My father-in-law calls with a question. "There are six tapes in this package of Psalms," he says. "I got to wondering about who paid for them."
It's not a question I couldn't have predicted. It's very much like him to wonder about such things, about, as he used to say, "settling up." But we bought him the set, one of the few really good gifts we could ever come up with anyway. We were excited by possibilities of his loving them, and we were right.
"Not to worry, Dad," I told him. "It's no big deal."
I'm sure he'd thought of that answer too.
"Well, you know there are six of them in the set," he said. "You could take a couple along back with you and that way we both could enjoy them. Then, next week or so, we can exchange."
That was a proposal I couldn't have predicted, but once he offered it, I wasn't surprised.
Here's what I'm thinking. I wouldn't have thought of such an offering, and neither would our own kids. We can share this blessing—that's what he was saying.
My wife's father—like my own—is a child of the Depression. Call his ethic cheap, call it skimping, call him a Silas Marner, call him anything you want. What he was offering originated in a desire, deeply-held and graciously offered, that such a grand gift as he had should really be passed around. It was that good.
And this: our present economic doldrums might still exist if everyone thought that way, but I doubt it. His desire to share good things with us might well wreak havoc on industries throughout the country, but if more of us—me too—had a touch of ye olde ethic, all of us might well be a whole lot better off.
Nobody wants joblessness or recession or, certainly, another Depression. But there are lessons to be learned, methinks, in that single phone call from an old way of life—lessons about making do, about sharing gifts, and about thoughtfully considering others.
At 90, he's probably too old to send off to Washington. He wouldn't want a job anyway.
But that doesn't mean that what he was offering doesn't have some value, real value, for all of us, even for those who, sadly, don't love the Psalms the way he does.
It's not a question I couldn't have predicted. It's very much like him to wonder about such things, about, as he used to say, "settling up." But we bought him the set, one of the few really good gifts we could ever come up with anyway. We were excited by possibilities of his loving them, and we were right.
"Not to worry, Dad," I told him. "It's no big deal."
I'm sure he'd thought of that answer too.
"Well, you know there are six of them in the set," he said. "You could take a couple along back with you and that way we both could enjoy them. Then, next week or so, we can exchange."
That was a proposal I couldn't have predicted, but once he offered it, I wasn't surprised.
Here's what I'm thinking. I wouldn't have thought of such an offering, and neither would our own kids. We can share this blessing—that's what he was saying.
My wife's father—like my own—is a child of the Depression. Call his ethic cheap, call it skimping, call him a Silas Marner, call him anything you want. What he was offering originated in a desire, deeply-held and graciously offered, that such a grand gift as he had should really be passed around. It was that good.
And this: our present economic doldrums might still exist if everyone thought that way, but I doubt it. His desire to share good things with us might well wreak havoc on industries throughout the country, but if more of us—me too—had a touch of ye olde ethic, all of us might well be a whole lot better off.
Nobody wants joblessness or recession or, certainly, another Depression. But there are lessons to be learned, methinks, in that single phone call from an old way of life—lessons about making do, about sharing gifts, and about thoughtfully considering others.
At 90, he's probably too old to send off to Washington. He wouldn't want a job anyway.
But that doesn't mean that what he was offering doesn't have some value, real value, for all of us, even for those who, sadly, don't love the Psalms the way he does.
This morning's thanks are for what once was.
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