Over the last 25 years or so I have picked a lot of passages for various liturgists to read during a service. So many times on a Sunday morning I have had a reader come to me and say, “Why did you give me this passage with all these hard words?” For some reason they always think that I am gunning for them. I once wanted a passage out of Isaiah chapter 8 read. In the passage was the name Mahershalalhashbaz. Not once, but twice. He was the son of Isaiah. The Lord told Isaiah to name Mahershalalhashbaz this name because of the prophetic meaning of the name. The liturgist didn’t wait until Sunday. She called me Wednesday morning at 7AM. I told her that the prophetic part was important to the sermon. “WELL THEN YOU READ IT!” I have always liked that I have such good relationships with the liturgists. The point is, all of us at some time or another have been reading the Bible and wondered why they couldn’t name their kids Fred or George or Alice.

          We have talked about Biblical names before. The truth is, all languages have difficult names to pronounce to those of us who do not speak those languages. Because we give up on the names, we often give up on the things those people who had those names accomplished. One such person is Gaius Plinius Secundus, or, as he is more commonly remembered, Pliny the Elder.

          Pliny’s accomplishments were many. He was a Roman statesman, a philosopher, an author and an army and naval commander. In case you wonder how he could command both in the army and the navy, remember that in Roman times a naval attack consisted on ramming your opponent and then boarding the other ship. Basically, the army on water. By all accounts, he was brilliant. He was born about the time Jesus was turning twenty and only lived for some fifty six years. Much has been written about old Pliny and many sayings have been attributed to him. One such saying occurred one night while on a military campaign. The attack was to be at dawn and Pliny was with his generals having one last toast to victory. The generals were concerned because Pliny seemed preoccupied and distant. When asked about it, Pliny is supposed to have said, “I have traveled many places. I have served my emperor in many lands. I have been wondering where, after all these years, is my true home. I have decided.” Waving his goblet toward where his massive army slept, he said, “Home is where the heart is, and my heart is here.”

          Or so the story goes. ‘Home is where the heart is’ appears in many English speaking writings, but it goes back to Pliny and was first uttered in Latin. Interesting, isn’t it? I suppose that this is something that most people have contemplated when they have been far away. But Pliny had never really had a home in his adult years and so his feeling resonates.

          Of late, I have had a deep yearning for home. My problem, like Pliny, is that I really don’t know where home is. One writer said that home is where you long to be more than anywhere. I grew up in Perry, Ohio. A great little place to grow up. We hunted and fished. My friends and I would gather in a cow pasture during the summer and use dried cow patties for bases and play baseball when we were too young to play Little League. The fair was our big deal. The northern part of our township was the southern shore of Lake Erie and that had its own adventure. It was just a great place to grow up. But I don’t ever remember a time thinking I wanted to live in Perry forever. There was something else out there, even before I became a Christian. My future would not be in Perry.

          And it wasn’t. I have pursued a career that has taken us to many places. We lived in Tennessee, Florida, Alabama, Ohio and Indiana. There is a place in Tennessee where two great rivers, flowing out of the mountains and flowing very fast, come together and make a greater river. It is awesome to see. One afternoon we drove across Florida from the east coast to the west coast to see the ocean surge ahead of an approaching hurricane. Actually, quite frightening. Late one afternoon we were having a wedding rehearsal on the shores of Lake Erie when one of the little kids in the wedding pointed out to the lake. We turned and saw three waterspouts swirling out on the water, almost looking like they were playing. We cleared out because they are deadly, but it was a real sight. Marsha and I once had a tornado pass over our car, actually lifting us a few inches off the ground and turning the car around and once I drove in a hurricane, which was stupid. Everywhere we have lived has left incredible memories in my mind, but where is home?

          Janene asked me Sunday if the apartment was feeling like home yet. There is nothing wrong with the apartment and it makes more sense to live there than the house did, but no, it isn’t home. Actually, I feel more at ‘home’ when I sit down in my office or when I walk into a hospital room. Having someplace to live and having a home are two different things.

          On my computer, both at the apartment and at the office, I have Google Earth. For those who are not familiar, Google Earth takes satellite imagery from all around the world and gives you access to it. You can type in the street address of your house and in seconds you are looking down on it. You can view it from a mile or so up to a hundred feet. You can see the neighbor’s dog doing its business in your back yard. It isn’t a video, more like an aerial photo. Google Earth also has a huge fleet of cars with special cameras that shoot in 360 degrees mounted on their roofs that drive all over the country and in selected cities around the globe. Where those cars go, you can go and you can have a street level view. One evening this week I went back to Perry, my hometown. On some of the streets I could go to street level, so I took the tour. The Google car had last gone through in 2017, so the images were a couple of years old, but it was pretty neat. There was where Keith lived and there was Tony and Marvin’s old house. That’s where I used to live, but the house is gone now. Yes, pretty cool. But, I do not miss it. It isn’t home. Home is where the heart is, and my heart hasn’t been there in a long, long time.

          The older I get the more it seems I get farther away from home. And, yet, the older I get the more it seems I am getting closer to home. If home is really where the heart is, then somewhere not far off is where that place lies. A place where loved ones are and a place where one can take one’s shoes off and run in the grass. I can treasure everyone here, and I do, but where home is, that is where all believers will be one day, so one day all the ones I treasure here will be there. Life is hard here. How many times have you wished you could have said just one more thing to someone before they passed away?

          How important are words? Isaiah 62:4 says this, No longer will they call you Deserted, or name your land Desolate. But you will be called Hephzibah, and your land Beulah; for the LORD will take delight in you, and your land will be married. Hephzibah means to take delight in and Beulah means married. It was a phrase in the Hebrew that referred to a man taking delight in his wife and making a life with her and it meant ‘you will be home.’ The old song “Beulah Land” refers to that home as the best of places.

I'm kind of homesick for a country
To which I've never been before.
No sad goodbyes will there be spoken
for time won't matter anymore.

(Chorus)
Beulah Land, I'm longing for you
and some day on thee I'll stand.
There my home shall be eternal.
Beulah Land -- Sweet Beulah Land

I'm looking now across the river
where my faith will end in sight.
There's just a few more days to labor.
Then I will take my heavenly flight.

(Chorus)
Beulah Land, I'm longing for you
and some day on thee I'll stand.
There my home shall be eternal.
Beulah Land -- Sweet Beulah Land

          Many of you have been asking me how I am doing. I appreciate the concern because I know it is genuine. I know you are praying for me and I know that your prayers contain the power that wakes me each morning and causes me to get ready for the day. I also know that when you ask me how I am doing I usually do not go into any great detail and I know you understand that and let me get away with it. Like all things in my life, this has been a learning experience. (When my son was in high school, he got frustrated with me one day. Something had happened and I was explaining some point to him. He rolled his eyes and said, “Dad, does everything have to be a teaching moment?” For me, I guess so.) I understand now what it is to lose your spouse, not to death, but to someone else. In 1999, Marsha’s doctor told her she had maybe five years to live. It didn’t happen that way, but I did become very aware I was going to lose her. Each day was a special blessing. Then this all happened. I dare say, death might have been easier. You can look at death and see the cause. This, though, well, I still don’t know why it all happened. I have my own thoughts, but Marsha has never told me why. It doesn’t matter. She has filed for divorce and I suppose it will cost me, but I really don’t care about that at this point. However, I am not one to speak from the heart when it comes to myself. When I do relate something from my past it is usually one of those teaching moments my son found so bothersome. I am so used to others coming to me with issues. It is hard to tell others my woe. But you have asked, and I know you care……

          I mentioned it is a learning experience. It has been. Always, it didn’t much matter what was going on, I still got to sleep at night. Now I am finding out just how little sleep I can get by on. My hands are sometimes very painful from arthritis. Used to be, on Sunday morning I would sometimes have trouble buttoning the top button on my shirt and I would have Marsha do that for me. I have learned now that when I get to church, someone is always willing to lend a hand if I have a need. I have also learned that, if I want to, I can make my supper and eat it in front of the computer! Not all lessons are bad.

          But I have also learned that Satan is more than willing to hack away at me, taking my sorrow and frustration and using it to attack my mind. In the last few weeks, I have moved from the parsonage to a small apartment. Kitchen/eating area, living room and bedroom. A far cry from the parsonage. But perfect for me. No one person needs ten rooms and two bathrooms. I am fine with it. But I have also been working to get the parsonage cleaned out so it can be sold. With the heat I am taking a few days off from it, but I am getting closer. JUST SO YOU KNOW, THE FIRST WEEKEND IN AUGUST I AM HAVING A MOVING SALE. SOME FURNITURE, APPLIANCES, WALL HANGINGS, PRICED TO SELL. Anything left will be pitched.

          In doing this, I have been going through things. I had always assumed that when we finally downsized, we would go through these things together. I always assumed that I would have to spend a lot of time explaining to Marsha why we didn’t need this or that anymore. I was wrong. I am the one going through what were once treasures and keepsakes. This is where Satan is attacking. It has kept coming to my mind, “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

          For the most part, it is easy throwing stuff out. I bring the garbage can in and fill it up. Kind of fun in a way. But I still have to go through everything. That starts memories and the memories are, right now, not pleasant. Even the good memories, and there are a lot of those, are painful and sour right now. The words from Satan keep coming to my mind, “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

          The other day, it was stuff from seminary. This is where Satan was really hitting me. I was cleaning out an old filing cabinet. The first thing I found were the adoption paperwork for our son. That brought a smile. But, then, sadness. This has been really hard on him. I would rather do almost anything other than break his heart. Still, I had this paperwork. It just so happened that he called me at that moment. I told him about the paperwork and asked him if he wanted it. “Why would I need it? If you throw it out are you still going to be my Father?” It was a joke. He is 38. We are really not worried about some legal event happening. I told him to ask his wife. She might want have them. After we had talked, I went back to the pile. I came across my transcripts. Hardly earth shattering. Then I came across two of my three degrees. I don’t know where the bachelor degree, but my Masters and doctorate degrees were there. I just stared at them for a while. I was proud of those accomplishments at one time. Even had three nice frames for them and had them very nicely displayed on my office wall. They had meant something, they had been important. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.” OK, what should I do with these? “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.” Yes, I know Satan! Back off!

          But then, the next item nearly made me fall. I set the degrees aside pulled up the next file folder. I opened it and stared at something I hadn’t seen in almost 30 years. Every spare moment for two years had been spent on this and I wasn’t supposed to even have it. “Divine Speaking; A Study in the Planning, Preparation and Presentation of a Sermon.” My doctoral dissertation.

          I have never been pleased with my preaching. My calling is to be a pastor. A preacher is a different critter and a different Spiritual gift. Early on, I started to get books by some of histories very best preachers so see what they said on the subject. When I got my Masters degree in Ministry, I figured my educational odyssey was done. But a particular professor urged me to go for more. In the doctoral program there was a subject called homiletics, which is the cool sounding name for preaching. This professor had plans for me. Marsha urged me to go on, too. “You’ve already read all the books. How hard could it be?” Yeah, right. The professor, Dr. Leroy Benefield, wanted me to get a doctorate. He was working to set me on a path. First, be involved in a church start. Second, pastor at least five years. Then, go into a really bad church situation and turn it around. Go from there to one of the Southern Baptist state conventions and specialize in working with churches that were having problems and then, at around age 40 or so, wind up in a Southern Baptist seminary as a professor, teaching students how to deal with all the problems churches can face. Dr. Benefield was a highly regarded Southern Baptist professor. I do not know why he took an interest in me. I really do not know. I do know that he meant more to me than any other man in my life, before or since. When he died, his wife sent me an e-mail asking me if I could come to Oklahoma (where they had retired to) and take part in his funeral. Dr. B saw a need for a course of study in crisis in the church and he thought I could be the person to implement that course. He had the pull to get me started. I would, however, need the doctorate.

          (And you folks thought you knew all about me, didn’t you?)

          So, I started the course of study in homiletics. After all, as Marsha said, how hard could it be? There was a lot of study involved. Several papers to write. More study involved. Required reading beyond what I had already read. The deeper I got into the project, the more important it became to me. It is what I thought about when I had time to sit and think. My wife and son got to where they didn’t want to hear it. I used to love to fish, but even that fell by the wayside. This was really important.

          Meantime, we were following the path Dr. Benefield started. Marsha and I were commissioned as home missionaries through the Southern Baptist Convention, working a new church start on the outskirts of an old steel town on the Pennsylvania/Ohio border. Then I pastored an established church for almost ten years. Then the church that had one of the worse problems I have ever seen. Fixed the problem. Now, all that was left was working at the State convention for a while and then a posting at a Southern Baptist college or seminary. And getting that doctorate. I was a few years behind, but I had pastored the church longer than planned

          The seminary had a rule. You submit the dissertation and it immediately became the property of the school. They could then use it as research for new text books or whatever without having to worry about paying anyone. When I started, that was no problem. But as it went along, I became very proprietary about the work. It was my creation. I didn’t want to give it up. Of course, I had to give it up. That was the whole point…..

          The dissertation had to be at least 100,000 words long. It had to have in it some new ideas and concepts. It had to be fully referenced and notated. And, particularly hard in a day when computers were not being used in homes and word processors were very expensive, it could have only five grammatical/spelling mistakes. All written on a typewriter. I found out quickly that if I wrote five pages and then went back and reread those five pages and found that I made a mistake in the second line on the second page, I not only had to rewrite the whole page, but since the rewrite would likely change the dimensions of the page, I would have to rewrite all four pages. But it was important. And the rule said that when I presented it, there was to be just the presentation.  

          Last August I stumbled across the rough draft. All inked up with corrections, written on an old typewriter, no references or annotations. It made me laugh then. But this was different. I sat down and recalled what I had done. I had made a complete copy of the original. I told myself that it was just in case something happened to the original. But, when it was all over, I had slipped the copy away into this file folder. I leafed through it there the other day. With sweat pouring from every pore, I looked at this piece of work that was the most complete scholastic work I had ever done, and the words came to me, “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

          Instead of taking that state level convention job, I felt God leading to another church. I was warned that taking that church would end my career path. We went with the church and abandoned the plan man had made. Satan has pricked me with that decision many times since, but it has been easy to shrug it off. Sitting there, however, and burning up, my wife living with another man and having just filed for divorce, the words came, “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.” No, to hear Satan tell it, by now, if I had wanted to, I would have been a retired seminary professor, probably living somewhere around either big water where you can’t see the far shore or mountains. There would have been no reason for the wife to have left and we would be quite happy. I would be in contact with former students and would be giving words of advice and encouragement. And I would have a dog. Buford. I certainly would not have been sitting there in the heat with a broken heart.

          But, that was Satan’s story. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.” My mind worked it out pretty quickly. There was a plan. A great plan. But it wasn’t really God’s plan. It could, at this very moment, be much worse. I remember back to the moment that I walked away from that plan to go to the church God had for me. I struggled with it at the time, but I went His way. And I have never wanted to go back. Sitting there in the sweltering heat, I took a big slug of water and thought about it all. There are things that I wish had happened differently, but those are things out of my control. The things that I have done, that I controlled, I actually have no regrets over. I have followed the Lord. I wish Marsha had never left, I wish I wasn’t a diabetic, I wish some of my friendships and relationships had turned out differently. But, leaving the plan behind, doing what God wanted me to do, it is all good.

          I am good. Not great, mind you. I miss my buddy. But I cannot answer for what other people do and I wish harm on no one.

          I get notes quite often from people I have known. I got one on Monday from a lady named Ingrid. Out of the blue, really. “Old friend, the day is coming when you will hear the words, “Well done, thou good and faithful servant.” Does Ingrid know something I don’t know? HAH! I doubt I will merit that high praise, but it will not be for lack of trying.

          “How you doing, Pastor Larry?” “Oh, I guess I’m doing OK.”

          Mark and I played ball together through junior high and high school. He went on to have a distinguished career serving his country. He retired about three years ago and he and his wife moved to Italy. I am not sure why they moved to Italy. Maybe his wife is from there? But Mark is of Italian descent and very proud of it, so I wasn’t really surprised.

          Ed and I also played ball together. (small school, all the boys were active in some sport) He also had a career in the military. When he retired, about a year before Mark retired, he was living in Hawaii with his wife. He had made good contacts there and when he took off his Marine uniform on a Friday he put on civilian clothes on Monday and went back to work making a lot more than he had as a gunnery sergeant. He was in Ohio a few years ago visiting his folks and we got together and had a nice hour or so visiting.

          Dave W was a nut all through school. He was the guy who was going to make waves. He even got kicked out of school for a year and had to attend a private school. Today he would be diagnosed with ADD and be put on medication, but I think he was just a nut. Certainly not stupid. His inventive ways of getting in trouble proved that. But he was weird. If it had been a bigger town he would have been a hippie. Even with that, he would have been a weird hippie. Always enjoyed hanging with Dave W just because there was always a show involved. Dave W settled down after school and put together a life to be proud of.

          Dave O was just the opposite of Dave W. Studious, serious minded, respectful of authority. Smartest guy in school. Totally dedicated, eyes on the prize kind of a young man. The guy who always wore shirts with button down collars, tucked into slacks. Somehow it made sense that Dave O and Dave W were best friends. They were both distance runners in track but did not do cross country, preferring football in the Fall. The three of us would walk into a Burger King and people would look. Dave W always look like he was going to explode into weirdness at any moment, Dave O looked like he was going to sit down and start writing equations on a table and I always looked like I had just got down off a tractor. Dave O was a college professor and eventually became the vice president of that college.

          There are others I could talk about, but that is enough for the moment. To look back at it now makes me smile. Our school was small, it was poor, it even shut down for a few months because it lacked the money to continue. (Ohio funds their schools differently than most states) And yet, graduates from that school always seemed to make a mark for good in the world. Maybe it had to do with good parenting or some such. Anyway, back to the point of this blog.

          These four guys were pretty much like four guys at any point of our country’s history. I could walk the halls of a high school now and find their equivalents. The same is true for almost anyone of my friends back then, except for one thing. They all had nicknames.

When did nicknames end? When I was in school, it seemed everyone had a nickname. It was part of the culture. (In case you are wondering, I had a nickname for a while as a little kid because the newspaper hacked my name in a story of a Little League game, but the nickname didn’t last. After we had been out of school for a few years Dave O came to visit us in Florida. One night we were catching up on people and we were naturally using nicknames. I asked Dave why I never had a nickname. He said I was like everyone’s Dad and you don’t give your Dad a nickname. What a rip.) Nicknames have been a part of culture for all time. But not now, so much. I have wondered why and I think I know. Nicknames are no longer politically correct. They will take a child’s individuality away.

Or something like that. To subconsciously get around that, parents often give names that are unusual to begin with. Where a nickname used to be an identifier, now it is often the strangeness of the name given by the parent. Frankly, I miss nicknames.

Do you know that in the old “Leave it to Beaver” TV show, Wally had a friend named Clarence Rutherford? His nickname was Lumpy. That would not fly on TV now. It would ruin the actor’s psyche. He would be damaged forever. But, the actor involved, Frank Bank, did what a lot of kids did when their childhood acting ended. He went on and lived a normal life away from acting. In his case, he became a well known financial advisor and made millions. The nickname didn’t seem to bother him, in spite of what the experts would say today.

A few years back while I was at the funeral home in Ohio, one of the ladies in the office called me and asked if I was on the premises. As it happened, I was on the premises. She said there was someone to see me. This happened a lot. Someone usually had hit a rough spot in dealing with their grief, so they would come to the funeral home. I went over to the offices and walked in. Rising from a table was none other than Ed from high school. I was stunned. I knew he was in Hawaii. I don’t think I had seen him in 40 years. “WOLFIE!” I yelped, and we hugged. “Wolfie” was a play on his last name and on the manner in which played football. If Mark walked into my office right now, I would call out without thinking “Hey Dago!” He is Italian, after all. Some of you are cringing, but it was his nickname and he wore it proudly. Dave O was “Nip” to everyone because he had vaguely Asian features. Dave W was “Monk” because, when he was younger, he somewhat resembled a monkey. He was always the first to introduce himself to a new kid and always introduced himself as Monk.

Oh no! Wolfie isn’t bad, but those others are just derogatory! Well, they weren’t meant that way. We all hung out and we all would have done anything for the other. They were nicknames. We also had Bear and Chopper and Pumper and Rhino. They either derived from their real names or something about them. The names just came. The kid that didn’t have a nickname was the different one, and there was usually a reason for it. Something like being the stable one who seemed like everyone’s Dad. Man, I would have loved to have had a cool nickname.

But no more. We are so afraid of offending. I think we lose something.

Oh, but they are derogatory! We are Christians and we should know better! Really?

‘Simon’ is a perfectly good name. Jesus changed Simon’s name to ‘Peter.’ The Greek word is ‘petros’ and means a small stone. To call a person Peter was like calling someone Rocky now. Usually a nickname more about strength than brains. It was to remind Peter of his head strong attitude. ‘Saul’ was a revered and proud name among the Jews. Jesus changed the New Testament Saul’s name to ‘Paul,’ which means little man. It was to remind Paul of his arrogant days. Jesus called John and James the ‘sons of Thunder.’ There has been a lot of speculation as to what that meant. Were they bold and load in their speaking? No, not really. Was their father known as Thunder? We don’t really know. My favorite idea is that the Thunder was their mother, who was very outspoken and was also, probably, Jesus’ aunt. Nicknames were used throughout the Bible. A child would be given a name at birth that was taken straight from the language, usually meaning something that the parents wanted their child to be. Often, when they were around 12, they could chose a name, again taken from the language and expressing what they wanted to be. And almost everyone had a nickname, once again taken from the language and expressing how others saw that person.

The night before my wedding, Keeker took me to a restaurant. There we met up with Cuts and Wolfie and Nip and Monk and Schleets and Kouz and Pumper and Rhino and Metzer and Marvino and a few others and we had a meal together. Dago would have been there, too, but he was involved in a summer project at the U.S. Naval Academy. Funny, most of those guys did college, some did military as well. A couple have died. Most of the others are retired. But none of them suffered because of their nicknames.

Political correctness strikes again. Where will all this silliness end?

The 4th of July in 1976 fell on a Sunday. For the nation's 200th birthday, the whole weekend had all manner of patriotic events planned in communities all around the country. And it was a good thing, too. The United States needed a party. 
The country had been rocked to its core over the previous ten years. Riots in the streets stemming from civil rights issues and the war in Vietnam, drug use and abuse was sweeping the nation and a US president had been forced to resign from office just two years previous because of his involvement in the Watergate crime and cover-up. Soldiers home from the war were met with hatred and disgust. They were called 'baby killers' and worse. Police were disrespected, authority was ignored and the moral fiber of the country was coming unraveled. The economy was not doing very well and, as the country was getting ready to elect the man who would arguable be the worst president in our history, the economy was about to get much, much worse. Against this back drop, the nation came up on its bicentennial. 
For a week before the 4th, there was a little stunt played out around the country. At various times and at various locations, places that played music in the back ground (malls and grocery stores and department stores and the like) would slip in the National Anthem as a song in the line-up. The reaction of the people was then noted and it would be a small notation in the newspaper or radio. In big places, like Grand Central Station in New York City or in selected airports around the country, it would be on TV. I don't know if it was an organized stunt or if these places all just came up with the idea on their own or maybe it was a case of copycat, but the Anthem was unannounced and the people's reaction was genuine. It was one of those things that came and went and left no real lasting impact other than as a novelty.
At the time, Marsha and I lived in Cleveland, Tennessee. Not Cleveland, Ohio. In 1976 we lived in Cleveland, Tennessee. Their motto, at least at that time, was 'The Second Biggest Cleveland in the World!' In Cleveland there was a small mall and one of the anchor stores in that mall was a grocery store. I think it was a Winn-Dixie, but I really don't remember that little detail. Anyway, we were in that crowded store on Saturday afternoon when the National Anthem began to play over the sound system. No lyrics, just that familiar drum roll followed by music. All over the store, people stopped. It was a total surprise and their was that quick moment of confusion as people asked themselves, 'is that what I think it is?' But then, men began to remove their caps and cross their hands in front of themselves (some placed their hands over their hearts, but according to flag etiquette that is only required when the colors, or flag, has been presented). Everyone stopped what they were doing. The cash registers stopped. Except for the music, there was no noise. Even the children were silent. The Anthem only lasts for a short while and when it was over it was almost as though no one knew quite what to do. Somewhere in the store, someone started clapping and in seconds everyone was clapping. Some were cheering. Folks were shaking hands with people they hadn't come in with. All around the store you could "God bless America, man!" The whole mood of the place changed. Smiles on every face. Children who had been shushed into silence while the Anthem played were asking questions and their parents, or even strangers, were explaining the significance of what they had just seen and heard. It is something that I will never forget.
This past Sunday I was headed home from church. Since moving the week before I had not really had time to pick a few things up, primarily fruits and vegetables. I stopped at The New Market grocery store (formally Lance's, for you old timers out there) in North Manchester to spend a little money. I was in the produce section when, of all things, the National Anthem started to play. The drum roll and then that familiar tune. So out of place in a grocery store on a Sunday afternoon. Why, I thought? That evening, sharing the story with the Bible study group, it occurred to me that it might have started playing right at the moment the US Women's Soccer team won the World Cup. (With the controversy surrounding them and our flag and Anthem last week, that would be very ironic) Whatever the reason, the National Anthem began to play. Memories from 43 years came back to me.
But it didn't play out the same way as it did 43 years ago. Millions of people were offended that a washed up former quarterback was able to convince a second rate shoe company to remove a shoe from the shelves that had a flag on it. Millions of people were offended that a player on the US women's soccer team got away with disrespecting the flag and the country while on foreign soil. Millions of people get all wrapped up in politics and want their own way for the good of the country. But when the National Anthem played in a small grocery store in a small town in Indiana, no one stopped what they were doing.
People kept on shopping. Somewhere a couple of kids were shouting. The cash registers kept on ringing customers up. The workers kept on stocking the produce or bagging the groceries. No notice was given to the Anthem at all. 
As I stood there with my hands to my sides, I started to make excuses in my mind. These days, stores get their music from services. If it had music from Lance's, there might have been an announcement preceding the Anthem. Music is just background, maybe no one picked up on the Anthem. It could be that proper etiquette concerning the Anthem is just no longer taught. Even on a Sunday afternoon, people are busy and can't stop. Of course, I probably dislike music more than anyone there, but I picked up on the Anthem. But the worst thing about it all was that while I stood there, still, hands to my sides, still wearing my suit, a man in his early 30s followed by a little girl, came walking by. He looked at me oddly. Quietly I said, "They are playing the National Anthem." He kind of gave me a half nod, and went on his way, the little girl following. What a failed teaching moment! He could have instilled in her a little pride and a little respect. But, no, they had a loaf of bread or something to get.
The Anthem ended and I left the store as quickly as I could with my few items. As I write this I am still making excuses in my mind for the folks, workers and customers, in Lance's that day. But the whole thing has left me distressed. How have we gotten so distracted and so oblivious in just the span of a lifetime? What does that say for our future? 
I still remember lifting my right hand and repeating the words of enlistment back in the day. I swore to defend the Constitution against all enemies, foreign and domestic. I swore to obey the orders issued by the President and by the officers appointed over me. I swore my allegiance to my country. That was a long time ago, but it meant something to me then and it means something to me now. Even if I am just picking up some tomatoes in a grocery store.
If you had been in Lance's, would you have recognized the nation's song? Would you have stopped out of respect instead of busily going on your way? 
I can understand, to a degree, the reaction of the people that day in Lance's. I just cannot believe in my heart that so many would simply disrespect the Anthem, not in this area in which we live. I have to believe that it somehow just wasn't noticed. But the man with the little girl.....to me that was as much disrespect as that washed up football player going to his knee during the playing of the Anthem. And, or course, I am over reacting. Just another old American.........