After Mary and I married in 1967, the linoleum, wood and flattish commercial carpet in our first few apartments responded well to the old-fashioned broom. In 1968, however, swankier quarters with plush carpet cried for the vacuum we didn't own. But a tolerant apartment manager endured our persistent beggary.

Then the move to a duplex in 1969 pushed a vacuum to the top of our must-have list. Mary trotted to the used furniture store and toted home a $5 bargain: a low-slung, cigar-shaped contraption with four tiny wheels and a hose sprouting from one end.

Though it never picked up an atom of dirt, lint or paper, The Cigar's authentic whirring and sucking noises imparted enough credibility to maintain a berth in the closet... until we bought our first home in 1970 and a better vacuum became a necessity. What better fortune could have smiled than to have a salesman call? He promised not only a thorough carpet cleaning, but also a free set of knives.

His machine instantly rendered copious grit left untouched by The Cigar. Plus, the panoply of attachments shampooed carpets, cleaned drapes—and who knows what else.

"How much?" I tentatively queried through slitty eyes. His answer slapped me; I'd bought cheaper cars. No way.

"Do you have a trade-in?" he countered, face wincing with rejection. The Cigar garnered a $25 discount. Not enough.

"Any more trades?" An old shortwave radio pulled in another $40. And so went the bargaining until he finally departed, leaving us with knives and a gleaming new upright I'll call The Heavy.

Though a splendid and precision appliance, its bulk didn't suit our tiny home. So we were ripe for the next salesman in 1973.

Sicced on us by our pastor's wife, he had promised her a month's payment free for every in-home demonstration she referred. We'd get the same deal. Enticed, we bought that svelte low-slung model (I'll call it The Princess) but never referred anyone.

While I was at work in 1980, two vacuum salesmen appeared at our home and high-pressured Mary to buy on the spot. Remembering the unfulfilled potential of the last purchase, she refused. Beset by fury at her resistance, one of them then began "petting the goldfish," salesman parlance for establishing common ground.

"Oh, what a gorgeous table you have!" he oozed. With a funny sidewise tilt to his head and a cut of his furtive eyes toward that unremarkable piece, he pressed harder: "I know you have the money, so buy it now!" Repulsed by such aggression, Mary dispatched them to skulk off in anger. Only later did she realize that the goldfish petter had been eyeing my upturned paycheck on the selfsame table.

We've used The Princess for 32 years now, but the need for and expense of extensive refurbishment now persuades me to move on.

Yes, I've forged a new relationship... but terminate the old one with much reluctance. The cost of maintaining the comfortable may eventually outweigh the pain of embracing the unfamiliar.

But doesn't this describe the phases of my relatioship with God? Just making the right noises accomplishes nothing, and ill-fitting heavy-handedness is no better. So I adjust to find what works. But even that's not permanent and must continually be evaluated.

God never changes, of course. I only adapt to stay in sync with Him and the ever-fluid circumstances He brings into my life. Painful sometimes, but necessary.