FACES

“How can they meet us face to face till we have faces?”

— C.S. Lewis. "Till We Have Faces".

REMEMBER SCHOOL PICTURE DAY? Best shirt or dress, hair done, smile rehearsed and hope for the best. Ever wonder why the picture-taking tradition focused on a person's face? Why not a picture of the back of the head or the torso from the neck down? Because our face is who we are--with our unique smile, and eyes and nose and ears. Our face is us--our personhood, our humanness, our giftedness, the window to our character and personality.

my amazing missus

I was having a discussion years ago with a wise, wise friend. We were talking about discipline for kids. He said, "I'm not opposed to an occasional attention-getting swat on the bottom; BUT! NEVER, EVER SLAP OR HIT SOMEONE ACROSS THE FACE! To slap someone in the face is to take their worth and value. It sends a message of disgust, ugliness and even hate."

To be faceless is to be invisible and less than human. I wrote a piece a while back and mentioned the masks that are worn as a part of the costume of ICE agents hunting down humans in the name of a mission to remove the worst of the worst. I bring it up again here to say that I believe that by wearing a mask these agents somehow take on a different persona: a tougher, less tolerant, insensitive, no-nonsense, macho, zealous version, like those who wore the white pointy hats and robes of the cross burners. Maybe they are really that way. Or; maybe without all the garb and gear, behind the mask, he's just a guy, trying to do the right thing and make a living. "Hide my FACE and no one can see me." I guess sometimes the mask has a dual purpose: hides identity and shame.

I watched the hearing the other day of U.S. Attorney General Pam Bondi in front of a House Committee. In the seats behind her sat a number of the victims of the pedophilia ring of convicted child-sex offenders Epstein and Maxwell. Bondi was made aware of the fact that the victims were sitting right behind her. She was invited to offer a word to them or at least turn around and acknowledge them. She wouldn't do it. Why? Because if she had they would have had faces--they would have become real people to her and she did not want that. She had planned her course for the hearing and she couldn't execute the plan if she felt any empathy at all. So, just ignore them, don't look at them, totally dehumanize them so that you can continue the cover up the nightmare that stole so much of their personhood. It was the equivalent of a slap across the face of each one of them.

“No man can be an exile if he remembers that all the world is one city.”

— C.S. Lewis. "Till We Have Faces".

NOSTALGIA

THAT'S A BIG WORD. It needs to be because it carries a lot. Here's sort of a concensus defintion from a few dictionaries:

A yearning to return to an earlier time remembered as happier or more pleasant, or a former place evoking happy memories; a longing to experience again a former happy time.

See what I mean?!

I'm fully aware of the biblical warning about too much sentimentality:

“Don’t long for ‘the good old days.’ This is not wise.”

— Ecclesiastes 7:10 NLT

More than likely I'm misunderstanding the theology here, but a little looking back seems innocent enough and even wholesome (as long as we don't get stuck back there in some kind of "Back To The Future" time warp.) I'm not trying to read the mind of the writer of Ecclesiastes or diminish his wisdom, but he was pretty deep in his "Life is meaningless" phase in chapter 7. I've always been pretty good at finding a way to justify straddling the lines of biblical mandates while staying within the guardrails of protestant guilt. [Is it metaphor mixing if your examples are on the same road, the one with a strong center line and high guardrails? We can burn that bridge if we come to it.]

It looks to me like there's one more loophole in the reminiscing rule: maybe it's okay to journey back to the good old days; we just shouldn't "long" for them. It's sort of like that shadowy line between temptation and lust. Lust is a sin; temptation is not. Remember the truth is that Jesus was tempted in ALL ways as we are yet without sin. Still there is that definition of nostalgia which includes words like longing and yearning. Let's call what we're doing nostalgia-lite. We're just visiting the back-in-the-day for awhile, resting in the innocence and the beauty of simplicity. We'll return to the present after the holidays when we make our forward-looking resolutions for 2026. We should probably drop some gingerbread crumbs on our sentimental journey so we can find our way back though.

Now that I've established that we can do some harmless, seasonal reminiscing let's get started. This time of the year is just bursting with opportunities for nostalgia. All the triggers are here: the sights and sounds and smells, the music, the twinkling lights, wreaths and bells and trees; peppermint and pine. When it comes down to it, isn't that what the season is about: remembering and celebrating? Senior adulthood requires that I watch and read the news and acknowledge the reality that many, too many, in our world have little to celebrate. The harshness of the world in front of them is bound to obscure the promise of hope and peace. Nostalgia for many is bittersweet at best.

Admittedly, nostalgia for me these days is a way of escape. Without getting too bleak, I find the debasing of civility, the dehumanizing rhetoric of politics and the blurring of what is really good and true and beautiful to be disheartening. So, reverie is like layering on warm quilts, turning on a good movie like "Love Actually" or "While You Were Sleeping"; blocking out the uglier ooze. Another tactic for me is to try to provide an alternative to all that while creating the fodder of future nostaligia for the kids and grandkids--sort of like that hapless hero of happy family memories creation: Clark Griswold. In the classic story of Clark and his high hopes for the ultimate Christmas, "Christmas Vacation", we get to see the perfect portrayal of nostalgia: Clark sitting in the attic, wrapped in discarded clothes, watching old home movies of Christmases past and remembering them "better than they were." And in the background we hear the song...

Christmas is the time of year
For being with the ones we love
Sharing so much joy and cheer
What a wonderful feelin'
Watching the ones we love
Having so much fun

I was sittin' by the fire side
Taking a walk through the snow
Listening to a children's choir
Singing songs about Jesus
The blessed way that he came to us

Why can't it remain
All through the year
Each day the same
That's what I wanna hear
It's truly amazin'
That spirit of Christmas

All the kinfolk gather 'round
The lovely Christmas tree
Hearts are glowing full of joy
Sense the gifts that we're giving
And the love that we're living

Why can't it remain (Why can't it remain?)
Oh, all through the year (All through the year)
Each day the same (Each day the same)
Ah, that's what I wanna hear
Listen to me, it's truly amazin'
That spirit of Christmas

Every year our boys would decorate gingerbread houses their mom made for them. And, for seventeen years and counting she has made them for our grandkids and hundreds of other peoples kids and grandkids.

This year for Christmas I decided I wanted to relive the moment of one of my favorite Christmastime memories--the year I got a real Lionel train set. In true Griswoldian style I've created a little Christmas village for my new train. In a few days the grandkids will make their houses and they will become the homes that the train encircles, all done in the spirit of treasurable moments.

Quickly, these moments will pass and I'll ask, as the song does, "Why can't it remain all through the year, that spirit of Christmas?"

---

CLICK HERE TO hear the version sung by Chuck Brown and Eva Cassidy.

CLICK HERE TO watch the clip from the movie.

RELEGATION

The cheap seats, back of the line, general admission, the bench, boarding group C, looking in from the outside... Sometimes we might feel like we have been relegated to something "less than". But hold on to your dinner roll a minute.

Tis the season; a trip in the grocery store and the first displays to greet you are the boxes of Stove Top, the cans of yams and bags of marshmallows, cranberry sauce and of course the trifecta of key ingredients for the green bean casserole. Besides the turkey these are the key fixin's on every Thanksgiving table--or should we say "tables"--plural. Just as the pilgrims before us, at any family gathering there will be the lowly Kid's Table. And, by lowly, I mean literally, physically lower than the big table; and also low enough to create a sense of longing to see the day when we can move up. But maybe the Kid's Table has gotten a bad rap and/or rep. Maybe it's not the place of relegation it appears to be. Maybe it's not a bad place to be.

Look at it: there's little chance of walking away from the kid's table stuffed. You've probably only had to eat "just one bite" of something. The only thing you're eating for sure is the big dollop of Cool Whip from the top of your pumpkin pie, or if you're lucky (as our grandkids are), you'll have a spray can of something akin to whipping cream which you can shake vigarously and squirt directly into your mouth.

As for discussion, the Kid's Table talk is free of politics and religion. The most heated conversation I've heard lately at a Kid's Table was the one between our two grandboys ages 8 and 5: Is fishing a sport or not? The 8 year-old who loves fishing is firmly on the side of definitely a sport. The 5 year-old, who had a successful T-ball season says "No Way!" He also doesn't feel that cheerleading is a sport. Luckily his older sister the cheerleader wasn't at the table.

This week, on November 17, our oldest Grand turned 17, her "golden" birthday (the calendar day of her birthday matches her age). I asked her about being the oldest at the Kid's Table. "When does one promote to the Big Table?" She said "Maybe 18?" with a hint of innocence lost in her voice. So this year will be her last at the Kid's Table. The little ones will miss her. The grown-ups will still be the grown-ups.

As kids, my brother and I, along with our parents, would make the pilgramage to a little town in Louisiana where our Dad was born and raised. Our grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins were there, as was the Kid's Table. We knew our place. We were reminded of what that meant on the long roadtrip "over the river and through the woods". "Eat a bite of butter beans and try the duck. Remember to say yes sir and yes ma'am. Asked to be excused from the table when you're through eating."

It seems like in the deep south, knowing and staying in one's place was a sign of respect--respect for tradition and acknowledging social and familial status. It was also expected. And, in the 50s and 60s, those expectations could have an air of relegation to them.

Remembering the One from whom all blessings flow, with a counting of some of those blessings, a deep breath or two of fresh air and grace, all of the tables become important, they all become the same height, they are all in the same room, the same significance and fraught with the potential to listen and learn and love.

Maybe there's something we can discover from the Kid's Table. Are there grateful little hearts at that table? YES! Sometimes gratitude is most evident in joy. Watch the joy and fun radiating from that little table. Maybe when Jesus talked about being like the children he was pointing to the Kid's Table. Maybe if Jesus were to come to our house for Thanksgiving He would sit at the Kid's Table. Maybe I should too.

THE END

I GREW UP in a tradition that was facinated with End Times speculation. Preachers, waving their King James Bible, painting a picture, predicting and prophesying about the return of One who said, without irony or stammering, "But of that day and hour knoweth no man, no, not the angels of heaven, but my Father only," found a sure-fire way to pack the house on Friday night of the revival meeting. Announcing all week long that Friday would be the night to look at signs of the end times was sort of click-baity; as is this first paragraph teasing readers to read on.

However, this post isn't about THOSE end times, but... Let's continue.

Kids these days with their acronyms. KWIM? In this little essay, I'm going to try to have some fun, make a point, and procure a silent "amen", all without getting too cute or fatalistic.

I worked for years in an industry with a 55 gallon drum full of alphabet soup of acronyms. It's an industry highly regulated by the "government". [And we all know those Feds love themselves some acronyms--FBI, CIA, HUD, BOP, DOJ, DOD, just to name a few plus that crowd favorite the IRS.

Our company has several departments and each of those have their own set of acronyms. Today's lesson is about one of those departments known by the simple acronym of IT. You know the one who's first answer to any computer issue is "Have you plugged it in?" followed by, "Turn it off, wait 30 seconds and turn it back on."

Two of their favorite acronyms are used when they want to buy some new equipment: EOL and E0S.

Our clothes dryer is having issues. It will heat and run all day. That's the issue: it will run all day. The timer/sensor/really expensive part is broken. So to keep from burning the house down we have to set a timer to remember to check on the dryer. As it goes with things like appliance life these days, you can call a repairman, add up his trip charge, his minimum charge and the cost of the part, plus the Trump Tariff upcharge. Then crunch those numbers together and realize that for another 5 or 6 bucks you can just buy a new one.

For me: Pops—a 1951 model—I have not reached EOL, yet. Ask My Amazing Missus and she might tell you that she suspects that I have reached EOS. [In case you're still guessing: EOL is End Of Life, and EOS is End Of Service.]

Last Saturday we found ourselves in an appliance store. She was politely listening to the salesguy talk about the features and reasons for jumping up from the TD5 model to the DEEEluxe TRD7 "which is heavy duty yet gentle (kind of like your husband here) with an all-metal transmission for years of quiet dependable service."

Years? That's the operative word here. I was quietly figuring in my head our EOTIOOHBMTTLRUHFS. Of course you'll recognize that acronym as the End Of Time In Our Own Home Before Moving To The Last Roundup Home For Seniors.

Haskell the salesman had now transitioned to explaining the heightened quality of life we will have because of owning the TRD7 to extolling the TRW7--the washing machine of this made in heaven pair.

The 7 in the model apparently stood for seven year warranty. "Do we need anything with a seven year warranty?" I wondered quietly to myself, pondering end times scenarios.

I scanned across the rows of shiny appliances. I became terror-struck. Our freezer in the garage is more than 25 years old. Our refrigerator--more than 20. Our mattress? Who knows? Under the threat of prosecution from some federal agency I ripped the tag off of it years ago. Crap! Now I'm fearful that Kristi Noem might show up with a van load of goons to haul me off to Aligator Alcatraz. What an ending that would be.

Can I count on these old appliances to see us through to the next phase? "Just out of curiosity Haskell, the appliance salesman, what does a refrigerator like that one there run these days with tariffs and all?"

"Let me show you one with a chest freezer below, double doors up top and a frozen snack drawer for the grandkids, Plus ice and water in the door!" "This one is three-grand, but if you don't mind a dent and ding special, we can fix you up for under $2500."

Having a few dents, dings and leaks myself, I can relate. And why not give one of these, which is a little marred through no fault of its own, a nice home.

We've sort of been saving up for a storm shelter, given we live in tornado alley. The thought crossed mind that if we're going to have a shelter and thus take a big step in potentially extending our lives, maybe we will need the W/D pair with the 7-year warranty. Could we outlive them? Sure. Could we live without them? Sure. If only we had a spring-fed stream running through our backyard; with a box of detergent, a couple of smooth rocks and a clothesline we could do our laundry like our grandparents before us.

I'm confident a pair of rocks have a very distant EOL. And, after all, isn't that what we're all hoping for? For us and our appliances?