I haven't published lately. Sorry for that. Maybe there's no one out there looking for my posts, and my comment is irrelevant. But just in case, here is a vintage post that I find amusing, and I hope you may too.
Being a minister, decorum often dictates that I wear a necktie. Retirement tends to relax that demand somewhat, and living in southern California grants everyone a few more degrees of informality. Nevertheless there are occasions when a tie must be worn. And on those occasions I wear a tie with playful design, and it makes it worth the ordeal just to be a trifle rebellious. Nothing too outrageous, just Winnie the Poo or Mickey Mouse. I especially like Charlie Brown characters and Snoopy playing tennis or something like that.
My friend, Jay Adams, shamelessly rails against this timeless convention as the sole reason women outlive men. He claims that men slowly choke themselves to death with this silky rag. I don’t know if Insurance companies have made it an actual study, but my personal anecdotal testimony claims at least two good reasons to wear a tie (in spite of the risk).
The first reason is one I discovered as a young father. By the time I had two boys who liked to play “boys climb on daddy” I had observed the first practical use of the cravat. Carrying a two-year old boy on my arm was a safer proposition when he used my necktie as a sort of trolley strap. And when I held two little boys at the same time, and they insisted, “Daddy, run with us” that trolley strap was quite useful.
Well those days are long gone. I am not the man I was then. In fact I am closer to being twice the man I was then. But that is a circumstance that occasioned the discovery of the second practical use of neckties by this corpulent clergyman. It makes a great cover for the strained buttons down the front of my shirt. It seems that a tie, like love, can cover a multitude of sins.
Actually there is another very practical use of a tie that I have found, but it does not involve the wearing of it as a fashion statement around the neck. Old miserable ties make the perfect bond for a three legged race at the Sunday School Picnic. The tie is just long enough to bind the legs of these contestants, and yet it is soft enough so as not to cut into the flesh of rambunctious runners.
Ties, like other fashions, run in cycles. The wide tie will occasionally experience a revival, as will the narrow one. You may like to save for those fashion revivals. But once you commit your tie to the three-legged race, it is not likely to see another fashionable day.
Tuesday, June 12, 2018
Friday, September 1, 2017
Growing Old
Well, of course, nobody grows young. But when one crosses the threshold from middle aged to just plain "old" many thoughts come to mind. For one thing there is the enormous amount of pills required to keep me alive. I take 12 prescription pills every day. They must be working. Add to that the number of pills my wife is convinced will keep me alive and kicking (fish oil, cranberry, probiotics, etc.). But truth be told, I have learned to admit that I'm alive and shuffling. I don't kick any more.
Then there are the frequent memorials and funerals for old friends. Yogi Berra says I should attend other people's funerals or else they won't attend mine. Okay, I get that, but now all my contemporaries are keeling over. I used to think that only "old people" died. How many times have you been told that so-and-so died of old age? Now that I'm an octogenarian, I've joined the croaking generation. My father in law used to say he refused to buy green bananas. It was funnier when he said it. He lived to be 100.
Oh yeah, I almost forgot, the memory fades as the years advance. Like my old friend, Dr. Joe Garrisi used to say, "I've been thinking about the hereafter more and more. Why just the other day I went into the kitchen and stopped and said, 'Now what am I here after?'" But there is an upside to this phenomenon. When we watch old recorded TV dramas we often realize that we have seen it before, but since we have forgotten who done it we can enjoy it all over again.
I've learned to say, "I didn't see it." rather than "It's not in there." This is especially true of my wife's purse (which I have nicknamed "the black hole"). When she says something can be found in her purse I have learned to say, "Can you be more specific?"
I have talked to the Lord about this, and I have pleaded for a quick and easy departure, like during my nap. Is that so much to ask? Somehow He has not gotten back to me about that. Okay that sudden stuff is hard on those left behind, but they'll get over it.
I've decided that it's my turn first. My wife, bless her sweet heart, has many ailments, but they seem to rob her of the quality of life. They are not life-threatening. Her genetic history seems to predict a long (though miserable) life span. My gene pool, on the other hand, tells me that I have been living on borrowed time for the last 30 years. I've long past the time that I was afraid I might die young.
I no longer wonder what I'm going to be when I grow up. I've already been there and done that. But I have to admit that I am so grateful to God for allowing me to preach the gospel for over 50 years. I have built no great cathedrals. I have not converted thousands of people. I was never mistaken for an authoritative theologian. Only once was I asked to be the featured speaker at a family conference. That's okay, I've had the privilege of teaching and preaching the word of God for 65 years in the local church. I pray there have been many more saved and helped by my ministry than I know anything about. But as poorly as I have accomplished my calling, it has been a blessing to me, and by God's grace to a few others too.
Then there are the frequent memorials and funerals for old friends. Yogi Berra says I should attend other people's funerals or else they won't attend mine. Okay, I get that, but now all my contemporaries are keeling over. I used to think that only "old people" died. How many times have you been told that so-and-so died of old age? Now that I'm an octogenarian, I've joined the croaking generation. My father in law used to say he refused to buy green bananas. It was funnier when he said it. He lived to be 100.
Oh yeah, I almost forgot, the memory fades as the years advance. Like my old friend, Dr. Joe Garrisi used to say, "I've been thinking about the hereafter more and more. Why just the other day I went into the kitchen and stopped and said, 'Now what am I here after?'" But there is an upside to this phenomenon. When we watch old recorded TV dramas we often realize that we have seen it before, but since we have forgotten who done it we can enjoy it all over again.
I've learned to say, "I didn't see it." rather than "It's not in there." This is especially true of my wife's purse (which I have nicknamed "the black hole"). When she says something can be found in her purse I have learned to say, "Can you be more specific?"
I have talked to the Lord about this, and I have pleaded for a quick and easy departure, like during my nap. Is that so much to ask? Somehow He has not gotten back to me about that. Okay that sudden stuff is hard on those left behind, but they'll get over it.
I've decided that it's my turn first. My wife, bless her sweet heart, has many ailments, but they seem to rob her of the quality of life. They are not life-threatening. Her genetic history seems to predict a long (though miserable) life span. My gene pool, on the other hand, tells me that I have been living on borrowed time for the last 30 years. I've long past the time that I was afraid I might die young.
I no longer wonder what I'm going to be when I grow up. I've already been there and done that. But I have to admit that I am so grateful to God for allowing me to preach the gospel for over 50 years. I have built no great cathedrals. I have not converted thousands of people. I was never mistaken for an authoritative theologian. Only once was I asked to be the featured speaker at a family conference. That's okay, I've had the privilege of teaching and preaching the word of God for 65 years in the local church. I pray there have been many more saved and helped by my ministry than I know anything about. But as poorly as I have accomplished my calling, it has been a blessing to me, and by God's grace to a few others too.
Saturday, July 30, 2016
Speaking of Trains
This summer we took a big trip, and experienced many adventures for posting. I must begin with the train. Yes, we took the train. We took the train to Philadelphia, and back here to Los Angeles, with a lot of stuff in between.
We had often talked about taking a long trip by train for many years now. When I was invited to preach in Wilmington, DE, and then appointed as a commissioner to General Assembly, we decided this was the time to put the two events together and travel by the good old iron horse. Actually I think the iron horse reference means the old fashioned steam locomotive. And how that would have been a blast! But no, this was standard AMTRAK diesel.
But it was still adventurous. We had a great time, and will probably take another trek by train, one of these days. It's delightful to see the scenery in such a relaxed atmosphere. There was a sort of adventurous thrill I experienced when the train first began to move. It was diminished, but still fun every time the train began to move again.
But there were some modifications to my somewhat romantic notion of travel by rail. I had anticipated night travel to gently rock me to sleep as the mesmerizing clickety-clack of rail seams created the perfect white noise. Well, not so much. To be sure there were many stretches that almost fulfilled that fantasy. But for the most part we had to get used to violent jerking that would challenge agile young people to keep their feet--and we are neither agile nor are we young. The compartment was small enough that we could hold on to something or other whenever we needed to move around. The hallway leading to the dining car was narrow enough that instead of throwing us to the floor, we merely bumped our shoulders first on one wall then on the other. Yes, it was a challenge, but I thought it was fun.
When the conductor adjusts our couch to become a bunk bed, we discovered another challenge. Climbing up to that upper bunk was designed for a contortionist. Okay, I'm no contortionist, and I did make it up there, but I assure you it was not without pain. During one leg of our journey we had a less spacious compartment. This one not only required a contortionist of sorts, but I learned something about myself. I have a mild case of claustrophobia. I was sure I could not get to the top bunk, but I did. And then the ceiling began to creep down upon me. I panicked. I even cried out. I couldn't get down, and yet I did--rather rapidly in fact.
Believe it or not, we learned to use this narrow bunk as a double bed. It's so wonderful being married to a tolerant spouse. That bunk was so narrow (and we are NOT narrow) that I slept with my feet near my wife's face, and she the opposite. That was just one night. The rest of the time we had the deluxe accommodations in which the bed was a more believable double. Again I thank God for a tolerant companion.
I made it sound as though we didn't sleep, but we did. We learned to adjust, and any hours we missed at night we could always make up during nap time.
The meals were worth a blog post of their own. When one buys the deluxe accommodations the meals are included in the price. The food was good and very well prepared. Though the menu provided variety, it did become rather limited when we spent six days on the train. A seasoned traveler warned us to order the steak dinner the first night because they sometimes run out. We did so, and it was not disappointing.
We had often talked about taking a long trip by train for many years now. When I was invited to preach in Wilmington, DE, and then appointed as a commissioner to General Assembly, we decided this was the time to put the two events together and travel by the good old iron horse. Actually I think the iron horse reference means the old fashioned steam locomotive. And how that would have been a blast! But no, this was standard AMTRAK diesel.
But it was still adventurous. We had a great time, and will probably take another trek by train, one of these days. It's delightful to see the scenery in such a relaxed atmosphere. There was a sort of adventurous thrill I experienced when the train first began to move. It was diminished, but still fun every time the train began to move again.
But there were some modifications to my somewhat romantic notion of travel by rail. I had anticipated night travel to gently rock me to sleep as the mesmerizing clickety-clack of rail seams created the perfect white noise. Well, not so much. To be sure there were many stretches that almost fulfilled that fantasy. But for the most part we had to get used to violent jerking that would challenge agile young people to keep their feet--and we are neither agile nor are we young. The compartment was small enough that we could hold on to something or other whenever we needed to move around. The hallway leading to the dining car was narrow enough that instead of throwing us to the floor, we merely bumped our shoulders first on one wall then on the other. Yes, it was a challenge, but I thought it was fun.
When the conductor adjusts our couch to become a bunk bed, we discovered another challenge. Climbing up to that upper bunk was designed for a contortionist. Okay, I'm no contortionist, and I did make it up there, but I assure you it was not without pain. During one leg of our journey we had a less spacious compartment. This one not only required a contortionist of sorts, but I learned something about myself. I have a mild case of claustrophobia. I was sure I could not get to the top bunk, but I did. And then the ceiling began to creep down upon me. I panicked. I even cried out. I couldn't get down, and yet I did--rather rapidly in fact.
Believe it or not, we learned to use this narrow bunk as a double bed. It's so wonderful being married to a tolerant spouse. That bunk was so narrow (and we are NOT narrow) that I slept with my feet near my wife's face, and she the opposite. That was just one night. The rest of the time we had the deluxe accommodations in which the bed was a more believable double. Again I thank God for a tolerant companion.
I made it sound as though we didn't sleep, but we did. We learned to adjust, and any hours we missed at night we could always make up during nap time.
The meals were worth a blog post of their own. When one buys the deluxe accommodations the meals are included in the price. The food was good and very well prepared. Though the menu provided variety, it did become rather limited when we spent six days on the train. A seasoned traveler warned us to order the steak dinner the first night because they sometimes run out. We did so, and it was not disappointing.
Friday, July 29, 2016
The Spooky Train Ride
My great grandfather (or was it my great, great?) was some exec with the Swiss railroad. I think this story came down from him. At least my mother told me this story, and attributed it to him. The line of transmission for some old family stories becomes blurred with time. Anyway, here is what my mother told me.
On a dark and foggy night the train chugged along the mountainside when the engineer began to notice an ominous image in the fog ahead. It appeared to be an angel beckoning him to stop the train. He called to his fireman to see if he had the same view. These two men rubbed their eyes and stared into the foggy night, they concurred that there was a definite image of an angel, persistently urging them to stop the train.
It seemed irresponsible to stop the loaded train halfway up the mountain, but the more they talked it over, the more they began to spook one another. Finally the engineer brought the iron horse to a stop. The image was still looming ahead of them in the fog. With its wings spread wide, the angel was demanding that they halt their progress. Just then the conductor came up the tracks from several cars behind the engine. "Hey, we're not scheduled to stop for several miles. What are you doing?"
"Don't you see that angel in the fog, there ahead of the train?" answered the engineer. "I'll take the responsibility for an unscheduled stop, but I just felt I had to stop."
"Oh, yeah. I see what you mean. Let me look up ahead along the tracks and see if I can find anything." agreed the conductor. He strode ahead along the tracks for a hundred or more feet when he suddenly stopped and let him mouth fall open. He ran back to tell the engineer what had happened.
As he approached the halted train, the engineer called out, "Hey Fritz, get back on the train. It was nothing. We found a dead moth was caught right inside the headlamp with its wings spread apart. In the fog it gave the eery appearance of an angel. You can tell your grandchildren how silly your engineer friend was when he saw that image in the fog."
"I will tell my grandchildren, alright, but it won't be about a silly engineer. Barely a hundred yards ahead of us the bridge is washed away!"
On a dark and foggy night the train chugged along the mountainside when the engineer began to notice an ominous image in the fog ahead. It appeared to be an angel beckoning him to stop the train. He called to his fireman to see if he had the same view. These two men rubbed their eyes and stared into the foggy night, they concurred that there was a definite image of an angel, persistently urging them to stop the train.
It seemed irresponsible to stop the loaded train halfway up the mountain, but the more they talked it over, the more they began to spook one another. Finally the engineer brought the iron horse to a stop. The image was still looming ahead of them in the fog. With its wings spread wide, the angel was demanding that they halt their progress. Just then the conductor came up the tracks from several cars behind the engine. "Hey, we're not scheduled to stop for several miles. What are you doing?"
"Don't you see that angel in the fog, there ahead of the train?" answered the engineer. "I'll take the responsibility for an unscheduled stop, but I just felt I had to stop."
"Oh, yeah. I see what you mean. Let me look up ahead along the tracks and see if I can find anything." agreed the conductor. He strode ahead along the tracks for a hundred or more feet when he suddenly stopped and let him mouth fall open. He ran back to tell the engineer what had happened.
As he approached the halted train, the engineer called out, "Hey Fritz, get back on the train. It was nothing. We found a dead moth was caught right inside the headlamp with its wings spread apart. In the fog it gave the eery appearance of an angel. You can tell your grandchildren how silly your engineer friend was when he saw that image in the fog."
"I will tell my grandchildren, alright, but it won't be about a silly engineer. Barely a hundred yards ahead of us the bridge is washed away!"
Thursday, April 28, 2016
Tent Camping
Experiences from the terrifying to the humorous come to mind merely by those two words: tent camping.
My parents taught me to love camping, having taken me to the Mammoth Lakes every year for vacation for several years in a row. A nine year old boy finds great delight in living in the dirt, digging a hole to poop and swimming once a week instead of taking a bath.
We camped in tents at June Lake before there were condos. Hey, it was before there was a paved road. (Yes, I am that old.) The latrine was behind a tree up the hill. I had my own pup tent, and didn't mind sleeping on the ground. That was then. Now not so much.
I actually rose at dawn to catch a trout and fry it for breakfast. Camp food was wonderful. The ashes that drifted into the beans just made them taste better.
Now my wife has taught me the sensible pleasure of camping at resort hotels. On a recent junket she ordered lobster eggs Benedict. And as for the pup tent and earthy mattress, I've come to the place that I am unable to get down to the ground, and if I do, I need serious help getting back up. Now for an octogenarian whose bladder demands attention at 4 in the morning, that routine is way out of the question.
There were several years that Barbara and I took our boys camping, however. It was not because I had convinced her of the joys of the rugged life. No, it was an economic necessity on the preacher's impecunious salary.
There was the time we traveled from Front Royal into the Blue Ridge Mountains to find a camping spot all by ourselves. I kept the boys busy hiking and Barbara fixed meals. It was a beautiful sight. Some people just do not appreciate the experience of cooking and doing dishes in refugee conditions.
When we visited Williamsburg for the first time, we pitched the tent not far from the town and made daily trips. Very educational. On the Lord's day we took a drive to see Yorktown, but there was a rainstorm that stopped traffic. It was like we were parked under a waterfall. Later, when we returned to our campsite, we discovered that a tree branch had fallen through our tent, ruining the tent and drenching the contents. Wasn't that funny? No, actually it was not. Other campers let us use their station wagon so, between their's and ours, we housed the family for one last night. Later it was reported that that storm produced 2 inches of rain in half an hour.
Fast forward a few years. The kids are grown, and we have camping friends. I weighed my chances of giving my wife a pleasant camping experience, and decided I should cook. I determined to cook gourmet meals. Steak from the freezer would take two days to thaw completely, and a favorite of ours was cornish game hens. I simply doused them with generous amounts of salt, pepper and garlic. then I double wrapped them in heavy foil. I rolled them back and forth over the grill, listening to the spit and crackle of rendering meat. Couple that with potatoes baked the same way and maybe some corn or a veggie bought from a farmers' market on the way, and we had a worthy meal.
This became our planned routine for camping until we ran into hornets. Camping with our dear friends, Bob and Susan Lee and their two children, I treated everyone to this cornish game hen banquet. However, who knew that there was a hornet nest nearby? And who knew that they would be frenzied by the scent of grease? It turns out we were more in danger of eating a live hornet than we were of being stung by one. This definitely modified the pleasure intended for this meal.
They say with age there comes wisdom. I think the point is with age more mistakes have been experienced by all the dumb things one has done. If this is wisdom, so be it. The wisdom I have gained in lo these many years has me enjoying the camping we do at resort hotels.
My parents taught me to love camping, having taken me to the Mammoth Lakes every year for vacation for several years in a row. A nine year old boy finds great delight in living in the dirt, digging a hole to poop and swimming once a week instead of taking a bath.
We camped in tents at June Lake before there were condos. Hey, it was before there was a paved road. (Yes, I am that old.) The latrine was behind a tree up the hill. I had my own pup tent, and didn't mind sleeping on the ground. That was then. Now not so much.
I actually rose at dawn to catch a trout and fry it for breakfast. Camp food was wonderful. The ashes that drifted into the beans just made them taste better.
Now my wife has taught me the sensible pleasure of camping at resort hotels. On a recent junket she ordered lobster eggs Benedict. And as for the pup tent and earthy mattress, I've come to the place that I am unable to get down to the ground, and if I do, I need serious help getting back up. Now for an octogenarian whose bladder demands attention at 4 in the morning, that routine is way out of the question.
There were several years that Barbara and I took our boys camping, however. It was not because I had convinced her of the joys of the rugged life. No, it was an economic necessity on the preacher's impecunious salary.
There was the time we traveled from Front Royal into the Blue Ridge Mountains to find a camping spot all by ourselves. I kept the boys busy hiking and Barbara fixed meals. It was a beautiful sight. Some people just do not appreciate the experience of cooking and doing dishes in refugee conditions.
When we visited Williamsburg for the first time, we pitched the tent not far from the town and made daily trips. Very educational. On the Lord's day we took a drive to see Yorktown, but there was a rainstorm that stopped traffic. It was like we were parked under a waterfall. Later, when we returned to our campsite, we discovered that a tree branch had fallen through our tent, ruining the tent and drenching the contents. Wasn't that funny? No, actually it was not. Other campers let us use their station wagon so, between their's and ours, we housed the family for one last night. Later it was reported that that storm produced 2 inches of rain in half an hour.
Fast forward a few years. The kids are grown, and we have camping friends. I weighed my chances of giving my wife a pleasant camping experience, and decided I should cook. I determined to cook gourmet meals. Steak from the freezer would take two days to thaw completely, and a favorite of ours was cornish game hens. I simply doused them with generous amounts of salt, pepper and garlic. then I double wrapped them in heavy foil. I rolled them back and forth over the grill, listening to the spit and crackle of rendering meat. Couple that with potatoes baked the same way and maybe some corn or a veggie bought from a farmers' market on the way, and we had a worthy meal.
This became our planned routine for camping until we ran into hornets. Camping with our dear friends, Bob and Susan Lee and their two children, I treated everyone to this cornish game hen banquet. However, who knew that there was a hornet nest nearby? And who knew that they would be frenzied by the scent of grease? It turns out we were more in danger of eating a live hornet than we were of being stung by one. This definitely modified the pleasure intended for this meal.
They say with age there comes wisdom. I think the point is with age more mistakes have been experienced by all the dumb things one has done. If this is wisdom, so be it. The wisdom I have gained in lo these many years has me enjoying the camping we do at resort hotels.
Wednesday, February 10, 2016
Termites and their work
Many years ago when I was up studying for a sermon late at night, I heard a distant noise, sorta like Horton hearing a Who. It is amazing what sounds can be made by an old house when there are so few competing decibels to mask them. It was a tiny cross cut saw, or like the distant crunching of a corn-on-the-cob eating contest. I rose from the table and crept about the room, where ever my ears detected the source of this curious sound.
My keen hearing (remember, this was many years ago) brought me to the fireplace. In this clean and seldom used fireplace was one old log, cradled on the andirons. And it was definitely from this log that the sound was emanating. It wasn't a constant sound. It wasn't a freak or capricious sound. It came in a deliberate series of cadences. It was too tiny to be creepy, but it was--in its own way--ominous. I concluded that it was an army of termites, so I kindled a fire and consumed the log.
Fast forward many years. A friend in the building trade, a contractor who does a little of everything, told me that, yes, you can hear termites at work, but usually it requires a stethoscope.
I'm sorry, my ears are not as sensitive as a stethoscope, but I did hear those dastardly beasts at work in my fire place. I can't imagine any other explanation for that tiny munching sound.
The reason I was reminded of that silly experience is that recently my wife awakened me to listen to the definite sound of gnawing. No, this was far too noisy for termites. In the middle of the night, my judgment being muddled, I told her that it was probably a tree in the wind rubbing against the house. Not a bad description of the sound, actually. But in the light of day it was obvious there was no tree anywhere near the house to comply with that simple explanation.
The next night I heard the noise myself before the narcotic of sleep dulled my senses. It may have been a rat or raccoon (please, not a beaver) chewing a two-by-four in the crawl space under the house. I haven't heard it again, but it is on my mind. I may have to ask some daring, slender young man to inspect the foundational timbers under our bedroom.
My friend says, just be certain it isn't in the attic. He claims that rats, and other assorted rodents, tend to chew on the insulation of electrical wiring. This may cause the house to catch fire, or at least it may electrocute the varmint, creating a growing stench
My keen hearing (remember, this was many years ago) brought me to the fireplace. In this clean and seldom used fireplace was one old log, cradled on the andirons. And it was definitely from this log that the sound was emanating. It wasn't a constant sound. It wasn't a freak or capricious sound. It came in a deliberate series of cadences. It was too tiny to be creepy, but it was--in its own way--ominous. I concluded that it was an army of termites, so I kindled a fire and consumed the log.
Fast forward many years. A friend in the building trade, a contractor who does a little of everything, told me that, yes, you can hear termites at work, but usually it requires a stethoscope.
I'm sorry, my ears are not as sensitive as a stethoscope, but I did hear those dastardly beasts at work in my fire place. I can't imagine any other explanation for that tiny munching sound.
The reason I was reminded of that silly experience is that recently my wife awakened me to listen to the definite sound of gnawing. No, this was far too noisy for termites. In the middle of the night, my judgment being muddled, I told her that it was probably a tree in the wind rubbing against the house. Not a bad description of the sound, actually. But in the light of day it was obvious there was no tree anywhere near the house to comply with that simple explanation.
The next night I heard the noise myself before the narcotic of sleep dulled my senses. It may have been a rat or raccoon (please, not a beaver) chewing a two-by-four in the crawl space under the house. I haven't heard it again, but it is on my mind. I may have to ask some daring, slender young man to inspect the foundational timbers under our bedroom.
My friend says, just be certain it isn't in the attic. He claims that rats, and other assorted rodents, tend to chew on the insulation of electrical wiring. This may cause the house to catch fire, or at least it may electrocute the varmint, creating a growing stench
Wednesday, December 23, 2015
Traditions
Okay, I cheated. The following post was written a couple years ago, but I'm too occupied with other stuff to take the time to write another Christmas post right now. So this will have to do. I hope you will forgive me.
I enjoy hearing of family traditions for the holidays. Thanksgiving is still relatively free of commercialism, so they are infringing on it with Black Friday's now. But most folk still like to get family together for turkey and all the trimmings. If you like turkey sandwiches, it is best to be sure you host this meal. After picking and burping, the men retire to the couch to watch football, the kids play outside, and the ladies clean up. No, it's not fair, but that is the tradition.
Then there are myriads of differing Christmas traditions. Some make certain to find a church that has a Christmas Day worship service. Others may read the Christmas story as recorded in the gospel of Luke. In our home we actually memorized this portion of scripture and recited it together. In most of our homes, however, Jesus got little more than a tip of the hat. We piously proclaimed that we were celebrating His birth (and we actually convinced ourselves this was true), but the main event always comes down to the fun of opening presents on Christmas morning.
Some homes allow for one curious present to be opened Christmas eve, as the remainder wait for the morning. I've heard of some homes where the presents are opened Christmas eve. I forgot to ask them what they did in the morning. Slept in, I suppose. It is so difficult for a kid to wait past 6 o'clock to get out of bed and begin the arduous task of ripping open all those pretty packages. If dad was up the night before, assembling a complicated toy until the wee hours of the morning, 6 o'clock is mighty early. But that was part of the tradition when I grew up.
I don't know when I began to realize that it really was more fun to give than to receive, but parents get even more fun than their spoiled little ones, seeing the twinkle in their excited little eyes. We teach them so easily about greed and indulgence. Then, as they grow, we hope to teach them that a man's life does not consist in the abundance of things he possesses.
Since my Barbara's birthday is December 24, and since we got married on December 26, you might think we developed unique traditions. It might have been nice to have a routine that would give proper emphasis on each of these significant calendar events. But we never found a way to do that. When we tried to go to a fancy restaurant on our anniversary, we were still so full of Christmas goodies that we couldn't enjoy a meal as we might on a different night. So I suppose you might say our tradition began to be to celebrate our anniversary on any night, but not Dec. 26. That works much better. On our first anniversary, we were in Philadelphia to attend Westminster Seminary. We did go to Old Bookbinders restaurant, and I learned to eat a whole Maine lobster. I told the waiter I would order it on the provision that he taught me how to eat it. He came with a complete bib, a nutcracker and a tiny fork and showed me the finesse of dismantling one of these delicious beasts.
Then, because we usually had a Christmas eve service, Barbara constantly had her special day trampled with other plans. Seldom did she get her chocolate cake (unless she herself broke down and bought one). What does a family do with a chocolate cake when the house if already full of candy canes, pfeffernusse cookies, fruitcake, hard candies, fudge, etc.?
She was frequently short-changed, even when growing up because her father too was a minister. Yet it was my dear wife who supported and encouraged us to have Christmas eve services where ever we were. And, of course, she played the piano for the service.
We do share fond memories of one special Christmas eve service in our fledgling chapel in Neptune, NJ. when the first snow of the season arrived in the form of a blizzard that night. Our neighborhood came out for the service in unusual numbers. Ushers had a snow shovel by the door with which they periodically cleared the porch. And when we lit candles and sang "Silent Night" to conclude the service, we had a tradition that almost everyone there cherished. It was necessary to dig cars out of the parking lot, and at least one of them needed a passing cowboy with a rope to pull him out of the slippery stuff.
We had taken an enjoyable Christmas Carol and scripture reading service, with a pointed sermon for the holiday visitor, and made it a time to point to Jesus, the author of all of our good times.
I enjoy hearing of family traditions for the holidays. Thanksgiving is still relatively free of commercialism, so they are infringing on it with Black Friday's now. But most folk still like to get family together for turkey and all the trimmings. If you like turkey sandwiches, it is best to be sure you host this meal. After picking and burping, the men retire to the couch to watch football, the kids play outside, and the ladies clean up. No, it's not fair, but that is the tradition.
Then there are myriads of differing Christmas traditions. Some make certain to find a church that has a Christmas Day worship service. Others may read the Christmas story as recorded in the gospel of Luke. In our home we actually memorized this portion of scripture and recited it together. In most of our homes, however, Jesus got little more than a tip of the hat. We piously proclaimed that we were celebrating His birth (and we actually convinced ourselves this was true), but the main event always comes down to the fun of opening presents on Christmas morning.
Some homes allow for one curious present to be opened Christmas eve, as the remainder wait for the morning. I've heard of some homes where the presents are opened Christmas eve. I forgot to ask them what they did in the morning. Slept in, I suppose. It is so difficult for a kid to wait past 6 o'clock to get out of bed and begin the arduous task of ripping open all those pretty packages. If dad was up the night before, assembling a complicated toy until the wee hours of the morning, 6 o'clock is mighty early. But that was part of the tradition when I grew up.
I don't know when I began to realize that it really was more fun to give than to receive, but parents get even more fun than their spoiled little ones, seeing the twinkle in their excited little eyes. We teach them so easily about greed and indulgence. Then, as they grow, we hope to teach them that a man's life does not consist in the abundance of things he possesses.
Since my Barbara's birthday is December 24, and since we got married on December 26, you might think we developed unique traditions. It might have been nice to have a routine that would give proper emphasis on each of these significant calendar events. But we never found a way to do that. When we tried to go to a fancy restaurant on our anniversary, we were still so full of Christmas goodies that we couldn't enjoy a meal as we might on a different night. So I suppose you might say our tradition began to be to celebrate our anniversary on any night, but not Dec. 26. That works much better. On our first anniversary, we were in Philadelphia to attend Westminster Seminary. We did go to Old Bookbinders restaurant, and I learned to eat a whole Maine lobster. I told the waiter I would order it on the provision that he taught me how to eat it. He came with a complete bib, a nutcracker and a tiny fork and showed me the finesse of dismantling one of these delicious beasts.
Then, because we usually had a Christmas eve service, Barbara constantly had her special day trampled with other plans. Seldom did she get her chocolate cake (unless she herself broke down and bought one). What does a family do with a chocolate cake when the house if already full of candy canes, pfeffernusse cookies, fruitcake, hard candies, fudge, etc.?
She was frequently short-changed, even when growing up because her father too was a minister. Yet it was my dear wife who supported and encouraged us to have Christmas eve services where ever we were. And, of course, she played the piano for the service.
We do share fond memories of one special Christmas eve service in our fledgling chapel in Neptune, NJ. when the first snow of the season arrived in the form of a blizzard that night. Our neighborhood came out for the service in unusual numbers. Ushers had a snow shovel by the door with which they periodically cleared the porch. And when we lit candles and sang "Silent Night" to conclude the service, we had a tradition that almost everyone there cherished. It was necessary to dig cars out of the parking lot, and at least one of them needed a passing cowboy with a rope to pull him out of the slippery stuff.
We had taken an enjoyable Christmas Carol and scripture reading service, with a pointed sermon for the holiday visitor, and made it a time to point to Jesus, the author of all of our good times.
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