More Practical

I am a big fan of the sitcom Modern Family.

Phil Dunphy is a fun-loving father that cares about his family more than anything. He loves them and sacrifices for them at every turn.

Then, one day, he goes with his friend Andre to a car dealership. The two admire a sleek black sports car.

Phil is just pining after this car. He wants it so badly. But he knows it’s not practical. He has three children. It doesn’t make sense.

Andre says to him, “You never hear a person on their deathbed saying, ‘I wish I’d been more practical.’”

It probably wasn’t wise for Phil to buy a sports car when he still had children at home.

But I think Andre has a point.

I’m all for being practical. I’m all for being productive. I’m all for striving to be and do more.

But the things that matter most – the things that bring color and variety to life – aren’t always practical.

I’m learning to play the mandolin. It’s not even a little bit practical. I have no intention of joining a bluegrass band. But it’s something I’ve always wanted to learn, so I am – and I’m thoroughly enjoying it.

I am rereading the Chronicles of Narnia for the seventh time. I read a couple of chapters every night before I go to bed. I know how every story ends but I still love reading them as much as I did the first time.

I cut my workday short every couple of weeks to get an early dinner with my parents. I talk to my brothers on the phone regularly. I spend a lot of time doing puzzles and coloring and playing Legos with my nieces and nephews. There’s nothing obviously practical about our time together. We’re not producing anything. But I wouldn’t trade those moments with any of them for the world.

I’m not peddling a “just do what makes you happy” bill of goods.

I’m just saying that practicality is a good servant but a terrible god.

Practicality should serve us in becoming more of who God created us to be.

But if we prize it above all else it will almost certainly make us less of who we were created to be.

When Christmas is Over

Christmas is over.

 The gifts have all been opened and the wrapping paper discarded.

The lights and decorations have been taken down and relegated to the attic.

The Christmas cookies have all been eaten.

The Christmas movies have been shelved and the Christmas songs have been silenced - save for the few holding onto the holiday season.

But, Christmas is about Christ and, today and tomorrow, Christ will still be Christ.

Let’s not forget that, for the Christian, every day should be Christmas.

Every day should be a celebration that, in Christ, God dwelt among us. Every day should be a celebration that, in Christ, God came to rescue us. Every day should be a celebration that, in Christ, we are free from our sin.

If you don’t know Jesus, I pray that you would come to know Him. There is no other name by which we are saved. There is no other means by which we can experience a relationship with God. There is no other truth. There is no other road. Forgiveness is offered to all, but given only to those who will accept it. I pray that you accept it.

If you do know Him, I pray that the spirit of Christmas would reign in your hearts all year long.

Merry (belated) Christmas, friends.

Choosing Joy

I met Margie on a flight from Charlotte to St. Louis. She and Jackie, her best friend of sixty years, were on their way back from visiting Margie’s daughter.

I took the aisle seat and prepared to avoid two hours of small talk by pulling out my headphones. Margie said, “Now, are you going to cause any trouble on this flight? Because this row only has enough room for one trouble-maker and I’ve already got that role covered.”

“No,” I said. “The flight attendant asked me sit here, so I could keep you in line.”

I put my headphones away.

We talked for the rest of the flight.

She told me she wanted to get a BB gun she could scare off the squirrels that congregated outside her apartment window, but Jackie wouldn’t let her. “It’s just not safe, Marge,” Jackie piped in. “You’re a terrible shot and you’re liable to hit someone.”

Marge rolled her eyes and looked to me for support. I gladly complied. “You should definitely get a BB gun, Marge. Jackie, mind your own business.”

Margie told me about the time she and Ruthie mooned Jackie and Frannie when they were out golfing. Jackie, without looking up from her book, said, “Seventy-nine is too old to be mooning people, Marge. Nobody wants to see your wrinkly behind.”

Margie leaned over and told me not to listen to Jackie. “She reads those dirty romance novels. You can’t trust her.” This time, Jackie looked up. “I’m reading John Grisham! Marge, don’t tell people I’m reading dirty books!”

I laughed at the banter between these old friends. Jackie went back to her book and Marge and I went back to talking.

Marge hasn’t had an easy life. When her first husband lost his battle to cancer, she took a job in the hotel management industry that kept her on the road and away from home most of the time. She remarried in her mid-fifties and enjoyed two decades with her second husband before he lost his battle to Parkinson’s. Margie is eighty-seven now. She moved into assisted living a couple months ago. Her health is declining and the pain in her left hip has stripped her of the independence she loved.

But, she has no complaints and no regrets.

I asked her how she had cultivated such a joyful spirit despite all the heartache she had experienced.

“God has been so good to me,” she said. “Even in the darkest times, He gave me reason to be grateful. You can’t choose what God will ask you walk through, but you can choose how you walk through it. Oh, there's been heartache, to be sure. I've cried a lot of tears and I still deeply miss the people I've lost. It's just that I decided a long time ago I didn’t want to waste a single minute of my time dwelling on what might or should have been. Cranky old people start out as cranky young people. Don’t be a cranky young person, Casey.”

I won’t be.

Thank you Margie. I’m glad I took my headphones off.