Feeding Ducks (and Geese)

My autistic son Brock and I fed bread to the ducks at the park today. It is more fun feeding the ducks now that the geese are gone. For several months there was a small flock of Canadians who invaded the lake and then hatched and raised a batch of goslings. Geese are bullies. You could throw a piece of bread towards a duck and a goose would swim over and steal it. Even the sight of the goose with that long neck stretched out swimming toward the bread would cause a duck to turn and swim in a different direction. The geese would walk the bank and stick out their necks and hiss at everything in sight. They acted like they owned the place. But the ducks were there first. And the city of Fairfield holds title to the real estate. A few weeks ago we were throwing pieces of bread on the lake and trying to make sure that the ducks got their fair share. I noticed that three ducks had waddled up behind us on the shore. We were standing between them and the geese. I flipped a piece of bread over my shoulder and they quickly ate it unhindered by the geese. I continued giving pieces of bread to Brock and he would break the bread in pieces and feed the ducks. But he had noticed what I had done. Now he would break the bread and about every third piece throw over his shoulder to the ducks behind him. Survival of the fittest is the way of our world. But somehow we need to learn that just because one is bigger, meaner, more clever, has a longer neck, can hiss louder, and move quicker, does not mean they are entitled to everything. Sometimes the solution is as simple as being a barrier and creating a distribution plan.

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.

Lessons from My Father's Wallet

A month before completing first grade I watched my father leave for work. He was dressed differently this morning. Usually he donned his starched khakis and went to his job grinding feed at the Southern States Farmers Cooperative. This morning he wore a business suit and was beginning a new career as an insurance agent for the American Life and Accident Company. This new job would require that we re-locate. When my first grade school year was over we distanced ourselves 100 miles from family and friends and all that was familiar and began an adventure in a new place.

 

My father began his career in the insurance business as “debit” insurance agent. This meant that he went to the homes and businesses of his policyholders and collected the premiums on a monthly and even weekly basis. His clients were ordinary people whose resources were precious to them. His travels would take him back a dirt lane to the home of a sharecropper or down the manicured lane of a horse farm to visit the home of a day laborer. His route would take him to simple homes and apartments and to shacks in the poorer sections of town. He might call on some folks at a garage or a restaurant where they worked. His hours were often long and late. Many times my mother would warm his supper up after my siblings and I had already gone to bed. Sometimes I would get out of bed and was allowed to sit down at the table with him for a few minutes.

 

My father always carried two wallets; his own, and a larger one in which he secured company funds. A debit insurance agent will handle a few checks and a lot of cash in small denomination bills. Not long after he began this occupation my father contracted Billy Lamb to custom make a wallet for this purpose.  Billy had a large family of six children. To support them he worked as a maintenance man. He also owned and operated a shoe repair shop on South Broadway. In the after hours until 9:00 every night you could find him in the shoe shop. My Dad told Billy what he needed and Billy cut out the leather and sewed it together to my Dad’s specifications. It was a simple long double fold wallet with a compartment for checks and a compartment for bills and a little pocket to put business cards in. My Dad carried that wallet in his business until the wallet became so worn it could no longer be used.

 

A few years ago my Dad and mother were downsizing and preparing to move to Virginia. My wife was helping them sort and pack.  Dad pulled the old wallet out of a drawer and told her the story behind it and then proceeded to throw it away. With vehemence my wife stopped him, retrieved the wallet, and it is in our possession today as a precious piece of memorabilia. I treasure this worn out wallet because it tells my father’s story. It is a voice that speaks of his character and highlights his values.

 

The wallet is made of genuine cowhide. Even the stitching is leather. It occurs to me that my father is a genuine man. He never put on any airs. He never tries to be someone that he isn’t. He is comfortable in his own skin. He knows who he is. He is just Larry Cloyd. He was blessed with a lot of raw intelligence, a massive amount of common sense, and was street smart to the world around him. He used those skills in a simple and genuine way to ply his trade and to care for those entrusted to him.

 

This wallet also reminds me that my father is a man of integrity. If you are a debit insurance agent handling other people’s money it is important that you can be trusted. First, your policyholders have to trust you. They need to believe that you are honest and not twisting the truth concerning the coverage of their insurance policy. The amount of security contracted in the policy might be limited and the premiums might be small but it is significant to them. When you collect their premiums they trust you as their agent to make sure they are properly recorded. Moreover the insurance company trust you to account for the money in an honest fashion. My father began as an insurance agent in 1964. He would come home sometimes with $1,000 maybe $1,100 in that wallet. That may seem miniscule today but in the 1960’s that was a chunk of change. At night my father would lay the wallet on the dresser in his and mother’s bedroom. Otherwise it was in his hip pocket. Either way it was guarded with integrity.

 

My father’s wallet symbolizes the seriousness with which he approached his responsibilities. I am quite certain that in his wildest dreams my father never envisioned himself being an insurance agent, much less spending thirty-seven years in the business. Perhaps he would have found his current job or a similar one more enjoyable. I am sure it took courage to make such a radical change in employment. His new profession was not one of choice but one of necessity. He had a wife and four young children whose needs were growing and whom he had great hopes for. To provide for these needs and enable these hopes required that he accept the challenge and pursue a new opportunity. He had his doubters and surely there were doubts that arose in his own soul. But commitment to his responsibilities drove him to succeed.  

 

My father’s old worn out wallet is a testimony of stewardship. As an insurance agent my father worked on commissions. Thus in a very real sense our livelihood flowed through this wallet. My father and mother made a decent living. Our needs were met. We never went without. We had all that was necessary and a few extras besides. They made sure we experienced the things that would broaden our lives. They assisted each of us in acquiring an education. When it came time to retire they had enough and were able to enjoy a comfortable retirement. They never were rich, but then that never was their goal. I am sure my father could reflect upon several times in his life that he could have made better financial decisions. I am also quite certain that there is one financial decision that he has never regretted. My father was a churchman. As a young man, when he was still donning his starched khakis and going to his job grinding and hauling feed, he made a decision to tithe his income to his church. No matter how tough times were or how tight matters were my mother and father always gave 10% of their income to the Lord’s work through their church. That practice is not just of benefit to the church but it is of benefit to the giver. In doing this the giver comes to understand that the real owner of everything is God and that we are simply caretakers of what God has given us. My father knew the importance of money. He knew what money could do for you. He knew how the lack of it could harm you. But my father was not a servant to his money. Rather he had learned how to make money his servant.

 

I do not think I ever really understood my father until I got to see him up close in his business. After graduating from high school I got my insurance license and worked with him for a period of time. I took note of the jovial interaction he had with people. People liked my Dad. I watched as he exhibited genuine respect for people and treated them with dignity regardless of their status in life. I listened as he carefully asked questions and how with precise annunciation he explained the benefits and details of their insurance contract. I observed a man of integrity. I am so glad my wife retrieved that old worn out wallet because every time I see it I am reminded of a life well lived.

 

 

 

 

Brock at Twenty-Eight

On this date twenty-eight years ago I went to bed early. My wife Jeanette had told me that she felt certain that before the night was over we would be making a trip to Springfield, IL for the delivery of our second child. So I slept as the signs of her labor began to develop. She awoke me about midnight. After entrusting Jeremy, our oldest child, into the care of Olyta Hazelwood we made the trip to Memorial Medical Center. There at 6:06 A.M., May 20, our second child, Brock, was born. I had no idea how much his birth would shape my life. Or perhaps I should say I had no idea how much his life would shape my life.

Brock is autistic. He is a man today. In fact he is a big man. He is Six feet tall, weights over 200 pounds, has a big appetite, and a big personality. He lives with us and is under our watch care. Caring for Brock has changed the scope of my life. In one sense it has placed some limits on life. There are some things I cannot do and some things I must do differently because of him. But those limits have added other dimensions to my life. I view the world through different prisms because of Brock. Brock has not narrowed my world but he has broadened my world. Brock enables me at times to see life from his perspective. When that happens I see a much simpler world that is free from hatred and prejudice and struggles for power. Maybe that is why Brock always seems happy.

God in His sovereignty entrusted Brock to Jeanette and I. We have learned to rejoice in the gift God has entrusted us with. We love Brock and he returns that love to us in many ways. Each day Brock teaches us how to find satisfaction in the simple things of life. Brock delights in going to church.  He enjoys singing and at times sings boisterously. Tonight, in our evening worship service Brock and Jeanette were sitting on the second row. Instead of sitting on the platform I was sitting on the front row directly in front of Brock. We were singing and Brock was singing right into my ear. I closed my eyes and just listened as Brock sang the repetitive praise song: “God is so good…He cares for me…I love Him so…I praise His name…He’s so good to me”. Yes indeed – twenty-eight years ago God sure was good to me.

 

To Brent - with Love, Mother

When I graduated from high school my mother presented me with a poem she had written about me and for me. It is a long poem composed of fifteen 4 line rhyming verses honed in perfect meter. It is a poetic synopsis written from my mother’s perspective of the first eighteen years of my life. It notes, sometimes with interpretive detail, the important events and passages of my life from the time I was born until I graduated from high school. I am sure my mother labored hard writing the poem, giving careful thought to what she wanted to say and was precise with the wording. I am equally sure it was a labor of love.

Upon completion of the poem she enlisted someone who had abilities in calligraphy to copy the poem on fine parchment and then had it encased in a nice frame and presented it to me as a gift. This kind of gift was typical of my mother. I received it with politeness and with words of thanks. But I am sure I probably thought it was a little silly and I did not show it off to many people. Over the years however I have displayed the poem in a place of prominence in my office and ever now and then I would read it. I read it again this week which is probably the first time I have read it in five or six years. I noted that the ink on the parchment is becoming faded and told myself that I needed to preserve the poem in some other format so the legacy of my mother’s thoughts would not be lost.

I preached this morning from Psalm 121 which speaks of the watch care of the Lord in our lives. It says the Lord preserves our going out and our coming in from this time forth and even for evermore. The psalm reminded me of my mother’s poem. For 18 years she had watched my going out and my coming in and she had recorded the events with remarkable accuracy. The last verse of her poem was an admonition to walk with God – to allow God to oversee my going out and my coming in. So in my sermon I showed the congregation the framed copy of my mother’s poem, told the story behind it, noted its purpose and challenge. But I did not read the poem. But some of my congregants requested that I read it tonight and so I did.

I am glad I have the poem. I appreciate the time and effort and love my mother put into it. But honestly that poem has never been especially important to me. But today the poem took on new significance. Today it became a more relevant part of my heritage. For today as I read it I could hear my mother’s voice. I could sense her love and pride and presence as if she were giving it to me all over again. I was reminded once again of who I am and where I came from. I was reminded of whose I am and the journey that I am on.

Because I am Thirsty

My adult autistic son Brock frequently struggles with sinus congestion. When he does we go to the drug store and buy a twin pack of Dayquil and Nyquil. He will take a shot of the Dayquil “orange medicine” in the morning and a shot of the Nyquil “green medicine” at night until the bottles are empty which usually corrects the problem. This week he acquired a worse than usual congestion problem and our usual remedy was not working very well. We went to the doctor who prescribed another medication and said it was ok to continue our “orange” and “green” medicine routine but as condition got better we could stop. Last night as he prepared for bed he said “take the green medicine”. I thought he was a little better so I questioned whether it was necessary or not. I asked him if he thought he needed the green medicine. As I expected he said yes. So I asked “Brock, how come you need it”? He responded “Because I am thirsty”.

Now I am wondering: How many things do we thirst for that we really do not need? How many things do we thirst for out of habit and routine? How many things do we thirst for that really do nothing to quench our thirst?

More Cemetery Reflections

When walking in the cemetery yesterday I read names like Wikonburger, Koukola, Behymer, Briswalter, Tromly, and Fornof on the tombstones. I am not sure I have ever known anyone with any of those names. I am a little curious about the etymology behind those names and the nationalities and genealogies associated with them. I am sure there are answers to my curiosities but I keep on walking at my sam...e pace. I have to keep my heart rate up and burn off those calories. Besides these stones are not going to talk. I keep moving along my designated path. I take note of an automobile that drives into the cemetery and parks. An elderly man gets out and makes his way across the grass among the stones to a gravesite. The gravesite is fairly recent. No grass is growing on this grave though it appears to have been freshly leveled and raked and perhaps sown with grass seed. I cannot help but wonder what his relationship is to the loved one lying beneath the earth. I would like to know. But this is his moment, his time, he does not need my interference. So I keep walking. I notice however that the man does not stay long. Perhaps there is not much to stay for. Or perhaps there is much to stay for but he cannot bear staying. Perhaps he wants to stay longer but reasons there is no purpose in staying. The man leaves and I keep walking.

It occurs to me that though cemeteries spark a lot of curiosity they also enable us to be oblivious. Here I am among acres of tombstones and each stone has a multiplicity of stories attached to it. Yet none of these stories demand to be told. In silence they allow us to walk by oblivious. Maybe that is not such a bad thing in a cemetery. But we do the same thing every day as we walk among the living. Keeping up our pace we move on oblivious to people and their stories. Maybe sometimes curious thoughts cross our minds but we are either unconcerned or to busy or to afraid to inquire so we keep walking. When that happens we miss opportunities to help and to be helped, to bless and to be blessed. Walking makes for a healthier lifestyle. But if we really want to live we need to stop and listen to the stories scattered along the way.