Category: My Story

My story could possibly be a little like your story. If that is the case, then it could do both of us some good for me to write this stuff down.

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Rouge Wave

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It would be great if life were all sunshine and rainbows, but it is not. While I enjoy being around upbeat people, I also need to be around some folks who are real and admit they struggle with things like I do. Their honesty lets me know I am not alone in my personal challenges, and that is surprisingly encouraging.

Some people seem to surf through life, keeping their façade intact, never going very deep, managing to stay above the consuming waves of grief, anxiety, and depression. That is not life. It is fantasy. Those people worry me. Everything is too pretty, too perfect. Scratch the surface a bit and you will find a different person.

The waves are real and they are not easy to ride. Maybe you feel like what you are going through one of those waves right now that might just take you down.

I just came through a wave, and it wouldn’t let me get back up on my feet for several days. I knew I was muted, not myself. I was carrying a weight that I could not put down no matter how hard I tried. I felt weak, sad, and everything that went through my mind had a negative spin. I wanted to run away from my thoughts. Simply, I was not myself.

If you ever felt that way, welcome to the human race. We all are, to some degree, damaged goods, damaged by people and circumstances in our life, damaged by bad decisions and bad thinking, damaged by things out of our control and things under our control. 

There is a word for that: “sin”, sin in our hearts, the sin of others who have wounded us, and sin that is just part of the world. It is a universal problem. Sin hurts us and others. I like calling sin, “sin” and guilt “guilt” because there is a cure for it: Jesus. His redemption, his unconditional love and forgiveness. 

There are a number of things that can be like life preservers to rescue you from the rogue wave. It might be as simple as a pill, that helps calm the steady stream of obsessive thoughts in your head. It might be a focused way of praying and self-talk that repeats the messages you need to hear and not the ones you need to avoid. It might be professional therapy that will give you the tools you need to get through a rough patch. It might be new activities like taking a walk, reading a book, or calling a friend.

Stop beating yourself up. We all have triggers, stresses and reasons we feel the way we do. God wants us to enjoy full, joyous lives. It certainly won’t feel like that every moment, but we can keep coming back to that base line. We have to keep ourselves healthy mentally, spiritually, and emotionally to help others. So, there is an “otherliness” about taking care of ourselves.

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Give What You Did Not Receive

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These words sound like an oxymoron. How can you give what you did not receive?

To understand, we need to look back into our formative years.

Our parents got some things right, but they also got some things wrong. There were gaps in our parenting, maybe some gaping holes. Maybe we had parts of our formative years where we had to self-parent or figure things out for ourselves. 

From what I can piece together, my mom was the least-favored child by her mom and the youngest of three. Ironically, Dad was the most favored by his parents and youngest of five. Mom could be wonderfully tender or fiercely jealous and protective. Dad was wrapped up in his own world and rarely made any attempt to meet me in mine, yet he had a love of order and doing things right, which I also appreciate. My parents’ formative years affected mine. They always do.

There were things they did not get from their parents and things I did not get from them. I missed out on some unconditional love, so I learned to be a “good boy”. I also missed out on a lot of appropriate socialization, so I became introverted and insecure.

I have a little saying, “You don’t begin to know how messed up you are until you’re forty.” We grow up thinking our life was normal. Usually there is a part that was not normal or even healthy, but it can take a good while for that to sink in.

We all could make a list of things we did not receive from our parents, our teachers, and others who should have mentored us.

So what? We could think, “I didn’t get (fill in the blank) and I turned out “okay”.  So, we continue the pattern of our parents.

The easiest thing in the world is to repeat our parents’ errors and deficiencies. It comes naturally. We tell ourselves, “I will never (fill in the blank again)”. But these things are sneaky and we often do the same darn thing in a way that superficially looks different, but really is the same trait. We became like our parents!

My adult children could tell some stories about how I insisted their behavior was upstanding in every way. After all, I was a pastor. There were expectations, and those expectations may have been more stressed than love and acceptance. I wanted them to be “a good boy and a good girl”. Their good behavior reflected positively on me.

As a pastor, I was obsessed with my work. It was just different work than my dad’s. I was totally in my world with little time for family.

These are the things I did not get and did not give. They hurt me. They hurt my kids, my wife, and others. Since I was hurt by them so deeply, why would I inflict them on others, especially those I love the most? Why not give them the opposite of what I got, give them what we did not get?

Where my imposed expectations overshowed my unconditional love and acceptance, why not change the balance. There is no trait more noble, more nurturing than love and acceptance. Where the importance of work overshadowed the importance of family, why not flip it. It is not going to mean much if you sacrifice your family for your job.

This is a lesson for me. Maybe you need to hear it too.

Give what you did not receive.

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Notes from a Novice Appalachian

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I am not from here. About a quarter of my life was spent in northwest Missouri having grown up in St. Joseph. After that we moved to a bedroom town near Kansas City, Missouri (and I can’t help but remain a Chiefs’ fan). Lastly, we wound up in Illinois. First in central Illinois and then in northeastern Illinois.

That was our home for over thirty years, most of the time in Winthrop Harbor, Illinois. The name of the place sounds far grander than its reality, though we had a good life there, midway between Chicago and Milwaukee. We were very near Lake Michigan and just a block and a half south of the Wisconsin stateline.

The portion of our family that lived near us for several years migrated to rural Harrogate, Tennessee. Rather than be alone as senior citizens in a region known for its high taxes and flukey climate, we decided to join them here.

I only have five months of experience with the people of Appalachia. When we moved here, I never even thought of this area as part of Appalachia. I tend to think of Kentucky and West Virginia as part of the region, but not Tennessee. 

Like most of the uninitiated, I think of Tennessee as a desirable location. You say, “Tennessee” to most folks, and they reply with “Nashville”, and Nashville is booming. Maybe they will think of Memphis, Chattanooga, Knoxville, or Pigeon Forge and Dollywood. But here in eastern Tennessee the term Appalachia is owned and embraced.

I am trying to understand all that is packaged in that word because Appalachia is my home now and likely will be until I die.

Maybe AI is good for something. Here is the AI view from 100,000 feet up. 

Appalachia is a cultural and geographical region in the eastern United States that stretches from southern New York to northern Mississippi, encompassing parts of 13 states. The region is defined by the Appalachian Mountains and is home to a diverse population with a rich history. While the area has a strong cultural identity, it also faces modern challenges such as poverty and a need for better infrastructure.

Without a doubt it is different here than anywhere we have ever lived. The most outstanding thing my wife and I have noticed is the kindness, politeness, and congeniality of the people. I am not just trying to get on your good side. This distinctive was striking to us and we love it. 

I have been referred to as “brother” by people I just met and our new names are, “Mr. Glenn” and “Miss Patty”. Also, a shopping cart became a buggy. Everything is closed on the weekends and stories are a part of any significant transaction. It slows things down a bit much for most northerners but shows a real interest in each other as people.

To us, things here seem old-timey and quaint. A lot of things that used to be a common part of interpersonal relations and have long since faded away elsewhere remain here.

The mountains in our backyard are a special treasure. I think we are beginning to get used to everything being strung out in the hollers. 

We have a found a surprising number of local businesses in our new “twin cities” of Tazewell and New Tazewell, Tennessee. Also, we found a surprising amount of traffic on route 33. I don’t know where everybody comes from.

Taxes here are unbelievably lower than in Illinois. Property taxes are close to one-tenth. Government regulation also is far more lax. Where we used to live, you had to pull a permit and have several inspections to build a simple porch.

To be sure, there are more blighted residences and empty commercial buildings (at least around here), punctuated by an occasional grandiose home on a hill. It would seem to indicate the continued prevalence of poverty and a lack of good-paying jobs.

Isolation formed Appalachia. Back in the day when transportation was a struggle, things in our country where decentralized. You did business with a local merchant in your own little town. There was accountability. These days you can’t even get decent customer service no matter how many buttons you push on your cell phone or how long you wait while listening to terrible music. 

Here, the topography lent to the isolation and independence of the people as they embraced their own unique cultural history.

For generations all of this was denigrated, and the perception of Appalachia was that of an impoverished, uneducated people. 

It has become a different story as the uniqueness of the region has become embraced and celebrated.

Appalachia has massive beauty abounding with opportunities for outdoor recreation. It has its own special culture that has birthed countless musicians and artisans. Factories and businesses have located here due to favorable economic conditions. 

I think, (and most everything I have written is just me thinking out loud) this vast region has vast opportunities ahead. 

I would love to hear your thoughts.

Please contact me at glennhager1@gmail.com or find me at glennhager.com or on Facebook.

The photo of the barn was taken at the end of the my street.

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Health Scare

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I know I have been writing a lot about my health issues lately. But writers often write about something in the realm of their personal experience. Health issues have been an unexpected part of my personal experience lately, first orthopedic and then cardiac. I have enjoyed a remarkable lack of serious health issues my whole life, until now, so this is all new to me.

For three weeks I waited for a cardiology appointment form a large provider in Knoxville, our nearest city. Last Tuesday, I suggested to my primary care provider that we switch to another group that could actually follow through and make a phone call. 

Thursday, I got the call, which caused me to jump for joy and begin to worry in a different way, having no idea of what a visit there might entail, an interview, an EKG, a stress test, heart cath, and angioplasty, or surgery. Patty suggested I pack an overnight bag.

We arrived early at a medical facility with an army of cariologists. I got an EKG, a chat with the doc, and an increase in my new blood pressure medicine. That’s it!

It turns that I am kind of weird; no surprise I know. I have a low resting heart rate in the 50’s – 60’s, like an athlete. However, as my wife reminds me, I am not an athlete by any reach of the imagination. For some unknow reason my blood pressure went up but that can be controlled by medication. Since April I have had a lot of stress with moving and a whole lot of muscle and joint pain with old injuries flaring up.

My EKG is also weird which alarmed my PA. I have a hard beat and thickening of the left ventricle, called hypertrophy. All of this weirdness that decided to make itself known might cause a problem in the future, but most likely, it is just the way I am. It was something that alarmed my PA because it looks bad on an EKG but did not alarm the cardiologist at all since I have no symptoms whatever. 

Here are his conclusions:

Stop the Ibuprofen altogether. I had been taking 800mg 3x/day for 3-4 months for joint pain. It can cause some of these problems.

Increase the blood pressure medicine.

Wear a Holter monitor for three days.

Get a cardiac echo.

Go about my regular activities.

It’s hard to overstate how relieved and thankful I am! This entire episode has been surreal.

Thank you much for your concern and prayers.

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Waiting

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I’m still waiting to get an appointment with a cardiologist. It has been three weeks after I was told that I have some real issues in that department. 

Certainly, there are some good things about medical care in this country. We probably have some of the best and most advanced medicine in the world, if you can pay for it. However, it is uneven in its availability. 

We don’t have a system, but a mishmash of providers and insurance companies, government and private payment programs. Each one has a catalog of what’s covered and what’s not that takes an army of office staff to keep up with.

The goal of electronic records to make your information available to you and each of your providers has been a failure. Different systems are still being used.

The fact that I am still waiting for a response from a huge university cardiology group indicates that prompt, personal care is the exception, not the rule.

I am not a patient patient. My primary care doctor expressed great concern and a sense of urgency about my condition, and I can’t even get a returned phone call from a huge provider with a large staff of doctors. Something is wrong.

At times I am indignant. At times I am anxious and begin to imagine symptoms I don’t have. At times I am distracted, and it all is pushed to the back of my mind.

Waiting is a bitch. I have no idea about the tests or procedures that will be performed on me, or how long it all will take, or how we should plan for anything.

It’s all new to me having enjoyed good health most of my life.

What do you do when you are troubled by something but unable to do anything about it?

You can worry yourself sick about it.

You can wear out your family or friends by talking about it all the time.

Or you can make peace with it through prayer and faith and immerse yourself in life each day.

This waiting, this helplessness, reminds me that it not only relates to our personal life, but also the interpersonal.

How many times have we wanted something for somebody more than they seemed to want it themselves? These are the people who keep falling into the same hole, rather it is addiction, money management, or accepting treatment for mental illness. 

They ask for help. We help them. Then they fall again and again. We cannot fix them, no matter what we do. They have to take the necessary steps for themselves. 

I was a pastor for two decades and was confronted with this dilemma repeatedly, but there are no magic words. There isn’t enough money. There are no life-altering seminars. There is no magic prayer. The process of recovery usually comes gradually, one step at a time and it begins in the heart of the person who has been a victim of their own decisions.

But we can still support them, love them, and prayer for them.

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A Personal Note

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This post is a bit self-indulgent, but I needed to write it for me (and maybe for you or someone else who reads it.) 

I am seventy-one years old and have been blessed with good health. Finally, the “check engine” light came on.

Chronic joint and muscle pain have been my unwanted companions for about five months. At its worse, the hip pain kept me from being able to get in the car and unable to walk when I got out. 

The shoulder pain was an aggravation of old injuries and torn rotator cuffs. I couldn’t pick up our little dog, get my shirt on, or raise my left arm. It was excruciating in the mornings and hurt in the evenings. My left arm was very weak and painful. I never had anything like it before and certainly not for that duration. It was a long, painful, aggravating stretch.

It all flared up when I started packing to move to Tennessee. As it got worse, I put off going to the doctor because we were on such a tight schedule to get moved. I planned on seeking medical attention as soon as I could. 

I didn’t even make it to Tennessee. About midnight we rolled into Lafayette, Indiana. Both cars were ridiculously stuffed with last minute items that did not get on the moving truck, and we had Odie, the Terrific Terrier. This was our planned first stop, since we had to be out of the old house, but we planned on getting there several hours sooner.

I got out of the car and could just barely hobble. Odie escaped and was checking out the hotel. The world’s best night manager saw I was in pain while Patty parked both cars and brought in the stuff we needed.  He chased Odie down and brought him to our room.

I woke up the next morning not being able to imagine driving all the way to eastern Tennessee. So, we stopped at an urgent care place. A prednisone pack gave me about three better days.

All in all, I have been to two urgent care centers, made six visits to a local orthopedist, had numerous cortisone shots and prednisone packs until I couldn’t get anymore because of potential side effects. Then I began physical therapy for sixteen sessions (twice a week). It took about ten sessions before I saw improvement. Now I am at about 80% – 90% which is a huge relief. I graduated physical therapy but continue to do the exercises. 

Then I found out that was just chapter one of my health issues.

It was time to find a primary care doctor so I could get my prescriptions refilled. Upon the recommendation of our daughter-in-law (one of the three nurses in our family) we went to PA in Tazewell, close to home. She was wonderful, a straight talking, caring, country doctor sort. I really like her.

One of the first things medical personal do is take your blood pressure. Mine is always near perfect. The nurse took it and immediately returned with an EKG machine and asked me all of the usual questions about symptoms of heart disease. Light-headed? No. Dizzy? No. Shortness of breath? No. 

She told me to take my shirt off and lie down on the examine table. Then she stuck electrodes all over my hairy self.  My blood pressure systolic number was over 200. Do you have a history of high blood pressure? No. I just want my two little maintenance scripts refilled. 

The PA came in and she was very concerned, “Mr. Hager your EKG is very irregular,” and she showed me the particular squiggly of concern. You need to see a cardiologist in Knoxville. We will write the referral today. To sum it up so I can understand it: My blood pressure is too high, my pulse is too low, and I have a weird EKG.

I said I feel fine! She said, “I wouldn’t be surprised if you don’t need a heart cath and a pacemaker.” I thought, I just want my prescriptions refilled. Then she said,” If you have any symptoms call 911 immediately.” 

The only good thing about the visit was that she told me to stop mowing the yard and have someone else do it.

I was in shock. Wasn’t five straight months of ortho pain enough? I swore to myself. It was surreal.

I am the kind of person who feels like I need to process everything in order to move on. I realized my initial response was shock. It was a lot to take in. 

My second response was sadness. The kind that can make tears well up. I want to live a full and active life. I know I am seventy-one, but, honestly, I am a slow learner and am just now getting a handle on some things and figuring out the kind of person I want to be the rest of my life. I want to learn how to love other people better. In short, I have stuff to do and people to love.

I don’t want to cause my family any burden or have to be cared for. I want to take care of them. I don’t want to leave them.

How could all of these health issues happen at the same time while we were just getting settled in a new area? I have no idea.

The process was shock, sorrow, “Sherlock Mode” (trying to figure it out), and finally settling down. 

That’s me. I need a little time to process things and wallow around in the worst-case scenario.

Right after this I talked to a dear friend who has been on a pacemaker for decades and has lived a wonderful life. 

Today I chatted with another person, a contractor that is fixing up our little buildings. He has been electrocuted and suffered several heart attacks. Ironically, he is doing the electrical work. 

It takes a good while to get in to see the cardiologist. I have been waiting fifteen days so far. I don’t know what the future holds. But my worry factor went way down.

I think there are some lessons for me to learn. 

  • Many people have worse things to deal with. Now I can be a little more empathetic.
  • Many people have faced similar issues and have continued to have a full life. 
  • Live each day big. Dive into it. Relax. Find the blessing. Be the blessing.
  • Live each day small, too. Don’t miss anything. There are so many blessings and opportunities.
  • If you know Jesus, you are in a win-win situation.This could be something kind of big or not so big. It feels surreal because
  • I feel fine and can do almost anything, but mow the yard, and it has been so hot I wasn’t enjoying that too much.

Waiting. Not worrying. Keeping the faith. Focusing on others. Nurturing peace, the kind that God gives. It’s a challenge, but doable.

I’m okay.

Thank you for the prayers and for indulging me.

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Dirt

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There must be a little dirt in my blood, more specially, clay. It sounds like a cardiovascular nightmare, but the point is I have always liked dirt track racing. 

When I was a kid, my parents frequented the local track at a nearby town in Northwest Missouri. When we moved to Decatur, in central Illinois, we had Macon Speedway close by. Finally, when we lived in northeastern Illinois, we had Wilmot Speedway just across the state line in Wisconsin. They each hosted various classes of cars, classics, late models, and sprint cars.

 As life got busy, we only went to races occasionally

Now that I live in New Tazewell, we have Tazwell Speedway just up the road a bit. Just a few days ago we made our inaugural visit to the track, which is positioned to have a scenic backdrop of distant mountains and rolling hills.

The most impressive thing is the track itself which is low and highly banked while the seating is elevated so you are right on top of the action. If you are seated up high, you can see the entire track without turning your head. 

Things moved rapidly and efficiently: hot laps, qualifying, and feature races for each class.

Racing always seemed very Americana to me, with overtones of evangelicalism, patriotism, conservatism, good-ole-boy-ism, competition, and danger. Obviously, these drivers are highly skilled adrenalin junkies. The fans are too, in a different way. 

It’s fast, loud, powerful, exciting, dangerous, and unpredictable. No doubt, it takes a lot of money, technical skill, and driver instinct to do well in this sport.

In reality, it is a bunch of overpowered cars being driven in a circle making four left turns. When you think of it in those terms it sounds a little silly. But so does football, which is a bunch of big, extravagantly paid, stout young men battling to get a weird-shaped ball to the end of a field. 

I guess a similar observation could be made about numerous sports and pastimes causing some people to think these pursuits have no value, but, in fact, they do.

They give us someone to cheer for (our favorite driver, player, or team.)

They give us a tribe (fans of the same driver or team.) It opens up a family-like relationship, providing a sense of belonging.

Here is another example. Since we are originally from the Kansas City area. We have watched Kansas City Chiefs games weekly with our son, daughter-in-law, and occasionally, others for about twenty-five years. For several years, we have gone to Chiefs training camp at my hometown in St. Joseph, Missouri. We have bonded together around this crazy game and it gives us an excuse to get together and eat good food. 

These sports give us something to cheer about (or to complain about) that really doesn’t matter. We have a few hours together of free emotional expression and community over something other than our usual responsibilities and worries. 

They bring us together, providing us a break in the routine of busy days, worries and preoccupations.

While it might seem trivial in the ultimate scheme of things, it really does matter.

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It’s Different Here

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This post is intended for both local readers and those who live elsewhere.

Barn at the end of my street

I have lived in Tennessee a little over two months. That’s not very long, especially since so many people I have talked to have lived here all their life. But it is long enough to note some interesting contrasts to life back in northeastern Illinois where we lived between Chicago and Milwaukee for thirty-two years.

It didn’t take long to arrive at some conclusions about my new community. This place is not perfect. There are needs here like there are anywhere, but there some things about this area that I love, and I hope they never change. 

Here are some things to be proud of and some of the area’s greatest assets.

People here are delightfully congenial, polite, respectful, and kind. 

I hear it in daily conversations:

  • Being addressed by “Ma’am” or “Sir”
  • “Welcome to Tennessee.”
  • “Let me know If I can help you in any way.”
  • “I wouldn’t mind it just one bit.”
  • “Let me help you with that”
  • “Have a great day.” 

Sometimes northerners take themselves too seriously and focus more on what’s proper than what is congenial and caring. 

To me, these expressions seem pleasant, mannerly, quaint, southern, and comforting. They remind me a bit of where I grew up in Missouri. It’s a delightful, kind, and loving way to relate to people. 

These words and phrases used to be more common. Here they never went away.

I don’t just hear kindness in the language, but I also hear it the stories. Doing business in northeastern Tennessee is more than a transaction. It’s a relationship.

This tends to frustrate some folks not from here who just want the facts and get things done ASAP. 

If you need to buy something or hire somebody for a job, stories will ensue. You’ll hear stories about their business, various jobs, and other slices of life. The best part is they are unhurried and take time to make a true connection. They not only tell you their stories but patiently listen to yours as well. It shows the relationship is more important than the transaction.

It’s old-timey around here. I don’t mean behind the times or out-of-step with the popular culture. I mean some of the old ways have been long forgotten elsewhere. Here they never went away.

I hear it in the music. A few evenings ago, we took a little drive and wound up at an old out-of-the-way diner with amazing mountain views, huge portions, and some old-school, down home mountain musicians who kept it lively.

Last week I wandered into a local hardware store that seemed largely unchanged for decades with its original wood floors and owner seated at the rear of the store. It had survived numerous economic challenges to stay well-stocked and vital to this day. 

Newer is not always better. 

People work here. I mean they work with their hands. They sweat and get dirty. Where we lived most of the good jobs were in huge corporate office buildings. Also, many people worked from their home. 

Where we moved from, if you got the right degree, you could start your career with a six-figure salary. There folks commuted carrying their laptop in their backpack. Everything they did was on that computer. Most of the manual labor was done by migrants.

I like good honest work where people are not afraid to get their hands dirty and learn how to do something for themselves and help others. That is not the trend among most younger people and city dwellers today. They have a guy for that.

Granted, there are not huge international business parks and corridors of corporate buildings here, like there are north of Chicago. The jobs here seem to be more manual and likely pay less. I would think that leaves several manual jobs or entrepreneurial opportunities for those who want to work. I have noticed several young people working hard at their own business who seem to be doing well.

I am not swooping in to try to analyze your culture because now it is my culture too. This is where I live. This is probably where I will die. I want to learn about life here. I want to talk to interesting people. I want to interact with you. Please, feel free to send me any words of wisdom you have for a newbie to Claiborne County, Tennessee.

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Goodbye. Hello.

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Sometimes it seems like life never changes.  Each new day is eerily like the one before. But occasionally, there is a huge change, and we know it is the beginning of a whole new chapter. There are a lot of pages in a book, but only a few chapters and you will know when you begin one. 

The last kid moves out of the house. You retire. You have grandkids. You downsize. These changes are marked by graduations, weddings, births, funerals, and the signs of aging. 

Moving is one of those new chapters. It is more jarring than I ever thought, a bit like pulling something up by the roots and re-planting it somewhere else in what you think will be a better place. It takes awhile before it begins to show signs of growth. (Now I have officially mixed my metaphors.)

We had some great roots in northeastern Illinois. 

A home fixed up the way we wanted it with a remodeled kitchen, bathrooms, family room, and a beautiful, peaceful backyard

A location in a small bedroom town, close to a vibrant city with a spectacular waterfront, its own unique culture, and tons of festivals

A solid group of neighbors who looked after each other. Conversations regularly ensued over fences and in driveways. We have been in each other’s homes numerous times and gone out to dinner. We grew close through the years.

A good chunk of our family was about five minutes away. Family is the most important consideration. So, when they decided to move, we did too.

These blessings and many more are the roots we pulled up.

Those years witnessed the marriage of our children, the birth of a grandson, the addition of our granddaughters, the birth of five great grandchildren, as well as the death of our parents and our brothers, leaving us the last of our family of origin. 

There were graduation parties from middle school, high school, colleges and universities. There were ongoing weekend games of rummy, so many shared meals, and visits from friends and family.

In twenty-seven years, we made a lot of memories.

It was a lengthy, packed chapter. A lot happened.

But it was time to say, “Goodbye”.

Now we live in the next chapter.

Is it possible that God would provide everything on our checklist for a new home? It is. The one thing we didn’t get was to have a larger yard and live further out in the country, but after caring for this yard and dealing with some infirmities, I’m glad we don’t’ have the larger lot and are near town.

We have a lot of advantages moving from a forty-nine-year-old home to one three years old. Nothing needs to be remodeled, updated, or repaired. We have never had that before.

We are in a subdivision, but it is out in the country. It takes a few miles of windy mountain roads to get here from the highway, yet it is only five minutes from town. We have the modern features of a split floor plan, a mud room, and LVP flooring throughout.

Our street is short, with only six houses. Our neighbors are mostly young. Yet, it is usually quiet. 

We hated to give up our back porch at the old place which had two levels and plenty of room for a table, rocking chairs, and a hot tub. Here we have a back porch that also has two levels to accommodate those same amenities, only it is also covered and has two ceiling fans. It’s our hangout. We play games and visit there.

We are in the Cumberland Mountain foothills. At one end of our little street, you see homes stacked up the hill like stair steps.  At the other end is a derelict barn that I am fond of. The homes are all nice, like suburbia, but the area has a country feel as yards are carved out of the clay and rock. If you decide to park your car or boat in your front yard, no problem.

It is different here and I will probably get into that more in the future.  We moved the flatness of Illinois and an upper Midwest, Great Lakes landscape to a mountainous area, covered in forests and steeped in its own special history and culture known as Appalachia.

What stands out here is the humble graciousness of the people. They are welcoming, helpful, and ready to share their life. People are in less of a hurry. They have their stories and are happy to listen to ours. 

That’s the beginning of the new chapter.

Hello.

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Was It Worth It?

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That’s what my physical therapist asked me the other day. 

I think most of you know we have moved from Northeastern Illinois to Northeastern Tennessee. 

It took a toll.

  • I lost eleven pounds without trying. 
  • I have a black toenail. (I must have dropped something on it.)
  • I am dealing with considerable ongoing pain in my hips and shoulders and have been under medical care including physical therapy for several weeks.
  • Our son and grandson who also moved were covered with bruises.
  • Even though we got rid of an immense amount of personal possessions, before the move, we were misled by our mover and had to leave things behind we intended to take.
  • Between the time we had to be out of our old home and into our new one, we had to stay at three different places, moving every day.
  • At times it was so stressful we took it out on each other each other.
  • It cost several thousand dollars for realtors, movers, hotels, paying for a multitude of fees involved in the transaction, and all of things needed in the new home.I try to learn from experiences, and I know several people who read what I write are of a certain age and may be thinking about making one more move.

Here is my best advice:

Don’t. Don’t move unless you have really good reasons to do so. You cannot imagine everything that needs to be done. It will wear you down and overwhelm you, especially if you have lived in your home a long time and have a lot of stuff.

We had good reasons and had thought, talked, and prayed about it for a long time. Our main reason was to be near family in our latter years. We also were fond of the warmer climate and much lower taxes.

Choose your mover with care. We chose our mover carefully and they did a good job in many ways; except they vastly underestimated the amount of stuff we had and the size of the truck we needed. Be sure your mover uses the same people to load, drive, and unload. Working with a broker who jobs out different parts of the process can me a nightmare. Even with our challenges, our son and granddaughter had far worse experiences with their movers.

Count on everything taking longer than you think it will. That includes packing, unpacking, getting your new home set up, and all the behind-the-scenes paperwork for the mortgage company, changing your address, banking info, and licenses.

Be aggressive about getting rid of stuff. Excessive possessions wind up being a burden for us or our kids. We had to continually get rid of more

We have been Tennessee residents for two months now. We love our house. We love the land. We love the people. We love being close to a good chunk of our family. We love it here.

Most of the good things in life and the most important decisions are hard and drawn out. Yet, to go through it all with some sense of sustaining grace and conclude with a sense of gratitude reassures us it is worth it.

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No Spring Chicken

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I literally hobbled into the hotel in Lafayette, Indianna at midnight. We had to be out of our old home and wanted to get a few miles down the road toward our new home. We never dreamed we would be so late. 

There we were nearly 200 miles from our old home in Winthrop Harbor, Illinois and 400 miles from our new home in New Tazewell, Tennessee. Our two cars were packed to the gills, and we had Odie, The Terrific Terrier who got away from us at check-in and was exploring the hotel. Thankfully, the night manager was aware of my condition and recovered the wayward canine.

I awoke the next morning, tense and troubled. The remaining 400 miles may as well been an international trip. I could not imagine how I would endure it. I hurt. Patty had to pick up my leg to raise it high enough to get into the car. Sitting was uncomfortable. Getting up and trying to walk was a long, painful process. Frankly, my butt hurt, and my shoulders were beginning to hurt. Ironically, it all happened when we were on a tight schedule to close on both homes.

These maladies seemed to spring from earlier injuries. I injured my right shoulder about three years ago when I fell of a ladder. A cortisone shot and therapy got me back to full function. About a year later a similar thing happened on the left shoulder when I was setting our merchant’s tent. I had a small tear in the rotator cuff, bursitis, inflammation, and some other issues, but had a similar recovery.

Last summer I got sciatica from setting on our couch that wore out way too soon. Walking was painful, but I was able to sit elsewhere and exercise my way out of it. The shoulder and butt pain began getting worse in the early spring. I thought I could exercise my way out of pain again, but it didn’t work, and we had to pack. I determined to do what I needed to do and seek medical attention later. Later came sooner than I hoped. 

I relented to the unmanaged pain and the persistent voices of those around me and sought out an urgent care center in Lafayette. I couldn’t go on the way things were.  A sense of relief began to flow just knowing things might get better.

I walked up to the receptionist’s window, and she asked, “What brings you in?” I replied with a summary description of my pain, ending with, “I just need something for this pain!” Then I sat down to await my turn. My retired nurse wife whispered in my ear, “You just got labeled a drug addict.” The young PA and I had a laugh as I tried to convince her I am not a druggie.

She gave me several medications, and they worked giving me three to four good days. Since then, I have had five visits to a local orthopedist, x-rays, MRI’s, two oral doses of steroids, and four cortisone shots. Each time they are good for about three days. Because of potential side effects, I can’t have anymore for several weeks. Also, I have had four sessions of physical therapy. My therapist says it usually takes four to eight weeks of therapy to notice significant improvement.

In general, pain has been a nearly constant companion for about three months.

I get by.  I have a spot on my back that hasn’t had a good washing for a while. I usually need help getting my shirt on and off, and I can only go for short rides and usually do not drive. I can’t lift anything heavy with my left arm or reach very far. It seems like being somewhat active, but careful works best.

My most intense pain is in my left shoulder, but I still have the butt pain, some pain in the right shoulder, and a weird feeling in the back of my knees.

I appreciate prayers that I get back to normal. I have been feeling old and frail. My seventy-three-year-old doctor reminded me that I am no spring chicken. 

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A Moving Experience

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You may have noticed that I have been AWOL on the blog and on Facebook for nearly two months. The reason: we moved and that process ate up all my time and energy. It has been such an Odessey I have been itching to write about it so I can better understand all that has happened..

When I let one of our neighbors know we were moving, he replied,” That’s one of the biggest pains there is.” I replied, “I am looking forward to it, but then we have lived in this house for twenty-seven years, so maybe I forgot what it is like.” That is one of the most profound things I have ever uttered.

Parts of the process were smooth as silk. We had culled our earthly processions, taking loads to Goodwill. We spenty just a little money fixing a few things and staging the house. We only did little things that made a significant difference. We engaged a very successful real estate agent and sold the house for full asking price a week before it went on the market.

We continued to breeze though the numerous steps. We passed the home inspection and even met and liked the couple who bought our house.

So far, so good.

Then we made a trip to Tennessee where a big chunk of our family was moving. We worked with another very experienced agent and found our house on day one.

It was the one we most liked on Zillow and seeing it in real life made us like it more. Our agent commented that it was a nice house, and she checked to see if there were any offers. There was one and the owners had set 5:00 PM that day as the deadline for offers and making their decision.

The proprietor of the real estate firm was out of town on a family cruise and our agent was temporarily in charge. Most of the technology in the office was down and all businesses in the tiny town had closed for the day. So, there was no place to get documents copied. She had to take photos of the lengthy tome and send them a few pages at a time to the other agent. Our agent just barely beat the clock. She is 82 but has more energy than anyone I know.

We put in an offer that we thought would be strong enough to be the chosen one. As we sat eating dinner at Cracker Barrel in Middlesboro, Kentucky, just across the state line, I got the call that our offer was accepted. I did a fist pump and yelled, “All right!” and told our server we just bought a house. It was an exciting and emotional moment.

So far, so good.

For three weeks we did nothing but pack and provide information for the big transaction. It was like having a steady job and it took much longer than anticipated. With our volume of stuff, there was no question about hiring a mover. We hired a good one. 

Our son and family who moved at the same time unknowingly hired a broker and had a litany of problems. They were days late and could not take everything on their truck. Our son and daughter-in-law wound up having to rent another truck on their own to haul everything.

Fortunately, our moving company used the same people to load, drive, and unload. They did a good job; except they underestimated the size of the truck needed. 

Moving companies come to your home to estimate how much stuff you have and what size truck you will need. After they came out, I made more trips to Goodwill and got rid of more things on Facebook Marketplace and put everything in the garage in our son’s rented truck. I called our company and told them I think they underestimated the size of the truck needed. I was assured they did not.

On moving day, they were not able to load most of the things in the backyard, lawn furniture and things we wanted to take. Also, they could not pick up six boxes of books I had moved to storage facility. This was after I had reduced the load considerably. So, we had to leave the books for a later trip, and we gave a lot of stuff to the new owners.

By the time they had loaded everything, it was late. We had to clean the house and make it to a Lafayette, Indiana hotel.  We could barely squeeze the last bits into the cars. We arrived at midnight. 

We were exhausted, stressed and frustrated.

By that time, I hurt so bad, I could not raise my leg to get into the car or hardly walk when I got out.

We were surprised (or shocked) by the day’s turn of events.

Part 2 next time.

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Odie Coyte, the Terrific Terrier

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About two and half years ago our long-haired Chihuahua died. He was an incredibly sweet little guy. He defied the breed stereotype by being a mellow cuddler who loved belly rubs. I never cared for small dogs, until we got him. I wound up loving him more than any dog ever.

We are dog people. So, soon as we got back from an extended stay down south, we knew we needed a canine companion. Odie came from a kill shelter in Corbin, Kentucky. We found him at an organization in the Chicago burbs that cares for dogs until they get adopted; a doggie orphanage.

He was supposed to be mostly Chihuahua. It was hard to tell since he was only four months old. He had a bit of a scruffy, whiskery face, was a bit calmer than the other dogs, and was prone to giving little puppy nibbles. These traits immediately endeared him to us.

He won us over. He was our favorite.

It turns out, he is not a chihuahua, but a twenty-one-pound border terrier. His whiskers became more pronounced like a Scotty. He has more energy than any other living being on the planet. And he had a terrible biting problem for at least a year and half.  

That was the “What have we done?” stage of our relationship with Odie. But he was family by then. We survived.

Odie is a graduate of Puppy School. He was stressed to be around other dogs and not be able to play but excelled at recess with all other dogs chasing him.

What he offers is a high entertainment value. He is amazingly fast and has more cagey moves that any NFL running back. He will play with the other dogs for hours until they are both exhausted. Then he sleeps well into the next day.

He wakes up with us but is in cuddle mode for two to three more hours. He usually takes an afternoon nap and falls asleep at eight o’clock in the evening. He plays with me every evening. He lets me know it’s time to play by sounding like a vicious Tasmanian Devil and play biting me. I have no choice. So, we chase each other around the house or the yard. He is nearly impossible to catch.

He loves his toys and gets them out every day. In the evening when we are watching a favorite TV program, he ever so often begins relentlessly squeaking them. If that does not get your attention he gets on the back of the couch, pushes the toy against you ear and squeaks it. 

He has matured. He no longer bites so that it hurts. He is mostly quiet and very loving and cuddly at home if there are no new people or dogs around. Even when there is, he settles down soon.

He has superhero vision and hearing which makes him a reliable watch dog. I would, however, like him to turn down his sensitivity setting. 

I have seen lists of ways a dog shows he loves you and he has every one of them. 

Not unlike most people, he is a real character, but we love him.

As active as he is, he stops to pose for photos.

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Tetris and Life

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I am not a game person. They seem like a waste of mental energy and pointless competition. But I have some exceptions. I like the interaction that games encourage. You get to let your hair down and have some fun with people. Scrabble has some appeal because at least you are making words. I so predate video games that I remember Asteroids and Pacman. The only video game I ever played much was Tetris which I played on my son’s original Gameboy.

The game reminds me of a couple of things. I am good at packing things, like cars for road trips and moving trucks. My son reminded me that it is like a giant game of Tetris. He also said he doesn’t know how to pack a car to this day because I always did it.

Tetris also reminds me of big projects with a lot of moving pieces and things that need to be decided at a seemingly increasing rate. 

This move we are making to Tennessee is that kind of project. The fact that our son and family are moving at about the same time adds an additional element as we try to figure out how to get our stuff done and help each other. We just merged our calendars a few days ago. It looks like our lull might be short-lived as I need to make several phone calls this week and hopefully move Patty’s Beadmomma shop and my library to storage.

I have been responsible for numerous large projects on the job and at home. They seem like a never-ending story. You make a list and dive into an item only to find another long list that you didn’t really count on. Finally, you think you are done but discover more things that need attention. Almost always with big projects something goes wrong or something unexpected happens. 

Have you ever thought about how much of life, or any job, or any craft is problem solving? Our response to those problems is a key juncture. You can get depressed. I have done that. You can get mad. I have done that. Or you can get busy dealing with it. Sometimes I have done that. Positive energy is always better than negative energy. One works at getting things done. The other digs a deeper hole.

I hope this all makes some sense.

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My New Baby

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That’s a photo of my new baby. I have four others. So, you must think I am a good guitarist or play in a band. Nope. I just play for me. However, it would be fun to play in a band. 

In a sense I do play in a band in that I play along with a band. I have a high-tech amp that does more things than I know how to use. It pairs with a companion app through which I can access most any effect known to man. 

I can also pull up a you tube video of a band playing a song and see the chords in real time. That enables me to play rhythm along with them and that is what I have been enjoyed doing ever since I got the amp a few years ago.

No doubt, I should be advancing in skill level instead of staying stuck playing rhythm. Ever so slowly, I am beginning to learn a few licks. Eventually, I hope to learn how to write my own riffs and even songs. Honestly, I had so much fun doing what I have been doing that I just kept doing it.

When I was a kid, I had an off-brand semi-hollow body electric and took some lessons which I found boring. Eventually, I sold that guitar during hard times. 

My dear wife borrowed money to buy me a nice 12-string acoustic Epiphone forty-six years ago as a Christmas gift. Twelve strings are rhythm instruments and difficult to play because there are twelve strings to press to the neck, rather than six. But I thought twelve strings were cool at the time. I didn’t play it much, though it is still beautiful and looks like new. I will not part with it.

Several years ago, I rewarded myself upon completing an extensive course of study in nonprofit management by buying a Yamaha plug-in acoustic. That got me playing again after many years away.

About five years ago, I got to play my son-in-law’s Fender Square Telecaster. That ignited the fire to get an electric guitar and eventually led to the purchase of an all-black Fender Telecaster Player’s Edition and I have played the heck out it. The Telecaster (Telie) is one of the most original guitar models and is simple to control. The flip of a switch takes you to entirely different sound. This is probably the most popular guitar in the world. It’s kind of twangy and the base E string really pops. Most all country bands use them.

My next to the last baby is one of the prettiest, an all-black Gretsch Electromatic Jet. Guitars are generally hollow, like acoustics or solid like Telecasters and Les Pauls, but this one is chambered due to the availability of the wood and weight considerations. She is a pretty girl and can really scream, but I am still a bit challenged by the Gretsch controls. I was first introduced to this pretty girl while visiting Guitar World (a big boy’s toy store) in the Twin Cities with my son-in-law. I succumbed to purchase a couple of years later.

My newest baby just purchased is the most beautiful yet, a Gretsch semi-hollow small body electric with a Sweet Tea quilted maple finish. We have been busy getting acquainted. She gives me a different sound I was looking for.

They each have a different look, sound, and feel. Oddly, three of the guitars have a version of a sunburst finish and two are solid black. I am a bit of a traditionalist going with well established brands and rather conservative finishes.

What is the thing with guitars?

  • They allow me to fulfill the dreams of my youth. I never dreamed until recent years that I would ever own another electric guitar.
  • They are both beautiful and cool. They are works of art and beautiful craftmanship. I guess because they come from the era of rock music and my youth it makes them cool.
  • They offer both creativity and therapy. Making music has no end. The joy of playing a role with other players in a band and being a part of the total, beautiful sweeping wall of sound is a unique joy. Just being able to wail my heart out and loose myself in a song is worth the purchase price and ultimately much cheaper than therapy.
  • They remind me of Patty. She bought the first one and was with me, encouraging me as I bought each of the others.

So, they are among my most precious possessions.

They are a reminder that we all need something to do that we enjoy to stay mentally, emotionally, and spiritually healthy.

I hope you find your sweet spot that energizes and replenishes you. 

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Sun Circles

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This post has nothing to do with atmospheric conditions or skin care. It is a reflection about our trips around the sun. Tomorrow I will celebrate 71 of them. I am not fishing for birthday wishes of happiness and joy (though always appreciated). Rather, I am using it as an opportunity to reflect, thinking that some of you reading are seeing similar numbers on the odometer of life.

I am grateful that I have thus far been spared the chronic ailments often associated with a significant accumulation of sun circles. To the best of my knowledge, I don’t have diabetes or cardiovascular issues, though they are prevalent in my family. I do have some wear and tear. Here is my list of boo-boos:

A concussion. When I was in third grade, I was riding down the pothole-laden hilly street I lived on with no hands on the handlebars and I hit a pothole, was thrown and knocked unconscious, lying on the street. That landed me in the hospital with a broken eye orbit and lots of abrasions on my face.

A broken arm. A brat kid tripped me as I was running while waiting for the school bus in fourth grade. Both bones of my arm were almost sticking out of my skin, but I got on the bus and walked home a good distance from the bus stop. (I know it sounds the tales of our parents who walked to school, uphill both ways through massive snow drifts, but it is true.)

A broken nose. I was teaching a kid how to play racket ball without allowing enough distance from his surprising reach.

A torn calf muscle. I was heavily involved in a water fight with my grandson Sam, who was nine at the time. Something hit me (still don’t know what) as the muscle was taunt. It disabled me for some time.

Two torn rotator cuffs. The right arm was victim to falling off a ladder. The left from putting up a tent. For both, I avoided surgery but needed physical therapy.

Surgery on my left, lower eyelid. It had drooped (and is doing it again). An age thing. It hurt and looked terrible for a while.

A gallbladder attack. I thought I was having a heart attack. The offending organ is no longer with me.

Now you have my medical records whether you were interested or not.

Yes, there are more aches and pains, and I make more trips to the bathroom. However, I can do most anything I used to, though it may take me longer. I get more tired out. Fortunately, I have learned short cuts for some things (the wisdom of age).

This all seems normal to me, for my age.

I value simple things more, a quiet, but productive day, the absence of trauma and drama, a conversation with a friend or neighbor, my playful puppy, sitting with Patty in our backyard watching the hummingbirds, playing guitar, creating something, going for a walk, an engaging story, a good party or outdoor festival.  

It seems like in many ways I am the same inside, still a little insecure, still hating conflict, still disliking the feeling of confinement, still struggling with some anxiety.

Yet, I have accepted and made peace with the flaws of my life, whether they be ones of my parents or other people or myself. I am working to face those things, learn from them, and then leave them alone in the past where they belong. 

I am getting better at living in the moment and enjoying it. I realize that difficult times will pass, and I can learn and grow through them.

One lesson learned is we all  need to do something: a job, a parttime retirement job, a small business, volunteer work, or a hobby; something that we enjoy.

My goal is to live a life of love, and I sometimes I fall on my face. I have distilled my faith and my life owning and sharing the peace, love, and joy given to me by God. Looked at another way, with God I have peace. With others, the main thing is to love them. With life, to never miss an opportunity to see the joy.

So, ends circle #70 and begins #71.

I am in solidarity we all of you navigating  this stage of life with all of its challenges and joys.

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Still Home of the Chiefs

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I had planned to write a tribute to my Chiefs while basking in the warm glow of victory. Instead, I am writing to process my grief.

I never really thought about the Chiefs losing after their victorious season of generally doing just enough to win game after game. I didn’t know much about our opponent, other than the success of their vaunted running back. Watching the game with a confident attitude made the sting of the meltdown even worse.

What the heck happened? I only have rudimentary knowledge of the game, but the consensus is the o-line broke down not giving Mahomes enough time to throw the ball downfield. Really, most everything went wrong, penalties, interceptions, sacks. 

However, this Monday morning quarterback thinks there was a problem that has plagued most of my team’s poor performances. It is the re-occurring theme of trying to force an arial bomb downfield, instead of playing the game at hand with short passes, quick releases, and utilizing our very good running backs. That’s just me, but I have limited understanding.

Moving from the analytical to the philosophical, this thing called the National Football League (even though they play in other countries) is pretty crazy. 

I often say the game appears to have originated with gladiators (the players), billionaires (the owners), lawyers (the officials who adjudicate the massive rule book), and marketers (who have turned a game into a multi-billion-dollar industry).

Sunday, I reveled in all of the hype and grandeur of the pre-game spectacle. It is an annual celebration of American culture. Beer, betting, and bingeing are encouraged through ads that cost eight million dollars for thirty seconds. The NFL always works in some well-produced messages, encouraging unity and tolerance, appealing to our better angels. Tickets are several thousand dollars. Celebrities cheer from their outrageously-priced luxury suits.

It is crazy. It is just a game, right? Yes and no. It is a game that becomes an excuse for all the rest. It is about money, lots and lots of money and celebrity (players, entertainers, and attendees). 

But it is also about gathering with people we love and who love the same team. It is about sharing good food, stories, and humor. It is about forgetting about the important stuff and the troubling issues and getting wrapped in something that really doesn’t matter. Yet, it does because it entertains us, unites us, and gives us something to share.

We are blessed in that we have watched nearly every Chiefs game for almost a quarter of a century. We are even more blessed in that we have watched those games in a massive fan cave festooned with most any Chiefs branded item you can think of and many that you have not. We share really good food, and we do it all with our son and daughter-in-law, and sometimes with our grandchildren and great grandchildren. 

Back about 2000 our son and daughter-in-law invited us over to watch the Chiefs play. It made sense because we are originally from the KC area. But it didn’t make sense because we neither understood nor cared about the game. Boy, did that ever change.

We have watched through many terrible seasons, way before the dynasty, and the Travis and Tay-Tay gossip. And we will keep watching. I firmly believe the Chiefs will continue to be very competitive so long as they have Bret Veach, Andy Reid, and Patrick Mahomes. 

I would not trade this journey for anything. The very best part of it is the incredible way it been instrumental in forming a deep bond with my son. We have even made several pilgrimages to St. Joseph, Missouri, our hometown and home of the Chiefs Training Camp. We have met many of the players and accumulated several of their autographs.

You may have noticed that during the singing of the national anthem, Chiefs fans conclude with “and the home of the Chiefs.” Our homes, wherever we live, and our hearts (because of how this crazy game brings us together) will continue to be “the home of the Chiefs.”

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Simplification

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It’s time for us to do a final clean out of our house before we meet with our realtor March 1st and put our home of twenty-five years on the market in early April. Fortunately, we also did some of this last fall knowing this time was coming. 

We have gotten rid of lots of stuff, including a few SUV loads to Goodwill, bunches to the garbage, the metals re-cycler, and the enterprising folks who drive by the day before trash pick-up and throw stuff in their car or truck. Thank you all! 

Now we are getting the place spiffy for showing and I am so glad we allowed plenty of time for this process. Previous moves have involved a lot of pressure and rushing. Moving is a huge project with plenty of stresses without waiting until last minute.

As we get rid of stuff our life becomes simpler. If we don’t, one day all our possessions will become a burden to us or our kids. No, thank you!

There are other virtues to thinning out our possessions. When we get rid of the excess, we can find the good stuff, the things we need and should hang onto. Moving costs will be less and our new home won’t get immediately filled with clutter. We have been looking at places on Zillow for a long time and clutter in a photo is huge buzzkill.

Simplification and organization are close cousins. About fifteen years ago, I finally got our legacy documents in order, and I put together simple instructions so that a person off the street could pay our bills and manage our affairs. Simplification is a lot of work up-front but makes things significantly better for all concerned.

Some people think they are at their best when they are multi-tasking, though research shows otherwise. Since we can only do one thing at a time, it works better to make a list and prioritize it and get going. That’s the pathway to simplification.

I get a lot of joy out of accomplishment, scratching things off my list and enjoying the order and beauty left behind. Also, it’s a good feeling just knowing it’s done.

Simple is good!

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7 – Oh

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I have been wanting to write about this for so long that I am now only two months from turning 7 – One.

I remember the milestone birthdays, 40, 50, 60, 70, especially seventy, though 50 was interesting, since it was at Chucky Cheese. 

When I was a kid, if you reached 70, you were almost done in this life. Times have changed. Healthcare has improved. We aging baby boomers have surged like crazy. There are 57.8 million of us, 17.3% of the population in US, one in six of the entire population. 

I think people who turn 70 and are doing okay, brag about it. They tend to casually mention, “Well I am seventy.” I am okay with that. After we have been working toward it for a long time.

The average life span is 78. Not too far away. But if you make it to 65, odds are you will live to be, on average, 84.

It’s weird being the age of our parents when they were old. In our family, there is no one still here from our parent’s generation and even our siblings have passed. We are now the senior members of the clan.

Here are some encouraging observations:

  • We neither need nor want drama.
  • We finally realize we need to take care of ourselves.
  • We appreciate a quiet night at home more than ever.
  • We don’t have anything to prove.
  • The term, “late” is getting earlier and earlier.
  • Life has slowed down so we can appreciate the simple things.
  • If you are like me, there is a big gap between your mental age, as evidenced by your sense of humor, and your physical age as evidenced by how you feel when you get up out of your easy chair.
  • We are less sure about more things, but surer about a few things that are supremely important.

More encouragement:

  • Johnny Cash made his most acclaimed recordings (the series of American Recordings produced by Rick Rubin) in his 70’s when he was suffering from a multitude of illnesses.
  • Willy Nelson still has a busy touring and recording schedule at 91 and enjoys good health.
  • Bruce Springsteen is still delivering long, high-energy concerts at 75.
  • The list of actors over 70 is huge: Clint Eastwood, Helen Mirren, Morgan Freeman and many more.
  • The point is that these artists not only kept at their craft, but they did some of their best work late in life.

The point is that these artists not only kept at their craft, but they did some of their best work late in life. We need something to do that we care about, a job, volunteer work, a hobby, or something.

My advice is to kick some butt, do your thing, don’t hold back, and above all don’t act your age. Take the wisdom you have gained and put it to use. Enjoy life. Adapt as necessary, but don’t stop. Leave a legacy of love.

God bless you my fellow  septuagenarians (and my younger friends).

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Time to Make a Move

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About 300,000 people move out of Illinois every year, for a net loss of 116,000. We are moving out of Illinois.

About 226, 000 people move to Tennessee every year. The net gain is 43,000. We are moving to Tennessee. 

I have a few people to “blame” for this:

My cousin has lived in Orlando for several years. She is considering moving back to Missouri to have some people around who can lend a hand if needed for a health crisis. Most of her friends in the area are older and have their own health issues. It was something I hadn’t thought of before, but it had a big impact on our future decisions.

Our daughter-in-law bought nine, unrestricted, and mostly undeveloped acres in Tennessee near Cumberland Gap. Our granddaughter and family already have moved there, and our son and daughter-in-law are moving next Spring.

Our daughter-in-law’s boss lives in Cumberland Gap and owes a B&B there. She and our daughter-in-law work from home and frequently meet in Tennessee. She immediately fell in love with the beauty of the land and the friendliness of the people. 

We too love the mountains and the kind people who live there.

Our daughter and family live in St. Paul, Minnesota, a lovely city, but we are not neither city dwellers or lovers of snow.

We have lived in this area, a far north Chicago bedroom town, for 34 years and have been in this house for 27 years. We like it here. The area along Lake Michigan is truly beautiful. Our nearest city, Kenosha, Wisconsin is a manufacturing city that has re-invented itself as warehouses, logistics, tech, and tourist hub. The Lake Michigan waterfront is home to lighthouses, museums, outdoor markets, streetcars, and a host of festivals. It is beautiful.

Our neighbors are great, though the area is turning over as people reach their retirement years. My immediate neighbors have moved to Kenosha, Florida, Alabama, Arkansas, Missouri, and Tennessee. 

Yet, there are two things we do not have here, a mild climate and low taxes. 

We have been to Florida many times but could not find what we were looking for. It is getting very crowded, has lots of traffic, and walled subdivisions. It is simply too expensive to live close to the water. Of course, it gets pummeled by hurricanes, too.

We have always been drawn to the coast and the mountains. It looks like the mountains will win out. There is a nearby lake in Tennessee with the clearest water in the nation.

It’s a huge step, but we have had enough time to systematically plan for it by getting our house ready to list and checking out the new area. We almost bought a house there a few weeks ago. But now we are back to our original plan of listing our home in the spring.

It’s a big step for senior citizens. I talk to Patty about it as “one last adventure.” We seem to be ready for it, even with all the work and uncertainties involved. 

I have read how baby boomers who moved to Florida are now moving to Appalachia. We are looking forward to being with family and beginning a new chapter.

It is a great feeling to like where we are yet being ready for something new. It’s great to be on the same page with Patty. We are ready to make new friends and see new sights.

I have been thinking about “home.” 

It is more about the people around you than the structure that surrounds you. 

It is more of an attitude than an address.

But sometimes it is just the right time to make a move.

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What I Am Hanging Onto

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It is so easy to enumerate what I am done with when it comes to religion. It is profoundly more difficult to figure out what to hang onto. I feel like I should occasionally ask myself that question to see if I am total heretic or just a free spirit. 

Less and less, is an accurate description of what I am hanging onto, but I am hanging onto those things tighter and tighter.

I could make a massive list of stuff I let go of and another massive list of stuff I don’t know. But this list will be short.

I am hanging onto Jesus.

He is my model for how to live and it’s a model I very often fail to live up to.

He loved outcasts, the diseased, the despised, the foreigner, the poor, and the outcast.

He rebuked the corrupt and powerful, especially, the religious power brokers.

He was humble, but shockingly truthful.

He told stories that people related to. He was not a theologian and did not preach an expository sermon.

He occasionally confounded and challenged people to go deeper in their understanding.

He was a healer. Though I do not possess divine ability, I can still be a healer of hearts.

He gave people hope for now and for eternity.

I am hanging onto love

It’s hard to remember when we get consumed with ourselves and forget about others.

It’s hard to figure out what loves means for a particular individual. 

It’s hard to be nice, or even decent, at times, let alone loving.

But love really works to touch people deeply, like nothing else.

It’s our primary responsibility here on earth.

I am hanging onto truth

I do believe in objective truth, but what I am referring to is belief and behavior that is so true, it works its way out in regular life. It is real, raw, and not academic, esoteric, or theoretical. It doesn’t require its own subculture. It works in life with all its celebrations and challenges, achievements and disappointments, and triumphs and tragedies. It’s integrated not separated. 

I am hanging onto hope

I believe we can live in peace in this life. I believe we can become more loving. I believe we can live gracefully, gratefully, and joyfully. I believe we can reset to living life this way, even when we get thrown a few curve balls.

I believe there is hope for this life and the next, though we have only a scant few clues and promises about that. 

I don’t have any ideas about how to “fix church” or make it more relevant. It seems like things get messed up when we begin to organize it and institutionalize it. 

This is a pretty strange statement of beliefs, but it is mine.

Also publishing on Done With Religion

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Why I Am Done with Religion

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I feel like I need to write a disclaimer every time I write a post that is critical of the institutional church. I write about my experience over several decades, both very much inside the church and outside of it. I am not mad at anybody. There are no “sour grapes.” My opinion is just my opinion. I don’t belittle those who differ. Several people I love are very much a part of the institutional church. I do believe it is correct to address someone or something you love when you see it headed in a dangerous direction. In fact, it would be unloving to do otherwise. Please, do not mistake my concerns as a rejection of Jesus or the idea of church, a community vibrantly representing Christ in the real world.

As my relationship with the church and my religion came into question, my world unraveled, because church was my world. I was a pastor for over twenty years and loved all things church. I constantly read books about how to do church better. My friends were all church members and pastors, and my life was consumed by church services and church meetings and my pastoral calling was my north star in life.

What happened? Through the years, one-by-one cracks began to form in the relationship between me and the church until finally we went our separate ways. Those cracks were quiet questions that I did not allow myself to pursue. 

As I pastored a fledgling church in a small town already saturated with churches of the same denomination, I wondered, “why so many churches?” A crack began to form.

I could have had a great career at another church, if I just pandered to folks with some old-fashioned preaching and music, and back-slapping. I couldn’t do it. It seemed they wanted all the ministry directed toward themselves with little concern for those outside the fold. The crack was getting more defined.

I felt I needed a more serious congregation with more involved leadership. That desire took us to a church in a large suburb of Chicago which had become an Anglo Island in a Hispanic community. It was a congregation populated by seminary students, old fundamentalists, and younger evangelicals. With its inner division and transitioned neighborhood, it was a nightmare to lead. 

Finally, after several painful years and several existing members leaving, it became an authentic ministry with great community and an updated worship style. Yet, as a Hispanic congregation shared our building and thrived, it was obvious we were in the wrong location. 

During our move to temporary quarters in a more suburban and English-speaking setting, a key couple took it on themselves to share their discontent with others. It resulted in our small group becoming even smaller. After some time of meeting in our home, we disbanded. The betrayal pried open the crack even further. For the first time in my adult life, I was not a pastor, and I was undone.

In the years after, we hosted a house church of young adults in our living room, attended another house church, helped-out a couple churches with their welcoming ministry and community-wide outreach. Eventually, it seemed unlikely that I would ever find a church that aligned with my vision. That vision included a heart for the outsider and a willingness to try new avenues of acceptance and community.

The crack had become a gaping canyon. 

Also published at Done with Religion

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I Am Done With…

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This is one of the easiest and most cathartic posts I have ever written. It’s easy because I can clearly catalog the characteristics of evangelical religion that are distasteful to me. 

Since I write this at the peak fervor of our presidential campaign, Evangelical entanglement with politics immediately comes to mind. 

There seems to be a confusion about kingdoms. Christ’s kingdom and all the kingdoms of this world are vastly different. One is a kingdom of love and the others are kingdoms of power.

Earthly kingdoms are about control, Christ’s kingdom is about influence, the way we live our lives and love people. Earthly kingdoms are about enforcing laws, Christ’s is about love and changing hearts. Earthly kingdoms are about war, Christ’s is about peace with God and one another. Earthly kingdoms are about mandating rules, Christ’s is about choosing his ways from the heart. 

Christian Nationalism is an attempt to use earthly kingdoms to force on people what some determine to be Christian values. It’s like trying to mix oil and water. They are in opposition to one another. You cannot legislate or mandate a changed heart. It opens the door for politicians to adopt a few socially conservative policies, do lip service to religion, and use a couple of evangelical buzz words to get elected.

During the January 6th riots, I was as shocked as any American to witness the violent assault of the very heart of our government after being ginned-up by a man whose ego and was so huge but so fragile that he would assault our very democracy to try to be “a winner” (really a looser). 

In the violent chaos flags were waving, the American Flag, the Don’t Tread on Me Flag (Gadsden Flag), the Confederate Flag, the Trump Flag, and the Christian Flag. These flags represent the elements of Christian Nationalism. They are a toxic cocktail that confuses patriotism, individualism, racism, cultism, and religion. It looks nothing like Jesus and everything like an authoritarian political movement that is destroying the witness of the church. 

Folks who are not in the club, don’t get it. They wonder, “Why are Christians so hateful, so unloving, so bent on forcing their views on others.” Even they know that is not at all like Christ. This movement exposes a hypocrisy of a superficial faith defined by a few slogans, that hates its enemies, and ignores the obvious faults of its champion (not Christ). 

Christianity has become an exclusive club for the already convinced. So, churches hire a charismatic pastor and staff, build an impressive building, and offer a wide array of programs to keep the sheep happy and proud of what they have. They think the bigger all of this gets, the more successful the church must be. They rely on these assets, the buildings and staff.  With all the salaries and the mortgage, it takes a lot of money to keep the sheep happy. 

Every church has a little different idea about how to do church, hence the countless varieties, sometimes at the same intersection, like fast food outlets. 

Pastors and leaders have unrealistic expectations placed on them. A few are egomaniacs. Most are simply trying to fulfill their calling and keep the flock happy. Almost none can be honest about their feelings and struggles with anyone in the congregation because they are expected to be above mortal temptations (unlike the congregants). They are not, as proven by the numerous scandals involving members of the clergy.

Too many churches and associations of churches have become a self-centered, politically affiliated rest homes for the long-since convinced with little concern for those who need to see the Gospel in action.

I join the millions who are done with that. 

But it doesn’t mean we are done with Jesus.

Also published in Done With Religion.

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Relieved!

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I have been blessed with good health and hardly ever get ill. Now that I am an old man, some things don’t work quite as good as they used to, but I really don’t have anything to complain about. I don’t have any of the chronic conditions that many of my contemporaries have. So, It I find a little something wrong, I have to make a big deal out of it.

On Valentine’s Day, I wrote a post about compensating. The upshot was that I injured my shoulder by falling from a ladder last Father’s Day, but learned to live with it by compensating, i.e., finding different ways to do things to avoid the pain. I got by pretty well for about seven months, though I was feeling significant pain when sleeping and playing guitar. 

At my regular checkup, my doctor recommended physical therapy. Yet, after nine sessions there was no lasting improvement. My therapist recommended seeing an orthopedist. After x-rays and an exam, the good doctor believed I had a torn rotator cuff. The recovery period for that surgery is four to six months. All my hobbies and pursuits (and most of life’s activities) require the use of my right arm. So, I was filled with a bit of dread at that point.

The next step was an MRI. The results indicated two small tears and a lot of inflammation and various itises. No surgery was required, but a cortisone shot followed by PT (again) was the recommended treatment. I was so thankful; I almost threw a party.

I told a friend about my injury and needed injection and she confided she had the same injury and got the cortisone injection. (We old people love comparing stories about our ailments.) In vivid detail, she described how unbelievable excruciating it was to get the shot. She was beside herself in pain and drew back with her good arm and hit the doctor as hard as she could. She said he was surprised.

I was really dreading the injection and have no idea why my experience was so different, but the pain from the shot was so slight and brief, I asked the Physician’s Assistant if she was sure she was done.

The injection knocked the pain way down and I am back at PT to regain all my range of motion and re-learn how to use my shoulder properly after eighth months of compensating. It feels fine, almost a hundred percent.

I am ecstatic about all of this and am getting a lot of mileage out it, having written about it twice now. Plus, I didn’t want to write about anything serious today.

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The Third Third

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My brother died of Covid December 29th, 2020. Because of the pandemic, we just held his memorial service back in Missouri last Thursday. Bill was 72, five years older than me. He was not in good health and resided in a nursing home. Yet, this disease that has taken hundreds of thousands took his life rather than another more natural cause.

Funerals cause me to think about my own mortality. It’s an appropriate time to evaluate our relationship with God and others, and to reflect on the life behind us and ahead of us.

Here is the shocking truth. There is more life behind than ahead. To say I am in the last third of life (as author, Anne Lamontt puts it) is being generous with the math. It makes me want to utter an expletive. What the xxxx! How did this happen? Where did the time go? All of the idiot lights on my mental dashboard are flashing! 

I think about the decline that I witnessed in my dad, mother, and brother, all of whom died in the last four years. I am the last one in my family of origin. The same is true for Patty. More red lights flash! As I wandered around the cemetery, I found the graves of loved ones who died at about my age! More xxxing red lights!

There are a lot of glib things people say at funerals which would be better left unuttered because they do not address our grief, nor do they offer any real comfort. The death of a loved one is always accompanied by shock and grief. It’s xxxxing sad! We will miss them. There will be a hole in our lives. We don’t have that much longer. I also get mad at our spiritual enemy and the very reality of sin and death that keeps bringing me to this place.

As I reflect on my own life, my mind usually runs to past regrets, future limitations, and the ones I love.

Suggestion: make a list of your regrets. Don’t leave out a single one. Then burn the list. 

We have just a handful of reasonable options when dealing with the past. Forgive others. Forgive ourselves. Discern the lessons. Thank God for the blessings. Keep rehearsing all of the sweet moments. Stop focusing on everything else that is in the past.

I don’t think we can be totally present in the present until we do this.

We can let the time constraints of our future days propel us to get with it and do what’s in our hearts to do. We can live out what we like to be our eulogy (what we would like people to say about us at our funeral).

In the 2005 Oliver Stone movie, Elizabethtown, Orlando Bloom is on the receiving end of a tirade by his boss, Alec Baldwin because he made a design error that cost the company nearly a billion dollars. He is fired, un-hirable, and suicidal. Suddenly, he gets a call informing him his dad died and he needs to go to Elizabethtown, Kentucky to make the appropriate arrangements. In route, he meets flight attendant, Kirsten Dunst who pursues him with kindness and compassion. 

He finds his relatives in Kentucky a bit quirky, but very loveable. The decision is made to create his father’s body and to return his ashes back home. He runs into Kirsten Dunst again. (These things happen in the movies.) She suggests a road trip back home and lists some fun stops along the way. She also prepares a playlist for him to listen to on the long trip. I am leaving out all the romantic details and the conclusion, so as not to spoil things for you, if you decide to watch the movie.

I bring this up because I had a long road trip to Bill’s memorial service, one I have made countless times before to care for him, for Mom, and for Dad. For decades I have been the road warrior though the endless flat farm ground of Illinois and Iowa into the rolling hills of Northwest Missouri. My son makes fun of me because I always stop at the same places to get gas and stretch my legs, LeClaire, Iowa at the Mississippi River and St. Charles, Iowa at a covered bridge. 

My hometown, St. Joseph, Missouri, though once grand, has seen its share of decline through the decades. It’s got its issues, but it has a great history, with tons of architecture beauty, and a lot of congenial people. I haven’t lived there in over 50 years, but it still is as familiar and comfortable as anyplace I know.

My grandson was with me one the way out, but I was alone on the journey home. I took tons of photos in St. Joe, LeClaire, St. Charles, and the places where I ran free in the little outlying town where I stayed with my grandparents. This trip was a deep dive into nostalgia and reminiscence. I needed it. I have no idea when I will be back. It was my Elizabethtown moment.

At sixty-seven, it’s a time of reckoning and making peace (mostly with myself). Here are my conclusions.

The third third isn’t so bad.

I am truer to myself, who God meant me to be, than ever before.

I don’t keep rehashing the past. I used to, but not so much anymore.

I am more into the moment (and less preoccupied with worries) than ever before.

I am more focused on loving than ever (not worrying about loved ones or trying to get them to do or be something) but just loving them.

I am doing what I enjoy (lighting design, writing, guitar, gardening, travel, the outdoors).

I am just plain more relaxed than ever.

Thankfully, I am in good health, or as I say, “good condition for the condition I am in.”

It looks like we will financially survive retirement and will have some options about where we live.

I count my blessings: a wonderful wife, loving children, fun grandchildren and great grandchildren, a delightful extended family, a nice home, and much more.

I hope to keep defying expectations that folks have of “old people.”

I am focused on leaving some good things behind and finishing well.

I am enjoying this stage of life.

It’s okay.

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That Took A Lot of Gall

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Today will be a departure from the COVID pandemic of disease, information, misinformation, varied projections, confusing advice, and conspiracy theories. Instead, I want to talk about my gallbladder. Hold on there, partner! Don’t skip to the next marvelous insight from the internet because much wisdom came from my encounter with that troublesome little organ.

It’s been a bit over a year now since the surgeon evoked the eviction order on a gall bladder that was more trouble than it was worth. The reason I am giving it its own blog post because I had about as a good of a time as is possible through the whole ordeal.

Here are my random insights.

If you don’t know what a gallbladder attack and a heart attack are like (and most us of do not), they can be easily confused. It was an immense pinpoint pressure in the middle of my chest that would not go away.

Hopefully, you have good insurance and a good nearby hospital. We have good insurance, but people have died in the ER waiting room at our closest hospital and though we live only a block and a half from the state of Wisconsin, our insurance is only good in Illinois. So, our hospital of choice is 30 minutes away and it looks like a huge, beautiful shopping mall, being located in tenth wealthiest town in the nation, Lake Forrest, IL. I wanted Patty to drive faster!

If you want prompt attention in the ER, just say you have chest pain. I was in the triage room in 5 minutes.

When you complain of chest pain and your blood pressure skyrockets, you get a drug called Dilaudid which knocks most people out, but makes me carefree and chatty. While I was in the hospital overnight for tons of tests, I felt great from that moment on. I got tired of lying in bed and sat on that little doctor’s stool spinning around. 

I got great care and was thoroughly convinced no one wanted me die on their watch. That would cause a lot of paperwork. Their goal was to rule out anything big and bad or life- threatening. I had numerous EKG’s, lab work, a cat scan, a stress-echo, and x-rays. That means I got about 30 minutes of sleep that night.

These tests taught me much. The ultra-sound tech, whom I will call Helga, was good at pressing really hard with the ultrasound  probe and telling me to hold my breath, but sometimes forget to tell me it’s okay to breathe. 

If you have a hairy abdomen and have the time to shave it before the tests, do so. They replaced the electrodes on me about 3-4 times in my short stay, which for me was the by far worse pain I experienced after the initial pain was subdued. Don’t laugh. It hurts!

My nurse was a congenial guy who wanted to know my goal so it could write it on the white board in my room. My goal was to be able to eat again which got us talking about restaurants in my neck of the woods. He took notes.

Good news! The heart tests all came back good. With my family history, that is really good news. But I did have to get rid of the gb.

So, a couple of weeks later I went to a same day surgery center and got it out. I was able to eat a cookie and sip a Sierra Mist. So, they told me to put on my pants and go home.

I found out they will not let you go to the bathroom by yourself. So, my young female nurse followed me in and courteously faced the opposite corner. If I would have fallen, she would not have been able to advert it. Just an observation. Of course, you have to take the wheelchair ride down to the main door.

The next day I walked Boyd, The Mighty Chihuahua, around the about three times, maybe a tad much for day 1. Everything was fine until Patty explained how the surgery took way longer than it was supposed to. The gall bladder was discolored so enlarged and that the mesh bag that it is pulled out with broke and it had to be retrieved.

Anyway, it is taken care of. The heart seems to be problem free. And I had a pretty good time…considering. 

All quite trivial compared to a pandemic, but sometimes we think and talk about something else.

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Not a Herd Animal

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Ever notice how the cows all face the same direction in the pasture, but there is one that didn’t seem to get the memo and is separate from the herd doing his own thing? That’s me.

I dislike housing tracts where the nearly identical a dwellings are crammed in close to each other so as to maximize the developer’s profits. Not for me! Cube farms in the corporate headquarters. Not for me. Dressed up businessmen at a restaurant trying to impress each other. Not for me. Excursions on a horizontal skyscraper called a cruise ship that serves as incubator for the rapid spread of communicable diseases. Not for me. Bus tours. Not for me. An automated, de-humanized approach to customer service. Definitely, not for me. The DMV where the line begins outside the building. Well, no one likes that!

These settings are just not for me. I can adapt, but I probably won’t flourish in a herd environment. I am not a loner and love being around people, but I feel that I need minimal direction and some room to be creative.

This in not necessarily a plus. I admire people who are more tolerable of these societal structures. For me, it just lets the air out of my tires.

Once somebody that I respected called me a rebel. I never thought of myself as such at the time. I was simply trying to follow my conscience, even when I was going against the flow. But I do have a tendency to notice injustice and ways things need to be improved.

I find the herd culture de-humanizing and de-moralizing. They are ways to make more money and treat people with less dignity and compassion. People are more important than money, systems, and efficiency. If we can’t treat people with dignity and respect, then we have issues. 

That’s my feeling about “the system” and “the man.”

On an individual basis it is okay to be tolerant of the herd mentally. It’s necessary for millions of people’s livelihoods. But, if you find you are not a herd animal, that’s okay, too.

“Livestock60.tif” by NRCS Montana is licensed under CC PDM 1.0 

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Route 66

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A few years ago, when I was having some back pain, I got a call from my doctor’s office informing me of the results of my x-rays. The nurse who was probably not as old as some of my clothes, informed me I had osteo arthritis. I was shocked and called my nurse/wife to ask her what it was and how I got it. Her friend in the neighboring cube either overheard the call, or perhaps, Patty summarized my query for her.  The “friend” responded with one word, “birthdays.”  

I suppose those birthdays cause a lot of things. I just had one and didn’t mind it a bit. It got me a couple of really nice dinners out and some cool Chief’s swag.

There is, however, a side to me that is a little fatalistic. I have been around death a lot. It went with the territory for all of those years when I was a pastor. Dad died about three years ago and Mom passed away just a couple of months ago. I am familiar with the process of aging and its abrupt end. My body is like an old car that’s beginning to need a visit to the garage once and awhile for some little thing that needs to be fixed. 

Sometimes, I ponder all of this.

Really, I don’t have any complaints. I have no chronic conditions that I see in several of my contemporaries and I am more at peace with myself and others than ever before. 

Like most people I feel like my life has been a strange trip of learning things the hard way. What many people would call success has eluded me. I have great ideas that don’t make money. So, if you ever need any advice in that department, give me a call. 

Yet, I like an awful lot about where I am at this point in life. 

I am doing things I like to do. I am blessed to have the freedom to do them. I have a wonderful wife with Job-like patience and Christ-like love. And I have adult children that I dearly love and really like, along with their partners and blessed offspring. I have four generations of family, which means I have great-grand-children. I have most of you beat there. As Patty and I approach retirement, we should be able to financially survive and otherwise thrive. I enjoy learning, listening to NPR (hope I didn’t lose you there) and reading. There are several things I enjoy.

It’s a pretty good life.

I don’t feel I have to control everyone’s life or get bent out of shape when some crazy twist or turn comes along. I believe myself to be much more mellow than I used to be (and I hope it’s true), but I am still passionate about things, too.

I still am a very flawed humanoid who does not have it all together, but I am less worried about it.

So, all-in-all this isn’t a bad highway to be traveling on. 

Thanks for joining me on the journey.

Image Attribution: “Williams, Arizona” by Paul Minshall is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 2.0 

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Does it Matter that the Chiefs Won the Super Bowl?

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The Kansas City Chiefs won the Super Bowl last night after a fifty-year drought. 

But does it really matter?

If I didn’t know better, I would think the NFL was enterprise invented by billionaires, lawyers, and modern-day gladiators. 

It is an American oddity. The world has soccer, known elsewhere as football, in which the feet are actually are used to play the game. America has a vastly different game, called football, in which the feet are rarely used. 

Each team is its own billion-dollar industry that  generates a mind-boggling amount of commerce and has captured the minds and hearts of Americans like no other game.

I grew up more nerd that jock. I didn’t even understand football. I certainly didn’t understand how people could waste away half a day or more existing in a totally passive state for a game with a book full of detailed rules that nobody totally understood and stretched sixty minutes of play time into three hours. 

Yet, here I am a totally devoted Chiefs’ fan.

My odyssey with the team began about fifteen years ago. My son, Nathan,  became a Chiefs’ supporter in the nineteen-nineties when we moved to northeastern Illinois. Maybe, he wanted to harken back to our family roots, being from the KC area. Maybe, he really like Joe Montana. Maybe, he just wanted to be different by supporting a team other than Bears or Packers, which would have been much more area appropriate.  Probably, it was all of the above.

Anyway, he had the Sunday Ticket and invited us over for food and football in his Chiefs’ Fan Cave. I honestly could have cared less about the game, but I am not going to turn down the opportunity to do a little family bonding and eat some good food. I was dumb as a rock about the particulars of what was happening on the field. 

I am not sure how I got addicted, but I did. 

I remember the class act of Dick Vermeil, suffered through the Herm Edwards years, had a strange fondness for Todd Haley’s leadership, watched helplessly as the bottom fell-out with Romeo Crennel. Like all long-term Chief’s fans, I have suffered… for many long years. 

Then came Big Red. I listened to pressers and read a multitude of blog posts. I think my Chiefs’ craziness may have surpassed that of my son’s for a while. Then here came this kid with the funny haircut and odd voice.

That’s the backstory.

But does it matter that the Chiefs’ won the big game?

It matters to Andy Reid, a life-long coach with winning ways, but not a Super Bowl ring. He is a smart, hard-working coach loved by his players and the league community. It matters to him and all of those who respect him and love him.

It matters to the players who seem to be genuinely team oriented. They never say die. They did their homework, mentally, physically, and emotionally and now they are happy for themselves and each other.

It matters to residents of Kansas City, Missouri. Please remember that the vast majority of the metro area is in Missouri, not Kansas. Arrowhead Stadium is in Missouri. 

Missouri!!! 

It is a great city, the barbeque capitol of the world and has more fountains than any city in the world, other than Rome. It is not a Cowtown! The hometown team has a great heritage. The original owner, Lamar Hunt was one of the founders of the AFL and coined the term Super Bowl. It is about time to get some of the attention away from the coasts to much overlooked Midwest.

It matters to me. I have shared this odyssey of countless games, numerous trips to training camp, lots of pregame excitement and postgame analysis, and all of the ups and downs through all of these seasons with my son. Finally, I saw him jumping and screaming in victory. Darn right! It was worth it! It matters! (I am a little choked up right now.)

Ultimately, things have whatever value we assign to them. It seems kind of silly to give a football team such value. Yet, I started out with the Chiefs at a time when I needed a new team in my life. I had suffered a huge disappointment and needed a new identity. They became a part of that.

Does it matter that the Chiefs are Super Bowl champions? Yes, it matters very much to me, very much!

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When the Call Comes

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The call comes.
Everything changes.
A flurry of activity ensues.
 
Sunken cheeks.
Is she aware?
Is she there?
 
Each breath scrutinized.
Sit and watch.
Was there a slight change?
 
Nurses care.
Hospice explains.
We speak words of love, not knowing if they are heard.
 
Even the aids kiss her forehead as tears roll down their faces.
Our hearts melt.
We love their love.
 
Faith and reality collide.
How did she become so frail, so vulnerable?
Why the brutal process at the end?
 
Children know best.
They were not always sweet.
We carry that with us.
 
Yet, she loved. 
She was tender. 
She was my mother.
 
Many, many kindnesses at just the right time.
Thank you.
Grace in sorrow.
 
Suddenly, on a plane again.
Things to get in order.
Adjusting to a new reality.
 
A generation passed.
Hey boomer, we are at the top of the ladder.
Rockers in rockers.
 
Leave something real good behind.
Enjoy the gift. 
Make it count.
 

This piece is my attempt to process  my Mom’s death who passed away December 23rd.

The photo is of a sunset outside the nursing home the evening she passed.
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Slow Beauty

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flowerHave you ever surprised yourself? What I am really talking about is change. I usually fight change, but appreciate it in retrospect.

I used to think that art museums and galleries were a waste of time. Now I am the one who who moves the slowest when we visit one. I love the Anderson Arts Center in Kenosha, Wisconsin, the Museum of Wisconsin Art in West Bend, Wisconsin, and Albrecht-Kemper Museum of Art in St. Joseph, Missouri. I have only been to two big city art museums, but they were spectacular, Nelson Atkins Museum of Art in Kansas City and the Milwaukee Art Museum.

We just redecorated our living room and had the pleasure of browsing through art.com to find some wall art options to present to Patty. It’s a fun thing for me. I appreciate beauty, color, and creativity. I used to be too busy and preoccupied for such.

Somehow, I have become the family gardener. Again, I didn’t used to care about such things. I mowed the grass and trimmed bushes. I didn’t know the names of plants or care and I never changed anything. I just wanted the grass to look good.

A couple of years ago, I began removing several large bushes from around the house which gave me the opportunity to design new perennial beds. Every place a bush or perennial bed was has now been changed. I loved the opportunity to create a new look.

My whole world view has changed. It has gotten bigger. I see beauty, I see God everywhere. All of these changes were the result of getting out of an exclusively religious mindset. My view of God and his workings has become much bigger.

I am thankful for that.

 

Photo Credit: Zack Etienne. Creative Commons.

 

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Repurposed

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All of the photos of are of the vintage garden apartment where I wrote this post.

For the last couple of days, I have done pretty much nothing.

It’s called a vacation, really, a three-day mini get-a-way. We came to place where there is nothing to do, and are staying in a place has no TV or internet connection. Our abode, constructed in 1877, has two-foot thick, limestone walls, so we hear nothing. It’s tomb quiet in here.

We are surrounded by nothingness. Even the landscape is basic winter bleak, white snow, brown sticks, gray haze. No color. No signs of life. Just rolling hills of lonely nothingness.

Once the tremors from media deprivation subsided, I began to love the nothingness. I took in the rustic and whimsical nature of our weekend home. I read, and obviously, did some writing.

This small, southwestern Wisconsin town, born in the lead mine boom days of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, was settled by Cornish immigrants. During the Great Depression of the nineteen-thirties, it hit the skids.

mp2Fortunately, thoughtful entrepreneurs began restoring these amazing limestone and brick buildings, and gradually, various types of artists moved in. Today, the community promotes art forms from pottery to writing to the architectural revival of these noble structures.

However, the town feels deserted on this blah mid winter Sunday. Shops are closed. People headed home after a big community event Saturday. Everyone seems to be hunkered down for the winter.

But, I have only given you part of the story.

We have seen some signs of life. Art abounds in our rough hewn apartment of massive stones and 138-year-old 6×6 timbers. I feel like the beams and stones alone could tell some pretty good stories. But when the stone mason turned this place into living quarters just a few years ago, he imbedded bits of fossils, glass, and marbles in the bathroom wall. The décor includes an old theater seat, a commercial scale, and beat up old trunks. It’s weird, but beautiful.

Eventually, we found an amazing pottery shop that was actually open on this forsaken day. It was built as a brewery in 1878. Now, the potters live upstairs, loving their life in this artists’ community, adoring the huge old stone brewery repurposed into their studio, gallery, and home. I thought the place to be a maintenance nightmare. Yet, I love artists putting it all on the line, fighting for survival, while living out their dream.

Galena is just a few miles from here. It’s a serious tourist attraction for the state of Illinois, just across the state line. There, we patronized a young man’s coffee shop and bakery on his second day of operation. He was nervous and apologetic that everything wasn’t perfect. We had fun affirming him and his dream.

A few art galleries also impressed and inspired us. So, it wasn’t all nothingness.

Everywhere we went, we encountered repurposed materials turned into art. Just about every piece of furniture, décor, and building materials in our little home from yesteryear is very, very old, but has found new life.

The brewery became a pottery studio. The old storefront became a young man’s brand new business venture. Old car parts and things I would consider worthless junk were fashioned into clever creations.

Out of old, discarded stuff, people are dreaming and creating. In the process, they honored the weathered, rusty uniqueness of each piece, while turning it into a beautiful, new creation.

I am going to be honest now. Sometimes, I feel kind of old, dinged-up, hoping for new purpose and adventure. Yes, I am in the process of being repurposed, too.

Repurposing is not just for rusty tools and auto parts that get welded into a clever and amusing creations. It’s not just for people who restore old buildings or make new ones out of seasoned wood and brick. We all face the necessity of being repurposed at different points in our life.

That’s okay. Really, it’s good.

Here’s to a life, in which wonder never ceases, art keeps on being fashioned, and new purpose is continually being discovered.

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I wrote this piece last winter in the quiet on our historic stone cottage. I posted it here as a part of a synchroblog on the topic of renewal. Here are the links to the others writers’ contributions.

 

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Puppy Love

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 IMG_1844Boyd & Ava chillin’ in a chair

I didn’t know if it would work.

We had inherited two long-haired Chihuahuas. Due to no fault of their own, we were their fourth home. They are siblings, brother and sister. While they are off-the-charts cute, they are also needy, attention hogs, who need their bellies rubbed…a lot.

After being doggie foster parents for three months, my wife had a great idea. I knew we needed to thin out our herd of pets, since we also have an aged beagle, and an illusive cat. Just one problem. I had become attached to one of these tiny, feisty, but needy doggies.

I named the duo, Boyd and Ava, after likable convicts on the television show, Justified. I call them miniature collectible dogs. Boyd weighs five pounds and looks like a tiny fox. He sports a mostly golden coat, with big, fine-tuned ears, and a fluffy, curled tail. He prances like a show dog, and runs like an antelope.

A few months ago, Boyd encountered a much larger dog. I think he learned a valuable lesson. That being, he should not attempt to hump a dog over ten times his size. As a result, he got to see the big dog’s mouth from the inside. Yes, Boyd’s head was in the dog’s mouth. He needed a few stitches on his head which has healed nicely, but he did not recover sight in his injured eye. My son refers to him as Cyclops. His visual impairment does not seem to affect him in the least. Perhaps, one day he will have a miniature eye patch.

He likes to walk on the top edge of the couch and put his front paws on my left shoulder, then lean in, giving me a face hug. Instead of a parrot, I have a dog on my shoulder.

I am a big dog person, and yet we have one medium size and two tiny sized dogs.

Boyd has some things going for him. He plays with Lulu the beagle and helps her behave more youthfully, and he is cute and loveable. He won me over. I like him. You can’t choose who you love.

Boyd’s sister, Ava has her own personality. She is also adorable, mostly white, with some blond splotches, a little bigger, about eight pounds, and she is a chow hound. She will get into it with Lulu on occasion who is also a devout chow hound.

Anyway, Patty had the idea of Ava becoming my mom’s dog. She is eighty-seven, lives in senior housing, and is alone for the first time in her life, since dad needed to go to the nursing home.

When I suggested the idea to mom, she didn’t even need to think about it. So, Ava went to the doggie doctor to get her shots, and doggie hairdresser to get groomed. Patty bought all manner of supplies for the dog, and we headed off to Missouri, with doggie condo, doggie carrier, doggie supplies, and a much smaller amount of luggage for ourselves.

We presented Ava to Mom, and after one night with a little doggie crying, they became new best friends. She rides on the seat of her walker when they get on the elevator to go for a walk. or downstairs for meals. Miss Ava became quickly known and loved by all of the residents, staff, and home health workers.

Ava is now in her fifth home, having systematically worked her way through four generations in my family.

I have to say my heart melted, when I saw what this small dog meant to my mom. Patty had a really good idea.

Now when I call Mom, I hear more about Ava than anyone else.

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Funky Grace

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funky bird
I was in a funk, terribly bored by the Internet, television, and movies; despising the regular patterns of my life. The more I dreamed of something that would bring a glimmer of life to my soul, the more unattainable it seemed.

Fear was holding me tightly, even though I hardly recognized it at the time. I am just now beginning to market my book, but I had already begun to fear that it would never get off the ground and it would soon join the long list of vocational failures.

I was losing the battle for my own mind, wanting to run away from myself.

The good thing about reaching bottom is that you can only look up. The sheer terror of life at the bottom of the barrel can be a very motivating factor. So, I began to turn from the land of emotional knee-jerk reactions, to re-enter the realm of rationality. I took stock of matters, concluding that I must follow my heart, and work very hard at doing so.

Even though part of my personal mantra is to nurture my own soul, I am not very good at doing it with much consistently. But for the last few days that is exactly want I have done.

I turned up the music to near lethal levels, brought out my guitar and wailed my heart out. I ate out, forgetting about the diet for brief spurts of culinary delight. I went to new places and saw new art and new countryside. I did all of this with people I love.

Guess what happened? I am at that new, refreshed place that seemed like a distant dream such a short time ago.

Through my “recovery” I have been thinking about grace. I have always held on to grace as my only hope, but often it was a completely mental exercise, lately, it has, once again, become a life experience.

Grace tells me…

  • That I am not a lost cause
  • That my experience is always “redeemable”
  • That screwing up for the umpteenth time, or excelling beyond my expectations, doesn’t change a thing in how God loves me
  • That I live life without a safety net. In other words, no matter how good my intentions, or how much accountability is or isn’t in my life; I may blow it. There is no totally effective safety net to protect us from ourselves, our decisions, our sin, and the things we do that hurt ourselves and others. It’s a life of freedom, and responsibility; fulfillment, and danger; sin, and grace.
  • That his unconditional love is the only true safety net
  • That his unconditional love is the greatest motivation to make good decisions and avoid stupid ones (sin)
  • That a little personal honesty can go a long way in encouraging other people who think they are the only ones who struggle in a particular manner
  • That I really can contribute positively to other people’s lives in planned and unplanned ways, mostly by just loving them unconditionally
  • That I am free to live out my truest identity with passion and joy, and without apology

Image by Keoni Cabr. Creative Commons.

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Why My Kids Will Never Forget When They “Forgot” Me

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forget

This post is part of a synchrobog in which we recount our favorite prank. The links to the other writer’s contributions are listed at the end of this post.

After work, the kids and I met Patty at Giordano’s, a deep dish, Chicago-style pizza place in a neighboring suburb. Upon concluding our consumption of the weighty pizza, I excused myself to use the men’s room. When I came out, the kids were gone. Nathan rode home with Michelle, who had just gotten her driver’s license. Driving was still fun for her.

At first, I didn’t see anybody, then I spotted Patty who informed me that Michelle and Nathan had left and were going to the video store. (Kinda dates the story.) I replied, They could have waited a minute to let me know what they were doing and say goodbye.

When Patty and I arrived home (while the kids were still at the video store), we had a flash of inspiration and hatched a plan.

As they came in the back door looking for me to give them some money, since they discovered they didn’t have enough to rent a movie, I snuck out the front door and laid on the floorboard between the second and third row of seats in our Chevy Astro van.

Patty asked them, Where’s your Dad? They replied, Didn’t he come home with you? She said, Well, I don’t see him, do you?

When they got into the back into the van, they were giggling and talking about how funny it was they forgot their dad. It was so hard for me not to laugh, as I lay on the back floor of my van, admiring the beauty of our plan.

Only one question ran through my mind, When do I sit up and reveal my presence? I didn’t want to cause my newly licensed daughter to have a car accident. So I decided to do so as she backed out of our long driveway onto the not-very-busy residential street. I sat up and didn’t say a word. She immediately saw me in the rear view mirror and let out a blood-curdling scream that Patty could hear inside of the house.

It was pure beauty!

Other writers on this topic include:

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Every Selfless Act

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turkey

I have to tell you what happened while we were in St. Paul enjoying Thanksgiving, our grandson’s birthday, and our daughter and son-in-law’s anniversary, all between last Wednesday and this Sunday. 

First, I asked a neighbor to take care of our crazed cat and watch over the place while we were gone. This guy is the world’s best neighbor and we count on each other when we travel. We help each out as needed, frequently chat in the yard and go out to lunch pretty often. We are really good friends, even though we disagree on quite a few issues, and that’s a relational model that’s more than a little needed today.

In St. Paul we stayed on the second level of the three flat. Our kid’s live on the first floor. The upstairs neighbor is to our kids what our next door neighbor is to us. She is like a member of the family, incredibly sweet and kind. She was staying with her sister who lives somewhere nearby and insisted we move into her apartment. Mind you the entire place was just professionally cleaned. The carpets were cleaned. The refrigerator was spotless and empty, ready for our use. Her iPad was setting on the desk ready for us to use. The channel guide sat on the coffee table with the remote. And yes, there really were mints on the pillows! It was like a very conveniently located hotel room that saved from either sleeping in the middle of the kid’s dining room floor on an air mattress or spending hundreds of dollars for a hotel several miles away. This level of kindness is a precious rarity in the real world that speaks so with so much more meaning than any words I could ever write.

While we were there, I received a letter via email from another neighbor who has been literally given a new lease on life after having a double lung transplant. He will be living in Florida for another year to be near the hospital where he received the transplant. He now has a reasonable life expectancy, is off of oxygen, is walking, and doing some jogging. His amazing letter was filled with enumerated blessings. This guy has kept a great attitude through all of the hard years, even though he had to retire early and could barely breathe.

On Thanksgiving Day, I received a call from our son who thought I would get a chuckle out of his tale of deep frying a turkey. We have had some interesting experiences as we have learned the art of deep frying over the years, but this one is the best. Their aged chow hound of a canine got too close to the open flame of the cooker and ever so briefly caught on fire. As my daughter-in-law shooed him away, he was enraged to have to back away from the lovely aroma of the giant deep fried poultry. The turkey was fine, but the dog caught on fire. That wasn’t another bit of kindness or gratitude, just funny, like stumbling on to The Red Green Show the other night.

No animals were actually harmed in making of this blog post or the deep frying of the turkey (with the exception of the turkey).

“Every selfless act of love is a profession of faith.” – Bob Goff

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The Kind of Person I Want To Be

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heartI usually think about values in terms of my obituary, what I would want people to remember about me when I am gone.

I would like them to say:

He was real. Pretension makes me nauseous, and sometimes I am nauseating, but my goal is to be real. Being real gives other people permission to be real and that brings healing. So, I want to be the wounded healer, the guy who has been repeatedly beat up, but hasn’t given up. I love this quality in others and I am very suspicious of people who project that they have it all together.

He was a lover. I understand this to be job one for a Jesus follower. I used to always think in terms of change and what people should become. Now I think more about how to love them as they are, knowing full well that love is the greatest transformational force in the universe. It seems like love is usually conveyed in very little things that communicate a very big message. It’s just being there, being ready to respond quickly to a need, giving hugs freely, rolling up your sleeves and pitching in, remembering things about people, and being bold enough to say the words.

He stayed at it.  The important things in life often grow out of an uncomfortable bit of twists and turns. Our plans never pan out as projected. There will be unforeseeable weirdness ahead. More course corrections that you ever imagined will need to be made. More determination than you currently have will be needed to see things through.

Sometimes the bumps in the road are not circumstances. Sometimes they are our own fear. Yet, if we believe that God wants us to do something, if this thing is who we really are, if it must be done; we had darn well better stay at it. So, get up off the ground, brush the dust off the seat of your pants, re-adjust your confidence in God to work through you, listen carefully to what your heart is telling you, rather than those knee-jerk emotions, and get back at it.

 

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Margaritas, Metallica, and a Serious Case of the Giggles

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margarita

After a couple (or was it three) very potent Margaritas and several hands of Rummy, someone said something that I found amusing at the time and I broke out in uncontrollable giggling.

When I say giggling, I mean I sounded like a Junior High girl. And when I say uncontrollable, I mean that I had to excuse myself from the table. I went to the bathroom to try to regain my composure, but I made the mistake of looking in the mirror and started giggling all over again.

That was about eleven years ago in our kitchen with the entire family, my son and daughter and their spouses gathered at the table. This family card game took place after my wife’s surprise birthday party that I had been planning for months. The house was full of people from all over the place when we returned from dinner, but I was very stressed that the whole thing would come together.  It turned out to be a wonderful and complete surprise for Patty. My giggling, I think, was part alcohol and part relief from all of the planning for the event.

On another occasion my son turned to me and said, “You sure have gotten relaxed.” I replied, “If I were any more relaxed, I’d be in a coma.” On still another kitchen table moment, there was someone sitting there wanting some pastoral advice from me. Nathan piped up and said, “Pops is pretty much the same, only he ditched the suit, listens to Metallica, and drinks beer.” I consider his remarks compliments.

I feel badly for my wife and children who suffered through my pastoral/OCD ways for all of those years. Now I say I am still OCD, but I am in recovery (inside joke). All of the unwanted and unpleasant things that have resulted in my looking back at the organized church as an outsider has bought some positive changes too.

I spend a lot more time with family. I don’t mind being interrupted, as much. I talk to my neighbors a whole lot more. I am far less concerned with what people think of me. Finally, I am getting where I can handle the adrenalin low of a quiet day.

Having just gotten back from living on a Florida beach for a week and touring around the South with my Honey for another week, I am feeling pretty relaxed! While on vacation, we were both ready for an adventure, ready to laugh, and ready to engage other people, and we did. That’s not a bad way to approach every day.

 

This post is part of the May Synchroblog, entitled, Lighten Up: The Art of Joy, Laughter, and Letting Go. Here are the other other participants’ contributions:

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Route 7

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Transitions are always unsettling, filled with thoughts of excitement, fear, anticipation, and anxiety. It would be great if we could set our personal GPS and follow the directions to our desired location, never needing to redirect. But, alas, that is not at the way life plays out and it really would be very boring.

I find myself at yet another one of those infernal crossroads. There is a warning sign that the bridge is washed out on one route and the other route is not even on the damn map. I am not even sure where it winds up.

Many years ago, on the way back from visiting friends in Texas and spending a memorable weekend with them sharing a condo on Padre Island, we decided to meet my folks who were vacationing near Branson, Missouri. We were up for an adventure and had heard of the beauty of Route 7 from Arkadelphia, AR to the Missouri border. So, we choose that route, the scenic route; the winding, mountainous, scenic route; the winding, mountainous, slow, scenic route; the winding, mountainous, slow, sometimes nerve-wracking, scenic route. The Ozark Mountains are really quite beautiful and this route is frequently referred to as one of the most beautiful scenic drives in all of America.

It was a beautiful, but long and harrowing 290 miles. It was treacherous, adventurous and a thousand times better that any conventional route between point A and point B. I am glad we chose the route we did and I remember it vividly over three decades later.

Not too many people choose the Route 7’s of life, but the people who do, don’t often regret their decision. 

Originally posted May 1, 2011.