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It is Sunday morning. Sharon and I are in church, taking our monthly turn working at the coffee bar. I have come to the conclusion that Christians drink entirely too much coffee, especially when the weather turns cold. I know this to be true because all of the many coffee pots around the general gathering areas dwindle down to empty faster than I can refill them.

I am furiously ripping open packets and pouring coffee granules into the filters, hanging them on the large brewers, pushing the “Start” button to get the hot water flowing, then turning to see if Sharon needs help with customers. As the busy morning wears on, a familiar figure leisurely strolls up to the bar. He is an older man, I’m guessing around eighty-ish, with thinning hair, a gray moustache and a kind face. He is dressed in coat and tie, as people of his generation were raised to do for Sunday church.

This is Joe. He comes by this way every week. He never orders anything. He just wants to socialize. He will ask me how I like this cold weather we’re having, or what was it like working in TV news all those years, or what do I think about that football game yesterday. Just friendly ice breakers designed to start a conversation. I don’t really know him, but I instinctively like Joe. His smile is warm and empathetic.

Unfortunately, this is not a good time for me. There are coffee pots to fill, cups of sweet and unsweet tea to be drawn, donuts and fritters to be restocked in the display case, lids, filters, napkins and straws to be replenished, money to be taken in and change to be given back. So I keep my answers short, and try to politely indicate with my body language that I can’t fully engage with him at the moment. Joe seems to be a genuinely sweet and friendly guy, but I just don’t have time to chat. Besides, it won’t take but a minute before he turns and strikes up a conversation with somebody else nearby. Everyone seems to know him. Everyone except me.

When I actually stop to think about it for a moment, it occurs to me that coffee bar work is not all that intense. As they say, it’s not brain surgery. I could easily have taken a few moments and made small talk. After all, a big part of belonging to a church family is fellowshipping with other believers of all ages and walks of life. No, the truth is, I just didn’t want to. I wanted to stay focused on the tasks at hand. There would be a time and place for developing new relationships. Surely one day I’ll bump into Joe around the coffee bar when I’m not on duty. Would be fun to talk and get to know him better then.

Except that Joe doesn’t stop by the coffee bar anymore. I went to the visitation for his funeral the other day. It was at the church. On my way into the sanctuary to offer my condolences to the family, I took the pamphlet containing his obituary and began to read it. Turns out Joe was a musician, but much more than that. He was first chair trumpet player for Alabama’s Million Dollar Band. He was a band director at several local high schools, including Hewitt-Trussville, Leeds and Elba, also serving at Gardendale and Shades Valley high schools. He built the foundation for what the Hewitt-Trussville band program is today. He played trumpet in the church orchestra until the final years of his life. I never knew. I never took the time to find out.

Wish I had, because I love the whole band culture. I was not in band in school, but I got hooked on it when my daughter spent much of her high school years on the Hewitt Trussville color guard team, and then as a High Stepper. We went to all the competitions. I learned about the intricacies of choreographing a top notch marching band, how the various sections have to work together, how all the band members have to stay disciplined and patient. I learned what the judges were looking for and enjoyed trying to evaluate the various bands on my own. It was fascinating and fun.

Joe would have known all about that stuff. He was also an educator for 33 years. I could have asked him his thoughts on the state of our schools, another area of interest for me. We had so much in common. We could have talked for hours.

There was, I knew, a lesson to be learned from this, though sadly too late. Everyone has a story. Our lives are far richer when we spend time focusing more on relationships with others, and less on our own concerns and priorities.

After the visitation, as I was leaving the church, I passed by the coffee bar, which then was closed and quiet. For a moment, I could picture Joe standing there, his quick smile inviting me to conversation. Maybe I’ll see him again one glorious day, and we’ll have that talk. The coffee will be on me.

Help me to understand something. Our culture wants to take God out of everything public. Teachers may not lead prayer in public schools, nor can they teach biblical creation. They are taking the words “under God” out of the national anthem. The term “Merry Christmas” has been replaced by the more generic “Happy Holidays”. The Ten Commandments have been removed from parks and courthouses. Announcers, news anchors and journalists of all sorts have to be careful. Any reference to God or praying in public is inappropriate because it might offend an unbeliever.

But then I am watching a Monday night NFL football game, as a young player drops to the ground after a typically violent tackle. It becomes immediately clear the injured player, Damar Hamlin, is in distress. Medical personnel are applying CPR as an ambulance quickly rolls on to the field. Players are stunned, some openly crying. Suddenly, coaches are gathering their entire team around them and very publicly lead them in prayer. Solemn announcers are saying the game is now meaningless, and their thoughts and prayers are with the young athlete. They’re urging viewers to pray as well.

One fan in the stands has written huge letters on a sign that states “Pray for Hamlin”. Does the network camera ignore the sign? Quite the contrary. There is a slow, poignant zoom into the message, followed by a dramatic fade to studio commentators, who also profess prayers for Hamlin. Suddenly, no one seems to be concerned about offending a non-believer.

What happened? What changed? How can public prayer be so inappropriate one moment, and then completely acceptable the next? Imagine the outrage if, just prior to kickoff, the play-by-play announcer would say “as we get ready for the game, I’m going to lead us all in a quick prayer”. Yet, when a player is critically injured, it’s suddenly okay to publicly solicit and endorse prayer for the victim.

The reality is God can’t, won’t, be left out. Only the will of the almighty and powerful Creator of the universe could help Damar Hamlin. Furthermore, deep down inside, every human being senses that truth. Some will try to deny it, to discredit it, but when the need is dire, we turn to prayer, to God. It’s instinctive, almost beyond our control. Those announcers weren’t trying to offend anyone. They weren’t consciously promoting Christianity. They were merely compelled to state that which has given comfort and hope to the species since the first human heart began to beat. To acknowledge that God, only God, is in control. That when we truly need help, it is not only acceptable to call upon His name, it is mandatory.

I have to believe you can’t have it both ways. You can’t claim God is offensive in one breath, then call upon Him when an emergency arises. Yes, by all means, pray for Damar Hamlin. But if it’s okay to do that publicly, and to encourage others to do the same, then it’s also okay for a teacher to lead a prayer in her classroom, for a Ten Commandments monument to adorn a courthouse, for a pledge to state that our country is “one nation, under God.”

You don’t need permission to pray. It’s already woven deeply into your DNA.

Here’s a nosey and random question for you: Do you read obituaries? If you do, what part is of the most interest to you? The answers likely tell much about your age and stage of life.

As a child and teenager, you ignore them. Obits are for old people, and the only old people you care about are Memaw and Peepaw. As a young adult, perhaps you scan them every once in a while, just to see if the list of survivors contains a name that you recognize, maybe somebody you know. As you transition to middle age, you begin to read them more thoroughly, examining the professions and accomplishments of the deceased. In a way, it helps you to put the path of your own life into some sort of perspective.

But in retirement, your attention is drawn immediately to one particular statistic. Age. The first thing I want to know about someone who has passed away is how long they lived. Was it a tragic loss of young life? Were they cut down in the prime of middle age? Or did they have a long and prosperous run? It’s more than just curiosity. It kind of gives you a running average of what you might expect for yourself.

I broach this somewhat morbid subject because I am staring another birthday in the face. I was born in early January, so every time the calendar folds over to a new year, I find myself greeting it with emotions that are mixed. I am profoundly grateful to the Good Lord for blessing me with another year in the beautiful world He has created, and the blessings He has bestowed. But as your birthday comes calling, you are also forced to acknowledge that the number has clicked up another notch, and you are left to ponder the impossibility of it all.

That number. There’s no way you can be that number. You don’t feel as though you are that number. You don’t think of yourself as that number. You look in the mirror. You try to be objective. You’re thinking by golly, honestly, I really don’t look like that number! The malaise is temporary. In a few days, you’ll forget about the number, and you won’t think about it for months. About twelve months. Until the next birthday looms.

Your spouse asks you what you want for your birthday. You think, think, think. Nothing comes to mind. Nothing! That was never a problem when you were younger. There was always something you needed, a gadget you always wanted, a guilty pleasure you coveted. Now you look around at all the stuff your life has accumulated, and you’re more concerned with how you’re going to get rid of some of the clutter, rather than receiving more of it.

There’s an old joke that goes “Retirement is great! Every morning, I get up and read the obituaries, and if my name isn’t in them, I get dressed.”

There is some truth to that. I never want to take birthdays for granted. I never want to treat a day of life as though it is something I am entitled to. All the clichés come back to me. Age is just a number. You’re only as old as you feel. You’re not getting older, you’re getting better. Seventy is the new fifty. Having a birthday is better than the alternative, and so on. They’re all designed to make you feel better about that number ticking up another notch. And I will. Just need a few days.

By the way, I figured out what I really want for the occasion. I want you to have a great new year, and my prayer is that it’s a year in which you get to have a birthday too.

We make the right turn off Trussville Clay Road into the Trussville Civic Center parking lot. It is 9:15 on a Friday morning and the lot is packed. Cars are circling the perimeter desperately waiting for a set of taillights to light up, indicating somebody backing out. We finally find a space in the very back.

We get out of the car and fall into a line of folks heading through the front entrance. I see mostly women. Actually, I see nothing but women. As we come through the door we are greeted by a large sign that reads “Trussville Civic Center presents Totally Christmas”. We are also greeted by a large black arrow and a friendly lady instructing us to turn left. That’s where you start. Don’t even think about turning right. You would be walking against the traffic flow and your life may be in danger. It would be a terrible way to go, stampeded and run over by shopping carts, overflowing with Christmas craft items. You might not be noticed until Sunday.

We begin weaving and zig zagging through lines of tables. Some of the vendors are out front, actively engaging and connecting with passers by. You can tell they revel in this, the interaction, the dynamic. Others, not so much. They sit back in their chairs, looking at their phones, wishing they were back home watching reruns of Family Feud. All of them are women. Am I the only man here?

Eventually, I stop thinking about finding male fellowship, and find myself getting interested in the merchandise. There really are some creative minds and talented people in and around our community. One lady turns clam shells into beautifully painted decorations. Another hand paints crosses on to dough bowls. There is a woman selling Grinch cookies for three dollars. She explains her secret recipe to me. I smile and nod, but I am thinking that if she does this with everyone, she is blowing the secret. Kind of like KFC’s eleven herbs and spices. Some things should remain a mystery.

I find a table featuring Swedish dish cloths. The sign says they will absorb fifteen times their weight, as much as sixteen paper towels! Leave it to the Swedes. Here I thought they only specialized in meatballs. There is another dish towel with an inscription that reads “If I ever go missing, I want my picture on wine bottles instead of milk cartons. That way my friends will know how to find me”. Another nice lady inquires as to my interest in something called Kickin’ Jalapeno Jelly. I blush and explain that my sensitive tummy can’t even handle bananas. There is a baby bib with large print screaming “Rub My Belly”. We walk past Magic Reindoor Food, and a specialty hand soap labeled Euphoria. I can experience euphoria just washing my hands? Sign me up.

The Trussville Historical Society is here, selling various books about the history of our fair city. One sweet vendor tells me about her struggle with Parkinson’s disease. She takes broken jewelry and superbly crafts it into spiritual items. She explains that the reclamation of the broken jewelry symbolizes how God can reclaim a broken life.

Everywhere on the journey there are clusters of women gathered in tight circles, laughing and talking. Clearly, this is not just about merchandise. This is a social event. And a good one. Everyone seems to be here. It’s a thing. A ladies’ thing.

Or is it? Suddenly, as we turn to go down the back row, the one closest to the stage, I see them. Men! All kinds of men. Men wearing shirts with team logos on them, sporting ball caps with pictures of construction equipment. I finally found them! My people! As I get closer, I can see their mouths moving. Probably talking about football and hunting and, you know, man stuff.

Wait, they’re not talking….they’re eating! Eventually a few of them saunter off, revealing a view of the table behind them. It’s a large display of bakery and pies, with plates of free samples out front. So this is where the guys hang out. I make a mental note for future craft shows. I recognize and approach a fellow who used to be one of my neighbors. He explains to me that he is only here to be a “pack mule” for his wife. But the wife is nowhere in sight, and hey, even pack mules have to eat.

Everywhere we went there were smiling faces and well wishes. Turns out Christmas spirit does seem to have a way of surviving any mercenary taint here. Trussville’s version of the holiday craft show is certainly not on the scale of something like Christmas Village at the Birmingham Jefferson Civic Center, but that’s okay. You also don’t have to pay twenty dollars to park and then pony up an admission fee just to walk in the door. Totally Christmas is free and growing every year, and I walked out of there with a little more spring in my step.

I can only hope my holiday spirit was shared by the drivers of the three cars that were hovering around my parking space, waiting for me to back out.

There is an episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation, which is titled “The Inner Light”. The starship Enterprise encounters a high tech time capsule floating randomly through space. As it approaches the ship, it scans Captain Picard and shoots him with a laser. The strike causes him to have a vision of a distant planet, destroyed thousands of years ago by a collision with a meteor. In the vision, Picard meets the people of the lost world and learns their culture. The inhabitants explain they created the time capsule so that history would record their existence. The moral of the story (and there usually is one), is that no one really ceases to exist until nobody remembers them anymore.

I thought about that episode recently when Sharon hauled out a huge stack of old family photographs. They had been gathering dust somewhere in the deep recesses of the house for years. Sharon figured it was time to determine their permanent fate. Either organize and keep them, give them away, or dispose of them.

Interestingly, the further you dug into the stack, the further back in time you seemed to travel. It began with baby photos of me and my brothers. Then there were photos of my parents at their wedding. Then there were photos of my grandparents getting married. So far, so good.

Then it got weird. We started finding pictures of huge family gatherings, circa 1900. The men were all wearing buttoned up vests with dark coats over them, bow ties, hair parted down the middle, and bushy moustaches. The women wore roomy dark blouses with black turtlenecks attached, belted around the waist, flowing dresses with no trace of skin of any kind showing, hair pulled tightly back. In the front row was a bevy of children, decked out in knickers with large bows protruding from their necklines. Nobody was smiling. Apparently, it was not fashionable to smile on a photo in those days.

The photos were embossed on a black cardboard frame. There were a few rips and chunks missing from the edges. I quickly flipped them around, hoping to find some sort of identification or context on the back.

Nothing. Not a thing. Just a picture of a group of people that were strangers to me. I only have an educated guess as to whom they might be. I suspect they are the extended family of my grandparents when they were children. But I have no way of knowing that with any certainty. Anybody in my family tree who might be able to identify them has passed away, including my mom and dad. They are just images without a story. As such, sadly, they mean nothing to me, nor to anyone I know.

I suppose I could invest the time and effort in one of those apps that help you trace your genealogy, but quite honestly, I lack the motivation to do so. I’m really not all that curious about my ancient heritage. I may even be a little scared of finding out my roots. What if I descended from some sort of evil cult group? Or worse yet, from Chicago Bear fans?

The Thanksgiving and Christmas seasons are a time to reunite with family, to catch up on each other’s lives and, inevitably, to share memories of those who have passed on. We retell our favorite stories about them, stories that will make us laugh, and maybe even cry. In a sweet sort of way, they’re not really gone. They live on in our hearts and minds, just as clearly as if they were standing in front of us. But the passage of time is relentless, and the arrival of each new generation pushes the memories of those gone before a little further into irrelevance, until eventually, they are just……strangers on a photo.

So I stare down at these old pictures spread out on my desk. What to do with them? Throw them away? My grown children are even less interested in these photos than I am. No point in handing them down. Yet I can’t shake this feeling that, in some strange spiritual or metaphysical way, the folks in those images will continue to have some sort of legacy, some sort of life story, some sort of relevance, as long as I, or anyone for that matter, hangs on to these photos. That once they hit the trash, to be ground up and buried into the earth, any trace or acknowledgement of their existence is ground up and buried with them.

Then again, I am also quite sure that if I store them somewhere in the house, they will languish there, forgotten, for years to come, after which we will dig them out one distant day and be faced with the same decision. What to do? What would Captain Picard do?

As I write this, my attention is drawn to a picture that sits atop my desk. It’s a family photo, taken at Easter. It’s Sharon and I, our son and daughter, their spouses and their children. It’s one of my favorites. I’ve written our names on the back, but who knows if my family name will survive long term? I find myself wondering if, a hundred years from now, my great-great-great grandson will be sitting by a desk, looking at that picture, with no clue who we are, and caring even less.

I wonder if he’ll throw it away.

(Ken Lass is a retired Birmingham television news and sports anchor, and a Trussville resident.)

I marvel every day at God’s incredible creation all around me, but when I get to heaven, I have a few questions for the Almighty. One of them will be, what was He thinking when He created bees? Oh, I know they pollinate the flowers and all that nature stuff, but God could have designed any number of bugs that could do that. Why did he have to give that assignment to these ill-tempered, scary buzzers with the miniature swords protruding from their backsides?

The front of our house is lined with azalea bushes. In the spring they bloom into the most beautiful pink blossoms. Sadly, the blooms only last about two or three weeks. However, the leafy bushes grow like wildfire all summer long. By August my azaleas have all grown into each other and formed a tangled mess of foliage. It’s time to drag myself out there to trim them up, rake out the clippings, bag them and take them to the street for pick-up. Usually it’s just a dreary job that takes about three hours of back aching work.

This year was a little different.

I had finished trimming about two thirds of the bushes with my electric trimmer, when I bent down to get the lower branches on one of the plants closest to the house. Suddenly I felt a stinging pain on my leg. It was a hot day and I was wearing shorts and a T-shirt. I jerked upward and discovered to my horror that I was surrounded by a swarm of bees. Angry bees at that. As I flung my trimmer and bolted out of the hedge, I was stung several times all over my body. They got me just beside the ear, both hands and both arms, on the back and on the leg.

Thankfully, I’m not one of those folks who has a toxic reaction to bee stings, but for about two hours I just hurt all over. It was like my brain couldn’t sort out which pain signal to acknowledge, so it just sort of rotated all the messages. Eventually, the pain subsided. Several of the stings swelled up a bit but at least they didn’t hurt any more. I thought I was past the worst of it. I was wrong.

Once the pain subsides, the itching begins. Relentless itching. I poured on all the creams and ointments, nothing helped. I only survived thanks to the blessings of Advil and Tylenol. I was miserable for about two days but felt better after a steroid shot from my doctor.

The bees had declared war, and I was willing to accept the challenge, so long as somebody else actually did the fighting of course. My daughter recommended a pest control guy whom I called. He came out the same day. His first question was “What kind of bees are they?” I calmly told him I was too busy shrieking bloody murder to stop and get a good description. I just pointed to the shrubs and whimpered “they’re in there somewhere.”

These bug guys tend to be very nice people, but they are either extremely brave, or just a little crazy. Without hesitation, he strutted into the shrubbery and started kicking the individual plants, hoping to roust up the bees and discover their home. Suddenly he darted out of the landscaping faster than a speeding bullet. “Found them!” he proclaimed. Sure enough, they were flowing like a river out of a chipmunk hole at the base of one of the shrubs, the one I was trimming when I got attacked. “Yellowjackets” he explained. “They love to nest in chipmunk holes, and stuff like vibrations really get them mad.”

Oh, you mean like the vibration of an electric trimmer shaking their world? That kind of vibration? Good to know. A little late, but good to know.

He said he was going to poison the hole with some sort of white powder. He told me to stay inside the house during the procedure. No problem. Way ahead of you. Afterward, he showed me the hole, as the bees were busily sampling the powder and, hopefully, taking some for the queen to sample. The bug man said the whole colony should be dead in a few days. Just give it some time.

That was in August. I’m giving it time. Plenty of time. Meanwhile, if you happen to drive by my house, please forgive the look of the front landscaping. The bushes are only about half trimmed. I’m working up the courage to get back out there and finish the job.

Maybe by Christmas.

The other day I received the quarterly report from my health insurance provider. It itemized the various medical visits I had made for the past three months. As I browsed through the items, I began to realize that I am accumulating quite an impressive portfolio of specialists. Of course, I have a general practice physician, which is where it all begins.

But over the years I seem to have branched out, and my medical tree now has a lot of branches. I have a neurologist, a urologist, a podiatrist, a dermatologist, an otolaryngologist, a physical therapist and a periodontist. Wow. Now that I’ve actually typed that list, I’m a bit amazed that I consider myself a generally healthy person.

We definitely live in an age of medical specialty. It wasn’t always so. Among the enduring memories of my childhood are my visits to our family doctor. His name was Dr. Fisher. He was a bit of a portly man with a gray moustache and wire rim glasses across his nose. He had a jolly laugh and always, I mean always, wore a stethoscope around his neck. I wonder if he slept in that thing.

His office smelled like formaldehyde. He had a figurine model of himself at the front of his desk, next to his name plate. Behind him was a bookshelf filled with medical journals that looked as though they were written in previous centuries. He would often refer to one of them when diagnosing my sickness. His examining room was about the size of a large closet, with room for a padded table and little else. There was a jar full of tongue depressors on the counter, but he never seemed to use them. There were large pictures on the walls of various body parts and bones. They were graphic enough to creep me out, and I tried not to look at them.

But what I remember most is that Dr. Fisher did it all. He treated headaches, tremors, broken bones, he stitched up cuts and bruises, cut the warts off your feet, treated the rash on your leg, gave you some balm to relieve the pain in your mouth after biting your tongue. No specialists needed here. If Dr. Fisher couldn’t handle it, it was time to go directly to the hospital.

My most vivid memory is the time I was playing tackle football with some friends in their backyard. As I lunged to tackle somebody, he rolled over my leg and I felt a terrible pain in my right foot. I removed my shoe and sock and was horrified to see my big toe standing straight up at a right angle to the other four. I went screaming home to show my mom, and shortly after, we got in the car for a trip to see the good doctor.

I remember sitting on his examining table, scared out of my wits. Was I in for major surgery? Would I lose the toe? Would I ever walk normally again? Dr. Fisher stared at my freakish looking toe for a moment, scratched his chin, and then without warning, he grabbed hold of it with his fist and yanked it straight down. I felt a pop, and a click. It happened so fast I didn’t even have time to feel any pain. “There”, he said. “That oughtta do it”.

I looked down in amazement. All of my toes were once again properly aligned. The big toe was a little sore but it wasn’t bad. Not bad at all. The doc would later explain to Mom that it was just a dislocation. I put my shoe on and traipsed out of there as though nothing had happened.

From that point on, I had a new appreciation of Dr. Fisher. I felt as though he was kind of a miracle worker, a super hero. You just don’t find that kind of all purpose, country doctor anymore.

About fifty years later, I had a bad fall off my bicycle. My right shoulder took the brunt of my impact with the road. It hurt badly, and I noticed my shoulder bone was protruding a little higher. This time it was my wife Sharon taking me to the emergency room, where the doctor said my scapula had been slightly displaced. As he worked on it, I was perfectly calm. Not a whimper or a groan. I’d been through this before.

Dr. Fisher would have been proud.

“Lay down flat on your back”, she said. “Put your hands on your chest and lay your head in the stabilizing helmet. Most importantly, try not to move in any way”. Then she folded a covering over my face and locked it down. “Are you ready?” she asked. “Yes ma’am” I replied. “You’ll be in there about fifteen minutes” she said as she slid me into the narrow tube.

I had been having issues with headaches. Kind of a constant pressure on my temples and forehead. The dull ache had been there for about a month and showed no sign of letting up. This was frightening to me because I’m not a headache person. I never got headaches. There’s no natural reason for this, I thought. I’m not under a lot of stress or tension. I haven’t fallen or suffered a concussion. I don’t have eye strain. When I told all this to my neurologist, he immediately scheduled me for an MRI scan of my brain.

So there I lay, motionless, eyes closed, tightly stuffed into a narrow tube, a machine probing my skull, with only my thoughts to keep me company. I said a few prayers. Then, being a natural born pessimist, I chose to prepare myself for the worst possible scenario. What if they find a brain tumor? What then?

If this is the beginning of the end, what am I to make of my life? After pondering the possibility, I decided I’m not afraid to die. I know my eternal future is secure. I thought about how incredibly blessed I have been. Wife, kids, grandkids, career and friends. I’ve truly had it all.

I thought about regrets. People I wish I had treated better. Situations I could have handled with more love and patience. I thought about goals I had not yet accomplished. I thought about my grandkids growing up, wondering if I had established any kind of legacy in their minds, or if they would remember me at all. I thought about those who have crossed over before me, Mom and Dad, Grandma, a grandchild that was lost at birth, so many dear friends. I’m going to see them again! That gave me a warm feeling. I thought about that verse in the Bible where Jesus said “I go to prepare a place for you”.

It was at that point I felt the anxiety drain out of my body. I found myself at peace as the weird electronic noises around me stopped, and I felt myself being slid out of the tube. Whatever you want Lord, I’m ready to face it.

The next day the neurologist called to tell me my MRI was completely normal. No brain tumors. I’m on medication for the headaches, and they seem to be getting better. But I can’t stop thinking about the feeling of security and tranquility I felt coming out of that tube. I scrambled to find that Bible passage. It’s John 14:2-3.

“My Father’s house has many rooms. If it were not so, would I have told you that I am going to prepare a place for you? And if I have prepared a place for you, I will come back and take you to be with me so you also can be where I am.”

Turns out I wasn’t alone in that tube after all.

I am at the neighborhood pool with my four year old grandson. I’m standing waist deep in the water, trying to coax him into coming down the pool steps and joining me. He is hesitant. He explains he is afraid of going under the water. I assure him I will be there to catch him.

After much cajoling and encouragement, he slowly builds up the courage to go down two steps, reach out his arms, and leap toward me. I snatch him and pull him close to me, giving him a big hug and praising him for being such a brave boy. He is very pleased with his accomplishment, and immediately wants to do it again. And again. And again.

After several jumps and several catches and several big smiles, I decide it’s time for him to take the next step. I want him to get past his fear of being underwater. If he’s going to learn to swim, he has to get accustomed to holding his breath and controlling his body. This time, as he lunges toward me, I relax my arms just a bit. Just enough so that he lands in the water and sinks below the surface for just a second. Then I quickly yank him up and say “See? That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

His face has a look of stunned surprise, as water runs down from his hair, and out from his eyes and nose. Uh-oh, I think. Is he going to cry and run away, never to trust me again? Thankfully, he recovers from the shock in a few seconds, and the big smile returns as he screams out “That was fun! Do it again!” Whence follows many, many more jumps, submergences, pull-ups and smiles. He’s okay going under, just so long as I’m there to pull him up.

I guess life is kind of like that. We cruise along in our comfort zones, afraid to take that plunge, that leap into a new adventure, a new challenge. What if it doesn’t work out? What if it leaves me twisting in the wind, embarrassed, my self esteem sinking. Sort of like ……… being under water?

We’re not inclined to be brave unless we can be sure of rescue, of someone there to catch us and pull us up out of our adversity. The book of Psalms mentions the word “rescue” 129 times. The whole message is summed up in 34:22. “The Lord will rescue His servants. No one who takes refuge in Him will be condemned.”

Whatever your dilemma might be, just do the right thing. It probably won’t be the easiest option, or the most desirable, or the most self-gratifying. If it was, it wouldn’t be a dilemma. Just know that, if you put your faith in Him, he’ll be there to catch you. He may let you go underwater for a while, just to get you prepared for the next step. You may be shocked and stunned at your unexpected circumstances, but in time you’ll recover and realize you don’t have to be afraid.

In fact, you may even break out a huge smile, and look for opportunities to do the right thing again. And again. And again.

Life is really all about making adjustments, isn’t it? As children, we adjust to the rules our parents lay down for us, and, of course, we rebel against some of them. As students we adjust to the discipline required to obtain an education. As young adults we adjust to the pressures of earning a living, dating, getting married, raising children, buying a house. In middle age we adjust to grown children, empty nests, the return of the grown children, and setting the stage for retirement.

Which brings us to the senior stage, where I happen to reside now. Again, there are adjustments. More free time. Health concerns. Managing money so that you will have enough. Grandchildren. New aches and pains every day. By this time hopefully we are old enough and wise enough to make the necessary changes in our routine and lifestyle to maintain at least a reasonably good quality of life and happiness.

You get used to not being able to do things as nimbly and athletically as you could when you were younger. You get used to having to take a little more time to get up off the floor after sitting down to play with the grands. You get used to taking pills. You get used to waking up earlier in the morning, going to bed earlier at night, eating lunch at 11am and dinner at 5pm…..promptly. Frequent doctor appointments. Getting confused by technology.

But as long as the Good Lord allows me to live, there is one thing I will never get used to. As the years pass on, I keep losing good friends. Sweet people with whom I have so many treasured memories and experiences. Folks who are just part of me. I guess that’s why I take their passing so hard, because a part of me, that relationship that we shared, dies with them.

Yes, I’m getting older. Most of my circle of friends and acquaintances are around my age, and thus it’s inevitable that some will cross the bridge. Of course I understand it, but I haven’t learned to handle it well. Don’t guess I ever will.

The Covid outbreak, when it was at its worst, was especially heartbreaking. It took several of those whom I loved. Other diseases continue to do the same. Just recently, it happened again. Her name was Carol Miller. Cancer got her. She was a subscriber and frequent commenter on this blog. Many of you readers know her, and that’s not a coincidence. Carol was one of those salt of the earth people who drew people to her like bees to honey. I first met Carol and her awesome husband Guy when they joined my Sunday School class many years ago. She was the first to volunteer whenever any act of ministry needed to be organized or done. She and Guy opened up their home for countless get- togethers and bonding activities. She was a leader of Christian mission groups both local and regional. Most of all, she was a loyal friend, to me and to everyone she met.

We just can’t afford to lose the Carol Millers. This troubled world needs them too desperately. I suppose it should be encouraging that she leaves behind an incredible legacy. She has inspired many, both young and old, to follow her leadership and example. She showed us how it’s done. Hers is a life well lived.

I guess I will get used to not hearing from her now and then, not seeing her supportive comments on this blog, on my Facebook wall and elsewhere. But I’ll never forget her. It seems trite and inadequate to restate the old adage, but it remains so true: treasure every moment with those you care about, because our time with them is finite.

I have learned to live with that.

But I’ll never get used to it.