The Old Man's House

I spent the morning in the old man’s house. Awakened by creaks in the weathered floorboards, I lay in bed taking in the room surrounding me. His books, almost exclusively theological, were neatly assembled in the bookcase, with two others resting on the table beside his chair, as if put down for a moment. Paintings of sailboats, his other passion, adorned the walls, complemented by colonial antiques. The smell of New England authenticity filled my soul, and I found it hard to believe he’d been gone for over a year.

With my cup of coffee, and the stereo tuned to his favorite classical music station, the liturgical procession began. From room to room, I wandered and paused, recalling moments both happy and sad, and it was as if he were present, along with the others for whom this place is home.

Later that morning, as I sat in a 130 year-old summer parish, I heard the floorboards announce the arrival of other worshipers. Pews creaked as we took our places beside one another, and could feel the presence of those from generations past. On the walls and in the windows were pictures depicting the stories, some happy others not, of our common faith. The altar was prepared, and the Bible and other books lay just where they were left at the end of last summer. Old wood filled the space with a smell far more inspirational than any incense, and, as I breathed deeply, I gave thanks for the sense of home.

Singing familiar hymns, and reading Biblical passages, it occurred to me I was in church for the second time that morning.

Trash Day

On my walk this morning, I noticed two trash cans pulled to the curb, one for recycling, the other trash. Both were overflowing and allowed me to see that in the recycling can were items that could not be recycled, and in the trash items that could. While the clear violation of trash protocol invited me to get my deputy-of-the-frickin’-universe hat on, I continued walking and realized I am as guilty as the home I passed, I just do it with different cans.

Inside of me, I have two garbage cans, one for trash, the other recycling. Like my neighbor, I put the wrong things in the cans. In the trash, too often I put mistakes and other experiences which could be recycled, used for another purpose. If recycled, they could teach important lessons for the future, but, in my grief, sadness and/or embarrassment, I throw them into the trash as quickly as I can.

So, too, I sometimes recycle things that should be thrown away. Maybe it’s a story I’ve told for too long about myself or another, a memory I’ve held onto (or that’s held onto me) forever. Whatever it is, such trash needs to be seen for what it is and put in the other can. In other words, some things just need to be thrown away.

Imagine if we learned to sort our trash better! We would know a new freedom and a new happiness, because we learned to throw trash away. We would also not regret the past, nor wish to shut the door upon it, because we learned to recycle.

Fathers' Day: Who do you say you are?

Fathers’ Day. A day of celebration. A day of phone calls, notes, presents, time together, and all manner of kindness to a special person in one’s life.

Fathers’ Day, like New Year’s Eve, can also be a holiday of mixed feelings. Joy when all is well, can become sadness when all is not. When seats around the table are filled, it’s easy for hearts to be filled as well, but when seats are empty, for whatever reason, we can feel empty, too. The wind that fills us with gratitude can also blow away carefully placed make-up, revealing cuts and bruises of all shapes and sizes. In the end, Fathers’ Day can be a blessing and/or a challenge, and it raises the question of identity. As if calling us to the mirror, it asks us a simple, but ruthless, question: “Who do you say you are?”

Many quickly answer such a question with what they do. I’m an attorney, a doctor, a mechanic, a minister. Such answers offer the security of identity, but what happens when such employment is lost? When our positions no longer carry the meanings they once did? Then what? Who are we then?

We might turn to other identifiers. I’m a graduate of this school. I belong to that church. I’m from this family. I’m a member of this club, or political party. Again, such answers identify, but not in a lasting way.

That’s when we might turn to roles to help us with who we are. I’m a husband or wife, mother or father, son or daughter, colleague or friend. Such roles are powerful, and yet what happens if or when children or spouses leave, or when our relationships are strained? Do our identities go with our relationships?

I’ve been told our true identity lies beyond what we do, to what we belong, and the roles or relationships we have. I say “I’ve been told,” because I’ve long wandered in the maze of identity hoping to find the truth others proclaim. The answer lies with, and in, God, they say. God is the one constant, and, like our hearts, our sense of self will not rest until it rests in God. When we find our true selves in God, I believe holidays like this will become a lot easier, particularly when they are not neat and tidy.