ALONE 5-31-17

CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith and Life from a Place of Winter for the Years of Winter

Today Helen and I start our 59^th year of marriage, so it seems like an appropriate time to repost this from 5-31-2012. I have updated the numbers.

ALONE      5-31-17

“One of you will die first.”

That’s what Jeanette Ericson said the day she and Darrol went with Helen and me to ride the riverboat. It wasn’t much of a boat, and not much of a river, but we had a good lunch, and it was fun. Until Jeanette told the truth, when I said “If one of us dies first…”

Well, of course. Either Helen or I will die first. It is highly unlikely that we shall die together. We have done all else together, but this we cannot. Today we start our 59^th year of marriage, but at some time after all these years together, one of us shall finally be left alone.

Within our circle of friends, the wives die first: Dianne Bass, Jean Cramer-Heuerman, Eileen Wilkey, Ruth E. White, Joyce Peacock, Ila Fisher, Darlene Barrett, Dee Lemkau, Rose Mary Shepherd, Eunice Snider, Phyllis Graham Parr, Linda Soper, Jan Rossow Brown, Betty Dees, Mardel Nestler, Jerri Travelstead, Pat Keller, Catherine Smith, Barbara Shipley, Betsy Linneman, Marian Ekin…

We, of course, have friend couples where the men have died first, but mostly it’s been the men who have been left alone.

This has been sobering. For many years, insofar as I thought about it at all, I assumed I would die first. That is the way it goes in general. But now I see so many of my men friends living alone, and I realize it could happen.

I have tried my best for 58 years to keep the vows–for better or worse, in sickness and in health, in [relative] rich or in poor. Now the time is closer for until death do us part.

Certain members of our family think that I will be remarried in 6 months if Helen should die first. Not so. I shall be hugely lonely for HER should I be left alone, but I shall not be lonely in general.

Those family members think I would HAVE to remarry because I need a caretaker. They think that I cannot take care of myself because in 58 years of marriage I never have. [As Helen famously said, “Men enter assisted living the day they get married.”] I do have someone who takes care of me, but I don’t NEED someone to take care of me. I can LEARN to cook, to do the laundry, the taxes, etc. [I’m not asking for a show of hands on this.]

That’s not really the major issue, though, is it?

Paul Tournier says: “You are never too young or too old to give your life to Christ; after that, what else is there to do to get ready to die?”

I think that’s true about aloneness, too. You are never too young or too old to give your life to Christ. After that, what else is there to do to get ready to be alone? Because after that, you are never alone.

JRMcF

The “place of winter” mentioned in the title line is Iron Mountain, in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, where life is defined by winter even in the summer! We moved from there to Bloomington, IN, where we were married on this date so long ago.

THE IMPORTANCE OF FIRST GRADE TEACHERS 5-30-17

THE IMPORTANCE OF FIRST GRADE TEACHERS    5-30-17

Both our daughters love to read and write. Part of that is because they grew up in a reading home, but much of it is due to their first grade teacher, Edith Hufford.

She did not start to college until she was fifty years old. Her sons were going to the local university, Illinois State, so she decided to keep them company. It took her ten years, but she finally got a degree, and a job teaching first grade at Oakdale School. She taught only five years, but those were the years Mary Beth and Katie were first graders at Oakdale.

Mrs. Hufford was almost more grandmother than teacher. I observed her classes on several occasions. It was clear that the children loved her. If a little boy fell off his chair to get a laugh, the way little boys do, she laughed right along with everybody else. It wasn’t a distraction; it was entertainment. Because she loved the children, they loved her back. If she said “Read,” they only said, “How long and how fast?” This inexperienced old teacher’s classes rated the highest for their grade level in the state.

We don’t get many Mrs. Huffords anymore, of any age, because teachers are so disrespected. They are the enemy, because they belong to unions, and we have to pay taxes because they want to be paid a salary and have health care and pensions instead of donating their time.

Besides, we don’t want people to be able to read and think, because readers and thinkers are harder to control. We can’t convince readers and thinkers to vote against their own best interests so that people who already have too much money can “legally” steal what little the ignoramuses have by convincing them that the people who are actually trying to help them are not patriotic or Christian enough.

Younger daughter, Katie Kennedy, has turned that ability to read into writing for others to read. She is a highly successful author of Young Adult novels. In her new one, that comes out July 6, 2017, one of the characters is named Edith Hufford. How’s that for a thank-you for learning how to read?

JRMcF

johnrobertmcfarland@gmail.com

REMEMBERED AS ONE WHO WAS FAITHFUL 5-27-17

 CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith from a place of winter For the Years of Winter…

I first posted this on this date six years ago. I find that one of the best things about old age is getting to remember old friends, again and again…

 REMEMBERED AS ONE WHO WAS FAITHFUL 5-27-17

The story is told of the little boy who was taken, quite reluctantly, to kindergarten. Later in the day, he was upset. His teacher thought it would help him if he could talk to his mother, so she called her. When the mother answered, the teacher handed the phone to the boy. “Who is this?” the mother asked. “This is your son; have you forgotten me already?” he wailed.

No one is remembered for long, unless you are a shaker or mover. We understand that, but we want to be remembered by those who know us, in whose lives we have played a part. In winter, we look at the snow that covers up the reminders of spring and summer and autumn, and we wonder. Who will remember me? Especially, how will they remember me?

Bob and Lois Teague were our neighbors in Normal, IL when our girls and theirs were little. We moved onto Fairchild Avenue, next door to each other, at the same time, the first houses either of us had ever bought. We lived side by side for six years. Bob and I did not have a lot in common, except we were both trying to raise little girls, and provide for our families, and fight dandelions, but we were good neighbors.

Years later, when we were in our mid-fifties, he called up and said something that shocked me. “I always admired you and wanted to be like you,” he said. I had no idea that he had ever felt that way.

Then he said, “But I have taken it too far. I’ve gotten cancer, too, just like you.”

Months later, when Bob was dying, he and Lois asked me to officiate at his funeral service. I made a trip to Normal to spend some last time with him. I asked him how he wanted to be remembered. “I was faithful,” he said.

Now it was my turn to admire and emulate. I wanted to be like Bob. I still do. I want to be remembered as one who was faithful.

JRMcF

johnrobertmcfarland@gmail.com

The “place of winter” mentioned in the title line is Iron Mountain, in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, where life is defined by winter even in the summer!

OLD DISCS 5-25-17

OLD DISCS 5-25-17

I have old guy discs

in my neck

as well as in my CD player

which means I have a pain

in the neck.

As long as it is low

and dull, this pain,

I relish it, like the bitter

taste of pickled blossoms.

It reminds me that yes,

I am still alive

and see your face.

When the pain is gone,

so am I.

Pain tells me to pay

attention, to fix

what must be fixed

and tells me when it becomes

too high and sharp

instead of low and dull,

that now is the time

to slip into the player

that Tom Paxton disc

that says “I can’t help but wonder

where I’m bound…”

JRMcF

No, I’m not writing again. I have said all I know to say about Christ In Winter. This is just today’s closer.

WHEN I READ THE POEMS OF OTHERS 5-23-17

WHEN I READ THE POEMS OF OTHERS   5-23-17

When I read a poem

by William Stafford, about a wagon

track or wolf or gust

of wind, or lines by Billy

Collins about a lazy daughter

or a lanyard or a gust

of wind, or stanzas by Shelly

about a long-lost statue

in the sand, brushed by a gust

of wind, all I can think

to write is about a lanyard-

wearing wolf walking on a statue

in the sand, and a gust

of wind.

JRMcF

johnrobertmcfarland@gmail.com

[No, I’m not writing again. I’m still fasting from being a professional Christian, trying to be a real Christian. But I start most days with a poem—unedited, just the way it comes off the top of my head--just because I want to, and because I need to write. You don’t need to read it, though, and I have told no one that I am posting in CIW again, so if you have stumbled in here by mistake, and think there will be something worthwhile to read, I apologize. JRMcF]

ONE FLOATS FREE, 5-17-17

ONE FLOATS FREE, 5-17-17

The world will stagger

And need our prayers for mercy

Mercy for the moment

And all the lonely moments

Yet to come

One of us must stay

And one must go

The soul goes on and leaves

The body as a useless husk

One of us must stay in flesh

While one floats free

JRMcF

johnrobertmcfarland@gmail.com

[No, I’m not writing again. I’m still fasting from being a professional Christian, trying to be a real Christian. But I start most days with a poem—unedited, just the way it comes off the top of my head--just because I want to, and because I need to write. You don’t need to read it, though, and I have told no one that I am posting in CIW again, so if you have stumbled in here by mistake, and think there will be something worthwhile to read, I apologize. JRMcF]

POET IN A COFFEE SHOP, 5-16-17

POET IN A COFFEE SHOP, 5-16-17

I decided that I needed

To be a poet

In a coffee shop

This sunny morning

So off I went

To the Pour House

And got myself seated

On a hard and soul-worn bench

With the darkest of the dark roasts

In a red-striped mug

On the scarred table before me

Alas, without my pad for poems

Which watched forlornly

From across the street

In the back seat of my car

So I watched my coffee colleagues

The nerdy but pretty woman typing

At a small high table

The tall and pleasant young man

Behind the counter

Dispensing coffee and politeness

In equal measure

The lone wolves with their laptops

As far away from one another

As Scylla from Charybdis

Two middle aged faculty women

Discussing some arcane topic

Before the empty fireplace

The four bright grad students

Here only for the summer

Studying together for some project

Each just finished with the first

Year of teaching school

Now back for greater learning

how to teach English and arithmetic

While hoping for sex and beer

They all make me smile

I’m glad I forgot my poet pad

[No, I’m not writing again. I’m still fasting from being a professional Christian, trying to be a real Christian. But I start most days with a poem—unedited, just the way it comes off the top of my head--just because I want to, and because I need to write. You don’t need to read it, though, and I have told no one that I am posting in CIW again, so if you have stumbled in here by mistake, and think there will be something worthwhile to read, I apologize. JRMcF]

CHASED BY A HEADLESS CHICKEN 5-6-17

CHASED BY A HEADLESS CHICKEN

Most little children were chased

By a headless chicken

If they were born between eight thousand B.C.

Or whenever chickens and butcher knives

Had both been invented

And the end of the greater war

That followed The Great War

And ever set foot on a farm

Because adults were intent on cutting

Off the heads of chickens in the presence

Of little children so they could watch

And laugh their fool heads off

As the tiny tykes scrambled and screamed

while the headless chicken

chased them ‘round the yard

Which is why there is a still greater

Great war coming…

JRMcF