“All that had been used to make it a dwelling place, by my folks on back, by Grover and me… all the memories of all the lives that had made it and held it together, all would come apart and be gone as if it never was.”
---from Sold, a short story by Wendell Berry
The rooms were empty by the time I arrived. Except for a few heaps of trash here and there, and some stuff no one wanted, it was finished, done. The auction for the contents of my parents’ house was over. And there I stood with my sister-in-law, Joy, and my brother, Mark, who had witnessed the whole thing. Now they were exhausted, the auction (it was 107 degrees the day of the sale, forcing one of the auctioneers to the emergency room with heat exhaustion), had taken its toll on them, physically and emotionally. Moving slowly, almost painfully ambling from room to room, their eyes darting over every square foot of floor space, they searched as if still expecting to find something beautiful and worthy, something cherished that had been somehow overlooked.
But it was all gone. All that was left was empty rooms.
They looked at me with tears in their eyes like I had arrived at the ER a few moments too late and had just missed the passing of a loved one. Glancing out the back window where I used to chat with Mom on the porch swing about life, and dreams, and why mosquitoes like me so much, my eyes blurred as I choked out the words, “It looks so sad when it’s so empty.”
I then walked through each room alone, just the empty space and me. It was my way of bidding adieu to the home place. And in each room I took a mental picture. I could almost hear my imaginary camera clicking as I paused in each room. I stood in the informal dining area, and click, I captured a picture of our family gathered around the table laden with steak, baked potatoes, fried okra, and corn on the cob. We were singing “happy birthday” to one of us.
I glanced across the room and click, I was taking a Sunday afternoon snooze over there on the couch, the Sunday newspaper draped across my chest.
Then I was in the kitchen and click, there was Dad watching TV while Mom was brewing hot tea.
I walked through the den when click, I got a great shot of all of us at Christmas, exchanging gifts, laughing, and then, click, I got one last picture of my annual reading of the Christmas story. My brother is smiling as I read. He always did.
I tip-toed down the hallway and click, I caught a glimpse of Mom putting on make-up in her bathroom, then click again, and I was in my old room sleeping in my bed, back home for a visit.
In the dining room reserved for special occasions I clicked and saw us at Thanksgiving dinner, turkey and dressing piled high on our plates as we stand around the table, pausing to give thanks.
And so it was, I clicked my way through the house until I arrived back at the place I had left my brother and sister-in-law.
Tears again clouded my eyes, but not for empty rooms; I had just filled them with memories of what they always truly were: spaces where people gathered to be family. And I could carry the moments, the pictures, with me, tucked inside the canyons of my soul, waiting to be explored again for the first time--- a new time.
“I think I may come back tomorrow for one more look,” I said to my brother as we left. But I knew I wouldn’t, for there was no longer a need to return to the old place when I could always draw on the freshness of what it was and is in my heart.
Email David B.Whitlock, Ph.D., at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com or visit his website, www.Davidbwhitlock.com
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Thursday, July 28, 2011
My stuff is not junk
“You’ll find you’ve brought too much stuff.”
The words were softly spoken---almost as if to himself--- by a retired Pastor, a resident of my parents’ retirement community. He seemed to know by observation and personal experience: we take too much stuff with us.
I take too much stuff with me most everywhere I go, even to the beach. “Let’s see, towels, sun screen, sun glasses, iPod, watch (do I need my watch?), keys, cell phone (do I really need my cell phone?), Kindle (can I even get service for it?), beach shoes---oh my goodness, I can’t carry all this stuff!”
Even when I flew to Oklahoma to help relocate my parents, I took tiny versions of larger stuff in my life: a miniature shaving kit, tooth paste and brush, hair brush, and compact case of contact lens solution. The fact is, I take too much stuff with me.
And that’s our problem: we want to take our stuff with us, even when we retire. And I suppose, even to our grave.
I heard the refrain again and again from other retirement home residents as they watched me breaking down the boxes from my parents’ move: “Downsizing is the hardest thing I’ve ever done.” Not looking up, I nodded in agreement.
My parents’ generation matured in a growth economy that tended to equate consumption with success and happiness. Growing up on the heels of a Depression era characterized by lack and want, the accumulation of stuff in times of prosperity equated with security. “Keep that stuff; don’t throw good stuff away; you never know when hard times may hit, and you or someone else may need it again.”
I have a friend whose grandmother built a large room and basement, almost the size of the original house. Why? So she could keep all her extra stuff in it. Then she moved and built a larger house that kept all her stuff. Now, her son has another house to keep her stuff, plus all of his stuff. What happens when they die? Call the auctioneer.
During breakfast at the retirement facility, I asked one dear couple what had been the hardest thing about moving. “Leaving our home--- our home of so many years, and departing with most all we had in it.”
My heart ached for her as I listened, sitting next to Dad, who was on his first day away from his home of 58 years, experiencing the same pain that lady expressed.
And I wanted to kick myself for asking the question.
It can be a disheartening situation. Dr.David J. Ekerdt, who directs the gerontology center at the University of Kansas, has extensively researched the matter of senior adults having to downsize. Based on his interviews with social workers, geriatricians, retirement community administrators and family members, Dr. Ekerdt has concluded that the sheer volume of objects in a typical household--- including the tremendous physical and mental stress involved in sorting out what’s essential and the psychological effects of parting with what’s not — can lead to what he calls a “paralysis that keeps seniors in place, even when the place isn’t the best place.” In other words, possessions become an obstacle that often keeps senior adults from better managing their health and well-being.
My brothers and I could no longer wait for Mom and Dad to direct us in what to keep and what Dr. Ekerdt calls “household disbandment,” that is, disposing of possessions. The house had sold, the moving van would soon be in the driveway, and the retirement facility would not wait forever.
It was painful.
We ferreted through photograph albums, newspaper clippings, clothes and more clothes---and more stuff, behind every nook and cranny, more, more, more.
And finally, exhausted, we fell back. But we had it on the truck.
I arrived back home with a mission: get rid of my extra stuff. I plowed through the overloaded mail box in my office, throwing away old journals, magazine subscriptions, newspapers, and the junk mail that was cluttering my life. I sighed with relief at my little accomplishment.
And then I arrived home. “The packages came in today,” Lori informed me. The packages included the boxes of stuff I couldn’t bear to see thrown away from Mom and Dad’s house. “It was a ‘package deal,’” I quipped, that included the pictures of my first haircut, my brother Mark throwing me the football, my brother Lowell in his 1963 Altus High School letter jacket, and my brother Dougie and me playing together.”
No, that’s not junk. Junk belongs to someone else.
So, I’m keeping my stuff…
At least for now…
Or until our kids can go through it…
Someday…
Somehow…
And decide what stuff they want.
Email David B.Whitlock, Ph.D., at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com or visit his website, www.davidbwhitlock.com.
The words were softly spoken---almost as if to himself--- by a retired Pastor, a resident of my parents’ retirement community. He seemed to know by observation and personal experience: we take too much stuff with us.
I take too much stuff with me most everywhere I go, even to the beach. “Let’s see, towels, sun screen, sun glasses, iPod, watch (do I need my watch?), keys, cell phone (do I really need my cell phone?), Kindle (can I even get service for it?), beach shoes---oh my goodness, I can’t carry all this stuff!”
Even when I flew to Oklahoma to help relocate my parents, I took tiny versions of larger stuff in my life: a miniature shaving kit, tooth paste and brush, hair brush, and compact case of contact lens solution. The fact is, I take too much stuff with me.
And that’s our problem: we want to take our stuff with us, even when we retire. And I suppose, even to our grave.
I heard the refrain again and again from other retirement home residents as they watched me breaking down the boxes from my parents’ move: “Downsizing is the hardest thing I’ve ever done.” Not looking up, I nodded in agreement.
My parents’ generation matured in a growth economy that tended to equate consumption with success and happiness. Growing up on the heels of a Depression era characterized by lack and want, the accumulation of stuff in times of prosperity equated with security. “Keep that stuff; don’t throw good stuff away; you never know when hard times may hit, and you or someone else may need it again.”
I have a friend whose grandmother built a large room and basement, almost the size of the original house. Why? So she could keep all her extra stuff in it. Then she moved and built a larger house that kept all her stuff. Now, her son has another house to keep her stuff, plus all of his stuff. What happens when they die? Call the auctioneer.
During breakfast at the retirement facility, I asked one dear couple what had been the hardest thing about moving. “Leaving our home--- our home of so many years, and departing with most all we had in it.”
My heart ached for her as I listened, sitting next to Dad, who was on his first day away from his home of 58 years, experiencing the same pain that lady expressed.
And I wanted to kick myself for asking the question.
It can be a disheartening situation. Dr.David J. Ekerdt, who directs the gerontology center at the University of Kansas, has extensively researched the matter of senior adults having to downsize. Based on his interviews with social workers, geriatricians, retirement community administrators and family members, Dr. Ekerdt has concluded that the sheer volume of objects in a typical household--- including the tremendous physical and mental stress involved in sorting out what’s essential and the psychological effects of parting with what’s not — can lead to what he calls a “paralysis that keeps seniors in place, even when the place isn’t the best place.” In other words, possessions become an obstacle that often keeps senior adults from better managing their health and well-being.
My brothers and I could no longer wait for Mom and Dad to direct us in what to keep and what Dr. Ekerdt calls “household disbandment,” that is, disposing of possessions. The house had sold, the moving van would soon be in the driveway, and the retirement facility would not wait forever.
It was painful.
We ferreted through photograph albums, newspaper clippings, clothes and more clothes---and more stuff, behind every nook and cranny, more, more, more.
And finally, exhausted, we fell back. But we had it on the truck.
I arrived back home with a mission: get rid of my extra stuff. I plowed through the overloaded mail box in my office, throwing away old journals, magazine subscriptions, newspapers, and the junk mail that was cluttering my life. I sighed with relief at my little accomplishment.
And then I arrived home. “The packages came in today,” Lori informed me. The packages included the boxes of stuff I couldn’t bear to see thrown away from Mom and Dad’s house. “It was a ‘package deal,’” I quipped, that included the pictures of my first haircut, my brother Mark throwing me the football, my brother Lowell in his 1963 Altus High School letter jacket, and my brother Dougie and me playing together.”
No, that’s not junk. Junk belongs to someone else.
So, I’m keeping my stuff…
At least for now…
Or until our kids can go through it…
Someday…
Somehow…
And decide what stuff they want.
Email David B.Whitlock, Ph.D., at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com or visit his website, www.davidbwhitlock.com.
Sunday, July 3, 2011
Grateful for the generations that brought us freedom
The black and white picture of the B-24 on the front of the time worn postcard caught my attention. I flipped it over to find my dad’s barely legible handwriting, smeared as it was by an aged water stain. It was postmarked, December 12, 1944, from San Marcos Army Air Field, San Marcos, Tx.
“Dear Folks,” it began---“folks” being the word Dad used to address his parents---“boy am I tired! We had a night/day mission last night…” He was in training as a navigator for the Air Force during WWII.
Dad was only 20 then, younger than my two sons. I’ve seen his military pictures: full face, rosy cheeks, bright eyes, chest thrust back, proud to be wearing his USAF uniform, anxious to serve his country, more anxious to survive and put his arms around my mom.
I was not even a glint in his eye then.
And his “folks,” my grandparents, were more than ten years younger than me the day I read that postcard just last week as I helped Mom and Dad move out of their home town of 58 years, the town they returned to after WWII and the Korean War, the place they chose to settle, raise a family, and fulfill their version of the American Dream.
Tom Brokaw appropriately coined the phrase, ‘The Greatest Generation,” to describe the men and women who came out of the Depression, won the great victories of WWII, and made the sacrifices to build their world---the fruits of which we enjoy today.
Not all the letters in Brokaw’s book, The Greatest Generation Speaks (1999), are from people on the front lines. Some are from those who did not see action but were nonetheless willing to serve wherever they were asked.
Roger Newburger was one such man. He was with the Army Core of Engineers on Oahu and never made it to the front. “I would have tried to do whatever I was told to do, but I think the guys would have been safer without me.” Years later, after seeing the film, Saving Private Ryan, Newburger went to his car and wept for 30 minutes, so affected was he “because of what the real warriors went through.”
My dad was a Roger Newburger---willing to serve wherever he was asked but grateful he didn’t have to face the enemy eye to eye. Thankfully, WWII came to a close before he was deployed, and he served as a dentist in a medical facility in Seoul, South Korea during the Korean War.
My neighbor and childhood friend, Kim Parrish, had a picture of his dad---whom I respectfully addressed as Big Jim---in his WWII army uniform. Big Jim served in active combat. Stone-faced in that picture, he stared intently straight ahead, as if he knew danger was imminent. And it was. I admired him immensely and begged him to tell me war stories. He refused, and I was too young to understand why.
Even though Dad was not in combat, I was no less proud of him and appreciative of others like him who were willing to go to the front, even if they never had to.
So, this Independence Day I shall not only celebrate freedom but remember and reflect on the sacrifices of those who served wherever they were asked---those of the Greatest Generation as well as the others---generations of people who have secured for me the freedom to enjoy a day of celebration.
And I shall be sad yet grateful for those who didn’t make it home to embrace their spouse and hold their children and pursue their dreams.
As I walk with Dad down the hall of the retirement center which is his and Mom’s new home, he grasps me tightly by the arm to steady himself. His is now a different kind of tired than the one he wrote about as the 20 year-old navigator in training.
And as we walk, we pass two elderly women chatting.
“You say you have a brother who is buried in the country?” the one shouts so her companion can hear the question.
“Yes, yes, I do,” her friend responds with like volume. “He went to the war years ago…but he made it back.”
I’m glad he did.
And for others like him.
Especially the one who holds my arm as I walk him to his room, so he can finally rest.
Email David B.Whitlock, Ph.D., at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com or visit his website, www.davidbwhitlock.com.
“Dear Folks,” it began---“folks” being the word Dad used to address his parents---“boy am I tired! We had a night/day mission last night…” He was in training as a navigator for the Air Force during WWII.
Dad was only 20 then, younger than my two sons. I’ve seen his military pictures: full face, rosy cheeks, bright eyes, chest thrust back, proud to be wearing his USAF uniform, anxious to serve his country, more anxious to survive and put his arms around my mom.
I was not even a glint in his eye then.
And his “folks,” my grandparents, were more than ten years younger than me the day I read that postcard just last week as I helped Mom and Dad move out of their home town of 58 years, the town they returned to after WWII and the Korean War, the place they chose to settle, raise a family, and fulfill their version of the American Dream.
Tom Brokaw appropriately coined the phrase, ‘The Greatest Generation,” to describe the men and women who came out of the Depression, won the great victories of WWII, and made the sacrifices to build their world---the fruits of which we enjoy today.
Not all the letters in Brokaw’s book, The Greatest Generation Speaks (1999), are from people on the front lines. Some are from those who did not see action but were nonetheless willing to serve wherever they were asked.
Roger Newburger was one such man. He was with the Army Core of Engineers on Oahu and never made it to the front. “I would have tried to do whatever I was told to do, but I think the guys would have been safer without me.” Years later, after seeing the film, Saving Private Ryan, Newburger went to his car and wept for 30 minutes, so affected was he “because of what the real warriors went through.”
My dad was a Roger Newburger---willing to serve wherever he was asked but grateful he didn’t have to face the enemy eye to eye. Thankfully, WWII came to a close before he was deployed, and he served as a dentist in a medical facility in Seoul, South Korea during the Korean War.
My neighbor and childhood friend, Kim Parrish, had a picture of his dad---whom I respectfully addressed as Big Jim---in his WWII army uniform. Big Jim served in active combat. Stone-faced in that picture, he stared intently straight ahead, as if he knew danger was imminent. And it was. I admired him immensely and begged him to tell me war stories. He refused, and I was too young to understand why.
Even though Dad was not in combat, I was no less proud of him and appreciative of others like him who were willing to go to the front, even if they never had to.
So, this Independence Day I shall not only celebrate freedom but remember and reflect on the sacrifices of those who served wherever they were asked---those of the Greatest Generation as well as the others---generations of people who have secured for me the freedom to enjoy a day of celebration.
And I shall be sad yet grateful for those who didn’t make it home to embrace their spouse and hold their children and pursue their dreams.
As I walk with Dad down the hall of the retirement center which is his and Mom’s new home, he grasps me tightly by the arm to steady himself. His is now a different kind of tired than the one he wrote about as the 20 year-old navigator in training.
And as we walk, we pass two elderly women chatting.
“You say you have a brother who is buried in the country?” the one shouts so her companion can hear the question.
“Yes, yes, I do,” her friend responds with like volume. “He went to the war years ago…but he made it back.”
I’m glad he did.
And for others like him.
Especially the one who holds my arm as I walk him to his room, so he can finally rest.
Email David B.Whitlock, Ph.D., at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com or visit his website, www.davidbwhitlock.com.
Sunday, June 19, 2011
Moving Mom and Dad
As I walked away from the emergency room, I felt a heaviness for my friends who had just brought in their elderly father. They were rightly concerned about his health issues. But their dad wasn’t. In fact, he was angry that his adult children had insisted on admitting him to the hospital.
There he rested on the gurney, pouting because he wasn’t home. His lower lip was turned up, childlike, which enhanced the scowl on his face as he weakly waved me away.
It’s not easy parenting parents.
What my friends’ father was feeling is normal for the elderly in those situations. Agitated because they aren’t home, fearing what lies ahead ---“Will I get to go home? Are they putting me away? Why are they doing this to me now?”--- they often react in ways their adult children perceive as harsh and insensitive. And at the same time, the elderly parents frequently view their children as cold and uncaring.
Reversing parental roles isn’t easy. Being a caregiver for parents can take more and more time which can put a strain on the caregiver’s family. Often there are unexpected financial commitments, further stressing the caregiver’s family. Then there is the emotional toll paid by caregivers: “I can’t stand to see mom and dad go down like this. Am I doing the right thing? I feel guilty about not wanting to take care of them all the time.”
It’s a growing problem in our society. As Jane Gross notes in her recently published book, A Bittersweet Season, never before have there been so many Americans over the age of 85, and never before have there been so many Americans in late middle-age---that burgeoning baby boomer generation---responsible for the health and well-being of their parents.
The dilemma I observed in my friends and their father, I now see on the horizon for my parents and me. This Father’s Day, I will be helping my two older brothers as we move Mom and Dad to a life care facility. Instead of the home they’ve known and the town they lived in for the past 58 years, they will be in another location and a different home---an independent living unit. In time, they can transition to assisted living or skilled nursing.
Because I live farther away from my parents than my two older brothers, they’ve taken on most of the responsibility for moving them. My oldest brother has taken care of administrative details for their move; my other brother and his wife, living in the same town as my parents, have taken on the herculean task of helping Mom and Dad wade through a mountain of stuff in their house as they get ready for the move next week and an estate auction next month.
I will be there for both events. It’s my turn.
Mom and I talk most every day, and I hear the repeated refrain, “I wish you were here.” Moving Mom and Dad will be emotional for them and me. No longer will they be in the town where I grew up. The landscape bounding our lives will never be the same. They will no longer be where they have always been.
But they will be where they are supposed to be.
On one of my daily early morning conversations with Dad--- which always begins the same way, “Where are you and your buddies eating breakfast today?” and ends the same way, “Love ya Dad,” I told him about proofing one of my son’s research papers.
“He really didn’t need me,” I said. “It was fine just like it was. But I think it gives him a sense of security just to have me look at it. I guess he likes knowing I’m there.”
Then Dad told me something his dad, my granddad, said years ago. Granddad was in his late 70s and his dad, my great-granddad, was almost 100. (He lived to 104.) “Son,” Granddad said to my father, “no matter how old you are, and even when your dad can’t get around much like mine and is unable to do anything for you, there’s still some security in knowing your dad is still there.”
That’s something worth remembering this Father’s Day.
Mom and Dad won’t be where they were. But, they will be there, where they are supposed to be.
And there is some security in knowing that.
Email David B.Whitlock, Ph.D., at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com or visit his website, www.davidbwhitlock.com.
There he rested on the gurney, pouting because he wasn’t home. His lower lip was turned up, childlike, which enhanced the scowl on his face as he weakly waved me away.
It’s not easy parenting parents.
What my friends’ father was feeling is normal for the elderly in those situations. Agitated because they aren’t home, fearing what lies ahead ---“Will I get to go home? Are they putting me away? Why are they doing this to me now?”--- they often react in ways their adult children perceive as harsh and insensitive. And at the same time, the elderly parents frequently view their children as cold and uncaring.
Reversing parental roles isn’t easy. Being a caregiver for parents can take more and more time which can put a strain on the caregiver’s family. Often there are unexpected financial commitments, further stressing the caregiver’s family. Then there is the emotional toll paid by caregivers: “I can’t stand to see mom and dad go down like this. Am I doing the right thing? I feel guilty about not wanting to take care of them all the time.”
It’s a growing problem in our society. As Jane Gross notes in her recently published book, A Bittersweet Season, never before have there been so many Americans over the age of 85, and never before have there been so many Americans in late middle-age---that burgeoning baby boomer generation---responsible for the health and well-being of their parents.
The dilemma I observed in my friends and their father, I now see on the horizon for my parents and me. This Father’s Day, I will be helping my two older brothers as we move Mom and Dad to a life care facility. Instead of the home they’ve known and the town they lived in for the past 58 years, they will be in another location and a different home---an independent living unit. In time, they can transition to assisted living or skilled nursing.
Because I live farther away from my parents than my two older brothers, they’ve taken on most of the responsibility for moving them. My oldest brother has taken care of administrative details for their move; my other brother and his wife, living in the same town as my parents, have taken on the herculean task of helping Mom and Dad wade through a mountain of stuff in their house as they get ready for the move next week and an estate auction next month.
I will be there for both events. It’s my turn.
Mom and I talk most every day, and I hear the repeated refrain, “I wish you were here.” Moving Mom and Dad will be emotional for them and me. No longer will they be in the town where I grew up. The landscape bounding our lives will never be the same. They will no longer be where they have always been.
But they will be where they are supposed to be.
On one of my daily early morning conversations with Dad--- which always begins the same way, “Where are you and your buddies eating breakfast today?” and ends the same way, “Love ya Dad,” I told him about proofing one of my son’s research papers.
“He really didn’t need me,” I said. “It was fine just like it was. But I think it gives him a sense of security just to have me look at it. I guess he likes knowing I’m there.”
Then Dad told me something his dad, my granddad, said years ago. Granddad was in his late 70s and his dad, my great-granddad, was almost 100. (He lived to 104.) “Son,” Granddad said to my father, “no matter how old you are, and even when your dad can’t get around much like mine and is unable to do anything for you, there’s still some security in knowing your dad is still there.”
That’s something worth remembering this Father’s Day.
Mom and Dad won’t be where they were. But, they will be there, where they are supposed to be.
And there is some security in knowing that.
Email David B.Whitlock, Ph.D., at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com or visit his website, www.davidbwhitlock.com.
Sunday, June 12, 2011
When Steeples Fall
Two old codgers from Kansas decided to make a trip to California. On the way, they stopped at the Grand Canyon. Staring down at the Colorado River 6,000 feet below, gazing at the far side of the Canyon 18 miles away, awestruck by the canyon’s multi-colored layers of rock, the two men stood speechless. Finally, one drawled, “Sumpum musta happened here.”
Yep. It took several million years, but something indeed happened there. And it’s a beautiful display, many would say, of God’s handiwork in nature.
If you could have flown several hundred feet over Tuscaloosa, Alabama, or Joplin, Missouri, or Monson, Massachusetts, the day after tornadoes struck their cities with devastating force, you could have joined the old timer’s declaration of the obvious: “Something must have happened here.”
But unlike the gradual formation of the awe-inspiring beauty of the Grand Canyon, it took only a few minutes to wreak havoc in Tuscaloosa, Joplin, and Monson. And it was horrible.
We observe the creation of the Grand Canyon and stand amazed at how God put it together; we look at the tornado’s destructive path and wonder if God went to sleep on the clock.
Tornadoes descend from the sky with strike force efficiency, destroying hospitals, high schools, and homes.
And houses of worship, too.
Harmony Heights Baptist Church in Joplin was hit by the tornado on Sunday, May 22, 2011, killing three women. Pastor Charlie Burnett believes it could have been much worse. "It has to be from God," Burnett said. Fifty people walked away from the church "when it looked like they should have died."
More than one church was hit by the tornado that trounced Alabama on April 27, 2011. Among those churches was the First Assembly of God in Pleasant Grove. Pastor Lamar Jacks tried to make some sense of it, “I don't understand it," Jacks said. "If I try to tell you I understand it, I'm lying. God's saying to us, do you trust me? Don't lean on our own knowledge. Just trust in him. God can take the bad and the hurts and lift up his name."
And in Monson, Massachusetts, Pastor Robert Marrone, on June 5, 2011, the Sunday morning after the storm hit his community, was also trying to make sense of it all. In his sermon, he asked where God was during the storm, “Did he take a break between 4 and 6?"---the time the tornado struck Massachusetts. It knocked down the steeple and severely damaged the historic church he pastors. But, Marrone saw evidence of God at work shortly after the storm. People began checking on and helping each other.
The technical term for these explanations is a theodicy---an attempt to defend the goodness and justice of God in the face of evil and suffering. If God is good, why does he allow tornadoes to strike buildings with people in them? It’s one thing for him to permit a gradual transformation in creating something beautiful like the Grand Canyon. But what to do with a Tuscaloosa, a Joplin, or a Monson?
Somewhere between a view that attributes all suffering to a capricious God who uses natural tragedies as a way of punishing people---a God who destroys one house while leaving another intact, a God who grabs one baby from one mother’s arms while leaving another alone---somewhere between that and the view that pain and suffering is somehow an area God didn’t quite “fix” in his universe, lie the words of Jesus, who himself, although he never turned down someone in need of help, including healing, did not rush in, constantly intervening in the course of natural laws.
In speaking of who is responsible for tragedies, either from the hands of ruthless rulers or in construction accidents, Jesus made it clear it was not the result of wrongdoing on the part of the victims. Then warning his audience, Jesus said, “Unless you repent, you too will likewise perish” (Luke 13:3).
In other words, make sure you are straight with God, for you know not when the steeple may fall in your life.
So maybe we don’t need to defend God. After all, he doesn't explain himself. And if he did, who of us could comprehend it all? Rather than giving an explanation, God gives himself.
Whether it’s in the breathtaking view of the Grand Canyon or the heart-wrenching tragedy of destroyed buildings and lost lives, God is somehow there--- in us--- helping us respond to the beauty of the canyons or the beast of the calamities.
When steeples fall, he is there.
Even when words are beyond explaining how or why.
Email David B.Whitlock, Ph.D., at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com or visit his website, www.davidbwhitlock.com.
Yep. It took several million years, but something indeed happened there. And it’s a beautiful display, many would say, of God’s handiwork in nature.
If you could have flown several hundred feet over Tuscaloosa, Alabama, or Joplin, Missouri, or Monson, Massachusetts, the day after tornadoes struck their cities with devastating force, you could have joined the old timer’s declaration of the obvious: “Something must have happened here.”
But unlike the gradual formation of the awe-inspiring beauty of the Grand Canyon, it took only a few minutes to wreak havoc in Tuscaloosa, Joplin, and Monson. And it was horrible.
We observe the creation of the Grand Canyon and stand amazed at how God put it together; we look at the tornado’s destructive path and wonder if God went to sleep on the clock.
Tornadoes descend from the sky with strike force efficiency, destroying hospitals, high schools, and homes.
And houses of worship, too.
Harmony Heights Baptist Church in Joplin was hit by the tornado on Sunday, May 22, 2011, killing three women. Pastor Charlie Burnett believes it could have been much worse. "It has to be from God," Burnett said. Fifty people walked away from the church "when it looked like they should have died."
More than one church was hit by the tornado that trounced Alabama on April 27, 2011. Among those churches was the First Assembly of God in Pleasant Grove. Pastor Lamar Jacks tried to make some sense of it, “I don't understand it," Jacks said. "If I try to tell you I understand it, I'm lying. God's saying to us, do you trust me? Don't lean on our own knowledge. Just trust in him. God can take the bad and the hurts and lift up his name."
And in Monson, Massachusetts, Pastor Robert Marrone, on June 5, 2011, the Sunday morning after the storm hit his community, was also trying to make sense of it all. In his sermon, he asked where God was during the storm, “Did he take a break between 4 and 6?"---the time the tornado struck Massachusetts. It knocked down the steeple and severely damaged the historic church he pastors. But, Marrone saw evidence of God at work shortly after the storm. People began checking on and helping each other.
The technical term for these explanations is a theodicy---an attempt to defend the goodness and justice of God in the face of evil and suffering. If God is good, why does he allow tornadoes to strike buildings with people in them? It’s one thing for him to permit a gradual transformation in creating something beautiful like the Grand Canyon. But what to do with a Tuscaloosa, a Joplin, or a Monson?
Somewhere between a view that attributes all suffering to a capricious God who uses natural tragedies as a way of punishing people---a God who destroys one house while leaving another intact, a God who grabs one baby from one mother’s arms while leaving another alone---somewhere between that and the view that pain and suffering is somehow an area God didn’t quite “fix” in his universe, lie the words of Jesus, who himself, although he never turned down someone in need of help, including healing, did not rush in, constantly intervening in the course of natural laws.
In speaking of who is responsible for tragedies, either from the hands of ruthless rulers or in construction accidents, Jesus made it clear it was not the result of wrongdoing on the part of the victims. Then warning his audience, Jesus said, “Unless you repent, you too will likewise perish” (Luke 13:3).
In other words, make sure you are straight with God, for you know not when the steeple may fall in your life.
So maybe we don’t need to defend God. After all, he doesn't explain himself. And if he did, who of us could comprehend it all? Rather than giving an explanation, God gives himself.
Whether it’s in the breathtaking view of the Grand Canyon or the heart-wrenching tragedy of destroyed buildings and lost lives, God is somehow there--- in us--- helping us respond to the beauty of the canyons or the beast of the calamities.
When steeples fall, he is there.
Even when words are beyond explaining how or why.
Email David B.Whitlock, Ph.D., at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com or visit his website, www.davidbwhitlock.com.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
The garage sale: an old-fashioned social network?
I was so deep in thought---reading a book about evil and the justice of God, that when my cell phone rang, I flinched. It was my wife, Lori: “I thought this weekend would be a great time for a garage sale,” she informed me.
It wasn’t the news I wanted to hear.
“Why?” I pleaded, glancing at the book about evil and the justice of God, trying to resist the temptation of associating the first word of the book with garage sales.
Thousands of people love garage sales; they thrive on them--- anticipating the weekend thrill of making a profit or finding a bargain---browsing here, looking there, returning home with trophies of something for next-to-nothing.
I am not among the garage sale devotees: I dread them; I dodge them; I deny their existence.
Lori is by no means a garage sale enthusiast, either. But she is not as staunch an opponent of the trade as I am. So, whenever we pass a garage sale, and Lori is tempted to stop, I pretend not to hear. “What? What? Oh, I’m so sorry; I couldn’t quite make out what you said. You… (Here it helps to pause), you don’t want to turn around now do you?’
Sometimes it works; usually, I find a place to turn around.
Now, her reason for the garage sale: “Next weekend is that ‘Million Mile Garage Sale’ (she meant the annual “400 Miles of Antiques, Collectibles and Stuff,” sale, which includes our city), and remember, the last time we had a garage sale, it wasn’t a good time because we had it during the ‘Million Mile’ thing, and no one wanted to come all the way down our street, since there was so much to shop for on the highway.”
She was right. Only the lost or the true garage sale professionals took the time to leave the abundance of stuff on the highway to drive down our road. The lost found their way out; the pros turned up their noses at our paltry sale. It wasn’t a good day.
“But don’t you remember that day?” I protested. “We vowed never to do it again.”
“Yes, but we need to get rid of some things, and we could use the money,” she rejoined.
She was right on both counts.
And so the deed was done; the date was set; no more reading about evil and the justice of God: a garage sale was coming my way.
An elderly saint of a man was once asked what his favorite verse of Scripture was. “And it came to pass,” he responded. Some life experiences are of the “and it came to pass,” category.
Garage sale day is one of them.
But in between the jolt of people arriving thirty minutes before we opened at 7:30 a.m. on Saturday and the last customer leaving as we were boxing up everything that didn’t sell, more than just a little good came my way. There was the excitement I saw in the eyes of that young engaged couple looking for furniture, the elation in the voice of the single girl finding the perfect couch for her first apartment, and the satisfaction in the demeanor of the lady purchasing a bedroom suit she liked and could afford.
And, how relieved we were to get rid of that porch swing which no longer had a swing, the flower arrangements that no longer fit our interior décor, and the antique piece that never did suit Lori’s taste.
But the best part of garage sale day was reconnecting with people. “I haven’t seen you in months. How are the kids? Remember how we used to get together…”
“Oh, yeah, those were good days, and what are you doing now?”
And so it went through the day: it was a garage sale reunion---a place where people reconnect, an old-fashioned kind of social network.
And sooner than I thought possible, it came to pass.
With a sigh of satisfaction, Lori and I looked out at the back patio, now clear of the porch swing that didn’t have a swing. “You know,” she said, “I was thinking about looking for some patio furniture, and that million mile thing is this weekend…”
“What? What was that? I am having trouble hearing,” my voice trailed away from her as I hustled to the garden.
You can contact David B.Whitlock, Ph.D., at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com or visit his website at davidbwhitlock.com
It wasn’t the news I wanted to hear.
“Why?” I pleaded, glancing at the book about evil and the justice of God, trying to resist the temptation of associating the first word of the book with garage sales.
Thousands of people love garage sales; they thrive on them--- anticipating the weekend thrill of making a profit or finding a bargain---browsing here, looking there, returning home with trophies of something for next-to-nothing.
I am not among the garage sale devotees: I dread them; I dodge them; I deny their existence.
Lori is by no means a garage sale enthusiast, either. But she is not as staunch an opponent of the trade as I am. So, whenever we pass a garage sale, and Lori is tempted to stop, I pretend not to hear. “What? What? Oh, I’m so sorry; I couldn’t quite make out what you said. You… (Here it helps to pause), you don’t want to turn around now do you?’
Sometimes it works; usually, I find a place to turn around.
Now, her reason for the garage sale: “Next weekend is that ‘Million Mile Garage Sale’ (she meant the annual “400 Miles of Antiques, Collectibles and Stuff,” sale, which includes our city), and remember, the last time we had a garage sale, it wasn’t a good time because we had it during the ‘Million Mile’ thing, and no one wanted to come all the way down our street, since there was so much to shop for on the highway.”
She was right. Only the lost or the true garage sale professionals took the time to leave the abundance of stuff on the highway to drive down our road. The lost found their way out; the pros turned up their noses at our paltry sale. It wasn’t a good day.
“But don’t you remember that day?” I protested. “We vowed never to do it again.”
“Yes, but we need to get rid of some things, and we could use the money,” she rejoined.
She was right on both counts.
And so the deed was done; the date was set; no more reading about evil and the justice of God: a garage sale was coming my way.
An elderly saint of a man was once asked what his favorite verse of Scripture was. “And it came to pass,” he responded. Some life experiences are of the “and it came to pass,” category.
Garage sale day is one of them.
But in between the jolt of people arriving thirty minutes before we opened at 7:30 a.m. on Saturday and the last customer leaving as we were boxing up everything that didn’t sell, more than just a little good came my way. There was the excitement I saw in the eyes of that young engaged couple looking for furniture, the elation in the voice of the single girl finding the perfect couch for her first apartment, and the satisfaction in the demeanor of the lady purchasing a bedroom suit she liked and could afford.
And, how relieved we were to get rid of that porch swing which no longer had a swing, the flower arrangements that no longer fit our interior décor, and the antique piece that never did suit Lori’s taste.
But the best part of garage sale day was reconnecting with people. “I haven’t seen you in months. How are the kids? Remember how we used to get together…”
“Oh, yeah, those were good days, and what are you doing now?”
And so it went through the day: it was a garage sale reunion---a place where people reconnect, an old-fashioned kind of social network.
And sooner than I thought possible, it came to pass.
With a sigh of satisfaction, Lori and I looked out at the back patio, now clear of the porch swing that didn’t have a swing. “You know,” she said, “I was thinking about looking for some patio furniture, and that million mile thing is this weekend…”
“What? What was that? I am having trouble hearing,” my voice trailed away from her as I hustled to the garden.
You can contact David B.Whitlock, Ph.D., at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com or visit his website at davidbwhitlock.com
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
The Rapture Racket: Cashing in on the Apocalypse
Oops. He missed it again---the date for the rapture, that is. But that’s okay, miscalculating the date for the end times is nothing new for Harold Camping.
In 1992 he published his book, “1994?” in which he predicted September 6, 1994 as the beginning of the end. Undeterred by that non-happening, Camping did some re-calculating and published another book in 2008, “We Are Almost There!” He conveniently forgot to mention his 1994 prediction’s failure to launch.
Then, last summer, Camping and his followers made another effort to spread the word: “The rapture is nigh!” Specifically, May 21, 2011. At exactly 6 p.m.
Now that it didn’t happen, Camping simply revised his date…again. He apologized, sort of, for not having the dates “worked out as accurately as I could have.” May 21 was a “spiritual judgment.” The world won’t really come to an end until October 21, 2011.
Aren’t you glad he clarified that?
Camping was preceded in his revision by one of his own followers, Robert Fitzpatrick--- who plunked his entire life savings of $140,000 into advertising the rapture.
Give it some time, and we can anticipate more of the same from rapture rousers.
That’s because there is something comforting in being assured that you will escape the worst of times by being whisked into the heavenlies. And the harder the times, the more urgent becomes the call for the apocalypse.
People are curious; they want to know: when will it happen?
Those who claim to know created a rapture racket that has reaped big financial dividends.
According to Family Radio’s IRS filings, contributions and grants to Camping’s organization topped $18 million last year. Warning the doomed of their fate in the predicted apocalypse wasn’t cheap. Family Radio spent as much as $1 million on the billboard campaign alone. But, what’s a mere $1 million when your radio network’s net worth is about $122 million?
So, when 6 p.m. May 21, 2011 came and passed uneventfully, Harold Camping may have been hurt, but not financially. He still sat on a personal net worth estimated at $72 million.
That’s right, $72 million.
“$72 million,” I whimsically thought to myself at approximately 6:01 p.m. Saturday as I scanned the horizon for any paranormal activity. Later, I repeated the figure aloud to myself, sitting in my lawn chair on our back patio, picturing how many hungry and homeless people could be fed and housed with just half of $72 million, and fantasizing what I would do with just a fraction of the revenue gleaned from the rapture racket.
Camping is not the only one who has profited from the prediction of the world’s end. Bart Centre, an atheist, sells insurance policies to those who might be worried about what will happen to their pets in the event that the raptured believers will leave their dearly beloved behind.
Then there is Mark Herrod, who according to the Wall Street Journal is a 52-year-old Evangelical Christian who created a business for believers who want emails sent to friends and relatives in the event of the rapture. He has over 100 clients who pay $14.95 a month for the service.
And then there are those who hawked T-Shirts and assorted paraphernalia. There was the "I Survived Judgment Day! and All I Got Is This Lousy T-Shirt" shirt for $25, the "2011 Rapture Survivor" mug ($15), the "Darn, I Slept Through Judgment Day" baby onesie ($15), and the truism, "If you can read this, we're both sinners--- 5-21-11," available in shirt, mug or thong ($15-25).
And I’m on the patio, warmed by the glow of the setting sun even as I’m plagued by thoughts of the homeless, hungry and hurting, and yes, rising expenses in my own house.
Then, I recall that Jesus never promised it would be easy this side of eternity, even though ultimate victory is promised to the believer. The trouble is, we just don’t know what the date is for that final triumph, for Jesus himself put a damper on rapture predicting when he said, “No one knows the day or hour when these things will happen, not even the angels in heaven or the Son himself” (Matthew 24:36).
And Jesus had stern words for those who focus on the irrelevant as they grab more and more while ignoring the needs of people in front of them: “When you refused to help the least of these my brothers and sisters, you were refusing to help me” (Matthew 25:45).
Now, that’s the message I’d like to see on a T-shirt or billboard---somewhere, anywhere. The only problem is---this side of the apocalypse, who on earth will buy it?
David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. is Pastor of Lebanon Baptist Church in Lebanon, Ky. and an adjunct instructor at Campbellsville University in Campbellsville, Ky. You can contact David at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com.
In 1992 he published his book, “1994?” in which he predicted September 6, 1994 as the beginning of the end. Undeterred by that non-happening, Camping did some re-calculating and published another book in 2008, “We Are Almost There!” He conveniently forgot to mention his 1994 prediction’s failure to launch.
Then, last summer, Camping and his followers made another effort to spread the word: “The rapture is nigh!” Specifically, May 21, 2011. At exactly 6 p.m.
Now that it didn’t happen, Camping simply revised his date…again. He apologized, sort of, for not having the dates “worked out as accurately as I could have.” May 21 was a “spiritual judgment.” The world won’t really come to an end until October 21, 2011.
Aren’t you glad he clarified that?
Camping was preceded in his revision by one of his own followers, Robert Fitzpatrick--- who plunked his entire life savings of $140,000 into advertising the rapture.
Give it some time, and we can anticipate more of the same from rapture rousers.
That’s because there is something comforting in being assured that you will escape the worst of times by being whisked into the heavenlies. And the harder the times, the more urgent becomes the call for the apocalypse.
People are curious; they want to know: when will it happen?
Those who claim to know created a rapture racket that has reaped big financial dividends.
According to Family Radio’s IRS filings, contributions and grants to Camping’s organization topped $18 million last year. Warning the doomed of their fate in the predicted apocalypse wasn’t cheap. Family Radio spent as much as $1 million on the billboard campaign alone. But, what’s a mere $1 million when your radio network’s net worth is about $122 million?
So, when 6 p.m. May 21, 2011 came and passed uneventfully, Harold Camping may have been hurt, but not financially. He still sat on a personal net worth estimated at $72 million.
That’s right, $72 million.
“$72 million,” I whimsically thought to myself at approximately 6:01 p.m. Saturday as I scanned the horizon for any paranormal activity. Later, I repeated the figure aloud to myself, sitting in my lawn chair on our back patio, picturing how many hungry and homeless people could be fed and housed with just half of $72 million, and fantasizing what I would do with just a fraction of the revenue gleaned from the rapture racket.
Camping is not the only one who has profited from the prediction of the world’s end. Bart Centre, an atheist, sells insurance policies to those who might be worried about what will happen to their pets in the event that the raptured believers will leave their dearly beloved behind.
Then there is Mark Herrod, who according to the Wall Street Journal is a 52-year-old Evangelical Christian who created a business for believers who want emails sent to friends and relatives in the event of the rapture. He has over 100 clients who pay $14.95 a month for the service.
And then there are those who hawked T-Shirts and assorted paraphernalia. There was the "I Survived Judgment Day! and All I Got Is This Lousy T-Shirt" shirt for $25, the "2011 Rapture Survivor" mug ($15), the "Darn, I Slept Through Judgment Day" baby onesie ($15), and the truism, "If you can read this, we're both sinners--- 5-21-11," available in shirt, mug or thong ($15-25).
And I’m on the patio, warmed by the glow of the setting sun even as I’m plagued by thoughts of the homeless, hungry and hurting, and yes, rising expenses in my own house.
Then, I recall that Jesus never promised it would be easy this side of eternity, even though ultimate victory is promised to the believer. The trouble is, we just don’t know what the date is for that final triumph, for Jesus himself put a damper on rapture predicting when he said, “No one knows the day or hour when these things will happen, not even the angels in heaven or the Son himself” (Matthew 24:36).
And Jesus had stern words for those who focus on the irrelevant as they grab more and more while ignoring the needs of people in front of them: “When you refused to help the least of these my brothers and sisters, you were refusing to help me” (Matthew 25:45).
Now, that’s the message I’d like to see on a T-shirt or billboard---somewhere, anywhere. The only problem is---this side of the apocalypse, who on earth will buy it?
David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. is Pastor of Lebanon Baptist Church in Lebanon, Ky. and an adjunct instructor at Campbellsville University in Campbellsville, Ky. You can contact David at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com.
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