The Purpose of Life

 Just finished reading a book by one of my favorite writers, Dean Koontz. It wasn’t one of his best, probably wouldn’t crack my top ten of Koontz books. But like all of his work the narrative asked me to ponder an interesting question—what is my life’s purpose? Of course, Koontz isn’t the only novelist to explore this theme. It has been a staple of fiction writing since the first letters were chiseled onto stone tablets. But Dean Koontz is great at it. In this novel, A Friend of the Family, he offers the suggestion that the highest human calling is sacrificial love, spending your life’s energy pursuing the love and care of others. The author has succeeded in making me consider the question.

I am fortunate to have been born into a loving family. My life came fully loaded with people who loved and cared for me and whom I learned to love and care for in return. I did nothing to earn this great good fortune. It was simply the hand I was dealt. I could very easily have been born into chaos, hatred, violence and resentment…or even worse, great wealth, all of which would have doomed the story of my life or at the very least made a normal life nearly impossible to achieve. I was lucky, if you believe in luck, which I do not. There is no such thing as bad luck, only bad decisions. Good luck is a fiction pushed by the envious. It has been my experience in life that the harder I work the luckier I get, but that is a discussion for another day.

What of this business of life’s purpose?

As beautiful and fulfilling as familial love is, and as crucial as it is for human flourishing, there’s something else, equally crucial and fulfilling—finding other human beings in the world to love and care for. I am not here speaking of romantic love, finding your life partner. I’m talking about random people who were once strangers but become dear friends. For many of us these people arrive in our lives in the form of a college roommate, someone we meet at work, a neighbor, someone we meet at church or while standing in line at Starbucks. We never know when it will happen. Sometimes during the loneliest days of life we wonder if it will ever happen. Too often we become so jaded and scarred by life’s cruelties we are unable to even manage toleration, much less love, for our fellow human beings. If this happens to enough people the world can quickly grow dark.

As I read Koontz, his biases began creeping into the text. Soon there was an adorable dog in the middle of the story, then a creepy psychopath that made your skin crawl. Then his deep Catholic faith began to insinuate itself as he pointed out a couple of things that Jesus had to say on the subject of sacrificial love from the 15th chapter of John’s gospel—Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends. He didn’t, but he could have added what Jesus said to his disciples two chapters earlier—By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another.

But there’s the rub. IF. 

He could have said that you love one another, as if it was the assumed outcome. But he said if which suggests to me that this whole loving each other business is our choice. We get to make the decision to be open to finding people to love and taking advantage of the gift.

Something happened to me about a year ago that came to mind while pondering Koontz’s question. I was in the cafe one morning. My daughter was four months pregnant with her first child and our first grandchild. We were all thrilled by this state of affairs but on this morning I was worried about her. I can’t remember why, maybe she had not been feeling well or maybe there had been a strange movement or lack of movement that had troubled her. Whatever the reason, that morning as I drank my coffee there was a pit of worry in my stomach. Then I saw a young woman walk past my table. She looked to be in her mid-twenties and slightly further along than Kaitlin. I had never seen her before, didn’t know her from Adam. 

It is a risky thing to approach a woman and inquire about her pregnant condition. There is the real risk that she will get creeped out by the strange man standing at her table asking how far along she is, trying to explain that his daughter is also pregnant and he just wanted to congratulate her when in fact what he wanted was reassurance that whatever his daughter was going through was completely normal. Without thinking through all the ways approaching her could go wrong, there I was, hoping for the best.

Turned out that this was her first pregnancy too. She was one month further along than Kaitlin. Almost everything Kaitlin was going through, she had also gone through and survived! Her stories comforted me. She started asking all about Kaitlin. I loved having someone to brag to about my daughter. Soon I started noticing that she came into the cafe almost as often as I did. In the weeks and months after that first encounter, we kept each other up to date on the progress of each new life and soon became friends. Now when I see her or she sees me she asks about Kaitlin and Silas and I ask her about little Chip. I see pictures of him on Facebook and smile. She is always eager to see my latest pictures of Silas. We each found someone at the Cafe who was once a stranger, but because of a random and awkward introduction became someone new that each of us could love and care for. It’s a beautiful thing.

There isn’t really a simple answer to Koontz’s question. Life has many purposes, I suppose. But you could do a lot worse than loving and caring for as many people as possible during the short whisper of wind that is our life on this planet

Back Home

 We made it home safe and sound to our beloved steam bath of Short Pump on Saturday afternoon. The battery in my Cadillac was dead. While removing the many sticks and pine cones which covered my yard while we were away, sweat dropped from the end of my nose like a leaky faucet. When we arrived at the Lodge yesterday morning for church, we were told—cheerfully—that the AC was “struggling a bit.” Now, this morning at 6:40, there are five men stomping atop our house ripping our 28 year old roof apart. There are gigantic tarpaulins draped over the shrubs and large hulking pieces of shingles raining down from the sky. Each of these five men are wearing long pants with long sleeved hooded sweatshirts. In a few hours it will be a 94 degree sauna out there.

Why did we come home again??

I’ll tell you why we came home. Because we love this place. We have been the only people to ever live in this house. This is where we put down roots in the world. This is where we raised our kids. Our lives have been planted in this soil for nearly three decades. 

And then there’s the matter of our neighbors. The photograph attached to this post is what greeted us after Saturday’s 9 hour drive. I can picture Jamie and the girls on their knees in their back yard driveway painting the letters. It’s happened many times over the years…we arrive home after 6 weeks in Maine and they have plastered some sort of creative welcome home message somewhere on the property. At some point this week we will go next door and give the kids their Maine presents. Years ago they were easy to shop for, now they are all so damned grown up it’s much more difficult. Next year there will be a new family living there. I’m sure they will be lovely, but I’d rather not think about that right now.

Later this morning I will be making my way over to the Cafe at Hope. That’s another thing I’ve missed, that place and those people.

So, as much as we love Maine, as important as our time there is to us each year, home is always here, waiting for us. We slip back into it like a silk glove.

Early Departure

 For the first time ever Pam and I voluntarily agreed to cut short our Maine trip by 24 hours. We were scheduled to leave this morning for Short Pump but yesterday there arrived a perfect storm of misery which we interpreted as a direct message from the State of Maine that we were no longer welcomed. For yesterday was the hottest day of our wonderful 6 weeks, a blistering 90 degrees with humidity unaccustomed to this place—in a lake house with no air conditioning! Since it was packing day we were traipsing around the place sweating like pigs. Around 3:00 in the afternoon I read the room and the tea leaves and concluded that there was no chance that my wife was going to make it through a night without AC. So we made the decision to throw everything in the car and hit the road a day early, drive as far as we could and sleep in an air-conditioned hotel—which explains what I’m doing typing the post in a Hampton Inn in Sturbridge, Massachusetts at 5:30 in the morning. This morning, Saturday the 8th of July, we have a 10 hour drive ahead of us before we can sleep in our own bed. Piece of cake.

One last thing about our Maine summer. I travelled here with Lucy’s remains. This was our first trip without her in nearly ten years since she passed away earlier this year. The idea was that since this was her favorite place on earth, the lake would be her final resting place. 

But, I couldn’t bring myself to do it.

I know it’s silly. It’s her ashes in a jar. But each time I thought about sprinkling them in the lake she loved so much I just couldn’t do it, I couldn’t bear to part with her. So I will bring the jar back home.

I’ve had dogs all my life. I have loved them all. But Lucy was different in ways I can’t entirely explain. I think I will miss her for the rest of my life.

The Last Week Vibe

 This is our last week in Maine for the summer. Just writing that made my stomach turn over a little. For only the third time in the last 38 days…it’s raining. Great news for this drought-ridden state, but not great for the feng shui when it’s already your last week. 

Yesterday we decided to take a road trip to a part of Maine we had never been before. We don’t do this very often because it involves actually getting in a car and driving away from the lake. So when we do it’s usually on a day where the weather is sub-optimal. Yesterday was to be one such day with heavy fog and low clouds. 

Our destination was an island in the Penobscot Bay called Deer Isle, and the primary coastal town at the southernmost tip called Stonington. As the crow flies it is only 20 miles across the bay from Camden. But you can get nowhere in Maine as the crow flies.Instead it was a 66 mile drive which took an hour and a half and took us through a fair share of gorgeous scenery and several communities that seemed locked in a battle to determine who could construct the largest pile of junk in their front yard. I mean I’m talking some world class junkyardery. I chose this particular island to visit because I have seen many homes come up for sale here over the years nestled romantically in emerald green coves. And the town of Stonington looked quaint and charming in all the pictures, and while Stonington was indeed quite charming, we now know that buying a house on this island won’t be happening anytime soon. For one thing, if either one of us had a stroke on that island they would have to medevac us onto the mainland via floatplane! Although Stonington might not have adequate life-saving capabilities, it has a killer Opera House! And in its defense I had one of the finest bowls of clam chowder I have ever eaten at a place called 27 Fathoms. 

But life is about more than clam chowder. It’s also about more than sardines, although had we not made the trip yesterday we would have been unaware that Maine was more than just Vacationland, but Sardineland as well. We know this courtesy of the 20 foot tall fisherman guy holding up a massive roadside sign informing us of this fact. I have attached the picture for your edification.

So today it is pouring rain and that danged puzzle is over there on the dinner table mocking my incompetence. I have my work cut out for me.

Becoming a Puzzler

 I have never been a puzzler. Every year since forever there’s always a puzzle table on vacation. I always stand there for a couple minutes watching others sorting through the pile of chopped up pieces of art astonished at their patience. Every once in a while I would spot a piece and snap it in to place just to let them know that I was capable, then I would slip away and leave them to it. But lately—“lately” meaning this year—I have found myself the designated puzzler in this house and for the life of me I can’t figure out why. 

For one thing it is at once satisfying and excruciating, this puzzling business. Finding a piece and slipping it into place brings a brief but visceral thrill. But the searching process feels a bit like sorting through a dumpster looking for something decent to eat. The longer it takes the more frustrated I become. Just about the time I’m about to give up I will stumble upon a couple of pieces that fit together which leads to an embarrassing fist pump and a devious giggle.

What makes this new puzzling experience so strange is the fact that it requires something that I have always struggled with—sitting for extended periods of time. And yet, there I have been at the puzzling table night after night, mumbling to myself as my backside starts to cramp up and my back tightens, telling myself about how ridiculous it all is but somehow not being able to stand up and walk away.

So far I’ve completed one 1000 piece puzzle and one 500 piece puzzle. I am currently engaged in mortal combat with yet another 1000 piece puzzle which, at the rate I am going, might not got finished by the time we roll out of here in eight days.

So, I suppose I’m a puzzler now. Pam comes over every once in a while to offer encouragement, “Oh look at you. You finished the dog’s face! Good job, honey.” I can’t decide whether or not she’s seriously paying me a compliment or being sarcastic. Ron and Bill would have put this particular puzzle together in four or five hours. I’m on day four!

Maybe it’s an aging thing? Don’t get me wrong, I’m still plenty busy up here. I’ve gone fishing every day, I’ve put probably 50 miles on the kayak, I’ve played a couple rounds of golf and stayed faithful to my exercise regimen. But at night after dinner I find myself hunched over at the puzzle table like a man possessed. Part of it is the fact that the internet up here must be powered by a half dozen field mice racing around a tread wheel somewhere. To call it slow would be an insult to turtles. So scrolling is not an option, and watching television is very hit or miss.

So…I guess I’m a puzzler now.

Missing My Hope Peeps

 I love everything about being in Maine for six weeks every summer. The rhythms we fall into up here are comforting, the pace of living here rejuvenates. The views we are greeted with are new every morning and make you think that anything is possible.

But today is Sunday, and every Sunday I miss my church and the family of people who make it special. Actually it’s one of the few things about home that I miss. Every year when we get home we realize how much we missed our house, our neighbors and our trusted routines, but we never think of any of them while we’re here. It’s different with my church. Each Sunday I think of them and miss the familiar faces. 

This is 2026. I can livestream the service…and I do, but it’s not the same. The music sounds tinny and off a beat. There are no cookies. The cameras don’t show me the faces of the people I love the most at that place because all of them are busy on the other side of the cameras. I don’t hear their voices, I can’t shake their hands or hug them. The rest of the world learned during COVID what I have always known. There is no substitute for the gathering, no replacement for the assembly.

I will listen to the sermon. Last week it was Pete, the week before that Kyle, before that David.  No telling who it will be today. Summer plays havoc with the speaker roster. Those guys take vacations too. This particular sermon series hasn’t been my favorite, but there are 3,000 people who show up every Sunday at Hope. I’m sure that there are some in that crowd for which the current series has been a godsend. That’s the way it works in a community as large and diverse as ours. We all hear the sermons differently, but each is a blessing. But watching it on a computer screen isn’t the same as being there in the midst of it. It is possible to hear a sermon but not feel it.

But I am grateful for the technology. After a day on this gorgeous lake I will settle down sometime this evening and check it out. Meanwhile, I’ll be thinking of my Hope Peeps…and missing them.

Only in Maine!!

 Last year I showed up at Rockland Golf Club at 6:00am without a tee time or any golf clubs. This is not an unusual circumstance for me while I’m in Maine. Usually I play three times while I’m here, each time in the wee hours of the morning, with rented clubs and usually by myself where it only takes me two and a half hours to walk 18 holes. But last year on July 27th I was paired with two random guys, Al and Chris. Had a blast playing with them. Apparently they met five years ago when the two of them got paired together and have been playing together in Maine ever since. Well, after last year I was added to their group. I got a text a few days ago from them asking if I wanted to meet them this morning at 6:40 for a round at Rockland. Of course I said yes!

It’s profoundly embarrassing that here I am in my seventeenth month of retirement and it had been an entire year since I last played golf—with these same two dudes on this same golf course. All I had with me was a zip-lock bag full of golf balls. The course has no driving range so my first swing was on the first tee box, a 520 yard par five, which I laced right down the middle. Such a weird game.

Three hours later I lipped out from five feet for what would have been a par to shoot 88. I walked the entire way, a six mile hike up and down lots of hills. My playing partners, being a lot smarter than me, rode in a golf cart like reasonable people do.  We are playing again next Wednesday at a new course they will be introducing me to somewhere up near Augusta, a 45 minute drive from the lake.

After golf, since I was only a few minutes away from Ruckus Donuts, I dropped by and picked up two boxes of four donuts, one box for the hard working people at On The Water in Maine, and the other box for us. It’s currently 5:00 in the afternoon and there isn’t much left. However, I have discovered yet another fun fact about the aging process. Walking 18 holes of golf does not mix with fishing from a kayak. Apparently you can do one or the other on the same day…but not both. 

On another front, my cell phone beeped me earlier today, a “weather warning” for our area of Maine. I’m thinking, Wait…it’s 75 degrees and sunny. What could possibly constitute a warning?? —Please DO NOT enjoy yourself TOO MUCH. Then I saw the problem—apparently, the delightfully warm temperatures might have the effect of making people think that the water isn’t actually a freezing cold 55 degrees!! I have attached Photographic evidence, or you probably wouldn’t ‘t believe me. 

Only in Maine!!