Author: William Douthwaite

Posted in Life

The first one is turning thirty-eight

Posted on by William Douthwaite

My son turns thirty-eight tomorrow, and I’m trying really hard to remember life as my wife and I were about to have our first child. I didn’t start journaling until 1989, so I don’t have any written record of those moments. His birth also predates the ubiquitous phones that digitally capture every moment. So with a little help from my wife, it’s all going to have to come from memory, which thankfully, is still pretty good.

The morning before his birth, my wife and I were sitting in a rental house in Ft. Wayne, trying to come up with names for whoever would show up that afternoon. She was full term, but he didn’t get the memo. He hadn’t dropped or turned. An x-ray revealed that he as sitting upright with his legs crossed. So the doctor scheduled a caesarian section.

Our house struggled to keep out the bone-chilling Indiana winter as we talked through our short list of names. We were fans of the TV series “Spencer for Hire,” so Spencer was a possibility. In the end, Adam won out. It just sounded right. But what about a middle name? Another biblical name? There are plenty of them. Paging through the gospels we came across Nathaniel. We liked how that sounded. Done.

But what it it’s a girl? Back then, gender reveal happened on your birthday. I asked my wife if she remembered any female names we considered. She didn’t, and neither do I. We had a fifty-fifty chance of not needing one. We took our chances.

At the hospital, while the nurses prepped my wife, I put on a yellow gown, cap, and gloves. When she was ready, a nurse ushered me into surgery, pointed to a stool, and said, “Sit there.” It all happened very quickly. Surrounded by the doctor and nurses, I couldn’t see much until the nurse briefly showed me my son, and then took him to clean him up. My wife had a little trouble breathing due to the spinal anesthesia. But I had to trust they would take good care of her as they quickly ushered me out of the room.

I got to see my wife and we got to hold Adam about an hour later. My in-laws came up that night and got to see him as well. He was a little jaundiced from blood type incompatibility, so he spent the next five days basking under a UV light in a tiny bikini diaper and miniature sunglasses. My wife was able to stay at the hospital with him the whole time.

When it was time to go home, he exploded, as babies often do, ruining the only outfit we brought for him. So he made the trip home wrapped up in a bunch of blankets.

Any birth is miraculous. Holding a new life in your arms is powerful, especially when it’s your child. But the other miracle is that we didn’t have to pay a penny out of pocket for anything related to his birth. Nothing. Nada. Zip. Zilch. Our seminary-sponsored health insurance cost us $100 a month and covered everything.

So to the best of our recollection, that’s the story of our oldest child’s birth. He’s married with four kids of his own. We’ve got hundreds of pictures of those little ones!

Posted in neighbor

Welcome to the neighborhood

Posted on by William Douthwaite
Photo by Bundo Kim on Unsplash

I finally met my neighbor across the street.

I’m embarrassed to admit that he’s lived there for about three years. We’ve waved at each other pulling into and out of our driveways. We’ve both been working out in the yard at the same time. But for whatever reason, we never took the time to shake hands and talk.

What made the difference? My dog. She’s only three months old and shy. Each day I take her out in front of our house a little longer and a little further to get her used to leash walking and the sounds of the neighborhood.

Yesterday, my neighbor and his friend were talking in a foreign language and my dog was very interested. It was as if she could understand what they were saying. With wagging tail, she pulled in their direction, determined to join the conversation.

My neighbor, who had also been power washing his driveway, came over to see her, and we got talking about dogs. He’s got a gorgeous light brown and white Australian Shepherd who runs freely around his backyard, but never leaves their property. Of course, when I explained that Willow was a Great Dane, his eyes got big and he chuckled, “Oh. She’s going to be huge!”

So I found out that his name is Ricardo. He’s from Portugal and his wife is from Brazil. He’s got a handyman business and he gave me his business card. I let him borrow my surface washing disk to finish up his driveway. And just like that, we knew each other.

It’s about time. I know most of my other neighbors on both sides of the street and talk to them all pretty often. But this family eluded me for the longest time.

Knowing the neighbors has given me a great sense of security. We all watch each other’s homes and keep an eye out for unfamiliar cars that drive by. When a door-to-door salesperson tells me all my neighbors have bought his product, I know they haven’t.

I wonder why it’s easier to get to know some neighbors than others. Is it a cultural barrier? Age difference? Lives that are too busy to pause for a moment and say hi? Did Covid make us withdraw so far into our own little worlds that we forgot how to get back? Maybe it’s a little bit of all those things.

The solution? Talk a walk. And take a dog with you.

Posted in Life

A happy ending? Not yet.

Posted on by William Douthwaite
Photo by Juri Gianfrancesco on Unsplash

“Hey, Bill!”

I turned my head and saw a young man coming out of the coffee shop behind me. My face must have announced, “Who are you?” so he called out, “It’s J.”

I’m good with names and don’t forget faces, but he looked a lot different than the last time I saw him. His head was shaved and his beard was about three inches long. Was it his eyes? Or his smile? Suddenly I recognized him. It had been at least two years since I had talked with him and his wife.

“Wow,” I said, “How have you been?”

He kept smiling but I could tell from the look in his eyes that it was going to be tough to answer that question.

“Well,” he began, “J. (his wife) and I had a son. His name is Josiah. He is amazing.”

He paused and I had the feeling his story was about to take a turn for the worse.

“After Josiah was born, J. had postpartum depression. She was in the hospital for a month. Then she had a really bad day, and she took her life.”

J.’s words hung in the air. I had no words. All I could do was look into his eyes, listening, trying to imagine how much strength it took to speak about that loss.

I thought about the young couple who had wandered into our church one Sunday morning. I remembered their hospitality when they invited me to their apartment for supper. I thought about the baby who would never know his mother. I wondered how J. was dealing with a life no one envisions.

I asked, “So, how are you?”

It had been six months since her death. J.’s chiropractic practice was doing well. He was working out at the gym two times a day six times a week. He had a strong network of doctors and pastors who were walking with him through this chapter of his life. At least for that moment, he was doing well.

Then he said, “Oh, and I have to tell you. If you have a chance, try the egg, ham, and gouda breakfast sandwich here. It’s is amazing.”

I know, a bit off topic. But I was still in shock, so I went with it. “Does that fit in with your nutritional guidance?” J. was bit into holistic health, especially eating right.

He chuckled and said, “Well, my bodybuilding workouts require 4,500 calories a day. This might not be the best, but it helps me towards that goal.”

I want to reach out to J. and learn more about his journey as a mourning husband and single father. I’ve written a few hundred words here. But he could write a whole book, right?

A happy ending? Not yet. But you never know.

Posted in retirement

First Sunday off

Posted on by William Douthwaite

I found this in my drafts. I wrote it eighteen months ago, in July 2022, right after I retired.

Photo by Adi Goldstein on Unsplash

The first page of a new journal happened on the same day as my first Sunday of retirement, that is, my first Sunday off from preaching.

Sure, I’ve had Sundays off before. Vacations. A few guest preachers. But this was real. This was retirement. This was the first day of the rest of my <retired> life.

This was different. I didn’t have to worry about what was happening in my absence. I didn’t have to anticipate a text like, “How do you reset the AC?” or “Where is the key for the other building?” All of that was someone else’s concern. No one could add anything to my plate. I had nothing to worry about.

If you are just tuning in, this was the first Sunday after thirty-six years of pastoral ministry when Sunday was actually a “Sabbath” for me. For me and other pastors, Sunday is ground zero. Even though I had plenty to do the rest of the week, everything pointed towards Sunday. Sunday is “showtime,” that day when you touch the most lives in the smallest amount of time. Some in person. Some online. Some for the first time. Some for the hundredth time.

Do you know what my wife and I did on the first Sunday of my retirement? I want to say, “Nothing.” Nada. Zip. Zilch.

That’s not quite accurate. We did not go to church. At least not in person. We watched my son’s worship service on YouTube from Dallas, TX. We went for a long bike ride. I wrote a bunch of thank you notes for retirement gifts. I made some of my special ceviche. I took a nap.

I had a Sabbath.

I had a day to rest. A day to relax. A day to re-create. A day to listen and reflect on God’s Word. A day to be still and know that He is God.

Here are a few thoughts from my first day off in retirement:

  • On this day, God was exalted. Too often, I am praised on a Sunday morning for an inspiring message, an appropriate prayer, or an appropriate illustration. Even though the kingdom, the power, and the glory are His, pastors get too much of that. I did not have to worry about that on this Sunday.
  • On this day, I was just Bill. I know that doesn’t impress most of you. But it’s been thirty-six years since I was just “Bill.” I remember the day after the call service at the Fort Wayne seminary when I called the president of the congregation. With a thick Brooklyn accent, Jim said, “Oh, hi, Pastor.” From that moment on, people called me Pastor, Pastor Douthwaite, Pastor Bill, and PB. Over the years some would call me “Bill,” but they were few and far between. Suddenly, that’s who I was. Bill. I had to think back to my pre-seminary days to remember who that was.
  • On this day, Sunday happened without me. For so many years, I unlocked the doors, turned on the lights, straightened the chairs (old sanctuary), cleaned up (old worship folders from last Sunday, put out the worship folders for this Sunday, filled the baptismal font, put out the Sunday School snacks, and made sure we had an appropriate banner displayed in the sanctuary. Someone else does all that now.

I thankful for all the Sunday “on,” when I got to preach. And I am grateful for all these Sundays when I don’t.

Posted in death, Ministry

He’s dead.

Posted on by William Douthwaite
Photo by Kevin Andre on Unsplash

I glanced at my buzzing phone on a Tuesday night and saw that one of my elders was calling.

“Hello, Pastor. I have bad news. I was making my regular monthly calls and found out that B. died last week.”

I’m not often blind-sided, but that news caught me off guard. “What? What happened?”

“I was just talking to M. and I asked how her husband was doing and she said, ‘He’s dead.’ He passed a week ago. I know, I was shocked, too. He had complications after open heart surgery. I wanted to be sure you knew.”

“Thanks. I’ll get in touch with her.”

I called her right away. I said I was so sorry to hear the news about B. She explained that he came through the bypass surgery just fine, but had problems after he came home. It was probably a blood clot, followed by liver and kidney failure, and then death. He didn’t want any kind of service, but the family might do something in a few months when everyone could get together.

On the following Thursday morning, at a men’s bible study, I let the group know what happened so we could pray for the widow and her family. A retired pastor who is a part of our group and knew her said, “I spent an hour and a half on the phone with her yesterday. She said they are having a service on next week and asked me to do the memorial. I told her, ‘Why don’t you ask Pastor Bill?’ She explained, “We don’t go to that church anymore.'”

I was puzzled. Didn’t I just see them in church a few months ago? Okay, they were one of the Covid-cautious members who I didn’t see often. But I had spoken to them regularly over the past two years. In fact we had a great conversation the last time we talked.

I learned a long time ago not to take something like this personally. She was grieving to be sure. People deal with death in many different ways. M. also hadn’t reached out in any way when her husband had surgery, was recovering, had problems, or was dying. If you let me know, I go. I go to the hospital, to your home, to hospice, wherever. But you have to let me know.

As I learned from experience, those who show up in your congregation from another church will eventually disappear. It might be months. It might be years. But they will move on.

I want to say this didn’t bother me, but here I am writing about it three years later. I’ve had it in my drafts for a while, wondering if this was a story worth telling. Someone once told me that our ordinary moments will fascinate others. Maybe this is one of those moments.

Posted in faith, Life

A distant memory: the incandescent light bulb

Posted on by William Douthwaite

Every morning I draw a small picture in my journal about something that stood out in my daily devotions. I usually copy something I’ll find online. Today, since I read Matthew 5, I looked for a drawing of salt and light. I found many to choose from.

Today I noticed that most of the sketches about being the light of the world are incandescent light bulbs. You remember incandescent lightbulbs, don’t you? They feature a filament with enough resistance to glow and fill a room with light. They burn hot, too. Let them cool before you replace one. Incandescent bulbs were banned in the US in last year (2023), although you can still buy them online.

They first gave way to compact fluorescent lightbulbs (CFL). They came in all kinds of spiral-y, twisty shapes to fit where incandescent bulbs once did. It usually took a few moments for them to reach full brightness. I think we still have some in our home, probably in the ceiling fan lights. They were cool to the touch. They were discontinued because of disposal and recycling challenges.

Light emitting diodes (LEDs) are what we uise today. They are smaller, use less power, glow in different colors, and last a long time. Our world is lit with LEDs.

When Jesus said, “You are the light of the world,” his audience would have thought of a flame that burned from the wick of an oil lamp. It would be about 1,800 years before the invention of a lightbulb.

So since you are (according to Jesus) the “light of the world,” what kind of bulb are you? Old school Thomas Edison incandescent? Curly avant-garde CFL? Cutting-edge LED? Ancient oil lamp?

It doesn’t matter. Just be light.

Posted in Life

I live here: walks around the neighborhood

Posted on by William Douthwaite

When we brought Winston home last June, I started taking him for walks around our neighborhood every morning and evening. An eight-month-old West Highland White Terrier puppy has energy to spare, so we explored every street in our corner of the community.

When we brought home puppy number two, a Great Dane, our walking habits changed. At eight weeks, Willow wanted nothing to do with leashes, walks or the neighborhood. She was content staying close to home and exploring the back yard. Both dogs still get plenty of exercise wrestling with each other and chasing each other around the yard.

When I took Winston out for a walk around the block last week I realized how much I missed those walks. Those walks around familiar streets make me feel part of the neighborhood and the community.

I enjoy watching the progress of lots being cleared and houses being built on the last wooded lots. Boxes along the curb or a rental truck in the driveway announces who is moving in our out even before a realtor puts a sign up in the yard.

I’ve gotten to know a lot more of my neighbors and on my walks. They are working in the yard, on their car, or getting some exercise themselves. We always pause at the bus stop so the kids have a chance to pet Winston. Plus, we get to know the other dogs who live near us. Some bark at us from inside of their house, while others are out for walks, too.

I enjoy everyone’s Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas decorations. I’m amazed at the weekly piles of mattresses, appliances, and furniture on trash collection days. Squirrels, bunnies and cats watch as we walk by. If we time it right, we get to hear the owls talking to each other at dawn or dusk.

One neighbor has a garage full of birds singing in cages. Another is restoring a car from the 1940’s. Some greet us with heavy Russian or Hispanic accents. Many have gotten a new roof in the past year. One had the roof torn off by a tornado. Lots of cars parked along the street announce who’s having a party. A walker in front of one garage door hasn’t been moved in months.

When I go for walks, I feel alive. I think of stories to write. I think of prayers to pray. I find coins on the street. I check out what’s in people’s recycling bins. I whistle back at the birds. I feel like I live here.

Willow is coming along. She was willing to walk on a least around our front yard today. Just a few more steps every day and before you know it, she’ll be walking me around the block, too.

Posted in dogs

The treats were good: my visit to the veterinarian

Posted on by William Douthwaite
My first visit to the veterinarian

Today was Willow’s first visit to the veterinarian since we brought her home on January 2. Willow is our eleven-week-old Great Dane puppy. My grandson came along with me so she would have someone to sit with in the car. Otherwise, she would probably be in my lap.

When we arrived, I had her sit on the scale, curious to see how much she had grown in the last four weeks. She was thirteen pounds when we picked her up in Ocala, but weighed in at twenty-four pounds today! We were told she would double in size each month, but seeing is believing.

One of the vet techs saw Willow and immediately came over and sat down for snuggles and kisses. She has two Great Danes of her own. I asked, “How big are they?”

She said, “My female is one hundred and twenty pounds, and the male is one eighty.” So that is what we have to look forward to!

We were one of the first appointments of the day, so another tech took us back to an exam room right away. I took the leash off and she eagerly sniffed out every corner of the room. I let her sample the array of treats on the counter, and she loved every one. Most of our dogs turn their noses up at the vet’s snacks, but Willow devoured them all.

Willow was her wiggly self as the tech and vet examined her. She thought it was all a game as they peered into her ears and mouth, listened to her heart and lungs, and got a temperature via the ear (thank goodness). We only needed one injection today, and Willow didn’t flinch. We only bought one heart worm and parasite pill, since she’ll be in the next weight class next month. And we made an appointment for a booster in a month. The veterinarian gave me some advice on spaying, and we were out of there.

As we left, I realized that the exam room was the same one where we said goodbye to Samson, our shepherd/lab mix, exactly seven months ago. Since Willow’s coloring is the same as Sam’s, I’ll catch a glimpse of him out of the corner of my eye. She’s got big shoes to fill. But given the size of her feet, that shouldn’t be a problem!

Posted in coffee

A much-needed shot

Posted on by William Douthwaite

Sometimes a shot of espresso is the perfect medicine for a nagging headache. After all, over the counter migraine remedies contain acetaminophen, aspirin, and caffeine. Let’s cut to the chase and dig out the espresso maker.

A few years ago I bought a small kitchen counter deLonghi espresso maker. It works well, but I had been decaffeinating, so it’s been unused on a shelf for a while. The last time I put on my barista hat, I learned that some pretty nasty stuff comes out of an espresso maker fresh out of hibernation. So I ran vinegar and then water through until it came out smelling like… nothing.

I found a can of Cafe Bustelo on the shelf, my measurer/tamper, and a couple of espresso cups in the kitchen cabinet. I switched on the machine, the green light came on after about ninety seconds and the machine began pressing hot water through the scoop of ground coffee. A dark brown dribble began filling the cups with a nice creme rising to the surface. It smelled and tasted wonderful. And, along with a little Tylenol sent the migraine packing. Mission accomplished.

Once it’s out on the counter, the machine calls out, “Use me!” So I’ve been making espresso to accompany dessert and pump up my morning cup of coffee. It has an arm with which I could steam milk, but I haven’t tried that yet. But I should. A latte must be a cure for something.