Penny For My Thought?

In God We Trust,
cuz the money ain't worth nuthin!

I was reminded of one of my favorite books while out jogging yesterday morning.  In the glow of the
street lamp, I caught a glimpse of a shiny, new penny.  In less than a stride, in much shorter time than it takes to write this, I thought: "Should I stop to pick it up?  No, it's not worth it.  It's just a hunk of zinc pretending to be copper.  A penny can't buy anything anymore."  So, I left it there.

When I was a kid, pocket change was non-existent.  Mom had no money to spare and I was clueless about how to earn my own.  So, I learned to have a sharp eye for any coins that might be in my path when I was out and about, a habit I carry to this day.  A penny could buy a piece of candy, any larger coin was a treasure.  I can remember distinctly walking back to class from lunch break one day in elementary school and spotting a nickel.  A whole nickel!  Thoughts of what I could do with this small fortune began to dance in my head as I bent down to get it.  But my friend that was with me had seen it as well and swooped down and scooped it before I could.  With all the aggrieved unreasonableness of a 10 year old I said, "Hey, give it to me!  I saw it first."  To which my friend replied, "But I GOT it first."  (Possession is 9/10's of the law...) How I knew I had seen it first is a mystery.  But to this day I am sure I did.  This 'eye for money' served me well many years later.  My wife and I were out with the youth pastor and a crowd of teenagers from our church on a 16 mile walk-a-thon to raise funds for some worthy cause.  I had made it to the end once already and hitched a ride back to help encourage some of the less ambitious (including Mrs. Robidoux).  As we trudged along the side of the road, my eye caught a glimpse of a faded, crumpled green-and-white piece of paper.  Again, my mind raced through the options of "No, it really can't be money.  Think of all the people who have already been by here.  Paper money can't survive being outside very long.  If I pick up a piece of trash I will look stupid."  Still, I stooped down, picked it up, and unfolded a $100 bill.  After donating a portion to the worthy cause, my wife and I had an excellent dinner out that night.  Which, in my mind, more than made up for the nickel I missed out on back in elementary school.

Oh, the book?  Whatever Happened To Penny Candy by Richard Maybury.  It is required reading for our girls when they hit high school.  The author does a great job of explaining why we have a lot more pennies and dollars floating around our economy than a generation ago and why those dollars won't buy nearly as much.  Two personal examples: I grew up with penny candy vending machines that now require a quarter.  The home that cost my father-in-law under $30,000 some 40 years ago would cost ten times that now.  While a penny saved may still be a penny earned (not exactly what Ben Franklin said), my time is worth a lot more than that penny.

I Would Do It For You, Wouldn't I?

One of the benefits of young adults in the house is that I am exposed to more, MUCH more, contemporary music than I would be if we had an empty nest like other 50-somethings.  Sometimes it feels like psy-ops aimed at subverting the home life my wife and I have tried to establish.  But for the sake of this discussion, I am considering it a benefit.  I get a window into the soul of the next generation and I hear some pretty darn good music that I would miss out on otherwise.  One such song is Gone, Gone, Gone by Phillip Phillips.  It is a pledge of undying love with loads of examples of the lengths the singer will go to prove his love.  I am not a music stylist, but I know what I like in 'pop' music and it tends towards the simple, acoustic, bluesy.  Like this song.  If you want a true musical review, go here.  After listening to Gone, Gone, Gone a few times (well, more than a few times - thank you, dear daughter), I picked up on a subtle truth in the lyrics that struck me.  It may have just been a device used by the writers to bridge between the verses and the chorus, but I noticed something:

Give me reasons to believe
 That you would do the same for me.
 And I would do it for you, for you.

I surrender honestly.
 You've always done the same for me.
 So I would do it for you, for you.

Give me reasons to believe... AND I would do it for you.
You've always done the same for me... SO I would it do it for you.

I checked with my household grammar wizards to confirm that AND and SO are acting as conditional conjunctions.  What the song is communicating then is what I experience.  I want to love those who are dear to me passionately, unreservedly, sacrificially.  But, in spite of my ideals, which are wrapped up in a Christian ethic of love modeled by Jesus, I need something back.  I have a strong martyr complex and can give for a long time with no kudos or reciprocation.  Not forever.  And I have never had to.  I am crazy spoiled with love.  I have never faced what some know all to well: a love that started out with mutual joy and passion that somewhere, somehow became a one-way street to a soul-draining loneliness of endless giving until the well was dry.

Then it occurred to me.  Am I the one holding back, sucking the life out of others without giving them even a sustaining crumb of affection?  In the limits of my human condition, I struggle to express affection.  Today, I want to be awake to the hunger and give back what I have been given.

You've always done the same for me.
So I would do it for you.

Not Just Another Morning Jog

It is a lonely, quiet time of morning that I run, shortly after the 4 am alarm jerks me awake.  Mostly, I run in solitude, engrossed in thought.  So much so that I can cover miles and not quite remember how I got that far.  Over the past several months, though, I have seen another regular jogger once or sometimes twice a week.  This jogger is a young woman.  At least younger than me.  In the pre-dawn dark, it is hard to tell age, but I can safely assume that a majority of the jogging populace is younger than I and how someone runs says something about their age.  My stride certainly doesn't have the bounce it did 20 years ago.

This young woman comes from the opposite direction, which explains why I see her in the first place.  The likelihood of my overtaking or being overtaken by someone running the same direction is quite remote.  Normally, I see her coming with enough warning to step off the sidewalk and into the bike lane, if I am not there already.  My rule of the road when I jog is to yield to oncoming traffic.  There have been a couple of instances where we nearly plowed into each other, once coming around the corner of the intersection and once because I was off somewhere else mentally and not paying attention.  As we pass, we usually wave and say an abbreviated, slightly winded “G’morning” in the way joggers do.

So, when I saw her coming yesterday morning, I expected the same ritual.  I moved off the sidewalk, but as I approached, she stopped under a street-light and asked a question as I passed by.
"Have you seen the homeless guy?"
I stopped a couple of paces away.  Her hair was tied back in a pony tail and I could see the worry in her face.
"No, I haven't seen anyone."
In the course of a brief conversation, I learned that her route takes her past the intersection where I get on that particular street.  Apparently there is a homeless man who camps out near an office complex along the way.  And that scares her.  Rather, he scares her.  I didn't know what else to say except that I was sorry since I couldn't give her any assurances about the homeless man.  Then we jogged away from each other on our regular routes.

So I finished my run with unexpected thoughts tumbling in my head.    I am just as much a stranger to this young jogger as the homeless man.  Yet, she stopped, spoke to me, and shared her concern.   Somehow, just being polite on the jogging path over the course of a few months builds trust.  She didn't have to stop, she didn't have to say anything.  But she did.  Her fear of one stranger motivated her to speak to another stranger.  As a man, I run alone in the dark with little thought for my safety.  I do not know the fear that she experiences when running alone, so I shot up a prayer for her safety.  Now, I will be wondering how she is until I see her again.  Finally, I was reminded again of the grace that has made my life so different from the “homeless guy” a few blocks away; the grace that lets me enjoy my cozy little home with my delightful family, so different these tattered wanderers who carry their homes in a cart or backpack.  We breathe the same air, we walk the same streets.  Yet one of us is a cause for fear, the other a token of safety.  I have so much to be thankful for.