Writings
When I was a little kid, it was not unusual to receive small amounts of money from relatives. Sometimes folded in a card (like for birthdays), sometimes peeled from a wallet (like after visits). Never in great amounts, mind you. A dollar or two. Occasionally five. Seldom ten. Never twenty. But appreciated at any level.
I begin with a pair of stories that I choose to call signs of our time. The first was told to me by one of my younger clergy colleagues, currently serving a church in that geographic region of the state known as Saginaw Bay. It seems my friend was doing a little preparatory work with a couple contemplating matrimony.
Last Friday night, at the end of a busy day, I said prayers in my office over several pieces of pita bread packaged in plastic, along with a giant container of Welch’s grape juice. Not for my use or your consumption. But for Jeff Nelson’s use and some senior highs’ consumption. You see, Jeff served holy communion yesterday afternoon at the end of a youth event focused on world hunger. But Jeff cannot serve communion….yet.
One of the things that surprised me, upon moving to Birmingham, was that my backyard was enclosed by a fence. We didn’t have one in Farmington Hills. Neither did we have one in Livonia. I felt like I was reverting to my childhood. When I was a kid, everybody had a fence. In fact, we had three fences. One fence separated us from the neighbor on the left. Another fence separated us from the neighbor on the right.
