Words from WW Blog

My life could be broken down into different chapters, according to the flow of the story. For example, I could break it down into pre-school, school, graduate school, career, and retirement. Or I could go childhood, adolescence, husband, father, grandfather. Or Reds fan, Tigers follower, Rockies attender, and Cubs fanatic.

There are numerous storylines for my life book, but one that stands out on a Monday morning, as I reflect on the previous Sunday is the chapters that could be titled Bowties, Neckties, and No Ties. Three diverse periods experienced in my childhood, youth and adult years, and later adulthood.

When my family attended Central Baptist Church in Winchester, Kentucky during my first few years on this earth a bowtie was snapped onto my white buttoned-down shirt every Sunday. In fact, it was the same bowtie every week because I only had the one. Three-year-olds don’t need a tie display case to choose this week’s outfit completion. One was always enough. If I would have opened up a Christmas present and discovered that a new bowtie with a nicely-crafted new plaid design was included…I would have broken down into a kicking and screaming fit of tears and agony. A bowtie was simply my parented mandate for Sunday church. My brother had one, too! Come to think of it, my bowtie was probably a hand-me-down from Charlie, four and a half years my senior. Most of the things I possessed during those first few years were hand-me-downs. It was our version of garage sale purchases. If it was good enough for the oldest, and it didn’t have too many mustard stains on it, it was suitable for the youngest.

A bowtie symbolized my early life and the life of my family. We were churched people…Sunday morning, Sunday evening, Wednesday night dinner and activities. I never was able to watch Walt Disney on Sunday night because our pastor had another sermon to get off his chest.

Sometime around the fourth grade my bowtie, well-weathered and beginning to droop like Alfred Hitchcock’s jaws, was replaced by a clipped-on striped necktie. It was the next step toward fashion maturity. Bowties were for young kids, but neckties were for boys inching toward manhood. Besides that, I was now a Junior Usher at First Baptist Church in Williamstown, West Virginia. Ushers always, always, always wore neckties to go with their blazers and buttoned-down dress shirts. After a few months of passing out bulletins to the arriving worshippers and making adults feel guilty if they didn’t put something in the passing offering plate, my wardrobe expanded to two clip-ons to diversify my selection.

A couple of years later I made the big jump to learning how to tie a necktie. My dad stood behind me and patiently showed me the twists, turns, and loops as we stood in front of the hallway mirror. To this day a mirror is required for me to tie a necktie. For me to accomplish a neatly-looking necktie without a mirror is on the same work scale with trying to complete my tax return. Every Sunday for a few decades I tied one of the fifty or so neckties that hung on a rack in my closet. Stripes, plaids, plains, bright-colored, and even one with Mickey Mouse and another with a wolf. Sunday church was always a tied event. Since I was the pastor I had to set the example. In the ’90’s, most men in a Sunday worship gathering followed that example. Neckties were a sign of the orderliness of our worship. They were the expected look of “putting on our Sunday best”. We were attempting to look handsome before God. Nowadays the only times I wear a necktie are when I’m officiating at a wedding, conducting a funeral, or sitting at a table for two celebrating our wedding anniversary.

Somewhere in the first few years of the twenty-first century I jumped on the Ferrari of No Tie. The open collar look or the polo started becoming options. My tie rack got moved to the end of the clothes rack in my closet. Some pastors even started keeping their shirttails out. My mom’s hands would have started quivering if she had seen that. That, however, became the cool look, the appearance that indicated this place of worship was not uptight and boring. People could come right from Starbucks to church. In fact, some of those hip churches started replacing Folger’s with Starbucks. You can’t hand your shirttail out and serve your grandparent’s brew! It would turn people away from Jesus! So in the last several years I’ve gone to not wearing a necktie or bowtie, but still looking dressed up enough that I wouldn’t be seen as a disappointment to my parents.

Will there be a fourth chapter in my apparel autobiography? Will there suddenly be an emergence of those cowboy bow ties that Roy Rogers used to wear? I’d be okay with that. Or maybe a neck tie that has some unique image or design that makes people stop and say “Wow!” The Wow Factor is always good for someone closing in on 70.

Just one thing I will never do. No skinny jeans! I have a hard enough time right now getting my pants on!

One of my best pastor friends through the years has been Chuck Moore. Several years ago in one of our numerous lunch conversations that included our other pastor friend, Tom Bayes, I remember Chuck saying these words in regards to figuring out the will of God. “Sometimes God says yes, sometimes He says no, and sometimes He says not yet.”

I didn’t fully comprehend the wise depth of those words when he spoke them, but I have thought them multiple times since. And now that I’m semi-retired I ponder them even more, because making decisions as a retiree are more difficult. They become less dependent on financial matters, relocating, and position and become more focused on the leadings of the Lord and leaning on the Lord.

For example, how much longer does God desire for me to coach middle and high school basketball? How much longer does he want me to be a substitute teacher, knowing that each of the last few years that has resulted in a long-term teaching gig of two months or more? How much time does he desire that I commit to writing? What kinds of tools and training events does He want me to incorporate into the writing? What does He want me to write? How much does He prefer that I rest and seek renewal? What does He want me to offer younger folk in regards to the wisdom of experience? How long does He desire that I offer my preaching services to the small church I travel almost an hour to?

Some of those questions can’t be answered with Chuck’s three options, but many can. There are timeline-connected decisions that seek His guidance. There are possible new directions that are in need of His answer. And there are certain activities and involvements that need His hinting as to whether they need to drop off the schedule or proceed further on down the road with.

Being retired, although my wife reminds me I have not grasped the full meaning of that term, has an openness to it. It’s like being in the midst of a vast, open field where I have a variety of options as to which direction I go. There aren’t any trails to indicate the right way. In fact, maybe there are several right ways. Maybe direction is now based more on talent and personality traits, not job descriptions and wants. Since just about any direction is a possibility, maybe I need to have my hearing checked to my tendency to not hear the “Nos!” and “Not Yet!”

Finally, I have a sense of certainty that is reassuring. It’s that God is still speaking to me, guiding me, and not done with me yet. His involvement in the direction of my life is not restricted to a period of time when I was filling a certain position, and had a weekly schedule punctuated with meetings and job description-connected responsibilities. He still has a leash around my life, although perhaps it has a bit of a bungee stretch to it.

Blame is as old as the hills. It goes back to Adam and Eve, the clueless guy blaming his fall on the woman, and she in turn pointing her finger at the serpent. If the snake had any fingers he would have pointed at the fruit on the tree. Finger-pointing is kinda like finger-painting, trying to make a mess of what is clear to the casual observer.

Taking responsibility is becoming an extinct sign of maturity. Scripture tells us that we all sin and fall short of the glory of God (Romans 3:23). In other words, not a single one of us is perfect and worthy to be in the presence of an omniscient, omnipotent, omnipresent God. But, just like those who tried to build a tower all the way to the heavens in Babel, we want to believe in our infallibility and capability to do anything and be anyone. Taking the blame for mistakes knocks that self-made tower down and causes us to admit who we really are.

None of us like doing that!

And so finger-pointing and excuse-creating have become the norms. Each one of us encounters it a multitude of times each day in our dealings with the world and the situations of our routines. Higher gas prices are cramping our budget because of something that has happened thousands of miles away from us. Notice the subtle finger-pointing in that statement, as opposed to the idea of the fact that I have become so accustomed to the consumption of fuel in my vehicle that I don’t even think about the idea of reducing the number of miles I drive.

Elected officials in Washington working together doesn’t make for dramatic headlines. Progress on policies doesn’t seem to be a page turner. Better to blame those on the other side of the aisle because they’re going to blame their opponents.

Personal injury lawyers are making a mint with all of the “blame games” going on. It’s dangled in front of the audience like a luxury life preserver. Someone must be to blame…at some time…somewhere…if I think about it long enough.

Not following the rules that were agreed upon has been translated into meaning that the rules are unfair. A defeated club basketball team had its coach and parents attacking the referees because it was the people wearing the stripes that were to blame for the fact that their players couldn’t make a left-handed layup.

Our personal debt made as a result of our own decisions is someone else’s fault. Our broken relationships are the fault of too many demands at work, or cross words that were shouted because of disagreements, or because of feuding extended families.

The game of blame is like a winter storm. It blankets everyone, but we have been led to believe it can be shoveled away. It almost like I expect there to always be a Jesus to take the blame upon himself. His crucifixion on Golgotha offered us the possibility of redemption, of a clearing of the slate, but some of us missed the connection between Jesus atoning for our sins and our confession of our sins. We’re like the criminal who gets excused from his offense but instead of the changing of his ways he goes out and commits the same crime again.

Finger-pointing is our nature. Maybe today we’ll remember what my mom used to say to me. When you point your finger at someone there’s four others pointing back at you.

My wife and I returned from a trip back to Ohio to see family last night. Now, today, after three different flights and a delay, we will need to extend grace to one another as we grouse and groan about our latest plane experiences. I had thought about driving the 1,300 miles from Colorado Springs to the southern tip of Ohio, but the realization that 1,300 miles would be followed a few days later with 1,300 miles back…and the rising cost of gas…made me head to Travelocity to check out air fares.

…And begin the questioning of my wisdom and the way airlines do things. I mean, why have 9 different seating groups when it’s a hodgepodge of overly impatient people lining up in the aisle? Just an idea, but why not board those who have window seats first so Harry in the aisle seat doesn’t have to get back up and move into the aisle out Larry can get to his seat. Or, even more cumbersome, Harry and Gary in the aisle and middle seats have to both get up and move so leisuring Larry can get to the window?

…And am I getting wider or is my economy seat getting narrower? Is the diminishing width of the economy seats a conspired airline plan to get me to upgrade? Notice how people in economy have to walk through the first class and business class seating areas before we get to our sliver of cushion. We walk past the smug looks and passengers enjoying their first glass of wine to get to the result of our budget-consciousness.

…And after figuring out what the plane fare will be, do airlines really need to THEN put an extra “seat cost” on to it? It’s like a Jeopardy game board…”I’ll take 21A for $59.” Shouldn’t people in an Exit Row who are going to be asked to take the initial steps in saving their fellow passengers in an emergency landing…shouldn’t they receive a stipend for their service– kinda like being in the military– instead of paying more, simply because they have extra legroom?

…And, here’s an idea from a teacher that will never fly (Sorry for the pun!). What if a test was given to all of the passengers right after the safety instructions are given? Those who flunk the test would be “held back” for the next flight or, better yet, the highest scores would go to those front row seats in first-class!

…And finally, the 13 high school students who caused a flight to the Bahamas to be delayed until the next day because they were refusing to wear masks (Or at least a couple of them were, depending on who you believe!), why not make them sit back by the lavatories and made to watch Teletubbies episodes the whole flight? That would stimulate some obedience! You may, however, have to give additional instruction to the Exit Row passengers about guarding the doors from people trying to escape.

They were rocking and waiting for us, the women of Wyngate, a senior independent living complex where my dad resided for the final four years of his life. My sister and I had scheduled a visit for Wednesday night at 6:00 on the front porch. COVID had severely altered the visiting policies and possibilities at Wyngate. Visitors met residents out front, not inside. So with the temperature hovering close to ninety accompanied by a blanket of humidity, we visited the six ladies, all who had long since lost sight of 80 in their rearview mirrors.

They were special to my dad, a gentleman and a gentle man. They were blessings to our family because of how they made each day he lived there a gift. Pops came close to reaching ninety, crossing over to eternity four months shy of it. Growing old is punctuated with aches, wrinkles, and a calendar that resembles a Bingo game card with all the doctor visits noted on it. But advancing in age is made tolerable when you have traveling companions who are walking, ever so slowly, alongside you.

My dad made the Wyngate women laugh and smile. They were encouraged by his compliments and words of concern, and he is still missed even though its been three and a half years since he moved on.

Norma, now the Wyngate matriarch at 101, took my hand and pulled me into a hug. She had been the one who had caused me to blush one time when she mentioned the possibility of getting a bikini and going topless. I was speechless, but I noticed my dad in the background slapping his leg at the amusement of it all.

Bonnie, his across-the-hallway neighbor, looked as strong as ever with her distinctive voice. I was taken aback by a comment about her recent 90th birthday. Bonnie could still be mistaken for a bank loan officer, helping a customer acquire a car loan. I remember her being the checklist person whenever there was a fire drill, making sure that everybody was present and accounted for. Bonnie brought order to any hint of disorder. She watched out for my dad and he her.

Barb, a woman of grace, displayed her warm smile once again. She felt honored by our visit, not realizing that we were the ones who felt privileged to be able to visit. Seeing Virginia was like having a visit with one of my aunts, her warmth filtering into our souls. The two of them were characteristic of the Wyngate spirit, welcoming and hospitable.

And then there was Phoebe, deaf and delightful. I can’t understand how someone who isn’t catching much of the conversation can be so pleasant, but that’s Phoebe. She has that comforting element to her personality.

Finally, there’s Robin, the Wyngate manager, who thought so highly of my dad, and he of her. She always made him feel valued, listening to the wisdom of his suggestions and the homespun humor in his stories. All of them are the salt of the earth in a place populated with people on low-salt diets. Thank you, Lord, for the women of Wyngate!

My son got a haircut yesterday. It wasn’t a difficult GQ-styled ‘do, but rather “Zip-zip-zip-snip…okay you’re done!” He added a tip into the cost and forked over 2 Jacksons and a Lincoln…$45! Just as gas has risen like an Elon Musk rocket, barbershops have raised their prices.

When my barber, Ms. Darla, moved out of state, I was at a loss. I was always willing to pay Darla a good sum because she knew me and knew my hair. When I lost a wager a couple of years ago because a boy on my basketball team had accomplished what I said he couldn’t, and the promise was that I’d have my head shaved, Ms. Darla was the one who came to our team banquet and buzzed me. Without a doubt, I wasn’t going to entrust the job of shaving off my hair to a high school freshman boy. I’d still be bleeding!

A barber or hair stylist needs to be someone I can relate to, laugh with, tell stories to and hear stores from. There needs to be that relationship. Like Floyd on The Andy Griffith Show. Floyd usually did a little bit of snipping and cutting, but mostly he jaw-jacked with his customers.

My Uncle Millard was a real-life Floyd back in Paintsville, Kentucky. His barber shop was across the street from the Johnson County Courthouse. It seemed like there were always men sitting on the benches or the three-foot wall on the edge of the courthouse lawn. My uncle would join them and talk the latest local news and politics. Once in a while he’d even give someone a haircut, but he almost always “Floyd-ed” the person he was trimming with conversation and opinions.

In my growing up years I always had Mr. Morris at Morris Barber Shop in Ironton, Ohio, cut my hair. He knew what my parents expected, and even if I suggested a new cut where the hair length would, in my opinion, make me look cool and appealing to the young ladies, he would give me the parental mandate haircut that gave me that conservative, Baptist, “normal” appearance that would not cause the church deacons to raise their eyebrows over. Mr. Morris cut the hair of Irontonians for several generations. He knew the latest Ironton High School athletics news, as well as how the Reds did the previous night against the hated Pirates. A haircut in his place was like an audible version of the local newspaper, but with commentary added.

Thus, I cringed when my son said he paid $45 for a haircut from an anonymous woman with a razor. Knowing how rapid the turnover is in the company-owned hair salons these days, he will never have the same person invading his scalp. It will always be someone who doesn’t know him or his hair. The only consistent element that will be the same each time…is the price! It makes me want to let my hair grow out and put it in a braid. What would the deacons say to that?

Except my daughter now cuts it for free, and she knows my head and what’s inside my head!

When a student looks at me with apprehension written all of their face, I ask him if there’s something wrong.

“I have a stupid question that I’m afraid to ask.”

I reply, “There are no stupid questions, just stupid answers.” I now realize that I’m incorrect in that proclamation. There are stupid questions. A lot of them, in fact! They resonate in my brain everyday and make me wonder about my unrevealed IQ. They are quandary’s that puzzle me at unexpected times.

For example, last night as I was getting dressed for bed I pulled out a fuzzball from my navel. The question that intrigued me that sounded stupid was how do I get fuzz like that in my belly button? I’d never ask that in a small group sharing time. People would look at me with dismay, perhaps move away from me to a safer distance, and not invite me to come back.

Last night I was out for a walk with Carol and another dumb question, peppered with weirdness, occurred to me. A bird was pulling a worm out of the ground for a late dinner. I wondered if birds ever wish for a sprinkle of salt or some other kind of spice as they chow down? Is that stupid, or what?

My guess is that all of us have some of those stupid questions floating around inside our noggins, wanting to escape the solitary confinement of our maximum insecurities. I’m sure that even the most extroverted individuals have some kind of internal warning light that keeps them from being hurled off the cliff into the chasm of doofus-ness.

It is entertaining to me to watch press conferences where the political leader/coach/athlete/performer rolls their eyes at a reporter’s question. Even though some of the questions might be relevant, the interviewee feels called to make it seem stupid. At some press conferences it seems like there are never any questions asked that aren’t stupid.

That makes me think of another question that I will never ask someone who seems intelligent. Why do we get zits in our adolescence and hairy weed patches in our ears and gross toenails when we get old? Makes you think, doesn’t it? Or maybe cut a wide path around me next time we run into each other, especially if at the time I’m looking at my belly button!

It seems that our news broadcasts are populated with people these days who are overbearing, demanding, and strong in the ability to greatly irritate. They present a view of life that is tailored to their displeasure and temperment. The level of drama in the room goes to the ceiling as soon as they walk in. They are the antagonists, anarchists, and angered.

You’ve probably met some of them, heard them, and tried to avoid them.

The positive thing about overbearing people is that they cause you to appreciate the unassuming folk even more. Those are the people who hesitate to even ask for a glass of water or if they might be allowed to use your bathroom. They are defined as the meek, mild, and humble, but to me they are the ones who understand that the world does not revolve around them. For me, an unassuming person is someone I can sit on a front porch with, sip on ice tea, and enter into a mutual verbal stroll of stories and sharing. Throw a gentle breeze into that scenario and you’ve created my Norman Rockwell dream painting.

As I get older and more unsettled by the unsettling world, I have come to appreciate the unassuming even more. They often live by the motto “Listen before you speak!” In more cases than not, wisdom accompanies them into the room. I don’t feel that it’s necessary to have the same opinion or perspective on a topic as the unassuming and they, likewise, don’t hint at being pulled into my way of thinking.

That doesn’t hold for the overbearing. It’s either their way or the highway. Disagreement means ostracism and some type of labeling…like too conservative, insensitive, out-of-touch, or just plain stupid.

The unassuming include several ingredients from Jesus’ Beatitudes in Matthew 5. He refers to them as blessed and several traits mentioned seem to correlate with the unassuming: meek, merciful, pure in heart, peacemaking. The overbearing missed that chapter in the Book of Life.

This does not mean that the unassuming do not value or strive for justice and avoid conflict. In fact, I would say that the unassuming are more in love with peace, justice, and the respect of people than most others. They are the Mother Teresa’s who was often described as unassuming as she went about her ministry of care and compassion.

Today I will seek to be more like that unassuming person than simply seeking the unassuming. It’s a high calling.

I admit it brings out the worst in me. In fact, Carol sometimes wonders if her husband has become possessed with a demonic crotchety old man’s spirit as I grouse about the BMW that has zoomed around me at a hyper-speed pace. Drivers who race down our four lane roads twenty miles an hour over the speed limit get under my skin.

The problem is that people who fall into that category are becoming the majority, not just an anomaly. Is it me? Have I transitioned into that head-shaking, pants pulled up tight, medicare-card-carrying geezer who thinks the world is going to hell in a hand basket? Or could some of my angst to placed on our culture’s greed for speed?

Ahhh, greed…not a word that usually gets attached to speed. It’s a term that we tend to tie to money and possessions, the tendency to never have enough, to always hunger for more. The speeding super-sized, jacked-up pickup truck that just jetted past me is simply an indication of our culture’s love affair with pushing the limits. To be clear, I’m not condemning the guy who drives 50 in a 45, or the lady who is hitting 70 in a 65. My angst is with those whose limit isn’t defined at all, the people who take all of the crab legs on the buffet, the losers who hoarded the TP during the beginning stages of the pandemic.

Greed surfaces in various ways, forms, and people. It rises in the child who is upset that he only has four stacks of Christmas presents and the parent whose child only played half of the Little League baseball game. It makes frequent appearances at the Las Vegas slot machines and even the talker who always seems to dominate the conversation.

In essence, greed is the absence of self-control. It puts the thirst of an individual over the rightful care of a community, the preference of the one over the safety of the many. It’s that decision that is characterized by a blindness toward others. In the Old Testament, Solomon wrote these words:

“Like a city whose walls are broken through
    is a person who lacks self-control.” (Proverbs 25:28)

Greed leaves us vulnerable for the tearing down of common sense.

For me and my grumbling about the speed demons on our roads, maybe I need to drive less and walk more…although I do have a growing fear about BMW’s hitting me as I cross a street and zooming skateboarders colliding with me as I leisurely stroll down a sidewalk.

Okay! Maybe it is me. Maybe I am the one who has the issues!