Thanksgiving

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)

I sat tonight, prepared to write. Pages, I thought. Thanksgiving Day is upon us. The year has been brutal. And emotional. Sad—yet, filled with joy.

I had verses to quote.

Let the peace of Christ overwhelm all else in your heart…And, be thankful. (Colossians 3:15 ~ my paraphrase)

I will praise the name of God with a song, and will magnify him with thanksgiving. (Psalm 69:30 ~ KJV)

I have wisdom to share.

But, I can’t get past that voice I hear in my head. No, it’s not THE voices; it’s just a voice from the past.

You see, Mr. Kohler won’t let me write what I want to write tonight.

Many of my friends have already been posting the verses on social media. Some have even been sharing the wisdom in messages sent to my phone.

In the midst of this brutal, emotional, excruciatingly drawn-out year, they are grateful—giving thanks to a gracious God who has blessed us far beyond anything we deserve.

It’s all been said befo. . .What’s that?

Who’s Mr. Kohler?

I really don’t remember much about him. He’s been dead for nearly forty years by now. But, I can tell you the few things about him I do remember.

He didn’t sing. Well, no more than the usual church-goer would. Hymns on Sunday. Perhaps, a bit in the shower. Perhaps. I never heard him sing in a choir. Never knew him to sing a solo.

He didn’t preach. He and his wife sat in a pew every Sunday—morning and evening—like clockwork. Still, he never preached that I knew.

But, Mr. Kohler was the best amen-er I ever heard.

I’ve never been a member of one of those churches that was really vocal. We didn’t have an amen corner, didn’t have many folks who called out encouragement to the pastor as he preached—well, not much anyway.

But, Mr. Kohler now—he didn’t care if we weren’t that kind of church. When he agreed with something, he called out a hearty “Amen!”. Not quietly. Not timidly. Everyone in the sanctuary heard him.

The Lovely Young Lady and I sang together in the youth choir before we were married. She was the singer; I was just there to be close to her. No matter. We sang in the cantata (a choral presentation) the young folks put together that year.

The young choir director thought it would be nice if we had a recording of the performance. She called in a local band director who had a reel-to-reel tape recorder with microphones he was willing to set up and operate for the project. We were excited. This was about as uptown as we were ever going to get!

I don’t remember the songs. I don’t remember if I came in at the right places, or even if the Lovely Young Lady did. What I do remember is Mr. Kohler.

At the end of every piece (before the instruments ended), and sometimes in the middle—if the Spirit moved him—he called out an exuberant “Amen!”.

Well, of course, it was loud enough for the microphones to pick up!

What did you expect?

The band director/sound engineer was horrified as he listened to the recording later that week. No matter what he did, he couldn’t get rid of the amens without also losing some of the music. He called the choir director to ask her what to do.

“What? Do? Why, leave them exactly as they are! They’re part of the performance!”

She was adamant. The amens stayed. If any recording still survives of that performance, I’m sure you can hear every single one Mr. Kohler uttered.

Every single one.

Mr. Kohler didn’t sing. He didn’t preach. But his joyous declaration to all affirming his agreement with the truth and beauty of our worship rings in my memory still.

Over forty years later, the music has long faded into the mists, but his Amen booms out loudly and clearly.

So, I hope my friends won’t mind if others hear my response to their exclamations of gratitude on this day. I know I’ve gone the long way around Robin Hood’s barn (as my dear mother-in-law would have put it) to say I have nothing to add to their declaration. But, there it is.

I have nothing to add.

Only this.

Amen.

And, again I’ll say it.

Amen.

For everything comes from him and exists by his power and is intended for his glory. All glory to him forever! Amen.
(Romans 11:36 ~ NLT)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

Is Anyone Coming to Help?

A Thanksgiving Amen