The Roof

When I was 12 and thirteen, we lived in Alpena Michigan. One of the industries there was a roof shingle manufactory. They made an asphalt shingle that stood up to wind and lasted. But they were outshined by new self-sealing shingles that were easier to install. As I sat here today gazing out my office window, I realized the house across the street has the shingles. They are at least 40 years old, and are covered in moss, but the roof is intact. Not a single lifted or curled or bare-of-gravel shingle to be seen. I imagine myself in the position of the owner of that factory: he had a wonderful product, he made it at a reasonable price and employed several people in a good business. Bu he was done in by a lesser product that was easier to install, even though it did not last as long. People were willing to go with the cheaper (in labor costs) product to their own detriment. How would I have reacted? Would I have become bitter, disillusioned? Would I have started making the lesser product? How would I have decided? I don't know how he decided, but even the best asphalt roofs don't last more than a lifetime. Soon the house across the street will get a new roof that will only last 20 years. Will it matter?

Wygelia

Just as the lilacs rhododendrons and azaleas faded away, the wygelia started blooming. In my neighborhood, the perennials are a sedate parade, one following the other, so that there is always something joyous to see. I look forward to the asian lilies and hostas as I revel in the odor of the lindenbaums and privets. I am blessed with the gift of a new flower every week until the kale is covered with snow.

I have been thinking much of late on the conversion experience. Some worship communities put heavy emphasis on that one bright moment of mystery and awe when God's Love overwhelms the senses. I have many of these, triggered by a mere flowering bush, or a baby's chortle, a teen's energetic lissomeness, or a sparkle from a craggy old face. A realist would say that the red cardinal's song is not caused by his heart bursting with joy, but by his inborn need to mate. But why can't it be both? Why can't I overlay scentific reality with my own joy? I promise not to forget the cold just because I am warm. And I promise live from crest to crest instead of cleft to cleft.