A Dirty Old Man Gets Worse

Reading back over my posting yesterday I see I’ve glossed over three things which leave a false impression:

First, in the Kepler engraving, the folks on the ground are Christians too. The famous 15^th Century astronomer (who discovered the laws used in satellite launching today and who invented the first vacuum cleaner) lived in a time when warring Christian factions hung each other from trees over religious disagreements. Both sides wanted to hang Kepler; and he tried to follow Christ between the adversaries.

Forgive me for implying that in matters of faith there were good guys against bad guys. I don’s see any white hats in that picture.

Second, I pass off in a phrase that I made my matchboxes (see my September 25, 2005 blog) with bikini girls inside the covers. Nothing to it, right? What I didn’t say was that to select pictures of women wearing bikinis or less, I spent three hours browsing girly photos to get just the right ones for my four matchcases.

This is the first time in months I’ve looked at such photos.

Odd, isn’t it that at a moment of spiritual triumph (just finishing a manuscript on people who remained faithful to Christ in the worst circumstances) I reward myself by browsing photos of naked ladies – and I munched chocolate donuts as I browsed!

How decadent is that?

How could a Christian man be so two faced?

Well, if you want to read about piety, maybe the Pope, or Billy Graham, or your rabbi, or the Deli Lama keeps a blog.

My reality is that I’m a dirty old man.

I’m not very good at it, but I’m getting worse.

Do God and my wife know about my inclinations?

Of course. A hypocrite fools no one but himself.

Are they shocked, horrified and left aghast and in disarray?

Nonsense.

Both know me exactly as I am and both love me in spite of what I am.

That’s grace.

And I’m a recipient.

The third misimpression I left yesterday concerned my age and my worries about Alzheimer's. Yes it bothers me when I forget something or have trouble learning new things…

I mentioned my concern to Ginny last night at the restaurant and we got to talking about age and health. Remember the phrase from Grumpy Old Men —when Jack Lemon would hear of some guy dying suddenly of a heart attack, he’d say, “Lucky Bastard” — Well, one of the biggest fears I have as I get older is that I won’t die quick.

Hey, if you don’t die first, you’re likely to grow senile.

Not too many other options.

Following a risen Lord makes a lot of sense in that light.

But, my brilliant accountant wife broke out a pencil and began figuring dates on a scrap of paper. She subtracted the date of my birth from the date of my next birthday and she proved mathematically that I’m an idiot.

I’m not 67 years old.

I’m only 66.

I’ve been a year off.

I’m younger than I thought.

What a relief.

I’m not old at all….

Er, Do early-stage Alzheimer's guys have trouble with math?

Oh, one last thing: Ginny just read over my last week’s postings. She objected to the nice things I’ve said about her. “You make me sound like a darn saint,” she said, “I ain’t no saint”.

I just record my own impressions of her and I do hold her in high regard.

That’s my perception of her.

But I do remember something Frank Foster, the pastor who gave me pre-marital counseling 38 years ago, said when I enraptured about this beautiful girl I planned to marry.

He said, “John, if you put a woman up on a high pedestal, you’d better carry a big umbrella”.