Archive for the ‘Death’ category
August 12, 2016
WORDS FROM W.W. August 12, 2016
I made two visits this week. Both of them were to men whose last name is Davis. One of them celebrated his 41st birthday on Wednesday. The other is 95! Neither of them has a lick of hair on top of their head- one because his dad paved the way for that hairstyle, which has been followed by all three sons, and the other because…he’s 95, and the top of his head looks like a telescope view of the moon’s surface!
One of the Davis’s is the Sultan of Sarcasm, the other is content to get settled in to telling the listener a story.
The younger Davis has taught middle school social studies for fifteen years…perhaps being the reason why sarcasm rises to the surface for him so often. The older Davis was a postman, familiar with the lives of those that he delivered important letters from loved ones to.
I was the pastor to both of them and their families. Since I retired from being a pastor a few months ago now I am a friend to both of them.
I refer to the older Davis as my “Colorado Dad.” He possesses many of the same great qualities as my father has. The younger Davis could be my son, but I prefer to see him as one of my peers. We have shared many a lunch together in his school classroom, talking about this and that.
Both of them are dear to my heart.
Both of them have cancer.
The older Davis is in his final days. I sat by his bed yesterday, probably for the last time. He drifted in and out of sleep. I held his hand, he told me how much he loved me. My heart ached to see his frail figure. The two of us had golfed together a number of times over the years. I would drive long and to the right, and he would drive short but right down the middle of the fairway. He would be putting it in for a bogie, and I’d hope for a bogie putt. At the end of our nine holes he would be about a 46 and I would be a 48. BUT he was 90 and I was 57! We enjoyed each other’s company so much. Every time he greeted me we would embrace and he would whisper to me “Love ya!”
About five years ago I officiated the funeral service of his only son, who had died in a motorcycle accident. I grieved with my Colorado dad as the sorrow overwhelmed him. A parent should never have to bury one of their children. It was a confusing time for him, and I mostly listened to his questions about why things happen. It was also at that time that he started asking me more questions about heaven, what it would be like and whether he would be reunited with his son there?
I held his hand for one last prayer by his bedside, and then he dropped into a medicated slumber again.
The younger Davis was discovered to have a tumor in his brain six years ago. He had just done a state high school championship game in basketball and a month later had a seizure. When a second seizure happened shortly after that he was checked out at the hospital. The test revealed the tumor. Three months later surgery was performed to get as much of it as possible. Ninety-five percent was removed and the follow-up treatments took care of the rest.
But cancer is like the neighbor’s dog who keeps coming into your yard and pooping. You clean up one mess and the lawn looks pristine again for a while, and then you look out the window to see the canine leaving his mark again. Cancer is kind of like that. It is a time in a person’s life that is filled with crap! The crap of dealing with insurance companies…the crap of scheduling appointments…and the crap of never-ending anxiety and uncertainty about the future.
My friend’s cancer came back. We continue to pray for healing, but hope too often is getting shoved into the back seat. On Wednesday his family had a birthday celebration for him at the rehabilitation facility he is a patient at. Hopefully he will be able to return home next week with some skills that will enable him to better function in his home. The future is uncertain, and he knows it.
My visits with him are often punctuated with quiet moments as each of us deals with where we are in the journey. I brought him a totally inappropriate birthday card that I knew would bring a deep chuckle to him. One of the comforts of our friendship is that we can be a little off-color with one another and not be embarrassed. In fact, we expect a little political incorrectness in our conversations.
Our journey has gone into the deep valleys of new tumor growth, but also ascended some high mountains of clear MRI results.
Bottom line! I have been extremely blessed to be a part of the journeys of the two Davis’s! The depth of a friendship is discovered by the bruisings of life.
Categories: children, Christianity, Community, Death, Faith, Humor, Jesus, Parenting, Pastor, Prayer, Story
Tags: cancer, cancer treatment, facing death, friendship, grief, journey, life journey, mourning, passing away
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August 3, 2016
WORDS FROM W.W. August 3, 2016
“He touched me….oh, he touched me! And oh, the joy that floods my soul! Something happened, and now I know, He touched me and made me whole.”
The congregation closed the song with several heart-felt “amens” from the twelve gathered souls for Sunday worship. Most of them smiled in the warmth of the words, the truth of their meaning.
I told them the Mark 5 story of the woman who had a feminine hygiene problem for twelve years and had been “ritually unclean.” She came to where Jesus was and risked a touch of the edge of his garment. She just wanted to be clean. She was emotionally distraught, felt spiritually unworthy, and had been afflicted for so long that she had become almost invisible to people. The story was retold to ears that were listening and heads that were nodding in agreement.
“People may not be ostracized for the same reasons today, but you know, we have a way in the church of making people feel like outcasts and minimizing certain ones because of this, that, or the other. My guess is that most of us have been made to feel like we don’t matter at one time or another.”
“And the thing is…when we’re gathered as the Body of Christ, that’s where we should always feel loved, accepted, and valued.”
They were with me as we journeyed this story. Their church had been larger at one time, but things happened. People moved away because of jobs, kids grew up and went off to college and didn’t come back, and some of the saints had passed on to the next life. Those were all journeys that were a part of life, the things that just happened. It was the other losses that kept wounding the few faithful. Words that had been said in the heat of the moment, unforgiving spirits and non-repentant hearts, power plays and personality conflicts. All those things that people expected in other places, but cut more deeply when they were a part of the community of the King.
But sometimes a church needs to go deep in the valley to see the sacredness of the fellowship. Pain sometimes makes the good days more cherished.
“How might we touch one another today as the Body of Christ? Who in our community is like the woman who just longs for a touch of hope, a touch of healing? Who might we invite to join us in this sanctuary of brokenness as we seek to be a place of hope?”
The words were being felt in the midst of the congregation’s soul.
“How might the words to that song that we sang be experienced in our lives, and the lives of those around us?”
“Amen.”
It wasn’t the end of a sermon, but rather the transition to reflection and action. Prayer concerns were shared. One person shared a deep concern that was weighing upon her. We stopped to pray, but before we prayed we gathered around her, laid hands upon her weary shoulders and touched her with care. Tears streamed from her eyes and ran down her cheeks on a path towards healing.
There was a wholeness that was coming back to her, and in that wholeness was also a sense of wholeness in the midst of “the gathered.”
Church life can often be the death of us, but sometimes a church near-death experience is their resuscitation to a new life and a deeper hope.
Categories: Bible, Christianity, Community, Death, Grace, Holy Spirit, love, Pastor, Prayer, Story, The Church, Uncategorized
Tags: brokenness, caring for one another, congregational life, forgiveness, He Touched Me, He Touched Me and made me whole, healing, holy touch, hope, Mark 5, prayer for healing, repentance, the small church, the woman who touched Jesus' garment, unforgiveness
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July 24, 2016
WORDS FROM W.W. July 24, 2016
I finished a week of church camp yesterday and fell into bed last night. The last morning was filled with goodbye hugs and tearful farewells. Tears, in fact, were a frequent occurrence at camp this week.
It started on Sunday afternoon as parents dropped off their children and teenagers. One young mom didn’t show her tears until she was sure her eight year old son was running towards an activity on the basketball court. Since this mom is my daughter I was standing beside her and saw the tears running down her cheeks in front of a smiling face. I gave her a hug of reassurance. Her tears were tears of releasing, as she saw her little boy arrive at one of those life points where he will spend a week away from home. I remember that kind of tears. After we dropped off our youngest daughter, Lizi, at the University of Sioux Falls for her first semester, Carol and I don’t remember seeing Nebraska on the way home because of the rain storms in our eyes. And yet they were good tears…tears when you realize your child has grown to another defining point. We release them and we cry our eyes out.
There were also tears of laughter numerous times at camp. I laughed when I was inspecting the elementary camp cabin for boys. One room whose occupants were eight, nine, and ten year olds had four bottles of AXE body spray and body wash. You know…AXE, that product whose commercials show women attacking a man who sprays his body with it. We laughed as we thought of fourth grade girls attacking a good-smelling four-foot tall boy. In the elementary camp the only attacking that was being done happened if someone tried to butt into the Snack Snack line. As room inspector I HAD made the point about good-smelling rooms being one thing I looked for in determining which of the boys’ rooms was the best. The second morning I walked into one room to see one boy walking around waving a deodorant stick in the air with the idea it would be like a room air freshener.
In that same cabin there were also tears from hurtful words. One boy came to me with tears running down his face and said, “Bobby has been saying that our room smells bad because I’m farting!” In deep sorrow he bellowed, “I’m not the one who is farting!” I counseled him back to health, although in the midst of his anguish I think there was a moment of flatulence.
There were tears from the deep wells of our soul. One middle school boy, who has Down’s Syndrome and hearing problems, got up on the last night at the talent show and sang a song as he played the guitar. Although the lyrics didn’t rhyme his original song talked about how much he loved his counselor, the amazing grace of God, and how much he missed his dad. The campers gave him a standing ovation as a number of them wept. They had seen how this young man had made the week at camp special and had offered his own unique personality of gentleness and caring.
There were tears of pain, as a number of campers shared their hurts and worries. Several had pent up emotions about parental health concerns. The camp environment and the trusting in their counselors allowed some of them to release the emotion. The dam broke as they allowed the anxiety, the bottled-up stress, to flow out.
Pastor Bill and me…better known at camp as “Pastor Bill Squared”…sat and listened with a mom on the last morning whose husband had gotten a grim diagnosis on the cancer he has battled. It was a time for tears, and angry tears, and even thankful tears. Her husband was first diagnosed six years ago. She is thankful for the six years, but there is sorrow in the moment as they face the uncertainty of the future.
And then there were my tears, as I dealt with the pain of that moment…as I saw my grandson at different times during the week being so engaged in the activities, focused on what was being taught, feeling free to dance in the midst of the elementary camp worship (So vigorously that he lost a screw in his glasses!)…as I watched counselors relating to their campers, getting to know them in ways that, you might say, had them deeply rooted in their lives.
I shed tears of thankfulness for what was and the journey these kids and teens had taken during the week. It’s amazing how in just a few hours time tears can flow from the same eyes out of thankfulness, sorrow, joy, and laughter.
Camp tears drench our souls and soak into our memories.
Categories: Bible, children, Christianity, Community, Death, Faith, Grandchildren, Humor, Jesus, love, Parenting, Pastor, Prayer, The Church, Uncategorized, Youth
Tags: AXE body spray, AXE body wash, camp counselors, church camp, church camp experience, eight year old boys, elementary boys, kids growing up, sorry, tears of joy, tears of sorrow, University of Sioux Falls, weeping
Comments: 1 Comment
July 18, 2016
WORDS FROM W.W. July 18, 2016
My life has been littered with moments of extreme stupidity. Like when I tried to compliment one young lady I was attending college with. Never make comments about a young lady’s figure on the first date…or second date for that matter. I said something that gave her the impression that she was flat-chested and big in the hips. My intent was to tell her that she was slim in the waist-line and nicely-proportioned in the bust-line!
Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!
It was one of those moments when the incensed look on her face made me go “Uh!” The date ended quickly after that. In case you’re wondering…and are really slow in perceiving things…there was not a second date!
“Uh moments” are those times when we realize how error-prone, insensitive, or clueless we really are.
I’ve had a lot of those “Uh moments” with God. Times when I doubted his majesty, occasions where I’ve missed his hand in the midst of events, trials when I’ve wandered on my own.
I was thinking about that the other day as I was reading some scripture stories. Scripture is populated with “Uh moments.” For example, Moses stood before God with his excuses about not being qualified to go and speak to Pharaoh. Although “Uh…” is not a word that the stammering Moses uses, it can be easily lip-synched into his mental verbiage at the end of the discussion.
Martha had an “Uh moment” with Jesus when she moaned and groaned to Jesus about her brother.
“Master!” she said, “If you had been here my brother wouldn’t have died!”
Knowing Martha’s opinionated personality, I don’t think those words were said to Jesus with a soft understanding voice. Jesus tells her that he is the resurrection and the life, and that the one who believes in him will live even though he dies.” Martha gives kind of a half-hearted “okay…” to him. They proceed to the tomb of her brother and Jesus tells those around it to remove the stone.
Martha’s housecleaning experience has her then say to Jesus, “By this time there’s a stench! He’s been dead four days!” Like an obnoxious adolescent wanting her parents to get a life, it’s like Martha is saying to Jesus “HHHeellllloooo!” And Jesus looked her in the eye and says, “Didn’t I tell you that if you believed, you would see the glory of God?”
And Martha said, “Uhhh…”
Our “Uh moments” come when our doubts are completely doused by a shower of God’s power, like the 450 prophets of Baal being completely embarrassed by the prophet Elijah. Our “Uh moments” also come when we experience a tapestry of God’s artistic touch. This week I’m at a church camp outside of Woodland Park, Colorado. I’m overwhelmed by the view of Pike’s Peak and surrounding forests and peacefulness. I stand on the deck each day and literally say “Uhhh…”
“Uh moments” remind us of our humanity and mortality, and they also nudge us with the assurance of the love of God.
God loves me no matter what, no matter my capacity to doubt him and no matter whether I say the wrong words to the wrong person at the wrong time. He loves me despite myself!
And to that my lower jaw drops open and I resemble Jim Carey in the movie Dumb and Dumber with the one syllable grunt…”Uhhh…”
Categories: Bible, Christianity, Death, Faith, Humor, Jesus, love, Pastor, Story, The Church, Uncategorized, Youth
Tags: Belief, Doubt, excuses, I am the Resurrection and the Life, Lazarus, Martha, Moses, Pike's peak, Raising the dead, saying stupid things, Uh!
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July 16, 2016
WORDS FROM W.W. July 16, 2016
I’ve been watching a lot of the NBA Summer League games on TV this past week. New draft choices playing alongside D-League players and undrafted free agents, it is an entertaining experience. Next summer I’m thinking about going to Las Vegas with my son and taking in a few of the games being played.
Last night I watched some rim-rocking slams, long-distance threes, and running left hooks.
And then, feeling the energy, I went out in our driveway with “the rock”, as we call the basketball, and started shooting from the corner. I shoot from the corner in our driveway because it slopes down. It’s like an automatic ball return!
As I dribbled the ball and got into my shooting motion reality hit me! Reality came in the form of my right knee whining as it bent…and screamed as it started to unbend! It was the meeting of my mind with my knee and my knee won. Sixty-two year old knees that have run a few marathons, run thousands of miles on asphalt pavements with some of the old running shoes we used to wear, and played years and years of basketball, are knees that now succeed in daily coups against the rest of my body. I say “Let’s play some hoop down at the Y!” and my knees say “I don’t think so!” They are like stubborn octogenarians who refuse to drink their Ensures!
My life seems to have increasing times of false senses of reality. What I envision happening gets a revised plan. It’d like a teenager about to get his first car. He searches the internet web sites, looking at Camaro’s, Jeeps, BMW’s, high-powered Mustangs, and man-sized trucks, and then his parents present him with a gift-wrapped Ford Escort with strips of duct tape on it in different places.
Dreams…expectations…assumptions…and then there comes the reality!
My dream is to slam dunk! My reality is that you can now barely fit one piece of typing paper under my feet when I elevate. The positive however is that it doesn’t take me nearly as long to return to the ground.
Our lives are filled with what we think and what is real.
Remember a time in your growing up years when you had a crush on a certain person and you believed the attraction was mutual. Perhaps you even envisioned in your mind those walks in the park when you would be holding hands, embracing in the shadows of the front porch where parents could not see…and then the reality coming in the form of information that there wasn’t a mutual attraction, and, in fact, you were to leave the other person alone. Stay away! Sometimes reality is like getting slapped in the face with the end of a wet towel that snaps you.
Those are moments in our lives that, plain and simple, just suck!
My knees are just one indication, one painful reminder, that things change. Life is a journey of adjustments. Those adjustments come through afflictions as well as learnings. They come as a result of years of doing something that has left us weary and disillusioned; and they come as we experience the cresting of a new hill that shows us something completely new that we might consider attempting.
Most of us have visited that false sense of reality at one time or another. It comes in a job performance evaluation, or a frank conversation with a trusted friend. It is often hard to hear.
Back to my knees! I shot a few shots, listened to a few internal knee screams, and then went back to the couch. My right knee especially said “This is where you belong!”
I sighed and then watched a 22 year old do a reverse slam dunk on TV!
Categories: children, Death, Freedom, Humor, Parenting, Story, Teamwork, Uncategorized, Youth
Tags: a false sense of reality, ambitions, Basketball, D-League, dreams, driveway basketball, Ensure, false reality, hopes, knee problems, NBA Summer League, Old age, old knees, realistic expectations, reality, shooting baskets
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July 11, 2016
WORDS FROM W.W. July 11, 2016
(During this week “Words from WW” will consist of an ongoing conversation. Part 1 of the conversation can be viewed at “WordsfromWW.com”)
“How so?” I asked Jesus with a poorly disguised element of indignation. “How is being cynical a safe place to be?”
“Do you remember the story of Lazarus?”
“Sure! Dead in the grave and then you brought him back to life.”
“His sister Martha was a bit of a cynic. Her belief was based on what she could do. It didn’t matter whether it was housework, cooking dinner, or crying about a dead brother. When she came to me with her tears about the death of Lazarus and then I said that her brother would live again, do you remember what she said in reply.”
“Something about the resurrection at the last days.”
“Yes, she could only see her brother as being dead TODAY! To believe that he could be alive again was not in her thinking. To take my statement and have it apply to some time in the distant future, that was her way of staying at a safe distance.”
I thought for a moment before saying anything. “So Martha was a cynic about faith?”
“Martha was a grieving sister who lived in a world where life did not come out of death. She had been with me when a blind man received his sight, and hungry people received bread, but when death came close to her she became cynical about faith, about trusting. When I came to her brother’s tomb and told the people there to take away the stone that was covering the entrance, her first response was about the odor that would be apparent. And I said to her, “Did I not tell you that if you believe you will see the glory of God?”
I stared into my coffee for a moment. “A faith cynic…I guess that’s where I live most of the time.”
“As I said, Bill, cynicism is a safe place, for if something miraculous happens…so be it! But if nothing happens then the person can say ‘See! I knew it wasn’t true!’ So what are you willing to risk to be changed? How far are you willing to believe that what is troubling you, and troubling the world, doesn’t have to stay that way?”
“But…” I let the word be exhaled like a puff of smoke, and then left to disappear on its own. We sat in an uncomfortable silence for a few moments. “It’s kind of like the speck in someone else’s eye that I can see, and not the two-by-four in my own eye. What you’re saying is that I should look at what is going on in my own life before I speak sarcastically about what I see in other people’s lives.”
“It’s a hard thing to do, isn’t it?”
I nodded my head. “It’s easier being a Pharisee.”
“Pharisees had a lot of good points. They had the right idea that went the wrong way.”
“That seems to be the story of a lot of us Christians. We start out with the right idea, but somewhere along the way things get a little wacky.”
“There are a lot of people who believe in me, Bill, but somewhere along the line they became Pharisees also. Pharisees for Jesus…doesn’t quite have the ring to it that Jews for Jesus does!”
(TO BE CONTINUED)
Categories: Bible, Christianity, Community, Death, Faith, Grace, Jesus, Pastor, Story, The Church, Uncategorized
Tags: believing in Jesus, cynical, cynicism, cynics, having faith, John 11, Lazarus, log in my own eye, Martha, pharisaism, Pharisees, Resurrection, unbelief
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July 9, 2016
WORDS FROM W.W. July 9, 2016
Lessley Ellis is my friend. We have close to nothing in common, which makes our relationship even more special.
Lessley is African-American. He is as black as I am white, a darker shade of his color that contrasts greatly with my blindingly white legs. We are brothers in Christ who see both the beauty and ugliness of the world.
Lessley was born in Detroit, the place often referred to when talking about inner-city poverty and crime. I was born in Winchester, Kentucky, a stone’s throw away from where Adolph Rupp coached the all-white University of Kentucky Wildcats basketball team.
The first time I met Lessley was on a Saturday morning at our church. We had just concluded our Saturday morning men’s bible study group. There had been a major snow storm just a couple of days before and the sidewalks around the building needed to be cleared. Several of us got snow shovels and started making a path. Suddenly a red Honda Civic hatchback pulled into the parking lot. Lessley hopped out of the car, popped the back and got a snowblower out of it. And then he just started to clear the sidewalk! The smile on his face was warm and sincere, and we thanked him for his help. One of us, probably Ben Dickerson, invited him in for a cup of coffee and then invited him to join us the next Saturday for breakfast and our bible study. I didn’t expect to see him again, but he surprised me and came back.
Ben Dickerson took him under his wing. Lessley could barely read. His education had been limited. He had been judged to be a “special education” case. In his words, “they treated me like I was a dummy!” By the ninth grade he was out of school. Ben Dickerson, a reflection of Jesus, started teaching him how to read. Another man, Roger Mollenkamp, offered him support and advice. When Ben passed away as a result of complications of a heart attack, Lessley grieved deep and long. We leaned on one another during those days, I grieving the loss of my friend as well. Our tears mingled together to form a pool of brotherhood, swimming in the confusion of loss. Grieving together takes people to a new place.
A few years ago a new family showed up in worship one Sunday. They came back the next week and then the next and became part of our congregation. A little later on I found out another piece of the story. The husband was ready to give up on church. They had visited several places and were ready to have their own family worship at home, but they decided to try one more place of worship. They came to a double-door entrance to our building that looks like it might be the front way in and they found the doors locked. The husband was ready to walk away and walk away from the church for good, and then Lessley opened the door and said “Good morning!” He apologized for the doors being locked and invited them in, offered to get them cups of coffee, befriended them, and turned troubled souls into joyful seekers. They came back all because of a smiling greeter who made them feel welcome in the time of their greatest discontent.
He was a “thrower” on the back of a garbage truck for years. That means, he’d empty the cans of people’s trash, hundreds each day! It destroyed his back, and he now receives a limited disability sum each month. His struggle is that he wants to help people, but his disability doesn’t allow him to do some of the work tasks that he always did. Many times the two of us have talked through his depression and discouragement that have pummeled his sense of self-worth.
Lessley has the heart of Jesus. He’d give you the shirt off his back if you asked for it. We had lunch together yesterday, along with our friend, Joe Smith. Towards the end of a week where black men were getting killed by white policemen, and white policemen were killed by a black sniper we talked about our screwed up world, and we talked about the hope we have in Christ.
He asked me what we could do, and we brought it down to where we live, what we say, and how each one of us treats others. The interesting thing that occurred to me was that although we sat there in a Mexican restaurant talking about racial tension we didn’t see any difference between the two of us. We didn’t see each other as being from a different race. To me he is Lessley, my friend, and to him I’m Bill, his friend and former pastor.
The three of us ended our lunch with warm embraces of each other. Perhaps the world is screwed up, but that didn’t mean that our friendships needed to be screwed up as well.
Some of the greatest blessings in life are relationships with people that we least expect to be our friends, salt of the earth folk who we’ve come to know in the most unlikely ways.
It’s funny! I’ve been blessed in so many ways by this almost sixty year old six foot three African-American man, all because of the crossing of our paths on a wintery Saturday morning after a snow storm and a bible study.
Like I said at the beginning, Lessley Ellis is my friend.
Categories: Bible, Christianity, Community, Death, Faith, Freedom, Humor, Jesus, love, Nation, Pastor, Story, The Church, Uncategorized
Tags: black and white, brothers, brothers in Christ, Christian brothers, greeters, greeting, helping each other, hospitality, loving one another, race relations, racial tension
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July 8, 2016
WORDS FROM W.W. July 8, 2016
Today I’m writing my 600th Words from WW blog post. It’s been an adventure! The first post emerged on December 30, 2008. There have been times of writing frenzy, like in June of 2014 when I took on a challenge that wordpress.Com presented of writing a blog post each day for the entire month. Plus, they gave you the subject matter.
I’ve written about death…greatly on my mind when my mom passed away Labor Day weekend of 2013.
I’ve written about grace…and how it so often is lacking, oddly enough, in the church.
I’ve written imagined coffee conversations with Jesus…stressing that things are not always so cut and dried as people think.
I’ve written about personalities…people who have greatly influenced my life in various ways.
I’ve written about how weird people are…or should I say we all are!
I’ve written about stories in Scripture and what they teach me.
I’ve written about the church…my hope for it, and my frustration with it.
I’ve written about life…normal life and life moments that have a sense of sacredness to them, like my daughter’s wedding and car rides with my granddaughter.
I’ve written from a stool at Starbucks, my home study, and a cubicle at the public library. There’s been many occasions where I’ve sat on my Starbuck’s stool, looking out at Pike’s Peak, with no idea what I would write about and then God gives me a thought, an idea, a moment of remembering something from the past…and the words tumble out. With my earbuds in, tuned to the Coldplay station on Spotify, I go at it.
And the thing is, I write and trust that God will take it from there. He’s like the paperboy for my blog. I trust that he hits the driveway to whomever he sends it to, and it doesn’t end up underneath the shrubbery.
A couple of weeks ago someone I least expected told me that she really enjoyed my “Words.” “It is so where I live!” she exclaimed. I greatly appreciated that. I’ve never been one for high academia, as my college grades would attest to! I’m more like “The Hardy Boys”, rather than “The Brothers Karamazov!”
One of my best friends suggested that I try to get money for my blog. He knows someone who does. My mind can’t fathom that. My writing is kind of like my baseball card collection. It keeps getting bigger, but I never sell any. I’m just thrilled that people seem to enjoy reading it. According to WordPress I have 128 followers. I’m not sure what that means, and, quite honestly, I don’t know ninety percent of them. How closely do they follow? Are they more like stalkers who are following me, or readers who are looking for a chuckle in the midst of a ho-hum day?
And so I write as I sip on my Pike Place brew. Perhaps someday I’ll be on The Today Show…not!
What or whom might be the subject for #601?
Categories: Bible, children, Christianity, Community, Death, Faith, Grace, Grandchildren, Humor, Jesus, love, Parenting, Pastor, Story, The Church, Uncategorized
Tags: Blog posts, blogging, creating, creative writing, followers, life events, living each day, Pike Place, readers, Starbucks, writing
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June 22, 2016
WORDS FROM W.W. June 22, 2016
They were ready to pounce. The ladies and man (as in solo!) at Dad’s birthday party were ready for the cake. If my dear Aunt Lizzie, who always stared at her wrapped Christmas present like it was a Rembrandt, had been there she would have said “It’s too pretty to cut into!” But Aunt Lizzie arrived in Glory a couple of decades ago so she wasn’t there to hold back the cake lovers.
Dad’s cake, with two eights rising out of it, was a tribute to his University of Kentucky roots. The white icing was outlined in Kentucky blue, which is much easier on the eyes than “Tarheel Blue!” He stood behind it and gave one forced puff to extinguish the small flames on the two eights. Blowing out two candles is not seen as being much of an accomplishment, unless you are surrounded by a crowd of seniors who are all crowding ninety!
There was applause for the disappearance of the candle flames, and Robin, the lady who my dad loves and trusts with a knife, commenced to cutting. I passed out the plates. No one passed on the cake. Tongues were licking the outside of lips even before the cake arrived in front of the partygoers. Seniors like cake. It is seen as a valid. almost mandatory, reason for disregarding their dietary restrictions.
Conversation eased a bit as the mature audience focused on their next bites. There’s a time to talk and there’s a time to be quiet. If white icing is involved hold on to that story that was in the midst of being told. We’ll get back to it… if we remember!
My dad looked out at the people gathered in the dining room and he smiled. These were people who were a part of his journey. One of them he had taught how to give insulin shots to. She was scared to death and he had coached her to the point where she could do it herself. Another lady, Valerie, who works at his senior apartment complex, had come back from her Myrtle Beach vacation a day early to be in attendance…and to show the envious women that her skin tone had undergone a noticeable change. The senior women, who had talked about getting bikinis, now recognized that the cake they were enjoying was not going to help them look “bikinish!” Some of them were thinking that they would just ease off the carrots at dinner to compensate!
Dad appreciated each one of them. He had a stack of cards, some beautifully written and others filled with jokes about being as old as Methuselah! He laughed and thanked and paused to enjoy. The only hurry in the occasion was getting the cake cut. After that, people had nowhere to go but to finish reading the Saturday Herald-Dispatch, check the mail, and sink into afternoon slumber in their recliners.
The rest of the cake was moved to the kitchen, and would be served at dinnertime. The ladies smiled at the future sweet offering. It would make the dinner spaghetti seem tolerable.
Dad was filled with joy and gratitude. After he had blown out the candles someone had asked him what he wished for, and with his quick wit he had replied, “Eighty-nine!”
The ladies “amen-ed” that. It would mean another cake!
Categories: children, Community, Death, Grandchildren, Humor, love, Parenting, Story, Uncategorized
Tags: birthday cake, birthday celebrations, birthday parties, celebrations, eighty-eight, elderly, Growing old, maturity, senior adults, senior citizens, senior living, senior living complex, Seniors
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June 18, 2016
WORDS FROM W.W. June 18, 2016
My dad is celebrating his eighty-eighth birthday today! Unreal!
He is the last of the generation immediately above Carol and me on the age pyramid, a gentle gentleman who never seems to be rushed in the sharing of wisdom. Wisdom and advice needs to be dished out and savored like smooth Kentucky bourbon whiskey…slowly and with great contemplation. I wouldn’t know, but my older brother, a tour guide at the Woodford Reserve Bourbon Distillery outside of Frankfort, has told me so.
It is remarkable that my dad, Laurence Hubert Wolfe, has made it this far. He has overcome a boatload of challenges through his nine decades…if you round it off to the nearest whole number. Named after two Baptist ministers, Laurence and Hubert, who helped his dad get out of the bottom of the drinking problem barrel, Dad brought us up Baptist. My brother, sister, and I frequented services and events at church three times a week…Wednesday night, Sunday morning and evening. I equated the trusted firmness of Dad’s arm with the unwavering love of God, as I leaned up against him about the time Pastor Zachary launched into his sermon. I will never know how heavy my head felt to him by the time the sermon was rounding thirty minutes and heading for an hour, I just knew that my “lean-to” never wilted.
That memory, that picture, is a telling illustration of who my father has been and still is. Consistent, solid, dependable, tender, strongly compassionate.
Dependability seems to be in short supply these days, as fathers do their own thing and seek to romance whatever or whoever pleasures them. Dads who stay the course, who keep their promises, are a rare breed.
Dad has been that rare breed. Interestingly enough, my siblings and I didn’t know that was unusual. We thought our dad was like all the other dads. We thought all dads embraced their wives in the midst of the kitchen, like my dad did, and then obediently would give my mom a kiss after she had said to him “Kiss me slobber lips, I can swim!” We thought that was normal! We thought we were normal! We thought all dads were patient, and all dads were home on Sunday nights after church eating popcorn and watching Ed Sullivan on TV. We thought all dads listened to their wives vent about what Myrtle had said to Thelma about Betty’s potato salad that had been brought to the Penney’s employees’ potluck that day. In those days there were no baseball games on TV to divide a husband’s attention, so Mom had both of Dad’s ears…and she used them with no consideration of moderation. Like Dad’s arm in the Central Baptist Church sanctuary pew, he was my mom’s “lean-to” for listening. He stayed with her in the midst of her rational and irrational moments.
Moving ahead a few decades he also stayed with her as she dealt with ill health, and then became bedridden, and then as her illnesses took away her ability to verbalize her thoughts and feelings. In their sixty-five years of marriage he had heard her say enough to know what she was thinking even when she could no longer say it. Even in the midst of Mom’s confusion towards the end of her life when she thought that Rachel Ray was Dad’s new girlfriend because her picture was on the front of a magazine laying by her bed, Dad stayed the course.
Now that he has his own apartment in a senior adult living complex that is heavily populated by widows, and lean on widowers, he gets to listen to a swarm of women every day. And they love him! He’s now the lean-to for a bunch. Valerie, Bonnie, and Bernice bring him his morning newspaper. Bernice is 93! She looks at his dinner plate as he passes by to see if he is eating healthy, even though she isn’t! Bonnie’s door is right across the hall from Dad’s staring at it, in his son’s opinion, too uncomfortably close! Robin, the building’s manager, is wonderful as she converses with him, always seeming to cause a chuckle to rise to the surface.
A lovely ninety-six year old was talking to Dad this week about the women all buying bikinis, and she was considering going topless! Dad listened and laughed. I blushed!
Tomorrow Carol and I begin our road journey home. We will worship together with my sister, brother-in-law, and Dad, and then say our tearful goodbyes. It will be hard to release the embrace, but we have our own family…that is, two generations below us on the age pyramid…to go home and hug. Three children, two son-in-laws, and three grandchildren to be the “lean-to” for. Tomorrow I’ll sit in church with Dad, just like I did fifty-five years ago. His physical strength has waned since then, but I know that his strength of character is abundant.
In new kinds of ways he’s still my “lean-to!”
Categories: Bible, children, Christianity, Death, Faith, Grace, Grandchildren, Humor, Jesus, love, marriage, Parenting, Pastor, Story, The Church, Uncategorized, Youth
Tags: Baptist pastors, consistent, Dad, elderly, fathers, influence, lean-to, parents, pastors, Penney's, promise keeper, senior citizens, senior living, Seniors, wisdom, Woodford Reserve Kentucky Bourbon
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Words from WW Blog 