Readers' favorite columns
The Rev. Dale Turner, who began writing a weekly column on religion for The Times in 1983, is retiring as a columnist.
He began his column after his retirement in 1982 as pastor at Seattle's University Congregational Church. In the ensuing years, he has written on a range of topics, from kindness and prayer to life's difficulties, the power of humor and the loss of a pet.
This is a selection of Turner's most popular columns:
Our first love gives us a glimpse of goodness of God
Aging doesn't preclude living a rich, full life
Pets who gave us love in this life are waiting to greet us in heaven
Support that produces success an expression of humility, love
We have grown out of touch with the benefits of touch
We must take the time to express gratitude in a fast-paced world
Our first love gives us a glimpse of goodness of God
A friend recently posed two questions for a group of us who were talking about the past. He first asked if we remembered a favorite teacher, and then if we could recall our very first heartthrob or love affair.
I found it easy to respond readily to those questions because my favorite teacher and first romance were tied up in the same person: my second-grade teacher at Lawndale grade school in Kenmore, Ohio.
The fact that she was 27 and I was 7 didn't make any difference at all. Why, shucks, I could catch up with her, and even if I couldn't, when she was 90, I'd be 70, and people wouldn't notice all that much difference. Of course, she would have to wait 15 years or so until I was out of school before we could be married.
It was true that her boyfriend, who came to the school each evening to take her to her home, posed something of a threat, but I knew that as she came to know me better, he would pale by comparison.
I try now to understand why I loved Miss McClure so intensely. It isn't that I remember her as an exceptional teacher of mathematics or reading, although she would never permit anyone to be satisfied with shoddy work, and she continuously pressed all her students toward excellence.
My love for her had not only to do with how she often favored me by inviting me to remain after school to help her wash the blackboards, dust the erasers, tidy up the room and giving me an apple from her overabundant supply.
It isn't because I remember her as a "good-looker," for she wasn't all that pretty. I think the reason my heart went out to her was because she was such a marvelous "overlooker." That is, she steadily refused to see my bad points, even though there were many: a dirty face, tousled hair, a nose that usually needed plumbing and a behavior record that would not have won a good-conduct medal. She just plain refused to see or concentrate on these and other negative qualities.
Instead, Miss McClure was sure that one day I would be president of the United States or would preside at the Forum on the Day of Judgment. Because of that confidence in me, there were days when I washed and scrubbed my face and ears more than usual before starting for school, brushed my shoes and even combed my hair — that is, when I remembered.
Miss McClure was a teacher who knew how to affirm her students. She saw through each one in such a way as to enable her to see each one through. She was not blind to any student's inadequacies, but she chose to see beneath the soil to the seeds of promise.
When criticism did come, it came from her as summer rain — gentle enough to nourish growth without destroying the roots of self-confidence. She always heard each class member out without putting anyone down. It was her philosophy to treat all people as if they were what they ought to be. In so doing, she believed she would help them to become what they were capable of becoming.
I'm sure there must have been other members of that second-grade class who were as much in love with Miss McClure as I was, for she was too wise a teacher to have favorites. Whatever her inner feelings might have been, she made each one of us feel extra special.
Miss McClure, the grass on your grave has been growing for many years, but ever fresh in my mind will be the memory of you. You were the first great "overlooker" I had ever met outside of my own family.
Happily, I have met many others since — other teachers and friends, my wife and family members. They have been very kind to my virtues and a little blind to my faults.
But Miss McClure, you were the first; and without knowing it, or perhaps even intending it, you gave me my first glimpses of what God is like. For God is the greatest overlooker of all: "I will blot out your sins, and remember your transgressions no more."
Aging doesn't preclude living a rich, full life
This week, I received a beautifully written letter from a friend in California. He is 94 years old. His hand is gracefully legible, and the letter contains great clarity of thought. As I placed it in my files, I thought again how sad and unfair it is that old age is so often misinterpreted; that we cloud it with prejudices and negative assumptions.
There is a common misapprehension that aging means all activities cease, that the brain dries up and muscles shrivel, and that ambition, creative desires and pleasures vanish. The aged are often considered the inescapable victims of human decline. It is an unfortunate conclusion and doesn't jibe with the facts.
Rich, full lives
The majority of the elderly in our country live rich and full lives. Limited finances and some ailments do begin to appear, but most older people are remarkably resilient and meet life with perspective and humor.
An 83-year-old friend is such a person. He told me he knew he was getting older when it took longer to rest than it did to get tired. "At 83," he says, "a fella may have as much on the ball as he ever had, but it does take more time to get the ball rolling."
It is a mark of ingratitude to resent growing old. There are those who have been denied the privilege. I think of a host of my colleagues, friends and family members who died at an early age.
Our American youth cult has created the silly concept that in youth alone is beauty, excitement and achievement to be found. But the joys of youth are often better in retrospect. "The carefree days of youth" is really a misnomer. "Thank God," said Rudyard Kipling, "we never have to suffer again as we did when we were young."
Every stage of life has its difficulties, and each age its compensations. No life can really be categorized in one sentence as neatly as Joseph Cook has stated it: "Striving twenties, thriving thirties, fiery forties, faithful fifties, sober sixties, solemn seventies, aching eighties, the sod, God!"
We do not automatically move from one stage to the next. We become what we are over a long period of time. The thoughts we harbor write their names on our faces. A beautiful face at 5 is an accident of nature, but a beautiful face at 50 is a work of art.
Happiness in the latter years of life demands some preparation beforehand. An assured income is not enough with which to meet old age. We must accumulate friends and nurture family ties. We must lay up reserves of mental pleasure. We must plan and work, through exercise and good eating habits, for the health that is important to enjoyment of the later years.
A seminary professor in Chicago tells his students to work with such diligence that they will be prepared to do their best work after they are 50. David Starr Jordan, the first president of Stanford, thought his most productive years were between the ages of 60 and 70, and Bertrand Russell, the humanist, was leading causes for peace in England when he was in his 90s.
Accepting some changes
It is said that Lady Astor, the first woman to serve in the British Parliament, and a strong supporter of the rights of women and children, dreaded the day when she would be 80. She thought she would no longer be able to do the things she liked to do. But when she arrived at 80, she said she no longer wanted to do them.
Common sense accepts the changes of time and appreciates the measure of health and well being that is ours at each stage of life.
Adela Rogers St. Johns, one of America's great writers, knew how to do that. She made the most of each day until her death last year. She accepted and laughed at what she called the "ravages of time."
Quoting Mark Twain, she said, "Wrinkles should merely indicate where the smiles have been."
In Marcus Bach's helpful book, "Illusions," we read, "If you think your mission in life is over and you are still alive — it isn't."
Usefulness in old age may not be confined to spectacular contributions, but to a cheerful outlook and acts of love and kindness.
The meaning of it all may be best illustrated in the story Thomas Drier tells about seeing an 80-year-old planting a peach tree. "Why are you doing that?" he asked. "You'll never be around to eat them." "True," said the planter, "but I've been eating peaches all my life from trees I didn't plant, and I'm just trying to repay a little."
Pets who gave us love in this life are waiting to greet us in heaven
We are a nation of animal lovers. Turnstiles tell us that animal-watching at our zoos attracts more people than any other spectator sport.
Each of us has a favorite animal. Harry Truman, who lived on Mount St. Helens before it erupted, owned 15 cats.
My favorite pet has always been a dog. Looking back across the years, I see how very important dogs have been in my life. I had been an ordained minister only a few weeks when I received a phone call from Larry Chisholm, an 8-year-old boy. His dog had just been killed by a car. "Mr. Turner," he sobbed, "do you conduct funerals for dogs? I do not want to bury my dog without some kind of ceremony."
Seminary had not prepared me for such an eventuality, and I was nonplused. Remembering the Scripture's affirmation of God's care when even a sparrow falls to the ground, I replied, "Why not?" I conducted a service, reading Scripture, reciting a poem and offering a prayer. As we walked from the burial plot, my young friend asked, "Mr. Turner, are there any dogs in heaven?"
I was not ready for that, either, and I am afraid my answer was less than satisfactory. At least, my innate love for dogs enabled me to console him to some degree.
Through the years, our family has had a succession of dogs, and each one was special. It was our most recent pet that I remember most vividly. Our dachshund Gretta had died, and we were eager to bring another dog to our home. We went to the pound to claim another dachshund pictured in the paper.
But by the time we arrived, the dog had been claimed. A Manchester terrier puppy, sensing our mission, thrust her nose through the wire fence. The plaintive look in her eyes seemed to say, "Pick me." Our children did — and promptly named her "Pick."
I had read that 40 percent of Americans owned dogs and vice versa, and I began to understand what that meant. Pick thought she was one of us.
Each evening, Pick waited for my arrival home. She'd wag her tail as if to say, "Welcome." "Pick," I'd say, "you've got it made. Other animals work for their keep. A canary sings, cows give milk, and chickens lay eggs, but you don't have to do anything."
Undaunted, she seemed to reply, "That's not true. I give love, and that's something. Besides, when you roll on the floor with me and make a fool of yourself, I make a fool of myself, too, and pretend to enjoy it. Furthermore, I don't tell anyone beyond the walls of this home what we do." She had a point.
After 14 years, Pick had a series of convulsions. Our veterinarian counseled that it would be merciful to have her put to sleep. It was an agonizing decision, but one that had to be made. When the hour arrived, Pick and I drove off in our car as we had done countless times before, but this was to be our last ride together. I left her and drove directly to my study, and there, alone, I cried for fully an hour.
A parishioner sent me a consoling poem titled: "Message From a Little Ghost."
I've explained to St. Peter I'd rather stay here
Outside the Pearly Gate.
I won't be a nuisance, I won't even bark.
I'll be very patient — and wait.I'll be here and chew a celestial bone,
No matter how long you may be.
I'd miss you so much — if I went in alone,
It wouldn't be heaven for me.
I was mourning for nearly a week, but then, amazingly, I had a dream. I saw Pick with many other dogs at heaven's gate. They were rollicking together in friendly play, each awaiting the arrival of its master.
When I awoke from that dream, my mourning had ended. I wished I could see Larry again to give him a better answer than I had given 40 years before.
Support that produces success an expression of humility, love
Three weeks ago my wife and I attended a concert at Meany Hall on the campus of the University of Washington. The featured soloist was a 27-year-old tenor. He was outstanding, but it was his accompanist who captured my imagination and admiration.
He was an unassuming young man but highly talented. He had mastered the skill of being the unobtrusive servant of another's art. He was sensitive to the singer's phrasing, accent, timing — always watching the face, listening to the breathing. It was his supportive role that helped make the evening a delight. He accepted the fact that as an accompanist he would succeed to the degree that he was forgotten.
But he did not go unnoticed. The singer invited the accompanist on stage with him for curtain calls, and then, stepping aside, he pointed to him in gratitude. The generous applause that followed gave evidence that the audience was not unaware of the important role he played.
It is reassuring to know that a person does not have to be a star to be useful. Giving the support that enables another to succeed is one of the finest expressions of humility, love and unselfishness.
Dr. Halford Luccock, a longtime professor at Yale Divinity School, tells of a college commencement in which a young man graduated with high honors. There was in the audience a great musician — his mother. For years she had rendered notable music on two remarkable musical instruments — a typewriter and a washboard — the melodious accompaniment which made his education possible.
An Ivy League professor who made a study of National Merit Scholarship winners discovered that behind every one of those high-school young people there was an individual — a mother, a father, teacher, coach, pastor, scoutmaster, Camp Fire leader — someone who really cared, who continually encouraged excellence, never letting a student be satisfied with mediocrity.
Robert Brookfield, an actor, was once mistakenly reported to be dead. He had the rare experience of seeing his own obituary. It read: "Never a great actor, he was invaluable in supporting roles." Though he might not have considered that a compliment, nothing finer could be said of anyone — invaluable in supporting roles.
"We can't all be heroes," remarked Will Rogers, "because somebody has to sit on the curb and clap as they go by."
Often those who serve in supportive roles go unheralded, but without them others would not succeed.
Joe Montana of the San Francisco 49ers football team is a great quarterback. All sports-minded Americans know his name, but there are relatively few who could list the names of one or more of the offensive linemen who protected Montana, making it possible for him to throw a record number of touchdown passes in Super Bowl XXIV. It is to the credit of Montana that he constantly speaks of his teammates when commendation is directed his way. "Football," he says, "is a team sport. No one can play it alone."
Great scientists have been quick to acknowledge their indebtedness to others. Jonas Salk said the work he was able to do depended on the research of hundreds of men and women whose names remain unknown, but whose labors made possible the polio vaccine. Sir Isaac Newton said, "If I have been able to see farther than others, it was because I stood on the shoulders of giants."
More and more it is becoming obvious that great social change is not traceable to the skills of leaders so much as to the concern of millions of unknown individuals who cry out for justice and freedom. Winston Churchill was aware of this truth. He said it was the British people who had the lion's heart. It was his good luck to provide the roar.
In religion, too, great contributions have been made by those most of us have never heard of. The name David Livingston is known to millions of people, but only a few have ever heard of David Hogg. He was the Sunday school teacher in Scotland who instilled in Livingston the sense of self-worth and desire to serve that encouraged the missionary to serve the needs of thousands in Africa.
Most of us will never be famous or widely known, but it is heartening to know that no one is useless who encourages and enables others to realize their best. The role of subordinate is not a consolation prize but an opportunity to meet the needs of others in unheralded but important ways.
In Oliver Goldsmith's poem, "The Deserted Village," he describes the parson whose philosophy is worth emulating:
Unpracticed he to fawn, or seek for power,
By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour;
For other aims his heart had learned to prize,
More skilled to raise the wretched than to rise.
We have grown out of touch with the benefits of touch
God has given us many marvelous gifts, but none more wonderful than the gift of touch. Through the gift of touch, humans move toward the solidarity and closeness God ordained. Our deepest feelings are often expressed through touching experiences, being touched or keeping in touch.
Despite what the best of science, instinct and common sense tells us, many Americans cut down on the amount and quality of physical contact. After infancy, words replace touches; distance replaces closeness. Care is often taken to make sure youngsters don't see their own parents touching each other affectionately. Many parents, who confuse the sexual touch with caring, restorative or sympathetic touch, are either afraid or ashamed to make physical contact with growing sons and daughters.
The need for physical closeness is ever present — and the neglect of it is regrettable and often destructive.
Touch plays a vital role in giving encouragement, expressing tenderness and showing emotional support.
Touch is a crucial aspect of all human relationships. However, except in moments of extreme crisis, we often forget how to ask for it — or to offer it.
Anne Davis, a contemporary writer, tells a poignant story of her childhood. She says the first time she ever spent the night with a friend, she was amazed when the little girl's mother came in and hugged and kissed her daughter goodnight. In Anne's family, this kind of overt affection had never been shown, but seeing it made her hunger for it deeply.
So, she said, the next night when she was back in her own home and it was time to be tucked into bed, she put her cheek up in a very prominent place, but nothing happened. Her mother simply went through her usual ritual of laying out clean clothes for the next school day. Anne cried herself to sleep that night and concluded that her mother must not love her as much as her friend's mother loved her daughter. That disappointment sank deep within her and festered for years.
It was not until she was an adult that she related this experience to her mother and asked why she had not shown more physical affection. At that point, her mother's eyes filled with tears and she said, "I didn't grow up in a home where that was done. Since my mother died when I was 5, no one came to tuck me in and tell me goodnight.
"Also, there was no one who washed our clothes regularly, and I often had to go to school in a dirty dress, humiliated and embarrassed. I made up my mind that if I ever had any children of my own, the one thing they would always have would be clean clothes. This is the way I tried to show my affection."
At that moment, there were two sets of eyes full of tears.
One of the fantasies that people have about love is that if someone really cares about you, they will know automatically what you want and like, and that if they do not give you what you want, it is a sign that they do not love you. Such clairvoyance does not exist, but the truly loving person does know the need that all have for physical closeness, and exercises good judgment in the expressions of caring.
One of the dangers of our fear about child abuse is that children will be deprived of the legitimate expressions of physical closeness that assures our love and caring.
Others who need this assurance are the elderly. Few people touch the old, yet they need it, too. Early in my ministry, while visiting in a nursing home, I sat by the bed of a 92-year-old friend. Death was not far away.
"I am not afraid," she said, "but I am lonesome. Will you hold my hand?" I did, until she breathed her last. Perhaps she voiced for all of us our deepest need — the gentle, caring touch.
We must take the time to express gratitude in a fast-paced world
Thanksgiving is often cast into the shade because of the brightness and joy of the Christmas and Hanukkah season. It is important that we do not leapfrog Thanksgiving, but pause long enough to consider its deeper implications. It is one of our most significant holidays.
"Gratitude," said Martin Luther, "is the basic Christian attitude." Perhaps Thanksgiving is the most basic holiday of all, for without the attitude of gratitude, Christmas, Hanukkah, Easter and other high and holy days would never be fully appreciated or understood and our daily lives would be dull. Gratitude can be expressed in a variety of ways. Sometimes it takes the form of grace before a meal. Within the home, the blessing is usually meaningful to all, but grace before the meal at a public banquet can sometimes be an awkward situation because so many varieties of thinking are represented at the tables. Occasionally, a prayer at a public function is phrased in such a way as to be acceptable to all, and in some situations the prayer is so unique or different that it proves to be a stimulator of discussion during the meal that follows.
Such a situation occurred years ago at a banquet where I was the speaker. The chairman of the meeting created a model for brevity when he prayed simply, "Eternal God. Thanks. Amen." That was it. No more. He left it up to us to spell out what it was for which we were thankful. I was as startled as everyone else. Following the meeting, one of the chairman's friends, with a twinkle in his eye, asked, "How did you ever find the time to prepare?"
In one word the chairman had captured the essence of gratitude — thoughtfulness.
During the meal I found myself remembering a rhyme I had learned as a child:
Thanks is just a little word
No bigger than a minute,
But there's a world of meaning
And appreciation in it.
Perhaps because the word thanks is so small is why it is so often overlooked or considered unimportant by so many.
Such neglect is not new. In the book of Luke, chapter 17, verses 12-17, we read of 10 lepers who were cleansed by Jesus, but only one returned to say thanks. The ingratitude of the nine was a worse leprosy than the disease.
Robert Louis Stevenson was reared in a home where expressions of gratitude were ingrained in every day's living. It is not surprising that in one of his stories he tells of a wayfarer in France who slept so peacefully one summer night in a meadow under a canopy of stars that in the morning, out of sheer gratitude, he whimsically emptied the coins in his purse on the ground and left them there in payment for the unstinted hospitality which he had received.
True religion is suggested by the episode. All people at their best feel they must show gratitude to someone for favors received.
A saying hangs on a wall in many homes:
"Peace is seeing a sunset and knowing who to thank."
Happy are we if we know that all of our blessings are traceable to God's goodness. Every furrow in the book of Psalms is sown with seeds of thanksgiving. How wise to memorize significant passages and make them our own.
"It is a good thing to give thanks unto the Lord and
to sing praises unto thy name most high."
"O that we would praise the Lord for his goodness
and for his wonderful works to the children of men."
"Bless the Lord, O my soul, and all that is within
me, bless his holy name. Bless the Lord, O my soul,
and forget not all his benefit."
With all the benefits for which we have reason to rejoice, a pall still hangs over our land today. It will be impossible for any sensitive and caring person here in America to sit down on Thanksgiving Day in comfortable homes to tables loaded with delicious food without remembering U.S. servicemen and women far from home, experiencing loneliness, scorching heat, boredom and the ever-present threat of fighting and death. We are continually unsettled by our knowledge that there are hungry and homeless people near at hand and throughout the world.
The sense of our abundance and good fortune must beget an equal sense of compassion, charity and generosity or we are in peril of moral deterioration.
Our earnest prayers rise daily, imploring God to guide our leaders toward finding a path to peace short of obscene and needless killing. But as we pray, political ramifications are formidable. We pray, too, that we would do anything to share our plates of food with the hungry near us and also in the far places of the world. But as we pray, relief agencies are hard at work trying to stretch their minimal supplies.
Prayer is a two-way street. We can hear God answer that there are things that we can do. There are ways to share. There is need for staple food and money in the relief centers of our own city. We need only to respond. The best way to make glad the heart of the heavenly father is to do something for one of his other children.
Jamie Alford, an American poet, expresses a dimension of gratitude that is worthy of emulation:
I do not thank Thee, Lord,
That I have bread to eat while others starve:
Nor yet for work to do
While empty hands solicit heaven:
Nor for a body strong
While other bodies flatten beds of pain.
No, for these I do not give thanks!
But I am grateful, Lord,
Because my meager loaf I may divide:
For that my busy hands
May move to meet another's need;
Because my doubled strength
I may expend to steady one who faints.
Yes, for all these I do give thanks!
For heart to share, desire to bear
And will to lift.
Flamed into one deathless Love —
Thanks be to God for this! Unspeakable! His Gift!