BEING GREEN

Checking out at the store, the young cashier suggested to the older woman, that she should bring her own grocery bags because plastic bags weren't good for the environment.

The woman apologized and explained, "We didn't have
this green thing back in my earlier days."

The young clerk responded, "That's our problem today. Your generation did not care enough to save our environment for future generations."

She was right -- our generation didn't have the green thing in its day.

Back then, we returned milk bottles, soda bottles and beer bottles to the store. The store sent them back to the plant to be washed and sterilized and refilled, so it could use the same bottles over and over. So they really were truly recycled.

But we didn't have the green thing back in our day.

Grocery stores bagged our groceries in brown paper bags, that we reused for numerous things, most memorable besides household garbage bags, was the use of brown paper bags as book covers for our schoolbooks. This was to ensure that public property, (the books provided for our use by the school) was not defaced by our scribblings. Then we were able to personalize our books on the brown paper bags.

But too bad we didn't do the green thing back then.

We walked up stairs, because we didn't have an escalator in every store and office building. We walked to the grocery store and didn't climb into a 300-horsepower machine every time we had to go two blocks.

But she was right. We didn't have the green thing in our day.

Back then, we washed the baby's diapers because we didn't have the throwaway kind. We dried clothes on a line, not in an energy-gobbling machine burning up 220 volts -- wind and solar power really did dry our clothes back in our early days. Kids got hand-me-down clothes from their brothers or sisters, not always brand-new clothing.

But that young lady is right; we didn't have the green thing back in our day.


Back then, we had one TV, or radio, in the house -- not a TV in every room. And the TV had a small screen the size of a handkerchief (remember them?), not a screen the size of the state of Montana. In the kitchen, we blended and stirred by hand because we didn't have electric machines to do everything for us. When we packaged a fragile item to send in the mail, we used wadded up old newspapers to cushion it, not Styrofoam or plastic bubble wrap. Back then, we didn't fire up an engine and burn gasoline just to cut the lawn. We used a push mower that ran on human power. We exercised by working so we didn't need to go to a health club to run on treadmills that operate on electricity.

But she's right; we didn't have the green thing back then.

We drank from a fountain when we were thirsty instead of using a cup or a plastic bottle every time we had a drink of water. We refilled writing pens with ink instead of buying a new pen, and we replaced the razor blades in a razor instead of throwing away the whole razor just because the blade got dull.

But we didn't have the green thing back then.

Back then, people took the streetcar or a bus and kids rode their bikes to school or walked instead of turning their moms into a 24-hour taxi service. We had one electrical outlet in a room, not an entire bank of sockets to power a dozen appliances. And we didn't need a computerized gadget to receive a signal beamed from satellites 23,000 miles out in space in order to find the nearest burger joint.

But isn't it sad the current generation laments how wasteful we old folks were just because we didn't have the green thing back then?

Feel free to share this with another selfish old person who needs a lesson in conservation from a smart-mouthed young person. We don't like being old in the first place, so it doesn't take much to tick us off.

SLEEPLESS NIGHTS

Ever have sleepless nights?  Insomnia!  Even worse are those nights I sleep a couple of hours only to wake up, unable to finish my night's sleep.  


One night this week I woke up and my mind began churning out ideas, ways to work out something in the future I'd like to see happen.  I lost several hours sleep before letting it go into God's hands.  Then the next morning my devotions took me to the very same realization that I'd experienced. 

When I think of worship, several ways come to mind.

• praying 
• singing
• giving (time or talents)
• praise and thanksgiving

The Lord is teaching me another way to honor Him.  It's not in my nature to do this nor is it easy. 

• resting

Not in the Sunday afternoon nap sense, though I love that!   My devotional next morning said that resting in Christ is true worship too.  It didn't feel like worship at 2:00 AM!

Here's a secret about me that few know.  Until now.  I talk to myself. Sometimes I talk aloud to God too while on the hoof around the house.  Not when folks are around.  Some would say I'm crazy.  Another theory I've heard (and prefer) is that very intelligent people talk aloud to themselves to work things out.  My midnight to 2:00 AM conversation with God went something like this.

Lord, I'm just trying to work all this out.

Kathy, I know the plans I have for you.

I just can't understand how.

Lean not to your own understanding.

But, Lord, you know I'm a planner and need to know which direction to take things.

I'll guide your steps, tell you when to turn left, when to turn right.

I'm struggling.

Yes, I know.  Try resting.

I know, Lord!  Now even that's part of my concern.  I need  sleep!  Church is in the morning and I want to be rested for worship.

I didn't say sleep.  I mean try resting in ME.  Trust me to work out the plans, my plans for you. Resting is worship too.

Wow!  I let it go, found peace (without answers), sleep (without fretting), and renewed faith (without planning future details.)  All in Him.  I encountered God, Who never slumbers nor sleeps.  My light bulb moment freed me to turn out the lights and sleep peacefully.

Maybe my purest sacrifice of worship is in silence, just quietly waiting. . .resting. . .in God to manage life's details.  He handles the universe majestically.  I'm sure He can take care of me and my petty problems.

As humans it's natural to struggle and stress over problems. Choosing to rest and trust Christ is supernatural.  But that's exactly why it's so vital in order to stop the downward spiral.  

Sleepness nights can happen to anyone over most anything, big or little.  Worry doesn't prevent problems.  It prevents prayer.  Next time it robs you of sleep or peace, I hope your light bulb moment comes more quickly than mine. He's on call 24-7.

GOOFEY GOLFERS (originally titled Golfers' Goofs)

Our weekly conversation goes one of two ways:

"How was your game, Doug?"

"Did pretty well on the first nine but had a super back nine."  He may elaborate on birdies, bogies, straight drives and pars.  I just nod as if it all makes sense to me.

Other days we have conversation #2.

"How was your game, Doug?"

He answers in one sentence ranging from,

"Great weather."
"Good fellowship."

"I found 8 balls in the woods off the first hole.  Two were Titlists!"

I nod and this time it actually does make sense to me.  Scores don't count on these days.  It becomes mere exercise.

Once a month we have dinner with 6 friends from college.  We call ourselves the Alum Chums.  Sometimes Doug golfs with Donnie Miles, Bobby Parker or Leroy Welch.  Recently the guys were remembering their past golf disasters.

Doug launched with, "Remember the day I swung and my expensive golf head flew into the lake?"

Bobby remembered, "Yeah and I also recall you wading into muck trying to find it.  No luck.  So you considered coming back in waders to try again.  I talked you outta that!  That's what friends are for."

Donnie & Doug mock acting on their emotions some days.

Donnie winced as he recalled, "And the day my electric cart ran amok right into that lake with my bag of clubs underwater.  I can't believe I moved fast enough and had strength enough to pull it up. . .pure adrenalin!  In emergencies adrenalin gives you super strength to do stuff you normally couldn't do!"

I laughed.  He didn't.

Golf widows get this.  We're a unique breed.  The highs we hear range from that rare hole in one (Doug got one. . .his miracle!) to his terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

He played with another friend, a retired preacher, and they both had a pretty good game.  Loading his new clubs into the friend's truck bed, he opted not to tie them down. (You know where this is going, don't you?  It's called foreshadowing!) A few miles down the road, folks began passing them and honking horns. Looking back they saw Doug's golf bag hanging over the truck's tailgate. Sparks flew as heads scraped asphalt, eventually flinging clubs for about a mile.  Going back to see if any were retrievable was like a funeral for a golfer.  Mangled, twisted clubs left a morbid trail.  He wanted to cry but golfers don't do that.  

It was several days before Doug had the courage to tell me the cost in dollars.  When he finally did, I wanted to cry but golf wives don't do that. Instead they find the adrenalin to smile and say, "Honey, it's only money. Why don't you replace them?"

Adrenalin gives you super strength to do stuff you normally couldn't do. . .my miracle!

WHERE NEVER IS HEARD A DISCOURAGING WORD

Sometimes I talk to myself. I might say, "Now when you see so-and-so be sure not to mention her recent weight gain. You know it's a sensitive subject." But then I find myself saying something like, "Hi Margie! Good to see you around. Well, I don't mean aROUND. I mean here. Back at church." Then I wonder why she misses the next few Sundays. Maybe that's why they have me playing piano rather than be a greeter.

I can relate to Uncle Buck in the first minute of this scene:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E7PqoR-6IFU

Doug came home once warning me about a funeral, "The family is upset because the father's body doesn't look good even though the funeral home tried. They still decided to have an open casket."

I went to the viewing and told myself, "Whatever you say, don't mention how their father looks." I spoke to each family member in the line:

"I'm so sorry to hear of your loss."
"We've been praying for you."
"Let us know if we can do anything."
"He'll be missed."

I tried not to sound repetitive but by the time I reached his son, a good friend from church, I heard my voice say the one thing I'd told myself NOT to say:
"He looks good."

Immediately Jack said, "No, he doesn't!" He looked at me as
if I was either crazy or blind.

Panicked I ran the spiel of dittos trying to cover my faus pax, "I'm so sorry to hear of your loss, we've been praying, let us know if we can do anything, he'll be missed. . ."
Just shut up, Kathy! Just slither away!

I've even done it without saying a word. I just laughed inappropriately.

A new couple came to church and she played violin beautifully with our praise band. The next week after service she introduced me to her husband. We smiled, shook hands and I innocently asked, "And where do you work, Tom?"

He stammered, "I-I-I-I'm a sp-sp-speech therapist at East C-C-Carolina University."

I thought he was joking so I laughed hysterically. He merely smiled, the same smile as moments before our meeting. He's not joking.

Now it's even harder to retract a laugh than spoken words. The ring just lingers in the air, even as your smile shrinks!

A friend recently reminded me, "I've never regretted anything I didn't say."

I'm learning. I'm learning.

I truly am an encourager. . .usually!

DID HE SAY THE FALLS?

Family stories. Every clan has them and the retelling just snowballs the fun.

The Tippetts spent summer vacation week together and usually went to my Uncle Bill's beach house at Emerald Isle, NC. One year, however, before that became the tradition, we went to the mountains. Tommy Birch was a college professor but also a builder and property developer. He built his own retirement home, Birches' Perch, in the NC mountains near Fontana Dam. He developed a beautiful valley with rentals. So we rented one of the large houses in his Tobacco Branch Village (good ol' Tarheel name for the hilly haven.)

Knowing there was white water rafting nearby, we borrowed a 5-man raft. My brothers, Bert and Ricky, Doug and I were the only brave souls to climb aboard. Our conquest was the Nantahala River! Back then the sport was not so common and our knowledge was limited. Few places were open to the public. Today this same river is cluttered with water sport businesses.

My sisters-in-law, Dianne and Gwen, volunteered, "We'll drive you and the raft up river to put in where the dam water releases. Then we'll follow along on the road, watching til you reach the end." Wise women. Wiser than the four inexperienced fools in the raft.

"How hard can it be?" one of us chirped, climbing in, oars in hand. We sat down, pushed off and began to float downstream.

"This is a cinch!" another novice bragged, as we waved to our lady spotters now heading to the safety of their car.

It was beautiful drifting slowing on the clear, cold water. The trees on both banks waved and cheered us on. We laughed that sibling laugh that only DNA harmonizes into musical joy!

"Ahhhhh!"

"Ahhhhh!"

"OUCH!"

I don't recall whose ahhhh morped into the first of many ouches but soon our quartet of giggles and ahhhs became loud, excruciating cries of pain. Our bottoms were firmly planted in the bottom of the raft. In shallow water we felt every pointed rock targeting our derrieres.

Bert, the smart one, first rose to his knees. . .smaller targets. Should help. So we all assumed the praying position, oars still flailing pointlessly.

"Owwww! That's worse. My knees have no fat cushions!" I exclaimed. I'm the expert on the obvious. Soon we all got the point with our knobby knees.  Literally!

Doug, the creative one, whipped off his white crew socks, tied one around each knee. Voila! Soon we all donned instant, innovative knee pads. Things were better and we felt quite proud of our ingenuity. OK, so it was Doug's ingenuity.

Until another 5-man raft overtook us. They perched proudly with their posteriors on their pontoons, feet firmly planted in the bottom of the raft. They passed us, looking down on us literally and figuratively.

Simultaneously we noticed. FEET firmly planted on the BOTTOM! Not bottoms on the bottom.

"Oh. You're supposed to sit on the sides," we whimpered. We rose in tandem from the pain pit to the pontoons.

"Ahhhhhh!"

"Ahhhhhh!"

"Ahhhhhh!"

"Ahhhhhh!"

Life was good again.

Learning curves, often painful, are worth it. Sometimes the white water moved swiftly. We bounced along, navigating boulders. Doug was the rudder man in back and Ricky was in front calling out what was ahead. I tried to look relevant from the side, mirroring whatever Bert did with his oar. We got pretty good! We bobbed along, avoided the big rocks. The white water became calm at times so we rowed merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily (there were four of us) gently down the stream.

Now and then we'd hear from the high bank near the road, "Yoooo hoooooo! How's it going?" Concerned wives relaxed at each interception, seeing how well we were learning.

Admittedly, the boys and I became a bit cocky, kinda like Barney Fife. Our confidence exceeded our competence, however, when two smart-aleck kayakers passed us, yakking to each other, "OK. Just ahead are the falls!"

They disappeared. We quit rowing but kept forging ahead into rapidly flowing white water.

"The falls? The falls? Did he say the FALLS?"

That's when we discovered reverse raft rowing. We discovered. . .there IS no such thing!

We pictured Niagara Falls just around the bend.

The bend. Might be better we NOT see where we're about to die.

We braced ourselves, best you can in a seatless, beltless rubber tub cascading toward the Grim Reaper.

It was over in mere seconds. They seemed like hours! The falls turned out to be a rather gentle 3 foot drop.

Wives smiled and cheered us to the finish line. Our shrill cries went from terror to the thrill of victory in one breath. We smiled back, trying to appear brave.

Other years followed. Smoother sailing evolved. But we never had more fun than that first run! Never had more fear either! I think fun and fear are first cousins.

Here's our youth group on the terrorizing falls years later.

Below Doug and I once again navigate the now familiar river with our nephew, Brian Tippett (Bert's son.)  Christian Powell and Judy Bell Worthington from the youth group paddle on their right side. 

 

Kimberly, our first born, maneuvers front right fearlessly,

unlike her parents on their first run!

I like to think of our generation as pioneers who braved the new world for our offspring to enjoy. I like to THINK that. Family stories can take Barney Fifes and carve them into Christopher Columbi! (Well,it should have a plural form!)

Sometimes we grow older precisely because we grow wiser!

Riding safely from my recliner,

Kathy

I WAS WRONG

"I was wrong."

Why are those three words so hard to say?  It's so easy, especially as parents rearing children, to point out their wrong.  Likewise, seeing fault in your spouse or blaming your boss or a friend is easy.

I admit this is a personal struggle for me too.  Why?  As I examined it in my own life, it came down to several things.

• PRIDE

Pride prevents me from admitting I was wrong.  Of course we all want to be and do right.  But, hey!  We're all human.  We WILL be wrong and do wrong.  As I learn to accept and admit it, my weakness opens the door to humility. We have nothing to prove to a God Who loves unconditionally.  Oh, that we could love that way.  Only through Him! 

• CONTROL

The desire to be in control thwarts those words, "I was wrong."  That power struggle goes all the way back to Eden and weaves through all humanity.  It's especially part of the DNA of us Type A personalities!   Yet when life or events get out of control, we're more likely to admit our own flaws and turn to God to find help or meaningful purpose.  Tough circumstances may force those words from our lips.

• SELFISHNESS

Sometimes it simply stems from wanting our own way.  I remember this all the way back to my childhood.  As toddlers, our first words are, "No!  Mine!  I want. . ."  Unchecked, this attitude carries over in the adult world.  It can even plunge families into debt or divorce.

~     ~     ~

When I look at that list, one word sums it up--childishness.  It's hard to even admit that to you here.  I'd far rather believe I'm mature.  But God calls on me to be childlike, rather than childish.  What's the difference?

Childlike means:

• HUMBLE

Children submit to authority, sometimes even willingly!  They may not understand the whys but know and trust the love or wisdom behind a parent, teacher or cop.

• TEACHABLE

Children realize they have much to learn.  They don't claim to be the final authority.  Their minds are open and receptive like little sponges.  "As the deer panteth for the water, so my soul longeth after thee."  Maybe David was a man after God's own heart because he continued to learn, even as a king.

•  GIVING

This goes beyond knowledge and into action.  Yes, children can be selfish but they can also be very generous and sensitive to others.  At those sharing times, being right or in control disappears from their radar.  They simply give.


"Lord, I'm so thankful for Your patience with me.  You never give up on me.  Your fresh mercies rescue me daily.  Help me to extend that same grace to others.  As You reveal my own weaknesses, I cry out for Your strength.  The Christian life is so hard because it's so daily.  So I begin today with you saying I was wrong.  I admit my own failures, selfishness and release control to You.  But I'll probably have to do it again another day soon.  Thank You for being faithful, even when I'm not.

In Jesus' name,
Amen"

Chuck Swindoll says, "Knowledge alone puffs up but when there is action that follows, humility comes."

Sometimes that action is simply saying three words:

I was wrong.

COPS ARE FUNNY TOO!

If you know me, you realize I have a somewhat warped sense of humor. Warped meaning not normal. I know what you're thinking. Shut up!

Certainly in life we perceive certain people and professions to be either serious or funny. Judges are serious. Entertainers are funny. Grandpas are funny. Scientists are serious. Generalizations? For sure. But in my own hasty generalization I would have deemed policemen to be serious.

Then I became friends with one. He played violin in our church praise band. Sometimes while on duty, this Florence officer would drop by the house with his partner in their squad car to pick up a piece of music. He also had a beautiful solo voice and might bring me accompaniment music.  

"Jeff, I appreciate you coming by but I gotta confess something to you."

"Yeah. What is it, Kathy?"

"I wonder what my neighbors think when they see you here on my front porch talking to me every now and then. Police cars are rare in our driveways here."

He laughed and hugged me. "Now they'll know it's a friendly call. Next time I come though, let's give 'em something to talk about. You throw me a fake punch, I'll fall backwards off your porch. Then come down, plant your foot on my chest and point me back to my car. I'll run away. I'll guarantee you'll never have a problem with a neighbor!"

We never acted on that but it was fun to think about.

Recently I read some comments allegedly made by South Carolina troopers while on duty. Since no names were included, I can't verify these quotes. But knowing Jeff makes me believe them! At any rate, they're entertaining.

"You know, stop lights don't come any redder than the one you just went through."

"Relax. The handcuffs are tight because they're new. They'll stretch after you wear them awhile."

"If you take your hands off the car, I'll make your birth certificate a worthless document."

"If you run, you'll only go to jail tired."

"Can you run faster than 1,200 feet per second? Because that'll be the speed of the bullet chasing you."

"You don't know how fast you were going? I guess that means I can write anything I want to on the ticket, huh?"

"Yes sir, you can talk to the shift supervisor, but I don't think it will help. Oh, did I mention that I'm the shift supervisor?"

"Warning? You want a warning? OK. I'm warning you, if I see you do that again I'm giving you another ticket!"

"The answer to this last question will determine whether you are drunk or not. Was Mickey Mouse a cat or a dog?"

"Fair? You want me to be fair? Listen. Fair is a place where you go ride on rides, eat cotton candy and corn dogs and step in monkey poop."

"Yeah, we have a quota. Two more tickets and my wife gets a toaster oven."

"In God we trust. All others we run through NCIC." (National Crime Information Center)

"Just how big were those two beers you said you had?"

"No sir, we don't have quotas anymore. We used to but now we're allowed to write as many tickets as we can."

"I'm glad to hear the Chief (of Police) is a friend of yours. So you know someone who can post your bail."

"You didn't think we give pretty women tickets? You're right, we don't. Sign here."

So thanks, Jeff, my funny cop friend, for breaking down my own personal stereotype!  Cops are real people too.  And some are quite humorous, maybe even a bit warped.

Upright citizen (at the moment),

Kathy