A little journey through this topsy-turvy journey of joys and sorrows and hopes and dreams with plenty of grace from God along the way.
So, come tomorrow, homes across America will be filled with countless traditions coming to life yet again: turkey carvings, football games, perhaps even the start of preparations for the next major holiday we’d rather not think about just yet. But at the start of many Americans’ Thanksgiving is watching the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade (not necessarily mine, but minor detail). The route tends to be filled with massive floats, celebrities, as well as a fair share of high school bands.
For the longest time, down on the farm, our family kitchen had this old church pew for sitting around the table. For generations before, part of my dad’s side of the family had gone to this nearby Lutheran church. When it closed down (since the German immigrant farmers weren’t filling the countryside quite as much anymore), all the furnishings were made available for anyone to take. So, one of those pews was moved into our kitchen, just a few feet from the door that would lead to the garage, which was the most often used way of getting into the house.
I’m hoping not to become the parent whose excitement over their child making contact with a ball on top of a tee, can be heard throughout an entire sports complex and beyond. And yet, for some reason, there’s a bit of pride over a comparatively miniscule human act. If the timing works out just right on a weekday, our oldest will dart to the front window overlooking the porch area, as the mail man walks up the steps to drop off our random assortment of junk and billing notifications and other adulting nonsense. He insists on being there to wave to our postal carrier, quietly, but still confidently, saying, “Hiiiii!” with a bit of enthusiasm and joy and wonder and maybe even some love too (not to mention an understandable curiosity over the possibility that any of the material in our tattered mailbox is for him). Yes, we try to instill in our children a basic level of respect for other human beings, encouraging some form of “Hiiii!” and perhaps a wave for good measure, but this has a precious dose of personal initiative.
Part of the semi-daily trek to Parma Heights is listening to a sports podcast based out of Columbus, Ohio. It’s basically a recording of a radio show of a few guys recounting the previous day’s activities on collegiate and professional fields of play with no shouting over one another to win an argument, no intention on demeaning the other hosts or even athletes or coaches or front office personnel, not to mention minimal commercial interruption. It’s an appreciated change of pace from the seemingly standard operating procedure in the media industry.
As we approach this All Saints Day, when the church lifts up those who have departed from our earthly midst, especially those from this past year, I cannot help but remember James Earl Jones. Granted, I did not personally know the man, as we often tend to focus on when names are read aloud amidst our worship gatherings. I only knew him through screens displaying Field of Dreams or Clear and Present Danger or The Hunt for Red October or even a voice in The Lion King (sorry, never saw Star Wars).
