It’s Easter in my garden. The lilies are blooming! I know Easter Sunday was April 9. But each spring, the lilies in my garden are late arrivals. I don’t mind. Technically the church season of Easter lasts seven weeks, so they get a pass.
I’ve only planted eight of these lilies. They’ve multiplied over the years. I did a quick count. I will get over thirty blossoms in the next week or so. Beautiful white blooms announcing, “He is risen!”
I’ve always thought that the blooming Easter lily was a reminder of the empty tomb of Jesus. But they are also a picture of the Revelation 7 saints dressed in white. Jesus said they remind us that God will provide, so we don’t have to be anxious about what we wear.
The rising sun, singing birds, ocean waves, stars in the sky, and the lily are reminders of God’s presence, power, promises, and provision.
This week, I was helping someone with the tech needed in a college classroom. The designated room was equipped with a computer, projector, and screen. The first thing I had to figure out was how to lower the screen.
I thought, “There’s got to be a switch close by, probably on the wall.” Sure enough, I tried one, and the screen lowered into place. We were ready to go.
Some would say, “You just can’t go around pushing buttons. You don’t know what’s going to happen.” I figure there’s only one way to find out what will happen.
Push the button.
I’m a push-the-button kind of person. Flip the switch. Turn the knob. In a moment, you’ll know exactly what it does. If you don’t like what happens, try something else. Type a command. Click and drag. Hit escape. See what happens.
I’m especially intrigued by light switched taped in an on or off position. Tags that say, “Do not remove under penalty of the law.” Signs next to thermostats warning, “Do not adjust.” Labels advising, “No user-serviceable parts inside.”
I do heed a “Warning: High Voltage” sign. And the “do not eat” instruction on that little packet of whatever that comes in just about everything. And I never operate heavy machinery after taking a decongestant.
But everything else is fair game. Like the sign announcing, “Do not enter.” “Authorized Personnel Only.” “Closed.” I’ll try the door. Sometimes, it’s unlocked.
I believe that’s why I’m good at fixing things. I’ll try something until I get the desired result. I do this with computers, phones, the microwave oven, rebooting the wifi, changing the time on the car clock, the church sound board, getting something to print, or setting up a university classroom. I push the button.
I’m amazed to learn that not everyone is like this. Some are afraid to touch anything. What if it breaks? What if I get caught? What if I shut down the power grid to the entire east coast of the United States?
I say, “Relax.” You can always reboot. Power down and restart. You can undo what you’ve done. You can try something else. You can give up and get a snack. You can say, “I didn’t know.” Or, “I didn’t do it.” You can try again tomorrow.
A granddaughter will turn two in a few days. In preparation, my daughter (her aunt) called my son (the dad) to let him know a present was on the way. The birthday gift overheard the conversation, smiled and said, “I wait for present!”
First birthday? You’re oblivious. Mom and dad will have a party, but you won’t understand or remember it. A year later you’ll be up to speed. For the past month or so, everyone’s been reminding you, “It’s almost your birthday!” They’ve been asking, “How old will you be? Grown-ups have helped you master the art of hold up two fingers and proudly saying, “Two.” And somehow you’ve caught on to the reality that there will be presents. You’ve become a little consumer.
Big birthday celebrations every year for every child are common now. Some people spend a whole week observing their birthday. When did birthday celebrations begin?
To my surprise, the birthday celebration is a recent idea in the United States, from the mid-nineteenth century.1 Before that, birthdays were for the rich or the nobility. Everyone knew when George Washington’s birthday was. For everyone else, the day passed unnoticed.
The change came with industrialization. With clocks on the wall and watches in their pockets, people became more aware of time. Trains and streetcars ran on schedules and workers punched in and out of their factory shifts. Sensitive to the passage of time, students were separated by grades. Doctors treated older patients differently. Talk of being on time, ahead of time, and behind the times entered our conversations. Age – and birthdays – became significant.
Cake dates back to the Roman empire. Candles are a German tradition. Birthday gifts grew out of old fashioned western capitalism.
It’s a mixed bag. Little ones can’t wait for their next birthday. Some adults stop celebrating as if ignoring the date will prevent aging. My birthday is clustered with a daughter and two granddaughters in July, so it’s always fun. Giant cake for four? Sweet! Four cakes? Even sweeter.
I was at the gym and just about to get under the bar for a second set of squats. A young lady who was doing some personal training came up and said, “I’m sorry, I just have to ask – did you used to help out a summer program at the church just down the road?”
“I used to. I’m retired now.”
She told me her name and said, “That used to be my favorite thing every summer!”
I remembered her. “You went to our preschool, too, didn’t you?”
“Yeah. I loved it there!”
Every once in a while, someone from the past will recognize me. They’ve all grown up so I don’t know them. But when they see my head of gray hair and they remember me!
Fifteen minutes later, as struggled through another exercise, an older gentleman came up to me and asked, “Didn’t you used to meet with a group of men at the restaurant over there?”
“Yes, I did. But I stopped doing that last summer.”
“I thought I recognized you. I used to sit at the table one row over on Thursday mornings, too.”
He kind of looked familiar, but I had never actually met him. I think one of the men in our group had invited him to join us, but he preferred to eat by himself.
He said, “I retired in 1999.” Then he added, “Keep up the good work.”
Facial recognition technology is amazing. But so is the ability of the human mind to see a face and recognize someone from someplace and some moment in life.
I looked up ahead and saw…no one. I looked in my rear view mirror and saw…no one.
No cars. No trucks. Nothing. Just darkness.
I was out here on the highway…alone.
My flight was delayed. I landed at 1:30 in the morning. Caught my shuttle to long term parking. Got on the toll road, then the interstate. Forty miles to go. It’s nice at night. No trucks on my tail. No lights in my mirrors blinding me. No slow drivers to pass. No cars weaving through car-filled lanes. Just me.
It’s surreal. I’m not prepared for this. There’s always red tail lights to follow. There’s always the glare of oncoming headlights. There’s always someone merging onto the highway. There’s always Amazon trucks, car carriers, fuel trucks, and trailers laden with boats.
Not tonight. Tonight it’s just me.
This moment is peaceful. Almost hypnotic. A dream? No, I’m awake. I slept on the plane.
But what if. What if there are no other drivers? What if I’m not just alone on the road, but alone in the world? What if I get home, and there’s no one there?
A lot of weird things go through my head at 3 in the morning. Alone in a car, alone on a road, alone in…the world?
I can go as fast as I want. Or slow. I can stop right here if I want. I can turn around and drive in the other direction. I can swerve from lane to lane. No one to see, no one imposing limits, no one saying, “Stop!” no blue and red lights in my rear view mirror.
My speed is seventy-ish. I’m in the center lane. In an instant, I see lights behind me and lights ahead of me. My exit approaches.
I am not alone. Many others are out here driving. Driving like no one else is on the road. Eighty-five. Lane to lane. Disappearing from sight around the curve.
One man stood out in the gate area. In a sea of jeans and polos, his tailored black suit demanded a second glance. A large gold watch, light brown, two-buckle leather shoes, and coordinated pocket square completed his outfit.
Best of all, he was wearing sunglasses. He was wearing sunglasses at night waiting at the gate for a delayed flight departure.
I know there are good reasons to wear sunglasses indoors. Some eyes are very sensitive to any light. Celebrities don’t want recognition. When you wear sunglasses, people can’t tell if you are looking at them or not. Sunglasses can make you look cool.
So what’s this guy’s story? Was he accompanying another traveler, a bodyguard of some type? He could have been a preacher. Though I never dressed up to travel, some do. Was he on his way to or home from an upscale event? Did he work for the airline in an important role? Returning home from a funeral?
A well-dressed person flying early in the morning blends right in with lots of others on their way to meetings. Tonight, though, he’s one of those things that doesn’t belong. The guy next to me was wearing red and black checked pajama pants. Lots of women in yoga pants and crop tops. Plenty of people with sleeping doughnuts around their necks. Kids with backpacks almost as large as them. And this one gentleman in a black suit.
The detail that puzzles me is the backpack. I’ve got nothing against backpacks. I travel with one. But I would have expected him to be carrying some kind of leather briefcase.
When the flight finally boarded, I made my way down the aisle past his seat. He wasn’t flying first class or even in the larger seat section. Just a middle seat. I overheard him talking to the person next to him, and he mentioned real estate, residuals, and Melbourne, Florida. Just another person on their way to work.
Many people want to be noticed and remembered. A black suit is one way to make that happen.
I flew back from my son’s house in Dallas on a discount airline into Orlando. I’ve got this figured out. My only luggage is a backpack that meets the 18 x 14 x inch size for a free carry-on bag to fit under the seat. My cheap flights stay cheap.
While waiting for my zone to board the plane, I watched with amusement as the gate agent pulled several passengers aside whose bags clearly didn’t meet the free personal item criteria. Not even close.
If challenged, a passenger must fit their bag or backpack into a metal bin with specific dimensions. Many were not even close. I believe some were twice the size of a “personal” item.
One woman who failed the challenge pulled items out of her bag and laid them on a chair. Then, zipping up her bag, she successfully got it into the bin. With patience and perseverance, the agent instructed her, “Now put all that stuff in your bag and do that again.” Nice try!
I watched the distressed faces. We’re finally boarding the plane. But they were caught red-handed. They would now have to pay through the nose for their carry-on bags. They were surrounded by signs telling them to measure their bag and pay for their bags. Size bins are everywhere. They assumed none of that applied to them.
Here’s what I find interesting. All of this is intentional. I believe the airline sets me up to spend more money. (It’s always about the money, isn’t it?) They sell me a very low fare – $38 one way – to go and visit my son. Once I pay for my ticket, the game is on. Want to check a bag? Pick your own seat? Want more leg room? Want wifi on the flight? How about snacks? Priority boarding? Each will cost you a little more money. I didn’t add them all up, but if I chose them all, I might pay more than I would for a ticket on a regular airline.
I decline them all, but then the emails come. Have I changed my mind? I can still purchase these options. But each is just a little more expensive.
When it’s time to check in, I have to wade through all the options yet one more time. Just in case I have a little extra money laying around.
I’ll bet a lot of passengers ignore most of the emails, texts, and options. Then they arrive at the airport, and they’re going to pay.
It’s a clever game. I’ve lost a few rounds. But now I know how to play. I’ve won a few hands in the game of travel.
My time with my son and family wasn’t all work. Their mom and dad took advantage of my presence to run a few errands, usually in the afternoon during nap/quiet time. Not everyone slept nor were they quiet, but no one forgot what come next.
Snack time.
I love being there for snack time. I love to serve them up and consume them myself. I watched carefully when my brother and his wife brought out the snacks. Lay out a snack charcuterie and let them nibble on what they’re most into at that moment.
It’s a good strategy. Fruit, cut up veggies, pretzels, cheese are popular. So much so the three of them consumed all of it. Every crumb.
I wasn’t done yet though. When I was rifling through the pantry, I happened upon the remaining stash of Easter candy. Jackpot. Everyone also had a couple little candy with the condition they didn’t need to mention it to their parents.
These grandchildren eat their sweets slowly and thoughtfully. Small, carefully planned bites. Fingers licked clean. Wrappers inspected for crumbs.
No matter how happy or sad, busy or bored, running or relaxing, the phrase guaranteed to get everyone’s attention is, “Do you want a snack?”
I was sitting on the back patio in late afternoon and I found myself wondering how tall the scrub pine trees were in the two vacant lots on each side of our yard. As they swayed in the breeze, I suddenly recalled the giant maple trees I used to climb when I was a kid.
These two trees were five feet in diameter at the base. They were meant for climbing. The trunk divided into two just a few feet off the ground. Either route was filled with foothold that quickly got me up above the roof of our two- story house. But that was only the halfway point. I was able to keep going until the trunk was less that six inches across. On a windy day I really had to hold on, swaying back and forth, fifty-plus feet up, looking out over the neighborhood through the leaves.
This episode doesn’t include any falls or injuries. Sorry. I didn’t tell my mom what I was up to, other than, “Climbing the tree.” She probably knew. Moms just do. Maybe I was the reason she smoked and drank. My dad never said I couldn’t, so I climbed.
I remember the feeling of accomplishment. I felt strong, fearless, and daring. I would wrap some tape around the branch I reached so I could break my record the next time I climbed.
The trees in my yard aren’t climbable. Fifty-feet tall with no branches to step on or hold onto. Besides, I would never let my kids or grandkids climb like that. I’d be the one yelling, “Get off of there!” But they’re smart. They’d wait until I wasn’t watching.
Waite for it... 