There is a great volume of complaints these days. C’mon, admit it.
We grouch about the outcome of the recent presidential election … or we grouch about the refusal of the president to concede. We murmur about the inconveniences of the coronavirus lockdowns … or we murmur about the people who refuse to mask. We grumble about the motivations of those who sit across the aisle … or we pule and whine about the people in our own affiliations who are not conservative enough, or not progressive enough.
In the middle of my own personal gripes, I was hit upside the head while reading the Apostle Paul’s letter to the Philippian church. Here are two excerpts.
Do all things without murmuring or complaining. (Phil. 2:14)
Finally, brethren, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is of good repute, if there is any excellence and if anything worthy of praise, let your mind dwell on these things. (Phil. 4:8)
In addition to these admonitions from Scripture, there are two events this week that demand my gratitude. They will both occur this Thursday, November 26th.
Number 1. Thanksgiving Day.
Number 2. My oldest grandson’s 6th birthday.
By a quirky connection, our birthdays are exactly six months apart. His birthday is my half-birthday; my birthday is his half-birthday. He is exactly seventy-one and one-half years younger than his Poppa. This happy birthday coincidence, the Day of Thanksgiving, and the words of Paul all remind me not to gripe, but to consider the abundant blessings in my life. Here are my Top Ten reasons to celebrate what is worthy of praise … and be thankful.
One. My faith. I was five or six when my grandparents introduced me to the Holy Bible during their daily devotions. This was the mustard seed of belief in my young life, and it has grown over the years. A sinner saved by grace. A child of the King. In daily need of a Savior. If I should ever be drawn into court and accused of being a Christian, I pray that my life would provide enough evidence to be found guilty.
Two. My wife. On an October afternoon in 1966 I met this girl, the strikingly beautiful Elizabeth Clark Bean, known as Liza. Fell in love with her on the spot. Love her still. Fifty-two years and counting.
Three. My daughters. Wendy, Annie, and Emily; also known as We, Annabelle, and Em. By day, We works for a renowned doctor and researcher who is looking for cures for cancer, and by night she is a gifted singer and songwriter. Annabelle has years of experience in HR at the university level, fights for social justice, and takes flight as an aerial dancer. Em is a mom of three boisterous and beautiful sons, is a wonderful musician, and expresses her creativity in the kitchen where she has a vibrant and growing business of designer cookies. Not only are these daughters amazing in their professional and artistic pursuits; they are amazing in their devotion to the parents and their love for one another.
Four. My grandsons. We arrived a little late to the party. For years we heard stories from our contemporaries about the joys of grandparenthood. When I first held our first grandchild in my arms while he grabbed my little finger in his little fist, I got it in a flash. Just never imagined how much I would love this little boy and each of his little brothers to come.
Five. My brothers. My most cherished friends. As the baby of the family, I was always under their protection. They have had illustrious careers in law and are both retired judges. They are men of unmatched integrity, devoted to family, voracious readers, well respected and quick-witted. They are also really bad golfers; they take money off me, but hardly anybody else.
Six. My sisters. Yes, I am the youngest of three brothers, and my mother suffered the crushing disappointment of losing two other pregnancies, both girls. It was also a great disappointment to me, not having a sister; but while I do not have a sibling sister, I have a rich sisterhood by adoption. My brothers’ wives and my wife’s sisters have enriched and complemented my life. They are all accomplished women in full. Their hearts overflow with love. We can talk about anything and everything. There is not just one definition of sister, and I am glad of it.
Seven. Cancer. I was in treatment about a year when our youngest daughter asked, “Dad, are you the only person on the planet who likes going to cancer treatments?” What on earth was she seeing? From the first day of chemo in July of 2011, I have been blessed by the front-liners at Kaiser Hospital Woodland Hills; I have come to know them well after nearly three-hundred visits there in nine-plus years. They help me to thrive. They keep me alive. I love them. What is more, the threat of cancer has driven me deeper into a life of faith. What could have easily taken my life has given me an eternal perspective on living my life. In brief, cancer has become a privilege.
Eight. Our home. It was a season of grief when we sold our house of forty-two years and downsized, but our mourning has turned to joy. We have our own apartment and privacy, and it is under the same roof as our youngest daughter and her husband and our three grandsons. When they invited us to live out our days with them, we sobbed in appreciation. We are learning that another generation is in charge of Thanksgiving, and that we can give them help, when asked to do so. We are learning to live the life emeritus. It can be noisy, and it can be tiring; and it is altogether perfect.
Nine. Our circles of friends, family, former students, and neighbors. We may be in lockdown, often alone; but we are never lonely. We may not have big gatherings now; but our online, phone, facetime, FB, texting, zooming and email connections keep us in touch. The small masked outdoor chats have helped. The coronavirus has narrowed our choices, but it has broadened our approaches to the village. It feels as if the pandemic has driven many of our dear ones to try even harder to stay connected.
Ten. At this season of life, my appreciation for my parents has only grown. The sacrifices they made to put their three sons through college were Herculean. The personal struggles in their lives were withering, and some of them have been chronicled in earlier blogs; but they hung in there. My dad died in 1971, but Audrey lived until 2003 to the age of ninety-nine. She lived in our house for several years near the end, and we were witness to her final days as she boiled her life down to its most basic needs: a cool drink of water, a fresh tomato right off the vine, a trip to the market with her son, phone calls from her grandchildren, sitting on the living room sofa on a wintry day as the sunbeams warmed her shoulders, listening to Charles Stanley on TV, getting to the bathroom on time, praying with her daughter-in-law who was her caregiver, having a piece of See’s chocolate, or hearing her favorite hymns at bedtime. Oh, that I can age as wisely and as well.
Happy Thanksgiving. Be grateful.
Tidings from Tim 