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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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Alan

October 22, 2025

“As iron sharpens iron, so one person sharpens another.” (Proverbs 27:17)

As I flip through the chapters of my life, I have become ever increasingly grateful for the men with whom I’ve crossed paths. Not that there haven’t been some incredible women who have influenced me as well. After all, I am married to one of them.

Sometimes the male figures have joined me on my journey for a short time, while other guys have been along for the ride so much it’s like we’re grizzled cowboys sitting around the nightly campfire together. Short-timers and long-rangers have both been instrumental in my personal and spiritual development.

A recent “cowpoke”, so to speak, is an older fella’ named Alan, who sits at the same Starbucks counter as I do. Alan is nearing eighty, drinks his coffee from an actual Starbucks mug (just like my parents did…minus the Starbucks label), and shares the same faith view of life as I do. We talk about chess, our health status, the latest class that he is auditing at the local university, and life. Our lives can not be separated from our faith.

Alan reads my blog and, no doubt, will be slightly embarrassed that he is the prime focus of this one, but it’s true. My life is a little better because of our early morning chats. He tells me about books that he has read, or is reading. John Mark Comer is one of his favorites, while I lean towards Philip Yancey.

Alan shares simple wisdom with me, not wisdom that requires a theological surgeon to decipher. Our wives have the same first name and he hails from my neck of the woods. As we talk, questions arise about the confusing situations of life and how we sometimes have learned what’s paramount in importance by walking through the fires.

We don’t go to the same church, eat at the same restaurants, or drive vehicles of similar models. In fact, I always know he’s at Starbucks by the fact that his anciet Jeep Cherokee is backed into a space. At 5:30 in the morning, it stands out in the midst of the near-empty lot. He’s absorbed in his reading, often his bible close at hand, and unaware of my entry until I say, “Good morning, Alan!” Sometimes he’s in mid-swig as I say it, but at 5:30 he’s usually ready for a refill.

In return, he greets me as I walk the ten more feet to the other end of the counter and deposit my backpack. After I get my Yeti mug of the Pike Place brew, he strolls down to my position, white mug in hand, and we update each other on the goings-on of yesterday and the hopes of the day we have begun.

In some ways, we walk another day together, two brothers privileged to have come together in a most unlikely place, simply because we like coffee.

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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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The “Meh” Birthday

May 4, 2025

“The sun comes up, and the sun goes down,
    then does it again, and again—the same old round.” (Ecclesiastes 1:5, The Message)

Tomorrow, I hit 71! My brother tells me it’s one of those “Meh” birthdays. It’s hard to get excited about it. It’s like ordering vanilla at Baskin-Robbins. Who does that??? Probably 71-year-olds.

I tried to find a scripture that would help me understand “meh-ism”, but all I found were numerous references in Proverbs about being a sluggard, getting spit out of Jesus’ mouth for being lukewarm (Revelation), and making the best use of my time because we live in evil times (Ephesians).

“Meh moments” hit all of us. Next year’s 72 will have a bit of entertainment to me, since I graduated from Ironton High School in ’72.’ On the other hand, each birthday reminds me of the fact that more of my Fighting Tigers classmates are no longer fighting. Their fight has ended.

Kind of a dreary thought.

I find it harder these days to battle through the “meh-ism” than the more intense difficulties of lower back pain, athletes I’m coaching who need their attitude adjusted, driving in the midst of psycho drivers, and managing my hunger for fried foods as my cholesterol level is screaming at me.

Some days, I’m like Simon Peter after Jesus has been crucified. He’s at a loss as to what to do, so he goes back to fishing because…”What else is a guy to do?”

My roots watered with Baptist guilt, shower upon me disbelief in how I have just wasted a whole day without getting anything constructive done. On “Meh Days”, a person tends to keep asking, “Why? What’s the point?”

I know, I know, I’m sounding like a paraphrase of Ecclesiastes. Hitting 71, however, gives me a new perspective on the subject of meaninglessness. Tomorrow is my birthday…and it just is.

I think hitting 71 will tell me that it’s okay to sigh, to not be as excited as a Colorado Rockies every time they unexpectedly win a game, or also as depressed as the same fans on the regularity of their defeats. It’s okay to trust that the Master will guide me through the day, to nor have to always be behind the steering wheel. dictating to Him like an Uber driver on the clock.

As it also says in Ecclesiastes 1, “There is a time for everything…a time to search and a time to give up, a time to keep and a time to throw away…a time to love and a time to hate.”

Tomorrow is just…a time. Another day, I will lean on Jesus to pull me through.

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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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The Yellow Squiggly Line

July 2, 2024

“I, even I, am he who blots out your transgressions, for my own sake, and remembers your sins no more.” (Isaiah 43:25)

Yesterday, I was traveling down Interstate 25 through Colorado Springs, and in the middle lane, a yellow line suddenly appeared. It wasn’t a yellow line that had been carefully painted by a road crew to mark the edge of the road or a no-passing zone. This line appeared to be something that had gradually leaked out of the back of a truck. It had a shakiness to it, like the squiggly graphing line that comes from a lie detector test.

The yellow line continued down the highway for the whole distance of my drive. Six miles later, when I exited the road, it was still snaking its way south. I wondered if the driver would pull into his driveway another few miles away, hitch his pants up, and walk to the back of his pickup to retrieve his five-gallon can of yellow paint, only to discover he now has six ounces left to do the job.

Metaphorically speaking, the yellow squiggly line represents several things. On the downside, it reminds me of the mess of my life, the ways I’ve left chaos in the wake behind me. As Romans 3:23 says, “All of us have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God.” In different ways, we have left a trail of trash. We’ve made a mess of things, a mess of opportunities, a mess of relationships, and a mess of situations. Like the yellow squiggly line, people view our transgressions and wonder why we would have done or said something or acted the way we did.

We leave an impression behind us whether we know it or not. The words we speak, our attitudes, the kindness we show, and the characteristics we are known for all leave a trail of significance or disappointment. Sometimes, and for some people, that trail of significance goes on and on for a long time. It’s only for a while for other people, as their connection with us only lasts until the next exit ramp.

The amazing thing about the God we serve is that He comes behind us and wipes up the messes. Like the road cleaning crew, God causes the yellow line of our failures to disappear. As Isaiah 43:25 says, “…he remembers them no more.” Isaiah 44:22 has Him saying to us, “I have swept away your offenses like a cloud, your sins like the morning mist.”

Our lives often look ugly, but God cleans us up, and not just partially, but thoroughly. He takes care of the yellow squiggly lines. There are many days where, at least for me, He’s having to do some major clean up.

Thank you, Lord!

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Winning Halfway

June 22, 2024

“For the love of money is a root of all kinds of evil. Some people, eager for money, have wandered from the faith and pierced themselves with many griefs.” (1 Timothy 6:10)

“If any of you lacks wisdom, you should ask God, who gives generously to all without finding fault, and it will be given to you.” (James 1:5)

I received an email from Starbucks yesterday, informing me that I was a winner in their Summer Sweepstakes Contest. The grand prize was a trip for two to Costa Rica. That would be awesome! I’ve wanted to visit there.

However, when I opened the email, I discovered that “my prize” was fifty percent off one of their drinks, called a Refresher. Wait a minute! Half-off? That means I would be giving them more money in order to receive my prize. I wonder if the prize was a one-way ticket to Costa Rica, but the winner would have to get themselves back home again?

I’ve had those scam emails before that tell me I’ve won anything from a chainsaw to an air fryer to a tool set. I’ve suave enough to not open those. No one ever called me a brainiac, but I ain’t no “dumb attack” either. And this WAS from Starbucks, the Starbucks that offers half-off drinks on most days between noon and 6 P.M.

It seems that winning halfway also means losing halfway. Even more than a half-free Starbucks drink, our culture has a way of giving us half the story, to focus on the beginning and not the end, to show the happy faces of the new car buyers without hinting at the reverse side of the excessive car payment that the sellers will expect even when the vehicle is in for a major repair.

Wisdom sees the carrot dangling before the trap and considers the costs. Wisdom sees the long-range consequences hiding behind the short-term thrill. Wisdom sees the tears of misery in the background of the thirst for money.

Now, I realize winning half a Starbucks drink is not on the same grief level as a lottery ticket buyer who goes hogwild at the 7-11 because he sees the image of Shangri-La attached to the jackpot amount. However, the concept is the same. Half-free in order to cost you something.

Last night, wisdom took a nap as I was looking at a book on Amazon. It was only a few dollars…okay, ten! Ten is only a few more than a few. So I hit the order button. After all, I have Amazon Prime and free shipping. Immediately upon ordering the book that is just a few more than a few, Amazon informed me that other shoppers who bought the same book also ordered the following. Pictures of four other books showed up, so I ordered one of them. By the time I had exited out of Amazon, my “few more than a few” book had become $38.95. Don’t tell Carol, although she usually reads my blog so I need to work on my pitiful look of repentance. I’m trying to think of a way I can blame it on wisdom napping on me, but…okay, I had a dumb attack!

I think of the sins of the flesh that Paul lists in Galatians 5 and most of them are actions that seemed right at the time or brought satisfaction for a moment, but consequences later on. Half free and half unbelievably costly.

My life story has been peppered with costly seasoning, like procrastinating doing classwork when I was in college and paying the cost of an abysmal GPA, or eating two Big Macs and suffering the indigestion a couple of hours later, or placing the plastic down on the counter too much in a short amount of time and then paying the high interest rate on the remaining balance our checking account said we couldn’t pay.

I’ve been suckered into lunging for the dangling carrot many times. However, I’m thankful that wisdom has shown itself more and more as my life has slowed down. (Yes, I know! There was that Amazon thing last night! I admit, I’m like a kid in a candy store when I click on Amazon.)

I think I’ll try this on the baristas at my local Starbucks. I think I’ll tell whoever is making the drinks to put only the free part in the glass and leave the rest empty.

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Heart Cries and an Emoji

March 6, 2024

 “Every day they continued to meet together in the temple courts. They broke bread in their homes and ate together with glad and sincere hearts…” (Acts 2:46)

A close friend razzes me about responding to a text or message with a thumbs-up emoji. After all, he says, “I’m baring my soul or giving reactions to what you’ve written, and what do I get in return? An emoji!”

He pronounces “emoji” like it’s a door-to-door vacuum cleaner salesman who has disturbed his Sunday afternoon nap. He’s got a point.

If someone writes an email with several lengthy paragraphs that include their heart cry, pain, or confusion, responding with an emoji is a bit insensitive. Although there may be considerable thought behind that heart emoji, the receiver doesn’t know that. He assumes that the sender gave as much thought to it as the price of a loaf of bread.

Sadly, we’ve become an “emoji culture.” Pressing on an image takes a fraction of a second, whereas writing words with sincerity, thoughtfulness, and concern takes time. Symbolically, many of us have an enormous number of emoji relationships, but only a few of the people we communicate with are friendships of substance. Some might argue that we have so many superficial relationships that we don’t have time to invest in any of them. Healthy relationships, that is, relationships that have emotional depth, meaning, and value, require time. Like a savory stew that needs to simmer, something important needs patience and attention. Fully present, that’s the term.

Jesus was fully present. Can you imagine if He had responded to the leper with a crying emoji or to Simon Peter’s words, “You are the Messiah, the Son of the Living God” with an emoji facial expression of “Wow!”? Thank God, no one has compiled an emoji bible that replaces Jesus’s red-lettered words with wordless expressions of minimal matter.

Jesus was fully present, fully engaged. That modeling of the importance of hearing people’s heart cries and knowing them in more than a superficial way carried over into the early church. People were committed to one another. Even in the depth of their community, there were still the downfalls, such as Ananias and Sapphira. However, for the most part, they were connected. In fact, they were so intimately connected they were known for their sense of community.

Just to be clear, I’m not saying that being closely committed means that we need to be wordy. Like one of my theology books from my seminary days, where a paragraph could be so long that I’d fall asleep before the ending, wordiness does not necessarily mean depth and a solid foundation. I don’t need to respond to my friend’s observation, affirmation, or heart cry with an analysis that resembles a thesis statement. The question to ask myself is, “Does he feel like I’ve heard him?”

In fact, some of us, like in the old days, may simply need to pick up our phone and call.

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