Friday Tidings

Homemade costumes , a friendly neighborhood to trick-or-treat, and grainy, black and white photographs —that was my Halloween childhood. I’m not pining for the “good old days.” Growing up in the 1960s had its own challenges. But I will say this: life felt simpler. Like Boomers say, we only had three television stations , and our telephones were attached to the wall.  We went to school and then home—not so many after-school activities. On Halloween night, I’d walk around the block in a costume Mom made from whatever we had at home— a pillowcase, some cardboard, and a lot of imagination. I knocked on doors of neighbors I actually knew.  Progress moves us forward, and people are more connected online than ever before. But sometimes I miss the simple life—like those old Halloweens, when joy was running door-to-door, seeing smiling neighbors, and knowing next year would be just the same. Maybe simplicity is still here. It just needs to be invited back home.

I found myself sitting in a waiting room while my young granddaughter worked with a reading tutor . Through the wall, I could hear her carefully practicing vowel sounds . In the next room, a high school student wrestled with trigonometry .   I sat in one of the old wooden chairs, next to a bookshelf full of classical literature. Looking around, I noticed an antique typewriter and 1900s telephone.   It struck me that anyone waiting in this room was surrounded by the past, while listening to students prepare for the future. Just then, another study door opened, and a boy stepped out, deep in conversation with his tutor about whether to stay in Advanced Placement calculus. The tutor knew his teacher, the course demands, and the reality that the student could handle it— but it might cost him his grade point average, and perhaps even a college scholarship. “Getting a ‘C’ looks worse on your transcript than taking a non-AP calculus and getting an ‘A,’” the tutor advised. This you...

While exploring our woodland acreage , our granddaughter staked out a trail that led to a place where she could be by herself in nature. She turned to Papa and said, “Can you make me a little bench?” Together they chose some beautiful pieces of maple wood .  But she had one very specific request about where it should go — “I want to sit where I can’t see any buildings.” She had to return home before the bench was finished, but Papa brought it to her house so she could try it out before it found its permanent place in our woods. Now, as the leaves are falling all around, I decided to place her bench in that special spot she picked out.  I sat there for a few quiet minutes, just to see what she saw. And I realized that in her childlike wisdom , she had the right idea all along. Look away from what we’ve built, and look instead to what God has created. In the midst of everything that is happening around us, if you can find a quiet place in nature , — even for a mom...

Wednesday evening, we were FaceTiming our son when he surprised his father with a gift. That’s getting ahead of my story—but it’s a gift that ties the past and present together. Baseball and boyhood always seemed a natural blend for life in our little cabin. With such a small home, we spent much of our time outdoors. From a young age, our son Tommy would pick up a driftwood bat and hit rocks into the ocean, carefully copying the swings of the Mariners line-up. Baseball became the stuff of his dreams, and with a player like Ken Griffey Jr., it was easy to find a hero. But the real thrill was making the trip to Seattle to see the Mariners in person. We’d take the ferry, walk to the stadium, and wait at the gate with the hope of catching an autograph. At the time, we didn’t know those outings would become indelible memories. But they shaped him. Tommy became one of them —a lifelong Mariners fan . That comes with a cost. Every new season begins with anticipation, and too often ends wit...

Sometimes when the world’s noise gets too loud,   I grow quiet, and play my piano more.   I just feel more reflective this week, so I’ll share a photo. Yes, it’s from the past, but it also points to the future. It’s why so many of us go to work for those we love. We often carry tomorrow’s weight, even though today is where we are. When we take a quick break to scroll online to catch up with life around us, it's hard to miss the discouragement and division. But what if our online algorithms make it harder to see the common ground we actually share? I think that’s true—especially when it comes to how we care for those we love and the kind of future we want them to have. So each day, I hope we show up with love—stronger than any division we see “For I know the plans I have for you…plans to give you a future and a hope.” Jeremiah 29:11

Every spring, I drive up this gravel road—slowly, so the neighbors don’t see a dust cloud.  But there’s another reason I don’t hurry. This road carries twenty-five years of memories. Each spring it begins, and each autumn it ends, with a weekly crate of organic vegetables waiting for me. Along this gravel road, my teenage daughter once rode beside me on her way to cello lessons. I remember times when my young boy’s baseball game would be that evening. And there were other times, when I was sorting out the knots of life as I slowly drove—often whispering prayers into the solitude. The weekly trip up the road reminds me of how time moves, seasons change, and how much I’ve changed too. I should be used to change by now—even as I hesitate to let go of another season. So I hold on, grateful for just one more slow drive up the gravel road.