Posted in Home improvement

A little joy: no more drips

Posted on by William Douthwaite

It sneaks up on you. It gradually takes more effort, more finesse, a stronger touch. But you barely notice it. Until one day you think, “I’ve got to fix this thing.”

I’m talking about the kitchen faucet. Ours is five years old. I installed it when we redid all our floors and kitchen cabinets. It’s a single handled, burnished nickel beauty with a three-function built-in sprayer. (Who knew the description of a plumbing fixture could sound so sensual?)

About a year ago, I noticed an occasional drip after washing a dish or filling a pot with water. Not a problem. I just pushed the handle up an extra millimeter to stop the drip. In time, it took an extra nudge with a twist to get the drip to stop. I heard the words, “Do we need to get a new faucet?”

No. A cartridge inside the handle, probably made of plastic, had worn enough to let a few drops of water through the turned off faucet. It wouldn’t be hard to replace it. The thing is, there are hundreds of different parts to fix faucets at the big orange home improvement store. Which one did I need?

I couldn’t remember the brand of faucet I purchased five years ago. I came up empty-handed when I looked through accounts and emails to find a record of what I bought. I was going to have to take the handle off, take the part with me and find the right replacement at the store.

After turning off the water, removing the handle, and unscrewing the faucet, the cartridge came right out. I took it to the store and easily found the exact same part.

The hard part was cleaning out all the mineral deposits before I put it back together. Vinegar took care of most of it. A little CLR (calcium, lime, rust) remover handled the rest. I popped in the new cartridge, screwed everything back together, turned on the water. There were no leaks, so I reattached the handle and congratulated myself on a job well done.

The next day, I marveled at how well the handle worked. Who knew I would get so much joy from a faucet that moved smoothly and easily? Life is filled with little joys like this. Embrace those moments.

Posted in dogs

Around the block, at last

Posted on by William Douthwaite

I’ll admit, I was a little worried. Our new Great Dane pup didn’t want anything to do with walking on a leash. Unlike our other dog, who is always ready to go a mile or two, the noob just “muled.” She sat there looking at me, She wouldn’t budge.

A walk around the block would have been great exercise. There are so many people and dogs to get to know in the neighborhood. We needed to lawyer this skill before she got too big.

I tried different collars. I tried a harness around her chest. I tried laying out a trail of snacks up the block six feet apart. No luck. She wouldn’t leave her beloved backyard.

Of course I read all I could about her hesitancy. Most said to just give her time. And that was good advice.

As she grew, she became more curious. So I clipped on the leash and let it hang. She didn’t mind running around with it loose. When I sat on the ground, she couldn’t resist coming to see what I was up to. Or to crawl in my lap and lick my face.

After that, I sat in the garage, then the driveway, and then in the neighbors yard. Slowly but surely she ventured farther from the house.

But our Westie was the one who saved the day. Where he goes, she likes to follow. Along the garden wall to chase lizards. Into the dishwasher to lick dishes. Into the bathroom to pull out the toilet paper. And down the street for a walk.

To the neighbor’s house. Then to the curve in the road. To the end of our street. And yesterday, around the block! Our walks ate part of our daily routine again.

Posted in retirement, teaching

A chance to teach

Posted on by William Douthwaite
Photo by Kenny Eliason on Unsplash

It’s been eighteen months, but it felt just like yesterday. I haven’t taught a class since my retirement, but the scheduled teacher was sick, and they asked me to fill in. Why not?

Over the past year, I’ve gotten to know the couple of dozen men who meet to study the bible and pray each Wednesday night. A team of teachers has taken turns leading the group through books of the bible and a few books on prayer and leadership. We’re currently in the gospel of Mark, and my task would be to lead a discussion of chapters eleven and twelve.

That’s a lot of ground to cover. In those two chapters Mark takes the reader from Jesus’s entry into Jerusalem on Palm Sunday to the clearing of the temple to a widow giving her last two coins. Rejected by every religious leader, Jesus’ arrest and crucifixion is just around the corner. There is much to talk about in these few pages.

I promised myself I would take in the moment and reflect upon my ninety minutes in front of a bunch of guys who only know me as Bill. The class was great, with lots of participation, discussion, and questions. Though it’s nice to not have to prepare and teach several times a week year round, I enjoy teaching and am more than glad to fill in from time to time. It helps to know the group, what makes them tick, and what gets them going.

One of the things I’ve enjoyed in retirement is the transition from teacher to learner. True, you learn a lot when you teach. But there is also much to be learned from others equipped with a variety of training and experience.

Posted in Life

The worst mailbox in our neighborhood

Posted on by William Douthwaite

This mailbox has been bent, twisted, and zip-tied for over six months now. I pass by on dog walks and can’t help but wonder, “How is it still standing? Why haven’t the residents repaired it or straightened it up?” I tell myself, “I’m sure they’ll replace it soon.” But months have gone by and nothing has changed. Why not?

  • Those are hand-painted flowers decorating the side. This mailbox is one-of-a-kind. You can’t just go out an buy another one at Home Depot. It’s irreplaceable. It stays.
  • Maybe it’s not their house. “Not our problem.” Some tenants leave every repair to the landlord. And some landlords rarely come by the property to make repairs.
  • Perhaps a neighbor backed into it, nearly knocking it over. Or a stranger sideswiped it. Did a kid’s bike crash into it? Did an over-zealous mail carrier pull away too quickly? They broke it; they’re going to fix it!
  • This mail box is close to where a tornado touched down. It could be a testimony to the power of those winds. The storm came and went in a moment. But the memory of it remains.
  • I’m not sure anyone lives in that house. Some empty homes do not have a for sale sign out front. Maybe something happened to the person who lived there. Maybe he’s in the hospital, or worse, he’s dead.
  • Or, the people who bought this mailbox just aren’t that good at putting something together. Just about everything comes with assembly instructions. But not everyone is adept at following those instructions. So this is what you end up with.

All of the mailboxes in our neighborhood look different. Some are brand new. Others are weathered. Many stand straight and tall. A few, like this one, are precariously leaning. Very few actually look good out in front of a home.

But they aren’t going anywhere.

Posted in cooking, Food

Valentine’s project: decorating cookies

Posted on by William Douthwaite

With Valentine’s Day a week away, it’s time for decorating cookies! My wife made a nice selection of cut out sugar cookies which we packed up and took to my daughter’s house along with a nice selection of sprinkles. She made a batch of royal icing and her girls helped us decorate them.

Royal icing, made with confectioner’s sugar, meringue powder, water, and vanilla is a little different that the buttercream icing we’ve used before. It’s a little runnier at first, but then hardens nicely in less than an hour. While it’s still kind of liquid-y, you can dot it with another color or shape it with a toothpick for special effect. The sprinkles sink in nicely, too.

We had four colors of icing to work with: white, light pink, dark pink, and purple. The girls, aged five and three (the one-year-old was taking a timely nap), were more concerned about quantity than quality. They piped on plenty of icing and heaped on piles of sprinkles. Along with traditional miniature hearts and pink sugar, you’ll notice we had some unicorn heads.

Not every cookie that we decorated is pictured above. Some were eaten as soon as they were decorated. A few broke, so I had to eat them. I have no idea how that happened. A whole bunch of those teeny tiny little decorating balls rolled onto the floor. I have no idea how that happened either. But I know the family dog quickly took care of them.

We popped most of these cookies into the freezer to make sure the icing was hardened. Separated by sheets of wax paper, many but not all of them will make it to Valentine’s Day.

Part two of Valentine’s cookie decorating is coming up next week. The grandsons are up next. I have a feeling they’ll have a little less patience but a much bigger appetite.

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.