Today, at least where I live, is a day that proves why we call this season fall.
A heavy frost this morning has the leaves tumbling—gyrating and spinning this way and that—as they make their final journey to the earth below.
Moments ago, I stood under some of those trees raining down their leaves in the crisp frozen air, and couldn’t stop the song I was hearing in my head.
My niece in Mississippi (I claim her, whether or no she does me) asked her friends to tell her their favorite hymn yesterday.
How do I pick a favorite? There are so many, fraught with wisdom and deep meaning.
I did anyway.
O Love That Will Not Let Me Go is truly one of my favorites. A song that reminds us our Savior has promised to hold us close to his heart no matter what.
Its tune (and words) sounded clearly in my brain as I paused in the plummeting leaves earlier.
The leaf fall continues outside my window as I sit by the warm fire now.
You don’t need more words from me.
Perhaps, words from our old friend David say it more clearly than I can:
“But they delight in the law of the Lord, meditating on it day and night. They are like trees planted along the riverbank, bearing fruit each season. Their leaves never wither, and they prosper in all they do.” (Psalm 1: 2-3, NLT)
I’ve seen the mighty oak trees clinging to their leaves. Longer than any of the others nearby, they hold them.
And yet, in the end, they too fly—and flutter—and fall. To the earth below to be ground into dust.
His love, stronger than the mighty oak, never—never—lets go.
Ever.
Held in His strong and loving hands. What could be better?
He was my horn teacher, so I would never have mentioned it. You just didn’t do that to the man who was pouring himself into you. For pennies a lesson, it seemed. And sometimes, for nothing.
I know, I know. Cart before horse. Again.
I never intend to do it, but sometimes the words just splatter themselves on the page before I can get them into any semblance of order.
Let’s try again.
Our story begins back in the late 1970’s. I was taking private lessons on the French horn, thinking I might be the next Barry Tuckwell, one of the greatest horn players of all time. I was not; am not. Still, Mr. Marlar thought I was a worthwhile candidate for his efforts.
One year, he suggested that I play with him in the summer symphony in a nearby city. I wasn’t sure I was up to the task, but he persisted. I played. He did, too.
We had been to our first rehearsal for the summer’s repertoire. I had a good night, inspiring the orchestra’s director to stop by as we packed up afterward and to compliment me. His “you’re really good” still echoes in the back of my mind after all these years.
Still, I can’t forget the other thing I heard that night. We were playing a Tchaikovsky piece and my mentor, playing first horn, had a short solo. Everyone else heard it too. I doubt anyone else mentioned it to him, either.
He played the lick perfectly. Well, except for that one interval, nearly an octave jump from one note to the other. The higher note refused to come, his lips sliding to a lower pitch with the same fingering.
Afterward, as we rode back to our town in his old 1963 Plymouth, with its push-button gear shift on the dashboard, he broke the silence.
“That was some clinker, wasn’t it?”
“Clinker? What do you mean?” I had not heard the term applied to a wrong note in music before, but I knew. I did.
He laughed, explaining that any wrong note played during a rehearsal (and hopefully not a performance) was called a clinker. He promised to work on the passage of music during the week before our next rehearsal.
There were no more clinkers heard from him the entire summer. Not so for me, but that’s a different matter.
Clinkers. Mistakes. Errors everyone knows about, but no one wants to make.
If the reader is confused, I understand.
Why would I write about an obscure error, made in a first rehearsal for a concert season over forty years ago?
The answer is that my mind works in strange ways. But, you already knew that. Still, unique and seemingly unrelated occurrences often make my thoughts jump to random memories from the distant past.
Just the other day, I made a quick trip to Tulsa, Oklahoma to drop someone off at the airport. We have a perfectly nice regional airport close to us, but a major airline that many use because of their cheaper rates doesn’t fly here.
I said it was a quick trip. I was assuming it would be that. I would travel the eighty minutes to the big city, drive the person to the departures drop-off, and travel the eighty minutes back home. It wasn’t to be.
The Lovely Lady considered the jaunt as an opportunity to visit our favorite antique store in Tulsa, so just like that, it was a not-so-quick trip to the city. I was happy to have her company.
She’s helpful like that. Talks to me. Listens to what I have to say. Holds my hand walking across parking lots.
There is a point to my rambling. Really, there is. If only I could remember…
Oh, yes! I’ve got it now.
In the neighborhood behind our favorite antique shop, there is a brick house. It’s got the strangest brick facade I’ve ever seen, all odd-shaped and dark-colored bricks. They’ve been laid this way and that. All oddly-goglin, as one of my old friends used to say. Bricks jut out from the wall, and window sills go off at angles never intended for windows.
I admit it. I didn’t understand. How could someone build a house like that? Who would live in such an oddity?
Do you know what we do when we don’t understand something—when it doesn’t fit our sense of order and neatness? I know what I did.
I made fun of it. On social media, I posted the photo I snapped as we walked past. (You may see it yourself elsewhere on this page.)
And, I made the claim that I could have done better. Me! I’ve never laid a row of bricks in my life.
Others joined with me, never having seen such a structure. I don’t blame them. I invited their responses.
Then a friend, a builder himself (and the son of a builder), wrote me a note. He explained that the house is built from a special type of bricks, themselves quite valuable now due to their rarity.
I repent. Again.
That beautiful house is built from clinker bricks. That’s what they call them.
Yes. Clinkers. Mistakes. Bricks that were too close to the heat source in the kiln the large batches were fired in. The heat distorted the material, making it darker and harder.
For many years, clinkers were thrown out. Trash. Debris. Rubble.
Useless to the brickmakers. No one would buy those ugly pieces of ceramic rubbish.
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. I would tell you I heard it from the red-headed lady who raised me, but it was most often my father who used the old saying when I was growing up. It’s still true.
Clinker brick is highly sought after now. Its beauty is in the oddity, in its non-compliance with the norm.
I do. I repent. Not just with regard to the house.
All around, I see the clinkers and I sneer. It seems to be the human condition, to be contemptuous of things that don’t fit our norms. And, by things, I mean people.
People.
The Shepherd left the ninety-nine sheep who complied—who fit in—and He went searching on the mountainside for the clinker. (Luke 15).
The religious leaders, who defined the norm in their day, were complaining that the Teacher was spending way too much time with the clinkers in their society. So he told the story of the shepherd and his efforts for the one who refused to fit in.
We have romanticized the story, making it a beautiful allegory of the lovely little lamb who wandered away. It’s not that.
It’s the story of a determined God who pursued a determined individual bent on doing wrong. A God who loved the person who hated Him.
And, who was determined to be and do ugly things.
Thrown out by many. Pursued by a loving God.
Broken.
Made beautiful.
I am a clinker. A one-percenter, if you will. Pulled from the ashes and made useful. Wrong notes and all.
You, too?
He still chases the one.
Still.
Especially us clinkers.
To all who mourn in Israel, he will give a crown of beauty for ashes, a joyous blessing instead of mourning, festive praise instead of despair. In their righteousness, they will be like great oaks that the Lord has planted for his own glory.
(Isaiah 61:3, NLT)
“That was great, Squidward! All those wrong notes you played made it sound more original.” (Spongebob Squarepants)
It’s what I feel right now. At the dinner table yesterday (with witnesses present) mentioning the title, I suggested I would be writing this piece soon. A couple of the individuals at the table had no idea what the first word in the title meant.
So, I did it. I tried not to, but when you know things, it just happens without you wanting it to. The words come out and, intended or not, they sound condescending.
I won’t give you the definition of the word. If you don’t know you’ll want to look it up. Try Google. You can find a lot of information there.
Oh. I did it anyway, didn’t I?
As I said. Fear and trepidation. For good reason.
I want to talk about the pain today. Specifically (at least to begin with), men’s pain.
I know. Again and again, I see the snippy remarks that men can’t handle pain. I get it. Compared to the pain of childbirth that women experience, most men will never feel real pain.
And, we can be crybabies. We can. At home, at least. But, that’s our safe place, the haven where we can admit what hurts and expect some sympathy from the person standing in front of us.
Somehow, our significant others seem (to us anyway) specially equipped to care and make us feel better. Softly and gently, they have ways to ease the pain, whatever it is.
I wonder if that’s why it’s widely believed (especially by our partners) that men can’t handle pain. Again and again, we prove it to them. At home.
But—and here’s where more mansplaining comes in—in public we’re famous for biting the bullet, for gritting our teeth and working through the pain.
Don’t believe it? I can attest to the facts myself.
I have a little pain to endure myself, a spinal issue brought on by too many years of moving pianos and lifting with my back instead of my knees. I’ve been going through a flare-up for the last few weeks.
There is pain.
At home, I have no compunction about showing the result of the pain—groaning loudly when turning over in bed, yelping when a spasm surprises me without warning. I stand from my easy chair like an old man, straightening my back by degrees before walking to my destination, complaining the while.
In public, I walk the half mile to the coffee shop or to the nearby university, upright and without limping. No one would know the pain the effort costs. I can carry your box or mow your lawn. Ask me. You’ll see. I’ll not have folks thinking I’m a cripple or a wimp.
Hiding the pain; putting on a happy face.
The other day, we headed to our daughter’s place for a visit with our grandchildren. (Oh, and with her and our son-in-law.)
The trip was also so we could enjoy creation in its Autumnal glory. We were not disappointed in either of our purposes
Our kids live on a mountainside in the beautiful Ozark mountains. We parked down in the valley and made the trek up the steep incline to their home, nesting far up above in the woods, ablaze in color.
“Let us bring the side-by-side down for you, Grandpa!” The kids would have been happy to haul me up effortlessly in the four-wheel-drive vehicle.
But, I was having none of it. I inched my way up, stopping frequently and picking my steps gingerly, stooping as I walked on the rocky ground to ease the pain. But, as soon as any of the kids came into view, I straightened up and walked firmly up the rest of the way, leaving no hint that I was experiencing any pain.
Heroic, aren’t I?
You wouldn’t have thought so, the day before. I spent that day in my easy chair. The Lovely Lady scurried past me again and again, intent on completing goals she had set for herself.
Normally I have a few goals, too. Yet, they were forgotten until I noticed she was sweeping the floor in the dining room.
“That’s my job! Why are you doing that?” I’m sure I sounded pitiful when I said it. I actually intended to sound stern.
Her answer came as she moved out of view, continuing to sweep the broom across the hardwood floor.
“I’m not having you hurting your back more. If you do, I’ll never get you up that mountain at the kids’ place!”
She’s right.
I would do it.
I’d stay home before I would let the grandchildren put me in that SxS and haul me up the mountain like an old man.
So, I sat back in my easy chair, letting her sweep the floor, vacuum the carpet, and fold laundry. I’m sure I moaned a little once in a while to let her know I didn’t want to be there but had no choice.
The reader has, no doubt, realized that a good bit of what I’ve written above has been somewhat tongue-in-cheek. And I’m sure I am also fluent in mansplaining—never meaning to but practiced nonetheless.
Perhaps I can take a moment to be serious here. I do have a question or two.
Why are we so foolish?
Why can we not admit to any but our closest confidants that we are in pain and need help?
I spoke with a new friend in the coffee shop this morning and wondered about this aloud.
She suggested it may be that we’ve been hurt by those we should be able to trust. She also suggested that we have One we know we can trust with our pain.
Something sounds familiar here, doesn’t it?
He sees us. He sees our pain. He also hears our groaning and crying.
I’m reminded that Hagar experienced them both. In her story in the book of Genesis, she’s been abused by her mistress Sarai, for whom she underwent the ordeal of surrogate childbearing, so she flees into the wilderness. Weeping over her plight, God comes to her.
He hears her! Her son will be named Ismael, which means God Hears.
Not only that, He sees her! In her despair and pain, He sees.
Her.
“So Hagar named the Lord who spoke to her, ‘You are the God who sees me,’ for she said, ‘Here I have seen one who sees me!'”
(Genesis 16:13, NET)
El Roi, she called Him.
God Sees.
Me. You. Us.
Masks come off. Hearts laid bare. Sickness, pain, and sins exposed.
He doesn’t leave us that way, though.
Abraham knew. He experienced it. And, he named the place he experienced it Jehovah Jireh. (Genesis 22)
God Provides.
What we need, He provides. When we need it.
It’s hard for us to be transparent with people we don’t know. So we hide our pain.
I’m wondering if it’s time to come clean. Time to ride up the hill in the side-by-side.
Maybe even time to limp when it hurts. Or to shed a tear when the pain overcomes.
No more mansplaining. No more play-acting.
Oh. The view from the mountaintop is spectacular, too.
Even with an aching back.
Love takes off masks that we fear we cannot live without and know we cannot live within. (James Baldwin)
‘Cause deep inside this armor The Warrior is a Child (Twila Paris)
Life lessons come from the strangest of places. Things I think I should have learned from study and discussion must be discerned from the animals on the porch. And, their diets.
But, here I go again, cart before horse, expecting the reader to know what I’m talking about. Let me start again.
On a recent morning, I sat in my easy chair with a cup of coffee. As I often do, I stared (most likely, a blank stare; mornings are like that), looking at nothing and everything outside my window.
With a start, I became aware that a large rodent had jumped onto the ramp leading to my front door. A handsome little beast, she sat and flipped her tail a few times, as if to warn interlopers away. She was carrying something in her teeth. A big something.
Well, big for a squirrel. Protruding from her mouth were four pecans, all attached to each other, still encased in their protective covering. As I watched, the beautiful creature turned the cluster in her mouth, crunching down on the hull of a single nut and detaching the pecan inside, said pecan looking much like the ones we purchase in their shell at the grocery store. She then jumped onto the ground under the ramp, rapidly digging a hole with her little hand-shaped paws and dropping the pecan into it.
Food for the future. Their Creator made the little rodents intelligent enough to plan for the cold of winter when no fruit or nuts will be found except by foraging on the ground. And that’s a hard row to hoe, as the red-headed lady who raised me would have said.
Well, that’s not so unusual, one might think.
And, one would be right. Not unusual at all. Until they consider that there is no pecan tree in my yard.
The Lovely Lady and I went on an exploratory trek last week. I had seen evidence of the pecans in the yard and wondered where they were coming from. As we walked, we found a large pecan tree at the edge of a clearing about two blocks away from our home. Exploring further, we located another large one in the vacant lot behind our house, probably 200 feet from where my new friend was burying hers in hopes of a meal, come winter.
Her actions aren’t all that odd. Except, many experts say that gray squirrels usually don’t travel more than that distance away from their home in any one day to find food. They can travel several miles but don’t under normal circumstances. As evidenced by the many pecan hulls scattered around my yard, this one is making the trip multiple times a day right now.
Adding to my confusion, many of the pecan hulls I’ve found are at the base of a beautiful, healthy black walnut tree right outside my back door. Squirrels love black walnuts! And, the tree is covered—absolutely covered—in nuts this fall!
Besides that, only ten or fifteen feet away from the black walnut tree is a chestnut tree. I’ll admit, I don’t understand how the squirrels can stand to chew through the spiny hull of the chestnut, but always in recent years, I’ve found myriad pieces of the outer coverings from the prickly nuts in my yard.
And, while the little gray creature sat on her haunches and chewed through the hulls, I chewed mentally on the question that formed in my mind.
She has walnuts and chestnuts, along with acorns from the pin oak in the front yard, aplenty. Why would she brave the space between my yard and the big pecan tree? Every step away from her home is fraught with fear and very real dangers.
It didn’t take long. As Mr. Tolkien would say, even I can see through a brick wall in time.
The light above my head flickered to life.
She likes pecans better than any of the other, more easily acquired, options! She loves them enough that she’ll bypass the easy pickings of the huge oak, to say nothing of the black walnuts that have already fallen, with many more awaiting the next strong wind to liberate them from the limbs high above the ground where they hang expectantly.
She will travel the equivalent of miles for a human to reach the food she loves.
It’s easy to see where this is heading, isn’t it?
A friend told us the other day he had it on good authority that there are 68 places along the highway going through our little town where we humans may stop and get a meal. Sixty-eight! I’m not sure I can come up with that many. But, I know it is a sizable number.
Still, every day, hundreds of residents from this town head for other municipalities, sometimes as far as eighty miles away, to do nothing more than eat food.
We want what we want. And, we’ll subject ourselves to danger, expense, and inconvenience to get it when we want it.
I do it too, occasionally.
I almost hesitate to keep going down this road I’ve begun to traverse. Someone will say I’ve begun to meddle. Perhaps I have.
Why, when we’re so finicky about the food we put in our mouths and bellies, are we so lax about the garbage we put into our minds and hearts?
Daily, we sit and peruse social sites, news outlets, and entertainment sources, allowing the gossip, the lies, and the filth to permeate our very souls. Easy pickings, the red-headed lady who…well, you get the idea.
No effort required. Right there at our fingertips. A touch on the screen and we devour whatever comes to our eyes. And ears.
We—the very same connoisseurs—who eschew the everyday fare in our local cafes and restaurants, will shovel in this garbage in ever-increasing quantities. Without more than a perfunctory thought to truth and morality—and yes—to purity, we swallow what the world around us offers.
Yes. I know. Meddling.
I’m climbing down off of the soapbox now. Carefully, so I don’t break anything.
I have just this one parting thought.
My admiration of the beautiful squirrel aside, it’s time to begin choosing carefully.
There are better things.
Better.
Jeremiah could tell you. No, not the bullfrog. The prophet who cried also knew what was good for him.
And, for us.
When I discovered your words, I devoured them. They are my joy and my heart’s delight, for I bear your name, O Lord God of Heaven’s Armies.
(Jeremiah 15:16, NLT)
Time for a change in diet.
I bet it’ll be worth the journey.
Oh! I’m with the squirrel, too. Pecans are better than black walnuts. Any day.
Thy word have I hid in my heart That I might not sin against Thee. (Psalm 119:11, KJV)
You can tell a lot about a fellow’s character by his way of eating jellybeans. (Ronald Reagan)
She said she wanted to drink coffee with me. We set up a time one recent afternoon, and I drank coffee. She drank water—said something about not having caffeine this late in the day.
“Lightweight.” I tossed the word out lightly, as a joke. We both laughed.
I think it was the last light thing we talked about that afternoon. I’m not going to give away any tasty morsels of the deep things we discussed; not going to disclose any private details of confidences shared.
It was a weighty discussion. Oh, it wouldn’t rank up there with international peace talks or a theological debate about Calvinism vs. Arminianism, but it was pretty heavy.
Come to think of it, we did discuss Calvinism. Momentarily. We know better than to waste time arguing.
Gravitas.
I keep coming back to that word as I consider the time we spent there, her with her water bottle and me with my coffee cup. It’s what our words had; what the entire visit had. At least, in my thoughts, it did.
Usually, the obscure words I use here are inserted purposefully. My primary editor, the Lovely Lady, complains (facetiously) that she is often forced to use a dictionary. I’m always secretly happy to hear that. Today, I think it’s important enough for the meaning to be clear.
Gravitas means to have weight, to be taken seriously.
I first heard the word used about a seasoned politician who was added to an election slate so the primary candidate would be taken more seriously. The commentators opined that he added gravitas to the campaign.
That afternoon, we shared our life stories. Oh, not the whole story, but some important parts. I cried. She cried.
Life is hard. Sometimes, it’s ugly. For some, the ugly goes on and on. But, in almost every story, there is beauty and joy intertwined with the ugly.
I said I wasn’t going to tell secrets, and I’m not. But, I do want to mention one of my memories that was shaken loose in the heavy conversation that afternoon.
I was raised in a believing household. I grew up in the church, believing in Jesus at an early age. I never walked away from that decision.
That doesn’t mean I walked the straight and narrow path laid out by the beliefs of my fellowship. Not by a long shot.
Believing and following are two different things.
At age nineteen, as I prepared to leave home for a new place, many miles away, I was determined that there I would live the life I wanted. Away from the straight-laced and narrow expectations of my parents and that fellowship, I would follow the path I chose.
I knew they only wanted what was best for me. I did. It didn’t matter. I wanted what was fun. And, maybe even a little wild.
On my last Sunday at home, I was surprised when the pastor of the church called me to the front. As he explained that I was leaving home and the fellowship I had known since infancy, I noticed the Elders making their way to the platform, circling around behind me.
These were men who knew me when I was a baby in my mother’s arms. They knew how unkind I could be, how argumentative, how rebellious. I couldn’t imagine what they intended as they surrounded me that day.
They prayed for me! Putting their hands on my back and shoulders, one after another, they gave me into God’s care and protection, saying kind things about me as they did it.
I can still feel their hands on my shoulders today. Seriously. The weight of those loving hands, the knowledge of their care and prayers, have followed me through the nearly five decades since.
Gravitas.
I don’t remember those men ever doing that for another teenager walking away from home for the final time. I still wonder why they did it for me.
God knows.
He does.
And for some odd reason, instead of running wild as I had planned, within a couple of weeks of my move over eight hundred miles away, I was looking for a new fellowship of believers, finding the spiritual home I needed. There, I met the Lovely Lady. I raised my children. I have served and been served.
Someone in that group of men knew I needed that experience at that exact time in my life—knew I needed to hear those words. On that day, I needed to hear them.
This is important. It has gravitas—weight.
The wise man said the words centuries ago:
Like apples of gold in settings of silver, Is a word spoken at the proper time.
(Proverbs 25:11, NASB)
We get so tied up in the pretty stuff, the shiny things, of the first half of the verse, that we often miss the importance of the second.
We need to be ready to speak the words—words of encouragement, of correction, even prayers—when the people around us need them.
Apologies need to come to our lips readily—right when we see our fault. Relationships depend on them.
Compliments should be there in the moment they are earned. Not flattery, designed to earn us something. Compliments, building up, encouraging good things for others.
Reminders of who we are as children of a loving God should be on our tongues in the instant they are brought to mind.
Beauty and worth will be the result. Yes. Maybe even golden apples in settings of silver.
It may still take a year or two to see the beauty. And the value.
They may remember it for a lifetime.
Kind words can be short and easy to speak, but their echoes are truly endless.
(Mother Teresa)
Preach the message; be ready whether it is convenient or not; reprove, rebuke, exhort with complete patience and instruction.
(2 Timothy 4:2, NET)
None knows the weight of another’s burden.
(George Herbert)
Sometimes we don’t see what is right in front of our eyes.
Today started like that. Almost.
Early this morning, I walked away from my front door and headed to the coffee shop. I walked against a brisk wind, it having changed in the last day or two, promising to blow in a cold front soon and perhaps even to blow a few of the leaves from the trees.
Winter will soon be here. But, that isn’t what I came here to talk about, is it?
Today, I’m thinking about time—about eternity. And, I may actually write about those things before I finish this. I may.
I walked the half mile to the coffee shop at a brisk pace, acting as if I were the only human on an errand this morning. It’s easy to think so.
I nearly didn’t see them. The people, I mean. I’m not saying I wouldn’t have known they were there. I simply mean, I almost didn’t see them. Really see them.
People walk past me every day. Even here, in the South, where we wave at complete strangers and holler our loud greetings across the yard to our neighbors, it’s becoming more difficult to get a response from folks.
Perhaps, they are on a mission, as am I. Somehow, deep in thought, they don’t want to encourage interaction, hoping to keep the train (of thought) a non-stop ride all the way to the terminal.
Still, I usually interrupt them anyway, with a quick Good morning or Hey! How’s it going? coming to my lips as I pass.
At the end of my little cul-de-sac, the young lady headed for classes at the university seemed to accelerate to a speedwalk as she saw my trajectory would take me onto the sidewalk just as she began to cross the intersection. She said nothing in reply to my words of greeting. I wasn’t surprised. I fit the description of a strange man to a tee, and she was well advised to avoid any interaction.
Up the street under the hickory trees, the young man walking his dog replied in a friendly manner, his eastern accent—possibly Indian, or Pakistani— reminding me that our little town has become a melting pot (not to its detriment at all).
The middle-aged jogger, arms pumping and graying ponytail dodging left and right behind her as she ran, didn’t even pause in her pursuit of youth to return my greeting. Perhaps, there was no extra breath to waste, as she chased her goal.
The last person I saw before I reached my destination was an older lady, her hoodie zipped up and pulled over her head against the cool autumn morning air. She shoved a bulky metal walker ahead of her on the sidewalk, her progress slow and not all that steady. As I called out a cheerful greeting, a smile appeared crookedly on her face.
She called out her own chipper greeting in reply to mine, the words slightly slurred. I recognized the impairments left behind by a stroke and felt sympathy for the lady. But, more than that, I was impressed by her determination to overcome the damage caused by the malady.
Like the nineteenth-century philosopher, Henry David Thoreau, I have at times declared—at least internally—that “most men lead lives of quiet desperation,” but I learn repeatedly that most folks actually lead full, rich lives, facing their challenges and loving the people God has given them to share life with.
Mr. Thoreau is also the fellow who made the following statement:
“As if you could kill time without injuring eternity.”
Did I say I wanted to talk about time today?
I saw these folks along my route, people from different places, lifestyles, and eras. They all are investing in the present. Of course, by the time this is ready to be read, their activities will be in the past, but I observed them in the moment they occurred.
Young to old, they were making investments in their future.
A friend of mine, a wonderful lady whom I admire, made a comment earlier this week that started me thinking about time.
“Time is a thief.”
Her children are reaching the end of their years at home, ready to fly the protective nest, and she is a little melancholy about it. I haven’t talked with her about her feelings, except to ask how her offspring are doing in their various pursuits. She is proud of what they’re accomplishing—overjoyed they are doing what she raised them to do. They are becoming the caring, honest human beings she and her husband have invested their lives to encourage.
And yet, she says time steals. I won’t argue with her.
I won’t. But somehow, I think we may be the thieves. I’m not sure we actually kill time as Thoreau suggests, but we can certainly be wasteful, squandering opportunity after opportunity as we egress from eternity past into eternity future.
Time itself may seem to take people and things from us, but it only seems so. And, it leaves behind wonderful gifts.
Knowledge. Wisdom, Memories.
Ultimately, it offers perhaps the most valuable of all gifts as we journey through its domain; the gift of opportunity.
Tomorrow. Next week. Next year.
All opportunities. Bright. Untouched.
Waiting for you. And me.
If, like me, you believe in the love and guidance of a Creator who saw us before He spoke the worlds into existence, you will know that time was part of the original blueprint. A gift to all of creation.
And, every moment, known to Him already.
The Psalmist put it this way: My times are in Your hand. (Psalm 31:15a, NKJV)
If you’re still breathing, time is on your side. It is.
Seize the day. Do it gently.
We wouldn’t want to injure it, would we?
Yesterday is history, tomorrow is mystery, today is a gift.
(Eleanor Roosevelt)
Make the most of every opportunity in these evil days. Don’t act thoughtlessly, but understand what the Lord wants you to do.
(Ephesians 5:17, NLT)
We went to a wedding last week, the Lovely Lady and I. Mostly, I went along to be her driver, but she claimed she needed to have a companion to sit with through the ceremony. I’m not sure that was true but, putting on my too-small suit, I went anyway.
I’m glad I did. I always am, somehow.
Her cousin’s daughter was getting married. I suppose that means the bride would be her first cousin once removed, but I’m not so sure about my relationship. Am I intended to call the young lady’s new husband my first cousin once removed in-law in-law?
The music was lovely, simply because the Lovely Lady was involved, along with her brother. Then the wedding itself was wonderful, probably because the bride (my first cousin once removed in-law) and her groom (now, my first cousin once removed in-law in-law) enjoyed the process much more than most couples do. There was laughter and there were tears, mixed in with promises and rings, and then more laughter. All in all, a wonderful ceremony with God at the center, and the two kids got hitched.
We stayed for dinner, visiting with the Lovely Lady’s cousins—my cousins-in-law (perhaps we should stop beating that poor defunct equine for the time being). It took a while to visit with all of them, there having been nine children in the family. Lovely folks, every one of them.
Soon, it was time for dancing. I should mention that I don’t dance, my problem being (besides my rather strict upbringing) not my two left feet, but the propensity for my body to want to descend to the level of my feet when they inevitably get tangled in each other.
Soon, the band leader was calling for all the married couples in the room to get out on the dance floor. Some did, but most of the cousins stayed where they were. Some, I think were like me, knowing that staying put was the best path to avoiding embarrassment. Others were just happy to watch the younger ones enjoy the music.
As the dance went through a verse or two, the band leader had the folks who had been married for a year or less sit down. Then, he called for those having been married five years or less to drop out. Ten years was the next cut-off, then twenty, and so on.
We laughed, the Lovely Lady and I, as new dancers snuck onto the dance floor. A few couples had noticed the trend and wanted to see if they could be the last ones left.
Sure enough, one of her cousins and her husband were the last couple on the floor, at nearly fifty years of marriage. We laughed and clapped, and went back to our visiting—reliving old memories and reveling in the company of family and friends.
I commented that it wasn’t fair for the band leader to expect the old people to be the ones who stayed on the dance floor longer than all the young folks. Doesn’t he know the old geezers don’t have the stamina to outlast all those kids?
But, other thoughts came to mind as I laughed at my own wittiness. It took a little while because the thoughts were a little fuzzy. Most of my thoughts these days begin like that—almost like trying to remember a name that’s just beyond my grasp. It’ll come eventually, but sometimes I just have to quit trying for it to break through to the surface.
I knew it had something to do with waiting. And gaining strength. Somehow, the couple who had taken their time to get onto the dance floor—waiting—were tied up in the concept.
Last night, as I sat in my easy chair, I heard an old song in my head. So familiar, from many years ago.
Now, where did that come from? What were the words?
Ah, yes!
They that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength. They shall mount up with wings. They shall mount up with wings as eagles.
I had it! Finally, I had it.
Old folks, waiting for God.
And no, I don’t mean like the British folk tend to describe their old people in nursing homes—God’s Waiting Room, they call it.
I mean old saints, faithful folks, who know from whence their strength comes. It’s not from vitamins; not from doctor’s prescriptions; not even from physical therapists manipulating muscles and bones.
But those who trust in the Lord will find new strength. They will soar high on wings like eagles. They will run and not grow weary. They will walk and not faint.
(Isaiah 40:31, NLT)
I’ve mentioned my repetitive dreams of flying before, soaring with arms spread, through the air. I still haven’t done that in real life. There have been times I’ve wondered, though…
Early this morning, I dreamed again. I suppose it was the direction this essay has taken that inspired the dream.
This time, I wasn’t flying. But, I had been invited to participate with the local university’s track team. Cross country. Miles and miles. Some of the others, the kids, tired as we ran, dropping out to walk and sit by the side of the trail.
In my dream, I kept running. Me! Closer to seventy than to any other decade. I kept running.
Okay. It’s not flying. But, running is good.
Almost as good as dancing.
Alas. Dreams come to an end. Morning comes; the sleeper awakes. I walked (painfully, due to a slight back issue I’m experiencing) to the little coffee shop I’m haunting these days. And, here I sit, pecking at the laptop’s keyboard, remembering.
Nothing’s changed, physically.
But, I’m waiting. Trusting.
God won’t fail us. He won’t.
I hope to dance someday.
Fly. Run. Walk.
No pain. No fatigue. No dropping out.
He gives strength for today.
And, bright hope for tomorrow.
And, hand in hand, on the edge of the sand, They danced by the light of the moon.
(from The Owl And The Pussycat, by Edward Lear)
My health may fail, and my spirit may grow weak, but God remains the strength of my heart; he is mine forever.
(Psalm 73:26, NLT)
My sister-in-law had just met the Lovely Young Lady for the first time. She wasn’t wrong. I’ve done my best to hold onto her for the last forty-five years.
A keeper.
“That’s a keeper, Paul!”
The neighbor boy, Warren, yelled the phrase down the banks of the drainage ditch. I had just landed a large perch with my old cane pole, my bait being one of the long, wriggly earthworms we had dug up just moments before. We kept the perch, along with a few more that day.
“You kids need a keeper!”
The words of disgust came from the lips of an aging passerby in the shopping mall. They were aimed at the group of rowdy band kids who hooted, and whistled, and wrestled, oblivious to the constant parade of grown-ups around them.
We probably did. Need a keeper, that is.
All of the above events came to mind during my sleepless hours last night. My brain has been wrestling, trying to come to grips with the immense meaning of a tiny word.
Keep.
Our use of the word is almost exclusively understood to mean retain possession of. It means that. It does.
But, it means that and so much more. The original meaning of the word implies (besides possessing) holding tightly, guarding closely, and even fighting for.
Castles in medieval times had a keep, a fortified castle within the castle, intended as a last defense, a place of ultimate shelter where enemies could not break through. It was a place of protection for the defenseless, of strength for the weak, of safety for all that was valued.
The passages in the Bible that speak of God keeping and blessing mean well more than simply being His; they imply being held and guarded against all dangers, dwelling in His fortress—His castle keep.
A strange subject to mull over in the small hours of the morning, you think?
I don’t disagree.
The fodder for my thoughts had only been introduced moments before I finally succumbed to the tyranny of the clock, well after midnight. I laid myself on the bed knowing I would not sleep because of the turmoil inside my brain.
Often, the late night hours are a time when I chase my ancestors into the past—perusing old books, searching online databases, and thumbing through materials in my keeping from family members who are gone but not forgotten. Last night, I found something that grabbed my attention.
I’ve flipped through the pages of the old Bible before. It was my great-grandfather’s, given to him by his mother in his 18th year. The date on the flyleaf is January 1, 1881.
I’ve never found anything of value to my search in its pages before, besides the mourning ribbon for President Garfield upon his assassination nine months after my forebear received the Bible. I think I may have even seen this little yellow ribbon previously and gone past, dismissing its message in my search for facts.
The ribbon in the pages of the little Bible says simply, “Keepers.” I cannot find any context for it in my searches for who my great-grandfather was.
And yet, there is context to be found.
It’s easy to believe, at times, that we are worthless—merely sinners living in a fallen world. We who follow Christ know that we are redeemed, but often we are discouraged, believing that things will never change—that we will never change.
The reality—a reality reinforced again and again in the old Book—is that we are keepers.
Worth being held.
Worth being protected.
Worth being valued.
Keepers. Kept by a Keeper. Who will do all those things. And more.
That ribbon has clearly lodged at the same place for many, many years. You can see where the color has leached into the paper on either side of it.
Last night, I read the passage where it sits. I think I needed to be reminded.
For you have been born again, but not to a life that will quickly end. Your new life will last forever because it comes from the eternal, living word of God.As the Scriptures say, “People are like grass; their beauty is like a flower in the field. The grass withers and the flower fades. But the word of the Lord remains forever.”
(1 Peter 1: 23-25, NLT)
I’m keeping the Bible. And the ribbon.
I’m still looking for clues to who my ancestors were. But, I know who I am. It’s who you are, too.
Keepers.
With a Keeper.
Living here in His keep.
Protected. And, blessed.
The Lord bless you and keep you; The Lord make His face shine upon you, And be gracious to you; The Lord lift up His countenance upon you, And give you peace.
(Numbers 6:24-26, NKJV)
The ache for home lives in all of us. The safe place where we can go as we are and not be questioned. (Maya Angelou)
It happens every morning. I’m sure it does; I just don’t see it often.
Missed opportunities. They used to haunt me. Really. I’d try to get to every music concert, every church meeting, every coffee get-together—you name it; if it was happening and I could be present, I was there.
Driven by guilt. And maybe a little bit of obsession.
Perhaps, I should finish the first thought before I get on my little soapbox, huh? I’ll do that.
The shadow stood at my bedside in the dark room this morning. 7:05, the clock read. 7:05!
The shadow spoke.
“The sunrise is spectacular this morning!”
Other than a quick hug and a mumbled “goodbye, I love you,” that was it. I was alone on the queen-size bed in the darkness. Back to sleep. Life goes on as usual.
That’s not what happened. I rolled over, hugging her pillow close. But, I didn’t go back to sleep.
Sunrise! It happens every morning; so what’s the big deal? Sleep is better—especially when my head didn’t hit the pillow until 2:30 this morning.
The thoughts ran through my non-sleeping brain.
I got up.
A few minutes later, I was standing at the upstairs window, looking out over the rooftops in the neighborhood.
Wow! This happens every day?
Every day?
“Awake, O sleeper, rise up from the dead, and Christ will give you light.”
I snapped a photo or two to save the moment in my memory. I sent one of them to the Lovely Lady. Some things need to be shared.
She sent me back a photo of the gecko under her desk this morning. I guess she felt that some things need to be shared, too.
But, I’m wondering about the bigger picture now. What about all the other things I’m missing out on? While I’m sleeping. And when I’m awake, too.
I remember when my oldest grandson was an infant and he refused to go to sleep in his crib. My son-in-law introduced me to the term we’ve all become familiar with as he described the phenomenon.
“FOMO. He’s afraid we’re going to do something while he’s asleep and he can’t stand to not be part of it.”
Fear of missing out.
We laughed. We still do.
But, it’s true. We want to be included in whatever’s happening. And sometimes, we feel guilty when we don’t participate in all of it.
Why are we so driven by that guilt?
I want to blame my church upbringing, citing those verses in Ephesians I heard so often growing up.
So be careful how you live. Don’t live like fools, but like those who are wise.Make the most of every opportunity in these evil days. Don’t act thoughtlessly, but understand what the Lord wants you to do.
(Ephesians 5:15-17, NLT)
I want to blame my guilt on that. But, words are just words until we understand them. The Word of God is the same. His Spirit gives clarity as we study them and then live them out.
Yes, we make the most of every opportunity. But we don’t act thoughtlessly.
Trying to be involved in every good activity is acting thoughtlessly. And, being consumed by guilt when we don’t show up for all of them is harmful. To us and others around us.
I’m going to miss out on a few sunrises. And, concerts. And, coffee breaks.
But occasionally, I’m going to stumble out of bed, climbing the wooden stairs in my bare feet to stand at the window in awe and gratitude for another day and a beautiful re-creation of the dawn.
Just, maybe not tomorrow morning.
Morning has broken like the first morning, blackbird has spoken like the first bird. Praise for the singing! Praise for the morning! Praise for them, springing fresh from the Word!
(From Morning Has Broken by Eleanor Farjeon, 1931)
One minute you’re sitting calmly, living in the present, enjoying God’s blessings, and the next, you’re thirty years in the past. Not only remembering conversations, but feeling the same emotions you felt in the moment—all those years ago!
Many of my friends know that, with the help of my kids and grandkids, we built an outside deck in the last few months. It’s a lovely space, leaving scope for the imagination, as Anne Shirley would have said. (You folks who read about Anne with an “e” as a child will remember.)
We built the deck from reclaimed lumber, having torn down a much larger deck at a neighbor’s house (at her request, of course!) and salvaged the still-usable boards.
The labor was free. Well, except for a few meals, prepared by the Lovely Lady and eaten around our old dining table, it was free. And, now that I consider, even those worked out to my advantage. What a joy, to achieve a shared goal with one’s extended family!
It is, as I mentioned, a lovely space.
A sister-in-law gave us wicker furniture which she no longer used. Our sweet neighbor snuck in a couple of pillows while we were at church one morning. Our generous-hearted son and his lovely wife even donated a beautiful fire pit, which we’ve enjoyed together several times.
I’ve spent many hours there lately, my mind and heart full, considering our Father’s blessings as I look out to the old barn behind us, past the overgrown fence, with its honeysuckle and poison-ivy vines intertwined.
And yes, just like the intermingling of beauty and danger those vines remind me of, my mind has often gone to the darker places as I’ve meditated on the bright, lovely ones.
Such was the case when, on this day, the whole process came to a screeching halt as the words of the old man came to my mind.
We were leaning against the bed of his old beat-up truck in the parking lot in front of my music store. I had just pointed out my latest purchase, a twelve-year-old Chevy conversion van. It was the perfect vehicle for my growing family. The paint was a little faded and it had lots of miles on the odometer, but I was so proud of it.
I might have laid it on a little thick. The shag carpet could have gone to my head. Or, was it the dark maroon crushed-velvet upholstery that was to blame?
I really don’t remember, but it could have sounded a little boastful. A little.
Soon, he had heard enough.
“You’re nothing but a plutocrat, Paul!” The old man was blunt and opinionated, yet I was surprised. I never expected to be the target of his sarcasm.
And truthfully, I didn’t know exactly what a plutocrat was, but I knew it wasn’t a compliment. Besides, I was sure I wasn’t that!
Whatever it was, I wasn’t that!
I told him so, lamely. He laughed and drove out of the parking lot. I was offended.
I know what a plutocrat is now. Funny thing; I’m still offended.
A plutocrat is a person whose power is derived from their wealth. The title is most often used to describe politicians, people who achieve status and authority because they are rich.
I’m not.
Rich. Or powerful.
How is it that those words, spoken in jest, reach out over the decades to rile me up again?
Perhaps, there was a grain of truth in the accusation. We were standing next to his old beater of a pickup truck, while I extolled the advantages of my plush, customized van.
I may have been proud of my purchase. He may have taken it as an indirect slight. A putdown, even.
Those of us who are not politicians have a different type of power. Don’t tell me we don’t.
We use our advantages, however slight, to pull ahead of our peers. We look down on them from our privileged position, all the while knowing that the next wind that blows may leave them in that elevated place and us standing beside the beater.
How easy it is to forget, as we sit on our lovely deck looking down on the passersby, that nothing we have is ours to keep. Nothing.
Job knew it. He, having lost all he had amassed over a lifetime, told his friends that he had come into this world naked and that he would depart into eternity in the same condition.
It’s not mine!
This deck is not mine. The house beside the deck is not mine. The clothes I wear are not mine. The property, the cars, the art, the musical instruments? Not mine.
None of it.
How could I ever achieve any real power using borrowed wealth?
Pride is a falsehood. It will ultimately lead to desolation.
The Preacher knew it—he who was considered the wisest of the wise.
“Everything is meaningless,” says the Teacher. “Completely meaningless.” (Proverbs 1:2, NLT)
We work for more than wealth or power. We must!
As it turns out, I have been a plutocrat. Just not in the way the world around us understands it. They’ve never recognized any power, nor any wealth in my hands.
Not much of what is really important will ever make sense to anyone else. And that’s how it goes on this walk we’re taking with our Savior and each other.
We’re not the blind following the blind. But, only because of His gift of sight.
I don’t always get it right. Sometimes, I’m confused by what I’m supposed to do and why I don’t do that.
And still, He gives grace for the journey. No matter how many times I have to be reminded.
You, too?
Maybe you could come by and sit on the deck sometime to talk about it with me.
It’s not mine anyway. And, that’s okay with me.
We could even roast a marshmallow or two over the firepit and share some s’mores.
Now—does that sound like something a plutocrat would do?
It ain’t the heat; It’s the humility. (Yogi Berra)
Before a downfall the heart is haughty, but humility comes before honor. (Proverbs 18:12, NIV)
