Yesterday was a strange kind of farewell for me. On July 16, 2007, I published an essay on my web page and started what I intended to be a blog. The blog quickly turned into a series of essays. From that day through November 13, 2025, I posted an essay every day without missing a single day. I posted when I was sick and when I was well. I posted when I was tired and when I was well rested. I posted when I was busy at work and when I had leisure time. I posted while we were traveling and when we were at home. That is 6,696 days. It is 6.696 essays.

I started the practice in part because I wanted to have a website that invited people to return. I also started the practice because I wanted to teach myself how to become a writer. The website never went viral. I didn’t expect it to. It was much more language-intensive than most other websites. The essays gave me a way to explore my life and share my ideas with others.

Over the years, I have had some loyal and faithful readers who have checked in daily and given me good feedback from time to time.

I was 54 years old when I started posting essays. I started without a plan for how long I would keep up the practice. At one point, I planned to stop daily essays in 2020 when I retired, but the Covid-19 pandemic gave me a renewed sense of the importance of making contact with others. When we retired, we moved away from the congregation and the people we had served for 25 years. I missed the people a lot. I still do. Writing and occasionally getting responses from folk in South Dakota was meaningful to me. And I kept enjoying writing.

I am no longer 54. I am 72. And my writing is taking a turn. I have had a couple of essays published in collections. And I have written a book. I could make a book by pulling together some of the best essays from the past. However, sorting through 6,696 essays is more work than writing a book from scratch. Furthermore, I couldn’t get the essays to hang together. In the end, I used a couple of essays that appeared in my journal, but most were written from scratch, along with the poems and prayers that are a part of the book.

Following my editor's advice, I began thinking about how I could help market the book once it was published. I discovered Substack and started posting to it regularly. I now post one essay, one poem, and one prayer each week. I also designed a new, simplified web page to sell the book and expand my contacts through my email list and social media posts. The new web page has been in the works for some time, but I was waiting until the book could be ordered online before going live.

Thursday, November 13, was the launch day for the new website. I moved my existing website from its old URL, revtedh.com, to revtedh.org. The new website is now live at revtedh.com. For a while, I have decided to keep the old website live at revtedh.org. That is where this essay is being posted.

Yesterday I did not write an essay. I did some cleanup work with my websites, finished the book I was reading, helped our son with a couple of errands, and did a few chores. It felt really strange not to write an essay. An old habit is not easily broken. That is why I am writing this essay today. And it is why I will send a few emails today letting some of my regular readers know that there is one more essay on my website.

I need to say farewell. Farewell to my loyal readers. Thank you for your faithfulness and your interest in my essays. Farewell to a practice that had become a spiritual discipline for me. I will continue to write and journal about important aspects of my life. I hope to write one more book, maybe not for publication, but a kind of memoir for my grandchildren. And I want to write some short stories. I hope that writing fewer essays will allow me to invest my creative energy in other writing projects.

I don’t know if this essay is my swan song or my encore. I certainly do not intend to stop writing essays. I plan to post at least one essay on Substack each week. Right now, I’m publishing them on Tuesdays, but I don’t want to develop a practice that is too rigid. I hope I can also publish short fiction and other genres over time.

I wrote a few paragraphs of a project that might grow into a book one day. It is too early in the process for me to know for sure. Right now, I need to invest time and energy in selling the book that just came out. I have many bookstore visits to make, events to plan, social media posts to make, and more marketing efforts. I plan to begin recording the audiobook version early in 2025.

It will probably take me a while to adjust to the change. I expect to wake up thinking about what topic I might address for a few more days. However, this chapter of my life is closing so that a new one can begin. I’ll leave this website up for a few months. In the background, I am backing up all the files. The website is currently hosted on two servers because I changed servers partway through the process, so archived files are in one location and current files are in another. I want to make sure that all of those things are sorted out and that none of the essays will be lost when I close out my accounts with the servers.

I write with a deep sense of gratitude for 6,696 essays and for the people who have read many of them. Farewell and Godspeed.

My uncle was a three-crop farmer. His main crop was hard red winter wheat. On the side, he would occasionally plant a field of barley or oats. His farm was on bench land above the Missouri River in Montana. The region was mainly strip-farmed in the days when he was an active farmer. The fields were divided into strips. Every other strip was planted each autumn, with the alternating strips left fallow. They used tillage equipment pulled behind a tractor to clear the weeds from the fallow fields. The purpose of the fallow fields was to store soil moisture, allowing the seeds to sprout when planted. In the spring, broadleaf herbicides were applied to growing wheat to control weeds. When I worked for my uncle, my main job was to drive the tractor around the fallow sections of the field, pulling a duckfoot cultivator, gently turning the top layer of the soil, and displacing weeds. Then, when harvest came, I generally drove a truck in the field.

Working for my cousin, the son of my farmer uncle, was different. He farmed wheat like his father, but he also raised cattle. Later in his career, he diversified his farm further, eventually having the entire farm certified organic. He grew a wide rotation of crops, including lentils, and experimented with bison and beefalo. He set aside a large section of his farm for the conservation reserve program. Those changes, however, came after I had grown and no longer worked on the farm as my summer job. When I worked for my cousin, I did a bit of summer fallow work, but I also did a lot of building and repairing fences. Adding cattle to a farm operation means you need good fences. The fences were all on my cousin’s land, and there were no shared fences with neighbors. It was clear whose responsibility it was to build and maintain the fences.

For many years, I didn’t think about fences at all. Then, when our children were 2 and 4 years old, we purchased a home in Boise, Idaho, with a major irrigation canal running right behind our property. The house had a 4 ft. chain-link fence along the ditch, with a six ft. wooden fence on one side between the neighbor and another four ft. chain-link fence on the other side, shared with that neighbor. Our front yards were not fenced. As soon as I could, I replaced all the chain-link fence with a new 6-foot cedar fence. I had one conversation with the neighbor, during which we discussed the chain-link fence, and I paid the full cost of installing the new fence. I maintained the new fence, except for leaving the staining of the neighbor’s side to that neighbor. We never had another conversation about that fence.

Afterward, we lived for 25 years in a home in a subdivision with no fences between neighbors. It was rocky country, and I didn’t miss digging holes for fence posts.

Now we have moved into a neighborhood where all of the back yards are fenced with shared fences. That means that I have three different neighbors with shared fences between us. With two of the neighbors, the finished side of the fence faces my yard, so I assume I am responsible for maintaining those fences. I have replaced several boards that rotted at the bottom and kept my side of the fence stained. The other neighbor, to the north of our house, has the finished side of the fence facing his house. However, this particular neighbor is not really big on maintenance. For example, a row of arborvitae planted on his side of the fence has been dead for the four years we have lived in the house. None of the dead and dried trees has been removed. They are just gray trunks and branches, standing 6 to 8 feet above the fence. I’ve never had a conversation with the neighbor about those dead trees. I suppose I might offer to cut them down, since I have chainsaws, and the job wouldn’t be that great. I’ve joked with my family about spray-painting them green to improve the view from our deck, but I just haven’t found the right moment to discuss it with the neighbor.

That neighbor isn’t much for fence maintenance, either. The fence used to have a gate, but it has been nailed shut from the neighbor’s side. There is an eight-foot section where all of the fence boards are so rotted that they are no longer attached to the bottom rail and are hanging by just a couple of nails from the top rail. The bottom rail is also rotten and falling apart. Since the posts seem stable, I installed a new bottom rail a bit higher than the original and attached fence boards on our side of the fence to maintain the fence’s integrity. It is an unusual look, new boards on my side of the fence, rotten ones on the neighbor’s side.

The saying is “Good fences make good neighbors”. I’m not sure that the contrary is true. Band fences don’t necessarily make bad neighbors, but they may contribute to disputes. I have no intention of starting an argument over a fence. I don’t mind the expense of maintaining the fence. I’d even replace a post if needed. The truth is that when a fence is located on the boundary between neighbors, it isn’t clear who owns the fence. It assumes a shared ownership status. Most of the time, it is easy to coordinate with neighbors for fence maintenance. Sometimes it can be a challenge.

Furthermore, our son and his family have a farm down the road where they keep a few cows, so I get enough fence maintenance to keep me busy. In addition to the wire fence around their pastures, they have the entire perimeter of the areas where the cows feed surrounded by an electric fence. The electric fence is simple to maintain, but I’ve forgotten to turn it off a couple of times and gotten a mild shock.

Fences work for cows. When they first got the place, they allowed a neighbor to pasture sheep for a few weeks, and it was a constant battle. The sheep were too short to reach the electric fence, and they found every hole in the wire fence. Barb wire didn’t work. They found ways to get between the strands. Sheep panels kept them in some areas, but they are expensive. After a while of constant sheepherding and fence repairs, the sheep returned home. There have been no sheep since.

And fences don’t restrain honey bees. My bees choose their own areas of operation and don’t acknowledge property boundaries. There are lots of other creatures, including geese, ducks, eagles, herons, fish, and sea mammals, who don’t observe human boundaries. More than a fence along the 49th parallel, which marks the boundary between the US and Canada, we need to learn to get along with our neighbors. And that is something that can’t be done with more fences and helicopter patrols.

I’m not one for Christmas shopping before Thanksgiving, but we are planning to travel for Christmas this year, so we need to do a bit of planning. Furthermore, we are trying to be responsible in our decisions, seeking fewer, higher-quality items, avoiding excessive packaging, and consuming less. So I’ve been on a mission to purchase a toy excavator for a three-year-old. I thought it would be easy.

My father was a John Deere Dealer from the early 1960s through the 1970s. Back in those days, product licensing wasn’t as big as it is today. Farm stores weren’t filled with all kinds of clothing covered with logos. You didn’t see green baby onesies with the yellow John Deere logo across the chest. However, there was a line of quality steel toys available. My father quickly ordered toys of the tractors he sold in the store. He kept a display of 1/16-scale steel toy tractors, and he made it clear he was willing to deal. When he saw a child eyeing the tractors in the display, he went over and spoke to them as if they were his biggest customer for full-scale tractors and implements. If they were short of cash, he would suggest that he would accept trade-ins. Because the toys were not his main business, he could afford to sell them at no profit and even at a loss. The used toys were donated to an annual Christmas Toy drive. He felt that if a child had a good experience trading with him for a toy, they would later become a customer for more expensive items, and he kept at it long enough to sell a few tractors to young farmers who had purchased toys when they were younger.

Some John Deere dealerships still sell a few toys, but the bulk of John Deere toy tractor sales is conducted through major retailers and online stores. And judging from what I’ve found online, John Deere is licensing that logo to a lot of different companies that make products of varying quality. Not every toy with the John Deere logo is a quality steel toy. Most are cheap plastic.

I am on a mission. The excavator must be able to withstand rugged play in an outdoor sandbox and will probably see time scooping mud in the farmyard. It needs to be strong enough to last. Our grandson is enamored of construction equipment, especially excavators. Next door to the library in Ferndale, they are preparing the foundation for a new City Hall. The other day, three excavators were working, digging and loading dirt into dump trucks. Watching those excavators in action was far more interesting to our grandson than the story hour at the library. He protested when his mother tried to get him to go inside for the program. Usually, he enjoys story hour, but those excavators working next door are much more inviting to him.

The combination of my father’s joy in trading toys and my grandson’s love of excavators has made me brand-specific in my search. I would definitely consider a Cat excavator, but I hope to avoid the Komatsus and Volvos for now. There is no shortage of toy excavators with the Deere logo. While shopping, I discovered something that piqued my interest for a while. There is a complete line of toys called the Prestige Collection. These toys are crafted for serious collectors and have price tags that make them beyond the reach of most children. They are exquisitely designed with intricate details. They have opening doors and realistic hydraulic cylinders. The die-cast tracks move with ease.

Real collectors keep the boxes and remove the toys only briefly to admire them. They see their toys as investments and believe they will appreciate in value over time. One website selling the Prestige Collection offers buyers the option to pay in four installments instead of paying cash up front. That’ll give you a sense of the price of these toys.

Toys are for playing, not for collecting, but my family would be quick to point out that I have a collection of 11/64 Die-cast John Deere toys. It started with a boxed set of historic tractors that was offered when my father was a dealer. He gave the sets as gifts to several family members, and I ended up keeping one of them. Tractor design has evolved quite a bit since 1960; however, I would add another tractor from time to time, eventually collecting four-wheel-drive and articulated tractors. Since the toys are scaled, the newer tractors are also larger. And what good are tractors without implements? I began to add balers, wagons, drills, and tillage tools. That led to a few swathers and combines. A pickup truck with John Deere on the side and a couple of Semis to haul grain and move implements appeared. At one point, my collection ran the length of the front of my bookshelves.

When we moved, I carefully boxed up the collection. We downsized, and I don’t have as many bookshelves as I once did. And the chore of dusting my shelves is way easier when I don’t have a bunch of toys to dust as well. So, at the moment, the collection is in a box in my garage. I’ve been thinking of waiting until our youngest grandchild is a bit older and one day taking out the box to explore the collection with him. We keep a small box of Hot Wheels and Matchbox cars, which are a similar size, and I watch him play with them. Right now, he’s pretty rough on them. It is common for me to be gluing on wheels and other parts after an intense session of play. I’ve decided to wait a bit before getting out my toy collection.

For now, I’m trying to find just the right excavator that will withstand his rough play. I have a shortlist and will be making a purchase soon. And I’m experiencing some of the joy that my father had when he ordered toys for his store. They not only amuse and entertain the child who receives them as gifts. They also delight the grandfather who shops for them.

Some writers write to share expertise. I often write about subjects about which I have little knowledge or expertise. I write to explore topics that interest me. It isn’t that different when I speak. I often talk about things that I don’t understand.

I don’t understand the rapid rise of sports betting. Advertisements for sports betting appear online, on billboards, and on the sides of sports stadiums. It seems that every time I check the score in a popular game, I am confronted by invitations to place bets. When it comes to placing bets, however, I really don’t know what I’m talking about.

Actually, I’m not that big of a sports fan. I pay attention to the World Series most years, depending on which teams are playing. I’ve watched portions of the Super Bowl, mostly to see the advertisements and sometimes to watch the halftime show. I enjoy local ball games when I know some of the players.

As a result, it is easy for me to make a connection between ardent sports fans and gambling. I know rationally that not all sports fans are gamblers. Chance is a factor in every sports competition. Both betting and playing sports involve winners and losers.

I don’t feel the urge to place a bet. As far as I can recall, I have only purchased two lottery tickets in my life, both as gag gifts. I’ve scratched off the waxy coatings on sweepstakes forms sent in the mail by car dealers and the sellers of timeshare properties, but I’ve never won anything. I don’t expect to win. I occasionally become aware of a sweepstakes with a prize I’d like to win. A few times, I have read the contest rules enough to figure out how to enter without making a purchase. You’ll often see the words “no purchase necessary” on a sweepstakes advertisement. It takes a bit of reading of the fine print rules to figure out how to enter without making a purchase. Usually, it involves sending a handwritten postcard or note.

The purpose of sweepstakes is to make money. A common sweepstakes names a prize and offers “free” entries with every purchase. People will purchase merchandise motivated by the dream of winning the prize. Often, they will make purchases that they would not otherwise make. The merchant offering the prize estimates that profits from increased sales will exceed the cost of the prize.

Most of the time, I have no interest in purchasing the merchandise, even if winning is a good thing. I don’t expect to win. Paying money to lose seems like a poor investment to me.

When it comes to betting and games of chance, I’m no expert.

I once won two drawings in the same month. The car dealership where I had my car serviced was giving away a giant Christmas stocking and encouraged customers to fill out a slip of paper with their name and phone number to enter to win. I was visiting with a dealership employee while my car was being serviced, and the employee kept prodding me to enter the drawing. I didn’t want the stocking, which was filled with candies and toys. After several invitations, however, I filled out a single slip with the name of a family with whom we were building a Habitat for Humanity house. I did not know their phone number, however, so I put my phone number on the slip. By the luck of the draw, the slip I filled out was selected as the winner, and I got a phone call. I went to the dealership the next day, picked up the giant prize, and delivered it to the new Habitat for Humanity house in time for the dedication. We finished the house, and the family moved in just before Christmas.

That same month, I got a call from a local funeral director. The funeral home had an annual Christmas drawing. They put the names of the clergy who had officiated at funerals directed by their firm into a hat and drew one out. The winner received a new suit from a local menswear store. I don’t know what the prize was if the winner was a woman. Since I didn’t have to do anything beyond officiating a funeral to enter the contest, I was unaware that the contest existed or that my name had been entered. I did, however, claim the prize. I bought a dark suit and was careful to wear it for funerals overseen by that funeral home for several years.

It seems that I’ve probably done enough winning for a lifetime and shouldn’t expect to win anything more.

One of my brothers, however, was just the opposite. He bought lottery tickets every time the prizes got big. He entered every contest offered. And when I listened to him, he really believed he would win big one day. He liked talking about what he would do if he won a big jackpot. I think he did win some prizes—small amounts of money in Bingo games and the like. He liked telling the story of going to a casino with $20 in cash and leaving with $200. I always suspected there were times when he did just the opposite, but he didn’t brag about them. He never did win a big prize.

As a pastor, I was asked to counsel and spoke with two people who were addicted to gambling. One managed to gamble away $20,000 in a single day. Another kept getting cash advances on a credit card at an ATM and managed to gamble away the entire credit limit. I referred both to counselors with more expertise in gambling addictions than I. My experience makes me wonder about the people who place bets on sports. You can now bet on everything from the outcome of the game to individual plays or the number of points a particular player will make. There are phone apps that allow fans to bet while watching the game.

I’m no expert. I don’t think such betting is good for communities. I suspect that many families face significant problems caused by gambling losses. I think the lure of winning may seduce people who can’t afford to lose.

What I do know is that I won’t be one of the winners. I’ve guaranteed that by not placing a bet. I have no intention of purchasing a lottery ticket, either.

Please note: Changes are coming.

Friends, in the next two weeks, this website will be replaced with a new one. I do not yet know the exact timing, but soon things will look different at revtedh.com. For a limited time following the change, you will be able to access this site at revtedh.org. However, some features of this website, including the daily journal entries, will end when the new website launches. You can keep up with regular writing posts at revtedh.substack.com. On Substack, you can subscribe to receive regular posts in your email. I appreciate your patience with these changes.

Please note: Changes are coming.

Friends, in the next two weeks, this website will be replaced with a new one. I do not yet know the exact timing, but soon things will look different at revtedh.com. For a limited time following the change, you will be able to access this site at revtedh.org. However, some features of this website, including the daily journal entries, will end when the new website launches. You can keep up with regular writing posts at revtedh.substack.com. On Substack, you can subscribe to receive regular posts in your email. I appreciate your patience with these changes.

Before my retirement, I served for many years as a human rights advocate for clients of an agency that provided services to persons with developmental disabilities, brain disorders, and a wide variety of physical handicaps. My role was to represent the community and its interests, and I remained independent from the agency during my time of service. When I was first recruited, I thought that I would be called upon to speak for those who cannot speak for themselves. The agency served people with limited verbal skills, limited social communication, and challenges in interacting with others. Some of the persons served had difficulty with nonverbal clues such as gestures and facial expressions. Some made little or no eye contact. Some of the people served did not speak at all. I mistakenly thought that they needed someone to give them a voice and to stand up for their rights. I was eager to be that voice and to advocate for the rights of all persons served by the agency.

However, I quickly learned that the persons served by the agency were their own best advocates for human rights. Their desire for meaningful work, stable family and friend relationships, and independence was best expressed by them, not by me. I learned to be quiet and to observe closely when considering the cases that came before the human rights committee.

In the process, I discovered a new role for myself as the community representative on the human rights committee. I became an advocate for the full involvement of persons with disabilities in all aspects of community life. This was not from the perspective of those with disabilities who wanted to be involved, but rather from the community, which was strengthened by their involvement. Businesses, churches, schools, and other parts of our community were strengthened by the participation of those living with disabilities.

I also learned to be careful when using the terms “disability” and “disabled.” Too often, those terms are employed to describe what a person cannot do. What I learned is that it is far more helpful to define a person by what they can do. Some people prefer the term “differently abled,” recognizing that any community is made up of people with diverse skills and abilities. One young man who uses a wheelchair for mobility gave me a fresh perspective by referring to me as “temporarily abled.” He reminded me that I was only one accident or illness away from having to live with a disability. Others reminded me that there are many abilities that I do not possess. There are people whose ability to smell is more discriminating than mine. Some people are far better at remembering dates and names than I am.

As a community rights advocate, I began speaking up for the right of every community to have full participation by persons with a wide range of abilities. While it is true that the removal of physical barriers is helpful for those living with disabilities, it is also beneficial for those who do not have those disabilities. We all benefit from accessible bathrooms, accommodation for those who use walkers and wheelchairs, and resources for those with visual disabilities.

My life is richer because of the people with cerebral palsy, those who use wheelchairs, those who are blind, and those with autism spectrum disorder who have come into my life as friends and colleagues. Our community is richer because of their participation and leadership. The rights of all are elevated when the rights of any subset are elevated.

The work of advocating for the community of persons with all abilities continues. There is a lot of misinformation, disinformation, and ignorance in government and public media. As one who benefits from standing with persons with disabilities and their families, some fundamental truths must be communicated freshly in the face of this misinformation, disinformation, and ignorance. For example, scientific consensus is clear:

Vaccines do not cause autism. Decades of rigorous, global research involving millions of children and adults have confirmed no link between vaccines and autism.

The use of Tylenol during pregnancy does not increase the incidence of autism spectrum disorder. The most extensive study on acetaminophen use during pregnancy found no evidence supporting an increased chance of autism.

Furthermore, communities are strengthened when they integrate support services that build on each child's strengths and honor differences in communication styles. Persons of all abilities gain from educators and service providers who are trained in inclusive, neurodiversity-affirming practices. Accurate information helps to free all people from stigma and fear.

Many things labeled as disabilities are, in fact, natural parts of human variation. We are not all the same. We do not all think, act, and relate in the same ways. Variation in human abilities is a strength, not a weakness. Despite the misleading rhetoric from Health and Human Services Secretary Robert F. Kennedy Jr., portraying autism as a tragedy is not only inaccurate, it is harmful to people with autism, their families, and caregivers. It is also detrimental to all communities and to the health of our nation. The health and well-being of our communities is strengthened by embracing neurodiversity and learning from those with autism.

As a community advocate, I will continue to work for the meaningful inclusion of all.

I get a bit of pushback from my grandchildren about my “grandpa jokes.” A grandpa joke might be a silly pun that I make. It might also be a joke or a story I’ve told over and over again. There are a few one-liners that have become almost automatic responses to specific topics. One of those overused tropes takes the form of me bragging about my strength. I’ll say something like, “I am a lot stronger than I used to be. When your grandmother and I were first married, I needed a grocery store employee to help me carry $25 worth of groceries to my car. Now I can carry $200 worth of groceries in one trip all by myself.”

It is, of course, an exaggeration. When we were graduate students, a trip to the grocery store generally cost about $25. We paid with a personal check, and we kept a close eye on the balance in our checking account. There wasn’t much extra there. In general, I was earning enough from part-time jobs to cover groceries. Our biggest expenses were rent and tuition, and we paid those by the academic semester with a combination of fellowships, grants, loans, and funds earned from summer jobs. We never had much extra, but we always had enough. And we knew we had our parents' backing. Were we to run short, we knew where to turn for support.

Our first job after graduation was a single full-time position we split, each of us earning half a paycheck. Our paychecks in those days were less than what we now pay for health insurance each month. On the side, I took on a series of part-time jobs to supplement our income. We weren’t saving much money, but we were getting by.

So far in this life, we have always had enough for the basics. We have had safe housing and been able to afford groceries and health care. We realize that we are the lucky ones. We have been able to contribute to funds that help others who have fewer resources than we do. We have been able to donate non-perishable funds to food drives,

There are many people who, through no fault of their own, don’t have enough money for the necessities of life. The costs of essentials have risen faster than wages. The combination of inflation and wage stagnation means many people are working full-time yet don’t have enough money for rent and groceries.

Before the recent government shutdown, some of the people with the greatest needs received support directly from the Federal Government through the Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program (SNAP) funds. These were paid via an electronic payment card that could be used at grocery stores. Many American citizens depended on the program. Around 12% of the total population is considered low-income and in need of nutrition support. That support had been costing the federal government between $8.5 and $9 billion per month. That sounds like a lot of money, but it is a tiny fraction of the overall federal budget.

As the shutdown stretched into the longest in history with little visible progress towards a solution, the administration has cut off SNAP payments. The administration has been ordered by a District Court to pay the benefits, but has appealed that decision to the US Supreme Court. On Friday, the U.S. Supreme Court issued an administrative stay, giving the lower court two additional days to consider the administration’s formal request to fund the SNAP program partially.

Here in our county, far from the centers of power and the political wrangling, more than 35,000 people depend on SNAP payments to put food on the table. That’s approximately 15% of our county's population. And, unlike the federal government, they don’t have extra days for politics. When the credit didn’t appear on their cards nine days ago, they faced a crisis.

They aren’t the only ones running short of groceries. Rounds of layoffs have accompanied the federal shutdown. Other governmental employees who still have jobs are not receiving their paychecks. Of course, members of the administration, Congress, and the courts continue to receive their pay, isolating them from the crisis.

The result here is that the demand for food assistance at local food banks is increasing exponentially. We are trying to support them. Our church held a fundraiser last month to support the Bellingham Food Bank, which netted almost $10,000. Community organizers are setting up several emergency events to raise additional funds. The goal is to raise $100.000 by November 22. In addition, the food bank continues to receive food donations and passes them on to those in need.

Other food banks in the county are similarly scrambling for additional donations of food and funds. Here in our small community, the Bridge Community Hope Center Food Bank serves about 65 families every week, distributing food on Friday afternoons. A few miles away, the Blaine Food Bank serves roughly 3,000 households per month.

While the politicians engage in high-level power plays, everyday people are running short. It doesn’t matter how strong you are if you can’t get enough groceries to feed your family. It is easy to feel powerless in the face of the sheer size of federal budgets and the incredible wealth of individuals and corporations who influence federal politics.

Now and in the foreseeable future, we are trying to do what we do in a crisis. We are doing what we can to support our neighbors. We are pulling together to raise funds, encourage food donations, pack grocery boxes, and do what we can to get food to the people in need. We have felt the strength of our communities when flooding displaced many families a few years ago. We are drawing on that strength once again. We pray that the federal administration will find a way to do the right thing, but in the meantime, we will care for our community. I hope communities all across the nation are doing the same thing.

Some days, I have to remind myself of where I am in life. I still think of myself as recently retired. In June, it was five years since I retired and began withdrawing from my pension. Although I worked part-time for two years, that job was an interim position and felt to me like a retirement activity. Last month, we observed the fourth anniversary of living in our house here in Birch Bay. Four years is a significant milestone. We were college students for four years. We were graduate students for four years. When I give a quick overview of my life, I always mention that we lived in Chicago. It is true, but our actual residency in Chicago was two sets of living there for 9 months each, followed by 3 months in Montana, then 21 months in Chicago. During our Chicago years, we lived in five different apartments. We were not exactly settled. But we have lived in this house year-round for four whole years now. It seems to have gone by more quickly than our time in Chicago.

Still, we are newcomers here. We are often more struck by how different this place is from other places we have lived than by how typical or unusual any individual season might be. All of the seasons still feel strange for us.

We picked the green tomatoes this week. It was time. We haven’t had a killing frost yet, but the days are so short that the tomatoes have quit ripening on the vine. And it is time to dig up our dahlias and pack the tubers in peat moss for the winter. After all, it is November. When we lived in South Dakota, we started our fall chores in early September most years.

The locals, however, say this was an unusual year. It remained colder than average through June, and July brought a few chilly nights, though nothing near freezing. Our tomato plants took a long time to start producing fruit. And I remember worrying that I wouldn’t have enough dahlias during the early summer. Those plants, however, did make a lot once they got going. I think it was our best year ever for dahlias, and our grape tomatoes were really prolific. We also got a fair amount of Roma, cherry, and slicing tomatoes despite a slug battle early in the season.

The days are short. We are only getting 9 1/2 hours of daylight. Yesterday afternoon, we donned our reflective vests and went for our walk in the dark before dinnertime. We notice the difference living on the 49th parallel.

The weather and the garden are only part of the adjustments to being retired; however, I am still adjusting to other aspects of retirement. Not going to work isn’t a challenge. I never minded going to work. I loved the work that I did. However, I have no problem filling up my days. I go to bed with unfinished tasks every night, just as I did when I was working full-time. I even have a list of people I want to visit, just like I did when I was working. I am not preparing worship or preaching regularly, but I am writing as much as I did when I was doing all of that preparation.

The real challenge of retirement is passing the mantle of leadership to a new generation. In our denomination, we have a carefully crafted ethical code for retired pastors. It is designed to allow new pastors to form deep bonds with the congregations we served once we have moved on from those calls. The general focus of the code is that once retired, a pastor is not to provide pastoral services to a congregation. Exceptions are made for family weddings and baptisms, but other pastoral duties are to be left behind.

The problem for me is that being a pastor was a deep part of my being as much as it was a list of tasks. When I hear of a health crisis or a loss, my instinctual response is to make a call. I knew that about myself, and it was a factor in our decision to move far away from the congregation we were serving upon retirement. By doing so, we avoided having members call us to officiate at funerals or weddings. It didn’t work perfectly; I still got a few invitations in the early years of retirement with people offering to pay for trips. However, it was relatively easy to turn down those invitations. I could explain that my role had shifted and refer the callers to their pastor.

Being retired and having moved away, however, doesn’t change the fact that I still love the people that I served. When I hear about significant events in their lives, my heart goes out to them. Fortunately, there is no prohibition on praying. My prayers are filled with images of those I used to serve as pastor. It isn’t just the case with the people of our South Dakota church. Our post-retirement interim position was not a pastoral leadership role. We served as ministers of faith formation, planning, and leading educational programs. Still, when events happened in he lives of those we served, we made calls, including hospital visits and pastoral care.

In addition to being pastors, however, we are also members of a congregation. We have formed friendships within the congregation. Several months ago, one of our friends in this church suffered a stroke. It seemed natural for us to make regular visits to him in the rehabilitation center, and it seems natural for us to continue visiting him now that he has returned home. I don’t want to take our pastor's place or assume her role. I want to be a natural friend. And, as a friend, I pray. I usually say a prayer out loud when we are visiting. It seems natural, and I know it is appreciated.

The good thing about praying is that I can do it without interfering. I can pray for others while I’m processing green tomatoes or digging dahlias this week.

Over 75% of Tesla shareholders voted to approve a pay package for Elon Musk. Under the new package, Musk would earn no salary, but would receive Tesla stock worth about a trillion dollars if the company meets specific criteria within the next decade. One of the criteria is raising the company’s market capitalization. That means the value of all its stock, taken together, needs to rise from its current $1.5 trillion to above $8.5 trillion. If those goals are met, it would mean that Musk would increase not only the value of the stock he receives but also his ownership percentage in the company.

Of course, I don’t understand the deal. I have no idea what a trillion dollars is. I am not a Tesla shareholder and didn’t participate in the vote. To someone like me, the numbers are staggering. I think they must be staggering to those who are very wealthy as well. For comparison, the most valuable company in the world is Nvidia. Nvidia makes computer chips that contribute to the AI boom. That company is worth $4.83 trillion. The CEO of that company is paid $50 million per year and owns 3.5% of the company.

I’m pretty sure $50 million per year is more than anyone could figure out how to spend. Even if buying multiple mansions and airplanes, the cash would simply be coming in faster than it was going out. If that is true, there is no lifestyle difference between earning $50 million a year and earning a trillion a year. There must be a point in the acquisition of wealth where the numbers cease to have any meaning in terms of what a person can do with it. At some point, it all becomes numbers on paper, devoid of meaning.

If that is accurate, tax cuts for the ultra-wealthy don’t really change anything for them. For example, if Musk were required to pay 15% to Social Security on all his income, which self-employed people pay, he would still be making $85 billion a year, enough to afford a lavish lifestyle with multiple yachts, private jets, and mansions. The $150 billion paid into the Social Security System would enable the program to pay benefits to all participants without cash flow problems. The system could even afford to raise the maximum benefit beyond the current rate.

Of course, that is a fantasy. Billionaires and large companies don’t pay taxes at anywhere near the rate that middle- and low-income people do. However, despite being able to afford to pay more taxes easily, they use their wealth to lobby the government for more loopholes and ways to avoid paying taxes. When they talk about taxes, they are careful to speak in absolute amounts, not percentages.

In addition to not paying taxes at the same rate as middle- and low-income citizens, the billionaire class extracts money from government through lucrative contracts. The government spends its money in ways that increase the income of ultra-wealthy citizens. Despite the transfer of billions of dollars from the government to private businesses and individuals, there is an expectation that those payments will increase each year, even if that means expanding the government's debt.

The solution proposed is to cut spending on social services. In general, it is easier for wealthy corporations and individuals to profit from specific sectors of the economy, while social services don’t net the enormous profits of military contracts.

What gets lost in all of this is that poverty is very expensive not only for those who are impoverished, but also for society as a whole. When a homeless person gets sick, their only option for health care is a hospital emergency room, which is one of the most expensive systems of health care delivery. Since that person cannot pay, the hospital absorbs the costs and passes them on to patients with insurance. Since insurance companies are for-profit businesses, they pass on the costs to consumers through higher premiums. The total cost of people not having access to family physicians and preventive care far exceeds the cost of offering universal health care. Add to that the simple fact that people without homes get sick more often than those with adequate housing, and guaranteed housing for all would likely produce savings in Medicaid to offset the increased housing subsidies.

Countries around the world are experimenting with a universal basic income. While on the surface it seems like such a program would be costly and result in fewer people working for wages, that is not how it works. People who receive basic income, unlike the billionaire class, spend all of their income. The money circulates throughout the economy.

Ireland conducted a three-year experiment providing basic income to artists, and is now considering making that program permanent. The program produces savings in social services and healthcare. Unlike other governmental programs, unconditional cash transfers to meet basic needs reduce total governmental spending.

In the long run, income inequality results in fewer total resources. When the rich get richer and the poor get poorer, the overall economy stagnates. As millionaires become billionaires and billionaires become trillionaires, less money circulates through the economy. The only way that the ultra-wealthy can continue to increase wealth is for there to be fewer of them.

I’m not an economist and, as I stated at the beginning of this essay, I have no idea what a trillion dollars is. I had the good fortune to live my life with a career in which I was fairly compensated and could afford not only to provide for my family but also to retire with a modest income. I have enough for housing and food. For now, I have enough to pay my health insurance premiums and can afford good care. What is more, it appears that I am happier and more satisfied with my income than the man who is set to receive a trillion-dollar pay package. I certainly don’t want to trade places with him.

If you asked me to name composers of the time between World War I and World War II, I’d probably be able to come up with Irving Berlin and George Gershwin. Both wrote volumes of music and contributed richly to the culture of the time. But I’m willing to venture that not many people these days know the name of Yip Harburg.

Edgar Yipsel Harburg was the youngest of four surviving children out of ten born to Yiddish-speaking Orthodox Jewish parents who had immigrated from Russia. His parents named him Isidore. He adopted the name Edgar Yipsel. One source said that he chose the name Yipsel because it meant “squirrel” in Yiddish. It would be a good story if Yipsel were actually a Yiddish word, but there is no such word in Yiddish. It is more likely that the name came from the Young People’s Socialist League, the youth group of the Socialist Party of America, whose members were called “yipsels.”

As a student in Townsend Harris High School, Harburg met Ira Gershwin, and the two became lifelong friends. After World War I, he graduated from City College in 1921. He was a co-owner of Consolidated Electrical Appliance Company, which went bankrupt following the 1929 crash. He insisted on paying back all of the more than $50,000 debt. He succeeded, but it took him more than 20 years. He wrote a few poems that were published in local newspapers. Ira Gershwin convinced him to start writing lyrics to music. In 1932, he had his first big hit with “Brother, Can You Spare a Dime?” The song became an anthem of the Great Depression. That song led him to write songs for Hollywood and Broadway. In Hollywood, he worked with composer Harold Arlen.

Harburg and Arlen collaborated on the musical The Wizard of Oz, released in 1939. Perhaps their most famous song, “Over the Rainbow,” was almost cut from the movie. MGM executives had it removed from the film for an advance screening, believing it slowed the film. Associate Producer Arthur Freed, however, argued that the movie needed a classic “I want” song to express the protagonist's desires. He cited the ballad, “Someday My Prince Will Come” from the 1937 Disney animated hit Snow White. He told studio head Louis B. Mayer, “The song stays - or I go.” Mayer replied, “Let the boys have the damn song. Put it back in the picture. It can’t hurt.”

The song went on to become a cultural icon. In 2001, “Over the Rainbow” was voted the greatest song of the 20th century in a joint survey by the National Endowment for the Arts and the Recording Industry Association of America. Almost everyone knows the song. But nearly everyone has forgotten Yip Harburg and Harold Arlen. People my age can all name Judy Garland as the artist who sang the song in the film, but can’t say who wrote it. I had to look it up for this essay. The duo also wrote “Stormy Weather.”

One factor in the obscurity of the lyricist may be that Harburg was blacklisted and named in the pamphlet Red Channels: The Report of Communist Influence in Radio and Television. Harburg refused to identify reputed communists and was blocked from working in Hollywood films, television, and radio for twelve years from 1950 to 1962. During that time, he also had his passport revoked, so he could not travel abroad.

A lot of us know Harburg’s lyrics by heart.

Somewhere over the rainbow, way up high
There's a land that I heard of once in a lullaby
Somewhere over the rainbow, skies are blue
And the dreams that you dare to dream really do come true

So many artists have recorded the song over the years. The version recorded by Israel Kamakawiwo’ole with ukulele accompaniment has been played at weddings, funerals, and other events.

I was thinking of the song yesterday as we saw an unusually bright double rainbow over Birch Bay on our daily walk. This particular rainbow was especially bright at the bottom of the arch, and the west side lit up a group of trees, making their leaves appear golden.

Of course, skies aren’t really blue over a rainbow. The brightest rainbows are seen against a dark cloud backdrop when the sunlight is behind the viewer. Yesterday’s rainbow appeared over the water only because the sun sets in the southwest this time of the year up here. Had it been the middle of the summer, we wouldn’t have seen a rainbow in the north.

I suppose that it makes sense for a little girl who is swept up in a tornado to sing about traveling over the rainbow. In the movie, Dorothy is carried high into the air in the house and travels to OZ, where she has fantastic adventures before waking up back at home in Kansas. “Over the Rainbow” seems to fit the movie. I don’t, however, know that I want to fly over the rainbow. Then again, I have flown over rainbows, which appear to be full circles when the angle between the sun and the clouds is just right, while flying in an airplane. I might be just as happy to travel through the arch of a rainbow or seek its end.

St. Patrick’s Day brings tales of leprechauns guarding pots of gold at the end of the rainbow. Lucky Charms cereal features a leprechaun juggling rainbow-colored marshmallows. Advertisements feature the cereal rather than a pot of gold.

Rainbows don’t really have an end. The arch shape is an illusion. The colors are the result of light reflected by raindrops. Since raindrops are suspended in the air, the bow appears to end at the horizon when viewed from the ground. Its location shifts as the viewer's perspective changes.

I don’t need to fly over the rainbow. And I’ll not go looking for a pot of gold, either. The trees along the bay with their autumn colors are worth more than gold to me. The trees grow because of the gift of rain. And I am one of the lucky ones who gets to see it all.

The first stand mixer in our home was inherited from my Uncle Ted. During our college and seminary years, I baked bread regularly, often baking for other families as well as our own. We were just a couple then, and it was easy to bake three loaves at a time, but I generally doubled the recipe and baked six. Without a mixer, I mixed everything by hand. I learned the art of using just the right amount of flour when kneading the bread. We hadn’t really set up a household yet. We married as students and received many gifts, including dishes, silverware, pots and pans, and baking dishes. We bought a large stainless steel mixing bowl for bread baking. Because we were living in furnished apartments, we did not need to own furniture. When we graduated from seminary after five years of marriage, the only furniture we had was a desk.

Our first job out of seminary came with a parsonage, but no furnishings. We scrambled to collect the things we needed, mostly using extra items from our families. Among the things we brought to that house was a Sunbeam Mixmaster that had belonged to my Uncle Ted. I don’t know how old the mixer was. My Uncle Ted wasn’t much of a baker or cook. I think my Aunt Florence probably used the mixer before she died. Nonetheless, the machine worked well. It didn’t have dough hooks and wasn’t heavy enough for bread dough, but it worked well for cookies, cakes, and whipping cream.

That mixer showed signs of age, but it didn’t completely fail. We replaced it when my mother decided she no longer needed her KitchenAid mixer. It was larger and more powerful than the Sunbeam, and it had dough hooks. I could place the ingredients for bread into it, and it would mix three loaves without a problem. It was a labor-saving device. I don’t know its exact age, but it is at least 50 years old. Once it started making a grinding metal sound, I was able to obtain a new transmission for the machine and replace it. It can be easily disassembled with hand tools and has very little plastic in the design.

This year, however, the motor finally failed. I could replace the motor, but the cost of the motor is more than half that of a new machine. I would like a larger mixer for when I am baking for the family. The available ones are very similar to the one we have, though they aren’t available in the vintage 1970s color we have. Costco seems only to have red mixers at the moment. Color isn’t important, but I have been hesitating. I can mix and bake without a machine.

We are not rich, but we have enough money to buy a new mixer. My hesitation is twofold. I could buy a new motor for the old mixer. It would likely last the rest of my life. The result would be less garbage in the landfill. The second reason is that, in our experience, appliances are not as well-made and do not last as long as those made a few decades ago.

The materials economy is a system of producing, consuming, and disposing of goods. We all participate in that economy. That system thrives on constant consumption. Corporations exist to make profits. The more they sell, the more profit they generate for shareholders. There is little incentive in the system, the way it currently operates, for companies to make products that last a long time. For example, we have the knowledge and technology to make a dishwasher that would last for a century with regular maintenance. We know this from the duty cycles of commercial dishwashers in restaurant kitchens. However, a company that makes dishwashers for home use makes more money if consumers need to replace their dishwashers every few years, rather than selling machines that last for decades.

We bought new major appliances for our kitchen when we purchased a home in Rapid City, SD, in 1995. The refrigerator and stove were still working and in good condition when we sold our home in 2020. The house we bought here featured an updated kitchen with newer appliances. We have replaced the stove, refrigerator, microwave, and dishwasher in the four years we have owned this home. I can tell similar stories about our laundry washer and dryer.

The notion that a kitchen appliance might be something passed down from one generation to the next has disappeared. Our children are already well established in their homes and do not need the appliances in ours. It remains to be seen what our grandchildren will need when they begin to move out of their home, but it seems unlikely that they will want Grandma and Grandpa’s old stand mixer.

One thing about being retired is that many decisions are not particularly time-sensitive. I don’t have a deadline to solve the problem with a stand mixer that isn’t working. I will bake a few buns for Thanksgiving, but our son and his family will be traveling, and we'll be caring for the farm, so that we won’t have a big celebration dinner. We are traveling to our daughter’s home for Christmas, and she has a beautiful stand mixer. The next time I will be baking for a crowd at our house will be New Year’s Day, and I can easily mix up a double batch of bread by hand. We still have the large mixing bowl I used when we were students. We probably have the same wooden spoons, too.

There is a German Company, Open Funk, that is deliberately selling high-quality products. It sells a blender that is designed to be easily repaired when it breaks. They apply principles of high-quality materials, repairability, modularity, open source, and the right to repair. They sell all of the parts of their blender. Unfortunately, they do not yet manufacture a stand mixer, and a blender is no match for bread dough. I like the ideas of their company, but I don’t need a blender. Still, I hope their company succeeds. We need more appliance options.

I’m still pondering what to do about the mixer. I’ve got the time.

Over the years, I have been involved in many budget discussions. Most of those budgets were church budgets. In addition to the congregational budgets I served on, I also voted on Conference budgets. I also served on corporate boards of ministries in the national setting of the United Church of Christ. And I have been a volunteer member of the boards of several different nonprofits as well. Some of those budget discussions became very intense. People’s passion can be ignited when they talk about money.

Church budgets are tricky. Although pledges made by members tend to be kept and generally provide a solid income projection, income from other sources, including gifts above and beyond pledges from those who have made pledges, is very difficult to predict. Giving to the church goes up and down with the emotional energy of the congregation and the ability of church leaders to interpret mission needs. Many of the dedicated volunteers who serve on church boards are not comfortable asking other members to donate. Church finance boards tend to attract people who are good at reading and interpreting numbers. Many church finance board members are not, however, charismatic when igniting passion for giving. I’ve heard many dry presentations of financial facts that don't inspire generosity. Congregations that are willing to take financial risks often come out ahead because the risk inspires an emotional response. Risks, however, are frightening. No one wants to participate in a budget that results in a financial crisis for a church.

Churches, however, rarely go out of business because of a lack of funds. They are far more likely to close because of a lack of members. A few faithful stewards usually remain and hang on to financial resources beyond the congregation’s ability to attract new members.

Whenever I was involved in forming or deliberating church budgets, I knew I could count on extended debate over small items. It is an oversimplification, but it is not uncommon for salaries and benefits to make up half of a church budget. An additional 40 percent will be the building, insurance, and utilities. That leaves 10 percent for actual programs. Debate over salaries, however, is generally nonexistent. Building, insurance, and utility costs are often seen as fixed and unavoidable. That leaves the program discussion. When a deficit appears, it is usually too large to avoid by slashing programs. However, when a church is facing an income shortfall, programs are always on the line.

I’ve pointed out over and over that church education programs are so lightly funded that cutting them out entirely will not balance a budget, only to see the programs cut and sometimes eliminated. In the midst of budget discussions, participants rarely recognize that people are attracted to churches for their programs, and educational programs are often at the top of the list. Eliminating educational programs frequently results in decreased income. Funding them adequately usually increases income. But they are always on the line when a shortfall is projected.

Slashing budgets is often seen as the primary way to balance them. It is rare for a congregation to consider ways to increase income to address deficits.

Of course, there are exceptions. After a lifetime of church membership, however, I can generally predict how budget discussions will go.

For me, there is a sense of “been there, done that” when I listen to public statements about the current budget talks in Washington, DC. Sometimes, when the legislature fails to pass a budget, they can agree to a continuing resolution that keeps the government operating while they seek a resolution of differences. The federal government has operated for years at a time on continuing resolutions while budget adoption eludes representatives. When a continuing resolution fails to pass, however, the federal government has experienced periods of shutdown. In 2019 2019, the government shutdown lasted 35 days. The focal point of the argument was funding for a wall along the U.S.-Mexico border.

The current U.S. government shutdown threatens to set a new record for length. After operating for more than a year on continuing resolutions, the last continuing resolution expired without agreement on a new one. While it is difficult to obtain accurate information on all the points of contention, the central sticking point is the health insurance subsidies provided under the Affordable Care Act. Health subsidies account for about 5% of the federal budget. With military spending comprising 57% of the total budget and representing a portion of the budget where an audit has not been completed, you might expect more debate over that part of the budget. But when deficits occur, people focus on small items, not on the big ones. And the proposed budget includes the most significant increases in the federal deficit ever.

Meanwhile, the focus in the past few days has turned to the Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program (SNAP). Formerly known as the Food Stamp Program, benefits are provided to low-income families to supplement their grocery budget in the form of an Electronic Benefit Transfer card that can be used only for approved groceries. The administration has ordered payments to be suspended during the shutdown. Food and Agriculture account for only about 1% of the Federal budget, and SNAP is a small fraction of that. You wouldn’t know it by the intense rhetoric being bandied about, however. While there may be some waste and fraud in SNAP benefits, it can't be as significant as in other areas of the government.

The administration may favor eliminating the production of pennies, but it is not beyond arguing over pennies.

The recipients of supplemental food support are not politically powerful. Congressional leaders seem content to defend the administration’s decision not to continue the benefits. I do not understand how anyone can oppose feeding hungry children, but that is the direct result of the suspension of payments. With monies in reserve, the courts have ordered the administration to pay the benefits. The administration, however, has chosen to appeal those court judgments rather than extend the benefits.

I guess their actions aren't driven by Jesus’ parable of the sheep and goats. They seem to have no concern for what they are doing to the least of these.

Yesterday, I overheard a conversation in which a woman described how to press and preserve leaves. Sh instructed to place them between sheets of wax paper and press them under heavy books. What she actually said was, “Get the biggest dictionary you have. Use three or four dictionaries.” I wasn’t part of the conversation, so I didn’t say anything, but I wondered how many homes have three or four dictionaries. We may have that many, but not all are big books. We used to own two unabridged dictionaries. We enjoyed comparing the perspectives of the American Heritage Dictionary and Webster’s Dictionary. For years, we kept one of the big books on or near our dining table and referred to it during our conversation. I remember a time when I dreamed of owning a set of the Oxford English Dictionary, back when the multi-volume set was released every few years in print. I would go to used bookstores, check the price of a set, and decide it was too much.

Times have changed, however. The Oxford English Dictionary is now available online. We still have one printed, unabridged dictionary in our house, but it is old. Dictionaries become dated as language changes, and English is constantly evolving. We generally use our smartphones to look up words when we are conversing these days. There were a few large books employed to press leaves a few days ago, but I don’t think the dictionary was one of them. We have some history books, collections of children’s literature, and other books that have significant heft.

Recently, I reached for my smartphone after watching our grandchildren. The 14-year-old and 11-year-old were laughing and encouraging the 3-year-old to say “six, seven” and gesture with both hands held palm up. I wasn’t following the humor, so I did a quick search, entering 67. The search returned an NPR article, which is a trusted source, so I read it.

It turns out that 67, pronounced “siks sev-uhn” and not sixty-seven, has been named the 2025 word of the year by dictionary.com. It is not uncommon for me to disagree with the choice of word of the year. Last year, dictionary.com chose “demure.” The website claims that it selects a word that reflects “social trends and global events that defined that year.” I fail to understand how 2024 can be defined by “demure.” The year was marked by a close and contentious presidential election, which was undoubtedly not characterized by shyness or modesty. Neither candidate would be accurately described as reserved. The choice of demure for 2024 fell flat in my opinion.

I don’t expect this year’s choice to do any better.

First of all, 67 is a number, not a word. Moreover, if you enter “67” or “six seven” in the search function of dictionary.com, you get “No results found.” The website does not offer a definition. I do not follow the logic of naming a number that has no definition as a word as “word of the year.”

Of course, it is not difficult to find references to the phrase online. It does appear in slang dictionaries that offer: “’67,’ also spelled ‘6-7’ or ‘six-seven’ (not ‘sixty-seven,’ to be clear) is a viral, ambiguous slang term.” That is hardly a definition.

The term seems to have come from a song, “Doot Foot (6 7)” by Philadelphia-based rapper Skrilla, released in December of 2024. "The way that switch brrt, I know he dyin' … 6-7, I just bipped right on the highway," Skrilla sings, using a verb that in hip-hop can describe anything from a car smash-and-grab to smooth driving to general swag.

I understand how a teenager and his sister can find it amusing to have their three-year-old brother sound a bit like a rap musician, or imitate something they saw on a viral TikTok. I don’t understand how a website claiming to be a dictionary can name a pair of numbers it doesn’t define as “word of the year.” I think that being able to offer a definition should be a requirement of naming a set of sounds as “word of the year.” It isn’t as if dictionary.com provides precise and clear definitions in the first place. I don’t find it particularly helpful as a dictionary. Then again, I’m a bit of a dictionary nerd. I like the OED’s row of tabs that allow you to view the etymology, pronunciation, meaning, and use, and several other aspects of each word you’re searching. It also gives plenty of examples.

Having raised children with a dictionary at the dining table, it is interesting to observe our grandchildren. Our daughter has been struggling to get her first-grader to stop calling her “Bruh.” “I’m your mother, not your brother!” she exclaims. I’m pretty sure that the everyday use of “bruh” by Gen Alpha kids doesn’t mean “brother.” It seems to be a general phrase, used to address the people, but also to express frustration. Kids generally don’t think of definitions when they repeat popular phrases.

There have been dozens of abbreviations for “brother” over several centuries. “Bro” is still typical among some age groups, but we don’t generally use “Br'er” as in “Br’er Rabbit” stories by Joel Chandler Harris. A good etymology can trace the phrase that drives our daughter up the wall back at least to the 16th century. She probably isn’t the first generation to have tried to stop the use of slang. My grandmother used to say, “Use proper English!” It generally does not work to try to affect popular language.

Now in my seventies, I don’t expect to keep up with all of the music and slang of younger generations. I do, however, hope to understand what they are saying and occasionally connect with them. I can make my three-year-old grandson laugh by saying “six-seven” and rocking my hands back and forth, palms up, even if I don’t know what the sounds mean to him.

I still think it was a poor choice for “word of the year.”

If you don’t know me, you need to understand that I am not a member of the Roman Catholic Church, and I am not an expert in the practices of that part of Christianity. I do have many Roman Catholic friends, and I am grateful for their faith and witness, but my perspective remains Protestant. I do not intend my observations to be saying that my perspective on faith is superior to the positions of the Roman Catholic church or that Roman Catholic doctrine is somehow “wrong.”

The traditions of All Saints have roots more ancient than the division between the Roman Catholic and Protestant streams of Christianity. A thousand years before the Reformation, Pope Gregory established All Saints as a holy day on the calendar. The first day of November was to be a time to express gratitude for Christians who had died in their faith. Its roots lie in the recognition of the sacrifice of martyrs, who willingly endured suffering and death rather than renouncing their faith. Without dishonoring the sacrifice of martyrs, church leaders also recognized that there were people of great faith who lived holy lives and died of natural causes. Those people were also worthy of being remembered and honored with a holiday. As the process of official recognition of saints became established within the church, there grew a need for expression of grief and gratitude for others who had not been officially recognized as saints. Over time, the days of recognition and appreciation for those who had died were gradually expanded to three significant holidays on three adjacent days. All Hallows’ Eve, or Halloween, was the last day of October and a day of preparation for All Saints’ Day, which followed. All Saints' Day was dedicated to the remembrance of those who had been officially recognized as saints of the church. November 2 is known as All Souls Day and commemorates all who have died in the faith.

A side theology of multiple paths to heaven emerged, including the concept of purgatory as a place of repentance for those who might not have lived an entirely holy life but were not beyond forgiveness and redemption.

After the Protestant Reformation and the division of our streams of faith, the part of the church in which I grew up abandoned the practice of official recognition of saints. It was argued that the institutional church did not control who was beloved by God and who was admitted to heaven. God is capable of welcoming all into the realm of love. From a protestant perspective, there are many more saints, some of whom are everyday people whose lives were not recognized by official processes or marked by official miracles. In our part of the church, we sing of all of the saints of God and include people from every walk of life. We aspire to live lives worthy of being remembered as well.

The distinction between All Saints and All Souls has faded in our part of the church. The congregation where we worship will recognize All Saints Day today and include in that recognition the naming of church members who have died in the previous year.

We all have been touched by grief. We all have known the experience of having someone we love die. We know that love does not die, but those we love do die from this life. And we remember them with grief and with thanksgiving for their lives. Despite talk of closure and getting over grief, our experience is that the death of a loved one changes us forever. Grief becomes a constant companion, not a phase that ends. We do not get over the loss of a loved one. We do, however, get through that loss. We continue to live. We continue to be capable of loving.

Yesterday I had a wonderful conversation with a friend at church. She has been a widow for three or four years. She is intimate with the journey of grief. And she is also a new grandmother. The death of her mate did not take love away from her life. She does not love her departed wife any less than she loved her when she was alive. She does not love her grandson any less than she loved her wife. Grief and the joy of new life are companions in her experience. There are times when I see tears in her eyes and do not know if they are tears of joy or tears of sadness. There are times when she cannot make that distinction. Like all of us, the tears of joy and sadness mix on our cheeks.

While I do not make a formal distinction between all saints and all souls, I do appreciate having several days to reflect on those who have died and on how they remain such an essential part of who we are. I grew up with the stories of those who died before I was born. My mother was one of five sisters. One of her sisters died as a teen, long before I was born, but I heard stories of her life and of how she was beloved by my mother and my other aunts. My maternal grandmother died before I was born, and my maternal grandfather died when I was a toddler. Those people were part of our family and our stories.

Like my mother, I experienced the death of a sister when I was in my teenage years. My father died before my son was born. My brother and my mother died before I became a grandfather. Another sister has since died. There have been many others: aunts, uncles, cousins, in-laws, friends. My experience of family is the experience of love and loss.

Experiences of love and loss also mark my journey in the church. In every congregation I served, I was called upon to officiate at the funerals of people who had been my friends. As I spoke to the congregation in the midst of their grief, I was swept up in my own grief. I learned to exert some control over my emotions, but I also knew that there is no shame in sharing grief in a public setting.

Today I celebrate. Whether it is called All Saints or All Souls, it is a holy day. It is a good day for tears of grief and tears of joy to mix on my cheeks.

On this All Saints Day. I am remembering some of the saints I have met in my life. One essay in my journal is too short to tell the story of any of them fully. That is one of the advantages of celebrating All Saints every year. In truth, a lifetime is all too short to explore all of the dimensions of a relationship. I won’t pretend to be able to tell the whole story this year. I’ll be telling stories of the saints I have known for the rest of my life.

I met several saints at church camp. Frank was my cabin counselor the first year that I attended camp as a youth camper. I grew up at church camp. I don’t have a conscious memory of my first time at camp. The story is that I went to camp with my family when I was about six weeks old. My mother was the camp nurse, and my father made up a bed for me in the wood box of the cabin where we were staying. When I got old enough to attend a week at camp without the rest of my family, I was eager. I was assigned to Trails End Cabin. Frank was the cabin counselor. At first, I was skeptical because he was not a natural outdoors person. One day, the lunch plan was for us to go into the woods as family groups.
We had pocket stews with potatoes, carrots, and hamburger patties inside aluminum foil. We were to collect rocks to build a fireplace, gather wood to build a fire, and when the fire burned down to coals, place our stews in the coals to cook. I had been a Cub Scout and a Boy Scout, and our family cooked outside every summer. Frank, however, didn’t seem to know how to cook our lunch. I took out my pocket knife, which was sharp because my Uncle Ted had helped me sharpen it for camp. I made feather sticks, gathered kindling, and started the fire with a single match. Frank watched. He thanked me for knowing what to do. My potato was a bit burned, but the lunch tasted good.

Frank was a minister who wrote out most of what he said in worship. His prayers were poetic. His sermons were lectures in theology. He was the beloved pastor of a church in the state's largest city. I don’t remember much of what he said at that first camp. I do remember that he cared and that he made me feel included, even honored to be in his cabin. I also remember that he addressed God in prayer by saying, “Eternal Creator.” That way of speaking to God stuck with me. I’ve used that form of address in thousands of prayers. I’m sure I’ve also used more words I learned from Frank, but "Eternal Creator" is a way of talking with God that has stuck with me.

Frank not only taught me how to fit in at camp. He taught me a great deal of what it means to be a minister. I joined the church he served when I went to college. I was drawn to that church because it was the church of my girlfriend’s family, and where they went, I wanted to go. Frank asked me to serve on the Christian Education Board as a student. He talked to me about becoming a minister and told me stories of Chicago Theological Seminary, from which he graduated, and where I went after college. He was a careful artist who paid close attention to details. He taught me about newsletters and worship bulletin layout, about selecting hymns and studying commentaries.

I will never forget the first Christmas Eve service I attended at the church Franklin served. In my home church, we all held candles and passed the flame around the room. At Franklin’s church, we went up as families, lit a candle, and placed it on the communion table before the creche. When our candle was placed, Frank reached out his hands, and we stood in a circle as a family while he prayed. He said, “Eternal Creator, we know that the candles we have lit will soon go out, but the love they represent will burn in our hearts forever.” I’ve used those exact words in a hundred Christmas prayers.

Frank was one of two pastors who officiated at our wedding. He prayed to Eternal Creator at that celebration. He encouraged us, as seminary students, and helped us plan our Ecclesiastical Councils and our Ordination celebration. He inspired the congregation to host an Ordination Conference. They paid for some of our teachers and mentors to address the gathered church. They selected meaningful gifts for the occasion. When I knelt, closed my eyes, and listened to the ordination prayer, and felt hands laid on my head and shoulders, I recognized Frank’s touch. When our son was born, Frank drove 300 miles each way to officiate at his baptism.

I have been blessed with many good pastors in my life. I have learned about being a pastor from many of them, but perhaps none was a better model for me than Frank. He was entirely at home in a circle of pastors and theologians discussing nuances of scripture. He loved the life of the mind and intellectual discussion. But he also put on his jeans and invested weeks serving as a camp counselor. He reminded junior high boys that they needed to take a shower and was firm when it was time for lights out. Those were skills I imitated when I became a pastor and cabin counselor. I also learned to step back and let campers show leadership, as he had when I built a fire.

Frank taught me a lot about being a pastor, but he didn’t teach me about how to be a retired pastor. His retirement was short because heart disease took him from us too soon. Frank is a saint that I remember today.

I had planned to write about several saints, but other stories will have to wait for other days. When I sing a song about the saints of God, in my mind I’m singing about Frank.