Changes are due
My wife pulled up the last of the almost dead petunias yesterday. Too little rain, too much heat, and Father Time did them in. The three tomato plants that yielded more huge tomatoes than I could eat now have only two small green tomatoes waiting to ripen. The leaves on the flowering crab apple have begun falling. Fall, and then winter, is coming. My list of things to do before winter is growing like the weeds in my hosta plot.
When should I shut off the outside faucets? Drain the garden hose and take it to the garage? Clean up the outdoor grill? Check the anti-freeze in the car? Put away the short sleeve shirts and dig out my sweat suits that I call my nursing home clothes? Should I do those chores while the signs of summer still abound? Or should I wait until the very last moment?
Years ago, in the age when men wore hats, my grandfather traded his felt hat for a straw one every Memorial Day and reversed the exchange on Labor Day. He chose the dates for changing hats; nothing could override his decision, not even my grandmother and certainly not the weather. Not even a frost in June or a hot spell in September altered his choice of hats.
If I do those outdoor chores that say, “I am ready for winter,” too soon, I make winter seem longer and summer shorter. But if I sacrifice certainty and allow the outdoor temperature to control when I get ready for the season’s change, my schedule, routine, and maybe even my life, will be out of control. Oh my!
The older I get, the clearer I see what I do not control. With age comes the reluctant acknowledgment that control of my life is rapidly shrinking. I didn’t choose my gender, my parents, not even the number of siblings. My fingerprints, eye color, and the size and shape of my ears were not of my choosing either. Who would ever choose ears like mine?
The wife I have is fifty years older than the one I chose in 1957. The babies she and I made together aren’t babies any longer; they are in their forties. Some of my choices in friends didn’t pan out. My choices in vocations never lasted for longer than a decade. I didn’t get to choose whether I would have a heart attack; and certainly not its date. Although I wanted to run, or at least walk, in the six kilometer Abe’s Amble at the close of the State Fair, my choice was trumped with an emphatic, “You can’t.”
A long time ago Jesus taught me that I could not even choose the number of hairs on my head. To help me understand that persistent lack of control applied to his best friends as well, he said he chose them, not the other way around. Even though I have long suspected the choices I make are a lot fewer than I imagined or hoped, I keep trying to control my life, my family, and my world.
Somewhere deep in my soul I hear a small voice whispering, “Let me be in control. Take your hands off the wheel. Trust me. I am wiser than you.”
I think I'll listen. No better than that, I’m going to give up my obsession with control before I wind up the garden hose this year. Maybe when I team up with Jesus and ask his father to help, maybe we will be prepared without sweat. What do you think?
When should I shut off the outside faucets? Drain the garden hose and take it to the garage? Clean up the outdoor grill? Check the anti-freeze in the car? Put away the short sleeve shirts and dig out my sweat suits that I call my nursing home clothes? Should I do those chores while the signs of summer still abound? Or should I wait until the very last moment?
Years ago, in the age when men wore hats, my grandfather traded his felt hat for a straw one every Memorial Day and reversed the exchange on Labor Day. He chose the dates for changing hats; nothing could override his decision, not even my grandmother and certainly not the weather. Not even a frost in June or a hot spell in September altered his choice of hats.
If I do those outdoor chores that say, “I am ready for winter,” too soon, I make winter seem longer and summer shorter. But if I sacrifice certainty and allow the outdoor temperature to control when I get ready for the season’s change, my schedule, routine, and maybe even my life, will be out of control. Oh my!
The older I get, the clearer I see what I do not control. With age comes the reluctant acknowledgment that control of my life is rapidly shrinking. I didn’t choose my gender, my parents, not even the number of siblings. My fingerprints, eye color, and the size and shape of my ears were not of my choosing either. Who would ever choose ears like mine?
The wife I have is fifty years older than the one I chose in 1957. The babies she and I made together aren’t babies any longer; they are in their forties. Some of my choices in friends didn’t pan out. My choices in vocations never lasted for longer than a decade. I didn’t get to choose whether I would have a heart attack; and certainly not its date. Although I wanted to run, or at least walk, in the six kilometer Abe’s Amble at the close of the State Fair, my choice was trumped with an emphatic, “You can’t.”
A long time ago Jesus taught me that I could not even choose the number of hairs on my head. To help me understand that persistent lack of control applied to his best friends as well, he said he chose them, not the other way around. Even though I have long suspected the choices I make are a lot fewer than I imagined or hoped, I keep trying to control my life, my family, and my world.
Somewhere deep in my soul I hear a small voice whispering, “Let me be in control. Take your hands off the wheel. Trust me. I am wiser than you.”
I think I'll listen. No better than that, I’m going to give up my obsession with control before I wind up the garden hose this year. Maybe when I team up with Jesus and ask his father to help, maybe we will be prepared without sweat. What do you think?
posted by John | 10:39 AM
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