The doctor said the “b” word today.  I was in for my annual “Wellness Assessment”.  Don’t you just love the deceptively innocent way those two words just roll off the tongue?  “Wellness Assessment”?  It might as well be called the “Malady Assessment”, given that the conversation always centers around what’s wrong with me.  As usual, our conversation ran through a variety of subjects – from blood pressure, to asthma symptoms, to vertigo.  I mentioned in passing that there was a mole on my back which the Lovely Lady had suggested “looked funny”.  Those words could be used to describe many attributes of my physical appearance, so I had not been overly concerned.  The good doctor, however, took a look just to be sure.  “That does look funny,”  he suggested.  I am used to people agreeing with the Lovely Lady, especially since she is so often correct, but I wasn’t happy about his siding with her this time.  “Set up an appointment.  We need to do a biopsy.”  Yep.  That “b” word…No, not with a capital “b”.  Well, I hope not, anyway.

I have to admit, I wasn’t at all disturbed by his use of the word, or even that I have to go back tomorrow and submit to the procedure, which is likely to hurt a little.  What I was really dreading today was the doctor’s reaction to my other vital statistics.  The cholesterol is still over the limit, the blood pressure a tad over the acceptable range, and the weight more than a couple of pounds over the norm.  I was sure a new diet (that would be the “d” word) would be discussed, or a program of exercise (the “e” word), or worst of all…the dreaded prescription (sorry, no letters for this one – I won’t even discuss it with him).  I dislike pills.  And no, it’s not so much about the unintended side-effects, even though I learned all about those from Alice.  You know, after she went down the rabbit hole.  I just don’t do well with pills.  At least, not long-term.  I start out with the best of intentions, religiously taking the proper dosage at the proper time, with the proper companion material.  Taken with food?  No food, but water?  Lots of water, but don’t lie down for thirty minutes?  All the instructions will be followed exactly…for two or three days.  After that, things seem to get a little fuzzy.  Did I take the dose at noon?  I didn’t drink all of the water.  Will it be okay?  I’m really not hungry now.  Can I wait to take the medicine until I want to eat?  Okay…that last never happens.  I’m hungry all the time.  But, you get the picture.  I don’t want to take medicine.  Give me a shot; let me endure the little bit of pain now and get it over with.  I hate things that are drawn out and require discipline.

Today, I was ecstatic that the doc didn’t rail on me about the “d” word, or the “e” word, or even the pills.  He suggested (gently) that I could get back to “e”-ing any time soon, but that was it.  I’m good to go!  Oh, by the way…come back again for the “b” word.  There was no urgency, but the lady at the desk says tomorrow at four is good, so I’ll see him again very soon.

My guess is that you’re laughing at my sense of priorities about now.  I’m not really worried about the possibility of the “C” word (yeah, it should probably be a capital “c” there).  I’m just fine with someone cutting something out of my back; I’m even okay with them checking that something they cut out for the “C” word, but I dread every appointment with my doctor where the “e” word could be used, leading to a little physical exertion on an ongoing basis.  And, the “d” word!  Any real discipline in what goes into my mouth on a daily basis would be disastrous!  I do play around a little with the “d” word fairly frequently.  Sure, I’ll pass up that bread, and maybe that dessert.  I’ll even skip the meat in a meal occasionally.  But if, on the spur of the moment, we have to select a quick meal, that Thickburger at Hardees will do just fine, thanks!  Sure!  Make it a large order of Curly Fries, too!  I certainly wouldn’t allow the “d” word to interfere with what’s really important to me.

I find myself shaking my head as I see the words (or letters) in b&w.  But, isn’t that how we are, all through life?  I think I may have mentioned my chubby friend from elementary school who, uninterested in running any more during our physical education period, hid behind a sapling half his girth and declared, while hiding his eyes, “I’m staying right here for the rest of the period.  No one can see me here, ’cause I can’t see them.”  Much like the fabled ostrich’s head buried in the sand (a myth encouraged by the fact that they really do lay their heads and necks flat on the ground to blend into the scenery when a predator is near), there is no safety in denying danger.  That path guarantees defeat.  That said, it is not necessarily safe to confront danger, either.  There is always the chance of defeat, of losing the battle.  But if we stand and face the peril, at least we have what is aptly known as a fighting chance. 

Have you ever been faced with a giant in your life?  My experience has been that bullies rarely (if ever) go away when you turn your back on them.  They can only be defeated by standing and resisting.  It will almost certainly hurt.  There may be pain involved, possibly extreme pain.  But, the long-term rewards are indescribable.  Then again, it is possible that the enemies you’ve faced were a little less significant.  Sometimes, the danger is as tiny as a thorn that sticks in the skin, wearing and irritating.  Left where it is, the result can be just as serious as the destruction induced by the giant.  Loss of function, infection, blood poisoning, even death can result.  But if we make the effort and take the time to remove the thorn and to repair the tiny amount of damage done, the relief is almost as indescribable as defeating the giant.

You understand that I’m talking to myself tonight, don’t you?  I’m happy that you’ve hung around with me as long as you have, and if some of the ideas are helpful to you, that’s great.  But, I’m psyching myself up for the long-term “d” word and yes, even for the “e” word program that is undoubtedly ahead of me.  I’ll go in tomorrow for the “b” word, too.  We’ll see how it all works out, but giants will be faced and thorns will be pulled. 

You can come along with, if you like…company is always welcome.

“Life is 10% what happens to you and 90% how you react to it.”
(Chuck Swindoll~American pastor/teacher)

“…when the day of evil comes, you may be able to stand your ground, and after you have done everything, to stand.”
(Ephesians 6:13)

With acknowledgment and thanks to Chuck Swindoll for the concept of “Killing Giants, Pulling Thorns”.

A pretty late meeting meant an even later dinner tonight.  My earlier promise to the Lovely Lady to bring home something from the fast food restaurant meant that at 10:15 I was waiting, along with a bevy of college students, for the guys in the kitchen to complete my order (#265, the girl at the cash register had told me).  I checked messages on my “smart phone” as I waited, but happened to notice that one of the guys back on the food assembly line (does that term make it seem like it would be a good meal?) was waving at me.  I looked up and recognized a young man with whom I have dealt on numerous occasions in the music store.  As I smiled and waved back, I noticed that another fellow working on further back on the line was a customer of mine also, so I acknowledged him with a smile too.

With all the college kids around, I was feeling a little out of place, but that was only going to get worse.  Within a few moments, one of those men in the kitchen walked up to the counter and asked, “Which order is yours, Paul?”  I gave him the number, curious about the reason for the question.  As he walked back to his post, he called out loudly, “We’re going to hook you up!”  Now, I will readily admit to being out of the loop as far as today’s lingo goes, but I know enough to realize that this phrase can mean a few different things, not all of them operations in which I want to be involved.  The kids nearby chuckled a little at my confusion, but one of them said to me, “You must be somebody special.”  I’m not.  I’m so not special that I wasn’t sure what to expect when somebody was “hooking me up”!  I must say that I was relieved when no young ladies came walking out of the kitchen to talk with me, since that connotation of “hook you up” certainly wouldn’t sit well with a certain beautiful lady waiting for her supper back home.  One man standing nearby, who was of my generation, commiserated with me, saying that he hoped it was something good if they were going to hook me up.  I didn’t have to wait long to find out.

“There you go, Mister Paul!”  The to-go bags were plopped down on the counter with a smile and that was it!  The young man turned and headed back to his station; waving over his shoulder at me, along with his friend, as I thanked them.  I noticed that a few of the college kids were shooting darts at this old man with their eyes, since I had ordered after them, but was getting “hooked up” with my late-night supper before they did.  It was uncomfortable in a way, but I also felt a little honored by the special attention.  I shrugged apologetically toward the kids and headed out the door.  Upon arriving home, the bags were opened, to find that the guys had given me a couple of desserts, which I hadn’t ordered.  Oh!  So getting me my meal wasn’t all of it.  Here was yet another way in which the young guys had “hooked me up”.  I am grateful, but instantly, my brain is asking questions.  Were those really for me or had they made a mistake?  Those guys making minimum wage shouldn’t be spending their money on me!  Maybe they weren’t supposed to do stuff like that.  Would they get in trouble?  For a moment, I wondered if I should go back and try to pay for the extras.  That was about the time I remembered my Dad’s advice.

“Son, if someone wants to do something nice for you…let them.”  He said the words quietly, with the dinner check in his hand.  I was a proud thirty-something adult and the last thing I wanted was to let my father pay for the meal we had just enjoyed together.  I was prepared to argue until he was forced to give me the ticket, but something in his words stopped me in mid “But…”  After he paid for the meal, he explained as we drove home.  “I lost a friend a few years ago because of that very thing.  We had eaten out and he wanted to pay, but I insisted.  I won the argument.  He never spoke to me again.”

I have never forgotten the advice.  Oh, I sometimes slip up temporarily, but not for long.  I like my friends.  I don’t want to lose them over a stupid thing like pride.  And that’s all it would be.  I have thought long and hard about the principle at work here and there are two things I am sure of.  The first is that I don’t ever want to rob my friends.  Allowing them to do nice things for me is not robbing them, but taking that opportunity away from them is.  The second thing of which I am sure?  Pride breaks up more relationships than anything else.  For some funny reason, pride which refuses a gift incites pride (in the other person) which insists that the gift be accepted.  If an argument ensues, one of the combatant/friends will win, but both may lose.  Again and again, I’ve seen pride drive people apart, never to be reconciled.  The little two-letter word “No” placed in front of the words “Thank you” can be so much more damaging than the latter without any sign of the former.

I’m grateful for the friendship shown by the two young men tonight.  I don’t deserve it, but I’m happy to accept it.  Generous spirits shouldn’t be extinguished by the wet blanket of vanity.  May we never forget the great gift of graciousness.  With it, we increase the worth of others, with no damage done to ourselves.

Thanks for hooking me up, fellas!

“Every gift from a friend is a wish for your happiness.”
(Richard Bach~American writer)

“Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of lights…”
(James 1:17)

I have frittered away my time tonight.  No, I haven’t spent my time eating fried bits of batter, but I have spent the time unproductively.  The two meanings come from completely different roots, with the proper usage for my current condition being the one which originally meant “to fragment into pieces”.  Since there has been no cohesive thought which has sprung to mind, around which to construct a blog post, I will try to keep this one short (but, don’t count on it…).

My main problem this evening is the thought that perhaps I’ve fallen out of step with the folks around me.  It’s almost as if everyone has moved on into a different room while I was admiring the artwork on the wall.  Does that seem a strange concept to you?  It did to me at first, also.  I have said a few times that I sometimes feel I’m going through life unaware of my surroundings, unenlightened about the ebb and flow of the conversation of people in general.  It’s not always true, but I feel that keenly tonight.  It’s been coming on for awhile.

The last couple of weeks have awakened me to the thought that I am often clueless to the undercurrents.  I’ve told you of my disappointment in folks I thought I knew.  It seems that every new day brings a revelation of things happening which I am totally unaware of, in spite of my involvement in the process itself.  Friends, customers, folks at my church…many have situations in their private lives which are devastating to them or, on the other extreme, exciting for them and on both accounts I am blissfully uninformed.  Maybe that’s the way it’s supposed to be for me now, but I’m not sure I like it much.

We are fortunate to have the Lovely Lady’s mother come to dinner with us most Sundays.  Over the last year or so, we have noticed a distance growing in her interaction with the group at the table.  We have blamed it on her growing deafness, but I suspect that there are other factors at work.  It seems to me that the aging process moves us through seasons of life, seasons when we are sometimes more and then sometimes less engaged with those in our vicinity.  When we are younger, we have our finger on the pulse of many people around us; responding to their joys and their pain; jumping in to help when we see a need.  As time goes by, we seem to disengage a bit, perhaps seeking to feel the hurt less, perhaps just because our own problems seem to increase as we care for aging parents or ailing spouses and the ravages of time affect more of our long-time friends.  We even experience the sorrow of loss more with every passing year.  I have seen this in other folks of a certain age, but I’m not ready to move into that stage of life.

I don’t think any of us want to become irrelevant.  I’m also not sure that it’s a clear and present danger for me right now, but it seems that possibly we have to work to stay engaged, even as the milieu in which we find ourselves changes.  Our sphere of influence shifts continuously throughout life and we have to adapt with it.  I’m working through that in my head right now.

So, actually I suppose I am not guilty of frittering.  It doesn’t seem very productive at times, but just the awareness and seeking for direction can be a positive thing.  I hope those of you who have already made the move to the next room will wait a moment for me.

I’ll catch up as soon as I can.

“For age is opportunity no less than youth itself, though in another dress, and as the evening twilight fades away, the sky is filled with stars, invisible by day.”
(From “Morituri Salutamus” by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow~American poet~1807-1882)

I thought it was to be a normal Monday morning, which is to say, hectic.  I was pulling orders as rapidly as the constantly ringing telephone would allow, but was falling behind, nonetheless.  I noticed the beat up pickup truck pulling up to the front of the store, but ignored it as I always try to do before our doors are unlocked at noon daily.  Speaking on the phone to a customer who had not a clue of what she wanted, for once I was glad to be obviously occupied as the aging man peered in the window.  He stood there in his shirt sleeves, unfazed by the cool temperatures or by the sign on the door which clearly proclaimed the business hours:  Noon to 5:30 Monday through Friday.  I knew he was waiting for me to hang up the phone, but the woman droned on and on about her plans for the products she wasn’t sure she would be buying today.  Fifteen minutes later, with no sale made, I hung up the phone and glanced at the front window.  The man was facing away from me, deep in conversation on his cell phone.  I stepped away from my desk and made my escape to the back office to wait him out.

It was 10:30!  We didn’t open for another hour and a half and I wasn’t going to interrupt my busy schedule for someone to come in and “look around”.  A moment later, his conversation finished, the man noticed that I was no longer at my desk or on the phone. “KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK!”  The loud rapping on the window resounded through the deserted building.  I ignored it.  Again, and again, and still again, the rapping sounded…the persistent fellow was not giving up.  Resigned to a confrontation, I headed for the door to tell him off.  Could he not read the sign?  There were good reasons why we left the doors locked as we worked in the morning!  I started in on him crossly, as the door opened a crack.  “Just a minute and I’ll explain,”  he interjected when I took a breath.  I bit my tongue and listened.  It seems that he had made a conscious decision to come before the customers lined up at noon.  He had something to talk about which was potentially embarrassing to me and the business and he didn’t want to discuss it in front of other people.

It turned out that a relative of his, who lived rent-free in a house which belonged to him, had sold some equipment he had stored in the garage at the house to me.  He didn’t want to file a police report and was willing to pay me back what I had laid out for the assorted electronic gadgets.  I apologized for my treatment of him, then I apologized for his inconvenience, and again for the fact that he was having to pay to get his own equipment back.  He didn’t have to do this!  He could have just called the police; filled out an incident report stating that he was filing charges against the young lady and they would have picked up the equipment in question, giving me none of the cash I had paid out for it.  It wouldn’t have cost him a dime to get his property back.  But, he didn’t want to leave me holding the bag for that money.  And, he hoped to keep from embarrassing the young lady, much as he was trying to help me to avoid embarrassment.

I am embarrassed.  Not because you now know that I bought stolen goods.  Not even because I was taken in by the young lady’s hard luck story, not once, but four times!  I am embarrassed because of my treatment of this man as he stood outside my window Monday morning, trying to save me trouble and loss.  My humiliation is made worse because a mere seven hours before, I had arrogantly written to you about my plans regarding how I intended to treat the “worn and tired folks” who would come across my path that day.  In the midst of my embarrassment, we made the financial arrangements and I helped him load up the items, apologizing again as he shook my hand warmly, obviously unaware of my discomfort and personal chagrin.

Disappointment in myself is not a new experience for me, so I gave myself a good talking to and determined to do better the next time.  I thought I was successful.  As one of my “always with me” guys came in with a guitar that same afternoon, I determined to treat this broken person as I had promised you I would.  I was gratified to hear him tell me that he realized how badly he was failing in his responsibilities.  Like the Prodigal Son of the scriptures, he was going home to live with his father and to get away from the negative influence his friends exerted on him.  All he needed was a few dollars for the bus ticket and, would I be willing to buy his old guitar “the first one he had ever owned”?  It was all he had left.  I talked with him about the wisdom of his path and encouraged him to stick with friends who would help him to get things straight, rather than enable him to return to his old ways.  Money was exchanged for the battered instrument, we shook hands warmly, and he was on his way.  I was proud of him and even a little proud of myself for encouraging him to mend his ways.

Today, a young man I have never seen before came into the store.  “Have you bought any guitars from ___ this week?”  My heart sank.  Yep.  That guitar.  It was simply one more con job, one more lie to get me to shell out a buck or two to keep him going.  Is he going home to his father?  I really don’t know.  A man who will sell you stolen goods and lie bald-faced to you while he’s taking your money, will lie about his plans for the future, too.

This week has brought one disappointment after another, as far as my faith in people goes…and it’s only half over.  People for whom I have had high expectations have failed dismally and some for whom I had high hopes have fallen short of my aspirations for them.  Not the least of these disappointments has been in myself.  Oh!  And the change to standard time has reminded me that the days are getting a lot shorter and the sadness that accompanies that phenomenon will be upon me soon.  “Nobody loves me.  Everybody hates me.  I’m going to go to the garden and eat worms.”   I think I’ll just wallow here for awhile.  Would that be okay?

Surprisingly, my spirit is not defeated, in spite of the discouragement of the last few days.  I am actually encouraged, as I look at the responses I have seen in those around me, and indeed, in myself.  Friends have been in agreement as we discuss the need to help each other, the need to forgive and support those who fall.  I am one of those fallen.  I’m realizing though, that when you hit the ground, all you have to do is stand up again.  I’m not saying it’s easy, just that it’s possible.  That last fall may make me limp for awhile, but I can still move ahead.  The exciting thing is that, knowing what I know about myself, if I can do it, it is reasonable to expect that others will be able to get up again too.

I am trusting that my friend, who has taken advantage of me more times that I can count, will one day make a new start.  I have faith that the young lady who sold me stolen merchandise will realize that she has already been forgiven and will allow Grace to work in her heart.  And knowing that Grace is already at work in my own heart, I am confident that I can (and will) continue to press on to the finish line.

Yeah, I’ll trip on another hurdle or two before that, but getting up is the key.  We can help each other with that, too.  Okay?

“Disappointment, to a noble soul, is what cold water is to burning metal; It strengthens, tempers, intensifies, but never destroys it.”
(Eliza Tabor~British author~1835-1914)

“We fall down; we get up.  We fall down; we get up.
And the Saints are just the sinners, who fall down and get up.”
(“We Fall Down”~Kyle David Matthews~American songwriter)

I wanted to write a blog today.  Really, I did.  But, not feeling well and deciding that sleep might be a necessity, leads me to think that a re-run might be in order.  Looking back over the last year of posts, this one stands out to me, not because it was so good, but just because I like remembering people I loved. 

Give Me a Chance to Catch My Breath

The problem started about three or four years ago.  Most people I know with this affliction have it when they are children and then it lessens in severity as they get older, but leave it to me to wait until my waning years to acquire an infirmity that I should have outgrown instead of grown into.  I have asthma.  Oh, not the full-blown, struggle to inhale, think you’re going to black out, wheezing asthma, but enough to cause shortness of breath and an annoying tight cough, which can’t be relieved by regular cough medicines.

I’ve got my father to thank for it…well really, his father…come to think of it, I shared it with my son too, so there’s enough paternal blame to go around on this one.  Heredity seems to have played its part here.  My father had to take an early retirement due to respiratory problems brought on by allergens in the workplace.  Long before that, his dad (my Grandpa Phillips) was stricken with emphysema, a lung disease far more serious than my touch of bronchial asthma.

I thought about Grandpa today.  I had helped the Lovely Lady with a reception for a friend of ours and was carrying boxes out to the car.  The extreme change in temperature from inside the building to the frosty air outside was enough to bring on another attack and before I knew it, I was straining to breathe.  I felt a kinship with Grandpa that I had never thought about before as I saw him in my mind’s eye, struggling to breathe from the exertion of walking 10 feet across the room.  He would stop and lean against a table, or chair, or desk with his torso heaving, the over-developed chest muscles forcing air in and out of the diseased lungs.  I must admit that as a child, I didn’t sympathize well.  This was just how he had always been in my memory, and I assumed that it was his own fault.  Grandpa had been a heavy smoker, his brand of choice, filter-less Camels.  A he-man’s cigarette if ever there was one.  But for a person predisposed to breathing issues as seems likely, the habit was a slow killer.  I’m not a smoker and my problem doesn’t begin to approach the gravity of his, but just for a few moments this evening, I felt an empathy, a bond with my Grandpa that I never considered when he was living.  And, I missed him again.

Grandma and Grandpa lived across the street from me when I was a kid.  What a great blessing, to be able to grow up so close to your grandparents that you can run across the street and sit with them on the screened-in front porch, or maybe watch  an episode of “I Love Lucy” or “Gunsmoke” on television with them. Two channels on TV then, with the signal literally coming through the airwaves and being picked up by a pair of “rabbit ears” on top of the tiny black & white set.  Every time an airplane would approach the local airport (we were in the flight path), the static and wavy lines across the screen would interrupt the program.  But the best thing was listening to Grandpa tell stories about people he knew.  He loved to talk–even talked about talking…“So, I says to him, says I, …”, was one of my favorite phrases I heard him use when describing a conversation with someone else.  If I weren’t such a language snob, I would incorporate that into my own speaking.  Maybe it’s best to keep that as a memory instead.  But I think I get my penchant for story-telling from him and, from where I’m standing, that’s not a bad legacy.  The reader is free to agree or not…

The asthma won’t go away, but I carry an inhaler with me when it flares up and a couple of puffs on it usually relieve the symptoms within a minute or two.  I’m not happy to have the problem, but tonight, I’m actually a little grateful for the walk down memory lane.  We’ve all got memories that live in our heads and hearts; some sad, like Grandpa’s ultimately fatal affliction, but also some happy ones too, like my memories of life with him so close.  There are times when I think it would be great if all our memories were like the latter, but I’m reminded of a song I heard as a teenager which pointed out that hardships make us value the good times more; just as we cherish coming home because we had to be away in the first place.  I think memories are often like that, the bittersweet giving way to the heartwarming, actually making the happy occasions seem more bright.

Next month, we’ll celebrate Thanksgiving, another of the memory-fraught times of the year for most of us.  I’m going to be remembering my Grandpa’s dinner prayer as we approach the holiday.  “Our Gracious Heavenly Father, we thank thee for the many blessings which Thou hast bestowed upon us…”  When I was a boy, it was only remarkable in that the language never changed.  As an aging man, now a grandfather myself, the message of those words has lasted well beyond his mortal years and still resonates today.

“Many blessings” indeed.

“To live in hearts we leave behind, is not to die”
(Thomas Campbell, from his poem “Hallowed Ground”)

What a week!  I don’t mean that in a good way either.  Well, actually it was a pretty good week in the way of encounters and interactions with people.  I learned new things.  I accomplished some jobs which had been waiting for me for a long time.  But if the week were put into one of those old style balances, the kind with two platforms, one on either side of a fulcrum, I think the negative side would be hanging down a lot lower than the positive.

What happened?  Who’s to blame for this negativity, this pessimism?  If you must know, I’m pretty sure the blame lies with the guy typing these words out on his keyboard.  It seems that a few unwise business choices, more than a little procrastination, and one or two (or several more) instances of misguided benevolence may have converged to form a financial situation with which I’m not happy.  You see, last week we had to pay a sum of money to the government in the form of taxes.  That in itself isn’t such a strange occurrence.  It’s just that the amount we paid was much more than expected.  No, even more than that.  Thus, my dark mood.

What we discovered, to put is simply, is that we have too much junk.  Not too much money.  I’m not sure that could ever happen.  My memory goes back to the financial adviser who once stood in my church and made the statement, “I know just how much money every single one of you needs.”  As we stared at him in disbelief, he continued,  “A little bit more!”  And, of course, he was right.  We’ll always take a little more; will always believe that happiness lies just one pay-grade above us; will always convince ourselves with the myth that just that next step will be all we’ll ever need.  It will never happen.

No, I don’t have too much money, just too much stuff.  We bought too much inventory last year and the government thinks that an inventory gain is profit.  Now I’ve never known a bank that would let me deposit a trumpet like hundred dollar bills, but to the IRS it is the same thing.  Thus it was that we signed the checks to empty the bank accounts last week, surrounded by inventory which the Lovely Lady will never in a million years be able to make into a tasty enough meal to tempt me.  I would almost say that I am depressed.  Oh, not in a clinical way.  It’s just that I can’t make myself see a return on that money, can’t consider it an investment which will pay back any financial dividend.  I’m really not happy.

The thought of inventory in my store being the same as money got me thinking, though.  Many in the world think of all of us as rich.  Our culture counts riches as dollars in the bank.  The rest of the world looks at all the accoutrements with which we surround ourselves and considers us wealthy beyond belief.  We look at a number; a million, a billion, fifty billion…to determine how wealthy the man is.  Most people around the globe look at the belongings and marvel at our wealth.  Two sets of silverware?  What madness is this?  Many never hold a utensil in their hands.  Ten, twenty, fifty pairs of shoes?  Is it possible?  One pair, repaired and patched over and over again is all most can claim.  Walk-in closets packed with clothes for each season and every occasion?  Wealth beyond their wildest dreams!  Food to throw away after a meal?  Foolishness!  Their children go to bed crying with hunger and they themselves go without the nourishment they need, simply to keep those children alive.

I’m not writing this to make you feel guilty (it accomplishes that though, doesn’t it?), but simply to help us understand that sometimes a change in perspective can be beneficial.  I’m feeling sorry for myself because there are fewer numbers to look at when I glance at the bank statement today.  Funny…I had clothes without holes in them with which to cover my body this morning.  An amazing repast offered by the Lovely Lady weighed down the table at dinner time this afternoon.  I took a Sunday afternoon nap in comfort as I reclined in front of an entertaining football game on the big-screen TV (I think it was entertaining, but really don’t remember).  I could go on, but you get the picture.  Cars, clothes, food, stereos, cameras, homes…the list is endless.  Our wealth is astounding.  We are blessed beyond belief.

It’s trite, I know.  You have problems and don’t have time to be reminded that you’ve been blessed.  I don’t really understand why it is so much easier to focus on the negatives than on the overarching positives, but we do it continually.  I know I do.  Sick children, aging parents, errant pets, demanding customers; these and many other niggling problems weigh on my mind and rob me of joy every day.

Can I be trite for a moment more?  I love the advice that Bing Crosby offered in a musical way in the old movie “White Christmas”.  It seems stupid until you stop and get a little shift in perspective.  “When I’m worried, and I can’t sleep, I count my blessings instead of sheep.”  We are blessed beyond the wildest dreams of most of the world!  How is that not worth remembering?  And celebrating?

The government can have the dirty old dollars.  I’ve got the Lovely Lady.  And my children.  And grandchildren.  And friends (not just “close friends and acquaintances” on Facebook either, thank you!).  I’ve even got a brain that functions passably well (for now).  And, the grace of a loving Creator has been showered upon me and all who accept it.  I don’t have any stuff or any sum of money worth more than those.

I’m guessing you don’t either.

“The question for each man to settle is not what he would do if he had means, time, influence, and educational advantages, but what he will do with the things he has.”
(Hamilton Wright Mabie~American essayist~1846-1916) 


“The unthankful heart discovers no mercies; but the thankful heart will find, in every hour, some heavenly blessings”
(Henry Ward Beecher~American minister~1813-1887)

If there were gutter guards back then, we didn’t know about them.  Oh, you know what I’m talking about.  Those bumpers at the side of the bowling lane which are pulled up when children are bowling to keep the ball from going in the gutter every time it is sent spinning toward the pins.  Actually, the historical record shows that these modern contrivances came along in the 1980s, first as carpet rolls set in the gutter, then as inflatable bumpers, and most commonly seen today as pull-up fences which guarantee no zeros on the score card (oh sorry, overhead display) for any young, sensitive child.  But back in the 1960s, when I really, really could have used them, children were expected to learn the hard way, by experience.  So, no gutter bumpers.  It led to one of my most embarrassing memories.

My family went to a small church, with few families who had school-age children, so to get a decent-sized group, we did many activities with the high school and junior high school and even the elementary school kids all together.  This particular night, we were bowling.  With the restrictions many churches put on questionable activities in those days, I wonder that there were no eyebrows lifted at all those impressionable kids trooping into the bowling alley, with its bar along the back wall and the air so permeated with cigarette smoke that even a non-smoker could almost have made his own smoke rings in the space above his head.  But there we were, from the lofty and sometimes haughty seniors all the way down to a lowly third grader who was haughty in his own way, being positive that he was going to make a bucketful of strikes to impress said seniors this night.  It was not to happen in that manner, alas.  No, the night was destined to be one of shame and disappointment for the young lad.

I stood, as I had seen the others do, with my rented shoes on the arrows pointing the way to the lane.  The ball had been carefully selected for fit and weight.  It was held with the fingers of the right hand and resting on the palm of the left, then was lifted and swung back as I moved toward the point of release.  Exactly in the middle of the lane and, careful to stop before the foul line, I let go.  The ball hit with a gentle thump, rolled down the center of the lane for a few feet, then headed sharply right and smacked the side of the chute as it slid dishearteningly into the gutter.  What?  How could this be?  I was flummoxed for a moment, but recovered quickly, knowing that I had a second attempt to make at upsetting the ten pins way down at the end of the alley.  No matter.  They would all go down with the next roll.  The ritual was the same; stand, lift, swing, release.  Thump!  Down the lane the ball rolled and abruptly headed for the left gutter.  Zero!  Zip!  Nada!  I had netted not a single pin for my first frame on the score sheet.  Oh well…it was bound to get better, wasn’t it?

“Better” was not how I would put it.  In all of that game, one pin went down the entire ten frames.  One, single, lonely, mortifying pin.  If memory serves correctly, it was on a gutter ball too.  The ball rolled off the lane as it reached the pins and snuck back in to knock over the 10 pin.  I was crushed.  The older kids had a great time with it for most of the game, teasing and mocking as gutter ball after gutter ball rolled down toward the pin-setting machines (certainly not toward the pins!).  As the game progressed, however, the taunts and gibes lessened and the sympathy began to flow.  It was worse than the jeering.  I remember leaving the bowling alley and sitting on the front steps until it was time to go…just to get away from their expressions of understanding and encouragement.  I couldn’t get home fast enough that night!

Of course, you won’t be surprised to learn that I never bowled again and that I detest the game to this day.  Actually, I’m happy to tell you that I bowled many more times with the other young people from my church and I really enjoy the sport (I can call it a sport, right?) to this day.  No, the nature put into me and most of us, by the Creator is not the sort of spirit that quits when it is defeated.  If anything, we seem to be more defiant in the face of battles lost, ready to do better the next time.  Sometimes slowly, but often quickly, we improve, finding ways to avoid the embarrassing performance that lives on in our memories.  Failure is an amazing professor, teaching an abundance of lessons, from technique to strategy, from humility to perseverance.  I am suspicious of folks who have an easy time of life, realizing that their success is shallow, having come easily and without cost.  I find myself to be a great admirer of those who achieve success through hardship, overcoming failure time and time again to rise above the crowd and to excel.

I wish that I could tell you that this describes me.  It doesn’t…yet.  I’m still working on it.  In some ways, you might say that I’m a plodder.  I just keep working at it, giving up and then returning to the task, time and time again.  I may never rise above the pack.  And, that’s okay with me.  I love the old maxim, learned long ago in childhood days:  “Virtue is its own reward.”  We don’t do what is right because of the pay-off, or because of the glory.  We do it because it should be done.  Not a popular line of thought in today’s climate, but it still works.

Life getting the best of you?  Been knocked down a few times (or more than a few)?  Okay, it might be time to try a different plan of attack, but if you’re still breathing (and you probably are if you’re reading this), it seems to me that you still have time left to take another stab at it.  Embarrassment?  Disappointment?  Hurt?  Each one is just another hurdle, another opportunity to show your mettle.  The sympathy and encouragement coming from the bystanders are there to help, not harm.  Up and at ’em!  Folks who love you are right beside you!

I’m going to keep plodding.  I’ll keep learning.  I’m fairly certain that I’ll keep failing…and trying again.  There is still time for a few successes between here and there. Bring it on!

“To succeed in life, you need two things: ignorance and confidence”
(Mark Twain~American author and humorist~1835-1910)

“There are no secrets to success.  It is the result of preparation, hard work, and learning from failure.”
(Colin Powell~American General and Secretary-of-State)