“Rejoice in the Lord and be glad, you righteous. . .” Psalm 32:11
All day, an intermittent screech would come crashing through the open basement window of my office. A son of the couple who used to live next door was cleaning out his deceased-father’s three-stall garage—old tools, old two by fours, old whatevers--creating a sprawling junk pyramid that attracted me for some shady reason, but, thankfully, I stayed away.
I couldn’t see the guy from where I sat, but whenever he’d emerge from the shadowy interior, I heard every last armful of trash come down on the pile. The old man was an ace tinker-er and a pack rat to boot. It was a colossal job.
And creepy. The pile of stuff one accumulates throughout life is incredible. Before we moved, I’d used to think I'd like to move out of town like we have, somewhere where the massive prairie sky is a daily—and nightly—art museum. What kept me me from looking for another place, however, was the gargantuan task of moving, which would necessarily include the job my neighbor’s son was doing yesterday—tossing out mountains of really valuable stuff. Sure. I couldn’t do it.
There in my office, I was surrounded by things I couldn’t think of tossing, things that would, someday, be just so much crapola to my kids. Maybe I ought to buy one of those little gizmos that produce lettered plastic tape and label everything—“this is a trophy I got for longest putt at a teachers’ tournament in Lafayette County, Wisconsin.” If they could identify it, I told mysellf, I’m sure they’d keep it.
Upstairs, I’ve got two shelves of old Dutch books, some of which come from my grandfather and my great-grandfather, preachers in ye olden days. There are others, a dozen at least, that I bought for almost nothing at an auction. Some of them were published about the time the Mayflower set anchor off Massachusetts. When I’m gone, will anyone care about those ancient things?—or will they be the bill for yet another auction, where some anxious fancier will pick them up for peanuts and put them carefully on another bookshelf until she dies. It's an endless cycle.
Back then, maybe for the first time, that next door junk pile reminded me, all too clearly, of my own life’s detritus, something that, back then, would never have entered my mind but today, twenty years later, is painful and haunting because my wife and I are still sifting, even though we've moved--twice!!--since then.
By human standards, it’s impossible to deny that life is tragic; there’s no escaping the grim reaper, after all. Life is like licking honey from a thorn, someone told me recently. We all must go. All things must pass. Someday, my books, my baseball trophies, my ergonomic keyboard—it’s all got to go. My wife, even my children, and theirs—my beloved grandkids—nobody stays.
Like so many Bible verses for those of us steeped in them, the last verse of Psalm 32 barely makes a sound in din ongoing in my overextended life. It’s altogether too easy to pass over the triumph. “Rejoice,” King David the forgiven says. “Rejoice in the Lord and be glad.” It’s not a whimper or a whisper. It’s a shout because what needs to be routed is the despair we all come heir to as flesh weakens and spirits collapse before a rectangular hole in the ground.
Rejoice, David says, as do all believers. Rejoice and be glad. Rejoice in His love because the Lord, the almighty tinkerer, makes all things new, even the junk next door—the pile here in my office and the mess in my heart.
Rejoice! The Truth of the matter is we really never get tossed.
I couldn’t see the guy from where I sat, but whenever he’d emerge from the shadowy interior, I heard every last armful of trash come down on the pile. The old man was an ace tinker-er and a pack rat to boot. It was a colossal job.
And creepy. The pile of stuff one accumulates throughout life is incredible. Before we moved, I’d used to think I'd like to move out of town like we have, somewhere where the massive prairie sky is a daily—and nightly—art museum. What kept me me from looking for another place, however, was the gargantuan task of moving, which would necessarily include the job my neighbor’s son was doing yesterday—tossing out mountains of really valuable stuff. Sure. I couldn’t do it.
There in my office, I was surrounded by things I couldn’t think of tossing, things that would, someday, be just so much crapola to my kids. Maybe I ought to buy one of those little gizmos that produce lettered plastic tape and label everything—“this is a trophy I got for longest putt at a teachers’ tournament in Lafayette County, Wisconsin.” If they could identify it, I told mysellf, I’m sure they’d keep it.
Upstairs, I’ve got two shelves of old Dutch books, some of which come from my grandfather and my great-grandfather, preachers in ye olden days. There are others, a dozen at least, that I bought for almost nothing at an auction. Some of them were published about the time the Mayflower set anchor off Massachusetts. When I’m gone, will anyone care about those ancient things?—or will they be the bill for yet another auction, where some anxious fancier will pick them up for peanuts and put them carefully on another bookshelf until she dies. It's an endless cycle.
Back then, maybe for the first time, that next door junk pile reminded me, all too clearly, of my own life’s detritus, something that, back then, would never have entered my mind but today, twenty years later, is painful and haunting because my wife and I are still sifting, even though we've moved--twice!!--since then.
By human standards, it’s impossible to deny that life is tragic; there’s no escaping the grim reaper, after all. Life is like licking honey from a thorn, someone told me recently. We all must go. All things must pass. Someday, my books, my baseball trophies, my ergonomic keyboard—it’s all got to go. My wife, even my children, and theirs—my beloved grandkids—nobody stays.
Like so many Bible verses for those of us steeped in them, the last verse of Psalm 32 barely makes a sound in din ongoing in my overextended life. It’s altogether too easy to pass over the triumph. “Rejoice,” King David the forgiven says. “Rejoice in the Lord and be glad.” It’s not a whimper or a whisper. It’s a shout because what needs to be routed is the despair we all come heir to as flesh weakens and spirits collapse before a rectangular hole in the ground.
Rejoice, David says, as do all believers. Rejoice and be glad. Rejoice in His love because the Lord, the almighty tinkerer, makes all things new, even the junk next door—the pile here in my office and the mess in my heart.
Rejoice! The Truth of the matter is we really never get tossed.
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