Some people are collectors and some aren’t. I’ve always been in the former camp since I first had any spending money at all. At one time or another, I’ve collected comic books, records, 3-D stuff, unusual musical instruments, Nero Wolfe mysteries, flipbooks, PEZ dispensers, magazines, movies, diaries, and other things I can’t think of right now. Whatever my current interest was, I devoted much time and money to pursuing that just-one-more-thing which would be the crown jewel of my collection. There were good things about collecting: I was easy to shop for; if you collect anything with the Marx Brothers on it, your mom will always find something. And on vacations, my collecting urge filled the free time I could have spent on culture, dining and sight-seeing. There were stores and flea markets and antique shops.
A couple of years ago, I realized that my collecting bug was largely in remission. There are two reasons I can think of. First, the Internet has sorta ruined collecting for me. Why travel to another city and dig through dusty boxes when you can find your particular holy grail on eBay? Any book I’ve ever wanted to find is just a couple of clicks away.
The second reason only came to me recently. I realized that my loss of interest in acquiring stuff coincided with a casual prayer I made. I asked God to help me love people more. Just to be funny, He answered that prayer. I can’t say that I have completely lost my desire for collecting things…or that I have achieved perfect love for all humanity. But there’s been a definite change. I’m not saying that anyone who collects is antisocial or doesn’t care about others. I only know that suddenly people became more interesting than things I could put on a shelf or in a scrapbook. Now I collect stories, experiences, memories and encounters with other folks. Such collectibles don’t take up much room, don’t need to be dusted, and can’t be sold on eBay.
But they’re priceless.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
"Too left" feet…
A few weeks ago, I wrote about summing up your life in six words and I listed a couple of my own attempts. Here’s another one: “Baptist dilemma: loved music, couldn’t dance.” I grew up in a denomination which had the idea that dancing was sinful. It was ingrained in me so well that once, when I danced at an eighth-grade graduation party, I went home and confessed to my parents what I’d done.
Now, of course, dancing seems pretty innocent, but I still feel awkward and clumsy when I do it — which is maybe once every couple of years. I asked my mom if she danced when she was in high school. She said no. My dad, however, did kick up his heels a few times in his youth. After he “got the call” from God to enter the ministry, he went to a dance and a girl asked him if it was true…was he really going to be a preacher? When he said yes, she asked, “Then what are you doing here?” His jitterbugging days were over.
My mom told me that once, after we kids were grown, she and my dad were home alone and she said, “Why don’t we just dance right here?” Daddy just laughed. But I think Mom really wished they could drop those old chains and hold each other close and sway to the music.
My dad is gone now, and my mom uses a walker to get around. But a few years ago, at the wedding reception for one of their grandchildren, something kind of wonderful happened. The DJ began playing that “chicken dance” song…and for the first time in our lives, my entire family got out on the floor—my mom and dad included—and danced around in a circle. In his final years, my dad had softened. He cared less about the do’s and dont’s of his denominational upbringing and he cared more about…caring more. If he had to do it all over again, I think he would have waltzed my mom around the living room with no problem. See, God never said not to dance; some preacher came up with that, one of those preachers who was more committed to taking joy out of the world than putting joy into it.
You can be chicken to dance…or you can dance like a chicken. One makes you feel self-righteous; the other makes you feel free, happy and alive. Which do you think God prefers?
Now, of course, dancing seems pretty innocent, but I still feel awkward and clumsy when I do it — which is maybe once every couple of years. I asked my mom if she danced when she was in high school. She said no. My dad, however, did kick up his heels a few times in his youth. After he “got the call” from God to enter the ministry, he went to a dance and a girl asked him if it was true…was he really going to be a preacher? When he said yes, she asked, “Then what are you doing here?” His jitterbugging days were over.
My mom told me that once, after we kids were grown, she and my dad were home alone and she said, “Why don’t we just dance right here?” Daddy just laughed. But I think Mom really wished they could drop those old chains and hold each other close and sway to the music.
My dad is gone now, and my mom uses a walker to get around. But a few years ago, at the wedding reception for one of their grandchildren, something kind of wonderful happened. The DJ began playing that “chicken dance” song…and for the first time in our lives, my entire family got out on the floor—my mom and dad included—and danced around in a circle. In his final years, my dad had softened. He cared less about the do’s and dont’s of his denominational upbringing and he cared more about…caring more. If he had to do it all over again, I think he would have waltzed my mom around the living room with no problem. See, God never said not to dance; some preacher came up with that, one of those preachers who was more committed to taking joy out of the world than putting joy into it.
You can be chicken to dance…or you can dance like a chicken. One makes you feel self-righteous; the other makes you feel free, happy and alive. Which do you think God prefers?
Six words can say a lot
I once worked at a church which built a new sanctuary. In front of the new building was one of those lighted signs that holds plastic letters. Someone would have the responsibility of changing the message on that sign each week. Since I was the low man on the totem pole, that responsibility became mine.
Changing the sign required me to prop open the plexiglass cover, remove all the old letters, and insert the new message, taking care to center each line. I enjoyed this for a few weeks and then reality began to set in. It got more and more difficult to think of clever, witty sayings which would convict sinners and bless saints while offending no one. And when the temperature was anywhere in the vicinity of freezing, changing the sign lost its charm completely.
It’s a challenge to convey a meaningful message in just a few words. A few months ago I read a small book called Not Quite What I Was Planning. The book consists of numerous people’s attempts to sum up their lives using only six words; the title itself is one person’s mini-autobiography. I was charmed by the book and have shared it with many people and encouraged them to choose their own six-word summaries. I made several tries at summing up myself: “A cookie? Yes, I’d love one.” Or “Baptist dilemma: loved music, couldn’t dance.” I came up with some serious ones, too … like “You can’t outlove God. But try.” And “I can’t. God can. We will.”
I wish I’d read that book back when I was changing the sign every week; having a definite number of words to use forces you to be creative, to distill your ideas down to the bare essentials. Can you capture yourself in six words? Give it a try. Email me your results at mrobertson@riverbend.com. I think you’ll be surprised how much you can get into six words. After all, it only takes three to say “God is love.”
Here are six more: “Choose your words; share your story.”
Changing the sign required me to prop open the plexiglass cover, remove all the old letters, and insert the new message, taking care to center each line. I enjoyed this for a few weeks and then reality began to set in. It got more and more difficult to think of clever, witty sayings which would convict sinners and bless saints while offending no one. And when the temperature was anywhere in the vicinity of freezing, changing the sign lost its charm completely.
It’s a challenge to convey a meaningful message in just a few words. A few months ago I read a small book called Not Quite What I Was Planning. The book consists of numerous people’s attempts to sum up their lives using only six words; the title itself is one person’s mini-autobiography. I was charmed by the book and have shared it with many people and encouraged them to choose their own six-word summaries. I made several tries at summing up myself: “A cookie? Yes, I’d love one.” Or “Baptist dilemma: loved music, couldn’t dance.” I came up with some serious ones, too … like “You can’t outlove God. But try.” And “I can’t. God can. We will.”
I wish I’d read that book back when I was changing the sign every week; having a definite number of words to use forces you to be creative, to distill your ideas down to the bare essentials. Can you capture yourself in six words? Give it a try. Email me your results at mrobertson@riverbend.com. I think you’ll be surprised how much you can get into six words. After all, it only takes three to say “God is love.”
Here are six more: “Choose your words; share your story.”
Do--re--me?
I got in trouble in third grade. Our teacher had left the room and I took the opportunity to do something I’d been thinking about. Any guesses? I stood next to the desk of a girl I liked and I sang a song to her, a Neil Sedaka tune called “Alice in Wonderland.” The entire class overheard as I sang my little heart out for this girl who lived across the street from me. I suppose I thought that I would finish the song and she would sigh and say, “I like you, too.” We would walk home together and I would carry her books. We would someday marry and live in a castle.
Instead, she told the teacher what I had done and I was made to stand in the hallway for awhile, punished for singing. See, I’ve always had this problem—I can’t keep from singing. When I feel good, songs just pop out. I can usually control it when I’m in public, but music is such a natural part of me that I can’t deny it for long. Long after third grade, when I decided to propose to Lisa, I just had to do it musically. I wrote and recorded a song asking her to marry me and I convinced KLBJ-FM to play it at a certain time. I can’t keep from singing.
That’s why it’s always puzzled me that some people don’t sing in church. When I was a music director, I could always see them standing in the congregation, looking stoically ahead, just waiting for the hymn to be over. Perhaps such folks think that they’ll be graded on how they sound. But that’s not it. We are programmed to praise God, each given an instrument that requires no money, no lessons, no lengthy hours of practice. All God asks is that we play it. Like any proud parent, He is as happy with honks and squeaks as with the most virtuosic violin cadenza.
We’re playing in a big orchestra and we need your part…even if it’s soft and shaky, even if we never hear you. It’s not for us, anyway; it’s for the One who makes all the instruments. How can you keep from singing?
Instead, she told the teacher what I had done and I was made to stand in the hallway for awhile, punished for singing. See, I’ve always had this problem—I can’t keep from singing. When I feel good, songs just pop out. I can usually control it when I’m in public, but music is such a natural part of me that I can’t deny it for long. Long after third grade, when I decided to propose to Lisa, I just had to do it musically. I wrote and recorded a song asking her to marry me and I convinced KLBJ-FM to play it at a certain time. I can’t keep from singing.
That’s why it’s always puzzled me that some people don’t sing in church. When I was a music director, I could always see them standing in the congregation, looking stoically ahead, just waiting for the hymn to be over. Perhaps such folks think that they’ll be graded on how they sound. But that’s not it. We are programmed to praise God, each given an instrument that requires no money, no lessons, no lengthy hours of practice. All God asks is that we play it. Like any proud parent, He is as happy with honks and squeaks as with the most virtuosic violin cadenza.
We’re playing in a big orchestra and we need your part…even if it’s soft and shaky, even if we never hear you. It’s not for us, anyway; it’s for the One who makes all the instruments. How can you keep from singing?
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