Can You Count to Twelve?

“O give thanks unto the Lord; for he is good: for his mercy endureth for ever.” (Psalm 136:1)

 

In the hard-scrabble life of the ancient Near East, this admonition seems shocking. Their every day existence was what Charles Swindoll once called “life on the ragged edge.” But there it is. “Give thanks.”  Let’s just go ahead and admit that no matter how rough our lives here in America may be from time to time, it doesn’t compare to being a nomadic shepherd or gleaning from the fields the harvesters have already worked or disease with no antibiotics, scarce fresh water or famine. Even to them, the command was to “give thanks.”

 

Now, thankfulness seems to be making a comeback. A number of my Facebook friends have been posting something for which they are thankful every day. It’s a great idea that I noticed too late to join. I have much to be thankful for, it’s true, but I have struggled to find what I wanted to say; until now.

 

One of my co-workers has been doing the Facebook “I’m thankful for” thing and I reference her here with her permission. Each day she posted something for which she was thankful. Yesterday, the worst thing happened. Yesterday, her husband of twenty years was in a tragic accident at work and did not survive. I thought yesterday would have ended the streak.

 

But it didn’t. I am not sure where such faith comes from and I can only wonder if I had something as painful as that happen to me if I’d be able to muster up thanks for anything. But she did. Just before day 25 rolled into day 26, the new post appeared. Not once, but twelve times in her post she said “I’m thankful for…” I thought it was eleven times at first, but on the recount, it was twelve. Twelve . On the worst of a today one could imagine. Twelve!

 

Let’s face it. Bad things happen to good people too. There is no immunity in life. It is downright delusional to imagine that you’ll skate through with no heartache or pain. You can become bitter. That isn’t hard or courageous. That’s easy. Thankfulness is not for the fainthearted or the weak. It isn’t only for the convenient seasons of life. It is for the hard times, too. It is especially powerful then.

 

So this Thanksgiving, as you gather round the table with friends and family, you may have a bucket-load of problems - and please don’t mistake this for some pollyannish pretend “everything is wonderful” kind of advice. Far from it. Most people have enough problems that if we only knew we’d opt for our own instead if ever given the choice. No, I know you have challenges. Some of you have more than it seems you can bear. Pause for a moment. Think. Reflect a bit before you bite that turkey. How high can you count?

 

Give Thanks!

 

Jerald

 

(All thoughts and opinions herein are strictly my own and do not necessarily reflect those of Parrish Medical Center)

I Want To Be Like Ike

I Want To Be Like Ike. My Uncle Ike, that is.

 At age 90, he doesn’t really walk anymore. He shuffles, sliding his feet along, barely lifting them off the floor. He is attached most of the time to an oxygen concentrator by means of a long tube. He still lives alone, though he thinks about moving to an assisted living facility often. He knows the day is soon coming. For now, his daughter and son-in-law live on the next block and help him live as independently as possible.

Franklin Isaac Smith was born in southern Alabama in 1923. He grew up during the Depression as the son of tenant farmer in southwest Georgia. In a family of six children, three boys and three girls, he was roughly in the middle of the pack. My father was the youngest of the six and every time I visit, Uncle Ike never fails to tell the story of how he named my father, Jack.

Most of the things I know about my father’s early life, I have learned from Uncle Ike. All three boys slept in the same bed, under heavy quilts in the winter, in a home that was made of unpainted wood. The floorboards had gaps in places, and on those rare occasions that snow visited that far south, it would dust the top of the quilts as they huddled underneath.

He can tell you all about picking cotton, putting new soles on old shoes using a “shoe last” and being poor and not even knowing it because everyone else was too. After a tour in the Army, he went on to be the first in the family to go to college. He later received his Masters in Education from the University of Alabama. He married Alice Kaiser from West Virginia, whom he met at Bible Training School in Cleveland, Tennessee. They have one daughter, Karen.

Uncle Ike has a gift; many gifts, really, but one in particular that I have tried to develop myself. He has a habit of blessing people. He did not tell me this. Before she died, Aunt Alice told me how when they were out at the drug store, or grocery store or doctor's office, he would always find a way to bless people. One example will suffice. Once, at the grocery store, a young man and his wife were shopping with three small children. He notice the couple was exasperated after herding them through the aisles, trying to keep small hands from the temptations within their reach and it showed. Uncle Ike stopped and said in that soft as butter southern dialect, “Sir, is this your fam-ly?”  “Yes, sir,” he replied. “I noticed you as I was comin’ down the aisle and I just wanted to tell you what a beautiful fam-ly you have.” “You must be so proud of these beautiful children and your lovely wife.” Aunt Alice said that in a second, the furrowed brow and exasperation gave way to smiles as pride replaced tension. “He does that all the time,” she said.

Blessings to you all,

Jerald