Altar Boy

Altar Boy

Growing up in a Catholic family, it was expected that on Sunday morning I would show up in slacks, white shirt, clip on tie, sport coat and shoes shined; standard uniform for church. My sisters wore a dress, white gloves and hat. My escape route for the dress code was to become an altar boy.

For some reason my parents thought I would be an excellent candidate to serve at the altar. At the time I was not a particularly religious person and the thought of having to perform on a Sunday morning send shivers of fear down my spine. Why couldn’t I just sit in the pew with everyone else?

Learning to be an altar boy was no easy task. First of all, you had to have the right attitude. My attitude was an issue the nuns were trying change. I had become the class clown and there was no clowning around at the altar. It was serious business to be that close to the sacred. The nuns knew how to slap that smile right off my face.

Then there was the Latin language. I had a hard-enough time speaking proper English minus the swear words I picked up from my non-Catholic friends. I was given a little book with all the altar boy responses to memorize. Giving it my best shot, I mumbled through those unintelligible phrases. That’s where I learned to fake it.

There was one benefit to being an altar boy. When the mass was over, and the priest wasn’t looking, we could finish off the left-over wine that remained in the cruet. Usually there was only a drop or two left, but it was enough to whet my appetite for cheap wine.

Those days are long gone. Little did I know that in the grand design of life I would graduate from altar boy to priest. The Latin I had to learn back then I didn’t need as a priest because everything was in the native tongue. One thing that hasn’t changed is my taste for cheap wine.

I chuckle when I think of what those nuns would think of me now!

Cookie Monster

Cookie Monster

Back in the days when our kids were small, their daily television entertainment was Sesame Street. I never wanted to admit it, but I liked those Muppet characters who brought smiles to our faces. My favorite was the Cookie Monster. He had a voracious appetite for cookies. His mantra was “Me want cookies!” “Me eat cookies!”

What brought the Cookie Monster to my mind was the aroma of cookies baking in the oven while watching the evening news. Judy is a master cookie maker. She must have got some of her cookie making skills from watch Sesame Street. When she is in the mood, exotic sugar smells pour out of the oven beckoning me to indulge.

The truth is I have an undisciplined sweet tooth. I inherited it from my mother. Mom was a stickler for making sure dessert was part of the meal. I remember hearing her say more than once that the main course should be passed over and move right on to dessert. She was that way to the end of her life. Whenever I visited her in the care facility, she had candy within easy reach.

For years I have tried to convince the ladies in charge of our monthly pot lucks at church to cut back on the salads, fruits, and hot dishes and replace them with desserts. I am convinced you could have all the basic food groups just by serving pie, cakes, brownies and cookies. So far, no luck!

I realize that there is something fundamentally wrong with my taste buds. It is an addiction that I have struggled with all my life (most of the time not very hard). However, like the Cookie Monster, with a mouth full of chocolate chip cookies, all I can say is, “Om nom nom nom.”

Thanks Mom for the sweet tooth. And my dentist thanks you too!

Prepay

Prepay

For several years Judy and I have been trying to get our house in order. We aren’t getting any younger and there are things that need to be done. Our first project was to get our wills updated. The last time we saw a lawyer was when our kids were toddlers. Our concern then was to make sure they were provided for if something happened to us. Now we are focused on who does what and who gets what when we die.

Our next project was to put in writing our advanced medical directives. Our local hospital has a nice booklet that took us step by step in choosing who will make medical decisions for us if we can’t and what kind of medical care we want towards the end. Our doctors and the hospital have copies of these directives. Lots of stuff to do before you die!

This year we have been talking about final arrangements for our demise. I finally made the call to the funeral home asking one of their people to pay us a visit. A nice young lady came and laid out all the details for us: regular burial or cremation, cemetery plots and grave markers. I confess I needed more than one glass of wine after that conversation.

A week later, Judy and I visited the city cemetery to pick a plot where our ashes would be deposited. We have a nice graveyard that is well groomed. It was very strange for the two of us standing in the middle of the cremation section debating which piece of sod would be best for us. The irony of it all is that we won’t even be there to enjoy this expensive piece of turf.

The final stop was to meet the headstone sculptor. I had no idea of the variety of material, design and expense of these markers. After looking at a computerized catalog of stone, I left that decision for another day. I am uncertain as to whether we can agree on the color of granite or the design. That may take a miracle.

When all was said and done, I added up the cost so that we could prepay for our end of life experience. I presented the bottom line to Judy for final approval. She said she would rather take that money and spend a week at an all-inclusive resort on the Mexican Riviera.

Now that’s a tough decision!

Wisdom

Wisdom

My father was a wise man. I didn’t realize this until I was in my fifties. Some things come slow when you think you know it all. My father was also smart. He had gone through medical school and practiced medicine for many years as a pediatrician and allergy specialist. His wisdom didn’t simply come from his schooling. It came from living life as a man, husband, father and doctor.

My observation is that there is a shortage of wise people today. Oh, there are many smart, well-educated men and women who run corporations, serve as public servants, and entertain us in the media. The glitter of smarts has no shortage in our culture. We are the most educated, well informed and socially conscious generation that our country has ever produced.

But where are the wise ones? Where are those individuals who are able to translate knowledge into life sharing direction and encouragement? Has our egalitarian, politically correct mantra duct taped the mouths of those who can speak to encourage, admonish, and warn us that not all paths lead to a fulfilled life.

Knowledge feeds us information. Wisdom translates information into the practical application of living. I have been fortunate not only to have had a wise father but several mentors whose wisdom has directed, sustained and saved me from my foolish ways. Often I was unaware that their guidance was crucial to my well-being and maturity.

Be assured that there is no lack of wisdom available from our Heavenly Father. I often turn to these words in the New Testament book of James:

 “If you want to know what God wants you to do, ask him, and he will gladly tell you, for he is always ready to give a bountiful supply of wisdom to all who ask him; he will not resent it. But when you ask him, be sure that you really expect him to tell you, for a doubtful mind will be as unsettled as a wave of the sea that is driven and tossed by the wind; and every decision you then make will be uncertain, as you turn first this way and then that. If you don’t ask with faith, don’t expect the Lord to give you any solid answer.”