The Lovely Lady and my sister have promised a repeat performance of last year’s culinary extravagance in the next few days, so I hope you’ll forgive me for the recapitulation of the post which accompanied the memories evoked.  My mouth is watering in anticipation of the food, but my heart is already full with the memory of good friends and their generosity. An original post or two will follow soon, I assure you.  You may take that as a promise or a threat, whichever seems appropriate…

Supper was a feast of memories tonight.  It seems like that happens more often these days, especially during the holiday season.  Tonight was different because the Lovely Lady and my sister spent yesterday evening and this morning making tamales.  And no, you don’t say that word the way the lady in the old commercial did years ago, “Look Harold, Mexican Tah-mails!”  The word is in three syllables, pronounced “ta-ma-les”, with the “a” sound being “ah” (as in father) and the “e” sound being “eh” (as in egg).  Okay, so much for the Spanish lesson, but I don’t want to hear any more mutilation of the name of this manna from heaven.

I’m not going to go into the recipe for this wonderful self-contained dish, primarily because I wasn’t around for any part of the process, but I’m told that tamales are made in several steps, with each taking a good bit of time and some taking a good bit of effort.  The meat is cooked and prepared with spices; the doughy covering, called “masa”, is mixed with more spices, and then all of it is put inside of dried cornhusks (which have been soaked to make them pliable again) and steamed for 2 or 3 hours.  The result is a wonderful meal that you can hold in your hand and savor to your heart’s delight.  Although I think I could have eaten more, 4 of them were adequate to satisfy my hoggish appetite this evening.  As I ate them, I was transported to Christmastime many years ago in south Texas.

The Gonzalez family lived a block from us and Christmas was a special time for them.  All year long, they had raised the pig, fattening him up for just this day of the year.  Christmas Eve day found the men slaughtering the hapless animal and dressing the carcass.  During the evening, they built a wood fire outside to cook the meat, including the amazingly good chicharrones, which are the pork rinds.  The odor while cooking wasn’t pleasant, but oh, the finished product!   I’m sure it was a heart attack waiting to happen, but the fresh crispy pork skins, cooked over the wood fire were simply incredible.  Those plastic bags of pork rinds you can buy in the grocery store don’t even come close to the flavor and consistency, nor the ambiance of eating them while standing around the fire with friends.

After this, the men could go to bed and sleep soundly, to arise well-rested on Christmas morning, but not Mrs. Gonzalez, nor her daughters.  The entire night was spent cooking, mixing, wrapping, and steaming tamales.  The recipe my Lovely Lady used today specifies that the finished product is to be placed in freezer-proof bags and frozen to be eaten later, but that was not to be the fate of this all-night labor of love from the Gonzalez ladies.  First thing in the morning on Christmas day, the packages of finished tamales, with the wonderful aroma emanating from the wrappings, were delivered to families in the neighborhood.  From the year-long task of raising the pig, to the day-long task of slaughtering, preparing, and cooking, right down to the night-long task of preparation and steaming the assembled products,  it was all done to be given away!

Their Christmas gift to the neighborhood was not just a wonderful dish to be enjoyed by all, but it was actually themselves.  To this day, it’s very difficult for me to taste a great Mexican tamale (and, yes, there are many variations on the theme, but only one that tastes right to me) without remembering and admiring this once-poor immigrant family, first generation Americans who worked tirelessly to make a life for their offspring.  They spent several years as migrant agricultural workers, then started a construction business, turning it into a thriving, profitable means of income for the entire family.  Throughout this, they never forgot their friends, sharing whatever they had, and always enjoying the people in their lives.  It was a privilege to grow up as neighbors and friends to these fine folks and a joy to have them brought to mind by such a simple, but tasty dish.

We spend our lives following the antics of the rich and famous, the rude and depraved elites, and striving to be close to them.  What we really need to understand is that those people are to be pitied rather than emulated.  The very real people who we meet in our neighborhoods, talk to in the grocery stores, and sit beside at the sports events, these are the folks who matter.  I’m not talking about helping those less fortunate, although that’s an important thing for us to do.  I’m talking about what our Lord reminded us of when He was asked what was most essential to God.  In it’s most simple form, He answered that number one, we are to love God and, coming in a close second, we are to love our neighbors.  In taking care of the second part, it seems that we could certainly take a lesson from my old neighbors.  I know many who do, but there is still room for improvement.

I know I still need a little practice.  I’ll get on that, right after I finish this one last tamale…

“For attractive lips, speak words of kindness.  For a slim figure, share your food with the hungry.”
(Audrey Hepburn)

The old 1957 Ford Custom was a rust-bucket, but it was his!  No more driving the old family station wagon and seeing the smirks on the faces of his buddies as he drove past where they sat waiting for the first bell at school.  The tired old station wagon was finally parked in the tall grass of the vacant lot across the street, visited only once in awhile when spare parts were needed for the real car.  This beauty was going to be the envy of all the guys in the gang, if he could only get it legal to run on the street.

Lots of hours went into my big brother’s first real car.  It wasn’t all that much to look at; none of the old cars available in my hometown down on the Mexican border were.  The big problem was that we lived within an hour or two from the Gulf of Mexico and the humid air which blew constantly inland carried with it lots of saline.  Growing up, I don’t think I ever saw a car older than five years old which didn’t have “cancer” around the windshield or back glass, or on the quarter-panels.  Everything just rusted and that was that.  So, big brother had to make choices about the essential repairs to make and what parts of the car to “pretty up”, while resigning himself to a few telltale spots of the brown iron oxide.  As he worked on the automobile, I hung around for a few of the jobs, disappearing adeptly when it appeared that an unappetizing task would be foisted off on the baby brother.  I’m fairly sure that my “help” was pretty useless to my wanna-be hot-rodder sibling.

Still, I was happy to ride with him the day he decided the old flivver was finally ready to pass the state safety inspection.  I had stood behind the car, watching the lights flash, as he stepped on the brakes and flipped the turn signal lever to the left and then to the right, moving to the front to be sure that they were functioning there too.  The headlights both came on and even changed as he stepped on the bright switch on the floor (yeah, it was built in the fifties, you know).  The horn honked, which was required as well.  Satisfied that it was ready, we jumped in and headed to the Sears service department.  He was confident that the car would be legal to drive to school the next Monday!  Finally, his hard work would pay off!  Never mind that he was almost out of money and couldn’t really buy any more gas for it.  He did have fifteen dollars dollars in his pocket today, knowing that the inspection would cost twelve.  Nothing could stop him from impressing the crowd after this weekend!

An hour later, I stood with him as the mechanic explained that there was no way this car was passing the inspection.  He was incredulous as the man showed him how the headlights were aimed incorrectly, one going downward and to the left, the other pointing slightly upward and straight ahead.  It would cost another fifteen dollars to adjust them.  No, he couldn’t pass the car today if my brother would promise to bring it back for the adjustment next week.  He also spent a moment talking about a slight exhaust leak which should probably be fixed too, opening the hood to show where the fumes were escaping.  My brother was thoroughly disgusted, and he made sure the mechanic knew it.  He pushed the hood closed carelessly, and hurried me into the car, leaving a cloud of smoky exhaust and a layer of rubber on the concrete floor of the shop as we left.  We got on the expressway and headed the six or seven miles for home, flying along the highway at seventy or seventy-five miles per hour as he continued to vent his anger.

All was well for a moment or two, but then suddenly we felt a solid “bump” toward the front of the vehicle.  He ceased in mid-sentence of his harangue against the mechanic and had just time to ask, “What was that?”  when the hood of the car flew up in front of us. Caught in the wind our great speed caused, the hood reached the end of its normal travel path and continued on, blocking the windshield and smashing into the top of the car, caving it in with a crash, right above our heads.  Fortunately, stepping on the brake and sticking his head out of the side window, he got the car stopped safely by the side of the freeway, with the passing motorists staring and laughing as they realized what had happened.  My brother wasn’t laughing.  Muttering under his breath (and over it, a time or two), he grabbed his tool box and with a little help from me, removed the bolts which held the ruined hood to the hinges.  Once free, we simply heaved the battered and twisted piece of rusty metal into the grass beside the car and drove home.  Inside the car, it was as quiet as a funeral home; my brother, fuming and angry at himself now as well as at the mechanic; me, just wanting to avoid becoming the target of another outburst, knowing better than to open my mouth.

Sometimes, I think trouble follows us, not because we are jinxed, nor even because we deserve it, but simply because we are so easily distracted from the important tasks which should have our attention.  My brother, in his exasperation at not getting what he wanted, forgot to make sure the car was ready to go back out onto the highway.  It wasn’t the mechanic’s fault and I will assert that it wasn’t even the little brother’s fault.  Anger colored the young man’s thought processes and left no room for normal precautions.  Obviously, it was a lot longer than just the time it took to get the money saved up for the headlight adjustment before that car saw the road again.  All for a moment’s stupidity, a second of taking his eyes off the fundamentals. 

A friend reminded me today (in so many words), that most of what we deem important is simply peripheral.  We are so preoccupied with the little unimportant details of our lives, sometimes depressed by them and at other times delighted with them, that we forget our priorities.  We get angry when things don’t go as planned, or, if you’re like me, get so engrossed in the trivial aspects of the daily schedule that the absolutely crucial needs go wanting and unfulfilled.  Then, at the end of the day, as the roof is caving in on me, I realize that I’ve once again forgotten to do the absolutely necessary, the critical tasks.

This afternoon, I ran an errand and came back to the music store to find two men who both “needed” to talk with me.  One started impatiently, before the other could get a word in.  “I really need to sell you that item we talked about a couple of weeks ago.  I bought a new sound system the other day on a whim and now I kind of need some money,” he said imperiously.   I knew the item he was speaking about (it is something I want), but I also knew that the other man had been waiting longer to see me, so I asked this first fellow if he could wait just a moment, while I spoke with the other guy.  The other man also wanted to sell me something, but there was a difference.  “We don’t have anything else to sell, and we need food.”  The words came almost timidly.  The instrument he offered was battered and of little value, but it was all he had.  I didn’t want it and don’t need it.

It was important that one of these men walk out of my store with money in his hand.  It was not so important that the other one do so.  The one man still had options, something the hungry man was out of.  I had a choice to make.  I could listen to the loud, insistent voice, the one asking me to buy the item I wanted.  I could listen to the quiet, timid voice, the one who had something I didn’t want, but who needed something I had.  I hope I made the right choice.

We’re faced with important decisions everyday.  The decisions don’t often come with captions which say, “Be Careful!  Don’t make a mistake!”  Most of the time, they come with no fanfare whatsoever, sneaking into our day stealthily, asking us to just do the right thing.  It’s not always easy to concentrate on the essential, the absolutely necessary, because the flashy and boisterous “urgent” activities make their demands with regularity and it’s difficult to ignore them.  Sometimes we can’t even recognize the “red herrings” which are thrown out to distract us from the important tasks until it’s too late.  By then, we can’t see where we’re going and the roof is caving in on us with a horrible din.

The old rust-bucket is a dim memory now, lost in the long distant past.  Its lesson lives on in my mind though, sounding its clarion-clear message even now, forty years later.  Distractions are unimportant, false scents which are meant to throw us off track.  A clear mind and a steady pace bring us closer to the finish line every day.  Press on, looking to the goal and the ultimate reward!

“The main thing is to keep the main thing the main thing.”
(Steven R Covey~Author and motivational speaker)

“…let us throw off every weight that hinders us and the sin that entangles us and let us run with perseverance the race laid out for us.”
(Hebrews 12:1)

Well, it’s that week again.  Yes, that week.  The week before final exams at the local university.  The week which annually brings the busloads of old people from the neighboring retirement Mecca to our little town.  Soon folks will be standing in the cold up to an hour early, waiting for the huge wooden doors of the Cathedral to open, just so they can stream into the beautiful sanctuary and sit on uncomfortable wooden benches for more than two hours.  What threats could induce them to endure the icy wait?  What punishment are they attempting to avoid by sitting on the hard seats for hours?  What penalty can be circumvented by squeezing into small spaces with people they don’t know, maybe even some with communicable diseases?  (I’ve heard the coughing and sneezing that goes on during these ordeals!)  Well…none, it would seem.  They appear to enjoy the process. They even thrive on the overcrowded, uncomfortable seating arrangement and they do it with smiles on their faces; singing as the hours pass.  I am, of course, speaking of the annual Candlelight Carol Service; an event in which I’ve participated for more years than I care to think about.

I thought my years of preparation for this musical introduction to the Christmas season were at an end.  I’ve actually missed the last two years, once due to the onset of my own annual event; cold-weather asthmatic bronchitis, which renders me incapable of playing the French Horn.  (This, of course, is my instrument of choice with which to torture the listeners.)  Then, last year, I was successful in rejecting all entreaties to join in, believing that I had succeeded in ending my years of being an active part of this event.  I’m not sure how it occurred, but, once again, I find myself in the days before the Service, which is repeated for three evenings, wondering if I’m prepared, worrying about my wardrobe (a subject seldom on my mind), and fighting off another impending attack of the unwanted asthma.  I expected to be dreading the upcoming ordeal, but I am actually looking forward to it, disappointed that I am not feeling as well as I was when I agreed to be a part of the ensemble.

What is it about this particular happening that makes a couple thousand folks want to come and be a part of the uncomfortable, but joyous, crowd?  Is it anticipation of something new and innovative every year?  Are they expecting to see a light show and hear unusual, avant-garde sounds from the instruments and choir?  No, they’re not, although there was a period of time some years ago when that was the case for this event.  The crowds thinned and dwindled, feeling that they had been cheated.  Then someone realized that this time of year is more about traditions and the same ancient story woven into the well-worn traditions.  The old carols returned, along with a few new ones, introduced tastefully, and the crowds grew again.  The preparation is staggering in its intensity; the choirs and ensembles putting in hours and hours of rehearsal time.  The choice of each selection is made carefully, to give a harmonious (non-musically speaking) message, all blending into a time of praise and joyful celebration of the greatest gift ever given to mankind.  I am humbled to be able to share a tiny part in the program.  I hope I fulfill my part successfully.  But, even if I don’t, the folks who come to cram into the hard,wooden benches will leave with full hearts and an intense sense of the immensity of God’s love for humankind.  I pray it will ever be so.

Even as I approach the slightly stressful evenings to follow this week, I’m looking past to the season which still stretches out in front of me.  I sat and groused as the Lovely Lady decorated the house for the season last night.  I don’t think the words, “Bah, Humbug!” crossed my lips, but they might as well have.  That such a joyous time of year should come in the midst of the season I dislike intensely is most contradictory.  Dreary days, cold temperatures, and this morning…snow on the ground!  What’s to be happy about?  I’m better now.  I’ve given myself a talking to; reminded myself of the meaning of the upcoming holiday, and opened my eyes (and heart) a little.  Oh.  The decorated house is beautiful too!  I make no promise for the weeks to come, but at least for tonight, I’ve got my blinders off, the “Poor, Poor Pitiful Me” song (I love Linda Ronstadt’s vocals!) no longer playing in my head.

I’m still puzzled at how the celebration of such an intensely selfless act has turned into a season of selfishness.  All around me, I hear it.  “I hate Christmas carols!”  “How dare they tell me ‘Happy Holidays’?  I won’t shop here again!”  There were fights in WalMart on “Black Friday”.  Fights! Over Christmas gifts!  Gifts which are going to be given in celebration of the Greatest Gift.  How did we get here from there?  How is it acceptable for us to be unkind, to be rude, to be crude…all in the name of “Keeping Christ In Christmas”?  Was there ever such an incongruity?

The other day, I completed a phone conversation with a caller to the music store.  I thought before the words came, but I said it anyway.  “Happy Holidays!”  It seems to me to be a little early to say, “Merry Christmas!” and I’m still not quite sure what that means anyway, so I opted for the more time encompassing and slightly generic phrase.  But, all around me, friends are willing to be offensive in insisting that “Merry Christmas” be the standard greeting of the season.  Do they think that somehow, the heart of this joyous season is going to be ripped out if we don’t hear the words said over and over again, without, I might add, any intent on the part of the greeter to communicate any spiritual truth, whatsoever?  To avoid the travesty of losing an obscure greeting, we are willing to be hateful, to be rude, to refuse to do business with any store which uses the detestable replacement greeting.  I’m wondering how this communicates the message of the season, the message of unconditional love, of concern  for our enemies, of forgiveness for an entire planet full of sinful humans.  Don’t we rather, communicate hate, arrogance, and distaste for those who haven’t yet experienced the forgiveness and love of a Savior?  How can we go out armed with angry words and yet, be witnesses of the Savior’s birth and it’s intended impact on the human race?

Do you think it is time for me to get off of my soap box?  Okay, if someone will bring me a step-ladder, I’ll clamber down.  I’m guessing that you have opinions, too.  They probably don’t match mine, and that’s okay.  We’ll make it through anyway.  Hopefully, we can be loving in expressing our differences, especially with the heightened attention on who we are because of that amazing, selfless act of our God, and His Son, all those many Christmases ago.  I’m hoping that all of us are ambassadors of that love throughout the year, but this year I am making this season a time when I personally resolve to be doubly vigilant; to guard my tongue and to open my heart.  I hope that you’ll be right beside me, giving the real Gift of Christmas!

Oh!  Maybe you could find a little time to enjoy a local production of beautiful Christmas music, too.  It will improve your spirits, I promise.  Crowd right in there next to a stranger and share the season.  But, keep your cold to yourself!

“…Fear not.  For behold I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.  Unto you is born this day, in the city of David, a Savior, which is Christ the Lord.”
(Luke 2: 10, 11)

“…God’s gifts put man’s best dreams to shame.”
(Elizabeth Barrett Browning~English poet~1806-1861)

“I’ve got one addressed to you on Wright Street, Paul.”  The postman laid the little stack of mail on the counter at the store, looking at me expectantly.  My response was quick and sarcastic.  “Well, if they don’t know that I haven’t lived there for ten years, it’ll be junk mail.  Just throw it in the trashcan there.”  He laughed, but replied, “It is First Class Mail.  You might want to look at it just in case.”  We joked a moment more about the lists that are bought and sold to provide the annoying advertisers with destination addresses for their mobile trash.  He picked up the outgoing mail and headed out the door once more.

After he left, I grabbed the suspect envelope and prepared to toss it away.  The return address showed an appropriately generic name of “Shareowner Services”, pretty much guaranteeing that I would be placing it in the circular file very shortly.  But, as I examined the delivery address, I noticed that it was marked “Roth Rollover Account”  and my legal name was used correctly in the address.  This is not a normal occurrence for most of the junk mail I receive; the majority being marked to some person with a first name of “Current” and a last name of “Occupant”, or worse still, “Our Friend at:”.  Considering the correct labeling, I opted to open the envelope. 

As I slit open the flap, my mind wanders a bit.  This is really the quintessential example of living in a small community, isn’t it?  It has been nearly ten years since we moved out of that drafty, old Victorian home across town.  A lot has happened since then.  I’ve acquired a new son…well, a son-in-law, really, but the process of bringing him into our world cost about the same as having a child at the hospital.  Both of my children have graduated from college.  I have picked up four beautiful grandchildren and a few gray hairs somewhere along the way.  I can’t begin to enumerate the changes in family and pets and even in me personally.  Ten years is a long time.  Yet, without a mark on the envelope telling them that I’m no longer at that address, without a yellow label to be found bearing the forwarding address (long expired), the envelope is delivered right into my hands.

I like small-town life.  I’m not sure I could make it in a big city, going day after day without seeing a single person I know outside of my home, or workplace, or church.  I love walking through the hardware store and finding friends to joke with or taking a walk around town with the Lovely Lady and having folks honk as they pass, not because they’re making fun of my spindly, white legs (although they could), but just because they recognize us and want to acknowledge that.  I’ve heard this described as the “big fish in a small pond” syndrome.  I’m pretty sure in my circumstance, it’s more like being an average-sized fish in that small body of water, but the result is still pleasant and satisfying.  For some, it would be constricting, but I like that folks know who I am and what I stand for.  I’m pretty sure that if I step out of line in my personal life, someone would stop me and give me a piece of their mind, and that’s not a bad thing, either.  Accountability is a way of life in a small town, another advantage of the community mindset, if you ask me.

I don’t want you to think that I’m some arrogant snob who craves attention, because that’s not who I am at all.  I don’t need to stand out in the crowd, I just need to be aware that there are people who know me and who care about me.  It’s what all of us yearn for.  Sure, a pat on the back, a commendation for a job well done, once in awhile is nice.  Sometimes, we really need that, but this is about a sense of belonging, of being part of something.  The paradox of living in a big city is that, although in the midst of a huge population, frequently individuals are lost and lonely, seeking in vain for human companionship. At the same time, many who live in small communities across the land are surrounded by large and viable support networks, people who know them and who will come to their aid at a moment’s notice.  I’m not putting down city living, but I’m more than a little partial to life in this particular small town, thanks!

As the fleeting thoughts of small-town realities passed, I opened the flap of the envelope.  I didn’t throw away the contents, either.  It was a check…no, not one of those fake checks, the cashing of which obligates the payee to a larger purchase, not even one of those irritating “down-payment” checks from the local used-car dealership.  It was a real check, for the sum of twenty dollars and some-odd cents; the result of a class action lawsuit against a large investment firm I used for the safekeeping of my retirement fund all those years ago.  My small-town existence paid off to the tune of twenty dollars!  In other circumstances, I would never have seen that money.  So, in a day or two, the Lovely Lady and I will spend a little time and enjoy a meal at the local Mexican restaurant, compliments of this small town.  I would be willing to bet that we’ll spend a few moments visiting with folks we know there.  I’ll walk out realizing that the payoff for living in a great little community like this is well more than that measly twenty dollars. 

Do you recognize the blessing it is to live in the place you’ve been led to, surrounded by the people whom you need and who need you?  It may not be an idyllic little community, may not even be a desirable location by any reasonable standards.  To be in the place where one belongs, no matter the situation, is nothing to belittle.  I love the apostle’s attitude, expressed so succinctly, all those many years ago.  “I have learned in whatever circumstance I find myself, therewith to be content.”

I’m working on the contentment thing.  While I’m trying to get that squared away, Mr. Postman, any more junk mail like that last one is welcome here anytime!

“I was walking along looking for somebody, and then suddenly I wasn’t anymore.”
(A.A. Milne~Author of the Pooh books~1882-1956)

“The time has come,” the Walrus said,

“To talk of many things:

Of shoes — and ships — and sealing-wax —

Of cabbages — and kings —

And why the sea is boiling hot–

And whether pigs have wings.” 

(“The Walrus and the Carpenter” from “Through the Looking Glass”~Lewis Carroll)

“Do you have time to talk about a weighty subject?”  The phone had rung while I was talking with someone else on a different line.  The message the caller left asked me to call, “…if you have time.”  I wasn’t rushed this evening, so I dialed the number.  It seemed a good idea at the time.

As the question was asked, I considered the ramifications.  The caller had left me an “out”.  I could tell him that I was too busy; that I had other things to attend to.  It wouldn’t have been a lie.  These days, I find that there is always a spare task lying around unfinished.  Then again, I remembered Winnie the Pooh’s response when asked about Rabbit.  “Rabbit?  I like Rabbit!  He always uses short, easy words like, ‘How about lunch?’, and ‘Help yourself, Pooh.'”  That’s the kind of conversation I would prefer.  Weighty subject?  Could you just tell me that I’ve won an all expense paid trip to Tahiti instead?

The caller before him had wanted to discuss a weighty subject as well.  I had already been on the phone for half an hour with that weighty subject.  I can’t count the times over the last week that I’ve spent time, hours of it, on weighty subjects.  Maybe it’s time to stick to the light stuff.  Could we talk about football?  How about if you could tell me about your friend who had a successful deer hunting trip this weekend.  I could really stand to waste a few moments on the trivial.

I’ve actually spent a lot of time thinking about this recently.  I’ve seen the frequency of these weighty conversations multiply over my years as an adult.  I remember well the carefree years, with nothing of more consequence than going to work and paying the rent and the utility bill.  Easygoing conversations with friends almost always led to laughter; sidesplitting, tears-in-the-eyes, milk-through-the-nose laughter.  None of this somber, serious, quiet communication, resulting in subdued contemplation and sad consideration of how we got to this point in life.  I have to admit, the thought of being perpetually young appeals, at times.  I can’t help but wish that Ponce De Leon had found that Fountain of Youth way back in the sixteenth century when he explored far and wide, hoping to stumble upon it, but to no avail.  But then, as I consider this, I remember many of my young friends and relations who have actually chosen that path.  Well into their adult years, they continue the juvenile exploits which should have been left behind them long ago.  Partying, drifting, working at odd jobs (when they work at all), they deny the maturity which should come with the years.  They fight off the prospect of responsibility with every bit as much energy as others put into achieving milestones in their lives.  I see the arrested development and every part of me cries out that this is not how we were meant to be.

We move through stages in life, first carefree in the formative years when we are learning the foundational principals which will guide us through the minefields of the adult stage; then progressively more serious and thoughtful as time passes, understanding by our experiences and memories that life is not all fun, not all games.  Certainly, we still enjoy life. We still have the opportunities to laugh and celebrate.  I love those times.  Experience brings with it a certain accountability though, the opportunity to pay back the debt we owe to those who preceded us.  They took time to speak with us of weighty matters, to give advice, and to be right there by our sides when we needed support.  If we shirk our duty to carry that on, who will light the way for those who come after us?

I did speak of the “weighty matter” with my caller tonight, genuinely happy to have the opportunity.  It wasn’t the most fun I’ve had recently.   And, it’s okay.  I have said many times over the last months that the most important thing in our lives, besides our relationship with our God, is our relationship with our fellow travelers.  It takes the light-hearted, hilarious times we spend together, as well as the times when heavy subjects are broached and considered at length to build those relationships.  The people I never talk about serious matters with?  They’re my acquaintances, my “fair-weather” friends.  Here today, gone tomorrow…those relationships are built with craft paper and Styrofoam.  You see, we don’t build very high when we use light-weight building materials.  The really heavy stuff, the things that take work to put into place, like brick and mortar, concrete and lumber – those are what go into the structures that stand the test of time.

Weighty subject?  Yeah, we can talk about that.  We’ve got a house to build.  Why don’t you help me with that beam over there?

“Maturity is achieved when a person postpones immediate pleasures for long-term values.”
(Joshua L. Liebman~American author and Rabbi~1907-1948)

“It’s easy to say how we love new friends, and what we think of them, but words can never trace out all the fibers that knit us to the old.”
(George McDonald~English Novelist~1819-1880)