Lost In The Woods

And God Smiled...

2012-01-24T22:35:00.004-06:00

You know what would be awesome? If God were going to tell you a joke how funny do you think it would be? Monty Python use to do a skit about this guy telling the funniest joke in the world. The problem was, to hear it was to die. Death by laughter. Nobody could hear the joke and live. It was just too hilarious. That is the kind of joke that God would tell if He wanted to give us both barrels of His humorous streak.

How do I know that?

Two years ago a young couple visited our church on a Wednesday night. Towerview people are scattered all over our building during our midweek events. Youth and children events are going on. The nursery is open. Staffing those positions takes a lot of adults and that leaves a fairly small group to attend the adult Bible Study. And so I doubt that there were that many present when this couple showed up. But in true Towerview fashion one retired couple engaged them in conversation. They were new to our area and were seeking a church. As the talking wound down the older couple gave the younger couple their names and phone number on a small, ripped piece of paper. The wife stuck it in her bible.

Over the next twenty-four months this couple moved to another suburb. They checked out many churches. Dozens of worship bulletins, prayer lists, and brochures passed through our young friends bible. She tried to keep it clean. Every time she came to that torn piece of paper she saved it. It was nice to know that there was somebody in the greater St. Louis area that cared enough to tell them, "If you ever need directions, or suggestions about things in the area feel free to give us a call." Roughly 730 days passed and the couple still had not found a church that "fit." No place really seemed like home. That is what they were seeking. A church that made them feel like they belonged.

Recently our young couple moved back to a suburb several miles from our church. They remembered visiting our church but not in any specific way. They didn't remember the pastor. They didn't recall the people. They decided to give it another try. They really, really, needed a church. It was important to them. And so on a recent Sunday morning they pulled into our parking lot, shut the car off, and made their way into the auditorium. The worship service would be starting soon. The wife looked at her bible. Hmmm. She opened it, turning through its pages in search of something she thought she remembered. Wasn't this the church where that nice man gave her the names? Yes. Yes, there it is. John and Shirley. And their is their address and phone number. The young woman wondered if the older couple were still attending church here. It couldn't hurt to ask somebody. But who?

In the brief discussion that followed the wife showed the note she had saved for two years to her husband. She asked him what he thought she should do. It would be nice to meet that couple. The husband suggested she ask the man seated in front of them. He had noticed that the man was the only one in the building wearing a tie. Maybe he was a deacon. Maybe he would know this couple.

She leaned forward and tapped the man on the shoulder. He turned, looked at her, and smiled. Excuse me, she said, but do you know Shirley Warren? Well yes, the man replied. That is my wife. Why do you ask?

Two years. 730 days. A torn note. A vague memory.

Tonight my wife and I took that young couple to dinner. Their eyes lit up as they told us the story of the old, worn note pressed into the Bible. There was excitement in their eyes. We sat and talked in the restaurant for three hours and ten minutes. It seemed like maybe half an hour.

This, my friends, is called "The Fingerprints of God." That is the way He works. He goes the extra mile, stands you on your head, and leaves you gasping for breath. He loves you that much.

And if He ever decides to tell you a joke ... I suggest you take a pass. With the kind of creative energies He displays to His children ... you probably wouldn't survive the experience.

That's What Heaven's Going To Be Like

2012-01-09T22:39:00.005-06:00

I remember waking up at Glorieta Baptist Conference Center in New Mexico on dozens of June mornings. I was there leading teenagers at "Centrifuge" camps. Every morning in June, tucked into those stunning forested mountains, was incredible. Up at 7. A chilly breeze rushed down from the 12,000 foot peaks and into our camp at a mere 7,500 feet. I would meet my kids to walk to breakfast wearing shorts and a sweatshirt. The sky was cobalt blue and the air smelled pure. I couldn't wait for breakfast so that I could sit with my friends and map out the glorious day ahead of us.

That's what heavens going to be like.

I sat all alone on the top of a 300 foot sand dune. The view to the west was a pristine Lake Michigan. Those little dots were teenagers that God had placed in my care. They were swimming and throwing frisbees and playing "Chicken." I would burrow my feet into the sand and feel each grain caress my skin with the warmth of summer. A young man or woman in shorts and a t-shirt would run past me on my right and leap into the sky as the hang glider strapped to his back carried him heavenward to drift on the rising warm air ascending from the sand. Then I would watch as he swooped low over the lake, carried by the cooler air from the water. Up and down. Up and down. Watching my kids. Watching the glider. Feeling the warm sand. Sun in my face.

That's what heavens going to be like.

The full moon was rose over the Atlantic Ocean off the coast of Jekyll Island, Georgia. I sat on the wooden steps that had carried me over the grass covered sand dune. A hotel of sleeping teens was to my back. I alone saw the waves crash in as I reveled in my impromptu 2:00AM quiet time. The air smelled of water and salt. The heavens were ablaze with a billion stars backed by the blackest of nighttime skies. I thanked God for the moment and drank in His beauty.

That's what heavens going to be like.

My grandson sat on the hardwood floor of my living room. He played with toys that screeched loud sounds as buttons were pushed or levers were pulled. The delight in his eyes lit my aging heart. He reached for the stuffed animal, squeezing the paw to make it talk. He chattered back at it in syllables only he could understand. He stopped and looked up into my eyes. His grandfather. He stared. I smiled. The corners of his mouth bent upward and his eyes took on a new glow. I held his gaze as long as his one year old attention span would allow until he went back to the next toy. My heart was full.

That's what heavens going to be like.

I stuffed my feet into the awkward boots and then clicked the toe and heel of the boots into the special made bindings. Strapped to high-tech boards of waxed polymer I stared at the drop off before me. The snow was a hard pack, recently groomed into the shape of perfect corduroy. My heart beat faster as I mentally planned my way down the fall line. A deep breath. The wind in my face. My breath working to fog the goggles covering my eyes. A scarf tucked snugly around my neck and mouth. Sock hat pulled over my ears to the top of my goggles. The weather station in the cafeteria a mile below me told me that I was standing in 17 degree air with a steady 20mph crosswind coming off the continental divide to my left. I sucked air one more time and pushed off ... committing to my very first run down a ski slope in the Rocky Mountains. It was an intermediate "blue." I didn't know a soul within 600 miles. The adrenaline kicked into over drive as I made a solid run ... upright and non-stop ... to the bottom of the mountain. I slid sideways to a stop and looked back up from whence I had come. One thought possessed my mind. "Again!"

That's what heavens going to be like.

Except better. Many, many, times better...

nearly heaven

Thank You From Mr. CrabbyPants

2012-01-08T23:26:00.003-06:00

I admit it. I woke up crabby this morning. I had one of those dreams last night that you wouldn't even schedule on a late Halloween night horror show marathon. It was ugly. And it was right at the end of my night sleep so when I woke up from it the clock on the night stand told me not to bother trying to doze off again because, if I did, it was going to be the next thing to haunt me.

I hate alarm clocks.

So I got up and showered, dressed myself, ate a banana, and went to church. That is when everything changed. If I were not the pastor there is a fair chance that I would have just chalked this one up, rolled over, and tried to eek out a better dream before beginning the day. But when you are the pastor ... you go. But I'm human enough to admit that I wasn't smiling as I turned left on Old Collinsville Road.

And then I walked into Towerview Baptist Church. I was met at the door by a great guy. His name is Lynn. He always has a smile for me. And as a bonus he holds the door. I walked through the outer office and came across Ila. She is our Sunday Morning Secretary. Yeah. She smiled at me too. Her husband and my friend, Bob, is locked in a battle with Acute Leukemia and yet she shows up on Sunday morning and even has the juice to love on people. Next I met Trish in the hallway. She is our worship leader. She smiled at me and even patted me on the back.

That's when I noticed it. I was smiling back at them. The crabby's were gone. All gone. I walked through the entire morning being loved on by members of "my family." Nobody scowled at me or complained. Nobody smacked me upside the head (literally or figuratively.) They loved on their crabby pastor. Oh, true, they didn't know I was crabby. That doesn't matter. The fact that they loved ... that's the whole ball game. By the time I stepped onto the stage to teach them my own smile was genuine and fresh.

So this one is for you, Towerview family. I want you to know something. I love you. I really, really do. I love seeing you, I love talking with you, I love teaching you, I love being taught by you. Tonight we had a business meeting that was preceded by two hours of meetings. There was love woven through the fabric of all of that. You are reminding me what the church is about. You are reminding me why we are different than any club or organization. We serve and worship God together. When I showed up on your doorstep for the first time almost exactly three years ago God told me to begin teaching you "The Great Commandment." Love God ... and love people. Well, Towerview, you paid attention. I cannot think of one other place on the globe where I would rather "do church." And I can't think of one other group of people that I would rather "do church" with.

It is an honor to be your pastor.

It is an honor simply to be your friend.

I can never say "thank you" enough. But I'm going to say it anyway ... THANK YOU.

Post Holiday Thoughts

2012-01-06T23:26:00.005-06:00

I hate blogs that start off with, "Well, it's been so long since I wrote anything I doubt that anybody is still reading this. I'll try to do better though starting now." And then you have more blank pages for the next six months. If you are one of those bloggers just ... quit it.

Ok, I had to get that out. I feel better now.

Ding dong, the holidays are dead. It is safe to enter the highways around the mall again. And you can actually park within a five minute walk of Target. That's what I like about January. Shoppers just ... give up. Perhaps they will wake up in the morning and say, "Well, no reason to shop today. I guess I'll take the Christmas lights down." I doubt it. But is that too much to ask? I found myself stopped at a traffic light this evening shortly after dark. I was looking across a piece of rolling terrain into a local subdivision where a house was still blatantly assaulting the world with strings of lights. (What precisely do multi-colored lights have to do with the birth of the Savior of the world? Did the stable double as one of those rent-by-the-hour roadside motels where they hang colored lights in hopes of tricking you into thinking they are the Hyatt on steroids?) Before I knew it I realized I was calculating distance, wind speed and direction, and wondering if I could somehow borrow a howitzer to take their lights down for them. That's probably over kill too, huh?

You probably think I hate Christmas. Not true. I love Christmas. I am simply not a big fan of the way we celebrate it. If Jesus were to have been born in 2012 there would be no manger and stable. The swaddling clothes would not be tolerated and would be promptly replaced by the results of countless baby showers. Can you picture baby Jesus in footy pajama's with a little hood that sports rabbit ears? Me neither. Obviously that's why He came in approximately 0000. The thought of all of those pictures and the endless stream of relatives and pilgrims parading in front of the nursery viewing window was just too much for Him.

Justin Bieber has a Jesus tattoo? Seriously? How does he know that? Has he really ever seen a picture of Jesus? It's just as likely that the picture resembles some long forgotten Camel Taxi Driver from Lower Jerusalem. He had the picture put on his leg. Evidently he also has a tattoo of a dove and the Hebrew script of Jesus name. So I guess Justin's chosen his faith. Good for him. I suppose I'll have to stop getting a head ache when I see or hear him because it appears we are going to be bunk mates for eternity. I, on the other hand, don't have any tattoo's. Do you suppose Justin will find this irritating? Maybe I should get some ink? I thought about putting John 3: 16 on my bicep but when I tried it with a pen I found out I have more of a John 11: 35 physique. (Look it up.) I guess it's not your daddy's bicep.

No snow. Non. Nada. Zero inches. I sense that the snakes are peeking out of their holes in the creek behind my casa thinking maybe winter was a false alarm this year. Drat. I had this dream about skiing this winter too. It's been a few years. My Orthopedic Surgeon has stopped sending me Christmas cards. I'm 56. I don't have enough winters left to give one over to an off season heat wave. And don't go all "global warming" on me. I recycle.

Some really important stuff happened at the Iowa Caucuses this week. I have no idea what. When somebody figures out who is running please shoot me an email and let me know. Then I'll figure out who I'm voting for. I realize that this sounds childish, irresponsible, and immature. I should pay attention through the entire process. But I have a shorter than average attention span. I have ADHD. That is such an amazingly convenient condition to get diagnosed with. It's like the Swiss Army Knife of psychotic mess-ups. It comes in handy for nearly any accusation thrown your way. "Sorry! I'm totally ADHD! The doctor said so. Hey, do you have any Twinkies?"

O-Bama, Hey Bama, Bama Bama Ho, Bama Hay, Bama Ho, Bama. (To be sung to the tune "Hosanna" from Jesus Christ Super Star. It actually works. If you sing it be sure to send your royalties in...)

Well. There's a wasted 5 minutes you'll never get back. Peace - OUT!

Jesus Just ... blew up

2011-12-30T23:49:00.003-06:00

I never really have cared much for nativity scenes. That's no secret. Everybody who knows me knows that. I find them rather ... cheesy. At best you find a display of concrete or hard plastic figures standing in a make believe stable. Most often you'll find a donkey or two. Maybe some wise men. And in the center there is always baby Jesus lying in a feeding trough. Remember, that's the expensive set-ups. The really bad ones are plastic, gaudy colored, and lit from within.

When I think of what it must have been like to be in that real stable the night Jesus was born ... well ... the aforementioned display doesn't come close. It was dark, and it smelled badly, and it was full of blood and after-birth, and manure. Seems to me that isn't much of a place to give birth to any child. Much less God's Son.

God reminded me once that the piece of history that the nativity scene portrays, cheesy or not, represents something that really happened at a specific time in history. It's real. I am very grateful for that. And so I have a rather uneasy peace about the whole thing. It happened. We could do a better job of displaying it. But then, nobody would want it in their front yard.

I have a friend named Bill. He owns a very nice home in suburban St. Louis. Every year Bill drags his semi-cheesy nativity set out of its summer hiding place. He gets it all situated on the front lawn for the neighborhood to see. Bill loves Jesus like I do. And every year while he is setting up his nativity scene he calls me and let's me know that "today is the day! I'm putting Jesus out in the front yard and that made me think of you!" And we share a laugh. Good times.

Bill called me today. He doesn't have to take the nativity scene down this year. It seems that last night, while he and his wife were out of town ... Jesus burned the whole thing down. To the ground. They were just driving along when a neighbor called them and said the police and the fire department were at his house because Jesus was on fire. You don't see that happen every day. Bill said that least one of the wise men melted all the way down to the grass. He not-so-casually asked where I was last night around 8:30PM. I have an alibi. Iron clad. I was eating sweet potato waffle fries at Lions Choice. My wife watched me do it. Innocent.

The truth is, I think Jesus did it Himself. Take a look at the picture taken by a passerby. The real Jesus is dong just fine, thank you. But the plastic Jesus totally flamed out. No need to blow out the candles on Jesus cake this year.

But would somebody mind blowing out Jesus?

The Dark Side Of Christmas

2011-12-23T22:09:00.005-06:00

Seldom do I "borrow" a blog from another writer. But tonight my friend, Kellye, posted the following writing by Frederick Buechner. It is more than worth the time it takes to read it. Prepare to enter the wonder of what was done for us by the one we worship ... The Christ ... The one who left heavens celebrations to enter the fallen planet on a rescue mission. He made Himself vulnerable to us. I will never cease to be amazed.

""Those who believe in God can never in a way be sure of him again. Once they have seen him in a stable, they can never be sure where he will appear or to what lengths he will go or to what ludicrous depths of self-humiliation he will descend in his wild pursuit of humankind. If holiness and the awful power and majesty of God were present in this least auspicious of all events, this birth of a peasant's child, then there is no place or time so lowly and earthbound but that holiness can be present there too. And this means that we are never safe, that there is no place where we can hide from God, no place where we are safe from his power to break in two and recreate the human heart, because it is just where he seems most helpless that he is most strong, and just where we least expect him that he comes most fully.

For those who believe in God, it means, this birth, that God himself is never safe from us, and maybe that is the dark side of Christmas, the terror of the silence. He comes in such a way that we can always turn him down, as we could crack the baby's skull like an eggshell or nail him up when he gets too big for that. God comes to us in the hungry people we do not have to feed, comes to us in the lonely people we do not have to comfort, comes to us in all the desperate human need of people everywhere that we are always free to turn our backs upon. It means that God puts himself at our mercy not only in the sense of the suffering that we can cause him by our blindness and coldness and cruelty, but the suffering we can cause him simply by suffering ourselves."

--from The Face in the Sky, Frederick Buechner

Jesus With Skin On

2011-12-11T22:30:00.004-06:00

Sometimes words flow like the sweetest honey down the face of a perfectly shaped biscuit. Those moments are fun. Sometimes words clog like too much of something unpleasant lodged in a flushing toilet. Those moments are not fun. And the plunger comes to the rescue but not without splashing water of questionable content. I trust that you have already abandoned any idea that this will be an article of flowery prose. If the word "unpleasant" didn't get you "toilet" surely did.

Words seemed to come difficult this morning. It is Sunday and I am a pastor. That means you know where to find me when 10:15 rolls around. I'm soon to be standing behind the acrylic desk which holds my scattered thoughts and memo's from God. My primary calling in life is to fashion them into some sort of logical message that will transform the profane into the sacred. And the "message" God gave me this morning was odd for the heart of Christmas season. It was born out of John 3: 17-18. It's a scripture about forgiveness and condemnation. It references how God came that we might avoid the one to obtain the other. More than good advice. Greater than wise counsel. Rather, the very Words of God.

It is a bit scary to stand before a crowd and claim to speak for the Holy One. To make a mistake in this quest is to be held accountable in the most serious of fashions. Misrepresent God and He will most certainly come knocking at your door. And so a wise man will not take this task lightly.

And as I said, the words this morning came with difficulty, as though I had to carve each one out of hardwood with only a butter knife. But the message was clear. The baby in the manger grew to be a man. He revealed that He had been sent from Heaven's Throne to redeem lost mankind from a most unsavory fate. No, you don't want to screw up this message. I took great care to keep one ear open toward heaven for immediate instructions mid-message. I'll admit to receiving a few without divulging their content. Suffice it to say that He spoke in my core and I endeavored to relay His Truth to listening ears.

And then it was over. My heart was poured empty. Several had complained that the temperature of the room was far too cool as the 75 minutes of worship and teaching began. By the time we reached minute 75 I was marinating within the brown sweater I had pulled over my head this morning. And i wondered why. Why had no one visibly responded to God's call? Why was the alter void of kneeling humans? Why no tears? I had given all. By the time a Sunday morning teaching time is completed I am often ready for an afternoon on the scrap heap.

And then John approached me. He's one of my favorite guys. A leader in our church, John loves God with a whole heart and exudes the curiosity of a modern day Peter at times. He tracked me down and gave me the best "man hug" I have had in weeks. His voice was exuberant as he said, "If you had spoken those words at a Billy Graham Crusade, the altar would be full of seeking people this morning!" John doesn't know it but he was Jesus to me today. Honestly, I don't need to speak at a Billy Graham Crusade. I don't generally need adoring words of affirmation and praise. But every now and then you really pour out your soul and you wonder ... did anybody hear? Did anybody pay attention? Did it make a difference at all? Did the words I spoke have any more impact than a chirping cricket on a lonely, dark night?

Thank you, John. Today I just needed to know that I had indeed heard God. And I needed to know that He had shared His Truth through me. You were His voice. You were just what I needed ...

...Jesus with skin on.

Thanks

2011-11-24T23:54:00.003-06:00

Thanksgiving has always seemed like such a safe holiday to me. No one fights much over its meaning. It is spelled out right in its name. I suppose it must be difficult to know who to thank if you do not believe in a living God. Maybe you thank your spouse or your parents. It could be that you thank your friends and your employer. Most people know enough to thank someone. Still, I believe that gratefulness is an understated virtue. We are a country of pull-yourself-up-by-your-own-bootstraps people. Ego trumps thanksgiving most days. It shouldn't. 9% unemployment should remind us that not only isn't life fair, it also isn't predictable. What you have today you may well not have tomorrow. I spent time with two men this week. Each of them faces a death sentence at the hands of cancer. Both of them felt pretty well during our time together. They know that that could change at any minute without notice. And yet they each made it clear to me that they are thankful ... and that they know who to thank.

My wife and I were driving to our son's house this afternoon. We made our way west on I-64 out of the suburbs and into the core of the city. The sun was not far from setting and it was very difficult to see. My sun glasses were doing their best but it was a losing battle against the glare. Debbie was talking to her mother. Suddenly she dropped the phone into her lap and audibly gasped. My eyes had been avoiding the sun. We were about to go under an overpass. I had noticed a silver car parked on top of the bridge. She had noticed the woman who had gotten out of the car, scaled a chain link fence and guard rail. One leg was dangling over the edge. She pointed and stuttered and stammered. By the time I understood what she was telling me the overpass was behind us. I dialed 911 on my cell phone and the operator connected me with the Illinois State Police. I told them what we had seen. They had already received one call but had not gotten all of the information they needed. I told them that I am a pastor and I was looking for a place to turn around and go back but I was stuck in a construction zone. She told me the trooper had almost arrived and that I should keep going. She took my phone number in case it was needed.

I have no idea what had driven this woman to consider something as horrible as suicide. I never will know. I suppose for every person that celebrates the joy of a day like Thanksgiving, there is at least one person that grieves in loneliness and pain. Did she jump? I do not know. But my heart breaks at the realization that she was out there in the first place, even considering it. Maybe she had looked for something to be thankful for today and came up with ... nothing. I just don't know.

Two hours later we were driving from our sons house to our daughters house. The highway had four lanes. Two in each direction separated by a grass median strip. I had just stopped at a red light when it was my turn to go ... "AAAAHHHH!!!!!!!" We were in the left lane and suddenly a car passed by me in the right lane, going the opposite direction. Debbie said she saw a handicapped sign hanging from the person rearview mirror. I was busy honking my horn and pointing in the direction the driver needed to be going. About 50 feet beyond my car the other car stopped. It's turn signal was on and it sat still in the middle of a busy highway facing the wrong direction. My light turned green and I had no choice but to continue on. What happened? Did the person turn around safely and rejoin traffic? Was there an accident? Was this an elderly person who had gotten confused or a drunk who was driving blind? Once again, no idea. I do know that this persons Thanksgiving had not gone according to plan. I do not know what price was paid for the mistake.

I have been mentally processing these two events for the past few hours. All I can come up with is this. Sometimes life goes horribly wrong. The result can be intentional or accidental tragedy. It can ... and does ... happen every day. I am not above screwing up myself. (Just ask those who know me the best.) But I am convinced that there is a God in heaven who has showered me with his love. He has given me eyes to recognize the good in life for what it is ... a gift from my Father. Believing in Him has given me all of the purpose and imputes I need to stay alive, stay sober, and to seek to please Him with my every breath. And I have learned to give thanks. When things go right I give thanks because I am overwhelmed with His goodness. When things to wrong I give thanks because I have learned that I will never be content until I accept everything that comes my way as His perfect plan for my life. As long as I kick against my circumstances I will be restless and discontent.

Today is Thanksgiving day. And I give thanks. I give it to my God, my creator. My thanks is due Him. And honestly, giving Him thanks and gratitude makes my life worth living. I am so glad ... so glad ... that my life matters. So glad that my decisions can all be run by Him for approval before I act on them. So glad that the sunny days bring joy and gladness to my heart. So glad that the rainy days teach me to remember that this fallen world is loved by Him with such intensity that He sent His Son to give His own life to set things right for those who trust Him. Yes, it is Thanksgiving. And I saw a line of people today. They were camped out in tents, waiting until midnight so that they can be the first into the electronics store to be the latest technological wizardry. I have no desire to be in their line. (Though I do love me some electronics.) But I have found the line for me. It calls out for me. I want to be in it every single day.

I want to be the first in line to say "Thank You" to the one who gave me this life. Thanks to Him I'm going the right way and I'm staying off of bridges.

The Final Straw (almost)

2011-11-21T09:18:00.003-06:00

I could have died. Possibly from blood loss. Most certainly from embarrassment. I am convinced that it will be a passing moment on a seemingly non-lethal day that will eventually "take me out."

It started and ended with a straw.

Those who know me understand that I am propelled by two things. Sunshine. Caffeine. Mix the two together and, not only am I good for the day, but I'll probably manage to engage in unintentional self-humiliation several times. It is my lot in life.

And on a sunny Saturday I was on a quest to satisfy my unquenchible thirst for a sparkly, ice cold, Vanilla Coke. I stood by the soda fountain with 44 ounces of goodness in my hand. I squeezed the plastic lid onto the styrofoam cup, grabbed a straw from the bin and banged the end of it on the counter to force it to poke its little tip out the other end. Whoever runs the machinery that wraps these straws in clear plastic must have a PhD in sadism. It clings tightly to the straw, refusing to relinquish it from its grasp. But a firmly, well placed "thump" on the counter will cause about a quarter of an inch to burst through to freedom. I had accomplished just that. I raised the free part of the straw to my mouth and grabbed it with my teeth, preparing to drag the wrapper off the other end. That's when my left hand turned on me. The one holding the cup. I moved to put it on the counter when a noise to my left distracted me. Turning my head to find its source was my undoing. The bottom of the straw jammed into the top of my left hand. Momentum took over. The straw rocketed through my not-yet-clinched teeth and embedded into the back of my throat.

And when I say embedded, I mean "EMBEDDED."

This was the kind of impact that takes you by surprise and makes your gag reflax go into overdrive. I grabbed the straw and pulled it out of my mouth, eyes tearing up, throat shocked by the savagery of the sneak attack. I looked at the offending plastic tubing. The end of it held a nice, neat, round piece of Ron meat. I actually saw a part of myself stuck inside a straw. How many people can say that?

It's been two days now. I'm trying not to swallow any more than absolutely necessary. Speaking at church yesterday was interesting. I avoided big words, prefering to use their single-syllible cousins. The bleeding stopped Saturday evening, which is good because the Red Cross is calling me about every other day wanting more of my platelets. I think I am down to ... three. They can have two of them. Just leave me one for old time sake.

And The Moment Was Golden

2011-11-08T22:37:00.002-06:00

She is two years old and the sun rises and sets in her eyes. This little blonde princess seems unable to decide if she will be shy or the eternal extrovert. All I know is that when I enter the room for some odd reason her face breaks into a smile. If I do not walk immediately to her side she will come to mine. Her arms go up, hands extended, eyes asking the silent question. "Will you hold me?"

(Little girl, the tides will stop lapping against the shores, the birds will forever forget their song, the planets will cease to rotate before I will respond to your question with anything short of a "yes.")

As she settles into my lap she looks until she sees a laptop or my ipad which is always close by my side. She points at it. I know what is coming. Two words joined into one. "Airplane." I do not know where she learned a love for flying as she has never flown. At least not in her waking moments. I suspect that her sleep finds her coasting tranquilly through broken clouds, playing tag with her own shadow. She has fallen in love with the equation of altitude + motion. Their sum, in her gentle eyes amounts to "happy." Where she came by this I know not.

She waits patiently, legs dangling across mine, as I type in the perfect web address that will satisfy her hunger. And for the next minutes we soar together on the wings of fighter planes and shiny red bi-plane racers. As one video comes to an end she looks at the selection and points to the one she wants next. She leans into me and I feel her relax as yet another dream dances across the screen.

She was mine last Saturday. She sat in my car as she, her sister, her grandmother, and I drove to a nearby air force base. Outside the main gate is an airplane park. Huge cargo planes sit in a semi-circular configuration, beckoning a welcome home to the airmen who call this place home. I held her hand as we walked among the jets, her eyes ablaze with the knowledge that these metallic creatures are hers to touch. She points at the door of a monstrous jet and says, "knock!" Instead I lift her high off the ground and tell her to knock herself. She hesitates, small hand clenched into a fist. And she knocks half scared that some one will answer. They do not. And we move on to the next airplane.

An hour later we sit together in a McDonalds, fulfilling her supper request. She eats a meal punctuated by trips to a console of computer games for children. Finally she settles in my lap. As she lifts a french fry to her mouth she looks up into my eyes. The hand with no fry reaches for my face. I pause, not knowing what she is doing. With an open palm she runs her skin agains the skin of my cheek. She pulls away only to repeat her gentle touch. This time longer, seemingly lost in thought. I do not know what two years olds think of. But I know love when it touches me.

I am her grandpa and I took her to airplanes. And the moment was golden.

Adidas On The Asphalt Revisited

2011-11-03T22:44:00.004-05:00

I've been thinking a lot today about yesterdays Adidas on the asphalt. Stark, sober, reminders of the fragility of life. Nobody expects to die today. But it is more than that. The picture in my head represents more than the imminent possibility of the unexpected. It is...

The stuff of heaven meeting the stuff of earth. The holy in a violent collision with the unholy. Shoes do not tell much of the story. Not really. The God of heaven stooped down to the dust and formed a man. He breathed life ... and holiness ... into the body of clay. And the profane became sacred. Very sacred, indeed. A life lived without conscious awareness of the nearness of God is a life wasted. But as long as the life remains in the body there is still hope. Hope that the body-dweller will wake up to his uniqueness. Hope that the eternal breath will be recognized. Confessed for what it is. Hope that the life will change and begin living up to its exquisite potential.

Was this the story of the Adidas man? Was he ever made aware of how special he was? Did he know that God Himself created him? Chose him to live in this time and this place? Did he yield to this imaginative God? Was he living up to his potential? Honestly, I am clueless and I forever will be.

But I know this. Each of us bears the image of our creator. Just as those black shoes had the triple stripes of the Adidas Corporation we have the mark of God branded across our very souls. I choose to live my life faithful to my brand. Whether my end comes on an asphalt expressway or a nursing home bed is of little consequence to me. I prefer to exercise my brain cells to focus on the undefined period of time I have before I become permanently horizontal. It is so important to me ... to you ... to recognize the end as imminent without spending an excess moment dwelling upon it. The pursuit of our purpose is far too vital to be concerned about our end. I can do something about the former. I can only accept the latter.

The Word became flesh and dwelt among us. Words from the Bible. God became flesh and walked this fascinating planet Himself. He wove His story into mine. I can barely wrap my brain around that. And then ... and then one day his sandals were stripped from Him and he was tortured and executed so that I would not be. The sinless paying the way for the sinful. Righteousness laying it self down and taking on sin as its new identity. He was not just affected by sin. He was MADE SIN ... for me. And I go free. Free to worship or free to worry. Free to follow or free to flee. Free to live by faith or free to cling to my own folly.

The asphalt saw violence yesterday. It left me breathless in its stark contrast to the son that I was soon hugging and the grandson I found myself caught up in playing with. The violence came roaring back after the lights were off and the distractions melted into the darkness. And it comes back tonight as well. And because it did I realized I needed to finish last nights story. I seem to have ended it too early. To abruptly. I failed to tell you that you are deeply loved. You have a purpose. You are not an accident. Your creator loves you and His Son, Jesus, showed you that love on a cross of death. He desires your love in return. I hope you will offer it to him. I hope the Adidas man did too. It is too late for him to do anything about it. But you ... you still have time.

Use the time wisely.

Adidas On The Asphalt

2011-11-02T23:01:00.003-05:00

Today began before sunrise for me. I am nocturnal. I love the night. The calming silence is a healing balm to the often weary soul. My days and evenings are spent trying to love people well. When I curl up with a book or a laptop after my bride is asleep I find my mind coming alive with ideas and fancies that never strike me at the noon hour. Morning bugs me. I smile when people poke fun at my disdain for morning. Most think that makes you lazy. I’m not. It is 11:10 at night and I just finished working on Sunday’s sermon. I prefer it this way.

But today I got up early. I had a meeting to go to. After its completion I began driving through the city of St. Louis to my sons house. I was listening to talk radio … a rarity for me but I was interested in the conversation about local baseball hero Albert Pujols. The sun was bright and the temperature was perfect. The post-rush-hour traffic was light on I-70 until, without notice, the vehicles ahead of me all moved into my lane and nearly came to a complete halt. I made what can only be described as a “panic stop.” My eyes were on the rearview mirror as the tractor trailer behind me squealed his brakes and left tire smoke in his wake. I was grateful that friction completed its task with roughly ten feet to spare. After a moment the traffic began moving, slowly inching forward. And then I passed emergency cones that blocked off the two left lanes. Three police cars and two fire engines came into view. Finally there was a single ambulance-like vehicle marked “Mobile Triage” parked at an odd angle. There were no mangled cars. No sign of any accident. As I drifted by the mobile triage the unthinkable appeared. Fifteen feet to my left lay a blue tarp. Four people knelt around it. From its nearest side protruded two legs and two feet. The image seared in my mind is of black Adidas with red soles.

Not good. Not good at all.

You never expect to see death in the morning. Death is reserved for the late night hospital call or the mad emergency dash to the nursing home. But here? In the middle of the day in the middle of an interstate with no accident? Running shoes that will never again run? What caused this? Was the dead stranger jogging on the interstate? Did he fall off a bridge onto a vehicle and get carried to this spot? How can you die on the middle of an interstate highway without getting in a wreck? Why was he interrupting my happy morning with his unhappy fate?

That's the thing about dying. All of it's sentences end with question marks. The cause of death may be perfectly clear with no autopsy needed but there is always somebody left behind aching for answers. Why him? Why today? Why like that? We live in a world of "why" and the question marks vastly outnumber the exclamation points. It is entirely possible that before the sun rises again my blood may be congealing within my veins. Heart attack. Stroke. House fire. Falling meteorite. Hey ... could happen. Probably not, but it might.

The rest of my day was normal. Like clockwork. Still, as night time has fallen again and I have curled up with my laptop the memory that will forever mark this day is of a pair of black Adidas. Red soles. Blue tarp.

And the never ending question mark.

Stupid Picture Chronicles #59

2011-10-28T13:48:00.002-05:00

Most communities would actually move the street light pole if it interfered with the stop light. In Bethalto you just bend the pole and ... mission accomplished.

Lousy At Rebelling

2011-10-24T23:22:00.006-05:00

I have not always been good at getting into trouble. It is a rather recent talent that I have cultivated. I endured my entire high school education without getting one single "Pinky." A "Pinky" is Lincoln-Way High School speak for a card you are given when you get into minor trouble or by being late for a class. Accumulate four "Pinky's" and you have a "Green Sheet" bestowed upon you. A "Green Sheet" is a detention. All detentions were served in the windowless room "109." At least I was told that it was windowless. I never entered room 109. I was trouble-free for four consecutive years. I was even given my own study hall to monitor. My kingdom met every weekday at 5th hour in the high school auditorium. Lincoln-Way's auditorium was a real one. It had rows of theatre seats all on a nice incline. They faced a real stage with a real curtain. For an hour each day I was Auditorium Czar. If you talked during study hall I had authority to issue you a "Pinky." In 1973 this was the high school equivalent of holding the keys to life and death. Jocks feared me.

And yet somewhere around 1983 I got a bad reputation. It really isn't fair. Nothing about me had changed. Well, nothing by my address. It was in March of 1983 that I relocated from the western suburbs of Chicago to the easter suburbs of St. Louis. And when I arrived I brought my passion for Chicago sports with me. That includes the Bears. And the Bulls. And the White Sox. And the Cubs. Especially the Cubs. (Doesn't matter to me when people say I can't cheer for both Chicago baseball teams. My response is simple and clear. "Bah." I'm a grown man and I can cheer for whoever I want to cheer for. And I've cheered for both of them since I was 7 years old. So I say it again ... "BAH! Besides, nobody cares if I cheer for the White Sox. They are seen as benign American League bottom feeders. So I seldom discuss them. Besides, they won The Big One in '05. I have a mini-trophy in my cave to prove it.) I have made great friends though out my years in two St. Louis suburbs. The best friends and longest lasting friends of my life. And yet every time baseball season rolls around we get all bent out of shape and crossways with each other. Cubs. Cardinals. Oil. Water. Same difference.

It will never change.

Yeah, I know my teams not got a good track record over the last century or so. But what exactly does that have to do with whether or not I love them? My wife loves me even when she looks at me in the morning and my breaths smells bad and my hair isn't combed and I've drooled all over my pillow. I just seem to have fallen for a halitosis laden, unkempt, drooling, baseball team. That doesn't mean I'm going to walk away from them. If I did I wouldn't be worth the autographed Ferguson Jenkins jersey that adorns the wall of my man-cave.

This year the Cardinals are in the World Series. Again. They have been making a habit of that. This doesn't please me at all. I must admit that they have had a fantastic run over the last month of the season as well as during the post-season. Talent is talent and they do have more of that right now than the Cubs have. Doesn't mean I'm going to cheer for them. Doesn't mean I want them to win. It just means I'm "naughty" in my adopted home town. I can live with that. I've tried to remain relatively quiet and let my friends enjoy this romp into potential glory. I've only left snide comments when provoked. And oh do they know how to provoke ...

Baseball naughty isn't like real life naughty. You don't get a pinky for it. Much less a green sheet. And for the life of me I can't figure out who the baseball czar is. I just know it isn't me. And if the Rangers win one more game it won't be Albert "Don't Ever Pitch To That Man" Pujols either. At least I do have a game plan. I'm going to continue NOT knocking over 7-11's, hijacking Brinks trucks, stealing candy from children, or otherwise disturbing the universe. And I'm going to keep right on wearing my Cubs jersey, Sox jersey, and Bears jersey on every appropriate occasion. It isn't much. It won't get me on anybodies "10 Most Wanted List." Face it ...

I'm just lousy at rebelling.

Rex

2011-10-17T23:09:00.005-05:00

I have recently acquired an imaginary dog. His name is Rex. He is a chocolate brown Boxer. Do not worry. I purchased him with imaginary money. He sleeps on my bed across my feet at night. Other that that he is not allowed on the furniture. We have had dogs before and they were allowed on chairs and sofas. We all know that doesn't lead anywhere good. I feel very blessed to have such a great dog. An imaginary boxer was the only kind Debbie would allow in our home and I didn't want an outside dog. Here is her picture. I took it against the trees last week while we were in Michigan...

And here is a shot of her running ahead of me down the road. Six months old and no leash! What a beauty ...

I was talking with God today and the subject of dogs came up. Dogs were God's idea. Well, most of them were. He pretty much told me that He had nothing to do with Rex and that an imaginary dog was all on me. I'm good with that. Anyway, we were talking. I was remembering my old Golden Retriever, Bear. He was a real dog. Nothing imaginary about him. My kids will testify to that truth because it certainly wasn't imaginary poop they had to pick-up from the dog run in our backyard every week. Here's the thing about Bear. He loved me. I mean, he really, REALLY, loved me. Bear didn't know that I had any faults or flaws. He was a very good dog. Very smart. And he would pretty much do anything I took a minute to teach him to do. I honestly taught him to go to the kids rooms and pick-up their dirty socks in his mouth. Then if he would bring them into the laundry room I would trade him the dirty socks for a Milky Bone. Now that is a smart dog. Bear was totally committed to our family. Of course, he loved me the most. I'm the one that kept him in doggy treats. Today I asked God to help me to love Him as much as Bear loved me. Without condition. Without giving it a second thought. I asked Him to help me to love Him with an unbridled passion. I really want to. I'm not always good at it though. That's why I need help. It is the desire of my heart to love God with passion in my eyes, purpose in my step, and a firm conviction in my heart. I want to live every moment to make Him smile whether He ever gives me another treat or not. I guess unselfish love was the gift that Bear taught me. Freely I received ... now freely I will give.

Say "goodnight," Rex.

Reflections From A Parking Garage

2011-09-28T18:23:00.004-05:00

(A follow-up appointment at "The Retina Institute" today required the dilation of my eyes again. This time it was rather unexpected and I drove alone. And operating a vehicle while 75% blind is not a good idea. So here I sits ... in a hospital parking garage ... 3 hours after the appointment ... waiting for normalcy so that I can negotiate rush hour and return home. In order to avoid wasting this time in totality I have chose to learn from the experience. And thus I submit to you, kind reader, "Reflections From A Parking Garage.")

-Parking garages do not have wifi. This could seriously hinder the war on terror. I have been scouring incoming vehicles for potential car bombs. Yet if I spot one my ability to disrupt it's devious and diabolical plans take a serious blow because I cannot hit buttons at random in an attempt to detonate the bomb before it reaches its target. This could cost me my well earned nickname "Captain Safety." Would somebody fix this problem, please?

-Parking garages bounce. I know, I know. If they didn't bounce they would snap apart under the tremendous pressure of cars zipping back and forth. The bounce absorbs the punishment. After 3 hours the trampoline effect has me queazy. This particular garage may well survive the day, but it also might do so with the contents of my stomach on its conscience.

-Speaking of the contents of my stomach. There aren't any. I didn't know I would be spending the entire afternoon here. I have a half eaten bottle of Planters Honey Roasted Peanuts to keep me company. Sad to think that Chick-Fil-A is only a couple of miles further down the highway.

-I keep looking in the mirror to check on my eyes. Like every 5 minutes. And there is absolutely zero color. Just this black line where the iris (I think that's what they call that colored circle thingy) is suppose to be. This isn't a good sign. Parking garages are dark. I walked outside to get some fresh air about an hour ago and GOOD LORD, IT'S BRIGHT OUT THERE!!!! It appeared to be Armageddon but it was just the sun, which is selling off all it's rays at discounted prices in preparation for a bleak winter.

-I cannot help but wonder if you can die from carbon monoxide in an indoor parking lot that has no doors and no walls. You aren't suppose to be able to smell carbon monoxide but I ... oh ... wait ... I think the peanuts are causing ... never mind.

-Why won't radio signals penetrate into parking structures? Aren't they suppose to be our first line of information in case of enemy attack or tornadoes or something? Do you have ANY IDEA how many people are in the parking garages of America at any given moment? I don't either but I'll bet it's a lot. And we are all at risk because of shoddy radio signals. I'm not sure who to blame so I'll put it on Obama. He's taking the blame for everything else.

-I've been waiting for the coppers or detectives or "special agents" to come by and shoot the place up. As of yet ... and I'm closing in on 4 hours ... not one. This flies in the face of everything I have ever learned on "Hawaii 5 0." So who is lying? Hollywood or the parking garage? I leave it for you to decide. But while we are on the subject, what the heck is so "special" about a "special agent?" Are there "not so special agents?" Or simply, "agents?" And if so, why don't they ever get on a tv show? I smell conspiracy. Obama.

-I am on Level 3 Section C. I wonder who is parked right under me. I wonder if they know how many peanuts I have eaten.

Do you suppose anybody famous has ever parked exactly where I am right now? Like Larry Conners maybe. Or Albert Pujols (who will look stunning next to the ivory in blue pinstripes next April.) or perhaps somebody of national significance like "Becky The Queen Of Carpets."

-Who says you can't learn anything in a parking garage?

I Bleed Gold

2011-09-20T22:54:00.006-05:00

I gave blood a few months ago. Now the American Red Cross is pursuing me like a Doberman after a pork chop. Like an Eskimo after a baby seal. Like a politician after a tax hike. Like Dracula after a neck. Like a bald guy after ... what do bald guys go after? Never mind. You get my point. They are mailing me. They are emailing me. They are calling me on the phone. I think one of their guys followed me home from work today. I lost him when I cut through the library parking lot. (Sorry about the books, granny. Didn't you hear me honk?)

I. Bleed. Good.

It's not just my blood that they want. Oh, no. That's for commoners and peasants. They want platelets. MY platelets. I seem to have a lot of them. Down at the local Red Cross Collection Site they call me "Mr. High Octane Platelet Guy."

So I guess that platelets are these things in you blood that have magical and mystical clotting powers. If you don't have enough you might bleed to death. If you have too many you might have a heart attack or a stroke. Geez. Back-up the sudden death truck! If I have a lot of platelets ... I COULD BE ABOUT TO DIE!!!! I hadn't thought about that until just now as I began typing this paragraph. Hmmm. (Let it go, Ron. Let it go.) Platelets live between 5 and 9 days. I suppose they die after that. This conjures up mental images of teeny tiny little funerals rushing through my veins. I suppose there may be 2 day old platelets that are platelet pastors and they conduct services for the dearly departed. Other platelets gather around and sing or say nice things about the past-tense-platelet. It's a very sad affair.

Where was I?

Oh, yeah. For the sake of humanity I have chosen to bleed. We are at war, people. If it is platelets the people need, it is platelets they shall get! (Did I mention that it takes up to 3 HOURS to donate platelets? Sheesh. I hope they have wifi. Or plenty of cookies and juice. Or both. You suppose they have Oreos?) Never let it be said that I failed America in it's hour of greatest need. Up goes the sleeve. Out goes the blood. Round and round it goes in the Centrifuge until all of the platelets are whisked away. And then back into my arm goes the blood.

I forgot to tell you about that. They are going to take my blood out, screw with it, and then put it back in me. I mean, that's in laymen's terms. Here it is in technical terms ... "We are going to remove blood from "Patient A" and suck from it all valuable ingredients. We shall then inject the worthless left over used up depleted stripped of all possible good blood back into "Patient A" where it will (hopefully) keep him from collapsing to the floor in a lifeless ball of flesh or rocketing around the room backward like a balloon on crack with a hole in it." (Wikipedia)

Now let's get personal. This is to you, Alex Babot. And you, Adam Page. And you too, Mr. Joe Dills ... maybe I can't bleed as fast as you young bucks can ... but when it comes to quality ... I OWN YOU.

Dumb Thoughts For Late Night

2011-09-13T22:56:00.002-05:00

Today I have practiced "free thinking." I read about this being a good thing to do when developing leadership skills. And so today I've been keeping notes and trying to be aware of the world around me. And then I allowed myself to ask questions about what I saw. No rules. No limits. Tonight I read my notes and, well, it scared me. I present my day for your reading pleasure.

1. I have heard it said that if life gives you lemons you should make lemonade. Does that mean if life gives me alligators I should make gatorade?

2. If you try to fail and you succeed at it does that negate your failure or your success?

3. Do caskets come with warranties?

4. After an alligator eats does he have to wait an hour before getting out of the water?

5. There is no such thing as a "nonstop flight." I mean ... sooner or later ...

6. Isn't cremating a burn victim the ultimate insult?

7. Is there any kind of correlation between infants/infancy and adults/adultery?

8. If you have x-ray vision, and you can see through anything, wouldn't you see through everything and actually see nothing?

9. I read today that only one in every seven rapes is reported. How do they know that?

I'm done. I got nutten else.

The "Eyes" Have It

2011-08-31T23:36:00.000-05:00

I have been having "fun with my face" this week. If you have been hanging around this place in the woods very long you may remember that I also had fun with my face last January. Well, what smote my left eye last winter came out of hibernation to smite my right eye on Friday evening. We were with our church family at Busch Stadium watching the Cardinals play the Padre's ... I mean the Pirates ... and having a great time. Never mind that I really thought we were playing the Padre's until the 7th inning when someone pointed out that I kept saying "Padre's" when I should be saying "Pirates." Well hey, I wasn't watching the game. I was talking and eating and doing the important things that Cub fans do at ballparks in August. I really did think it was the Padre's way down there. But that's not important. Somewhere around the 5th inning I looked up towards the lights on top of the stadium and ...oops ... some huge weird shaped spider web like thing floated in front of my right eye.Crud.I knew immediately what had happened. I covered my eyes with my hands and turned my eyeballs real fast from the right to the left. Yep. I saw "lightening" on the right part of my right eye. This is technically called a "post vitreous detachment." Or so I assumed. I didn't want to ruin a perfectly beautiful evening so I only mentioned it to the person sitting next to me (Hi, Diana!) and my wife, Debbie. There's not much you can do with this. You just deal with it and it begins to calm itself down after about 6 months. The problem is in making sure that a post vitreous detachment is really what is wrong. Because it also could be a torn or detached retina. And if you don't jump on that quickly, well, you just flat out go blind. And that's not a good option. I still own DVD's that I haven't watched.That's why I found myself at the ophthalmologists office yesterday at 10AM. I might mention that ophthalmologists hate me. They like to hold me down in the big chair and TOUCH MY EYE BALL. And if I have one motto in life it is simple and clear ... "Touch my eye and die." I broke my rule but only because Debbie wouldn't let me go rogue. So they squirted this stuff in my eyes to make them dilate. This basically makes you pretty much blind anyway so I wasn't sure why I was even in the office in the first place. It opens your iris all the way so that light can just dance its way in and have its way with you. And after the iris is all the way open they take out these lights that are pretty much borrowed from the sun and the focus it directly into your eyes.Rob Bell says there really isn't a hell. Rob Bell has never had this experience.But because you are a big boy you don't grab the doctor by the throat, strangle him, and hide his body behind the dumpster. But you want to. Yesterday Dr. Brilliant couldn't see all of my retina because there was too much "debris" inside my eye. He really said that. I have debris inside my eye. I thought debris was what you found in the wake of a tornado or perhaps a nuclear mishap. But I have it inside my eye. And because Boy Wonder couldn't see behind the debris he got his magic Q-Tip and began poking ON MY EYE. He was trying to make the debris move away so he could tell if my retina was torn. Or perhaps he was trying to tear my retina himself. I couldn't really tell. But either way he failed. So I had to go to a retina specialist today. Actually, I think these two guys are room mates. I believe one sets the patient up and the other slams him the next day. It took two highly educated brainiacs to tell me that I didn't have a hole in my head. Well, at least not in my retina.Thanks, boys. The next yachts on me.Now I can resume living. I can read and watch TV and follow the bouncing ball with both eyes. I can do everything but get kicked in the head by a mule or take up sumo wrestling. And that's a real shame because I was really wanting to sumo wrestle a mule. It will have to wait 6 months when I go back for final clearance and the opportunity to pay off the doctors condo on Maui.So it's been a good week over all. Things float around in my field of vision in both eyes. That's kind of fun because I play games with them, trying to get the tangled up with each other or trying to spell Albuquerque with them. It's really cool to do that when I'm driving. Even cooler when I'm texting and driving. Coolest of all when I'm texting, driving, and have dilated eyes. And in the dark I have lightening inside of my head. When I turn my head really fast or my eyes really fast. Now think about this. Once you discover this fact ... how hard do you think it is to resist making it lightening every 15 seconds or so? It's nearly impossible. I have the power over lightening. I'm still working on the thunder. Oh. And I'm not going blind. So there's that.But dude, when I paid ... I didn't even get a sucker.

Up And To The Right

2011-08-24T23:18:00.003-05:00

Tonight I sat around a table with 3 men who want to change the world. They do not have impressive degrees in theology or a vast library of books on churchology. They do not need either of those things. They have something far more important and far more rare.

Passion.

We polished off burritos and nacho's and soft drinks but barely noticed. I've been "doing church" in a leadership capacity since I was 19 years old. That's 37 years, sports fans. And I don't know that I've ever worked with men like these before. If you cut them they'll bleed leadership. If you allow them to they'll pepper you with questions about God and the church and they'll give you their exhilarating thoughts on how to live life while loving their families and serving their God. If you listen closely you will catch their enthusiasm. You cannot help it. They are the kind of men you have prayed for and dreamed of for so many years. They will laugh with you as you tell of your mistakes and you know that they'll remember and bring it up again when you least expect it. But you don't mind. They do it because they love you and they let you be real. You don't feel compelled to fake anything around them. You don't have to act like a car salesman moonlighting at the nearest God dealership. There are areas of leadership where I positively stink. Yeah, I know. It's hard to believe but it's true. There are things I should accomplish in a more timely manner. Things I should pay closer attention to. And they know that because, like I said, they are born leaders and they know an "oops" when they see it. But they seem to understand that the reason I often let those areas slide is not laziness or incompetence. It's because I love people and I want to be in their homes or in their hospital rooms or sharing a meal with them in a restaurant. And that means that sitting at a desk drives me positively crazy. And so some of those "important" things just remain on my back burner because I'm having too much fun with the people that are on my front burner. The people of my church. The people that are not "of my church" but will be soon because God just tossed them through the door and they found out that they can get loved there and they can find community there and they can develop a real walk with God there. And we sit and talk about what might be ... what could be ... and how maybe, just maybe, if we are smart and listen to the whispers of the Holy Spirit and do all of the things that God tells us to do ... just maybe they actually will be.

"Up and to the right." That's where we are going. Get your graph paper out and put a dot on today. We know where we are. And we know where God is calling us. He's calling us to go "up and to the right." We are called to live life large, to love even larger, and to follow Jesus the largest of all. We are called to lay down the silly agenda's of this world and take up the holy calling of being princes and priests. I want to do it with men like these. Men who speak kindly of their wives and who get sparkles in their eyes when they talk of their children. Men who hold their eyes on yours when a pretty girl walks by because they are focused on what matters ... not the frilly, anemic, lust-filled lies of life. They are focused on going "up and to the right."

The trail we walk around here these days is getting more interesting by the day. The hill is steeper and the distance longer. The view causes our hearts to beat more quickly because it begins to remind us of the home that has been prepared for us that we have never seen. But we know we'll get there. We know the way. The way is up. Up and to the right.

30 for 30

2011-08-22T22:59:00.003-05:00

Tonight's topic, little chillen, is prayer. And God. And praying to God. And praying to God and hearing HIm answer. I believe in praying specific prayers. None of that "Dear Lord bless everybody on the planet and don't let any one get sick or die. Please let the good guys always win and the bad guys get what's coming to them." That just won't do. I'm more in the camp of those who pray like this ... "God. Excuse me please, sir. I have some things that need your attention. My lawn mower will not start and snakes are closing in on my house from the creek at an alarming rate. I'm not sure if there is water in the gas or the spark plug is bad or what, but YOU know. So would you please fix it. And if you choose not to fix it by the 77th pull on the rope I'll assume you are not in the lawn mower repair business today and I'll make other arrangements. Not a problem, God. But please grant me one thing. STOP THE SNAKES!!!!!"

See the difference? It's profound.

Now I am a pastor I have plenty to pray about. Seldom does a day go by without somebody asking me to pray about something for or with them. I do my best to always say "yes." The only time I say "no" is when it's obviously not something God is going to be interested in doing. I will not pray that you win the lottery. I will not pray that your crack dealer stops faking you out and selling you talcum powder. I will not pray that the Cardinals win the World Series. Obviously those things are outside of God's will. (Ok, the last one was a joke and the Cardinals are proving themselves quite capable of shooting themselves in the foot so let's just let it go.)

I do like to pray for my church. Well, actually it's God's church but He loaned it to me and you know what I mean. I pray all sorts of things for Towerview. I pray that God would use us as His hands and feet. I pray that He would be gracious to us and teach us to follow more closely to His path. I pray that more people might come into His Kingdom through our church and, therefore, that our church would grow numerically. I pray those things and many more daily for Towerview Baptist Church. And I know God hears each of those prayers. Sometimes He seems to say "yes" and sometimes He seems to say "no" but I always pray anyway.

And then sometimes He shouts.

Yesterday one of our deacons came to me before our morning worship service and told me that since my wife and I arrived at Towerview 29 new families have joined. That made me happy. Now I'm not stupid enough to think that they came and joined because of me. Seriously. I know better. Nobody (except for my wife) knows me better than I do and I most certainly would not join a church just because I am the pastor of it. That last sentence sounds odd. But I think you know what I mean. I'm just really honestly NOT a big deal. As a matter-of-fact, I'm not sure that I would join a church that would have me as pastor. (Which is similar to what I tell Debbie when I remind her that I almost didn't marry her because I would not marry a girl that would stoop so low as to marry me.) Anyhow, I'm on my second career. My first lasted for 32 years. I'd say that's long enough to call something a career, wouldn't you? My first career was as a youth pastor. I was passionate about it. I loved (almost) every minute of it! And now I"m in my second career. I fully intend to spend 32 years being a senior pastor. I've only got 4 years in so there is a ways to go. I have to pastor until I'm 86 so get use to me Towerview.

But I digress.

Anyway my deacon friend Bob told me that 29 families had joined since Debbie and I came on February 1, 2009. That was 30 months ago. And you know what happened yesterday morning AFTER he told me that? :) Do you? A family joined our church.

How cool is that?

God has given us 30 new families in 30 months. I-JUST-LOVE-THAT! He is loving and blessing us! He's going bonkers over His kids at The Tower! And He clearly has confirmed for me that I am precisely where I am suppose to be. Not that I was doubting it. I wasn't. But now I am even more certain than I was before. We've gone 30 for 30 at The Tower, Viewers!

I mean ... how good is God anyway?!

Playing For The 4th Quarter

2011-08-12T22:59:00.004-05:00

I am not a "Tweet-a-holic." Yes, I have a Twitter account. (Feel free to "follow me." I have little of substance to add to the Twitosphere but my Twitter name is "Rotola.") Today I came across a tweet written by a friend attending a conference for leadership training in Chicago. While listening to a speaker she wrote, "Sometime when you live out a tough calling, you get beat up (like Jeremiah.) Are you available for tough assignments?"

Tough calling.

Beat up.

Tough assignments.

Is that really what I signed on for? Back when I was 13 years old and I accepted the invitation of Jesus to join His band of ragamuffin followers I knew nothing of what lay in store for me. I was just amazed that God would take the time out to speak to me, much less to die a horrible death in my place. I was stunned to realize that He had a plan for my simple life. I figured that if God is good (and He is) then I had best get on board with this offer. So I signed-up to be a full fledged Christ-follower.

Since then there have been truly great days and experiences. There have been truly horrific days and experiences. I had no clue about the highs and the lows waiting for me. I just knew I wanted to know Jesus because He wanted to know me. And I most certainly wanted to get in on this whole heaven deal.

I had no idea that this deal would cost me anything. I fully expected to live a life of my choosing. God had other ideas. It took Him a few years to get His point across but once He did I signed on for the whole adventure. I have made enemies. I have lost friends. Sometimes those I have trusted the most turned out to be the least trustworthy. I have presided over many deaths. I have physically intervened to stop at least one sure-fire suicide. I have taken a dead baby out of his mother's arms. I have seen a teenager hanging from bare rafters. I have stood next to more caskets than I can remember. I have performed weddings for marriages that didn't last a month. I have been on a first name basis with judges, child abuse counselors, DCFS case workers, and police chiefs. Seldom because anything good had transpired to bring us together. I have been threatened with physical violence both in slums and suburbs. I have chased down run-aways. I have sat on the side of an expressway in the Appalachian's at midnight with teenagers on one side of me and a broken down touring bus on the other. I have spoken to 6,000 people at once and I have spoken to 6. I have prepared just as diligently for both.

I could go on talking about my "tough assignments." But I could never ever top Jeremiah. Two huge scriptures come to mind when I think of this guy. The first one is "Before I created you in the womb, I selected you; Before you were born, I consecrated you; I appointed you a prophet concerning the nations…See, I appoint you this day Over nations and kingdoms: to uproot and pull down, To destroy and overthrow, To build and to plant." Wow. "Appointed" by God to be "over" to "uproot" to "pull down" to "destroy" to "overthrow" to "build up" and "to plant." That's quite a job description, eh? And then God told him, "They will fight against you but will not overcome you." I'm sure that must have been good to know. Nobody knows for sure how Jeremiah died but many have speculated that he was the one referred to in Hebrews 11 who was "torn asunder."

Nice. Nice.

I figure that it won't be long before I enter "the 4th quarter" of my life. I'm shooting for 80 and then I'll be ready to be done. So at 56 I've got 4 more years left in the 3rd quarter. I rather wonder what the last quarter will be like? I've watched enough football to know that you get your tiredest in the 4th quarter. I've also learned that it is in the final quarter that the game is won or lost. I want to play full throttle to the very last play. Nothing else will do. I want to win. I want the ring.

"Sometime when you live out a tough calling, you get beat up (like Jeremiah.) Are you available for tough assignments?" There isn't even a hint of a doubt in my mind ...

Dear Pai Rae ...

2011-08-09T21:27:00.006-05:00

Oh dear granddaughter. The world has gone and done it to you already. You are not even two yet and already you feel the sting of loneliness and the confusion of change. It seems that your precious sister has deserted you on your morning drive to day care in favor of kindergarten. You must ride in the back seat of mom's Jeep all by yourself. Even your once-a-week buddy, Judah, has deserted you for another set of friends in another day care! If you only had the ability to master the english language I'm sure your cry would be, "No fair!"

I hate to break it to you, child, but you are right. It is no fair. And I hate to break this to you even more ... life itself is no fair.

Your mom said you just leaned your head on the side of your car seat this morning and cried. Gosh I wish I could have been there. I would have cried with you. Or ... maybe better yet ... we could have figured out a game to play. Or maybe we could have held hands. Oh! Or we could have eaten Oreo's with wonderfully cold milk! And we would never have told your mother. Nah. She wouldn't be mad. But let her get her own Oreos. :) Sometimes a grandpa and a granddaughter just have to keep their secrets, ya know?

Listen to me, little one. There are going to be days when the playground feels a little lonely. Sometimes your friends just won't act like friends. And it's true that, on occasion, families are even far apart for a season. Those things will wound your heart. And I'd do anything ... ANYTHING ... to protect your heart. I'll do my best to always be around but it's possible that someday I won't be. So I want you to remember something. Something really important.

Today I walked through a huge museum and looked at airplanes and space ships. They were all famous. It was a fun place. And then I came across one particular space ship. A "capsule" really. It was nicknamed "The Friendship 7." One day nearly 50 years ago a man climbed into it all alone. His mom and dad were down on the ground. His brothers and sisters were too. Most of his friends were hundreds of miles away. And when this guy got into his space ship the lit the fuse on the rocket under him and he zoooooomed off into outer space. And for a few brief orbits around our planet he was really truly alone. l As alone as a person can be. But the man had one thing working for him. He couldn't see his friends but he could still talk to them. They had these really old style radio things that were all scratchy and garbled. But they could still understand each other. And the man in the capsule said that those voices were a bit of "home" to him while he was way out in the middle of no where.

That's kind of the way life is, Pais. Sometimes friends go away. Sometimes they might even get all messed up and stop being your friend. I'm sorry, little girl, but I have to tell you that it happens. But here's the thing. If you are ever all alone and you need someone to love you ... someone to talk to ... please feel free to punch the right numbers into your own phone (or your mom's!) and I will move heaven and earth to be there for you. Lot's of people will. But do me a favor, please. Keep me near the top of your phone book. Because you, sweet Paisley, will always be on the top of mine.

A sorta old man love you ... a lot.

These are a few of my favorite things...

2011-08-03T23:17:00.002-05:00

Things I am most thankful for...

1. God
2. God's love.
3. God's love shown through His Son.
4. God's love shown through His Son's sacrificial death.
5. God's love shown through His Son's sacrificial death applied to my life.
6. Grace
7. Grace that is sufficient.
8. Grace that is sufficient for me.
9. Grace that is sufficient for me to forget the past.
10.Grace that is sufficient for me to forget the past and not fear destroying my future.
11.My family.
12.My family being together.
13.My family being together and enjoying each other.
14.My family being together and enjoying each other with laughter and joy.
15.My family being together and enjoying each other with laughter and joy big enough to make them hate to go to bed.
16.My friends.
17.My friends that love me back.
18.My friends that love me back and let me be real.
19.My friends that love me back and let me be real even when I am obnoxious.
20.My friends that love me back and let me be real even when I am obnoxious with little chance of getting better.
21.Other stuff...a cozy fire in the fireplace/Debbie's corn casserole/quiet conversations about things that matter/funny conversations about things that don't matter/music that brings me into the presence of God/fresh hot cinnamon rolls/gadgets/medicine/plungers/sleep/people that get excited when you show them how to serve others/digital camera's/vanilla/coke/vanilla coke/ice/candle's/friends that understand/the laughter of my grandchildren/the smile of my wife/standing ovations deserved/back rubs/sunshine

A Tale of Four Cities and A Bottle of Whiskey

2011-07-14T23:48:00.006-05:00

I'm not certain if this is funny or just sad. As I arrived at church tonight I noticed our Director of Security talking to a man in the parking lot. It was obvious at first glance that he was being asked for money. The man was driving a pick-up truck that was rented from U-Haul. It bore Arizona license plates. As I got out of the car I entered into the conversation. The man was hoping for a cash contribution. He needed gasoline to get to the bedside of his soon to be deceased mother in Memphis, Tennessee. He was asking for five dollars.

(Memphis is several hundred miles away. Five dollars will not buy you two gallons of gasoline. I do not think that U-Haul's get 150mpg. This was my first clue.)

Adam, our Director of Security, had strolled off to look at the mans truck. There was no luggage in it. There was, however, a bottle of whiskey. (This was our second and third clues.)

I told the man that we do not give out cash but that if he would fill out the proper application we would look it over and after a back ground check by the police department we might be able to help him in the morning. He told me that he had already been to the police station and they had given him some spare change. He said that he had to get to Memphis tonight because his mother would be passing away in three days. Seriously. I asked him how he knew that it would be three days before she expired. He told me that the doctor had told him. (This was our fourth clue.)

So for clarification I tried to restate the situation. "So you live here, you rented the truck, and now you need to be in Memphis and five dollars in gas is going to help you?" He told me that I was not listening and that if I would just listen I would surely understand. He said that he doesn't live here he lives in Little Rock, Arkansas, and that was also where he rented the truck.

Little Rock.

Arkansas.

(This was our fifth clue.)

I asked the man if he knew where he was. He said that he did. I told him that he was in the suburbs of St. Louis. He told me that he knew that. I asked why he had driven to St. Louis to get to Memphis when he started in Little Rock. His reply was that U-Haul had given him bad directions. I really tried very hard not to laugh. Honestly, I did. Our friend could have driven from Little Rock to Memphis and back again and not traveled as far as he had come. I drew a triangle in the air to illustrate his situation. I looked at Adam and, honestly, he looked like he needed a little of this guys whiskey.

This was the time that he decided to play his "I'm not a redneck" card. I replied that I had never called him a redneck. And he told me that I kept telling him the same thing over and over. I said that was because he kept asking the same question over and over. Now he said that if I wasn't going to help him I should just say so.

I said so.

He got in his truck and left all in a huff, rented tires spinning on the parking lot asphalt. As he pulled out onto Lebanon Avenue there were four police cars sitting along side the road on what was obviously a drug-bust on a car they had pulled over. The U-Haul wisely slowed down and made his way ... toward Indianapolis.

Dear Anonymous ...

2011-07-11T12:06:00.003-05:00

Your comment on my last blog post prompted me to take it off the site, at least temporarily. Whether or not I put it back up is a question I will deal with later.

More importantly I want you to know that you have misinterpreted the meaning of that piece of writing. I usually write about my experiences as a human being trying to walk in the footsteps of Jesus.

Anonymous, I would love to respond to you directly but I cannot do that because I do not know who you are. If you would like a deeper and more personalized explanation please e-mail me at pastorronwoodsATgmail.com Otherwise, all I can do is say a public, "I am sorry that my writings hurt you."

The Man On The Frozen Perch

2011-07-08T23:33:00.006-05:00

Once upon a time a tired and lonely man rode an elevator up to the 9th floor of a building situated precisely where he did NOT want to be. He exited the elevator and used the metal key to allow himself entrance into the apartment that he most assuredly did NOT want to enter. The room was dark. It was dark because nobody lived there except for the man. He turned on a single light bulb hidden behind a purple (yes, purple) glass covering. The top of the apartment was white. The bottom of the apartment was white. The middle four feet of the apartment was a brown strip of paint that reached to every wall and every corner and wrapped around him into infinity. The tired and lonely man felt his stomach turn as he looked at the brown paint made black by the purple light. He saw his inflated blow-up bed and he thought of his lovely king sized bed that existed with all of its pillows and comforters in another time and another place. He saw his duffle bag in the corner full of clothes purchased in a lifetime that seemed not to be this life time. Perhaps worst of all he heard the howl. He had been in this apartment for fully four weeks now and the howl was present every night. He approached the sliding door and opened it. There was another sliding door beyond the first and he opened it as well. He stepped out on a slab of concrete suspended 90 feet in the air. The power of the howling wind took his breath away. The temperature, insanely far below zero, made his lungs hurt and within seconds his face was numb. Below, in the dim light which reflected from a nearby city, off of the clouds, the man saw lines of white. Turbulent lines. Churning lines. Angry threatening lines. These lines were waves and they would surely have washed over him, would have erased his misery by a merciful drowning, had he not been suspended far above them in his frozen perch.

A frozen perch 90 feet above death. It seemed appropriate.

The tired and lonely man made his way back within the safety and the warmth of his doors. As his face thawed he was grateful for the burn of nerve endings returning to life. He felt somehow that pain was appropriate. Surely a physical pain would be required to pay for whatever sins had sent him to this wretched life in this wretched place above his liquid death. He sat on the floor and leaned against the doors now covered in moisture. Moisture from the mixing of the heat within and the cold without. A winters dew of sorts. He felt the dew soak through his shirt and touch his skin. Any touch was welcome these days.

Opening a small rectangular and flat box resting by his side brought a jolt of life to the tired mans dim world. Within this box he could travel home and see memories in the millions of tiny pixels that glowed with an air of certainty from its screen. If pixels had feelings these were confident and reassuring. The little box would sometimes reveal the faces of those he remembered and missed. Sometimes letters would arrive in that box and he would read them. He lived for those pixels. Without them he would be truly and forever alone. And tonight the box held a letter! A letter from a precious one younger than himself. With true anticipation one only knows when he has not gazed into the eyes of another human soul in any meaningful way for far too long he clicked twice and opened the letter. It was poetry. Poetry that did not rhyme but nonetheless did sooth the soul. Yes, poetry to his heart. Among many other words the young one wrote the following...

"I cannot imagine what it must be like in that tiny room of that tiny apartment staring at that big lake. But I do know that you are living your story. And those who know you know that you are writing a story that anybody would want to read."

The tired and lonely man read the letter several times. And then he closed the lid on the precious pixels. He bowed his head. He gave a silent thanks for the pain. For the loneliness. For the seeming utter destitution of his life. Perhaps nobody understood. Perhaps nobody could "imagine what it must be like in that tiny room of that tiny apartment staring at that big lake." But a kind young one had spoken from her heart words that reminded him that he had not been forgotten by the one who writes the stories. She had taken the time to say "I care and I am reading" when every other life on earth seemed unaware of the man in the frozen perch. God breathed fresh life through an inkless, paperless, letter. And a little bit of the tired went away. A little bit of the loneliness lifted. He wondered if his story was to be a drama and a tragedy though he prayed for a comedy.

There would be many more dark nights for the tired and lonely man. Much more howling. But he kept that letter in a special place among the pixels. And when the tiredness seemed overwhelming and the loneliness seemed to swallow his soul he would click on it twice and read it again. And he would find the strength to get up, face the waves, and write more of his story. Someday, though he did not know it yet, it would serve him well as that young one became tired and a bit lonely herself. And he would on that day tell her that he actually did have a little glimpse of what it must be like to be in the darkness hearing the howling and wondering a bit fearfully what would come next.

And he would tell her that her story ... her story was beautiful. For her story did have drama. Her story did have comedy. But far and above everything else her story was a love story written by an author who could be trusted. And he, for one, could not wait to read it.

The most important things never make the text books

2011-06-28T23:17:00.005-05:00

It's the last week of June. That always reminds me of two things.

A - I'm a year older than I was last week.

B - The last birthday gift my father ever gave me was his funeral. Thanks, dad! There was only 51 other weeks to choose from. I appreciate it!

So I always find my thoughts turning to my father on this week. He's been gone 11 years and I still find myself occasionally starting to reach for the phone to call him up. The truth is that dad would now be 91 years old. And he would have made an awesome 100 year old guy had God blessed him with 20 more years. Alas, it was not to be. But I was thinking about him tonight while washing the car in preparation for a trip to Chicago tomorrow. And I started thinking about the things on this trip that would have wowed him. The things that have changed since he went home in 2000.

Dad would have been shocked by the little box that will hang by suction cup from my windshield tomorrow. To think that it is communicating with at least three satellites and that it was displaying a map while a young woman's voice was directing my every turn would have blown him away.

Dad was no stranger to the existence of cell phones. He never owned one but he "fiddled" (his word, not mine!) with my bulky, early generation phone once or twice. I would have loved to take him to the app on my phone that shows a relatively close-up from-outer-space view of virtually anywhere on the planet. He would not believe that I could pull up an image from beyond earth that shows his house and even the car in his driveway. Or the one that, by touching one button, gives me the address, web site, and directions to any restaurant in his town. He would have been amazed that I could take his picture with my phone and within 60 seconds my brother could be looking at it on his phone in Chicago 600 miles away.

Dad would have loved that I could bring a king size bed with me to his house and blow it up to make it 24 inches thick and sleep as comfortably in his family room as he would in his bed. He would wonder why they didn't invent them back when he was sleeping in the trenches of France or Germany in WWII.

On-Star would have left him speechless.

My father would have been mesmerized by the size and crystal clarity of a typical TV today. And he would say he didn't need one but I promise you that one would be in his family room tuned to professional wrestling (or, as he called it, "rasslin."). And he wouldn't miss one televised Cubs game for sure.

But I think the thing that would surprise my dad the most if he showed up this week in 2011 would be that if he looked at me he would see his wedding ring on the pinky finger of my right hand and one of his WWII dog tags hanging by a chain from my neck. I miss him more than I can say and when I touch those things I can kind of feel him in them.

And the older I get the more I seem to need to feel him around. I wish I had known much, much, earlier that life works that way. Some how the most important things never make it into the text books.

And Then I Heard Him Laugh

2011-06-24T22:21:00.005-05:00

Sometimes God likes to remind me that He is God. I suppose that on occasion I need a refresher lesson in that truth. You know how it is. Life happens. We get into rhythms and our days melt one into another and before you know it we have drifted into the assumption that we are in charge and in control. We come to believe that if we don't get everything just right, well, the world is going to be in big trouble.

My shoulders are not that big.

And so God throws days like today into the mix. (Let me state early on that I don't at all believe that God did the things He did today simply for me. I think His purposes were bigger than that. But He surely had me in mind as well as those other people and things. I want to be a good "under-study." So I'm striving to pay attention.) These are the days and these are the ways that God delights in teaching me for the gazillionth time that He is the one, the only, "I Am."

As I woke up today I did one thing before my feet ever touched the floor. Before my eyes even opened to confirm that it was time to get moving. I asked God very simply to please "order my steps today. I need to be in some places at key times and I don't know what those times are so please take charge of my schedule." That was a simple enough prayer. After whispering it I thought no more of it. Then it was time to be rolling out of bed, showering, shaving, doing all of those morning things, I climbed into the car, dropped the top, and began a quick series of errands. It was a beautiful day today and I enjoyed the running around. Still, it seemed to take longer than it should have. I finally found myself on the expressway moving toward St. Louis about 20 minutes later than I would have liked.

"God. Traffic isn't suppose to be this heavy this time of the morning. I need to see my friend, Phyllis, in the hospital and then leave there in time to see my friend Jeff in another hospital 20 minutes away before he goes into surgery. This traffic is making it tough. Please get me everywhere I need to be when I need to be there." The "Poplar Street Bridge" that spans the Mississippi River in downtown St. Louis was just ridiculous. All I could do was pray to be in the correct lane and inch along. And then I got cut off by a semi and wasn't able to make my exit. AAAARRRGGGHHH. I took the next exit and wound through side roads and alleys that I had never been down before. St. Louis University Hospital loomed in the distance, it's big green roof serving as a beacon to guide me through the neighborhoods. I arrived an pulled into the parking garage, got my ticket from the printer, and ... there was an empty parking space. On the first floor. I've been coming to this hospital since 1983 and I have never parked on the first floor. Seriously. Not. One. Time. But I knew I was late. I went inside, got my visitors pass, signed in as clergy, got my parking validated and made my way up to room 721. As I walked I prayed. God, please. Order my steps. I need to be where you want me when you want me there. Help me not to blow this. The errands. The traffic. Getting cut off at my exit. I'm afraid I've really screwed this up.

I made the quick turn into the room Phyllis was in, nodded at her roommate, and stepped onto the other side of the curtain where she should be resting. I found her propped up in bed. Three doctors surrounded her. I heard one speak the word "cancer." That was why I was here. I knew that Phyllis was being told this morning that her surgery yesterday had found cancer. I wanted to be with her when she found out.

Phyllis was crying. The three doctors turned and looked at me. The one that looked like Doogie Houser asked me if I was family. I said, "I am her pastor." The woman doctor said, "Perfect timing" and the trio divided to allow me to step to Phyllises side. I have never seen doctors move so quickly or be more happy to do so. I took my friends hand in mine.

"Pastor, I have cancer again," she moaned. I told her that I knew and that we were going to do the same thing we did the last time she had cancer. We were going to kick its butt. I told her it wouldn't be fun but that hundreds of people were going to watch her do physical and spiritual warfare and that I and her church family would be beside her every step of the way. We prayed. The head doctor gave me his card and told me to call him if I had any questions. Phyllis does not have much family and I guess he wanted someone to have his contact number. Or maybe he had ordered too many business cards. Or maybe I was looking pale and he was trying to drum up business. After we had talked for about 10 minutes the doctors excused themselves and Phyllis and I spoke for nearly another hour. We prayed too. And we cried a little. And then I took my leave of her.

And as I left the room God whispered. He said, "You really are not able to screw up as much as you think you can, Ron. I am in control of errands, and traffic jams, and missed exits. You just keep asking me to guide your steps and I will. Stop worrying so much. If you give it your best shot and don't make it where you think you need to be it's because I didn't put you there. I am God. You are not."

And then ... then I think I heard Him laugh.

Stupid Picture Chronicles #58

2011-06-22T23:04:00.003-05:00

Ahhh. The old camouflage bikini trick ... I almost didn't see it... God bless Wal-Mart.

Happy Anniversary To Me

2011-06-14T22:50:00.003-05:00

Happy anniversary to me. 10 years. Some anniversaries are to be celebrated with dinners out and gifts. Some are for simple, quiet, reflection. This one falls into the latter category.

It was February 2001 when, out of the blue, I got sick in a way I've never truly understood. Today, ten years afterward, I still have difficulty explaining what happened. The evil lasted from February 10 until September 8th. On that day it went away. It simply ... vanished. I don't know why. 211 days.

Life had been throwing fastballs at my head for a while. The world of teenagers in our community had been rocked multiple times. Suicides. Car accidents resulting in fatalities. An accident at a bus stop claiming a young life. A few severe child abuse situations. As one of the few youth pastors in the community it fell to me each time to minister to hurting families. I suppose that somehow in the midst of the chaos I forgot to deal with it all myself. Internally. I knew I was tired. I never knew that it was more than that. I worked out at least 5 days per week. I found great relief at the gym. A few miles running on a treadmill and nautilus weight machines helped burn the stresses and make them easier to forget. Or at least ignore. I wasn't looking in the rear view mirror of my own life to see if it was all catching up with me.

And then one morning I woke up and before I could even get out of bed I knew I was in trouble. The world was spinning. I guess it was like vertigo. That was not the worst part. There was pain. Deep internal pain. I couldn't point to anyplace and say, "It hurts here." It hurt everywhere. My body felt like it was turning inside out. And that first long day the pain and sense of detachment from reality lasted until about 6PM. Then it eased away and left me alone for the evening and all night. Unfortunately it came roaring back with a vengeance the next morning. It did that for 211 consecutive mornings.

Doctor's could not really figure it out. Everything checked out fine. God spoke though and told me clearly and in ways that I could not deny that I was not alright. He told me that I had lived myself into this mess. He told me that He was there. He told me that He would take care of me and walk me through the evil. And He did.

I could write a book about that year. The pain. The dizziness. The sadness. The desperation. The quiet and yet consistent "bread crumbs" that God left me to remind me that He was with me. Our church loved us through it. They gave me a nearly 3 month sabbatical. They sent my wife and I to a retreat for "hurting pastors" in Marble, Colorado. They flew us there, rented us a convertible Mustang, and picked up the tab for the whole thing. When I came back and stepped into the pulpit on my first Sunday they stood and applauded. I have never felt so loved. I will always have a deep gratitude to them for that.

Over the next 2 years I experienced a closer walk with God than I ever have in my entire life. He showed up so many times and in so many ways. I found myself in a love affair with my Savior. I miss those years. Such a gift.

Well, as often happens, the world blew apart again one day. This time it was not my fault. I just found myself locked in spiritual warfare the likes of which I had never previously experienced. Very unfortunate circumstances captured my attention every minute of every day for several years. I should never have allowed myself to get that deeply mired in emotional pain. I should have known better. But I was trying to follow Jesus as best I could. Honestly I was. I will go to my grave knowing that I was obedient. If I am wrong, He will tell me. But that is the only thing that will convince me that I had stepped out of line. Long before that battle ended I was sick again. Blessedly, the pain was absent but that was the only part of the old warfare that didn't return. I blame nobody but myself. Still, that doesn't mean I understand it. How can you follow God and wind up sick? I have no answer for that.

I am grateful that on this anniversary of "the lost year" I am living life on level ground once again. I celebrate the goodness of my God and I praise Him in the wake of the storm. I love what God is doing. I love how He loves me. I love how He has blessed me. I love Him.

I suppose I have made a lot of vague statements in this late night musing. Some things never need to be spoken of. Some truths don't need to be shared. It is enough to say that I am the only one who ever made myself go through these two seasons of sickness. And God is the only one to have brought me out of them. To reach the 10 year mark and not publicly proclaim His praises would be inexcusable. So let me just say it this way.

When you look at my life, anything good you see ... that is Jesus in me. Anything questionable or bad you see ... that is me. There it is. My life in two sentences.

Isaiah 41: 10 "Fear not, for I am with you; be not dismayed, for I am your God; I will strengthen you, I will help you, I will uphold you with my righteous right hand."

My Family

2011-06-06T12:20:00.001-05:00

I would march into hell with a squirt gun for any one of these people.

Stupid Picture Chronicles #57

2011-06-04T21:22:00.002-05:00

Courtesy of my friend, Dave Dugan. A lawyer. Go figure. :)

Stupid Picture Chronicles #56

2011-06-03T15:26:00.002-05:00

Seriously? I'm betting they were on their way to Wal-Mart.

Bill

2011-05-25T23:03:00.002-05:00

I believe that the first person I met upon my arrival at Towerview Baptist Church (other than the pastor search committee) was Bill. Actually, if you do not count my wife, Bill is the first person I meet at church every Sunday morning and every Wednesday night. That is because he takes the responsibility of "Chief Greeter and All Around Nice Guy" very seriously. It is nearly impossible to enter the front doors of our church without being greeted by Bill and handed either a Sunday morning worship bulletin or a Wednesday evening prayer list. And they both come with a complimentary hand-shake.

You cannot help but love Bill.

Unfortunately, he has not been well for some time. The last year has not been good to him. Bill has been fighting a nasty battle with cancer. And if you look at things from a purely worldly standpoint, he is losing. Quickly. Like maybe this week.

Today I walked up to Bills front door and put out my hand to ring the doorbell. I had not visited with Bill since last Thursday. On that bright, sunny, tornado-less day (that matters around St. Louis this year) he was feeling quite well. I found him sitting in his recliner. His sister was visiting from the Lake of the Ozarks. We had a nice visit and I gave Bill a book. "One Minute After You Die." It was authored by Irwin Lutzer and I strongly recommend that you read it while you still have the chance. Then I shared a moment of prayer with my friend and excused myself to continue my day. But that was Thursday and this was Wednesday. Bill's health had plunged rapidly since that time. The end is drawing near. And I came to see if maybe he needed to talk. As I put my hand out, finger pointed toward the doorbell button, all of my physical and mental processes ground to a halt. I don't know how to explain it. I have paid many visits to many dying men and women over 3.5 decades of pastoring. But today, before I could push that button a thought rushed through my brain with all of the intensity of General Sherman's burning of Atlanta.

I was about to speak to a man who within a couple of days would very likely be speaking face to face with Jesus Christ. THE Jesus Christ. The creator and Lord of creation. The gentleman I was about to address, perhaps give advice to, certainly pray with, would listen to me today without a doubt. What I said he would take as the gospel truth. However, by the next time we have a Wednesday roll around every word I was about to speak would be proven true or false by almighty God Himself. I will be Bill's "under-shepherd" for a matter of a remaining few hours. And then he would report directly to The True Shepherd. The Alpha and Omega. He will be seeing the nail scars and the marks left from a crown of thorns. But right now he was my responsibility. And when he stops being my responsibility he will be the direct responsibility of ... The Son of God.

I cannot begin to tell you what that did to my heart. I realized in a very fresh and new way the gravity of the assignment that God has bestowed upon me. My greatest fear is to fail in that assignment. My greatest honor is in having it bestowed upon me in the first place. And tonight it feels like the weight of the universe is resting on my shoulders. It is the most intimidating thing I have ever felt.

I am not worthy.

And I cannot think of one other word to say.

Life On The Broken Planet

2011-05-24T22:57:00.004-05:00

I remember April 22, 1967. I did not know it at the time but it was precisely 18 years to the day until my last child would be born. Nobody can look into the future and see something like that. I remember April 22, 1967 because on that day I was looking back about 18 hours. I was 11 years old and I was in a car with my pastor and other kids from the youth group I had just grown into. We were driving to downtown Chicago for a "Jesus Rally." I remember the rally, but again, that's not what is so memorable. On that beautiful Saturday morning we drove through the suburb of Oak Lawn, Illinois. The previous day it had been devastated by a monster tornado. These pictures <----- from Oak Lawn remind me of what we have been looking at all week in the unfortunate town of Joplin, Missouri. My juvenile brain went into overload as we drove through block after block after block of homes that looked as though they had been smashed by God's angry fist. I had a difficult time wrapping my mind around it. And I had a hard time understanding why the God I was on the way to worship at Chicago's Civic Center would allow that to happen. I still don't know the answer to that one.

A hospital full of sick and injured people got blown apart on Sunday night in Joplin. The current death toll stands around 124 in that city. And it is frightening to realize that roughly 1,500 people are still unaccounted for. No doubt most of them are with friends someplace and safe. But other people do not know that and so they found their way onto the list. There is also little doubt that many of the 1,500 are not at all safe. They really are missing. How can something blow the bark off of trees? How can a storm literally blow the pavement off of roads leaving only an ugly scar on the ground? How can a child be sucked out through the sunroof of his parents car? How can debris from the havoc the tornado creates soar 18,000 feet into the air? That is 3.4 miles UP. How can medical x-rays from the aforementioned hospital land in another city 70 miles away? I mean, what kind of force can do that?

I am afraid that I have more questions than I have answers. The older I get the more I realize that what I once accepted as acceptable reasons just doesn't really measure up. There are no answers available that make me go, "Oh. Okay. I get it now."

And so here is where I land. The planet we live on is broken. We broke it. It all started with an act that seemed tiny. The eating of fruit from a tree that God forbid a man and a woman to eat from. You can read about it in the book of Genesis. Chapter 3. So the guy and the girl break God's only rule. They decide to eat out one evening and make the unwise choice of restaurants. And thus we have the first "sin." It's just fruit, right? Hmmm. Do you know what the second recorded sin is? Murder. One young man killed his brother because of jealousy. From fruit to fight. From meal to murder. And the spiral continues on this very day. And the mayhem does not just effect people. It effects all of creation. It has resulted in earthquakes, tsunami's, hurricanes ... and tornadoes.

God help us.

But lest you think that is the end of the story, consider this. Do not for a minute think that we have been deserted and left alone on this spinning ball in space. God is still in charge. He paid the ultimate price to defeat the sin that so easily entangles us. He surrendered His Own Son to the powers of evil in order to buy us back. And because of that ... for those that believe ... everything ends WELL.

But for now we still live on the broken planet.

I pray though that you will find encouragement in these facts. God directs every lightening bolt. God counts every rain drop. God sees the impact of every hail stone. And not one single tornado will ever be spun out of a cloud without either God causing it, or at the very least, giving it permission. And now add this into the equation. He knows where you are. Every second of every day. People die under tragic circumstances. And yes, Christ followers sometimes get killed by tornadoes. We are not immune to the effects of the broken planet. Perhaps ... I'm not certain but just perhaps ... every time a lost person dies from tragic events God allows a Christ follower to die from tragic events also. Why? So the world will see the difference.

I sleep well regardless of the weather. Oh sure, I take precautions. I have a couple of flashlights. I have a sturdy and fairly safe basement. I have a battery operated weather radio. That is only smart. But the reason why I sleep well is because my Father watches over me. And someday He will call me home. If it's because I'm in a truly bad location when a tornado comes by ... well ... alright. I can think of better ways to go. But I'm His. I settled that long ago. And my earthly father taught me when I was a child that he would watch out for me and provide for me. My Father in heaven has done the same thing. So I think I"ll go to bed now. He's got His eye on me. It's on you too. And that gives me more rest than the best sleeping aid on the market.

Nighty night.

Thoughts from the "Time Out" corner

2011-05-17T15:31:00.003-05:00

I've been doing a little studying today. Um. Actually, I've been doing a LOT of studying today. Lately I've felt a little out of touch with the "Director" of this symphony we call life. And so I've taken three extended "time outs" today just to reconnect a bit. I'm not done. I feel compelled to do this at some level over the next week or so. I suppose I'll just follow the trail as God lays it out before me and see where that leads. Isn't that pretty much what life is after all? Following the trail of Jesus through the fields and factories, the oceans and atmospheres, the city streets and outback creeks of life? I've been in all six and I've observed His Hand in each one.

For the sake of personal authenticity I thought I would go ahead and expose some of the notes I've taken for the scrutiny of any who care to take a glance. If through my transparency you find me to be in error, please do let me know. Keep me on the path. But do be gentle. I bruise easily.

1. Sometimes faith looks like stupid. Sometimes stupid looks like faith. Good luck telling the difference.

2. My lack of doing anything wrong does not necessarily constitute my innocence.

3. Spiritual hoarding is wise and appropriate. It can never co-exist with physical hoarding.

4. God is in control of every click of my clock and every tick of my tock.

5. God's "being" and God's "seeing" are the same thing.

6. God's presence and God's manifest presence are not the same. We must be aware of His presence for it to be made manifest.

7. God's presence is not a matter of miles but of experience.

8. Be certain to aquire the life-long habit of spiritual response. "You have said, 'Seek my face.' My heart says to you, 'Your face, Lord, do I seek.'" Psalm 27: 8

9. Perhaps it is just me but the peacefulness of my sleep tonight will inevitably correlate with the depth of my Spirit-Walk today.

10. still searching ...

i-trouble

2011-05-10T23:08:00.005-05:00

I recently "invested" in a new phone. The greatly coveted i-phone now hangs on my belt or rests quietly in my pocket. Wowie, it's cool. I've used a "smart phone" for several years but mine always turned out to be dumb. When I moved from Cleveland two years back one of my last acts before pulling out of our apartments parking lot on our final frigid Ohio day was to walk to the frozen shore of Lake Erie and throw my piece-o-crap microsoft operating system phone as far out onto the ice as I could possibly manage to throw it. And then I yelled several hyphenated words at it. I was rather colorful in my diction as I loudly informed it that it would lay there for at least two more months just thinking about its fate before the spring thaw sent it permanently to the bottom of that Great Lake. I find great joy knowing that at this very moment it is still down there. A just punishment for its cellular sins.

My i-phone is nearly two months old. It's never hiccuped. Never had a glitch. It has never dialed a number all on its own or sent an email without my telling it to. All of my other dumb smart phones did those things. This phone works. Flawlessly. Every time. No problem.

And that's the problem.

It is too good. There are too many apps ... FREE APPS. I can go to Target, find something I want to buy, and scan its bar code with my phone and it searches nearby stores for a lower price on the same item. I went to six stores yesterday and can testify that the cheapest Tootsie Rolls really are at Walmart. I can put a receipt on a table, snap a picture of it, and it turns it into a pdf document that I can send to my church treasurer so that she can refund my money to me for a church purchase I've made. It finds me by GPS satellites and tracks how far I walk every day. Yes, it knows if I am walking or riding in the car. I can pull up a google maps street view of my location and it will point out every restaurant in view. Oh, I'm just getting started. It can tell me how badly the Cubs lost today before the first pitch! Okay, I made up that last one. But give them time and there will be an app for that.

So what, you ask, is my issue? Simple. I can't seem to go more than 5 minutes without touching it. I'm not joking. It calls my name. It does too much. Instant email, text messages, twitter feeds, Facebook updates, and even an occasional phone call. Did I mention that I have 2,000 songs on it's built in ipod? Okay, I seriously just checked to see what the temperature is at the South Pole and it took me 23 seconds. TWENTY THREE SECONDS, PEOPLE! (if you care it's forty four degrees below zero and cloudy. Sucks to be them.) Do you realize how long it would have taken me ten years ago to find the current temperature at the South Pole? I'm not even sure there was a way to do it! Why would I want to know the temperature at the South Pole? Simple.

BECAUSE I CAN.

The wind down there is blowing at a constant 21 mph and that makes its wind chill factor a mind numbing minus eighty-four. This honestly would not be a problem for my i-phone because I spent the extra bucks to protect it. I purchased a United States Military Approved rubberized case for it. It's water proof, sand proof, and I'm pretty certain that nuclear fall-out would have no effect on it whatsoever.

I remember when I use to read books. I had a dog that I petted once upon a time. My wife and I often held hands. I flossed. Now I just hold my phone and ...

I need help.

The Quandary Of A Death

2011-05-02T22:39:00.003-05:00

I'm having a problem. Osama Bin Laden. He is dead. He is assumedly in hell. It is rather clear that he died without Christ in his life. And it brings me no joy.

Please do not misunderstand. I despise what he did. "Despise" is not a strong enough word. I can throw out a lot of other words in an attempt to be more specific. More accurate. I am horrified. I find him despicable. I detest who he was, what he stood for, and what he did. Hell is precisely what he deserves. Eternal punishment in never ending torment.

And so do I.

Of course I have never given the orders to fly people filled passenger jets into people filled buildings. I have never ordered or even cheered for the death of a human being. But it doesn't take that kind of evil to cause a person to deserve hell. It just takes one simple act of rebellion against God. Even a small one. Need convincing? Ask Adam and Eve. It was just a piece of fruit. A simple piece of fruit. It was the only fruit on the planet that God told them not to eat. And they ate it. Sin. Rebellion. Just a little. And it multiplied and multiplied and multiplied until we witnessed that mind-numbing moment of history we call 9/11. It still turns our stomachs. I still feel the shiver of horror when I think of that day ... those images ... the desperate families seeking lost loved ones.

And it all began with a piece of forbidden fruit.

Every lust filled thought I have ever had, much less acted on, is the result of the fruit salad the first couple dined on thousands of years ago in that beautifully perfect garden. Every lie I have ever told. Every law I have ever broken. Every idol I have ever worshipped. I could go on but it makes my stomach hurt to think about "the real me." The one underneath "the pastor me." Oh yes, the pastor one is real too. But only by the grace of God.

1st John 1: 5 says, "The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it." You see, light and darkness can never occupy the same room. Light always wins. Always. There was a lot of darkness in me. I invited the light in one day and the darkness had to flee. I can still taste it. Still remember its chill. But today, thanks be to God, I walk in the light. There was a lot of darkness in Osama Bin Laden. He chose to die in that darkness. And that causes the light in me to grieve. I believe we see that same effect in the heart of our God when we read in Ezekiel 33: 11 "Say to them, As I live, declares the Lord God, I have no pleasure in the death of the wicked, but that the wicked turn from his way and live; turn back, turn back from your evil ways, for why will you die, O house of Israel?" I do not grieve because his evil reign of terror has come to an end. I do not grieve because their was a fire fight and the bullet found it's mark in his head. I grieve because the darkness won another one. Osama Bin Laden was not Satan. I suppose they knew each other quiet well. But until the very moment the bullet ended his life even OBU could have repented and come to The Light of Christ. He chose not to. And that is why I grieve. The real terrorist ... Satan ... won the battle for the soul of Bin Laden.

There is one death that will give me great joy. It is spoken of in 1st Corinthians 15: 26. "The last enemy to be destroyed is death." Now that will be a day to cheer. There will be no place to be found that does is not filled with the light of Jesus Christ. No soul remaining to reject His love. No graves to visit. No taste of fear in our mouths. No "breaking news" that causes our hearts to skip a beat. There will be light. Sweet, precious Light.

The Light of my Jesus.

Stupid Picture Chronicles #55

2011-05-01T20:16:00.003-05:00

Yeah. Let me look under my bed and see if there's any scrap gold under there I'm not using.

Getting my money's worth

2011-04-21T15:51:00.013-05:00

There are moments in life when you just have to call "stupid" by its first name. Stupid. Capital "S." My friends, one of those moments is here. I seldom blog during the day. It's my midnight pastime. It's what I do when the house is quiet and I feel a surge of inspiration. And then there are other times ...

I was driving down good old Frank Scott Parkway a few minutes ago and an advertisement came on the radio for the lottery. Upon hearing it, it took a moment for the message to sink in. When it did red lights flashed and offensive sirens sounded in my formerly complacent brain. The message of this advertisement took me so by surprise that I cannot keep from sharing it. As I said it was a lottery sponsored commercial. Not sure which state. Could have been Illinois. Could have been Missouri. The airwaves draw no distinction where I live. If I stand on my roof I can see the St. Louis Arch. Use to be if I stood on my roof I could see some big tall nameless (to me) building in downtown Cleveland. Of course my roof in those days was 11 floors off the ground and I was only up there once. Doesn't matter. You could see it. You could also see the Canadian waters of Lake Erie. But I digress. Long ago if you stood on my roof you could see Sears Tower and numerous other buildings in downtown Chicago. That was a lifetime ago. None of these things have anything to do with why I am putting cyber-ink to cyber-paper. All that matters is that I heard a lottery commercial. It went something like this ..

"How would you like to have $1,000 per week for the rest of your life? That's what you'll get if you play and win (insert whacked lottery name here.) The game where the longer you live the more you earn!"

Really? I mean ... really?

"The longer you live the more you earn."

Have we gotten so dumb that we now need to point out to people that after they die they will no longer get a paycheck? And perhaps the bigger question, have we gotten so brainless that it has not occurred to us that after we die we no longer NEED a paycheck? Is this the very best that the ad agency that holds the lotteries account can come up with? If so, I have some suggestions. Maybe they will read my blog, use one of these, and I'll be a rich man. Well. Until I die and they stop paying me, of course.

"Play the lottery! If you win you'll be rich until you turn into dirt!"

Or...

"Play the lottery! If you win you'll be rich until you aren't anymore!" (Note: there are two ways you can take that and both are correct.)

Or...

"Play the lottery! If you win we'll pray you die soon so we can stop paying you!"

Or...

"Play the lottery! If you win watch your back because we'll be giving Vito your name and address and we'll keep paying you until Vito brings us your eyeballs in a jar!"

Or...

Never mind. I think you get the idea.

I've thought it over since hearing that commercial. I'm going to take a pass on their offer. But here's a little advertisement of my own ...

"Forget the lottery! Use your money to support the work of your church, keep missionaries on the field, feed the hungry, clothe the naked, sponsor a child at one of the two links below, and help researchers find cures to horrific diseases!" Maybe it's just me but I have a hunch I'm going to get a much great return on my dollar.

World Vision

Compassion International

Here's Mud In My Eye

2011-04-18T22:31:00.002-05:00

I believe in God. I believe that He sent His Son, Jesus Christ, into this world "to seek and to save that which was lost." The phrase "that which was lost" refers to ... us. Without the forgiveness paid for by Jesus through His sacrificial death on the cross we are pretty much toast. But God loves. And God loves to forgive. And Gods love is directed at us. And God loves to forgive us. And that is a very good thing because it seems like we have a propensity to do wrong. That means we are in desperate need of forgiving.

Please allow me to tell you how that truth is working out in a very unexpected way.

When I moved to the St. Louis area from a foray into Cleveland, Ohio, it quickly became obvious that I would be needing to locate a new source of morning caffeine. I am not a coffee guy. I like my caffeine cold, sweet, opaque, and very fizzy. It's easier just to call it Coke or Pepsi. If it isn't coursing through my system by 11AM at the absolute latest I'm a wreck. After checking out a few options I settled on a little quick mart about half a mile from my office. The product was acceptable. But what really drew me to it was the people. While it's not a "mom and pop" place it was a big step down from the mega-chains like the ever present Moto-Mart or Quick-Trip. But I liked the people there. Nothing special about them. They are just people. The barely said "good morning" unless I said it first. But I began to go there on a regular basis and as I did so I did my best to engage them in conversation. That's what I do best. I talk. Eventually I met a young woman in her early to mid-20's. She was pregnant. She was not in a relationship with the father of the child anymore. She lived at home with her father. I remember feeling compassion for her. I began praying for her, asking God if He would allow me to build a relationship with her that might lead to her being introduced to this forgiver-of-sinners, Jesus. After nearly two years she and I have become friends. Yesterday she asked me to wait for her to finish with a customer so she could show me her latest photo's of her pride and joy son. I waited. He's a real head turner. A young man with a dashing smile for his 18 months of life. My young friend had asked me long ago what I do for a living. I told her that I pastor one of the churches around the corner but we had never really gotten beyond that. I honestly never felt God open the door for me to walk through it. I've wondered why. But I have learned that good things happen in God's timing or they don't happen at all.

And then today came along. My friends car was not parked in the lot when I pulled in. I was on the phone and I waited in the car until I completed my call before climbing out and walking toward the building. I had noticed the woman leaning against the building. She works at the store as well. Actually, she is the manager. She is about 60 years old and we have talked casually many times. Today she reached out and touched my arm as I walked by and asked if she could talk to me for a moment. I leaned against the building and told her that I had all of the time in the world. She looked away from me for a full minute. when she turned to face me again there were tears in her eyes.

"My husband has liver cancer. He's dying. He asked me if he could talk to a minister and you are the only one that I know. Do you think you could go and talk to him?"

My heart broke. It broke for her. It broke for him. It broke for my blindness. All of this time I thought that God was probably directing my attention to one person. It turns out that I was looking past one person to see another. I do not believe that Jesus would do that. I hope that I never do again.

I put my arm around her and asked her name. Nearly two years of seeing her 4 or 5 times each week and I didn't even know her name. I am very ashamed of that. She told me. And she told me her husbands name. I told her that I would consider it an honor to visit with her husband. I took out one of my business cards and wrote my cell phone number on it. I told her to tell him to use that number any time. 24/7. I am the only one who answers it. I will go to see and talk with him any time that he wants. Day or night. I told her how sorry that I am that he is sick. I explained how I lost my father to liver cancer 10 years ago and that I can feel a little bit of what she is feeling. She wiped the tears away and thanked me. I went into the store, got my daily "fix," and went back to her on the way to my car. I told her again how glad I was to be able to help her. I started to ask if I could pray with her there on the sidewalk but felt a definite sense in my own spirit that she was not ready for this step. So I passed ... for now.

This evening my cell phone rang. Her husband was calling. Tomorrow morning at 11:00AM I will go to his house and we will talk. And you know what the funny thing is? (Funny "strange," not funny "ha ha.") We are neighbors. We live off of the same highway less than a mile from each other.

And tonight I wonder ... how many of my neighbors are hurting? How many of them are hungry? Hungry for Jesus ... even if it isn't Jesus that they know they are hungry for? How many have I walked by without thinking twice ... without making eye contact ... without taking the time to get to know them. Two years. I suppose that God knew that it would take two years for this moment to come. It would take two years for both of them to be ready to talk. Maybe if I had tried earlier it would have ship wrecked everything. I don't really know. I just know this ...

I need Jesus to open my eyes. I need him to spit in the dirt like He did in the New Testament and rub the mud into my eyes and give me greater spiritual vision. I don't want to be blind anymore. I don't want to let one person in need walk by without their knowing that they are cherished by their creator and at least one member of the human race. God forgive me for the times I have done otherwise.

The God of Eyes That Shine

2011-04-10T23:28:00.002-05:00

I have been living in Psalm 19: 7 - 14. Allow me to quote it here.

"The law of the Lord is perfect, reviving the soul; the testimony of the Lord is sure, making wise the simple; the precepts of the Lord are right, rejoicing the heart; the commandment of the Lord is pure, enlightening the eyes; the fear of the Lord is clean, enduring forever; the rules of the Lord are true, and righteous altogether. More to be desired are they than gold, even much fine gold; sweeter also than honey and drippings from the honeycomb. Moreover, by them is your servant warned; in keeping them there is great reward. Who can discern His errors? Declare me innocent from hidden faults. Keep back your servant also from presumptuous sins; let them not have dominion over me! Then I shall be blameless, and innocent of great transgression. Let the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be acceptable in your sight, O Lord, my Rock and my Redeemer."

This portion of scripture is so very significant to me. Oh how welcome it is. I am still mining its depths. Simply moving beyond the first verse has proven difficult. I am in great need of having my soul revived. How to explain the difficulties life throws in the direction of any given individual? I will not even try. Suffice it to say that my soul is sometimes flat. Bland. Tasteless. All of the enthusiasm has been beaten out of me. Time does that. Life does that. Life is lived at a cost. We are instructed over and over again in scripture to be sure to count the cost. I have counted. It has occasionally been enormously steep. Yet I think it not as steep as the cost of disobedience. A flat soul beckons me to seek an audience with the Savior. Too many people depend upon me to hear what the Spirit says. And, quite honestly, that is the way I want to live my life. I want to have a "hearing life."

"The law of the Lord is perfect, reviving the soul..." The paraphrase according to Ron says, "God's way, decisions, and direction is perfect and will revive the flat soul..." May it be so. I have not yet figured out how that works. I suppose I am just asking for His working in me to produce the revived soul. Quite simply, I am asking for His miracle. He is God. That is not asking for too much.

"...the testimony of the Lord is sure, making wise the simple..." God can be counted on. There is no need to get a second opinion after God speaks. And I love this thought, though I be simple all I must do is hear and obey the direction of the Holy Spirit. I do not have to understand it. I do not have to figure anything out. All I must do is hear and obey. And if I will do that I will always come out on top, looking wise, leaving the doubters and nay sayers in the dust. How beautiful is that? How wonderful the thought! My Father will look out for me if I will turn to Him in simplicity, listening to His voice and doing what He says. It does not get any better!

"...the precepts of the Lord are right, rejoicing the heart..." God shows me the way to go by the statutes He has put in place. His precepts ... statutes ... never change. If I follow them I will move through life with great joy because the guide posts have been placed perfectly. Not one is out of place, out dated, or missing. Learn the precepts and live in joy!

"...the commandment of the Lord is pure, enlightening the eyes..." Because God tells me which way to go, moment by moment, and because His directions are pure of ill motivations or evil gain, I will find delight along the path. That delight will display itself through "enlightening the eyes." In other words, knowing and following God's pure and holy commands will give me shining eyes! Oh how I love that thought! Oh how I love to serve beside people with shining eyes! I want my eyes to shine. I sometimes lose track of His commands. They have been misplaced under mountains of policies, procedures, and heart ache. That is not acceptable. If God gives shining eyes ... I want shining eyes!

"...the fear of the Lord is clean, enduring forever..." I stand in awe of my God. And yes, I stand in fear of Him. Not just awed fear. I stand in old fashioned, knees knocking, teeth chattering, fear. I have seen Him at work, tearing apart what displeases Him. I have seen His mighty power as made manifest through what we call "nature." Nature can do nothing without it being a part of His plan or permissive will. Have you ever seen the devastation brought on by a tornado? I have. Up close and first hand. No cloud has ever spawned a tornado without my God's permission. And it is an awesome, fearful thing to behold. And because I know Him to be a fearsome God I also see His strength. And His strength works to my advantage because He loves me. It is as simple as that. Will a tornado tear up my stuff someday? Maybe. But not without His permission and not without His reason. Even if He does not tell me His reason He still has one. And I can trust forever that His reason is right, pure, and I can count on it for good.

"...the rules of the Lord are true, and righteous all together..." God always decides correctly. His placement of every grain of sand, every kernel of wheat, every cloud in the sky is flawless. Every day. Every where. To the most minute detail. He is all together correct in everything He does.

This is the God I worship. The God of eyes that shine.

Stupid Picture Chronicles #54

2011-04-03T20:47:00.005-05:00

My daughters friend, Nicole, sees this sign frequently and always thinks of the "Stupid Picture Chronicles" when she does. Wise girl! So, Nicole ... this one's for you! And honestly, you'd be surprised how many people think of me when they see this word.

(The author of "Lost In The Woods" neither endorses, uses, or suggests that you use the naughty word in this picture. But as my former pastor use to say when we would narc on somebody for using a bad word ..."Have you heard that word before?" We would say "yes." He would respond, "Well get use to it because you are going to hear it again.")

Stupid Picture Chronicles #53

2011-03-28T22:02:00.003-05:00

Missouri ... the state where if you haven't been born by today you don't get to drink today.

What Really Matters

2011-03-23T22:57:00.002-05:00

What an interesting day. It ran the full spectrum of numerical possibilities.

I began the day at a nursing home. I was there to visit a very sweet 92 year old woman. Elsie has seen a lot of life. Her smile has a hint of a devious personality that has been rather dormant of late. Elsie is not well. She is combatting bone cancer. It was a bit of a shock to see her today. It's only been two weeks since we last visited. But today she had virtually no voice and she was very concerned that she didn't look appropriate for a pastoral visit. But her memory is far better than mine and we had a wonderful conversation, raspy though it was. Elsie kept telling me that she would be alright if she can "just get back to Belleville." I so wish that were true. But Belleville cannot fix what is wrong with her. Jesus can. And He will. But He will do it His way. He always does.

And then I picked up a young man to share lunch with. Ben is 14 but looks and acts a bit older. He could easily pass for 15. I know, I know. That's not much. Unless you are 14. And then it sounds like an eternity. I ate a Chicago hot dog and Ben ate a chili dog. We both had fries and shared a basket of ... don't throw up ... deep fried macaroni and cheese. It was marginally interesting. I think it needs to be dipped in something but I have no idea what. Ben is everything that Elsie is not. Young. Energetic. Vibrant. Hopeful. He's only a high school freshman but he's already thinking about what college to attend. And he's in the process of selecting precisely which mission event he will volunteer for this summer on our youth mission trip. The time spent with Ben was like rewinding the clock 5 years. I still think being a Youth Pastor is the best job on the planet.

When I arrived back at my office Adam pulled in behind me. He is 29 years old. On Friday he will move away from our church, our small group, and our community. Adam is returning home to Florida where he will live with his brother for a while. He is somewhat a victim of the recession. He went from fully employed to unemployed to way behind in his bills in very short order. We talked together, prayed together, and shared a guy-hug before he climbed into his car and headed back to pack up his apartment.

Six hours and three people. Each living very different lives. Each living through a different era. Each deeply in love with Jesus. There's a lot of discussion going on in the evangelical world these days. Questions about heaven and hell are rocking boats. Analogies about the differences between "doctrine" and "story" are creating battle lines in places where battle lines are wholly inappropriate. I have clearly defined thoughts about these differences. And I grieve the battle lines. But through it all I find joy. The joy is in the people. People who just love God and want to learn more about Him. People who have bright eyes when they talk about knowing this God and the way He is working in their lives. I don't back away from controversy. But neither will I allow it to disrupt the mission. And the mission is clear.

Love the Lord your God with all your heart, soul, mind, and strength. Love your neighbor as your self. And let's not forget doing justice. Loving mercy. And walking humbly with our God.

Morning Through My Eyes

2011-03-16T10:41:00.004-05:00

(swish swish swish swish)
What. What?
(swish swish swish swish)
What is that noise? What is that moving on my face?
(swish swish swish swish)
(right eye opens)
Please, Lord. No. The room! It is not dark. Is it ... mourning. Already? Could it be? Nooooooooooooo... it is mourning.
(swish swish swish swish)
What IS ... ceiling fan. Oh.
(low rumble. higher pitched rumble. consecutive non-ending rumbles)
Pleeeease turn the noise down. Could those be cars? Why are cars driving at this time of the mourning?
(close right eye. Quickly enter low level dream mode. Sandra Bullock walks up and readjusts my Cubs cap. She looks me up and down. She gives me a thumbs-up and tosses me my mitt. I look at the field but before I can run out there she begins fanning me with palm branches and feeding me grapes. I hear a low rumble...)
Wait. WAIT! DON'T GO! That's a truck. Where did Sandra go? Where's my ball glove? Nooooooooo.... God. If you can hear me make it midnight again. You know. Just a simple way of saying, "I love you." I promise I'll go to church Sunday.
(Feed my sheep.)
Huh? Yeah. I know, I'm the pastor. Hey, that's not fair, God! You know I've gotta go anyway! I ... I don't have any bargaining chips.
(both eyes open into squints. head falls to the left. drool runs onto pillow case.)
Okay. I can to this. I've been doing it for 5 decades. I can do it again.
(Mammoth amount of energy expenditure results in a half sitting/half laying position, propped up on elbows. Another blast of will power and the upper half of me is vertical. Dizzy but vertical. A third shot sends my feet over the edge of the bed onto the carpet below.)
You hate me, don't you, God.
("My mercies are new every morning.")
What? Where? Could it be that the entire bible is inspired except for that sentence?
("Seek Me while I may be found.")
You aren't kidding, are you? You want me to ...
(My eyes close. I stare at the earth from my tethered perch. I dangle from the last space shuttle flight. All of the work is finished. I am the last man to walk in space from the shuttle. The beauty is astonishing. I feel a tug from behind me. Mom? What is she doing here? She stands in the cargo bay in her bath robe, reeling me in, pulling me back from my dream view. As I approach the door she hits me with a rolled up newspaper and admonishes me to wipe my shoes before I enter the cockpit where I will guide my high tech bird to its final landing at Kennedy Space Center. Dad sticks his head out of the bathroom and askes if we have any more toilet paper. I tell him that I need to go land our shuttle and ask if he can wait a minute. He gives me "the look" and slams the bathroom door startling me back to ....)
I stand. The bathroom. The bathroom use to be this way. It's probably still here. I enter. Dad is not on the toilet. I must be awake.

Noooooooooooooo.....

Because His Face Is Gone

2011-03-10T23:06:00.004-06:00

I have a new hobby. It's one I latched on to late last year after we appeared to have an intruder attempt to penetrate our home defenses in the dead of night. A basement alarm was going off and all I had to defend the fortress with was the equivalent of a soggy English Muffin. Honestly, it just is not a rollicking good time to go poking around a 2,100 square foot house spread over 2 floors with many doors and nooks and crannies to hide in. English Muffin in hand.

And so I began studying up and decided to get involved in the age old art of "shooting." You know. A gun. The only one I have ever owned was my father's old rifle that he got for Christmas one year when I was 10 years old. That makes the gun 45. I found out that he was about to sell it to a policemen in his retirement town for $100. Not acceptable. And so I gave him $100 and claimed a part of my inheritance early.

Somehow I missed the class where they taught you that your inheritance was suppose to INCREASE your net worth rather than DECREASE your net worth. Thanks for selling me my own heirloom dad. What a guy. But, in his defense, it came with the original bullets, cleaning kit, and scope. Somehow I don't think that firing 45 year old bullets is that great an idea. So the gun just sat all wrapped up in it's cover until I decided to try it out recently.

It jammed.

So much for inheritance. And now back to our story.

I decided to follow the advice of a good and trusted friend. I purchased a small caliber hand gun. I know, I know. Everybody tells me that it's all about "stopping power." You know, drop the intruder in his tracks. One slug from a .45 and the battles over with. But practicing with a .45 or the time proven .357 is an expensive hobby for a novice such as I. So I purchased a Ruger Mark III. It's a .22 caliber. That's considered small. One guy told me it was good for home defense if you shoot yourself in the foot and the intruder laughs himself to death. But can I tell you something? If somebody tells me they are going to poke a hole straight through me with a pencil and that the pencil is going to be moving faster than sound ... I'm going to turn and go the other way. And when was the last time a crooked crook stopped to ask what caliber bullets you were shooting after hearing the first "BANG!?" So I figure as long as I shoot first I'll probably win even if I miss and blow up the thermostat. Chances are he'll head out the door he came in. Unless he's all hopped up on Crack or PCP in which case I'm gonna tell Jesus on Him in just a couple seconds. So please pray that if a bad guy breaks into my house he's sober and not doped up. I like my burglars sane and thinking straight.

Anyway, I've been having a great time at the shooting range with the pop gun. I've learned how to tear it down, clean it, and reassemble it. For those of you who know fire arms, that is a major accomplishment with this particular hand gun. I went to the firing range this afternoon and shot at a paper target that was a shaped like a human being. The girl behind the counter asked how I had done when I was leaving. I showed her the target and she said, "he's dead." I asked her how she knew that. She said, "His face is gone and his belly button is definitely an "innie." Cool. 250 bullets and they all went through his face except for the one I used to enlarge his navel. I was proud that she had noticed.

Last week I took dad's rifle to the range. I had cleaned it up really well and learned a few tricks about it. It still jammed after about every third bullet. But what got my attention was that they told me I could only use a rifle at the range if I moved it at least 20 yards out. I said fine without really thinking about it. And today, as I was shooting with just the Ruger, I realized .... why does it matter how far out the target is? The bullet is going all the way anyhow. I mean, the paper target wouldn't stop a cork gun. Why do they care how far out I move the target? Sounded like a very good question. So I asked the young woman as I was leaving. She gave a satisfactory answer. It seems that in the rifle part of the range the floor is sloped. If the target is closer than 20 yards your bullets will hit the floor, ricochet to the ceiling and then go .... right back where it came from. She says they call that their "Duck and Cover" lanes. Hey. That's good enough for me.

Okay, boys and girls. There is no spiritual lesson to be learned from this late night writing session. So don't dig too deeply. Some days you teach a valuable nugget of wisdom. Some days you just blow stuff up. And today we just went "boom."

A Place To Land

2011-03-08T23:17:00.009-06:00

The day began with a hard wooden bench in a church constructed of stone and mortar. A white casket in the middle aisle held a body ready to be consecrated to the winters earth. What began as pain and blood and water was now finished and would today be returning to the dust from whence it had come. But only a cold and lifeless body lay enshrouded in the pale white coffin. The soul, the spirit, has flown to its maker. The tears born from beings of clay were most surely not heard in the heavenly realms where the cries were of the joy experienced as a wandering soul returned home.

The slow, rain soaked drive to my office was punctuated by a warm soft drink and a slice of cold pizza purchased from a place that specializes in selling fuel for vehicles and not the human body. Funny how temperatures often invert at the least desirable moment.

An arrival at a desk brought my action to a crawl as phone calls were returned, emails were read, and the foundation for plans were laid pertaining to an evening meeting. I am not a man of details. Desk time is ugly time. Sometimes ugly is necessary.

Home came none too soon. A quick glance at the news, an hour of "quiet time" in my home office, and the bride of my youth and I were off for a meal of hastily prepared italian food and the aforementioned meeting. All went well.

And the day was over. My "she" went to bed early, having slept poorly last night. I turned my attention to an unwelcome and yet needed home repair, washed my hands, and allowed my heart to take over.

And so it is that I find myself at my landing spot. It is a blue chair, half reclining, half supporting. As I rest in it, it rests in the room I call my favorite. The craftsmanship is far from perfect but it was created with my own hands. The slate blue coloring of the upper walls gives way to the white wainscoting below. The hardwood floor is mainly covered with a rug that stands out and brings color to the tameness of the blue and white. And the walls. The walls are covered with items of meaning. They would bring little on the open market. And yet to me they are priceless. Autographed baseballs from childhood heroes. A classic bobble head collection of saints the likes of Martin Luther, John Calvin, and the evangelist of all time, Billy Graham. I wonder if they would be proud to be so enshrined? There are rocks collected from vacation beaches and active volcano's visited in my past. My childhood first basemen's baseball glove. No, don't bend it! It will crack in half with age. And so will I if I do not land in this chair.

Yes, this is the place where my day ends. The place where the landing gear of my life is lowered and I descend from cruising altitude into this tiny corner of a room that I call my personal hanger. More rightly, my cave. It is dark, it is quiet, it is filled with history. My history. A picture of a dashing soldier in dress uniform greets me and I see the smart smile of my father, a decade removed from life now. An authentic baseball jersey bearing the number 31 of the Chicago Cubs, personally autographed with the addition of the numbers of strike-outs, career wins, and year voted into the baseball Hall of Fame. A part of Ferguson Jenkins over my left shoulder and a neon sign screaming "Cubs" glowing over my right. This room is as close to home as I get on this tumbling sphere named Earth.

A place of peace. A place of solitude. A place where I spend as much time prostrate before God on the floor as I do reclining with an open Bible in my chair. Everybody needs one of these.

A place to land.

Where I land.

These are a few of my favorite things. (Song reference not intended.)

My favorite book case containing a copy of "The Biography of Martin Luther" dated 1873.

"The Glove" and an original brick with paint intact from "Old Comiskey Park," former home of the Chicago White Sox ... where my dad use to take me to ball games.

My father's "WWII Dog Tags" and my first wedding ring (which my finger out grew. I kept the same wife and simply changed rings.)

Pure Peace

2011-03-01T00:14:00.005-06:00

Today was a day of unexpected twists and turns. I had my Monday all planned out when I arrived at my office. I'm not a "morning guy." But I arrived late even by my standards. It was about 9:45. I didn't feel too badly about it because I was in the prayer room praying and talking with a person who needed help until shortly before the big storm hit last night. So even arriving at 9:45 meant that I had only been gone from the office for about 12 hours before I was back. I didn't mind that. Pastor's live for the moment of crises. That is when we have the most influence and effect upon others.

But back to my point.

I spent part of the morning returning phone calls, updating a few things on the church web site, getting a relatively early start on next Sunday mornings message, and other minor details. My 32 ounce styrofoam cup of caffeinated adrenline was on my desk and being steadily drained.

Then the phone calls started coming in. Then more of them. Finally I decided that one of the really important goals of the day was to make contact with a 90-something year old woman in our church who is dying. She is hospitalized. And so I left the building and drove to the hospital. I left my Mustang in the parking garage in a a "Clergy Parking" spot and entered the building. Within moments horns started sounding, bells started ringing, and buzzers started buzzing. Hallway doors automatically closed and displayed signs saying "Emergency Status." Oh. Great. The elevators were shut down and the volunteers left their desks. I picked-up a house phone and dialed the operator. She gave me the room number I was looking for but warned me that I probably would not be able to get their until the undefined emergency was settled. Well, that didn't work for me. Their emergency didn't fit into my schedule. So I wound my way through back corridors, up seldom used stairways and eventually came out on the desired floor. In minutes I navigated my way to the room I was seeking. As I sat talking to a friend in the room I noticed that my elderly friend was looking at me. She was motioning toward me, calling me to her side. I got up and approached her bed. We began to talk.

"Are you ready to go home?"

"Yes."

"You know what I mean, don't you? I'm not talking about your house. I'm talking about the 'home' that Jesus went to prepare for you."

Her tired eyes gazed up at me. "Yes. I know. I'm ready."

"Do you realize that in a few days your Father is going to meet you? You will be introduced to Jesus. You will get to walk and run and jump and do all of the things you've missed? You can wade through crystal clear streams or maybe climb a mountain!"

A weak smile played across weary lips. "I'm ready."

I prayed with my friend. I told her I would see her soon. And I made my way back to my car.

You don't plan moments like that one. They just happen. I could have still been sitting at my desk doing some sort of administrative work. If I had done that I would have missed this priceless opportunity to bless. And it is a high and holy privilege to bless like this.

The rest of the afternoon fell apart. An assortment of "stuff" got in the way and I felt like I accomplished nothing of importance. But my friend lingered at the back of my mind.

And then at 4:00PM Debbie and I picked-up our son, Scott, at the train station. He came down to spend a couple of days before heading back to the ministry God has assigned to him in Chicago's suburbs. We drove to join my other son and his wife, Christopher and Laura. They were playing with our amazing grandson, Judah. And then we all drove together to meet up with the rest of our family for a wonderful 90 minute long meal that we share each week. My daugher and her husband, Kelli and Joe, were there with their daughters, Elle and Paisley. And my brother-in-law, Jim, came with his newborn son Anderson.

And then came the very best part of the day. Paisley. My precious Paisley. She's only 18 months old and she sat on my lap and watched her sister eating an ice cream cone. And then I realized ... Ron, you dummy. What are you doing? Paislely is WATCHING Elle eat ice cream! I asked Paisley if she would like some ice cream. She smiled and babbled incomprehensible words which, loosely translated, meant "Yes, please." And so I carried her up to the counter and we bought her an ice cream cone. And then we went back and we sat down and together we alternated licks for the next 15 minutes. And we giggled. And we dripped ice cream on ourselves and on each other. And I looked into the eyes of my granddaugher and I saw ... love. I saw happiness. It was ice cream. And it was grandpa. I never had the opportunity to know a grandpa of my own. But Paisley will. And as we shared our ice cream I felt it for the first time in a very long time .... pure peace. Thank you, Paisley. Thank you for slowing me down. For getting sticky with me. For giving me a reason to laugh. For reminding me of innocence. And pleasure. And a reason to look beyond myself and enjoy the gift of you.

And Then There Is Kelli ...

2011-02-24T23:05:00.003-06:00

I cannot write about my boys and not tell you about my daughter. She will cringe when she sees this. ESPECIALLY the picture above. But it is her life and ... well ... Kelli is a very thorough person and I cannot leave out a bit of history. She didn't want a blog about her. She certainly didn't ask for it! But she's getting it anyway. And yes, it would be inappropriate of you not to leave a comment or your favorite "Kelli story" before you leave this place. I must say, there is one photo here that is not at all horrific and I pray that it is not offensive to her. It's one of the best dances I've ever had. And I was certainly the most expensive. :) (And worth every penny...)

The DECADE of Chris ...

2011-02-23T22:47:00.007-06:00

For cryin out loud! Now EVERYBODY wants a special blog to call their own! Scott feels lonely and left out so I write about him. Then Christopher feels slightly ... slighted. So here we go, little buddy! Remember a few years ago when you declared it, "The Year of Chris?" As I remember it, it probably didn't turn out the way you wanted. But never fear. God heard your heart and I do believe that we find ourselves smack in the middle of the DECADE of Chris! I'll provide the best photo's of you but your family and friends will have to supply the memories. Let's hope they do a better job than they did with Scott. I texted them encouraging them to write stories. They deleted the text. They don't love him as much as I do. Scott's still not feeling the love. Maybe you'll fare better?

Feeling The Love... Scott Woods

2011-02-22T14:57:00.004-06:00

If you read the comments on my previous blog you may have noticed that Scott was not "feeling the love." He did not make it into the photo (for reasons please see Kelli's blog today at this link). Scott is also concerned ... and rightly so ... that his life has become defined by "snow mounding." It saddens me greatly to think that I may have hurt my sons feelings. And so I am rectifying this situation by adding a few photo's of Scott. And I would love to invite all of you to help ... redefine Scott ... by telling your favorite "Scott story" in the comments.

So come on, America! Let's help Scott FEEL THE LOVE!

We Swing From Bent Branches

2011-02-21T22:55:00.007-06:00

Today my 4 year old granddaughter, Elle, painted her left eyebrow with pink fingernail polish. This is not an oddity in my family tree. We swing from bent branches. Elle is just getting started. I tremble to think of what the future holds for her.

I received an email request today to confirm that I am the father of Scott, my oldest son. He joined a web based "family tree organizer." I admitted that we are related. And now I am a member of the web based family tree organizer as well. They tell me that nothing on the web is truly hidden. Once you put something on the web it is there f-o-r-e-v-e-r. So think before you post, boys and girls.

And since that is a fact, Jack, I thought I'd go ahead and tell you about some of the more interesting twigs in our tree. Perhaps then you will understand why I act ADHD, suffer from PTSD, and am addicted to HFCS. The following people drove me to it.

First there is my brother. His name is Jim. He just got a new hat. A friend gave it to him. It's a "pre-sweat-stained" cowboy hat. He likes it that way. Pre-sweated. The company that made the hat offered to put a bullet hole in it for a small extra fee. I offered to put one there for free. He declined.

Then there is my wife, Debbie. You remember her. She's the one that told the Canadian Border Guard that asked us where our destination was when we were entering his country, "Canada." I found it much funnier than he did.

Kelli pops up next. She is very normal. Not an odd bone in her body. One day half of her lifetime ago she bounced into my kitchen with a carry-out bag from Taco Bell and the news that she had just gotten her first "road kill." We smelled it before she even said it. A skunk. She was doused in his sweet revenge. When asked what she did when she saw the skunk she replied, "I just closed my eyes and kept on driving." See. Totally normal.

Scott. The name sounds rock solid, doesn't it? He's intelligent and seldom screws up. He has a blog site too. It's dedicated to "Snow Mounding." He waits until a heavy snow falls and the plows push it into big piles and then he climbs the piles, has his picture taken, and posts it along with the longitude, latitude, and altitude. Nothing odd about that, huh?

Christopher is the youngest of my off spring. I could dedicate an entire blog site to his antics over the years. Problem is, you'd never believe me. Let's just say that once upon a time he had his friends duct tape him to a stop sign so that he could see what people would do when they drove up. The first car on the scene was a police car. Did I mention that he believed until he was in his early twenties that our admittadly brilliant Golden Retriever was writing to him in poop in his dog run? Oh, and he seldom wears pants. Christopher's branch is exceedingly bent.

Kelli married Joe. Joe is totally normal. Except, of course, that he use to hold the windshield wipers of an old van he drove on with rubber bands. We all do that now and then.

Scott married Amanda. She is such a sweet soul. She works helping homeless women find a home. And she eats fried pickles coverd with "Devil's Spit." They say it's a sauce. I say it's a punishment.

Christopher married Laura. She is the one that makes our family sleep better at night, knowing that because of her Christopher is well cared for. Laura is about 5'4, weighs maybe 110 pounds, and can out belch any sailor you've ever met. She kept the car running for me one night while I lay the Christmas gift of a half eaten ham on the front porch of "a church official," rang the door bell, and ran. In other words ... Laura drove my get-away car.

Paisley is Kelli and Joe's other daughter. Elle dropped to one knee and proposed to her a couple of weeks ago. Paisley screamed and threw a ball at her. She's only 18 months old and, I suppose she figured that was too young to be getting married.

Judah is Christopher and Laura's son. He's only 6 months old and hasn't done anything wrong. At least not that I know of. I'll ask him later. Right now Christopher is nursing him.

This is my family and I am proud. (More family introductions to come. Be afraid. Be very afraid.)

Angry Birds For Angry Believers

2011-02-07T22:25:00.007-06:00

So I'm officially lousy at blogging now. I've finally become one of those people who say, "I know I should write more but gee I just have been so busy that I don't get it done but stick with me 'cause I'll get my act together." I always hated blogs like that. So I don't think I'll write one. Therefore this paragraph officially does not exist. But since it doesn't exist I'll go ahead and tell you that I've simply slowed down because this dumb foggy eye makes it hard to concentrate on a blurry screen. But I didn't tell you that because that would be cheating since I'm not really writing this.

(enter erase mode)

So I've gotten addicted to "Angry Birds" lately. For those of you not as up to speed and trendy as I am, "Angry Birds" is a game played by techno-addicts on smart phones, I-Pods, etc. There are 20 levels and I've been stuck on level 19 for a week. Your job is to destroy these pig-like creatures by launching angry birds at them from this nifty sling shot like device. (I wish I had a real one.) The piggies (or whatever they are) are protected by wooden structures or slabs of ice and they progressively become harder to hit and destroy. On level 19 the pigs are surrounded by thick wooden planks which also have embedded stones all around them. Oh, did I mention that you only get 3 or 4 birds to kill them off with? It's fun but I do warn you that it's very hard to stop playing. So don't take it to work with you. And while it isn't texting I don't suggest you play it while driving. Heaven help us all if you do. Tell Jesus I said "Hello."

Anyway, I was having some "God time" today. I was in my cave. I spent some time reading Romans for the gazillionth time this year. I'm on a Romans kick. I'm anxious to get to heaven but I dread meeting Paul. He's my biggest phobia. Eventually I closed my bible and took a deep breath. Okay, I'm only telling you this because it's important to me. And I think you might relate. So listen up. I was talking to God about the deepest frustrations in my life. God knows I'm a whiner. He seems okay with it. He's yet to tell me to "shut-up." But this time as I was talking about the things that I'm trying to win out over God came and He clearly had something He wanted to get across.

I am "Angry Birds."

I have these issues, you see. And some of them are people instead of situations which is even worse. And they bug me. Big time. And most every day I spend time loading up my spiritual sling shot with bible verses and great quotes from people smarter than I am (both of them) and then I launch them at my deeply embedded issues. Usually they hit the big rocks or the wooden planks and they just bounce off, doing minimal damage and giving me minimal satisfaction. And in my spiritual life I get stuck on level 19.

Yet the real problem is not that I'm stuck on any given level. The real problem is that I'm playing at all. I've gotten so focused at shooting at my issues that I've forgotten that life isn't about me "winning the game." No. It isn't. Really. Life is about learning to share a yoke with Jesus and pull in rhythm with Him. Life is about getting to know Him better and resting in His embrace. And that's really hard to do when you are loading sling shots and shooting at stuff.

I've learned a lot over the years as I've walked out this life with God. But I keep forgetting the most important part. It isn't about my winning. It's simply about this ... "Jesus loves me, this I know, for the bible tells me so."

I just thought maybe you could relate. Either way ... you may now resume your regularly scheduled life. Oh, and keep your eyes on the road and off your smart phone.

I Can Be Such A Dork

2011-01-31T23:10:00.004-06:00

Every good story has a follow-up story. Usually at the expense of my personal pride. Case in point ...

It has been a semi-difficult eight days dealing with a wonky eye. It isn't all that bad. It still fogs up every few minutes but at least I know why. I have "The Mother Of All Floaters" impeding my vision. Still, a few blinks and maybe a little shifting of my eyes and it usually moves on for a few minutes. I repeat that venture about every twenty minutes or so and put it out of my mind. If this is my greatest health difficulty, well, I have no complaints.

And then last night happened.

I woke up from a sound sleep around three in the morning. Our bedroom is pretty dark. There are two windows facing the north. At the back of our rather shallow backyard is a tree line with wonderfully tall trees. The block the shining lights from the homes behind us. But we are one house removed from a major thoroughfare in the Illinois suburbs of St. Louis. So there is a dim light from street lights standing guard along that avenue. I opened my eyes and noticed more wonkyness as I turned over. A line. A non-moving line, this time across my right eye. It is my left eye that has been giving me problems and so this was new. I turned my eyes in each direction and the line stayed put. It did not move with my eyes. I moved my eyes up and down. Again, the line stayed in its stationary position.

Weird. This. Cannot. Be. Good.

I felt that sick feeling on the inside. The one you get when you realize that something outside of your control is happening. The feeling that tells you that you are going to have to go to the doctor like ... now. I was warned both at the emergency room and at my ophthalmologists office that if anything changes ... anything ... come back immediately. I dreaded the thought of waking Debbie and telling her that I had to return to the hospital in the middle of the night.

I pushed my head deeper into my pillow and sighed. I just wanted a minute to clear my mind before starting what would surely be a long medical journey on a day when Debbie and I both had pressing things on our agendas to accomplish.

My nose itched. I scratched it. What? I paused and then allowed my fingers to coast across my face. Indeed something was wrong. Something needed immediate attention. I often get a clogged head at night and before turning in I had plastered a "Breath Right" to my nose. The right side had come unstuck. It was sticking up. Pointing out. Directly across my line of sight.

The unmoving line that I was seeing was the narrow edge of the "Breath Right" as it jutted out about half an inch in front of my eye.

I can be such a dork.

Blessed X 20,200

2011-01-16T22:22:00.005-06:00

Sometimes I forget. I have lived approximately 20,200 days on this planet. Every now and then God sends or allows an event into my life that reminds me just how blessed I have been. I am in the middle of one of those events. And as I navigate my way through it, it is so very important to me to learn what I am to learn and, as Paul said, to "Rejoice in the Lord always." You see, very, very few of my 20,200 days have been days of extreme difficulty. And not one of them has been a day of true devastation. And yes, sometimes I forget.

I am 55 years old and this morning was the first time I looked down at my arm to see this ...

Most of you recognize that as the tubing apparatus of an "IV." You recognize it because you have had one ... or many ... before. And it took me 55 years to have my first.

How blessed I am!

Yesterday I was riding with my son, Christopher, through the streets of St. Peters, Missouri. Our quest was simple. Secure a load of Chinese food to take home to our respective brides. Yes, we are the "hunters/gathers" of our family. Suddenly I noticed an influx of "floaters" crossing my field of vision in my left eye. This isn't totally new to me. I've had a few of these harmless yet annoying things since I was in high school. But this was extreme. By the time we got back to Christopher's apartment my left eye was hazy. It would come and go ... but mainly come. I chalked it up to some unknown intercranial event and hoped it would pass quickly. Evening came and with it a dark house. I walked across the living room to the light of the television behind me. I turned my head quickly to the left to glance down the hallway and immediately noticed a bright flash of light rocket in an arc through the periphral visioon of the same eye. Every time I turned my head I saw this flash.

Uhhhh ... not good. I recognized those as signs of a potential tear of the retina. This is referred to as "an emergency situation." I caved in and told Debbie what was going on. We decided to sleep on it and see if it went away over night. It didn't. And so I did something I've never done before. I asked my assistant pastor to speak in my place with only a couple of hours notice. (Thanks, Mike!) And I told Debbie that I needed to go to the emergency room. Now THAT is another something that I have never done. I set my own broken toe once, buddy taped it to the one next to it, put my shoes on, and darted off to pray with a woman before her surgery. My toe was at a total 90 degree angle before I set it. But real men don't go to the emergency room!

Until it starts "lightening" in his head. That's a game changer.

So I found myself lying on a gurnee staring at my first IV this morning, waiting for a doctor to come and do an ultrasound on my left eye. As of now they have pretty much decided that my retina is just fine, thank you. Actually, they didn't find anything wrong. That's because we passed about 10 hospitals to get to the mega-hospital where my doctor's all work. You know. The one that's also like a "level 1 trauma center." And their main eye examiining machine is on the fritz. Go figure.

The agenda tomorrow includes a fun visit to my opthomologist who will do all of those things that the hospital could not. They suspect that the gooey fluid inside of my left eyeball (there's a real name for it but neither of us would be able to pronounce it so I'm going with "gooey fluid") has torn away from the wall of the eye, causing all of this fun. If so, there's a good chance that it's self-healing. Or maybe not. All I know tonight is that this guy is going to do the one thing that I hate more than I hate eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. He's going to actually TOUCH my eyeball. This could put one of us a great risk for bodily harm.

But all of that is not the important part. That's just the details to help you understand this....

God? I hope you read my blog because there is something that I want to say to you. Thank you so very much. You've given me this body. It was never designed for speed. That's always been obvious to anyone who has been watching. It can't run a fast mile or do a 30 foot long jump. This body was built for duration. Endurance. Thank you for 55 years without an IV. I do not feel sorry for myself because I am having some problems, God. (Though if you would like to take them away that would be fine with me.) I feel blessed X 20,200. And I thank you, Sir.

The Death Of My Childhood

2011-01-10T22:29:00.004-06:00

My world has been rocked.

It all began with a wonderful evening! At 4PM Debbie and I picked-up The Amazing Elle and took her to see the "Yogi Bear" movie. Me and Yogi go back. Way back. He was my favorite cartoon during my growing up years. That says a lot because he had to beat out Huckleberry Hound. And Huckleberry doesn't go down without a fight. But I was always a Yogi guy. Boo-Boo, while pretty cool in his own right, was just a sidekick.

Before the movie began we sat through a few of the obligatory "Previews of Coming Attractions." And then ... a cartoon! How long has it been since you saw a cartoon precede a movie? Never mind. You probably are not old enough. This was not just any old cartoon either. It was Wile E. Coyote VS. The Roadrunner. Pure class. Warner Brothers, I love you.

And then it all blew apart. Oh sure. Wile E. coyote was chasing the Road Runner. The basic plot remained unaltered. But today ... today he does it on a Segway. You know. That battery operated thing you stand on and it does your walking for you. I don't want to give too much away ... not that it matters ... but Wile E. Coyote did not win. Neither did the Road Runner.

The Segway won.

Can you believe that? It must be 2011. It's come down to this. The flippen coyote is to lazy or old to run and he has to resort to technology. Where does it all end, I ask you? My childhood has come crashing down. Rumor has it that Dudley Do-Right is out of town at a law enforcement conference. But never fear! He's skyping with the lovely Nell. Rocky sold Bullwinkle to a local zoo in order to pay for his drug habit. And Mr. Peabody? He's running a meth lab down on 32nd Street.

Oh, the spirits of cartoons gone by. And no, this time they aren't friendly spirits, Bullwinkle.

10 Children's Books You'll Never See

2011-01-09T22:47:00.003-06:00

(Unfortunately, these are not original with me but I couldn't resist making them available for your reading enjoyment....)

10. The Boy Who Died From Eating All His Vegetables

9. Curious George And The High Voltage Fence

8. The Magic World Inside The Abandoned Refrigerator

7. "Pop Goes The Hamster" And Other Microwave Games

6. Daddy Drinks Because You Cry

5. Strangers Have The Best Candy

4. What Is That Dog Doing To That Other Dog?

3. Controlling The Playground: Respect Through Fear

2. The Pop-Up Book Of Human Anatomy

And the #1 Children's Book You Will Never See ...

1. Grandpa Gets A Casket (I am a grandpa so I'm exercising my right to use this one)

Gloom Can Last A Very Long Time

2011-01-05T22:49:00.006-06:00

As I was preparing to go to Fort Worth, Texas, last week to conduct the wedding ceremony of a long time friend I decided to download a new book onto my Kindle. I've always been a little bit intrigued by the assassination of President Kennedy. I was 8 years old and in the 3rd grade when it happened. I remember it clearly. And so it wasn't unusual that I would purchase a newly published book, "The Kennedy Detail." This book chronicles the tragedy from the perspective of the Secret Service detail that was assigned to protect the President in Dallas. These agents have remained quiet for 47 years. They have finally come forward with their story. Due to their ever advancing age they realized that the world needed to hear from them before they were gone.

So I settled into the flight from St. Louis to Love Field in Dallas and began skimming the book. I found myself fast-fowarding to the part that describes the presidents last night on the planet. He and his wife, Jackie, spent the night at the "Hotel Texas" in downtown Forth Worth. That intrigued me because downtown Forth Worth was where we would be staying. Our address would be the Hilton Hotel for the next two nights.

We arrived in Dallas, got our luggage, rented a car, and drove into Fort Worth. The hotel check-in process went smoothly and in minutes we found ourselves in room 434. I stowed the luggage and took a break to check the place out. In the restroom I found a framed print of the building we were in. On the bottom of the print was a engraved brass plaque that read, "This hotel is the former "Hotel Texas." This is the location where President and Mrs. Kennedy spent the night before giving a speech and leaving in the motorcade that would forever cost our country its innocence."

Whoa. This is the place. I had just read about the Secret Service Agents walking its hallways. Riding its elevators. Trying to catch a quick nap while rotating guard duty on the 8th floor. Hearing the Presidents New England accent through the door as he chatted with his wife for what would prove to be the final time. It felt ... strange. Not ghostly. Not haunted. But certainly historic. It made me want to find someway to reverse everything and shout at whoever would listen, "Don't go! It will mean the end of Camelot!" And there was a certain overwhelming hint of sadness. I can't say that I liked it.

We left the hotel for an evening at our friends house in suburban Burleson. After enjoying time with the families and a wonderful meal we returned to downtown and left our rental car with the valet parking guy. As we entered the lobby we were greeted by the concierge. He quickly asked us how our evening was and if we needed anything. I couldn't help myself. I asked him what he knew about the history of the hotel. How much had it changed since the fateful night of November 21, 1963? He walked us through the lobby, pointing out that, while most things had stayed the same, it had pretty much been made-over to look much like it did on that night. He told us that suite 850, the Kennedy Suite, no longer existed. The management realized that it would be a place of morbid curiosity and so they expanded suites 349 and 851 to occupy the space that once house 850. (I actually walked the hallway and the number 850 did not exist.) And he asked us if we would like a tour of the current Presidential Suite. Well, duh. YES WE WOULD!

I have to tell you, it was pretty cool. And it was certainly big. The walls were covered in Kennedy photographs and paintings and all sorts of things that are dedicated to his memory. Huge chandeliers hang from the ceiling. The bathrooms are the size of my home bedroom. And, honestly, I could not sleep in that place if I tried. It felt more like a museum or a library than a hotel suite. 15 foot ceilings, huge thick drapes, marble floors, not exactly places where I like to kick my shoes off, lay on the floor, and watch a football game. Not to worry though. I'm not really considering spending the $2,500 per night that the room costs to rent!

All in all it was a very interesting experience. However, I felt that it was difficult to sleep there. The sense of history overwhelmed my sense of sleepiness. And it takes a lot for that to happen.

A slice of history. Another time in that same place held some amazing moments. There is really no good way to wrap up this little article. It is obvious how it ended. Not well. Not well at all. 47 years is a long time. But evidently it is not long enough to erase the sadness held in a building that never expected to be historic. Occasionally gloom can last a very long time.

I Wish I Liked Christmas As Much As I Like Christ

2011-01-04T22:55:00.003-06:00

Can I be brutally honest? I mean, this is my blog. You get to read it for free. So I guess I can say what I want to say. Perhaps I'm feeling a little "post-holiday cranky." I've had 3 different viruses in the last 4 days (though number 3 might be an allergy. Who can ever tell about these things?) So watch out.

I warned ya...

Christmas is not my favorite time of the year. I know, I sound like a pagan or a communist or something for saying that. I've spent 55 years denying it but it's time to 'fess up. Let me make a few things very clear first.

A) I love Jesus. Actually, I love the whole Trinity. Father, Son, Holy Spirit. And I totally do not mean to be flippant or disrespectful in my phraseology. I am not merely a Jesus fan ... He is my Savior. I owe Him everything. He is my best friend. I would rather spend time alone with Him than anyone. I take joy in worshipping Him. So my lack of passion for Christmas is not a lack of passion for the birthday Boy. Not even close.

B) I love the church. She is the Bride of Christ. I am a part of her. I do not disrespect her, feel cynical about her, or in anyway mean to trash talk her. Never trash talk Jesus bride. That would, I suspect, be a very dangerous thing to do.

C) I love my family and my friends. Both my local family and my long-distance family. I would do anything for them. My local friends and my long-distance friends. Again, they are on my short list of things (people) I would die for. So I don't mean any of this as a slam against them. For that matter, I don't mean it as a slam against anybody.

So now that we have that out of the way, here we go.

The Christmas season sometimes leaves me cold. It is all of the usual things that people complain about when they analyze Christmas and it is more. Crass commercialism? Yes, of course. I detest the way that the media insists on a day by day dissection of whether or not we are going to spend as much money on each other as we did last year. How despicable is that? While Santa reigns in center court of every mall, Jesus sits outside somewhere beyond the parking lot. And we do not even try to hide it. "We" being the church. We fall for the same thing pagan's fall for. The only possible difference is that we spend our money in "Christian" bookstores ... of course they are owned by conglomerates that have nothing to do with anything remotely Christian. On the other hand I am well aware that I should not expect anything better out of the world. I mean, at least we are giving each other gifts. We are generally not killing each other. We are, for once, being nice and thinking of people other than ourselves. So I suppose that there is a plus side. It's just a smaller plus side than I would like.

I confess to being bugged by eight foot tall glowing Santa's. Mine is only four feet tall. I suppose my problem must lie in the additional four feet?

And then there is "The Little Drummer Boy." Have you ever really listened to that song? It's about some guy playing a drum solo for baby Jesus and getting a smile in return. Isn't that just a little bit goofy? There are twenty-one "rum pum pum pum's." This lyrical masterpiece has one hundred and sixty eight words. Ninety eight of those words are either pa, rum, or pum. That leaves seventy words for substance and story line. Do I really need to say more?

Fudge. I love fudge. Vanilla is my favorite but nobody makes it so I settle for chocolate. It is usually polluted by nuts of some sort. All nuts are evil so it doesn't really matter. I suck the fudge off of them and spit them out. Why do people only make fudge at Christmas? Have you ever seen fudge at an Independence Day celebration? Memorial Day? Have you ever seen green fudge on St. Patricks day? Face it, if it is not Christmas your only hope for getting fudge is to go to some tourist spot and pay $7.99 per pound. Not even fudge is worth $7.99 per pound. Carrot Cake is another evil thing that seems to dominate Christmas. People ... vegetables do not belong in cake. Ever. Make a note of it.

Now that I am fifty five years old the gifts that I receive at Christmas tend to be designed to encourage me to do things that will not hurt me. You know. Things that point me to my favorite easy chair rather than participation in a wild eyed sporting event or even a minor league work-out. I suppose that I should make that concession to Christmas. I can't get hurt watching a dvd in my new sweater. Well, I can. But only if I fall out of my chair.

And here is the real problem. Who has the time during December to really sit down and contemplate what Christmas means? Can you honestly say that at any time during the stretch between Thanksgiving and Christmas day you are able to simply reflect on the magnitude of what this holiday means? I'm not really all that bugged by the shopping and the culinary gorging and such. I'm just irritated that the entire season slips by and I feel so pressured to "do the Christmas thing" that I never connect with Christ Himself. And you know who's fault that is? Mine. You don't run my schedule. Nobody runs my schedule but me. So it's my fault. Not yours. Certainly not God's. The gavel crashes down on nobody but yours truly.

I could go on but what's the point? I am always more tired when Christmas is over than I was when it began. I just wish that we (the church) could find some way to love Jesus out loud without having to fake it. And that is what Christmas so often seems to be. Faking it. Convincing ourselves that we are really loving and caring and self-sacrificing when maybe it's just not so. I think that it would be really cool if, for instance, someone would just forget about the fudge and instead call up a friend and just say, "How are you doing? Tell me the truth. What is on the front burner of your brain these days? Let me in on it so that I can pray for you or simply encourage you. Because I care and I don't need to spend a penny to prove it." How refreshing that would be!

Ok, enough. This is probably a really bummer/detestable little article.. I apologize if I drug you down with my thoughts. That was not my goal. Honest. But every now and then I have to just say, "Hey, this is MY blog spot and so I'm just going to write what is on my mind." And that is all that this has been. It's what is on my mind. It may or may not be close to the truth. It may or may not apply to you, the reader. I haven't a clue. It's just where my brain is. I'll probably wake up at about 3AM, burp, and be over it. So sleep tight and puh-lease don't let these mini-ranting make a dent in your tomorrow.

God is good. He can take it when I'm feeling less than exhilarted. I hope you can too. Let's worship Jesus in January even more than we did in December ...

It's How The World Works ...

2010-12-26T23:32:00.002-06:00

Life is interesting. Eternity? Even more so.

Have you ever noticed that life on planet earth begins with our growing up in a desperate attempt to leave home, live on our own, and govern our lives as we see fit? I remember saying "I do" to a 19 year old blonde girl that had captured my 22 year old heart. We are still doing life together and loving it. We began putting together our own place and haven't lived under any other persons roof since that day back in 1977.

I have spent much of today dwelling on the realization that the day comes when this trend reverses itself. Sometimes I long to "grow down." I hunger for the guiding touch of a loving father. And ultimately, I long to go home. Our real home. The one that we will never have to leave.

It has been an amazing couple of days. Our kids, our grandkids, extended family, and many friends have made a revolving door out of the front of our home. And we so love it that way! These are the kinds of days that we dream of on the overly quiet evenings when a little noise might be welcome. I cannot think of one minute that I would change. And at the end of each of these days everybody goes home. This is as it should be and we are pleased with it. But I cannot help thinking about that day ... just over the horizon ... when "Home" will be under one roof for all of us. When the Father welcomes His kids into His door and tears well up in His Eyes as He welcomes each and every one of us, shows us to our rooms (or however that works!) and tells us when supper will be served.

Indeed, as life goes on it switches directions entirely. It isn't a death wish! Not at all! It is simply a desire to experience the fulfillment of all you have dreamed of and longed for.

Family.

Friends.

Home.

And most of all ... Father.

Strange Thoughts That Today Brought To My Attention

2010-12-08T22:26:00.003-06:00

-Maybe when we drown the fish will be our friends.
-Someday, someone will be unearthing my bones.
-In twenty years your favorite song will be played in an elevator.
-My subconscious is smarter than I will ever be.
-You cannot unscramble scrambled eggs.
-Solid theology is deeper than a bruised ego.
-Wrinkles are symptoms of deeper flaws. If you listen closely your skull is cracking.
-You can judge even the finest restaurant quickly by the waiters reaction to being asked, "So how is the grilled cheese?"
-In the land of the blind, the man with one eye is King.
-If your doctor played the game "Operation" as a child it would be fun to wear a buzzer in your pocket when you go for your next check-up.

That is all. You may now resume your regularly scheduled day.

The Top 10 Oddest Things I've Done To Others In Ministry Or Had Done To Me In Ministry (that I will admit to)

2010-12-07T22:50:00.008-06:00

10. The first church I ever served on staff at no longer exists. Therefore, for all practical purposes, I never served there.

09. The pastor of the second church I ever served on staff at literally used a "Sharpie" to cross my name from their church history because they got mad when I resigned and went to another church. Therefore, for all practical purposes, I never served there either. (Although they ordained me.)

08. A deacon yelled at me in a deacon's meeting once because I would not let his son go on a youth trip as an adult chaperone because he had just taught some of our teenagers to play drinking games. The pastor defended me by purchasing a "Sharpie." (See #9)

07. A teenage boy decided to "get clean" and gave me his marijuana cache to get rid of for him. I dumped it out my office window. In a few weeks I noticed an odd crop growing on the church lawn. I slid a "Sharpie" under the pastor's door knowing that he might want it. (See #9)

06. I did a funeral once where the entire middle row of the congregation were bikers drinking from long neck bottles of beer ... in unison.

05. While pulling a cross from Marion to Springfield, Illinois, a guy named Chuck stopped and said he wanted to contribute to our cause. (Revival!) He had just been laid-off from his job and was on the way home to tell his wife. We reluctantly accepted the last dollar he had in his wallet and promised to put it in the offering plate. We called it "Chuck's Buck." Every night in youth rallies one of our team took the dollar, held it up, and told the story of Chuck's sacrifice. On the day they gave me the dollar I forgot ... and spent it on Chiclets. I replaced it with another dollar and didn't tell anybody for a year.

04. I raided a boys luggage and sent all of his underwear to our pastor's office by UPS because he raided other people's luggage and put their underwear on the ceiling fans of a church we were sleeping in on a mission trip to Iowa.

03. I tricked my Sr. Pastor into believing that a black velvet picture of "The Lord's Supper" had been given to him by the widow of a man he had buried, that the deceased man had painted it for him, and that she would be by later in the week to see how it looked on his office wall. (It hung over his desk for a week.)

02. I crazy-glued my Sr.Pastor's pens to his desk. All of them.

01. I dated a girl from my first youth group. Then I married her. Then we had kids. Then we had grand kids. Now we don't even want a dog.

R.I.P. Old Friend

2010-11-28T22:33:00.003-06:00

"I hold it true, whate'er befall; I feel it, when I sorrow most; 'Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all." Alfred Lord Tennyson's poem "In Memoriam" says it well. You see, I lost a dear friend today. We shared many, many moments. Most of them very good. Some a bit tenuous. Yet generally we loved well and today, well today I lost this friend.

I could tell you stories. We go back about 10 years together. Few were the days that we did not share moments of reflection, relaxation, and sometimes .... tears. I suppose that good friends share all of those things. My friend seemed to understand my moods and actually shaped his own attitude to echo mine. This allowed us to have a "hand in glove" kind of relationship. My family knew my friend and loved him as well. Even my "pets of old" knew him and could not get enough of his comforting presence. He was a shared friend. I would introduce him to my friends and they would inevitably say later on that they wish they had a friend like mine. I was blessed ... richer for having had this relationship. I miss him so much. We always did supper together on Sunday nights after church. Tonight I had to eat with a new friend. It was not an altogether unpleasant experience. Neither did it rival Sunday nights gone by.

The end came today around 2PM. I can't say it was unexpected. I had helped make arrangements for the inevitable. One never enjoys that kind of duty. And yet someone must do it. These things don't just take care of themselves. And so today I drug my friend out to the garage and lay him on the floor. He was, for all practical purposes, gone. Less than a mere shadow of himself. I don't have a picture close by of his good days. But today ... toward the end ... we hugged. And I took one last photo. And I lay him to rest.

R.I.P. old friend.

Bozo to Cronkite ... the view from my own grassy knoll

2010-11-22T22:30:00.004-06:00

I remember being 8 years old and sitting in the elementary school gym eating my lunch and watching "Bozo the Clown" on an old black and white television. 3rd grade. 1963. As far as I knew it was a good time to be alive. I knew little about the recent "Cuban Missile Crises" or the brewing war in a southeastern Asian country named Vietnam. I just knew that Tuna + Twinkies + Bozo = a rollicking good time. And little did I know that this impending seat in history was provided for me by the mere fact that it was a rainy Friday and we couldn't go out for our post-lunch recess. Thus the noisy gym, plenty of bouncing balls, and a handful of Bozo fans.

Then this guy name Cronkite screwed it all up. He invaded our convex vacuum tube and, pulling his glasses from his mustached face, told us that the President of the United States had just been shot in Dallas. I remember thinking, "Dallas. That's in Texas. There's lots of guns in Texas." And then the teachers were ushering us out the door, whispering in hushed tones that we should go to our class rooms, sit at our desks, fold our little not-yet-wrinkled hands, and wait for our teachers.

In a few minutes Mrs. Schilling showed up. She was the best 3rd grade teacher e.v.e.r. She "got" my jokes. She even allowed herself to laugh at them on occasion. Mrs. Schilling began teaching us something. I have no idea what it was. I was thinking of presidents and Texas and guns. And then there was a man standing at our door. His name was Mr. Reeves and he was an individual of epic personality in our little school. Everyone loved and respected Mr. Reeves. He stepped inside of our class room and reverently told us that our President was dead. I was too young to really get a handle on the concept of "dead." Today I am a pastor and I've been one for the last gazillion years. And I've buried a gazillion dead guys. And death doesn't really bother me anymore even when I realize that someday I'm going to be the guy in the box and maybe some 3rd grader will be wondering what it means that his pastor is dead. I truly hope it doesn't bother him too much. I don't expect that it will bother me.

But on that day I was bothered. I went home after school and my mom was crying. My dad came home and he seemed empty. Shell shocked. That didn't happen often to my dad, a grizzly veteran of a fighting "half track" in WWII. Nothing shook my dad. He single handedly destroyed the Nazi machine and even captured one of their nasty flags and brought it home as a little bit of memorabilia. (You ROCK "2nd Armored!") But today he was off his game. He was shaken.

And now it's been 47 years. I've been to Dallas a few times. I've walked around the streets where my president was murdered. I've stood on the exact, precise spot where he sat in the back of his open-air limousine when the assassins bullet took his young life. I've reclined on "the grassy knoll" and contemplated what it all meant, vacillating between images of Bozo the Clown and a flag draped casket. I've climbed to the 6th floor of the old "Texas School Book Depository," to the snipers perch where the rifle spit out death and robbed us of innocence and a sense of invincible glory. I don't know why but I'm drawn to that spot. I'll be back in Dallas to do a wedding on New Years Eve. I imagine I'll conjure up a good excuse to at least drive down that road while I'm there. I know. It makes no sense. But something in my heart knows that my country began to change nearly as quickly as that speeding piece of lead. I don't understand it at all. But you will never convince me that that was not the point at which we crested the hill and began a downward coast.

I've never written about history before. And now propped up here in my bed late at night I realize that I have witnessed my fair share of it. If I lived in a typical 3rd world country I would probably be dead by this ripe old age. But, by virtue of being a resident of the United States of America, I might well have a decade or two left in me. Who knows what's left to see? I mean how do you follow up 3 huge assassinations, hippies, anti-war riots in downtown Chicago (25 miles from my sandlot baseball diamond,) guys getting hurled into outer space, other guys landing on and walking around on the moon (I was only 14 and we haven't done anything that impressive since,) the creation of Pop Tarts, "shock and awe," and let's not forget crumbling burning collapsing skyscrapers. I could go on but suddenly I don't want to. You see, I'm typing words without ink onto a glass screen and I'm going to hit a button that doesn't really exist that says "Publish Post" in a minute and then people in Trinidad and Beijing, and Poughkeepsie will be able to read this on their own glass screens if the want to.

But you know what I really want? What I think might really make me happy?

A tuna sandwich. A black and white television. Bozo the Clown. The entire show this time. And then I want to go back to class and listen to Mrs. Schilling teach me something. But that is not going to happen. Truth is, there's just not much "shock and awe" left in me.

Stupid Picture Chronicles #52

2010-11-11T21:41:00.001-06:00

Hair. Wigs. Cell Phones. One of these things is not like the others ....

This Is A God I Want To Worship

2010-11-08T22:04:00.005-06:00

Tonight afforded one of those honors that are so special that you feel required to call them "Holy." A 92 year old gentleman named Ray, a long time member of Towerview Baptist Church, stepped out of his body of flesh, blood, and all of its DNA trappings and into the presence of the King of Glory, Jesus Christ.

I did not know Ray as well as most of the people in our church. Having only been the pastor of Towerview for twenty-one months placed me at a disadvantage. Ray spent all of those months living in a very nice "assisted living" center several blocks from my home. He was at church most Sunday mornings. I have had multiple opportunities to visit him in his home. I honestly do not think he remembered me from one visit to the next. Oh, I am quite certain that he always knew when he answered my knock on his door that I was his pastor. But I was never quite certain that he remembered that I had visited him before. He delighted in talking about his children and grandchildren. Seldom did he mention his life before assisted living became a needed part of it.

And then the weekend came. Ray went to climb out of bed and wound up on the floor with a broken hip. He was taken to the hospital and by the time I got the call the next day he was quite medicated and very unaware of his surroundings. Truth is, he never spoke again.

It became evident last night that life on this planet was winding down for Ray. Still, life begins on God's timetable and it ends on God's timetable. We often forget that. But God doesn't. Psalm 139:16 says it quite succinctly, "Your eyes saw my unformed substance; in your book were written, every one of them, the days that were formed for me, when as yet there was none of them." Doctors do what they can but God makes the final call. God writes down the number of our days before we are even born. Humbling, huh?

And then tonight. Family and friends abounded. The hallways of the hospital buzzed with talk but Rays room was a quiet haven. The mood was nearly worshipful. I met with the three brothers and one sister in a conference room and, as we discussed options, they decided that it was time to remove the oxygen mask. Nobody really knew if it was doing any good. Nobody could really say if it was making him more comfortable. The decision was made to remove the mask, allow him to breath on his own, and let God do what God wanted to do. (As if we could stop Him.)

The entire family gathered around his bed. A prayer was prayed. I asked a granddaughter if she knew what his favorite hymn was. Through tear filled eyes she replied, 'The Old Rugged Cross.' And I sing that to my kids every night before they go to sleep." I asked if she thought she could manage to lead us through it one time. Sometimes it is just evident that God is calling a child home. Holiness is in the air. Tonight was one of those times. Hands were clasped, tears ran down cheeks, and Amanda began, "On a hill far away stood an old rugged cross, the emblem of suffering and shame. And I love that old cross, where the dearest and best, for a world of lost sinners was slain. So I'll cherish the old rugged cross, till my trophies at last I lay down. I will cling to the old rugged cross, and exchange it someday for a crown." The words which began slowly and worshipfully suddenly built to a mild crescendo toward the end. A nurse stood just out of our circle, between the foot of Rays bed and the doorway, tears streaming down her cheeks. As the singing subsided she approached Ray, stethoscope in hand. She checked him twice and quietly said two simple words. "He's gone." She told me later, "You guys did it right. I've seen it both ways and this is the way to go." High praise coming from someone in her profession.

So tonight we sang a saint of God through the gates of heaven. When the song began he was trapped in a body of decay and pain. When the song ended he was gazing into the eyes of the one who defeated death on his behalf. The Man ... Jesus Christ.

How does it work that God performs miracles like this? Before Psalm 139: 16 was penned ... when Rays days were yet to be formed for him ... the King of Glory determined to bring his earthly life to an quiet conclusion as his entire family sang a song of victory beside his nearly lifeless body. How does it work that God chooses to orchestrate our life so that even our death brings Him glory? How does it work that though we may live to be 92 years of age, the same song that sings our great grandchildren to sleep each night is sufficient to sing us through gates of splendor and leave us gazing upon the beauty of the one who hung on that old rugged cross. I have no idea how many death beds I have stood by in my 36 years of being a pastor but I do know this. There is somebody behind it all. There is no chance. There is no "probable cause." There is sovereignty.

This ... this is a God I want to worship.

God Bless The Candy

2010-11-04T23:39:00.003-05:00

God works in such cool and awesome ways. Sunday I was offering to "allow" people to dump their left over halloween candy on me if they had a problem getting rid of it. I didn't really expect anybody to do so. We had zero "trick-or-treaters" at our house this year. Or maybe we have 300. I have no way of knowing. We were at church. But if some came and found no answer at my door (or perhaps they simply ran after reading my "Go Away!" welcome mat) at least they didn't egg my house! Any way the challenge was out there. Got candy? Dump it here!

Enter Peggy.

Peggy came into our church sanctuary last night following evening bible study and promptly hit me with a HUGE zip lock back of left over candy. And this was quality stuff! There was actually real chocolate in that bag! She seemed quite pleased with herself. All I could think of was how that candy was going to look under my belt. To paraphrase an old friend of mine, I might as well just tape it to my tummy.

This morning came and I stopped into a local quick mart for a hit of caffeine. On most mornings a young mom is behind the cash register. She is single and I would expect that money is rather tight for her. I paid for my liquid habit, leaned against the counter and engaged in a few moments of run-of-the-mill small talk. It seems she had to work all day and then was heading to a halloween party with her months old son. They were both going to be dressing up as devils. Yuk. But okay. I mean, the primary purpose of my engaging this young woman in conversations over the past months has been with the intent of "relationship building." I am doing my best to get to know her and allow her to get to know me casually. My prayer ... which I pray frequently ... is that sooner or later God is going to nudge my heart and give me the "go ahead" to share my faith in Christ with her. For now I'm just trying to win the right to be heard. At Towerview we call it "Walking Across The Room."

As we were wrapping up the two minute long chat she mentioned that she was suppose to bring goodies to the party but really didn't know what she was going to do about that. She was out of candy. And since she was working all day, making something was out of the question.

Hmmmm. I told her to hang tight and I'd be right back. I think you know where I was going.

I drove the short mile to my office, grabbed the mega-bag of "Peggy Poisen" off of my desk and headed back out the door. When I walked back in to the quick mart I dropped the bag on the counter and said, "Problem solved." She looked at it, a startled expression on her face. "What is this for?" she asked. I told her it was hers to take to tonights party. And then she asked the key question. "Why would you do this?" I just smiled. "Because you need it. And I certainly don't!" And I was back out the door.

No sharing of scripture. No mention of Jesus. No invitation to church. Yet. (She's already asked what I do for a living and when I told her she looked like I'd strangled her pet cat.) But it occurs to me that maybe a simple gift of candy, a gift that cost me nothing but a few spare minutes, will help solidify the fact in her mind that I really don't want anything from her. I'm not just being a creepy old guy. I have no agenda other than friendship.

But I'm clearly aware ... and become more aware every day ... that friends don't let friends enter eternity without Jesus.

God bless the candy. Literally, please.

Stupid Picture Chronicles #51

2010-11-01T22:47:00.003-05:00

All I can assume is that some church is now serving crepes instead of communion wafers.

A Study In Contrasts

2010-10-22T23:06:00.004-05:00

I was thinking today. No, seriously. I was. I actually rose before the sun this morning. I'd like to tell you that I did so because I decided that it was a wonderfully righteous thing to do and I decided to be righteous. Alas, it is not so. I needed to be at the hospital a good part of this Friday to visit with two friends from my church having surgery. I needed to be there early and so I found myself backing out of my driveway, glancing to the east, and actually seeing a rising sun peeking through the clouds. Now, I've seen sun rises before. I'm just wired to enjoy sunsets more. They look the same. Just backward.

But obviously that's not my point. My point is "rest." Rest vs. rush. I'm going to be talking about that a little bit this coming Sunday morning when I speak at our church. Rest is a rare commodity in 2010. Not because it's not avaiable so much as because, well, nobody really wants it. But rest is important. Very important Without it ... you'll eventually run into "The Wall" and maybe even die. Don't argue with me on this. I'm an adrenaline junkie. I know what I'm talking about when I mention that Wall. It's real. And it hurts to hit it. So don't do it, okay? We were designed by our maker to need "down time."

As a matter-of-fact, God actually initiated the idea of rest. You didn’t know that? It’s called “Sabbath.” It’s about slowing down the pace of life, relaxing, and allowing your system to replenish and refresh. So do some of that! Maybe it’s time to turn on some quiet music, dim the lights, put your feet up, and simply exist for an hour or so. The truth is, many of us don’t find that restful anymore. We’ve rewired our systems and instead of “rest” we search for “rush.” You know the rush I mean. The adrenaline rush! I admit that there’s nothing like that experience of feeling totally alive when that little chemical goes sprinting through my bloodstream. I just wrapped up a two week vacation and, honestly, I tried to avoid adrenaline. As I've mentioned Debbie and I slipped up to northern Michigan for a few days and soaked in the fall colors as the leaves peaked along the shores of a cobalt blue Lake Superior. We walked around Mackinac Island, admiring the Victorian architecture, horse drawn carriages, and a healthy (or maybe NOT so healthy) ice cream cone. (Yum.) And then we did something I had never done before. We drove down to Chicago and watched our son, Scott, compete in the Chicago Marathon. I cannot imagine running 26.2 miles on purpose! I have a hard time focusing long enough to drive 26.2 miles. We were very proud of our son as he ran for “Team World Vision” to raise money to feed hungry people world wide. But I couldn’t help contrasting the two ends of that trip. What a stark difference between gentle waves lapping up on a Great Lakes beach while leaves fell silently around us and one million screaming people gathered in downtown Chicago to watch forty-three thousand runners focusing on the finish line.

As I drove away from Chicago the next day I let Debbie do most of the driving. That's a major milestone for me. I always subscribed to the theory that "real men drive." But I pushed the passenger seat back, grabbed a book, smiled at her as she enjoyed holding the wheel for a while, and simply ... rested. And then I took the second week of my vacation and did nothing. I mean a serous amount of nothing. I had planned on power-washing and re-staining my deck. I decided not to. My body was saying that there is this long stretch looming down the road called "The Holidays." This was the last rest stop before the tree goes up. So I jumped on the chance.

I'm not sorry that I did. The two weeks turned out to be a study in contrasts. Falling leaves and deep breaths. Gentle waves and long, luxurious stretches, I like it. It gets addictive. And then all of the cheering people. Fast paced runners. Deep dish pizza and Chicago hot dogs. There is room for both. But right now ... I'm learning to re-appreciate simple, God ordained ... rest. I truly hope maybe you'll consider doing the same.

Gosh. That sounded like a sermon.

Today's Guest Blogger ... Mrs. Laura Woods

2010-10-20T12:27:00.004-05:00

Call me a sucker for my new grandson, Judah. Call me in love with my son, his wife, and the family they are creating. You'd be correct on both counts. I plead guilty. Laura is a prolific writer. I am her biggest fan. She posted the following blog last night on her on corner of the web. I asked for, and received, permission to repost. If you are a mom, a dad, or a grandparent ... you'll "get it."

Take it away, Laura....
***

Dear Judah,

Two months little man. Two months you’ve been breathing oxygen with your lungs and stealing my heart with your eyes. And what an eventful two months it has been. I know you won’t remember a second of it, but I’ll never forget one. I’ve filled up my camera a hundred times over with pictures of you smiling and drooling and eating and crying and sneezing. I post them on Facebook and Twitter daily, much to the annoyance, I’m sure, of everyone who has bothered to friend or follow me (I love how by the time you read this, NONE of that will make sense…try to reference Google if it still exists….if it doesn’t, God help us all).

Last week, in order to celebrate our anniversary appropriately (without a squirmy baby at the dinner table), your dad made me get an overnight babysitter so we could go out and be normal people again for an evening. It’s amazing how in such a short amount of time you have totally changed the face of who we are as humans. For example, we have been attempting to go grocery shopping for well over a week now. There is just no easy way to accomplish this effectively now that you live with us. In part because your car seat takes up 99% of the shopping cart, leaving little room for more than a day’s worth of groceries. And also because who wants to go shopping when they can stay in their pajamas and stare at a brilliant and beautiful baby from the comforts of their living room? I’d rather starve in most instances than leave you for more than one second longer than I have to.

That being said, I should tell you that I had to go back to work this month. Doing this has easily been one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. I knew when I got pregnant that there was no conceivable way that we could manage for me to be a stay at home mom. Despite my desire to be at home with you 29 hours a day, our current situation dictates that I must daily put on tall shoes and head out into the gritty world of office politics and potlucks. It’s not ideal, but it’s a blessing. One that God has provided for us so that we can pay the bills and still afford to let your dad stay home with you most days. It’s unconventional for sure, but you so far seem to still be functioning as a normal infant, so I try not to beat myself up about it too much. Although, I have let the convictions of other moms in more conventional situations get the best of me from time to time, your dad is an amazing encourager and never lets a day go by without reminding me that not only are you happy and healthy, but that it in large part has to do with the fact that I am actually a good mom. So…if today as you read this, you are harboring some deep rooted resentment at me for not being around for you when you got home from school all those years, please know that I would rather be with you in our home more than any other place on the face of the planet. And I would sacrifice anything to ensure you always find joy in this life, despite our non conventional situation. So I didn’t write it, but please remember this always….

i carry your heart with me
i carry it in my heart
i am never without it
anywhere i go you go, my dear;
and whatever is done by only me
is your doing, my darling….

-e. e. cummings

On a less serious note, your diapers are generally very disgusting. There are times when I’m nervous to lay you on the couch or to pick you up with bare hands. You just never know what colorful goop is going to be seeping out of your clothing at any given moment. I have a feeling that this is representative of your future love of fart jokes and immature behavior. Which to be honest, I couldn’t be more thrilled about. I’ve dreamt for years that I could live with someone who understood my sense of humor. Your father has NEVER appreciated my ability to burp on command with great zeal. In fact, he finds it offensive at times. Mostly when we are in public places, like church for example. I say, God created these escape hatches for digestive gasses, you might as well embrace the beautify of His genius. Please remind me of this when you are older and I scold you for the very thing I enjoy so much. You deserve the same freedoms as me (mostly).

I have very little to add from here. I am sure that by the next time I write, you will have accomplished some small feat of wonder that your dad and I brag about for weeks on end, despite its mundane, every day, run of the mill, infant-like behavior. We just still can’t believe you are real. It’s hard to believe how much you’ve grown and developed just over the last 8 weeks. And to think about the man I am writing to now, almost puts a crack in my brain. Do me a favor and take your time getting there.

I hope as you read this you are doing well. Saved by grace and deeply rooted in the love of your family and Creator. I also hope you still like fart jokes.

So much love that there aren’t sufficient words,
Your Sassy Momma

Yoopers

2010-10-13T22:56:00.013-05:00

I do love me some vacation.

I have a job that I love. It isn't really a "job" job. It's ministry. It's serving God and being paid by a church so that I don't have to make a living in other ways which frees me up to spend my time being their pastor. (aka: serving God.) Sometimes it is a lot easier than a "job" job because I feel "called" to it. "Called" by God. When you are doing what you are convinced God wants you to do ... what you were created to do ... it makes it a lot more palatable, even on the tough days. And history has caused me to see some pretty tough days.

But I do love me some vacation. I am about 3/4 of the way through a two-weeker. And last week was just in-cred-ible. I grabbed my bride and drug her up to "Da U.P." Better known as the "upper peninsula" of Michigan. Those in the U.P. call themselves "Yoopers." I think that is suppose to be a good thing but I'm not sure. Anyway, let me be a "Yooper" for a minute. Here's what life looks like right about now if you are one of those ...

That, my friends, is a nice view to wake up to!

And this is what a very much in love couple of Yoopers looks like. Cool, huh?

And in Yooper-ville they have waterfalls that appear to be made of root beer! Way to go, Michigan!

There are places up there where you can leave notes for God to read. I left lots of notes. This was the first one. Just making sure He remembered that I was up there.

Their bridges are really long...

...and really tall ...

... and they even let you play underneath them! (I am a graduate of Trinity Christian College. Our school mascot is the "Trolls." I felt right at home under the bridge.)

In the U.P. you can drive down beautiful roads.

In the U.P. you can watch beautiful sunsets over pristine lakes.

In the U.P. you can watch your wonderfully wacky wife pour popcorn into her Tomato Bisque Soup. On purpose.

And perhaps the best of all, in the U.P. you can fall asleep on a piece of driftwood and nobody will steal your wallet.

In the U.P. we looked at stuff from sunken ships and we ate deep fried White Fish. We walked through indian cemeteries and we ate deep fried White Fish. We relaxed in a swirling hot tub and we ate deep fried White Fish. We watched Clydesdale horses pull their carriages on an island in Lake Huron and we ate deep fried White Fish.

I ate four consecutive meals of deep fried White Fish. White Fish that were swimming in Lake Superior when I woke up in the morning were coursing through my digestive system when I went to bed at night. If there are White Fish in the Sea of Galilee I am pretty sure Jesus cooked them up.

I have never been to the Sea of Galilee. But I could get use to being a Yooper.

Stupid Picture Chronicles #50

2010-10-11T22:22:00.003-05:00

For our special "50th Edition" of the "Stupid Picture Chronicles" we have ... well ... a stupid picture. We discovered this on the way up to vacation in Michigan's beautiful U.P. I guess they have a lot of steeples needing a good home ...

Hair Washing VS. Scalping. A Formal Discussion

2010-09-28T22:53:00.003-05:00

So today I got a hair cut. It was no big deal. I go to this place that specializes in men. The reason I go there is because I need constant reassurance that I am, indeed, a man. It's not that I'm afraid that I've become a woman. No, I just keep forgetting that I'm old enough to drive cars, vote, and buy a house. I do all three. But I still need that booster shot of going to a guys hair place.

I have selected my personal hair cutter lady, Jane, based on the fact that she is the oldest person working there. Her clock has ticked 32 times. And while that isn't exactly old, I really don't think anybody else that works there remembers life before the year 2,000. So at least we can talk about more than "Glee" or which celebrity is wearing the best cuts of beef to publicity events.

Today Jane finished trimming me up and it was time for the obligatory "washing of the hair." This isn't really necessary. I shower every morning and that includes a sincere "washing of the hair." So the obligatory "washing of the hair" is just that. A ritual. It's singular purpose is NOT to get the little hair trimmings out of the way so they don't fall down your shirt and make you itch al day long. Although that is what they tell you. It's purpose is to get you to tip more because you are suddenly feeling a burst if fresh cleanliness. They even end the deal with a nice wet hot towel and a mint. Nice.

But I digress.

So Jane leans the old chair back by pressing on some pedal with her foot and ... WHAMMO! The back of my head crashes into the edge of the sink. Decidedly unpleasant. She apologizes, asks me to stand up (I was woozy with pain) and she uses all of her 110 pounds to push the barber chair closer to the sink. I settle back into it and she eeeeeases it back and proceeds with a proper hair washing. She washed. And she washed. And she kept washing. We were past the five minute mark when she said, "You are probably wondering why I'm taking so long washing your hair." I asked her if it was to rinse the blood out of it. She laughed and said, "No, it's just my way of saying I'm sorry for hitting your head on the sink." I invited her to hit my head on the sink any time she feels like it if this is the pay back.

It feels really nice when someone else washes your hair. I don't have any idea why that is. Because I've noticed that hair doesn't actually feel anything. I suppose it's a scalp issue. This is probably why the Indians made such a big deal out of scalping the "pale faces" back in the days of the wild west. It was kind of a "reverse hair washing" mentality. If you want to make somebody happy wash their hair and their scalp will smile. If you want to make somebody unhappy scalp them. With an axe. It you think about it, it makes total sense.

All I know is that Jane got a really good tip and I didn't itch at all for the rest of the day.

The Nameless Streets of Heaven

2010-09-20T22:45:00.005-05:00

Not sure why but I've been thinking a lot about heaven lately. I think it all started when I was watching a U2 video. Bono was singing, "Where The Streets Have No Name." He is one of those guys who can actually make me think by simply singing a song. I love worship music but they don't make me think very often. I love the theology of the old hymns too. Some of them cause my brain to start turning but it usually shuts down before too many verses sneak by. Still, every now and then I listen to some rock-n-roller singing from the soul and it stops me dead in my tracks. When that happens it takes a while to recover. The old "Mike and the Mechanics" use to do that with "Silent Running." Incredible stuff.

But back to the topic at hand. That being ... heaven.

Do the streets have names in heaven? Perhaps you just have an inherent knowledge of your precise locations. No green street signs or exit signs needed in the celestial city. Maybe. Every body wants to know if their favorite pet will be there. I am of the belief that we are the favorite pet. Please know that I mean that with just a tinge of a smile. For we are far more than a pet to our God. We are His children. And we are His beloved Bride. I might come across my old Golden Retriever, Bear, up there. But it's going to be tough to tear my eyes away from Jesus long enough to do a thorough job of petting him when he trots up, tail wagging.

I looked at my arm today. I was driving my car with the top down coming home from a rather distant visit of a church family that lives maybe twenty-five miles from me. I put my left hand on the outside mirror and I noticed that my skin doesn't look like it did when I was half my age. And you know what my first thought was? I find this hard to believe myself and I was the one thinking it. I whispered to God, "Thank you that I'm growing older." Isn't that unusual? It is. But I meant it. I still do. The farther I travel on this space ship we call "earth" the more I'm inclined to look forward to, well, to getting Home.

Now let me make it clear. I don't have a death wish. I plan on eeking every possible day out of this body God's given me. It's been a good body. No surgeries. No major illnesses. No nights in the hospital except to be born and that doesn't really count. It's not been a "throw the football long" kind of body. It's not been a "run like the wind" kind of body. It's been more like, well, a long distance runner. Nothing too fancy but it has been getting the job done faithfully for many years. I am grateful for this.

Will I be able to ski better in heaven because I want to beat Scott and Chris down the mountain again. I use to do that when they were kids. Literally skiing circles around them. Not any more. They are jets. I'm a Cessna. Slow but reliable. Will there be time to sit and reflect in heaven? At this point in life there are a lot of things I would like explanations for. I have heard it said that once we get there we won't need the answers any more. Just being there will be enough. That may just be true. But somehow I am hoping that there will be plenty of time to sit, soak in the beauty, and breath in the answers to the questions that boggle my mind and trouble my soul. I want to talk to the one who "gets it" and be able to ask what ever I want to ask knowing that He will be patient with me and speak slowly while He spells things out. Do you think maybe it will be like that?

There are a lot of people on this globe that I want to thank and I hope I will get to do it there. There are also a fair amount that I want to slap and I'm sure there are more than a few that want to slap me. So I'm hoping that this particular part just passes away and that we have no inclination to act on any of it. I can see this degrading into a "b grade" 3 Stooges skit of the eternal variety if we aren't careful.

How about sleep? And afternoon naps? Games maybe? Real competition? How will that work if we are all perfect with splendid bodies? What will the music be like? Because I agree with Rich Mullins who agreed with Martin Luther that music is the finest thing that I have ever found. Will I be able to play an instrument? Because I cannot. And I would really like to. We shall see.

Heaven holds no fear. The crossing of the boundary between this place and heaven holds less fear each and every day. That's good because the skin is going to get worse before it gets better.

I suppose that for now I'll just sing along with Bono and wonder about the place where the streets have no name.

Peace

2010-09-15T22:55:00.001-05:00

Peace. it is a gift given by God. I have looked around a bit and have come to the conclusion that it really cannot be found anyplace else. You can be in the fiercest battle of your life and have peace if the Spirit of God reigns within you. You can be laying on the beach in Cancun and experience inner turmoil if the Spirit of God does not reign within you. It is that simple.

True, sometimes God reigns within and you still feel anything but peace. Many have said that you will know the will of God if you have peace about a situation. I have to take issue with that. There has been an abundane of times that God has directed me to do something and I have felt anything but peace. I have felt pain, grief, sadness, and a variety of other emotions. The picture the scripture paints of Christ in the Garden of Gethsemane on the eve of His execution is anything but peaceful. He sweat drops of blood. That does not sound peaceful to me. Yet He went through with His assignment and came out on top. Way on top. This teaches me that God calls me to do the difficult thing at times. Peace is not always the hallmark "check point" for being in the will of God.

And yet outside of the will of God any peace you experience is a mere counterfiet. Life is odd. It is seldom pleasing in a geometric sort of way. It is about hard corners, difficult angels, and wicked curve balls thrown your way. But if you trust ... the Lord is always with you. Always.

And it is enough.

Unforgettable

2010-09-08T22:29:00.007-05:00

In less than two hours a milestone will be reached. To her it is intimidating. Perhaps even sad. To me it is cause for celebration. At 12:08 tomorrow morning "Bubba" will turn 30. She was born to her mother and I on a cool September evening in HInsdale, Illinois. The middle of the night. Little did I know that she would be keeping me up into the middle of the night many times. A few of them were due to the tears and wailings of an infant. Most of them were caused by the wanderings of a lovely teenage girl on the arm of boys that could not be trusted.

Her real name is Kelli. She didn't look like a Kelli when she arrived. She looked like a Bubba ... a midget truck driver. All wrinkley and gooey. She smoothed out over the first few days of life but she remained my Bubba. She didn't complain. When she got old enough to understand what I was saying I wisely switched her nickname to "Honey Bear." She never knew but that was the name of the Chicago Bears cheerleaders back in the 1980's. It really wasn't fair to the squad. Kelli was far more beautiful than any one of them.

Over the years I watched as my one and only daughter ....

-became a "cherry tart" for her preschool play
-told me that boys were yucky ... except for me
-developed the courage to actually feed the dear at the Wisconsin Dells after I bribed her with "Mother Goose Land"
-grew teeth
-lost teeth
-grew teeth
-got braces on her teeth
-actually play softball
-get her drivers license
-get her first "road kill" ... a skunk ... with MY car
-fall in love
-get dumped
-fall in love
-stay in love
-marry her love
-grant me two incredible granddaughters that totally remind me of her

I know. It doesn't sound like much when you read the list. But it was an incredible ride. Did I mention that when she went to college I drove the route she would take when she made her occasional trips back and forth to our house and I prayed over every single square inch? Oh, and that on the way home one day in the rain while driving WAY over the speed limit in a little blue Dodge Neon a very stern state trooper gave her a ticket (for less than she deserved?) And did I mention that I wrote that state trooper a letter and thanked him because his actions just might slow her down and save her life someday? Hey. She's still alive. So it just might have worked.

One of the high lights of my life came one evening when she wore a white gown and was positively radiant. She left her bouquet of flowers at the table where she had dined. My left hand grabbed her right. My other hand slipped gently behind her back. And she and I danced to Nat and Natalie King Cole singing "Unforgettable."

Kelli. Happy birthday. Don't worry about turning 30. You aren't even half way "Home" yet. And I just want you to know that to me ... you will always be unforgettable.

But today it just hurts ...

2010-08-30T13:56:00.003-05:00

It does not happen frequently but every now and then something happens and I just don't know how to respond. Today is one of those days. Today I shouldn't even be writing but I have to. I have to let this out. I have to say what I have to say.

I have had a particular friend on my mind for about a week. Memories of days spent together and events co-organized have been flittering around my brain like a butterfly on crack. They wouldn't land or go away. So today I decided to call my friend. He lives in the high country on a mountain in a far away state. I've always been more than a little jealous of that. The perfect place, the perfect climate, the perfect situation. We only get to see each other about once a year and the anniversary of our last visit had come and gone. So I dialed the number.

His wife answered. I greeted her and, after showing showing appropriate respectfulness, I asked if my friend was available.

The silence lasted so long that I honestly thought my phone had dropped the signal. She found her voice and told me that her husband had divorced her just over a year ago. Very shortly after our last meeting. The week after their 49th wedding anniversary. It was my turn for silence. Okay, understand that this is not just another blog posting for me. This is real, bloody, and not at all fun to write. I feel like a truck just drove through my heart and left a gaping wound big enough for the next disaster. This is a friendship of more than thirty years. And I had no idea ... absolutely no idea ... that this was coming. The last time we met we sat together in a booth at a St. Louis Bread Company and we reminisced, dreamed, and talked about our individual realities.

And not one word was said about what was really going on in his life. Not. One. Word.

This man knows all of my dirty laundry. We've worked together, prayed together, sweat together. We were part of a team that pulled a cross from Marion, Illinois to Springfield, Illinois to draw attention to the love of Jesus for every man. Each evening we (and five other friends) held a youth rally at a local church or high school auditorium where we shared the love of Christ. We worked together for over a decade on a yearly youth event that had a typical attendance of about 5,000 teenagers. Hundreds came to Christ over those years.

And now I wonder ... was any of it real? Was he just churning out another day at the office? Was I just a part of making his life successful? I do not know. I will never know. I want to talk to him. I will talk to him. But I can't just yet. I don't know what to say. I don't have words. I only have this gaping hole where, earlier this morning, I thought there existed a life-long friendship.

I am somewhat of an idealist. For a long time I really believed that the older you get the more friends you accumulate along the way. As you tack on the years I just assumed that your base of deep friendships grows. Gets wider. A natural result of shared experiences and heart felt commitment to what matters in life. To what is true. And I have been reminded today of a painful lesson. My assumption was not accurate. At the very least you can't count on it being accurate. Sometimes the base shrinks. Sometimes you count on someone and they choose to dive head-long over a moral and ethical cliff. They, in their woundedness, are not to be shot. They are to be prayed for, loved, and yet held accountable. I'm not at all sure where the balance is in that process. This is way too fresh to even begin to think about that.

The bible has a lot to say about "finishing well." It has a lot to say about being very careful that we don't help others only to be disqualified ourselves at the finish line. I don't know that I can help my friend. I have great reason to doubt that our conversation will go well. I suspect (and I deeply, most sincerely hope I am wrong,) that it will at best be a sham. And I am trying today to wrap my head around the fact that I cannot fix that.

But here is what I can do.

I can finish well. I can commit myself in a fresh way to my call. I can say to those who count on me that I will be worthy of their trust or die trying. I can do no less. There may be those whom I have disappointed or let down in the past. Those who have questioned my motivations or actions over 55 years of living surely exist. To those I say "I am sorry." I say, "I am not perfect." Maybe you are right. Maybe you are wrong. I must answer to my God. But I can also say that I am in hot pursuit of following the only truly Holy One and I will not give up. The finish line may come today, it may come in decades, or any moment in between. But I will cross it and I will live for that moment of hearing from The One I do count on the most as He says ... "Nice job. Welcome home, son. I think you'll like the place I've got ready for you."

But today it just hurts.

Why I Am Crazy About Paisley

2010-08-29T23:13:00.002-05:00

This face ... this face could melt the heart of a grandfather. If he was not so strong and burly. This face could actually cause a grandfather to dole out an extra afternoon treat. If he was not so wise to the ways of women folk.

Okay. I admit it. We ate gold fish crackers till we nearly puked. And then I took a nap while she stayed up and watched cartoons.

I. COULD. NOT. HELP. IT.

Our Little Man

2010-08-26T23:14:00.002-05:00

Debbie and I spent the evening with Christopher, Laura, and Judah. Oh, and Sydney the dog. It was just a wonderfully great night. So relaxed, laid back, and just comfortable. I got to watch MY son hold HIS son. I crawled across the living room floor shortly before we left to where Chris was holding his infant son. He was trying to wake him up so that he would eat and they could (hopefully) go to bed and get some sleep. They are both so very sleep deprived. But when I got over to Chris he asked me if I wanted to hold Judah. I said no. No, I didn't. What I wanted was to watch the two of them. And as I watched them I realized something again. It had occurred to me on the day of Judah's birth, one week ago tomorrow. On that day it hit me square in the middle of whatever part of my brain entertains creative thoughts. Here it is ...

Now ... finally ... Christopher knows how much I love him. Because I love him as much as he loves Judah. It takes the love of a father to understand the love of a father.

I am so proud of Christopher and Laura. Not because they made a baby. Nearly any man and woman could do that. No, I am proud of them because they are already, just six days into this thing called "parenthood", totally sold out to the one that they call "Our Little Man."

It takes something totally sacrificial to be a real parent. It takes a willingness to put yourself and all of your needs on the back burner for the sake of the little life God has used you to create. That is an amazing thought. Through creating a child, God allows us to participate in the act of creation with Him! God is good!

And Christopher and Laura are pretty amazing themselves.

Judah's first story time

2010-08-22T22:37:00.004-05:00

Welcome to the world, Judah Barrett Woods! Last Friday the trumpets of heaven blew announcing the entrance on planet earth of my very first grandson! That makes me want to shout all sorts of things. I have noticed that words come to mind in a particular sequence. Words that did not come to mind with the birth of The Amazing Elle and The Precious Paisley. But Joyful Judah has worked his magic on my mind. As a result I'm finding words formulating themselves in the following order ...

Play - ball!
This - is - a - hammer.
Walk - it - off!
Don't - tell - your - mother - but - let's ... (add secret male activity here.)

There is much more for me to teach you. But let me tell you your very first story! I suspect that it is true. Here is how it goes.

Once upon a time,
in a land far away,
a handsome, independent,
self-assured Prince
happened upon a frog as he sat,
contemplating ecological issues
on the shores of an unpolluted pond
in a verdant meadow near his castle.
The frog hopped into lap of the prince.
and said: handsome Prince,
I was once a gorgeous Princess,
until an evil witch cast a spell upon me.
One kiss from you, however,
and I will turn back
into the stunning, young princess that I am
and then, my sweet, we can marry
and setup housekeeping in your castle
with my mother,
where you can work to pay our mortgage,
buy me new clothes, deliver me "carry - out" every night,
and forever
feel grateful and happy doing so.
That night,
as the prince dined sumptuously
on a repast of lightly sautéed frog legs
seasoned in a white wine
and onion cream sauce,
he chuckled and thought to himself:
I don't think so.
And they all lived happily ever after.

I'm hear for you, Judah! I love you!

Grandpa

WWJM?

2010-08-17T22:45:00.005-05:00

So what's the deal with grass? It is a well documented fact that I hate, hate, HATE mowing it. And today I had to. I realized the truth of that statement when I got out my machete to go to the mail box. So. It was not nearly as hot today as it was when I mowed after dark last week. (Mowing after dark did not help. I still finished dehydrated, exhausted, but with less of a tan.) I got the job done but found myself in a bit of a conversation with God while decimating His handiwork. In a nutshell ...

If God made the earth as a perfect place ... Eden ... was grass originally suppose to grow? Because that requires mowing. Mowing, in turn, makes earth less than perfect. Perhaps grass was intended to stay one height forever. But that would eliminate ultimate-Frisbee and pick-up football games 'cause those wear grass down. This is, perhaps, the ultimate theological dilemma, dwarfing free will vs. election

Mowing pollutes the atmosphere therefore it cannot be a "God thing." Ticking off my neighbors by not mowing is clearly a stumbling block to others so not mowing cannot be a "God thing."

I suppose the best thing I can do at this point is sell out my theological genius and make a profit out of this thing. So as of tomorrow I'll be offering wrist bands emblazoned with "WWJM?" "What Would Jesus Mow?" You can get yours for just $9.95 plus all applicable taxes, shipping, and a 15% gratuity for the orphans in the sweat shop that I am building to mass produce them. Don't worry. I'm building the sweat shop in the good old US of A. I would never out source such an important piece of modern culture.

That's just the kind of guy I am.

A laugh and a hug

2010-08-15T23:17:00.007-05:00

I started blogging in 2002. This little site was set-up by my favorite son-in-law, Joe. I've enjoyed it so very much. Writing, to me, is therapy. I've blogged through healthy times and not so healthy times. I've blogged after winning victories and suffering defeats. I've blogged from jets flying cross country, from the ranch home where I raised my children, from behind frozen windows in suburban Cleveland, from an office desk, and propped up in bed. And I've loved every minute of it.

Two weeks ago I posted my 800th blog. That's a lot of words. And then I ran out. It's not that I find writing a chore. Not at all. Many times I've vented on this little space. Many times I've shared cute pictures, amazing stories of God's faithfulness, and plenty of anecdotes about the best grandchildren in the world. (Mine are better than yours.)

I've watched my "hits' (the visits to this site) plummet from about 2,000 a month to around 800. And I understand why. I don't write as much anymore so why should anyone really check back? And yet about 30 people a day drop by to see what's new. Thanks for that. The "regulars" are from California and Maine. Ohio and Texas. And mainly Missouri and Illinois. There's maybe 18 or 20 other states scattered in but they seem to have neither rhyme nor reason. I have no idea who keeps reading from Maine. It must be really cold up there.

I think the the older I get the more careful I've become about what I write. I think that going from being a youth pastor of 33 years (youth pastor's are suppose to be able to say anything ... they are my favorite people) to "putting on the big pants" and taking over as a lead pastor has caused me to think twice about what I am saying. When you are the Sr. Pastor you are suppose to know what you are talking about each and every time you open your mouth. And the truth is ... I don't. I mean, ask my family. When I am around them I tend to put my brain on "auto pilot" and say whatever comes to mind. And trust me ... they let me know that it isn't always pretty. Those who love you the most are generally your harshest critics. Last week I actually called one of my daughters-in-law by the name of my other daughters-in-law. She told me I was semi-senile. I told her she was fat. But she's due to have a child in 5 days and so she is suppose to be large. I asked her which way I was leaning (since I'm only "semi" senile.) She told me that I'm teetering. That cracked me up. But it also made me think.

So anyway. I said all of that just to say that I came really close to pulling the plug on "Lost In The Woods" yesterday. I mean, nothing lasts forever. Right? My finger hovered over the "delete blog" button for a few seconds. And I couldn't do it. It felt like I was shooting an old friend. And that's just not something you do. But God's been working on me for a couple of years now. I'm not sure what He's doing. I'm not sure where the road goes. God doesn't pave His roads with yellow bricks so that you can see them far in advance. He's more of a "take the next step and wait for instructions" kind of God. So I"m taking a lot of next steps these days. And I'm spending a lot of time waiting for instructions. But I've got as many minutes as He chooses to give me and I plan on giving them all back to Him. That means He can lead where ever He wants to and I'm willing to listen and obey. I wish I could say that I'm comfortable with that. But it's been a very long time since I've been comfortable. That's probably a God thing too.

Thanks for stopping by. Sorry I couldn't make you laugh or at least bring a smile to your face. Wait. Wait. I'll tell you a joke. It's the one my oldest granddaughter, The Amazing Elle, dropped on me unexpectedly a couple of weeks ago when she said ....

Q: What do you call a dog with no legs?"

I don't know, Elle. What do you call a dog with no legs?

A: I doesn't matter, Grandpa. He's not coming anyway.

I laughed. I hugged her. Sometimes that's the medicine we all need. A laugh. A hug. It's a winning combination.

Stupid Picture Chronicles #49

2010-08-14T18:54:00.002-05:00

How much for how many?

800

2010-08-01T16:47:00.002-05:00

Congratulations to me! This is my 800th blog. I'm certain that I am the only person that cares but somehow I feel like I deserve a celebration. Therefore I have an appointment with a pizza that I plan on conquering. Did I mention that I'm on vacation? Well, I'm on vacation.

Yea, me!

Happy 800th blog, Ron! (Well, thank you! Thank you very much!)

Surviving the World

2010-07-26T23:12:00.004-05:00

So a couple of weeks ago I broke this tooth. Below the gum line. You know you are in for a good time with the dentist when you do that. I went to visit him last week and he began his torture. They draw it out for as long as possible. He got about half finished rebuilding the fang. That meant I had to go back today. And he did something really cool. I have these three HUGE canker sores where he shot me last week. And today? Today he needed to shoot me in the same places to numb the same areas. That, my friend, means that you get a shot IN the canker sore. Good times! He asked me if I wanted to wait a couple of weeks and come back when it was all healed up. Riiiiight. I put the head phones on and said, "drill me, doc."

That really wasn't the best idea I've had all day.

So now he's almost done. Friday he installs this nice shiny new cap and I dance off into the sunset. I requested one of those diamond studded caps but he told me no. Geez. And here I thought it was actually MY mouth and I got to make the decisions. El-wrong-o.

Then I went and got the oil changed on Emma the Mustang. And she had a bad belt. So Emma got a new belt. Oh, and they lied to me about checking the air pressure on the tires and I caught them so that's one for the good guys.

After that I went and visited one of my friends from church who keeled over and fell out of her pew yesterday morning during church. (Hi Arlene!) She just went ... BAM! Fortunately there were two guys sitting near her and they knew what to do. One was a fireman and one is in the air force and, when over seas, serves as a medic. So she was sitting in the right place. She was pretty much not breathing when she hit the floor but they brought her back. Today all she remembers are these two good looking guys kneeling over her. So for her it's all good. It looks like she's going to be just fine. We'll know more soon. But you know what is truly weird? When I got to the hospital to check on her (we canceled the remainder of the service) there were FOUR people in the ER that had passed out at local churches during their morning worship services yesterday. What are the odds? (I would like to point out that I was not speaking when her lights went out so you can't hang this one on me.)

So that was the high lights of today. And as I type them I realize that there is actually no reason to tell you about them on the world wide web. I mean, it was just a day. I didn't get to help change anybodies eternity. I didn't come up with the cure for any major world ... or even local ... problems. I barely even ate because the inside of my mouth feels like a Mexican drug cartel has been taking target practice in it.

I guess tonight a truth has occurred to me. Some days you change the world. Some days you survive it.

Who dis be?

2010-07-21T23:58:00.005-05:00

I got worked over today. Not by a hustler or a con man. By God. He does that every now and then. I've learned to just let Him do what He wants to do because He's going to do it anyway. "Resistance is FU-tile..." I was simply enjoying some time in my man cave. The weather was decaying rapidly (a daily occurrence lately) and the radar was on the mini-flat screen on my desk doing it's "loop" thing. "Meteorological Armageddon" was only moments away.

Then He spoke. No, it wasn't audible. I'm not Moses, ya know. My bushes weren't burning. It was just one of those "still quiet voice" things. But it was clear. And He said ... "Who would you be if all of the titles you hold were suddenly gone?" At my deepest core God looks at me and ask "Who dis be?"

What?

What if I was no longer the husband of Debbie? The father of Kelli, Scott, and Chris? The father-in-law of Joe, Amanda, and Laura? The grandfather of Elle, Paisley, and Judah? The brother of Jim? The pastor of Towerview Baptist Church? The friend of 2 or 3 people? If all of those titles and others were stripped away ... who would I be?

That question makes my brain hurt. The first thing I feel when I think of losing those relationships is fear. I think that is appropriate. I love the people in my life and I love thinking that in some small way I might matter to them. FDR told us that all we have to fear is fear itself. I respectfully submit that he missed that one. I think that he was trying to pump the country up. But that's a crazy idea. There is a lot to fear. Forget Bin Laden. Pay no attention to the drug cartels. The threat is much nearer to home. The thought of losing those relationships causes me to feel fear. And it occurs to me, that fear cannot be held. You can't touch it as you can touch your own face or a prized possession. You can only feel it. Tangibility is not part of its package. So fear doesn't really count. It's there but it isn't. I know that is confusing but trust me on this. The same can be said of sadness, depression, and all other emotions including the positive ones. And the question I was being asked is "Who would I BE if ..." Be. Be.

It occurs to me that if all of my physical relationships were to be swept away I would only have one title left. "Child of God." Or perhaps, "Friend of God." I like them both. And they are both accurate. They came to me by way of a gift. That makes them all the more precious.

Then "The Still Small Voice" pointed out one other truth. Someday ... if only for a brief moment ... all of those relationships will be gone. I doubt that my wife and I "expire" at the same moment. Unless, of course, we pull a "Thelma and Louise." That's not likely since she would, no doubt, make me be Thelma and I hate that name. But even if we did leave this earthly soil at the same moment, every man (or woman) crosses the line from time to timelessness all alone. You are naked. Stripped of all titles and possessions. And at that moment all you have is ... God.

And so this is what I learned today. At my very core my relationship with God is the most vital of all possessions. It is the only thing that will never cease, never fade, never fail. My other titles? Very worthwhile. Also very temporary.

But Jesus? Jesus lasts. And coming face to Face with Him will be enough. Does that take the fear away? I guess I'm one of those, "Oh ye of little faith" guys, because no it does not. Not totally. It tempers it. But it does not erase it. You can call me a weenie but deep inside you know I'm right. My titles will fail. But God is working on my biography. And my biography will last forever.

God Works Through Dummies Too

2010-07-11T22:46:00.004-05:00

Every now and then God just decides He's going to do something and even the dumbest of us (me) can't screw it up. Today is a perfect example.

I arrived in our outer office area about 20 minutes before morning bible study today. A friend, Diana, gave me the names of a few individuals who had visited within the last month that she did not think I had. She was right. I thanked her and dropped them on my desk, making a mental note to spend time making some contacts in the coming week. I spent the rest of the hour studying and going over the "talk" I was about to give to the church congregation.

Fast forward about 90 minutes.

Our morning worship service had come to its completion. As usual we "sang our way out." I had gathered up my stuff and was walking toward the rear entrance to the worship center when I noticed her. She was standing between rows of pews and looked a bit disturbed. I felt a clear prompting from God to go and introduce myself. We shook hands and I asked her how she was doing. Tears filled her eyes as she told me that the mornings message had been exactly what she needed. She referred to some "issues in life" that were working her over, yet did not go into any detail. After a few brief minutes of talking I asked if I could pray with her. She replied, "Yes, please." So I prayed a very typical prayer that God would cover her with grace and love, providing for her needs and walking her through her troubled areas. After the big "Amen" I gave her my card and told her to feel free to contact me if she needed to. I turned to walk away but got no more than a few steps when "that prompting" came again. It was just clear that God was not done. He was sending me back to talk some more. He wanted me to be more specific. Don't ask me how I knew. But once you receive a "prompting" from God you tend to remember what it feels like.

I turned and walked back to my new friend. She was picking up her belongings and I interrupted her seeking permission to ask her one more thing. She told me to feel free. And so I asked her what God's Spirit was telling me to ask her. "Has there ever been a time in your life when you have prayed and told God that you wanted to give Him all of yourself? You know, a time when you admitted that you have fallen short in many ways of his perfection and you want to ask Jesus to pay for your sin, forgive you, bring you into His family, and give you eternal life?" She looked down and said, "No, I don't think I have ever done that. I have prayed a lot of prayers. But I have never asked Him that before."

"Would you like to do that now?"

"Yes. I really would."

I prayed, thanking God for this holy moment and asking Him to please hear the prayer of my new friend. I squeezed her hands and asked her to tell God what ever she wanted to.

She prayed out loud. She told God that she was sorry she had messed things up and she wanted to be forgiven. She wanted to be one of His kids. She was willing to live her life doing what He wants her to do from now on. She got quiet. I whispered, "Amen."

And then I hugged her. I told her that we had a lot to talk about and that we needed to do begin that process this week. I told her about baptism and what it means. And then I realized that I really needed to pair her up with a woman from our church. I looked around and there was only one woman left in the worship center (besides my new friend.) I called her over. I told her about what had transpired over the last ten minutes and asked if she would be willing to get in touch with this new believer this week. She looked at our friend, beaming from ear to ear. She hugged her, called her by name, and said that she certainly would.

Hmmm. Strange. I asked her if she new this new Christian. She looked at me like I had three eyes and said, "Of course I know who she is. I gave you her name and address when you came in the office this morning." You see, the friend I called over was Diana. The Diana that had met me earlier in the morning giving me visitors information. I didn't remember any of the names on the card. Honestly, I didn't even remember at that moment that it was Diana who had given them to me.

Isn't that just like God? The morning had come full circle. A new child was born into The Kingdom and he used the least likely guy in the room to do it. The one with no clue as to what He was doing.

I just love it when God works through dummies.

Stupid Picture Chronicles #48

2010-07-11T22:41:00.001-05:00

Okay, maybe this isn't a stupid picture. Because it's pretty much true. At least for me.

Reflections on my independence

2010-07-05T22:13:00.005-05:00

I love the 4th of July. Independence Day. I mean, if you live in America you love it. Right? It's a given. Fireworks, sparklers, boom-boom, steaks on the grill. The whole nine yards. What's not to love?

But can I be honest for a second? I mean gut-level-I-think-I-must-be-a-jerk honest?

Our Independence Day does not effect me like it should. I should stop and think about what has been sacrificed for me in order for me to enjoy the life of freedom that I have and that should be enough to leave me in a puddle.

And it does not work that way.

You see ... I am spoiled. I have never lived in anything but freedom. Nobody has ever asked to see "my papers" at any border except the few times I have crossed over into Canada. I have been in most states any my license plates have never been looked upon with scorn. I have never been slapped down because of my color, my race, my nationality. It's never once happened to me.

I am enormously glad that this is true. I am grateful. I hope that I will be able to make this statement until the day I die. But I recognize that my lack of personal sacrifice and persecution causes me to simply not fully comprehend my freedom ... much less what others paid for it. My father fought for 4 long years in world war two. He was in a "half-track" with the 2nd Armored Division. "Hell on Wheels." He slept in this track or in ditches. He fought in snow and blistering heat, battling his way across north Africa and then Europe. He compiled memories that he could not talk about. Ever. He was at D-Day +3 on a beach in France named "Omaha." He took part in the Battle of the Bulge. As a result of his war time experiences he could never fully enjoy 4th of July fireworks. The "rockets red glare" and "bombs bursting in air" remained too real to him till the day he died. Dad? He could appreciate freedom in a way that I'll never fully understand.

My blessing is a curse. I am blessed to have never pulled a trigger in anger. I am blessed to have never had a trigger pulled on me in anger. I am blessed by the sacrifices of millions who have gone before me or are serving to keep me free right now. Some of my best friends are numbered among them. I have friends serving on military bases right now. I have friends risking it all on foreign soil right now. And they understand fully what I cannot. They understand the great price that has been and is being paid so that I might live on in my cursed semi-ignorance.

And to those men and women, past and present, I say from the bottom of my spoiled heart ... thank you.

385 In Dog Years

2010-06-30T23:23:00.005-05:00

When I was born this house, the Barbagallo House," in Kimmswick, Missouri, was already 105 years old. I take comfort in that. Because I am now 385 years old in dog years. That's 55 in human years. VERY hard to believe. Staring down the barrel at 60? Not possible. Many people have expressed kindness to me today. I am grateful for the multitude of friends that God has given me. A few have been obstinate, reminding me that death is looming. Well, to them I only have one thing to say. I'll probably get to heaven before you will. And when I get there? When I get there I'm going to go mess up your room. That's IF you have a room. Uh-huh. Better think that through. Nothing worse than getting "short sheeted" in The New Jerusalem!

I've been asked what I've learned in 55 years of life. I've tried to boil it down to a few bullet points. For you young'ens ... read and learn.

-Never laugh at old guys. It's like laughing at your tomorrow. And the truth is, you might turn out uglier than the old guy you are laughing at.

-The more you learn the more you forget. It's inevitable. You can only retain so much. But as you increase in age the information you gather tends to be much more important than what you gathered in your younger days. Which means you forget what is least important. Unfortunately, you forget the very part that younger people remember. Because it isn't as important to you. This makes you an easy target for laughter or jokes. Don't let it bother you. Retain what is important and let the laughers laugh. By the time they understand you'll be dead which simply means they can't whine to you and, with any luck, will be in heaven messing up their room.

-Your relationship with God is far more important than anything else. That makes a great sermon point. But forget about that. It's just a simple fact. When your life begins to boil down to what is important NOTHING will top that. So pay attention early. You won't have to spend so much time "cramming for finals" later on.

-Right after your relationship with God you might want to consider cultivating, watering, fertilizing, feeding, your relationship with your family. Do you realize how precious ... how important they are? Who knew you from day one? Who else will be with you on your last day (hopefully?) And honestly, who else would you rather be with? Family. I have many great friends. I'd like to have many more. I'm in the market. But if my phone rings and ANY member of my family is on the other end ... family by blood or family by marriage ... you betcha I'm answering that call. I would move mountains for my family. I would rearrange cluttered schedules. I would walk across hot coals. I would die for my daughters-in-law and my son-in-law as quickly as I would my own kids. They ARE my own kids. Every Thursday night I drive two hours to spend one hour with two of my three kids and their families. MY families. Why? Because it's worth every minute of it. And not just because they might be choosing my nursing home someday. I will do it because, well, because I love them with a deep and impassioned love.

-You don't really have to change your oil every 3,000 miles. Every 5,000 will be fine unless you drive in really dirty places or you stop every block and let your engine idle. I'm not a mechanic. I've just owned a lot of cars. If I'm wrong about this remember ... never take car advice from a pastor.

-Don't take yourself so stinken seriously. You spend much time wondering what people are thinking of you? Let me give you the true answer. THEY ARE NOT THINKING OF YOU. They are thinking of themselves. So please God first and then please those you love and then please yourself. And if others give you grief for it ... laugh at them. No, not to their face because that would be rude and it might get you punched in the nose. But do laugh at them. Certainly don't pay them any undue attention.

-Everybody has an opinion. You want to make somebody angry? Make a decision. You'll hack someone off every time. Get use to it. It's an irrevocable law of the universe.

-Okay, just one last thing. I could go on all night writing this stuff but you are already bored and my 55 year old fingers are tired. So here's the last one. That person who lays next to you at night? You know. Your wife. Or your husband. They are gold. Always, always, always give them the benefit of the doubt. Always put them before yourself. Always make certain that, before they go to sleep or drive away in a car, they know you LOVE THEM. And then tell them one more time just to make sure. Contrary to popular opinion, they cannot be replaced.

"The Birthday Flag" flys at our house in my honor today. (Thank you, honey!)

Vacation update...

2010-06-26T10:19:00.004-05:00

When you get these seats at the Brewers/Twins game at Milwaukee's Miller Park...

This is the inevitable result...

To my kids. Thanks for letting me be the dad.

2010-06-19T22:47:00.005-05:00

I suppose the typical Father's Day blog would find a person writing to his father. Or perhaps about his father. Tonight I am blowing away all trends. I have something important that I need to say.

Kelli. From the moment they lay you in my arms in the deliver room I was a changed man. I fell into your deeply piercing eyes and my life has never been the same. With your first breath my life was altered for all eternity. You have brought things out of me that no other person could have ever brought out. I was so thrilled to have a daughter. A daughter. Those words rang in my ears when the nurse first spoke them to me. They ring to this day. I could write so much about the in-between days but I would much rather fast forward to today. You were the first one to make me a father. You were the first one to choose a mate. You were the first one to make me a grandfather. And I am so proud of you. But those are not the only reasons why. I watch you live your life, love your family, serve your God, and I can not think of one thing that I would change. You are everything that I dreamed you would be. Everything I prayed you would be. It thrills me to know that you serve God as a ministry leader in your church. But that is not what thrills me the most. It is simply who you ARE. At your core. You are a woman of integrity and honor. You are purposeful. You are loyal. Dedicated. Incredibly resourceful. Independent. Shockingly beautiful. I could go on. But let me say to you one more time what I have told you many times before. If I could have talked to God and designed my own daughter she would look exactly like you. I love you with every fiber of my being and am honored that for all eternity I will be your father. Kelli, you are wise beyond your years and gifted beyond you ability to have learned all you know on your own. God has His Hand on you. And I cannot wait to watch what He does with your life. I love you, Kelli, far more than I love my own life.

Scott. You came into my life wearing a little yellow sock hat. It quickly morphed into a blue Cubs cap. How many baseball beatings have we taken together? More than I can count. Watching you grow up in our home brought me joy I had never known. My first son. Somebody to play catch with. Somebody to teach the letters "ESPN" to. You use to cry and scream when I would get on a bus or into a van to leave on a youth trip. You just wanted your dad. Those moments ripped my heart out. But I walked on and did what God told me to do. Now I understand a little bit about why He wanted me to demonstrate that faithfulness before you. It would not be long until you would be the one climbing on a bus. You would be the one leading the charge of teenagers in a well planned attack on the gates of Hades. I remember the days we "shared a wall." I was a pastor on one side and you were the youth pastor on the other. Those were some of the best moments of my life. The day came when you sat in your room, on your bed, and stared at the walls and the memories they contained. You didn't know I was watching from a distance. You walked outside where your mother and I were waiting to pray for you as you drove off of our drive way for the last time as a resident of our home. I will forever remember you wrapping your arms around my neck and saying, "I never thought they would say yes!" I have to tell you, Scott. I knew from the first moment you began filling out applications that they would say "yes." Because I knew you were called. Scott, I am incredibly proud of you. Of the man you have become. I love you and all you ever have to do is make the call and I am on the road, heading to wherever you are. You are my son in whom I am well pleased.

Chris. I scarcely know how to say to you how much you mean to me. You completed God's gift of children to your mom and I. When you first showed up we realized that we were now complete. Until you came it always felt as though someone was missing. You were that someone. God designed you specifically to be the final puzzle piece to our family. Oh how I loved raising you! Oh the challenges you sent my way! You always did things your own way. I often had to express my displeasure (while stifling a belly laugh) but I can now be honest with you. Almost every time I found out what you had been up to deep in my heart and soul I was thinking, "This is one amazing kid. Magnificently creative. Totally independent upon his own wit and skills. Raising him is going to be a BLAST!" And none of that was wrong. And I look at you today, Christopher, and I stand thrilled and humbled by the man that I see. Overnight you went from "the learner" to "the teacher." How did you do that? I should not be surprised. It is typical Christopher. I have no idea what your future holds, my son. But I know this. It is brighter than the brightest sun. You have grown a heart after God and He is going to use you beyond your wildest dreams. Maybe it won't always be fun or easy. Maybe it will sometimes hurt. But it will be a ride that you will never regret taking. Thank you for calling me "dad." When my phone rings and I see your picture on the screen my heart smiles. And I never know what I am going to hear! I love you so deeply, Christopher. Remain faithful. I will be here for you whether you need me or not!

It is Father's Day. And I am one blessed Father.

10 Years

2010-06-14T23:27:00.003-05:00

Ten years ago today life changed forever. I remember the moment as though it just happened. For me, on a personal level, it is a line drawn through the history of my life. On the other side was a naive joy that I totally took for granted. This side of the line contains the things that go along with age and maturity. They are over-rated. They are also unavoidable.

Ten years ago today I was attending Centrifuge with a hundred or so of my closest friends at Union University in Jackson, Tennessee. It was around 9:30AM. I had finished breakfast with multiple tables of teens. And then I had made my way to a pay phone in a university hallway. I had a daily phone call to make.

My dad was sick. He was eighty years old and seemed to be increasingly in poor health. I dialed the number and my mother answered the phone. She quickly told me of how my father had become disoriented the night before, had fallen, hit his head on a night stand, and was now in the hospital. Dad was dealing with what had proved to be a very slow growing liver cancer. He had battled it for over a decade. Lately he was on chemo. It was not fun to watch. Dad was always a man of great strength, both of physical stature and character.

After talking to my mother I called my father's hospital room. He was thinking and talking clearly though he sounded weak. He told me what had happened to the best of his recollection. I assured him that I had plenty of adults to take care of the kids at camp and I would be leaving to come to his bedside on that very day. Dad's response was simple and yet strong. He said, "No son. You stay there and you do a good job." As always I obeyed my dad.

I didn't know it at the time but dad was just over a week away from death. As I thought about that today I realized how blessed I had been. I was 44 years old and, while I had conducted many funeral services, dad was the first person I had lost that I was truly close to.

Ten years. It's very hard to believe. I miss him more than I can say. I still remember his phone number and have an uncanny urge to dial it every now and then. My tower of strength was falling. My hero was coming to the end of his fight. I don't understand it but I miss him more today than I did that first year he was gone.

I hope I have done what dad told me to do. I hoped I have stayed the course. I hope I have done a good job. He may be gone but he's my dad. And I still want to make him smile.

Stupid Picture Chronicles #47

2010-06-11T20:11:00.002-05:00

Ya'll drive careful now! Ya hear!
Rush hour in Highland, Illinois.

The Great Donut Harvest Of '10

2010-06-06T16:31:00.000-05:00

It works. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise.

Planting Donut Seeds ... Memories in Sugar

2010-06-05T22:15:00.001-05:00

Tonight Elle and I planted Donut seeds. Yes, you read that correctly. Donut seeds. We've already reaped a crop of four donuts and I expect more in the morning. What? You find this hard to believe? See for yourself...

I gotta get me one of these...

2010-06-05T14:53:00.002-05:00

Click on the video for a better/wider view.

If I Ruled The World - Part 2 (today's rants)

2010-06-03T23:28:00.006-05:00

- Everybody has to drive the Popular Street Bridge in downtown St. Louis for a month. Survivors will be allowed back into the general population.

- Skimping on carbonation in fountain soda wins you 3/4 of a normal ration of oxygen per day. Hey ... if it doesn't burn going down it doesn't count.

- Forcing people to pay to park in a garage connected to a hospital results in hospital administrators paying to park at the grocery store, shopping mall and , oh what the heck, stop lights.

- Throwing your "butts" out of your car window gets your butt thrown out of your car window. (I don't really need to explain this, do I?)

- Not paying your employees enough to work at your restaurant (thus forcing them to rely on my tip to put diapers on the baby) will result in your giving them your restaurant. Fair 'nuff.

OH PLEASE let me be in charge...