Tuesday morning in the coffee shop. I used to sit by myself and click away at the keyboard, collecting letters into words, words into sentences, sentences into paragraphs, and… well, you get the idea.
A few weeks ago, I was invited to sit with a few men and “help them out” with their discussion. I declined, sitting by myself again to write but, thinking better of it, moved over to help them out. (I wasn’t really helping, but it was nice to think of it like that for a few seconds, anyway.)
The opening words above were what I was greeted with as I sat down with them again on this Tuesday morning. Our conversation over the next hour and a half ranged from football to politics and from parenting to couples therapy, with a good bit of Scripture mixed in, but the first words stuck with me.
“People don’t think like I do.”
Today being a national election day, I can’t quibble with the sentiment.
They don’t think like I do. And, I’m going to say something argumentative.
It’s perfectly okay.
Being raised in a pretty straight-laced Christian home, much of my adult life has been one eye-opening realization after another that people don’t believe everything I believe. I once thought I needed to convince all of them.
Every. Single. One.
I don’t. Need to, that is.
I won’t. Succeed if I try, that is.
Today I read the words below, written by a Christian author I follow on social media. They seem important to me. Especially the part about the knowledge of the holy.
“Praying. Not for a particular result, but for a knowledge of the holy. This I know; my hope tomorrow will be just as unflinching as it is today. Because I know where my Hope is found.” (Michele Cushatt)
Life is too short to go to battle about non-essentials. But, we do it. Day after day, we do it.
There is a photo of my neighborhood with this little essay. It’s part of this note to myself to help me remember the important things.
His important things.
The beauty of His creation surrounding us reminds me to love God. With everything I’ve got in me.
Love God.
The houses remind me of the neighbors who live there. To be loved like I love myself.
Love people.
My area of ministry. Assigned by Jesus, Himself.
It won’t change because of differences in religious beliefs. Or election results.
I apologize for talking to myself today. You see, I’m just not sure you think like I do.
But, I love you. I do.
Mostly, because He showed us how it’s done.
“The tax on being different is massive.” (Vivienne Ming – American neuroscientist)
“Dear friends, let us continue to love one another, for love comes from God. Anyone who loves is a child of God and knows God.But anyone who does not love does not know God, for God is love.” (1 John 4:7-8, NLT)
The little dog is an escape artist. Well, not so much an artist as a fanatic.
She has a good-sized yard in which to roam; it having ample grass to roll in, dirt to dig in, and room to stretch out. Plus, there’s always food and water waiting for her. And yet, she is not content.
I have watched the little dachshund-mix canine run back and forth along the fence line with no other intent but to find a weakness, just the beginning of an opening to widen—first with her nose, then with her head—and slip out of. She has all that big yard to run, but she wants the whole world instead.
Several times recently, I have called to her as she streaked away from our neighbor’s yard to freedom and she, friendly beast that she is, has come to my call, allowing me to pick her up and drop her down gently back into her assigned domain.
And then immediately, she has headed for the hole through which she squeezed earlier or has run for the incline she used as a launching ramp onto the stump next to the fence, jumping from there to freedom again.
She is not content.
In the midst of plenty, she wants more. Surrounded by all she needs, including the loving attention of her owners, she would sacrifice it all for a few minutes of running free.
Foolish dog! Danger awaits out there; hunger and terror from other animals.
I laugh at the silly thing, but then I remember. Last week, I offered to help the dog’s owner with one problem area, next to the stump. As I worked with the fencing to be anchored around the area, he, temporarily crippled with sciatica, hobbled up, leaning on his cane. Gasping in pain, he bent over to help.
He couldn’t stand to have someone working in his yard and not be involved. Even with his physical limitations, he just had to participate in the labor.
There was no need. I had it handled. He helped me to his physical detriment.
In my mind, I can’t help but compare the man and his dog. Both are cared for and have no need of more, but both feel the need to do more, to push farther.
To their distinct disadvantage, they push the boundaries.
And, still laughing, I wonder at the foolishness of not resting in what has been provided. Why are we—both animals and humans—like that?
But, my laughing is quieted as another memory pushes aside the scenes of the man and his dog.
Just last week, it was. My grandchildren had come to visit, parents in tow (they will come along), and having an hour or so before a scheduled event, asked if they could have another go at the stump in the front yard.
“But, you can’t do any of the work, Grandpa! We don’t want you to hurt your back again.”
I agreed to oversee the job and stay out of their way. With my mouth, I agreed. My brain and heart didn’t follow suit, apparently. After several minutes of standing and making suggestions of locations for chopping and prying, I could take it no longer.
“Let me take a whack or two at that!”
I swung the mattock a number of times (I don’t remember if it was three or twenty) and soon we had most of the above-ground part of the stump out.
I haven’t had many pain-free moments since.
There was no reason for me to swing that tool—not even once! The labor was freely provided; the task would have been finished handily without me.
My grandchildren were there, not only to provide labor; they were there to be a wall of protection.
And, I stepped out from behind that wall. Because of my pride. Stubbornness, too. But, mostly pride.
What is it the Proverb says? “Pride goes before excruciating pain and a haughty spirit before the need to lean on a cane for support.”
No. That’s not quite right, but the result seems to be the same. The man who says I don’t need help—or, I know better than anyone else—is asking for pain and suffering. (Read Proverbs 16:18, for the true version)
Our Creator gives us boundaries—and He provides us with safe places and helpers—for our benefit. It’s not to punish us. The fences are there to give us safety.
One might expect the shenanigans from the little dog. While they can be smart for the animal kingdom, they’re mostly no match for humans in the logic department. Mostly. Sometimes, I’m not so sure.
I sometimes wonder if I’ll ever be able to say with the Apostle who loved to write letters, “I am content. Whatever condition and wherever it is that God has me, I am content.” (Philippians 4:11, my paraphrase)
Like the little dog, the fences gall me. They mock me, almost.
But, I’m learning to rest. And, to trust.
He wants good for us. Really.
Good.
With Him, we are safe. In His strong and loving arms, we can rest.
I may finally be learning my lesson. My neighbor, too. Time will tell.
I’m remembering the days when I used to call my father and let him know I was concerned for his well-being. He would often quote Psalm 16:6 to me to reassure me.
Perhaps, I need to claim it for myself in these days of learning to be content behind the fence.
“The boundary lines have fallen for me in pleasant places; surely I have a delightful inheritance.“
I’m not sure about the little dog, but I’ve got an idea she’s going to be all right, as well.
“In peace I will lie down and sleep, for you alone, Lord, make me dwell in safety.” (Psalm 4:8, NIV)
“We’re not necessarily doubting that God will do the best for us; we’re wondering how painful the best will turn out to be.” (C.S. Lewis)
I was unhappy. It’s not a mistake I’d usually make. I’m a stickler for correct grammar and punctuation. Oh, that doesn’t mean I don’t make errors; it simply means they usually have been corrected by the time I deem something fit for public consumption and click the button to post it. After I’ve read it over five or ten times.
But there it was, as clear as you please.
I was reposting an old note I had written a couple of years ago on my social media account. At a time when I was tired, hot, and covered in dust, I had seen the beauty of the sun shining through the trees, making the humid, dusty atmosphere glow with the bright rays of heavenly light.
“As I mowed my neighbors’ yard yesterday, I looked up from the hot and dusty task before me to see this.” Those were the words with which I started my post.
Except there is just one person who lives there. The fact that I placed the apostrophe after the s that made the word neighbor plural meant more than one person was living there. I should have placed the apostrophe between the r and the s to make it a singular possessive word.
You see, my neighbor is a widow—her husband having passed away nearly two years ag. . .
Oh.
When I wrote it, two people were living in the house next door. One of them, my friend Skip, would leave this world for the next a mere two months after it was written.
I did! I did put the apostrophe in the right place!
I feel as if I should be happier. Being right should be more joyful than this.
And yet, I’ve been looking at that apostrophe for the last hour or two. It was in the right place when I wrote the post, but it’s not now.
I’m not sad about how a sentence was written two years ago. I’m sad that all it takes to correct the loss of my friend is to move an apostrophe, the tiniest of punctuation marks, one space over.
One space—his loving wife’s loneliness and loss, shown in that tiny action. All the sadness of his children and old friends summed up in a movement of less than a quarter of an inch.
Perhaps though, my sadness is even more deeply rooted than this one exercise in grammatical nerdiness.
I stood with dear friends in church today and, speaking with them, realized anew that I will not do that with one or both of them many more times in this world. Health fails; the body refuses to continue on in its earthly mission.
Life on this spinning ball of water and rock is precarious. It’s short. And, unpredictable.
Today is a good day to hold close those our Creator has given us. It’s the perfect day to say, “I love you,” to everyone to whom the words apply.
Do (and say) the important things now, while the apostrophes and commas are still holding firm.
Tomorrow, the commas may all turn to periods—the apostrophes may slip over a space. The Author of our story writes and edits as He sees fit.
Of course, if the punctuation holds fast and isn’t moved until years in the future, we’ll simply have made the world a better place to be for all those extra days. And, our longer stories will be more lovely to read because of it.
And that seems to be acceptable. To me, anyway.
I hope you agree. If you don’t, send me a note.
Just try to get the punctuation right, will you?
“The Lord gives, and the Lord takes away. May the name of the Lord be blessed!”
(Job 1:21, NET)
“As I mowed my neighbors’ yard yesterday, I looked up from the hot and dusty task before me to see this.
Nothing spectacular. Just the sun’s rays shining through the dust that hung in the air. Somehow, life just seems a little sweeter in the light.
The heat seems unbearable. It’s not.
The sadness seems crushing. It’s not.
The dread of what lies ahead seems overwhelming. It’s not.
Our hope never was in the stuff of this world. Time to look higher.
‘The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.’” (John 1:5, NIV) (from a Facebook post on July 7, 2022)
My friend smiled joyfully as she said the words. Her mom, who has cancer, had surgery last week and is healing nicely.
But, I wonder. . .
I’ve experienced the same thing in recent years. The Lovely Lady’s brother received his original diagnosis four years before the disease took him. At several points throughout that journey, we realized anew that we had more time, albeit limited, with him.
It changed our relationship; making us more purposeful. We valued the times around the table—the visits on the backyard deck. We knew our days together were numbered.
We made the most of them. We invested in them.
Does that make sense?
The Apostle, my namesake, used the term (at least in the version in which I learned it): Redeeming the time.
In the book of Colossians (chapter 4, verse 5), he uses it with respect to unbelievers and sharing the Good News with them. But, in Ephesians (chapter 5, verses 16 and 17), he’s clearly talking about our relationships with those of the faith.
Either way, we’re to invest our hours and days wisely. It’s nothing like the spending time we refer to so often in our culture. Redeeming means buying back; reclaiming every minute.
But, here’s what I wonder:
Why do we wait until we have a pretty clear picture of the time frame? Until we can almost see the limit of our days on earth with those we love?
Our days were numbered from the moment of our conception.
“You saw me before I was born. Every day of my life was recorded in your book. Every moment was laid out before a single day had passed.” (Psalm 139:16, NLT)
He knows how long we have. He always has.
And He wants us to redeem every minute. For Him, and for those He’s blessed us to walk this journey with.
He knows our days without the need for a surgeon’s prognosis—without the calculation of life expectancy from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention—without our wide-eyed expectations.
He knows. And, He wants us to invest ourselves into every bit of it.
I remember a song that was popular in my youth—an awful song (at least they were awful lyrics). But, there was a grain of truth in it.
The lyrics said, “If you can’t be with the one you love, love the one you’re with.” The author of those lyrics intended them to mean that we love them physically—carnally.
Still, my mind has always traveled by its own strange paths.
And, I’m absolutely certain we’re intended to love the one we’re with. With the love that God put in our hearts, we are to invest ourselves every day into others He brings into our lives. In spiritual ways, and in practical ways.
Fill your days with manifestations of love for those around you. Words are good. Actions are better. Gifts are optional.
Don’t wait.
Today needs redemption already.
“We get more time.”
“Every moment of light and dark is a miracle.” (Walt Whitman)
“See then that you walk circumspectly, not as fools but as wise, redeeming the time, because the days are evil. Therefore do not be unwise, but understand what the will of the Lord is.”
(Ephesians 5:15-17, NKJV)
Last week was a good week. For me, it was, anyway.
Without boring the reader to death, let’s just say things went my way. Tasks were completed without undue stress. A lovely midweek visit with family, ending with a beautiful fire on the deck (and brats, followed by s’mores!), was one of the high points.
We even made a significant financial decision, the result of which is a shiny, new-to-us vehicle sitting in the drive in front of our house. I think I’m more excited to get rid of the old car than to have a new one to drive.
We’re making plans for Thanksgiving this week. It’s always a lovely time, shared with family and friends. The food is nice, but the company is even nicer.
A good week.
So why can’t I get those folks out of my thoughts? They had been stuck in the parking lot overnight. And, I just left them there.
What did you say?
What folks?
Oh. You can’t read my mind, can you? You weren’t there.
I’ll try to do better.
On the last day of that good week, the Lovely Lady and I drove through the parking lot of our local grocery store. It was time to stock up on food for the holiday. It looked like everyone else had the same idea. But, something was amiss there.
I saw the old car, thirty years old if it was a day, sitting low and close to the pavement. Flat tire. Too bad for them.
But, as we passed on our way to an empty space, I noticed people sitting in the vehicle. A lady, about middle age, sat behind the wheel. There was a girl, and a young man in the car, too.
I sent the Lovely Lady on into the store, telling her I’d catch up to her. Stating the obvious, I spoke as I approached the open window on the driver’s side.
“Flat tire?”
The reply came. “Two, actually.”
Sure enough, both back tires were flat. The lady had a cell phone in her hand, so I asked if someone was coming to help. She shook her head, with a discouraged look in her eyes.
“No. There’s no one to help. We’ve been here since last night.”
No, there was no spare, either. I stood for a moment, perplexed. Then, I bought myself some time.
“I’m going to talk with my wife. I’ll be back.”
The Lovely Lady had no answers. I didn’t expect her to. I just needed time to think. Not that it would do any good on that day.
I decided to call the local tire shop, just down the road.
It was Saturday afternoon. 12:58. The shop closed at 1:00. The boss had sent his techs home and couldn’t offer any help.
“But, it’s really nice of you to try to help,” the boss said before hanging up.
I called another shop. They couldn’t do anything for her, either.
“But, it’s really nice of you to try to help,” the voice on the phone muttered before hanging up.
I don’t want to try to help. Can you understand that?
The grocery shopping was nearly finished by this time, so I got the Lovely Lady checked out and headed back to the car. Sending her on to load the bags in the car, I headed over to the old junker.
I apologized that I hadn’t been successful in finding help. Reaching into my wallet, I pulled out all the bills I had there and shoved them into her hand. It was not in any sense a significant amount of money, but it was all I had.
“I hope you can find someone who can help you get home.”
The discouraged look didn’t leave her eyes.
“This is our home. We live in the car.”
Tears come again as I write. I’m not even sure why I’m writing about it.
At home, the tears came on that afternoon too, as I took the packages of food to stow away in the cupboard. The Lovely Lady was rearranging potatoes and onions on the utility room shelves and probably didn’t see them, but I wiped them away quickly anyway.
The car is their home! A home with two flat tires.
I look around the home in which we live. It’s not luxurious—not new—not all that spacious.
But, it’s not sitting in the grocery store parking lot with two flat tires.
I want to feel good. I wish I could say (with the tire shop folks), “At least I tried.”
The Lovely Lady lovingly reminds me frequently that I can’t fix everything for everyone. But, she knows me and realizes how it hurts to only try and not succeed.
But, trying is how we make our way—sometimes painfully and with difficulty—to succeeding. We should keep trying.
And, as folks gather in the living and dining room of this blessed home later this week, I want to remember that old Crown Vic on flat tires and its occupants, as well as all the reasons I have to be thankful personally.
It’s the day when we gather to give thanks.
I trust in the midst of our celebration, there’s just one more thing we’ll remember to do.
Give, thanks.
.
“And do not neglect to do good and to share what you have, for God is pleased with such sacrifices.”
(Hebrews 13:16, NET)
“You have not lived today until you have done something for someone who can never repay you.”
(John Bunyan)
It had been a full day. Most of them are, but when the grandchildren visit, there’s always more conversation (and louder), more activity, and more eating.
I like the eating part. And all the others.
Dinner was over. One child was stretched out in my easy chair, so I sat on the loveseat next to his mother—my daughter.
She was working the ubiquitous jigsaw puzzle. Nearly always, one is lying in a thousand pieces (more or less) on the coffee table.
She worked on the puzzle; I watched the football game with the kid in the chair, and we talked. We talk all the time. About the weather. About their pets. About the house on the mountainside. About the grandkids.
This evening the conversation turned to more serious matters. Not life-and-death ones. Just deeper than the weather—or puppies.
Funny. We talked about talking to people—listening to people.
Did you know if you listen to people, they’ll talk to you?
I mean, talk—communicate. All it takes is a heart to hear what folks are saying and to show empathy.
I’m still not great at that.
But, then I don’t do puzzles either, do I? Somehow, I think they’re related—puzzles and people skills. And puzzles aren’t my thing.
Still, once in a while, as I sit there on the loveseat, a piece seems to leap out at me from the jumble on the table. And, picking it up, I can place it effortlessly into a spot just waiting for that particular piece.
Only once in a while.
But, people. . .
I’ve told the story before, but it bears repeating here. I repeat it in my mind often. Partly because the memory is of my father, but mostly because I need to remember.
I had owned the music store for only a year or two when the phone on the wall rang one afternoon. My dad was calling from his home in the Central Valley in California. He just wanted to talk. So we talked.
And then, as we were about to say goodbye and hang up, he asked if he could pray with me. Well, he was a preacher. That was what preachers did.
This prayer would change my life.
“. . .and Lord I ask that you’ll bless Paul in his ministry there in the music store. . .”
Did I say the prayer would change my life? What I meant is one phrase of the prayer would change my life.
I remember nothing else he prayed about before we said our goodbyes.
I was in shock.
Ministry? What was he thinking? This wasn’t my ministry! It was my vocation, my business; how I earned a living.
The light of the epiphany was blinding.
“And whatever you do, do it heartily, as to the Lord and not to men.“ (Colossians 3:23, NKJV)
It wasn’t long after that phone call that the stool appeared. Right in front of the counter where customers checked out.
It wasn’t just a stool.
It was an invitation.
I couldn’t begin to tell you how many people accepted that invitation over the thirty-some years we operated the music store. Some just wanted to talk about their musical instrument. But, many just wanted to talk about life. About relationships. About death and loss.
Yes. All of life is ministry. Work—leisure. Daytime—nighttime. At home—miles down the highway. All of it. Everywhere. All of it ministry for God.
Unless we choose not to follow the words of our Teacher and Savior.
Love God with everything you’ve got. Love people with everything you’ve got.
Even when both seem like puzzle pieces that won’t go into place.
We don’t do them one at a time, either. Even if you’ve been led to believe that by folks who claim to love God but refuse to love people.
If our love for God doesn’t lead naturally to love for the folks around us and across the world, we’re missing the boat altogether.
The puzzle is beginning, just beginning, to make sense; the pieces to go into place. I still have a few pieces (well, more than a few) that I can’t yet make sense of.
I’ll keep trying.
I think I’ll sit down on that loveseat for a few more minutes this morning, too. I may be able to fit a piece or two into the big picture.
I wonder if the Lovely Lady will notice.
But then, I’m not doing it for her, am I?
“Loving God, loving each other, And the story never ends.” (from Loving God, Loving Each Other, by Alejandro Martinez, David Thomas, Ivan Martin)
“Beloved, let us love one another, for love is from God, and whoever loves has been born of God and knows God. Anyone who does not love does not know God, because God is love.” (1 John 4:7-8, ESV)
I sat in that church sanctuary again last Sunday evening. You know—the one I had never been to before. I never expected to go there again. But the Lovely Lady needed to make a return visit. I needed to be with her.
What I didn’t know was that I also needed to be with that group of people. It wasn’t just the choir this time. The sanctuary was filled with bodies. Old ones. Young adult ones. Little children’s bodies.
These weren’t my people. I worship in a building filled with chairs instead of pews, where a church calendar is barely acknowledged (I remember Christmas Sundays when the pastor carried on with his expository series in Romans, just as if it were any other Sunday), and where the impact of items in the sanctuary is more functional than symbolic.
The service was all symbolism. All of it. Even the music. There was a lot of that. The Lovely Lady played her flute with the choir. Her brother played the pipe organ. There were guitars and drums. And an accordion. Along with the piano, they all combined to draw us into worship.
Did I say these weren’t my people?
They were. They are.
How have we decided we are not related? When did we begin to determine our relationships by differences in style? In doctrinal differences? In musical preferences?
I sat in that sanctuary, a stranger surrounded by family members long estranged.
And we worshipped together.
Together.
If Jesus does not bring us together, pushing aside our differences, are we truly following Him?
If love and kinship in Him do not still draw us to each other, how will we ever worship together in eternity, in that great gathering around His throne?
“Oh come let us adore Him. Worship Christ the Lord.”
The weatherman called for rain with today’s cold front, but the only rain I see is the leaves falling by the thousands in the wind. I don’t expect to be posting many more beautiful autumn tree photos. The trees bereft of their joyful adornment are not subjects for exclamations of admiration. This is the start of the time of year that usually makes me sad.
My daughter’s father-in-law died this week. I’m sad for the huge loss to Tom’s family, knowing how much they’ll miss him. His passing will leave a huge hole in their lives.
But, as I consider these things that ordinarily would make me gloomy and depressed, I realized I’m surprisingly upbeat today. The cycle of life plays out in exactly the way our Creator made it to; summer gives way to autumn and then to winter. It happens in our lives much as it does in nature.
It’s still too early to speak of spring.
We sat with our daughter and her sweetie last night, along with our grandchildren, and we talked about the man who will never joke with them again—will never share his stash of goodies purchased from the neighborhood ice cream truck with them again—will never cheer on the kids from the game’s sidelines again.
There was sadness. Great sadness.
And then, we laughed as we thought about his dad jokes, and about him stopping the ice cream truck like a kid.
I’m sitting in a church sanctuary, waiting for the Lovely Lady to finish a rehearsal. It’s a place of worship we’ve never been in, but somehow, we’re not feeling out of place.
The beautiful redhead is perched, with perfect posture, at the Steinway on the stage, taking instructions from a choir director she had never met before fifteen minutes ago. The folks in the choir loft are singing as she plays, while the director waves his hand in the air. She doesn’t know any of the singers, either.
It’s baffling. As if they have known her for years, they sing in tune—and in time—with the music that comes from her hands. Beautiful music, from both choir and piano—from strangers amalgamating their abilities and knowledge to achieve a goal.
Music, in circumstances that would cause us to anticipate chaos.
I have seen this more times than I can remember. Complete strangers, from all walks of life, come together with a common bond. A love of music, combined with an intimate understanding of the rules for making it—what we call theory—is all it takes.
I’ve played in orchestras, in quintets, in brass choirs, and in community bands. I’ve sung in church choirs, in small ensembles, and in mass choirs.
In each situation, we read the notes on the page, we hear the voices and instruments around us, and we follow our conductor.
No one asks about how much money we make. What our political beliefs are. What our cultural background is.
Together, we just make the music. Beautiful music.
I’ll admit it. I’m confused. No, not about the music. I’m confused about other situations in this world we live in.
There, the music is not so beautiful. Not beautiful at all.
And yet, the solution seems so obvious.
It does.
Maybe, we need another rehearsal or two.
A little practice at home wouldn’t hurt, either.
There is no longer Jew or Gentile, slave or free, male and female. For you are all one in Christ Jesus. (Galations 3:28, NLT)
So now I am giving you a new commandment: Love each other. Just as I have loved you, you should love each other. Your love for one another will prove to the world that you are my disciples. (John 13: 34-35, NLT)
How is it that the fear Banished in the morning light Claws at my heart now, Cowering in the new thrown night?
Hyperbole is what that is. Poetic license, taken by one given to flights of imagination. It’s expected when one writes in verse and rhyme.
Still, it’s not so far off the mark, some nights.
I am by nature a night person, haunting the empty rooms and darkened recesses of this old mid-century habitation long after any other denizens of the neighborhood, save the four-footed variety, have given in to the siren call of slumber. And when, as is my lot at times, my chronic breathing problems surface, even the hours when I’ve retreated to my bed are spent turning this way and that, coughing and yet, attempting to suppress the overwhelming urge to do that very thing.
As one might expect, eventually the mind turns to unhappy and dark subjects or, more specifically, situations for which I’ve found, in my normal haunting hours, no solution or cure.
Unfinished business is a weight on my mind, a burden if you will, that bends the spirit until I’m afraid the breaking point is near. And, clawing fear with unanswered questions is often given leave to ride, untethered, through the dark hours.
Tonight I received an unexpected note from one I love. His message closed with these words that give me hope the reign of one particular fear is near an end:
“I think my time for anger is finally over.”
The last time I wrote about the man was right after he died. Two years ago, almost. One would have thought the turmoil, the tumult, had died with him. One would have been wrong.
Just because a character has fallen out of the story, it’s not a given that closure is accomplished. Much the opposite, this falling-out part often seems to increase the impact of the mental conflict, to magnify those unpleasant memories that never seem to behave themselves or to become comfortable scenes from the past.
I loved the man—more than I have loved most other folks on this spinning ball of dirt and water. But, that said, he was the most stubborn human being I’ve ever known. Well, maybe not more stubborn than the red-headed lady he was married to.
And yet, he could also be the most maddening person I knew. That red-headed lady said it once (that I remember).
“That man! He makes me so mad!”
I was twelve and had never heard her say a negative word about my father before. I was certain the divorce papers would be served soon.
Of course, they never were. He cared for her until the day she died, even though she had not known who he was for a couple of years before her passing. He was like that.
He kept his promises. It was one of the things about him that was so maddening. Yes, maddening. Keeping promises.
In his last years, there was one particular person he made promises to. She made promises, too—never intending to keep them. He intended to keep his and did until the day he died, at great cost to himself and his family.
But, no.
This is not an exposé. It’s not.
I intended to do that one day. I would write a tell-all story, exposing his shortcomings and character failings to the world. Bare my soul, vomiting out my frustration and angst.
It will never happen.
Remember the story of Noah in the Bible? That righteous man, Noah, a fierce follower of God, who complied willingly with God’s plan for the survival of mankind and the animal kingdom by building an ark and taking his family into it, saving them from the flood?
There is another story about the man, found in chapter 9 of Genesis, verses 18 through 28. After the flood, Noah, being more of a farmer than a boatbuilder, grew a crop of grapes, subsequently making wine from the bounty. Sampling the liquid, he became drunk. In his inebriated state, he took off his clothes and laid, in his drunken stupor, naked in his tent.
Wait. Drunk and naked? The most righteous man in the world? That doesn’t seem right, does it?
His son, Ham, didn’t think so either. Finding his father in that state, he called his brothers, Shem and Japheth, to come and look, so anxious was he to expose Dad’s shortcoming.
They chose not to participate.
Taking their father’s cloak between the two of them, they walked backward. So they could preserve their father’s dignity, they purposefully refused to look at him naked. They covered his nakedness.
It’s different today.
A popular writer in our day, Anne Lamott, famously suggests you own everything that happened to you. She encourages—no, insists—that we should tell everything, regardless of the harm to others. I’m certain she means well.
But I’m with Shem and Japheth. I choose not to participate. To expose the private sin and shortcomings of one I love is to disrespect who he was throughout his life.
He was a man who loved his God intensely. Fiercely, even. And, because of that, he was a man who loved the people around him in the same way. As a pastor, he made it his mission to be where he was needed. He listened. He comforted. He wept. He rejoiced.
When he was no longer the pastor of a church, he became pastor to the folks at the local breakfast cafe, the grocery store, even the bank. Again and again, he made friends of strangers, praying as easily as he talked, encouraging more than he exhorted, leaving the world behind him better for having walked here.
He loved his family with that same fierce love. Every one of his children walked away from some aspect of the principles, the faith, he had brought us up in, yet his love for us never waned. With each of us, he prayed. To the end of his days, he prayed. And he sang. And he quoted scripture—and poetry.
In the back of my mind, even as I write this, I hear the voice. “But, what about that episode? What about the time he did this? Tell them about the day…”
Why do we hold on so long to resentment? To anger?
What possible end can we hope to achieve by holding them tightly? Like some monstrous, yet precious, treasures, we grasp them with a death-grip only age-worn and life-weary hands can manage.
The closer we hold them, the more they hurt us. The longer we embrace them, the harder it becomes to let them go.
Many eventually loose that anger in outbursts of ugly accusation and personal venom. The outburst can be a catharsis; no one could argue that. But, catharsis achieved and outburst exhausted, all that is left in view is a smaller human being, accompanied by his/her scorched and ruined memories of one whom they loved and were loved by.
Many will disagree with my viewpoint. The age in which we live thrives on canceling reputations and flaming memories. Somehow we believe we are bigger for diminishing the reputations of those whose voices are silent now and who can no longer answer back.
It can only diminish us.
The one I love is right. The time for anger is over. If it’s not, the time for fear and resentfulness never will be. Ever.
And somehow, the One I always end up talking to in the dark, He who is the Light that has defeated the darkness and will one day banish it forever, reminds me that my anger and resentment is one of the burdens He asked me to give to Him.
Many I know are carrying that same burden—have carried it for most of the years of their life.
Why would we willingly keep bending under that heavy load? Pain and unhappiness are the only possible return we’ll realize from the labor.
He promises rest. And hope.
The time for anger is over.
Ahh. Sweet freedom!
Then Jesus said, “Come to me, all of you who are weary and carry heavy burdens, and I will give you rest. (Matthew 11:28, NLT)
Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that. (Martin Luther King Jr.)
The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness can never extinguish it. (John 1:5, NLT)
