A park bench is never only wood and iron. It is a place where time itself seems to pause, a still point in the turning world. Simple, unadorned, and often overlooked, the bench waits with a patience that borders on eternity. Where lighthouses rise bold against the storm, park benches rest unnoticed in the shelter of trees and along meandering paths, offering not guidance to ships at sea but solace to souls at rest.
They are thrones without ceremony, open to all who approach. The hurried commuter catching a breath, the young lovers carving initials into its grain, the old man feeding sparrows, the child swinging feet too short to reach the ground—all sit with equal claim. In these ordinary moments, the bench becomes extraordinary, for it gathers the fragments of many lives and quietly binds them into a shared story.
At dawn, when the mist lingers low and dew glistens on the grass, benches hold the world in soft silence. They cradle the solitude of readers with coffee cups in hand, or the jogger pausing to stretch as the day stirs awake. By noon, benches come alive with voices—laughter, arguments, whispered secrets, and the chatter of children in play. At dusk, they return to meditation, their weathered slats bearing the weight of reflections too heavy to speak aloud.
But beyond the hours, beyond the seasons, there is something inherently romantic about a bench. It is a place where one may sit not only to rest but to wait. Lovers wait for each other on benches. Friends meet after years apart. A traveler, alone in a foreign city, may find on a bench both loneliness and comfort, the ache of absence and the hope of presence. A park bench is always waiting for someone—and in that waiting lies its poetry.
Benches, too, are shrines of memory. Some carry plaques with names: “In loving memory of…,” reminding us that a particular spot once belonged to someone’s favorite view, someone’s cherished hour. Even without engraving, the wood itself remembers. It remembers the kiss stolen under lamplight, the quarrel that ended in silence, the notebook filled with sketches, the tears that fell unnoticed while the world hurried past. A bench, in its stillness, absorbs more of human life than we imagine.
And yet, there is no pretense to its service. A bench does not ask to be admired. It does not strive to inspire awe. Its beauty is in its humility—steadfast, available, enduring. It offers nothing more than rest, and in that offering it becomes everything: a sanctuary, a stage, a confessional, a throne, a pew.
If lighthouses are monuments to survival, benches are monuments to presence. They remind us not how to endure storms, but how to pause in calm weather, how to savor the fleeting moments between motion. They are the poetry of ordinary time, the architecture of waiting, the geometry of intimacy.
So the next time you walk past a park bench, let it invite you. Sit. Rest. Allow the world to slow down. You may discover that the quietest structures—the ones we pass without notice—are the ones that most tenderly hold our lives.
Let the bench bear life’s storms so you can find peace.
Scene: Two old friends, Harold and Frank, sit on a creaky porch, rocking chairs in rhythm. The cicadas are buzzing. Both are hard of hearing, but neither will admit it.
Harold: (leaning in) Frank, you remember the summer of ’62 when we went fishing down at Lake Benton?
Frank: (cupping his ear) What’s that? Went wishing for a baked ham?
Harold: (rolling his eyes) No, fishing at Lake Benton. We caught that big catfish.
Frank: (snapping his fingers) Ah, right! The cat. Scratched your leg something awful.
Harold: (sputtering) Not a cat! A catfish! In the lake!
Frank: (nodding, satisfied) Sure, sure. Mean old tabby. Always hung around the bakery.
Harold: (sighing) Anyway, that was the day you fell out of the boat.
Frank: (outraged) What? I never fell out of a coat! Fit me just fine!
Harold: The boat, Frank. You tipped the boat over!
Frank: (grinning proudly) Oh, yes, yes. That wool coat tipped me right over. Heavy as an ox in July.
Harold: (muttering) If you say so.
Frank: You still got those suspenders from that trip?
Harold: (perks up) Defenders? Oh, sure, I still believe in strong defense.
Frank: (shakes his head) Not defenders—suspenders! You hauled me out by ‘em. Nearly stretched to Kansas.
Harold: (snorts) And nearly pulled my back out too. You were kicking like a mule.
Frank: (offended) Mule? I never kissed a mule in my life!
Harold: (chuckling) Not kissing, kicking! You looked like you were swimming for the Olympics.
Frank: (relieved) Ah. Well. Good. Rumors get around in a small town.
Harold: Speaking of the town, you remember the county fair that year?
Frank: (nodding) Oh, yes, the one where you lost your hair.
Harold: (touching his bald head) My hair? I lost my hare—the rabbit race. Mine ran the wrong way.
Frank: (squints) Thought it looked fast. Shame it was made of fur.
Harold: (snorts) That’s not how races work, Frank.
Frank: What about the dance afterward? You asked Millie Thompson to waltz.
Harold: (confused) Waltz? I asked her to wash! Why would she wash me?
Frank: (grinning) She turned you down flat. Said you had two left feet.
Harold: No, no. She said I had two left boots! Mismatched shoes. Brand new, both for the left foot. Couldn’t hardly walk straight.
Frank: (laughing so hard he wheezes) And you tried to dance in ‘em! Looked like a turkey on stilts.
Harold: At least I tried. You were too scared to ask anyone.
Frank: (puffs his chest) Nonsense! I danced with Betty Lou.
Harold: (snorts) You danced with a barbecue?
Frank: Betty Lou, Harold! The preacher’s niece.
Harold: Ohhh. I thought you said brisket. Would’ve made more sense.
Frank: You remember our army days?
Harold: (smiling) Sure do. You were in the kitchen, peeling potatoes.
Frank: (confused) I was in the mission, stealing tomatoes?
Harold: (laughing) Well, that too probably.
Frank: (indignant) Hey now, I only borrowed them. They put ‘em back in the stew later.
Harold: (grinning) Yeah, after you ate half of ‘em raw.
Frank: You still go to church every Sunday?
Harold: (earnest) Oh yes, never missed a sermon. Pastor’s words keep me steady.
Frank: (nods) Same here. Those donuts in the foyer keep me ready.
Harold: (squints) Donuts? I said sermons!
Frank: (shrugs) Six of one, half dozen of the other.
Harold: You know, Frank, we remember things awfully different.
Frank: (smiling) Yep. That’s what keeps it interesting.
Harold: You ever wonder which of us has the story right?
Frank: (chuckles) Nope. I just assume it was better my way.
Harold: (laughing) Figures.
Frank: (leans back, sipping coffee) Harold, you and I may not hear so well anymore, but we still talk better than most folks do these days.
Harold: (nodding slowly) That’s the truth. Even if half of it’s wrong.
Epilogue: The Wives
(Inside the house, two women sit at the kitchen table drinking iced tea. They are listening to Harold and Frank through the open window as the old men keep rocking and swapping their muddled memories.)
Martha (Harold’s wife): (shaking her head) You hear those two out there? Harold’s got Frank falling out of boats again.
Evelyn (Frank’s wife): (rolling her eyes) Oh, I heard. If you ask Frank, he never even owned a boat. Said it was a heavy wool coat!
Martha: And the fair! Harold’s talking about losing rabbits. You and I both know he lost his paycheck at the ring toss.
Evelyn: (chuckling) And don’t get me started on Millie Thompson. Neither of them ever danced with her. She was too busy chasing the dentist’s boy.
Martha: (smiling wryly) Truth is, between the two of them, they couldn’t remember their own names without us.
Evelyn: (laughing) And yet, somehow, they think they’re the wise ones.
(The women clink their iced tea glasses, listening as Harold and Frank burst into laughter outside for no apparent reason.)
Martha: Let ‘em talk. Half of it’s wrong, but it keeps ‘em happy.
Evelyn: (nodding) And after fifty years, that’s what matters.
Josh closed the devotional in his lap, letting the pages fall together with a soft thump. The hum of campus life outside their dorm room faded into the background. He looked across the room, watching Marcus tap away at his video game controller. There was something on his heart, a stirring he couldn’t quite ignore any longer.
“Hey man,” Josh said, voice easy and calm, “Can I ask you something without it being weird?”
Marcus didn’t look away from the screen, but his tone was open. “Yeah, sure. What’s on your mind?”
Josh leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees. “Do you ever miss it? Church, I mean. Not the rituals or the formality—just the whole experience. The community, the purpose, the peace of it all?”
Marcus paused his game, the screen freezing on some digital battlefield. He set the controller down and leaned back in his chair. “Sometimes, yeah. But not in the way people probably think. I don’t miss being told how to live. I miss the feeling of being part of something bigger. The laughter after youth group. The quiet during prayer. It felt… safe.”
Josh nodded slowly. “Yeah, I get that. For me, it wasn’t always the sermons. Half the time I was zoning out or drawing in the bulletin. I say that, but I know I was picking up on the stories and the lessons shared. But those moments when the worship hit just right, or the late-night campfire talks—that stuff stayed with me. Like wooing echoes.”
Marcus gave a small smile. “Funny you mention campfires. I actually got re-baptized at camp. Twice, actually. First when I was twelve, then again at sixteen. Thought maybe if I started fresh again, something would finally stick.”
Josh’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “I didn’t know that. That takes guts, man. What was it like for you the second time?”
Marcus stared up at the ceiling for a beat. “Hopeful, I think. Like I really wanted God to notice me. I was ready to mean it this time. But then I got back home, school picked up, friends changed… and I fell back into the same old routine. After a while it just felt like I was pretending.”
Josh’s voice was gentle, free of any judgment. “I think a lot of people feel that. I know I did. I used to think being a Christian meant being ‘on fire’ all the time. But now I see it more like an anchor. Even when I drift, I’m still tied to something unshakable.”
Marcus looked at him, curiosity softening his features. “But how do you stay with it? Like, really? College is wild. Nobody here seems to care about faith anymore. I know I don’t take advantage of church and Christian groups around campus, so I shouldn’t be complaining.”
Josh gave a wry smile. “Honestly? Sometimes I don’t feel like I’m doing a great job at it. But I keep coming back to Jesus. Not the idea of Him, but the person. I’ve seen what I become without Him. I get lost in distractions, numb to everything. But when I give Him space—even just a sliver—He shows up. In quiet ways.”
He paused for a moment, then added with a small laugh, “You know, one of the times I felt closest to God was actually at camp. There was this one night where we were all under the stars, no lights, just hundreds of us sitting on blankets and logs. And then out of nowhere, the speaker says, ‘We have a surprise guest tonight.’ And it was Michael W. Smith. I’m not even kidding. The real deal.”
Marcus blinked. “Wait, the Michael W. Smith? The worship guy?”
“Yep,” Josh said, eyes bright with memory. “He didn’t make it a big concert or anything. Just came out with a guitar and started playing Awesome God. And then the whole camp just stood up, arms raised, voices loud and cracking from emotion. It was raw. And holy. I think I cried without even realizing it. I felt so… known. Like God was right there.”
Josh softly recited the lyrics, almost like a prayer:
Our God is an awesome God He reigns from heaven above With wisdom, power, and love Our God is an awesome God
He repeated them, his voice steadier:
Our God is an awesome God He reigns from heaven above With wisdom, power, and love Our God is an awesome God
“Even now,” Josh continued, “when I feel distant, I go back to that night in my mind. It reminds me He hasn’t changed, even when I have.”
Marcus was quiet, visibly moved. “Man, I haven’t thought about that song in years. That brings back something.”
Josh nodded. “Music has a way of slipping past all the defenses. Sometimes all it takes is one lyric, one memory, and the door opens again.”
Marcus tilted his head. “But how do you know it’s actually Him? Like, not just your own thoughts or wishful thinking?”
Josh nodded slowly, recognizing the sincerity. “I used to ask that too. But over time, I started to notice patterns. Like peace showing up in chaos. Random moments of clarity that hit when I read a Scripture verse. Friends texting me exactly what I needed to hear without knowing it. It adds up. And the Bible—I used to think it was outdated. Now I read it and it’s like it knows me better than I know myself.”
Marcus looked down at his hands. “I wish I could believe like that again. But I feel fake. Like God’s moved on and I missed the last bus.”
Josh leaned in. “You’re not fake, and you’re definitely not too far gone. Jesus is drawn to the ones who feel furthest. He always went to the doubters, the outcasts, the ones who didn’t fit. You’re exactly who He came for.”
A half-smile crept onto Marcus’s face. “So you’re saying I’m a project case?”
Josh laughed. “I’m saying we all are. But God doesn’t see us as projects. He sees us as sons worth rescuing. We all come messy. That’s the point.”
Marcus grew quiet. The hum of his paused game filled the silence. “What do you do when you pray and it feels like no one’s listening? When it’s just silence or static in your heart?”
Josh sighed, then smiled gently. “I tell Him that. I don’t pretend. I’ll say, ‘God, I don’t even know if You’re there, but I’m showing up.’ And you know what? He honors that. I think He respects honesty of the heart more than performance.”
Marcus nodded slowly. “I used to talk to Him that way as a kid. It felt simple then. Now everything feels tangled, like I’m supposed to have all the answers before I even speak.”
Josh leaned back, his voice softer now. “What if He doesn’t need you to have answers? What if He just wants you? The real you. Doubts, questions, baggage and all.”
Marcus’s voice dropped, almost a whisper. “But where do I even start again? I can’t fake it.”
Josh’s eyes were kind. “You don’t have to fake anything. Just take one honest step. Even if it’s just saying, ‘God, I don’t know.’ That’s a beginning. That’s faith too.”
Marcus looked away for a long moment, then back. “Do you ever feel like you’re missing out by following Christ too closely? Like… other people get to live freer?”
Josh considered that. “Yeah, I’ve felt that. But then I look at what they’re chasing. I’ve seen people try everything to feel alive—parties, hookups, success—but they still end up empty. I’d rather miss out on the noise and have something that lasts. Real peace is better than cheap highs. In fact, my highest highs are when I’m totally surrendered by Christ.”
Marcus took a deep breath, voice fragile. “I want to try. Not to impress anyone. Just to see if I can open the door again. Maybe it’s not too late.”
Josh smiled deeply. “It’s never too late. And if you want to know what it takes to begin again—to really follow Christ—the Bible makes it pretty clear. Romans 10:9 says, ‘If you declare with your mouth, “Jesus is Lord,” and believe in your heart that God raised him from the dead, you will be saved.’ That’s it. It starts with belief and a simple confession.”
Marcus leaned forward slightly. “So it really is that simple?”
“Yeah,” Josh said. “And over time, your understanding grows. Your faith deepens. But the doorway is wide open to anyone who will walk through.”
He reached over to grab a wrinkled paper from his Bible. “This is something I memorized in confirmation class. It still centers me. It’s called the Apostles’ Creed. Want to hear it?”
Marcus nodded.
Josh recited it, quietly but clearly:
I believe in God, the Father Almighty, Maker of heaven and earth. And in Jesus Christ, His only Son, our Lord; who was conceived by the Holy Spirit, born of the Virgin Mary, suffered under Pontius Pilate, was crucified, dead, and buried; He descended into death. The third day He rose again from the dead; He ascended into heaven, and sits at the right hand of God the Father Almighty; from there He shall come to judge the living and the dead. I believe in the Holy Spirit, the holy catholic (with a little c) Church, the communion of saints, the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body, and the life everlasting. Amen.
“That’s beautiful,” Marcus said. “I forgot how solid and grounding that sounds. Like, this is what we believe. Not just feelings, but truth.”
Josh smiled. “Exactly. Truth that holds even when we feel lost.”
Marcus whispered, “Then maybe it’s time I came home.”
Josh nodded. “Let’s do it together. Doesn’t have to be a ceremony. Just a conversation. Want me to start?”
Marcus nodded, tears welling. “Yeah. Please. ”
Josh bowed his head, reverence settling in. “God… it’s Josh here. And Marcus too. We’re not perfect. We’re not here with polished words. But we’re here. Thank You for never giving up on us. For chasing after us even when we wandered. Be near to Marcus. Make Yourself real to him again. Remind him he’s loved. Draw him home. And allow me to be part of the journey. Amen.”
Marcus swallowed hard, voice trembling. “God… I don’t know what to say. I feel far. But if You’re still there and accepting of me… I want to come back. I want to feel You again. I want to start over, but this time for real. Help me. Please. I believe in You. And I believe in Jesus. I want to follow Him.”
Josh opened his eyes, heart full. “That was the most honest, beautiful prayer I’ve heard in a long time.”
Marcus wiped at his cheek, smiling through wet eyes. “Thanks for seeing me. For not preaching. Just listening. Just being here.”
Josh nodded. “This isn’t about converting you. It’s about walking with you. Because I believe Jesus is already closer than you think. And He’s not going anywhere.”
I see that my last post was in 2019. So, why start posting again? There are several reasons.
I’ve actually been writing quite a bit – just not posting since most of my writings have been about personal matters.
I now write in collaboration with AI, mostly ChatGPT. By the time I have had AI add, rewrite, and let me be the content guide and editor, is it Lewis or AI? Like I said, it is a collaboration in the truest since of the word.
I’m heavily influenced by a Bible Study I am in as well as the ages and stages of life. Our oldest granddaughter, Lindsey, has now graduated from college, is teaching 4-year-old autistic children and living in her own apartment in downtown McKinney. Lily is a junior architectural student at Texas Tech. Anderson just left last Friday for Texas Tech as a freshman. He is planning to study business and computers. Kenneth & DeAnne are downsizing their home and plan to live in the historic district in Downtown McKinney. Linda & I are both 78, in so-so health, and are celebrating our 57th anniversary today. God is good, and all is well. Just happy to be alive!
After years of being politically neutral as much as possible, with conservative leanings, I am full bore conservative/anti-woke and a Trump supporter now. My disdain for liberalism is greater than my support of conservativism.
I still write about governmental finance topics even though my preferred subject stream is wherever my mind and heart are at any given moment. I still work close to 40 hours a week with my expertise being narrowed to Sales Tax Analyses as well as Multi-Year Financial Planning (MYFP). I love every minute of my consulting and will probably continue as long as I can use the keyboard.
What this means is that if you are not interested in the type of topics I mostly write about these days, then I think there is a way you can unsubscribe on your own.
If you think I have anything interesting to say, please forward to any of your friends, colleagues and family.
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