A Tale of Two Bumper Stickers

Today I saw this bumper sticker on someone’s van. I understand why he had it. He’s a hardworking carpenter, works a million hours a day and is by no means rich. So yeah, of course he’s annoyed when his hard earned income goes to lazy people who don’t want to work. Yeah, I understand it… to a point.

Because then I saw this bumper sticker.

OK, actually I didn’t see that bumper sticker. I made it up. But there is some sense to it. Because as much as it galls me to give my money to someone who doesn’t deserve it, it’s something we have to do. Assuming we’re Christians. You see, as I understand Jesus’ teachings, it seemed pretty important to him to take care of the poor.

But what about the lazy ones, the ones who just live to get a free ride? Well, first of all, I’m pretty sure those people are pretty rare. Most people on public assistance have a legitimate reason. And besides, I don’t remember Jesus telling us to take care of the poor “except for the ones who are lazy.” No, that’s not in the Bible. Pretty sure.

Of course, America has no official religion. And I will be the first to admit that we should not base our laws and policies on the Bible. We should, of course, base them at least partially on compassion, because we are Americans, and we like to think Americans are good people. On the Statue of Liberty, the inscription reads” Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses, yearning to breath free.” Don’t we still feel that way? Or do we just expect those poor to all find jobs and make plenty of money?

But I still get it. Do we really want the government spending all that money, when there seems to be so much waste? I don't like that either, but honestly, nobody else will do it. There was a day when churches and other groups could keep up with helping the poor. We all know that day is long gone, unfortunately. Churches are having trouble now just paying their own bills.

Jesus never said it would be easy to follow him. In fact, many many times he said it would be very difficult, probably something we won’t always want to do. So if it is hard to give your hard earned money to those who don’t have as much, well, it shouldn’t be a surprise.

He never said it would be easy.

You CAN Go Home Again

But it will be different.

Recently, I moved back home. And by home, I really mean it. Not just the town I grew up in, but the same exact house, the one I lived in till I was twelve. So far, it’s been an experience, mostly good.

All my adult life I had always said that there was absolutely no way I would move back to Port Clinton. Not that there’s anything wrong with the town, but I just didn’t want to go back. I knew that I would always be “Warren Morgan’s son” or “Jeff Morgan’s brother.” I would never have my own identity. Besides, I had spent most of my adult life forming friendships in Pemberville; why would I want to start all over? We all know that you can’t go home again.

But I did it. And I found out that actually, yes, you can go home again, but it won’t be the same. Because in Port Clinton, nobody knows me. Nobody has a grudge against me because their kid didn’t get to run varsity, or because their kid flunked chemistry. Of course, nobody is grateful to me because of how much their child benefited from my classes or sports either. Honestly, nobody has preconceived notions about me, because they just plain don’t know me. And “Warren Morgan’s son?” That doesn’t happen much. “Jeff Morgan’s brother?” Yeah, that happens quite a bit. But Jeff is well respected and liked in this town, as he should be, so that association only helps me. Am I in his shadow? Probably to some, but while that may have bothered me many years ago, it just doesn’t make any difference to me today. I’m living my own life, as my own person, and I get to make new impressions on people. When people find out I can sing, play piano, run, write, or even paint, it's fun.

And I find that all these new things are OK, even enjoyable. When I started going back to the church I grew up in, forty years later nobody knew me. But there was a group I got involved with there, that listened to me, talked to me, and accepted me for what I am now, not because of what I was as a teacher, coach, or any other aspect of my life. They accepted me for me, the good and the bad, which I found very gratifying.

And while not common, there are still some who know me only as my parents’ son. And I’ve found that is actually a good thing. Everyone loved my mom, and while Dad had his share of friends and enemies, most people respected him. And, knowing human nature, I’ve been surprised to find out that I’m accepted as my own person, no matter what.

There are weird things of course. It’s still weird that the movie theater is a plumbing shop, that Kroger’s is out of town, that two of my schools no longer exist, and that downtown is pretty much unrecognizable. (With the exception of Green’s Drug Store, which is pretty much exactly as it was, with even the same sign.) And I still associate all the homes in the neighborhood with my friends who lived in them 50 years ago.

Do I miss Pemberville? Yes, of course. It’s a good town, and I miss my friends there, my church, all kinds of things. Seeing all the facebook posts about the fair and the 5 miler was hard. But true friends are still friends even if I don’t see them as often. And I’ve rekindled some very old friendships here, which I've found gratifying.

Of course, then there’s this. Recently an older woman in my church asked me if I was “Warren and Thec’s son.” When I told her I was, her response was “Well, bless your heart.” Somehow, I really liked that.

I never thought that would feel so good.