Five things.

1. My wonderful mom is about to hit 93 (on July 14) and feels every day of it.

For years, we’ve bragged about her youthfulness and everyone has told her how pretty she is. Every Sunday morning on our phone call, she would tell me, “I don’t feel like going to church today,” but everyone at New Oak Grove Free Will Baptist Church would surround her with love and attention and the tonic would sustain her for another week.

But these days, she has crossed a line. Two weeks ago, she stayed home from church and hasn’t been back since. “I just don’t feel like I can make it any more.” In fact, walking to the mail box takes everything out of her.

She’d love to receive a note from you congratulating her on her 93th birthday. Address the note (it doesn’t have to be a card) to Mrs. Lois McKeever, 191 County Road 101, Nauvoo, Alabama 35578.

I mentioned this on Facebook and a number of friends indicated they’ll be writing her. More than one said, “I’m waiting to mail it so she’ll get it on her day.”

I gently protest, “Mail it now. Mom does not need to get 90 cards on July 14. Better to get one or two a day for a few weeks.”

It’s the opening of the mail that makes her day. Thanks for doing this. I suspect this may well be her last birthday. She’s missing Dad and her “baby” Charles every day, and talks of going to see them.

2. Pray for Iran and what’s going on there. Pray for President Obama and his team. There is no safe path for him to tread, no way that is clearly marked “America,” and no choices that will not erupt in opposition and criticism from some side.

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Here’s what happened to me yesterday morning.

I’m in Louisville for the Southern Baptist Convention, except I’m not attending any meetings. I’m sitting in a comfortable chair at the ‘Baptist Press’ booth staring at whoever is sitting in the comfortable chair opposite and trying to sketch them. Yesterday, the first day, I drew from 9 to noon and again for some 3 hours in the late afternoon, for a total of some 125 victims. Oops, excuse me. Subjects they are.

Lots of fun.

Yesterday morning, early, I went out looking for a Kinko’s or something similar. I had drawn and colored two cartoons to hand out to pastors (showing people attending the convention, someone speaking, leaving room for me to write in the name of an individual pastor), and needed color copies. About 25 of each.

No one in our Baptist Press group knew of a color copier available, so I went driving. These businesses are everywhere, right? You would think. But not down any of the thoroughfares I was taking. After 10 minutes, I had a brainstorm.

I would pray about it.

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I’ve done some dumb things, but this took the cake.

Last night, I rubbed toothpaste over my feet and hands. And not a little either.

I’m in a Louisvlle, Kentucky, hotel. The annual meeting of our denomination takes place at the Expo Convention Center this week, and I’ll be turning out a set of cartoons for the Baptist Press and sketching as many ministers and their families as possible at the BP booth. It’s what I do.

Well, okay, it’s one of the things I do.

Last night, before turning in, I took a tube of what I thought was skin cream from the bathroom counter and sat on the edge of the bed. My feet suffer from dryness these days, and from time to time–when I think of it; I’m not a good steward of this body, I’m afraid–I rub them down with a cream or lotion.

“Hmmm. Sure is thick,” I thought. But I kept squeezing, and massaging the cream onto my poor feet. With the leftover paste, I rubbed the backs of my hands.

A few minutes later, I grew tired of the stickiness on the bedsheets and got up. “This is not right,” I thought. (My wife will read this and get hysterical with laughter, I guarantee.)

But, instead of going back to check labels, I walked into the bathroom, picked up that tube and tossed it in the trash. “This must be old,” I thought.

And then, turning around, I saw it: the tube of skin cream still on the counter.

I dug out the tube I had tossed. Sure enough, the label read “Oxyfresh Toothpaste.” It’s the expensive stuff my orthodontist has me using in my post-cancer existence to reinforce the decay-fighting action of my teeth. (The radiation took out a lot of my saliva glands. Saliva, I found out, protects one’s teeth from decay. In the absence of saliva, one takes other protective steps.)

Realizing what I had done now, I replaced the toothpaste on the counter and washed my feet and hands, and broke into laughter.

Feel foolish? Oh yeah. Big time.

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As usual, I find myself giving advice that I’m not taking.

I think the technical term for that is hypocrite.

On Facebook, a friend will say, “I couldn’t sleep last night. Woke up at 2 a.m. and tossed and turned for an hour.”

My usual reply–if I give one; I don’t always–is something like: “Try reciting scripture. The devil doesn’t like it when we do that and will put you right to sleep.”

That’s a tiny bit tongue in cheek–I’m not convinced at all that the devil has much to do with how much God’s children sleep–and a good deal of truth. There’s something about repetition, whether it’s of scripture or lists of anything, that sedates the human mind and lulls us back into the unconscious state.

What scripture, someone asks. Any of it. Clearly, it has to be verses or chapters one knows. In my case, the entire repertoire comes down to Psalms 1, 20, 23, and 103, and Romans 8. In most cases, by the time I get to Romans, I’m out.

More than once I have lain there in the bed trying to think of hymns that start with each letter of the alphabet. A = “All the Way My Savior Leads Me,” B = “Beneath the Cross of Jesus,” C = hmmm…can’t think of a one, how do you like that? Tomorrow I’ll think of a dozen.

Call…cast…Christ…celebrate…. Nope, nothing comes to mind.

This works better if you have a hymnal handy, but that defeats the point.

It’s always good to have a novel handy by the bedside, but only if turning on the light does not wake up the person on the other side of the bed. Of course, you can get up and go into another room and read. Do that, and pretty soon, you’re remembering the cookies or ice cream and you start to make real trouble for yourself.

Been there, done that.

So, we do what we do, each to his own devices.

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Watching the College World Series the other night, I commented on something to my son Neil. LSU’s centerfielder Mikie Mahtook had hit a home run, changing the game. As he stormed down the third base line toward home, the team flowed out of the dugout to meet him. Mikie flung himself into the throng which erupted into a slapping, hollering, hugging riot. It was great to see.

I said to Neil, “Look at that. The spectators and fans watch this and are on the outside, looking in. This is something only the team experience and can share.”

Neil said, “Even the coaches are on the outside of that, Dad. This is something experienced only by the players.”

Several times over the next couple of days, as other teams in the same tournament did similar feats, the feeling only reinforced itself.

There’s something special about being a member of the team which others can watch but cannot experience.

Last night, as I write, my two sons and I were having our final night in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania. We had done the tours and heard the lectures and climbed the hills and read the markers and bought the books. Neil said, “I’m taking the car, Dad, for one last drive-through.”

Two hours later he returned and this is his story.

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Paul Brooks took up golf so he would have something to share with his boys when they became teenagers. Smart man. Fathers find fewer and fewer activities in common with their sons as they grow up and mature.

When my sons were small, we connected on every level. I helped them learn to swim, taught them to ride bikes, and every night, told them bedtime stories (with one lying enfolded in each arm). We flew kites and dug for sharks teeth and collected rocks. We made up silly songs in the car and they sang out as loudly as I did. We visited the zoo and played ball and worked in the yard. We visited grandparents and they slept over with cousins.

Then they got to be teenagers. Sing in the car? Dad, you’re kidding, right? Be seen in the mall with you, Dad–do I have to? Oh, and drop me off a block before we get to school so my friends won’t see me getting out of the family car. Family reunion? Boring!

They did let me teach them to drive the car. Usually, it was a Sunday afternoon in an empty parking lot, or down some deserted road. But as soon as they received their license, they preferred to be left alone with their friends.

Life had changed.

I still knew all these great children’s stories, all of which I had made up. I enjoyed the zoo and children’s ball games and everything we had done together. But suddenly, it had all halted.

I went into depression. Not the clinical, see-a-psychiatrist kind of depression, but more of a gentle sadness that washed over my soul. More than once, I said to Margaret, “I was an adult when these children were small and we did those fun things. I’m still an adult, but they don’t want to do them any more.”

It felt like life was passing me by and I didn’t know how to get back on. When the children went off to college, I sometimes drove to visit them there, but felt like a visitor from another planet. I was offended by the clutter of the dorm rooms, didn’t care much for their wild friends, and could not connect with anything they were doing.

After that, matters only got worse. Electronic games and gadgets came along and I was even more the outsider. (To this day, I walk into a cell phone store and feel like Jed Clampett guest-starring on Star Trek. Out of place, geezer, old-timer. Has been.)

Then, gradually, something happened. My children grew up, got married, and started having babies.

And lo and behold, the babies thought I was wonderful. I sang them songs and told them stories and we laughed and giggled. I drew pictures and showed them how to draw. We hung a swing from the tree in the front yard and it became Grandpa’s place with the little ones.

“Grandpa, tell me a story about when you were a little boy.”

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One of the reasons I look forward to breakfasts in hotels is the free copies of USA Today. Okay, it’s not like I couldn’t purchase my own subscription or pick the occasional copy up at the newsstand. But the reality is I don’t do it. So, the only time I read this paper is when I’m out of town.

That means, I’ll be reading it every day for two weeks. One week on a vacation trip with my sons in the Gettysburg PA area, followed by a week in Louisville for the Southern Baptist Convention.

From the standpoint of a minister–and I pastored churches over 40 years and will always think of myself as a pastor–what USA Today does best for me is to provoke my thinking.

This morning, for instance….

–President Obama is staying out of the Iranian election crisis. Anything he says will be used against him by one side or the other. Secretary of State Hillary Clinton likewise is saying very little and only positive things, expressing concern and wishing the Iranians well.

Pastors know, or learn the hard way, it is not necessary to take a vocal position on every issue in town. Sometimes you have bigger fish to fry, larger concerns which keep you on course and prevent you from taking every detour that presents itself.

–Article: “Where were the regulators when banks were failing?”

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Looking back over a long life filled with decades of ministry, I think of the potholes I hit and the chasms I plunged into and wish I had been better fortified for those times.

I wish I had been prepared for the unexpected, those events and situations and people and temptations that lay in wait for me, just around the corner. Poor, unsuspecting me, I rushed headlong into the day without a clue that a bear trap was waiting just ahead.

We’ve all seen it. An accident on the highway brings traffic in the opposite lanes to a standstill. Emergency workers tend to accident victims, law enforcement officers are everywhere protecting the scene, no motorists are going anywhere. Driving past, you see the traffic is backed up for miles. Further along the highway, you come upon drivers who are headed toward that accident scene at 70 and 80 miles per hour. They have no clue what’s just ahead, and you have no way of alerting them. You hope they stop in time and do not create new problems.

Life is a lot like that. An accident lies in wait for you, just ahead. Some church member or an outright enemy is loaded for bear and you are about to stumble upon them. Temptation with your name written all over it lurks in the path you have taken this morning. The company you work for has decided to hand you a pink slip or transfer you to the city of your dreams or the land of your nightmares. A new boss has been hired and he/she has issues with you, even though this morning will be the first time you’ve met.

You whistle as you stride happily down the sidewalk or into the office. Life is good. You are ready for anything this day hands you.

You think.

Trouble ahead. Be prepared.

That’s where prayer does its best work.

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In recent weeks Lynn Gehrmann, administrative assistant at our associational office, has been keeping a list of every book I’ve pulled off the shelves and laid on the table for pastors to pick over. We’ll figure out some kind of IRS deduction, I hope, and if they audit or ask questions, we’ll need some kind of record as to what those books were.

Better these books were blessing current and future pastors than gathering dust in my garage.

My hunch is the number of books we’ve given is now close to five hundred. That’s not counting those I gave to pastors who happened to be in my office and I said,”Look around. What books would you like to have?”

Five years ago, when I transitioned from pastoring to the associational office, we must have given away two thousand books, including numerous sets of commentaries.

I do love a good book.

Even so, Margaret could not believe the boxes of books we hauled home last week, now occupying precious space in the garage. I told her something similar to what Charles Haddon Spurgeon said to a woman who criticized him for his use of humor from the pulpit. “You’d appreciate it a lot more if you knew how much I controlled.”

There are a couple of shelves in my home office (study, library, whatever) filled with books I’ll not be giving away to anyone. These are the ones that have impacted my life in ways that made the books permanent friends.

Here are a dozen of them. Readers will recognize that I’ve mentioned some of these before.

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“So,” they all want to know, “how does it feel being retired?”

I’ve not known how to answer, because I was not actually retired. But yesterday, Monday, I finished moving out the boxes and pictures from the office, turned in my keys and cell phone, and hugged the two women in the office (for the first and only time in my five years there, understand!), and drove away.

Today, I am retired.

And it feels just fine. Free, actually.

I typed that and thought of the “Me and Bobbie McGee” line, “Freedom’s just another word for nothin’ left to lose.” Ha. It’s not that bad, not yet.

I feel, well, almost coddled, to tell the truth. Consider for instance that in my most recent trip home to Alabama, one of my sisters made sure that my favorite meals were on the table and the other presented me with shirts she had bought for me. The churches in our association have showered me with gifts which paid for most of the new Camry I’m tooling around town in. And Monday, First Baptist Church-New Orleans pastor David Crosby brought his SUV and hauled the last of my boxes of books to the new office at FBC-Kenner.

The administrator at Kenner teased, “I hope you like your new office. Mary Ellen, the librarian, made sure we painted it. She wanted it to look just right.”

The church office bought a new printer/scanner so I can e-mail cartoons each Monday morning to the Baptist Press. They’ve run a computer line into the library so I can do this blog and work on writing books from that office.

I have no more excuses.

Most of us recall the times we have begged off from some assignment or duty because “I don’t have the time.” No more. Nothing but time.

Well, almost.

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