The Legacy of Old Chairs

As I write this, I’m sitting on one of two recliners in our living room. These recliners are well over thirty years old. They were my grandfather’s recliners. My grandfather has been dead since 1998, and they were already well-worn when he died.

When we first bought our house in 2003, we needed furniture to fill it, and these recliners were available. They were only meant to be space holders until we settled in a bit and found furniture of our own. They were already old back then and on their “last legs.” I had to remove the 2x4’s my grandfather had installed under them to lift them up higher to make them easier to get out of. While I rather appreciated sitting up higher, they tended to give a precarious feel to the chairs—like they were always on the verge of possibly tipping over.

But as we settled into the home, at first other, more pressing concerns claimed our attention. The chairs were serviceable, and so they could wait for a bit. Then as time passed we found that we rather liked them. The color fit remarkably well with the rest of the living room. They both swiveled and rocked—which can be a bit hard to find in newer chairs. And, perhaps most importantly, both Elizabeth and I fit comfortably in them—not an easy feat as there’s almost a foot difference in our heights. And as we had children, and particularly as one of our children was a spitter as a baby, we decided to keep the chairs through the early childhood years so we wouldn’t be concerned about kids jumping on them or spilling on them or pulling on them or drawing on them or…. There’s something nice about having furniture you’re not trying to protect. These chairs have served us well.

Now, however, their time has come. Their fabric is fraying thin. Their armrest covers have long ago been lost or destroyed. The chair I’m sitting in now leans perpetually to the left and the footrest will occasionally just spring out on its own accord (this can cause great amusement if it happens as the dog is walking by). The swivel feature is starting to wear down and both chairs are leaving sawdust on the floor from where the rocking motion is wearing into the wood frame. I looked into bracing them or trying to repair them, but even I had to come to the obvious conclusion: Their time has come.

Getting ready to say good-bye to these chairs has had me thinking quite a bit about legacy. These chairs, in their own strange way, have been a connection to my grandfather. They were something he liked. Something he sat in quite a bit. Something he MacGuyver-ed himself in order to make them sit better for him. But that relationship is complicated. My grandfather taught me a lot about life—how to play checkers and think ahead about the consequences of my actions, how to be resourceful, how to press ahead in the midst of adversity. But he could also be downright stubborn. Tact was not his strong suit. And he had a clear racist streak.

He had a strong faith, but there was no gray area for him—there was a lot of black and white. I remember him fiercely debating my dad on church issues like women in office. It took until he was dying for him to admit that perhaps the Christian Reformed Church didn’t have the corner on truth.

One memory in particular sums up much of his personality: We were visiting him in Bradenton, Florida, where my grandparents spent several winters in a row. My dad was driving my grandfather’s car with most of us packed in when a truck pulled out in front of him and cut him off. My dad simply backed off a bit and didn’t even honk the horn. My grandfather was perturbed. “If I were driving,” he announced, “I would have sped up, pulled in front of that truck, and then slowed way down.”

There’s something about these chairs that we’re about to get rid of that connects me to my past. It’s a past that’s complicated. Not nearly as simple or as clearly good as I would like to remember, though there’s certainly good there. I’m doing my best to be aware of the ugly parts and how they might still be influencing me while also celebrating and cherishing the good. I’m also still wading through some of the consequences of decisions and actions that were taken long ago. I remember writing a paper on my family history while in seminary and being shocked at how many skeletons were in the family closet once I started digging just a bit. All of those stories—the good and the bad and the in between are part of who I am now, though they by no means define me.

And as Elizabeth and I look ahead to new chairs, I realize that the future is wide open. Even as the past shapes me and influences the way I engage the world, I’m writing my own legacy each and every day. Someday my children or grandchildren or my friends or colleagues will be remembering me. They’ll remember the good things and the bad. There will be things to celebrate and things that make them cringe. But my goal, my hope, is that there will be far more good things than bad.

I’m particularly aware of it during this pandemic. How I (and Elizabeth) process all that is going on, how we deal with the almost-daily disappointments or frustrations, how we handle the uncertainty and manage the unknowns is shaping how our children respond, how our friends respond, how colleagues and neighbors and those we encounter regularly respond. It shapes how they learn to deal with change and uncertainty, how they process death and disappointment. We make more mistakes than I’d like to admit, but hopefully we’re getting a few things right as well.

Galatians 5:25 directs us “since we live by the Spirit, let us keep in step with the Spirit.” This comes right after the fruit of the Spirit given in verses 22 and 23: “but the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control.” It strikes me that part of keeping in step with the Spirit is producing the fruit of the Spirit each step of our lives. I tend to think of the fruit of the Spirit as something I might produce every so often—a little patience here, a bit of joy there… But keeping in step with the Spirit is more an encouragement to produce these fruits every step along the way.

I hope and pray that when people remember my legacy, they’ll see the fruit of the Spirit.

Trying Not to Be That Guy

One of my pet peeves is people who don’t pick up after their dog. It might go back to the time when one of our children was a toddler and we had gone over to the park across the street from our house to run around a bit, and we had run into a neighbor we had just met a little earlier and I started chatting. As we were just getting into our conversation I turned back around to check on our child and was horrified to discover this child eating dog poop. Indeed, we love living across from the park and being able to go over to play whenever we want, but we’ve discovered the hard way it’s always best to scan the ground first before kicking the soccer ball or playing catch. I particularly dislike mowing the lawn in the summertime and discovering that some inconsiderate neighbor has allowed their dog to leave an unwanted gift in our yard and not bothered to pick it up. I admit there are even times when I’m sitting in our living room watching folks walk past our house with their dogs and I’m wondering to myself whether or not they’re the type that doesn’t pick up after their dog. It’s not a side of me I’m particularly proud of… 

One of my favorite memories from the church community suppers comes from one of our mid-summer cookouts. A number of us were helping to set up tables in the green space, and there was a rather large, twenty-something young man walking down the sidewalk along Kalamazoo Ave with a small pug trailing twenty feet behind him. He was absorbed in his phone and didn’t notice when his dog saw the stretch of parking lot coming up and decided to take advantage of the church lawn before the asphalt started. My jaw just dropped as I realized the man wasn’t going to turn around and pick up the poop his dog left behind. I was already starting to turn toward the church to go find a bag when I heard Cora Coburn shout out, “Excuse me! Do you need a bag!?” Gracious but direct at the same time. The man pretended not to hear. Cora wouldn’t be dissuaded. Louder this time, “Excuse me! Do you need a bag?!” The man could no longer pretend not to hear. He turned, looked up from his phone a little sheepishly, pretended (?) to be taking in the situation for the first time, then responded, “Oh—did my dog? No…I got it.” And he went back and cleaned up after his dog.

It’s a relatively small thing, but there’s not much I consider more rude than not cleaning up after your dog. Of course, I tell myself not to judge too quickly—that perhaps there were extenuating circumstances. Perhaps the owner had a perfectly good explanation for leaving that pile of poop in my yard. But usually I can’t think of what that might possibly have been.

So imagine my chagrin a few weeks back (before we had all this snow) when I was walking our dog Luna to church just to grab a few things, and she stopped almost exactly halfway between our house and church to do her business, and I went to our treat bag I was carrying that has a compartment just for poop bags, only to discover the compartment was empty. That’s okay—I thought—don’t panic. This treat bag has a secret pocket where I stash a back-up bag for just such an occasion as this… And I opened the secret pocket, only to discover that someone had pilfered the extra bag long ago and never bothered to replace it..

Suddenly I found myself far from home with a dog that had just left an unwanted gift on some stranger’s front yard and I had no bag with which to pick it up. I looked around. There was no one to be seen. But then I remembered the recent heated exchange on nextdoor.com where, in an attempt at public shaming, one neighbor posted a video of another letting their dog poop and not picking it up. Apparently this person’s Ring doorbell camera had captured the whole thing. I looked at the door—I couldn’t tell if it had a camera doorbell or not. But just in case I made apologetic motions with my hands, tried to point out I was out of poop bags, and made my best attempt to explain through charades that I was going to go get a bag and come right back.

I made a mental note of which house it was, hung my head down low, and left the scene of the crime as quickly as possible. I hurried the rest of the way to church, and even though I wasn’t going to be there long, I didn’t wait at all, grabbed a bag from the kitchen, and went straight back to the house in question. I remedied the situation, felt relieved that it didn’t look like anyone even knew anything was amiss, and again began considering myself to be a good neighbor.

The obvious take-away here is a lesson in humility. The words of Jesus from the Sermon on the Mount were quick to pop into my head: “Do not judge, or you too will be judged. For in the same way you judge others, you will be judged, and with the measure you use, it will be measured to you. ‘Why do you look at the speck of sawdust in your brother’s eye and pay no attention to the plank in your own eye? How can you say to your brother, ‘Let me take the speck out of your eye,’ when all the time there is a plank in your own eye? You hypocrite, first take the plank out of your own eye, and then you will see clearly to remove the speck from your brother’s eye.’” (Matthew 7:1-5, NIV) And I realized that perhaps I needed to be more gracious toward others, even (yes, even!) when they let their dog poop on my front yard.

But as we enter into the season of Lent, there’s another take-away here as well. Ash Wednesday is a time to remember in particular our own sinfulness, our own mortality, our own need for a savior. And this story of Luna and the empty poop bag container reminds me that it’s not always other people that mess up. It helped me realize that I tend to think of other people as the sinners and tend to think of myself as a pretty good guy. But one of the reminders of Ash Wednesday is that we “all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God.” (Romans 3:23)

Looking for the Light

I spent some time this week arranging things in my office at church. (Thank you again to everyone who helped move everything out and back in again!) The new carpet looks great, and it was good to rediscover some things and get rid of a few things too.

One of the things I rediscovered was a post-it note on my desk with a quote from Peter on it. “Watch for the light, Mommy. Follow the light.” The quote was from a camping trip up north a few years ago, my first more-than-one-night camping trip with Jay and the kids since the girls were toddlers. Peter and I were on our way to the bathrooms to brush our teeth before bed, and he was sweetly earnest about making sure I got there and back again safely with my flashlight. “Watch for the light, Mommy. Follow the light.”

We’ve been singing a couple of songs about light at our house these mornings—one as a ‘wake up’ song when we get the kids up for school, another as Bri and I pray with Teach Us to Pray, both from Lift Up Your Hearts.

The ‘wake up’ song is #102 (often this is greeted with “Mom! Why are singing that song?!”):

Arise, your light is come!

The Spirit’s call obey;

show forth the glory of your God

which shines on you today.

 

And the other is the chorus of #100:

 

We’ll walk in the light, beautiful light.

Come where the dewdrops of mercy shine bright.

Oh, shine all around us by day and by night.

Jesus, the light of the world.

 

I was walking with a friend this morning who observed that one of the things about walking in the winter is that you’re almost always looking down to pay attention to the ice and snow underfoot, and how you have to be deliberate about looking up to see the beauty around you.

Photo by Alexandr Podvalny from Pexels

We also talked about how these days, whenever the sun peaks through the clouds enough to be seen on our kitchen floors, we summon whoever is home at the time to come and look and see it.

 

Earlier this fall, when Bri and I were praying with Teach Us to Pray, one of the readings was from the 10 plagues in Exodus, and one of the questions was ‘I wonder what deep darkness feels like?’ And we talked about how living right now, in the midst of pandemic and racial injustice, with so much fear and uncertainty, might be what deep darkness feels like.

 

I know that God is present in the darkness as well as in the light. I know that new life begins in the dark. And at the same time, my prayer this week is to notice ‘the dewdrops of mercy’ shining bright each day – the sparkle on snow, the laughter at home, the kind words of a friend, the sun breaking through - to watch for the light, to be deliberate about looking up to see the beauty around me.

 

And I’m reminded of this blessing from the Iona Community:

 

May God bless you.

May God keep you ever with great care

and lead your lives with love.

May Christ’s light shine in our lives,

and peace in heart and home

prevail through every day

till greater life shall call.

Amen.

Spheres of Safety

With all of the restrictions that come with life in the midst of a pandemic, our family has invested in a number of new boardgames. While some, like Throw, Throw, Burrito have been met with mixed reviews (yes, it involves throwing burritos at each other), a new family favorite is now Wingspan. 

This game involves forming a flock of different kinds of birds by playing different bird cards you collect along the way. Each bird card features a different bird from North America and includes a gorgeous drawing of the bird along with some fun facts about the bird. Different characteristics on the card correlate to real characteristics of that bird—like what type of nest it has, how big its wingspan is, in what type of habitat it lives, and what type of food it eats. I like to think that we’re learning a lot about the birds even as we try to outplay the other people in our family. There’s even an app you can download that will play the bird’s song if you take a picture of the card.

We play it quite regularly. We’d probably play it more if I wasn’t the one that won every time. We like it so much we’ve recently added the European birds expansion and friends of ours gave us an upgraded wooden birdfeeder for the game (apparently there’s a whole niche of Wingspan accessories on Etsy.com!)

We’ve discovered that different members of our family have different strategies when it comes to this game. Some of us disregard any emotional attachment we might have to particular birds that we know or like and simply play to maximize our point total so that we might have the best chance of actually winning the game. This is the cutthroat approach. Others of us, however, prioritize the beauty of the game. These players would rather select the more colorful bird or majestic-looking bird over the bird that would best suit their strategy for winning. Their goal seems to be more to collect the birds that make them smile rather than the birds that give them the most points. I suppose the strategy you choose might depend on what your definition of winning might be.

I, as you might surmise, am almost always in the former camp. I try to avoid any emotional attachment to the birds and simply use them for the skills and characteristics that best fit into my overall strategy for that particular game.

There’s one particular bird, however, that I have a remarkable soft spot for. The Atlantic Puffin. Yes—the black and while bird with the bright orange beak and legs. I find them irresistible. And each time they come up in the game, I find myself throwing out my carefully crafted strategy just to be able to acquire that particular card and count the Atlantic Puffin as part of my flock.

Part of the reason I’m so attached to the Atlantic Puffin is because of a magical encounter I had with them while we were on sabbatical back in 2010 and were visiting the Iona Community on the Isle of Iona in Scotland. In the middle of our week there, they organized a day outing to the nearby Isle of Staffa. Because we had small children at the time and there was an age limit for the boat, Elizabeth graciously offered to stay behind and I went on the tour on my own.

The main draw was the interesting geological formation known as Fingal’s Cave—but a secondary attraction was the Atlantic Puffin colony that resided there through the summer. We only had a limited amount of time on the isle, and after spending a considerable amount of it fascinated by Fingal’s Cave, I realized I would need to choose between seeing the spectacular view to the northwest or trying to view the puffins which may or may not be there on the east side of the Isle. I chose taking a gamble on the puffins.

To get there, I needed to make my way up the narrow trail winding up the cliff rising from the ocean’s edge to the plateau on top of the island. We were told that the puffin nests were high up in the cliffs rising above the ocean and as you sat on top of the cliff edge, you actually weren’t very far at all from the puffin nests. The puffins themselves, however, spent almost their whole daytime swimming in the ocean far offshore because they were afraid of the seagulls that terrorized them along the cliffs. And sure enough, when I arrived, the puffins were floating together offshore in the ocean and could barely be made out as specks on the water.

Don’t lose hope if that happens, we had been told. Instead, sit very still. And if you’re lucky, the puffins will fly up and sit on the cliffs next to you. And sure enough, at first one, and then two, and before long 12-15 puffins had flown up and joined us on the cliff edge. And not far away from us either—sometimes just 2 or 3 feet from us. Seemingly the closer the better in some cases!

Apparently, seagulls terrorize puffins, driving them to spend their days floating far out on the water rather than in their nests. And the puffins know that the seagulls are afraid of human beings. And if humans are present, the seagulls will stay away. And if the seagulls stay away, the cliffs are again a safe space for the puffins. So as long as there are humans on the cliff edge, the puffins can come back to land and no longer need to be floating in the ocean for protection. It’s almost as if the puffins see a sphere of safety around each human being.

As this pandemic rages on, I’ve been a bit startled at how my attitude toward other people has shifted. When I see someone walking toward me on the sidewalk, I shift out into the street so as to avoid getting too close to the other person. If I’m at the grocery store or another place where there are other people and someone comes too close to me, I instinctively back away. When I drop the weekly groceries off at my parents’ house and my dad gets a bit too close as he starts to chat, I quickly find an excuse to move to the other side of the room. All of these are necessary precautions in this time of COVID and good steps to take, but I’m worried about how my perception of other people might be affected for the long term. The other day on our walk Elizabeth said, “I’m looking forward to the day when I can be excited to see someone else out for a walk again.”

In this age of COVID, it’s hard to envision human beings as spheres of safety. But perhaps it’s more necessary now than ever. Maybe we’re not yet able to view other people as spheres of safety in terms of sitting safely near others, but what if we ourselves did our best to be a sphere of safety for others? Not physically, but rather emotionally or spiritually?

As political differences divide us and both sides demonize the other, how do we take politics seriously and engage well, but without threatening the other? As the LGBTQ+ debate heats up in the Christian Reformed Church, how might we be a sphere of safety—both for those who disagree with us, but especially for those most affected by this debate—those of us who identify as LGBTQ+ ourselves? When our friends or neighbors are directly affected by the racial tensions and institutional racism that are all too real in the United States, how do the rest of us become a safe ally—someone who can come alongside and help provide at least a small hedge of support and protection? Someone who can help keep the seagulls at bay at least to some degree, help provide just a little bit of room to breathe or feel slightly safer? When the homeless in Grand Rapids are forced out of Heartside Park, even as the weather turns colder, and costs of housing continue to skyrocket in Grand Rapids, what might it look like for me—someone who has a house—to be a sphere of safety for those who don’t? And when there are record numbers of refugees in the world, those who have lost everything—how do I use the blessings I enjoy to be a blessing to those in desperate need?

I don’t have the money of Jeff Bezos, the technological resources of Elon Musk, or the political influence of Donald Trump or Joe Biden. But I have plenty of gifts and resources. And I also have a calling to be a force of redemption in this world. And I have a God who can do immeasurably more than I can ask or imagine.

As that God calls Abraham to leave his homeland in Genesis 12, God repeatedly tells Abraham about how great God is going to make Abraham and his descendants—but each time, he follows that up by indicating how that greatness will be a blessing to all nations. You will be blessed to be a blessing, God says. It’s a theme throughout Scripture—from those who have been given much, much will be expected. Those who have resources are to use them to bless those who are without. Those who have power are to use it not for their own good, but in service to others. Those who can scare away the seagulls are to make a safe place for the puffins.

I smile every time the Atlantic Puffin card comes up in the game Wingspan. I remember that magical afternoon perched on the cliffs of the Isle of Staffa. And I remember the call to be a sphere of safety in a world desperate for peace.