The Wisdom of the Aged

"I finally ended up telling him to take me home Saturday. I couldn't stand the thought of staying with him one more night." So said a sweet little old lady of my acquaintance. She referred to her son, who had picked her up last Wednesday for the Thanksgiving holiday. On the drive back downstate she heard a funny noise in the engine. She correctly diagnosed it as a worn timing belt. She knew because her car had needed a new belt last summer and she remembered the distinctive sound. When she warned him he ignored her. How could she possibly know more about cars than he? She's just a woman, after all, and an old one, and his mom for crying out loud.

On Friday the timing belt broke while he drove to pick up a bottle of whiskey. She had warned him about that, too.

As we age almost all of us wish younger people would listen to us. Of course we wish everybody would listen to us all the time, but I mean something very particular here. Occasionally we know a thing so important it burns within us. We long to get it across to people we love before they make an avoidable mistake. Possibly we've made that same mistake. Regardless, we see the train wreck coming, they don't, and we want to save them from the pain.

But most people's default position is not listening. I admit it myself. I rarely ask for advice. When offered it, I usually resent it that anybody could possibly imagine I had not already thought of everything. Whether I have or not does not matter; making people believe I have is the thing.

Here is a short list of mistakes I could have missed making had I listened to wiser, older people:
1. Dating a girl who had no faith in God--and no intention of getting any.
2. Temporarily breaking up with the girl I would eventually marry.
3. Accepting my first calling as a minister to work in an upscale community with values and economic habits with which I deeply disagreed.
4. Failing to give my own mother the full measure of respect she deserved until after my father's death and her battle with cancer.
5. Allowing my relationship with one of my brothers to become so strained it appears impossible to reconcile it.

Here is a short list of lessons I have learned from listening to the ladies at the Village at Bay Ridge, the retirement community where I lead worship each Tuesday:
1. Life includes pain. God allows the pain for reasons we cannot know. Deal with it.
2. Younger people--including our own children--often do not listen to us. Patience really is a virtue.
3. Even hymns I consider musically horrid can give people a powerful spiritual boost.
4. Real wisdom has a way of cutting through all the crap if you gently but persistently speak the truth.
5. Dignity comes from staying true to your beliefs come what may.

Listen. Somebody may be trying to keep you from crossing just as the locomotive speeds through.

The Regular Cyclist

I like John Zielinski. I don't know him from Adam but I really like him. He petitioned the organizers of a major off-road bike race in Pennsylvania to create a new results division called "Regular Cyclists". It seems Mr. Zielinski had grown tired of competing against people willing to spend tens of thousands of dollars on slick bikes, spinning classes, heart-rate monitors, cycling jerseys in colors and patterns that would make golfers blush, power meters, specialty toe-clips for mountain biking and the like. He had trained hard for the event but knew that because he had chosen not to blow his budget on cycling he had a serious competitive disadvantage. Everybody could still race, but would the organizers allow "Regular Cyclists" to see their results measured only against one another?

Of course they said no. Why "of course"? Because people far enough into cycling to organize a big race probably cannot get their heads around the concept of the "Regular Cyclist".

At the start line of the last off-road cycling race I entered I felt much like Mr. Zielinski. By choice, I ride a 35 year-old hybrid (not really a mountain bike) with no toe-clips. When I saw all the gadgets and gizmos around me (cyclists are as bad as photographers when it comes to buying the Next Big Thing) I wondered how many minutes handicap I would be given in a fair race. (My favorite had to be the Camelback hydration system with a long tube running over the shoulder to the mouth. This for an itty-bitty twenty mile race.)

Don't get me wrong. It is a free country. People can spend their money as they see fit. And I have nothing but respect for people who train hard and intelligently. It's just that I train hard and (semi)-intelligently and it does not result in an accurate competitive outcome. It's one of the main reasons I don't race more. But if they create a Regular Cyclists division I'm there.

Meanwhile, this has made me re-evaluate how I spend my money in general. There is no better indicator of our actual value system than how we spend our money. I must admit I am not perfectly virtuous. With Christmas coming maybe I can change a few things around to better reflect my faith in Jesus and what I perceive to be his call on my life.

And if anybody gives me a garish cycling jersey for Christmas I will use it to scare away the squirrels from the bird feeders.

Ministerial conduct

Friday I must attend a mandatory workshop on sexual harassment. I know the topic matters tremendously. But I really don't want to go. I always resent command performances ("You WILL attend") and by the grace of God I have never misconducted myself sexually. When, many moons ago, our youth group had a future Miss Missouri in it and she wore a swimsuit on float trips down the Merrimack River I was not tempted. I have never responded to flirtations. I know the rules for when and where--and when and where NOT--to be with minors and members of the other sex. I love my wife, she loves me, and that's always been good enough for me.

But boy have I blown it in other ways. A couple of weeks ago I typed something unkind about another person on Facebook. On Facebook. What was I thinking? Now I am thinking that for some dark, obscure reason I wanted to put it out there on such a connected place. Maybe I'm not so virtuous after all.

Maybe what I need is more accountability on my misconduct "specialties". Maybe I need to be called out when I view another person with contempt. Maybe I need to be called out when I allow my competitive nature to propel me into running over others' feelings and needs. Maybe I need to be called out when I choose to read another article instead of reaching out to a parishioner on the telephone or in person.

Last week I posted a request that people treat their opponents in online debates respectfully. A person who has never met me (and misspelled my name) replied that people from my side in these debates started the mudslinging and we deserved whatever disrespect we got. (She phrased it quite a bit more bluntly but that was her gist.) I typed a scathing reply. It was a beaut. It laid her wide open. Don't mess with me when I'm in debate mode, baby, 'cause I'll grind your nose in the stench of defeat.

Thank God I stopped and thought about it for a few seconds before hitting "send".

How many times have I done to others what she did to me?

How about you?

Ears

I had a friend in college who, though kind of funny looking, had great success with girls. More than once I heard other guys ask how he did it. "I listen to them," he said. "They find it irresistible."

Today my best friend listened to me.

I had gone to see an orthopedic/sports medicine doctor--the second of the breed I have seen on top of my regular doc, physical therapists and a deep tissue masseur I affectionately call the Witch Doctor. All of them were meant to heal the chronic pain I have experienced in my calves for four years. None of them has actually diagnosed the problem. So my legs keep on hurting, day and night.

Don't get me wrong. I know my pain does not compare to the suffering of those who starve in Somalia or cannot find a job in northern Michigan. But it keeps me from running much. I love to run. Running rewards me like nothing else, not even seriously intense cycling. I have run for 35+ years. I grieve mentally and--more importantly--emotionally.

The doctor today gave me a best-case scenario and a worst. She thinks the good news is much more likely. The bad news is scary. It would mean I have an incurable, regressive syndrome that would lead to things I have no desire to contemplate. So add fear to frustration for me.

My best friend and I did not have an especially great start to today. I mistreated her yesterday and the tension lasted right through to this evening. But when I told her I really needed to tell her what the doctor had to say, she gave me her full and undivided attention. It mattered. It did not solve my problem but it mattered. I got my fear and frustration out on the table. She started to help me carry my burden.

Thank the Lord for my best friend, my wife Linda.

The Wabash Cannonball

Grief is deep stuff.

I visited our eldest church member today in his assisted living apartment. When I go to see him he treats me like my Grandma Riggins used to: as a living show and tell item. In the nicest possible way. I must be introduced to everyone. I must be praised to the highest heavens to everyone.

Wait. Why does this bother me?

As we walked down the hall we came across a church group rehearsing their musical program. He drove his walker right into the midst of them and raised a hand until they stopped. "Do you know my pastor?" he asked. They were gracious. Then we went to his apartment and talked about fish. He had a long and distinguished career as a maritime biologist. I find his stories fascinating. But time passed and I had to leave. As I opened his door in came the sound of that church group singing The Wabash Cannonball. Tears sprang into my eyes.

My father sang that song to me when I was a little boy. I remember my father's voice. He loved to sing and he sang well. He had a wide repertoire, from hymns to old jazz standards to Roger Williams to his clear favorite, Spike Jones' immortal version of the William Tell Overture and its main character: the horse, Feetlebomb.

The Wabash Cannonball is about a train speeding through the countryside. For me, it has become a song about my father and my Hoosier heritage. I still observe a tradition he initiated, singing Back Home Again in Indiana every time I cross the state line back into the Promised Land, where the Wabash River flows. Thanks, dad, for singing to me.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B0QXyYK1FAU

Fathers and Fathers-In-Law

Tonight I feel like the salami in the Sandwich Generation. I have been sliced about as thinly as I can take. I am a Presbyterian minister. I have listened to a long string of folks vent about getting caught up in family crud. I admit I have not felt enough empathy when they complained about how twisted their relations can behave under family stress. Now it's my turn. Whee.

On a brighter note my father-in-law sent us a new poem. He writes free verse. Always the traditionalist, my idea of good poetry involves quaint notions like rhyming. Oh, and an actual theme. But Jerry's work squirms its way past my defenses. I like it. He makes me think. He uses far fewer words than I do. (Our son Dan does the same with his poetry, though sometimes his work is too deep for my tired brain.)

Jerry's new poem consists of advice from a grizzled veteran of life. He pulls no punches. One line says something like, "Work on your faith or quit pretending." But he also keeps his sense of humor. I know of very few men his age who can get away with references to, ah, achieving intimacy with their wives with such believability. But I believe him. I would believe him even if I weren't hoping for an inheritance.

I really needed a boost from my family. Thank you, Jerry. Thank you for these 35 years(!) of loving me--and many others--in your deep, quirky, utterly reliable and believable way. Men like you show me the way.

Trash and High School Students

He caught me putting the empty McDonald's cup under his windshield wiper. We had a fascinating conversation. I'm actually kind of happy with myself--and with him.

Monday morning as I drove into our church lot I saw a car parked at the far end. It looked like a young man sat in the driver's seat. This happens often; a huge high school is across the road. I also noticed a pile of trash sitting on the asphalt beneath his window. Unfortunately, this also happens often. After parking I started walking the fifty yards toward him. He backed up and squealed away. I got his license.

After waiting an hour I picked up his trash (the McDonald's cup, an empty energy drink can, and a Burger King bag a crow was picking through as I walked up). I drove over to the high school and trolled through the lots until I found his car. As I put the trash under his windshield wipers he came out and caught me. It seems he's a senior who only has one class on Mondays. He yelled something I won't type. I turned and, more calmly than is my habit, said something like, "If you don't want me doing this, don't dump it in my lot."

But from that difficult beginning we went on to have a good talk. He apologized and so did I. He told me about the crappy job he had to go to, but added that at least he had a job. He asked if I was the priest. I told him no, the minister, and explained the difference in about twice as many words as he needed. Then he asked me The Question: "So do you really believe in a god?"

Yes, we had a really good conversation. Thank you, Lord.