My father told of walking in the early 1950s across the yard beside what is now my home to reach Dr. Wills’ barn and pick up a gallon of fresh milk from his Jersey cows. As he told me the story, I could almost see him and his brother, my Uncle Edward, striding across this very field and then my yard.
I stood in the field this afternoon, soaking in the spring warmth and letting the memories wash over me.
I never knew, until the last years of his life, that Dad had ever been to this little town before my brothers and I settled here after leaving South Texas in the seventies.
I think I understand, a little, why it felt so much like coming home when I first visited here. It has never felt different in the nearly half-century since.
But, I wonder sometimes if that’s a little how it will feel to walk into our forever home.
I think it might.
Home. Where we belong.
I hope it’ll be springtime. With two brothers carrying bottles of fresh milk home for breakfast.
That was the one-word description I read when I checked the medical app a couple of weeks ago. I had received an email informing me the doctor had posted the result of my recent procedure, so I thumbed my way through the sign-in process to get the good news.
It was what I was expecting. Good news. I’d like to believe I’m not a perpetual pessimist, expecting the worst all the time. Still, I wasn’t shocked to read the word I found there.
Abnormal.
There was nothing else, except a reminder of an appointment with the surgeon in a week. On the day of the Vernal Equinox.
It seemed appropriate. The end of a season. The beginning of another. Both on the same day.
One, I have grown to detest. The other, I love. The reader will no doubt draw their own conclusion as to which is which.
I waited. Concentrating on the word, abnormal, I waited.
I had an inkling of the meaning. Last year, a similar procedure yielded the word precancerous. Now, this follow-up procedure had yielded a new word.
It’s funny, the things one’s brain will jump to, given time. And, I had plenty of time on my hands.
Abnormal is the opposite of normal. Somehow, we prefer the latter to the former. It seems odd, because we don’t really care for average, which is surprisingly similar to normal.
Next, my mind landed on the word I may have been searching for in the first place: peculiar. It is a word which twins abnormal rather well, don’t you think?
We think of peculiar as meaning odd, or strange. That’s the same as abnormal, is it not?
But then, there’s another definition that says peculiar means belonging exclusively to one genre, area, or person.
And, that’s me. Perhaps, you too.
The Fisherman who came to be known as The Rock gave us the description a couple of thousand years ago.
“But ye are a chosen generation, a royal priesthood, an holy nation, a peculiar people; that ye should shew forth the praises of him who hath called you out of darkness into his marvellous light.” (1 Peter 2:9, KJV)
This kind of abnormal, we can lay claim to. If we follow Jesus, we belong!
Forever, we belong.
And, in spite of seasons that end and change, there will always be new beginnings. We have the bright hope of life with our Creator that goes on forever.
Which brings me back to my opening thoughts.
On the day of the year when darkness holds sway for an equal amount of time with daylight, the Vernal Equinox, I went to see my doctor again.
I had prepared for the day. I trust in a God who heals as well as saves.
I had left the abnormal in His hands. I freely admit, I wanted it to be normal but I was ready to accept what came next either way.
That doesn’t mean I didn’t sit in the parking lot and let the tears flow as I communicated with the Lovely Lady afterward.
Normal. He said I was normal.
I’m grateful for the changing seasons. For darkness that turns to light.
Endings always lead to beginnings. Always. I don’t know why I continue to be surprised by it but yet, once again, I am.
And, I do know I’m still peculiar. I hope you are, too.
“And you He made alive, who were dead in trespasses and sins.”
(Ephesians 2:1, NKJV)
“(Spring) is a natural resurrection, an experience of immortality.”
(H D Thoreau)
I walked out my door a moment ago and stepped into a snowstorm. No—not an actual snowstorm, but the white petals did fill the air. Wind and rain are hurrying the demise of the spectacular festival of pear blossoms.
I strolled over to the ancient pear tree, towering more than 40 feet above me. It is still rife with ivory blossoms, but most of them will come to nothing. No pears, no edible fruit.
It’s not only the wind that will bring spring’s promise to naught.
The tree has outgrown the graft that made it productive in its early years. When I crane my neck to look toward the sky, its beauty is still evident, its size truly awesome, but the branches are barren of the sweet fruit it once offered to those of us on the ground below.
Lovely, but lacking.
Strange. There is a section, growing near the ground, where the blossoms look completely different. Different shape. Different hues.
The trunk is misshapen and gnarled, and the branches are slender here.
But, I know from experience that these blossoms will become buds which, in turn, will produce fruit.
Edible pears near the ground.
Reaching for the sky where it may be seen and admired by all who pass by, the huge branches spread, barren of anything but beauty.
Near the ground, where no one sees and none would remark, fruit comes.
I’d like to be grounded. And useful.
Beauty—true beauty—comes from obedient and humble performance. Gnarled and scarred, we serve.
It seems I’ve used up most of my available words in the last year writing about difficult things. As a consequence, for the last few months, my late-night writing sessions have been replaced by late-night reading sessions.
I want to believe the account of words I have to spend is being replenished in the process, but I’m not convinced. Time will tell.
And perhaps, that explains why I am turning loose of a few of those precious words tonight. Time is passing. Passing at a frightening pace.
As I read late into the small hours of the morning recently, I glanced down at my wrist to see the time. For several years the watch I’ve worn has been a so-called smartwatch, one that not only told me the exact time, but could relay messages from my phone, count the number of steps I have taken in a day, and even number the beats of my heart every minute of every day.
But not long ago I realized that I have tired of the over-abundance of personal information collected and shared by the device. I found my old analog watch on the bedside dresser, replaced the broken leather band, and shook it vigorously a few times to wake it up. It is ticking away on my wrist even as I share my hoarded words here.
But, in that early morning session, I glanced down at my new/old watch and remembered another reason I like it so much.
The hands of the watch indicated that it was 1:45 AM. Or, put another way, it was a quarter to two. In the morning. One might even say, it was only three-fourths of an hour past one.
My point is—the watch shows me more than just what the time is at this exact minute. I can see where I came from on it. I can also see where I am going.
The digital watch can only show me right now. If that had been the watch on my wrist, the numbers would have indicated the exact time and nothing else.
A well-known fiction writer addressed this exact issue in one of his books I remember reading a number of years ago.
Digital clocks…provide the precise time to the nanosecond, but no greater context; an infinite succession of you-are-here arrows with nary a map. (from Song of Albion, by Stephen R Lawhead)
It’s one of my problems with the information age in which we live. Right now seems to be the only thing we’re concerned with. Our watches show the exact time. Right now. Our news reports are instant, telling us what is happening. Right now. Many of our interactions with friends are by electronic means, informing each other of our present status. Right now.
We live for today, eschewing the past, and barely considering the future. Our sages tell us to forget the past because we’re not going there and to live for today because we may never arrive at any point in the future.
Carpe Diem! Sieze the day!
Even those of us who follow Christ hear it from our teachers. The Apostle Paul said the words, so they must be a life text to hold to.
“Forgetting those things that lie behind, I press on…” (from Philippians 3:13,14)
In one way, they’re not wrong, but the apostle isn’t telling us to ignore the past as we look to the future. He’s telling us to let go of the baggage, the things we cling to as proof of our right to be followers of Christ. He doesn’t call the past garbage, just the deeds we mistakenly think have earned us a place here.
The past matters. It has shaped who we are today. Events—good and bad; interactions—kind and ugly; memories—delightful and horrendous; all have become a part of us. The real us, who we are at our core.
If the past were of no consequence, our Creator would never have inspired men to write the Scriptures. If the future were not for us to be concerned with, He would never have given us the hope of Heaven—would never have encouraged us to throw off the weights that impede our progress daily and to press on toward a certain goal.
Did I say earlier that I only glanced down at my watch in that early morning, not long ago? I meant to say that was my intention.
When I became aware again, that quarter-hour in front of two o’clock had slipped past, the minute hand easing past the top mark on the face.
Time is like that; whether day or night, it flees. Many of the old-time clocks had the Latin motto inscribed on their faces.
Tempus fugit.
I’ll never catch it. Never.
Still, a glance backward now and again gives me confidence to look to the future with hope.
And, strength to face today with purpose.
Press on.
Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a huge crowd of witnesses to the life of faith, let us strip off every weight that slows us down, especially the sin that so easily trips us up. And let us run with endurance the race God has set before us. (Hebrews 12:1, NLT)
“Where did you go to, if I may ask?” said Thorin to Gandalf as they rode along. “To look ahead,” said he. “And what brought you back in the nick of time?” “Looking behind,” said he.
(from The Hobbit, by J. R .R. Tolkien)
My friend, Nancy, suggested the other day that the cure for the blues was work, so the day after we lost our Tip dog, I determined to get started taking down the fence in our backyard.
I began with the old metal drive-through gate. In retrospect (and with the Lovely Lady’s exhortation in my ear) I possibly should have waited for help. I sometimes need to be reminded that I’m not 39 anymore.
I started out well but ended up pinned on the ground by the heavy gate at some point. I look at that sentence and envision two WWE fakers in the ring with the loser being pile-driven into the canvas at the conclusion. And as I consider it, it even felt a little like that.
I am, as the red-headed lady who raised me used to say, a glutton for punishment, so the next day I pulled a trailer down to a little town south of us and helped my grandchildren pick up a number of large cut stones from an old fireplace in my sister-in-law’s grandparents’ homestead.
I only moved a few of the smaller stones (much smaller), but still felt as if I have been run over by the proverbial train by suppertime yesterday evening.
I’ve decided that perhaps I may have misunderstood my good friend’s instructions. She probably meant that I should just think about work, instead of actually doing it.
I’m going to try that today, even if it’s not the right conclusion. In my head, I’m going to rake the entire yard this afternoon. I only hope the folks along my street appreciate all I’ll be doing to beautify the neighborhood.
But, switching gears (and attempting to be a little less tongue-in-cheek here), I’ve been thinking a lot recently about sadness and hope. I’ve talked with lots of folks who are in pain. I’ve also spoken with many who are blessed with joys right now.
The realization dawns (repeatedly, it seems, since I need to be reminded over and over) that we’re instructed to “weep with those who weep” no more than we are to “rejoice with those who rejoice.”
Job, in his distress, asked, “Shall we accept good from His hands and not trouble also?” (Job 2:10, NIV)
Our hope is not that all trouble will cease in this life. Our hope is that He will sustain us in our trouble now and that one day, all will be made right.
But, we also live in expectation of good things from our Heavenly Father. In this life.
Good things.
Jesus Himself said, “In this world, you will have tribulations, but be of good cheer. I have overcome the world.” (John 16:23)
It is a vale of sorrows. I’ll not argue.
It’s also a garden of promise. And hope.
You know, when that gate landed on top of me the other day, I sat on the ground for a few moments, contemplating my situation. But, I didn’t stay there.
I stood up and, lifting the gate, carried it back to the storage barn, leaning it against the wall to await its next assignment.
We are knocked down, but not out.
There are good things ahead.
And, maybe another day or two of work to be done.
I might be looking for a little help along the way.
What do you think? You in?
We are pressed on every side by troubles, but we are not crushed. We are perplexed, but not driven to despair. We are hunted down, but never abandoned by God. We get knocked down, but we are not destroyed.
(2 Corinthians 4: 8-9, NLT)
“When God gives us tribulations, He expects us to tribulate.”
(Anonymous)
I suppose it’s the ultimate indicator of age creeping up on me. Though sometimes it seems as if old age is bashing the door down, rather than creeping.
The surgeon removed the lens of my right eye, it having been covered with a cataract that was affecting my eyesight. In its place, a sparkling new lens was inserted, one that is clear and shaped correctly.
I now have measurably better vision in that eye, as well as being able to see colors and light more realistically.
I’m not sure I like it all that much.
I close the right eye, seeing only through my left, and I become almost nostalgic. The difference is striking—nearly dramatic. Immediately, I feel warmth and comfort.
Let me see if I can explain what I mean.
Over time, a cataract on the lens of the eye changes the hue of what one sees. It can eventually become so dark that a person can’t see much at all. That was not the case with my eyes yet.
The change in my eyesight essentially just added a browny-yellow hue to everything I saw. Not enough to obscure anything, but enough to make the view through my eyes more warm and comforting.
Here’s another way to think about it: I take a lot of photos of nature (and bridges). It seems to me that the camera actually changes the images I capture a bit from what my eye sees. Over the last few years, as I process them, I have grown to rely on an app that has the ability to filter the color and light of the photos. I use filters to make the final photo more realistic.
To me. It’s more realistic to my eyes.
One of the filters is called “warmth”. Raising the value of this filter turns the scene slightly more yellow. Maybe even a little browny-yellow.
I like that.
Do you see my problem?
Now, I close my left eye (with its cataract) and open the newly repaired right one. The world changes from warm and comfortable to brilliant and stark.
In another week, I will go back to the surgery center and the surgeon will replace the lens of my left eye, too. I’m not sure that makes me all that happy.
I want to continue to look at the world through my warm and comfortable filters. Brilliant starkness doesn’t appeal to me that much.
That said, I understand that I need to see clearly. And, as I write the words, I remember that our physical eyes are not the only ones in which we need 20/20 sight. We need to see clearly, not just in the physical world around us, but in the spiritual as well.
Am I the only one? Does no one else go through life believing they’re seeing the world as it is, only to be rudely awakened by a different perspective offered by way of a crisis, a conversation, or an overheard comment?
Again and again, we’re sad as we learn of previously hidden illnesses. A beautiful day can turn black in seconds as we hear of tragedy and loss. Folks we thought were doing fine may actually be in the throes of financial disaster.
It would be easy to think all the eye-opening revelations are of sadness and distress. That’s not always the case. Frequently we learn of good news while we’re expecting the worst.
There’s a story in the Old Testament about that. The prophet Elisha and his servant opened their eyes one morning to find themselves surrounded by enemy forces, intent on harming them. The servant, expecting his own annihilation at any moment, was terrified.
Elisha, seeing the world as it really was, prayed for his servant’s eyes to be opened—really opened.
Then Elisha prayed, “O Lord, open his eyes and let him see!” The Lord opened the young man’s eyes, and when he looked up, he saw that the hillside around Elisha was filled with horses and chariots of fire. (2 Kings 6:17, NLT)
Looking up, the servant saw the armies of heaven, prepared to fight for God’s people. Before, he had seen what he knew to be truth, an army bent on his destruction. Eyes fully opened, he now saw the protection of God’s hand poised to save.
I’m ready for that; ready to see the world around me as God sees it.
How about it? Are we ready to love it as He does, ready to weep when He does, ready to stand firm where He says to stand?
To do all of those, we have to see with His eyes.
For my part, if it takes some mud and spit, as it did for the blind man in Jesus’ day, I’ll take that. Or even letting the surgeon replace the lenses in my eyes.
It’s time to fix our eyes.
I’m still going to use the warmth filter on my photos, though.
Even if they do look a little browny-yellow to everyone else.
I can see, and that is why I can be happy, in what you call the dark, but which to me is golden. I can see a God-made world, not a manmade world. (Helen Keller)
Fixing our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of faith, who for the joy set before Him endured the cross, despising the shame, and has sat down at the right hand of the throne of God. (Hebrews 12:2, NASB1995)
I know it’s that time of the year—the time when my lungs usually revolt and refuse to take in (and expel) the prescribed amount of oxygen. I’m taking steps to stay healthy. And, in case I fail at that, I’ve filled my prescriptions. The rescue inhaler is easily at hand for when it will be required again.
This was different.
Certainly, I couldn’t breathe. Still, I didn’t reach for my inhaler. It would have done no good.
We had just heard the news of a tragedy in a young family we love. A beautiful little girl was dead, and her father had been carried away in a flash flood.
I couldn’t breathe.
In my mind, I saw that beautiful little girl standing on a church platform last Christmas, her two older sisters singing a lovely duet while she just stood smiling beside them in her pretty satiny dress.
She tried. She really did.
She tried just to stand there quietly, but it couldn’t be done. Before they finished, she was dancing, throwing her hair from side to side and moving her hands and feet to the music. And, when they stopped singing, she bowed to the audience and, pointing her toes as she went, danced down the steps from the stage.
I spoke to her mom after the program and told her it was perfect. Perfect.
She laughed apologetically and explained that the two older girls had worked up the song, but to keep the peace had allowed the sweet little one to come up on stage with them. So, she danced. Because she couldn’t sing.
She’ll never do it again. I thought about that and I couldn’t breathe. Perhaps, I’m not the only one.
Another friend reminded us of a song today, one that speaks again and again of the goodness of God. Running after us, it says.
“Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life.” (Psalm 23:6, KJV)
I’ve heard the words for as long as I can remember. They’re meant to be comforting. And yet, I can’t help but ask the question little Gretel asked in The Sound of Music when singing about her favorite things wasn’t helping any.
“Why don’t I feel bettah?”
It doesn’t feel like goodness and mercy are following right now. Sometimes, if I’m honest, it feels just the opposite.
But then, I remember words I last heard from the lips of the sweet girl’s daddy, not many months ago now. He—not a preacher—gave one of the most powerful sermons I’ve ever heard, on his favorite book of the Bible, Habakkuk.
A soul-ish book, he called it. One we need to hear with our inner being and not just our heads. He had much to say about the words of the prophet, but these I want to remember, especially now, when I’m tempted to be directed by my feelings:
“The Lord is in His holy temple; let all the earth keep silence before Him.” (Habakkuk 3:20, KJV)
And, perhaps it’s time for me to do just that.
But before I do, two things:
The first is, I wonder if you noticed I forgot to finish the verse from the Twenty-third Psalm above. It’s something I tend to do when I’m thinking with my emotions and not my soul. I forget that there is more.
Really. More.
“And I shall dwell in the House of the Lord forever.”
And second, remembering that hope-filled truth, I begin to breathe again as I see the beautiful little girl dancing for her Savior. But then I remember that she gets to sing now, too.
She gets to sing.
With her daddy, she gets to sing.
One can almost hear it from here. Beautiful music.
Goodness.
Mercy.
Following us.
All of our lives.
“Yet I will rejoice in the Lord! I will be joyful in the God of my salvation! The Sovereign Lord is my strength! He makes me as surefooted as a deer, able to tread upon the heights.” (Habakkuk 3:18-19, NLT)
The rain falls outside, finally. Months, it seems since it fell.
I should be celebrating. All about me is wet. Hydrated, they call it. At least, that’s what they would call it in the medical profession.
Like the earth, we need hydration. It’s why we drink water. When we are thirsty, having struggled through some grueling course—those obstacles that challenge and stretch us—we drink it. By the gallons, it seems.
So easy. Are you thirsty?
Drink.
I remember it from my childhood days in church, the call to all who are thirsty. Congregations sang songs about it—the thirst and the cure. Preachers shouted the words from the pulpits.
“Ho! Everyone who thirsts, Come to the waters; And you who have no money, Come, buy and eat. Yes, come, buy wine and milk Without money and without price.“
(Isaiah 55: 1, NKJV)
What could be simpler?
Are you thirsty?
Drink!
The scripture is a clear reference to God’s grace, His salvation offered freely. Millions, including me, have already satisfied their thirst in that fountain that flows without cost to us.
But, it’s raining now. And, some yet feel a desert inside themselves. Not from the lack of salvation, but from a deficit of joy.
The folks who wept at the reading of God’s Word in Ezra’s day knew that deficit.
“…for this day is holy to our Lord. Do not sorrow, for the joy of the Lord is your strength.” (Nehemiah 8:10b, NKJV)
One of my young artist friends who, I think, knows the feeling of being in the desert herself, today described the feeling of the rainy day as gently claustrophobic. It is the certainty of rain—life-giving showers from heaven—flooding the earth, but the unsatisfying reality of watching it from the cloister of her front room.
I know how she feels.
If you’re thirsty, then drink.
Can it be so simple?
When I was a child, I danced and cavorted in the rain. Soaking wet, my playmates and I floated sticks and dug channels in the earth for the runoff.
Joy-filled and water-logged, with no thought for the opinions of others, neither peers nor parents, neighbors nor passers-by, we were saturated with water and a wild love for life.
I want that again.
Who wouldn’t?
And the Teacher said to them, “I have come that they may have life, and that they may have it more abundantly.“ (John 10:10b, NKJV)
I am struggling, having passed through what have seemed like insurmountable obstacles over the past weeks and months. My soul is thirsty. Dry.
All around, the rain is falling.
Really. Pouring.
I wonder what I should do next.
For as the rain and the snow come down from heaven, And do not return there without watering the earth And making it produce and sprout, And providing seed to the sower and bread to the eater; So will My word be which goes out of My mouth; It will not return to Me empty, Without accomplishing what I desire, And without succeeding in the purpose for which I sent it.
(Isaiah 55:10-11, NASB)
Wait. That didn’t come out right, did it? I can hear the murmuring already.
“If you don’t want to write, don’t. We don’t want to read it all that much, either.”
Ah. As the Bard would say, there’s the rub. I’m beginning to believe that when I don’t want to is the very time I must.
But, in these opening words, you’ve been warned.
Read on at your peril. The management takes no responsibility for the outcome, good or bad, happy or sad.
We sat around a circle of friends just yesterday, celebrating the passing of another year for one of them. His wife, at one point in the conversation, suggested that, if we wanted to, we might relate an example of personally receiving a gift, a clear message from God that He loves us.
She told of standing outside her door, admiring the hummingbirds drinking from the feeder she maintains for them. As she stood, motionless, one of them left the feeder and, hovering in the air, looked her right in the eyes for several moments. She held her breath and the beautiful creature came even closer. She almost thought it could have been his way of saying thank you.
We all agreed that truly it was a moment to savor, to give thanks to our Creator for His love and wonder. Then, our friend asked if anyone else wanted to share their “God moment.”
Some did.
I didn’t.
I don’t know why. Or, maybe I know too well. If I do share them, there may be more.
I don’t want any more.
Still, having had 24 hours to consider, I think I will share. With my readers, anyway.
I did warn you.
A few weeks ago, on a Saturday morning, my phone rang. The lady’s voice was strained and tense. She wanted to know if I was at home. When I answered in the affirmative, she asked if I could come over as quickly as possible.
I rushed over to help my friend, her husband, off the floor where he had fallen and back onto his bed. Then, as she sat beside him, we talked of hardship and growing old, and decisions that were just too difficult to make in the moment.
She cried. I cried. My friend thanked me for coming to help.
It was the last time I would ever see him.
And, that’s my gift from God—my God moment.
I know; it is confusing, isn’t it?
Perhaps it wouldn’t be the right thing to relate at a birthday party. No, perhaps is the wrong word. I should have said, probably. Maybe even certainly.
The moments such as our friend at the party revealed to us—they are, without question, gifts from God. He loves to surprise us with joy and light.
He does.
But life isn’t all about fun; it’s not all about parties. The purpose of our life is decidedly not that we should be happy every moment of all our days here on earth.
I’ve written the words before—the words that begin the Westminster Shorter Catechism.
“The chief end of man is to glorify God and to enjoy Him forever.”
There! There it is! Enjoy Him forever! That means to be happy, doesn’t it?
Well, no. The thing is, the only way we can enjoy Him is to do what glorifies Him.
We don’t get to pick and choose the parts we like. Truth becomes untruth very quickly when we pick it apart like that.
Long-suffering Job said the words to his wife, millenniums ago:
Should we accept only good things from the hand of God and never anything bad?” So in all this, Job said nothing wrong. (Job 2: 10, NLT)
I don’t particularly like the gifts He’s giving me now. I don’t really want a flood of this type of gift.
Yet, they do come, His gifts of opportunities to serve.
With some regularity, these days.
And still, I believe He uses them to bring about good. His Word says He will. (see Romans 8:28)
I sat beside a hospital bed today and heard the words from the fellow propped up there, this man who is under a death sentence. He lay there, heart racing, sucking in each breath of oxygen through the cannula, tubes strung out of both arms, and he told me how thankful he is for all he has.
Gifts.
Coming down from the Father of Lights.
God moments. All through our life.
He does, indeed, love us.
Whatever is good and perfect is a gift coming down to us from God our Father, who created all the lights in the heavens. He never changes or casts a shifting shadow. (James 1:17, NLT)
“Think on these two powerful points: Lean on God in every situation and love others as unselfishly as you possibly can.” (Joyce Meyer)
I have words and phrases stuck inside my head that will never leave me, no matter how many times I take them out and share them.
It’s not a bad thing for some of them. They deserve another opportunity to be aired—to influence listeners. Those—the profitable ones—I think I’ll hang onto and give them their freedom once in a while.
But, some words need to be kept under wraps, in chains, and in the dark where they can do no further harm. They hurt going in, but I’ll not set them free to hunt any more prey. At least, that’s my intent. I forget sometimes and leave the door open for them. I wish I weren’t so forgetful.
I do love the good words that remind me of people in my life. Many of them remind me of folks who have dropped out of the story temporarily, so there’s a sadness mixed with joy when I pass them out again.
It happened again yesterday.
I was talking with a friend who isn’t doing so well right now. His is a temporary setback and he knows it. Hoping to encourage him, I laughed as I shared a favorite phrase of my father-in-law’s, one I heard often over the nearly thirty years I was privileged to know him.
They were the words he uttered often when asked how he was doing.
“I’m able to be up and around and take nourishment.”
Did I say I laughed as I said them? As I remember, I always did back when he spoke them to me or whoever had posed the question to him, too. It just seemed such a strange way to make small talk.
The old man has been gone for most of seventeen years now. Seventeen years of silence from him, and I’m just realizing the deeper meaning of the words. Words I’ve saved up for times when humor was needed.
But, that’s not what they are, is it?
I’ve come to realize the deep gratitude, the thankfulness, this curious phrase expresses. To anyone who is really listening.
“How are you?”
It’s a question inviting a litany of complaints—a laundry list of aches, pains, and privations. Frequently, those are exactly what we get (or give).
That, or we tell the standard lie and simply reply, “Fine.”
My father-in-law headed them both off and offered his perspective of gratitude for the small things.
“I have what I need. I’m able to get out of my bed in the morning and I can eat the food on my plate.”
What a great attitude! It didn’t mean there weren’t difficulties. It didn’t even mean he was necessarily happy with his life. But, he was grateful for what he did have.
Did I say it was gratitude for the small things?
I should have said they were the essentials.
Just recently, I saw a video in which an oncologist revealed what he believed were the two most important things for his cancer patients to do. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise.
The two things were to keep moving and to keep eating.
Easy peasy, you say?
Not so much when your body is wracked with nausea and pain from both the disease and the treatment for it. It’s not all that easy for the elderly to do those two things consistently. Or even for folks with auto-immune disease. Or, for those who suffer from depression.
Essentials for life.
Exactly what he said (the Lovely Lady’s father).
“I’m able to be up and around and take nourishment.”
Basics.
Move. Eat.
And, be grateful we can do them.
I think I’ll do all three today.
I hope you do, too.
Good words.
For in Him we live and move and have our being. As some of your own poets have said, “We are his offspring.”
(Acts 17:28, NIV)
A word fitly spoken is like apples of gold In settings of silver.
(Proverbs 25:11, NKJV)
