I WAS JUST THINKING...
By Greg Roberts
By way of introduction….
Greg Roberts is a student of life, a seeker of truth, and a believer in God’s love for humanity. A college dropout, his only degree was conferred by the School of Hard Knocks. He finds humor is the best way to deal with frustration and writing is the medium that gives him a voice in the ongoing conversation of what it means to be fully human. Having taken the scenic route through life (he has been everything from a used car salesman to a Local Pastor in the United Methodist Church), his experiences provide a fertile soil for his array of topics. Greg welcomes your comments at [email protected].
NOTE: A collection of archived writings from Greg can be found at the following link:
JUST THINKING ARCHIVES
DISCLAIMER: The opinions and views expressed in “Just Thinking” are those of the author, Greg Roberts, and do not necessarily reflect the views and opinions of the publisher, host or anyone else affiliated with this website.
By Greg Roberts
By way of introduction….
Greg Roberts is a student of life, a seeker of truth, and a believer in God’s love for humanity. A college dropout, his only degree was conferred by the School of Hard Knocks. He finds humor is the best way to deal with frustration and writing is the medium that gives him a voice in the ongoing conversation of what it means to be fully human. Having taken the scenic route through life (he has been everything from a used car salesman to a Local Pastor in the United Methodist Church), his experiences provide a fertile soil for his array of topics. Greg welcomes your comments at [email protected].
NOTE: A collection of archived writings from Greg can be found at the following link:
JUST THINKING ARCHIVES
DISCLAIMER: The opinions and views expressed in “Just Thinking” are those of the author, Greg Roberts, and do not necessarily reflect the views and opinions of the publisher, host or anyone else affiliated with this website.
Just thinking about passionate politics.
I was just thinking about passionate politics. Before I type another word, I want to assure anybody who takes the time to read this that I am absolutely, positively, without a doubt, going to stay away form saying anything partisan. You have my word on it.
I was just wondering when most people got so passionate about politics. Is it just me, or does it seem really difficult to have a discussion with somebody whose preferences are different? Ironically, there have been some years, despite the best efforts of the two main political parties, you couldn't get people interested enough to show up at the polls. Check out the statistics at ohioos/gov/elections. In 2022 just over half of those registered bothered to turn out to vote. In the 2020 general election the turnout was better: 73.99 percent.
What brings people to the polls? What incites passion for politics? No doubt you've heard some folks complain that voting is often an exercise in choosing the lesser of two evils. Remember the bumper sticker that read, “Nope and noper”? Maybe that's the way some folks feel every election cycle. There's just nobody running for office who gets them excited. These folks might readily endorse the explanation that the word 'politics' has its root in the Latin “poly” which means many, and ticks...blood sucking parasites.
Walk back in time with me. Trust me; you'll see why. In 1968, Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel released a song that went all the way to number one. It was called Mrs. Robinson. Tucked in the lyrics are these lines:
Sitting on the sofa on a Sunday afternoon.
Going to the candidates' debate.
Laugh about it shout about it when you've got to choose.
Any way you look at it, you lose.
No doubt you can hear the cynicism. But that's nothing compared to George Carlin's comments in his famous (infamous?) rant called The American Dream, which you can find for yourself on YouTube. He says, “You think you have choices. You don't. It's an illusion they perpetuate to make you think your opinion matters. It doesn't.” He goes on to say that ”the people who run this country, the people who OWN this country, want you to think that by voting you have some say in the direction it's going. It's a myth.” That's pretty dark, isn't it?
If Simon and Garfunkel and Carlin are right....then what is there to get passionate about?
But some folks are really, really passionate about politics. Sadly, this passion can divide families, destroy friendships, stoke suspicion, and demonize people to the extent that those who think differently become “the enemy”. It's “us against them.” Neighbors who have shared Christmas gifts for years and borrowed tools from each other put signs in their front yards...which is all well and good...and then castigate their neighbor who puts up a sign for another person or party.
Partisan politics have poisoned family ties. When loyalty to a candidate or a party becomes so passionate that anybody who thinks differently must be either stupid or a communist, just being in the same room together becomes a strain. I know this from personal experience. And it's sad. What is more important than family?
Diane and I have joked for years that people who want to get jobs at television stations forecasting the weather have to take at least two drama courses in college. “Then, then, this front over here is going to swoop down on Friday...” You know what I mean. Every forecast that mentions showers has a CYA inclusion “With a slight risk of severe storms.”
That same kind of inflated enthusiasm has become entrenched in our current political scene “The survival of the nation is riding on this election.” Really? Our democracy can't weather four years of poor leadership? Look at the past.
What discourages me is the prevalent mindset that whoever we elect is supposed to make MY LIFE better. In other words, “what's in it for me?” Many of your friends and mine will vote for the folks who promise them lower taxes, lower interest rates, lower gasoline prices and a more comfortable lifestyle. Contrast that with the words of President John F. Kennedy in one of his most famous speeches. He said, “Ask not what your country can do for you. Ask what you can do for your country.” I think that would fall on deaf ears today.
All my neighbors have political party signs in their front years. So do I. But win or lose, they are still my neighbors. We'll still be taking them some of Diane's homemade vegetable soup at Christmastime. We won't let our political passions put a wall between us. We'll remember what Jesus said, “Love God. Love your neighbor.” Even if his political preferences differ from ours.
We can find more worthy causes to be passionate about. We, as a nation, have problems. We all know that. But passionate politics aren't part of the solution. Instead, they make honest progress less and less achievable. Friends, we can do better....and we must, if we hope to leave our children and grandchildren a country where every person is afforded the respect due them, regardless of their political persuasions.
By Greg Roberts (published 9/21/24)
I was just thinking about passionate politics. Before I type another word, I want to assure anybody who takes the time to read this that I am absolutely, positively, without a doubt, going to stay away form saying anything partisan. You have my word on it.
I was just wondering when most people got so passionate about politics. Is it just me, or does it seem really difficult to have a discussion with somebody whose preferences are different? Ironically, there have been some years, despite the best efforts of the two main political parties, you couldn't get people interested enough to show up at the polls. Check out the statistics at ohioos/gov/elections. In 2022 just over half of those registered bothered to turn out to vote. In the 2020 general election the turnout was better: 73.99 percent.
What brings people to the polls? What incites passion for politics? No doubt you've heard some folks complain that voting is often an exercise in choosing the lesser of two evils. Remember the bumper sticker that read, “Nope and noper”? Maybe that's the way some folks feel every election cycle. There's just nobody running for office who gets them excited. These folks might readily endorse the explanation that the word 'politics' has its root in the Latin “poly” which means many, and ticks...blood sucking parasites.
Walk back in time with me. Trust me; you'll see why. In 1968, Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel released a song that went all the way to number one. It was called Mrs. Robinson. Tucked in the lyrics are these lines:
Sitting on the sofa on a Sunday afternoon.
Going to the candidates' debate.
Laugh about it shout about it when you've got to choose.
Any way you look at it, you lose.
No doubt you can hear the cynicism. But that's nothing compared to George Carlin's comments in his famous (infamous?) rant called The American Dream, which you can find for yourself on YouTube. He says, “You think you have choices. You don't. It's an illusion they perpetuate to make you think your opinion matters. It doesn't.” He goes on to say that ”the people who run this country, the people who OWN this country, want you to think that by voting you have some say in the direction it's going. It's a myth.” That's pretty dark, isn't it?
If Simon and Garfunkel and Carlin are right....then what is there to get passionate about?
But some folks are really, really passionate about politics. Sadly, this passion can divide families, destroy friendships, stoke suspicion, and demonize people to the extent that those who think differently become “the enemy”. It's “us against them.” Neighbors who have shared Christmas gifts for years and borrowed tools from each other put signs in their front yards...which is all well and good...and then castigate their neighbor who puts up a sign for another person or party.
Partisan politics have poisoned family ties. When loyalty to a candidate or a party becomes so passionate that anybody who thinks differently must be either stupid or a communist, just being in the same room together becomes a strain. I know this from personal experience. And it's sad. What is more important than family?
Diane and I have joked for years that people who want to get jobs at television stations forecasting the weather have to take at least two drama courses in college. “Then, then, this front over here is going to swoop down on Friday...” You know what I mean. Every forecast that mentions showers has a CYA inclusion “With a slight risk of severe storms.”
That same kind of inflated enthusiasm has become entrenched in our current political scene “The survival of the nation is riding on this election.” Really? Our democracy can't weather four years of poor leadership? Look at the past.
What discourages me is the prevalent mindset that whoever we elect is supposed to make MY LIFE better. In other words, “what's in it for me?” Many of your friends and mine will vote for the folks who promise them lower taxes, lower interest rates, lower gasoline prices and a more comfortable lifestyle. Contrast that with the words of President John F. Kennedy in one of his most famous speeches. He said, “Ask not what your country can do for you. Ask what you can do for your country.” I think that would fall on deaf ears today.
All my neighbors have political party signs in their front years. So do I. But win or lose, they are still my neighbors. We'll still be taking them some of Diane's homemade vegetable soup at Christmastime. We won't let our political passions put a wall between us. We'll remember what Jesus said, “Love God. Love your neighbor.” Even if his political preferences differ from ours.
We can find more worthy causes to be passionate about. We, as a nation, have problems. We all know that. But passionate politics aren't part of the solution. Instead, they make honest progress less and less achievable. Friends, we can do better....and we must, if we hope to leave our children and grandchildren a country where every person is afforded the respect due them, regardless of their political persuasions.
By Greg Roberts (published 9/21/24)
Just thinking about bitterness – and its cure
Bitterness. Anger and disappointment at being treated unfairly. Resentment.
How many times have you heard, “Life is unfair. Get used to it.”? Easy to say; hard to do. Pain, especially chronic pain, can suck the joy out of life, leaving a person bitter. Why me? Looking around at others who waltz through their days with smiles on their faces while you rely on a constant stream of Tylenol, Aleve, or (in many cases) stronger prescription pain relievers hour by hour. Yeah, it can make a person bitter.
Maybe you're that person who always stays late at the workplace, picking up the slack, sometimes picking up after other employees, missing out on vodka shots, or the kid's soccer game. Week after week, month after month, you're the responsible, mature, dedicated employee and then, somebody no more qualified and far less dedicated gets promoted ahead of you. Why shouldn't you be bitter? Where's the justice?
Marriage, we're told, is a fifty-fifty proposition with both parties committed to nurturing a loving relationship. And some marriages actually seem to flourish according to that model. Some, but not most. If you're the one who gives, and gives and gives and gets little in return...what? Smile and hope things will get better..someday? When you feel taken advantage of, when your needs aren't being met, when you feel like you're part of the furniture (thanks, Supertramp for that line) how long can you fend off bitterness? You vowed, “till death do us part” but when love dies of neglect, the relationship can become an empty shell, and worse, a prison cell with a cot of bitterness.
You're not bitter? Are you sure? Have you forgiven that person who hurt you? Or are you still carrying a grudge, hoping that something bad will happen to them to steal their joy? It's easy to say, “Oh, I forgave that a long time ago.” But deep inside...beneath the masking smile...what's going on down there?
Bitterness and anger are siblings. The American political scene is a bubbling stew of both. Some are angry because they feel disenfranchised, or betrayed. Others are angry because they believe they're the ones carrying more than their fair share of the load, paying taxes for those who aren't contributing....anything.
I wonder if much of the bitterness revealed in political stances isn't carried over from the disappointment of our personal lives. I wonder.
So what's the cure for bitterness? We can't wave a magic wand and make pain disappear. We can't force spouses or children to measure up to our expectations. We surely can't make the people we elect listen and then act according to our wishes. What's a person to do? Just wallow in bitterness all the days of their lives?
Bitterness is a poison, and like every poison, there is an antidote...but one that's hard to swallow. The antidote combines two simple ingredients: thankfulness and grace.
No matter how difficult my life (or yours) may be, a casual look around reveals many people who have less. Less material goods, less opportunity, less health. A mature response to this revelation is thankfulness. Thankful for what we do have. There's an old Christian hymn that goes, “Count your blessings; name them one by one.” Counting our blessings instead of sheep is a surefire way to enter into restful sleep. If we count our blessings hour by hour, we come to realize how fortunate (that's another word for 'blessed') we are. It's a learned skill, that takes diligence and practice.
The other component of the antidote is grace, that undeserved merit we extend to those who have hurt us, who make our lives less joyful, who may never even know how much their words, actions and attitudes are a blight on everyone else.
We consciously forgive...not just with our lips, but from the heart, every slight, every injury, every perceived injustice, realizing that we're the ones who are being set free when bitterness no longer poisons our lives.
Sadly, some folks will never let go of their bitterness. It's their badge of honor by day and their pillow by night. They've been wronged by fickle fate and they want the whole world to know it. Those who cling to bitterness will never know the sweet hours that could be theirs for the taking. Let it go. For your sake, and for those around you....let it go.
By Greg Roberts (published 9/11/24)
Bitterness. Anger and disappointment at being treated unfairly. Resentment.
How many times have you heard, “Life is unfair. Get used to it.”? Easy to say; hard to do. Pain, especially chronic pain, can suck the joy out of life, leaving a person bitter. Why me? Looking around at others who waltz through their days with smiles on their faces while you rely on a constant stream of Tylenol, Aleve, or (in many cases) stronger prescription pain relievers hour by hour. Yeah, it can make a person bitter.
Maybe you're that person who always stays late at the workplace, picking up the slack, sometimes picking up after other employees, missing out on vodka shots, or the kid's soccer game. Week after week, month after month, you're the responsible, mature, dedicated employee and then, somebody no more qualified and far less dedicated gets promoted ahead of you. Why shouldn't you be bitter? Where's the justice?
Marriage, we're told, is a fifty-fifty proposition with both parties committed to nurturing a loving relationship. And some marriages actually seem to flourish according to that model. Some, but not most. If you're the one who gives, and gives and gives and gets little in return...what? Smile and hope things will get better..someday? When you feel taken advantage of, when your needs aren't being met, when you feel like you're part of the furniture (thanks, Supertramp for that line) how long can you fend off bitterness? You vowed, “till death do us part” but when love dies of neglect, the relationship can become an empty shell, and worse, a prison cell with a cot of bitterness.
You're not bitter? Are you sure? Have you forgiven that person who hurt you? Or are you still carrying a grudge, hoping that something bad will happen to them to steal their joy? It's easy to say, “Oh, I forgave that a long time ago.” But deep inside...beneath the masking smile...what's going on down there?
Bitterness and anger are siblings. The American political scene is a bubbling stew of both. Some are angry because they feel disenfranchised, or betrayed. Others are angry because they believe they're the ones carrying more than their fair share of the load, paying taxes for those who aren't contributing....anything.
I wonder if much of the bitterness revealed in political stances isn't carried over from the disappointment of our personal lives. I wonder.
So what's the cure for bitterness? We can't wave a magic wand and make pain disappear. We can't force spouses or children to measure up to our expectations. We surely can't make the people we elect listen and then act according to our wishes. What's a person to do? Just wallow in bitterness all the days of their lives?
Bitterness is a poison, and like every poison, there is an antidote...but one that's hard to swallow. The antidote combines two simple ingredients: thankfulness and grace.
No matter how difficult my life (or yours) may be, a casual look around reveals many people who have less. Less material goods, less opportunity, less health. A mature response to this revelation is thankfulness. Thankful for what we do have. There's an old Christian hymn that goes, “Count your blessings; name them one by one.” Counting our blessings instead of sheep is a surefire way to enter into restful sleep. If we count our blessings hour by hour, we come to realize how fortunate (that's another word for 'blessed') we are. It's a learned skill, that takes diligence and practice.
The other component of the antidote is grace, that undeserved merit we extend to those who have hurt us, who make our lives less joyful, who may never even know how much their words, actions and attitudes are a blight on everyone else.
We consciously forgive...not just with our lips, but from the heart, every slight, every injury, every perceived injustice, realizing that we're the ones who are being set free when bitterness no longer poisons our lives.
Sadly, some folks will never let go of their bitterness. It's their badge of honor by day and their pillow by night. They've been wronged by fickle fate and they want the whole world to know it. Those who cling to bitterness will never know the sweet hours that could be theirs for the taking. Let it go. For your sake, and for those around you....let it go.
By Greg Roberts (published 9/11/24)
Just thinking about distance...and age
You've probably heard the story about the farm couple in their seventies who drove to town in their old pickup truck. They stopped for the red light and in front of them was a car, and since the windows weren't blacked out, they could see a young man and a young woman sitting so close together that you couldn't have gotten a piece of paper between them. The girl's head rested on the man's shoulder. The farmer's wife said, “We used to sit like that. What happened?” The farmer looked straight ahead and said, “I never moved.”
What causes people to distance themselves from one another? My first car, a '56 Plymouth Belvedere, had a 60-40 front bench seat. That wide driver's seat was meant to accommodate a passenger sitting right beside the driver, like the couple in the story. But then came bucket seats and seat belts. Now the front seats are separated by a console, where you can store at least some of that 'stuff', like your latte or your soda, that you absolutely must have.
Age definitely plays a part in seating and sleeping arrangements. Young folks seem to go for those sectional sofas where a couple can stretch out and lounge. It's a safe bet that the old farm couple's living room has two rocking chairs or recliners, separated by a table. Remember Ozzie and Harriet? Their show ran for fourteen years, and in that time, they slept in twin beds. How David and Ricky were ever conceived is anybody's guess. Somehow, couples seem to change even their sleeping preferences over time. They may start out in a queen or king sized bed, but many couples who have been together for a long period seem to choose sleeping alone. There are valid reasons. He (or she) snores. The work schedule demands that one of them goes to bed early and rises early...or one of them is trying to sleep during the day. Maybe somebody is on call and doesn't want to disturb the other one in the middle of the night. So they sleep separately.
Families used to gather around the kitchen table for meals. Normal Rockwell portrayed it as well as any artist. Father sat at the head of the table. Mother carried steaming dishes of food to her clean, smiling (and always white) children. Now, with our busy schedules, gathering at meal time is less and less likely to happen. Drive-thru fast food has taken the place of home cooked meals. The television show, Blue Bloods, portrays three generations gathered around the table for Sunday dinner...without fail. Everyone is expected to be present and cell phones are to be left elsewhere. If I'm constantly looking at my cell phone, I'm not really present, am I? There's a four-star restaurant in New York City where the waiter comes to deliver the menus and pass a wicker basket around to collect cell phones before the patrons even get to order.
Are you old enough to remember long-distance phone calls? You kept them short because you were charged by the minute and the longer the distance between the caller and the recipient the more cost per minute. Now we can call anywhere in the world, literally and talk as long as we wish. No more operator interrupting saying, “Please deposits another seventy-five cents”. No, we just get a bill (maybe a very large bill!) at the end of the month. With today's communications and social media platforms it would seem logical to think people are closer than ever. We're not. Those same social media platforms contribute to a growing distance between people. Never before have differences of opinion been so divisive, even to the point of alienating family.
Passionate politics leave no room for dissenting opinions. The distance between points of view can become a minefield of anger, rejection of not only ideas, but the people who hold them, and hard feelings. Jesus once said that because of him families would disintegrate; daughter against mother, father against son.. In America, it's not Jesus who divides families; it's politics. And the distance between loved ones creates loneliness, a yearning undefined. What has happened to us? And how to we get back to civility and tolerance?
If you have the answers, please share them with me.
Age creates distance in everything: goals, perspective, possibilities. If you're fifty years old, and you haven't come close to achieving your financial goals, you may begin to be nervous. If you're seventy and you haven't gotten to travel the way you looked forward to when you were younger, you may feel frustration, especially when deteriorating health limits future options That huge cruise ship is fine—for people who can walk long distances to get to the endless buffet. But for those with bad hips or knees, or if you need the support of a walker...not so attractive. Just typing your shoes can get to be a challenge.
The old farmer said, “I never moved.” Maybe not from the driver's seat in the old pick-up truck. But he moved. We all do. What have we left behind? Dreams? Hopefully, some bad habits. Loved ones? I hope not. For your sake, I hope not.
By Greg Roberts (published 12/6/23)
You've probably heard the story about the farm couple in their seventies who drove to town in their old pickup truck. They stopped for the red light and in front of them was a car, and since the windows weren't blacked out, they could see a young man and a young woman sitting so close together that you couldn't have gotten a piece of paper between them. The girl's head rested on the man's shoulder. The farmer's wife said, “We used to sit like that. What happened?” The farmer looked straight ahead and said, “I never moved.”
What causes people to distance themselves from one another? My first car, a '56 Plymouth Belvedere, had a 60-40 front bench seat. That wide driver's seat was meant to accommodate a passenger sitting right beside the driver, like the couple in the story. But then came bucket seats and seat belts. Now the front seats are separated by a console, where you can store at least some of that 'stuff', like your latte or your soda, that you absolutely must have.
Age definitely plays a part in seating and sleeping arrangements. Young folks seem to go for those sectional sofas where a couple can stretch out and lounge. It's a safe bet that the old farm couple's living room has two rocking chairs or recliners, separated by a table. Remember Ozzie and Harriet? Their show ran for fourteen years, and in that time, they slept in twin beds. How David and Ricky were ever conceived is anybody's guess. Somehow, couples seem to change even their sleeping preferences over time. They may start out in a queen or king sized bed, but many couples who have been together for a long period seem to choose sleeping alone. There are valid reasons. He (or she) snores. The work schedule demands that one of them goes to bed early and rises early...or one of them is trying to sleep during the day. Maybe somebody is on call and doesn't want to disturb the other one in the middle of the night. So they sleep separately.
Families used to gather around the kitchen table for meals. Normal Rockwell portrayed it as well as any artist. Father sat at the head of the table. Mother carried steaming dishes of food to her clean, smiling (and always white) children. Now, with our busy schedules, gathering at meal time is less and less likely to happen. Drive-thru fast food has taken the place of home cooked meals. The television show, Blue Bloods, portrays three generations gathered around the table for Sunday dinner...without fail. Everyone is expected to be present and cell phones are to be left elsewhere. If I'm constantly looking at my cell phone, I'm not really present, am I? There's a four-star restaurant in New York City where the waiter comes to deliver the menus and pass a wicker basket around to collect cell phones before the patrons even get to order.
Are you old enough to remember long-distance phone calls? You kept them short because you were charged by the minute and the longer the distance between the caller and the recipient the more cost per minute. Now we can call anywhere in the world, literally and talk as long as we wish. No more operator interrupting saying, “Please deposits another seventy-five cents”. No, we just get a bill (maybe a very large bill!) at the end of the month. With today's communications and social media platforms it would seem logical to think people are closer than ever. We're not. Those same social media platforms contribute to a growing distance between people. Never before have differences of opinion been so divisive, even to the point of alienating family.
Passionate politics leave no room for dissenting opinions. The distance between points of view can become a minefield of anger, rejection of not only ideas, but the people who hold them, and hard feelings. Jesus once said that because of him families would disintegrate; daughter against mother, father against son.. In America, it's not Jesus who divides families; it's politics. And the distance between loved ones creates loneliness, a yearning undefined. What has happened to us? And how to we get back to civility and tolerance?
If you have the answers, please share them with me.
Age creates distance in everything: goals, perspective, possibilities. If you're fifty years old, and you haven't come close to achieving your financial goals, you may begin to be nervous. If you're seventy and you haven't gotten to travel the way you looked forward to when you were younger, you may feel frustration, especially when deteriorating health limits future options That huge cruise ship is fine—for people who can walk long distances to get to the endless buffet. But for those with bad hips or knees, or if you need the support of a walker...not so attractive. Just typing your shoes can get to be a challenge.
The old farmer said, “I never moved.” Maybe not from the driver's seat in the old pick-up truck. But he moved. We all do. What have we left behind? Dreams? Hopefully, some bad habits. Loved ones? I hope not. For your sake, I hope not.
By Greg Roberts (published 12/6/23)
Just thinking about wishes...
Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight, I wish I may I wish I might have the wish I wish tonight.
Wish. Strange word. When we say, “I wish...” it's a clear implication that there is some situation, some condition, some existing reality that we're unhappy or uncomfortable with. We can be unhappy with what has already been. For example, “In retrospect, I wish I hadn't said what I did” or “I wish I could go back and make better choices.” That kind of wishing is an exercise in futility. The past is (forgive the overworked figure of speech) 'carved in stone', as inflexible as the dates on a cemetery monument.
Is wishing a universal element in what it means to be human? Does everyone wish? And, if so, what do we wish for? What are the factors or motives that influence our wishing? Are our wishes self-centered? “I wish I could win the lottery” or “I wish somebody loved me”. Or is our wishing more altruistic? I wish there was less hatred in the world. I wish cancer no longer existed.
The genie in the bottle jokes always involve wishing. Here's my current favorite:
A woman is walking along the beach and finds a genie's lamp. She picked it up and rubbed it, and lo-and-behold a genie appeared. The amazed woman soon came back to her senses and asked if she got three wishes.
The genie said, "Nope…. Due to inflation, constant downsizing, fierce global competition, and low wages in third-world countries, I can only grant you one wish. So, what'll it be?"
The woman didn't hesitate. She said, "I want peace in the Middle East. See this map? I want these countries to stop fighting with each other. "
The genie looked at the map and exclaimed, "Gadzooks, lady! These countries have been at war for thousands of years. I'm out of shape after being in a bottle for centuries. I'm good, but not THAT good! I don't think it can be done. Make another wish."
The woman thought for a minute and said, "Well, I've never been able to find the right man. You know, one that's considerate and fun, likes to cook and helps with the house cleaning, is good in bed and gets along with my family, doesn't watch sports all the time, and is faithful. That's what I wish for — a good mate."
The genie let out a long sigh, shook his head and said, "Let me see that map again!"
Some might say that wishing for something and dreaming for something are synonymous. But are they? Reverend Martin Luther King's dream (I Have a Dream) was for a world without racism and injustice. But the 'dream' was a goal, a reality worth striving for at all costs. I share Dr. King's dream and hope you do too. I wish everyone did.
I hope you get whatever it is that you wish for. And when you get “it” (whatever “it” may be) I hope you'll be satisfied with the result, at least for awhile. But I suspect that you (and I) will never quite be finished wishing.
By Greg Roberts (published 5/8/23)
Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight, I wish I may I wish I might have the wish I wish tonight.
Wish. Strange word. When we say, “I wish...” it's a clear implication that there is some situation, some condition, some existing reality that we're unhappy or uncomfortable with. We can be unhappy with what has already been. For example, “In retrospect, I wish I hadn't said what I did” or “I wish I could go back and make better choices.” That kind of wishing is an exercise in futility. The past is (forgive the overworked figure of speech) 'carved in stone', as inflexible as the dates on a cemetery monument.
Is wishing a universal element in what it means to be human? Does everyone wish? And, if so, what do we wish for? What are the factors or motives that influence our wishing? Are our wishes self-centered? “I wish I could win the lottery” or “I wish somebody loved me”. Or is our wishing more altruistic? I wish there was less hatred in the world. I wish cancer no longer existed.
The genie in the bottle jokes always involve wishing. Here's my current favorite:
A woman is walking along the beach and finds a genie's lamp. She picked it up and rubbed it, and lo-and-behold a genie appeared. The amazed woman soon came back to her senses and asked if she got three wishes.
The genie said, "Nope…. Due to inflation, constant downsizing, fierce global competition, and low wages in third-world countries, I can only grant you one wish. So, what'll it be?"
The woman didn't hesitate. She said, "I want peace in the Middle East. See this map? I want these countries to stop fighting with each other. "
The genie looked at the map and exclaimed, "Gadzooks, lady! These countries have been at war for thousands of years. I'm out of shape after being in a bottle for centuries. I'm good, but not THAT good! I don't think it can be done. Make another wish."
The woman thought for a minute and said, "Well, I've never been able to find the right man. You know, one that's considerate and fun, likes to cook and helps with the house cleaning, is good in bed and gets along with my family, doesn't watch sports all the time, and is faithful. That's what I wish for — a good mate."
The genie let out a long sigh, shook his head and said, "Let me see that map again!"
Some might say that wishing for something and dreaming for something are synonymous. But are they? Reverend Martin Luther King's dream (I Have a Dream) was for a world without racism and injustice. But the 'dream' was a goal, a reality worth striving for at all costs. I share Dr. King's dream and hope you do too. I wish everyone did.
I hope you get whatever it is that you wish for. And when you get “it” (whatever “it” may be) I hope you'll be satisfied with the result, at least for awhile. But I suspect that you (and I) will never quite be finished wishing.
By Greg Roberts (published 5/8/23)
Just thinking about the trade-off
During the cold of winter days and the drab gray of Spring, my home office, windowless and warm, is where many of my waking hours are spent. The bookcases are full, the sounds of traffic and the television are excluded and technology simplifies tasks that used to be cumbersome. Instead of calling several church members individually to garner opinions about some upcoming event or issue requiring contemplative responses, email offers instantaneous connection with several persons simultaneously (and at the same time).
Whereas, in years past, one needed to go to the public or collegiate library to find information, everything (literally everything!) is now as close as the computer keyboard and the Internet. No longer do we have to wonder, “Who said that?” or “Who was President in 1970?” The answer to any question you can imagine is merely a few keystrokes away. Even easier, we can ask Siri those important questions such as, “Who are the current leading characters in The Young and the Horny?” If you need a break from work, you can open YouTube and listen to any music that you choose. Song lyrics can speak to us, reminding us of universal themes from the Beatles, All You Need Is Love to universal longings; Bruce's Land of Hope and Dreams and Cat's Peace Train. Technology is our friend...when it works. Likewise, our brains are our friends...when they work. But there's a trade-off.
Until recently, many people believed that most humans utilized only about ten percent of their brain's capacity. That's a myth. Don't take my word for it; look it up. The current scientific understanding is that we are using all of our brains, in some enterprises, during the course of a day! Even a small brain injury can have profound effects in every area, from cognition to memory, to complex problem solving. Injury aside, my fear is that as we rely more and more on AI (artificial intelligence) our brains are not being utilized in capacities that they may have been in years past. In other words, I doubt that we tax ourselves mentally. Did you know that in Jesus' day Jewish boys were required to memorize whole books of the Old Testament (the Jewish Bible)? Whole books, like Genesis and Leviticus, word for word! What are you and I required to memorize, beyond the numerous passwords that we absolutely must know?
In the opening paragraph, I alluded to full bookcases. What frightens me is this: I know I've read most of them. They're not on the shelf just to impress somebody (as if anybody ever sees the interior of this room) but I can't remember what I read. I take one down, open it and too often, it's like seeing that page for the first time even if a sentence is highlighted, which tells me I must have read it sometime in the past! That's just one indication that the memory banks are leaking at an accelerated pace. That's what frightens me.
Maybe this happens to you: you're in the grocery store looking for that coffee that's on sale when somebody passing you in the aisle calls you by name, “Oh hi (insert your name here, if you can remember it). How nice to see you.” You know you know that person but you simply cannot recall their name, or even how you know them. How frustrating! So how do you handle that situation? Bluff? Or confess, “I've been having some memory issues and while I know you, I can't say your name just now.” If you choose to bluff your way through the encounter you'll go back to hunting that coffee and wondering who they are. Which reminds me of a favorite scene from the film, On Golden Pond. Seventy-nine-year-old Norman (played by Henry Fonda) enters the summer cottage, looks at the photograph on the mantle and asks himself, “Who the hell is that?” Is that what awaits us?
We know that every day is a gift. None of us knows how many were written in our book. None of us expected our friend Lanny to leave us so suddenly, without saying goodbye. We know that someday we too shall go “the way of all flesh.” And yes, we're thankful for each new day. But what if we lose some of our memory, or other mental faculties with each passing year? How can we look forward, with any level of enthusiasm, to a time when we won't be playing with a full deck? Television, that great factory of consumerism, teases us with products “proven to enhance memory”. When we read the disclaimer, that tiny print at the bottom of the screen, we learn that there's no proof that these products can deliver what they promise. And even if you buy a bottle, you still have to remember to take the pill.
To quote Forrest, “That's all I have to say about that.” I'm going to go back to reading a book, one I've read before, and it will be like seeing it for the first time. I'll console myself with this thought: at least my eyes still function...for now.
By Greg Roberts (published 4/8/23)
During the cold of winter days and the drab gray of Spring, my home office, windowless and warm, is where many of my waking hours are spent. The bookcases are full, the sounds of traffic and the television are excluded and technology simplifies tasks that used to be cumbersome. Instead of calling several church members individually to garner opinions about some upcoming event or issue requiring contemplative responses, email offers instantaneous connection with several persons simultaneously (and at the same time).
Whereas, in years past, one needed to go to the public or collegiate library to find information, everything (literally everything!) is now as close as the computer keyboard and the Internet. No longer do we have to wonder, “Who said that?” or “Who was President in 1970?” The answer to any question you can imagine is merely a few keystrokes away. Even easier, we can ask Siri those important questions such as, “Who are the current leading characters in The Young and the Horny?” If you need a break from work, you can open YouTube and listen to any music that you choose. Song lyrics can speak to us, reminding us of universal themes from the Beatles, All You Need Is Love to universal longings; Bruce's Land of Hope and Dreams and Cat's Peace Train. Technology is our friend...when it works. Likewise, our brains are our friends...when they work. But there's a trade-off.
Until recently, many people believed that most humans utilized only about ten percent of their brain's capacity. That's a myth. Don't take my word for it; look it up. The current scientific understanding is that we are using all of our brains, in some enterprises, during the course of a day! Even a small brain injury can have profound effects in every area, from cognition to memory, to complex problem solving. Injury aside, my fear is that as we rely more and more on AI (artificial intelligence) our brains are not being utilized in capacities that they may have been in years past. In other words, I doubt that we tax ourselves mentally. Did you know that in Jesus' day Jewish boys were required to memorize whole books of the Old Testament (the Jewish Bible)? Whole books, like Genesis and Leviticus, word for word! What are you and I required to memorize, beyond the numerous passwords that we absolutely must know?
In the opening paragraph, I alluded to full bookcases. What frightens me is this: I know I've read most of them. They're not on the shelf just to impress somebody (as if anybody ever sees the interior of this room) but I can't remember what I read. I take one down, open it and too often, it's like seeing that page for the first time even if a sentence is highlighted, which tells me I must have read it sometime in the past! That's just one indication that the memory banks are leaking at an accelerated pace. That's what frightens me.
Maybe this happens to you: you're in the grocery store looking for that coffee that's on sale when somebody passing you in the aisle calls you by name, “Oh hi (insert your name here, if you can remember it). How nice to see you.” You know you know that person but you simply cannot recall their name, or even how you know them. How frustrating! So how do you handle that situation? Bluff? Or confess, “I've been having some memory issues and while I know you, I can't say your name just now.” If you choose to bluff your way through the encounter you'll go back to hunting that coffee and wondering who they are. Which reminds me of a favorite scene from the film, On Golden Pond. Seventy-nine-year-old Norman (played by Henry Fonda) enters the summer cottage, looks at the photograph on the mantle and asks himself, “Who the hell is that?” Is that what awaits us?
We know that every day is a gift. None of us knows how many were written in our book. None of us expected our friend Lanny to leave us so suddenly, without saying goodbye. We know that someday we too shall go “the way of all flesh.” And yes, we're thankful for each new day. But what if we lose some of our memory, or other mental faculties with each passing year? How can we look forward, with any level of enthusiasm, to a time when we won't be playing with a full deck? Television, that great factory of consumerism, teases us with products “proven to enhance memory”. When we read the disclaimer, that tiny print at the bottom of the screen, we learn that there's no proof that these products can deliver what they promise. And even if you buy a bottle, you still have to remember to take the pill.
To quote Forrest, “That's all I have to say about that.” I'm going to go back to reading a book, one I've read before, and it will be like seeing it for the first time. I'll console myself with this thought: at least my eyes still function...for now.
By Greg Roberts (published 4/8/23)
Just thinking about my self
Yes, there's a space between 'my' and 'self'. We'll come back to that.
In 1959 Boy Scout Troop 224 from Green Camp, Ohio went on a two-week, never to be forgotten, trip to the Grand Canyon. I was among those lucky boys. We camped in Illinois, we camped in Oklahoma, we reached the Grand Canyon on our third day. We rented horses and rode around the rim. It was literally the trip of a lifetime, never to be forgotten. What made the trip possible was the selflessness, the sacrifice, made by the scoutmaster and some devoted parents. Those men gave up their family vacations that year. They left wives and daughters behind to devote all their attention to the Boy Scout Troop 224 for two uninterrupted weeks.
We all had cameras and came back with pictures to share. Lots of pictures, taken from numerous places along the way, pictures of the canyon, of Native Americans sitting on blankets in the Square in Santa Fe, selling turquoise jewelry, pictures from the Painted Desert and the Petrified Forest, pictures of the Mormon Tabernacle in Salt Lake City. We could hardly wait to get home and have the film developed so we could share our experiences with family and friends. (Some young person is asking, “What does 'having the film developed' mean?)
Many of those photographs I took included not only the landmarks, but the smiling faces of my buddies. The one thing you wouldn't find in those photos was....me. Why? Because it was before the age of Selfies. I can't recall one instance where somebody said, “Here, take a picture of it with me in the foreground.” Things have changed. We no longer have to wait on film to be developed. We take pictures with our phones. And, it seems to me, we can't get enough of our own image. We take selfies at the mall, at parties, at restaurants, when we meet someone famous...even in front of the Grand Canyon. “Look! That's me, at the Grand Canyon.”
Remember the excitement of getting our new yearbooks from high school? We'd open them up and look for...ourselves first. It's just human nature, isn't it? If somebody shows us a group photo from an event we attended, we look for our own image in the picture first. If a reporter from the local newspaper comes out and takes a group photo, we pick up a copy of that paper and look for that picture. Was my hair alright? Did I smile? (If I'm wrong, you can email me and tell me so....but I think I'm right.)
My concern goes far beyond the rise of the Selfie. We live in a me-first world. Look at how people drive. Some folks think nothing of pulling out in front of you and making you hit the brakes. They habitually run red lights with impunity. (“It wasn't really red, just pink.”) They tailgate you, even though you're driving the legal speed limit. Then they flip you off as they roar around you on a double yellow line. They park in handicapped spots when they're perfectly capable of walking. Recently I stopped in my lane to let a trucker turn left out of a truck stop. The guy behind me laid on the horn to signal his displeasure at being held up. I mourn the death of common courtesy.
During the recent Covid pandemic, many people refused to be vaccinated, and some had legitimate reasons: the vaccine was developed too quickly, they were afraid of needles, etc. Some were simply not going to be told by the government what they had to do. That's good old American independence rearing its head. Diane and I got vaccinated and boosted, not because we were afraid of getting Covid...I'm pretty healthy for my age...but because we didn't want to risk being carriers who might give it to somebody whose immune system was weaker. My concern wasn't all about me; it was about...others.
The rise of the selfie is indicative of a national mindset: it's all about me. Those of us old enough to remember President John Kennedy may recall this line from a famous speech: “Ask not what your country can do for you; ask what you can do for your country.” That's asking people to be other-oriented, isn't it? Instead of my well-being, my comfort, my security and my self-gratification, we're asked to put others first. Thankfully, there are still plenty of self-sacrificing folks who give generously of their resources, and precious time, to multiple non-profits. They aren't satisfied with the way things are; they want to ease suffering and provide comfort. They work to change the world. Thank God for these folks.
My self: the focal point of our lives? The driving force behind every decision? Maybe it's time for some introspection, a deeper look at the face in the selfie.
By Greg Roberts (published 12/11/22)
Yes, there's a space between 'my' and 'self'. We'll come back to that.
In 1959 Boy Scout Troop 224 from Green Camp, Ohio went on a two-week, never to be forgotten, trip to the Grand Canyon. I was among those lucky boys. We camped in Illinois, we camped in Oklahoma, we reached the Grand Canyon on our third day. We rented horses and rode around the rim. It was literally the trip of a lifetime, never to be forgotten. What made the trip possible was the selflessness, the sacrifice, made by the scoutmaster and some devoted parents. Those men gave up their family vacations that year. They left wives and daughters behind to devote all their attention to the Boy Scout Troop 224 for two uninterrupted weeks.
We all had cameras and came back with pictures to share. Lots of pictures, taken from numerous places along the way, pictures of the canyon, of Native Americans sitting on blankets in the Square in Santa Fe, selling turquoise jewelry, pictures from the Painted Desert and the Petrified Forest, pictures of the Mormon Tabernacle in Salt Lake City. We could hardly wait to get home and have the film developed so we could share our experiences with family and friends. (Some young person is asking, “What does 'having the film developed' mean?)
Many of those photographs I took included not only the landmarks, but the smiling faces of my buddies. The one thing you wouldn't find in those photos was....me. Why? Because it was before the age of Selfies. I can't recall one instance where somebody said, “Here, take a picture of it with me in the foreground.” Things have changed. We no longer have to wait on film to be developed. We take pictures with our phones. And, it seems to me, we can't get enough of our own image. We take selfies at the mall, at parties, at restaurants, when we meet someone famous...even in front of the Grand Canyon. “Look! That's me, at the Grand Canyon.”
Remember the excitement of getting our new yearbooks from high school? We'd open them up and look for...ourselves first. It's just human nature, isn't it? If somebody shows us a group photo from an event we attended, we look for our own image in the picture first. If a reporter from the local newspaper comes out and takes a group photo, we pick up a copy of that paper and look for that picture. Was my hair alright? Did I smile? (If I'm wrong, you can email me and tell me so....but I think I'm right.)
My concern goes far beyond the rise of the Selfie. We live in a me-first world. Look at how people drive. Some folks think nothing of pulling out in front of you and making you hit the brakes. They habitually run red lights with impunity. (“It wasn't really red, just pink.”) They tailgate you, even though you're driving the legal speed limit. Then they flip you off as they roar around you on a double yellow line. They park in handicapped spots when they're perfectly capable of walking. Recently I stopped in my lane to let a trucker turn left out of a truck stop. The guy behind me laid on the horn to signal his displeasure at being held up. I mourn the death of common courtesy.
During the recent Covid pandemic, many people refused to be vaccinated, and some had legitimate reasons: the vaccine was developed too quickly, they were afraid of needles, etc. Some were simply not going to be told by the government what they had to do. That's good old American independence rearing its head. Diane and I got vaccinated and boosted, not because we were afraid of getting Covid...I'm pretty healthy for my age...but because we didn't want to risk being carriers who might give it to somebody whose immune system was weaker. My concern wasn't all about me; it was about...others.
The rise of the selfie is indicative of a national mindset: it's all about me. Those of us old enough to remember President John Kennedy may recall this line from a famous speech: “Ask not what your country can do for you; ask what you can do for your country.” That's asking people to be other-oriented, isn't it? Instead of my well-being, my comfort, my security and my self-gratification, we're asked to put others first. Thankfully, there are still plenty of self-sacrificing folks who give generously of their resources, and precious time, to multiple non-profits. They aren't satisfied with the way things are; they want to ease suffering and provide comfort. They work to change the world. Thank God for these folks.
My self: the focal point of our lives? The driving force behind every decision? Maybe it's time for some introspection, a deeper look at the face in the selfie.
By Greg Roberts (published 12/11/22)
Just thinking about what we'd rather not think about...
As competent, responsible people we don't shy away from life's difficult situations. That's not boasting; just a statement of fact. We can deal with everything from career path changes to serious illnesses, to the loss of loved ones. Some of us have raised kids, made a living with our hands and brains, survived a thousand bumps in the road, and made it this far. There's almost nothing that scares us. Almost.
My friend Dave, age 80, lives alone. Jeanne died some years back, leaving him to figure out how to adapt to a new normal. His daughter, Jenn, and her family live far away in Washington State. Dave has adapted to widowerhood better than most. He has remained active in his church, leads a healthy lifestyle, and has even become something of an extrovert. His circle of frequent contacts includes shut-ins, extended family, and an active Bible study group, which he leads.
Recently, he has suffered some physical setbacks. He experiences daily back pain, and has been in and out of the hospital for sudden attacks of weakness in his legs. His physical mobility is in jeopardy. That, by itself, would not be so terrifying. But Dave lives in a large two-story home, with a full basement and it is a full house. Full of everything that has been accumulated over a lifetime. If Dave is forced by failing health to go to assisted living, what is he to do with all the stuff that accuses him from every shelf, “Are you going to get rid of me too?”
In his basement there are boxes upon boxes of stuff from his children's childhood, more boxes of Jeanne's stuff, shelves packed with board games that the grandchildren used to play when they came to visit, a workbench containing tools (seldom used these days) from his father's workshop. Over his many years as a pastor, he has collected thousands of books that currently fill two rooms upstairs; an office and a library. What is to become of all this stuff?
That's the terror that most of us would rather not confront. Our homes are repositories for not only our own accumulated possessions, but those of departed loved ones. When the time comes that we can no longer continue to live in our current homes (and that time will come to many of us), what are we to do with these treasured mementos that fill our garages, basements, and closets? They may have no value to the rest of the world but they are the cherished memories of loved ones departed.
There are two options. We can hope to live long enough and stay healthy enough that we don't have to leave our current homes. When we die (and yes, we are going to die) our children or grandchildren...or maybe complete strangers...will have the task of filling a dumpster with all that stuff that was dear to us but has no value to them. I speak from experience. When Mom died, it fell upon me, the last surviving child, to clean out her house. Had she been there on those days when I filled one trash bag after another, she would have wailed, “No, not that! I got that on vacation back in '55” or “Your grandmother gave me those towels.” I gave all I could to Goodwill, invited relatives to take what they wanted, and still filled a dumpster. What else was I to do with her golf trophies, her thirteen coolers of various sizes, her two closets full of clothing and her four-drawer dresser full of costume jewelry? And those boxes of personal letters and old photographs? Who are those people anyway? Only Mom would know....and she was gone.
The second, and terrifying option is save our children the unpleasant task of sorting out and disposing of a lifetime of collecting. It means taking a deep breath, gritting our teeth, and wading in, now, while we're still healthy enough and sane enough to know what we're doing. First, tell the kids what you're doing. Explain that if there's something they want, they need to speak up. Set those items aside and then....Start sorting and be ruthless. If the kids don't want their school papers from the first grade on...they go in the dumpster. If it has monetary value, give it to the church rummage sale or to Goodwill. If not, and if your community doesn't have restrictions, set it out at the curb and maybe somebody else will take it.
When considering whether to keep or discard, ask yourself, “If I went into assisted living today, would I need this? Would I have room for this?” Then act accordingly. Some day, when you're no longer around, somebody will thank you for facing the terror and doing the hard work and saving them the gut-wrenching task of sorting and discarding our trash and treasures.
This is the terror that we either face...or leave to our children to face.
By Greg Roberts (published 8/1/22)
Just thinking about loss...
We hear it at the graveside frequently. “For this person, there is no more sorrow, no more tears, no regrets, no fears. No more pain, no need for gain. The mortal remains we commit to the ground from which it came; ashes to ashes, dust to dust, earth to earth.” Life as they knew it is over. Is that a tragedy...or a blessing? Has our loss become their gain?
Solomon wrote in Ecclesiastes 7:1, “The day of one's death is better than the day of one's birth.” Did he really believe that? Do we believe that? He went on to complain about the uselessness of life, how everything we strive for, everything we try to obtain is merely chasing after the wind. To some people, this sounds like the depths of pessimism, but others wonder, “Maybe Solomon was onto something.”
The LORD had said to Abram, “Go from your country, your people and your father’s household to the land I will show you” (Genesis 12:1). In short, leave everything you're accustomed to, everything that represents security and stability. Leave the family cemetery and the synagogue you attend every Sabbath. Trust me. We read further that Abram trusted God but he did get to take with him his family, his personal belongings and even his servants. So, while he did leave much behind, he didn't exactly leave empty-handed. Because Abram was willing to trust God and obey, God turned his loss into gain.
In the past month here in the United States, tornadoes and fires have devastated communities, leaving thousands of people without homes or possessions. We, as witnesses to the images on the evening news, can hardly grasp the enormity of their losses. Homes, cars, pictures, birth and marriage certificates, and in some cases, family pets...gone in an instant. Our first emotional response is often, “Those poor people.” But, call me crazy, I've began to wonder if maybe, from a detached point of view, they haven't been given something they didn't have before; freedom to start a new life. Hear me out before you condemn me as callous or uncaring.
Suppose, for the sake of argument, that you had been dissatisfied with your house for some time, but were fearful of making a change. We're not all as brave as Abram, are we? Or what if the business you built up over the years had become a burden to you and you really hated going to work every day? Sudden tragedy wiped it all out...but you still have your health. Do you start rebuilding again or do you seek a new path?
We recently had a water leak that damaged a fair portion of our house, upstairs and down. Some things were ruined beyond salvage. Others just had to be moved to a dry place and finding enough dry spaces out of the way of the reconstruction process has proved to be a challenge. Reconstruction after a major water leak is no picnic either. In the process of moving undamaged goods, I came to realize just how much 'stuff' we have; stuff I could easily live without. And I wonder if I wouldn't be happier with a vacant windswept lot and an insurance check that covered the loss of the house, the cars, the Christmas decorations, the books and CD's and all that other 'stuff'. I'm reminded of the song, “Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose.” Does anybody believe that? Or are we so in love with our physical belongings that our emotional well-being is intrinsically connected?
Try to imagine it. No house, no belongings, just a check in your hand and a wide open future. Scary? Or liberating? What would we do with the insurance money? Start accumulating more 'stuff'? Would we rebuild on the same plot of ground or cast our fate to the winds and set out on a journey to a place we've never been before?
The odds are in our favor, that we won't be affected by a catastrophic fire or tornado. But we might be wise to think about such things and how we would react...just in case.
By Greg Roberts (published 1/3/22)
If I were twenty-two again, and know what I know now...
Dear Twenty-two,
If you're fortunate, you may survive long enough to have the luxury or hindsight. Or not. There are no guarantees: none. Even if you get to hang around another forty or fifty years, the memories of your twenties may have eroded, or been distorted by events monumental or minute. Even the most honest memory banks are infected to some extent with viruses of self-pity, rationalization, and other defense mechanisms that protect our egos from the reality of choices made. But none of this is helpful for you, at twenty-two, is it? Bear with me as I attempt to slide back in time, seeing the world as I did then, through the eyes of strength and youth and promise.
There were no barriers, only self-imposed boundaries. At twenty-two there were so many doors to choose from, so many paths to follow. Every door could be opened. The problem was (and is) that we cannot go through every door. Choices had to be made. There are always choices but sometimes we can only see them in the rear-view mirror. That's when regrets creep in.
Cultural indoctrination can be so subtle that you hardly realize you're being shaped to sustain societal stability. Teachers rarely said “if you get married.” No, it was “when you get married.” Perhaps that isn't the case now, but it was then, and students were programmed to find a life mate, establish a home and have children. So at twenty-two, if you weren't already married, you needed to be looking for that someone to spend your life with. Otherwise you might end up old and lonely. Here's a revelation: you can marry, have children, stay together fifty years and still end up old and lonely.
At twenty-two hormones dictate everything from moods to behavior to goals. Sex is a constant, albeit sometimes subtle, compulsion. We may not recognize it for such. We may convince ourselves that what we are really seeking is love. But what do we know of love at twenty-two? Do we realize that love is measured by sacrifice? Do we grasp that unless both people in a relationship are dedicated to the happiness of the other, someone is going to end up giving, and giving and getting little in return? Probably not. That's the kind of knowledge that comes through experience.
I've always considered myself an industrious person, one not afraid of hard work. I embraced physical labor and why not? As a young man, I was blessed with a healthy body. I realize that not everybody is that fortunate. Physically I was strong and durable. Muscles flexing under the hot sun yielded satisfaction. A shovel forced into an unyielding earth was a contest, a challenge boldly accepted. Hard work was rewarded with a paycheck; the paycheck represented freedom. Only now do I see that the freedom the paycheck rendered was freedom to participate in consumerism. Remember the song? “Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose.”
I went to college. I read prescribed books, studied for exams, listened to boring instructors for three years. I should have stayed long enough to get a degree. So many doors would yet be open today if I had persevered for one more year. Twenty-two often lacks foresight.
If I were twenty-two, I would cherish freedom, knowing now how fragile and elusive freedom can be. I'm not talking about freedoms guaranteed by the Constitution, the freedom to own guns, or freedom to protest against mask mandates. What would it be like to waken each day with neither fears nor regrets? What if there was no agenda, no “have-to”, but only multiple choices? What if freedom meant “let's see what's down this road?” Yes, I'd cherish freedom...but would I embrace it? Or would the road less-traveled seem dark and forbidding?
Twenty-two, you may smile at the musings of an old man. But I was once like you.
By Greg Roberts (published 8/31/21)
Just thinking about enemies
‘Love your enemies, for they tell you your faults.’ - Benjamin Franklin
No two persons will see a situation requiring attention in the same way. For instance, the pessimist may see a problem while the optimist may see the exact set of circumstances as an opportunity. We are, individually, products of our upbringing, our personal experiences, and yes, our prejudices. These, and other factors, are the filters and lenses through which we see the world. But must we label as enemies everyone who does not see things the way we do?
As a Sunday school teacher of teens, whenever we read the words of Jesus, “Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you..”
I would stop the reading and ask, “Do you have enemies?” Invariably this question was met initially with suspicious silence. It took some prodding to coax answers. Usually, the enemy list went from the macro, “Muslims who want to destroy us are our enemies” to the micro, “There's a boy in my class who hates me” or possibly “My step-brother makes my life miserable so I guess he's my enemy.” My next (and obvious) question would be, “Can you love your enemy?”
That question, and the answer we give, has ramifications far beyond the Sunday school. Loving our enemies goes against our basic human instincts. Enemies are seen as those who would do us harm, even destroy us, and as such, are to be met with equal or greater force, or a preemptive strike. Violence is often the tool humans reach for to resolve conflict. Escalating violence is a fact of life. Whereas teens used to attempt to conquer one another with fists behind the schoolhouse, now even a minor dispute may lead to a life ended with a gunshot.
Guns are not the only tools of violence. Words are often reflections of our prejudices and hatreds. In the current political and cultural climate that exists here in America, words are often unleashed against anyone and every one who sees the world through a different lens. Social media drips with words that are meant to hurt, degrade, demean...and yes, destroy...those whom are considered 'enemies'. Political speeches are often laced with animosity, ridicule, and acrimonious statements whose sole purpose is to divide and reinforce the so-called right-thinking folks from those who hold different viewpoints, 'the enemy'. Where does this lead us?
It leads us, not to love, but to hate. Barack Obama once made a statement that rankled Christians all across America. He was quoted (actually, mis-quoted) as saying, “America is no longer a Christian nation.” That statement made headlines. What he actually said was, “America is no longer only a Christian nation.” And he was correct when he went on to say we are a nation of Christians, Jews, Muslims, Hindus and atheists. Whatever our religious preference, wouldn't we do well to take to heart the words of Jesus, “love your enemies”? Where will hate lead us but to more distrust and violence?
I ask myself, “Do I have enemies?” If I define an enemy as one who wishes me harm, I find the answer to be 'no'. Maybe that's naive. Religious extremists, both elsewhere and domestic, may see me as an enemy to their agendas.
There are many who see the world differently than I do but to my knowledge, nobody with different political opinions wishes me harm. Inversely, I wish nobody harm. There is not one person to whom I would attach the label 'enemy'. What I wish for all people is continued freedom of choice, life without fear, and the opportunity to contribute to the overall well-being of the planet we call home.
Do we comprehend the genius behind Jesus' command to love our enemies? What happens when we love an enemy? We reduce the violence in the world.
We open doors to reconciliation....and to peace. Sounds easy, doesn't it? But where do we begin? Perhaps we begin by acknowledging that someone can only be an enemy if we choose them to be. In the movie “King David,” son Absalom is leading a revolt against his father. Little brother Solomon asks his father David, “Is Absalom your enemy?” King David replies, “I may be his enemy, but he could never be mine.” Love will not allow for enemies.
Next time you see something or someone doing or saying something that you disagree with, remember that they are acting or speaking out of their own set of circumstances, experiences, and prejudices...just as you and I are. But that doesn't make them our enemy. And keep this in mind always: Peace begins with a smile.
By Greg Roberts (published 7/24/21)
Just thinking about taking an oath
One hundred United States senators recently took an oath (many of them for the second time in as many years) to render impartial justice in the upcoming impeachment trial of Donald John Trump. What does it mean to take such an oath? Theoretically, it means all who took that oath are promising to listen to the facts presented and to render a verdict based on the merits of those facts. Realistically, it probably means little. Here's why.
First, some background. In rural areas where transactions used to be sealed with a handshake, the expression evolved, “My word is as good as my money.” In other words, you can count on me to fulfill my end of the bargain because I am a person of integrity who does what he says he will do. If I promise to pay you a sum of money and we shake hands on that deal, you need not worry about whether you will be paid. Why? Because you have my word on that and my word is my bond.
It's not just a rural American phenomenon. Many a multi-million transaction has taken place without a written contract, sealed with a handshake. (As an aside, many such transactions take place on the golf course instead of the boardroom.)
Later, the details and terms will be worked out, contracts drawn up by high-priced lawyers and signed, but the deal....the agreement was already cemented by a simple handshake that gestures “You have my word on it.”
The reason I think the oath taken by the Senators is virtually meaningless is this: integrity and conscience do not promote political ambitions. Rather, they are a hindrance, naive Boy Scout attributes to be left behind once elected. What is integrity? Integrity is who you are when nobody is looking. Reputation is what other people think of you. Integrity is what you think of yourself.
That leads to conscience. And what is that? It is an individual's inner voice, the one that differentiates between right and wrong. In the movie Animal House, a young man faces a carnal temptation, to take sexual advantage of a drunk, passed-out girl or to walk away. Suddenly an angel appears on one shoulder, a devil on the other. I'll spare you the vulgar dialogue between the two, the angel representing conscience and the devil representing selfish desires. The young man's conscience wins the day and dictates his course of action. Rather than taking advantage of her, he loads her into a grocery cart and leaves her on the front lawn of her home. Haven't seen the film? It's a classic. Watch it.
Sadly, we all have the capability to silence our consciences. The more often we do it, the easier it becomes. With that thought in mind, try to put yourself in the place of a Senator who has just taken that oath to render impartial justice.
Conscience: You promised. Even swore to God.
Senator: Okay, I promised. I've made a lot of promises. How do you think I got to where I am?
Conscience: Promising to cut taxes is not the same. You just told the people what they wanted to hear. This is different. This is about justice, maybe even the future of democracy.
Senator: Those people who put their trust in me are counting on me to do their will. When election time rolls around, they're going to remember how I voted.
Conscience: Are you a juror in the impeachment trial to do their will? Or to render impartial justice? This is not about voting on a bill. This is about your personal oath to render justice.
Senator: Will you just shut up? I know what my Party expects of me.
Conscience: You didn't pledge allegiance to a party. You pledged allegiance to support and defend the Constitution against all enemies, “foreign and domestic.”
Senator: Okay, I'll listen to the facts but I've already made up my mind.
And that, friends, is why I think watching one hundred United States senators taking an oath to render impartial justice is a mockery of the values many of us...and yes, there are still many of us who place value on integrity...hold dear.
For the record, we've seen this show before. And did those Senators vote for impartial justice? Or did they follow the Party line?
I guess we need to realize that people who hold great power usually did not get to where they are by being truthful. If we expect them to rise above personal greed and political ambitions, maybe we're the naive ones.
By Greg Roberts (published 1/27/21)
Good fences make good neighbors
“Good fences make good neighbors.” You've heard that famous quotation, haven't you? But have you ever pondered its meaning? Fences (and walls) by their very nature are designed to separate, to divide, and to exclude. The implication of that famous quote might well be summed up as, “You stay on your ground and I'll stay on mine.” Fences are sometimes necessary, for containing livestock, pets, and small children. And if you happen to have a pool in the back yard, and you're into skinny dipping, a privacy fence is probably a pretty good idea.
When Diane and I moved from our rented farmhouse on Danville Road to Ada we took with us a little Cocker Spaniel-mutt-mix named Sunshine. She had been used to having the run of the farm but we knew that wouldn't be possible in a town environment. Our little house at 116 Turner Avenue had a small backyard, which I wasted no time in fencing. Sunshine wasn't a climber or a digger so it didn't take much in the way of fencing to keep her in. No corner posts, just metal posts eight feet apart and a four-foot high woven wire fence would be enough to keep her home. I had just finished the fence when my neighbor, Joe Lamb, came home from work, got out of his truck and walked over to the fence with this announcement. “Your fence is on my land: move it.” He turned and walked into his house. I was shocked. We checked our deed and found that I had indeed mistaken the boundary line and was one foot over it, onto Joe's land. One lousy foot! So much for good fences making good neighbors. Have you ever had to dig up steel fence posts? I moved the fence back two feet just to make sure there would be no future disagreement. Our relationship with Joe had not gotten off to a very good start. Over time, it got better. Sadly, our little Sunshine somehow got out one day, wandered up to the main street of town, and was killed by a car.
Our lot bordered an alley, and on the other side an elderly widow, Mrs. Welch, lived with her little black and white Boston Terrier, Heidi. Every time we came out of our house, if Heidi was outside she barked at us. In her mind, we were trespassers on her world. I tried to ignore her but her high-pitched barking annoyed me more than I cared to admit. Especially since our little Sunshine had seldom made a sound and was friendly to everyone.
One morning we awoke to a fresh snowfall. I climbed the front steps of Mrs. Welch's porch and knocked on the door. Heidi began barking furiously, even after Mrs. Welch cracked the door open and asked, “Can I help you?” I said, “Maybe we can help each other. I don't own a snow shovel and if you have one you'll let me use, I'll shovel your steps, porch and sidewalk if you'll let me borrow it.” She smiled and said, “It's in the garage. And would you mind shoveling a path onto the grass so Heidi can go do her business?” I quickly decided to press the advantage. “How about if I keep the snow shovel at my house and take care of both of us every time it snows?“ She answered, “Why, that would be wonderful.” So the deal was made.
I've made some bad deals in my life, but none like that one. Ada recorded fifty-four inches of snow that winter. It seemed that every morning I looked out the window and there was another layer of that white crap! I'd dress, bundle up, and start with Mrs. Welch's. She had to be attended to first because Heidi would be prancing on the front porch, unwilling to walk on snow. The first order of business was to clear the steps and shovel a path onto the grass so she could go pee. Then the sidewalks and then....cross the alley to my own sidewalk and driveway. Day after day, week after week, snow after snow. I was never so glad to see Spring. But Mrs. Welch appreciated my labor and eventually, Heidi even stopped barking at me. I guess it we be fair to say that we became good neighbors, without any fences.
By Greg Roberts (published 1/15/21)
As competent, responsible people we don't shy away from life's difficult situations. That's not boasting; just a statement of fact. We can deal with everything from career path changes to serious illnesses, to the loss of loved ones. Some of us have raised kids, made a living with our hands and brains, survived a thousand bumps in the road, and made it this far. There's almost nothing that scares us. Almost.
My friend Dave, age 80, lives alone. Jeanne died some years back, leaving him to figure out how to adapt to a new normal. His daughter, Jenn, and her family live far away in Washington State. Dave has adapted to widowerhood better than most. He has remained active in his church, leads a healthy lifestyle, and has even become something of an extrovert. His circle of frequent contacts includes shut-ins, extended family, and an active Bible study group, which he leads.
Recently, he has suffered some physical setbacks. He experiences daily back pain, and has been in and out of the hospital for sudden attacks of weakness in his legs. His physical mobility is in jeopardy. That, by itself, would not be so terrifying. But Dave lives in a large two-story home, with a full basement and it is a full house. Full of everything that has been accumulated over a lifetime. If Dave is forced by failing health to go to assisted living, what is he to do with all the stuff that accuses him from every shelf, “Are you going to get rid of me too?”
In his basement there are boxes upon boxes of stuff from his children's childhood, more boxes of Jeanne's stuff, shelves packed with board games that the grandchildren used to play when they came to visit, a workbench containing tools (seldom used these days) from his father's workshop. Over his many years as a pastor, he has collected thousands of books that currently fill two rooms upstairs; an office and a library. What is to become of all this stuff?
That's the terror that most of us would rather not confront. Our homes are repositories for not only our own accumulated possessions, but those of departed loved ones. When the time comes that we can no longer continue to live in our current homes (and that time will come to many of us), what are we to do with these treasured mementos that fill our garages, basements, and closets? They may have no value to the rest of the world but they are the cherished memories of loved ones departed.
There are two options. We can hope to live long enough and stay healthy enough that we don't have to leave our current homes. When we die (and yes, we are going to die) our children or grandchildren...or maybe complete strangers...will have the task of filling a dumpster with all that stuff that was dear to us but has no value to them. I speak from experience. When Mom died, it fell upon me, the last surviving child, to clean out her house. Had she been there on those days when I filled one trash bag after another, she would have wailed, “No, not that! I got that on vacation back in '55” or “Your grandmother gave me those towels.” I gave all I could to Goodwill, invited relatives to take what they wanted, and still filled a dumpster. What else was I to do with her golf trophies, her thirteen coolers of various sizes, her two closets full of clothing and her four-drawer dresser full of costume jewelry? And those boxes of personal letters and old photographs? Who are those people anyway? Only Mom would know....and she was gone.
The second, and terrifying option is save our children the unpleasant task of sorting out and disposing of a lifetime of collecting. It means taking a deep breath, gritting our teeth, and wading in, now, while we're still healthy enough and sane enough to know what we're doing. First, tell the kids what you're doing. Explain that if there's something they want, they need to speak up. Set those items aside and then....Start sorting and be ruthless. If the kids don't want their school papers from the first grade on...they go in the dumpster. If it has monetary value, give it to the church rummage sale or to Goodwill. If not, and if your community doesn't have restrictions, set it out at the curb and maybe somebody else will take it.
When considering whether to keep or discard, ask yourself, “If I went into assisted living today, would I need this? Would I have room for this?” Then act accordingly. Some day, when you're no longer around, somebody will thank you for facing the terror and doing the hard work and saving them the gut-wrenching task of sorting and discarding our trash and treasures.
This is the terror that we either face...or leave to our children to face.
By Greg Roberts (published 8/1/22)
Just thinking about loss...
We hear it at the graveside frequently. “For this person, there is no more sorrow, no more tears, no regrets, no fears. No more pain, no need for gain. The mortal remains we commit to the ground from which it came; ashes to ashes, dust to dust, earth to earth.” Life as they knew it is over. Is that a tragedy...or a blessing? Has our loss become their gain?
Solomon wrote in Ecclesiastes 7:1, “The day of one's death is better than the day of one's birth.” Did he really believe that? Do we believe that? He went on to complain about the uselessness of life, how everything we strive for, everything we try to obtain is merely chasing after the wind. To some people, this sounds like the depths of pessimism, but others wonder, “Maybe Solomon was onto something.”
The LORD had said to Abram, “Go from your country, your people and your father’s household to the land I will show you” (Genesis 12:1). In short, leave everything you're accustomed to, everything that represents security and stability. Leave the family cemetery and the synagogue you attend every Sabbath. Trust me. We read further that Abram trusted God but he did get to take with him his family, his personal belongings and even his servants. So, while he did leave much behind, he didn't exactly leave empty-handed. Because Abram was willing to trust God and obey, God turned his loss into gain.
In the past month here in the United States, tornadoes and fires have devastated communities, leaving thousands of people without homes or possessions. We, as witnesses to the images on the evening news, can hardly grasp the enormity of their losses. Homes, cars, pictures, birth and marriage certificates, and in some cases, family pets...gone in an instant. Our first emotional response is often, “Those poor people.” But, call me crazy, I've began to wonder if maybe, from a detached point of view, they haven't been given something they didn't have before; freedom to start a new life. Hear me out before you condemn me as callous or uncaring.
Suppose, for the sake of argument, that you had been dissatisfied with your house for some time, but were fearful of making a change. We're not all as brave as Abram, are we? Or what if the business you built up over the years had become a burden to you and you really hated going to work every day? Sudden tragedy wiped it all out...but you still have your health. Do you start rebuilding again or do you seek a new path?
We recently had a water leak that damaged a fair portion of our house, upstairs and down. Some things were ruined beyond salvage. Others just had to be moved to a dry place and finding enough dry spaces out of the way of the reconstruction process has proved to be a challenge. Reconstruction after a major water leak is no picnic either. In the process of moving undamaged goods, I came to realize just how much 'stuff' we have; stuff I could easily live without. And I wonder if I wouldn't be happier with a vacant windswept lot and an insurance check that covered the loss of the house, the cars, the Christmas decorations, the books and CD's and all that other 'stuff'. I'm reminded of the song, “Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose.” Does anybody believe that? Or are we so in love with our physical belongings that our emotional well-being is intrinsically connected?
Try to imagine it. No house, no belongings, just a check in your hand and a wide open future. Scary? Or liberating? What would we do with the insurance money? Start accumulating more 'stuff'? Would we rebuild on the same plot of ground or cast our fate to the winds and set out on a journey to a place we've never been before?
The odds are in our favor, that we won't be affected by a catastrophic fire or tornado. But we might be wise to think about such things and how we would react...just in case.
By Greg Roberts (published 1/3/22)
If I were twenty-two again, and know what I know now...
Dear Twenty-two,
If you're fortunate, you may survive long enough to have the luxury or hindsight. Or not. There are no guarantees: none. Even if you get to hang around another forty or fifty years, the memories of your twenties may have eroded, or been distorted by events monumental or minute. Even the most honest memory banks are infected to some extent with viruses of self-pity, rationalization, and other defense mechanisms that protect our egos from the reality of choices made. But none of this is helpful for you, at twenty-two, is it? Bear with me as I attempt to slide back in time, seeing the world as I did then, through the eyes of strength and youth and promise.
There were no barriers, only self-imposed boundaries. At twenty-two there were so many doors to choose from, so many paths to follow. Every door could be opened. The problem was (and is) that we cannot go through every door. Choices had to be made. There are always choices but sometimes we can only see them in the rear-view mirror. That's when regrets creep in.
Cultural indoctrination can be so subtle that you hardly realize you're being shaped to sustain societal stability. Teachers rarely said “if you get married.” No, it was “when you get married.” Perhaps that isn't the case now, but it was then, and students were programmed to find a life mate, establish a home and have children. So at twenty-two, if you weren't already married, you needed to be looking for that someone to spend your life with. Otherwise you might end up old and lonely. Here's a revelation: you can marry, have children, stay together fifty years and still end up old and lonely.
At twenty-two hormones dictate everything from moods to behavior to goals. Sex is a constant, albeit sometimes subtle, compulsion. We may not recognize it for such. We may convince ourselves that what we are really seeking is love. But what do we know of love at twenty-two? Do we realize that love is measured by sacrifice? Do we grasp that unless both people in a relationship are dedicated to the happiness of the other, someone is going to end up giving, and giving and getting little in return? Probably not. That's the kind of knowledge that comes through experience.
I've always considered myself an industrious person, one not afraid of hard work. I embraced physical labor and why not? As a young man, I was blessed with a healthy body. I realize that not everybody is that fortunate. Physically I was strong and durable. Muscles flexing under the hot sun yielded satisfaction. A shovel forced into an unyielding earth was a contest, a challenge boldly accepted. Hard work was rewarded with a paycheck; the paycheck represented freedom. Only now do I see that the freedom the paycheck rendered was freedom to participate in consumerism. Remember the song? “Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose.”
I went to college. I read prescribed books, studied for exams, listened to boring instructors for three years. I should have stayed long enough to get a degree. So many doors would yet be open today if I had persevered for one more year. Twenty-two often lacks foresight.
If I were twenty-two, I would cherish freedom, knowing now how fragile and elusive freedom can be. I'm not talking about freedoms guaranteed by the Constitution, the freedom to own guns, or freedom to protest against mask mandates. What would it be like to waken each day with neither fears nor regrets? What if there was no agenda, no “have-to”, but only multiple choices? What if freedom meant “let's see what's down this road?” Yes, I'd cherish freedom...but would I embrace it? Or would the road less-traveled seem dark and forbidding?
Twenty-two, you may smile at the musings of an old man. But I was once like you.
By Greg Roberts (published 8/31/21)
Just thinking about enemies
‘Love your enemies, for they tell you your faults.’ - Benjamin Franklin
No two persons will see a situation requiring attention in the same way. For instance, the pessimist may see a problem while the optimist may see the exact set of circumstances as an opportunity. We are, individually, products of our upbringing, our personal experiences, and yes, our prejudices. These, and other factors, are the filters and lenses through which we see the world. But must we label as enemies everyone who does not see things the way we do?
As a Sunday school teacher of teens, whenever we read the words of Jesus, “Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you..”
I would stop the reading and ask, “Do you have enemies?” Invariably this question was met initially with suspicious silence. It took some prodding to coax answers. Usually, the enemy list went from the macro, “Muslims who want to destroy us are our enemies” to the micro, “There's a boy in my class who hates me” or possibly “My step-brother makes my life miserable so I guess he's my enemy.” My next (and obvious) question would be, “Can you love your enemy?”
That question, and the answer we give, has ramifications far beyond the Sunday school. Loving our enemies goes against our basic human instincts. Enemies are seen as those who would do us harm, even destroy us, and as such, are to be met with equal or greater force, or a preemptive strike. Violence is often the tool humans reach for to resolve conflict. Escalating violence is a fact of life. Whereas teens used to attempt to conquer one another with fists behind the schoolhouse, now even a minor dispute may lead to a life ended with a gunshot.
Guns are not the only tools of violence. Words are often reflections of our prejudices and hatreds. In the current political and cultural climate that exists here in America, words are often unleashed against anyone and every one who sees the world through a different lens. Social media drips with words that are meant to hurt, degrade, demean...and yes, destroy...those whom are considered 'enemies'. Political speeches are often laced with animosity, ridicule, and acrimonious statements whose sole purpose is to divide and reinforce the so-called right-thinking folks from those who hold different viewpoints, 'the enemy'. Where does this lead us?
It leads us, not to love, but to hate. Barack Obama once made a statement that rankled Christians all across America. He was quoted (actually, mis-quoted) as saying, “America is no longer a Christian nation.” That statement made headlines. What he actually said was, “America is no longer only a Christian nation.” And he was correct when he went on to say we are a nation of Christians, Jews, Muslims, Hindus and atheists. Whatever our religious preference, wouldn't we do well to take to heart the words of Jesus, “love your enemies”? Where will hate lead us but to more distrust and violence?
I ask myself, “Do I have enemies?” If I define an enemy as one who wishes me harm, I find the answer to be 'no'. Maybe that's naive. Religious extremists, both elsewhere and domestic, may see me as an enemy to their agendas.
There are many who see the world differently than I do but to my knowledge, nobody with different political opinions wishes me harm. Inversely, I wish nobody harm. There is not one person to whom I would attach the label 'enemy'. What I wish for all people is continued freedom of choice, life without fear, and the opportunity to contribute to the overall well-being of the planet we call home.
Do we comprehend the genius behind Jesus' command to love our enemies? What happens when we love an enemy? We reduce the violence in the world.
We open doors to reconciliation....and to peace. Sounds easy, doesn't it? But where do we begin? Perhaps we begin by acknowledging that someone can only be an enemy if we choose them to be. In the movie “King David,” son Absalom is leading a revolt against his father. Little brother Solomon asks his father David, “Is Absalom your enemy?” King David replies, “I may be his enemy, but he could never be mine.” Love will not allow for enemies.
Next time you see something or someone doing or saying something that you disagree with, remember that they are acting or speaking out of their own set of circumstances, experiences, and prejudices...just as you and I are. But that doesn't make them our enemy. And keep this in mind always: Peace begins with a smile.
By Greg Roberts (published 7/24/21)
Just thinking about taking an oath
One hundred United States senators recently took an oath (many of them for the second time in as many years) to render impartial justice in the upcoming impeachment trial of Donald John Trump. What does it mean to take such an oath? Theoretically, it means all who took that oath are promising to listen to the facts presented and to render a verdict based on the merits of those facts. Realistically, it probably means little. Here's why.
First, some background. In rural areas where transactions used to be sealed with a handshake, the expression evolved, “My word is as good as my money.” In other words, you can count on me to fulfill my end of the bargain because I am a person of integrity who does what he says he will do. If I promise to pay you a sum of money and we shake hands on that deal, you need not worry about whether you will be paid. Why? Because you have my word on that and my word is my bond.
It's not just a rural American phenomenon. Many a multi-million transaction has taken place without a written contract, sealed with a handshake. (As an aside, many such transactions take place on the golf course instead of the boardroom.)
Later, the details and terms will be worked out, contracts drawn up by high-priced lawyers and signed, but the deal....the agreement was already cemented by a simple handshake that gestures “You have my word on it.”
The reason I think the oath taken by the Senators is virtually meaningless is this: integrity and conscience do not promote political ambitions. Rather, they are a hindrance, naive Boy Scout attributes to be left behind once elected. What is integrity? Integrity is who you are when nobody is looking. Reputation is what other people think of you. Integrity is what you think of yourself.
That leads to conscience. And what is that? It is an individual's inner voice, the one that differentiates between right and wrong. In the movie Animal House, a young man faces a carnal temptation, to take sexual advantage of a drunk, passed-out girl or to walk away. Suddenly an angel appears on one shoulder, a devil on the other. I'll spare you the vulgar dialogue between the two, the angel representing conscience and the devil representing selfish desires. The young man's conscience wins the day and dictates his course of action. Rather than taking advantage of her, he loads her into a grocery cart and leaves her on the front lawn of her home. Haven't seen the film? It's a classic. Watch it.
Sadly, we all have the capability to silence our consciences. The more often we do it, the easier it becomes. With that thought in mind, try to put yourself in the place of a Senator who has just taken that oath to render impartial justice.
Conscience: You promised. Even swore to God.
Senator: Okay, I promised. I've made a lot of promises. How do you think I got to where I am?
Conscience: Promising to cut taxes is not the same. You just told the people what they wanted to hear. This is different. This is about justice, maybe even the future of democracy.
Senator: Those people who put their trust in me are counting on me to do their will. When election time rolls around, they're going to remember how I voted.
Conscience: Are you a juror in the impeachment trial to do their will? Or to render impartial justice? This is not about voting on a bill. This is about your personal oath to render justice.
Senator: Will you just shut up? I know what my Party expects of me.
Conscience: You didn't pledge allegiance to a party. You pledged allegiance to support and defend the Constitution against all enemies, “foreign and domestic.”
Senator: Okay, I'll listen to the facts but I've already made up my mind.
And that, friends, is why I think watching one hundred United States senators taking an oath to render impartial justice is a mockery of the values many of us...and yes, there are still many of us who place value on integrity...hold dear.
For the record, we've seen this show before. And did those Senators vote for impartial justice? Or did they follow the Party line?
I guess we need to realize that people who hold great power usually did not get to where they are by being truthful. If we expect them to rise above personal greed and political ambitions, maybe we're the naive ones.
By Greg Roberts (published 1/27/21)
Good fences make good neighbors
“Good fences make good neighbors.” You've heard that famous quotation, haven't you? But have you ever pondered its meaning? Fences (and walls) by their very nature are designed to separate, to divide, and to exclude. The implication of that famous quote might well be summed up as, “You stay on your ground and I'll stay on mine.” Fences are sometimes necessary, for containing livestock, pets, and small children. And if you happen to have a pool in the back yard, and you're into skinny dipping, a privacy fence is probably a pretty good idea.
When Diane and I moved from our rented farmhouse on Danville Road to Ada we took with us a little Cocker Spaniel-mutt-mix named Sunshine. She had been used to having the run of the farm but we knew that wouldn't be possible in a town environment. Our little house at 116 Turner Avenue had a small backyard, which I wasted no time in fencing. Sunshine wasn't a climber or a digger so it didn't take much in the way of fencing to keep her in. No corner posts, just metal posts eight feet apart and a four-foot high woven wire fence would be enough to keep her home. I had just finished the fence when my neighbor, Joe Lamb, came home from work, got out of his truck and walked over to the fence with this announcement. “Your fence is on my land: move it.” He turned and walked into his house. I was shocked. We checked our deed and found that I had indeed mistaken the boundary line and was one foot over it, onto Joe's land. One lousy foot! So much for good fences making good neighbors. Have you ever had to dig up steel fence posts? I moved the fence back two feet just to make sure there would be no future disagreement. Our relationship with Joe had not gotten off to a very good start. Over time, it got better. Sadly, our little Sunshine somehow got out one day, wandered up to the main street of town, and was killed by a car.
Our lot bordered an alley, and on the other side an elderly widow, Mrs. Welch, lived with her little black and white Boston Terrier, Heidi. Every time we came out of our house, if Heidi was outside she barked at us. In her mind, we were trespassers on her world. I tried to ignore her but her high-pitched barking annoyed me more than I cared to admit. Especially since our little Sunshine had seldom made a sound and was friendly to everyone.
One morning we awoke to a fresh snowfall. I climbed the front steps of Mrs. Welch's porch and knocked on the door. Heidi began barking furiously, even after Mrs. Welch cracked the door open and asked, “Can I help you?” I said, “Maybe we can help each other. I don't own a snow shovel and if you have one you'll let me use, I'll shovel your steps, porch and sidewalk if you'll let me borrow it.” She smiled and said, “It's in the garage. And would you mind shoveling a path onto the grass so Heidi can go do her business?” I quickly decided to press the advantage. “How about if I keep the snow shovel at my house and take care of both of us every time it snows?“ She answered, “Why, that would be wonderful.” So the deal was made.
I've made some bad deals in my life, but none like that one. Ada recorded fifty-four inches of snow that winter. It seemed that every morning I looked out the window and there was another layer of that white crap! I'd dress, bundle up, and start with Mrs. Welch's. She had to be attended to first because Heidi would be prancing on the front porch, unwilling to walk on snow. The first order of business was to clear the steps and shovel a path onto the grass so she could go pee. Then the sidewalks and then....cross the alley to my own sidewalk and driveway. Day after day, week after week, snow after snow. I was never so glad to see Spring. But Mrs. Welch appreciated my labor and eventually, Heidi even stopped barking at me. I guess it we be fair to say that we became good neighbors, without any fences.
By Greg Roberts (published 1/15/21)
Just thinking about tenants and landlords
As newlyweds, we were content with our one-bedroom upstairs apartment in town, but the drudgery of having to park across the street and lug groceries upstairs soon began to wear on us. After a brief search, we found a cozy one-bedroom house out in the country. True, it was pretty noisy, just a few yards off of a state highway...but it was out in the country, with plenty of parking and no stairs.
We soon learned that we were sharing the house with an army of cockroaches who wouldn't give up easily. The water was infused with sulfur. It stank..or stunk...whatever. It wasn't very long before we began to regret our move from town.
But then an ad appeared in the Record-Herald: “Three bedroom farmhouse for rent. Bloomingburg area.” I decided to check it out. The two-story dwelling was isolated, a good quarter of a mile from the nearest neighbor, on a quiet county road, with a good well...and no cockroaches.
The owner, retired farmer Elmer Simerl, met me there on a cold January day. He explained, “The rent is $65.00 a month, except in the winter months. We cut it to $50 for those months because the heat bill is higher.” Fifty bucks a month! That's what we were paying for our one-bedroom roach-infested house with the sulfur well. This was a three bedroom, one bath house with a dining room, a front porch and an attached one-car garage.
It didn't take long for Diane and I to say "yes."
Elmer had some rules. “We expect the grass to be mowed and no curtains waving out the windows. There are screens in the garage.” He expected his renters to keep the place looking nice and neat. No problem, right?
On moving day we had a choice to make. We could take everything in through the garage, then through the kitchen, and on through the living room...or we could back across the front lawn and extend the ramp to the front porch, which would make unloading the U-Haul truck much easier. However, that February had been pretty wet and the ground was very soft. Undeterred, I put the truck into reverse and began backing....and sinking. By the time I got close enough for the ramp to reach the porch, there were twin ten-inch deep ruts thirty feet long. We scrambled to empty the truck, pull it out, and find a shovel before Helen and Elmer could see the damage we had done. But no, here they came from their home in Bloomingburg to see how the move was going. My heart sank. I braced for the lecture I deserved. Instead, they handed us two pans of homemade bread and rolls with this explanation. “Moving is hard work. We thought you might get hungry.” Not a word about the ruts. Not even a reproachful look. They had to see what we had done. They chose to overlook it. They extended grace. For our part, we repaired the ruts and eventually planted two evergreen trees in the front yard. We mowed the grass weekly and kept the place looking good.
Over the course of our time on Danville Road we learned what wonderful landlords they were. Diane and I would come home from our jobs in Washington Court House (she, a nurse and me, a barber) and find unexpected gifts in the garage. Freshly picked strawberries, sweet corn, baked goods....you just never knew what goodies you might find on top of the freezer, but it was always appreciated. Helen and Elmer were some of most thoughtful and generous people we have ever known.
We hated to leave that house, but the next chapter in our lives was waiting for us at Ohio Northern University in Ada, Ohio. When we left, the house was clean and the repaired lawn was freshly mowed, just the way we had found them when we moved in. We also left behind some wonderful memories and a fond appreciation for our landlords.
By Greg Roberts (published 1/11/21)
As newlyweds, we were content with our one-bedroom upstairs apartment in town, but the drudgery of having to park across the street and lug groceries upstairs soon began to wear on us. After a brief search, we found a cozy one-bedroom house out in the country. True, it was pretty noisy, just a few yards off of a state highway...but it was out in the country, with plenty of parking and no stairs.
We soon learned that we were sharing the house with an army of cockroaches who wouldn't give up easily. The water was infused with sulfur. It stank..or stunk...whatever. It wasn't very long before we began to regret our move from town.
But then an ad appeared in the Record-Herald: “Three bedroom farmhouse for rent. Bloomingburg area.” I decided to check it out. The two-story dwelling was isolated, a good quarter of a mile from the nearest neighbor, on a quiet county road, with a good well...and no cockroaches.
The owner, retired farmer Elmer Simerl, met me there on a cold January day. He explained, “The rent is $65.00 a month, except in the winter months. We cut it to $50 for those months because the heat bill is higher.” Fifty bucks a month! That's what we were paying for our one-bedroom roach-infested house with the sulfur well. This was a three bedroom, one bath house with a dining room, a front porch and an attached one-car garage.
It didn't take long for Diane and I to say "yes."
Elmer had some rules. “We expect the grass to be mowed and no curtains waving out the windows. There are screens in the garage.” He expected his renters to keep the place looking nice and neat. No problem, right?
On moving day we had a choice to make. We could take everything in through the garage, then through the kitchen, and on through the living room...or we could back across the front lawn and extend the ramp to the front porch, which would make unloading the U-Haul truck much easier. However, that February had been pretty wet and the ground was very soft. Undeterred, I put the truck into reverse and began backing....and sinking. By the time I got close enough for the ramp to reach the porch, there were twin ten-inch deep ruts thirty feet long. We scrambled to empty the truck, pull it out, and find a shovel before Helen and Elmer could see the damage we had done. But no, here they came from their home in Bloomingburg to see how the move was going. My heart sank. I braced for the lecture I deserved. Instead, they handed us two pans of homemade bread and rolls with this explanation. “Moving is hard work. We thought you might get hungry.” Not a word about the ruts. Not even a reproachful look. They had to see what we had done. They chose to overlook it. They extended grace. For our part, we repaired the ruts and eventually planted two evergreen trees in the front yard. We mowed the grass weekly and kept the place looking good.
Over the course of our time on Danville Road we learned what wonderful landlords they were. Diane and I would come home from our jobs in Washington Court House (she, a nurse and me, a barber) and find unexpected gifts in the garage. Freshly picked strawberries, sweet corn, baked goods....you just never knew what goodies you might find on top of the freezer, but it was always appreciated. Helen and Elmer were some of most thoughtful and generous people we have ever known.
We hated to leave that house, but the next chapter in our lives was waiting for us at Ohio Northern University in Ada, Ohio. When we left, the house was clean and the repaired lawn was freshly mowed, just the way we had found them when we moved in. We also left behind some wonderful memories and a fond appreciation for our landlords.
By Greg Roberts (published 1/11/21)
Just thinking about confessions
Confessing their sins, they were baptized by him in the Jordan River. Matthew 3:6 NIV)
Have you ever wondered just how specific those confessions were? Imagine with me, “John, please baptize me. I am a sinner in need of forgiveness.” Would that be satisfactory? Or would John ask for more detailed information? “What have you done that needs forgiving?” “I cheated my customers in the marketplace with dishonest scales.” ( In case you didn't know, there are numerous passages condemning dishonest scales in the Old Testament, from Leviticus to Micah.) What might John's response be? “Get rid of your lying scales. Get a Toledo scale; no springs, honest weight. The Lord will be watching you.”
When a practicing Catholic goes into the confessional, how specific must they be when confessing their sins to the priest? (As a boogerhead Protestant, I am ignorant of what transpires between them.) Does one share all the lurid details or is it sufficient to name an act such as, “I violated my marriage vows”? Does the priest ask, “With whom and how many times?” Confessing our sins can be humiliating...and isn't that the purpose? Through confession, we humble ourselves. We admit our imperfections. We own up to our transgressions. But why? Because we need to rid ourselves of guilt.
Our failures to conform to religious and or societal norms can have serious detrimental effects on our overall well-being. Guilt can erode our mental health and yes, even our physical health. Guilt is the equivalent of emotional cancer; it eats away at our sense of self-worth. Sometimes we are the only one who knows our personal failures. At other times, our shortcomings are public. Whether we fear divine retribution or human rejection for our misdeeds, guilt robs us of our peace of mind. We need what our Catholic brothers and sisters receive in the confessional booth: absolution. How does one receive this spiritual medicine?
People came to John to be baptized for the remission of sins. That's just another way of saying they needed absolution, a clean slate, a do-over. In their minds, by the act of confession, their sins were washed away in the flowing waters of the Jordan River. They emerged from baptism assured that God was no longer displeased with them. However, John made it very clear that those he baptized were expected to repent, which means to go a different direction. Without a change of heart and habits baptism without repentance was of no value. You may have suffered the pain of humiliation when you confessed your sins, but that was the easy part. The hard part was (and is) changing attitudes and actions. The words of Jesus would later confirm this requirement when he rescued the woman caught in adultery, from being stoned, “Go, and sin no more.”
Many people read the story of John the Baptist and fail to grasp the threat he posed to the status quo. He offered, through a simple act of baptism, the forgiveness that only a priest, chosen and authorized by God, could offer. Every Jewish male was compelled to come to the Temple once a year with appropriate animal sacrifices which were inspected by the priest. If the priest found your sacrificial animal free of defects, he would slay it, pray to God to forgive you of your sins, and divide the animal, keeping the choice parts for himself and his family. John was undercutting the Temple Cult's monopoly on the forgiveness business. The major power structures of Palestine in those days were the Temple Cult and the Roman government. Neither of them would tolerate challenges to their authority. John's encroachment on the Temple Cult's power would cost him his life.
Current day Christians in America often form small groups to nourish their faith. The idea of 'small groups', currently so popular in the mega-churches, is nothing new. John Wesley insisted that those who called themselves Methodists join a small group (then called a band) and to meet regularly on a weekly basis. And what did they do at these gatherings?
They followed a set of six rules. Here is rule number four:
4. To speak each of us in order, freely and plainly, the true state of our souls, with the faults we have committed in thought, word, or deed, and the temptations we have felt, since our last meeting.
The band meeting served as a clearing house for sins of both omission and commission. Mr. Wesley did not come up with this idea on his own. The basis for communal confession is found in Holy Scripture. James 5:16 urges Christians to “confess your sins, one to another, that you may be healed”. Wesley understood the ravages of unconfessed sins. Baptism, even when followed by sincere attempts to change our ways, does not insure us against the guilt that comes from spiritual failures in the following days. We need continued absolution.
That is why the Jewish male had to make that pilgrimage to Jerusalem and the Temple yearly. That is why the Catholic man and woman is supposed to go to confession on a regular basis. Penance equals peace of mind.
For a number of years I was a member of a small group that met weekly. I wish I could tell you that my commitment to attendance and participation resulted in a deeper spiritual life. Sadly, what usually transpired among us as we gathered in the church was little more than the kind of talk you would find around a table in McDonalds. Vocation and sports talk were the dominant themes with a smattering of the latest efforts of our home churches. Never did we confess to one another anything more serious than running a red light. Perhaps we did not trust each other enough to become transparently honest. Perhaps we feared rejection. When I left that Church and city, I was relieved not to have further participation.
Some will insist that we need only humble ourselves and confess our sins to God. Perhaps. God is, after all, the one who forgives sins. That said, there may still be much to be gained through confession to another trusted, caring human being. Confessing our shortcomings is a humbling experience and most of us could benefit from the healing power of humility. Couple that confession with a sincere desire to change, to be a better person, and you have a formula for a life pleasing to God.
By Greg Roberts (published 12/20/20)
Confessing their sins, they were baptized by him in the Jordan River. Matthew 3:6 NIV)
Have you ever wondered just how specific those confessions were? Imagine with me, “John, please baptize me. I am a sinner in need of forgiveness.” Would that be satisfactory? Or would John ask for more detailed information? “What have you done that needs forgiving?” “I cheated my customers in the marketplace with dishonest scales.” ( In case you didn't know, there are numerous passages condemning dishonest scales in the Old Testament, from Leviticus to Micah.) What might John's response be? “Get rid of your lying scales. Get a Toledo scale; no springs, honest weight. The Lord will be watching you.”
When a practicing Catholic goes into the confessional, how specific must they be when confessing their sins to the priest? (As a boogerhead Protestant, I am ignorant of what transpires between them.) Does one share all the lurid details or is it sufficient to name an act such as, “I violated my marriage vows”? Does the priest ask, “With whom and how many times?” Confessing our sins can be humiliating...and isn't that the purpose? Through confession, we humble ourselves. We admit our imperfections. We own up to our transgressions. But why? Because we need to rid ourselves of guilt.
Our failures to conform to religious and or societal norms can have serious detrimental effects on our overall well-being. Guilt can erode our mental health and yes, even our physical health. Guilt is the equivalent of emotional cancer; it eats away at our sense of self-worth. Sometimes we are the only one who knows our personal failures. At other times, our shortcomings are public. Whether we fear divine retribution or human rejection for our misdeeds, guilt robs us of our peace of mind. We need what our Catholic brothers and sisters receive in the confessional booth: absolution. How does one receive this spiritual medicine?
People came to John to be baptized for the remission of sins. That's just another way of saying they needed absolution, a clean slate, a do-over. In their minds, by the act of confession, their sins were washed away in the flowing waters of the Jordan River. They emerged from baptism assured that God was no longer displeased with them. However, John made it very clear that those he baptized were expected to repent, which means to go a different direction. Without a change of heart and habits baptism without repentance was of no value. You may have suffered the pain of humiliation when you confessed your sins, but that was the easy part. The hard part was (and is) changing attitudes and actions. The words of Jesus would later confirm this requirement when he rescued the woman caught in adultery, from being stoned, “Go, and sin no more.”
Many people read the story of John the Baptist and fail to grasp the threat he posed to the status quo. He offered, through a simple act of baptism, the forgiveness that only a priest, chosen and authorized by God, could offer. Every Jewish male was compelled to come to the Temple once a year with appropriate animal sacrifices which were inspected by the priest. If the priest found your sacrificial animal free of defects, he would slay it, pray to God to forgive you of your sins, and divide the animal, keeping the choice parts for himself and his family. John was undercutting the Temple Cult's monopoly on the forgiveness business. The major power structures of Palestine in those days were the Temple Cult and the Roman government. Neither of them would tolerate challenges to their authority. John's encroachment on the Temple Cult's power would cost him his life.
Current day Christians in America often form small groups to nourish their faith. The idea of 'small groups', currently so popular in the mega-churches, is nothing new. John Wesley insisted that those who called themselves Methodists join a small group (then called a band) and to meet regularly on a weekly basis. And what did they do at these gatherings?
They followed a set of six rules. Here is rule number four:
4. To speak each of us in order, freely and plainly, the true state of our souls, with the faults we have committed in thought, word, or deed, and the temptations we have felt, since our last meeting.
The band meeting served as a clearing house for sins of both omission and commission. Mr. Wesley did not come up with this idea on his own. The basis for communal confession is found in Holy Scripture. James 5:16 urges Christians to “confess your sins, one to another, that you may be healed”. Wesley understood the ravages of unconfessed sins. Baptism, even when followed by sincere attempts to change our ways, does not insure us against the guilt that comes from spiritual failures in the following days. We need continued absolution.
That is why the Jewish male had to make that pilgrimage to Jerusalem and the Temple yearly. That is why the Catholic man and woman is supposed to go to confession on a regular basis. Penance equals peace of mind.
For a number of years I was a member of a small group that met weekly. I wish I could tell you that my commitment to attendance and participation resulted in a deeper spiritual life. Sadly, what usually transpired among us as we gathered in the church was little more than the kind of talk you would find around a table in McDonalds. Vocation and sports talk were the dominant themes with a smattering of the latest efforts of our home churches. Never did we confess to one another anything more serious than running a red light. Perhaps we did not trust each other enough to become transparently honest. Perhaps we feared rejection. When I left that Church and city, I was relieved not to have further participation.
Some will insist that we need only humble ourselves and confess our sins to God. Perhaps. God is, after all, the one who forgives sins. That said, there may still be much to be gained through confession to another trusted, caring human being. Confessing our shortcomings is a humbling experience and most of us could benefit from the healing power of humility. Couple that confession with a sincere desire to change, to be a better person, and you have a formula for a life pleasing to God.
By Greg Roberts (published 12/20/20)
Just thinking about 'civility'
I was just thinking about the word “civility.”
Obviously the root word would be civil. Even though we may use that word, if asked to define it, would we be at a loss? Does it mean just being nice? Or courteous? If we're honest with ourselves, we toss around lots of words without being capable of defining them. Can you define disingenuous? Thankfully, most people will let us go unchallenged, perhaps unwilling to admit that they do not know the meaning of a word we used. If the listener has even a vague idea of what we mean, we aren't usually asked to further explain. It might be more helpful...to all of us...if we were made more accountable for our words.
Civil, has several definitions, the first of which is “of, or relating to the state or its citizens.” The second meaning supplied by Miriam-Webster is “adequate in courtesy and politeness” and the third meaning is “related to, or based on civil law.” Civil law differs from criminal law. One example would be the case against O.J. Simpson, who was exonerated from criminal charges but was later found guilty of civil violations.
It's the second meaning, “adequate in courtesy and politeness” that is the root in the word civility. Civility has several synonyms: politeness, courtesy, mannerliness, graciousness, consideration...and even gallantry. Civility is the grease that makes social interaction occur smoothly. Inversely, the lack of civility leads to friction, and in extreme cases, the breakdown of society. I'm reminded of a song (“My Hometown”) by Bruce Springsteen. Maybe you know the words:
Saturday night, two cars at a light, in the backseat there was a gun
Word fly fast, shotgun blast, troubled times had come...to my hometown.
Is it just me, or does civility seems to be disappearing from American culture? Little things, such as speeding up and running a red light, or pulling out in front of another motorist, forcing them to hit the brakes...seem to show a lack of civility. Honk your horn indignantly and you're likely to see the offending driver throw you the “California howdy.” Recently in Cincinnati, after a fender-bender, one driver opened his trunk, got out a rifle, and approached the other driver....who also had a gun. The confrontation ended in a tragic death. Yes, that's an extreme example, but a clear case where civility could have saved a life.
We are in the season (today being October 23, 2020) of tumultuous political campaigning. Folks running for office, at the local, state and national level, seem to stop at nothing, certainly not slander, to demean and demonize their opponents. Instead of a civil campaign in which the candidates state their goals and aspirations, the airwaves are filled with vitriolic attacks that can only be described as hateful. Sadly, this rancid atmosphere seems to grant license to everyday citizens to express their own views in the most uncivil words. We seem to have lost the idea of tolerance. I recently heard a man...an educated man, a businessman...suggest that “we ought to take all those....(people who didn't agree with his political viewpoints or agenda)...line 'em up and shoot them.” If his view prevails, the First Amendment...and yes, the whole democratic experiment may be in jeopardy.
I'm not about to point fingers. I'm not about to use this forum (a gift from Ron Coffey) to take a political stand, nor am I claiming a higher moral ground. I've been known to run a red light myself. But I know that's wrong and I know from my religious background...and my training at home as a child...that we are not supposed to say nasty things about other people...even people we disagree with. “If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all.” But I'm wondering what, if anything, you or I can do to swing the pendulum back toward civility.
Remember that poem by Rudyard Kipling, the one that appears yet today on so many high school graduation cards? Part of it goes like this:
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies
Or being hated, don't give way to hating
Every day we make choices. We choose....to whom we speak, and we choose our words. We choose to stop or go. We choose to be silent or speak out. We choose to retaliate..or to forgive. Somebody smarter than me once wrote, “in the beginning we make our choices and in the end, our choices make us.” Every little decision we make becomes a part of who we are and what we stand for.
I need to remember that every human being on the face of this earth is a child of the same creator.....and therefore, just as worthy, just as important to that creator, as I am. So how shall I regard this person? Again, somebody smarter than me (maybe you fall into that category too) once noted, “Peace begins with a smile.” It costs me nothing to smile when you and I pass one another coming or going. And yet, that smile bespeaks goodwill, acceptance, recognition of the other's right to dignity...and civility.
I see you....I see beyond that political statement your cap is making. I see beyond the clothes. I will overlook your lack of a mask even though the sign on the door says they're required...and yes, the tattoos (I still have my prejudices)...to the person...the human being, the potential friend beneath. I will hold the door for you...and I will smile. And you, voluntarily or not...will smile back. We will be civil to one another.
By Greg Roberts (published 10/25/20)
Just thinking about being poverty-stricken
I was just thinking about being poverty-stricken. No, I'm not about to make a cardboard sign and spend hours standing at the corner of High and Main, especially when there are "help wanted" signs everywhere you look. The fact is, I'm probably better off, in terms of material wealth, than ninety percent of the people on the planet. Perhaps you are too. But poverty can take on many faces. With an American Express card and a thousand dollars in your wallet, you can still be poverty-stricken.
In each of our banks, there should be a surplus of those traits and characteristics that constitute "wealth" -- not monetary, but ethical -- and spiritual wealth. So how would I know if, by that standard, I'm poverty-stricken?
Let's start with what's right in front of us. Forget your party affiliation for a moment, if you can. (Sadly, many cannot; their party affiliation is their defining characteristic.) It's election season. If you turn on network television (any network) you'll be bombarded with a seemingly continuous barrage of vitriolic slander. It feels as though each candidate is obsessed with demonizing their opponent, that this is the only way to win the minds of voters.
Truth is the first victim in this type of campaign. The folks who create, and the folks who approve such vicious campaign ads have abandoned both truth...and common decency. Lacking both, they are....poverty-stricken. And the multitudes, red or blue, whose blind allegiance to a party deprives them of the desire for truth? Poverty-stricken.
Besides being charged with the task of sifting out truth from lies, you and I, John Q. Public, are entrusted with a sacred responsibility. We are the caretakers of a precious gift....planet earth. How are we doing with that sacred trust? Perhaps the answer depends on whom you listen to. If you don't believe in science, if making money is more important that securing an ecologically sound future for our children and grandchildren, we're doing just fine. Never mind that the rain forests which produce our oxygen are disappearing at an unprecedented rate. Never mind the destruction of the coral reefs and the pollution of the oceans. Who cares that more species are disappearing every year? My contention is this: the absence of concern, concern linked to positive preservation, is an indication of being poverty-stricken.
The Apostle Paul signed many of his letters with this wish for the people who would read them; “grace and peace to you”. Grace...unmerited favor. Don Henley sings,
“These times are so uncertain, there's a yearning undefined, and people filled with rage.
We all need a little tenderness, how can love survive in such a graceless age?” (The Heart of the Matter, Don Henley, 1989)
That song is old...but this does seem like a graceless age, doesn't it? The absence of grace, in our words, in our attitudes, in our thoughts...is a sure indicator that we are poverty-stricken.
“Grace and peace to you.” Do we wish grace...and peace...to those who may think differently from us? Or have we fallen into the trap of demonizing everyone who dares have a point of view or a dream that doesn't correlate to our own?
What we need, what we desperately need in our private and public lives, is less fear and more hope. We fear because “the times they are a changin’” and none of us can see the future. Facing an uncertain future, many of us long for the "good ole’ days," days which, in reality, are only secure and predictable in hindsight. Such longing is not only unrealistic, but unhealthy. Attempts to recapture or reinvent the past, are sure signs of being poverty-stricken.
My spiritual bank should contain a hunger for truth, a burning desire to do all the good I can in this lifetime, an abundance of grace toward everyone, and an unfailing hope for the future that I can't see. That hope has no ties to a political party or candidate. My hope is tied to an invisible God whose visible works in the physical world and in the witness of so many self-sacrificial lives of people inspires me to want to reach higher.
There is one more thing we all need to avoid being poverty-stricken. It's love. Quoting Paul yet again (and Tom Jones too), we hear, “Without love, I have nothing.” That is truly the definition of being poverty stricken: no love. Love can cover a multitude of sins. Sincere love for people, is the bedrock upon which every other desirable trait is built. Without love, my whole world-view will be self-centered...what's best for me, for my town, for my country. That's not God's point of view.
For you who have taken the time to read these thoughts, I wish you love. I wish you hope. I wish you, above all, peace. With those in your bank you'll never be poverty-stricken.
By Greg Roberts (published 9/21/20)
The brighter side of life in the age of a pandemic
Everyone will agree that this pandemic has impacted our lives in so many negative ways that we would be hard pressed to name them all. No time around the table in our favorite restaurant, let alone the camaraderie at the bar, no concerts, no sporting events. Fruitless searches for Clorox wipes, hand sanitizer, and at the start,,,even toilet paper! Nobody but a fool would try to minimize the detrimental effects of Corona 19. Massive unemployment, overwhelmed hospitals, first responders sickened by the dozens. Ten years of national economic growth have gone down the tubes in a couple of months. It's all very disheartening. That's why we need to look at the brighter side of life in the age of a pandemic.
Let's start with children and what they're experiencing. Toddlers aren't being awakened early in the morning to be shuttled off to daycare centers. Mom's who can't go to their normal jobs are spending more time playing with and teaching their youngest children. Schools are closed indefinitely. Children can't ride the school bus so how are they going to learn that colorful language that stays with them for a lifetime? But neither can they be bullied on the bus. They can't attend their school...but then, they can pretty much set their own schedule instead of having to be on somebody else's timetable. They don't have to sit in hard seats and listen to boring teachers drone on and on. They can get up and walk away from the computer any time they wish.
For the elementary kids, there are other considerations. They won't get to play outside at recess. But then, nobody will have to worry about being chosen last, will they? There won't be beautifully decorated Valentines boxes. But then, nobody will be disheartened (like Charlie Brown) when their box is empty at the end of the day. Parents who are now supposed to be able to help their kids with on-line assignments are developing more respect for those teachers they used to take for granted.
The high school kids, the ones who have outgrown parental relationships, can't congregate with their peer groups. But they're mastering more and more digital ways to connect, ways that will serve them long after the pandemic becomes a bad memory.
For those who are still working outside the home, traffic is remarkably lighter, which makes the drive to and from work much more enjoyable. Gasoline is cheap, although the price seems to be inching back up almost daily. Having your temperature taken before you can enter the building isn't invasive and many of us are cultivating relationships with healthcare workers we didn't even know existed. Wearing that mask makes my glasses fog up but maybe we can begin to sympathize with Muslim women who have been covering their faces for years. Is it just me, or when we talk to somebody wearing a mask, are we paying more attention to their eyes?
Everybody gets free money! Which is crazy, because some of us have kept right on working and being paid while others have had their entire livelihoods shut off. Wouldn't it have made more sense to selectively distribute larger 'stimulus checks' to those who actually need the relief? Someday, hopefully soon, we'll be able to return to the barber shop and the hair salon....but in the meantime, look at what you've saved! One person's loss is another's gain. Grocery stores are booming as we eat more and more meals at home. Some families are rediscovering home cooking and sitting down at the table together. Maybe we won't be so eager to go back to the fast food restaurants. But we are still grateful for those that offer carry-out and delivery. Even the most prolific cooks need a break now and then. Diane and I enjoyed our 50th anniversary dinner in the back seat of our car (complete with music, a votive candle, and a bootleg bottle of wine from home) in the back parking lot of The Olive Garden.
Evening newscasts still bring us grim reminders of what this pandemic is costing in human lives and suffering. But alongside those statistics we see more and more heartwarming stories of people reaching out to others in a variety of ways, giving unselfishly of themselves and their resources. Folks are checking on elderly neighbors they never knew, offering to do whatever they can to make their continued existence safe and comfortable. America is showing a lot of heart these days.
Even the now famous motto, “We're all in this together” is a blessing to a nation that has been so politically divided and antagonistic toward those who think differently. We can only hope that this season of tolerance will continue after the worst of the pandemic is behind us. But for now, there are bright spots...if only we look around.
Someday we'll be boring our grandchildren with stories that begins, “Back in the pandemic of '20...” May we all be so lucky as to still be around then.
By Greg Roberts (published 5/10/20)
Just thinking about... camping
I was just thinking about camping.
It's not like I meant to notice; I just did. Traveling as many miles as I do, I can't help but notice how many homes have campers...fifth wheels, pull types, pop-up, even motor homes---sitting in their driveways or under carports, or even in the side yards.
Campers are big business. One website says that the cost of a new camper can be anywhere from $10,000 to $200,000. After the purchase of the camper (unless it's a self-contained Class A,B, or C type) you still need a vehicle to tow it. But let's say you already have a reliable pick-up truck with towing capacity. Now calculate the cost of license tags, insurance, and maintenance and you're ready to go. Go where?
All the ads you see on television or at the dealership picture a camper (YOUR camper!) sitting on green grass under shade trees beside a crystal blue lake with sunlight bouncing off the water. There are no other campers in sight...just yours. You and nature, reconnecting in privacy and solitude. What a great dream! But not so fast. Go visit any state park or private campground and you'll get a dose of reality. The average campsite will cost between $45 and $80 per night, depending on amenities and location. The closer to Kings Island or Disney World, the higher the cost. And that privacy beside the still lake? Forget it. You're renting a narrow slip of gravel or blacktop tucked between two other campers. One of your neighbors will feature frustrated parents yelling at crying children and the other will have dogs that bark all day and all night. When you go to the shower house, there won't be any hot water, and the people who were there ahead of you were world-class slobs. Welcome to the campground!
I don't mean to sound snobbish, but I used to be a real camper. As a child, I grew up in a family that camped in surplus army tents with no floors, no mosquito netting and no zippered closures. I will never forget the night something walked across my chest as I lay there in my sleeping bag, afraid to open my eyes. When I married Diane (just under fifty years ago) she had never been camping. I convinced her that she had been missing one of life's most rewarding adventures. We bought a tent (this one had mosquito netting, a floor and a zippered front), sleeping bags, a cooler, a Coleman stove and lantern and drove to Zaleski State Park, arriving on a Tuesday, just after the Labor Day weekend. After a few false starts, we figured out how to erect the tent. We collected sticks and firewood and couldn't help but notice that we had the entire place to ourselves. Everybody else had gone home and back to work.
The first day was great! We cooked on our new stove, sunbathed, hiked, got yelled at by the park ranger for sharing a shower (he didn't come in, just hollered from outside, “This isn't a community shower!”). Hey, lighten up---we were newlyweds. We thought he might pay us a visit at our tent later that day, but he never came back....and we decided that maybe it would be best not to press our luck with another shared shower.
The second day was hot and sultry. We didn't have cell phones back then. Our only contact with the outside world was a transistor radio. We heard a weather report suggesting that things might get rough that night. But we were young and we weren't going to let a little rain spoil our camping trip.
Just after sundown, the air got very still. Off in the distance we heard the low rumble of rolling thunder. We took our meager possessions into the tent. The wind began to pick up...stronger and stronger. Then a lightning flash that illuminated the trees around us, bent over by the wind. We hugged each other as the wind tried to tear our tent apart. Lightning flashed again and again, the thunder was deafening and the rain forced its way right through the tent fabric. Every once in a while, we would hear something rolling past the tent, but we didn't dare look out to see what it was. We were terrified! A river formed beneath our floor, soaking our sleeping bags and still the storm raged. This was the 'fun' camping experience I had promised my new bride. I'm surprised she ever agreed to go again, but she did. Over the years, we've camped in lots of campgrounds and had a lot of fun. We've fished, and canoed, and hiked. But it's over now. Time changes everything. We sold the canoe this past summer. We'll sell our tent and sleeping bags in the next garage sale. Maybe the folks who buy them will enjoy them as much as we have; I hope so.
Camping can be a source of real joy. My sister and brother-in-law owned a Class C motor home. They took it to the same private campground year after year and had their own campsite. Carolyn planted flowers, Don did some serious landscaping, and they became fast friend with the neighbors. They watched football games together, shared pot-luck dinners, played cards, sat around the campfire....and truly enjoyed the camping experience for many years. So don't let me dampen your enthusiasm for camping. Like anything else in life, it's what we make of it.
By Greg Roberts (published 3/2/20)
Just thinking about... swearing
I was just thinking about swearing.
No, not cursing. According to Mr. Webster, cursing is defined as (1) a prayer or invocation for harm or injury to come upon one, as in “He prayed that God would curse his enemy.” and the second definition, the one relevant to this discussion reads (2) a profane or obscene oath or word, as in “Peter began to curse at them and swear to them...”(Matthew 26:74). I can't recall if my cursing education began at home or on the school bus, but by the time I got home from four years in the Navy, I had perfected the technique to a degree that I could compete with any foul mouth in the county. Sadly, once those words and phrases are embedded, they cannot be removed from the memory banks and they have a distressing tendency to arise uncalled for during stressful situations. But that's cursing. Swearing is what I was thinking about.
When I joined the Navy, I took an oath; I swore to protect and defend the United States of America against all enemies, foreign and domestic. When I wed my lovely wife (nearly fifty years ago) I took vows, freely entered into, before God and the congregation present for the ceremony. We were not required to place our hands on a Bible, but the vows were understood to be just as binding as if we had.
I was called to be a witness in a criminal trial. I was required to place my hand on a Bible and swear to give “the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.” Which I did. My testimony helped exonerate an innocent man who happened to be my brother-in-law.
On January 17th, ninety-nine Senators swore an oath to administer impartial justice in an impeachment trial, and then signed a book verifying the fact that they took that oath. These men and women represent some three hundred million (give or take a few million) citizens of this democracy we call America. Over the period of the next few weeks, three hundred million Americans, and the rest of the watching world, will learn whether ninety-nine duly elected and highly respected representatives will have the integrity to uphold the oath they took. Sadly, I have my doubts.
Bear with me. This coming Sunday I will hand out a form to the youth who come to Sunday school. The form will ask them to prioritize their loyalties. They'll be asked to number these choices, with number one being the most important and so on: my high school, my family, my team, my church, my nationality, and my sexual orientation. This exercise is designed to help folks recognize how they define themselves. You may notice that there is no option for political affiliation. At this stage of their young lives, most of these 'kids' don't identify themselves as Republicans or Democrats. They are listening and learning. In due time, they will align themselves with a political party but for now they're just discovering who they are. I'm trying to help them in that process.
Nobody will argue that we, as a nation, are deeply polarized politically. I find that sad; do you? In the current political climate, a declaration of party affiliation is reason enough to embrace....or hate someone. Recently, a man who is highly respected in the community said to me, “They ought to just take all those (party name redacted here), line them up, and shoot them.” If that isn't hateful, then what is? This line of thinking not only rejects the value of tolerance, but undermines the very freedoms that set this country apart from dictatorships. You may say, “Well, that's one man's opinion” but the truth is, he could find support for that proposal everywhere from the barber shop, to the taxi cab, to the coffee clutch at McDonald's on any given morning. Now back to my original concern; swearing.
Ninety-nine Senators who swore an oath to 'impartial justice' would do well to ask themselves, “Who am I?” Are you first and foremost a Democrat or Republican? If your party affiliation is your first loyalty, then you have forsaken both your constituents...and your integrity. Party affiliation is not interested in justice; it is only interested in self-perpetuation. My fear is that personal integrity is being nailed to the cross of political expediency.
Several years ago I went to the polls to change my party affiliation in a primary election so that I could vote for a man running for sheriff. I was surprised to be asked by the poll worker to read and sign a form which asked me, “Do you subscribe to the principles of the party to which you are about to endorse?” I took the form back to the poll worker and said, “I was unaware that either party still had principles.” Yes, I was joking. Sort of. Maybe.
This impeachment trial is not a joking matter. What is on trial here, something larger than the President's conduct or misconduct, is the very future of this democracy. If our elected officials are free to disregard their oaths in favor of party affiliation, or any other loyalty, then three hundred million (give or take a few million) Americans are no longer under any compunction to honor their own oaths or loyalties. The downward spiral will be irreversible.
By Greg Roberts (published 1/17/20)
Just thinking about 'panem et circenses'
You know, I was just thinking about panem et circenses.
Oh, you didn't take Latin back in high school? Neither did I. It wasn't offered at Miami Trace. But long before us Boomers burst on the scene, Latin was a preferred elective. My dear mother tells me that her knowledge of Latin, learned in West Portsmouth High School, was a huge boon to her when she worked as a medical secretary for Doctors Gebhart and Heiny. My dear wife, the retired nurse, also took Latin in high school and says it was beneficial to her as well. The medical community's language is deeply entrenched in Latin roots. But I'm (probably) like you in that I never learned any Latin, the root of so many of the so-called romance languages. My Latin phrases are limited to e pluribus unum and et tu, Brute?
That phrase, panem et circenses, translates to “bread and circuses.” The origin? I found this with the help of Google:
A phrase used by the Roman satirical poet, Juvenal, to deplore the declining heroism of Romans after the Roman Republic ceased to exist and the Roman Empire began: “Two things only the people anxiously desire — bread and circuses.”
The government kept the Roman populace happy by distributing cheap grain and staging huge spectacles. Keeping people happy is important. Unhappy people grumble. Unhappy people start looking for alternatives. If all it takes to keep 'em happy is a full belly and entertainment, then by all means, give them what they want!
Please don't think I'm demeaning anybody's religious choices, but perhaps you've noticed that the churches that seem to be attracting the largest crowds offer food and beverages as soon as you enter the doors. Once people have their coffee or juice in hand they migrate to the sanctuary, or auditorium, where they will be treated to a live band leading the worship music. It's not really entertainment...but it can feel that way to old people like me who were raised on hymns and reverent silence.
On a lighter note, birthday parties are probably the extreme example of bread and circuses. Kids come expecting cake, ice cream...and entertainment. Remember Steve Martin's antics in the film “Parenthood”? When the real Cowboy Bob was misdirected to a different party and a stripper sent by mistake, Steve saved the day by quickly dressing up as a cowboy and playing the role to the hilt, complete with a six-gun. When the kids asked, “Where's Cowboy Bob?” he looked them in the eye and said, “I shot him. Left a hole in him this big. No, now that I think about it, the hole was THIS big. His guts were all over the floor. I was slipping and sliding around in his guts.” And of course, the kids loved it! Violence, whether in the Colosseum or at a birthday party, is always in style.
Bread and circuses takes many forms in American culture. Baseball and a hot dog. Dinner and a movie. Television and a bowl of popcorn. You can probably think of other examples.
We have healthy appetites for food and entertainment with an adult beverage or two thrown in...and whether we recognize it or not, we're conditioned by the media to maintain those appetites. We're talking billion dollar business combinations that are consistently under girded by all manner of advertising.
I just thought it was somewhat amusing that the Roman writer bemoaned the state of affairs as the general populace gravitated toward violence in the Colosseumas opposed to violence in the battlefield. In Roman society of that era, compassion was considered a weakness. Mercy toward an enemy was unthinkable for a soldier. Yet, in the arena, the public was given a choice with the traditional “thumbs up” indicating life or the “thumbs down” indicating death.
Citizens in Rome, regardless of their financial status, could line up for low-priced wheat once a month. This policy was inaugurated because of the wild fluctuations in grain prices that threatened the ability of the lower classes to purchase enough grain to bake bread. Abuse of the low-price policy led to ever-larger numbers of recipients, some years up to 200,000 people, standing in line for a share of the dole. Attempts to cut back on the distribution, or restrictions on eligibility led to riots. So, while the bread wasn't free, it was guaranteed.
According to Roman historians, simultaneously with this desire for bread and circuses, the general population began to withdraw from civic responsibility and political involvement. While there are other complex reasons for the decline of the Roman Empire, the “bread and circuses” mindset certainly played a role. And now, having shared this bit of trivia with you, I'm going to micro-wave some popcorn and watch TV.
By Greg Roberts (published 1/15/19)
Just thinking about ‘Great Again’
I was just thinking, wondering actually, what the phrase, Make America Great Again might mean. That last word, 'again', implies that there was a time when America was somehow 'greater' than she is today. What particular era in history might we invoke to illustrate America at her greatest? According to Howard Zinn's, “A People's History of the United States,” there never was a golden era.
For the record, Howard's book was first brought to my attention in the film,Good Will Hunting. Perhaps you've seen it. It's old: 1997, but to my mind, a classic. Will Hunting (played by Matt Damon) has been 'sentenced' to sessions with psychologist Sean McGuire (played by Robin Williams) as part of his rehabilitation. At one point, Will is in Sean's office, looking over the vast collection of books in his library. He remarks, “You people crack me up. You pay good money to go to college and then read all the wrong books.” Sean asks,“What would you suggest I read?” Will replied, “Try Howard Zinn's History of the United States. That will knock you on your ass.”
Okay, it took me twenty years to get around to it...but I've read it...and he's right. According to Zinn, America has never been great. From colonial days until today, the country has been beleaguered with class conflict and social ills that pit the interests of the wealthy against the basic needs of the underclass. He documents in great detail repeated examples of ruthless capitalists thriving at the expense of the working class. But let's put that aside and go back to our question.
What qualities or characteristics should we lift up to exemplify American greatness? Perhaps we should point out our Pledge of Allegiance. We pledge from the time we enter public schools, our allegiance to “one nation, under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.” Ask any Native American about “justice for all.” Liberty? How many Sundown towns were there in Ohio alone at the end of the nineteenth century? And that part about “under God”? What does that imply—that God is on the side of America or that we are a “godly” nation whose moral compass faithfully points to God's concerns and ways? I'm reminded of Paul Simon's song, “My Little Town.” One verse goes, “In my little town, God kept his eye on us all. And he used to lean upon me as I pledged allegiance to the wall...in my little town.” Little children should not be indoctrinated with concepts they are too young to comprehend. Talk about brainwashing!
Okay, forget the pledge. Look at our Constitution, that time-honored document that every serviceman and woman, every politician, every President swears to uphold and defend. We have a great Constitution! “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal....” Let's see, that was written in 1787 and in 1869, after one of the bloodiest civil wars in history, the Fifteenth Amendment gave the right to vote to everyone, regardless of race. Wait! No, not every one; every man! It wasn't until 1920 that women got the right to vote. So where was this “equality” for over one hundred twenty years? My point is this: high sounding words and soaring thoughts do not confer greatness.
Someone will argue, “But look at the big picture. What began as a handful of disparate colonies became a unified nation, spreading from ocean to ocean.” Indeed. Manifest Destiny was the battle cry that rang out time and again as the irrepressible tide of greed washed away indigenous cultures and warred against vastly inferior nations to achieve this land mass we call the United States.
Quite honestly, I can't get on board with this Make America Great Again. Neither could you, if you could put aside emotional patriotism and look with eyes wide open at our nation's history and the current state of affairs. But I would gladly climb on board a Make America Great platform. And what might that look like?
A great America would stop spending eighty percent of the federal budget on weapons of offense. We would get our “dirty little fingers out of everybody's pies” (Don Henley: “All She Wants to Do Is Dance”). (Does anybody realize how many coups and revolutions our government has sponsored around the world?) A great America would put a tight leash on the CIA and insist on full transparency. A great America would give the same quality health care and benefits that our congress men and women enjoy to every citizen. A great America would reward people commensurate to their contributions. Social workers, therapists and teachers would earn at least a fraction of what professional athletes are paid. A great America would create and enforce a fair taxation policy that did not reward the rich at the expense of the poor. A great America would no longer discriminate against women, people of color, or those of other sexual orientation. A great America would be tolerant...even welcoming...to people who are “different." A great America would see her role in the world as a model of integrity, a nation whose leaders incorporate a compassionate world-view into foreign and domestic policy. A great America would be a country every citizen could be proud of, and for good and valid reasons. If someone were to run for office on such a platform...I'd be the first to climb on board.
By Greg Roberts (published 12/12/18)
Just thinking about who might understand
I was just thinking about who might understand.
If you've never had kidney stones, you will never understand that exquisite pain. It will bring a grown man to his knees. Lest you ladies are thinking, “Well, all men are wimps when it comes to pain,” please hear this. I've spoken to numerous women who have given birth and endured kidney stones and without exception, all of them have said, “The kidney stones were worse!” But if you've never experienced them, you'll never know. And I hope you never do.
If you've never broken a limb, an arm or a leg, you will never understand the pain that comes with that injury. Oh, to be sure, broken fingers and broken ribs hurt like hell, but nothing like a radius or a tibia. Somebody can try to explain it to you, but you have to experience it to know just how intense the pain can be. Again, I hope you never do.
If you've never battled cancer (and I, thankfully, have not) then you don't know the pain, the side effects of radiation and chemotherapy. I've watched others; my sister Carolyn and my grandson, and my heart has nearly broken for the pain they've endured. The mouth sores, the deep bone pain, the hair loss, the myopathy, and all those other dreaded side effects.
There are just some forms of pain that you cannot identify with until or unless you experience them yourself. Please keep that in mind as you read on.
Ellie Roberts, age 40, died on July 13th, 2018 from drug-related causes. People, filled with the best of intentions and compassion, hug Diane and me and say things like, “I'm so sorry for your loss.” But how do we tell them? We don't feel a loss like others....we feel relief. If that sounds cold and heartless, it's because you haven't walked in our shoes. But some have. Ellie, the child we adopted at two months old, was a source of great joy in her early childhood. We tried to overlook her tendency to lie. In her teenage years, she became rebellious...we chalked that up to being a P.K., a preacher's kid. Everybody knows P.K.’s are rebellious. We bought her a car, a nice one-owner car, to drive to school and told her, “As soon as you get your license.” I got a phone call at work the following week. “Ellie has wrecked a car out on a side road.” I thought, “How can that be? She doesn't even have her license yet?” But it was true and one of her friends had gone through the windshield. Thankfully, she was not seriously injured. This was a foretaste of things to come.
She got pregnant at sixteen and had a miscarriage. We thought she might learn from her mistake. She didn't. She got pregnant again at nineteen and came back to live with us in Sinking Spring, where I was pastoring the local United Methodist Church. A year after he was born, she announced that she “needed her own space and he'll be better off with you”. So we raised him. Almost every time Ellie called it was because she needed money. Her rent was due. Her utility bills were due. We moved her to Chillicothe and called on an old classmate of mine to give her a job...which she promptly quit. She was evicted and walked away from her furnishings...just left them for the landlord to put out on the curb, and this became a repeated pattern. We can't remember how many times she walked away from furnishings. She was able to get on SSI due to being diagnosed as bi-polar. She was able to get government housing and other benefits...and it was never enough.
She got pregnant again, and this time delivered a beautiful baby girl. She was born with a congenital heart defect. When she was almost a year old, she had surgery at Children's Hospital in Cincinnati. Ellie took her on the truck with Aaron five days after surgery and missed several post-operative check-ups. Children's Services intervened and put her into foster care and we thought, “This will wake Ellie up.” It didn't. So we got permanent custody of this child too after she had been in foster care for about six months. Meanwhile, Ellie continued her relationship with Aaron. Together they fostered three more children, one of them a special needs child. They never stayed in one place very long; neither of them could handle finances. They were constantly evicted. Aaron drove semi-trucks when he felt like working. At times, all five of them were to be found driving cross-country in whatever truck Aaron was driving at the time because they had nowhere else to stay.
The time came when Ellie said she wanted to get away from Aaron, who was abusive, and start a new life. I bought her a house in Hillsboro—a bank repo. We helped her move quickly and discreetly from Wilmington to Hillsboro while he was on the road, and set her up in house-keeping. I mowed the yard, shoveled the walks and driveway, bought her a car to drive and took the kids to school when they missed the bus...which happened frequently because Ellie couldn't get out of bed in the mornings. She began using drugs—introduced to her by Aaron's older children from a previous marriage. She began to fall behind on her bills. She attempted to “get clean” and actually did---for awhile, but it didn't take. She stayed there in that house for two years and then decided Aaron wasn't such a bad guy after all...so she and the kids moved back to Wilmington. I paid for the moving van and the gas and helped load and unload the truck.
The week after she moved, Diane and I were working on restoring the house so we could sell it. The meter reader for the electric company knocked on the door. He was there to turn off the electric because the bill had not been paid for months. A truck backed up the driveway. It was Rent-to-Own. They had come to repossess the furniture that we had just moved to Wilmington. Seems that payments were way behind. It took months to repair all the damage to the house.
Ellie would call occasionally...whenever she needed money and,”Oh, it's not for me or Aaron, it's for the kids. They need school supplies, or we have no food in the house, or.....” Diane and I got to the point where we dreaded hearing the phone ring. It was gut-wrenching. She was using drugs and lying about it. Children's Services took the kids away, again and again.
Maybe you can understand this; maybe not. But we don't feel a sense of deep loss with Ellie's death. We feel a sense of relief: “Thank God, that's over.” That's sad to say, but honest. We will continue to give our two adopted grandchildren the best life we can. We'll keep in touch with the other three grandchildren, all of whom are now in foster care, with birthday, Easter and Christmas gifts. And we'll try....to remember the good times when Ellie was a child. We'll remember with fondness, her happy days with Freckles, the Appaloosa who turned and ran when she approached him with the halter held behind her back. We'll remember with fondness her participation on the basketball team that Mark Armstrong coached. We'll look at those homecoming and prom pictures and recall what a pretty girl she was at some point. But we'll still be thinking, “Thank God....it's over; for us..and for her.”
We're very grateful for the outpouring of sympathy and compassion, but we won't pretend to feel a loss we don't feel. We feel relief. If you can't understand that, it's okay. Some things you just have to experience for yourself before you can understand....and I hope you never do. We know there are others who have had similar experiences with their own children. Perhaps they feel much the same and maybe they feel ashamed of themselves for not feeling a sense of loss. We understand. We know.
By Greg Roberts (published 9/11/18)
Just thinking about cell phones and techno-gods
Ding!
There it goes again; somebody has sent Steve a text. He turns away from the embalming table long enough to look at the cell phone screen, then wordlessly goes back to work. We're halfway through the process when, Ding!, there it goes again. Another text. He reads this one too and our work is nearly done when the ring tone tells him somebody wants to talk to him. Not a text this time, but a real, live conversation. What did we ever do before cell phones?
He takes off the rubber glove because the screen doesn't accept anything besides a warm human touch and takes the call: “This is Steve.” He walks out of the room with the cell phone trapped between his ear and shoulder. I stand there beside the body on the embalming table, a body which a few short hours ago was a breathing human being, waiting for Steve to come back so we can complete the final steps, go home and try to get a few hours sleep. When Steve comes back he informs me that he'll be meeting this person's family tomorrow morning to make final arrangements.
This column isn't about funeral home work, or the embalming process, although the first two paragraphs might lead someone to think that. No, it's about those wonderful devices that nobody can leave home without: cell phones. Interestingly enough, mine just rang. It was someone who calls herself Melissa, wanting to talk to me about my federal student loan. You getting those unwanted calls too? How about the extended warranty calls? Or the ones that promise to help you avoid the debts you incurred with your credit cards? You look at the number on the screen and while it doesn't look familiar, it seems to be a local caller so you take it, only to find that it's one more annoying robo-call. I did get some satisfaction recently though. I got a call saying that it was the IRS and that because I had not paid my taxes they were filing a lien against me and would take me to court. If I didn't want that to happen, I was to call their number back...which I promptly did, not because I owe the IRS but because I wanted the opportunity to speak to a real, live person. Somebody calling himself Agent Robert answered on the second ring. “This is Agent Robert. How may I help you?” My reply was prompt and loud: “No, you are not agent Robert. You're a lying son-of-a-bitch who cheats old people out of their money and I hope you rot in Hell.” He hung up rather quickly. I haven't had any more calls from the IRS.
Some of you are old enough to remember the song by Simon and Garfunkel entitled “The Sound of Silence.” I loved that song when it was first released and I love it more today for it seems to me to be prophetic. Here are just a few of the lyrics: “people talking without speaking, people hearing without listening, people writing songs that voices never shared, no one dared..disturb the sound of silence.” Talking without speaking and hearing without listening sounds like texting to me. I honestly cannot fathom why someone would rather send a text than have a real conversation. Communication is more than words; it's inflection, it's tone, it's laughter and sometimes sobbing. Cute little symbols are not the same as real human emotions, emotions that people used to share when they actually spoke and listened to one another.
Bzzzzt. Bzzzzt. There it goes again, that vibrating phone lying on the desk top. It's more than a phone for many people; it's their lifeline. Yesterday a woman crossed the street in front of me (not in a crosswalk either) with her head down and her full attention buried in that cell phone. Not once did she look up to see if there was traffic coming. You see it everywhere you look; people walking with their phones held out in front of them, absorbed in their digital alternate reality.
France just passed a new law prohibiting elementary school children from having their phones in the classroom. Undoubtedly, there will be a public outcry. Parents will insist that they have to be able to reach their children at all times. Funny...when I was in school, the only way my parents could reach me during class was to call the principal's office. And I might be right there, close to the phone. The only time I remember being called out of class was the day my grandmother died and I was released from school early. How did I possibly survive without a cell phone?
Employers are being cheated everywhere by people being paid to work, but who are instead absorbed in their digital 'otherness'. Does anyone remember the old maxim, “A day's pay for a day's work”? I used to work with a guy who played games on his computer at work more than he actually attended to business. Whenever somebody came near his office door, he would quickly minimize the computer screen to conceal his activity. He knew what he was doing was wrong. Do people understand today that when they're texting, watching videos, etc. on company time that they're stealing from their employers?
Another line in the song, “The Sound of Silence,” reads, “Then the people bowed and prayed to the neon God they'd made.” Slight change today; “to the techno-god we've made.” A god is something that demands your primary loyalty, something that you worship, something you just can't live without. Bzzzt. There is again.
A couple of years back the question was floating around on the Internet, “Would you live in a log cabin far from civilization without electricity and cell phone service, heat and cook with a wood stove for a whole month for $50,000?” For many people, the question isn't “would you?” but “could you?” I think they're that addicted. I'm sorry I have to carry a cell-phone for my work at the funeral home. But I look forward to the day when I can shove into the back of the sock drawer where it can go Bzzzt Bzzzt till the battery runs down.
By Greg Roberts (published 8/1/18)
Just thinking about government funded abortions.
A dear friend of mine recently posted her support of President Trump on Facebook with a series of statements that clarify his conservative positions on a number of important issues. Here's a direct quote from her post: He didn't say you couldn't have an abortion; he just said the government won't pay for it. From this statement it would seem that the issue is not about the morality of abortions but about government's role in social welfare. So be it. Let's examine the issue of federally funded abortions from a practical, unemotional point of view.
We begin with a woman who is pregnant and not by choice. Perhaps she was careless; perhaps she was a rape victim. We aren't interested in how it happened. We are only interested in what happens next. She does not want the child who is yet to be born. She wishes to have the pregnancy aborted but doesn't have the funds to pay for that so she turns to some agency such as Planned Parenthood, which is presently receiving support from the federal government. Let us say that support is terminated; there is no longer a 'free' abortion. She now has several options. She can carry the fetus full-term and deliver the child that she doesn't want. Or she can get an illegal, dangerous back-room abortion performed by someone with a wire coat hanger. Let's say she chooses to deliver the child.
Historically speaking, the greatest number of abortions are performed on the poor — black, white, Hispanic — but poor. This child will most likely be born into poverty to a single mother, who may already have other children. Medicaid will pay for the delivery—more than the abortion would have cost. The mother will turn to social welfare (Aid to Dependent Children or its successor) for financial aid, a medical card, food stamps, and whatever other government benefits are available. She will continue to receive these benefits for as long as she has that child in her custody. The cost of the abortion is looking better all the time.
But some poor women release custody of their children, voluntarily or otherwise, such as being found to be unfit mothers. Now the child will either be raised by concerned family members or---go into foster care. Foster parents are paid between $24 and $31 per day, with that figure increasing every year as the child ages. Where does that money come from? It comes from you and me, through our tax dollars. Now remember, we're looking at this issue from a practical standpoint, not an emotional one. Do the math and then decide which is more logical; a government funded abortion or a period of years drawing support from Job and Family Services. This so-called 'conservative' approach to stop funding abortions costs taxpayers far more in the long run.
If my conservative friend were being completely honest, she would acknowledge that her real issue isn't with funding, but with abortions in general. You know what I think? I think every person who opposes abortion should be willing to adopt an unwanted child. You think that unborn child has a right to life? Great! You're going to sacrifice your time, money and energy to give them a life? No? Then kindly back off and stop complaining about federally funded abortions.
By Greg Roberts (published 4/24/18)
Just thinking about Biltmore Estate
I was just thinking about Biltmore Estate.
I friend of mine (actually, he is a recently retired United Methodist pastor) recently posted a picture and a glowing review of his visit to the Biltmore Estate in Asheville, North Carolina. My dear wife accused me of being a stick-in-the-mud when I expressed my less-than-glowing opinion of that national landmark. Here's my problem.
People go to see Biltmore, America's largest house, by the millions...literally more than a million visitors a year. These millions ooh and aah at the bowling alley, the billiards room, the 250 rooms with forty five bathrooms and do they ever wonder where the money came from to build such an extravagant dwelling? It's a cross between a castle and French chateau. Its aristocratic creator wanted to capture a bit of European splendor....and establish the family as American royalty.
History reveals that Biltmore's creator, George Washington Vanderbilt, inherited one hundred million dollars from his grandfather, Cornelius Vanderbilt. He inherited another million from his father, William K. Vanderbilt, on his twenty-first birthday and another five million when dear old dad passed away. What's my point? He didn't have to work for the money. He was born into ridiculous wealth (remind you of anybody?), wealth that was initially amassed by Grandpa Cornelius, who was not only shrewd but combative. By the way, there were no inheritance taxes in America in the nineteenth century, so fortunes could be passed down intact.
Some great monuments were built with slave labor, among them the Great Wall of China, which is the world's largest known cemetery because wherever a slave dropped dead of exhaustion or disease his body was simply encased in the stones of the wall. Throughout history, men have built huge edifices to their own glory.
The Bible says that as Jesus and his disciples approached Jerusalem, the disciples were awed. “Master, look at those massive stones and these magnificent buildings!” (Mark 13:1-4). Herod the Great expanded the original Jewish Holy Temple in Jerusalem to cover forty acres. Known as the temple mount, it was financed through heavy taxation and maintained by the 'temple tax'. Every Jewish male was required to pay that half-shekel tax yearly, which was about two days wages, to maintain the magnificent structure and grounds. Was that Temple to glorify God? No, it was to glorify Herod.
Now, back to the Vanderbilt family. Grandpa Cornelius did make one philanthropic gesture, and that at the urging of his wife (who was also his first cousin). He gave a cool million to establish a university in Nashville, Tennessee. Naturally, it bears his name (Vanderbilt) and the sports teams bear the name Commodores, which was Grandpa Cornelius' nickname. What else would we expect?
Thanks, but I'll save my admiration for the very few Mother Teresa types of this world instead of the self-serving, egotistical millionaires (or billionaires) who attempt (successfully, I might add) to impress the common folk with their grandiose structures and lifestyles. My dear wife and I will just have to disagree on this point. I see excessive wealth used for personal glory as nothing less than obscene.
What would a million dollars have been worth in 1896, the year the lavish Biltmore house was finished? How much poverty could have been alleviated? How many orphans fed? But no….
By Greg Roberts (published 4/8/18)
JUST THINKING ABOUT THE WINTER OF MY DISCONTENT
I was just thinking about a cartoon. Maxine (you know Maxine, don't you? The crusty old lady on the Hallmark Shoebox greeting cards?) was shivering there wrapped in her coat, scarf, hat, and gloves and saying, “Every winter is the winter of my discontent.” Right on Maxine. Why do people,supposedly halfway intelligent people, continue to live in this climate where winter's ice and snow force us indoors for months at a time, where sunshine is as scare as common sense, and where the only thing growing faster than the heat bill is body fat. Why?
In a moment of rare honesty I told Diane, “I don't plan on spending the rest of my life here in Ohio.” She retorted, “Aren't you the person who said they hate moving? Didn't you say you were never going to move again?” Well, that did it! She quoted me correctly, something I just hate. So I clarified my position. “I meant I'm not moving all this STUFF!” Silence. “So, I have no say in this?” The gloves were off at this point. There was no turning back. I opened up and let the chips fall where they may.
“If I move this household, I'll stand at the front door, beside the ramp to the moving truck and direct the movers. There will be four categories and I will ruthlessly cleanse us of unnecessary clutter. This goes in the van, that goes to the Goodwill pile, put that in the yard sale pile and throw that in the dumpster. All those Precious Moments that were supposed to grow in value? Put those in the yard sale and hope we can get back a fraction of the money we spent. Those Thomas Kincaid paintings that were supposed to skyrocket in value? Yard sale. The curio cabinet? Goodwill will love it. Some poor slob trapped by materialism will be overjoyed to charge that to their already overextended credit card. All those twenty-eight boxes of Christmas decorations? You get to choose, but not in the truck. Knickknacks that change with the seasons? Yard sale.” I assure you the dumpster will fill up fast. All those boxes of school papers from the first grade on? Not just hers, but our daughter's, and the grand children's too. Who in their right mind saves such stuff? What happens to it when you die? Dumpster. Roller skates that haven't touched the floor in years? Why in the world.....?
Does this sound cruel to you? I assure you, I'm ready to give up 'stuff' too. A guy has to know what his priorities are. Recently, I learned that a family in our church had suffered a house fire years ago. The family had only moments to grab what was valuable to them and escape the heat and flames. The man of the house knew exactly what he needed to take. He grabbed his shotgun and fishing pole. His wife wasn't very pleased with his choices. I haven't fished in years. That fly fishing pole I got for retirement? Yard sale. Or maybe we should advertise it on the Internet and try to get a little more for it. All the camping gear? I've outgrown that phase of my life. I'm not much of a collector, which makes it hard for Diane to understand because she collects stamps, coins, dolls, the aforementioned Precious Moments, Christmas ornaments (new ones every year) and well, I don't know what all. I do value some of the nice things she has given me over the years; a Buck knife, a hand carved walking stick from Berea College, a pocket watch with our anniversary engraved inside....but not much else.
My ninety-year old mother lives in a 1978 model manufactured home in Florida. She has assured me, that as her last surviving child, I will someday inherit that house---and her '98 Lincoln. Her house is considerably smaller than the house we occupy; there is no way we could take all this 'stuff' with us. There is simply no room to store it and no, I won't even entertain the idea of paying a monthly fee to rent a storage locker. Talk about dumb! How long does it take before the accumulated rent of that locker outweighs the value of the contents?
We're at an impasse. If Diane were to read this, she probably wouldn't speak to me for...who knows? Which reminds me. Bubba and Billy Jo were sitting in the boat fishing. Out of the blue Billy Jo says, “I'm gonna get me a divorce. My wife ain't spoke to me for two months!” Bubba spit a little juice over the side, took a long pull off his Budweiser and then responded, “I'd think twice about that Billy Jo. Women like that's hard to find.”
So what's your story? What's your feeling about the 'stuff' you've accumulated over the years? Do you value it? Could you lose it and not cry? Recently we've seen people interviewed who have lost all their possessions in wildfires, flood, and mudslides. Some of them cry, “We've lost everything!” Others smile and say, “We're alive; that's all that matters.” What might your response be if you suffered the same kind of catastrophe?
You know what I'd like to try? I'd like to try living a bit more sparsely for at least a little while. Picture a log cabin beside a lake, at the end of a long dirt road; no neighbors but yes, conveniences like electricity and running water. Imagine having to go outside and split wood for your wood stove as your only heat source. Can you hear the wind in the pines? When's the last time you had blisters on your palms? Imagine having to learn how to fish again-- for supper. Imagine no television, no radio and no phones. Have you walked around a lake recently? Or even around the block? (of course not fool! It's too cold out there.) Maybe it would do all of us good to live without the 'junk' that clutters our lives and our minds, at least for awhile, just so we could see what it feels like to be free. “Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose”. (Me and Bobby McGee – Kris Kristofferson)
Anyway, I was just thinking. One of these days.....if I live that long....I'll be living someplace that stays relatively warmer during the winter months. And with a lot less clutter. Hopefully, I'll still have a wife. Hopefully.
By Greg Roberts (published 2/5/18)
WOULDA, COULDA, SHOULDA — JUST THINKING ABOUT REGRETS
Willie's song, There's Nothing I Can Do About It Now, has this line:
Regret is just a memory written on my brow.
And then, there's old blue eyes (Frank Sinatra):
Regrets; I've had a few, but then again, too few to mention.
I'm glad for you fellows, but regrets are probably the heaviest burden I carry. If you honestly don't have that many, I'm glad for you too. While none of us should spend too much time looking at life in the rear view mirror, it might be helpful to acknowledge those mistakes....or choices...that have played a major role in who we are and where we are today.
Someone once wrote, “Experience is the best teacher but who can afford the tuition?” I admit to having made many poor choices. You may want to stop reading here. Honest sharing can be too graphic for those with fragile sensibilities.
In his book, A Life On the Road, Charles Kuralt titled the last chapter 'regrets'. He (and I) look back at the women we could have slept with....and didn't. For me, that chain of missed opportunities began at age seventeen. Mom and Dad had left the house to play cards with friends. They wouldn't be home for hours. My friend and I double-dated...back to the empty house. The young lady and I were actually in my bed, about to consummate the act for the first time, when my friend hollered out from the living room, “Hey, what's going on in there?” We both panicked and quickly put our clothes back on. I've replayed that scene a thousand times and every time,in retrospect, I wish we had ignored him and gone ahead. And that was just the first one. There have been others, some who really cared for me and some who were just looking for a little human touch. Now, at seventy, it's all in the rear view mirror.
If you read the intro to Just Thinking on Ron's website, you'll see that I've taken the scenic route through life. The longest I worked at any job was thirteen years (the Mason Company in Leesburg, OH). I look at some of my friends, and many people older than me, who gritted their teeth, went to the same hard job every day for thirty years and have a decent retirement now. Me? I'm working two part-time jobs and no, my house isn't paid for. I've had many varied experiences that yielded some great memories....but sometimes I wish I had hung in there at one place.
I regret that I did not stay in the Navy. But having a top-secret security clearance gave me access to the truth about what was going on in Vietnam; I just couldn't be a part of it. As soon as my enlistment was over in 1969, I took the eagle emblem off my pea coat sleeve and replaced it with a peace sign. I never did get that Mediterranean cruise I signed up for...and I regret that. At this late date, I'll probably never see anything on the other side of the 'pond'.
There have been times when I've said things that were so out of line, so embarrassing, to hurtful...yeah, I regret those. We may not mean to hurt people, but when we blurt things in moments of anger or frustration, words can cut like a knife. Sometimes, those wounds refuse to heal. Oh sure, we apologize..but the damage is done. I've been so stupid and insensitive, like the time I asked a loved one sarcastically, “Well, you're not gay are you?” As it turned out, they are exactly that. I wish I could live that moment over again too.
My dear departed friend, Dwight Turner, was a graduate of Ohio Northern University. One night he and his lovely wife, Suzanne, and Diane and I were playing euchre. I said to Dwight, “I wish I could go to college.” (I was a barber at the time, and not very happy about it.) But never having taken a single college preparatory course in high school, having never taken the ACT or the SAT, and having been mediocre in high school, there was no way any college or university would consider allowing me in. Soon thereafter, Dwight made some calls. He gave me the phone number of Dean Linger at the J. Paul Getty College of Liberal Arts at Ohio Northern. Dean Linger and I talked and he encouraged me to apply, which I did. To this day I think the only reason I was accepted was that I had G.I. Bill.---and a recommendation from Dwight Turner. I did well enough in most courses but math was my downfall. If you can believe it, back then you could go through high school and never take algebra or anything higher. I was at a complete loss in math class. I flunked the easiest course Ohio Northern offered. I took another year of college (for a total of three) but did not get a degree. Yes, I have regrets.
When I think of all the people who cared about me and have now “gone the way of all flesh” I'm sorry I didn't let very many of them know how important they were to me, how much I loved them---from my neighbor Teddy Bear Winters to the guys I worked with at Greenfield Printing. Perhaps you already know this; our lives are composites of all the people we've ever interacted with. Their fingerprints are all over our lives.
So, where does that leave me....or you? Wallowing in self-pity does no good. Denying regrets does no good. So we look forward. I am resolved to squeeze as much nectar as possible out of each remaining day. I resolve to hurt nobody and to realize how we're all just trying to make it. The apostle Paul wrote, “Inasmuch as it depends on you, live in peace with all men.”Sounds like great advice to me. It's a wonderful life (thanks, Jimmy Stewart)--even with the regrets. I keep reminding myself that if I put my regrets on one side of the scale and my numerous, undeserved blessings on the other side, it's pretty easy to see which side wins.
I hope you can say the same.
By Greg Roberts (published 10/9/17)
JUST THINKING ABOUT TOMBSTONES
I was just thinking...about tombstones.
Morbidity is not my nature. Ask anyone and they'll tell you, “Greg has memorized more jokes than anybody else I know.” And it's true. Maybe that's why I can't remember people's names or anything else important. My brain cells have all been used up storing superfluous bovine fecal matter. (Think about it; you'll get it.) The Bible says that laughter is good medicine. So I delight in making people laugh. By nature, I am not inclined to be morbid, so keep that in mind as you read on.
Before arriving at church on any given Sunday morning I take a side trip through the local cemetery. Incidentally, the trustees do a great job of keeping the Winchester Cemetery looking good. Whoever mows the grass and does the trimming deserves a pat on the back, or maybe a pay raise. If the cemetery is empty of living souls (and it most generally is on Sunday mornings) I let the car windows down, turn off the ignition, and let my eyes and mind wander. What beautiful stones! What interesting stories they tell. Look, that man died in 1988 and his wife is still living. She's been a widow for almost 30 years. I wonder how hard her life has been without a man to mow the yard, clean the gutters, wash the car and....of course, bring home a paycheck. Maybe she's remarried. The memorial stones don't tell the whole story. I hope she's doing well.
Some stones are unpretentious. A simple block of marble with a name and two dates; birth and death. Other stones truly deserve the name 'monuments'. Wow! Pictures carved in stone. Photographs preserved. Poems, built-in flower vases, and sometimes, even sports memorabilia. These were created for more than remembrance. They're designed to impress!
You heard about the new widow leaving the cemetery with her best friend the day of her husband's funeral, didn't you? She said to her friend, “Well, I did what Fred wanted. I gave him a forty thousand dollar funeral.” Her friend was shocked. “Forty thousand dollars? Really?” The widow began to itemize the costs. “Solid cherry casket, premium vault, the funeral home expenses, plus an open bar at the country club after the funeral. It all costs money.” Her friend thought about it and then said, “Well, it was a very nice funeral and that casket was gorgeous....but forty thousand dollars?” The widow explained, “Don't forget the memorial stone.” “Oh, I never even gave that a thought. How big is it?” The widow waved her hand, pointed to her new diamond ring and said, “Two and a half carats.” (Now that's a memorial stone!)
My grandson, Xavier, with no prompting on my part, one day announced that people are stupid to buy grave stones. I asked, “Why so?” “Think about it” he replied, “Who's going to look at it? Your children, if you have any, maybe grandchildren...and then it's forgotten, just like most of them in the cemetery. In a hundred years nobody will even be asking who that person was. A waste of money.” What interested me about his observation was that he came to it all by himself — at age nineteen. I had already come to the same conclusion myself some years earlier but never shared it with him or anybody else. Scatter my ashes to the wind.
My weekly visit to the cemetery accomplishes two purposes. First, it reminds me that our time on this earth is limited. We each have an expiration date that only God knows. Most of us live our lives like we're going to be here forever...and we aren't. What was it James wrote? “What is your life? You are a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes.” Being reminded of our mortality may make us more appreciative of this day. Cemeteries remind us that we shall someday join that vast multitude of vanishing mists. Best to get comfortable with the idea. The other reason for the cemetery visit is prayer. In the relative silence of the cemetery prayer is easier...more relaxed. The psalmist wrote, “Be still and know that I am God.” This morning crickets chirped, birds sang, the wind gently whispered in the trees around the cemetery. All God's creation seemed at peace. Far off in the distance was the sound of cars rushing toward their destinations up and down the Appalachian Highway. Life in the fast lane is where many of us spend our days. Earn a living. Get the kids to soccer practice. How nice to know there is a place where we can come to a complete stop and rest in the presence of the One who gave us this day.
So, on Sunday morning, if you see my car stopped in the cemetery, you'll know why it's there. I'm just getting ready to worship. Give it a try sometime. You just may find that it fills a need.
By Greg Roberts (published 9/10/17)
JUST THINKING ABOUT CHOOSING THE RIGHT WORDS
I was just thinking about words and especially about the necessity of choosing the right words. Walk outside with me, if you please.
“Honey, where's that thing I used last night?”
“What thing?”
“You know, the thing I used to put air in the kids bicycle tires. Now the basketball has gone flat.”
“Oh, that thing. You left it in the driveway and I hung it up beside that other thing.”
“What other thing?”
“That thing above the work bench.”
“Above the work bench? You mean next to the weed eater?”
“No silly! Beside that other thing, you know, the thing you trimmed the bushes with.”
“Oh, that thing. Here it is. I got it.”
An exaggeration, you say? Not by much. Words such as “it” and “thing” are commonly used in our household as substitutes for descriptive nouns. Someone reading this column is thinking I'm making a big deal out of a small annoyance. Not true, my friend. Choosing the correct words, knowing how to string them together to communicate, is an essential life skill.
When I was a seminary student, one of our instructors told us, “the reason many people fail to meet the qualifications to receive a seminary degree is simply their inability to articulate their faith.” In short, they may know what they believe but are unable to communicate those beliefs. Quite honestly, that ability to speak what you believe is essential to effective preaching. There is no substitute for clear, concise, descriptive language. It's a learned skill and not one that preachers alone should master. When people finally agree to marriage counseling, one of the first pitfalls the counselor might discover is their inability to communicate effectively. You've simply got to know how to say what you're feeling!
My grandson has enrolled at Southern State Community College with a major in law enforcement. Upon reviewing the list of required subjects, he lamented that some of those were irrelevant and therefore, a waste of his time and money. I asked him what courses he included in that list and the first one he mentioned was English composition. “What has writing a story got to do with law enforcement?” He is nineteen. I've learned not to attempt to answer his rhetorical questions. And they are rhetorical. If I offer an answer, he seizes upon it as an opportunity to argue. What would an old grandpa like me know about what's important to learn? So I don't rise to the bait. I'll hope his instructor will answer that question for him once he sets foot in the classroom. Language skills are every bit as important as learning how to use a weapon. Words can be very effective weapons. Words can disarm volatile situations or inflame them. While he, and many other students, see courses in English language as busy work or added revenue for the college, I believe that any course we take that increases our communication skills is worth the time and effort. Writing stories may not be a comfortable task. Not everybody aspires to write for the local newspaper. (Right, Ron?) But writing forces us to delve into our vocabularies, to recall those rules of grammar we learned back in high school, and to learn how to articulate thoughts.
Some folks write words in a book every day. Women call these books diaries; men call them journals. Some are content to record the high and low temperatures for that particular day, along with some event such as “High of 62, low of 39. Played cards with Jeff and Brenda tonight.” But others...ah, they wax philosophical with their daily entries! “After a relatively warm March day, we entertained my brother and sister-in-law this evening. Something's going on. They hardly spoke to one another. Not one little kiss did he steal, as he so often has in the past. Could there be trouble in paradise?”
The first entry is business-like; “Just the facts, Ma'am. Just the facts.” The second entry is not only observant and speculative, but representative of one who enjoys writing.
There are avenues for creative writing that most of us haven't even considered. I recently met a man who made his living by being a ghost writer for elected politicians' speeches. Imagine that! The person behind the podium is reading words from a manuscript he or she didn't string together. And we thought he was speaking from the heart! Now we have to wonder if those words actually convey the politicians' viewpoints and agendas--or are they just the words they think people like you and I want to hear?
Years ago (and this is my confession) I aspired to write something so inspired, so important, so entertaining, that everybody would want to read it. I have since gotten over myself. Now I'm content to write a paragraph now and again for this column and a sermon for Sunday morning that won't put people to sleep.
Effective communication is hard work. It requires work at both ends. The listener must listen attentively, and the speaker must do his or her very best to express ideas in clear language with a minimum of those “and, um” and “you know” intrusions that cause the listener to lose interest.
Hopefully, my grandson will learn that college level English courses are not a waste of time. Whatever helps you and me to communicate more effectively--I'm all for 'it'. Are you?
By Greg Roberts (published 7/1/17)
JUST THINKING ABOUT TELEVISION
I was just thinking....
In her first national best-seller entitled “The Grass Is Greener Over the Septic Tank”, Erma Bombeck said that the first plague to hit the suburbs was in 1946. It was television. From where I stand, that seems nothing short of prophetic.
Go into a restaurant, a doctor's office, any kind of public place and what do you find? You find televisions mounted on the wall, blaring away their banality and drugging people with their eighth-grade level entertainment and endless appeals to consumerism. Look around. People sit there spellbound, staring blankly at the talking heads who are shaping what they think are their own opinions. Erma was right. It's a plague and there is no cure.
I'm no prophet but when I was seventeen, I wrote an essay for my senior English class in which a man walked down a winter street, watching the blue lights emanating from countless windows. Then he walked across the surface of a frozen pond and noticed how everything beneath was distorted by the thick ice. If we think television is reality, we are mistaken. Reality shows are a farce; nobody acts as they normally would when they know there's a camera running.
What was originally conceived as a source of entertainment and a public service (that was in the late '40's and early '50's) has morphed into one gigantic tool for selling products and services. That's a stretch, I know. How does one call the lawyer sharks looking for some poor sucker to sue a service industry? And if you want to know where the money is in this country, just keep track of the commercials. Television advertising isn't cheap. So who is buying the most air time? Pharmaceutical companies, insurance companies, and media brokers like cable companies and phone networks are by far the most common ads you'll see in a day's time. Don't believe it? Next time you sit down in front of the television, take a pad and pen with you and categorize the commercials
Sadly, the American public has a voracious appetite for violence and gore. The most popular programs are those where blood flows freely and where human beings are murdered in the most creative ways. I'm not making that up; check the ratings. Little Johnny and Susie sit there with their parents watching The Walking Dead and we wonder why their minds are warped.
The concept of television as public service was originally to be served by the news media. Early television saw the potential for news programs to create an informed, thinking public. What the original folks never saw was that major media corporations would become so prejudiced that they went from reporting the news to making the news. Then came the video camera and everybody who used to sit behind the desk reading a teleprompter longed to become a movie star! Night after night, we see a reporter standing in front of some building reporting what happened earlier in the day. Does their presence on the air in front of a building enhance the value or relevance of the story they're reporting?. Okay, if they're standing beside a wrecked car with a telephone pole down in the background, that may help the viewers, but standing in front of the courthouse, at night, talking about what went on hours ago? Is that helpful?
When video cameras were new, a reporter went down to the Ohio River to create a story about unsafe mercury levels in fish. He approached an old Black man, sitting on a stool with a cane pole. The reporter asked, “Sir, have you caught any fish today?” The old man got up laboriously, walked to the water's edge and pulled up a stringer of catfish. He smiled and said, “Well, I ain't done too bad.” The reporter asked, “Sir, are you planning to eat those fish?” The fisherman looked at the reporter as though he had just dropped in from Mars and asked, “Do the preacher read the Bible?” That was one time when the video camera was a real asset to the story.
And someone please explain to me what social media has to do with reporting the news? We hear talking heads invite people to “let us know what you think” by using Facebook, Twitter,and a host of other venues. But how does my opinion (or yours) qualify as news? The people at the station pick and choose from the responses they get to further an agenda.
I wonder how many hours the so-called average American spends watching the television each day. Not just the four screens at home, but the ones in the doctor's office, the sports bar, that bank of televisions in the box store, the portable hand-held devices, and all the other electronic wizardry that everybody simply must have to survive in today's world. Please don't get me wrong. It's wonderful that you can get the answer to any question you can think up simply by pressing a few keys. It's no wonder that encyclopedias went the way of the dinosaur. Everything you could possibly want to know is right there, at your fingertips. Why memorize anything anymore? Why waste that valuable gray matter storage space with facts and figures that you can call up instantaneously? Instead, we fill our memory banks with episodes of our favorite programs.
I wonder how people would react if suddenly, there was no television. What if we had to go back to reading books for as many hours as we spend in front of a television? Last year there was a question circulating that asked, “If you were provided with food and firewood, would you spend a whole month in a log cabin with no electricity and no running water for fifty-thousand dollars?” That means no cell phone, no computer, no television, no telemarketers, no political ads---when I was asked, I said I'd gladly PAY the fifty thousand for such an opportunity.
Walden Pond is still out there, if anybody wants to walk away from their television sets long enough to experience it. Somehow, I don't think you'll encounter any crowds there.
By Greg Roberts (published 9/8/16)
JUST THINKING ABOUT A LETTER TO THE EDITOR
I was just thinking about sending a letter to the editor. It might read something like this:
Dear Editor,
As the national elections draw nearer more and more people seem to be wringing their hands (and hearts?) in anguish. How many times have you heard someone say, “I don't really care for either of them” or words to that effect, some harsher than others? The dominant theory is that we have to vote for either the Republican or Democratic candidate. Do we? Some years back we had a candidate for the office of sheriff here in Highland County who was my personal choice for the job. But in order to vote for him, I had to change my political allegiance in the primary election. When I got to the Board of Elections I was handed a sheet of paper and told to read and sign it. The paper said that in switching my allegiance, I subscribed to the principles of the party to which I was changing. I took it back to the poll worker and said, “I wasn't aware that either party still had principles.” When you look at the presidential candidates of the two major parties, what principles do they represent?
Some say that if you vote for someone other than the Democratic or Republican candidate you are wasting your vote. Just because you don't vote for the eventual 'winner' doesn't mean you wasted your vote, not in my mind. I still think personal integrity is important, for candidates and voters. There are a number of alternative parties to vote for in the presidential election. Why not do the research and vote for someone you can honestly respect, even if they don't have the proverbial snowball's chance? At least you'll be able to say, “I didn't vote for either the Republican or Democratic candidate.”
Maybe, just maybe, there are enough independent voters who are fed-up with politics-as-usual to make a difference. When party allegiance and political survival are more important to the candidates than serving the people what options do we have but to turn our backs and vote our consciences?
I encourage every registered voter to go to the polls this November. Please don't stay home because you can't endorse either major party's candidate. A vote for a third-party candidate will send a strong message that says, “You can't count on us anymore. We are neither as blind nor stupid as you seem to think we are.”
The candidate you vote for may not win the election but you can sleep well knowing you voted your conscience and that in so doing you turned your back on the corruption and greed that have dominated this country's political parties far too long. Go vote!
By Greg Roberts (published 8/25/16)
JUST THINKING ABOUT INHERITANCE
I was just thinking about my inheritance. Please don't misconstrue my reporting of the facts as an indication of greed or a lack of feeling. I may well be the sole survivor of my mother's children. My older sister Carolyn died last March after a long battle with cancer. And yes, I miss her. My younger brother, Ted, has not been the same since he came home from Vietnam. We have not heard from him in years. He moves around the country, living in a van and drawing SSI. Naturally, the government will not tell us if those checks are still being cashed. We have no way of knowing if he is alive or not.
Mom has a manufactured home in Florida. It's not new but it's paid for. She has told me that when she dies, husband Harry gets to live out his days there, assuming she dies first. At some point, she says, I will inherit a home, a 1998 Lincoln and a golf cart. Sounds good, doesn't it? But not so fast...
My generation, the Baby Boomers, will leave an unprecedented amount of wealth. They have been the beneficiaries of many years of profitable labor, stock market gains, and of course, whatever wealth they inherit from the Greatest Generation...my mother's generation. I suspect that more than one of my peers is rubbing his (or her) hands in gleeful anticipation of the financial windfall just around the corner from the funeral home. Better wipe that grin off your face and consider some sobering facts.
Let's go back to my mother. Right now she plays golf twice a week, and pretty good golf for someone who just turned eighty-nine. But we all know that good health doesn't last forever. She had the foresight to take out long-term nursing home insurance. She has always been a realist and doesn't want to be a burden on anybody. (Thanks, Mom!) However, the amount the insurance company will pay is based on nursing home rates when she took the insurance out, and that was many years ago. Now, in 2016, monthly costs (for a semiprivate room in a nursing home) of $3,000 or more are routine. Let's assume a scenario. Let's assume that her heart begins to give her trouble and she needs open-heart surgery. Oh sure, Medicare will pay part of that cost. But an extended illness can lead to thousands of dollars in out-of-pocket expenses. Add to that the fact that we Americans are living longer than ever before and the drain on a person's financial resources can be alarming. Ask anyone who's been there. So the truth is, that while her generation scrimped, saved, did without, and tried to create an estate to leave for their offspring to bicker over, there just might not be that much. But it won't be because they didn't try.
Back to the Boomers. We have accumulated tremendous wealth. But will our children inherit that wealth? The average lifespan for a white male in America is currently seventy-seven. White females can expect to live longer. Actuarial tables put their current lifespan at eighty-one. Those numbers are increasing all the time. If you retire at sixty-five and live another twelve or sixteen years, will you deplete your life's savings? We surely aren't naive enough to think that Social Security is going to take care of us!
Here's what I believe: the tremendous wealth of the Boomer generation will end up mostly in the hands of health insurance companies, pharmaceuticals, hospitals, doctors, and nursing homes. When it comes time to read the will, there may not be very much left to distribute. (But please, by all means, create a will! Don't let the probate court grab a share and delay the distribution of whatever is left.) Our children and grandchildren may have to get their money the old fashioned way; they just might have to earn it.
-By Greg Roberts (published 5/22/16)
JUST THINKING ABOUT TOUGH GUYS -- ARE YOU ONE?
Tough guys. You know who they are. The Rock, Arnold, Seagal, Bruce --- you know them, don't you? If they had been in western movies they would all have been wearing white hats. They're always on the side of justice. They're always pitted against bad guys, guys who want to destroy our country, our women, and our way of life. Thank God for the tough guys. They get cut with commando knives, they get shot, tortured, kicked, beaten within an inch of their lives and they somehow rise above the pain to come back and win the fight. Tough guys.
You ever met any tough guys like that? I haven't. I know a lot more guys who faint at the sight of blood in the delivery room. But really, who has the opportunity to prove how tough they are? Back in 1965, two guys squared off in the aisle between the back two seats of the school bus. I don't know what precipitated it but Judd Thompson and Jim Wightman grabbed each other by the front of the shirt and began to trade punches as the bus pulled out of the Miami Trace High School parking lot. They kept on trading punches all the way to Bloomingburg, although the bus driver, Mr. Stillings, kept looking in that big rear view mirror and shouting, “You guys knock it off. Sit down back there.” But they wouldn't. By the time the bus stopped in Bloomingburg they were both streaming blood -- and both still clinging to the other and still trading punches. I made a mental note that day not to mess with either one of them. Tough guys.
His name escapes me now, but we were in freshman gym class, wrestling when a guy came trotting over to the coach and nonchalantly said, “Coach, I think I broke my arm.” One look was all it took to know that while he wasn't a doctor, he had correctly diagnosed the damage. From about the middle of his forearm, it took a decided ninety-degree turn downward with his hand hanging there limply. He wasn't crying, didn't even seem too concerned. Tough guy. It was the coach who went white as a sheet and then hurried the young man out of the gym.
We love tough guys, don't we? Come on, admit it; you loved John Belushi smashing beer cans against his forehead in Animal House. You know you did. You loved DeNiro in Taxi Driver and all the other guys who elevated our sperm counts by their mindless macho feats.
Come to think of it, we do know some tough guys and they aren't all actors. You know who the tough guy is? It's the guy who gets more than a month's shaves out of a replaceable razor. Morning after morning he braces himself again for that painful ritual, determined to get one more shave out of that blade. He spreads the shaving cream, grits his teeth, and wades in just like he did yesterday and just like he will tomorrow because those damn blades cost a lot of money.
The tough guy is the one who falls out of bed and gets ready for another day on the job even when he has the flu, or a backache or a wisdom tooth that's sending signals to his brain like electrical charges. He's the guy you can count on to be there when weaker men have called in sick and gone back to bed. When he gets to work he doesn't go around whining, trying to elicit sympathy. He came to do a job and he does it without letting you know he's hurting.
There are other tough guys. They're the guys who get dumped by their girlfriends, cheated on by their wives (sometimes with their best friend), falsely accused of wrongdoing, let go when the company is downsizing, scorned by their oh-so-cool kids, and yet they don't complain or fall apart. Their toughness isn't physical; it's mental. Yeah, it's spiritual too.
I'm just wondering. Are you a tough guy? I hope so. We sure need more of them. Life is tough. Life is unfair. Life is unpredictable. Today the future may look bright. But tomorrow? Well, you know how it is. Circumstances can change in the wink of an eye and the bright tomorrow you once looked forward to can disappear -- just like that. Somebody once said, “It doesn't matter how many times you get knocked down. What matters is how many times you get up.” That's takes toughness. Everyone can't be that tough. Some will decide, “The hell with it” and cash in their chips. I understand that. I'm not putting those folks down. I just want to take this opportunity to show my admiration for the ones who keep plugging along without complaining when others would have given up or bored everyone around them with their whining and complaining.
Did you ever wonder where tough guys get their strength and determination? Some learn it at home where they have male role models, such as fathers or brothers that set the bar high. Regardless of who it is they've come to admire, there was (or is) somebody who has made a deep and lasting impression on tough guys. Whoever and wherever they are, God bless 'em!
- By Greg Roberts (published 4/6/16)
I was just thinking about the word “civility.”
Obviously the root word would be civil. Even though we may use that word, if asked to define it, would we be at a loss? Does it mean just being nice? Or courteous? If we're honest with ourselves, we toss around lots of words without being capable of defining them. Can you define disingenuous? Thankfully, most people will let us go unchallenged, perhaps unwilling to admit that they do not know the meaning of a word we used. If the listener has even a vague idea of what we mean, we aren't usually asked to further explain. It might be more helpful...to all of us...if we were made more accountable for our words.
Civil, has several definitions, the first of which is “of, or relating to the state or its citizens.” The second meaning supplied by Miriam-Webster is “adequate in courtesy and politeness” and the third meaning is “related to, or based on civil law.” Civil law differs from criminal law. One example would be the case against O.J. Simpson, who was exonerated from criminal charges but was later found guilty of civil violations.
It's the second meaning, “adequate in courtesy and politeness” that is the root in the word civility. Civility has several synonyms: politeness, courtesy, mannerliness, graciousness, consideration...and even gallantry. Civility is the grease that makes social interaction occur smoothly. Inversely, the lack of civility leads to friction, and in extreme cases, the breakdown of society. I'm reminded of a song (“My Hometown”) by Bruce Springsteen. Maybe you know the words:
Saturday night, two cars at a light, in the backseat there was a gun
Word fly fast, shotgun blast, troubled times had come...to my hometown.
Is it just me, or does civility seems to be disappearing from American culture? Little things, such as speeding up and running a red light, or pulling out in front of another motorist, forcing them to hit the brakes...seem to show a lack of civility. Honk your horn indignantly and you're likely to see the offending driver throw you the “California howdy.” Recently in Cincinnati, after a fender-bender, one driver opened his trunk, got out a rifle, and approached the other driver....who also had a gun. The confrontation ended in a tragic death. Yes, that's an extreme example, but a clear case where civility could have saved a life.
We are in the season (today being October 23, 2020) of tumultuous political campaigning. Folks running for office, at the local, state and national level, seem to stop at nothing, certainly not slander, to demean and demonize their opponents. Instead of a civil campaign in which the candidates state their goals and aspirations, the airwaves are filled with vitriolic attacks that can only be described as hateful. Sadly, this rancid atmosphere seems to grant license to everyday citizens to express their own views in the most uncivil words. We seem to have lost the idea of tolerance. I recently heard a man...an educated man, a businessman...suggest that “we ought to take all those....(people who didn't agree with his political viewpoints or agenda)...line 'em up and shoot them.” If his view prevails, the First Amendment...and yes, the whole democratic experiment may be in jeopardy.
I'm not about to point fingers. I'm not about to use this forum (a gift from Ron Coffey) to take a political stand, nor am I claiming a higher moral ground. I've been known to run a red light myself. But I know that's wrong and I know from my religious background...and my training at home as a child...that we are not supposed to say nasty things about other people...even people we disagree with. “If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all.” But I'm wondering what, if anything, you or I can do to swing the pendulum back toward civility.
Remember that poem by Rudyard Kipling, the one that appears yet today on so many high school graduation cards? Part of it goes like this:
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies
Or being hated, don't give way to hating
Every day we make choices. We choose....to whom we speak, and we choose our words. We choose to stop or go. We choose to be silent or speak out. We choose to retaliate..or to forgive. Somebody smarter than me once wrote, “in the beginning we make our choices and in the end, our choices make us.” Every little decision we make becomes a part of who we are and what we stand for.
I need to remember that every human being on the face of this earth is a child of the same creator.....and therefore, just as worthy, just as important to that creator, as I am. So how shall I regard this person? Again, somebody smarter than me (maybe you fall into that category too) once noted, “Peace begins with a smile.” It costs me nothing to smile when you and I pass one another coming or going. And yet, that smile bespeaks goodwill, acceptance, recognition of the other's right to dignity...and civility.
I see you....I see beyond that political statement your cap is making. I see beyond the clothes. I will overlook your lack of a mask even though the sign on the door says they're required...and yes, the tattoos (I still have my prejudices)...to the person...the human being, the potential friend beneath. I will hold the door for you...and I will smile. And you, voluntarily or not...will smile back. We will be civil to one another.
By Greg Roberts (published 10/25/20)
Just thinking about being poverty-stricken
I was just thinking about being poverty-stricken. No, I'm not about to make a cardboard sign and spend hours standing at the corner of High and Main, especially when there are "help wanted" signs everywhere you look. The fact is, I'm probably better off, in terms of material wealth, than ninety percent of the people on the planet. Perhaps you are too. But poverty can take on many faces. With an American Express card and a thousand dollars in your wallet, you can still be poverty-stricken.
In each of our banks, there should be a surplus of those traits and characteristics that constitute "wealth" -- not monetary, but ethical -- and spiritual wealth. So how would I know if, by that standard, I'm poverty-stricken?
Let's start with what's right in front of us. Forget your party affiliation for a moment, if you can. (Sadly, many cannot; their party affiliation is their defining characteristic.) It's election season. If you turn on network television (any network) you'll be bombarded with a seemingly continuous barrage of vitriolic slander. It feels as though each candidate is obsessed with demonizing their opponent, that this is the only way to win the minds of voters.
Truth is the first victim in this type of campaign. The folks who create, and the folks who approve such vicious campaign ads have abandoned both truth...and common decency. Lacking both, they are....poverty-stricken. And the multitudes, red or blue, whose blind allegiance to a party deprives them of the desire for truth? Poverty-stricken.
Besides being charged with the task of sifting out truth from lies, you and I, John Q. Public, are entrusted with a sacred responsibility. We are the caretakers of a precious gift....planet earth. How are we doing with that sacred trust? Perhaps the answer depends on whom you listen to. If you don't believe in science, if making money is more important that securing an ecologically sound future for our children and grandchildren, we're doing just fine. Never mind that the rain forests which produce our oxygen are disappearing at an unprecedented rate. Never mind the destruction of the coral reefs and the pollution of the oceans. Who cares that more species are disappearing every year? My contention is this: the absence of concern, concern linked to positive preservation, is an indication of being poverty-stricken.
The Apostle Paul signed many of his letters with this wish for the people who would read them; “grace and peace to you”. Grace...unmerited favor. Don Henley sings,
“These times are so uncertain, there's a yearning undefined, and people filled with rage.
We all need a little tenderness, how can love survive in such a graceless age?” (The Heart of the Matter, Don Henley, 1989)
That song is old...but this does seem like a graceless age, doesn't it? The absence of grace, in our words, in our attitudes, in our thoughts...is a sure indicator that we are poverty-stricken.
“Grace and peace to you.” Do we wish grace...and peace...to those who may think differently from us? Or have we fallen into the trap of demonizing everyone who dares have a point of view or a dream that doesn't correlate to our own?
What we need, what we desperately need in our private and public lives, is less fear and more hope. We fear because “the times they are a changin’” and none of us can see the future. Facing an uncertain future, many of us long for the "good ole’ days," days which, in reality, are only secure and predictable in hindsight. Such longing is not only unrealistic, but unhealthy. Attempts to recapture or reinvent the past, are sure signs of being poverty-stricken.
My spiritual bank should contain a hunger for truth, a burning desire to do all the good I can in this lifetime, an abundance of grace toward everyone, and an unfailing hope for the future that I can't see. That hope has no ties to a political party or candidate. My hope is tied to an invisible God whose visible works in the physical world and in the witness of so many self-sacrificial lives of people inspires me to want to reach higher.
There is one more thing we all need to avoid being poverty-stricken. It's love. Quoting Paul yet again (and Tom Jones too), we hear, “Without love, I have nothing.” That is truly the definition of being poverty stricken: no love. Love can cover a multitude of sins. Sincere love for people, is the bedrock upon which every other desirable trait is built. Without love, my whole world-view will be self-centered...what's best for me, for my town, for my country. That's not God's point of view.
For you who have taken the time to read these thoughts, I wish you love. I wish you hope. I wish you, above all, peace. With those in your bank you'll never be poverty-stricken.
By Greg Roberts (published 9/21/20)
The brighter side of life in the age of a pandemic
Everyone will agree that this pandemic has impacted our lives in so many negative ways that we would be hard pressed to name them all. No time around the table in our favorite restaurant, let alone the camaraderie at the bar, no concerts, no sporting events. Fruitless searches for Clorox wipes, hand sanitizer, and at the start,,,even toilet paper! Nobody but a fool would try to minimize the detrimental effects of Corona 19. Massive unemployment, overwhelmed hospitals, first responders sickened by the dozens. Ten years of national economic growth have gone down the tubes in a couple of months. It's all very disheartening. That's why we need to look at the brighter side of life in the age of a pandemic.
Let's start with children and what they're experiencing. Toddlers aren't being awakened early in the morning to be shuttled off to daycare centers. Mom's who can't go to their normal jobs are spending more time playing with and teaching their youngest children. Schools are closed indefinitely. Children can't ride the school bus so how are they going to learn that colorful language that stays with them for a lifetime? But neither can they be bullied on the bus. They can't attend their school...but then, they can pretty much set their own schedule instead of having to be on somebody else's timetable. They don't have to sit in hard seats and listen to boring teachers drone on and on. They can get up and walk away from the computer any time they wish.
For the elementary kids, there are other considerations. They won't get to play outside at recess. But then, nobody will have to worry about being chosen last, will they? There won't be beautifully decorated Valentines boxes. But then, nobody will be disheartened (like Charlie Brown) when their box is empty at the end of the day. Parents who are now supposed to be able to help their kids with on-line assignments are developing more respect for those teachers they used to take for granted.
The high school kids, the ones who have outgrown parental relationships, can't congregate with their peer groups. But they're mastering more and more digital ways to connect, ways that will serve them long after the pandemic becomes a bad memory.
For those who are still working outside the home, traffic is remarkably lighter, which makes the drive to and from work much more enjoyable. Gasoline is cheap, although the price seems to be inching back up almost daily. Having your temperature taken before you can enter the building isn't invasive and many of us are cultivating relationships with healthcare workers we didn't even know existed. Wearing that mask makes my glasses fog up but maybe we can begin to sympathize with Muslim women who have been covering their faces for years. Is it just me, or when we talk to somebody wearing a mask, are we paying more attention to their eyes?
Everybody gets free money! Which is crazy, because some of us have kept right on working and being paid while others have had their entire livelihoods shut off. Wouldn't it have made more sense to selectively distribute larger 'stimulus checks' to those who actually need the relief? Someday, hopefully soon, we'll be able to return to the barber shop and the hair salon....but in the meantime, look at what you've saved! One person's loss is another's gain. Grocery stores are booming as we eat more and more meals at home. Some families are rediscovering home cooking and sitting down at the table together. Maybe we won't be so eager to go back to the fast food restaurants. But we are still grateful for those that offer carry-out and delivery. Even the most prolific cooks need a break now and then. Diane and I enjoyed our 50th anniversary dinner in the back seat of our car (complete with music, a votive candle, and a bootleg bottle of wine from home) in the back parking lot of The Olive Garden.
Evening newscasts still bring us grim reminders of what this pandemic is costing in human lives and suffering. But alongside those statistics we see more and more heartwarming stories of people reaching out to others in a variety of ways, giving unselfishly of themselves and their resources. Folks are checking on elderly neighbors they never knew, offering to do whatever they can to make their continued existence safe and comfortable. America is showing a lot of heart these days.
Even the now famous motto, “We're all in this together” is a blessing to a nation that has been so politically divided and antagonistic toward those who think differently. We can only hope that this season of tolerance will continue after the worst of the pandemic is behind us. But for now, there are bright spots...if only we look around.
Someday we'll be boring our grandchildren with stories that begins, “Back in the pandemic of '20...” May we all be so lucky as to still be around then.
By Greg Roberts (published 5/10/20)
Just thinking about... camping
I was just thinking about camping.
It's not like I meant to notice; I just did. Traveling as many miles as I do, I can't help but notice how many homes have campers...fifth wheels, pull types, pop-up, even motor homes---sitting in their driveways or under carports, or even in the side yards.
Campers are big business. One website says that the cost of a new camper can be anywhere from $10,000 to $200,000. After the purchase of the camper (unless it's a self-contained Class A,B, or C type) you still need a vehicle to tow it. But let's say you already have a reliable pick-up truck with towing capacity. Now calculate the cost of license tags, insurance, and maintenance and you're ready to go. Go where?
All the ads you see on television or at the dealership picture a camper (YOUR camper!) sitting on green grass under shade trees beside a crystal blue lake with sunlight bouncing off the water. There are no other campers in sight...just yours. You and nature, reconnecting in privacy and solitude. What a great dream! But not so fast. Go visit any state park or private campground and you'll get a dose of reality. The average campsite will cost between $45 and $80 per night, depending on amenities and location. The closer to Kings Island or Disney World, the higher the cost. And that privacy beside the still lake? Forget it. You're renting a narrow slip of gravel or blacktop tucked between two other campers. One of your neighbors will feature frustrated parents yelling at crying children and the other will have dogs that bark all day and all night. When you go to the shower house, there won't be any hot water, and the people who were there ahead of you were world-class slobs. Welcome to the campground!
I don't mean to sound snobbish, but I used to be a real camper. As a child, I grew up in a family that camped in surplus army tents with no floors, no mosquito netting and no zippered closures. I will never forget the night something walked across my chest as I lay there in my sleeping bag, afraid to open my eyes. When I married Diane (just under fifty years ago) she had never been camping. I convinced her that she had been missing one of life's most rewarding adventures. We bought a tent (this one had mosquito netting, a floor and a zippered front), sleeping bags, a cooler, a Coleman stove and lantern and drove to Zaleski State Park, arriving on a Tuesday, just after the Labor Day weekend. After a few false starts, we figured out how to erect the tent. We collected sticks and firewood and couldn't help but notice that we had the entire place to ourselves. Everybody else had gone home and back to work.
The first day was great! We cooked on our new stove, sunbathed, hiked, got yelled at by the park ranger for sharing a shower (he didn't come in, just hollered from outside, “This isn't a community shower!”). Hey, lighten up---we were newlyweds. We thought he might pay us a visit at our tent later that day, but he never came back....and we decided that maybe it would be best not to press our luck with another shared shower.
The second day was hot and sultry. We didn't have cell phones back then. Our only contact with the outside world was a transistor radio. We heard a weather report suggesting that things might get rough that night. But we were young and we weren't going to let a little rain spoil our camping trip.
Just after sundown, the air got very still. Off in the distance we heard the low rumble of rolling thunder. We took our meager possessions into the tent. The wind began to pick up...stronger and stronger. Then a lightning flash that illuminated the trees around us, bent over by the wind. We hugged each other as the wind tried to tear our tent apart. Lightning flashed again and again, the thunder was deafening and the rain forced its way right through the tent fabric. Every once in a while, we would hear something rolling past the tent, but we didn't dare look out to see what it was. We were terrified! A river formed beneath our floor, soaking our sleeping bags and still the storm raged. This was the 'fun' camping experience I had promised my new bride. I'm surprised she ever agreed to go again, but she did. Over the years, we've camped in lots of campgrounds and had a lot of fun. We've fished, and canoed, and hiked. But it's over now. Time changes everything. We sold the canoe this past summer. We'll sell our tent and sleeping bags in the next garage sale. Maybe the folks who buy them will enjoy them as much as we have; I hope so.
Camping can be a source of real joy. My sister and brother-in-law owned a Class C motor home. They took it to the same private campground year after year and had their own campsite. Carolyn planted flowers, Don did some serious landscaping, and they became fast friend with the neighbors. They watched football games together, shared pot-luck dinners, played cards, sat around the campfire....and truly enjoyed the camping experience for many years. So don't let me dampen your enthusiasm for camping. Like anything else in life, it's what we make of it.
By Greg Roberts (published 3/2/20)
Just thinking about... swearing
I was just thinking about swearing.
No, not cursing. According to Mr. Webster, cursing is defined as (1) a prayer or invocation for harm or injury to come upon one, as in “He prayed that God would curse his enemy.” and the second definition, the one relevant to this discussion reads (2) a profane or obscene oath or word, as in “Peter began to curse at them and swear to them...”(Matthew 26:74). I can't recall if my cursing education began at home or on the school bus, but by the time I got home from four years in the Navy, I had perfected the technique to a degree that I could compete with any foul mouth in the county. Sadly, once those words and phrases are embedded, they cannot be removed from the memory banks and they have a distressing tendency to arise uncalled for during stressful situations. But that's cursing. Swearing is what I was thinking about.
When I joined the Navy, I took an oath; I swore to protect and defend the United States of America against all enemies, foreign and domestic. When I wed my lovely wife (nearly fifty years ago) I took vows, freely entered into, before God and the congregation present for the ceremony. We were not required to place our hands on a Bible, but the vows were understood to be just as binding as if we had.
I was called to be a witness in a criminal trial. I was required to place my hand on a Bible and swear to give “the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.” Which I did. My testimony helped exonerate an innocent man who happened to be my brother-in-law.
On January 17th, ninety-nine Senators swore an oath to administer impartial justice in an impeachment trial, and then signed a book verifying the fact that they took that oath. These men and women represent some three hundred million (give or take a few million) citizens of this democracy we call America. Over the period of the next few weeks, three hundred million Americans, and the rest of the watching world, will learn whether ninety-nine duly elected and highly respected representatives will have the integrity to uphold the oath they took. Sadly, I have my doubts.
Bear with me. This coming Sunday I will hand out a form to the youth who come to Sunday school. The form will ask them to prioritize their loyalties. They'll be asked to number these choices, with number one being the most important and so on: my high school, my family, my team, my church, my nationality, and my sexual orientation. This exercise is designed to help folks recognize how they define themselves. You may notice that there is no option for political affiliation. At this stage of their young lives, most of these 'kids' don't identify themselves as Republicans or Democrats. They are listening and learning. In due time, they will align themselves with a political party but for now they're just discovering who they are. I'm trying to help them in that process.
Nobody will argue that we, as a nation, are deeply polarized politically. I find that sad; do you? In the current political climate, a declaration of party affiliation is reason enough to embrace....or hate someone. Recently, a man who is highly respected in the community said to me, “They ought to just take all those (party name redacted here), line them up, and shoot them.” If that isn't hateful, then what is? This line of thinking not only rejects the value of tolerance, but undermines the very freedoms that set this country apart from dictatorships. You may say, “Well, that's one man's opinion” but the truth is, he could find support for that proposal everywhere from the barber shop, to the taxi cab, to the coffee clutch at McDonald's on any given morning. Now back to my original concern; swearing.
Ninety-nine Senators who swore an oath to 'impartial justice' would do well to ask themselves, “Who am I?” Are you first and foremost a Democrat or Republican? If your party affiliation is your first loyalty, then you have forsaken both your constituents...and your integrity. Party affiliation is not interested in justice; it is only interested in self-perpetuation. My fear is that personal integrity is being nailed to the cross of political expediency.
Several years ago I went to the polls to change my party affiliation in a primary election so that I could vote for a man running for sheriff. I was surprised to be asked by the poll worker to read and sign a form which asked me, “Do you subscribe to the principles of the party to which you are about to endorse?” I took the form back to the poll worker and said, “I was unaware that either party still had principles.” Yes, I was joking. Sort of. Maybe.
This impeachment trial is not a joking matter. What is on trial here, something larger than the President's conduct or misconduct, is the very future of this democracy. If our elected officials are free to disregard their oaths in favor of party affiliation, or any other loyalty, then three hundred million (give or take a few million) Americans are no longer under any compunction to honor their own oaths or loyalties. The downward spiral will be irreversible.
By Greg Roberts (published 1/17/20)
Just thinking about 'panem et circenses'
You know, I was just thinking about panem et circenses.
Oh, you didn't take Latin back in high school? Neither did I. It wasn't offered at Miami Trace. But long before us Boomers burst on the scene, Latin was a preferred elective. My dear mother tells me that her knowledge of Latin, learned in West Portsmouth High School, was a huge boon to her when she worked as a medical secretary for Doctors Gebhart and Heiny. My dear wife, the retired nurse, also took Latin in high school and says it was beneficial to her as well. The medical community's language is deeply entrenched in Latin roots. But I'm (probably) like you in that I never learned any Latin, the root of so many of the so-called romance languages. My Latin phrases are limited to e pluribus unum and et tu, Brute?
That phrase, panem et circenses, translates to “bread and circuses.” The origin? I found this with the help of Google:
A phrase used by the Roman satirical poet, Juvenal, to deplore the declining heroism of Romans after the Roman Republic ceased to exist and the Roman Empire began: “Two things only the people anxiously desire — bread and circuses.”
The government kept the Roman populace happy by distributing cheap grain and staging huge spectacles. Keeping people happy is important. Unhappy people grumble. Unhappy people start looking for alternatives. If all it takes to keep 'em happy is a full belly and entertainment, then by all means, give them what they want!
Please don't think I'm demeaning anybody's religious choices, but perhaps you've noticed that the churches that seem to be attracting the largest crowds offer food and beverages as soon as you enter the doors. Once people have their coffee or juice in hand they migrate to the sanctuary, or auditorium, where they will be treated to a live band leading the worship music. It's not really entertainment...but it can feel that way to old people like me who were raised on hymns and reverent silence.
On a lighter note, birthday parties are probably the extreme example of bread and circuses. Kids come expecting cake, ice cream...and entertainment. Remember Steve Martin's antics in the film “Parenthood”? When the real Cowboy Bob was misdirected to a different party and a stripper sent by mistake, Steve saved the day by quickly dressing up as a cowboy and playing the role to the hilt, complete with a six-gun. When the kids asked, “Where's Cowboy Bob?” he looked them in the eye and said, “I shot him. Left a hole in him this big. No, now that I think about it, the hole was THIS big. His guts were all over the floor. I was slipping and sliding around in his guts.” And of course, the kids loved it! Violence, whether in the Colosseum or at a birthday party, is always in style.
Bread and circuses takes many forms in American culture. Baseball and a hot dog. Dinner and a movie. Television and a bowl of popcorn. You can probably think of other examples.
We have healthy appetites for food and entertainment with an adult beverage or two thrown in...and whether we recognize it or not, we're conditioned by the media to maintain those appetites. We're talking billion dollar business combinations that are consistently under girded by all manner of advertising.
I just thought it was somewhat amusing that the Roman writer bemoaned the state of affairs as the general populace gravitated toward violence in the Colosseumas opposed to violence in the battlefield. In Roman society of that era, compassion was considered a weakness. Mercy toward an enemy was unthinkable for a soldier. Yet, in the arena, the public was given a choice with the traditional “thumbs up” indicating life or the “thumbs down” indicating death.
Citizens in Rome, regardless of their financial status, could line up for low-priced wheat once a month. This policy was inaugurated because of the wild fluctuations in grain prices that threatened the ability of the lower classes to purchase enough grain to bake bread. Abuse of the low-price policy led to ever-larger numbers of recipients, some years up to 200,000 people, standing in line for a share of the dole. Attempts to cut back on the distribution, or restrictions on eligibility led to riots. So, while the bread wasn't free, it was guaranteed.
According to Roman historians, simultaneously with this desire for bread and circuses, the general population began to withdraw from civic responsibility and political involvement. While there are other complex reasons for the decline of the Roman Empire, the “bread and circuses” mindset certainly played a role. And now, having shared this bit of trivia with you, I'm going to micro-wave some popcorn and watch TV.
By Greg Roberts (published 1/15/19)
Just thinking about ‘Great Again’
I was just thinking, wondering actually, what the phrase, Make America Great Again might mean. That last word, 'again', implies that there was a time when America was somehow 'greater' than she is today. What particular era in history might we invoke to illustrate America at her greatest? According to Howard Zinn's, “A People's History of the United States,” there never was a golden era.
For the record, Howard's book was first brought to my attention in the film,Good Will Hunting. Perhaps you've seen it. It's old: 1997, but to my mind, a classic. Will Hunting (played by Matt Damon) has been 'sentenced' to sessions with psychologist Sean McGuire (played by Robin Williams) as part of his rehabilitation. At one point, Will is in Sean's office, looking over the vast collection of books in his library. He remarks, “You people crack me up. You pay good money to go to college and then read all the wrong books.” Sean asks,“What would you suggest I read?” Will replied, “Try Howard Zinn's History of the United States. That will knock you on your ass.”
Okay, it took me twenty years to get around to it...but I've read it...and he's right. According to Zinn, America has never been great. From colonial days until today, the country has been beleaguered with class conflict and social ills that pit the interests of the wealthy against the basic needs of the underclass. He documents in great detail repeated examples of ruthless capitalists thriving at the expense of the working class. But let's put that aside and go back to our question.
What qualities or characteristics should we lift up to exemplify American greatness? Perhaps we should point out our Pledge of Allegiance. We pledge from the time we enter public schools, our allegiance to “one nation, under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.” Ask any Native American about “justice for all.” Liberty? How many Sundown towns were there in Ohio alone at the end of the nineteenth century? And that part about “under God”? What does that imply—that God is on the side of America or that we are a “godly” nation whose moral compass faithfully points to God's concerns and ways? I'm reminded of Paul Simon's song, “My Little Town.” One verse goes, “In my little town, God kept his eye on us all. And he used to lean upon me as I pledged allegiance to the wall...in my little town.” Little children should not be indoctrinated with concepts they are too young to comprehend. Talk about brainwashing!
Okay, forget the pledge. Look at our Constitution, that time-honored document that every serviceman and woman, every politician, every President swears to uphold and defend. We have a great Constitution! “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal....” Let's see, that was written in 1787 and in 1869, after one of the bloodiest civil wars in history, the Fifteenth Amendment gave the right to vote to everyone, regardless of race. Wait! No, not every one; every man! It wasn't until 1920 that women got the right to vote. So where was this “equality” for over one hundred twenty years? My point is this: high sounding words and soaring thoughts do not confer greatness.
Someone will argue, “But look at the big picture. What began as a handful of disparate colonies became a unified nation, spreading from ocean to ocean.” Indeed. Manifest Destiny was the battle cry that rang out time and again as the irrepressible tide of greed washed away indigenous cultures and warred against vastly inferior nations to achieve this land mass we call the United States.
Quite honestly, I can't get on board with this Make America Great Again. Neither could you, if you could put aside emotional patriotism and look with eyes wide open at our nation's history and the current state of affairs. But I would gladly climb on board a Make America Great platform. And what might that look like?
A great America would stop spending eighty percent of the federal budget on weapons of offense. We would get our “dirty little fingers out of everybody's pies” (Don Henley: “All She Wants to Do Is Dance”). (Does anybody realize how many coups and revolutions our government has sponsored around the world?) A great America would put a tight leash on the CIA and insist on full transparency. A great America would give the same quality health care and benefits that our congress men and women enjoy to every citizen. A great America would reward people commensurate to their contributions. Social workers, therapists and teachers would earn at least a fraction of what professional athletes are paid. A great America would create and enforce a fair taxation policy that did not reward the rich at the expense of the poor. A great America would no longer discriminate against women, people of color, or those of other sexual orientation. A great America would be tolerant...even welcoming...to people who are “different." A great America would see her role in the world as a model of integrity, a nation whose leaders incorporate a compassionate world-view into foreign and domestic policy. A great America would be a country every citizen could be proud of, and for good and valid reasons. If someone were to run for office on such a platform...I'd be the first to climb on board.
By Greg Roberts (published 12/12/18)
Just thinking about who might understand
I was just thinking about who might understand.
If you've never had kidney stones, you will never understand that exquisite pain. It will bring a grown man to his knees. Lest you ladies are thinking, “Well, all men are wimps when it comes to pain,” please hear this. I've spoken to numerous women who have given birth and endured kidney stones and without exception, all of them have said, “The kidney stones were worse!” But if you've never experienced them, you'll never know. And I hope you never do.
If you've never broken a limb, an arm or a leg, you will never understand the pain that comes with that injury. Oh, to be sure, broken fingers and broken ribs hurt like hell, but nothing like a radius or a tibia. Somebody can try to explain it to you, but you have to experience it to know just how intense the pain can be. Again, I hope you never do.
If you've never battled cancer (and I, thankfully, have not) then you don't know the pain, the side effects of radiation and chemotherapy. I've watched others; my sister Carolyn and my grandson, and my heart has nearly broken for the pain they've endured. The mouth sores, the deep bone pain, the hair loss, the myopathy, and all those other dreaded side effects.
There are just some forms of pain that you cannot identify with until or unless you experience them yourself. Please keep that in mind as you read on.
Ellie Roberts, age 40, died on July 13th, 2018 from drug-related causes. People, filled with the best of intentions and compassion, hug Diane and me and say things like, “I'm so sorry for your loss.” But how do we tell them? We don't feel a loss like others....we feel relief. If that sounds cold and heartless, it's because you haven't walked in our shoes. But some have. Ellie, the child we adopted at two months old, was a source of great joy in her early childhood. We tried to overlook her tendency to lie. In her teenage years, she became rebellious...we chalked that up to being a P.K., a preacher's kid. Everybody knows P.K.’s are rebellious. We bought her a car, a nice one-owner car, to drive to school and told her, “As soon as you get your license.” I got a phone call at work the following week. “Ellie has wrecked a car out on a side road.” I thought, “How can that be? She doesn't even have her license yet?” But it was true and one of her friends had gone through the windshield. Thankfully, she was not seriously injured. This was a foretaste of things to come.
She got pregnant at sixteen and had a miscarriage. We thought she might learn from her mistake. She didn't. She got pregnant again at nineteen and came back to live with us in Sinking Spring, where I was pastoring the local United Methodist Church. A year after he was born, she announced that she “needed her own space and he'll be better off with you”. So we raised him. Almost every time Ellie called it was because she needed money. Her rent was due. Her utility bills were due. We moved her to Chillicothe and called on an old classmate of mine to give her a job...which she promptly quit. She was evicted and walked away from her furnishings...just left them for the landlord to put out on the curb, and this became a repeated pattern. We can't remember how many times she walked away from furnishings. She was able to get on SSI due to being diagnosed as bi-polar. She was able to get government housing and other benefits...and it was never enough.
She got pregnant again, and this time delivered a beautiful baby girl. She was born with a congenital heart defect. When she was almost a year old, she had surgery at Children's Hospital in Cincinnati. Ellie took her on the truck with Aaron five days after surgery and missed several post-operative check-ups. Children's Services intervened and put her into foster care and we thought, “This will wake Ellie up.” It didn't. So we got permanent custody of this child too after she had been in foster care for about six months. Meanwhile, Ellie continued her relationship with Aaron. Together they fostered three more children, one of them a special needs child. They never stayed in one place very long; neither of them could handle finances. They were constantly evicted. Aaron drove semi-trucks when he felt like working. At times, all five of them were to be found driving cross-country in whatever truck Aaron was driving at the time because they had nowhere else to stay.
The time came when Ellie said she wanted to get away from Aaron, who was abusive, and start a new life. I bought her a house in Hillsboro—a bank repo. We helped her move quickly and discreetly from Wilmington to Hillsboro while he was on the road, and set her up in house-keeping. I mowed the yard, shoveled the walks and driveway, bought her a car to drive and took the kids to school when they missed the bus...which happened frequently because Ellie couldn't get out of bed in the mornings. She began using drugs—introduced to her by Aaron's older children from a previous marriage. She began to fall behind on her bills. She attempted to “get clean” and actually did---for awhile, but it didn't take. She stayed there in that house for two years and then decided Aaron wasn't such a bad guy after all...so she and the kids moved back to Wilmington. I paid for the moving van and the gas and helped load and unload the truck.
The week after she moved, Diane and I were working on restoring the house so we could sell it. The meter reader for the electric company knocked on the door. He was there to turn off the electric because the bill had not been paid for months. A truck backed up the driveway. It was Rent-to-Own. They had come to repossess the furniture that we had just moved to Wilmington. Seems that payments were way behind. It took months to repair all the damage to the house.
Ellie would call occasionally...whenever she needed money and,”Oh, it's not for me or Aaron, it's for the kids. They need school supplies, or we have no food in the house, or.....” Diane and I got to the point where we dreaded hearing the phone ring. It was gut-wrenching. She was using drugs and lying about it. Children's Services took the kids away, again and again.
Maybe you can understand this; maybe not. But we don't feel a sense of deep loss with Ellie's death. We feel a sense of relief: “Thank God, that's over.” That's sad to say, but honest. We will continue to give our two adopted grandchildren the best life we can. We'll keep in touch with the other three grandchildren, all of whom are now in foster care, with birthday, Easter and Christmas gifts. And we'll try....to remember the good times when Ellie was a child. We'll remember with fondness, her happy days with Freckles, the Appaloosa who turned and ran when she approached him with the halter held behind her back. We'll remember with fondness her participation on the basketball team that Mark Armstrong coached. We'll look at those homecoming and prom pictures and recall what a pretty girl she was at some point. But we'll still be thinking, “Thank God....it's over; for us..and for her.”
We're very grateful for the outpouring of sympathy and compassion, but we won't pretend to feel a loss we don't feel. We feel relief. If you can't understand that, it's okay. Some things you just have to experience for yourself before you can understand....and I hope you never do. We know there are others who have had similar experiences with their own children. Perhaps they feel much the same and maybe they feel ashamed of themselves for not feeling a sense of loss. We understand. We know.
By Greg Roberts (published 9/11/18)
Just thinking about cell phones and techno-gods
Ding!
There it goes again; somebody has sent Steve a text. He turns away from the embalming table long enough to look at the cell phone screen, then wordlessly goes back to work. We're halfway through the process when, Ding!, there it goes again. Another text. He reads this one too and our work is nearly done when the ring tone tells him somebody wants to talk to him. Not a text this time, but a real, live conversation. What did we ever do before cell phones?
He takes off the rubber glove because the screen doesn't accept anything besides a warm human touch and takes the call: “This is Steve.” He walks out of the room with the cell phone trapped between his ear and shoulder. I stand there beside the body on the embalming table, a body which a few short hours ago was a breathing human being, waiting for Steve to come back so we can complete the final steps, go home and try to get a few hours sleep. When Steve comes back he informs me that he'll be meeting this person's family tomorrow morning to make final arrangements.
This column isn't about funeral home work, or the embalming process, although the first two paragraphs might lead someone to think that. No, it's about those wonderful devices that nobody can leave home without: cell phones. Interestingly enough, mine just rang. It was someone who calls herself Melissa, wanting to talk to me about my federal student loan. You getting those unwanted calls too? How about the extended warranty calls? Or the ones that promise to help you avoid the debts you incurred with your credit cards? You look at the number on the screen and while it doesn't look familiar, it seems to be a local caller so you take it, only to find that it's one more annoying robo-call. I did get some satisfaction recently though. I got a call saying that it was the IRS and that because I had not paid my taxes they were filing a lien against me and would take me to court. If I didn't want that to happen, I was to call their number back...which I promptly did, not because I owe the IRS but because I wanted the opportunity to speak to a real, live person. Somebody calling himself Agent Robert answered on the second ring. “This is Agent Robert. How may I help you?” My reply was prompt and loud: “No, you are not agent Robert. You're a lying son-of-a-bitch who cheats old people out of their money and I hope you rot in Hell.” He hung up rather quickly. I haven't had any more calls from the IRS.
Some of you are old enough to remember the song by Simon and Garfunkel entitled “The Sound of Silence.” I loved that song when it was first released and I love it more today for it seems to me to be prophetic. Here are just a few of the lyrics: “people talking without speaking, people hearing without listening, people writing songs that voices never shared, no one dared..disturb the sound of silence.” Talking without speaking and hearing without listening sounds like texting to me. I honestly cannot fathom why someone would rather send a text than have a real conversation. Communication is more than words; it's inflection, it's tone, it's laughter and sometimes sobbing. Cute little symbols are not the same as real human emotions, emotions that people used to share when they actually spoke and listened to one another.
Bzzzzt. Bzzzzt. There it goes again, that vibrating phone lying on the desk top. It's more than a phone for many people; it's their lifeline. Yesterday a woman crossed the street in front of me (not in a crosswalk either) with her head down and her full attention buried in that cell phone. Not once did she look up to see if there was traffic coming. You see it everywhere you look; people walking with their phones held out in front of them, absorbed in their digital alternate reality.
France just passed a new law prohibiting elementary school children from having their phones in the classroom. Undoubtedly, there will be a public outcry. Parents will insist that they have to be able to reach their children at all times. Funny...when I was in school, the only way my parents could reach me during class was to call the principal's office. And I might be right there, close to the phone. The only time I remember being called out of class was the day my grandmother died and I was released from school early. How did I possibly survive without a cell phone?
Employers are being cheated everywhere by people being paid to work, but who are instead absorbed in their digital 'otherness'. Does anyone remember the old maxim, “A day's pay for a day's work”? I used to work with a guy who played games on his computer at work more than he actually attended to business. Whenever somebody came near his office door, he would quickly minimize the computer screen to conceal his activity. He knew what he was doing was wrong. Do people understand today that when they're texting, watching videos, etc. on company time that they're stealing from their employers?
Another line in the song, “The Sound of Silence,” reads, “Then the people bowed and prayed to the neon God they'd made.” Slight change today; “to the techno-god we've made.” A god is something that demands your primary loyalty, something that you worship, something you just can't live without. Bzzzt. There is again.
A couple of years back the question was floating around on the Internet, “Would you live in a log cabin far from civilization without electricity and cell phone service, heat and cook with a wood stove for a whole month for $50,000?” For many people, the question isn't “would you?” but “could you?” I think they're that addicted. I'm sorry I have to carry a cell-phone for my work at the funeral home. But I look forward to the day when I can shove into the back of the sock drawer where it can go Bzzzt Bzzzt till the battery runs down.
By Greg Roberts (published 8/1/18)
Just thinking about government funded abortions.
A dear friend of mine recently posted her support of President Trump on Facebook with a series of statements that clarify his conservative positions on a number of important issues. Here's a direct quote from her post: He didn't say you couldn't have an abortion; he just said the government won't pay for it. From this statement it would seem that the issue is not about the morality of abortions but about government's role in social welfare. So be it. Let's examine the issue of federally funded abortions from a practical, unemotional point of view.
We begin with a woman who is pregnant and not by choice. Perhaps she was careless; perhaps she was a rape victim. We aren't interested in how it happened. We are only interested in what happens next. She does not want the child who is yet to be born. She wishes to have the pregnancy aborted but doesn't have the funds to pay for that so she turns to some agency such as Planned Parenthood, which is presently receiving support from the federal government. Let us say that support is terminated; there is no longer a 'free' abortion. She now has several options. She can carry the fetus full-term and deliver the child that she doesn't want. Or she can get an illegal, dangerous back-room abortion performed by someone with a wire coat hanger. Let's say she chooses to deliver the child.
Historically speaking, the greatest number of abortions are performed on the poor — black, white, Hispanic — but poor. This child will most likely be born into poverty to a single mother, who may already have other children. Medicaid will pay for the delivery—more than the abortion would have cost. The mother will turn to social welfare (Aid to Dependent Children or its successor) for financial aid, a medical card, food stamps, and whatever other government benefits are available. She will continue to receive these benefits for as long as she has that child in her custody. The cost of the abortion is looking better all the time.
But some poor women release custody of their children, voluntarily or otherwise, such as being found to be unfit mothers. Now the child will either be raised by concerned family members or---go into foster care. Foster parents are paid between $24 and $31 per day, with that figure increasing every year as the child ages. Where does that money come from? It comes from you and me, through our tax dollars. Now remember, we're looking at this issue from a practical standpoint, not an emotional one. Do the math and then decide which is more logical; a government funded abortion or a period of years drawing support from Job and Family Services. This so-called 'conservative' approach to stop funding abortions costs taxpayers far more in the long run.
If my conservative friend were being completely honest, she would acknowledge that her real issue isn't with funding, but with abortions in general. You know what I think? I think every person who opposes abortion should be willing to adopt an unwanted child. You think that unborn child has a right to life? Great! You're going to sacrifice your time, money and energy to give them a life? No? Then kindly back off and stop complaining about federally funded abortions.
By Greg Roberts (published 4/24/18)
Just thinking about Biltmore Estate
I was just thinking about Biltmore Estate.
I friend of mine (actually, he is a recently retired United Methodist pastor) recently posted a picture and a glowing review of his visit to the Biltmore Estate in Asheville, North Carolina. My dear wife accused me of being a stick-in-the-mud when I expressed my less-than-glowing opinion of that national landmark. Here's my problem.
People go to see Biltmore, America's largest house, by the millions...literally more than a million visitors a year. These millions ooh and aah at the bowling alley, the billiards room, the 250 rooms with forty five bathrooms and do they ever wonder where the money came from to build such an extravagant dwelling? It's a cross between a castle and French chateau. Its aristocratic creator wanted to capture a bit of European splendor....and establish the family as American royalty.
History reveals that Biltmore's creator, George Washington Vanderbilt, inherited one hundred million dollars from his grandfather, Cornelius Vanderbilt. He inherited another million from his father, William K. Vanderbilt, on his twenty-first birthday and another five million when dear old dad passed away. What's my point? He didn't have to work for the money. He was born into ridiculous wealth (remind you of anybody?), wealth that was initially amassed by Grandpa Cornelius, who was not only shrewd but combative. By the way, there were no inheritance taxes in America in the nineteenth century, so fortunes could be passed down intact.
Some great monuments were built with slave labor, among them the Great Wall of China, which is the world's largest known cemetery because wherever a slave dropped dead of exhaustion or disease his body was simply encased in the stones of the wall. Throughout history, men have built huge edifices to their own glory.
The Bible says that as Jesus and his disciples approached Jerusalem, the disciples were awed. “Master, look at those massive stones and these magnificent buildings!” (Mark 13:1-4). Herod the Great expanded the original Jewish Holy Temple in Jerusalem to cover forty acres. Known as the temple mount, it was financed through heavy taxation and maintained by the 'temple tax'. Every Jewish male was required to pay that half-shekel tax yearly, which was about two days wages, to maintain the magnificent structure and grounds. Was that Temple to glorify God? No, it was to glorify Herod.
Now, back to the Vanderbilt family. Grandpa Cornelius did make one philanthropic gesture, and that at the urging of his wife (who was also his first cousin). He gave a cool million to establish a university in Nashville, Tennessee. Naturally, it bears his name (Vanderbilt) and the sports teams bear the name Commodores, which was Grandpa Cornelius' nickname. What else would we expect?
Thanks, but I'll save my admiration for the very few Mother Teresa types of this world instead of the self-serving, egotistical millionaires (or billionaires) who attempt (successfully, I might add) to impress the common folk with their grandiose structures and lifestyles. My dear wife and I will just have to disagree on this point. I see excessive wealth used for personal glory as nothing less than obscene.
What would a million dollars have been worth in 1896, the year the lavish Biltmore house was finished? How much poverty could have been alleviated? How many orphans fed? But no….
By Greg Roberts (published 4/8/18)
JUST THINKING ABOUT THE WINTER OF MY DISCONTENT
I was just thinking about a cartoon. Maxine (you know Maxine, don't you? The crusty old lady on the Hallmark Shoebox greeting cards?) was shivering there wrapped in her coat, scarf, hat, and gloves and saying, “Every winter is the winter of my discontent.” Right on Maxine. Why do people,supposedly halfway intelligent people, continue to live in this climate where winter's ice and snow force us indoors for months at a time, where sunshine is as scare as common sense, and where the only thing growing faster than the heat bill is body fat. Why?
In a moment of rare honesty I told Diane, “I don't plan on spending the rest of my life here in Ohio.” She retorted, “Aren't you the person who said they hate moving? Didn't you say you were never going to move again?” Well, that did it! She quoted me correctly, something I just hate. So I clarified my position. “I meant I'm not moving all this STUFF!” Silence. “So, I have no say in this?” The gloves were off at this point. There was no turning back. I opened up and let the chips fall where they may.
“If I move this household, I'll stand at the front door, beside the ramp to the moving truck and direct the movers. There will be four categories and I will ruthlessly cleanse us of unnecessary clutter. This goes in the van, that goes to the Goodwill pile, put that in the yard sale pile and throw that in the dumpster. All those Precious Moments that were supposed to grow in value? Put those in the yard sale and hope we can get back a fraction of the money we spent. Those Thomas Kincaid paintings that were supposed to skyrocket in value? Yard sale. The curio cabinet? Goodwill will love it. Some poor slob trapped by materialism will be overjoyed to charge that to their already overextended credit card. All those twenty-eight boxes of Christmas decorations? You get to choose, but not in the truck. Knickknacks that change with the seasons? Yard sale.” I assure you the dumpster will fill up fast. All those boxes of school papers from the first grade on? Not just hers, but our daughter's, and the grand children's too. Who in their right mind saves such stuff? What happens to it when you die? Dumpster. Roller skates that haven't touched the floor in years? Why in the world.....?
Does this sound cruel to you? I assure you, I'm ready to give up 'stuff' too. A guy has to know what his priorities are. Recently, I learned that a family in our church had suffered a house fire years ago. The family had only moments to grab what was valuable to them and escape the heat and flames. The man of the house knew exactly what he needed to take. He grabbed his shotgun and fishing pole. His wife wasn't very pleased with his choices. I haven't fished in years. That fly fishing pole I got for retirement? Yard sale. Or maybe we should advertise it on the Internet and try to get a little more for it. All the camping gear? I've outgrown that phase of my life. I'm not much of a collector, which makes it hard for Diane to understand because she collects stamps, coins, dolls, the aforementioned Precious Moments, Christmas ornaments (new ones every year) and well, I don't know what all. I do value some of the nice things she has given me over the years; a Buck knife, a hand carved walking stick from Berea College, a pocket watch with our anniversary engraved inside....but not much else.
My ninety-year old mother lives in a 1978 model manufactured home in Florida. She has assured me, that as her last surviving child, I will someday inherit that house---and her '98 Lincoln. Her house is considerably smaller than the house we occupy; there is no way we could take all this 'stuff' with us. There is simply no room to store it and no, I won't even entertain the idea of paying a monthly fee to rent a storage locker. Talk about dumb! How long does it take before the accumulated rent of that locker outweighs the value of the contents?
We're at an impasse. If Diane were to read this, she probably wouldn't speak to me for...who knows? Which reminds me. Bubba and Billy Jo were sitting in the boat fishing. Out of the blue Billy Jo says, “I'm gonna get me a divorce. My wife ain't spoke to me for two months!” Bubba spit a little juice over the side, took a long pull off his Budweiser and then responded, “I'd think twice about that Billy Jo. Women like that's hard to find.”
So what's your story? What's your feeling about the 'stuff' you've accumulated over the years? Do you value it? Could you lose it and not cry? Recently we've seen people interviewed who have lost all their possessions in wildfires, flood, and mudslides. Some of them cry, “We've lost everything!” Others smile and say, “We're alive; that's all that matters.” What might your response be if you suffered the same kind of catastrophe?
You know what I'd like to try? I'd like to try living a bit more sparsely for at least a little while. Picture a log cabin beside a lake, at the end of a long dirt road; no neighbors but yes, conveniences like electricity and running water. Imagine having to go outside and split wood for your wood stove as your only heat source. Can you hear the wind in the pines? When's the last time you had blisters on your palms? Imagine having to learn how to fish again-- for supper. Imagine no television, no radio and no phones. Have you walked around a lake recently? Or even around the block? (of course not fool! It's too cold out there.) Maybe it would do all of us good to live without the 'junk' that clutters our lives and our minds, at least for awhile, just so we could see what it feels like to be free. “Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose”. (Me and Bobby McGee – Kris Kristofferson)
Anyway, I was just thinking. One of these days.....if I live that long....I'll be living someplace that stays relatively warmer during the winter months. And with a lot less clutter. Hopefully, I'll still have a wife. Hopefully.
By Greg Roberts (published 2/5/18)
WOULDA, COULDA, SHOULDA — JUST THINKING ABOUT REGRETS
Willie's song, There's Nothing I Can Do About It Now, has this line:
Regret is just a memory written on my brow.
And then, there's old blue eyes (Frank Sinatra):
Regrets; I've had a few, but then again, too few to mention.
I'm glad for you fellows, but regrets are probably the heaviest burden I carry. If you honestly don't have that many, I'm glad for you too. While none of us should spend too much time looking at life in the rear view mirror, it might be helpful to acknowledge those mistakes....or choices...that have played a major role in who we are and where we are today.
Someone once wrote, “Experience is the best teacher but who can afford the tuition?” I admit to having made many poor choices. You may want to stop reading here. Honest sharing can be too graphic for those with fragile sensibilities.
In his book, A Life On the Road, Charles Kuralt titled the last chapter 'regrets'. He (and I) look back at the women we could have slept with....and didn't. For me, that chain of missed opportunities began at age seventeen. Mom and Dad had left the house to play cards with friends. They wouldn't be home for hours. My friend and I double-dated...back to the empty house. The young lady and I were actually in my bed, about to consummate the act for the first time, when my friend hollered out from the living room, “Hey, what's going on in there?” We both panicked and quickly put our clothes back on. I've replayed that scene a thousand times and every time,in retrospect, I wish we had ignored him and gone ahead. And that was just the first one. There have been others, some who really cared for me and some who were just looking for a little human touch. Now, at seventy, it's all in the rear view mirror.
If you read the intro to Just Thinking on Ron's website, you'll see that I've taken the scenic route through life. The longest I worked at any job was thirteen years (the Mason Company in Leesburg, OH). I look at some of my friends, and many people older than me, who gritted their teeth, went to the same hard job every day for thirty years and have a decent retirement now. Me? I'm working two part-time jobs and no, my house isn't paid for. I've had many varied experiences that yielded some great memories....but sometimes I wish I had hung in there at one place.
I regret that I did not stay in the Navy. But having a top-secret security clearance gave me access to the truth about what was going on in Vietnam; I just couldn't be a part of it. As soon as my enlistment was over in 1969, I took the eagle emblem off my pea coat sleeve and replaced it with a peace sign. I never did get that Mediterranean cruise I signed up for...and I regret that. At this late date, I'll probably never see anything on the other side of the 'pond'.
There have been times when I've said things that were so out of line, so embarrassing, to hurtful...yeah, I regret those. We may not mean to hurt people, but when we blurt things in moments of anger or frustration, words can cut like a knife. Sometimes, those wounds refuse to heal. Oh sure, we apologize..but the damage is done. I've been so stupid and insensitive, like the time I asked a loved one sarcastically, “Well, you're not gay are you?” As it turned out, they are exactly that. I wish I could live that moment over again too.
My dear departed friend, Dwight Turner, was a graduate of Ohio Northern University. One night he and his lovely wife, Suzanne, and Diane and I were playing euchre. I said to Dwight, “I wish I could go to college.” (I was a barber at the time, and not very happy about it.) But never having taken a single college preparatory course in high school, having never taken the ACT or the SAT, and having been mediocre in high school, there was no way any college or university would consider allowing me in. Soon thereafter, Dwight made some calls. He gave me the phone number of Dean Linger at the J. Paul Getty College of Liberal Arts at Ohio Northern. Dean Linger and I talked and he encouraged me to apply, which I did. To this day I think the only reason I was accepted was that I had G.I. Bill.---and a recommendation from Dwight Turner. I did well enough in most courses but math was my downfall. If you can believe it, back then you could go through high school and never take algebra or anything higher. I was at a complete loss in math class. I flunked the easiest course Ohio Northern offered. I took another year of college (for a total of three) but did not get a degree. Yes, I have regrets.
When I think of all the people who cared about me and have now “gone the way of all flesh” I'm sorry I didn't let very many of them know how important they were to me, how much I loved them---from my neighbor Teddy Bear Winters to the guys I worked with at Greenfield Printing. Perhaps you already know this; our lives are composites of all the people we've ever interacted with. Their fingerprints are all over our lives.
So, where does that leave me....or you? Wallowing in self-pity does no good. Denying regrets does no good. So we look forward. I am resolved to squeeze as much nectar as possible out of each remaining day. I resolve to hurt nobody and to realize how we're all just trying to make it. The apostle Paul wrote, “Inasmuch as it depends on you, live in peace with all men.”Sounds like great advice to me. It's a wonderful life (thanks, Jimmy Stewart)--even with the regrets. I keep reminding myself that if I put my regrets on one side of the scale and my numerous, undeserved blessings on the other side, it's pretty easy to see which side wins.
I hope you can say the same.
By Greg Roberts (published 10/9/17)
JUST THINKING ABOUT TOMBSTONES
I was just thinking...about tombstones.
Morbidity is not my nature. Ask anyone and they'll tell you, “Greg has memorized more jokes than anybody else I know.” And it's true. Maybe that's why I can't remember people's names or anything else important. My brain cells have all been used up storing superfluous bovine fecal matter. (Think about it; you'll get it.) The Bible says that laughter is good medicine. So I delight in making people laugh. By nature, I am not inclined to be morbid, so keep that in mind as you read on.
Before arriving at church on any given Sunday morning I take a side trip through the local cemetery. Incidentally, the trustees do a great job of keeping the Winchester Cemetery looking good. Whoever mows the grass and does the trimming deserves a pat on the back, or maybe a pay raise. If the cemetery is empty of living souls (and it most generally is on Sunday mornings) I let the car windows down, turn off the ignition, and let my eyes and mind wander. What beautiful stones! What interesting stories they tell. Look, that man died in 1988 and his wife is still living. She's been a widow for almost 30 years. I wonder how hard her life has been without a man to mow the yard, clean the gutters, wash the car and....of course, bring home a paycheck. Maybe she's remarried. The memorial stones don't tell the whole story. I hope she's doing well.
Some stones are unpretentious. A simple block of marble with a name and two dates; birth and death. Other stones truly deserve the name 'monuments'. Wow! Pictures carved in stone. Photographs preserved. Poems, built-in flower vases, and sometimes, even sports memorabilia. These were created for more than remembrance. They're designed to impress!
You heard about the new widow leaving the cemetery with her best friend the day of her husband's funeral, didn't you? She said to her friend, “Well, I did what Fred wanted. I gave him a forty thousand dollar funeral.” Her friend was shocked. “Forty thousand dollars? Really?” The widow began to itemize the costs. “Solid cherry casket, premium vault, the funeral home expenses, plus an open bar at the country club after the funeral. It all costs money.” Her friend thought about it and then said, “Well, it was a very nice funeral and that casket was gorgeous....but forty thousand dollars?” The widow explained, “Don't forget the memorial stone.” “Oh, I never even gave that a thought. How big is it?” The widow waved her hand, pointed to her new diamond ring and said, “Two and a half carats.” (Now that's a memorial stone!)
My grandson, Xavier, with no prompting on my part, one day announced that people are stupid to buy grave stones. I asked, “Why so?” “Think about it” he replied, “Who's going to look at it? Your children, if you have any, maybe grandchildren...and then it's forgotten, just like most of them in the cemetery. In a hundred years nobody will even be asking who that person was. A waste of money.” What interested me about his observation was that he came to it all by himself — at age nineteen. I had already come to the same conclusion myself some years earlier but never shared it with him or anybody else. Scatter my ashes to the wind.
My weekly visit to the cemetery accomplishes two purposes. First, it reminds me that our time on this earth is limited. We each have an expiration date that only God knows. Most of us live our lives like we're going to be here forever...and we aren't. What was it James wrote? “What is your life? You are a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes.” Being reminded of our mortality may make us more appreciative of this day. Cemeteries remind us that we shall someday join that vast multitude of vanishing mists. Best to get comfortable with the idea. The other reason for the cemetery visit is prayer. In the relative silence of the cemetery prayer is easier...more relaxed. The psalmist wrote, “Be still and know that I am God.” This morning crickets chirped, birds sang, the wind gently whispered in the trees around the cemetery. All God's creation seemed at peace. Far off in the distance was the sound of cars rushing toward their destinations up and down the Appalachian Highway. Life in the fast lane is where many of us spend our days. Earn a living. Get the kids to soccer practice. How nice to know there is a place where we can come to a complete stop and rest in the presence of the One who gave us this day.
So, on Sunday morning, if you see my car stopped in the cemetery, you'll know why it's there. I'm just getting ready to worship. Give it a try sometime. You just may find that it fills a need.
By Greg Roberts (published 9/10/17)
JUST THINKING ABOUT CHOOSING THE RIGHT WORDS
I was just thinking about words and especially about the necessity of choosing the right words. Walk outside with me, if you please.
“Honey, where's that thing I used last night?”
“What thing?”
“You know, the thing I used to put air in the kids bicycle tires. Now the basketball has gone flat.”
“Oh, that thing. You left it in the driveway and I hung it up beside that other thing.”
“What other thing?”
“That thing above the work bench.”
“Above the work bench? You mean next to the weed eater?”
“No silly! Beside that other thing, you know, the thing you trimmed the bushes with.”
“Oh, that thing. Here it is. I got it.”
An exaggeration, you say? Not by much. Words such as “it” and “thing” are commonly used in our household as substitutes for descriptive nouns. Someone reading this column is thinking I'm making a big deal out of a small annoyance. Not true, my friend. Choosing the correct words, knowing how to string them together to communicate, is an essential life skill.
When I was a seminary student, one of our instructors told us, “the reason many people fail to meet the qualifications to receive a seminary degree is simply their inability to articulate their faith.” In short, they may know what they believe but are unable to communicate those beliefs. Quite honestly, that ability to speak what you believe is essential to effective preaching. There is no substitute for clear, concise, descriptive language. It's a learned skill and not one that preachers alone should master. When people finally agree to marriage counseling, one of the first pitfalls the counselor might discover is their inability to communicate effectively. You've simply got to know how to say what you're feeling!
My grandson has enrolled at Southern State Community College with a major in law enforcement. Upon reviewing the list of required subjects, he lamented that some of those were irrelevant and therefore, a waste of his time and money. I asked him what courses he included in that list and the first one he mentioned was English composition. “What has writing a story got to do with law enforcement?” He is nineteen. I've learned not to attempt to answer his rhetorical questions. And they are rhetorical. If I offer an answer, he seizes upon it as an opportunity to argue. What would an old grandpa like me know about what's important to learn? So I don't rise to the bait. I'll hope his instructor will answer that question for him once he sets foot in the classroom. Language skills are every bit as important as learning how to use a weapon. Words can be very effective weapons. Words can disarm volatile situations or inflame them. While he, and many other students, see courses in English language as busy work or added revenue for the college, I believe that any course we take that increases our communication skills is worth the time and effort. Writing stories may not be a comfortable task. Not everybody aspires to write for the local newspaper. (Right, Ron?) But writing forces us to delve into our vocabularies, to recall those rules of grammar we learned back in high school, and to learn how to articulate thoughts.
Some folks write words in a book every day. Women call these books diaries; men call them journals. Some are content to record the high and low temperatures for that particular day, along with some event such as “High of 62, low of 39. Played cards with Jeff and Brenda tonight.” But others...ah, they wax philosophical with their daily entries! “After a relatively warm March day, we entertained my brother and sister-in-law this evening. Something's going on. They hardly spoke to one another. Not one little kiss did he steal, as he so often has in the past. Could there be trouble in paradise?”
The first entry is business-like; “Just the facts, Ma'am. Just the facts.” The second entry is not only observant and speculative, but representative of one who enjoys writing.
There are avenues for creative writing that most of us haven't even considered. I recently met a man who made his living by being a ghost writer for elected politicians' speeches. Imagine that! The person behind the podium is reading words from a manuscript he or she didn't string together. And we thought he was speaking from the heart! Now we have to wonder if those words actually convey the politicians' viewpoints and agendas--or are they just the words they think people like you and I want to hear?
Years ago (and this is my confession) I aspired to write something so inspired, so important, so entertaining, that everybody would want to read it. I have since gotten over myself. Now I'm content to write a paragraph now and again for this column and a sermon for Sunday morning that won't put people to sleep.
Effective communication is hard work. It requires work at both ends. The listener must listen attentively, and the speaker must do his or her very best to express ideas in clear language with a minimum of those “and, um” and “you know” intrusions that cause the listener to lose interest.
Hopefully, my grandson will learn that college level English courses are not a waste of time. Whatever helps you and me to communicate more effectively--I'm all for 'it'. Are you?
By Greg Roberts (published 7/1/17)
JUST THINKING ABOUT TELEVISION
I was just thinking....
In her first national best-seller entitled “The Grass Is Greener Over the Septic Tank”, Erma Bombeck said that the first plague to hit the suburbs was in 1946. It was television. From where I stand, that seems nothing short of prophetic.
Go into a restaurant, a doctor's office, any kind of public place and what do you find? You find televisions mounted on the wall, blaring away their banality and drugging people with their eighth-grade level entertainment and endless appeals to consumerism. Look around. People sit there spellbound, staring blankly at the talking heads who are shaping what they think are their own opinions. Erma was right. It's a plague and there is no cure.
I'm no prophet but when I was seventeen, I wrote an essay for my senior English class in which a man walked down a winter street, watching the blue lights emanating from countless windows. Then he walked across the surface of a frozen pond and noticed how everything beneath was distorted by the thick ice. If we think television is reality, we are mistaken. Reality shows are a farce; nobody acts as they normally would when they know there's a camera running.
What was originally conceived as a source of entertainment and a public service (that was in the late '40's and early '50's) has morphed into one gigantic tool for selling products and services. That's a stretch, I know. How does one call the lawyer sharks looking for some poor sucker to sue a service industry? And if you want to know where the money is in this country, just keep track of the commercials. Television advertising isn't cheap. So who is buying the most air time? Pharmaceutical companies, insurance companies, and media brokers like cable companies and phone networks are by far the most common ads you'll see in a day's time. Don't believe it? Next time you sit down in front of the television, take a pad and pen with you and categorize the commercials
Sadly, the American public has a voracious appetite for violence and gore. The most popular programs are those where blood flows freely and where human beings are murdered in the most creative ways. I'm not making that up; check the ratings. Little Johnny and Susie sit there with their parents watching The Walking Dead and we wonder why their minds are warped.
The concept of television as public service was originally to be served by the news media. Early television saw the potential for news programs to create an informed, thinking public. What the original folks never saw was that major media corporations would become so prejudiced that they went from reporting the news to making the news. Then came the video camera and everybody who used to sit behind the desk reading a teleprompter longed to become a movie star! Night after night, we see a reporter standing in front of some building reporting what happened earlier in the day. Does their presence on the air in front of a building enhance the value or relevance of the story they're reporting?. Okay, if they're standing beside a wrecked car with a telephone pole down in the background, that may help the viewers, but standing in front of the courthouse, at night, talking about what went on hours ago? Is that helpful?
When video cameras were new, a reporter went down to the Ohio River to create a story about unsafe mercury levels in fish. He approached an old Black man, sitting on a stool with a cane pole. The reporter asked, “Sir, have you caught any fish today?” The old man got up laboriously, walked to the water's edge and pulled up a stringer of catfish. He smiled and said, “Well, I ain't done too bad.” The reporter asked, “Sir, are you planning to eat those fish?” The fisherman looked at the reporter as though he had just dropped in from Mars and asked, “Do the preacher read the Bible?” That was one time when the video camera was a real asset to the story.
And someone please explain to me what social media has to do with reporting the news? We hear talking heads invite people to “let us know what you think” by using Facebook, Twitter,and a host of other venues. But how does my opinion (or yours) qualify as news? The people at the station pick and choose from the responses they get to further an agenda.
I wonder how many hours the so-called average American spends watching the television each day. Not just the four screens at home, but the ones in the doctor's office, the sports bar, that bank of televisions in the box store, the portable hand-held devices, and all the other electronic wizardry that everybody simply must have to survive in today's world. Please don't get me wrong. It's wonderful that you can get the answer to any question you can think up simply by pressing a few keys. It's no wonder that encyclopedias went the way of the dinosaur. Everything you could possibly want to know is right there, at your fingertips. Why memorize anything anymore? Why waste that valuable gray matter storage space with facts and figures that you can call up instantaneously? Instead, we fill our memory banks with episodes of our favorite programs.
I wonder how people would react if suddenly, there was no television. What if we had to go back to reading books for as many hours as we spend in front of a television? Last year there was a question circulating that asked, “If you were provided with food and firewood, would you spend a whole month in a log cabin with no electricity and no running water for fifty-thousand dollars?” That means no cell phone, no computer, no television, no telemarketers, no political ads---when I was asked, I said I'd gladly PAY the fifty thousand for such an opportunity.
Walden Pond is still out there, if anybody wants to walk away from their television sets long enough to experience it. Somehow, I don't think you'll encounter any crowds there.
By Greg Roberts (published 9/8/16)
JUST THINKING ABOUT A LETTER TO THE EDITOR
I was just thinking about sending a letter to the editor. It might read something like this:
Dear Editor,
As the national elections draw nearer more and more people seem to be wringing their hands (and hearts?) in anguish. How many times have you heard someone say, “I don't really care for either of them” or words to that effect, some harsher than others? The dominant theory is that we have to vote for either the Republican or Democratic candidate. Do we? Some years back we had a candidate for the office of sheriff here in Highland County who was my personal choice for the job. But in order to vote for him, I had to change my political allegiance in the primary election. When I got to the Board of Elections I was handed a sheet of paper and told to read and sign it. The paper said that in switching my allegiance, I subscribed to the principles of the party to which I was changing. I took it back to the poll worker and said, “I wasn't aware that either party still had principles.” When you look at the presidential candidates of the two major parties, what principles do they represent?
Some say that if you vote for someone other than the Democratic or Republican candidate you are wasting your vote. Just because you don't vote for the eventual 'winner' doesn't mean you wasted your vote, not in my mind. I still think personal integrity is important, for candidates and voters. There are a number of alternative parties to vote for in the presidential election. Why not do the research and vote for someone you can honestly respect, even if they don't have the proverbial snowball's chance? At least you'll be able to say, “I didn't vote for either the Republican or Democratic candidate.”
Maybe, just maybe, there are enough independent voters who are fed-up with politics-as-usual to make a difference. When party allegiance and political survival are more important to the candidates than serving the people what options do we have but to turn our backs and vote our consciences?
I encourage every registered voter to go to the polls this November. Please don't stay home because you can't endorse either major party's candidate. A vote for a third-party candidate will send a strong message that says, “You can't count on us anymore. We are neither as blind nor stupid as you seem to think we are.”
The candidate you vote for may not win the election but you can sleep well knowing you voted your conscience and that in so doing you turned your back on the corruption and greed that have dominated this country's political parties far too long. Go vote!
By Greg Roberts (published 8/25/16)
JUST THINKING ABOUT INHERITANCE
I was just thinking about my inheritance. Please don't misconstrue my reporting of the facts as an indication of greed or a lack of feeling. I may well be the sole survivor of my mother's children. My older sister Carolyn died last March after a long battle with cancer. And yes, I miss her. My younger brother, Ted, has not been the same since he came home from Vietnam. We have not heard from him in years. He moves around the country, living in a van and drawing SSI. Naturally, the government will not tell us if those checks are still being cashed. We have no way of knowing if he is alive or not.
Mom has a manufactured home in Florida. It's not new but it's paid for. She has told me that when she dies, husband Harry gets to live out his days there, assuming she dies first. At some point, she says, I will inherit a home, a 1998 Lincoln and a golf cart. Sounds good, doesn't it? But not so fast...
My generation, the Baby Boomers, will leave an unprecedented amount of wealth. They have been the beneficiaries of many years of profitable labor, stock market gains, and of course, whatever wealth they inherit from the Greatest Generation...my mother's generation. I suspect that more than one of my peers is rubbing his (or her) hands in gleeful anticipation of the financial windfall just around the corner from the funeral home. Better wipe that grin off your face and consider some sobering facts.
Let's go back to my mother. Right now she plays golf twice a week, and pretty good golf for someone who just turned eighty-nine. But we all know that good health doesn't last forever. She had the foresight to take out long-term nursing home insurance. She has always been a realist and doesn't want to be a burden on anybody. (Thanks, Mom!) However, the amount the insurance company will pay is based on nursing home rates when she took the insurance out, and that was many years ago. Now, in 2016, monthly costs (for a semiprivate room in a nursing home) of $3,000 or more are routine. Let's assume a scenario. Let's assume that her heart begins to give her trouble and she needs open-heart surgery. Oh sure, Medicare will pay part of that cost. But an extended illness can lead to thousands of dollars in out-of-pocket expenses. Add to that the fact that we Americans are living longer than ever before and the drain on a person's financial resources can be alarming. Ask anyone who's been there. So the truth is, that while her generation scrimped, saved, did without, and tried to create an estate to leave for their offspring to bicker over, there just might not be that much. But it won't be because they didn't try.
Back to the Boomers. We have accumulated tremendous wealth. But will our children inherit that wealth? The average lifespan for a white male in America is currently seventy-seven. White females can expect to live longer. Actuarial tables put their current lifespan at eighty-one. Those numbers are increasing all the time. If you retire at sixty-five and live another twelve or sixteen years, will you deplete your life's savings? We surely aren't naive enough to think that Social Security is going to take care of us!
Here's what I believe: the tremendous wealth of the Boomer generation will end up mostly in the hands of health insurance companies, pharmaceuticals, hospitals, doctors, and nursing homes. When it comes time to read the will, there may not be very much left to distribute. (But please, by all means, create a will! Don't let the probate court grab a share and delay the distribution of whatever is left.) Our children and grandchildren may have to get their money the old fashioned way; they just might have to earn it.
-By Greg Roberts (published 5/22/16)
JUST THINKING ABOUT TOUGH GUYS -- ARE YOU ONE?
Tough guys. You know who they are. The Rock, Arnold, Seagal, Bruce --- you know them, don't you? If they had been in western movies they would all have been wearing white hats. They're always on the side of justice. They're always pitted against bad guys, guys who want to destroy our country, our women, and our way of life. Thank God for the tough guys. They get cut with commando knives, they get shot, tortured, kicked, beaten within an inch of their lives and they somehow rise above the pain to come back and win the fight. Tough guys.
You ever met any tough guys like that? I haven't. I know a lot more guys who faint at the sight of blood in the delivery room. But really, who has the opportunity to prove how tough they are? Back in 1965, two guys squared off in the aisle between the back two seats of the school bus. I don't know what precipitated it but Judd Thompson and Jim Wightman grabbed each other by the front of the shirt and began to trade punches as the bus pulled out of the Miami Trace High School parking lot. They kept on trading punches all the way to Bloomingburg, although the bus driver, Mr. Stillings, kept looking in that big rear view mirror and shouting, “You guys knock it off. Sit down back there.” But they wouldn't. By the time the bus stopped in Bloomingburg they were both streaming blood -- and both still clinging to the other and still trading punches. I made a mental note that day not to mess with either one of them. Tough guys.
His name escapes me now, but we were in freshman gym class, wrestling when a guy came trotting over to the coach and nonchalantly said, “Coach, I think I broke my arm.” One look was all it took to know that while he wasn't a doctor, he had correctly diagnosed the damage. From about the middle of his forearm, it took a decided ninety-degree turn downward with his hand hanging there limply. He wasn't crying, didn't even seem too concerned. Tough guy. It was the coach who went white as a sheet and then hurried the young man out of the gym.
We love tough guys, don't we? Come on, admit it; you loved John Belushi smashing beer cans against his forehead in Animal House. You know you did. You loved DeNiro in Taxi Driver and all the other guys who elevated our sperm counts by their mindless macho feats.
Come to think of it, we do know some tough guys and they aren't all actors. You know who the tough guy is? It's the guy who gets more than a month's shaves out of a replaceable razor. Morning after morning he braces himself again for that painful ritual, determined to get one more shave out of that blade. He spreads the shaving cream, grits his teeth, and wades in just like he did yesterday and just like he will tomorrow because those damn blades cost a lot of money.
The tough guy is the one who falls out of bed and gets ready for another day on the job even when he has the flu, or a backache or a wisdom tooth that's sending signals to his brain like electrical charges. He's the guy you can count on to be there when weaker men have called in sick and gone back to bed. When he gets to work he doesn't go around whining, trying to elicit sympathy. He came to do a job and he does it without letting you know he's hurting.
There are other tough guys. They're the guys who get dumped by their girlfriends, cheated on by their wives (sometimes with their best friend), falsely accused of wrongdoing, let go when the company is downsizing, scorned by their oh-so-cool kids, and yet they don't complain or fall apart. Their toughness isn't physical; it's mental. Yeah, it's spiritual too.
I'm just wondering. Are you a tough guy? I hope so. We sure need more of them. Life is tough. Life is unfair. Life is unpredictable. Today the future may look bright. But tomorrow? Well, you know how it is. Circumstances can change in the wink of an eye and the bright tomorrow you once looked forward to can disappear -- just like that. Somebody once said, “It doesn't matter how many times you get knocked down. What matters is how many times you get up.” That's takes toughness. Everyone can't be that tough. Some will decide, “The hell with it” and cash in their chips. I understand that. I'm not putting those folks down. I just want to take this opportunity to show my admiration for the ones who keep plugging along without complaining when others would have given up or bored everyone around them with their whining and complaining.
Did you ever wonder where tough guys get their strength and determination? Some learn it at home where they have male role models, such as fathers or brothers that set the bar high. Regardless of who it is they've come to admire, there was (or is) somebody who has made a deep and lasting impression on tough guys. Whoever and wherever they are, God bless 'em!
- By Greg Roberts (published 4/6/16)
JUST THINKING ABOUT HEROIN...AGAIN
I was just thinking about something I'd rather NOT think about. If you visit Ron's website and read this column on a regular basis you probably recall that I wrote about this subject late last year. So why, you may ask, am I coming back to it when there are so many more topics to engage our minds? After all, my opinions are just that—opinions. I have no scientific knowledge to share, few survey results, and probably nothing new to state. What I do have is a fear that this epidemic is going to affect someone in your family if it hasn't already. I'm talking about the epidemic of heroin.
It's ironic isn't it? In the English language the same word that sounds like a female (heroine) who saves the day describes a drug that ruins lives and destroys families. Same sounding words, different meanings. (We're reminded of the film The Green Mile where the huge, slow-witted John Coffey says his name is “like the coffee only spelled different”. Michael Clark Duncan should probably have won that academy award for best actor in 1999...but then, he was black, wasn't he? Sadly, he died in 2012.)
The word 'epidemic' is not an exaggeration. If the same number of people who died of heroin overdoses in the past three years had died of the plague, there is no doubt that the Center for Disease Control and Prevention in Atlanta would have issued a nationwide warning. That organization does collect statistics. In 2010 the number of people (reported) who died of heroin overdoses was about 2,200 persons. In 2014, a short four years later, the number had jumped to well over 10,000. Statistics for 2015 are still being compiled, but we know that the trend continues in an upward spiral.
Besides the untimely deaths, besides the health care costs, there are disastrous results of addiction. A huge percentage of crime is drug-related. Most of the people incarcerated in America today are there for either trafficking, or engaging in some criminal activity to support a habit. Judge Kevin Greer recently told me that in the past four years he has had to place over 1,400 children in foster care because their parents were involved in some kind of drug activity. What does that make the kids; collateral damage? No foster home will ever take the place of a loving mom and dad. But how loving can a parent be who succumbs to the lure of illegal drugs? The last time I wrote on this subject I had good news to share. That has since been reversed and three of my grandchildren are once again in foster care. Can you honestly convince yourself that you love your kids when you're spending your money on heroin and then shooting up and leaving them to their own devices? At the risk of sounding too 'preachy', the essence of love is sacrifice. You can tell just how much I love someone by how much I'm willing to sacrifice for their well-being or happiness.
Part of the problem is doctors who allow their patients to remain on prescription pain killers for extended periods of time and then shut them off are contributing to the rise in heroin addiction. If your doctor won't yield to your demands for more pain pills, and you're addicted to them, you'll hunt up one of those so-called “pain doctors” who will write prescriptions for anybody---for a small price---or turn to street drugs to get the relief you've become dependent upon.
ain, whether physical or mental, is real. If you've ever had kidney stones you know something about physical pain. (Been there, done that, three times.) If you've dealt with back problems for years, you know about pain. (Been there too.) Whether chronic or acute, pain demands relief. Sometimes a couple of Aleve tablets are enough to get you through a rough patch. Sometimes muscle relaxants will do the job. Other times, when the pain is severe or chronic, nothing short of an opiate derivative will bring the needed relief. The problem with the opiate family (codeine, morphine, oxycodone and the synthetic substitutes such as fentanyl and methadone) is that they're all highly addictive. Let's face it; some people have a higher pain tolerance than others. People who don't deal well with pain are more likely to become chronic users. Now if you're one of those who can continue to play your sport with a broken bone, you probably won't feel much sympathy for the person who cries when they get a splinter in their finger. My step father, Dick Cocklin, used to say, “Some people run to the doctor every time they get a fart cross ways.” He wasn't very sympathetic of those with low pain tolerance. Who can tell about the severity of another person's pain?
Mental pain (anguish) is every bit as real as the pain we feel from a physical injury. Life can be very hard and very unforgiving. You lose your job, a relationship fails or you feel trapped in one that has ceased to be fulfilling, a loved one dies—or maybe several loved ones die in a very short period, and the potential list of tragedies goes on. Maybe you turn to a socially acceptable escape from the pain of reality; alcohol. Or maybe you turn to heroin. Personally, I'm yet to be convinced that alcohol is a gateway drug to something harder. But who, in light of what we currently know, would turn to heroin to avoid reality? I don't have a degree, I don't have authoritative credentials, but my advice to anyone battling depression, sorrow, or some other form of mental pain is to find a counselor before you turn to drugs. Admit that you need help. Find someone who can help you understand and cope with your own demons. Don't try to do it yourself.
We, as a nation, have thrown billions of dollars into drug education, into eradicating drugs, into the criminal justice system, and here's what we have to show for it: a rising addiction rate, a rising death toll, families torn apart, and more of its citizens incarcerated than any other country in the world. It would be impossible to put a dollar amount on the cost to the economy. You've heard all kinds of solutions. The extremes run from advocating free drugs and clean needles, to applying the death penalty for anyone caught selling any kind of drug. Nothing would make me prouder than to conclude this with a sure-fire solution to the heroin epidemic. I wish I had one. I wish somebody had one. Meanwhile, in the time it took me to write this, somebody else has decided to give heroin a try. May God have mercy on them.
By Greg Roberts (published 1/25/16)
JUST THINKING ABOUT GLOBAL WARMING
I was just thinking about global warming. Depending upon who you listen to, we either are in imminent danger of destroying the planet or there's absolutely nothing to worry about.
Let's consider the past. Here in Ohio we have flatland all the way from Lake Erie down to Highland County because glaciers leveled off the terrain millions of years ago. (Sorry, you Bible fundamentalists; I don't mean to challenge your cherished belief that the earth is only six thousand years old.) So the question is this -- what happened to the glaciers? Obviously there was a warm-up, a global warm-up that forced them to retreat. If that's the case, then global warming is nothing new. It's just a part of an ongoing cycle that takes place every so many years. How many years? Who can say with any certainty? Not me. But why get excited? Chances are, you and I will have turned back to dust before the glaciers reach their minimum size. Then another cold era will begin and they'll reclaim all that territory that they lost. This earth is cyclical. Its seasons are cyclical and so is its climate.
The doomsayers retort that while there is no denying the coming and going of glaciers many years ago, the current rate of melt forebodes a catastrophe of biblical proportions. If the current rate of melting is maintained, New York and Los Angeles could be under water soon. (Hmmm, is that such a bad idea? Maybe we could create new cities on higher ground to take their places and actually plan every aspect of their existence. Better yet, instead of sprawling mega-cities, we could create smaller, more manageable cities spread out in places that would minimize environmental impacts. I digress.) If the current rate of melting isn't slowed down, not only will we lose the glacial ice caps, the polar bears and the penguins, but the oceans will rise dramatically. Yes, it's happened before but not when such huge percentages of the human population lived so close to the shores.
Those world leaders currently discussing the issue of global warming won't get close to reaching any agreement on what needs to be done. The under-developed countries that depend heavily on fossil fuels often lack the capital to invest in cleaner, renewable energy sources. They contend that the 'big boys' are trying to hold them back from reaching their potential. They're quick to point out that when the so-called super powers were becoming industrial giants, fossil fuels were their primary sources of energy too and they didn't give a tinker's damn about pollution. Did they care about global warming when they were grasping and clawing their way to economic superiority? No, they did not. But now they want to stifle the growth of the countries that are trying to feed, clothe, and employ their people.
The 'big boys', like the United States, have now become responsible global citizens who insist that the goal of stopping, or at least curbing global warming is purely environmental, with no hidden political agenda. The third world countries aren't buying. As they see it, it's like calling a halt to the ball game when it starts raining because your team is ahead. By the way, I've been down that path.
Once upon a time many years ago I foolishly agreed to be a little league baseball superintendent. My job was to see that the concession stand was open so we could make money, and call the game if the weather got bad enough. I recall the night there were tornado watches all around us and it began to rain lightly. The mothers of the team who was ahead began to shout, “Call it off. If my kid gets a cold I'm sending you the bill.” Meanwhile, the mothers of the team that was behind were threatening bodily harm if I dared to call the game off before their darlings had a chance to come back and win. Thankfully, a sheriff's deputy pulled into the parking lot, got out and announced that there had been a tornado spotted a few miles away, and HE called the game off. When asked to be the superintendent the next year, I politely declined...for health reasons.
Just how much the carbon footprint of the human species is affecting the global warming is a source of heated debate. Who can say with any certainty just what percentage of the warming is directly related to human activity, whether we're talking about coal-burning factories or deforestation? While I wouldn't care to offer a percentage guess, I am very willing to point out, as I have for forty years, that the primary reason for most of the world's problems, including global warming, can be traced back to one simple disease: overpopulation. Maybe you can remember ZPG-the quest for Zero Population Growth. Everyone is entitled to their own opinion and here's mine: bringing more children into this world other than the two who replace their parents is just irresponsible. I actually cringe when I see television shows like “Seventeen and Counting” where huge families are held up as some kind of desirable model. I cringe when I see unwed mothers with five, six or seven children. Who is going to support those kids who didn't ask to be born? Answer: me...and you. Irresponsible reproduction is going to be the demise of the species...and maybe the planet as well. Studies with pigeons, normally docile creatures, have shown that when they are overcrowded in cages they become violent and aggressive. Now, look at our cities and tell me if you see any correlation.
In the Book of Genesis, we find God instructing Adam and Eve to go forth and multiply. That would make sense if they were the only two people on earth, wouldn't it? But at what point do we employ common sense and say, “Enough”? In agrarian societies, especially primitive ones, farm work is distributed among the children. More children means less work per person and a successful farming operation. Where mortality rates are high, more children are needed just to maintain the status quo. But most societies on earth today are well beyond that agrarian model. An Amish grandfather, lying on his deathbed, asked how many children and grandchildren he had. He was told, “Seventeen children, two hundred fourteen grandchildren, and eighty-six great grandchildren.” He looked thunderstruck and then asked, “Where will they all find farms?” Answer: they won't. It is an unsustainable lifestyle, and a dangerous one for the rest of the world.
Like I said, I don't claim to have the answer to global warming, if indeed, one is even possible. But think about this basic fact: the more people there are on the face of the earth, the more resources are consumed to sustain their lives and the more pollution is created in the process. Doesn't Zero Population Growth make sense? It does to me. But then, I try to be a responsible person. Are you?
By Greg Roberts (published 12/6/15)
LETTER TO A TERRORIST
Dear Mr. Terrorist,
Please forgive the blanket label. I don’t know your name, and even if I did there’s a pretty good chance I would butcher either the spelling or pronunciation. But I want you to know that this is meant for you, personally, and not to be read as a “To whom it may concern” letter.
I don’t understand you. I’m not sure of your personal goals, or the goals of the religion to claim to represent. On the personal level, if what I see in the news is correct, you are determined to cause as much pain and suffering in this life as you possibly can. Your whole existence seems to be geared toward destruction. People like myself wonder what happened to you? Was your childhood miserable? Were you abused? If so, I’m sorry. But there are lots of people in many cultures who have miserable childhoods. There are countless children abused, yes, even in America. Rarely do these folks respond by hardening their hearts and hating everything and everyone. They get over it and find something productive to do with their lives.
Maybe I’ve read you wrong. Maybe you had a wonderful childhood but always felt there was something missing in your life. Lots of people feel like that. Some turn to substance abuse or become addicted to self-destructive behaviors. It’s interesting, isn’t it? When these seekers discover the love of Jesus they find a fulfillment they say they never felt before. What did you find when you ‘discovered’ Allah? Hatred? Envy? It surely appears that you didn’t discover anything that changed you to become a better person.
What exactly is the goal of the religion you profess to represent with your terrorist acts? Is your desire to see a world of only one religion, the Muslim one? To that end, are you ready and willing to kill everybody who wishes to worship and serve another God? Will you not be satisfied until the whole world thinks and worships as you do? If that is the case, you will never achieve your goal. God (or Allah, if you prefer) gave human beings the gift of free choice. The first record of that is the story of Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden. You have that story in your holy book too, don’t you? I wonder if you’ve ever thought about it. Freedom is such a precious gift.
The American holiday, Thanksgiving, is fast approaching. While Americans (or at least some of them) ponder the many ways God has blessed them, you hide in the dark of your poison mind and ponder how many innocent lives you might end and how much suffering you might cause if you can successfully pull off yet another dastardly act of violence against innocent people who never did a thing to you. As I said, I don’t understand you. Do you understand yourself?
If you decide to blow yourself up rather than be caught and tried for your crimes, I want to thank you. We don’t want to see your face on the evening news and we surely don’t want to spend huge sums of money on lawyers who will defend your right to live when you extended no such right to your victims. Thank you for saving us a lot of trouble.
I’d like you to know that after you’re gone to wherever it is that God decides is right for people like yourself, we will not persecute your family, should you leave one behind. No, we’ll extend them the love of Jesus….and forgiveness. Why should they suffer for the cowardly act you stoop to? You see, the Christian bible says that God is love. Can you say that about your Allah? We’ll find it difficult, but we’ll swallow our desire for revenge and do our best to live up to the high standard our God calls us to.
In closing, I want you to know that no matter how many atrocious attacks you pull off, no matter how many innocent people you kill and maim all over the world, you will only succeed in unifying freedom-loving people and increasing their resolve to stamp you and your kind out so that the rest of the world might live in peace.
Thank you for taking time to read this. You can go back to your plotting, or bomb making or whatever it is you do with your time. Me? I’m going to prayer. I pray that God will thwart your efforts….and somehow, change your heart.
Sincerely, Greg Roberts
By Greg Roberts (published 11/18/15)
JUST THINKING ABOUT ‘THE REAL WORLD’
The acclaimed speaker looks out over the sea of black caps that crown expectant faces and smiles inwardly, remembering the time when she sat on those folding chairs awaiting the proof of all her hard work and perseverance. With a final glance at the manuscript on the lectern, she begins, “Class of 2015, we have come to this moment you have all eagerly anticipated, the moment when you get your due reward for years of study, study that has prepared you for the real world beyond academia.”
Ah yes, the real world. No more late night cram sessions. No more early morning classes. No more papers to write. From now on life will be focused on gratification. We'll get a good job with a nice paycheck and reasonable hours. We'll trade in the old phone and the old car for the latest models. No more sharing living quarters with roommates who range from slobs to neat freaks. We'll breathe deep the air of independent living and the good life of the college graduate.
There is a television commercial currently airing in which the esteemed speaker tells the smiling graduates that most of them will not find those desirable jobs. Many of them will be under-employed in jobs where the hours are long and the compensation insulting. As the speaker goes on, the smiles evaporate. That college degree that was supposed to throw open wide the doors of opportunity may even prove to be a hindrance. Some companies don't want to waste time training folks who probably won't stay put long enough for the company to recoup the cost of training. They would rather employ folks who will be satisfied with jobs rather than careers. The career employers are looking for people with college degrees coupled with work experience in the chosen field. But that's a rare combination, and the odds are that there will be at least one, and possibly many, unrelated work experiences before the graduate elbows his or her way into their chosen field. Welcome to the real world.
Hopefully, your hard-earned degree is in field where occupational opportunities, while not abundant, actually do exist. No doubt you've heard the old joke: What did the art history major ask the engineering major? “You want fries with that?” How many burgers does one have to flip to pay back those student loans? How many career opportunities are there for the person with the art history degree?
Lest we become discouraged, let us count our blessings. Assuming that you, the reader, are an American, you have many advantages working in your favor. Despite some civil disturbances, your life is rarely in danger daily. Your primary language coincides with the culture's. Hopefully, your college experience has given you the ability to write an intelligent sentence. Writing is important, even if you do it with a keyboard instead of a pen. Kids in grade school today aren't learning cursive; they'll be taught to text and you can forget about intelligent sentences. Hopefully, you have above average communication skills. If you are physically healthy, that's a real plus. Chances are you've been vaccinated against most diseases. Hopefully, you're smart enough to refuse addicting drugs. You have youth on your side, unless you're one of those admirable people who went back to finish their degrees after they raised their families. If you have a strong work ethic you are already head and shoulders above many of your peers.
If we think of 'the real world' as life in America, we are ignoring the larger reality. While so-called 'Western values' are permeating places like China and South Korea, there are still many places in this world where day-to-day subsistence is challenging. Civil wars have disrupted whole countries and life is precarious for many millions of people who would love to have your shot at the American Dream.
You want to talk about the real world? Let's forget about jobs and careers for a moment. Let's get down to basics. Yesterday, the cat came home with a baby rabbit, still alive, in its mouth. It was too young to live away from its mother. That's the real world. Most of the time humans are at the top of the food chain, unless you consider bacteria. James Patterson's book has been turned a move entitled “Zoo”. From the previews, it appears that in the movie we are no longer at the top of the food chain. The latest Jurassic movie will remind us that as a species, we are just another source of protein for creatures stronger than ourselves. The real world of nature is harsh and uncaring. In Carl Sandburg's seven-volume biography of Lincoln, he makes the observation that “nature is careless” by birthing far more lives than those needed to perpetuate the species. Most will never reach maturity. That's the real world….and quite honestly, when we look it square in the face, most of us don't like it. We buy our meat at Kroger and don't want to be reminded where it comes from or the process that brought it to the meat case.
The real world is hard. The real world is cold and uncaring. The greatest challenge we, as individuals, face is not survival. Our greatest challenge is to to resist becoming hard, and cold, and uncaring. That, by the way, is the often ignored and misunderstood, but undeniable foundation of the Christian faith. In a world where self-gratification is second only to survival, the call to care for others more than we care for ourselves stands out like a flower growing from a crack in the concrete. The real world of nature has not changed since this earth was created. The real world of human experience in life offers many choices. In the words of the old master (TV series Kung Fu), “Choose wisely Grasshopper.”
By Greg Roberts (published 6/4/15)
JUST THINKING ABOUT HEROIN ADDICTS
I was just thinking about the heroin epidemic. From what I hear and read this epidemic knows no social boundaries, no ethnic divisions, and no limits to how far it will reach. WKRC television in Cincinnati has run a series of stories about heroin addiction, as has the Cincinnati Enquirer. The statistics are alarming and the personal stories heartbreaking. The prognosis for a heroin user is bleak. One author went so far as to say that heroin addiction is a death sentence.
Before I write another word, I need to tell you that it has invaded my own family. So please don’t think that my thoughts are those of a person so detached from the problem that he is incapable of sympathizing. You don’t need a name, but the person in my family who was using heroin is one of the few who actually escaped the addiction—with help from professionals, the court system, and family support. The judge made the statement, “You are one in a thousand.” And for this person’s transformation and new life, I am truly grateful.
When a heroin user overdoses and somebody calls 911, the most common treatment is an injection of Narcan, which can bring the victim back from the brink of death in a matter of minutes. Great! I hope you learned your lesson. But no, the same person overdoses again and again. Each time it happens. Somebody calls 911 and the EMT’s come to the rescue with another dose of Narcan. Here’s my question. Why should you and I pay to bring these addicts back from the brink of death again and again? If they don’t care about their lives, why should we, the taxpayers? Narcan is an expensive drug and EMT’s don’t work for free. Why not tell the user after their first close brush with death, “Next time you’re on your own.” I know to some people that must sound harsh, but ask yourself if we are helping these people.
I suppose a heroin addict might say, “I never intended to get hooked.” My response to that is a Cherokee Indian legend. It goes like this:
Often times, when young boys reached a certain age, they were sent from the village in search of a vision. This was the case of one particular young native boy.
He started to go up to the top of a mountain in search of his vision. And as he climbed up the mountain, the air got cooler and cooler. And he came upon a rattlesnake laying in the path. The snake was shivering, and said to the boy. “Please help me. I can’t move, I am so cold that I can no longer make it any further down the mountain.”
The boy said to the rattlesnake “No way! You’re a rattlesnake, if I pick you up, you’ll bite me!” The snake replied. “No, no I won’t, I promise I won’t bite you if you’ll only pick me up and help get me down the mountain.”
So the young boy picked up the snake, put him in his shirt, and continued climbing to the top of the mountain in search of his vision. When he got back down to the bottom of the mountain, he reached in, took out the snake, and the snake bit the young boy.
The boy replied to the snake “Hey! You bit me, you said that if I’d help you out, that you wouldn’t bite me! Now I’m going to die!”
The rattlesnake replied “But you knew what I was when you picked me up!”
In this age of information, there is no room for the excuse, “I didn’t know.” No, you knew, but you thought you were somehow immune: “It won’t happen to me.”
There are many folks who aren’t really in chronic pain; they just want to get high. They’ll smoke pot, snort coke, sniff glue, huff gasoline, or do whatever it takes to escape reality for awhile. These are the folks I really have trouble understanding. Recently our police chief come to church and showed us slides of crystal meth users. It was shocking to see how their health declined in a matter of months. It is his contention that marijuana is a gateway drug to heroin. I’m certainly not qualified to speak to that. But my gut asks, “Why would you take a chance?” I have a friend who comes from a family riddled by alcoholism. Because of that fact, he has never once tasted an alcoholic beverage. He says, “What if one drink led me to being an alcoholic? Would it be worth it just to see what beer or wine tastes like?” I admire his will power and cannot fault his logic.
If the appeal of using a street drug, whether it's pot, coke, heroin or Molly, is just to ‘feel better’ or ‘get mellow’ I have to ask, “Is it worth the risk?" Maybe the better question is this: why is your life so bad that you want to escape? You know what might be a better idea? How about spending a year in some third world country where hunger is your everyday companion and physical violence a very real possibility? How about joining the Peace Corps or some other benevolent program? Maybe a year in such a place would open our eyes to the reality that we are blessed beyond most people on this earth to live in this country at this time. Maybe, just maybe, we wouldn’t be nearly so tempted to toy with something as dangerous and life-destroying as street drugs.
That’s what I think. What do you think? Email me. I’d love to hear from you.
By Greg Roberts (published 3/13/15)
JUST THINKING ABOUT COLLOQUIALISMS
I was just thinking about some of the colloquialisms we frequently use and wondering two things. First, where did they come from and secondly, will they be around much longer. If you can help with some of these, please respond with an email.
“Strike while the iron is hot.” Did this originate in a blacksmith’s shop? Surely it has nothing to do with those old clothing irons that you put on the wood stove and waited for them to heat up. The only two blacksmith shops I’ve ever been in were at the Ohio Historical Society in Columbus and Greenfield Village in Michigan. With the increase in the Amish population, there must surely be at least one in Highland County.
“Prime the pump.” We have an old-time pitcher pump lying off to the side of the driveway. That’s as far as I got it when Diane said she’d like to have one mounted in the front yard with a water trough in front. It’s on my honey-do list. But would a teenager have any clue as to what these words meant? Politicians know. The new meaning has to do with lobbyists paying off congressmen or women. You prime the pump with a bribe (but we don’t call it a bribe) to get things going your way. That reminds me; did you know that there are now five levels of government? There’s the original three consisting of the executive, the judicial and the legislative branches. The new ones are the lobbyists and the media, both of which have tremendously more power than the old ones
“The apple of my eye.” Okay, it comes from the Bible. It means you hold someone in high esteem. But literally speaking, what the heck can it mean?
“We’re burning daylight.” This one is surely on the way out because it’s an obvious admonition to stop wasting time. Old-timers worked from sunup to sundown and there was no time for goofing off (burning daylight). But the government has fixed that for us. They’ve given us Daylight Savings Time. And, as my brother Andy has pointed out, only the government could think you can cut a foot off one end of the blanket, sew it on the other end, and have a longer blanket.
“Bring home the bacon” and “save your bacon” are equally obscure to me. Any help?
“Flash in the pan.” I thought this was about panning for gold and maybe seeing a flash of yellow amongst the silt and pebbles but no, it’s about flintlock muskets. A small pan of black powder is set of by the flintlock, thus creating a flash that ignites the main charge. I’m pretty sure most teenagers will still be using this one twenty years from now. (NOT!)
“Hogwash.” Do people really wash hogs, except at the county fair? Is this a reference to Miss Piggy’s bathwater?
Are there any “eager beavers” among us? That would be the person who is always ready to go “full steam ahead”, which is, by the way, another saying surely on the way out. During the American Civil War, the Confederates mined the harbor at Mobile Bay. Admiral Farragut was advised of this but ordered his ships to ignore the mines with this famous quote, “Damn the torpedoes; full steam ahead!”
Have you ever been “asleep at the switch”? What used to be done manually, throwing switches to on the railroad tracks to divert cars, is now done (like just about everything else) by computers. I think this one is a goner too, how about you?
“Lead pipe cinch.” We had horses for a number of years so I know what a cinch is. I also know what happens when you don’t get it tight enough. Experience is still the best teacher but the tuition is high! So, what is a lead pipe cinch? Help!
“Elbow grease.” Akin to “‘put some muscle into it”. My dear departed friend, Ted Winters, used to say that in his younger days they didn’t have all this new-fangled equipment to make their jobs easier. (He was talking about such things as backhoes and earthmovers.) He said (and this is a direct quote), “All we had was our asses and our elbows!” Duly noted, Ted, and how I miss you and our evening coffee on the front porch swing.
“Over a barrel” is hardly used anymore. Originally, it came into play as a means used when attempting to resuscitate a drowned person. The barrel was turned on its side and the victim was placed perpendicularly over the barrel, which was then rolled gently back and forth in an attempt to purge the seawater from the victim’s lungs and stomach. The person “over the barrel” was literally at the mercy of the one in control. Perhaps the more commonly used phrase is, “It’s your night in the barrel.” You figure that one out yourself.
There are a couple of phrases that chicken growers might still use in the future but you seldom hear nowadays. “Mad as a wet hen” is one and the other is “scarce as hen’s teeth.” It’s a safe bet that the chicken tooth fairy isn’t too busy.
“Cash on the barrelhead.” Now that’s a good one! It originates from the American frontier where business transactions were always cash, and the barrelhead served as a makeshift counter. Who pays cash these days? You can bet this one is going the way of the dinosaur.
Somebody get out your favorite cleaning agent (there are more on the market every year) and tell me what it means to be “as clean as a whistle”.
I hope this isn’t politically incorrect, but do you know what it means to “suck hind teat?” A farmer knows that in livestock the hind teat is normally the least productive, hence the littermate shoved to that source of nourishment will probably be the weakest. For those of the human species, since there is no hind teat, it generally means “getting the short end of the stick”.
Okay, back to my original pondering. How many of these could a typical teenager define and how many will still be found in common usage twenty years from now? Since I don’t expect to be here myself, I’ll leave it to somebody younger to carry the torch.
By Greg Roberts (published 12/15/14)
THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN BEING ALONE AND BEING LONELY
There’s a difference, isn’t there, between being alone and being lonely. You can be lonely in the midst of a crowd, even a crowd of friends or family. You can be alone and not feel lonely. Doesn’t everybody feel lonely at some time?
When our last parent dies, a sense of loneliness may envelop us. For many folks, parents represent security, safety, a place of belonging. At the very least, our parents represent our roots. If your parents still lived in the same house where you grew up, that house may now seem very empty indeed. You walk through the rooms and the memories are as thick as the dust but the silence can be deafening. The creaking of the rocker, the clatter of plates being dealt on the dining room table, the sounds of laughter, the hissing of something spilled on the stove---wonderful sounds, but gone, leaving only emptiness. Your footsteps echo in the emptiness of that childhood home.
Even if the childhood home was sold in favor of a warmer climate, parents can still represent security. You call them to ask advice, something you never would have done as a teenager. You call them to see how they’re doing. Just the sound of their voice is reassuring, even if you do get an organ recital. “Well, the doctor says my heart is fine but my kidneys aren’t working right and my lungs…..” and on and on it may go. But they’re still alive and in that reality you may well find a sense of security.
For many folks, siblings become more treasured as the years pass, especially when the parents have both gone on to their eternal reward. The sister who was a royal pain in the ass as a teenager just may become your best friend in later years. The little brother who was always being spoiled by Mom and Dad may not cause such resentment among his older siblings as he did when he was young. One by one, we say goodbye to them. If you are an only child, you probably can’t relate to this scenario, but you still know the pain of losing people you love.
Good friends are truly hard to lose. Many folks look at their graduation classes from high school and mourn the fact that their classmates are fewer and fewer at each reunion. Even if they weren’t close friends in school, the fact that they’re dying off saddens us and reminds us of our own impending mortality. One of the worst moments in life for many of us is when we get a phone call telling us that the guy or gal we loved so dearly in school or even later in life died suddenly. It’s like a punch in the solar plexus. Even if we haven’t seen them for years, it comes as a very personal blow.
Fortunate indeed is the person who lives alone and doesn’t feel lonely. The surviving spouse of a fifty-year marriage is challenged to adapt to a new normal, a living-alone normal. They may have to develop new skills…in the kitchen or in the garage for day-to-day needs. For some, who have relied on their spouse with a clear division of labor, this new reality is overwhelming. “What temperature do you use to fry an egg?” “How do you prime the lawn mower to start it?” We may not hear their cries but they are very real. “Where are you? I need you! Why did you leave me?”
Which is sadder, the one left alone by the death of a spouse or the one lonely in the marriage? For many folks, the term ‘happily married’ is a cruel joke. Some endure domestic violence. Some put up with addictions and destructive behaviors. Some tolerate selfishness. Think about Waylon Jennings’ song, “She’s a Good-Hearted Woman In Love with a Good-Timing Man.” How many folks do you know who can say, “I’m happily married”? The vow taken at the altar includes the words, “Till death do us part” or something very close to that. A friend of mine recently quipped, “I didn’t realize at the time that I was getting a life sentence!” Maybe joking is the only socially acceptable way to complain that you feel trapped---and lonely.
If you’re one of the fortunate people who have the gift of meeting new people and making friends easily, there is a measure of comfort in social interaction, be it at the golf course, the bar, or the dance. Does an active social life help to combat loneliness? For all outward appearances, it seems to help. What happens when, at the end of the evening, you go home and close the door behind you?
Loneliness is the symptom of isolation, real or imagined. We can be isolated by our behavior if it isn’t socially acceptable. We can be isolated by our physical deterioration. We can be isolated by any number of factors, even the way we think, and loneliness can result. Fortunate indeed are those who find a place where they belong, such as a welcoming church family where sincere caring is more than something hoped-for. Fortunate indeed is the person who feels a connection to Divinity, in whatever form or by whatever name they may use. Fortunate indeed is the one overcomes loneliness, the most common ailment in western society today.
By Greg Roberts (published 11/16/2014)
ON OLDER FOLKS COPING WITH LIFE
I was just thinking about older folks and the things they do to cope with life.
Martha (not her real name) had an annual ‘allowance’ from the trust fund set up by her father. She and her husband got along well enough. Both in their seventies, they lived in a little farmhouse. Some would say they should have stayed there. But then this house they both adored came up for public auction. There was a clause in her trust that said if she was homeless, for any reason, she could access the funds necessary to purchase a house. The only way they could purchase it was for them to divorce. So they quietly divorced, or so they thought, and continued to live together. But as soon as the court news hit the local newspapers, people in their community began to wag fingers and tongues. They were very open about their judgments. “Why, those old people are living in sin!” The self-appointed judges assumed (and we all know how to dissect that word, don’t we?) that though in their seventies Martha and her husband were still engaging in…dare I say it?…sex! Outside of marriage! Horrors! She and her husband became outcasts, shunned by the good Christian people of their Church. They bought the house for a fair price at auction, but paid a hefty price in the court of public opinion.
Every week we hold funerals for older folks. Many times they leave behind a spouse the same age or older than themselves. Some of them will cope well enough on their own. Others will be absolutely lost without their soul mates. Do you know how few men can cook? Do you know how many widows can’t do the simple tasks like check the oil in their car or mow their lawn? Remember what God is reputed to have said just before creating woman? “It is not good for man to be alone.” Neither is it good for a woman to be alone. Numerous people have told me how lonely it is to live alone and how unrewarding it is to cook for one person, let alone eat alone. Must it be this way when you lose your spouse?
There are numerous ways to avoid the loneliness of finding yourself single in your older years. Some folks move in with one of their children. Sometimes that works well, but not often. People trying to raise their own children while meeting the needs of aging parents under the same roof often complain of being overwhelmed by too many responsibilities. Three generations under one roof was the norm in Jesus’ day. That’s why he explained Heaven to his disciples this way: “In my father’s house are many rooms.” (Sorry folks, but the King James Version word ‘mansions” is a gross misinterpretation of the original Greek which none of Jesus’ hearers would have understood.) But ‘rooms’ they would have understood perfectly. When a son got married, the normal next step was for the family to add rooms to the existing house. Hey, it worked for the Waltons too…but not so well today. Two generations under one roof seems to be plenty.
Okay, so now what? Live alone in your own space and be totally self-dependent. That’s an option, but it leads to isolation and loneliness, especially if you don’t drive or don’t have much desire to go out much. We do have some assisted living facilities but they’re expensive and many folks don’t need assistance; they just need other people, people much like themselves. Eventually they may need assistance or even the nursing home, but not when they have all their faculties and reasonably good health.
You know what I’d like to see? I’d like to see some of the big old houses turned into group homes for two or more people. For that matter, the old Webster school is up for auction. Can’t you envision that being turned into communal senior apartments? I envision a scenario where the rents would be modest and the bills shared equally. Maybe the residents would take turns cooking or maybe they’d hire a cook. Maybe they’d do their own laundry and change their own bedding or maybe they’d hire it done. It would be entirely up to them. But to sit down at the dining room table whenever you like, and enjoy conversation with your meal….that would be a wonderful thing. As long as they were considerate of one another, keeping their television sets turned down, flushing the toilets, rinsing the tub when finished bathing, taking turns emptying the trash and getting it out to the curb, maybe even mowing the lawn, I could care less how many of them were male or female. I have no right to make judgments based on speculation. (Neither did Martha’s church ‘family’ either, but they certainly did.) Quite honestly, I am of the opinion that whatever two consenting adults do behind closed doors is nobody’s business but their own.
I try to envision my own future, should I outlive Diane. I don’t think I could maintain this house by myself, let alone the five acres. I wouldn’t think of trying to live with one of my grandkids. The prospect of a group home occupied by older folks (like me) sounds interesting. If the rents were low you wouldn’t be nearly so worried about outliving your savings. Heck, you might even have enough money to take some of those senior bus trips. But when the trip was over, it would be nice to come back to a house where people like yourself were there to welcome you…wouldn’t it?
- By Greg Roberts (published 10/28/2014)
OWNING LATENT RACISM…
I was just thinking…about my latent racism. There, I’ve said it. I own it, albeit with some sorrow.
I’ve written in this column before that I grew up in a racist home. In the sixties, when images and reports of black marches aired on television, my step-father would rant about those people having nothing better to do than protest that they weren’t getting their fair share of the American Dream. I guess it’s best if I don’t use the so-called “N” word since I’m not black. Only blacks can use the “N” word. Somehow, the logic escapes me but the rule is blacks can call each other anything they want but white folks had best not use derogatory terms lest they be charged with a hate crime. Okay, that’s today. But back in the sixties it was different. My father used the “N” word frequently and vehemently. It’s what I grew up with and not just at home. I am, after all, American born and raised.
Four years in the Navy gave me numerous opportunities to work alongside folks of different race, ethnicity, and religious preference. Those were good years, years that expanded my outlook and taught me tolerance. For a time I was the only ‘white boy’ on second shift in our New York City communications center. I had some trepidation about how that would work out when I saw the watch list posted but I need not have been concerned. We (a black officer, a black Wave, and five black civilian G.S. workers, got along wonderfully. We even learned to joke with one another about race, this at a time when race riots were raging in New York and other cities. Any one of those people could be my next-door neighbor today and I’d be thrilled. They were hard working, fun-loving, dependable folks who showed up on time and did their jobs with efficiency and dedication. When our shift was over, they would take their token white out for a nightcap to places he would never have dared to venture on his own. We did get some looks….but I kept my mouth shut and didn’t do anything stupid. After a momentary silence, people went about their business as if there was nothing strange about a honkey in their midst.
These days, my only interaction with people of color occurs when I go to United Methodist activities. Let’s correct that. Other than the fact that my wife and I are raising two bi-racial grandchildren, my only exposure to folks of color is through the church. Maybe I need to be back in the city. Or not. Just about every night when Diane and I watch the evening news out of Cincinnati, there are stories of random murders. Pleas for folks to come forward with information to help catch the perpetrators go unheeded. And more often than not, the victim and the perpetrator are both black. Not always, mind you, but most times that’s the case.
Recently a white police officer shot and killed a black teenager in Ferguson, Missouri. You know that. No doubt you’ve seen the film footage of the riots, the looting, and the shooting. I find myself getting angry with those folks who think that an unjustified shooting (something as yet to be determined) gives them permission to act lawlessly. How does what happened give anybody the justification to break a store window and loot the premises? If that white officer isn’t found guilty of some heinous crime, you can bet there will be hell to pay in Ferguson. Is he guilty? A court will decide that; not the court of public opinion either. We are supposed to be a nation of laws.
Now, couple my frustration with those incidents with film footage revealing the current ‘game’ called Knockout. That’s where somebody comes up behind or alongside an unsuspecting victim and attempts to knock him or her out with a single punch. It’s not for revenge. It’s not so that you can rob them. It’s just for fun. In every version I’ve seen aired on television (captured on security cameras) the victim is white and the perpetrator (dare I say hoodlum?) doing the damage is black. Is that coincidence? Are television stations trying to instigate racism? Or is the footage what it appears to be—a repeated pattern of black people attacking white folks just for the fun of it? In some cases, the victims have been grievously injured.
So here’s my question. What if it was your relative who got ‘knocked out’? What’s that do for your willingness to look at all folks, regardless of color, as being beloved children of God? Then, if that wasn’t bad enough, a story aired recently about a man attacked in the parking lot of a grocery store and beaten severely…for fun. Two white store employees who bravely came out to assist the man were beaten and knocked out as well. Footage taken with cell phones shows a sickening scene; Black folks running around laughing, kicking those unconscious white employees, and generally having a great time, even throwing pumpkins (stolen ones, mind you) at the victims lying on the ground. You could easily identify at least half a dozen of the perpetrators if you had access to the cell phone footage. But will there be any prosecution?
I doubt that anybody who ever participated in the Knockout game will ever read these words. But you can’t help but wonder if they realize that they are setting race relations back…way back. They are throwing fuel on the smoldering fire of racism. When you act like an animal, can you expect to be treated with dignity and fairness? We know that it is just a few who bring disgrace on the multitude. But when black folks won’t turn in the perpetrators, they add to the problem…and the problem isn’t doing anything but growing.
- By Greg Roberts (published 9/15/2014)
JUST THINKING ABOUT LOVE
Having just read again the thirteenth chapter of I Corinthians, I find myself wondering if I have ever loved. Love is patient; I am not very patient. Love is kind: I am often not kind. Lover never fails. Really? Is that the same as saying love never dies? Take just a moment and think about how many songs you know that speak of love gone cold. One of my favorites is from Paul Simon. In his song, I Do It For Your Love, you find these lyrics. “The sting of reason, the splash of tears, the northern and the southern hemispheres. Love emerges and it disappears. I do it for your love.”
My personal experience is that love can be killed by neglect or abuse. Periods of inattention from the one who loves us are to be expected as an inescapable dimension of our busy and overcrowded lives. It’s a two-way street. There are times when higher priorities demand so much of our time and energy that there is little left over to spread over a multitude of needy people. People start to feel neglected. Abuse, while regrettable, often results as a reaction to neglect. The neglected party lashes out with words of accusation. The accused person’s natural response to such attacks is withdrawal (from the more timid) or retaliation (from the more aggressive). In any case, a vicious cycle often results leading to an ever-widening gap of alienation. Abuse breeds neglect and neglect breeds more abuse until two people who once believed they loved each other find themselves wondering what they ever saw in that person.
Most people probably never offer the kind of love that “endures all things, keeps no record of wrongs”, and aspires to keep the other person and their needs foremost in every situation. The desire may be there but the ability to put that kind of vision into practice runs into an undeniable reality. That reality is simply that we are human beings and being human, we nearly always operate from a modus that ‘my needs have to be met before I can meet somebody else’s needs’. Few are those who manage to reverse the order, regularly subjugating their own needs for the gratification of somebody else’s…somebody they love. Sadder still, those rare folks who do find the strength to operate from this position of servitude are often trampled and used by folks who will take and take till there is no more left to give.
Jesus said, “No greater love has this, that a man lay down his life for a friend.” Who am I to disagree with that? I mean, Jesus is the most important human being that ever lived! And yet, I cannot help but wonder if it wouldn’t be easier to lay down one’s life than to actually live one’s life for the express purpose of meeting somebody else’s needs. If the essence of love is the willingness to sacrifice (and I believe it is) then the measure of love is found in our answer to the question, ”How much am I willing to sacrifice for the person(s) I claim to love?” A one-time heroic deed, such as jumping on a grenade to save your buddies, might be the result of a split-second decision without time to weigh the consequences. Compare that to a lifetime of decisions that weigh your own desires on one side of the scale and your loved one’s desires on the other side and then always doing what you think will meet their needs as opposed to meeting your own. Conscious, willful, ongoing sacrificial living may indeed be a greater sign of love than the one-time act of valor. It may well be that when Jesus spoke of ‘laying down one’s life’ he had in mind the daily routine as well as the one-time event.
Is any of this making sense or am I just whistling in the dark? I’d love to hear from somebody.
- By Greg Roberts (published 8/3/2014)
SEEKERS CHALLENGE EVERYTHING
I recently picked up a book in the church office entitled, "Readings In Christian Thought" by Hugh T. Kerr. It’s an anthology of writings by many and diverse theologians from the first century through today. You’re probably wrinkling up your nose…or gagging…but I admit this stuff’ appeals to me. Anyone who studies the history of Christian theology will find that there have been virtual wars (okay, word wars) over such subjects as who Jesus was, the nature of God, the meaning of salvation, and even the relation of males and females. This thing we call Christianity is by no means a universally agreed upon set of beliefs. What we have today has come down to us through controversies, debates, and eventually, councils. Even so, there is very little in Christianity that all ‘believers’ subscribe to.
One of the earliest Christian theologians was Justin Martyr. He lived from 100 till 165 AD and he wrote to defend the Christian faith from both Jewish antagonists and pagan polytheism (many gods). What follows is an excerpt that jumped out at me from Justin’s Apology (which means defense of Christianity), his most famous work.
“Reason requires that those who are truly pious and philosophers should honor and cherish the truth alone, scorning merely to follow the opinions of the ancients, if they are worthless.”
When I first began to write the Just Thinking essays, Ron asked me to write a brief introductory bio. In that introductory paragraph, I claim to be a seeker of truth and a student of life. Am I? Is life teaching me anything worth sharing with others or am I merely a leaf on the stream of humanity, drifting with the currents of culture and circumstance? More importantly, am I guilty of claiming to be a seeker of truth while content to repeat the platitudes and axioms that constitute modern day wisdom?
If you’re familiar with the Gospels, you may recall that when Jesus was brought before Pilate he said, “…I came into the world to testify to the truth. Everyone on the side of truth listens to me.” And then Pilate asked the question of the ages, “What is truth?”
For many folks, the answer is this: truth is whatever I’ve been told by my parents, my teachers, and my Church since I was a child. (Those folks will never, ever read "Lies My Teacher Told Me".) For some, even questioning what they’ve been taught is a form of disrespect. To actually challenge a traditionally held belief is tantamount to rebellion! (You wouldn’t believe how many ‘church folks’ have denounced such fictional works at "The Da Vinci Code".) Beyond the influence of early teachers, there are electronic information sources that claim to speak ‘the truth’. I can hardly bring myself to call them news media (such as CNN or FOX) but they spill a constant stream of biased information disguised as ‘truth’. Their disciples are numerous and noisy, claiming to know what is right and denouncing any and all who might have the audacity to harbor a dissenting opinion.
A well-respected pastor recently explained to me that for some, truth is not a universal entity. For some people, he explained, “There’s your truth and there’s my truth.” He wasn’t on-board with that kind of thinking. He insisted that the only real ‘truth’ was revealed in the Christian Bible.
Personally, I find that hard to accept, that God revealed God’s self only to a few select MEN, living in a particular geographical area, belonging to only one race, over a period of a couple of thousand years. But that’s supposed to be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth for the entire human race? That says to me that God doesn’t speak to you or me—and that God never spoke an inspired word to anybody living in China, or India, or Tibet. Now please don’t get me wrong. I’m not hearing voices in the night. But I DO believe that God speaks to all kinds of folks who are listening…and seeking. What God reveals is sometimes put into print…or maybe text…and shared with others who might also be listening and seeking. To say that God stopped speaking truth to humanity when the Bible was created seems to me to be sealing the lips of God (assuming that God has lips like us humans).
My advice to anyone seeking truth is this: challenge everything. Don’t follow the opinions of the ancients if they are worthless. Take nothing for granted. Age-old wisdom just might prove to be age-old prejudice, or even ignorance. Perhaps the hardest test of discernment occurs when we have to ask ourselves, “Is this from God?” If all truth comes from God, then the truth-seeker has to ask him or herself, does this feel, taste, smell and sound like something from God? Oh! There’s the problem, isn’t it? If we can’t know what God is like, then how can we know if something comes from God? Maybe if I read some more of the theology book I’ll find out. Or maybe, just maybe, God will reveal God’s self to me if I seek with my whole heart. I hope so.
- By Greg Roberts (published 7/6/2014)
THE END OF THE 'PAPER PULPIT'?
If A. J. Liebling was once correct in asserting that the only persons guaranteed freedom of the press are those who own one, he would surely be astounded at the power and scope of what we call ‘social media’. No longer are folks eager to spend their hard-earned dollars to read the overtly conservative diatribes of some columnists, or the liberal rants of editors and publishers from that end of the political spectrum. Instead, they turn on their electronic devices and visit their favorite websites. Not only can they read what others are thinking, they can contribute to the conversation, even if what they have to offer falls into the category of illiterate rubbish.
The implications of this change are many, beginning with the eventual demise of the daily and weekly newspaper. The paper industry, and its parent, the timber industry, will find fewer and fewer markets for paper. Printing presses, no matter how technologically advanced, will have less clientele. A trip to the airport waiting lounge will affirm this. There are still a few newspapers lying around on the tired, vacant seats but the vast majority of folks are choosing to access the news on their electronic devices. Television screens abound in these areas but flyers are more and more enamored of their iPods, iPads, and Tablets. Who wants to be locked into one news network, chosen by the airport authority, when you can jump back and forth between Fox, CNN, and others?
If you spend your dollar on a newspaper and don’t find the editorial page particularly enlightening, all you can do is turn to the sports page or the comic strips (which normally reveal more real insight anyway). But you’re out a buck, or whatever the exorbitant price for a daily paper is these days. Conversely, if you go to William Buckley’s website and find yourself shaking your head in disbelief, you can bail out by pushing a couple of buttons and fleeing to a site where the views expressed are more in line with your own thinking. The freedom of choice is nearly limitless.
There are certain aspects of a local newspaper that are not readily available via electronic media. Classified ads, auctions, sheriff sales, and legal notices are still (presently) the domain of the local newspaper. However, if I can have access to the same information by going to the newspaper’s website, why would I want to spend a dollar? I don’t even own a parakeet so I don’t need birdcage liners.
Here’s my take: those in the newspaper industry had best be re-training for other job markets.…and without delay. When was the last time you saw a teenager reading a newspaper? Those who have had the luxury of sounding off from the paper pulpit had best get used to the idea that in the near future their expressed opinions will carry no more weight and reach no more eyes than those of the average man on the street.
Equality is coming to the world of free speech. Get used to it.
- By Greg Roberts (published 6/10/2014)
JUST THINKING...ABOUT PRIVACY
I was just thinking about privacy.
Crossroads magazine, a tourist guide to Adams County, contains a perennial ad for a getaway retreat. It’s a unique place where you don’t have to worry about what to pack in your suitcase. My guess would be a couple of bottles of wine, a couple of those books you’ve been meaning to read and a large bottle of suntan oil. Cedar Trails is a nudist colony, open to the public.
Recently, I spoke with someone who has been there and I asked, “Are newcomers reluctant to disrobe? Do they take off their clothes in the car?”
She said, “Some people are nudists and some aren’t. For some, it’s in their bones. They probably run around in their homes nude, maybe even in their back yards if they have a privacy fence. Others will never be comfortable with it.”
That got me to thinking, and now, I hope not to shock anyone. BC (before children) I used to be one of those who walked around the house in my birthday suit. Providing the house was warm, I liked the freedom of being unencumbered by clothing. True, nudity does have its drawbacks. If you’re one of those who absolutely has to have their cell phone or wallet within reach at all times, you won’t find nudity appealing. I’m not one of those. When we lived in the country, with the nearest neighbor a quarter of a mile away, I used to go check out the garden in the same natural state. The sun on our skin, especially skin that is rarely exposed, feels nothing short of wonderful.
Then came Ellie, our daughter. Nudity went by the wayside, along with sleeping at night. But after six years of being at least modestly concealed by boxer shorts and a wife-beater T-shirt, she began to go to school and I could once again prance around the house in the natural state until it was time for the bus to come home. I was working second shift, which gave me a few hours at home during the daytime.
Then something happened. I got respectable. Became a preacher. Moved to Sinking Spring. Nudity ended. The doorbell might ring at any moment. No more lying in the sun. No more privacy, not even in my own home. Which brings me to the point.
What has happened to privacy? Mr. Snowden (whether you agree with his actions or not) has revealed that Big Brother is indeed watching me…and you…and listening, and recording, and creating files. But it’s all for our own safety. The NSA and other government organizations tell us that without spying on us (and yes, that’s what it amounts to) they cannot prevent terrorist attacks. In Dan Brown’s fictional book, "Angels and Demons," a university lecturer is quoted as saying to his students that the goal of terrorism is to create fear…and a lack of faith in the government’s ability to protect its citizens. Do you feel more secure, knowing that the government is listening to your cell phone conversations and cataloguing the websites you visit?
When you’ve finished your session with the computer you can click on ‘tools’, click on ‘history’ and delete the list of websites you’ve visited. Think you’re safe now? Folks who should know what they’re talking about tell me that your hard drive is virtually impossible to erase, short of total destruction. So guys, if you think that porn you were watching last night is your little secret, think again. Maybe you don’t care but if you ever decide to run for public office, just know this: every website you ever visited can come back to bite you if some government agency decides to release that history. Your privacy on the worldwide web is non-existent, even if all you do is look at the pretty pictures. And yes, I know that as a contributor to Ron’s website I willingly subject myself to public criticism. But that’s in the public sector. What about the private sector?
I used to think that I had some privacy in my own home. Okay, I can’t run around nude anymore, not even in the house. Oh, just an aside…I read recently that the best deterrent to sex among seniors was nudity. Looking in the mirror, I can attest to that. But I can surely speak my mind within the security of my own walls, can’t I? Apparently not, unless you’re sure that the person you’re speaking with isn’t recording your conversation. Ask Donald Sterling, the soon-to-be ex-owner of the Clippers. The media, the NBA, the NAACP, and everybody else are ‘outraged’ by the personal opinions this man revealed in a conversation with his ex-girlfriend. Talk about Boyfriend Revenge! She used that conversation to destroy him. What began as a private discussion has turned into a public maelstrom of resentment. “Donald Sterling is a racist! Donald Sterling shouldn’t be allowed to own the team. Donald Sterling is a scumbag!” And the public outrage over a supposedly private conversation continues to spiral upward.
In one sense, it’s rather amusing. If you take the current attempt to make this man sell the Clipper franchise to its logical extreme, it stands to reason that if you or I are found to hold private racist leanings, and those leanings become public knowledge, we might be forced to sell our business. I might be stripped of my pastor’s license. Or, in Ron’s case, he might have to give up his city manager’s job. Or in your case….what might you have to forfeit if your private conversations become public? Maybe it’s not so funny.
I’ve shared in previous columns that I gave up the coffee club in the mornings. The hate just got too deep. I used to think that America was still the bright shining light of opportunity for people from every nation.
"Inscription on the Statue of Liberty"
Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses, yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore,
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door.
Author: Emma Lazarus
But to hear the folks in the local coffee clutches, that just isn’t the case anymore. “We don’t need no more damned foreigners.” My point is this: who among us can claim to have no prejudices and no trace of racism (whether you’re black or white). And who, among us, doesn’t feel that in the privacy of your own home, you should be able to express your thoughts honestly? Even if your thoughts aren’t noble, or politically correct. It’s my opinion that this ‘girlfriend’ has violated a sacred trust, the age-old concept that a man’s home is his castle, and that privacy within its walls is to be respected. But hey, that’s just my opinion. What’s yours?
- By Greg Roberts (published 5/2/2014)