It Is Not Rude To Ring The Door Bell Without Asking Permission

An unexpected telephone call yesterday afternoon was music to my ears. Some friends who live in an adjacent neighborhood were riding their minibikes through the neighborhood and called to ask if they could stop for a brief visit. Absolutely was my response and by the time I got from upstairs to downstairs, they were parking their motorized bikes on the circle drive.

It was a nice visit that they attempted to abbreviate a couple of times before we relented and bid them farewell. They didn’t want to bother us. The way I see it, friendship is a gift. It is never a bother.

Unless it is the middle of the night and we are sleeping, the ringing of the doorbell is the only advance notice that we need. It would be a rare exception that I couldn’t press the pause button on whatever I was doing to visit with friends.

When I was a kid, all you had to do was knock on a door and ask if a friend could come outside to play. How did we gravitate to a place where we calendar visits at least a week in advance and forfeit the concept of impromptu?

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t object to planning things in advance, but I also like the unexpected joy of connecting with friends when the privilege isn’t planned or anticipated. I call that a gift.

It is not rude to ring the doorbell of a friend without telephoning in advance to ask permission. If we are friends, you innately have permission. I previously had a next-door neighbor who would always call to ask if we were open to an unannounced hospitality check? I don’t recall that I ever said no.

In fact, we cut a hole in the fence between us to make access easier. It didn’t come with the caveat that you have to call first, but it generally played itself out that way.

I’ve heard that fences make good neighbors. I beg to question that idea. Unless my neighbor has an outside dog that wants a part of my leg for breakfast, I don’t need a barrier between my house and the next-door neighbor.

I know people (even Christian people) who processed the book Boundaries and thought it was the best thing since homemade bread. It reportedly “explains, with the help of modern psychology and Christian ideals, how to improve your mental health and personal growth by establishing guidelines for self-care that include saying no more often and standing firm in your decisions rather than letting people walk all over you.”

I guess balance is the issue, but I’m not buying it! Christ lived his life with an openness to unexpected intrusions and Scripture is filled with miracles performed, lives restored and friendships forged. The concept of Divine appointments removes barriers rather than erecting them.

The wisdom of C.S. Lewis in his book “The Four Loves” is food for thought: “In friendship…we think we have chosen our peers. In reality a few years’ difference in the dates of our births, a few more miles between certain houses, the choice of one university instead of another…the accident of a topic being raised or not raised at a first meeting–any of these chances might have kept us apart. But, for a Christian, there are, strictly speaking no chances. A secret master of ceremonies has been at work. Christ, who said to the disciples, ‘Ye have not chosen me, but I have chosen you,’ can truly say to every group of Christian friends, ‘Ye have not chosen one another but I have chosen you for one another.’ The friendship is not a reward for our discriminating and good taste in finding one another out. It is the instrument by which God reveals to each of us the beauties of others.”

All My Best!
Don

Fatherhood Is A Sacred Responsibility

Our pastor needed to be out of town this weekend. Thoughtfully, he invited me to fill the pulpit in his absence. Since yesterday was Father’s Day, I opted to share a message about the importance of fathers.

Fatherhood is a sacred responsibility. In the introduction to my message, I opted to talk briefly about my dad:

Most of you did not have the opportunity to know my dad. In 2004, he and mother moved to Henly from Odessa, where they had lived for 60 years. In so doing, (and I say this tongue-in-cheek) they figuratively discovered what it was like to live on the edge of heaven.

If you’ve ever been to the Permian Basin, you know that hills, water and trees are mostly in short supply. Of course, the stars at night look fantastic, but I’d prefer something other than having to wait until dark.

There is (or was) a billboard near the Midland/Odessa airport advertising for the Hilton Hotel. It read: “People Keep Coming Back – It Ain’t for the View.”

About a year and a half before my dad and mother moved to Henly, my brother and I had a heart-to-heart talk with our dad. We knew that with the progression of mother’s Alzheimer’s, Dad was eventually going to need help. We lovingly suggested that he had two choices. He and mother could move to Henly, or they could move near my brother in Broken Arrow, Ok. Somehow, it didn’t seem like prudent judgment for them to stay where they were. Since dad liked me best, he chose Henly.

Actually, Dad didn’t say that in so many words. Truth is, he didn’t say that at all. My dad was a practical man! His choosing Henly over Broken Arrow had nothing to do with me or my brother. He chose Henly for two reasons:

• It is colder in Oklahoma than it is in Texas

• Oklahoma has a state income tax.

With both those variables in mind, he had no difficulty choosing Henly over Broken Arrow. I remember being filled with joy when the moving van unloaded my parent’s furniture and household goods at 417 Beauchamp. It was a happy time in our lives.

I loved having Daddy and Mother in the neighborhood. They loved living here and they loved this church. My parents were blessed through this family of faith.

After about a year and a half of living here, dad was first diagnosed with colon cancer. After successfully completing treatment, when he went for a six-month checkup, he was subsequently diagnosed with lung cancer.

Dad’s faith was such that he trusted God with the outcome. His only concern was for mother’s welfare. Dad went to be with the Lord in the early morning hours of Sunday, June 10, 2007. It was the Sunday before Father’s Day. I was privileged to be at his bedside.

In terms of how the world measures success, my dad, very much like me, fell in the John Q. Public average category. My dad wasn’t famous or highly successful in the ways the world measures success. He lived simply and at the same time he lived purposefully. Although he wasn’t famous, that’s not to say that he was unimportant. I will forever be enriched from having shared life with him.

I read somewhere years ago, that the best gift a father can give his children is the gift of loving their mother. My parents were married for 61 years at the time of my dad’s death. The relationship they shared was one worth noting. Theirs was a relationship of love. It was a relationship of mutual respect, admiration, and support.

For the last eight years of dad’s life, the passion and the motivation that kept him going was the simple desire to provide for my mother’s needs. After mother’s illness took from her the ability to maintain their home, prepare meals, or even take care of herself, Dad stepped up to the plate and lovingly and caringly provided for every detail.

I honestly don’t know how he did it; particularly during the last 14 months of his life, when he could have benefitted from a primary caretaker because of his illness. He denied that fact to care for Mother.

Until his dying breath, Dad’s primary concern was to ensure Mother was going to be cared for and that her needs would be met. A few hours before his death, he articulated again that he had hope to get well so he could care for her.

It is not uncommon for thoughts of Dad to fill my head several times in any given week. We are told in Scripture: “The righteous man walks in integrity; his children are blessed after him.”

It was Dad’s desire that life be easier for us than it had been for him. He wanted us to have the advantage of a college education and a career track where we spent our days loving life and loving our work. He was a man of wisdom and a man of faith. A better role model could not be found.

All My Best!

Don

Some Stories Are Worthy Of Saving

Being a writer was something I added to my bucket list half a lifetime ago.  Gradually, as time permitted, I began chronicling stories in writing that figuratively fell into my lap. I’d meet someone on an airplane, engage in conversation for a couple of hours or more, and come away with the belief that something shared with me was worthy of saving.  I’d write it down.

For example, I sat next to a young man on a plane from Chicago to Austin once and he shared some of his life’s story with me. He had grown up in Chapel Hill, NC and was a recent college graduate from Appalachian State University in Boone, NC. Interestingly, I had been on that campus about a year earlier for a meeting. It never occurred that I’d one day meet an alumnus from that setting.

The most interesting thing he shared with me was that he knew the kind of father he wanted to be when he had children. He said: “I will be an incredible dad to my children.”  He went on to share that he mostly knew nothing about his dad. His parents divorced when he was young, and out-of-sight/out-of-mind was the modus operandi associated with his dad’s connection with his children.

The man’s father was an airline pilot, and he flew cargo planes from the U.S. to South America and back. As a little kid, he remembered sitting in the cockpit with his dad on one of those flights.  The young man’s mother was from South America. That pretty much summed up his memories in a nutshell apart from the chronic memories of his dad’s absence from his life. Every Christmas, every birthday, every special when his dad was a “No-Show,” strengthened his resolve to be a different kind of dad when he had children.

This week I wrote down the story of a friend that I’ve known for several years. In recent conversation, I asked if he had siblings. He responded that he had a sister. When I asked if they were close as a family, he modified his answer.

He went on to explain that his sister was not biologically related but was another child in his last foster home. Both wanted so desperately to have family, that they referred to each other as being brother and sister. He last saw her when he was twelve years old.

I was both shocked and saddened when he shared with me that he spent most of his childhood in foster care. He never met either of his birth parents and knows nothing of their backgrounds. He was placed in foster care immediately following his birth, and for the next twelve years was shuffled from one home to another. By the time he was twelve years’ old, he had been in a least a dozen different homes.

Obviously, the happiest day of his life was associated to the question a Judge asked him in chambers, “Did he want the identified adoptive family to adopt him?” He said, “I was overwhelmed because I couldn’t believe the day had come.”

My friend is one of the most positive, upbeat and joyful people that I’ve ever known.  We’ve got to do better by children. The foster home shuffle serves no one’s best interest.

All My Best!

Don

In Memory of Ronnie

Eight or nine years ago, I was invited to speak at a Memorial Day Ceremony in Nocona. Nocona is the small town where my brother and I were born. I was both honored and humbled by the invitation.

Truth be told, receiving the invitation created some anxiety on my part. I used to have a fear of public speaking. I’ve pretty much worked through that. However, I had never spoken at a Memorial Day Ceremony before and I had no idea even where to begin. I wanted to get it right.

Ronnie and I were born at Major Clinic Hospital in Nocona. That was longer ago than I care to remember. I know the name of the hospital only because it is written on my birth certificate.

My cousin who lives in Nocona sent me a note a three-or-four days before Memorial Day. She wanted to let me know that an announcement of the event was in the newspaper. Apparently, there wasn’t much news to report. The article was on the front page. The headline in bold letters said: “Twin Brother of MIA To Speak…” That raised my anxiety even more.

It’s true, my drawing card for the invitation was linked to my brother’s story. That made perfect sense. The invitation extended me, provided both a sense of privilege and humility. Yet, it was not just Ronnie’s story I was sharing. It was our story.

As twins, the fabric of our lives were so closely interwoven that we shared blended identities. With a tear or two in my eyes, I took seriously the responsibility to get it right.

The top of my Facebook page includes a picture of me and Ronnie along with our younger brother. The picture was taken about the time Ronnie and I started to elementary school. At least, that’s my best guess.

Most people probably thought were cute kids when we were little. During adolescence, my twin told me more than once that I was ugly. I always thought that was funny because he was a mirror image. He also playfully added that I was adopted.

It was all a part of the playful banter that went back and forth between us. We were close. We were also competitive. We looked identical, but in many respects, we were as different as night and day.

On 27 December 1972, the playful banter between us stopped. The A-6 Intruder aircraft in which Ronnie was flying left the military base in Nam Phong, Thailand for a night mission over North Vietnam. When the aircraft failed to return to the base at the anticipated hour, efforts were made to locate the downed plane but to no avail. At least that is what the report provided us by the military said. In recent years we learned that no reconnaissance efforts were employed. His status was changed to MIA.

As probably all of you are aware, our family was notified this past December that my brother’s remains had been identified. His crash site was excavated in the spring of 2023. I honestly had reached the place that I no longer allowed myself to hope that we’d ever have more information. Receiving the news was clearly an answer to prayers that had been prayed years ago.

So, after 51 years of not knowing if my brother was dead or alive, I finally had confidence that he was more alive than he’s ever been because he has been in the presence of Jesus all these years. It was as though a weight I’d been carrying for a very long time was finally lifted.

Yet, even amid a life-long struggle of uncertainty, at no time was I a stranger to God’s grace. For over five decades, I experienced and re-experienced every possible range of emotion. Through it all, I never experienced it in isolation.

The promises of God provided comfort and hope.

I was honored to speak at church yesterday in our pastor’s absence. The message had to do with the importance of trusting God. The narrative I’ve just shared is my introduction.

I asked my son-in-law Kevin if he would video the message. I wanted to post it in memory of my brother.

All My Best!
Don

The Generational Impact Of War

War changes lives. Everyone has a story and many of those stories carry sadness and heartache related to war. Some carry their burdens silently and if you didn’t already know, you’d probably never know. Some people are more comfortable keeping their personal life private.

While I think there is value and truth to the proverb: “Shared joy is double joy – Shared sorrow is half sorrow,” many people opt not to live that way. Of course, from my perspective they do themselves and their community a disservice. When God decreed that it was not good for man to be alone, He wasn’t just talking about a marriage relationship. He was talking about the importance of shared community and meaningful relationships.

I had a friend and former co-worker, whose friendship I valued for almost 40 years. She is now on the other side of Eternity. Over the years that I knew her, she was alternately open and at other times protective in sharing details of her personal life.

Early in our friendship and shared work community, I learned from her chronic absenteeism that she struggled with the need for strong drink. Our work was stressful and the deadlines grueling. I probably even at times

flippantly left the office saying, “Ill make mine a double.” Of course it would have been said tongue-in-cheek. My friend never verbalized her intent to have a drink, but when she drank, she drank like there was no tomorrow.

In addition, when she drank like there was no tomorrow, she didn’t come to work the following day. Sometimes she didn’t come to work until the following week or maybe the week after that.

Isn’t it true that all behavior is an attempt to get a need met? While it was less than effective, my colleague turned to alcohol to quench the demons or to drown the sorrow she experienced. Perhaps it was because my friend knew my twin was MIA, she had shared with me that she was the mother of twins. Both of her
children died at birth. Perhaps that was the Achilles’ heel that put her sobriety at risk. It really is true, until you walk a mile in another’s shoes, you have no right to pass judgment.

Until twenty-two years ago, she had never shared with me that she lost someone very dear in Vietnam. I was absolutely flabbergasted. Reportedly, the two had talked about marriage although they had not formally set a date or officially sealed their engagement with a ring.

In December 2002, 36 years following the death of her friend, an attorney representing the estate of her friend’s mother contacted my friend. Apparently, the mother had recently died. In her estate, she made provision for the engagement ring and wedding ring that were returned in the personal effects of her son from Vietnam. After 36 years, the rings finally found their way to the intended bride.

My friend had no knowledge of the ring’s existence. She was located by use of her social security number. The attorney had contacted the registrar’s office of the college my friend had attended almost four decades earlier. It was through that process that the rings made their way to the intended.

The story was shared with me via email. She wrote, “The rings I am finding, mean a great deal to me. I wear them on a chain. They are a material link to a time when I was not only a lot younger, but much less cynical and full of shared hopes and plans”.

While many will not give thought to the ultimate sacrifice made by the men and women in uniform this memorial day, I can almost assuredly say that for all those whose plans and hopes were cut short when their loved one didn’t return, the three-day weekend of summer will be bittersweet.

There are many children who don’t have the luxury of simply focusing on Memorial Day parades, family barbeques and an extra day to have one’s dad at home. For them Memorial Day weekend carries with it a significance that will always remind them of life’s brokenness. They were or are the children of a father or a mother who did not return. They were part of a family broken and forever fractured from the ills of war.

They are the children whose children will never know a grandparent who could have made them feel special, significant and regard them as the most important person in the world.

There is a generational impact of war. The only way to neutralize that impact or minimize the damage done is through people meeting people at the point of need. We all have the potential to be a surrogate ….. something (father, grandfather, uncle, son, mother, grandmother, daughter, aunt, etc.) the relationship of
community. People need people. They need someone to fill the gap for those roles in their life will that are empty unless someone steps up to the table and says, “I can do it. I want to do it. I’ll be there for you.”

It seems like the least any of us could do who’ve been afforded the privilege of living in the land of the free and the home of the brave.

All My Best!
Don

To Love And To Cherish

Several years ago, I had a friend that worked for the Texas Department of Family and Protective Services in adult protective services. My background was in child protective services. He on the other hand chose a career path working with older adults. When our paths connected again, he told me he had to retire because the work was killing him.

Reportedly he should have had a caseload of 40 people, but instead it was 148 older adults. He said, “There was no way anyone could adequately cover that caseload.” His last assigned case was one he chose to remember.  Because of the nature of the report, he could have taken up to seven days to make contact.

He opted to do it immediately because there was only a twenty-four hour window that the nursing home would keep the man’s space reserved in the nursing home. If he didn’t return in that window of time, he’d be forever out of the place. So, what were the allegations?

Because of advanced Parkinson’s disease and the inability to live without assistance, the man had been placed in nursing home care. Yet, his wife who has Alzheimer’s had come to visit and he convinced her to check him out of the nursing home and take him home. The referral to adult protective services had been made because the social worker at the nursing home knew it was a catastrophe in the making.

So when my friend went to the home to investigate conditions, he asked the wife about her plan to provide support in caring for her husband. She said: “I’ve got people I can call.” He asked for names, and she didn’t have any. She did verbally agree that she wasn’t able to provide for her husband’s needs, but that she’d find help when the time came.

He asked again about her plan for doing so and she didn’t have a plan. In exasperation she said: “I can always call our son.” My friend responded: “That’s great. Let’s call him now”. When he called the son, the son was astounded. He screamed into the phone: “She did what? My mother isn’t able to take care of my dad.”

My friend then went to the back bedroom to talk to the husband with Parkinson’s. When asked if he thought his wife was physically capable of providing for his needs, he said “Yes”. My friend asked: “Do you remember your wedding vows? What did you promise your wife you’d do?” He said: “She promised to love, cherish and obey me.” “So, what did you promise her”, was my friend’s reply. The husband responded: “To love and to cherish”.

That led to: “So if you really love your wife, you’d understand that she doesn’t have the capacity to physically take care of you. In the process of trying, it will become too difficult for her. The stress associated with her need to take care of you when she’s not able, will eventually kill her.  Is that what you want to happen?”.

The man replied: “My room at the nursing home is too small.” My friend replied, “My question about your wedding vows has to do with what you promised to do for your wife. It isn’t about you. If you really love and cherish your wife, you’d know this is too difficult for her to do and she will die trying. Are you willing and ready to go back to the nursing home?” The man responded: “I guess so, but I don’t like it.”
​
My friend followed in his car as the couple made their way back to the nursing home. Once inside, the social worker at the nursing home asked my friend: “How did you manage to do this?” He replied: “I asked about their wedding vows. The husband knew I was right. It simply took a reminder for him to opt to do the right thing.”


All My Best!
Don

Playful, Fun & Engaging

My mother has been on the other side of eternity for the past 13 1/2   years. As I write that, I question the authenticity of what I’m saying. That  seems like a very long time ago. How can that be possible?

Out of curiosity, I did a Google search to substantiate the date of her death.  Mother was born on December 6, 1925 and went to be with the Lord on December 4, 2010. We opted for her “celebration of life service” on her birthday.  

Just yesterday, as I was thinking about my mother, the word playful came to mind. My mother enjoyed life. She had a sparkle in her eyes and a very playful personality. She could easily interact with both adults and children. There was something about the way she presented herself that she could light up a room by simply being present.

Mother was always conversational and engaging when our friends came over to play. She also frequently had homemade snacks for us to share with friends. During our elementary school years, she took on the responsibility for our cub scout troop leader.  

Mother was also active in the PTA.  When volunteers were needed, she never hesitated to step up to the plate. No one could have been more supportive of us. 

Mother ensured that our childhood was filled with trips to the library, periodic movies for children, seasonal swimming lessons, frequent trips to the skating rink and weekly participation in a multiple of actives at church. We stayed busy.

Perhaps more importantly, she role modeled for us the importance and value of extended family. Mother was one of six children and all of the siblings lived with devotion to their parents and love and support for one another. 

I guess that one of the reasons that I push back on the thought that my mother has been gone for the past 13 1/2 years is that she continues to be so much apart of my life that she is still present. The same is also true of my dad. Both made investments in our lives that continue to reap benefits.

I have a number of friends that lived a very different kind of childhood. Some detest the thought that Mother’s Day should be recognized annually. They live with a sense of estrangement from their family of origin. That, too, has to be a disappointment even though they fail to express it.

I will spend this day counting my blessings and grateful that my mother continues to have a place of importance in my life.

All The Best!

Don

The Dwindling Decade of Affluence

My dad lived to the age of 83. Interestingly, one of the defining characteristics of his life occurred early in his life, during his elementary school years. He was only six years old when the stock market in our country crumbled and immediately following, banks couldn’t honor the savings of their investors.

Consequently, Dad “came of age” during the Great Depression.  The imprint from that experience forever colored his perception of the worst possible case scenario.

At the height of the Great Depression in 1933, nearly 25% of the nation’s workforce was unemployed. Wage income for workers lucky enough to have kept their jobs fell 43% between 1929 and 1933. It was the worst economic disaster in American history. Farm prices fell so drastically that many farmers lost their homes and land. Many went hungry.

Dad’s family never went hungry. They either planted and grew what they needed, or they bartered for what they were without.

Dad’s early years were clearly a contrast to the decades of affluence that most of my generation can relate and one in which my dad was never completely comfortable.

One of the dreaded questions Dad often asked during my adolescent years when I was wanting something was: “How much does it cost?”  Dad knew the value of hard work and he knew the value of a dime. Throughout his life, given the choice, Dad would prefer to have the dime rather than what it would buy. Because he knew from early childhood what it was like for his family to be without.

I was surprised by a recent news release from the U.S. Department of Labor.  It read: “On April 23, 2024, a news release from the U.S. Department of Labor stated: BIDEN-HARRIS ADMINISTRATION FINALIZES RULE TO INCREASE COMPENSATION THRESHOLDS FOR OVERTIME ELIGIBILITY, PROVIDING PROTECTIONS  FOR MILLIONS OF WORKERS.

“Effective July 1, 2024, the salary threshold will increase to the equivalent of an annual salary of $43,888 and increase to $58,656 on Jan. 1, 2025… The Biden-Harris administration is following through on our promise to raise the bar for workers who help lay the foundation for our economic prosperity.”

It occurred to me that this publication is misleading.  The federal minimum wage in this country continues to be set at $7.25 an hour. It has not been raised in 15 years.  The one thing guaranteed by such an oversight is debilitating poverty and homelessness.

Every time I walk into the grocery store, I am shocked by the increase in prices. Yesterday, for example, I noticed that Blue Bell Ice Cream has gone up $3.00 a half gallon since a couple of weeks ago. Of course, that is nickel and dime stuff. By the way, I didn’t go home with ice cream.

The median sales price for a home in Dripping Springs is $600,000. Rentals hover somewhere between $2,500 to $3,500 a month. For the record, Blanco is similar.

We may not be in the midst of the Great Depression, but single family dwellings and new cars are now way out of reach for most.

All My Best!

Don

Forever Memories

When I was a kid growing up, my brothers and I spent a week each summer with my maternal grandparents.  They lived in Ringgold, located near the Texas/Oklahoma Stateline. We also routinely visited with our parents and other extended family members at either Christmas or Thanksgiving.

My grandparent’s home was a rambling old turn-of-the-century house with a wraparound front porch.  The water supply for the house was generated by a windmill.  The house featured a storm cellar that could be accessed from either inside the house or from the outside. The house also had a screened in porch on the side of the house that permitted entry into the dining room. That was the primary door that people always used because it was closest to the wide unpaved driveway where people parked their cars.

The home also had two doors in the front of the house. One entered the living room, the other a bedroom.  At large family gatherings, most of the cousins wanted to sleep in the bedroom with the outside door. That way we could opt to sit on the front porch late into the night without parents or grandparents knowing we were still up. 

Of course, that had to do with our perception as children. I’m doubtful that much ever took place that adults were unaware of, but one’s perception becomes their reality.  Spending time with grandparents was a favorite experience.

There was a fenced in area next to the garage where one of my mother’s brothers kept his horse. The horse’s name was Jane. Actually, my grandparents were custodians for the horse. My uncle and his family lived elsewhere. Grandpa took care of the horse.

Somehow the week we stayed with our grandparents during the summer also coincided with Vacation Bible School at the Baptist Church.  It was also a fun time.  As I recall, the church’s pastor was always a seminary student from Southwest Seminary in Fort Worth.  There was a pretty frequent rotation of pastors, but they were always young and fun to be around.

The rambling old home in Ringgold is no longer there.  I can’t remember how old my grandparents were when they sold their home and moved to Nocona. However, my childhood memories are all tied to the house in Ringgold. That home was destroyed by fire several years before the same fate fell on a lot of the town. 

A 2006 article in Texas Monthly was entitled “Gone In 15 Minutes”. The tagline read, “That’s how long it took a massive wildfire to destroy the North Texas town of Ringgold on New Year’s Day. But for the residents who lost everything—and the brave volunteers who risked their lives—putting the disaster behind them will take a bit longer”.

I suspect that as long as I draw breath, memories of the my grandparents, uncles, aunts, and cousins, and the fun-filled times we shared with extended family in Ringgold will continue to populate my head.

I’m hopeful the memories my grandchildren hold of their childhood years and beyond will be equally rewarding.

All My Best!

Don