Tribute to an Old Friend

The year is 1977. I was a member of the RCA Music Club. For those of you that remember the

Columbia House Music Club, it was basically the same thing. Your membership accorded you a number of free albums, the stipulation being that you would buy a number of additional albums over the course of the next few years at their slightly inflated "club" prices. By albums, I mean 12" vinyl LP records, or whatever they are called today.

My initial selections included "A Farewell to Kings", the fifth studio album by Rush. Rush was a Canadian band--just a trio--that I was wholly unfamiliar with at the time. I chose the album based on reasons I cannot remember, assuming there were such reasons at the time. The album blew my mind. 

"A Farewell to Kings" was my entrance to an enduring friendship with Rush. One of my next Rush purchases was in 1981, the year I graduated from high school. "Moving Pictures" is what I consider Rush's magnum opus. It remains one of my favorite albums of all time.

I also had the privilege to see Rush live four different times over the years: 1988, 1990, 2007 and 2010. Twice at Reunion Arena, twice at the venue formerly known as Starplex. 

The great thing about Rush was what they were able to do with just 3 men on the stage. This meant they needed to stretch out to fill more sonic space, so the bass and drums, normally buried under or behind the guitars and other instruments, were right out front. I soon discovered that Neil Peart, the drummer, was one of a kind. He did wonderful and amazing things with his kit. 

Neil died this week on January 7, 2020, reportedly the result of a 3-year battle with a brain tumor. 

Anybody that knows me knows my worldview to be unequivocally Christian. One of the problems with being a devout Christian in our times is that you often have heroes that are unbelievers. You know them for what they give to you, not often thinking about how their lives are much more than the parts you know and love. You wish, ever so fervently, that your heroes were believers, too--that you could share more than the things you admire about them. Yet reality demands you accept the chances that there will likely not ever be such commonality.

Believers of a more Fundamental ilk solve this dilemma by not being fan-boys of secular entertainers or personalities, primarily those who have a worldview that is not identical to theirs. Music, for them, isn't good unless it's indisputably Christian. Movies are patently secular and therefore are evil. In my Christian life, I've slipped into and out of such thought patterns. There have been several times I've gotten rid of all my secular music. At one point in time, I decided to enjoy secular music, yet to be discerning about what kind I listened to. I could enjoy music, yet I strove to not allow it to weaken me morally or force me to compromise my principles. 

Neil was, what he called, a "linear thinking agnostic". He had a disdain for Christianity, feeling he had the ability to be good enough without any threats of judgement. In the lyrics for the song "Freewill", Peart wrote:

There are those who think,That life has nothing left to chance, A host of holy horrors, To direct our aimless dance

A planet of playthings, We dance on the strings, Of powers we cannot perceive, The stars aren't aligned, Or the gods are maligned, Blame is better to give than receive

In other words, he seemed to believe that he had the capacity, through his own moralized choices, to make better decisions than someone whose will was subjected through their submission to a supreme being.

One of the greatest and one of the darkest aspects of how God created us is that He gave us free will. We choose right or wrong, usually hoping that we know the difference. Wrong choices have consequences. Right choices have rewards. That's the price of free will. You are given a choice, yet your choice is not without cost. Also, as Neil wrote in the same song above, "If you choose not to decide, You still have made a choice."

Believing that people make a choice to worship God only because they fear His retribution is not to understand belief or faith at all. It causes me to assume that he either never knew anyone who had a real or meaningful biblical faith or that he never thought it possible that such could be valid. There are people whose faith comes from a place of fear, an attempt to avoid the fires of Hell. The faith I know however comes more from a place of love--a love for a God that I know loves me. Obedience, in this case, is willing and mindful.

It's a strange thing to feel sadness at the death of someone you didn't know. We think we know the celebrities we enjoy. More close to the truth, I think, is the fact that we want to know them, therefore we assume a familiarity that isn't warranted. When they die, we feel a sense of loss that is a little peculiar, yet is real as well.

I feel a sense of loss at the death of Neil Peart. More so, I feel a sense of sorrow. His life, lived not only separate from God, but also in defiance of Him, is over. He has stood before his Maker and now knows the truth. In this loss, I can choose to celebrate the good parts of his life, yet my worldview doesn't allow me to forget the eternal part.

We pave the way for that part in this life, yet not with our skills or our abilities. These are, as the scripture states, burned up like hay and stubble. Those of us who count on our abilities, accomplishments and even our good deeds to gain us entrance into Heaven will find that those things have no weight as we stand before our Maker.

Ultimately, I don't know where Neil Peart will spend eternity. Only God knows the heart, and the fruit we have to judge may not accurately represent what happened with him since he wrote and said all these things. To feel a sense of loss acknowledges that there was a value in that thing (or person) now gone. As many did, I valued what Neil brought into this world. Even if only in a purely secular sense, it made my life a little better.

Thanks, Neil. I hope you to be in a better place.

Why I Vote

Another voting season is upon us, with the usual passions and fervor, people thinking that they (and those that vote with them) can change the course of society. I have always voted, not in every election, but more often than not. If I miss an off-year or mid-term election, it's usually because I forgot about it. With my votes, I, too, hope to change the course of society. We'll see if that happens.

I admit to being a normal straight-ticket voter. I offer no apologies. Some die-hards claim that straight-ticket voters are stupid and uninformed, blindly choosing this party or that one. I feel pretty well informed, at least on the issues that matter to me. What issues matter to me? To be honest, there's just one.

Abortion.

Abortion became legal in 1973 with the Roe v. Wade decision of the Supreme Court, if you didn't already know that. For a good portion of the intervening years, people have fought to support or overturn that decision. I could drone on and on about history, decisions, and the ongoing fight on the Pro-Life/Pro-Choice battlefront, but this isn't about abortion, per se. It's about why I'm, for the most part, a single-issue voter.

The way I see it, nothing else matters. When you know what abortion really is, you are either struck cold so you can look away, or you are sickened. That we Americans have allowed it since 1973 can only be explained by the fact that I think most that support abortion just don't understand what it is. I cannot imagine that people support this knowing what it is. That possibility frightens me more than school shootings or terrorism.

I've handled the remains of countless babies throughout all stages of gestation. What I want you to know is this: these babies have hands; they have feet. It's not just a blob of bloody tissue. It's not a metaphorical "mass of cells" or "product of conception". It's a baby. It could be your son, your granddaughter, your nephew or niece. Know that when you make your decisions to support abortion. It's ultimately not about a mother's health or her freedom to choose. It's about killing a baby. Regardless of why a woman wants to do it, in the end, a baby dies.

If you still remain on the fence, or if you just want to be challenged, I want you to read something. It's from Abby Johnson's book, "The Walls Are Talking." Here's the link. Scroll down to Chapter 7: "Frequent Fliers". I warn you in advance: when I read it, it hit me like a punch in the gut. And I'm a pretty cold-hearted guy that has seen a lot of hard things.

So, in choosing to see abortion for what it is, I cannot, in good conscience, support a candidate that is not against it. It doesn't matter what their stand is on immigration, health care or the economy. While those are all important issues, they pale when compared to abortion. It also doesn't matter that most Americans are deaf to the issue and think it's no longer germane to enlightened discussion. Until we do away with abortion in America, nothing else matters.

The Reluctant Gear Head

There's something strange that infects a number of young men, somewhere around the age of 16. Occasionally, it gets them a little sooner, but rarely later. It's a love of cars, trucks or anything automotive.

Within this group is a smaller subset. It's the gear heads. These guys repair and tinker with their cars.
While the rest of the group is content to just like cars or to enjoy driving cars (and for the sake of this discussion, this includes trucks and motorcycles), the gear heads like to get their hands dirty in the literallest of senses. It's something about the mystique of the internal combustion engine or how all those parts work together in harmony that attracts guys to do their own work on their own cars, perhaps even venturing out to work on cars for others, personally or professionally. Right now, I'm thinking about the classic shade-tree mechanic, not the ASE-certified fellow. Actually, I'm thinking, more precisely, about myself.

My father was a do-it-yourselfer. He did his own repairs. I remember assisting on brake jobs and oil changes more than I can tabulate. His motivation ended up being my own motivation eventually: he could repair his own cars, so he did it to save lots of money. When you consider the cost of parts and don't  have to add in the cost of labor, repairs are much less, and if you own a car for any period of time after the pay-off date, you will have repairs. Another motivation is that you develop a relationship with your car. You learn things you didn't necessarily need to know about it through fixing it and every repair better equips you for future repairs. It's experience that you're gaining in addition to just the repair itself.

Project cars are the best for young mechanics. I started with a project car. Actually, it was a 1964 Dodge pickup of dubious heritage. My dad bought it from a friend of his. Where his friend got it, I do not know for sure, but I believe it's origin is shrouded in mystery and perhaps a little dishonesty. It was well-used. It had been an Air Force vehicle in its original life, discarded after too many miles of hard use had befallen it. The first thing I did with this truck is I had it painted. Midnight blue, to be exact. Eventually, I put new wheels and tires on it, put a new transmission on it, and other minor cosmetic things here and there.

I learned to work on a carburetor with this truck, for the one on it had was plagued with chronic problems. I worked on its brakes, brakes being probably one of the easiest things to learn and the repair I've done the most over the years. I worked on the brake systems, i.e., wheel cylinders and the master cylinder. I repaired a heater that didn't work by blowing a wad of rusty gunk out of the heater core. I replaced the transmission with a very heavy 4-speed. Pour a little blood, sweat and tears into any vehicle and it becomes a friend.

Every car I've owned since the late '70s, I've worked on. Some jobs have been big, but most small. In addition to lots of brake jobs, there's replacing alternators and starters, water pumps, radiators, front end work (ball joints, tie rods, control arms, etc.), U-joints, CV-joints, clutches and the occasional O2 sensor. As I advanced in my skills and confidence, I tackled bigger jobs. I put a long block in a Nissan I owned. I put a new head and head gasket on a Honda.

With these repairs, I learned some things to avoid future repairs. Keep your oil clean and keep it filled. Don't let your engine overheat. Don't disregard leaks for too long. Remember to surface or replace the rotors on a brake job and the brakes will last longer. Don't believe what the manufacturer tells you about service intervals. Learn to drive a clutch properly and you may never have to replace it.

There are few vehicles I've owned that I've actually loved. Your first love sticks with you, so I still have fond memories of the Dodge. Also, I recently owned a MINI Cooper, and that little car enchanted me. I replaced a head and head gasket on it only to have a connecting rod start knocking. Found a used engine with 55K miles and put it in. That would have to be my most daunting automotive challenge so far. Then one day when I'm driving to work, a fellow rear-ends me hard enough that I see Jesus in the clouds. No more MINI.

What I've also learned is that cars are fickle mistresses. You can love it with all your heart, treat it like a lady, and it will still let you down when you least expect it. You can do all of the right things and baby it in such a way as to never give it a reason to fail, and it will do just that: fail. Cars are almost completely mechanical beasts. Mechanical things--things moving about at 3000+ RPMs--are prone to wear out, break, melt, stop up, unstop, leak, overheat, and even explode, often when you least expect it and at the most inconvenient of locations. I've had cars break down in parking lots, in my driveway and in the middle of a busy freeway. Gear heads take into account this fickleness and aren't undone by the surprises of such mechanical frailty. Earlier this year, when my MINI developed a terminal knocking rod condition, I was disappointed, but not really surprised. Cars will let you down and cars you love will break you heart. You have to develop an attitude that says, "Well, I guess it's time to get my hands dirty again", and on some days, "Well, I guess it's time to get a new car."

I'm often filled with gratitude when I hear auto repair tales from friends and associates. I'm thankful for my abilities and my knowledge that allows me to work on my own cars. Many of these folks find themselves at the mercy of mechanics. Most of the mechanics are honest and are just trying to make a living. Mechanical work is dirty and difficult and requires experience and knowledge in the field to perform effective repairs, so labor costs seem outrageous but are usually pretty fair. Also, cars are complicated things, so much mechanic work is guessing. This aspect makes it a lot like the work of doctors who look at symptoms, consider which of the systems is causing the problem and treat the problem using their own education and experience. This means there's often some guessing involved, and guessing never yields results that are 100% correct. Even the best mechanic guesses wrong from time to time, but experience tempers this and makes it rarer and rarer.

What I've found is that, at some level, I enjoy working on cars. What I don't enjoy is being forced to work on my cars. I suppose it's too much to expect them to fail when I'm willing or able to work on them, so I try to have a good attitude and remain grateful that I have the ability that gives me a choice to do it myself.

Latter Day Tales of a Wannabee

Being a music lover never equips you to be a music maker. As I now know, they are separate, as far as the east from the west. In my early to mid-teen years, I had that all-too-common aspiration of teen boys to "play in a band". I put this phrase in quotes because it has always been a cliche. For me and most, there are the classic obstacles that keep it from happening. First, there's the lack of desire and the absence of drive to make it happen. I was like most, thinking it would fall into my lap without either blood, sweat or tears. Second, there's the notion that the lineup can be filled with friends, family or peers. There were few or none of my family, friends or peers that were qualified for this position. I wanted to play in a band with drums, guitars, bass vocals and anything else that would make music girls would love. My friends did, too, yet all my friends were worse musicians that I was, and I pretty much sucked.

My parents bought me a guitar, and I played it, learning a few major chords here and there, with an occasional minor chord thrown in for good measure. Other friends had guitars, too. I would learn a few chords here and there, or how to mimic a lick from this song or that. They would learn to go "twang, twang, twang" then say, "Hey, that was Smoke on the Water." The next time we would get together, I wouldn't hear Highway Star. I'd hear "twang, twang, twang...twang, twang, twang, twang". Nothing else happened. Nothing could have happened. Where I was at that time, there was no fertile ground from which music could grow.

So years would pass. Adulthood arrived. Children arrived. Adult children arrived. Finally, I decided I'd waited long enough and set out to purchase a bass guitar. I had an electric guitar. I had owned acoustic guitars. This was my first bass, and it meant something for me. I had always been a bass player at heart. My heroes in music were bass players. Paul McCartney was then first. Geddy Lee and Sting followed. Finally, as an adult, I started playing with a friend, he on guitar, myself on bass. He was a good guitarist. Finally, to have someone good to play with would mean that I needed to up my game. I was forced to learn how to play by being forced to practice.

Year after year, this friend and I would find a small amount of satisfaction playing together. We'd learn new songs. We'd record something in my home studio. We'd have dry spells when we wouldn't do anything at all. We'd share ideas and aspirations of "getting something together", whatever that meant. Then the cares of life, more weightier than our musical aspirations, would push it all to the side where it withered and desiccated.

What it took for me was a major life change. After decades of being active in conservative, traditional churches, we started going to a younger, more contemporary church. Whereas our previous churches had either just a piano, or piano and violins, or perhaps a piano and an organ, this church had guitars--several of them--and a bass and drums and keys, in addition to several vocalists. In other words, it had a real band, not simply accompanists.

I paid close attention. I studied. I was friends with the bass players. The first-string bassist was encouraging, telling me I ought to volunteer to play. I longed to play, yet I wanted to be asked, not because of any kind of vanity, but because I wanted it to be purposeful and divinely guided and not an entirely self-centered venture. Finally, after a year or more, I broke through. I was scheduled to play my bass in my first service. My first-string friend coached me, giving me inside information, saying over and over that it was no big deal. I wanted to believe him, but my anxiety told me it was a big deal. This was as close to pro-level playing as I had ever been.

I show up, plug in my 5-string and after sound check, get going on the run-through before the service. I had the charts beforehand and had practiced, and I suppose I did passably well. The experience was both terrifying and exhilarating at the same time. I don't know how that's possible, yet it is. It was the kind of experience that you're petrified in the midst of yet you can't wait to repeat.

So here I am, a year-and-a half after that initial experience. I've gotten to play an average of once every month or two. My first-string friend has stepped aside, creating a consistent opportunity for me and one other bassist. I play one week, he plays the next. The experience remains terrifying and exhilarating, yet as my confidence grows, the terrifying part decreases. What the experience has taught me seems complex, so I'll list some of the foremost ideas:

1. Worship music is--and should be--a different type of performance. - Everyone I've played with has been perfectly encouraging. They realize this is worship music and not a professional performance with all its pressures of perfection. They realize it's all in the attitude and that we, as musicians, are leading those in attendance in worship and should have a worshipful spirit as well. We are doing this because we want to, not because we're paid to. 
2. You are your own worst critic. - I notice every mistake I make, and if I allow myself to dwell on these mistakes, it poisons everything that follows. What I've learned is that I should notice my mistakes only enough to learn from them and then quickly move on. 
3. It's not all about me. - No one is there to see me, so more accurately, it would be said, It's not about me at all. Dwell too much on my performance and I've robbed God of each and every bit of glory He deserves.
4. If I'm paying so much attention to what I'm doing, I can't pay attention to what others are doing. I need to be in the moment and paying attention so I can encourage others in the way I've been encouraged. - One of the greatest parts of playing with the guys I play with is that we all enjoy doing it so much and are able to share this with each other. The more I make it just about me the more I don't make it about us as a group. 
5. You need to play to the song. - I'm a member of a group, not a soloist. Nothing I do should take away from the song. Just enough notes, please. Not too many. Not too loud. Not too flashy or fancy. No overplaying. If anyone notices me without trying to, I've done something wrong. Music in this sense is synergistic, greater than the sum of its parts. 
6. Live music is, by nature, an uncertain beast. - If one person makes a mistake, others may be thrown off as well. Also, imperfect communication of plans throws off concrete thinkers such as myself. Imagine this: if ten people linked arms and tried to run across a field, one person falling might take others with him.Accepting that this beast may turn and bite you at any moment makes it exciting because when you're up close, your chances of being bitten are greatest. All of these metaphorical ideas are meant to say the same thing: do your best, and when your best falls short of perfection, shake it off and go it again. 

Worship musicians are, in certain circles, not considered "real musicians" in perhaps the same sense that an unpublished writer isn't a real writer. Tell someone you're a writer and they'll automatically ask, "Have you had anything published?" What that means is, Ok. You say you're a writer? Here's the real test. Because worship musicians are almost universally unpaid volunteers, they're second class in a way. Whatever. Worship musicians enjoy what they are doing, paid or not. 

At this writing, I'm gearing up for my next performance. I intend on practicing and knowing the songs. I want to pay more attention to what's going on. I want to get better because I see that everything musically I've done over my lifetime has prepared me for this moment. Whether there are bigger moments in the future, I cannot say. For now, this is the big times for me. In this moment, it doesn't get any better, any bigger. I'm not playing for a full house, an arena or a stadium. The promoter for this gig happens to be the Creator of the Universe. In that light,  this is the best gig there is.

The Crucible, Part II

(Part I, published July 2011,  can be found here, should you be interested)

I am part of a men's bible study that meets bi-weekly. Attendees are usually my boys, my son-in-law, and two or three other fellows from our church. We recently concluded a good study on prayer, based on R. C. Sproul's booklet, "Does Prayer Change Things?". It was a great study, finished over the course of about 6 weeks. Preparing to move to our next study, we agreed to do a real Bible study, focusing on a book of the Bible. Asking the group what they wanted to study, there weren't any ready and quick answers. Mark finally offered, "How about the Book of James?"

This was a great idea, or so I thought. I've always liked James. Aside from the fact that I share a name with the Lord's younger brother, it is a no-nonsense epistle, full of meat, yet not so deep and theologically miry as to be difficult. It speaks of Christian discipline and true faith in terms that are tangible and applicable for most levels of Christian maturity. So we embarked on the Book of James.

Bad idea.

If you are familiar with James, you know the first chapter, even the first verses, punch you right in the nose.

2 My brethren, count it all joy when you fall into various trials, 3 knowing that the testing of your faith produces patience. 4 But let patience have its perfect work, that you may be perfect and complete, lacking nothing. 5 If any of you lacks wisdom, let him ask of God, who gives to all liberally and without reproach, and it will be given to him. 6 But let him ask in faith, with no doubting, for he who doubts is like a wave of the sea driven and tossed by the wind. 7 For let not that man suppose that he will receive anything from the Lord; 8 he is a double-minded man, unstable in all his ways. (James 1:2-8, NKJV)

Verse 2 uses the word "when" intentionally. It is not an "if". It's a "when", so it's not a matter of "if" but "when". Trials are a given in the life of the believer, and they have a very real and good purpose, often bearing fruit we cannot see. They are there by God's design and purpose to bring about the work of testing our faith.

I'm not a stranger to having my faith tested. I'm also not ignorant to the higher purpose in all of it. Yet when I find myself in the crucible, I still find it hard to be joyful. I don't fall into the Pit of Despair, but I'm also not walking around with a smile on my face. Where I am is somewhere in between.

God's purpose is evident. I see in my life what my namesake referred to here in Chapter 1. My faith is being tested in order that God might see me grow in patience. He wants me to perfect and complete, and a believer is neither perfect nor complete if they don't possess abiding joy, an abiding joy present in all circumstances. It's there when times are hard and when they are good. It's most noticeable in the former, because everyone can either be joyful or appear joyful when times are good.

So here at the beginning of our study of James is a goal of mine--character traits that I seek to make my own. Patience. Perseverance. In the good times. In the bad times. Knowing the truth and not making it mine is double minded. Knowing the truth and making it mine...well, that seems to be God's plan from the get-go.

Showers of Blessing

This morning, I spent some time meditating on how blessed my life has been. It doesn't take much musing on my part to be overwhelmed.

At the time, I happened to be taking a shower (TMI?), so the metaphorical connection was obvious. I
recalled the hymn, "Showers of Blessing". I began to realize that each drop out of the showerhead could symbolize a blessing in my life. The shower dumps out a healthy amount of water during the course of its usage. The metaphorical expression seems to refer to abundance--a quantity beyond counting, beyond recording. It's a great picture, if you think about it. Understanding helps if you have an "attitude of gratitude", a thankful heart that realizes that the goodness of God in your life is undeserved and unmerited and hinges on His goodness alone and nothing we've done.

It's all good. And lest you believe I live in some idyllic world, I do not. I've had my share of heartache, difficulty and pain. Yet, as Job told his wife, “You are talking like a foolish woman. Shall we accept good from God, and not trouble?” True, Job. True, that. I accept the trouble, knowing that the good far outweighs it. 

There's no good place to start. It's all around me. My life, my wife, my children, my new granddaughter. It's all good. It's all blessing. The bad stuff? It's still there, but it reminds me of the world I live in, not the God I serve. It reminds me of what I could be, not what I am. It shows me what life could be like without God's hand of blessing in my life. 

Know this: If I die today, I die a contented man. I die a thankful man. I die a blessed man. If I live for 20 or 30 more years, all the more. Blessed now means more blessed then. I have no regrets in my life. It's been good.

I casually said hello to a stranger some days back, throwing in the casual, "How are you doing?"

"Blessed and highly favored," she said. 

Amen, sister. Amen.

You Couldn't Do What I Do

"I couldn't do what you do."

Oh, how many times I've heard that one.

When I began working as a funeral home employee, I quickly realized that this profession was shrouded in mystery. Somewhere was a curtain, drawn between the stateroom and the Control Room where the Wizard moved levers, pulled chains and spoke into a microphone. Being allowed to pass back and forth through this curtain gave me a perspective that few people have.

We in the profession see dark things. We will often find ourselves literally up to our elbows in unimaginable situations, our goal in this gruesomeness being to create a situation or a picture of a loved one that is more positive than a previous image of pain, suffering, discomfort or loss of health and/or wits. It's not a perfect art nor a perfect science, but it is a little of both. In doing what we do, we fight against the Created Order. Most often, we win, but sometimes we lose. The human body, as it turns out, rebels against preservation after death.

Usually those who say those words assume every case, every family, is an emotional investment. If that were true, then who would want to do this job? Not me, for sure. Truthfully, there is virtually no emotional wear-and-tear in my life, profession-wise. It's a job. Some might think I'm cold and unfeeling, but these aren't my family members and are almost always strangers. I believe the truly weird thing would be feeling such a connection with humanity that you were grieved in each and every one of these situations.

Babies, children, young adults, young married people, mothers and fathers of all ages, then of course the senior adults, having lived their lives completely--all types come across our tables or see our fires. Another common assumption is that I find myself undone when the "injustice" of a child's death or the death of a baby becomes business. Frankly, this is still just business. I may take a little extra care when I handle a baby. It is thankfully a rarer situation, and I know somewhere there are suffering parents, so I take a little more care than if it were an octogenarian whose death was wholly expected. A little more care, I say, as the attention I give those with full lives is also complete. I wouldn't be truthful though if I didn't admit to being a bit more deliberate with children.

As a Christian, my job gives me much to think about in relation to my beliefs as well. I assume that a majority of the deceased are indeed not going to a better place. After all, "the way is easy that leads to destruction, and those who enter by it are many." (Matthew 7:13) God is the judge, though, and I will not profess to know the redeemed from the unrepentant. When you hear the testimony of family and friends during the course of the services, you will occasionally hear evidence that seems to support one or the other, yet I will ultimately not know. 

Yet as a Christian, I have an enduring confidence that, for whatever reason, God's will is done. The flaw in human thinking is in believing that we have the capacity or right to understand that will. I don't know why little babies die, or even if there is a "why". I do know that God is in charge and that what He wants will be done, and that this will is perfect and good, regardless if I understand or not. Therefore, thoughts of injustice rarely enter my thinking on the job.

It's true that what I do, regardless of my personal philosophy, is weird. I stand behind that curtain, pulling levers. I step out in my suit of nice clothes and hope that people are comforted. Sometimes, I want to say, "Hey, I embalmed your mother. Doesn't she look nice?", but I don't say that. Still, there are often times I stand next to a loved one on a stainless steel table, muse on my profession and think, "What a weird job I have." I could tell you stories. You would agree. 

Also, you could do what I do. I'm no saint and I'm no weirdo.  It's just a job.