My wife always says that one of the best parts of enjoying something is sharing it with others. So, with that in mind, allow me to share just a few of my favorite things.
It was by chance that I stumbled upon Aaron Lansky’s “Outwitting History: The Amazing Adventures of a Man Who Rescued a Million Yiddish Books”, but the writing and the subject matter gripped me from page one. In a humorous, yet poignant style, Lansky recounts how a boring university class turned into an action-packed hunt for the last remaining Yiddish books in the United States. It might sound dry, but it was a page-turner that kept me up into the wee hours of the morning to see how it all ended. Potency, not humor, is Andree Seu’s specialty. Her “Won’t Let You Go Unless You Bless Me” is a slim volume that requires some thinking and a good dose of humility. Her surprisingly direct writing style may not be your cup of tea at first (it wasn’t mine), but give it a few pages; her brief essays are filled with reminders of God’s goodness, man’s sinfulness, and the redemption made possible through the shed blood of Christ. Prior to leaving for a trek up north, my wife and I had an early anniversary dinner just around the corner from our home in Metamora, at the White Horse Inn. It was our first time visiting the famed restaurant, but it won’t be our last. I had the honey plum salmon, doused in a honey-plum-teriyaki glaze, accompanied by seasoned asparagus and potatoes. She had a homemade buffalo meatloaf, served with grilled onions, mushrooms, mashed potatoes and gravy. We both gave our meals five stars. The next morning, we drove to Sleeping Bear Dunes. I have been to my share of national natural treasures and was, frankly, not particularly excited about hiking up giant piles of sand. But my mind changed as soon as we hiked a short trail and saw the splendor of Lake Michigan before us. As we watched the autumn sun make its descent, we made up our minds then and there: we’ll be returning next year. Whether motoring to northern Michigan or running brief errands into town, my drives are always accompanied by a good podcast. The World and Everything In It is the weekday news program you wished you had found years ago. It’s got the professional sound of NPR, minus the leftist bent. You’ll hear daily headlines from around the country and around the world, as well as human interest stories, book reviews, and an overview of every Supreme Court case being heard, all coming to you from a biblical worldview. If it’s history you’re interested in, download Andrew Roberts’ Secrets of Statecraft. A British historian, known for his comprehensive biographies of Winston Churchill and Napoleon Bonaparte, Roberts interviews high-profile public figures to learn how the study of history has influenced their careers and the pivotal decisions they have made. His Sept. 6 interview with Dr. Condoleezza Rice is a particular favorite. At the end of a long week, our family likes to unwind with a good movie. Recently, we watched Disney’s 2022 production of Pinocchio. Although many remakes of older movies fall flat, this one does not. While the story and scenes mirror many of those found in the 1940 cartoon, the lessons about unbridled pleasure and the dangers of autonomy are far more vivid and affecting. And it doesn’t hurt that it features the singular Tom Hanks. Winston Churchill famously said, “My tastes are simple: I am easily satisfied with the best.” I don’t know if my tastes are as rarified as Churchill’s, but I do know that my wife is right: sharing good things with others is half the thrill.
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Most fathers, I’m sure, look at their newborn children with a mixture of joy and anxiety. Sure, a new life is the apex of happiness and hope.
But holding that innocent life in your arms also brings a swirl of questions and concerns. A couple of weeks ago, I held my second child — a boy, Emory — for the first time. He did, in the words of Harry Chapin, come to the world in the usual way. And I had, and continue to have, the usual anxieties that accompany fatherhood. But my wife and I, long before his birth, purposed that our home would be a special place for our children to do their growing up. We call this our Greenhouse Idea. A greenhouse is an interesting thing. It does not keep its contents hidden away from the world, nor does it hide the world from the things growing inside. Rather, it provides an environment in which the plants can grow and thrive in preparation for the day they will be transplanted outdoors. We want our home to be just such a place for our children. We want it to be a place where they are, at the appropriate time, made aware of current events, wars and rumors of wars, and even philosophies and lifestyles to which we are adamantly opposed. There is to be no stifling here. It is also, however, not a place for unbridled, uncritical acceptance of all that the world is proffering. Rather, it is a place where our children can grow and think and thrive — a place where they have a chance to enjoy their childhoods and to eventually grapple with the issues of the day safely and thoughtfully. What do I want for my children before they leave the greenhouse and are transplanted in the harsh soil of the real world? Here are a few things... I want them to know how to read well and to love good books (and to know the way to the library). I want them to be friends with people older than themselves — there’s great wisdom in the silver-haired. I want them to love work — not to abuse it, but to understand the natural goodness of honest work and to give it their all. I want them to take a genuine interest in other people and to listen to what they have to say. I want them to learn to use their imaginations, to shut off the TV (and the phone) and get to the serious work of play. I want them to be informed, to know what is happening around them on their street, in their community, and in their world. I want them to love hospitality, to get involved in cleaning the house, setting the table, filling water glasses, greeting guests, and making visitors feel that our home is theirs. And, ultimately, I want them to know who the God of the Bible really is, not the caricature of Him our culture’s media portrays. Will my children be perfect? Trust me, they already are not. Will the greenhouse idea run like a well-oiled machine? Fat chance. But we live in a culture that will, without the guidance and protection of fathers and mothers, eat our children alive. And I want to do all I can to help my children avoid being eaten. As I hold my little boy in my arms, I am concerned about what his tomorrows hold, what his world will be like. But I am also heartened to think that he will have a fighting chance. My dear boy, buy the truth, and do not sell it (Proverbs 23:23). In February of this year, I was given a difficult writing assignment. It wasn’t that I knew nothing about the topic; rather, it was that I knew too much about it. I was tasked with writing my grandmother’s obituary. It was in the process of writing it that I realized not only is an obituary a sacred document, it’s also a surprisingly difficult thing to put together. A writing prompt in high school or college is challenging enough. We are given something like, In 600 words, tell about a moment that changed your life. Or, Write 1,000 words on why you are most qualified for an internship with our organization. It’s altogether different and far more solemn when the prompt is: In 500 words or less, write a biographical sketch of a 90-year-old woman whose life touched all who knew her. Make sure to include not only her work history and hobbies, but also the principles that guided her life, the love she showered on her grandkids, and the memorable aroma of her house after she baked chocolate chip cookies. Oh, and don’t forget to make it clear and concise, while capturing the essence of who this lady was, what made her tick, and what she lived for. And can you have it to us by 3 p.m.? That’s a tall order. It’s also a necessary one. Although incredibly brief — relative to a human lifespan — an obituary is, literarily speaking, a capstone to a person’s earthly life. While family members and close friends will undoubtedly remember their loved ones in innumerable, intimate ways, an obituary, in most cases, is a person’s last public testament to their temporal life and labors. It is a reminder to the community-at-large that this person lived and made their mark, no matter how grand or humble that mark may have been. What a shame, then, it is to read the obituary that simply reads: John Smith was born in 1942. He died on Sunday. Cremation has taken place. While I realize that some folks are very private, in my opinion, Mr. Smith and those who knew him deserve more than that kind of a tribute. He was a man made in the image of God, a man who was loved. He made a living. His life touched others in various ways. He had a personality. People remember him. Surely that life is worth putting down in print. Poet Linda Ellis in her oft-used poem “The Dash” writes: “I read of a man who stood to speak at the funeral of a friend. He referred to the dates on the tombstone from the beginning...to the end. He noted that first came the date of birth and spoke of the following date with tears, but he said what mattered most of all was the dash between those years. “For that dash represents all the time they spent alive on earth and now only those who loved them know what that little line is worth.” The obituary is an opportunity to say, “This is what Mr. Smith did with his dash. This is who Mr. Smith was.” While Socrates may have been right when he said that “the unexamined life is not worth living,” I also think it axiomatic that the well-lived life is a story worth telling and telling well. In journalism school, we are taught that everything is a potential story, because everyone, no matter their station in life, has a story to tell. An obituarist, then, ought to strive, as feeble as their attempt may seem, to write well the story the person left behind. Yes, tell us when they were born and when they died. Tell us to whom they were related. Let us know where we can send flowers or a gift in their memory. But don’t stop there. Who was this person, really? Tell the truth. Did they have struggles in their life? If so, how did they handle them? We know where they worked; but did they enjoy the work they did? Who did they love? How did they demonstrate their love to those people? Who loved them? The person charged with writing another’s obituary ought to approach their task with some sense of trepidation — I know I did. After all, they have the job of reducing a lifetime into just one, maybe two column inches. Being made in the image of God, I think, requires not only leading a life well-lived, but after life on Earth is over, to have a life well written. |
AuthorTy Perry is a writer based in metro-Detroit. Archives
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