Monday, August 26, 2019

Letting Go


Letting Go

Who was it that said that letting go is hard to do? There are a whole bunch of country western songs dedicated to this theme. The reason I know is I listen to Willie’s Roadhouse on Sirius XM driving around town in my truck. Lots of heartaches come through my Bose speakers reminding me that life is short and at any time I can lose my wife, my truck and or my dog. Sad!

Last week I led a Bible Study at an assisted living facility in town. Only a few people attended. All were hovering around ninety years but sharp as a tack. Sharing some verses from the Book of Proverbs, I discovered that these folks knew a lot more about letting go than I did.

Listening to what they considered important was a real eye opener. They told me  they were excited to be alive and serve the Lord in this place. Although they had limited accessibility to be independent as I was, they still found meaning in being servants and witnesses right where the Lord has planted them.

What they said next really shocked me. Although they were happy living life, they were excited for the day when they would meet the Lord face to face. They were so honest and straight forward about it. No pie in the sky talk. Not knowing when that day was coming, they purposed to live life to the fullest and at the same time ready to let go for a better life.

There is a chorus we sing in church that reminds me that although I may struggle with letting go, the Lord never lets go of me. “On no, You never let go. Through the calm and through the storm, oh no, You never let go. In every high and every low, oh no, You never let go. Lord, You never let me go.”

Proverbs says, “Lord, don’t turn me out to pasture when I am old or put me on the shelf when I can’t pull my weight.”

Amen


Monday, August 19, 2019

On Time


On Time

I confess it is one of my compulsions. Not sure whether I was born with it or I acquired a taste for it during my formative years. Nonetheless I hate being late. I have been mocked, ridiculed and maligned for this character quirk. I can’t help it, I need to be where I am going, on time.

I think it may have started when my father insisted, we not be late for church on Sunday morning. That meant some strategic planning to get eight children and my grandmother all going in the same direction so we could walk through the front door of the church and be seated in our pew before the priest appeared.

My seminary training cemented this into an ecclesiastical discipline. Being late for class, chapel services, meals or off campus activities was ground for expulsion. Short of my own demise, there was no excuse for tardiness. I believe that’s where my compulsion became an addiction (a behavior pattern acquired by frequent repetition or physiologic exposure that shows itself in regularity or increased facility of performance).

There is a positive side. This trait has healthy side effects. Synonyms for on time performance: dependable, reliable, on schedule, not late, prompt and punctual. Sound like a litany of maturity? Being on time is a sign of maturity; one that seems to be losing ground today.

I was taught that to disregard the clock is selfish. Doing so pays little regard to others who’s time is just as important as mine. Life like trains and planes doesn’t always run on time. Respect for the time restraints of others reduces the pressure quotient of daily life.

Today I feel caught in the dilemma of wanting to be on time but realizing it takes  more planning up front than it used to. My compulsion is losing ground to the speed of my aging clock.

My prayer today “Lord, my time is in your hands.”



Monday, August 12, 2019

Soda Jerk


Soda Jerk

Funny how memories come as you get older. People, events, sad or happy, pop into the mind like a jack in the box. They always leaving a residue of a season long gone, never to return. The following is one of those memories.

I started my working career at home: making my bed, cleaning my room, picking up my dirty clothes, taking turns washing and drying dishes (in the days before the dishwasher), taking out the garbage and picking up dog poop. The pay wasn’t great, usually a small allowance, but room and board made the difference.

My first paying job was a soda jerk. I don’t remember how I got the job. I must have walked into the Milk House at Minnetonka Mills and applied. The pay was fifty cents an hour and all the pop I could drink. In addition to stocking shelves with grocery items and keeping the milk cooler full, I stood behind a long stainless steel lunch counter serving ice cream delights.

For those not in the know, a soda jerk is a person who operates the soda fountain in a drug store/convenience store serving soda drinks, ice cream sodas, malts and cones. It was a popular job for a teenager back in the 1920-1950’s before McDonalds. I learned how to put flavored syrup in specially designed glasses and add carbonated water for a fountain soda. Malts were two scoops of ice cream, malt powder, run in the malt mixer and served with a long handled spoon and a straw.

This was my first experience working with the public where the customer was always right. Also, my first experience working for a boss not my parents. Thinking back on those early working days, I see the positive work ethic that was foundational for later life. I enjoyed and learned, at least in part, from all my employment experiences.

This word from the Book of Proverbs continues to speak truth into my life: “Appetite is an incentive to work; hunger makes you work all the harder.” I haven’t stopped working and I haven’t gone hungry. What more can I ask?





Monday, August 5, 2019

Seven Five


Seven Five

I am finding it hard to believe that I have been alive for three quarters of a century. That is a very long time. Lots of history has taken place. I was born when World War Two was waging and Franklin Delano Roosevelt was president. Radio and newspaper were the major forms of communication. Television had yet to become a part of household furniture.

Speaking of presidents, during my lifetime in addition to Roosevelt these men were presidents: Truman, Eisenhower, Kennedy, Johnson, Nixon, Ford, Carter, Reagan, Bush, Clinton, Bush, Obama and Trump. That’s a lot of politics to live through. No wonder I have grey hair.

I passed my annual Wellness Check Up. That’s what they call it when you get old. My doctor said I am good for another year and/or ten thousand miles. With only minor aches and pains and some barnacles that are non-cancerous, I am in pretty good shape for the shape I am in.

Growing up I thought old was anyone over forty. Now my kids are in that age bracket I’ve had to adjust the age perimeters. I still walk about two miles a day (mostly up and down the halls of the hospital where I volunteer). I play golf poorly and ride my bike without a helmet. I figure that’s living on the edge. I’m most thankful that I am a healthy seven five year old (putting the “ty” in the equation makes me sound really old).

I am reminded of these words from the Book of Psalms: “You’ve limited our life span to a mere seventy years, yet some you give grace to live still longer.” I hope I am in the latter group.

Heading to eighty with vigor!