Lessons from Buddy

 A year ago we said goodbye to Buddy, our tri-color Pembroke Corgi.  I am writing this week in his memory and in honor of all the dogs that have loved each of us in our childhood, youth, and old age.  Buddy was a young dog when he found us, full of energy and full of confidence.  He thought he could leap any barrier and outrun any rabbit.  Of course, he could do neither.  But that is one of the things that makes Corgis so loveable. They do not know their limits, and don’t care. They will try the impossible.

 Unfortunately, the lifespan of dogs is far shorter than our own.  After 14 years, our vet told us he was in his mid-nineties, in dog years.  He suffered from Degenerative Myelopathy, a genetic disease similar to ALS in humans and common to Pembroke Corgis. We tried to keep him comfortable and continued to love him as he loved us until we laid Buddy down one year ago, gently and tenderly, with tears.

 Along the way, he taught me a few things.

Buddy taught me to trust. Whenever I got in my truck he jumped in and took his place, ready to go. He didn’t know where we were going or what we were going to do. He believed that if I was driving it was okay. I need to be more like that with God. I always want to know where I am going, when I am going to get there and what I am going to do once we arrive. I need to jump in the truck with God and give him control of my life.

Buddy wanted to be with me. He didn’t care if it was at the lake running, splashing and rolling in the mud, sitting in a chair next to me on the patio or in my study lying at my feet. He just wanted to be where I was. He even followed me from room to room in the house. I need to spend time with God like that. What made the early disciples different was the fact that they lived with Jesus and spent time with Him. (Acts 4:13).

Buddy followed me. Whenever we went for a walk in an open field I let him run free. But he kept an eye on me. He developed a radius of his own, about thirty yards from wherever I was. Within that radius he felt comfortable exploring smells and marking trees. Occasionally he got out of eyesight. But when I called his name he came running. Not real fast, but as fast as he could. After all he was a Corgi. It reminded me of what Jesus said to His disciples, “Come, follow me!” “My sheep know my voice.”

And, he taught me patience. He would wait on me forever. If I was writing, he would lie down, rest his head on his paws, keep one eye on me and wait. If we were walking and I stopped, he would sit down with his tongue hanging out and wait. If I went to the store in cool weather, he waited in my truck until I returned. Buddy never complained about waiting on me. He never got in a hurry. Maybe I should be more like that with respect to God and those I love.  (Isaiah 40:31). 

Bill's book, Buddy the Floppy Ear Corgi is free this week as an eBook on Amazon, Jan 31-Feb 4. 

Importance of Neighbors

 We went to the movies again. Settled into the same seats, E3 and E4, aisle seats on the first row of the upper section, shared our popcorn and Diet Coke, and sat back to watch Tom Hanks’ new movie, A Man Called Otto.  We had already seen the earlier Swiss version with English subtitles on Amazon Prime,  A Man Called Ove.   Otto is the Americanized, English language version. Both are terrific! But, when I looked at Tom Hanks, I had difficulty not imagining Ottos as a castaway, an engineer on Polar Express, or any number of other characters.

 Both films are based on a book by the Swedish author, Fredrik Backman that was published in 2012. The English translation followed in 2013 and it immediately hit the New York Times Best Seller list. The Swiss movie followed in 2015, and, 2 weeks ago, the Tom Hanks version, A Man Called Otto  was released.

 Backman claims to have been inspired by an article he read about a man named Ove who became unhinged at an art museum over difficulties purchasing tickets.  Backman identified with the man’s frustrations and started writing blogs about his own pet peeves under the title, “I Am A Man Called Ove.”  Over time the pet peeves took a leap to another level and the story was born.  In the movie, Otto moves beyond frustration and anger to understanding, acceptance and love in an aging and diverse neighborhood. A Man Calle Otto  shares similar themes with Clint Eastwood’s 2008 movie, Gran Torino.

 We all have pet peeves.  We all are annoyed at times by the behavior of others, by rules and regulations that make little sense.  We all feel pulled toward inwardness, the temptation to be consumed by our own concerns, oblivious of others and their struggles. In our old age, many face the challenges of living alone in an increasing generational disconnect. We all have prejudices.

 Ultimately we all need one another.  Even the wealthy and famous can succumb to the ravages of isolation and loneliness.  Real relationships are always  close up, face-to-face, those with whom we share daily life.  I was reminded of Otto in our recent Colorado snowstorms.  I woke to the sound of a shovel scraping on concrete and ice. When I went outside, my neighbor was shoveling our drive. I grabbed my shovel and joined him.  A widow lives on the other side of him. I asked if he had shoveled her drive and walk yet.  He said no, but he was going to. So we shoveled together, and then, moved on the house beyond hers, a retired couple who moved to our neighborhood a year ago.   A few days later, our neighbor from across the street crunched her way across the ice with her 10-month-old baby on her hip to deliver fresh muffins she had baked for the neighborhood. We are grateful for the neighbors, young and old, who choose to share life with us.

 I am always glad to see a movie that captures the essence of Jesus’ teaching about how we should live.  Personal relationships sometimes appear complicated and confusing, but Jesus boiled all the complications down for us into very simple term:  “Love your neighbor as yourself,” (Mark 12:31).  “In everything therefore treat people the same way you want them to treat you, for this is the Law and the Prophets,” (Matthew 7:12).

The Power of Imagination

 Imagination. It is the magic carpet of the mind. With it we can journey centuries backward in time or fly forward to a future we have never seen. We can imagine things as we wish they were, and, when it is most productive, we can actually change the world around us.

In his famous speech from the steps of the Lincoln Memorial in 1963 Martin Luther King, Jr., imagined a world where men would “not be judged by the color of their skin, but the content of their character.”  “I have a dream,” he proclaimed, “that one day on the red hills of Georgia the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave owners will be able to sit down together at the table of brotherhood. ,,, I have a dream that one day every valley shall be exalted, every hill and mountain shall be made low, the rough places will be made plain, and the crooked places will be made straight, and the glory of the Lord shall be revealed, and all flesh shall see it together. ... . With this faith we will be able to work together, to pray together, to struggle together, to go to jail together, to stand up for freedom together, knowing that we will be free one day.” 

Dr. King’s imagination made a difference.  While prejudice remains in many places, racial equality and inclusion have advanced since he spoke those words and cast that vision. Jesus cast an even greater vision 2,000 years ago in his Sermon On the Mount, (Matthew 5-7).

 If we lived as Jesus imagined we could and should live, we would treat everyone with respect. No one would be considered a fool and no one would be expendable. Adultery and lust would vanish. Marriage would prosper. Each of us would speak truthfully and no one would lie. We would refuse to retaliate, and no one would seek to get even with those who have wronged them. We would go the extra mile and, if anyone asks for our shirt, we would give him our coat. We would not only love our friends and family, we would love our enemies and seek to do good for them. 

Our faith would be authentic and real without hypocrisy. We would give to the poor in secret without even taking a tax deduction or hoping someone recognized our charity. Instead of praying long repetitious public prayers, we would pray privately from our hearts. If anyone has wronged us in any way, we would forgive them without requiring them to ask for it. We would no longer be driven to accumulate possessions and money. Instead, we would invest our resources in doing good for others who are in need. We would no longer worry. Everyone would treat everyone else the same way they desire to be treated.

Each of us, every day is creating a world of our own imagination. In the end, we each must choose what we imagine and what the world around us will become.

A Life and Death Moment

 Something unusual happened last week. On Monday evening, January 2.  With 5:58 remaining in the first quarter, Bengals quarterback Joe Burrow threw a screen pass to wide receiver Tee Higgins who sprinted around the right end.  Bills safety, Damar Hamlin made an open field tackle. It appeared to be a routine play in a routine NFL game. Following the tackle, Damar Hamlin jumped to his feet then collapsed.

 In a matter of seconds everything changed.  Damar Hamlin was not merely shaken up or injured.  His heart had stopped. Without immediate intervention, he would be dead. Medical personnel immediately started administering CPR. An ambulance was called.

 Shock swept through the players on the field and the spectators in the stands. Athletes began to weep.  Both teams gathered on the field and fell to their knees, praying for their teammate.  Joe Burrow and Josh Allen, opposing quarterbacks, embraced each other.  A hush fell over the packed stadium.

 For the first time in NFL history, the game was suspended.  Everyone was charged with emotion. Everyone called for prayer.  Commentators prayed on live TV.  Thousands prayed in the stands.  Players on both teams, including Damar Hamlin’s close friends and those who did not know him, prayed.  After an hour, fans exited the stadium like mourners leaving a funeral. The lights were turned out and darkness enveloped the stadium. The field that moments before vibrated with the thunder of competition now lay empty and silent. The game was cancelled.  ESPN commentators Joe Buck and Troy Aikman struggled to find words.  According to Buck, “This went from a sporting event to a matter of life and death like that.”  Aikman said, “This puts football in perspective. ... Prayers are with the Hamlin family.”

 Why did this moment grip those who were there?  Why has it gripped our nation? 

 Perhaps it was because our deepest need is not competition, but compassion.  The men on that field were trained to compete, to win at all costs.  But, at that moment on January 2, compassion was far more important than competition. Damar Hamlin was little known among the hundreds of NFL players before he collapsed.  A week later, coaches and staff wore sweatshirts that proclaimed, “Love For Damar #3.” Russell Wilson of the Broncos and Derwin James of the Chargers met at midfield, both wearing #3, took a knee, bowed their heads and prayed before their game Sunday.  Josh Allen, the Bills quarterback choked up saying, “I was going around to my teammates saying, ‘God’s real!’” On Monday, January 9, Hamlin was released from the Cincinnati hospital. 

 Perhaps it was because this moment brought us face-to-face with our own mortality. Players in the NFL are looked upon as invincible. Young men in the prime of life and peak condition.  Damar Hamlin is 24 years old.  Damar’s collapse reminded us we are always one heartbeat away from eternity.  My wife’s oldest brother died of a heart attack while tending his garden.  Her other brother died of a heart attack while camping. The night after Thanksgiving in 1986, her mother died in her sleep.  We buried her sister less than 4 months ago.  My father was 53 when I held his hand, and he drew his last breath. We are all mortal. For all of us, there comes a time when only faith and prayer remain.

Moving On

 We have moved a number of times in our life.  When we first married, we easily stuffed all our possessions into the back seat of a 1960 Chevy Impala.  But, after raising 3 children, and making multiple moves in Texas, Minnesota, back to Texas and eventually to Colorado, our minimal belongings grew. We had accumulated a significant stash of stuff.

 We had unopened boxes that followed us to and fro about the earth, still sealed after several decades. We threw away dozens of trash cans full of junk. We gave truck loads to Good Will and Habitat.  We hauled boxes to our kids for a garage sale. Still, we had stuff. 

Some things attach themselves and will not let go.  We still have boxes labeled “keepsakes and junk” that hold tangible memories:  the roller skates I had when I was a kid (the four-wheel kind with a skate key to clamp them to the soles of my shoes); a baseball I wrapped with electric tape when I couldn’t afford a new ball, my daughter’s hand-scribbled cards signed with x’s and o’s, the shoeshine kit my son made for me; my wife’s wedding dress in a box that has remained sealed for over 50 years. Multiply these a hundred-fold and you get the idea.  What do you do?  You rent a storage room, I guess.

 Memories are good. They give us identity, and I feel pleasure when I handle these tokens of by-gone days.  The reminders of my childhood and youth make me thankful. They give me courage and hope for more to come.

 It is important to “move on.”  We must always be ready to read the next chapter yet to be written. When I was 18, I sold family Bibles in Alabama and bought one for myself.  That huge Bible became a depository for keepsakes from our children and grandchildren.  It overflowed into a “family Bible box.”  As we do every year, I pulled out family Bible tokens and shared them with our grandchildren this Christmas.  Our youngest granddaughters read the Luke 2 story of Jesus’ birth.  I  added their names by the verses they read, the same place where I wrote their parent’s names when they learned to read. We have one more grandchild whose name will be added next year when he starts first grade.  

 Memories are not just about the past. They anticipate the future. I suppose that is why we turn the page and start a new calendar, so that we can always be reminded there is a future yet to be written. 

I expect this is what the Apostle Paul meant when he said, “Brethren, I do not regard myself as having laid hold of it yet; but one thing I do: forgetting what lies behind and reaching forward to what lies ahead,  I press on toward the goal of the prize of the upward call of God in Christ Jesus.” (Philippians 3:13-14).