I’m going to Branson and here’s my audition tape!

Seriously. I’m leading a tour group of GUIDEPOSTS readers to Branson, MO, the “Live Music Capital of the World,” in early September. If you’re at all interested, check it out. Come join us. We’ll have a ball. 

But the part about the audition tape…well, here’s a recording of “Danny Boy” I did with my friend John. He’s the guy at the keyboard. The singer is that funny-looking guy with the gray hair.

It’s not exactly an audition tape. We did it to say “Happy St. Patrick’s Day!” (Happy St. Patrick’s Day!) But it makes me think of all the great music we’re going to hear in Branson. We’ll have a chance to clap, holler and stomp our feet.

That’s what I intend to do in Branson. It’ll be good to have some face time with a GUIDEPOSTS group, the best people on earth. And if you want I’ll be glad to sing “Danny Boy.” Live. In person. With you.

Sign up for the Branson tour with Rick.

Rick Hamlin is the executive editor at GUIDEPOSTS.

For the second year in a row Carol is giving up worrying for Lent.

I think it’d be easier to give up chocolate. Last year when she said she was doing it, one of our friends exclaimed, “Carol, giving up worrying? That would be like Fred Astaire giving up his tap shoes.” 

She’s good at worrying. In fact, in the division of labor that couples often naturally take up, I assign all the worrying to her. It takes a load off me. Worried about catching a plane? Worried about a snow storm mucking up the roads? Worried about where the kids are? I let her do it.

Now that she’s not worrying, I wonder if I’m supposed to do more of it. Pick up the slack. Or maybe I should give up worrying too. Some people claim that worrying is a sin. I’m not so sure about that. 

Worrying that cripples you so that you don’t even want to leave the house—that’s bad, of course. But those everyday worries, like how will Tim do on his history paper and will William be safe on his vacation to Guatemala…those are the kind of worries that lend themselves to prayer.

Now when I look across the table at dinner to Carol and check the worry shadow between her brows and see if there’s a new mark of calm, I throw in a few comments at grace, “God, keep us all safe and under your care.” I guess that’s what you do when you give up worrying for Lent. You put everything in God’s care.

Read weekly devotionals on our Lent page.

Rick Hamlin is the executive editor at GUIDEPOSTS.

I mentioned how hard it was to pray for the loss of a friend and I was still struggling with it until I thought of that visit we had at the hospital, the last time I would see him. He was reading the novel Wolf Hall by Hilary Mantel. Only a hundred pages to go.

I couldn’t pray just yet, or fumbled in my prayers, but I could read that book. It’s a doorstopper of a volume, 530 pages, and a lot to be lugging around with me for any free minute I can find. But it’s absolutely absorbing. The author, through some amazing combination of imagination and research, recreates the larger-than-life figures of Tudor England so that I feel that I know Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn and Cardinal Wolsey and especially Thomas Cromwell.

I can’t put it down. I talk about it to my friend, which is a way of talking about him to God. He was so smart and young and funny and full of intellectual curiosity which he managed to convey to his students (he was a professor of English, teaching classes online up to the very end).

The book is a companion in my grief and many pages feel like prayer, partly because the subject is so rich in faith—that era when the Bible was first being translated into English and smuggled in to its first readers.

I read and feel some healing and the closeness of God, even if I can’t always understand God’s ways. It is a way of fulfilling the promise I made to my friend that I would pray for him.

Rick Hamlin is the executive editor at GUIDEPOSTS.
      
 

How do you pray for someone who’s gone? 

I visited Frank in the hospital on Wednesday where he was being treated for cancer and it was clear that he was in a lot of pain. Every 15 minutes he could push a button and get a dose of whatever was in the IV bag, but from the way he winced, I knew the drugs were hardly strong enough. “I’m going to Calvary next,” he said, and I tried to hide the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. Calvary is hospice care. 

Frank was so young, not even 40, and it didn’t seem fair. He was really bright and even with doses of a strong painkiller running through his system, his quick intellect was evident as we discussed Hilary Mantel’s brilliant novel of Thomas Cromwell. He had another hundred pages of it to go.

I was headed out to California, visiting my son at the Claremont colleges where Frank was also a student not so many years ago. “I’m going to Calvary,” he said again, “and then I’m going home.”

He didn’t make it home. He died yesterday, and now as I’m reeling from the news, I’m wondering how to fulfill the last promise I made to Frank. “We’ll be praying for you,” I said. 

“I appreciate that,” he said.

My prayers were going to be for some miracle or at least a release from the dreadful pain. Now my prayers are, I admit, full of anger and bewilderment. Why, God, why? I will pray for peace and pray for his wife Rosie and pray that he got to the end of the book he was reading and pray for some understanding of why some of us die so young. And selfishly I will pray for my own sorrow.

I will keep my promise because God asked us to be a praying people, but it’s a harder promise than I ever imagined it would be.

Rick Hamlin is the executive editor at GUIDEPOSTS.
   
 

It was a really rainy day and I wasn’t paying any attention to what was going on outside my window. I guess I was staring at the smaller window of the computer screen. Midday I had to go outside to meet someone for lunch. I took the elevator down and looked outside. Pouring rain. And no umbrella.

If I’d only paid a little attention. If maybe I’d even checked the weather forecast before I left home. But no. Always in a hurry. Dashing here and there. Totally oblivious. I didn’t have an umbrella in my office. Didn’t have a raincoat. I could see myself turning up at the lunch meeting as wet as a drowned rat.

In our building in New York, GUIDEPOSTS' editorial offices are on the 21st floor. And here I was down in the lobby, staring at rain. Florence is the lady at the desk in the lobby and I figured maybe she would have some suggestions. “Florence,” I asked, “where is a place I can buy an umbrella?”

“Borrow mine,” she said.

“Don’t you need it?” I said.

“Not until 4:00 when I leave.”

“Really?” I asked.

“Of course.” She handed me the biggest, widest, sturdiest umbrella I’d ever seen. “Take it.”

I did. It was a Godsend. I arrived on time for my lunch meeting, perfectly dry. I didn’t even leave it at the restaurant (why are umbrellas so easy to leave behind?). I returned it to Florence with greatest appreciation.

Sometimes it is the kindness that you least expect that makes for a perfect day—even if the weather is awful.
 

Rick Hamlin is the executive editor at GUIDEPOSTS.

We were at a rock concert and I was asking myself, “Why are we supposed to stand when we pray?”

First of all, the question. At our church, sometimes we sit when we pray but often we’re expected to stand. That morning, when we did, I wondered if there was a reason for it. Did it help a person get in touch with God?

The question was still in the back of my mind at the rock concert. I have to confess the concert was Carol’s idea. The band is one of her favorites and they were playing at a theater 10 blocks from us. How could we not go?

We were, of course, almost the oldest people there. The kids sitting next to us were college students. In fact, they’d driven all the way from Morgan State in Missouri. (Hi, Zach. Hi, Julie.)

The music was great, the band in top form. The audience was psyched, soon everyone was dancing in the aisles. By the second song, the crowd was on its feet. “Down in front,” I wanted to shout. Then I joined in. Standing up and doing my own 50-something version of a dance.

That’s when it hit me: We pray on our feet because it’s a way of celebration. Everyone stands up at church just the way these kids do at a rock concert because they’re grateful and full of joy. It’s a way of showing our enthusiasm.  

“Great concert!” I told Zach and Janet. “Have a safe trip back.” It was a prayer I said on my feet.

Rick Hamlin is the executive editor at GUIDEPOSTS.
 

I was reading a psalm on the way to work. Psalm 30. It’s got some great lines in it, one of my favorite, “weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning.” I thought about how wonderful that was, that the tough stuff only lasts for a while.

My commute is on the New York subway and this day I actually had a seat on the A train. I could close my eyes and think about all the terrible stuff going on in the world—the devastation in Haiti, people out of work, a friend in the hospital—and remind myself: it doesn’t last forever. Joy comes in the morning.

I started to get into a pretty good mood, hopeful and at peace. I had to get off the train at 59th to change to the D train. I stepped into the car and took a seat, closing my eyes again. All at once I heard a strident voice calling out, “READ THE BIBLE!” “Oh, no,” I thought, “it’s the Bible lady.” She’s always pacing the cars, haranguing the passengers, yelling at everybody to read the Bible. I can’t begin to tell you how loud she is. 

“I wish she’d shut up,” one of the passengers muttered.

I echoed the thought. (I know, I know, I had just been reading the Bible myself.) Then she started reading a passage I recognized. I settled down and listened to the words: “…weeping may endure for a night but joy comes in the morning.” All their sweetness came out and she was transformed in my eyes.

“Thanks,” I said when I got off the train. “That’s one of my favorite psalms too.”   

Rick Hamlin is the executive editor at GUIDEPOSTS.

In some countries people throw out old pots and pans on New Year’s Eve to get ready for the new. In our neighborhood it was the “Second Annual Electronics Recycling Event.”

Who knew there was such a thing? Carol had spotted this one coming weeks in advance. An environmental group had commandeered a corner of the park for Saturday morning and we were invited to bring our gold, frankincense and myrrh…and all those electronic things in the house that we didn’t need anymore but couldn’t throw away.

There was that giant old computer screen and the tape player gathering dust on the shelf (who played tapes anyway?) and modems from before the days of wireless. We packed three boxes and two bags of stuff. I had no idea where it all came from. We even asked our neighbors if they had electronics to get rid of. 

“Here let me take that,” said the guy at the park. I handed him a computer that had seemed modern at the millennium. How fast things aged.

I returned to the house feeling a little wistful. I like using things up until they wear out—my favorite jacket I bought at a church rummage sale 25 years ago—but you can’t do that with electronics. They become outdated long before they wear out. I wondered if the same thing was happening to me. Would I become outdated before I wore out?

Maybe not. As long as I recycled. It's good stewardship.

Rick Hamlin is the executive editor at GUIDEPOSTS.

My least favorite task in the New Year? Taking down the Christmas tree.

Some people like to leave it up for weeks, admiring it, remembering the fun they had around it, letting it rain a torrent of dead needles on the rug until they finally cart it out.

Not me. I’d rather get rid of it as soon as possible, shelving Christmas for another 360-some days. Every once in a while I get a little sentimental, boxing up an old ornament, something the boys made in nursery school out of dyed noodles, yarn and glitter, or stumbling on the first glass ball we got when we were first married. 

But then I get all efficient, unstringing the yards of lights and stars and dinosaurs (also from when the boys were young). This year, I did it in 45 minutes, dragging the tree off to the pile where it’ll get chopped up and recycled.

Still I came inside feeling a little sad, wishing maybe there was still a little of that old cheer left in the living room.

“You missed something,” Carol said. We looked to the rug where there was a little caroler dangling from a gold thread. I picked him up. Everything about him reminded me of the fun we’d had at the end of the year. Singing, celebrating, seeing old friends, being with family. I could still feel the glow inside without the tree.

“Let’s leave him on the piano for now,” I said. Just the right thing to prolong the season.

Rick Hamlin is the executive editor at GUIDEPOSTS. 
 

About the day after Christmas, or maybe a couple of days after that, Mom had us kids sit down and write thank-you notes. Oh, how we groaned. “But I don’t remember who Aunt Eleanor was!…But I’d never wear the scarf she sent me!…But I don’t know what to say!”

Nevertheless we learned to say something. And I confess the exercise was a good one. There was always something to be thankful for.

As a parent, Carol and I put into practice the same rule for our kids. Before they went back to school, those thank-you notes had to be written. Make it honest. Say something specific. And if you feel like it, say something about what you did for Christmas. 

I guess I’ve gotten so much into the habit of thank-you notes that by now I don’t really dread them. I actually—this is going to sound hopelessly dorky—look forward to them. Especially if I’m writing somebody who’s far away. It’s a chance to share our Christmas with them. A chance to remind them how much I miss them. Sometimes I get so wrapped up in the writing I forget to even mention the gift. 

“We had a wonderful Christmas with William and Tim at home. Carol made a great brisket for dinner, we saw a couple of movies, we sang a lot at church, Tim’s girlfriend made some chocolate truffles that are to die for and we went to the last Giants game at Giants stadium. It was a terrible game but a great time together…and by the way, thanks for the present.” 

There’s always something to be grateful for.
 

Rick Hamlin is the executive editor at GUIDEPOSTS.

We went caroling last night. A group of 40, some from our choir, some who happened to see flyers we posted around town, some who just heard us sing and joined in. 

I have to admit, there was a moment when I wondered if it was really going to work. I mean, it seems a bit absurd to walk around this busy city, carrying crib sheets of carols, singing at the top of our lungs, thinking anybody will tolerate it. 

But they do. More than that, people seem to like it. Neighbors opened windows and leaned out to hear. At the hardware store where we stood in front and sang a rowdy “Good King Wenceslas” and “We Three Kings,” I thought the owner and his employees were going to come out and tell us to move along. We were slowing business. On the contrary, he wanted to thank us. He even joined in. 

We did a credible “O Little Town of Bethlehem,” an excellent “O Come All Ye Faithful” and a touching “Silent Night.” People called out for their favorites—everybody’s got one. 

We didn’t limit ourselves to carols, but included secular songs of the season like “I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas” and a spirited “Jingle Bell Rock.” 

One woman who joined us said, “You don’t mind me singing with you…I don’t go to church.” Of course we didn’t mind. The more the merrier. 

What I realized is that singing brings people together and there’s no better music than Christmas music to sing. Everybody knows the tunes. Everybody can sing a verse or two. 

So wherever you are, in your car, in the mall doing some last-minute shopping, rushing through a crowded parking lot, wrapping up presents, baking cookies, sing out. No one will mind. Got a favorite carol? Sing it. It’s time to celebrate. 

We did on the snowy, muddy, busy streets of New York. What a blast!

Rick Hamlin is the executive editor at GUIDEPOSTS.

I put the candles in the window this weekend. For some reason I’d been resisting the approach of Christmas, as if I held off on putting out the Advent calendar and the crèche or buying a Christmas tree, I might be allowed a few more days of Christmas shopping. 

Then all of the sudden it hit me: Christmas would come whether I was ready or not! I had to buy something for my goddaughter and put it in the mail, and then there were all the relatives in California. I needed time to get something for them, wrap it and ship it out (I love ordering online, but I prefer to do the wrapping myself. As though my usual bad wrapping job makes it more personal…). 

Friday coming home, I looked at our dark windows. “You need to get out the candles now,” I told myself. I took down the box from the top of the hall closet, tested the light bulbs, found the extension cords. When I turned those candles on there was something in me that said, “I’m ready.”   

What I’m ready for is that rebirth of the spirit, that welcoming of God, that is at the center of this wonderful, crazy, busy, hectic season. I’m opening myself up, preparing my heart, looking for love, praying for those in pain and sorrow and saying, “Come, Lord, come.” He couldn’t be needed any more than he is now. 

How ‘bout you? Have you put up your decorations yet? Just a little something to get the spirit ready for bigger things to come.

Rick Hamlin is the executive editor at GUIDEPOSTS.

Tim, I slept in your bed last night. I wasn’t feeling great and I didn’t want to keep your mom up by coughing and besides I wanted to turn out the lights early so I figured I’d sleep in your bed instead. 

Looking up at your pictures and posters and old trophies, I didn’t fall asleep right away. I kept thinking of you. Even though your brother’s gone and you’re at school we’re not going to turn this room into an office. We want you to have a place to come home to that still yours. The bed must be a little short on you now and we need to get you a new bedspread, but I liked your room.   

This was the place where you grew up, where you played Legos, did your homework, read Harry Potter, practiced your guitar, said your prayers. It’s a place where you can still store tons of T-shirts and books from last year’s classes. 

Sometimes we let guests stay here in your absence but it should still feel like your place (even if we get rid of the platform bed). You’ll go lots of places, you’ll travel far. But there will always be a little of you back in this room. 

I remembered coming in here at night when you and your brother were asleep and praying that somehow you both would grow up to be happy, interesting, wonderful, generous kids. You did that. Everything on the walls, from the photos of your friends to the diplomas, says so. It made me realize what a lucky dad I am. 

Thanks for your bed last night, Tim. I slept well. 

Rick Hamlin is the executive editor at GUIDEPOSTS.