Humble After Taking a Tumble

    Pressed between the pages of a dusty photo album is a picture of me at about twenty years old -- wearing an unsightly black eye and a band-aid. A few days earlier, I had tumbled off my water skis, and the tip of the ski clobbered my cheekbone. In my vain youth, I worried about a scar, so I went to a doctor who sewed a few stitches and later sanded it down. If the ski had hit an inch or so higher, well, I’d rather not think about that. 

Truth be told?

    I watched a documentary about an octopus and came to the conclusion it is one of the most intriguing specimens on this planet. It changes colors, has no bones, can be trained to do tricks, and eerily interacts with humans. (The show profiled a pet octopus named Heidi, aptly named for her ability to hide.)

    About halfway through the program, the narrator delved into the origin of the species, explaining how it “evolved.” He did not mention Creation or God or that God might have contributed in the least little way to the existence of the octopus. But I did not buy into his evolutionary tale. I sat on the sofa and marveled at the Genius; a.k.a. God, who created such magnificence.

    I am sure that many who watched the show believed the narrator's words as truth. By the way, truth seems to be a relic in the era in which we are living, when so many myths are being told as fact, and not just about the origin of an octopus. 

    Truth seems to be a thing of the past, like precious artifacts on display behind the glass enclosures at the Smithsonian in Washington, D. C. I will look for it the next time I'm there.

And a time to give stuff away

    My friend gave me his songbook. I didn’t ask for it; he just gave it to me. One day when our group finished singing at the Center, he said he had something for me, so I walked out to the van with him and his wife, and he handed me a binder filled with songs he’d sung over the years with different gospel groups.

    Handing over a songbook might seem like an insignificant gesture, but it isn’t, because the reason he gave it to me almost brings a tear to my eye. He gave it to me because he is old. He gave it to me because he knows there will come a day when he won't need his songbook anymore. He has lived more than a few decades; his voice is raspy; and although he didn’t say it, he’s doing the math.

    I have some other friends who are doing the math, too. Some people I know are making preparations for the future in different ways than before. Where they used to buy stuff to use up, they are now using up the stuff they bought and never used.  

    Some are depleting stashes of fabric by sewing dresses for little girls in Africa. Some are emptying palettes of paint by filling up canvases with splashes of color. Still others are purging their houses of clutter accumulated through fifty-years of marriage, and they are deciding on suitable heirs for possessions once held dear. Some are choosing executors to carry out their last wishes and close out their bank accounts. And some are giving away their songbooks.