My friend recently gave me an original Charisma copy of Genesis's 1972 album Foxtrot that I listened to this morning. It's a beautiful record, both the music and the physical object which are fifty years old. I've been listening to other copies of this and streams of it for forty years. Lots of history there.

I'm thinking of history and ownership this morning. I respect things that last and respect care and maintenance. I wrote this morning with a fountain pen I've owned for three years and am typing now on a computer six years old. I care for and maintain both of them.

Ownership is easy: I make or borrow enough money and exchange it for something, or a friend buys and presents something to me.

Stewardship is more interesting. Stewardship is the job of supervising or taking care of something. It's a job requiring work, another word for care.

This morning I slid that fifty-year-old vinyl from its paper sleeve, placed it on the turntable, cleaned it, and set the needle in the groove. Stewardship in practice, showing respect for the object and the gift. Also, somehow, showing respect for or maybe to myself.

Good stewardship turns out to lead directly to contentment and joy. Foxtrot sounded sweeter for the cleaning and because I invested responsibility into my ownership.

An record from 1972 played on a turntable I bought in 2017 hooked to an amp from 1977 powering speakers I bought in the early 1980s. An idea about stewardship drafted with a three-year-old fountain pen and finished on a six-year-old computer. Lots of history here, including the history of my care and maintenance, my stewardship of things, stewarding the kind of life I wish to live.