I left church feeling tired.  Hot.  Just wanting to go home, grab what I needed, and go back.  As I drove I approached a small bridge crossing a creek flowing about 10 feet beneath.  A woman stood on the bridge.  She was tying balloons and banners onto the railing.  I had seen balloons and banners there before.  Assumedly, someone had met an untimely fate at that spot.  Generally, I would consider it briefly, maybe breath a quick prayer for whoever was grieving, and drive on.  Today I crossed the bridge, passing just three feet from the woman.  I kept going.

"Stop."

The voice in my head was gentle but insistent.  Clearly my brain was over-reacting today.  I kept moving.  "No," is the only word that came to mind.

"Stop.  Go back."

The voice, still gentle, was firm.  It occurred to me that maybe ... but probably not ... the voice was the whisper of God's Spirit.  "No.  I just spoke for 45 minutes.  My legs hurt.  My head hurts.  I want to be done."

"Turn around.  Do it now."

It became clear that his voice was not simply my own thoughts.  I have pursued walking with God for decades.  I know His voice when I hear it.  But that did not make me any less tired.  So I pushed a little harder.  "If I do back I will scare her.  She won't understand.  It is too late."

"Last time.  I told you to go back."

With a sigh I turned into the Walgreens parking lot, flipped around, and drove back to the bridge.  Her SUV was parked to the side of a driveway.  The back was open.  I pulled in beside it, got out of my car, and surely sighed again as I began walking onto the bridge.  The woman looked up.  She saw me.  I raised my sun glasses onto the top of my head.  Maybe it looks less threatening.  I waved.  She waved back and returned to her task.  I was 20 feet onto the bridge when I finally approached her.  I held back about 5 feet so as to not appear intimidating.  She looked at me.

I said hello.  I explained that I was just driving by, noticed her there, and had often wondered what happened on that bridge.  Someone was obviously grieving.

Through a half-smile and gathering tears she told me her name is Rita and that two years ago she lost her husband at that spot.  He was walking their dog, decided to cross the bridge, and a careless driver hit them, killing them both.  She recited the events of that evening, culminating in searching for her husband, finding the accident site covered with police and an ambulance. Her world fell apart in the front seat of a police car as an officer confirmed her worst fears.  She told me of maintaining the spot as a memorial, unwilling and unable to give up her place of grieving. I hugged her.  As I backed away I asked if she has a relationship with Jesus Christ.  She assured me that she did and her husband did as well.  I took her hands in mine.  We prayed as the cars whizzed by mere feet from us.  (I silently asked that we not join her husband!)  As I said "amen" she told me how important it was to her that I had stopped.  That I cared.  That her husband would be remembered by at least one more person.

Walking back to my car I realized how close I had come to ignoring this woman, her agony, her tears, her need.  The voice that sent me there remained silent.  He need not say anything.  The spirit within me mourned ... and yet celebrated.  Mourned Rita's horrific loss.  Celebrated the Love of a Father for His daughter, and His willingness to respond to her pain by sending His ambassador to the scene.

It is such an honor to walk in the steps ordained by our Heavenly Father.  Maybe someday I will learn not to hesitate.

Asheville, NC ... its WORSE , much worse ...

Grandma Molly

Life messed me over! I have always been jealous of anyone who has a grandfather. My dads dad and my grandfather, Virdo Woods, passed away nearly a decade before I was born. (If I was named Virdo I might have left early too.) His wife, Ada, had already died from breast cancer. My grandfather on my moms side, James Robertson, met me, but I never met him. What I mean is that we crossed paths during my first year of life. He met me but I had no more recognition of him than I had of President Eisenhower. Clearly he realized that none of his kids could produce anything better than this newborn bundle of joy because he promptly checked out and went to heaven. (Grandpa Robertson was a deacon in the Baptist Church in Marmaduke, Arkansas. So of course he went to heaven.) That left me with his wife, Grandma Molly.

I didn't call her Molly because if I had she would have shot me.  No, really.  Grandma was very aware that I was born in Detroit and was being raised as a Yankee far north of the Mason Dixon Line.  I only knew her slightly more than a decade (and I only saw her once each year) before she went to visit Grandpa Jim in heaven, but she made it clear that I was a yankee and yankees are only good for target practice.  She would regularly ask to see my belly button.  She would poke her finger into it and say with a cantankerous grin, "That's where a  yankee shot ya!"  She never explained why a yankee would shoot a yankee.  I suppose she didn't understand war very well.  One day I was sitting on her lap and I pulled out my toy pistol and pretended to shoot her.  To my utter confusion she fell over dead on the couch.  I looked at the end of my pistol.  It was not smoking.  I didn't know whether to be proud or very afraid.  I bumped her.  No reaction.  I called her name.  Nothing.  I finally decided to turn myself in.  Climbing down to go find my mother and tell her that I had shot her mother dead, I got half-way to the kitchen when I heard her delighted cackle.  As I turned back she was shaking a crooked finger at me saying, "I got ya!  I got ya!"

My first memories of visiting my grandmother included middle of the night trips to the outhouse.  It was the most disgusting thing I had ever heard of and I was not happy.  But when you have to go...  Eventually my dad and my uncle spent a week in Marmaduke building grandma a real indoor bathroom.  There was a little mini-ditch running through grandma's yard from the back of the house to the street.  I soon noticed that when anyone flushed the toilet or turned the water on in the bathroom water began to trickle through the ditch.  Even my tiny mind was able to figure out that the ditch ran right past her vegetable garden.  I didn't ask the obvious.  After that day I mainly ate meat at grandma's house.  

Our days at grandma's were long and hot.  Arkansas had not heard of air conditioning yet.  The beds were lumpy.  A railroad track ran across a field about a quarter mile in front of the house and hobo's would regularly knock on her door seeking a meal.  Grandma always met them at the door, invited them to rest on her porch, and went into the kitchen to fix them something to eat.  I watched them through my bedroom window and wondered why they didn't have red clothes-filled-bandana's tied to a stick hanging over their shoulders.  Don't all hobo's do that?  I watched too much TV.  The days were filled with blowing bubbles from the little bottles that mom bought us at Houston's store in downtown Marmaduke, playing with the little girl and her German Shepherd from across the street, and wondering when my Uncle Garlon was going to come over and whisker me half to death.  Uncle Garlon had The Beard From Hell.  It was long enough to be seen but short enough to be all stubbles.  He got great delight from chasing me down and pulling my tender young face against his sweaty-fresh-from-the-cotton-fields-face and rubbing his cheek against mine until I howled in pain.  My parents thought it was funny.  If it had been 2022 DCFS would have locked this man away.  Uncle Garlon was the one that taught me to hate the St. Louis Cardinals.  He knew of my love for the Chicago Cubs and he tormented me every time he saw me.  He accused the Cubs of playing with rubber balls and declared the Cardinals to be the Kings of the baseball universe.  My disdain for all thing Cardinal has not diminished.

Grandma Molly died in January of 1969.  We had been living in Chicago for a few years by that time and we drove all night to get to Marmaduke.  This was my third experience with death.  My Aunt Verniel had died years earlier and I saw my first dead body.  (Have you noticed that my family is really bad at choosing names for their children?)  And a child friend had been hit by a car and killed more recently.  They buried him with his favorite marble in his hand.  I suppose whatever is left of him is still holding it today.  Grandma's visitation was held at a horrible old funeral home in Paragould, Arkansas.  The funeral director sat in his miserable little office down the hall all evening hacking and coughing from some disease that would surely end all of us soon.  I was convinced we would all been in need of his services in short order.  The family was squeezed into a tiny room highlighted by bad, peeling wallpaper, and pale pastel lighting.  Grandma wouldn't be tricking me anymore.  I wouldn't be shooting her anymore either.  There would be no more bubbles or tainted vegetables.

I didn't know Grandma Molly very well.  But she was the only grandparent I ever met.  Life did me dirty.  And I still miss her.

You Cannot Deny It. We Have Trees.

Just look at her.  Isn't she a beauty?  Do you know what that is?  That my friend, is a tree!  You know what is special about that tree?  That tree is special because she has over three TRILLION siblings on earth.  That's 3,000,000,000,000.  Hmm.  So maybe that means she is actually not special.  But think about this.  There are roughly 400 trees for every human being.  12,000 years ago, before modern agriculture, there were twice that many trees.  Yep, 6,000,000,000,000.  I am not making this stuff up.  I got this information from the source of all tree wisdom  ... "Scientific American." These guys aren't making it up either.  It took them 421,529 measurements from 50 countries on 6 continents to figure it out. (They have a lot of tape measures and yardsticks down at Scientific American.)  Hey... I believe them.  It really is true that when you cut a tree down and count its rings, there truly is a ring for every year the tree has lived.  How the heck did that happen? Who decided that 1 ring would equal one year?  And ... get this ... those rings can actually show biological conditions.  Things like drought, volcanic eruption, and such, can often be seen in the rings as well.  Trees live longer than any other organism on earth. Some trees can call for "back-up" against the insects that harm them. Say what?  Evidently it is true. Certain trees species have been shown to emit odors that attract predators that kill the insects that kill the trees.  Wouldn't you like to have such faithful friends?

There is more but I think you get the point.

So let's ask ourselves "The Question."  Is it more difficult to believe that trees just happened?  (Look at my front yard.  It's empty.  BOOM!  OH, WOW!  THERE'S A TREE!")  It is more difficult to believe that trees  evolved from nothing to become the super species that we see in our forests and front yards today?  Or is it more difficult to believe that trees were created?  You know ... somebody super smart designed them, made them, and planted them on our planet for our pleasure.  Chance vs. intent.

Because we cannot deny it ... we have trees.

Gravity Brings Me Down.

I have broken three bones in my life.  Two of those breaks were not my fault. Sure, I was running through the church chasing a kid while we were firing squirt guns at one another.  And yes, I hit a wet patch on the stairs and my feet shot out from under me.  I did rocket to the bottom landing,  where I lay moaning and dazed.  But that is exactly my point!  The culprit was GRAVITY.  Without gravity I would have caught that little sucker and he would have been so very sorry he messed with me. It is not my fault that four football players and a cheerleader had to carry me home because I couldn't walk or drive.  It turned out to be a broken elbow ... broken by g-r-a-v-i-t-y.  And then there was the time I took that nasty spill while downhill skiing.  Again ... not my fault.  That was the steepest bunny slope I have ever seen. And it was gravity that carried me to the bottom ... on my bottom ... with a busted shoulder.  The fact that I continued skiing for four more hours is a testament to my skill and finesse.

Gravity always wins.  Always. That is the way the world works. Shoot yourself off into space and you will find out you weigh virtually nothing.  And nothing will hold you down. You are free to roam about the universe.  You can swim effortlessly without water through the gravity-less emptiness of space. But even with a broken bone or two I am exceedingly grateful for gravity.  Those guys up there on that water tower across the street from my church this morning had to fight gravity to get up there.  Step after heavy step, they put great effort into climbing that puppy. When they finish their work they can look forward to a much easier descent. Why?  Gravity.  Yes sir.  It will push them right along and they will be surprised how much easier it is to go down that it was to go up.  Gravity keeps us rooted in place. It keeps us from pushing off from the planet and accidentally sky rocketing into the stratosphere and points beyond.  Wouldn't that be a mess?  Without gravity you just might sneeze and rocket yourself skyward without intent.  Home would be just a memory as you looked down at that little receding speck-of-a-planet while gliding effortlessly by Jupiter on the way to the edge of the solar system. Yes, gravity makes sneezing much safer.  Who knew? Ever wonder where you put you car keys? Without gravity it wouldn't matter where you put them.  They could be anywhere.  Literally .. anywhere. Without gravity rain wouldn't fall and you might actually drown from the moisture in the air.  (Okay, I made that up. But it might be true. I want it to be true.) Thank God for gravity!  Wait ... thank God?  God?  You mean gravity was designed by a powerful authoritative creator?  It didn't just happen because the earth spins around?  Well, yes and no.  Gravity is not a direct result of the earth spinning around but ... it affects gravity. Gravity is caused by mass. But before we get so deep into physics we all make a mess of our mass ... ask yourself this little question ... who put the spin on the earth?  Whoever spun the earth created gravity.  They work in sync with one another.   Don't you think?  I mean ... is it easier to believer that gravity just happened?  That the earth just started spinning?  Or is it easier to believe that someone caused it ... designed it ... set it into motion?  I think I know.  But I am not a gravity expert.  I am simply a gravity consumer.  You figure it out.

Stupid Picture Chronicles #75

 I absolutely adore "talk like a pirate day."

Turning 65 ---Things I've Noticed In The Rear View Mirror

It was clearly inevitable. It was going to happen. There is only one way to avoid it and it is not a happy option because it involves people crying and getting sappy and then eating potato salad.  And people talking about what a nice guy you were. That's all fine and good but by then it's really a little late, don't you think? Better a text from  my kids now than a Kleenex full of nose blows later. But I digress.

Today is the last day I will live in my "pre-sixty-five" years.

The way I look at it every American has three majorly significant birthdays.  The rest are all clutter and record-keeping.  Eighteen is big.  It marks your entry into adulthood.  It looks so attractive for all of those adolescent years. And then it hits and nothing changes.  If you mess up you can now go to big-boy prison. And I guess you can vote. But as we are once again remembering, there is no one worth voting for. So you can save your gas.  Twenty-one is bigger.  You can drink.  Big whoop.  But you are officially an adult now and most of us don't realize what we've lost in the passing of our adolescence until it is too late.  Twenty-one is when I found out what it is like to work midnights and pay rent.  That was certainly not what I had been dreaming of all those years. And then there is sixty-five.  For a long time it had that far-off glow of being the day most people officially retire. And then they realized that Social Security is totally robbed, depleted, and irreparable.  So we work on.

I've spent the better part of the last week gazing into the rearview mirror of my life.  I've noticed some things that I thought might be worth pointing out to those who are still driving down the middle years of life's highway.  Nothing terribly profound.  Certainly nothing depressing or even sad.  Just stuff I've noticed.  And if I had to do it all over again (note:  I do not want to.  I'm good right where I'm at, thank you very much.) here are the things I would probably tell myself.  Don't bother arguing with me about them unless you are at least 23,742 days old.  Because that's how old I'll be tomorrow and I know better than you do.  Besides, I have earned the right to be self-righteous and grumpy. They make movies about people like me and guys like Walter Matthau or, if you are lucky, Clint Eastwood star in them. So shaddup and listen, young 'en.

Hey, kid.  Don't worry about it. Don't worry about what?  Don't worry about ANYTHING. Just live your life doing the next right thing and trust God.  That's one of the few things you really get to decide.  You get to decide whether or not you are going to trust God.  Most everything else is out of your hands. Fortunately, they are not out of His.  No fear.  Just faith.  You'd do well to learn that early on.

Hey, punk.  Doctor's know stuff.  Pay attention to what they tell you. But don't pay such close attention that you forget that pizza can be amazing, chocolate chip cookies with ice cold milk will make any day a better day, and a good cheese burger is always better than a mediocre steak.  Oh, and it's okay to order fish at a steakhouse but it is NOT okay to order steak at a fish house.  God set life up so that you might enjoy some of it.  It does not make Him mad when you smile. I suspect He does a lot of that Himself.

Hey, show-off.  It's people that count.  Always people.  I've never owned anything that mattered.  Oh, I've owned some things that I've enjoyed.  But none of them really mattered. When I lost them or broke them or sold them it turned out not to be a big deal. But every person I've ever known has mattered.  Even the jerks. Even those who totally ticked me off.  Even those I have had to remove from my life because we could not seem to stop hurting each other.  I've always known in my heart that they were still more important and precious than my most valuable thing. I didn't like it much but I knew it.  And you need to know it too.

Hey, Mr. Nobody.  You are not a loser.  No matter that your little league coach thought you were only slightly better than a Golden Retriever because at least you didn't wait for the ball to stop rolling before you picked it up. No matter that no one in your gene pool has ever made a layup.  No matter that you never learned to swim or ice skate. No matter that you hate camping and would rather go to the dentist than on a float trip. No matter that you hair is getting thin, your nose is still crooked, or that your front teeth keep busting off. No matter that you learned early on that "Ronnie just doesn't live up to his potential." No matter that you never forget a face but never remember a name. No matter that you can quote a huge amount of the Bible  but can't remember where more than five of verses are located.  No matter that you were taught, "preacher's are only good for one thing … preaching." and yet you've been one for 46 years.

You see, kid, somewhere around the age of sixty-five you suddenly realize that only one thing counts.  Just one thing.  It isn't how many problems you've solved (very few,) or how you've rescued society from the darkness of its evil self (nobody can do that but Jesus.  Sorry.  Try all you want but when you get tired come and see me.  I'm not lying to you.)  It isn't your enneagram, your IQ, your GPA, or the square feet of your house. That one thing is … What does God say about me?  Does He love me?  Do I trust Him?  Is He always there for me?  Is He keeping His promises?  Is He trustworthy?  Does He smile or does He frown when He looks at me?  HE IS EVERYTHING.  All the rest … except for loving God and loving people … is a smoke screen.

I figure I'm well into the 4th quarter of my life.  That should entitle me to tell you the truth. If you pay attention maybe it will save you a little trouble down the home-stretch.  It's closer than you think. And if I'm wrong (I'm not)  I'll probably be gone before you figure it out.

Stupid Picture Chonicles #74

I take this personally...

Stupid Picture Chronicles #73

I know all things are relative but... life is different in the U.P.

Who Gave Me The Right....?

What if I am wrong? It happens more frequently than I would like to admit. Usually there is nothing more at stake than the price of a sale item, a wrong turn on the way to my destination, or some other harmless event.

But every now and then...

Today found me at a hospital where I had gone to visit a friend.  He is nearly a decade younger than I am. He has experienced fewer Christmas Eve's, quiet evenings with his wife, and has probably made less mistakes than I must admit to. My friend is very, very, sick. The doctor told him this morning that he has reached the end of his days. There are no treatments to make him well. He will not drive a car, take a stroll, or go to a movie, again. The only remaining question is how long he will last and what will it be like when he dies.

We talked for a long while. We prayed together. We took the necessary measures to put him at peace with his spiritual condition. He believed he is an "official Christ-follower." But I suppose when you get down to the nitty gritty everybody wants to make certain. And so we made certain. As I was preparing to leave he asked me a question. He said that he does not want any drastic, life saving measures. It is his desire to accept what God has brought to him. Lingering is not something he wants to do. I understand that. I think I would feel the same way. He asked me if it would offend God if he told his doctors not to take those drastic steps. I assured him that his Father understands.  He will not be angry. This decision will not affect their relationship. We prayed again and I took my leave.

As I sat in the parking lot a few minutes later I took my time, sitting in the sunshine and reflecting on the last hour. At that point it occurred to me … what if I am wrong?  Who gives me the right to speak for God? My friend is banking everything on what I tell him … how I lead him … the "truth" that I declare to him. How do I know if God minds him rejecting extreme, life extending, measures? I cannot think of a place in the Bible where it says it is okay to stop fighting and run to Jesus. I am pretty certain it is not in there.  Actually, I am completely certain it is not in there.  I've read the entire book multiple times and this issue is not addressed. So. I believe what I told him is correct but I cannot prove it. What gives me the right to speak for God?

I wish I could give you an answer that puts a nice ribbon and bow on top of this conversational package. I do not have one. I am still working through this problem. Nothing in "preacher school" told me what to say at a moment like that one. I have not encountered it in a seminar or heard it addressed in a sermon. What gives me the right?  What if I am wrong? The question seems simple enough.  What if it is not?

 Here is what I've got. God told me to love and pastor His church. He made me responsible for the spiritual well-being of more people than anyone could possibly know intimately. Some I am very close to.  Some I am still getting to know. And in this particular moment I have become acutely aware that I had better walk rrrreeeaaaallllyyy close to Jesus. I had better listen very carefully for "the still, small, voice of His Spirit." I had better spend great amounts of time in stillness before Him learning what He sounds like. How else will I know what He is saying to me when a crises-moment like this one occurs? It is a scary thought. And it is even scarier to think that people look at me and think I am an expert on God. Seriously … can anybody be an expert on God?

I am not wrong in what I told my friend. I know where to go with questions like this. I go straight to The Throne. I do not really believe I might be wrong. That is not the point of this little essay. The point is that there is too much at stake for ANY of us to wander off and fall out of intimate contact with God. So listen close … don't you do it. If you have removed yourself from faithfully presenting yourself before God and seeking His Face … shame on you. Listen to this pastor who is human and mortal and fallible and all of the things that you are.  RUN TO HIM.  He will not be mad. He will welcome you.

I believe He told me to tell you that.

Stupid Picture Chronicles #71

You don’t have to tell me twice...

Stupid Picture Chronicles #70

Because the right button can fix anything ...

Stupid Picture Chronicles #69

Uhhhhh…. what?

Taxiing to the gate

Contrary to what you may have heard there is such a thing as a dumb question. I deal with them all of the time.

“Does God love me?” Dumb question. Because the answer is right in front of you. “I have loved you with an everlasting love...”  Jeremiah 31:3 I mean, take the book off the shelf and read it for crying out loud!

“What does God want me to do?”  Dumb question. Again, read the book! Micah 6:8: "What does the Lord require of you but to do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God.”

Today I was having a casual conversation with the teller at my bank. They were not busy and I engaged her in a conversation about her day. She told me about her husband and her kids. She could not wait to get home and enjoy the weekend with them. I, in turn, told her about my wife, my kids, and my grandkids. And then ... here it comes ... wait for it ... she asked “Do you want more grandkids? I mean, what else is there to look forward to?”

(Insert awkward silence here.)

Wow. The mother-of-all-dumb-questions. I wish I could tell you that I gave her a wonderfully theological, Jesus filled answer about living every moment with the fresh awareness that God is choreographing the events of my to life to point to him and give him glory. But honestly, as I looked into her eyes it felt like I was staring into the dull, lifeless eyes of a moo-cow. (I do not mean that as a comment on her physical attributes! Don’t go there!) I found myself replying, “Oh I don’t know. The flight is over and I’m just taxiing to the gate.”

Honestly, as I reflect on that moment now I believe I had a perfect opportunity to share truth with her. And what did I do? I punted. I dropped the ball toward my foot and kicked it way over her head. Absolutely no good is going to come from that conversation.

Do you know what life is all about? One word. Life is about Jesus. Please understand, social justice is important. Rights of the unborn are important. For that matter, the rights of every living human being are important. The Bible makes it clear that God pays no attention to our gender or our color. And we should not either. Defending those rights and others like them are of great importance. But those rights mean absolutely nothing without Jesus. The older I get the more I am convinced of that truth. So I will say it again.  Without Jesus you have nothing. Nothing. 

Every moment of life is an adventure because it is filled with God. Every moment is a moment when he wants to use you. If you place your hand in his and walk humbly by his side you will experience more meaning and purpose than you ever dreamed possible. 

My apologies to the bank teller. Whether or not she would understand was not my decision to make. I dropped the ball. She needed to hear that this man will never “taxi to the gate.” The flight that I am on will never end. The adventure of walking with Jesus will never be over. And I have to tell you ... I’m loving the chapter He and I are writing right now. 

Afraid Not To Live

When I was a teenager I had a near-death experience while with my father.  I went to work with him one day.  We were driving dad’s pick-up truck in Chicago in mid-afternoon when we were rear-ended by a semi-truck hauling gravel.  We were stopped at a stop light.  The semi was going 40mph.  The police told us that a split second before the truck hit us the driver jerked the wheel to the left, dealing us a less direct blow.  I was knocked unconscious and dad received bloody cuts to his face.  But we were alive.  We should not have been. I’ve never forgotten that day.  And I’ve never forgotten God’s protective Hand making sure we did not take the full blow of that truck.

I thought I was finished with near-death experiences.  My doctor dashed my assumptions this afternoon.

About eight weeks ago I became very dizzy.  It lasted all day every day.  I’m the kind of guy that is allergic to doctors.  I only go when I’m too sick to do otherwise or when my wife makes me.  I walked softly for two weeks, dealing with the light headedness.  I bumped into walls and tripped over my own feet.  I fell out of a closet at church, landing on the stage at the feet of a guitar player while the band practiced.  But I jumped up and pretended like I had just lost my balance. I knew the truth but felt no desire to share it.

A week later I had to go to the doctor for my bi-annual check-up.  Before I went I gave a few vials of blood for the tests she always wanted to run.  Much to my surprise my A1C came back at an elevated level.  I started eating better and cutting back on my beloved daily doses of soft drinks.  When I saw my doctor she called me a diabetic-wannabe.  She sent me home with more medication and directions to get a blood-glucose meter and check my blood.  I waited longer than I should have to accomplish that.  And when I finally obeyed her the meter told me to seek help as my blood sugar was a bit above the suggested 70-90 on whatever scale doctors use.  Okay, maybe more than a little bit.  The meter maxed out at 600 and I was above that number. The display on the screen told me to seek immediate medical attention.

The next weeks were a blur.  The doctor gave me the option of being admitted into the hospital or taking insulin injections at home.  I chose the latter.  But things moved slowly.  For the next three weeks my numbers were tested three times each day and rarely dipped below 400.  I felt like I was stuck in tar.  My brain functioned but only in first gear.  I remember sitting in my favorite chair and talking to God … telling Him that I felt like I was melting into it … becoming one with it.  That was just one of the moments that should have been revelatory to me.  Perhaps I am a bit denser than most.  I entertained thoughts that I was just lazy and tried to force myself to take a walk.  Not a walk down the street.  A walk across the room.  It was usually a “no go.” My eyes became so blurry that my glasses did no good.  My muscles would cramp and I could not seem to get enough water.  One day I drank three 16.9 ounce bottles of water without stopping … and I was still thirsty.  It was crazy.  And I still did not really “get it.”

My blood glucose numbers have been in the low 100’s for four days now.  It’s been a battle to get them there.  Today I went and saw my doctor again.  She is a wonderful woman that I have become friends with over the past few years.  I gave her a bible last year and wrote inside the cover about how grateful I was for her friendship and how I wanted her to know my best friend … Jesus.  I asked her to read it. The verdict is still out on that.  But today she asked the usual questions and gave me new directions to get me through this battle that will evidently last the rest of my life.  I laughed and told her some friends were afraid I was dying. That is when she told me I was.

How can you be dying and not know it?

How clueless am I?

My doctor did not laugh.  I can (and do) laugh about it.  I know that God orchestrated all of these events, including the timing of my blood tests.  I never would have gone to the doctor with the symptoms I had.  I would have just lived with them, assuming they would pass.  I was tired.  The stress level had been a bit high.  I was planning a trip to the mountains in July and I knew that would bring the rest I needed. But go the doctor? Not going to happen.  And now my doctor told me that decision would have been my last decision.

I know that God sat with me in that chair when I talked with Him and told Him that I was just fine and I needed to get back to work.  I know His gentle Hand pushed me to the rear-edge of life at just the right moment because He knew He would have to choose the timing for this disease or I would make it the death of me.  I know that He is teaching me of His faithfulness.  I know that He is less concerned with making me happy than He is with making me like Jesus.  I am walking through this with a new found sense of peace and rest.  I haven’t a worry in the world.  I feel the amazement of realizing that I am in my Father’s Hand and, as Jesus said, nothing can pluck me out of it.

I have not written on my blog in months.  I burned out on writing.  But I have not burned out on Jesus.  And He told me I needed to tell you about all of this.  Not to warn you about the dangers of diabetes.  No, I need to tell you this so you will know that He loves you just as much as He loves me.  And He will hold you in His Hand to, if you will let Him.  I hope you will.

I am not afraid to die.  But I am afraid not to live.

Stupid Picture Chronicles #68

What can I say?  I guess some guys just need more information...

My Weekend In 3 Emails (or how to be a jerk without really trying)

Topic:  Seriously?

Dear Ice Machine People,

I just purchased two dollars worth of ice from your machine on Old Collinsville Road in Fairview Heights (O’Fallon?) Illinois. That’s all I needed. Sadly, after reading every word on your machine, I used a twenty-dollar bill. I received my ice in fine fashion and was quite pleased. I pushed the button for change and received... tokens. Tokens? Really? I don’t need eighteen dollars in tokens. I don’t WANT eighteen dollars in tokens. I want eighteen dollars. Cash. American money. I’m a little bit perturbed at the moment. I buy very little ice. Today I’m having a block party and I needed extra. I have one block party per year. At my current rate of ice consumption I will be eighty years old when I use my last token. I don’t have eighteen more block parties in me. 

Bottom line. There is a Casey’s a block from you I’ve always used when I do need ice. I thought I’d try you out. New business and all. But you managed to chase me right back to Casey’s. And I’ve made a sign I’m posting at my block party warning everyone about your machine. And I’ve asked them to pass the word. I’m giving them all one of your crummy tokens to remind them.  

You know, giving tokens as change is fine IF you say so on your machine. I can absorb an eighteen dollar hit. What if I was a single mom stretching every dollar? That reminds me, I need to mention this tomorrow at the church I Pastor. And at the food pantry we host. 

Could be an expensive eighteen dollar gain. Not cool, ice machine people. Not cool. 

Ron Woods

Topic:  Ummm

Dear Ice Machine People...

My bad. One dollar coins, huh?  I must admit I’ve seen silver dollars. I’ve seen Susan B. Anthony coins. But until this very day I had never seen a copper colored one dollar coin. My block party pointed out the error of my ways (though they did keep the “tokens” I passed out.) They are, as I type on my phone, pointing and laughing at me. Can’t say as how I blame them. Still, these things won’t fold in my wallet no matter how I try. 

I humbly apologize and will promote your Ice Machine at every opportunity. I am a bad, bad, man. Can I buy you lunch?

SINcerely,
Ron Woods
Swansea’s Own Homer Simpson

Topic: re: Ummm...

Ron,

We owe you lunch!................rarely do we have a customer, who is as honest as you have been, concerning your experience with our Ice House unit.......we are all from Southern Illinois(I live in Flora, IL.) and pride ourselves, on both saving our customers money, AND keeping the funds in the Southern Illinois market.

I'm in the Metro East market, on a weekly basis and would really like to introduce myself..................we decided to give change with $1 coins instead of $.25 ( you would of have received 72 quarters) to make it a better customer experience.

I've attached an Illinois market map, for your use, which shows all of our units.

Thanks again for your support...................contact us ANYTIME with your thoughts concerning your experience with our business model!

Rick

Rick Fritschle
President
Hoosier Ice LLC

Let Your Words Be Few

It ought not be this way.

To awake in the morning and find that a long time saint in my church had passed away overnight was difficult but not unexpected.  Discovering that over fifty innocents were viciously executed by an evil man with high powered rifles from his lofty perch in a hotel room overlooking a crowd?  That is a cold slap in the face.  That is too difficult to handle.  It defies any hope I have of wrapping my mind around it.  Fifty-plus bodies on the hard sidewalks of a desert city. Bloodless bodies.  Voiceless bodies.  Bodies that would lay there for eternity if no one picks them up. The video's revealing the staccato cadence of automatic weapons firing on the innocents.  Automatic weapons that are not legal anywhere in our country. First the tears come and then the blood boils.  I feel my fangs growing like those of a rabid dog ready to pounce on whoever perpetrated this insanity.

The voices are already crying out.  "Why?  Why did this happen?" The Bible's answer is clear.  Because evil exists.   Because the planet is broken.  Because the results of that evil and brokenness is more evil and brokenness. 

Jesus told a story in Luke 13.  It seems that Pilate had his soldiers murder some Galileans who were worshipping. Pretty cold blooded, wouldn't you say?  Kind of like Las Vegas last night.  The question posed to Jesus was the same one we pose.  "Why did that happen?"  Jesus reply was enormously relevant for their day and ours.  "Do you think those Galileans were worse sinners than all the other people from Galilee?  Is that why they suffered? Not at all!  And you will perish, too, unless you repent of your sins and turn to God.  And what about the eighteen people who died when the tower in Siloam fell on them? Were they the worst sinners in Jerusalem?  No, and I tell you again that unless you repent, you will perish too."

Jesus wanted to squash an idea quickly for all time.  Our chances of being the victim of a catastrophe is not determined by the level of our sinfulness.  He wanted it made clear that all of us ... ALL OF US ... deserve the painful and deadly results of living on the broken planet because we were the ones who broke it.  When we chose to disobey God rather than to obey Him, we set off a chain reaction of very bad things. People without God go mad.  People without God do evil things.  People without God attack other people.  And sometimes bad things just happen for what seems no reason at all.  Maybe a tower falls on you.  A tower that nobody pushed over.  As a pastor, one of the godliest people I ever buried was a young woman who repeatedly battled leukemia until it finally took her life in her early twenties.  The tower of cancer fell on her.  Who pushed it?  Who can I point a finger at and demand retribution from?  Well.   We all pushed it when we invited sin into our world and thumbed our noses at God.  Jesus wants us to know that He cares very much ... but the truth is ... we all deserve a tower to fall on us.  So before you start pointing fingers at those you believe are most responsible for the evil  perpetrated last night in a desert city in our homeland, remember the words of Jesus, "...unless you repent, you will perish too." Was the shooter insane?  You bet he was. Was he evil?  Absolutely.  If he had survived should he be held accountable?  Yes ... for every single bullet fired and every single life stolen.  But before you start throwing around the blame to those you would call his "enablers," remember this.  I broke this world when I agreed with those before me who invited sin into it.  And so did you.  Nobody deserves to have a finger pointed at them today.  Everybody deserves to have a finger pointed at them today.

God help us.

I have no answers today for how to fix the evil embedded in our nation, other than the advice that Jesus gave.  And so I repent.  I repent for being one of the sin-filled people that brought us to this place.  And then I choose to live out Ecclesiastes 5:2, "...God is in heaven, and you are here on earth. So let your words be few."

What's Wrong With Me?

It's not officially summer, yet somehow I have already developed a case of the summer doldrums.  (What kind of word is that?  "Doldrums."  It sounds like a flower.  Or maybe a disease.  Or perhaps a flower that causes a disease. "I caught the doldrums and, Lordy, I thought I was gonna die!") I spent the morning in the office today and then went off to have lunch with God and a friend.  Not that God isn't my friend. I just felt like some flesh and blood might be nice.  No matter.  My friend didn't show up.  God did.

So we talked.

"Excuse me, God.  I think I have the doldrums."

"Is that a flower?"

"With all due respect, Sir, you made them.  I think you would know if it were."

That's is pretty much how it went.  Me, complaining about my current state of placid soulfulness. Him, listening without so much as an occasional "Uh-huh. Tell me more." But, as I explained to Jehovah, life is good.  Everybody is healthy except an occasional puking spell by a grandchild (I'm looking at you, Liam Kelly.) Our church is doing well except that three of my best friends are moving away thanks to an eternally restless United States Air Force.  The Cubs are hovering around .500 which is a sad surprise.  I guess it's still early and I haven't written them off yet.  So I have no real reason for the doldrums.

But there they are.

Then my phone rang.  It was a funeral home.  Somebody died and they want me to do the funeral.  I don't know them, so I don't know how they know me.  Maybe I'm becoming known locally as, "Mr. Funeral?" I don't know how I feel about that.  Anyway, I said I would do the service on Friday morning.  Then, as funeral directors are apt to do, they dropped the other shoe.

"I feel that I should tell you that this family is a bit ... "

"It's alright.  This is a safe place.  Just say it."

"Eccentric.  And ..."

"Yes?"

"Belligerent."

"Oh.  Now that's probably something I would have liked to know before I agreed to this event, don't you think?"

"They did ask for you by name. Are you sure you don't know them?"

"I don't know them."

"One of them is married to his third cousin.  His name is David.  And his name is Curt. They like to dress alike.  And Curt likes to push people around.  I buried their mother and ... I think second cousin.  Yeah.  Second cousin."

"David's mother is Curt's second cousin?"

"Correct."

"David is married to Curt."

"I think you've got it."

"Do they have children?"

"Probably not."

"Anything else you think I should know?"

"Isn't that enough?"

"See you Friday."

Guys.  I can't make stuff like this up. 

That's when I noticed ... adrenaline.  Adrenaline!  My old friend!  I've missed you!  And the doldrums ... they vanished!  I just needed a good dose of eccentricity!  Have you ever noticed God seems to work best when life is its most unpredictable?  At least, that's been true in my life.  So now I am just waiting and praying for Friday.  David and Curt and the entire family will get to hear about Jesus!  And I get to live out the reason I was created in the first place.

And I'd like to thank my friend for not showing up for lunch.  It was the best lunch we never had!

Hot Buttered Rob (don't ask)

(Dear Rob ... This one is for you.  It's been a couple of great years.  Thanks for all the Salmon and donuts. Now get out there and make the world safe for my grandkids...

Ron)

So I have a friend who thinks I should keep blogging.  Let's call him "Rob."  Because that is his name.  I gave this space up a few months back because, well, I guess because I've been writing here for ten years and I had said everything I could think of to say. And now, since I speak a couple of times each week in a formal setting, I pretty much pour my creative energies into that endeavor.  It doesn't always leave much juice for writing words that you really are not certain anybody is going to read.  Actually, I read a few of my own entries and, well, if I am boring you as badly as I bored me, I need to stop doing that.  Pastor's ought not bore people when they speak.  Or write.  And these last efforts ... let's just say "the juice wasn't worth the squeeze." 

And then Rob called me on it.  I told him what I just told you and he understood.  I think he did.  He didn't like, nag me or anything.  But here is the thing.  When a guy is vain enough to expect people to come and hear him speak or go to a web site and read what he writes, it only takes a little stroking to motivate him to keep going.  That's why the people in my church refrain from shouting, "AMEN!"  They know they are just encouraging me and it will go straight to me head and suddenly we are all late for the lunch line.  At least that is what I tell myself.  The other possible reasons they don't shout are worse for my self-confidence (think: ego) and so I choose not to entertain those thoughts.

Rob and I were out to dinner last weekend with our lovely wives.  We ate until we nearly put a Brazilian Steakhouse into bankruptcy.  I do not know about him but I was nearing "meat coma status."  So we did the natural thing.  We went out for donuts.  Specifically, we went to "Strange Donuts" in Kirkwood. Strange donuts is, well, strange.  I ate a simple "General Custard."  I think Rob had a double something with pixie dust on it and maybe a dash of chili powder.  That isn't impossible at Strange Donuts.  Nothing is impossible at Strange Donuts.

And that is when I noticed a t-shirt on the wall that they sell to suckers who just cannot stop spending money.  (Hello, me!) It featured this dark skinned fellow who was coated in nacho cheese.  He looked middle-eastern.  Over his head they had printed his name.  "Cheesus."  Yup.  Get it?  Cheesus?  Jesus?  It's not that funny now.  With a gut full of Brazilian food and American custard it was hilarious.  So, naturally I bought the shirt. 

I took the shirt home.

I never took it out of the bag.

I went to bed.

I woke up at 2:30AM.

I heard the still small voice of you-know-who saying ... "Really?  Really, Ron?  You just taught my people last week on the wonder and the majesty of My Name.  And now you are going to wear a shirt that says "Cheesus" next to a very poor caricature of me?  I've made better looking camels than that guy."  (Okay, He didn't exactly say that last part about the caricature and the camels.  But I'm betting He was thinking it.  Sometimes even God picks His battles?)

I apologized.  Profoundly.  I mourned my sin.

I realized I had to destroy the shirt.

I mourned my twenty dollars.

Do you see what effect Rob has on me?  He makes me more like Jesus but (sometimes) he allows me to drag myself through the muck first. He's a smart guy.  He's some kind of Colonel in the United States Air Force, for crying out loud.  He knows big multi-syllable words like "airplane," and "runway."  He studied 3D printers once and actually convinced me he could recreate my entire family tree if he just had the right printer cartridge.  Or something like that.  I may have that wrong.  But the guy holds sway over my life.

And now my friend is moving.  He's going the way of Adam Page and Alex Babbot.  The way of Tom Goble and Matthew Beeman.  The way of Michael Harris and Brant Dixon.   The way of Jake Lukens and Dan Werner.  And soon the way of Mark Amos and Josh Hunt.  There are more.  Lot's more. I just named the ones that passed through my Friday night small group. 

Rob is confusing and frustrating me right up to his last day.  He sings about the wild blue yonder but he's leaving to go to Navy War College.  (The best I can figure, it's like seminary for people who blow stuff up.)  Go figure. 

So this one is for you, Rob!  May your vapor trails be high and your 3D printers have ample juice.  And I promise that every time I have a strange donut I'll be thinking of the way you use to blow chocolate milk out of your nose.  (And now the world knows.  What are friends for?)

10-4.  Roger Wilco.  Over and out.  But most of all ... God bless, my friend.