The String Around My Finger is the Tie Around My Neck

The children's sermon this morning was about bow ties. I suppose that's not quite truthful. The presenting topic was about what I like to think of as the shorter, more elegant form of neckware, but ties were, in fact, ultimately secondary.

When I asked the kids if they had ever wondered why I only wear bow ties when everyone else around seems to wear long ones, they demonstrated a decided lack of curiosity. When I asked if they knew anyone else who wears them, a certain principal was named, and a school custodian (though that latter strikes me as suspect). Regardless of their interest, I was determined to tell them the story of my preference. On this first Sunday of November, we were honoring the saints -- particularly those church members who had died in the past twelve months, but others inevitably come to mind. My grandfather, for example.

My father's father had been a south Texas cowboy until he married and sought more settled work. He eventually opened a general mercantile store, though by the time of my arrival on the scene the store was long since gone and Grandad hobbied in cattle. Whatever his habits might have been before, from my earliest memories Grandad dressed himself in khakis, a white shirt, custom made boots, and a bow tie. I used to sit on the edge of his bed, watching him tie it, and beg him to teach me how. He faithfully tried, and though I never succeeded, my failure had nothing to do with his diligence.

Years later, my Grandmother now dead and Grandad confined to a nursing home, I spotted a bow tie in a store and felt within me that childhood determination, long dormant. The tie and the accompanying tying diagram returned with me to the dorm room where I was attending summer graduate school, and after a fog of colorful language and a growing numbness in my fingers, the thing finally held together around my neck in a semblance of a bow. Just barely.

I went back and forth for awhile, but for years now they have been the only ties I own or wear. In truth, I suppose I have made the style my own. I'm sure my kids think of me as wearing nothing else, and certainly those around me. And while the only people who ask me how to tie them are adults with tuxedos in their future, I still tie them as a little boy, sitting on the edge of a bed. It isn't some misguided attempt to be stylish. It is my way of remembering -- and, I hope, honoring.

Some hang pictures. Some tell stories. And though there are many folks who animate my memory, I wear ties. One, after all, can only wear so much. But all of us, I hope, remember...
...and give thanks for...
...those saints in our lives whose fingerprints have helped to make us who we are.