About a year ago I subscribed to the digital edition of the Washington Post.  I was reading a bit more in retirement and wanted to make sure I was reading a balance of perspectives.  Along with the New York Times, the Post would hold down the establishment-left end of the things.  Besides, they offered me a great deal. $29 for the year which would jump to $100 for the next year, automatically charged to my credit card if I didn’t remember to cancel before the year was up.  They make their money off our bad memories.

As it turns out, my discount subscription to the Post was not the beginning of a beautiful friendship.  I don’t know if it is a Jeff Bezos thing or the Post’s corral of columnists, but the Post and I just didn’t hit it off. The Times is doing a good job of holding down the establishment-left end of my morning read, so I decided I would remember to cancel my Post subscription before I was out $100 for another year. Continue reading →

Probably every Christian of my generation knows the inspirational poem “Footprints in the Sand.” For awhile it was everywhere. Posters and plaques, tea towels and key chains, Hallmark cards and coffee cups all told the story of the person walking along the seashore with “the Lord” (whoever that may be) at their side.

The walk on the shore is an image of the person’s life. Looking back, the person sees two sets of footprints, the walker’s and the Lord’s, but then notices the times, difficult times, when there is but one set of prints.  The person questions the Lord as to why he seems to have left the walker alone in those tough times. The Lord replies, “When you saw only one set of footprints, it was then that I carried you.”

If you need a refresher you can read a version of the poem here. Well, at least one version. It turns out that several versions exist and those claiming original authorship have sued each other for the credit, and, I suppose, the royalties. Continue reading →

Our hydrangeas in their summer bloom

Jack Thomas is a retired Boston Globe reporter. At 82 years old, he knows he is going to die. He knows he is going to die in a matter of months.

“After a week of injections, blood tests, X-rays, and a CAT scan, I have been diagnosed with cancer. It’s inoperable. Doctors say it will kill me within a time they measure not in years, but months,” Thomas writes in an essay published in the Globe last week.

In the essay, Thomas seeks to answer his own question, “How does a person spend what he knows are his final months of life?”

The preacher in me found three points in the text of his essay.  How does one spend his final months of life? Celebrating, remembering, and wondering. Continue reading →

Room with a view, but not perfect,

Becky and I have been road tripping. Sixteen states in the past four months.  All of our children and grandchildren plus some very good friends.  Along the way, we have stayed at a few hotels. Our most recent hotel stay was during our weekend in Menominee, Michigan, on the Upper Peninsula.  Between the two hotels in town, we picked the place Trip Advisor told us would be the best.  It was a good place to stay. Our room had a view of the Green Bay of Lake Michigan. The bed was comfortable, the sheets were clean, and the shower worked.  All we needed.

The first morning of our stay, we had breakfast at what had been one of our favorite restaurants when we lived in Menominee 25 years ago.  We were not disappointed. The omelets were wonderful and the view of the yacht harbor beautiful. Getting ready for church the next morning, we decided to opt for the hotel’s breakfast, and were disappointed.  Even by hotel breakfast standards, it was not good. The rehydrated scrambled eggs were soggy and the reheated bacon was limp.  I should have gone for the Raisin Bran. The third morning we hit the road early for our trip home and ate on the way. Continue reading →

Rambling thoughts after a weekend ramble.

Poetry is not my thing. Maybe it is my inherent lack of rhythm. Perhaps I am too practical a person. For whatever reason, I don’t get poetry and, frankly, I don’t care all that much for poetry. If ever I were to aspire to be a man of letters, I would need much remedial work in the poet’s art.

I thought well of myself, then, this past Monday as Becky and I were making our way across Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. We had spend a glorious weekend with friends in our old stomping grounds around Menominee at the furthest southwest point of the U.P. Our route along U.S. 2 on the south side of the peninsula and the shore of Lake Michigan was partly through the Hiawatha National Forest.

I turned to Becky and asked, “So other than Longfellow and the shore of Gitchee Gumee?” what did Hiawatha do to have a National Forest named after her? We had enough of a cell signal for a quick Google search. It turned out I would have scored some Trivial Pursuit points, but maybe not a pie slice worth.  “The Song of Hiawatha” is a Henry Wadsworth Longfellow poem, and it is known for the line “By the shore of Gitchee Gumee…” (In fact, you don’t get to Gitchee Gumee until Part 22 of a way too long epic poem). But Hiawatha was not the princess I thought she was; he was an Ojibwe warrior in love with Minnehaha, a Dakota maiden. Continue reading →