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.