Some old sayings are true: It's amazing how time flies when you're having fun. Five years ago on the eve of Valentine's Day I asked this lovely lady to be my bride, and for reasons that defy all logic, she agreed. It was a great day, and the fun continues.
I suppose one could make a case that waiting for Valentine's Day would have been a bit more romantic. The problem was I would be heading home on Valentine's Day and flying to California the day after that. This was not, after all, a carefully planned proposal, though perhaps it should have been.
We'd spent a good hunk of that day enjoying the beauty of Harrison Hot Springs, walking beside the lake, enjoying lunch, and talking with each other and with the Lord about what the future might hold. Harrison is a beautiful spot. It would have been a great place to pop the question. So why, you might ask, would anyone in his right mind wait until he was speeding down the freeway heading back towards Abbotsford to ask that all important question. And I would look at you, shake my head, and be thankful once again for grace. The truth of the matter was that our conversation that day assumed that we had a future together; it wasn't until the trip back that I realized that I hadn't actually asked. So I did. And she said "yes." (Later that day I waxed sufficiently poetic to make up for the day's odd timing with a poem that won't appear on the blog.)
It was a great day, but the best thing about it was not the weather, nor the date. The best thing was that she said yes.
Somewhere along the way I became part of the older generation. I'm not sure just when (or for that matter how) it happened, but it did. And it's not a bad thing. In subtle ways it adjusts the way one looks at the world. Now, for example, when I pass a senior citizen driving too slowly down the road, my criticism is interrupted by the realization that the old dude might be younger than me. Any doubt that I belong to that venerable "older generation" disappeared four months ago when I began discovering the joys of being Grandpa. For all of my life "grandpa" has been a guaranteed identifier of someone who's a part of that older generation. Now I am there -- and it is good.
There are, however, responsibilities attached to being part of the older generation. Scripture repeatedly exhorts people like me to be sure that we are passing on what is important to those who are what we used to be - the younger generation. In the words of Asaph, "we will tell the next generation the praisworthy deeds of the Lord, his power, and the wonders he has done." (Psalm 78:4)
One of my valued gifts this last Christmas is designed to help me live up to that responsibility. It's a journal that with a specific question each day invites Grandpa to share his memories through the year. There is a lot to like about this gift. Memories are valuable things that should serve as prompts to thanksgiving and worship. Simple things like recalling the places I have lived triggers memories of the kind of things Asaph was talking about, those praiseworthy deeds of the Lord and the wonders he has done.
Writing those memories down is a good thing. Memories, after all, can be fragile things as well. With seven decades behind me, I recognize the possibility that by the time Mateo gets around to asking those questions, I may not be able to answer them. We're only a month into the year, and I'm not quite up to date with that journal. But I'm going to keep jotting stuff down in the hope that one day that journal will become even more valuable to this little guy than it is to me today.
Somewhere along the way I became part of the older generation. I'm not sure just when (or for that matter how) it happened, but it did. And it's not a bad thing. In subtle ways it adjusts the way one looks at the world. Now, for example, when I pass a senior citizen driving too slowly down the road, my criticism is interrupted by the realization that the old dude might be younger than me. Any doubt that I belong to that venerable "older generation" disappeared four months ago when I began discovering the joys of being Grandpa. For all of my life "grandpa" has been a guaranteed identifier of someone who's a part of that older generation. Now I am there -- and it is good.
Writing those memories down is a good thing. Memories, after all, can be fragile things as well. With seven decades behind me, I recognize the possibility that by the time Mateo gets around to asking those questions, I may not be able to answer them. We're only a month into the year, and I'm not quite up to date with that journal. But I'm going to keep jotting stuff down in the hope that one day that journal will become even more valuable to this little guy than it is to me today.