I Think Maybe I am Getting Old

I think maybe I am getting old. In recent weeks I have had a hankering to make contact with some old friends. I followed through on those yearnings. I called an old friend I had not spoken with in a few years. He told me the sad news of his oldest son being killed in an automobile accident. In the course of that week I spoke with another old friend and learned some of the stresses of his life. It is late in the year and I had some vacation time I needed to take. So this last week I drove to Missouri to see an old friend. We had an enjoyable visit.  But he has a few health problems that concern me and I know they trouble him. I move on and go see my mother and father in-law. I enjoyed the evening listening to their stories. They don't have any sons but since I married one of their daughters they claim me and I am proud of their claim. On the way home I meditate on my visits and I have a fresh reality that getting old has some challenges. And I think maybe I am getting old.

 

I get home and sleep in my bed one night and then take off in the in the other direction to Kentucky. My purpose is to attend a funeral visitation for the father of a pastor friend of mine. My friend is not as old as I am but I know from experience that losing your father will make you feel old. I continue on my journey and go spend the night with my aunt. We set up and talk past midnight and I am pretty sure that is past her bedtime. But I don't want to miss the opportunity share some old memories. Because, I think maybe I am getting old. Next morning I drive over to the town where I grew up. I go to the cemetery to visit the graves of my father and mother. I inspect the flowers resting on top of their stone and I surmise that they are in good enough shape that they don't need to be replaced just yet. I had made arrangements to see another old friend. His son is about the same age as me and I had spent a lot of time at his house when I was growing up, particularly on Sunday afternoons after church. We have a lot of church stories to tell and a lot of people to memorialize. I discover that this old friend and I have more friends in common that are dead than are alive. I think maybe I am getting old. 

 

I get home and I read an obituary in the Illinois Baptist. A pastor friend with whom I have enjoyed many moments of sweet fellowship has lost his wife of 52 years. I call my friend and he reminisces about her life and her home going. She had been suffering from cancer and her death is bittersweet. I think my friend feels old and I think maybe I am getting old. 

 

So I am absorbing my recent experiences with old friends. It causes me to understand that I don't want to spend much time in puny arguments. Life is short and there is simply too many difficulties and too much sorrow to waste energy squabbling. I would rather give my life to loving one another and rejoicing in the love of others.  That is my opinion. But maybe I am just getting old. 

Robert Lonnie Suffoletta

I met Robert Lonnie Suffoletta in the summer of 1968. We got on a bus together in the parking lot behind the police station in Georgetown, KY early one Monday morning.  The bus took us to Monticello, KY where we spent the week at conservation camp. We went swimming and boating and shot bow and arrows. We learned about hunting and fishing and gun safety and ate together in the mess hall. We were in the same cabin. I slept on a bottom bunk. Robert had the top bunk next to me. We were to be 6^th grade classmates that fall. It would be a new experience for both of us. The school system had built a new school named Southern Elementary and they had done some redistricting to prevent overcrowding in the other elementary schools. I would be coming in from Eastern Elementary. I think Robert would have come from Great Crossing Elementary. We gathered with excitement for the first day of school in Miss Edward’s classroom. But Robert was not there the second day. He had doctor’s appointments. The word quickly came back that he had Leukemia. No one had to tell me how serious that was. I had already known people who died from that disease. I had seen the grief in their loved one’s eyes. The Leukemia took Robert quickly. He died within the week. Our principle Jack Wise came to our class to give us the official word. Mr. Wise cried. I don’t think you christen new school buildings. But after only being open one week the new Southern Elementary School had received a baptism by fire.

The community saw to it that Robert was remembered. They named the new city park and swimming pool after him. I remembered him as a friend I never really got to know. The sign said Robert Lonnie Suffoletta Memorial Pool. I suppose, particularly after the passage of time, that people read the sign and wonder who Robert Lonnie Suffoletta was. But I know who he was. I wonder who he might have become. It is a blessing to be granted the opportunity to become. Being granted that blessing I hope to become all that I was meant to be.

November 22, 1963

I was six years old. I was in my first grade class room in the basement of the East Bernstadt School in East Bernstadt, KY. My teacher, Mrs. Wilma Griffith got our attention and told us the news. President John F. Kennedy had been shot and killed. I do not remember much about how the class responded. Nor am I able to get in touch with the thoughts I myself would have had. I just knew that a bad thing had happened. I knew that my folks had not voted for Mr. Kennedy, though I think at least my mother would have liked to. But we were Baptist and in 1960 voting for a Catholic was a gulf that many, maybe most, Baptist could not span. Knowing what I know about the electoral preference of our county the president certainly would not have won the majority among the folks I lived around. Yet even as a six year old I sensed that people liked the president. At least they were intrigued with him. There was something fascinating about a young president with a winning smile and impressive family. It was a beautiful picture. Though people did not understand his background or his faith they enjoyed the glamour that accompanied him. Now he was gone. In one day he was gone, just gone.

This was before the days of the 24 hour news cycle but it would not have mattered anyway. We did not have a television. We got our news from the radio and the telephone and who ever might drop by to talk with us. Everybody was talking about it. The news sank in.

School was dismissed the day of the president’s funeral. My mother out of her own curiosity and probably because she wanted her children to have the educational experience made arrangements for us to watch the funeral. Our pastor, Rev. E. P. Whitt had a television. Pastor Whitt and his wife Sylvia lived in a house trailer in the back yard of the New Salem Baptist Church. Mother piled all four of us in the car and took us to pastor Whitt’s home. There sitting on the floor in the living room of a house trailer parked in the back yard of the New Salem Baptist Church we watched the proceedings of President Kennedy’s funeral. Now isn’t that something. A group of Baptist huddled around a television on church property watching a Catholic president’s funeral. Maybe that great gulf between Baptists and Catholics could be spanned.

Pill Organizers

I had a breakdown this morning. For years I have had trouble remembering to take my blood pressure medicine. Some days I have forgotten. Usually my body gives me a reminder of that about mid-day. I am certain there have been some days when I have taken my meds but thought I had not so I took them again. So three or four years ago I bought one of those pill organizers. Actually I must have bought a...n organizer twice because I found two this morning when I went to search for one. Yes, that is right; today I filled the compartments of the weekly pill organizer. I always thought this was for old people. While I am not yet ready to claim that mantle I do want to get old. Doing something that makes me feel older is a little frightening to me. However I have a growing fear of what could happen if I failed to properly take my medications. But please allow me the dignity of hedging a little bit. I began using the pill organizer not because I am getting older but because I am getting wiser.

Disconnected Phone Numbers

(502) 863-3615 was the phone number my parents were assigned when they moved to Georgetown, KY.  They lived in Georgetown for 42 years – from August 1964 through late October 2006. Their residence changed six times over that span of time but the phone number remained the same 502-863-3615. I had that number memorized. Still do. If someone asked for my phone number I could rattle it off 502-863-3615. I have dialed that number thousands of times. That’s the number I dialed growing up if I was going to be home later than usual. It is the number I dialed after each commute I made to college just to give mom peace of mind. It is the number I dialed when I announced that I was getting married. It is the number I dialed when I told my parents they were going to be grandparents (and again, and again). It is the number I dialed to announce the birth of those grandchildren and to tell my eager parents the names of those new grandchildren. It is the number my parents called me from often to ask “when are you coming home”? And it is the number the calls came from to tell me about some crisis for which I needed to come home. That number was disconnected in October of 2006 when my parents moved to Blacksburg, Virginia to be near my brother and his family. I loaded their possessions on a Ryder truck and as I drove away in the big yellow truck I remember thinking that I would never call that number again. Indeed an era had ended. Soon (502) 863-3615 would be assigned to someone else. I have been tempted a few times to dial that number just to see who would answer. Each time I have squelched the temptation.

Not long after moving to Blacksburg my parents became cell phone only customers. I never bothered to memorize their new number. I did not need to. I simply stored the number in my phone under the title Dadmom. Mom’s illness gradually eroded her ability to use a phone so it was always Dad who carried the phone and answered. Over the past seven years I have either called or received calls from that number probably on average of 3 times a week. Yet I had to check the contacts in my phone in order to actually know the number (540) 558-8150. I am not sure what would happen today if I were to dial that number. Perhaps I would get my Dad’s voice mail. More than likely I would get notification that the number had been disconnected or was no longer in service. Soon that number will be assigned to someone else. My Dad died 13 days ago. I sure am missing the phone calls. An era has ended. I guess it is time to delete that number from my contacts list. Maybe I will do that tomorrow. Maybe.

An Outdated Friend

I said goodbye to an old friend today. For over three years this friend has been securely by my side, snuggled in the left pocket of my pants. Before this friend there were others like her, simple and dependable, yet able to connect me to friends, family, and even a few foes at a moments notice. All I had to do was get this friend out of my pocket, flip open her cover, press a few buttons, and miraculously I could talk to people who were far away as if they were standing right beside me. This friend never had a name, so I will just call her what she was. Flip phone. Her color was black but the years of riding against the cotton, and wool and polyester of my pant pockets and constantly being dinged by coins and keys and soiled with dirt and sweat had left her partially white or at least a dingy gray. She no longer held a charge very well, her contract was long ago up, and my continued association with her was causing others to think me ancient and out of touch. So today I traded her in. Yep, I got all of a $5.00 credit on my next bill. I embraced the future and left the Verizon store with a new I Phone. I am not to sure about my new friend just yet. I guess we will eventually get along ok but right now I am still trying to figure out how to flip her open so I can get to the key pad.

Putting Away Childish Things

During the Sunday School hour this morning two eleven year old girls spoke to me about being baptized. I talked with them about their faith journey and what it meant to be a believer in Christ and the significance of baptism. I helped them understand our tradition of “coming forward” during the concluding hymn of the worship service so that together we could express their desire and allow the congregation to rejoice with them. They said they were going to do that and at the conclusion of the morning worship they walked forward together. A thirteen year old boy came as well and allowed us to rejoice with him in his decision to follow Christ. It was a good day at North Side Baptist Church. But as our worship service was unfolding today I observed a subtle action that demonstrated a great truth. I noted that the girls did not come to the front for the children’s sermon as they usually did. I smiled inside. I thought to myself, something has changed today. They have made a decision to follow Christ and that has served as a right of passage for them to sit at the back and observe the children’s sermon rather than be a part of it. They have grown up. I wish all believers could understand the Apostle Paul’s admonition that when we grow up it is time to put away childish things.