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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It was Oct. 1, 1943, and there were nearly two years left of World War II. American G.I.s were stationed around the world, fighting tyranny...and homesickness.
Back in the United States, America’s favorite crooner, Bing Crosby, was recording what would become one of his most popular tunes, a song that reflected both the melancholy and the hopes of the age—“I’ll Be Home for Christmas.” It was a piece that channeled the feelings many Americans, both at home and abroad, were wrestling with in the midst of dark days. It also reminded servicemen of what they were sacrificing for. Yank, a magazine published for military personnel, said that Crosby, in his song, “accomplished more for military morale than anyone else of that era.” Although we are not fighting a bloody war this year, we, Americans, and the rest of our world neighbors are witnessing one of the most tumultuous years of the past decade, a year that certainly has caused our own morale to take a hit. Earlier last month, with the last of the Halloween candy gone, my thoughts turned to the holidays. My heart warmed with anticipation of my family’s trip back to Cass City for Christmas. Las Vegas, where I now live, has endless opportunities for entertainment during the holiday season, but in my mind, there is no better place to celebrate than in the little village nestled in Michigan’s Thumb. It is there that I find my family and friends, who are always up for a visit over a cup of hot chocolate. There, the peace of the town, blanketed by a late afternoon snow, refreshes me. There, the voices lifted in worship under the warm glow of the lights in the Baptist church, give new life to the old greeting, Merry Christmas. As I packed my bag, thinking about such joyful things, I hummed —I’ll be home for Christmas. But when a friend with whom we had recently been in contact notified us that they tested positive for Covid-19, everything changed. That text changed our plans entirely, not only because it meant we had to be tested (a process that took, in our case, three days), but also because it caused us to consider the severity and reality of this microscopic nemesis. It all added up to one thing — we had to cancel our plans. I would be home for Christmas, but only in my dreams. If you think about it, a change of plans is a major motif of the biblical Christmas account. The dreams of a young man and his betrothed are changed when they learn that she is carrying the Messiah of Israel. The social and political aims of Rome were disrupted by the rumors of a royal Child born in the City of David. And best of all, the status quo of the world, “in sin and error pining,” was upended when “He appeared and the soul felt its worth.” This year, my family and I will celebrate Christmas in our little apartment, not under a blanket of snow, but rather under the shade of a palm tree. It will be different, and I will, undoubtedly, dream about being home for Christmas in that most special of villages. But I will also be reminded that, no matter where we might be, no matter how white the Christmas is or is not, the event we are celebrating transcends Covid-19. The Person we are celebrating was and continues to be a major disruption to mankind’s plans. Indeed, the night His pitiful cry was first heard in Bethlehem, the future of the world — particularly that of those who put their trust in Him for salvation—was irreversibly and dramatically altered. Now that’s a change of plans I’m grateful for. 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. Originally published in The Cass City Chronicle on September 2, 2020
Just a couple of weeks ago, I began my last semester of college, and even though I’ve been out of high school for 10 years, the first day back to class still affects me. There’s still something electric about the air on the morning of that first day. As I think about back-to-school time, my mind goes to Willis Campbell Elementary School. Having gone to Deford Elementary from Kindergarten through the third grade, I only spent one year at Campbell. But it was a year that had a profound impact on me, mostly because of one teacher. I was a pudgy, bespeckled 10-year-old who was in the midst of a baseball obsession when I entered Mrs. Yvonne Sherman’s fourth grade class. Generally, I liked school. History, English, geography--even science-- they all came quite easily to me. Math, however, was a different matter. I got so confused when it came to numbers. Did one really need to know the difference between the big hand and the little hand on the clock? And what on Earth did it matter how many pieces of pie Oscar would have after he gave four of them to his friend? The point was he had pie. Leave it at that! Fourth grade math brought its own problems. I can still remember the sense of panic I felt when, just after recess, I saw the overhead projector sitting in the middle of the classroom. Its presence could mean only one thing: a math drill. On a piece of paper were printed 100 multiplication problems. At Mrs. Sherman’s “Go!”, we were to successfully complete as many problems as we could in 1 minute. My palms were wet. Sweat beads formed on my brow. I looked down at my paper. I was, at once, sweltering and frozen. I hoped no one would notice my inability to do the problems. But one person did. Mrs. Sherman did. And it was one of the best things that ever happened. She sat down with my parents soon after and explained the situation. She told them that, due to the fast pace of the curriculum, she could not hold the rest of the class back until I grasped the math concepts. “He needs a little extra help,” she said. That extra help came in the form of Friday afternoon tutoring sessions after school. So embarrassed was I about these sessions, though, that I would run to the bathroom just minutes before the dismissal bell rang, hiding out in one of the stalls until I heard the rest of the kids leave through the cafeteria. Back in the classroom, Mrs. Sherman patiently sat down with a stack of scrap paper, a few sharpened pencils, and plenty of erasers to help her struggling student. These sessions went on even through the summer, because she wanted me to be ready for middle school math. The tutoring paid off--I learned the material and was ready for the 5th grade. But even more importantly, I learned the inestimable value of a good teacher, someone who took the time to ensure her struggling student did not fall through the cracks. There’s a great deal to criticize about the way we educate our kids today; but one thing is for sure: when it comes to getting a quality education, a good teacher makes all the difference. Thanks, Mrs. Sherman. |
AuthorTy Perry is a writer based in metro-Detroit. Archives
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