Becky and I made our return flight from our weekend away on Sunday evening. It was an adventure with moments of doubt and worry, but I did not pray about it much at all.

Our flight home to Fort Wayne had a connection in Atlanta, and when we bought our tickets we gave ourselves plenty of time just in case, 1 hour and 45 minutes. We could have had time for a quick bite to eat, but that was not to be. We needed all the just in case time we could find, and we found barely enough.

When we arrived at our departure airport, we learned the our flight would be about 45 minutes late. Thunderstorms had been delaying flights (and NFL games) across the south. Okay, we might lose our quick bite to eat, but we still had plenty of time. We boarded our late plane and all was well until the thunderstorms showed up.  They closed the ramp and told us to wait.  For another 30 minutes.  Okay, we’d have to hustle, but we still had enough time. The flight to Atlanta was uneventful and it looked like we’d make the Fort Wayne flight with a few minutes to spare.

But because we were late, they’d given our gate to another flight and we had to wait for our new gate to open up. You may know what its like to be 50 feet from the jet bridge and just waiting. And waiting. The clock was ticking, but we still had just barely enough time. The flight attendants asked that everyone remain seated to allow the ten or so of us with barely enough time to make our connections to get to the jet bridge.  That didn’t work so well. And our departure flight had begun boarding and planned to leave ten minutes early.

The official record says we had 19 minutes to get from Terminal A to Terminal C – it was probably less than 10 minutes by the time we were actually off the plane and on our way.  A fast dash through Terminal A, down the escalator to the Plane Train, past the stop for Terminal B, off the train and up the escalator to Terminal C, another fast dash to a fortunately not too distant Gate C 30, and a congratulatory “You made it!” from the gate agent as we were the last passengers to board the flight to Fort Wayne.

The visions of sleeping on the airport floor faded and the flight to Fort Wayne arrived a few minutes early.

All’s well that ends well as long as I don’t tell you about Becky’s delayed checked bag. That’s another story.

Now, I could say that I was in deep prayer the entire time and that God by his great mercies spared us the night trying to sleep on the airport floor. But I was not in deep prayer. I can’t remember praying at all. I checked my airline app and flight tracker data incessantly, but I didn’t pray. It’s not that God could not have calmed those thunderstorms. We have a clear indication that he is pretty good at calming storms. It is not that he does not have purpose in even the smallest detail of our lives, even late planes. The One who has numbered the hairs on our heads has promised to be with us always and that he is at work in all things.

Why did the woman next to us on the flight to Atlanta miss her connection to Green Bay? There may have been divine purpose in it, but that is not for me to know.

Should I have prayed more and followed the flight tracker less? Maybe. Would we have had time for a quick bite to eat in Atlanta if I had taken to my knees at our first departure gate? I don’t think so. Or maybe I would have gotten food poisoning from my quick bite to eat in Atlanta and God sent the thunderstorm to…  Don’t go there.

The Larger Catechism (Question 184) asks, “For what things are we to pray?”  It answers that “We are to pray for all things tending to the glory of God, the welfare of the church, (and) our own or others’ good.”

Avoiding a night on the floor at the Atlanta airport my have been for my good, but I am not sure it would have tended to the glory of God. Maybe I should have prayed that the woman next to us would make her flight to Green Bay. God may have had a purpose in her delay, however. We’ll never know.

Prayer is a wondrous gift from God; I count it a great joy, but sometimes you just leave things to God.

Another birthday rolls around for me on Sunday. We will be away celebrating with family. Not only does this birthday have an impressive name – “Diamond Jubilee” – it feels significant.  A month or so ago I mentioned  J.I. Packer’s wonderful little book “Finishing Our Course with Joy,” and noted how he speaks of the “younger olds” (ages 65-75), the “medium olds” (75-85), and the “oldest olds” (85 plus).  Packer was among the oldest olds when he wrote the book and wrote with both wisdom and experience.

On Sunday I become just plain old. Happy Diamond Jubilee to me!

In “Finishing Our Course with Joy,” Packer quotes Shakespeare describing old age as “sans teeth, sans eyes, sans teeth, sans everything” (As You Like It, Act 2, Scene 7). So far, I have avoided all that and have reasonable hope to join the psalmist at 80 or more by “reason of strength” (Psalm 90:10). In fact, and lest you wonder otherwise, my health seems to be quite good in all ways. This is not a lament on the imminent approach of the Grim Reaper, or even the limitations older age always imposes. Rather, it is the acknowledgement of a sense that I am in a final lap of a long race – how long the race and how many the laps, I do not know. I already love the CityAlight hymn that sings, “When the race is complete, still my lips shall repeat ‘Yet not I, but through Christ in me.,’” but not yet do I think the race may be nearing completion. Continue reading →

There is a set of sidewalk slabs in the neighborhood with encouraging chalk-written messages for walkers and runners who happen by. A series of five slabs ask passing pedestrians to “be kind, be helpful, be friendly, and be loyal.” Maybe we should invite world leaders and some of those nasty online influencers to stroll by and heed the admonitions of who I assume to be the young sidewalk scroller. Our supplies of kindness, helpfulness, friendliness, and loyalty seem to be running low.

But the final admonition and then a separate message cause me to hesitate. “Be yourself” advises the sixth slab. “Love yourself,” read the words written across the driveway apron.

Please don’t tell the neighborhood chalk artist that I question her or his good intentions, but I do wonder how our age’s fascination with self has worked out. Self-concerned, self-defined, and self-promoting, our generation is lonelier, more anxious, more discouraged, more confused, than any other in recent or long memory.  In fact, we seem to be less kind, less helpful, less friendly, and less loyal as we look to politicians and influencers to define our reality and ourselves.

What about the self? I have known people who hate themselves and it is a sad thing with sometimes tragic consequences. “Hate yourself” would not be a good message for the sidewalk down the street.

What about the self? Continue reading →

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It may be that my simple mind does not understand the complexities of statecraft or that my aging mind does not like change. Whatever the reason, I would have been happy for the lake formally known as Ontario to retain its name of 400 or more years. In fact, I may wait a couple of years before I use TLFKAO’s new name. Who knows, it may want to go back to what it’s always been called.

This post is not about the politics of hydronomy, though I do have my opinions about the politics of this name change. Frankly, I was never bothered by the name Gulf of Mexico and tend still to use it when we are in Florida visiting our son and his family who live on the Gulf Coast near Pensacola. And for me the name Ontario works by far the best for that least great of the Great Lakes.

This is not a post about politics, or lakes and their names, however. This is a post about anthroponymy (Yes, it’s a word. Look it up.) Continue reading →

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The headline on my newsfeed caught my eye.  “NO, Street Vagrants Are Not ‘Our Neighbors’.” But they probably are.

The article had to do with policies regarding the homeless in Los Angeles.  An apparently newly-elected city council member and Democratic Socialist used the term “neighbors” in arguing for a new, and arguably more lenient, policy regarding homeless encampments. Now, you can count me out when it comes to the growing support for the Democratic Socialists. My guess is that we are going to find the “warmth of collectivism” as cold as the wait for a Siberian spring.

After deciding I disagreed with the headline, I read the article.

The “not our neighbors” line was not clickbait set as a lure to entice curious fish; it was the heart of the post. The columnist wrote:“Neighbor” traditionally conjures the image of someone with an equal stake in one’s community as oneself, who shares one’s interest in stability, and who can be counted on, in times of need, for help. The occupants of the feces- and drug-strewn trash sites euphemistically referred to as “encampments,” as if they were part of a Boy Scout Jamboree, don’t fit the bill. Those transients are parasites on other people’s efforts to create a community. They contribute nothing, pay no rent or taxes, and inevitably bring lawlessness and predation. They almost invariably turn down the shelter and services offered by feckless outreach workers, since they want no interference with their unrestricted drug use.” Continue reading →