional rushed in and insisted the ramp be re-opened for him. Arab Gate Attendant, maybe 28 years old, politely refused.

You can guess the result. MAWP berates and shouts down AGA like an abusive husband. I guess his logic is that closing the gate on time as instructed by the airline and TSA should be blamed on AGA.

Shoot the messenger.

I was proud of AGA. He handled it like a pro. He didn't cower, cave or even fight back. He simply stood his ground. The gate was definitely closed.

Similar to MAWP,  many of us church people think little of firing off a gruff word or tirade at employees in restaurants, gas stations, public transit.

Yet, they are made in the image of God. Our chance to be different than the secular public awaits us each time we go face to face with a sales clerk.

Moving on

Five of my elder relatives and friends moved on the past two years.

What does it mean?

I'm richer for their lives, poorer for their deaths.

Dr. Russell Arndts was among the travelers. He departed July 23.

In his retirement years I sat on the couch opposite his easy chair many times to debate biblical theology with the former chemistry professor, while soaking in the famous Betty Arndts hospitality.

Nor did it stop there. You should see our email logs.

Now a resident of the Next Life, my elder friend has presumably discovered the truth: Mattson was right all along.

Or wrong.

In one sense it doesn't matter.

I'd give a lot to resume the toe-to-toe scrapping with my friend, not in his current State--I can wait awhile for that--but in the familiar St. Cloud setting: fireplace, Diet Pepsi, leaning into my point, up in the man's face, he in mine.

We relished not merely debate, but friendship. He'd smile at me and half-apologize for his intensity but I'd wave him off. I knew he cared for me as much as correct theology, which is saying a lot.

Russ, save me a spot on the Couch. The next chapter of our talks will undoubtedly stretch on interminably.

Readers: Do we have good friends these days that challenge us? Debate with us. . . and still love us? Tell us your story.

Great Expectations

An acquaintance promised to call me back but never did. Again.

People let me down. They let you down as well.

How do we respond?

For me, differently than 20 years ago (or even ten years ago). This is middle age speaking right now, so beware.

Some of the best advice I ever received was to lower my expectations of others. So when they let me down I don't have as far to fall.

If you don't read my blog or if you forget my birthday or leave me off your party guest list or miss a coffee appointment with me or neglect to show your appreciation after I've shoveled your walk or if you just plain leave me holding the bag. . . .

. . . I'm not saying it doesn't affect me at all. What I'm saying is that as a young man I thought I was entitled to these duties and courtesies from you. These days, not so much.

By the way, this lowering expectations thing--I think it's biblical. Not to over-spiritualize, but the person I expect a lot from is not you, but me. Christ calls me to love you. Your love of me is your business, not mine. If you give it, I'll gladly receive it! But I'm not holding my breathe.

A lot of it gets down to this: Which would I rather be most of the time, disappointed? or pleasantly surprised? That's an easy choice for me.

By the way, lowering expectations works well with movies and restaurants as well. Try it.