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Slip Ons

December 11, 2025


“Diligent hands will rule, but laziness ends in forced labor.” (Proverbs 12:24)

I bought a pair of shoes that are “slip-ons.” They sit on the floor of my closet, and I effortlessly slide my feet into them. I’m not sure how I feel about it. There’s a slither of guilt as I slip into the slippers. Is it a sign of my laziness? As Proverbs hints, am I one of those slackers that thinks work is a four-letter word? Oh, that’s right. It is.

What are the limits of convenience? I have visions of Rosie the Robot from The Jetsons, running around and making life easy for George and company.

Slip-ons are nice. I don’t grunt when I slide into them. When I revert to a pair of shoes that have shoelaces that need to be tied, I grunt as I lean over to tie the knot. I never used to grunt like a pig when grabbing the laces, but it’s now come to that. Unfortunately, I don’t have slip-on socks, so Porky is still making sounds.

Which prompts the question? What’s the next invention that will lean me even more into being incapable of labor? A car that drives itself? (Oh, I guess technology is ahead of the game already on that one!) A business that allows me to order up a meal without having to cook it, and have it delivered to my residence? (Oh! I’m way behind on that one!) A buttoned-down shirt that doesn’t need to be buttoned, but just slides on (even over my mid-section)?

I know, I know, convenience has saturated my life for a long, long time. I’m now having a hard time even remembering the pre-microwave oven days, or the days when someone had to actually get out of their chair and walk to the TV to change the channel. In the distant memories of my mind are the days before my grandparents had indoor plumbing. (Yes, they had an outhouse…complete with spiders and other creepy things)

The bible seems to promote a work ethic that has now been redefined. When work ethic is discussed, it is usually equated with getting things done, rather than slouching in the recliner with a beer and a bag of chips close at hand.

Students with a solid work ethic are usually organized and complete their assignments on time… and well. True confession! I was a procrastinator who completed assignments at the last minute. In recent times (Maybe it’s a COVID thing), students don’t even do the assignments. Sloth has settled into the classroom.

Of course, our churches have “slip-ins.” They are people who slip in and slip out, like cars in a McDonald’s drive-thru. Slip in to get a nugget of spiritual direction and slip out to resume the other 99% of life. That is, unless there is a crisis that needs more than a moment. That sounds like a variation of laziness that results in “forced labor.” Forced labor being defined as “having to deal with what has been ignored.”

Back to my “slip-ons.” One remedy is to hide them in the closet and return to my days of grunting and bending over in discomfort. Or, maybe a better solution is to balance my convenience with another way of service and help, like emptying the dishwasher, shoveling the snow in the driveway of one of our neighbors up the street who is dealing with cancer, making myself available to help at school, or inviting the neighborhood to our house for hot chocolate, cookies, queso, and chips on a Sunday afternoon. (Actually, Carol orchestrated that last suggestion this past February, and 20 of our neighbors came and stayed…and stayed…and stayed, almost like they were cherishing the moments)

Every time I slip on my slip-ons, it is now a reminder that my life is filled…okay blessed with an easiness. I’m reminding myself that the easiness is also a path that frees me up to do harder things.

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Speed Limit Therapy

September 22, 2025

   “He makes me lie down in green pastures;
he leads me beside still waters;
 he restores my soul.” (Psalm 23:2-3a)

I was annoyed!

The stoplight changed…kinda. It skipped me, and went back to cars going east-to-west, instead of my north-to-south direction. My knuckles went white as I gripped the steering wheel as if I was The Hulk.

A grandpa-style Buick turned from the east heading south just about the time my stoplight turned green. The LeSabre crept south at…the speed limit! I was in the vicinity of the speed limit as I quickly closed the distance between our two vehicles. And then I crept along behind Uncle Wilbur…and on…and on…and on.

I noticed my breathing quickened as impatience oozed from my body. Uncle Wilbur arrived at the next stoplight a mile down the road right about the time the light turned yellow…and then red. More east-to-west traffic.

And, seriously, it hit me…the dreaded question: Why am I in such a hurry? I wasn’t even going anywhere of importance. If I were on the way to the hospital (which was in the opposite direction) that would be one thing, but I was simply taking the car to the car wash. The car wash, where the attendant would have me pull into another line, almost bumper-to-bumper.

The light that Wilbur and I waited for gives preferential treatment to the east-west folk, so we waited. I think I needed the wait. I needed some therapy that smacked me square in the face about my speeding-though-life habit. I needed a Wilbur to be a driving force in communicating my urgent need to slow down. And not just while driving, but rather like the life zone version of a school zone, complete with flashing lights blaring at my insensitivity.

We have a new law in Colorado that allows motorcyclists to pull up to a red light between two lanes that are heading in the same direction. Invariably, when the light turns green the motorcycle acclerates to sixty before any of us vehicle-trapped people are even up to twenty. I hate the law, because it’s a reflection of our hurried-up culture, as well as a reminder to me that I’m utterly jealous. (Side note: Motorcyclists death are up sixty percent since 2018, and 2024 was the deadliest in Colorado history)

My speed symptoms are not a one-therapy-session situation. Like a dense sheep, I rush ahead with no thought about where I’m going or why I’m doing it. I need a couch in a counselor’s office that will force me to get off my feet.

Perhaps you’re more like me than you realize. Maybe we should pray that a LeSabre-driving Uncle Wilbur turns in front of us more often. It might be a case of, as Hebrews 13:2 says, “entertaining angels unaware.”

Slow angels, mind you. Real slow.

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Inflating Purposelessness

June 27, 2025

  “Everyone, then, who hears these words of mine and acts on them will be like a wise man who built his house on rock. 25 The rain fell, the floods came, and the winds blew and beat on that house, but it did not fall because it had been founded on rock.” (Matthew 7:24-25)

We have a vehicle that has a tire problem. It’s not that it needs to be replaced. We’ve done that. For some reason, the same tire keeps losing air pressure. On a monthly basis, the low air pressure light comes on, and we pump more air into it. No matter how many times we do it, cold weather aas well as hot weather, it seems to be a situation where we keep trying to pump something up that can’t hold it.

It reminds me of so many tires in the sports world. That is, our culture has a way of trying to pump purpose into purposelessness, importance into the non-essential. And being people who tend to be swayed to buy swampland in Florida, we fall into the pit of the pointless.

For example, last week there was a sports program on TV of the Dog Surfing Championships, one canine after another standing stiffly on a surfboard. Add to that the time slot for the Slippery Slide Race, the Professional Pillow-Fighting League pummeling, and the Kickball Battle of the week and a person is able to waste a whole afternoon watching contests that are about as meaningful as my Aunt Irene’s “afternoon stories” (soap operas).

It seems that our lives are so rootless that we’re on the lookout for someone or something to root for. Like the continual pumping of air into my tire, it doesn’t hold with lasting meaning. It doesn’t mean we should stay away from activities that are enjoyable and entertaining, but we have a bad habit of avoiding what is most important because we’re fixated “…on a tire that won’t last.”

I saw an interview with an Episcopalian nun named Sister Monica Clare. A new book she has written entitled, A CHANGE OF HABIT, talks about the realization of where she was spending her time. She color-coded her calendar according to different pursuits. For her, God is the top priority, but her calendar showed that she was spending very little time in ways that involved the Holy. Thus, she reorganized her life to “pursue her pursuit.”

What would we say is most important, and what are the pursuits that we keep putting air into that continue to go flat? And what are the events of life that people keep telling us are important, almost vital to our existence, that we have bought into but are really meaningless? There are passions and pastimes, and we sometimes confuse the two.

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Yes and No, No, No!

March 28, 2025

“All you need to say is simply ‘Yes’ or ‘No’; anything beyond this comes from the evil one.” (Matthew 5:37)

My wife and I are used to kids asking for something, like a giant Nerf Dart Gun or a 2-pound bag of M&M’s, and saying no. We’re used to the grandkids doing that now…and we say yes more often than we uttered that word to our kids. We’re even used to the grandkids asking the same question three times and saying, “No, no, yes!”

This week, we listened to a timeshare presentation. For some background, we joined the timeshare “adventure” twelve years ago. We aren’t rookies to the presentation game. Carol and I have sat through so many we’ve got to use our toes in the count now since all our fingers have all been counted. Why? Usually, it’s because we’re receiving two or three additional nights at the resort for a heavily-discounted price. Going to a “60 MINUTE” presentation is part of the agreement.

We listen, learn, make note of the beautiful pictures from places we haven’t visited yet, look at the offer from the time share company that seeks to have us part with more of our money, and then, very nicely say, “We aren’t interested.”

Simple enough. The lady, who is trying to convince us that we’re turning down the best deal in the entire universe, takes the hint and excuses herself to go get the paperwork she needs. We never see her again. A few minutes later, Salesman #2 shows up with an additional sweetening of the deal offer. He tells us that he didn’t like the deal that the first salesperson was offering and shows us a “much better deal!”

We don’t cave. We’ve said no once and now we say no again. The third person shows up a few minutes after that and puts the pressure on. In the process, he’s a bit insulting, as if he was going to make this whole episode as painful as possible.

Third no, and let’s go! The hour presentation tuned into two-and-a-half. It was more painful than the Department of Motor Vehicles, where you take a number and come back sometime in the far distant future.

Jesus said to let your no be no and your yes be yes. In other words, be a person of integrity. Let your word be your word. Stand on it. Honor it. Guarantee the solidness of it. Perhaps that’s become so rare that a timeshare salesperson looking for a commission doesn’t believe it’s possible. Maybe he thought people like my grandfather and father didn’t exist anymore.

Actually, they have passed on, but my wife is still here. When she says no, it means no…unless we’re in Target and the person asking is one of our grandkids. Then she caves in like a Florida sinkhole.

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Disneying Happiness

March 26, 2025


“For the kingdom of God is not a matter of eating and drinking, but of righteousness, peace and joy in the Holy Spirit…” (Romans 14:17)

We did the Disney Thing. It was great…kinda!

I admit I’m a 70-year-old granddad who is much more content enjoying a quiet moment on the back deck as opposed to spending the day with 60,000 people scurrying to get to the next attraction where the wait line is already at 75 minutes. That’s me. I’ll admit that after 25,000 steps I was whiney, snapping like a turtle, and inconsiderate.

On my positive, wise, and observant side I observed thousands of people searching for the Disney happiness that pervades every Disney advertisement. There are no crying kids or yelling parents in the TV snippets that Disney invades your family room with. There are only nights lit up with fireworks and wonder-eyed children. That’s what the attenders are looking for. Surely, the $200-a-day admission ticket, after forking over $30 to simply park will guarantee that a person will find happiness. Yes, yes, the $80 for pretzels and drinks for the family seemed a bit excessive, but the worker did smile as she handed them over.

There I go again, getting sarcastic and grumpy! I admit it.

More and more, I find people searching for happiness that is a momentary event or purchased possession. Like me, who wanted to bring happiness to my three-year-old grandson after he had spotted a light-up sword that sprayed bubbles. “Granddad, I want that.” Like a grandfather being led to the slaughter, we walked over to the cart that held the souvenirs.

“You want this?” I asked. He nodded. I asked the young lady who was hawking the wares how much the sword…or I should say, my grandson’s happiness was going to set me back.

“Thirty-seven dollars.”

I cringed and then handed over my credit card. My grandson’s face lit up as he bubble-upped my face for the next fifteen minutes. He was a happy camper and, I admit, I was a happy granddad camper because of it.

And then we went back to fighting the crowds like a canoe trying to paddle upstream. We went back to the endless wave of people searching for that elusive happy experience.

In the Old Testament, Nehemiah said, “The joy of the Lord is your strength.” Joy keeps you grounded, steady, and wise. However, joy is found in something that can’t be bought. It’s already been bought, paid for, once and for all, through the cross of Christ. A crown of thorns (not Mickey Mouse ears) was the headpiece that paved the way for our joy. A three-year-old’s smile brought me happiness (drenched in bubbles happiness, I should say!) for a moment, and a heartwarming memory of the moment.

Jesus said, “I have told you this so that my joy may be in you and that your joy may be complete.” (John 15:11) That’s a constant treasure that I’ve been blessed with, the joy of the Lord.

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My Obituary

March 16, 2025


“Where, O death, is your victory? Where, O death, is your sting?” (1 Corinthians 15:55)

I was substitute teaching seventh-graders this past week, a certain class that I often am residing in and know the kids by name. On Wednesday, they asked me if I was going to be there the next day. My response was that I would unless I died. That got their attention.

Soon, our conversation steered toward my funeral. Would they be invited? Could they sit in the front row? Would they be allowed to cheer? (Cheer???) We went back and forth on how they thought my funeral should go, proper conduct and inappropriate actions. We even talked about cremation and whether my ashes could be placed in the classroom. It was creative in a disturbing sort of way!

I suggested that someone should write my obituary since they seemed to be so enamored at my passing. They did! And signed it! It was even signed by one of the other teachers.

It was suggested that I had been born in 1254 and was 800 years old and that I was survived by family members: Alpha Wolfe, Sigma Wolfe, and Rizzler Wolfe. For one of the classes, I laid down on the floor as a student read the obituary over me.

Entertaining, yes it was. When I’m in the class again after our spring break, I’m sure a number of them will express their surprise that my ticker is still ticking.

And then I talked to my friend, Dave Hughes, who was my best man and high school classmate. Dave, who now lives in Florida, shared the news of several of our old church youth group friends who are in the midst of serious health situations. One of them is perhaps in his final days, another is wheelchair-bound, and another has had his life altered my an ongoing cancer problem.

Death seems to have come close to us. In fact, it seems that it has moved right next door. The friend who is in his final days wrote a letter to his grandchildren in which he penned life principles for them to consider and live by. His heart was displayed in the words of life experience, wise beyond his years. They included such things as building strong relationships, embracing hard work, and living a Christ-filled life. While I was back in Ohio a few years ago, I attended the funeral of his father-in-law (One of my Dad’s best friends) who displayed the same life values. In truth, my dad was rooted in the same principles, one reason he was Deacon Emeritus of the church he was a part of.

As a Christ-follower, who I am is because of the One I follow. When I’m called home to Glory, there will be no sting because of His stain. My students might write my obituary (with a bit of AI help, don’t you know!), but I am graced by the fact that he is holding my hand for the journey.

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Deaf to Debate

May 19, 2024

Harrison Butker is the placekicker for the Kansas City Chiefs and a devout Catholic who believes in the importance of family. In his recent commencement address at Benedictine University in Kansas (a Catholic college), he raised up the importance of family. Unfortunately, some of those who were hearing the speech were deaf to the message because they focused on a couple of sentences. The social media universe was burning up with offended modernists who overheated on his suggestion that some of the young women would be looking forward to the opportunity to get married and raise children more than the careers they would have.

Immediately, offended folk called for the Chiefs to cut him from their team and for the National Football League to take action against him. His message was construed to mean that women should be back in the kitchen and not in the workplace. The truth is, Butker never hinted that the grads couldn’t be a mom and have a career or have a career but not be a mom. His own mom, the lady who modeled motherhood for him, is a medical physicist at Emory University, an occupation I wouldn’t be able to even spell correctly if it weren’t for Grammerly.

His point got lost in all the huffing and puffing that sought to blow him down. He was raising the importance of family in a time when it is often devalued. Taken to a deeper level, individual rights and freedom have become sacred while the importance of family has become irrelevant, a relic left over from the old ways.

Even Bill Maher came to Butker’s defense. He said this:

“I don’t see what the big crime is. I really don’t, and I think this is part of the problem people have with the left. Is that lots of people in the country are like this. Like, he’s saying, ‘Some of you may go on to lead successful careers, but a lot of you are excited about this other way that everybody used to be.’ And, now, can’t that just be a choice too?”

Evidently, for some, it’s now seen as a way of degrading women, minimizing their importance.

My only wish is that Harrison would have raised the importance of the coming opportunity of marriage and fatherhood to the graduating men. I’m guessing that if he had challenged them to be a strong presence in their kids’ lives, to place more value on their family than their career, he would have received standing applause.

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Losing Those You Haven’t Seen

February 9, 2024

“A friend loves at all times, and a brother is born for a time of adversity.” (Proverbs 17:17)

Another high school friend of mine, Jeff Grubb, died this week. We went to the same church, were in the same youth group, went to Giiovanni’s Pizza after Sunday night church, and razzed one another in ways that made us roar with laughter. Good guy! Funny, smart, and a friend.

The last time I saw him was probably in the late 70s.

I throw that in there because it’s part of the struggle and, unfortunately, the reality. As our lives get launched, we lose touch with most of the people that we grew up with, people that chiseled briefly into the sculpture of our life. Growing up in Ohio, but then going to college and seminary in Illinois, and then taking my first three ministry positions in Michigan before finishing in Colorado…the distance from my growing up roots always seemed to get greater instead of less.

Jeff is the third person who was a part of our youth group who has been called Home to Glory in the past year. It’s that stretch of our journey where the road becomes less and less populated with our traveling companions.

My dad had that experience. Living to be just shy of ninety, all of his close friends had preceded him in death. His last couple of years were a lonely stretch of road.

In less than three months, there will be a seven in front of my age. The number ‘7’ seems to be looking behind itself at all of the country it has already traveled. Most of the road is behind it, and there aren’t too many miles in front of it before reaching the exit ramp.

At 70, a person realizes, if he’s clueless enough not to grasp it already, that the important things in life have nothing to do with Las Vegas, soap operas, who the Bengals are going to draft first, or how upper-class the make and model of his car is. Those are irrelevant, the fluff of an ungrounded life.

The important things in life are rooted in relationships. Spiritual, emotional, intellectual, loving, and entwined relationships. Even the relationships with people you haven’t seen in 45 years are priceless.

Quite frankly, that category of long, lost friends is over-crowded. Facebook and other forms of social media have brought many of them back to us in a weird, sorta authentic, but superficial way. We’re able to see what’s going on in many of their lives, pictures of proms, parades, and promotions, but it’s different. Kinda like getting a postcard from the Grand Canyon. It’s different than actually seeing the place with your own eyes. Seeing a post from an old friend on Facebook is not the same as sitting in Giovanni’s and razzing one another on a Sunday night.

It causes an ache in my soul to know of the loss of someone who used to be on our church bus and it also makes me treasure what has been.

That being said, my journey this week to Ohio to see my sister, brother, nieces, nephews, and their extended families will end with a reunion at Skyline Chili in Cincinnati with two men who were a part of my college days period. I saw one of them about three years ago, but I have not seen the other one since 1974. Before I get on a plane heading back to Colorado, I’ll spend a couple of precious hours with them, reminiscing about the times we spent together and feeding the aching hunger in my soul for the old days and old friends.

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The Smile in Death

December 3, 2023

“When the perishable has been clothed with the imperishable, and the mortal with immortality, then the saying that is written will come true: “Death has been swallowed up in victory.”

 Where, O death, is your victory?
    Where, O death, is your sting?” 1 Corinthians 15:54-55

My last surviving aunt or uncle passed away about a month ago. Aunt Jerry was about as sweet and hospitable as anyone, related or otherwise, that I’ve known. She had edged into her 90s and has now danced into Glory. I’ll be flying back to Kentucky for her memorial gathering in a few days. It will be one of those bittersweet times when I’ll reconnect with my cousins and recount old stories of our aunts and uncles and our Papaw and Mamaw Helton.

The death of the loved one will be the stimulus for smiles and laughter about what has been, the memories of family and front porch conversations.

Recently, I’ve experienced the passing of several people who have been a part of my life. A couple of them were unexpected, while others were the endings of longstanding health issues or longevity. The number of deaths in a few months’ time has caused me to be more reflective about the tracks behind me, the ripples in the waves of where I’ve come from, and the people that were involved in those pieces of evidence of one’s life.

Death seems to live all around us, but we try to live as if it isn’t there. Not that we should incorporate a meditative moment each day to ponder its presence, but perhaps we should think of it in different terms instead of treating it like the long-lost uncle that no one wants to talk about anymore.

The passing of my Aunt Jerry causes me to remember her warmth and kindness. She was an encourager, speaking words that made you feel blessed to be alive. Memories of my childhood days in Kentucky are punctuated with her pleasant voice and personality.

Death causes one to halt, to ponder, to cherish, and to grieve. It’s like one of those rest areas along the highway that one realizes he needs to pull into for a few minutes instead of thinking it isn’t needed. It’s a pause before continuing on the journey.

For the follower of Jesus, death is a stepping across. It’s a transition from what is to what will forever be. Scripture tells us of the hope of glory and gives us a glimpse of it. However, living in Glory is an experience that will not be fully appreciated until the Christ-follower arrives. It’s going to a paradise that we’ve only heard stories about, but haven’t seen with our own eyes.

Just as there are the tears of death, there are also smiles in death. It’s the unavoidable final act for each one of us. May each one of us not be so caught up in what we won’t be able to take with us that we lose sight of the One who will, with open arms, accept us.

The One who will smile upon us forever more.

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Hide and Scare

October 12, 2019

WORDS FROM W.W.                                                        October 12, 2019

                                      

There are certain events and traditions that each of our families practice that stand out in our minds. We remember them years later and long to return to those moments. They aren’t necessarily Grand Canyon pictures, but rather shared experiences that still reach down and touch our hearts.

Simplicity may define them. I remember family Monopoly games in my growing up years. I remember my sister hiding some of her play money under her legs to make her brothers believe she was a Monopoly welfare recipient.

I remember riding in the family car to Paintsville, Kentucky. The road was almost as curvy as Hawaii’s “Road to Hana”, so Mom would make each of the kids take a Dramamine before we left Winchester. 

For Carol and me, we’ll always remember hiding the Christmas presents in the freezer in the garage. The freezer no longer worked, but it worked as the depository for toys bought at summer garage sales. 

We’ll remember February and March spring break trips to her parents, Richard and Barbara Faletti, living in the Phoenix area; and we’ll remember my mom always greeting the kids with the statement “Give me some sugar!” Our oldest daughter, Kecia, got into the tradition of bringing her a sugar packet in response.

We’ll remember Christmas Eve Candlelight services at church and countless soccer games for all three kids. We’ll remember all of our cats, all named by the kids: Tickles, Prince Charming Kisses, Katie Katie CoCo Puffs, Duke. and Princess Malibu (Boo). I have no idea how the name “Duke” appeared in the midst of the rest. It must have been David’s choice. He was prone to being short and to the point. 

We’ll always remember Lizi having a piece of pizza sausage stuck to her cheek, totally unaware of its attachment.

And NOW, new traditions are being formed. One of them involves the three older grandkids (Older, because #4 made his debut on September 19…yes, 9/19/19! A palindrome!). We now play a game at their mom’s house that they’ve call “Hide and Scare.” 

Here are the simple rules. Granddad (That’s me!) goes and finds a hiding place while the grandkids count to fifty in the main level bathroom. On the mention of “fifty” they come searching. Grandad is expected to hide in a different place each time…closets, behind shower curtains, around corners, in the pantry…and he is also expected to do things that make it scarier, like closing all the doors to all the upstairs bedrooms and placing decoys under blankets to fool the searchers. 

“Hide and Scare” went on for an hour yesterday. I got my steps in going up and down the stairway. Each hiding moment was culminated with “the scare”, jumping out of the closet with a scary yell that sent the searchers squealing and then laughing back to the main level restroom where the whole sequence would begin again. Granddad is expected to give a monster-like cry at the least likely moment. 

It’s something that they will remember, and years from now they will think back to those moments and have a moment of inner giggling. 

You see, we have a habit of not remembering, and it’s the remembrances that get lost in the busyness of life that bring a sweetness to it. Sometimes our approach in the present has a soured feel to it, blind to the blessings in our past. Perhaps we need someone to request that we “give them some sugar”, or, better yet, we need the sweet memory of a granddad standing in a closet waiting for the anxious moment of giggling grandkids to discover his hiding place.

Categories: children, Community, Freedom, Grandchildren, Humor, love, marriage, Parenting, Story, Uncategorized, Youth
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