Author: Ian Bothwell

I stood at my window and nostalgically watche my maple leaves fall one by one to the earth.  Is it our egocentrism that interprets everything in relationship to ourselves?  Is it that personal pain of realizing as each leaf gently sways to settle to the earth we too are past our prime?  The freshness of May, the fullness of August, the richness of September is a memory now.  It is time to bring in the hose and the lawn furniture.  It is time to change the screen door to glass.  It is time to plan for Thanksgiving dinner and hope everyone can come one more time to fill the house with the sounds of children’s laughter.

The morning sun filters through the yellow birch leaves and red maples casting a crimson glow on a man walking his dog down the street.  He is bundled and scarfed to fight off the bite of the crisp morning air.  Does he know he is being watched?  I doubt he knows he is part of a Norman Rockwell painting.  He will most likely return home to get out the rake and harvest his leaves.  If this were 1940 he would put a match to them and fill the neighborhood with the perfume of fall.  It is not 1940 and we shall have to be content with the scratching sound of his rake sliding across his walkway.

It is the week for children to dress up as ballerina dancers, pirates, big league ball players  and come to my door for candy.  I shall open the door and see a host of little people who would not understand what I have just said to you.  But they shall.  They shall.  For that is the progression of the seasons.

Written by Roger Bothwell on October 25, 2003

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I stood at my window and nostalgically watched my maple leaves fall one by one to the earth.  Is it our egocentrism that interprets everything in relationship to ourselves?  Is it that personal pain of realizing as each leaf gently sways to settle to the earth we too are past our prime?  The freshness of May, the fullness of August, the richness of September is a memory now.  It is time to bring in the hose and the lawn furniture.  It is time to change the screen door to glass.  It is time to plan for Thanksgiving dinner and hope everyone can come one more time to fill the house with the sounds of children’s laughter.

The morning sun filters through the yellow birch leaves and red maples casting a crimson glow on a man walking his dog down the street.  He is bundled and scarfed to fight off the bite of the crisp morning air.  Does he know he is being watched?  I doubt he knows he is part of a Norman Rockwell painting.  He will most likely return home to get out the rake and harvest his leaves.  If this were 1940 he would put a match to them and fill the neighborhood with the perfume of fall.  It is not 1940 and we shall have to be content with the scratching sound of his rake sliding across his walkway.

It is the week for children to dress up as ballerina dancers, pirates, big league ball players and  come to my door for candy.  I shall open the door and see a host of little people who would not understand what I have just said to you.  But they shall.  They shall.  For that is the progression of the seasons.

Written by Roger Bothwell on October 25, 2003

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It was wonderful.  It was a scene out of the famous children’s book “Madeleine” that begins with “twelve little girls in two straight lines.”   On my to school I passed nine children waiting for the school bus.  There was no bus in sight.  Yet all the children were in a straight line one right behind the other. I am guessing one of the children was a take charge “control freak.”   He or she had everyone in place.  I am wondering what kind of retribution would have fallen on anyone who got out of line.

Sometimes religious groups manage to do such with their members.  If one is to belong one has to get in line.  Conformity is the criteria for acceptance.  One must eat like, talk like, dress like and most important of all believe like the leadership.  Any deviation is a pronounced one-way ticket to a very warm place.  Yet I cannot but notice how much God loves diversity.  People come in a tremendous variety of colors, shapes and sizes.  Languages, customs and cultures make the world a fascinating place.

Yet, it is our brains that really make us different from each other.  The power to think, the power to create and to choose for ourselves is God’s greatest gift to our being.  When He said, “Let us make man in our image” He was not talking about hair color or texture.  He was talking about the power to think.  The power to be unique.  The power to be so special there would never ever be a duplicate anywhere in the vastness of His universe.

Written by Roger Bothwell on October 16, 2003

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Buying magazine subscriptions for relative’s Christmas presents is wonderful.  Instead of giving one thing you give twelve things and you don’t have to go shopping or do wrapping.  Another major plus is you can help your child score really big in their school magazine sales drive.  Just this weekend our five-year old granddaughter called and asked if we would buy a subscription.  When we told her we needed six subscriptions she was very excited.  We asked when she needed to turn them and she told us right away.  That did not leave time for us to select the magazines. “That’s alright,” she said, “I’ll pick them out for you!”  Immediately my mind envisioned us sending my older sisters  subscriptions to Jack and Jill or Humpty Dumpty Magazines.

So often in our immaturity we think we are capable of directing God’s work and advancing His kingdom.  We think our plans are just what are needed to evangelize the world and take the Gospel to the masses.  Actually I believe the problem goes even deeper into the plans we make for our personal lives.  We think we know exactly what steps to take to please God and fulfill His dream for our lives. We are like five-year-olds picking out magazines.

There is a verse in Psalm 23 we learned as children and need to regularly repeat.  It goes like this, “He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.”  Note just who it is who is doing the directing.  It is the only way that really works.

Written by Roger Bothwell on October 5, 2003

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In many places in the United States the first day in the fall does not mean much but In New England it is a day to celebrate.  Maple trees are sending out invitations to watch for the glory that is about to burst.

Often we hear the four seasons of the year compared to the seasons of our lives.  Springtime is the incredible bursting of childhood into young adulthood with all the unfolding mysteries of who will be.  Summertime is time for bearing fruit.  We have children.  We learn how to contribute to our communities building our nation by building good solid families.  Fall is grandparent time.  It is time for the foliage to turn grey yet have all the vibrancy and vigor of summertime.  It is time to harvest the years of labor and spread the bounty around to others.  And then winter arrives.  It is time to slow down and watch the storms blow about us knowing all is well for we have wisely built well and prepared for reflection about a life well lived.

But wait there is an incredible promise in Scripture regarding the wintertime of life.  It is found in Psalm 92.  It says, “The righteous . . . will grow like a cedar of Lebanon; planted in the house of the LORD, they will flourish in the courts of our God. They will still bear fruit in old age, they will stay fresh and green.”

Each time of life can be rich and abundant.  Rejoice in the goodness of where you are, bloom and bear much fruit.   See John 15.

Written by Roger Bothwell on September 23, 2003

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Usually we groan inside when we get stuck behind a school bus.  Often it seems like it stops at every driveway. But the past few mornings have been kind of fun.  School is just beginning and there are a lot of very excited little people waiting for the big yellow bus.  There are lots of parents with cameras recording these first few days.  For decades to come children turned adults will see themselves beaming (hopefully) as they make that first big step up into the bus.

First times are so special.  We try to record the first steps, first words, first birthdays  and first time riding a two-wheeler.  Most of us can remember the first time we kissed that someone special.  There is also something sad about first times.  Each one represents a passage to a new chapter in life and we close a section of our life that can only be visited in our memories.  Life is an  interesting series of bitter sweet events.

The sacrifice of Jesus was a bitter sweet event.  Heaven had to be in horrendous anguish as they watched the brutal, violent behavior of those who nailed Jesus to the cross.  Yet there had to be feelings of pride in the courage of Jesus who was voluntarily submitted to this atrocity.  It was a passage.  No longer would the universe ever be the same.  Sinners, for whom He died, murdered the Creator and the door of eternity was opened for anyone who would receive the gift.

“For the joy that was set before him, Jesus, endured the cross, despising the shame, . .”  Hebrews 12:2

Written by Roger Bothwell on August 27, 2003

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She had just finished baking five of the most luscious hot steamy cinnamon rolls.  Leaving them on the kitchen counter she went upstairs for a moment but returning quickly her mouth all ready to experience a gastronomic delight.  However, they were gone.  The only trace of their existence was the scent and a trail of icing on the kitchen counter.  In the next room an incredibly contented Labrador retriever lay sleeping with a smile on her face.  Telltale white icing was on her chin and cinnamon was on her breath.  She was nailed!!

The question remained, “What to do with her?”  It would have been so easy to get angry.  But how could that profit?  It would only add insult to injury because every time we get angry we release all kinds of chemicals and stress producers into our systems.  Each time we grow angry we harm ourselves more than the person or dog with whom we are displeased.

Sometimes we say, “He makes me so angry!!”  But really no one can make us angry.  People—or dogs—can certainly irritate us but the response is up to us.  We can become furious.  We can retaliate.  Or we can “turn the other cheek.”

When Jesus tells us to turn the other cheek He is giving us practical counsel.  Not only does turning the other cheek defuse the situation, it also reduces our internal stress level thus enabling us to live a longer, happier life.  Everything Jesus asks us to do is for our benefit.  He is so very sensible.

Written by Roger Bothwell on Sept. 3, 2002

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She has a black wet nose.  She wants to please.  There are certain things she does understand.  She sits.  She speaks.  She finds her toy.  She gets the newspaper.  She wants to do more but there is so much she does not understand.  When talked to she sits and listens attentively.  She cocks her head and looks quizzically saying, “Can’t you bark that to me?”  But there is a barrier.

Sometimes our noses are wet.  We want to please.  There are certain things we do understand.  We sit.  We speak.  We find toys.  We can read the paper.  We want to do more but there is so much we do not understand.  When God talks to us we sit and listen attentively.  We too cock our heads and look quizzically through the pages of the Bible saying, “Can’t you speak more plainly to us?” But there is a barrier.

Hopefully as my dog grows older she will understand more.  Hopefully as we grow older we will understand more.  For now we see as through a dark glass.  We catch glimmers of movement on the other side.  There is hope.  In                   1 Corinthians 13:12 we read, “For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known.

Perhaps my dog will never understand, but we will.

Written by Roger Bothwell on March 25, 2002

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Today we drove north from New York City to the west of Boston.  It was one of the top ten most beautiful trips I have ever made.  Someone had splashed the landscape with a trillion cans of orange, red, yellow and bronze paint.  When the sun shone on walls of color the atmosphere itself glowed.  At one point as we neared a tunnel we were swallowed by color not only on both sides but also on the mountain in front of us.

As our leaves are rapidly coming to their end I wondered why is it as we near our end that we could not go out in a blaze of glory.  Instead we grow pale.  Our hair, if we have any left, goes mousey gray.   I know only two people with really white hair.  Our skin wrinkles.  It is difficult to stand up straight.  We shuffle.  Do you remember the song, “Old soldiers never die. They just fade away.”?  I’m fading.  I find myself wishing I were a leaf.

Fortunately, unlike the leaves which end in glory, we will begin again in glory and retain it.  We will always have Jesus, the resurrection and the life and the sustainer of life evermore.  John 3:16  promises, “shall have everlasting life.”  How grand!

Written by Roger Bothwell on October 25, 2015

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We’ve a bumper crop of acorns this year.  I can’t recall an autumn with more.  As my dog and I were walking this afternoon I never gave it a thought as we traversed the terrain under a wonderful shady oak.  And then it happened. Right on top of my not-protected-by-hair head – kerplunk!   I was acorned.  It must be the reason we call October Fall.

Acorns are the promise of another generation of oaks.  They are heralds of hope as well as a present banquet for our squirrels.  One of my favorite authors wrote about acorns.  She said, “As surely as the oak is in the acorn so surely is the gift of God in the promise.”  When we hold acorns in our hands we hold giant oak trees.  When we read “My Father’s house has many rooms; if that were not so, would I have told you that I am going there to prepare a place for you? And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come back and take you to be with me that you also may be where I am” we can start planning on what furniture we want where.  John 14.

Just in case I was beginning to forget I got hit on the head this afternoon by a promise.  I can start planning my heavenly library.  It’s real.  It’s mine.  My name is engraved on the bottom right hand corner of all the book covers.  They are mine.  I have the bump on the top of my head to prove it.

What’s your acorn?  What’s your promise?  Could it be John 3:16,                              I Thessalonians 4 or I Corinthians 15?   Actually the Bible contains a bumper crop of promises.

Written by Roger Bothwell on October 9, 2015

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