Author: William Douthwaite

Posted in senses

Ah, the amazing smell of cedar

Posted on by William Douthwaite

I smelled it before I saw it. It was woody and a little like a newly sharpened pencil. It was woodsy, like a damp day on a hiking trail. It was the distinct smell of cedar.

Since it was yard waste pickup day in our neighborhood, I didn’t pay much attention to the sliced up tree along a driveway. Streets are cluttered with trash cans, plastic bags, and cardboard boxes full of palm fronds, sticks, pine needles, and leaves. Most of the logs are from palm trees or pine trees, cut into liftable lengths. Every week, the waste collection people gather up the piles left by the side of the road.

But as soon as I smelled and saw the sliced up logs, I knew it was cedar. The dogs and I paused our walk to enjoy the wonderful fragrance.

A few years ago, we had a cedar on the adjoining lot leaning towards our house. I decided to bring it down before a storm blew it onto the roof. With the help of a few neighbors, it was easy to bring it down safely. As I cut it into pieces that I could drag to the curb, I felt like I was in a cedar closet. The fragrance filled the yard for a couple of days. One of my neighbors took some of the trunk to cut into boards. He brought me a few slices that I could put in my dresser drawers. For a few weeks, everything I pulled out of the drawer smelled amazing.

What is it that makes cedar smell so good? According to an article I found on FootFitter,c contains the compound thujaplicin (nope, can’t pronounce it), which has antioxidant, antibiotic and anti-inflammatory properties. Cedar also absorbs moisture, and is used to make shoe trees and boot shapers to extend the life of quality footwear.

My parents had a cedar chest. I think everyone of their generation had one. All I know is that they stored a bunch of old stuff in it. And it weighed a ton when we were moving it out of my dad’s house.

The Amish still make cedar chests in the United States. They aren’t as expensive as I thought, and I’ll be they last for generations. And, of course, they smell great!

Posted in Life, neighbor

Of course it’s private property

Posted on by William Douthwaite

It feels strange to call a house “lonely,” but every time I walk by, I think, “What a lonely, gray house.” Maybe it’s the signage that has scared everyone off. There’s not just one, but three of these signs on all sides of the house, announcing Private Property: No Trespassing.

Why would you put a sign like that in your yard? It’s not like we’re in the middle of nowhere and someone might wander through and decide to hang out for a while. This is a residential area. All the property is privately owned. Random door-to-door sales people may walk up, but I’ve never thought of that as trespassing. And if someone did want to break and enter, they wouldn’t pay attention to a sign like that.

When I’ve gone to visit some folks who live in the rural, unincorporated parts of the county, there’s often a sign like this on the front gate of a long driveway. Out in the woods or among hundreds of acres of farmland, it’s hard to tell where one property ends and the next one begins. If you don’t know where you’re going, you don’t belong here. I always called ahead to make sure they knew I was coming. There was a good chance I’d be met by someone with a shotgun if I just showed up.

Actually, a sign like that makes me wonder what someone is hiding in that house. I’m curious. What are they making or distributing or storing up in that house? Who was the last trespasser? Whatever happened to them? It is a little creepy. There isn’t much landscaping.

Such a sign doesn’t add to the curb appeal. Along with signs like No Soliciting, No Pooping (even though dogs can’t read), and a sign about who just repaired the roof, it makes the neighborhood look trashy.

But what are you going to do. It’s their property. It’s their private property.

Posted in running

Victory! 5K run with the granddaughters

Posted on by William Douthwaite

An ocean of people stretched out for a hundred yards in front of us and even further behind us. In just a few minutes we would hear the starting gun for the Synovus 5K for charity run. My wife and I were walking/running this shorter race with three of our granddaughters, while their parents ran the longer Gate River Run 15K in Jacksonville, Florida. I pushed a stroller with the oldest of the girls (age 5), while my wife had a double stroller containing the younger sisters (ages 3 and almost 1). The downtown street was thick with 1,600 runners, so it took us over a minute to move through the starting gate. Even before we did, my granddaughter was urging me, “We’re going to have to go faster, Grandpa!”

We were able to walk at a brisk pace for the first mile or so. We passed one runner dressed up like a giant chicken, another couple dressed as Mario and Luigi, and a few firefighters in full gear. Before long, the participants were spaced out enough that we could run for hundred yard stretches, weaving in and out of walkers and slower runners.

Not too far into the first mile, at 9:00 am, we counted the nine bells of an old church carillon. At the halfway point, we drifted over to the right to grab a cup at the water station. I took a sip of the lukewarm liquid and handed the cup to my granddaughter. I asked, “How’s the water?”

“It’s delicious!”

Once we got to the two mile mark, my granddaughter saw some police car lights keeping traffic at bay and wondered out loud, “Is that the finish line?”

I explained, “No, we can’t see it yet. I’ll let you know when we’re we getting close.” We had that same conversation three times in the next half-mile.

For most of the race, my wife was a few yards ahead of us. This was a concern. “Grandpa, we need to go faster. LeeLee (her name for my wife) is going to smoke us!”

Finally, as we turned onto a slight downhill stretch, I could see the finish line ahead of us. I said, “There it is!” I ran the last quarter mile into the fairgrounds, and said, “Put your hands up in the air!” She did and proclaimed our victory (over LeeLee) as we crossed the finish line with a time of 43:11. My wife with her two riders finished just behind us. We didn’t get smoked after all.

I’ve run lots of 5Ks, along with an assortment of 10Ks, five mile runs, and a few marathons. But I’ve never finished a road race pushing a stroller.

Posted in retirement

Letting go, fading away, and free to be

Posted on by William Douthwaite
Photo by Richard Stachmann on Unsplash

In her Medium article “Retirement: The Benefit of Letting Go” Marlane Ainsworth wrote that in retirement, we start to fade away. No one waits for our arrival before things start happening. We are no longer needed for meetings, planning, permission, or consultation. Previous significance wanes with alarming speed.

I know, that sounds a little depressing. Until you consider the positive side. It’s freeing. In retirement, I’ve shed expectations, assumptions, and demands like a snake sloughing off its skin. Something happens when you are no long defined by a job description. When you are less insignificant in the work world, a different part of you emerges.

Anyway, her story made me think about things things I did as a pastor simply because they were part of the job description and expected of me. If that surprises you, let me assure you, it surprised me too. Yes, it’s a calling. But it’s also an occupation.

  • Going to visit the same homebound person for sixty months in a row gets old after a while. I think that was my record. One person was on my visiting list when I arrived at my church in Connecticut, and I was still going to their home when I took a call to the next church five years later.
  • No one explained how many meetings I would have to go to. My calendar was full of them. Few were short. Few were productive. No, I do not miss them, not even a little bit.
  • Conference and convention attendance was mandatory. While I enjoyed spending time with other clergy from around the country, the agendas were filled with boring speakers addressing irrelevant topics. When asked, “Why do you keep going to those things?” I had to confess, “I have no idea.”
  • The experts told us annual stewardship messages would increase giving. These were my least favorite sermons. No matter how you dress up the appeal, you aren’t fooling anyone. It’s the big yearly ask. I was so glad when each campaign was over.
  • Part of the job was tracking down people who hadn’t been coming to church. I hated that. For some reason I didn’t like seeking out unhappy people to find out why they were unhappy. And I couldn’t simply ask, “Where the h*** have you been?” I had to be nice to them. I just wasn’t very good at looking for wandering sheep.

Okay. Enough of that. Don’t get me wrong. I loved going to seminary and I loved being a pastor. I loved teaching, preaching, and leading worship. I loved the music, ancient and new. I loved holding the babies, sitting on the floor with children, and running around with the youth. The stuff I loved doing far outweighed the burdens. But to do the things you love, you have to do the other stuff, too.

But not anymore. Having stepped out of that world and into retirement, that part of me starts to fade and other parts of me surface. Ainsworth wrote, “Letting go of things lets a part of us out that we kept corralled for a long time.” Keep in mind, I’m only eighteen months into this, so I am still discovering those parts.

I write more, read more books (mostly mysteries), take more walks (usually with dogs), get to know more of my neighbors, bake sourdough bread, practice music, attend bible studies (as a student), take trips, do some yard work, and constantly work towards a minimal-ish life. Along the way, I often reflect on my years in the ministry as well as these away from it. I may be fading, but the memories aren’t. Not yet.

Posted in dogs

I didn’t realize how noisy a morning could be

Posted on by William Douthwaite
Photo by Marcus Saylor on Unsplash

A gentle rain began to fall about a quarter mile into our morning walk. It was just enough to warrant a head-to-toe shake from the dogs every ten minutes.

As we walked, the pup (Willow, our fourth-month-old Great Dane) paused in her tracks, perked up her ears, and turned towards every little noise. For her, every sound is a new experience, and this morning was full of them.

  • Rain hitting the garbage bags lining the street, waiting for pickup.
  • A truck gently splashing through a puddle.
  • The staccato of raindrops hitting a sunroom’s metal roof.
  • The mmreep of a frog hiding in a drainage swale.
  • Heavier drops of rain hitting the ground when the breeze kicked up.
  • The drip of a leaky gutter.

I didn’t notice any of these sounds until she slightly tilted her head and wrinkled her brow, trying to figure out each one. What I thought was a nice quiet morning turned out to be filled with fascinating noise.

Posted in garden

Open-minded yard decorations

Posted on by William Douthwaite

So just imagine you’re walking through the garden section of your favorite big box store. You’ve already got a few seasonal plants in your cart. All you need are a few planters.

There are so many to choose from! Plain terracotta, glazed pottery, plastic that looks like terracotta or glazed pottery, barrels cut in half, and…wait a minute. “What do you think of these?”

Some are shaped like half-people rising from the ground in peaceful meditation, their heads sliced open for blooming annuals. When I see them, I think of the skulls opened up to serve chilled monkey brains in Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom. The other planters look like the Moai, the big stone guys on Easter Island. Or the emoji used to indicate strength or determination. “Perfect. Grab a couple of each.”

The house where I saw these is brand new. The planters are unique and attention-grabbing. I know they wouldn’t last a day in my front yard. But as they say, there’s no accounting for taste. Who knows? Maybe the residents are from Polynesia. Maybe these are reminders of a home they may never visit again.

I always smile (and sometimes chuckle) when the dogs and I walk by this house. Don’t we need more of that in life?

Posted in dying, Life

One more time: visiting a friend in hospice

Posted on by William Douthwaite
Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

I went to visit some old friends the other day. They are living in a beautiful assisted living facility just a few miles from my home. He’s been getting some physical therapy and is getting around really well. She is receiving hospice care, and her family told me she only had a day or two left to live.

Hoping that she would be lucid, I went to visit her right after I spoke with her daughter. Though confined to a bed, she was awake, comfortable, conversant, witty, and all smiles. She had every reason to be. She had all four of her daughters there with her. When I walked in, they were singing one of her favorite hymns, “For All the Saints.” Her two sons had been there the week before. I was thankful I had this chance to sit and talk with her for a while.

That was five days ago. Death isn’t an exact science. It’s inevitable, but it’s not predicable. We’ll just have to extend grace to the hospice folks when they answer the question, “How long does she have?” She’s not conscious anymore, but she’s comfortable and listening to all the conversations going on around her.

Whenever I’ve asked people about the best way to die, I often get the answer, “In my sleep.” On the one hand, that sounds like a great way to go. But on the other hand, you might miss out on all those precious moments you get to spend with friends and family. When death comes unexpectedly or accidentally, many wish they could have seen or talked to them one more time. A few days in hospice provides a lot of “one more times.”

My dad was in and out of hospice care the last few years of his life. My brother, sister, and I had a lot of “one more times” with him as he flirted with death but kept bouncing back. I think he enjoyed the attention and company when it looked like his time was up.

I like going to visit someone who’s in hospice care. When the finish line is in sight, the conversations are meaningful, the desire for life is powerful, and every moment is precious.

Posted in Life, memories

What are you going to do with all those journals?

Posted on by William Douthwaite
Just a few of many journals I’ve filled up.

I began journaling in earnest in 1989. When I started, I used 8-1/2 by 11 inch spiral notebooks. I filled up approximately four per year. In 2010 I started journaling in 5×8 inch hardcover journals. I’ve used all kinds of different ones from Moleskins to Leuchtturm 1917 to my current favorite EMSHOI with 120 gram paper that was a great deal ($11.95) on Amazon. I’ve written on blank pages, dotted pages, and currently use lined journals.

What do I write about? I start by writing about the scripture I’ve read that day, draw a picture illustrating something in that passage, summarize what I did yesterday, what I need to do today, and then come up with ten ideas I could write about. I jot down books I want to read and projects to work on. In the back I have a prayer list. It’s easy to fill up two or three pages a day. A typical journal will last me three months.

So let’s do the math. Four journals a year for thirty four years totals 136 journals. I had them all in two big boxes, prompting the question, “What are you going to do with those?”

That’s a very good question. I doubt that anyone is going to sit down and read these. My handwriting is such that I don’t know if anyone could. I have been sifting through them to put together a timeline of important events in our lives. Without them, I would have forgotten many places we’ve gone and things we’ve done. So I’m not just going to toss them.

Before I retired, I used the duplicator in the church office to scan the pages from the spiral bound notebooks. Once I cut out the metal spiral, I could feed the whole stack into the machine, which would email a file to me of all the pages. That took care of about fifty of them.

It’s not so easy to take apart a bound volume though. So one book at a time, I’ve been taking a photo of each page, uploading the group to my Amazon photos, where I can gather them into an album. It’s tedious work. But I am making progress.

Journals and letters from hundreds of years ago have helped historians write books about the past. Who knows? Maybe my notes and doodles and lists will be needed for a historical record someday.

Posted in faith

Does anyone really worry about the end times anymore?

Posted on by William Douthwaite

I seem to remember past decades when the idea of the end times and the second coming of Christ was a big deal. In the 1980s, it seems like everyone was reading The Late Great Planet Earth and Left Behind. The creative blend of current events and biblical prophecy made you feel like judgment day was just around the corner. At the very least the world would come to an end before the Y2K turn of the century.

That was then. Thirty years ago. Is anyone worried about the end of the world anymore?

It occasionally comes up in Christian conversation. But I hear more talk about AI, climate change, immigration, gender identity, social media, and the next iPhone. Our big concerns are homeowners insurance, the price of gasoline, electric vehicles, identity theft, recalled bacteria-contaminated food, and the upcoming elections. In other words, we know Jesus is coming again, but we’ve got all this other stuff on the front burner.

So if your approach to witnessing is warning someone about eternal damnation, your words will most likely fall on deaf ears. It’s hard to get exited (or terrified) about eternity when some stranger is using your credit card, your insurance company has cancelled your homeowner’s policy, a roofing nail means you have another flat tire to fix, and one of the kids is sick (again).

Maybe your best witness is to just be there. Be there today. Be there now. Send the message that we’re not alone and we’ve got help for today, not just post-mortem. A little personal mercy, kindness, and grace goes a long way towards showing people that this Jesus-stuff is real. And if it’s real today, if it’s real now, it’ll be real later on, too, like when Jesus returns.