The Ramblings of Weesatch Joe

Monday, July 13, 2026, my wife and I will celebrate our thirtieth wedding anniversary. It looks to be a hot day here in northern Oklahoma, not all that different than the afternoon in Austin, Texas, when we pledged ourselves to each other with a matching pair of “I do’s,” forsaking all others, and to love, honor and cherish (and, for Laura, to obey – thanks Uncle Bill) through sickness and health ‘til death do us part. We’ve done a few things that my parents never got to do. We have seen the Atlantic and the Pacific oceans. We’ve stood on Colorado mountains and in Death Valley, California. I own a collection of woodworking tools that Dad would either be jealous of, or shake his head in disbelief that I bought such things. I found their will from 1978, where they named two items, specifically, to be distributed as inheritance: a shotgun, to be given to Dad’s youngest brother, and an antique kitchen table, to be given to Mom’s brother. That was all – and not even to be left to us kids!...

The Meyer Family c. 1990 For All Our Faithful Fathers Tune: 76 76D - “The Church’s One Foundation"   For all our faithful fathers,       We thank and praise You, Lord, Who taught us of Your mercy       In water and in Word; Who brought us to Your Table       So that we would be fed Christ’s Blood and Body broken,       In wine and in the bread.   Through Cain and Abel, Adam       Began all fatherhood. This holy, strong vocation       Combined with motherhood You work through men and women,       A fam’ly to create, The birth of sons and daughters -       Small lives to celebrate.   We pray for men as fathers,       That You would keep them strong, Resisting all temptation       ‘Gainst children to do wrong. Keep fathers bo...

It happened the other day. Someone asked me something about Texas and where I grew up. I was about to begin my explanation with two simple words, and in a flash, I realized those two words were moot: "Back home."  My mom died almost a month ago; Dad, 26 years before that. Since three of us siblings live far away from that once-upon-a-time-and-place, we got busy and started emptying Mom's house while we were all there. My sister, who lived with Mom, doesn't want to live there without her - understandably so.  Since the house I grew up in is gone, literally moved away from our old Rt. 2 Box 75 address, and now Mom's house at 123 Memory Lane is being prepped to sell, "back home," like a Bo Jackson home run, is going, going, and soon, gone.  "Back home." It was a simple, 2-word phrase to description the town, the home, and even the era where I grew up. Those words aren't unique to me, or the Walburg-Theon-Corn Hill Metroplex, or the old 3/2 ran...

I'm a man of words, both in vocation and avocation. I'm not saying that they are good words that get blended into sentences and paragraphs, but I write every week some 2000 words, plus or minus 10%. As Ray Mickan would say if someone complained about his price and wanting a discount, "Give 'em the up 20, off 10 price, Jon." So, beware complaining about the length of this piece. Since every book, article or sermon is just the dictionary reorganized, there is always something more to say. But tonight, the words are like honey left outside in February, unwanting to flow, unwanting to lend sweetness, unwanting to flavor that which is beneath the surface. The words are congealed into a mass of silence.  The silence rests in the threshold of tomorrow, as dawn hides from the eastern skyline, a future not promised yet hoped for, hoped for yet not quite like yesterday's tomorrow (which is today, for those keeping track), a future slightly less bright than just twenty t...

Yesterday, Sunday, was a tough day. I didnt think about it until my brother pointed it out, that neither of us got our Sunday morning text from Mom. I think it started during the pandemic, but every Sunday morning, Mom would send each of us a brief, 2 or 3 sentence text between 6 and 6:30am. Sometimes it was "Thinking of you as you preach God's Word today," or "Blessings on your worship." Sometimes the note included her plans: "Going to church with Jill," or "Heading off to play organ this morning." Often, the old farm-girl in her added a weather note too, about heat or cold or rain or drought. Every now and then, I beat her to the punch and texted first, but I usually let her win the simple race of who texted first.  Yesterday, my phone didn't chime with her message. There were no notes of blessing, encouragement, plans, or weather updates. My phone was strangely quiet. No more messages from Mom.  We went to Jill's church yesterday. ...

Martin Franzman, theologian par excellence , once said, "Theology must sing!" I agree. I like to sing. Good thing, since by vocation, I am a pastor. Hymns and hymnody are part of my vocation as a pastor and life as a child of God. Every Sunday, I sing between three to five hymns and, often, during the week, I find myself singing more. Sometimes, these are devotional hymns, other times they are sung as prayers, and sometimes just out of the joy of singing the familiar words. Occasionally I sing a hymn with a shut-in or someone in the hospital. Just like singing along to the radio, most hymns have a fairly neutral emotional response. But there are a few hymns that just hit me, emotionally, in a very deep space. "I know that my Redeemer lives," with its rich resurrection imagery for God's people, is one of those hymns. I remember, as a boy, singing it at my grandpa's funeral, sitting next to my parents, while they cried. The older I get, the more I understand. ...