It is a well known saying that one picture is worth a thousand words. But also true, is that a few words, choice words, put together in the right order, can be worth a thousand pictures-in your memory. Visiting with my favorite aunt and uncle in Pennsylvania, while walking out to the bike, my aunt noted noted Billy Hicks' truck at his parents house next door. And the next thing I knew, a friend who I hadn't seen since junior high, or at least before we could drive, was telling me in a few short minutes about himself. I was amazed at how 40 years of life could be brought into just a few minutes, but it seems the important things that take so long can only show a glimpse of how important they were in a few moments. And how the more we talked, the more we wanted to know. He had just retired, 30 years a lieutenant in the New Jersey Correctional system, no kids, but was on his third marriage. But his closing words brought back memories, and made me think. He asked, "have you been out to the park? Did you notice how there are so many empty spaces by the pool? Remember when they were all filled up with blankets?" And for a few seconds, both of us went back to a special place in our lives.
So when leaving town, instead of just passing by the park, I pulled into the lot by the pool. The proper and only thing to do. And he was right, where I remembered the grassy areas by the pool covered with blankets and towels, most of it was empty-more green than white. And as I paused there for a few seconds, on this hot and humid afternoon, a young girl, about 15 years old passed by in her bathing suit. Wearing the look I see on so many people of all ages today, one of boredom mixed with despair, I wanted to stop her and tell her "this is the best time of your life. You are free from responsibility. This is the last summer of not having to work, to just be a kid. To enjoy life, and at your age, when girls are going from cooties to cuties, to enjoy every moment like Billy and I did that certain summer."
Getting to the pool after it opened, and giving the girls a chance to set out their towels first, then making our moves. Very few girls ever put their blanket down by me. Meeting new friends-being Steve's cousin from NJ had a certain mystique/mistake about it, and soon we were all in the pool, with girl partners for chicken fights, who only minutes before we were afraid to talk to, laughing and having fun-and summer couldn't get any better. Never realizing the girls had the same fears and reluctance that we had, and once we got over them, the fun you could have in a mixed group. Being a kid, enjoying your last summer as one, before being expected to act like an adult. And the whole time never knowing it. That's innocence.
And later after dinner with parents, would meet again at the snack bar, the same one where my parents met some 70 years ago, and listened to music before playing a round of miniature golf. Or a ride on the carousel-grabbing rings to throw into the clown's mouth. Showing off-it was expected, and was ok. Comparing our sunburns, as our pasty white skin had gotten fried that afternoon, because neither one wanted to stop the fun to be responsible enough to put on suntan lotion. Then as it got dark, pairing up with that first someone special, and wondering down by the bandstand, and getting our first kiss, and unaware, or so we thought, of all the others doing the same thing. Staying out until that late hour of 11pm, and wondering how time could fly by so fast when you were having so much fun. Wanting to be older so we could stay out, but somehow making quality instead of quantity in our time spent together more important. Each minute became a moment, with meaning. Taking advantage of a special place in time-a door of opportunity opened, but only for a short time. I wanted to tell her all this, this is your special summer, look up and do not despair-but when I looked up she was gone. And reality faced me, just what made me think that she would listen to this old guy on a bike, with his wife, anyway? Just a young girl, whose face I can't remember, but will never forget.
And I was reminded of another summer night, eight years later, in Venice, where a friend told me about Jesus, and when I let Him into my life how it changed everything. Devine interventions, we call them, and God has many planned for us. And I was reminded in Romans how it says that while we were yet sinners, Jesus died for us. Long before that special summer, He loved me, and had it all planned out. Now that's love.
If you happen to see Bill, tell him I said he is a good son, taking care of Harry and Shirley, both well into their nineties. But don't neglect your wife either. She is a special one God put into your life, and I pray that she is the one. And I even have an idea for both of you. Why don't you two set a date to meet at the pool, and arrive about 15 minutes late, and set up next to her. Talk about nothing, and play in the water, as carefree as we were 40 years ago. Late that afternoon, take her dinner at the DDB, and over burgers, fries, and Cokes, get to know each other, and fall in love again. Later go by the park, and as it gets dark, sneak off with the others to the benches by the bandstand-but then go home early-not because you have to, but because you want to. And let the romance that once existed be rekindled again. A great prescription for all, who have let life interfere with their plans, and relationships.
For these things work, I know. For 36 summers, I have let Jesus into my life, and He has blessed me abundantly. And starting my 33rd summer with my wife, I can tell you after 38 days, 31 states, and after 10,000 miles of riding together, the only thing better than being in love with the perfect mate, is having Jesus in the middle of that special relationship.
Don't put off that special summer again. Enjoy the magic it has to bring to you and that special someone now. Jesus, Theresa, and our marriage-it just don't get any better. And for those 38 days of this summer with her-I will always be thankful. Theses are the good old days.
love with compassion,
Mike
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