If the shoe fits . . .

Last night, a new acquaintance began telling me about his recent experience buying sandles. He walked into a store last week, found a pair that he liked, and then asked the clerk to bring him a size 10-and-a-half and a size 11. He explained that his shoe size was 11 but that his experience with sandles was that they are often a little bigger than the size professes.

The clerk returned with two pair — sizes 10 and 11. “We don’t have half-sizes,” he reported. My new friend tried on the 10 “just because it was there” and was amazed when it fit perfectly. Curious, when the clerk left to ring up his purchase, he grabbed the contraption that gauges feet and found, indeed, his foot measured a size 10.

“I have a closet full of size 11 shoes,” he told me, “and now I’ve discovered that I’ve been buying the wrong size — most of my life!”

While I found the story interesting, I didn’t have a clue of his rationale for telling it. Until he added, “I’ve learned a lot through this experience. It seems that I’m quite capable of limping through life with the assistance of things that don’t really work. Now, I’m on the lookout for things that fit me and giving things a chance that I’ve refused to even consider. The future seems much brighter now.”

Openness to doing things differently — thinking, talking, listening — does tend to brighten up the future. Try on a different size shoe today. Particularly if its well-worn by someone else. You might discover some new possibilities.

A Moment of Christmas

We were expecting things to be different this year. Changes in the family have made us wary of almost every occasion.

So it was with no small amount of dread that I awaited the traditional opening of gifts. Certainly, I thought, things just won’t be the same. For one thing, it was coming a day late. And then there was the element of missing people. A few would not be with us. And then there was the fact that the economic downturn would be an obstacle for all that gathered.

But the magic moment of Christmas emerged. The gifts, some modest and some more extravagant, were a side note to the beautiful thoughts and love poured into their selection. After this long-awaited festival of sharing, I chided myself on my earlier anxiety. After all, wasn’t the greatest present in the world delivered in a small family gathering in a stable during tough economic times and horrific political and social stress?

So, while I was still thinking that perhaps Christmas would be unrecognizable this year, I received the greatest present of them all. The moment of Christmas began to sink in.

“Emmanuel” does mean “God with us.” And He is.

Faith

This has been a difficult year in many ways. I didn’t write a Christmas letter to slip in with the cards that Nancy faithfully selects, writes personal notes in, and stays up all hours to hand address. Come to think about it, I didn’t write a Christmas letter last year either. Twelve months ago, it was a mixture of fatigue, laziness, and a lack of time that drained the creative juices and stopped the project.

This year was just too difficult. In one of the Christmas cards to a dear, but distant friend, I wrote that this had been a year of blessings with a heavy dose of tragedy and a sprinkling of comedy. After further thought, I realized that was a pretty good summary statement. And it’s a statement that works not only for us, but for so many others around us.

For whatever reason, I have been fixated on how different things are becoming for us. And, in so doing, I think I’ve lost the broader view of what life is. Life is something different every day. Death is day after day with no change.

I have to admit I’m weary of some of the different that’s coming our way. Yet, I remind myself of what I learned from my good friend, Preacher Eddie. He was telling the story of Jesus calming the storm with that powerful order — “Peace, be still!”

As Preacher Eddie preached on, he asked us to consider the point of that story. I have to admit that I centered on the power of God, the Creator, and the awesome might of His mere words. And, as Eddie reminded, that is part of the story.

What I missed was what happened next. Jesus turned to his disciples and basically said, “So, what were you worried about? Did you forget that I’m right here in the boat with you?”

So, even though I can’t bring myself to writing a Christmas letter this year, I want you to know that the whole story of Christmas is this:

Jesus is in the boat. Whatever the change that comes, whatever the tragedy, God is next to us. Spreading blessings, sprinkling comedy.

Isn’t life great? When the waves grow a little threatening and wind howls around us, Nancy and I just turn to each other and say, “Remember, Jesus is in the boat.”

Merry Christmas. . .

Pre-Season

The audiobook I was listening to was, frankly, a little creepy. A tale of hidden worlds and creatures with formidable powers. It was not really a book I would normally choose. But the reviews were strong on the website where I purchased it. And since I was a monthly subscriber, I had my pick of two books each month. So even if I went wrong, I really couldn’t go very wrong.

I decided to switch to a different form of entertainment. My CD player wasn’t loaded, so I opted for the radio. At 4 a.m. on a Saturday morning on a backroad in West Texas, I didn’t have a lot of options. So I listened to country music and farm reports until the sun came up.

At that point, I opted for silence. Of course, now that I’m older I’m never blessed with complete silence. The tinnitus that plagues me projects a high-pitched squeal in my ear that only gets louder as other noise lessens. As I drove through the outlying communities north of Austin, I punched up the radio again and sent it searching for a station. I had to deaden the incessant ringing.

More country and western — not something I dislike, but I wanted something a bit more mellow. It was 7:15 a.m. and I bounced from hip-hop to country to talk radio.

And then, I heard a more classical tone. I brought the volume up and realized that I knew the song. Not by name. Yet it was undeniably the anthem of champagne makers where, in the television commercials, the clinking of glasses emit the sound of bells. You know it, don’t you? LAAA, LA, LA, LA. LAAA, LA, LA, LA. (Don’t laugh, I sing no better than I write.)

Convinced that I was hearing an ad, I settled back. And, the truth be known, I’ve always liked this particular song. But there were no words. And in a few moments, the announcer had given the time and the temperature and the next song was a Christmas song as well.

After about 15 minutes, I realized I had discovered an “All Christmas – All the Time” station. It was November 15. Immediately, I thought of the protest emails I had sent one of our local stations when they went all Christmas on December 1. Who in their right mind would want to listen to Christmas music for four, five, or six solid weeks — or more?

I punched “seek” again and rolled through my choices. Eventually, the radio bumped back into “The First Noel.” And I left it there. And for the next song. And the next.

As I threaded my way through increasing traffic, I found the familiar holiday fare to be uplifting. There was no association with long lines at retailers or heartburn over what to give that special some one. Instead, it was light and uplifting music that brought back memories and instilled hope.

Funny, isn’t it, how things that are so pleasurable can come to be burdens because of the context? Perhaps its because we choose to immerse ourselves in the challenging and difficult rather than allow something good to lift us.

So, no emails to radio stations this year. A pledge to listen to more Christmas music. And a promise to myself to allow the good to do good in my life.

Man Stuff

The paragraph in the church bulletin promised nothing beyond pancakes and wild hog sausage. No mention of special activities except that it would be a morning for the men of the congregation.

There was much more. I went to see who would show up at a men’s breakfast. Obviously, men – although we did have one woman come with her uncle. And being the open fellowship we are, she was made welcome and stayed for not only pancakes and wild hog sausage, but bacon and orange juice and milk and coffee that smacked slightly of that indistinct odor of blue jeans worn out in the wilderness.

A program was in the offing. An introduction and singing and an introduction of the speaker and the speaker and a prayer. The leader of the music portion was right when he said that men worshiping in song was glorious. Okay, maybe he didn’t say glorious. But there is something strangely moving when deep voices sing and sing loudly.

Looking around the room, there weren’t a lot of young men except for the teens that showed up with their fathers. Mainly forties and above and I wondered where the younger guys were. Probably at home with young moms and small children who look forward to that one morning of the week when dad is home and not in a hurry to be somewhere else.

But the rest of us were there. Thirty or forty strong, with our fill of pancakes and breakfast meats and still wondering why, exactly, the coffee tasted like it did.

During one part of the program, we were given a list of questions and were encouraged to use a few of them with someone we wanted to get to know.

One of the questions was “What would you like to be doing the moment Jesus comes again?” Before the group leader could move beyond that one, a voice from the side of the room spoke up, “I know where Terry wants to be.”

And as Terry, the group leader, paused, his friend turned to the rest of us and continued, “He wants to be baptizing his son!”

Incredible answer. In the instant when all heaven breaks loose, Terry was focused on making a relationship whole — restoring his own flesh and blood to God. The activity in the room slowed as the full meaning spread over us. And then, expressions of agreement and approval.

This was man stuff. The sharing of a simple but everlastingly important hope. You could sense every one in the room moving deeper as we saw and prayed for those special elements that distinguish just men from God’s men.

Both Sides of the Aisle

As the bride and her father made her way down the aisle, the tears began to flow. Happiness mixed with untold emotions washed over her.

The father, I’m sure, was glancing down a slate of wide-ranging options. “Should I stop and give her a hug?” “Should I tickle her like when she was little until the tears go away?” “Should I turn her around and whisk her away to safety . . . away from all of this . . . away from those things that are making her cry?”

Instead, he did what all fathers in this situation do. He grasped her arm a little tighter and kept walking toward the front of the church and her waiting groom — and new life. He walked her toward happiness and sadness and responsibility and the man she will walk beside through all of those things.

I’ve never had that experience being the father of two sons. In our two weddings, I have sat safely in my seat at the front and resigned myself to things being different. My momentary feeling of loss melting away at the realization that the beautiful young woman coming down the aisle was now a part of my family.

But I didn’t have to walk beside my sons to escort them to this new way of being. The groom just knows that his father is there if he’s needed. The bride’s father must make this walk, let go, and then sit in a seat much like mine.

At the reception, I asked my friend about that moment in the aisle. In the few seconds he had before moving on to greet hundreds of other guests, he described this surreal moment he shared with his daughter.

“As we started down the aisle, the audience began to stand. Suddenly, as they turned to welcome us, my daughter and I realized that we were seeing our entire lives painted before us. Faces from both sides of the aisle brought back memories of who we are and where we have been.”

What a wonderful picture! As I think about what that would have looked like for me, tears begin to pool in my eyes as well.

The Extraordinary Life

He came through the door of the conference facility and wandered in a question-mark pattern up to me. As he drew closer, I’m guessing that the flash of recognition struck him about the same time it did me.

“I know you,” I said.

“Yes, you do,” he said.

And thus began a short reminiscence that would review the past 30 years or so — not only of our lives but of all of our high school classmates.

Since I seemed to be a little more plugged into reunion information, he eventually asked me, “So did anyone in our class do anything extraordinary?”

I struggled at first. Probably the most famous of our friends is a university professor and author who has also touched thousands of lives through his leadership of a non-profit association of private schools. Then there’s the one who went to work with an international company and has done very well. And the middle school principal. And the teachers. And the truck driver. And the barber. And the housewife. And those who have struggled with illness. And those who have lost that physical struggle. And those who have weathered divorce and estrangement from family. And those who experience joy in every day. And those who are bent over with sadness and depression and loss.

All of those classmates didn’t come up in that conversation. But I began to think about them during the long drive home that Saturday night.

By Sunday morning, I was feeling a bit blue. When Preacher Mike pulled us to scripture, my spirit was lifted as he began to talk about the honored placed that each of us holds in the body.

Being a part of the body is extraordinary. To see the way that my high school classmates have dealt with daily life is an extraordinary journey in itself. To see children born or adopted and raised. To see sickness and death taken on headfirst. To see people who have been beaten down by life stand and laugh at the Tormentor. To see individuals who truly believe in God and trust in Him.

This is to live extraordinarily.

And so, after further thought, my answer is, “They have all lived extraordinary lives.”

Flap Tucked In

Attention to detail isn’t everything . . . but it is something more than just anything.

For almost 38 years, the love of my life has been training me.  Probably not in the way you think.  She hasn’t brainwashed me.  She hasn’t nagged me into submission.  She hasn’t presented me with ultimatums.  Or bribed me.  Or threatened me.

Just slowly, surely, she’s pointed me to things she likes — and things she doesn’t.  And when I’ve forgotten, she reminds me.  Lovingly.  Kindly.

What have I been trained to do?

When I try to make a list, there’s not much I can recall.  Our lives together have become so entwined that I have trouble seeing where she ends and I begin.  That’s a great feeling.

An even finer feeling is when I find myself doing something that I know I wouldn’t do had it not been for her and knowing that I will probaly always do it because of her.

Tonight, as I wrote a note in her Valentine, I thought of all of the holidays we’ve shared and the many notes and cards.  When I finished penning my thoughts, I slipped the card in the envelope.  And as I have done for years, I folded the flap over and tucked the edge in.

We don’t seal cards we give to each other.  I don’t know why.

I wrote the date on the flap.  I hid the card for tomorrow and look forward to receiving my envelope in the morning.  My card will be hidden in an envelope with the flap tucked in.  I don’t know why.

But knowing it will be that way gives me great peace.