The Tales Gifts Tell

The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light – Isaiah 9

The tree is up, the lights are lit, and the gifts are huddled beneath.

One may think of Christmas gifts as inanimate objects – things wrapped in fancy paper, tied with ribbons, topped with bows of varied sizes – but one would be wrong in their thinking.

Every gift lies quietly beneath the tree or within the stocking hung by the chimney, and while we may not hear them (with our ears) speaking or whispering, they do (in all truth) have stories to share and tales to tell.

Some gifts disappoint their recipients, of course. Who hasn’t groaned a little inside opening up that floppy package knowing full-well it was going to be socks, underwear, or a new plaid shirt to replace the ones you’ve suddenly outgrown since school started? You plaster a smile on your face, look at Mom and Dad, and beam forth with the best, “Oh, gee, thanks,” you can muster. Mom and Dad know the truth, and they certainly know the thanks is more tip of the tongue than bottom of the heart, but they accept it graciously as the morning mayhem continues.

While the practical gifts may underwhelm their young recipients, they are more than made up for by gifts that dazzle. I still remember the thrill of coming out into the living room Christmas morning so many years ago as a young lad to find a brand new Schwinn bicycle standing next to the tree – a THREE SPEED! That more than made up for the decade of underwear and socks, and my appreciation did arise from closer to the bottom of my heart.

Gifts tell a tale. Some tell us they’re here to meet our basic needs. They may not be sexy, but they have a job to do, and they tell us loved ones are watching over us. Other gifts dazzle us like lightning flashing out of the blue – an unexpected shock (like a bike), or the special something that says, “You’re the pitta to my patta!”

The gifts beneath the tree, of course, are stunt doubles. I’ve got a very nice High Definition television at home and am amazed at how well I can now discern the use of stunt doubles on some of the old shows, like Star Trek or The Rifleman. Back in the halcyon days of black and white TVs with thirteen inch screens and grainy images such details simply could not be seen. But one can sure see those personnel switches now!

Likewise, the gifts beneath the tree are low-definition stunt doubles for the greatest gift of all – Jesus Christ.

I suspect many of us are so caught up “in the moment” of Christmas morning that meditating on that first nativity is lost in the busy hum of the day’s activities: making breakfast, opening packages, getting the feast going (if hosting) or getting ready to head out to join up with family or friends.

I will confess that I have never asked God to “clothe me with your righteousness” as I’ve gotten dressed on Christmas morning. My primary goal is to remember to zip up and pray the buttons on my shirt match the button hole they’re supposed to go through!

The fact is, though, at some point of the day, it is nice to stop, pause, and reflect that while the day’s gifts may or may not delight us, they point beyond themselves to ONE who came not to tickle our fancy, but heal our wounds and tackle our woes. He does not need batteries to work, but will eventually be battered (and die) for our sake.

By the end of the Day, the house will be a mess – a disaster. It will look a bit like a proverbial tornado came blowing through while we were making merry. That, my friends, is reality’s stunt-double. No matter how hard we work to make things right, at the end of the day life can be one chaotic mess – and that’s when the gifts tell us the rest of the story.

God did not come to spend time taking care of the mess. That’s just a side-benefit of God’s real purpose: to spend time with us. That’s the tale the Christmas gifts tell in this, our valley. Merry Christmas everyone – and Happy New Year!

Note: The wax angel was a gift from a friend and has survived nearly 30 years of service (and who-knows how many moves). The angel atop our tree was a gift from my mother, who made it lo so many years ago. Both gifts are so special.

Asleep on the Hay

Finish each day and be done with it. You have done what you could. Learn from it; tomorrow is a new day – Ralph Waldo Emerson

My daughter sent a text the other day telling me that she and the family had lost power. Actually, they hadn’t lost it; they’d been disconnected. It seems their landlord had done some electrical work over the summer but had failed to pull a necessary permit or obtain an inspection. Although our daughter and her family have always been current (no pun) with their utility bills, the company (without warning or notice) cut them off (despite their being a “valued” customer).

The property owner was scrambling to do what he could to get power restored, but in the meantime, the family was without heat, lights, or the other basic necessities of life – an issue only exacerbated by it being winter. This is not a time of year one wants to go without heat – no matter who is at fault!

Without hesitation, of course, we had them come over and move in until the situation could be resolved. We enacted our own little Christmas Pageant and made room for Mary, Joseph, and baby Jesus (who, in this case, are Andrew, Jennifer, and baby Ameena – along with one of the Wise ones, their son Elijah). The set was complete, including the Innkeeper (played wonderfully well by my wife, Barb), and the requisite donkey (played by yours truly).

The crisis lasted only a day, but it was a delight to have our family together to deal with it. Like those holy refugees of old, they packed up everything they needed and made their way to our place. I had a chance to teach Elijah how to play Solitaire and, when they discovered they’d neglected to pack a bottle for Ameena (who’s almost outgrown them now that she is a year old), Elijah and I trundled off to the nearby grocery to pick one up.

Sadly, Grandpa’s not as up on Nipple technology these days as he should be, so the bottle I chose was fine, but the dispenser needed some delicate surgery to function right. Uff-da! At least I now know we have a Plastic Surgeon in the family, and the rest of the family knows I should be awarded a boobie prize for my shopping skills.

Be that all as it may, everyone survived. Around midnight Ameena alerted the world to a case of sudden dampness. Her momma was soundly asleep, so Barb and I got up to attend to Ameena who, unlike the original baby Jesus, “crying DID make.”

We got her changed (after we studied the intricacies of modern diaper design and gave it our best shot – after all, that’s what she had done!). She wasn’t quite ready to go back to sleep, however, being in unfamiliar surroundings and wanting to study her environment, so we sat together and passed the time in quiet conversation. If there is one thing I’m good at, it’s talking (and at times, acting) like a one-year-old.

Unlike my brain, the lights around our house don’t have dimmers, but over time, we turned them out one by one until we were in the relative darkness of deep night. I held that miracle we call Ameena in my lap and rocked for a while until she was perfectly at peace with the world.

I can’t help but wonder if that isn’t what God wants for us, as well: a chance to clean us, dry us, change us, and hold us safely in his (or her) lap.

When the fullness of time had come and Ameena was out for the count, I got up from the rocker (a nice change of pace as I’m usually accused of being “off” my rocker) with the child splayed out about as relaxed as a child can get, trundled to the guestroom where momma was asleep, and set her gently in her crib, covering her carefully with a blanket.

I stood over her play-pen for a moment to confirm she was safe and secure, then returned to bed for my own much-needed sleep.

I think that’s what it means to be under the loving care of One who never slumbers nor sleeps, but (who) keeps vigilant watch o’er the human race. Happy Advent & Merry Christmas to y’all in this, our valley!

Leafing Through Life

I have always imagined that Paradise will be a kind of library – Jorge Luis Borges

The day was dry and clear, and it appeared we had few more dry days ahead of us, so I decided to go out into the back yard and rake some leaves. I say “some” because I’m not too finicky. It doesn’t bother me to get most of them and leave the rest to rot and return what few nutrients they may contain back to the earth from which they sprang.

The circle of life. That’s what it’s called. The trees receive their moisture from the rains that water the earth. Water and nutrients, for the most part, are gobbled up by the roots and get converted into trunk, branch, and foliage cells. The leaves open wide and suck in the sunshine, converting those golden rays into something – God only knows what. They also draw in the carbon dioxide the plant needs, and exhales the oxygen we lunged types need.

When the leaves fall in autumn, I find myself wondering how trees breathe during the winter. The foliage is gone. Do they simply hold their breath for several months while the sun swings low, the air chills, and the rains turn to snow and ice?

Early in life, I never thought much about trees. I would complain if I had to duck under low branches while mowing (and not always successfully either, as my poor scarred noggin will affirm). We have a gorgeous maple tree in the front yard that makes mowing a challenge, not for low branches, but because it is located in such a place that makes mowing more difficult (for my somewhat obsessive/compulsive nature). It disrupts my mowing pattern and disturbs my peace worse than the thrumming of the lawnmower’s engine.

But as I have aged, I find I don’t look at trees the same way as I once did. I’ve come to appreciate them more and more. Yes, in fall I need to rake leaves, but only because it is my nature to keep the floor of the yard clean and neat. The fault for raking lies not with the tree (doing what trees do in autumn), but with me. The problem lies in MY nature, not that of the tree.

I suspect that when I rake those dried and curling corpses from around the trees from which they fell, I am removing much of what gives life to that tree and the world around it. I wonder how many worms watch me rake and think, “There goes supper!” I wonder how many creepy crawlies watch me scrape the ground (in horror) as I destroy their homes and hiding places.

Of course, out of concern for the well-being of the trees, lawn, and other plants (having removed their meals for the year), I know come spring I will head down to the store and buy a bag of chemicals I’ll have to put down (for a healthier, more luscious yard). It’s more labor and, what’s worse, the vegetation will be dining on that store-bought stuff and thinking it tastes like, um, something else.

So we come full circle. The fertilizer I put down during the vernal time of year has come back to haunt me as vegetative cast-offs. I can choose to leave them to rot (and allow nature to take its course), or I can rake them up in what is probably one of the world’s greatest acts of stupidity (not counting war). Well, I’ve never let stupidity stop me in the past and I’m not about to start now!

So off I go to rake, rake, rake / I do it all for goodness sake / I’d be better off to jump in a lake / or hit the kitchen to bake a cake / but messy yards I cannot take / so off I go to rake, rake, rake!

I don’t know if raking (or not) is good or bad. It gets me out of the house and it gets me moving, so that’s not too bad a thing.

In due season I will go the way of all flesh; then it will be my turn to fertilize the earth and someone else can choose to rake me up (or leaf me alone), and the trees will have the last laugh here in this, our valley.

Lost With the Best of Intentions

Worry often gives a small thing a great shadow – Swedish Proverb

I’m not a worrier. By that I mean, I simply don’t fret about things. Life often throws curves, but if we keep our heads and wits about us, we can generally work our way out of most predicaments.

The other day I had to drive down to Everett to sign some paperwork regarding my Dad’s estate. I ran up the address on my phone’s map app the day before, saw exactly where I needed to go, and saved it. The next day I pulled up the location on my cellphone, hit the navigate button on the touchscreen and off we went. The trip was supposed to be about forty minutes, so we gave ourselves an hour to get there.

Why so early? Because I grew up in a home where “early is on time, on time is late, and late is inexcusable.” Now, I am not prone to judging people, but must confess that people who are chronically tardy grind my grits. So that’s why we left the house with time to spare. It’s a good thing, too.

I listened to our cellular backseat driver and arrived at the appointed place with twenty minutes to spare, only there was no there there. The address didn’t exist. Horrified, I pulled over, did a search for the company I was seeking (which is nowhere as pleasant as the company I had – my wife) and it turned out the address I was looking for was not “820 street name” but “2820 street name.” I don’t know how that happened, but it did, and we still had plenty of time to make our appointment.

So I reset the Navigator and it got us downtown to near where we needed to be but, once again, there was no there there. I pulled over into the last remaining parking spot in Downtown Everett (a miracle, to be honest) and called the office I was on the hunt for. I told the receptionist where I was and she gave me quick and simple directions, so we left the parked car and walked a single block to our destination and arrived – ONE minute early (so I was ON TIME)!

There’s an old saying that if we want to give God a good laugh, all we need to do is make a plan. I understand. Life, as I said, tends to throw us curves. But I also know that planning ahead saves a lot of grief. I appreciate map and satellite technology which, up until the other day, is generally dependable, but I also know it is anything BUT flawless.

I was driving along one day in the early days of civilian quality GPS, and the device kept asking me to return to the road I was on. The GPS showed me to be about fifty yards off the highway, but I could see clearly that I was on it AND in my proper lane. That same unit had me drive around in circles in San Francisco as it had no idea how to get me from where I was to where I was heading. So, technology has its place, but it can’t replace human reasoning (completely). I have heard of people driving into lakes or rivers simply because they preferred to listen to their cell phones than to use (and believe) their eyes.

One could say they should use more common sense, but I am convinced common sense is a myth – as real as a Sasquatch and as rare as a Unicorn. Trust me, I’m not pointing fingers here. If there is one thing I know, it is that I don’t have a lot of common sense. That’s why I plan ahead!

Planning ahead removes the teeth from many of life’s worries. Before going on a trip I always have the car or truck serviced. That doesn’t mean we won’t have mechanical problems, but it reduces the chance we’ll have problems. Each day is a journey, according to the old cliché. It’s true, so I approach each day taking care of what needs to be done so I don’t need to worry about it.

Addressing every trouble spot as best I can, I’m free to enjoy my life and leave the rest to God (on time) in this, our valley.

Halloween Cometh

You can’t come back to a home unless it was a home you went away from. Carl Sandburg

I looked out the window and saw the lighted pumpkin jack-o-lantern on the porch across the street. It is a very nice decoration; it is perfect in every way.

That’s because it’s store-bought, and before you think I’m poking fun at it or the neighbors, be assured I am not. It is quite tasteful and exquisite. I just found myself reminiscing as I stared at it across the way of how much life has changed over the past number of decades.

You’ll be reading this on or about Halloween and, I must confess, that is and always has been amongst my favorite holidays of the year. It isn’t just the treats (although my sweet-tooth has never been sweeter than it is now) or the costumed hooligans running wild on their sugar-highs, but the complete lack of expectations the day holds.

Families don’t gather to feast, watch football, and argue politics. Banks and government offices remain open for business, and we pop in to do what needs doing without fretting over people “missing out” on the holidays. Kids of all ages go door to door begging (and playfully threatening mayhem) and we feign surprise, delight, or fear as we dole out the store-bought treats (because what you could catch if you ate from many of our home kitchens is truly frightful!).

The kids stroll around, many in store-bought costumes (and I’m not putting that down), but it causes me to stop and wonder: are families so strapped for time they can’t make their own costumes? If they are, that is a sad state of affairs.

Looking through old family photos I hadn’t seen in years (after my Dad’s passing), I saw the picture of my brother in his steel-gray robot costume, fashioned out of cardboard boxes cut and spray painted and hung together with duct tape. I was dressed as a swash-buckling pirate; my dad’s hat pinned into a tri-corner pirate’s hat, and my sister’s white blouse with ruffles down the front helped me look ever-so-much like Errol Flynn or Tyrone Power. The grease-painted beard helped a lot! My sisters were a fairy godmother and a royal princess (Cinderella, perhaps).

When our own kids were growing up, we made every effort to craft costumes at home, but I know there was some transitioning to store-bought options. Our daughter loved being a pumpkin and, frankly, trying to craft a pumpkin or jack-o-lantern by hand wasn’t in our household skill-set.

Still, it was fun putting costumes together and then, at dark, walking the neighborhood with our kids and listening to the shouts of glee and terror; we had one neighbor who loved sitting still on his front porch, dressed as a scare-crow, and suddenly jumping to his feet at just the last moment putting both kids and parents into immediate cardiac arrest!

Sadly, Halloween seems to be going the way of all good things. It is still a week away as I write this, and schmaltzy Christmas movies have begun their run on the cable channels. Big box stores have had their Christmas displays up for a month (at least), and the news is “reporting” that Christmas specials and sales have begun and warning consumers that if they don’t grab their stuff now, it may be (gasp) too late, later!!!

Those things are outside my control, of course. One cannot direct the rising of the sun or hold back the tides or return the world’s ills and pestilences to Pandora and her infamous Box. No amount of weeping or wailing will restore the world to a golden age which (if we’re completely honest) never truly existed in the first place.

What we CAN do, however, is carve out space and time in our lives to remember the past with thanksgiving, and see how it might shape us here and now, today. The candy, costumes, and decorations are nothing more than props and set-pieces. What counts is taking time with those we love and crafting stories we’ll tell for tomorrow.

The pumpkin across the street is made of plastic, of course, but the memories it stirs are real. The ghosts and goblins contain the hearts of children, so I’ll embrace them forever in this, our cobwebbed valley.

Friday the Thirteenth

It’s your story. Feel free to hit ‘em with a plot twist any moment. Author Unknown

Friday the 13^th came a few weeks late for us this September past.

Now, I am not one of those who associates Friday the Thirteenth with bad luck or portents of doom. If anything, those days have been filled with blessings and all sorts of good things over the years, so I’ve never given them much thought. Besides, I don’t ponder life’s happenstances in terms of luck – good OR bad.

Life is, and we take it as it comes. If there is a correlation to be found, it is generally that we get what we expect. If we expect bad things to happen, they do. If we expect good things to happen, they do. Some of that has to do with seeing what we expect to see.

Some people look at clouds and foresee rain. Others look at clouds and see dragons or bunnies. I admire those who perceive the fanciful in cloud formations. Rain and snow are real enough for me; I’ll take fluffy bunnies and wonky doggies any day of the week!

The other day, though, was another matter. Barb-the-love-of-my-life and I went down to the local Department of Licensing to convert our drivers licenses to the new and improved “Enhanced” licenses so that we will be able to board planes or travel into Canada from time to time. The local DOL was virtually empty, so we were called up immediately. I presented my documents to the smiling, pleasant clerk, and within just a few minutes, I paid my fee and was finished.

Barb, on the other hand, was stymied. Since her birth name differed from her married name, she needed a copy of the marriage license before her clerk could proceed. We drove home, grabbed the marriage license out of our files and returned with it to the DOL, and presented it to the clerk with whom Barb had been working. The clerk admired the document but told us it wasn’t acceptable as it wasn’t a “certified” copy.

I pointed out to the clerk that not only was it an original document, but it had allowed us to make several children! She apologized, spoke with her supervisor, and informed us (with some regret) that we needed a “certified” copy of the marriage license issued by the county in which we were married.

Now, we could have gotten all hot and bothered, but the law is what it is, and while I may (personally) think it truly stupid that all the documents we brought to prove we are who we are were insufficient for obtaining the document we were seeking, so-be-it; we’d move along and send away for what we need. We’ll return when we have it (probably a week or so) and that’ll be that.

We then left there and went to a pharmacy to have passport photos taken (as our passports had expired and were in need of renewing). The clerk pulled out his camera, sent me to where I needed to stand, and – nothing. The camera battery had died and he wouldn’t be able to take any pictures for at least a half an hour. Uff da!

So we wandered over to the pharmacy counter to turn in some old, expired prescription drugs, for we were told they had a disposal/return service. Nope. Wrong again. Not only did they have dead batteries in their cameras, they weren’t part of the drug-return program advertised on television, either. Uff da x2!

We left the store, got back into the car, looked at each other, and I said, “Well, it looks like Friday the Thirteenth came a couple of weeks late for us.”

To say that life throws curves is an old, tired cliché, but it’s true. Some days it doesn’t pay to get out of bed, but when things need doing, there’s no use putting them off, and if challenges arise, we simply face them, address them, and when finished, we move on. It’s called “acting like grown-ups.”

If the worse thing to happen on a given day is a dead battery or bureaucratic snafu, that’s not bad. We have the basic necessities of life – and more. We’ve got clouds. We can see rain, or we can see dragons. The choice is always ours in this, our valley.

Tripping Into Fall

It’s your story. Feel free to hit ‘em with a plot twist any moment. Author Unknown

The weather has cooled down significantly. The grass has turned a brilliant green as it re-awakens from its summer slumbers – a final shot at life before going back to sleep for the winter. We’ve still got some flowers blooming their heads off in the yard as they don’t seem to have gotten the memo that “the seasons – they are a changin’.”

Fall is and always has been my favorite time of year. As a child, fall meant leaving those dog days of summer behind and going back to school to rub elbows with friends and buddies I hadn’t seen for a couple of months. It meant kicking through piles of leaves that littered the sidewalks – making like an NFL kicker out to “win it” for the team. It meant watching in fascination “helicopter” seeds falling from the maple trees, spinning their way to earth.

The start of school also meant new clothes! It meant jeans that were generally too long (in September; just right around Valentine’s Day; looking pretty “high water” come school-years’ end); it meant shirts with sharp-pointed collars and rich, clearly identifiable colors; it meant full-length #2 pencils (complete with bright pink erasers and perfectly pristine points of lead); it meant a completely fresh start, with clean blackboards (which would eventually become green-boards – long before the advent of efficient (but boring) white-boards and dry-erase markers).

No one ever accused me of being a scholar back in those halcyon days of yore, but the fact is I was seldom bored. I enjoyed school. I enjoyed going to classes, as well as recess and lunch. I appreciated having each day laid out in an orderly fashion – dependable in its purpose and rhythm.

I am sure there were bullies in those days, too, but I honestly don’t remember ever having to deal with them. I do recall stepping in to break up a wrestling match where one lad was definitely bullying another kid. The bully and I wrestled a bit while the unfortunate target of his abuse ran off to safety, but when we were done that was that and nothing more ever came of it. Life rolled along and was delightful in that it was primarily and blissfully uneventful for the most part.

The scariest part of living in the 50s and 60s was the threat of nuclear war. I didn’t pay much attention to world events in those days, but the Cuban Missile Crisis during the Kennedy administration was the closest thing to feeling we were going to be vaporized and become an extinct species I’d ever felt. But I also trusted in God and in the “rightness” of the American way of life and the probability that we would come through this crisis just like we had come through the past couple of world wars. So I kept the faith and never lost hope. The fear of nuclear annihilation never dominated my attention for more than a minute or two at a time.

Those days are long gone, of course. I am in the autumnal years of my life, and just as the fall betokened new life in a strange sort of way for we school-aged wee-ones, so do these present days do the same for me now.

I am able, in retirement, to spend time doing the things that energize me. At least that’s the theory. The fact is that without the daily rhythm and routine of life’s labors, work schedules, appointments, and such what-not, I’ve had to wrestle with what it means to have that so-called leisure time. Once the house is clean, the dishes done, the lawn mowed and trimmed – what is there?

Life has been good to us. God has been good to us. Retirement is not the end of work (or life, for that matter), but an opportunity to sharpen new pencils, kick new leaves, and seek out new helicopter seeds with which to be fascinated and mesmerized. As always, we are beckoned to move forward with eyes wide open lest we trip and fall (and enjoy a Pumpkin Spice Latte, if one so wishes).

Ultimately, we each are called to continue becoming what God has called us to be here in this, our autumnal valley – God’s children, each and every one.

The Echo of Time

If you don’t like something, change it. If you can’t change it, change your attitude. – Dr. Maya Angelou

I opened the garage door and the place was empty. Except for a few naked cabinets lined up against the far wall and beneath the window to my right, the garage was empty from the floor to the rafters. Aside from a couple of stray spider webs, there was nothing to see except a few old water stains from before the roof had been redone.

I’ve never seen the garage or home this way. My folks moved into the house in Federal Way when I was away to college, and so I had never seen it bereft of furnishings, possessions, or the bric-a-brac of life. I expected to hear the echo of footsteps as I stepped into the house from the garage, but it was solidly built, and the carpet absorbed the sound of my sneakers quite well.

My eyes scanned the family room – the “blue room” as we called it – like Doppler radar. There was nothing to see. The television was gone, as were the tables, chairs, doilies, speakers, and everything else that made the room unique to its owner before he’d died.

The ugliest speaker cable you could imagine – the one that snaked its way from the entertainment center, up and over the casements of both the door to the garage and the utility closet, and down again to the back of the room – was gone. It had looked like an anorexic python in both color and form, and now it had slithered away to feed on discarded computer mice at the local landfill.

It’s funny. I had a strange sense of being at home, and yet not being there at the same time. You see, I had never lived in the house in Federal Way, and so it never quite had the feel of home. My childhood memories weren’t there. When people ask where I’m from, I tell them Seattle. If they know the city, I specify Ballard or, more specifically, Crown Hill. That’s where I grew up; that’s where you’d look to find my heart.

It’s in the little Cracker Jack box of a house (about 600 square feet of living space) where I and the rest of our family of six shared life (and one bathroom). It’s where I played stick-ball on the corner with Mark and Roger from across the street, and Jimmy from around the corner. It’s where a kindly neighbor suggested I choke up on the bat as it was a bit too heavy for those noodles I had for arms. Ignoring his advice, I struck out, because I couldn’t admit to myself that perhaps he was right.

Home is where the heart is. Today, my heart is in Mount Vernon. To be honest, I’ve never struggled with heart transplants. I feel at home wherever I go. To put it another way, I’ve always been a sojourner. I’ve never settled down for any great length of time. I’m not exactly a nomad, but I’ve picked up and moved along regularly enough to know that it is best to take one’s heart wherever one goes, so I’ve learned to be at home wherever I am.

So I wandered through the house in Federal Way, now empty of all its stuff. Our family pulled out as much as any of us could, what with each of us having our own households, and we fingered our way through the treasures and mementoes as we came across them. Some we kept. Some we boxed up for storage. Some we delivered to charities and second hand shops. And when we had done what we could, we hired a crew to come in and, out of our sight, dispose of everything else as faithfully and lovingly as only strangers would be able to. They did for us what we could not, or dared not try to do for ourselves.

“In my father’s house are many rooms,” says Jesus. I suspect they will echo until we fill them with the furniture of love, joy, and peace – the same as what God expects us to fill the rooms of our lives with here in this life.

Wait! I do hear an echo; it is the echo of God’s heart beating in this, our valley – our home.

Stumped

“Daydreaming gently of brisk autumn days, of fire colored leaves and fading sun rays.” A.R. (October, Come Soon)

I’ve been spending the past couple of weeks cutting down a birch tree out back in the corner of our yard. It stands about twenty five feet tall, I would guess, and is mostly dead. At least it looks sick to my eye and seems to be negatively impacting another birch that stands next to it. My guess is the people who planted them so many years ago thought they each had plenty of room to branch out, but it was not to be.

I don’t like cutting down trees, to be honest. I like plants, and I like nature (as long as it stays outside – nature I mean. I like nature to stay outside; it’s too dirty to let into the house). In any case, I like to let nature take its course and fill in blank spaces the way God intended. However, this birch drops branches every times there is any breeze, so we’ve got to go out daily and police the grounds. So it seemed the time had come to cut down this tree to make more room for its neighbor to spread its wings.

The job has been pretty easy. One benefit of being retired is I’m in no hurry; as we pay for weekly green-waste bin disposal anyway, I’ve been able to de-limb the tree week by week, working my way up until now I have mostly the main trunk and a few outriggers left to tend to. As I stand back and look, I have a good sense of what needs to be done.

Interestingly, when I get up into the tree (or alongside it on a ladder) I find myself overcome by a sudden case of vertigo, and the task looks more overwhelming than what I can handle. From afar, I am the Little Train that Could. Up close, I find myself just a bit punier than what I’d like to admit to anyone.

And so the tree and I find ourselves in a bit of a standoff. While I like to think of myself as a mostly competent human being, I also know I have what it takes to win the Darwin Award every time I tackle a job for which I am not equipped physically, psychologically, or intellectually. I would love to think I can outwit an inanimate object, but experience suggests otherwise.

Every time I take a shower, I find cuts and bruises about which I have no recollection of acquiring. It is like the world is assailing me from every quarter, and all I’ve got to show for it are dime and penny sized gashes. It seems my skin is getting thinner, while what it contains isn’t. How ironic!

I know the best way to tackle what remains of my recalcitrant birch tree is to simply fell it so I can finish hacking it down to size with my trusty little electric chainsaw (which is, more honestly, a butter-knife with a cord).

The trick is getting it to land where I want it to, as it stands alongside the new fence our neighbor put up, as well as some yard decorations that are immobile, but fragile. I need to think it through before taking that next step.

That is something else I have learned to do in retirement. I’ve learned to take time to think. I know I am capable of over-thinking things, for that’s what I do. Sometimes it leads to the paralysis of analysis, but in reality it saves time in the long run, and that’s what counts.

I can remember being asked by my grandmother to run around the corner from her house to pick up a loaf of bread or quart of milk (back in the days when there were corner groceries owned by locals). I bolted out the door on a mission and was halfway there before realizing I hadn’t waited for my grandmother to give me any money.

My grandmother had an adage for everything. Her response? “Haste makes waste.” She never chastised me or scolded me. Patiently, she would allow me to live and learn, make mistakes and fix them.

I’ll go out on a limb today and suggest that’s good advice for all of us here in this, our valley.

Branching Out

“It’s interesting how something that comes so easily to one person can be so impossible for someone else.” Susane Colasanti, So Much Closer

My wife and I were out for a walk the other day. As we returned home I looked up into the maple tree that dominates our front yard and noticed some leaves beginning to change. It shouldn’t have surprised me, because I had noticed a few dried leaves blowing about the driveway like a flock of drunken, whirling dervishes. I checked my phone and confirmed what I had suspected; we were still in the first half of August, so it seemed strange that the leaves should be starting to fall.

Trees are intriguing. I love the shade they provide on a hot summer’s day. I love how they look so dead in winter, yet each spring they return to life. New branches shoot forth while dead stuff falls to the ground with each passing breeze and storm. Leaves unfurl, as if by magic, and one can almost hear them inhale the old, stale carbon dioxide we’ve let go, while returning oxygen to the lunged species of the world around them.

I don’t know if trees experience happiness or joy; I know scientists say they “compete” for resources, like light, water, and the nutrients of the soil, but I’m not sure competition is the best word to describe what they do. Humans compete. Wolves compete. Birds compete. We so-called higher life-forms compete for food and mates, but it isn’t that way with trees and flowers.

We may describe what they do as competition, but in reality there is no ego involved. A plant needs water, so it sends forth roots. It seeks, and it finds. It does not desire the death or dehydration of its neighbor. In times of plenty it thrives, and in times of deprivation it stands still and waits. It does not twiddle its stems in boredom, but stands ready to change as needed with the seasons.

Although I can be a bit of a blockhead, I’m not a very good tree. I can measure two board feet at the lumber yard, which is strange as I can’t hold a tape measure with my two bored feet. I used to pine for oak, but now I pre-fir walnut.

In any case, I found myself befuddled by the sight of leaves turning brown so soon. It seems too early for leaves to be turning colors and dropping from the tree, and yet I believe a tree knows by nature what we try to figure out by the calendars we hang on the wall.

The maple doesn’t turn red in embarrassment that she’s losing her cover. It is in her DNA to do what she does when she does it. She responds to the arc of the sun and the lengthening or shortening of days to decide when to send forth shoots and when to let go.

I sometimes wish I could be more like the tree in that regard. I prefer to hang on to things. I think I got that from my father, who recently passed away.

He was not a hoarder, but he was a child of the Great Depression, so he never replaced what could be fixed. And when things were beyond repair, he would scavenge the parts for future use. Jars and cans of leftover screws, nuts, springs, and washers fill the garage and shop. It wasn’t an obsession; it’s simply what he did out of habit.

I’ve learned to let go of things over the years. Ministerial transfers made those sacrifices essential and, truth be told, they really weren’t sacrifices. In lightening the load, we saved ourselves (and those moving us) a fair amount of money.

Harder to give up are life’s grievances. Each of us has them and, as long as we hang onto them, they weigh us down, slow us up, and cost us far more to carry than we generally realize. If we are wise, we learn to leave our burdens behind as we move forward – to drop them like leaves.

To our great delight, when we let them go, they don’t just litter the forest floor, they return nutrients to the soil from which we will feed as we reach each ensuing season. Happily, that enables us to branch out more fruitfully in this, our valley.

A Divine Washout

“I don’t think there’s anything wrong with being a dreamer.” “There is not. But dreams have a way of turning into nightmares.” Erin Morgenstern, The Night Circus

It was a hot, bright, sunny day. The birds were sitting on cables stretched along the roads. Their mouths were open as they sometimes are. I don’t know if birdies are trying to cool down when they do that or if they’re just ready to say something but can’t find the words. In any case, it was a hot, stuffy day, and no one was doing more than they had to.

On the side of my truck was evidence that a bird had recently sat upon the power line that stretches over my parking space. I looked at the streaky white and gray paste that dribbled down the door of the truck like some avian Rorschach test, and suspected I had possibly been blessed by the highly unusual visit of some lost Condor.

In any case, the unsightly blotch needed to be dealt with and it was far too hot to haul out a bucket of soapy water and hose, so I trundled on down to the local service station, fueled up the truck, and put it through their automatic car-wash service. I handed the attendant my slip with the car-wash code on it and, as he read the details through eyes drenched with perspiration, I casually joked, “You know, this means we’re going to get rain.”

A virtual gully-washer of sweat poured off his forehead as he nearly broke a smile, thanked me for my patronage, and waved me into the mouth of the noisy Rube Goldbergesque cavern which lay ahead.

I marvel at contraptions like that. As I rolled my way through the machine, pushed along a metal track by some mechanical gee jaw, I gazed in awe at the tangle of hoses, pipes, and gizmos that sprayed soap, water, and wax all over my vehicle while industrial strength brushes whipped and stripped the dirt away. I don’t know how it does what it does without inflicting grievous bodily harm to the vehicles that pass through, but it does (and it did).

I came out the other end all wet and shiny. Well, I didn’t come out that way, but I was in the truck when it came out all spic and span, and that’s what counts. Another attendant wiped down the vehicle with a soft cloth, put the side mirrors back into their rightful places, and waved me off (with a smile) to my next adventures. I returned his smile and tipped him my appreciation; I then made my way home (keeping an eagle eye on the sky for avian bombardiers), and parked once again in my customary spot.

Well, I got up this morning, opened the drapes, and noted with smug satisfaction that it did, indeed, rain overnight. The air is now clean and fresh, and the dirt that was washed out of the air now sits upon the truck in the silent acknowledgement that my prediction for rain had come true.

I chuckled sardonically to myself. I laughed quietly as I didn’t want to wake my dearly beloved, nor did I want my neighbors to think they lived beside a homicidal maniac (about which there wasn’t much they could do anyway).

But isn’t that the way of life? We do what needs to be done knowing full well that it won’t be long before the task is undone or needs doing again. One can grimace about it, I suppose, or complain bitterly, but to what purpose? The obstacles in life do not obstruct us on our journey. They ARE the journey, according to an ancient mystic.

And so we smile, thanking God for the rain that waters the earth, rather than cursing the shower for spotting up our vehicle. After all, do we curse our dishes for needing to be washed, or do we thank God for the food that graces our plates?

Approaching life with an attitude of gratitude has really helped me sleep better at night. It helps me in my relationships with friends, family, and strangers alike. I think it makes me a more pleasant ragamuffin to be around.

And it’s far cheaper than a carwash (and more fun than a Rorschach test) here in this, our valley.

Problem Solved

Though the Lord be high, God cares for the lowly; God keeps his distance from the haughty.  – Psalm 138

I was going through some old papers the other day and ran across this gem: Identify a problem you have and work through (the following) steps to solve them. Make sure the problem is YOURS to solve. Don’t solve someone else’s problem.

I like solving problems. That’s good, because I’m also an expert at creating them (problems, not solutions). Try as I might to communicate clearly, succinctly, and accurately, someone invariably goofs up down the line. Sometimes that someone is me. Sometimes it is the other person. Either way, when the problem arises, I do try to find out what happened and fix it. What doesn’t work (I’ve learned) is to get angry or fix blame.

On my Dad’s kitchen window is a placard that’s sat there for years. The bit of wisdom it contains is: It is better to love than to be right.

Now, my ego would prefer to be right, and the fact is I’ve never had an argument where I didn’t think I was right or in the right from the start. It would be silly to start an argument knowing or believing one is mistaken, in error, or outright wrong.

Now, I know people who would argue the sky is green for the sake of argument. They love the adrenaline rush that comes from being in a fight. But that person’s not me.

I’ve also learned over the years that if one puts themselves in the shoes of the other person (which, admittedly, makes for a crowded pair of shoes) and looks at the matter from their perspective, they too may have a point. So why fight? Why not listen carefully, weigh the facts as best one can, and look for a solution that works for everyone?

I remember learning about a thing called “The Common Good” when I was growing up. The idea they talked about was remembering we are not alone in this world. It required acknowledging there are other people – whether in this family, community, or world – and that they have as much right to be here as we do.

As a child growing up in a tiny home housing six people with one bathroom, each of whom had to rise and shine and get off to work or school, cooperating was critical. We had sufficient food for our meals, and we served ourselves, but we each took care to moderate our portions so that everyone would have what they needed for their own plates.

We also had one television, but reception was so poor (and with the constant rolling of a picture we could not stabilize) there wasn’t much fighting over programming. With three channels, we always had a 33% chance of watching the show we wanted to anyway.

No, when one looks at life from the shoes or sandals of their neighbor, it is amazing how many issues can be avoided. That doesn’t mean we need to become doormats, of course.

It seems people are more aggressive and obnoxious of late. I think a good portion of that is due to our continued and continuing isolation. Everyone has their own television; each of us has nose buried in our computer, tablet, or cellphone. People utilize social media as a megaphone for their pet projects or from which to projectile vomit their displeasure at others. Wasn’t it nice when the worse we saw on social media was the oatmeal someone had at Denney’s with a loved one?

We often talk about all our connections, and yet it seems that our connections have divided us. Not only that, but we can block one another with ease. Say something I don’t like? Block! Problem solved … or is it?

No, the problem isn’t solved. It’s only been made worse, because blocking another person denies them their place in your life. A lawyer asked Jesus, “Who is my neighbor?” His question was a coin with another side: “Who is NOT my neighbor?”

Jesus’ answer, in sum was: Your neighbor is the one you’d rather be dead than to have them touch you.” Ouch!

So, I am going to continue to find solutions rather than fix blame. I’ll try to love rather than to be right: Problem solved for another week in this, our valley.

Weeds, Bees, and the Local Buzz

It doesn’t matter who hurt you, or broke you down. What matters is who made you smile again - Anonymous

The other day I went out to hack away some of the overgrown weeds around my father’s house. He’s not able to tend to them anymore, so I do what I can to control the tangle of greenery. They look like they’re victims of some botanical form of highway robbery, reaching for the sky as if they’re going to be shot.

I know I can be a vegicidal maniac, but I don’t shoot the shoots. Rather, I chase after them a bit like Freddy Kruger or Michael Myers of horror movie fame, slashing at them with garden shears, rusty hoes, or chattering hedge trimmers. If that doesn’t make your sap run cold, you ain’t got no sap! Speaking of saps …

Summers in the Pacific Northwest are absolutely amazing. Things grow so fast out here. A yard can be wonderfully landscaped, each plant shaped and sized to fit its tract ever so perfectly, but within a year, it becomes a jungle. Invading Triffids would stand no chance against the local flora. Even as careful as I am, as well-equipped and well dressed as I am for my assault on the overgrown brambles of life, they do not go quietly into the bin for garden clippings. They have their own plan of attack, snagging anything and everything they can find.

It’s no wonder I’m not overly fond of yard work. I am sure I leave a pint of blood for every ounce of sap they leave behind. I like to think of myself as a man of peace, but the shrubs have made a bushwacker of me, instead. I should “leaf” them alone.

That’s easier said than done, of course. I was out spraying dandelions the other day (a real pain in the grass, if you ask me) and a neighbor noted in passing, “You know, if dandelions were hard to grow, we’d treasure them the same as we do our roses or orchids. They’re actually kind of pretty.”

When you think about it, it’s true. When I peek at a dandelion, I see a weed, but it’s not all that unpleasant to look at. A weed, as we are told, is just a flower that grows where you don’t want it. Every spring I head out and admire the fields of daffodils and tulips in the Skagit Valley, and yet whenever I see a lawn that’s more dandelion than grass, I’m offended. Why is that?

Who made me a judge over the world’s botanical delights – to decide what is worthy and what isn’t? At the end of the plant planting day, did God say, “It is good” or “Ew, ick, dandelions!”?

God found everything in creation to be delightful. Do honeybees avoid dandelions? Of course not!

I have only been stung three times in my life by honeybees and, ironically, all three occurred on the same day, and each bee was on a dandelion I had carelessly trampled while barefooted. I was about twelve years of age at the time, and I learned two things. One, watch where I step, and two, wear shoes … period.

Bees don’t seem to care whether the flower they milk for nectar is a weed or something else. What they care about is that it has what they need for the health and well-being of the hive. A flower is their gold; they need not dig for it, nor do they need to melt it down or refine it. They do not destroy the flower, kill it, or crush it. They simply flit from plant to plant, benefiting the entire field by transferring pollen from one plant to the next.

I’ve gotten to that stage in life where I’m less interested in pulling weeds, and more interested in sitting in the back yard, sipping a spot of tea (with a touch of honey) and appreciating how plants are contributing more to the health of our planet than I am with my hacking and wheezing.

The fact is there is little reason to do as much “yard work” as is often done for in the end, nature wins. Nature always wins. I want to learn to relax and enjoy creation more; that’s the buzz here in this, our valley.

The Age of Tolerance

My tongue will tell the anger of my heart, or else my heart concealing it will break. William Shakespeare

One day people brought children to Jesus to be blessed by him. His disciples tried to keep those rowdies away. Maybe they were trying to protect Jesus – his time and energy. Perhaps they wanted to keep Jesus for themselves – jealous of any and all who would come between him and them. It is also possible they felt children weren’t worth his time and attention. Maybe they thought blessings poured out onto ankle-biters would diminish the supply of blessings they wanted for themselves.

Whatever their reasons and motives, Jesus was quite clear: “Suffer the children to come unto me.” I always thought the use of the term “suffer” was strange. I know the old English term means to “allow” – to allow the children to come to (Jesus), but it still seems strange. It implies that there is a burden involved, for to suffer is to bear up under the burden of some person or situation.

Life is full of burdens, of course. There are people who drive too slowly in the fast lanes. There are homeless camps littered with garbage, used needles, and assorted cast-offs. There are people who show up late for appointments, forget to silence their cellphones at the movies, talk too loudly in restaurants, or fail to wash their hands after using the facilities.

It is so easy to be intolerant if we want to. Like the disciples, we can operate out of fear or anger. We can try to protect One who needs no protecting, or prevent others from drawing near to One who wants nothing more than to gather all people – the clean and the unclean alike – beneath the shadow of his wings.

To be welcoming and affirming is a burden, of course, because it means putting our own attitude and perspective on hold or at least on a back burner. It means there is a number one, and that One’s not me (or you). That’s an uncomfortable place to be. There are seven billion souls on this planet (not to mention all the non-humans), which means few of us will ever be anywhere but in the great muddle of the middle. I think Jesus would recommend we learn to accept our place in the universe and not be too pushy.

I had popped in to grab some groceries the other day and needed to pick up some green onions. A woman had parked her cart in front of the green onions while she examined the contents of the radish bin with the thoroughness of an IRS auditor. Not one radish escaped her eagle-eyed survey as I patiently stood by until she had finished. Nothing I did was heroic; I was simply stoic. When she was done, she moved on and I got what I needed.

There was no applause from my fellow shoppers, and I doubt seriously there was much rejoicing amongst the heavenly hosts. I just figure people have enough burdens of their own to deal with, why should I add to them by being intolerant?

The same goes for politics. Each of us has a perspective on who or what is best for us or our community. Goodness knows I do. I’d even like to think I am right, but a moment of thoughtful reflection would confirm that others are, first of all, entitled to their opinions and, secondly, have perspectives based upon experiences which could enlighten or inform me. Working humbly together, we might be surprised and find better solutions and make better decisions than if we simply screamed loudly at one another.

Each of us brings something important to the table – our experience, strength, and hope. So rather than trying to “win” an argument, perhaps we should suffer the other to come to the table. After all, it has been said that a burden shared is a burden halved.

Jesus acknowledged that others could be a burden. “Suffer them,” he says. That includes us, of course. I can sometimes be unbearably insufferable. But Jesus’ shoulders are broad, strong, and more than up to the task of carrying us all across the finish line.

Can we do less than suffer one another here in this, our valley? I hope so.

The Old and the Gray

And now that I am old and gray-headed, O God, do not forsake me, till I make known your strength to this generation and your power to all who are to come … Psalm 71

I am old and gray-headed as I start this column. I wasn’t always that way, of course. I was once a bouncing baby boy – full of life and drool and (likely) a bit of other stuff as well. I knew nothing of God and don’t know a whole lot more now. I grew up in a family that didn’t go to church, so my earliest experience of God was generally as a word attached to a string of other words expressing some displeasure toward someone or some unpleasant thing the adult members of the family were experiencing (I’ll mention no names).

That changed over the years and we began to attend a local church which, to be honest, I found quite boring. The music leader would jump up and down trying to whip the congregation into a frenzy whenever they were singing one of their hymns, and yet the congregation just dragged its feet and refused to become enthused.

We sang sitting down, as I recall, and if there is one thing I’ve learned over the intervening decades it’s that one cannot sing while sitting down. You need to stand to allow your diaphragm to work properly, and to get your air moving in and out with strength and gusto (and hit those gosh-awful high notes that are thrown in for good measure by those dirge-writing craftsmen of yore).

Well, we did some church-shopping back in those days and finally found a parish where the people stood to sing and knelt to pray and where it seemed God was something other than a swear-word. And with that, something changed in me.

I loved the calisthenics in church. We were always moving: standing, sitting, and kneeling. Worship wasn’t passive, but active, and I came to discover that a congregation isn’t an audience sitting listlessly while watching an entertainment event up front, but a community gathered before God to engage in a divine conversation.

There is no one right way to do church, of course. People may look around and I suspect they are bewildered by all the different choices out there in their communities. I think humans are diverse enough that God recognizes a diversity of expressions will, of necessity, take place. I appreciate the more settled rhythm and flow of a liturgically oriented church. Others may prefer more loosie-goosie expressions of faith. Each is different from the other, yet each points beyond itself to God.

Today, I am old. I’m not decrepit (yet), but there are days I feel my age more than others. I’m old and I have come to believe more and more two things about God: God is love, and in our being filled with the Divine, God expects us to share that love.

Some may complain that’s too simplistic. They could be right. Who am I to argue? I am sure God has enough space in heaven that those who are of an exclusive bent can have their own quarters and not be disturbed by the grand banquet taking place for the rest.

That’s the other thing I’ve learned. I am here, and my life’s experience has spanned fewer than seven decades in that continuum called eternity. I don’t really think God expects any of us to get our acts all that well put together to be perfectly right about anything. She is satisfied to have us sit in the back seat of the Family Sedan and not kill each other on this trip we call life.

God’s promise, as I understand it, is that God will lend us the strength and the power we need to behave responsibly in taking care of creation, in loving one another, and in being decent human beings – reflections of the Divine – in our own speaking and doing.

We may botch things up from time to time; I know I have, do, and will! But we have God’s word that we have been forgiven, are forgiven, and will be forgiven. God expects us to pass that favor (called “grace”) along: “Forgive us … as we forgive …”

That’s my heart’s hope and desire in this, our valley. Have a great week!

Blog a Day - Keyword: Golden

Haiku

Golden Sun, blue sky

clouds wafting lightly up high

my summer will fly.

Where the Wind Blows

Life contains but two tragedies. One is not to get your heart’s desire; the other is to get it. Socrates

A few months ago we had a fairly strong windstorm blow through our neighborhood. It wasn’t anything like the tornadic activities we see in the nation’s midsection this time of year, but it was enough to blow down sections of fence between us and our neighbors next door.

While it wasn’t the best looking fence I had ever seen, I didn’t realize just how rotten the fence posts had become over the decades since they had been put in. The whole property predates us, of course, as my wife and I have only lived here a couple of years. Still, it is what it is, and so we talked things over with our neighbor and made plans to replace the fence this spring, and the time has come to get ‘er done.

There are a few bushes alongside the fence that Barb and I have never much cared for. They are a wind-break variety of evergreen that stand about eight feet tall. As wind-breaks, they obviously didn’t work, and we never really liked either them or their placement in the yard. Seeing as they were standing in the way of the fence repair job we were about to undertake, we decided to take them out to make our work easier.

I grabbed all my tree-felling equipment and approached the offending greenery with all the confidence of Paul Bunyan and Babe. I stood there, hand on hip, sizing up the monstrous forest before me, curled my lips in the meanest manner I could muster, seized my chainsaw, plugged it in and, voila, the battle was joined!

I approached the base of the first bush, wielding my chainsaw as if it was a Samurai’s Katana. Sadly, my little electric chainsaw has about as much bite as a slug on downers. The chain screamed its little Bonzai while the bush simple shivered in laughter. But I persisted. I did not give up, and after a few minutes the first trunk (of about an inch in diameter) gave way and toppled over. I’m not sure, but I think it was reaching for a cigarette.

In any case, I knew the project would last decades if I didn’t take another approach, and so I got some industrial grade loppers we use for trimming trees, and I spent the next hour or so simply lopping off the bushes’ trunks one-by-one until most were down. I used a reciprocating saw for the stems too large for the loppers, and gummed the few over-sized left-over trunks with the chainsaw which, eventually, would gnaw its way through the wood with some patience, persistence, and (perhaps) profanity.

The space is now clear enough to work on the fence, and I’ve arranged for a young man to come remove the stumps (as he is better built for such labor). I know, because we had him do some other work a few weeks ago and he managed to break the forged steel blade of my pick/mattock! I was suitably impressed and plan to have him do all my digging before heading off to college this autumn.

Over the years, I have learned to pace myself and identify what jobs I can handle and which ones need to be farmed out. That’s also true of my faith and spirituality. There are some things I can do (avoid murdering those who annoy me, or stealing from those who have things I wish I had, e.g.), but there are things I cannot do. My mind wanders through some weird and dangerous neighborhoods. My soul is stained with stuff that won’t leave no matter how much I may try to Shout it out.

That’s where God comes in. God covers a multitude of sins and misdeeds. God chops away at the root of my problems and pries them out with the hard tempered steel of her love. God uses a blade that will not break and which, miraculously, leaves a life behind which is stronger and more beautiful, loving, and wise in her wake.

Sometimes it takes a storm to reveal what is rotten, a blade to remove what’s in the way, and time to discover what is yet to be. So be it in this, our valley.

Age of A-Clutter-Us

Life is what we make of it. Travel is the traveler. What we see isn’t what we see but what we are. Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet

Many years ago I was at a Conference on Aging and I must admit I didn’t pay much attention. It’s not because I wasn’t interested, but rather because the things they talked about weren’t immediately relevant beyond their academic value.

As a priest, I have always enjoyed working with people of all ages. I never valued one group over another. I have as much fun sitting on the floor with toddlers as I do sitting beside a frail elder in a nursing home. The toddlers are exploring life in all its brightness and newness, while the elders take time to share what life has been. Some give thanks for what they’ve had; others weep for what they’ve lost.

I have recently had the privilege of spending much more time with my father who has been recuperating nicely from his wrestling match with Death. Charon (the boatman on the River Styx) will need to come by some other time. Dad just turned 90 last month, and until this recent illness, has been otherwise quite strong and healthy. It was only last year he stopped mowing his own lawn, hiring someone else to do it. “Why pay someone to do what you can do?” he’d ask.

However, over time, the list of things he planned to “get to” has gotten longer, and his ability to do them has only declined. So I pop in a few times each week to take care of chores, organize his meds for the week, check his blood pressure and glucose levels, help with meals, run for groceries, set out the trash, and otherwise sit and provide him with some company – the one thing he needs almost more than food, water, or oxygen.

Now that I am retired, I have the time I need to help take care of him. As I told him: “You took care of me the first few decades of my life; the least I can do is return the favor!”

I am coming to recognize what the folks at the conference meant when they referred to the three stages of retirement. Stage One is “Yippee!” One is (generally) free to be as active as they are able: going on trips, taking up hobbies, pursuing varied interests, etc.

Stage Two is “Crikey!!” Retirees may continue with what they were doing, but frequency and intensity slows down. Their activities tend to be organized more and more around doctors’ appointments. I have a friend who’s retirement is devoted to roaming the country in an RV, but like salmon coming home to spawn, he returns annually to his home base for a whole slew of medical appointments, treatments, and what-have-you.

Stage Three is “Owie!!!” Many outside activities come to a near stand-still. Aches, pains, and medical appointments increase. Household chores are limited to taking meds, eating, napping, and engaging in whatever activities one is able to handle. Things are put off and pile up where they’re left for “later gator” (and largely ignored).

My father isn’t a hoarder, but there were lots of things that needed to be gone through and tossed or donated. He’s lived in his home for nearly half a century. He doesn’t mind letting go and downsizing the amount of stuff he has. What he hasn’t been able to eliminate on his own, we’re helping to jettison for him, and he is thankful.

I think that’s something I’ve been learning to do in my spiritual journey. Over the years I’ve prided myself on what I’ve been able to do (or avoid doing), and it’s all worked out well enough. But God visits daily and offers to help repair relationships, remove trash, heal wounds, and monitor one’s spiritual health.

I am thankful for God’s help. I am also thankful God engages me in conversation as a friend, and never as a dictator. Like with my father, we decide together what to keep and what to toss.

God is kind and gentle, watching over us, and tending to our needs. The glory of God is God’s mercy, and it’s an honor to practice that in my faith and walk with people of all ages – family, friend, and neighbor in this, our valley.

Finding Resurrection in Remote Places

And after all, everyone needs a few flaws to make them real. Helen Simonson, Major Pettigrew’s Last Stand

I walked into one of those big box electronic stores and looked as lost as I could. I’ve found over the years that when a customer looks lost, there is a great parting of the employee seas like unto the days of Moses. One group flees the floor like blood-sucking parasites from Fido’s flea collar. The others draw near in hopes of being of service.

It occurs to me I have gotten to the age where technology gurus know two things for sure. First, I know nothing. You can explain a product or a process as if to a kindergartner, and the child will know what they’re saying light years ahead of me. Secondly, they know (or at least suspect) that I am at the age where if I’m not living out of my car, I likely have disposable income, and there is nothing sweeter than the tingle-bleeps of the cash register.

They hope, of course, that I’m there to buy a 65 inch monitor (back in the day, they were called televisions, but now they’re monitors, video displays, or anything else that hides what all they can do). Why such a big TV? Well, I’m old, and my vision isn’t what it used to be, and so it would be helpful to take something home that will allow me to see what on earth I’ve been paying my entertainment provider to send me.

Sadly, I wasn’t there to lay out any Benjamins for anything that would challenge the nation’s power grid (or help my vision). I walked in with a twenty year old remote control for my father’s twenty year old sound system. He and I had put in fresh batteries, but the old remote was deader than dead, so I took on the challenge of finding something to replace it for him.

My great fear was that years and obsolescence would have made finding an appropriate replacement controller highly unlikely. After all, the remote’s serial number was in Roman Numerals … carved … in stone. Never-the-less, like any politician worth their salt, I persisted. I strode up to the store’s greeter and asked where I could find remote controls. He looked at the paper weight in my hand, stifled the guffaw that was building steam deep in his belly, and pointed me toward the back of the store where the Video Components were lying in wait.

I nodded my appreciation, toddled off, and found a dizzying array of remotes from which to choose. Lacking a mentor, I was tormented with confusion and indecision. Fortunately, Sales Associate Libby was nearby, saw the tell-tale twitches of a sensory overload, and came to my rescue. I showed her the dearly departed device I needed replaced and confided it was not a product of the current millennium. She offered her condolences and pulled a remote off the kiosk in front of me and suggested it might well do the job. She admitted that not all remotes are as universal as they claim to be, but she assured me I could bring it back if it didn’t work as promised. She also pointed out the list of brands the remote worked with and, lo, the coal-fired amp in question was on the list!

I asked Libby about the other, more expensive devices and asked what they offered that the one she handed me didn’t. She shrugged her shoulders and said, “Nothing.”

Imagine that; a sales associate who let me buy the least expensive item that would do the job! Will wonders ever cease?

I sometimes find myself discouraged with the state of the world. I’m sure I watch far too much news; it has a toxic effect, making me cranky and pessimistic, and that’s not good. That’s why I appreciate (and need) to get out and do things for others. For one thing, it gets me out of my head. For another, it connects me with others who actually have a desire to be helpful – who are genuinely friendly and honest.

There is something detoxifying with such encounters, and I think that gives me some insight into the mystery of the resurrection. It makes life just a little nicer and less remote in this, our valley.