Culture, Change, and a Corner of My Garage

Something to Think About My Ability to Change, or the Lack Thereof:

My wife and I recently returned from four months of ministry in the lovely nation of Palau.  Palauans are very friendly and accomodating.  Since their economy is based on tourism they are well trained in putting up with foreigners and our strange ways.  English is the second language there.  Virtually everyone speaks it, at least some, so one of the greatest cultural barriers is quite low.  Still it was clear to Kathy and me that we are different. Since coming back to our house here on Carpenter Drive I've been working on a project.  I've been converting just over thirty-two square feet of my garage into an office.  Some walls, insulation, a ceiling, an old desk, shelves made out of boards from an old deck, and a piece of carpet for the floor, will make my little space into a place to study.  Before the first board was cut or the first nail driven, the concept of a mini-office had taken place in my mind.  I'm about finished with bringing that thought into the realm of length, breadth, and depth--reality. Kathy and I weren't out of touch while we were gone.  Still, since arriving back in the USA I have been impressed with scale of change going on, or being attempted, around me.  Trevin Wax does a good job of summarizing what is going on, and the consequences involved, in this article.)  Those of us who live for a while realize that one doesn't have to go anywhere to experience the change of culture, even culture shock.  In particular now that the world is digitized, the way people act, talk, what they do, especially how they see the world changes with far greater speed than a jetliner can achieve.  Especially if, like me, one is of a conservative (I use the word in a nonpolitical way) bent he feels that change greatly. So, what do these thoughts on culture have to do with the corner of the building where I park my car? Just this: I have at my disposal a certain amount of resources.  I possess a measure of ability in building things.  I own the garage, free and clear, so I don't need anyone's permission to change it from one purpose to another.  When we are dealing with human beings and our place in the world that is not so.  Here is a basic point that will sound crazy, maybe shocking, to some:  l don't own myself.   I certainly have no inherent right to change, or attempt to change my world to conform to a picture I create in my mind.  I am a steward of my little part of the cosmos, not a sovereign.  I can cut an eight foot 2x4 and make it six feet long.  I can rip it on my table-saw and make two 2x2s.  I can mold the material to my vision.  When it comes to matters of humanity, however--who I am, why I'm here, and where I'm going--I can't change the fundamental realities.  To try is simply wrong.   It’s STTA. If you didn't already, I encourage you to read that article by Trevin Wax. Read here to find out about God's purpose for us all.

Memorial Day Thoughts From the Patriarch

Something to Think About Remembering:

I don't feel patriarchal--other than a gradual slowdown, and a few aches and pains, I feel good, but I guess I am the patriarch.  My Mom died a few years ago, her parents a long time ago, and on that side I'm the oldest in my generation.  My Dad died when he was four years younger than I am.  His Dad died when he was a toddler, and his mom three decades ago.  I have two cousins older than me on Dad's side of the family, but they are both of the matronly persuasion, and I'm senior on Mom's side, so, though I'm sure my family could do better, I am the Patriarch.  They didn't get to vote. From my white topped perch I share a few memories on this Memorial Weekend. Grandpa Hargrove was a man who worked hard all his life.  I'm told that when he was just a boy he was already driving teams of mules.  Somebody has to break those famously stubborn hybrids to get them to respond to the "gee," "haw," & "whoa" commands.  Grandpa did that.  My mom shared a life-long fear of big animals, inspired, she said, by seeing her Dad come in with his head split open after a round with one of the ornery beasts.  I never saw him use it, but I remember seeing Grandpa's old bull-whip (in his case wouldn't it be a "mule-whip"?) hanging on the wall.  Grandpa was recognized as a man who was a "good hand with stock."  He died showing an Angus bull he had raised and trained.  It wasn't the bull that took him, it was a stroke.  I was told the big, black animal just stood there next to his fallen master.  Grandma married again, to a man named Mr. Rogers.  She outlived him as well. Dad's father died in a railroad accident in Arkansas.  My Dad and his two brothers were raised by a widowed mom, and an assortment of relatives, who it always sounded to me like, from the stories Dad told, weren't all that helpful.  My Dad, and his two brothers fought in World War 2.  Together with an uncle (husband of Mom's sister) they helped defeat the scourge of the mid-Twentieth Century.  Two of my Mom's brother's served in post-war Germany.  My Dad's oldest brother died in the fighting around Saint Lo one month after he came ashore at Utah Beach.  The middle brother suffered as a prisoner of war, eventually losing a lung and his eyesight.  He became an avid fisherman, gentleman farmer, lover of rabbit beagles, and, toward the end of his life, mastered the art of reupholstering furniture.  Dad tried farming, and a couple of other ventures after the War.  Like so many other Southern Boys, he moved north for work.  I was raised in the Suburbs of Chicago.   My family logged, worked on railroads, built tires,turned out rolled steel, help put men on the moon, worked the high-iron that became the Super Dome, fed a nation and helped save the world. Me?  I sit in my living room on this Memorial Weekend and reminisce.  I hope it will stir your memories in a worthwhile direction. It’s STTA. Read here to find out about the greatest blessing.

Passing Blessings On

Something to Think About Passing Blessings Along:

My wife reminded me that I needed to send a thank you note to a friend who had gone above and beyond in reaching out to us with kindness.  I did.  My friend wrote back and characterized what he had done as extending "the blessings God provided us." My friend spoke with a humility that is typical of him.  One is blessed so that they will be able to bless others.  Clearly that is what we ought to do. Another friend of mine regularly reminds me of the benefits of recycling.  Later today I'll check on some used lumber that I hope will work for a project I'm building.  Other friends of mine enjoy old cars, old furniture, and other objects that worth preserving, restoring, and passing on.  Blessings shouldn't stop; they should be used again and again.  Our lives should be channels, not reservoirs.  To use a term that Hollywood made famous a few years ago, we should "pay it forward." I hope you'll join me in looking for opportunities to follow my friend's example and extend the blessings. It’s STTA. Read here to find out about the greatest blessing.

What Happened While I Was Away?

Something to Think About What Happened While I Was Away:

I need to begin with a disclaimer--bad style, but good honesty--There have been a lot of changes in my personal life over the past year, so maybe I'm not seeing things clearly.  I don't, however, think that is it.  It took a lot longer than four months for these things to happen, but when I got back to the USA a couple of weeks ago, I could see clearly that it isn't the same country I left at the beginning of the year.  A usually reliable culture watcher, Al Mohler, confirmed my observation in a recent blog post.  Actions and attitudes that not too long ago were considered wrong, even antisocial, are now considered commendable.  Choices that my countrymen have made in the political realm include vast support for a socialist, and the apparent choice of a candidate whose chief asset appears to be what he is not.  Apparently, what matters most to many people is that someone say what they think, what they think is less important.  I'd love for my nation to be great again.  It would be outstanding if my grandkids could go to college free.  I'd love for someone qualified to lead my country.  I wish I could say otherwise, but all of the slogans I hear appear to be that and nothing more.  I'd like for someone to step up and lead us in the right direction.  What I see, instead, are folk furiously running to get in front of where big crowds are already headed.  They aren't leading; they're apt get run over. I figure that by this point this sounds more like something to be depressed over than some thing to think about.  Actually, though, I find myself quite hopeful.  My optimism doesn't come from the political or cultural realm,  rather, to quote the words of an old hymn, "My hope is in the Lord, Who gave Himself for Me." Don't get me wrong.  I'm not surrendering.  I'm seeking to make my land and my world a better place.  I just realize more clearly than I did five months ago, that in the final analysis this isn't where I belong.   It’s STTA.

You can come home again, but . . .

Something to Think About Returning Home:

Thomas Wolfe famously said, "You can't go home again."  Actually you can, but you can't make it feel the same.  For the second time in my life I have returned home and found it somewhat weird--not bad, just different. Nearly fifty years ago I returned home after being away at school for a couple of months.  Shortly after I entered the familiar surroundings of the house where I'd lived for most of my life, my Mom asked, what I wanted for supper.  As far as I could remember that had never happened before.  My home was an "eat what's put before you" kind of home.  When Mom asked my dining preference I knew things had changed.  I had the same feeling the other day. Kathy and I had embarked on a new ministry venture.  We pulled in our driveway after being away for a bit over four months.  We began to settle into what is now the new normal.  It's not bad.  It is different.  And it's a bit of a challenge.  I suppose I'll have to wait a while before my verdict is credible, but I think it is good. I'm changing all the time.  All I have to do to demonstrate that is get out some old pictures.  That guy with a full head of black hair is gone.  In his place is an older guy with wrinkles and a wisp of gray on his head.  If I don't look at the pictures, though, I don't notice the change.  It happens a bit at a time.  I constantly adjust to the incremental difference.  The fact is, though, everything in this world is constantly changing.  If you stay gone for a while and then come home you notice that. Enough of my rambling.  The Lord's brother, James, and Jesus follower, Peter, both refer to Jesus words about the transitoriness of all things in this world.  These surroundings that seem so solid and lasting are really like delicate flowers.  They spring up, and flourish, but soon wither and die.  (See here, here, and here for the Biblical references.)  Don't try to keep things down here the same.  You'll only frustrate yourself.  Don't depend on that which is sure to fail you.  You are sure to suffer loss.  Make sure you invest in eternity.   It’s STTA. Read here to explore that which is eternal.