I normally don’t have time (or money) to eat breakfast out that often. But I splurged these past two mornings. Wednesday my cousin and I met two other guys at the Bean Scene about 6:30 for coffee, waffles, and conversation. This morning my cousin and I met up with my dad, my younger brother, my uncle, and my dad’s two cousins for some feed at Oodles in Robbinsdale. The transition in conversations and concerns from one morning to the next was interesting.

Wednesday morning I heard of the struggles of a young parent with two kids trying to balance work, and marriage, and family time, and social life, and church, and stuff. . . Wednesday evening I wrestled with teen-agers as they sought housing arrangements and employment and general direction in life. Then come Thursday morning I gathered with family more advanced in age and wisdom than me. The discussions revolved more around health than anything else. Everyone was optimistic and upbeat and grateful (fun things to see in people who have long weathered life’s storms.) The tolls of age were apparent though as one of my dad’s cousins sporadically revealed the symptoms of his encroaching Alzheimer’s. The hints of the advancing disease might not have been noticeable to others who didn’t know him, but for those of us who share long histories with him, it was becoming clearer. It’s a sad, sad condition, but at this stage it seemed to open up a portion of his soul that was good to see. He was especially free to speak of the things that mattered greatly to him: his marriage, his service to our country, his extended family, and the mementos that he cherishes.

As the leaves around here continue to fall, I’m acutely aware of the passage of time. Fall is my favorite time of year, primarily for the comfortable temperatures, but also for the colorful landscapes (a chance to cry out “wow”), and the longer evenings, which encourage me to slow down and take life at a more relaxed pace. But time marches on.

These thoughts were also reinforced by one of the places I ended up working this week. It was a place called Hope. It was in a part of town that I haven’t visited in over 12 years, an out-of-the-way part of east St. Paul, over 20 miles from my home. Hope Church, or more completely Hope Lutheran Church, is on a quiet street on a road that dead-ends a few blocks away. It’s an old building that you wouldn’t know about if you didn’t live in the immediate neighborhood. But I knew about this place. And as a school age kid it gave me lots of hope.

I knew about the place because three of my cousins lived on that street when I was growing up. Their house on Clear Avenue was the home of my mom’s sister Joannie and her husband until the day she prematurely died of a brain aneurysm, on her birthday. As a kid I loved to visit that house and play with my “favorite” cousins, the ones closest in age to me. But as I grew older I became increasingly concerned for the spiritual lives of these close relatives, who were devout Catholics that brought me with them to Mass (back when the services were still in Latin.) My upbringing of anti-Catholic sentiment had encouraged me to see no redeeming value in anything from Rome. So when I got word that they would sometimes visit that “Protestant” church down the block, I got excited. I no longer carry that strong anti-Catholic bias with me. The Catholic church has changed much in these past decades, as have I. My life has been blessed by many Catholic friends who share a faith so similar to mine.

Before my aunt died, I had many opportunities to witness her vibrant faith “even though” (or maybe because) she remained faithful to her childhood tradition. She exemplified a servant's heart to the very end and was the best hugger in my life until I got married. (And in that deal I got a twofer, you’ll have to figure that out for yourself.)

My thinking has changed along some ecclesiastical lines through the years, as has the building in which I was working. It still houses an English speaking congregation, but it also provides space to worshippers who use a different language. (I couldn’t figure out what language it is though.) But it looks as though change is happening fast around that place, enough change to bring in a handful of drywallers. I hope our handiwork will help them serve each other and our Lord more effectively.

So time marches on, here, there, and in St. Paul. But for now it’s fall, and I’m loving it.