Long Live Eutychus ... Again!

Eutychus. It's a name that, to the best of my knowledge, has only been used once. (Take note Chris and Laura. It's under used and available.) It seems that he was this guy written about in the book of Acts. Chapter 20. Verses 7 - 12. Paul was preaching (not so unusual) up in this 3rd floor room. The lamps were lit. The windows were open. The place was full of people. I guess it got warm and Eutyhcus sought fresh air from a perch on a window sill. Problem is, Paul kept on preaching. Midnight came and midnight went. He preached on. In his deep slumber poor Eutychus lost his balance and fell out of the window. As fate would have it he fell "out" rather than "in." Three floors down.

Splat.

Paul ran downstairs and found him dead on the sidewalk. Vegas odds would have it that Paul would have said, "Serves you right." and gone back to his preaching. It seems to me that he stepped out of character when he stretched himself out on the corpse, hugged him, and then called the life back into that increasingly cold lump of clay. Then they all went back upstairs to celebrate the resurrection of Eutychus with communion and, you guessed it, more sermonizing from Paul. He spoke about the great acts of faith until after dawn. Paul might have been full of compassion, he might have exercised grace, but he didn't learn his lesson.

I spoke on the story of Eutychus at Towerview last Sunday. The sermon was aptly titled, "Boring You To Death." And I just can't get him out of my mind. Several people seem to have the same problem. But they have thrown an odd slant onto it by sending a link to a newspaper article to me. I'll give the credit to a friend, Brant Dixon, because he was first. Here is a brief summary of the article as copied from Yahoo.com...

"Melbourne, Feb 8 (ANI): Boredom can actually kill you, a new study has revealed.

To reach the conclusion, researchers at University College London looked at data from 7524 civil servants, aged between 35 and 55, interviewed between 1985 and 1988 about their levels of boredom. They then found out whether they had died by April last year. Those who reported feeling a great deal of boredom were 37 per cent more likely to have died by the end of the study, the researchers found."

There's more but I think you get the drift. So what is the moral of the story? Well, I think those of us who stand up to teach God's Word have an obligation to NOT bore people with it. Grant it, Eutychus was probably in an oxygen deprived room and it was after midnight. But still. When God instructed me to speak on this subject He brought the phrase to mind, "Let my people go!" I have been a little long winded lately.

I'm reforming.

So for all of you Eutychus wannabees out there, that's good news. But let's not forget the obvious. Only YOU can make certain that you are living in the flow of the Spirit in a way that brings life and energy to your daily routine ... much less to your Sunday worship experience. We haven't heard the last of Eutychus around Towerview. Pastor's don't preach on his story very often. But he's captured my attention and my imagination. Fortunately we have sealed windows and they are only three feet off of the ground. But it is still wise for those who spend much of our lives "doing church" to remember ...

boredom kills.

So let's get it right.

Friends

In the beginning there was Dave. All of the friends that came before Dave really did not count. I was too young, as were they. We did not know what friendship was about. Dave lived 4 houses to my right as I was navigating the first part of my teenage years. He looked more like me than my brother did and so everybody assumed that we were brothers. We kind of were. Brothers of the heart. We would play catch for hours and never get tired. When my real brother would beat me up (which was not an infrequent occurance) Dave would run home and hide. He said he was afraid that my brother would mistake the two of us and beat him up instead of me. That made sense at the time and I never held it against him. Dave was in my wedding years later. The last time I saw him was when he came by my apartment to introduce me to his fiancee. There was no way on the planet that Dave should have been marrying this girl. He was either in to her for big money or it was going to be a "sympathy marriage." I never saw or heard from him again.

Next came Kling. Kling was short for "Klingensmith" which was his last name. His first name was John but I don't remember anybody ever calling him that. Kling and I went to college together. He was about 5 years older than I and served as a helicopter mechanic in Vietnam. Together we went to Trinity Christian College. Our team mascot was the "Trolls." If you picture a troll in your head and add 50 pounds to him you will know exactly what Kling looked like. Beard and all. He liked to have fun. His on-campus job was in the maintenance department. That gave him keys to everything students are not supposed to have keys to. One chilly morning the campus woke up to the smell of a nice fire in the chapel fireplace. That was not unusual. What WAS unusual was that the smoke was billowing from a toilet which had been cemented to the chimney of the administration building. I remember knowing instantly who had done it. Everybody suspected but nobody could confirm anything. Kling and I went to a local restaurant one day to grab a bite before evening classes. He chose the New Brunswick Stew. One thing about Kling is that he had cornered the market on Oshkosh over-alls. It was pretty much all he ever wore. Well, Kling did not finish his stew on this particular evening and I watched as he poured the remainder of it into his bib pocket. I was not shocked. I knew Kling. I figure he wanted it for a late night dorm snack. I WAS shocked when we went to pay for our meal. He stood at the glass counter with the cash register on it ... and began heaving the big deep heaves of a man about to regurgitate. He leaned down until his head almost touched the glass and made unmistakable "hurling" noises... while he unbuttoned his bib pocket and allowed the remaining stew to flow out. The he stood up, wiped his mouth, dropped a five on the counter and strolled out the door. Kling was in my wedding too. That was the last time I saw him. I heard he lives in Utah someplace.

I have a history of making interesting friends.

Most of them come, stay for a while, and then go.

Grace was a dainty woman in her sixties and she made chainsaws. Hoss was a TWA pilot who could not stand on a chair to change a light bulb because of his fear of heights. Mike was a messianic jew who swore at 5,000 teenages because one of them threw a light bulb into the street from the window of a hotel room on the 20th floor. He was not sure which one did it so he swore at them all.

I think you get the picture.

My favorite friends are the ones that stick around. For years. Many years. Oh, they might move a thousand miles away but they are still around in that surprise phone call one evening kind of way. They manage to find their way by my house every now and then and they always have a spare bedroom available when I am in their town. Some of them live nearby. We try not to take each other for granted but I know that we do. Otherwise we would hug more often and linger a little longer across the table from each other. It is part of life to do that. We don't mean to. It's just that our busy lives are constantly hounding us to get up and get something done. If you are reading this you are probably one of those friends or maybe a stranger that just dropped in to see what is going on. (Not much.) And if you are one of those friends ... you know it. I am tempted here to start listing names but if I did I would miss somebody very important to me for sure. And I do not want to do that. Never.

There are at least two tests of real friendship. One is found in what you do today. The other is found in whether or not you will still be around tomorrow. It works both ways and so I am equally responsible. I am not listing those tests in hopes that you will measure yourself. I am listing them so that I can remember to do well in grading the guy I call "me." It hurts when a friend lets me down. It hurts much worse when I let a friend down. I can forgive the friend much more easily than I can forgive myself.

And by the way, if you are a current friend and you do something really weird ... I already know it. I just didn't mention it because ... well ... a real friend wouldn't tell on you. But if you dump me ... you are toast in my next blog.

Paisley Rae

I was watching her tonight. She is so little. Not as little as she was. But still. Little. Her name is Paisley and she is my daughter's daughter. She cannot talk yet but if she could ... and when she does ... she will call me "grandpa." And I will glow a bit brighter on the inside.

Her eyes shine. Perhaps "sparkle" is a better word. They are deep and they are blue and they radiate life. When she smiles the angels tap their feet because they hear the music of God. I do believe that. She has these perfect cheeks. Not too chubby and not too skinny. Perfect. And so her smiles are perfect as well.

I don't think she knows who I am. Not yet. I am anxious for her to figure it out. I'm pretty sure she doesn't know who she is either. If she is looking away from me and I call her name she does not respond. So she has yet to learn that she is Paisley. What goes on in that little mind? I know that she is thinking about more than food, drink, sleep, or mommy and daddy. (Though those certainly take up a large share of her mental RAM.) Perhaps I am early but I think she is just waiting in there. Observing. Taking the temperature of the world around her. She is figuring out who is who and how we all fit together. She'll get it. There is no rush. The gears are turning and the spark plugs are firing and it will all come together in it's time.

I take much into consideration when gazing upon this little girl. Paisley is very young. I am rapidly approaching old. Her skin is silky smooth. I have to use a razor to keep mine manageable. Her hair will last longer than mine and will be lovely and thick and perhaps have a curl or two. Mine ... not so much. She is full of energy and will only get more with the passing of time. I find myself considering a second career as a mall walker. Paisley has never done anything wrong on purpose. I have not been able to say that for a very long time. On the other hand I have dry pants and do not drool (much.) Still, I think she wins the majority of these contests hands-down.

There is much speculation but for now I know this. I love that little girl. Perhaps she is not yet use to me holding her. I don't think we have found our particular "niche" yet. I forgot just how tiny a human being can be and so she intimidates me a bit. She feels that. And I remind her just how big a human being can get and how we can accidentally crunch something without meaning to and so I just may intimidate her as well. But there is a wonderful middle ground that we keep tripping over. It is in that smile that I told you about. Oh, how I love that smile. She is my Paisley and in her the world swirls and spins and the colors of the rainbow play in the centrifugal forces and they bring her very name into being ... into motion. She is Paisley.

And I love her so very, very much.

My Son Is Going To Be A Dad

Oh the stories I could (and do) tell. His name is Christopher and he was the last child born to my wife and I. We never planned on ... never anticipated ... having three children. Three means you are out numbered. You are in a hole always playing catch-up.

But one day it occurred to us that something in our little world was just not right. We were a happy family of four. But as we sat around the dinner table it was as though someone was not home yet. I know that makes no sense. But it is the honest truth. Kelli and Scott were, and continue to be, the joy of our lives. But when Christopher showed up I felt like I could close and lock the door. All was well.

Many years have transpired since that day. Twenty-four to be exact. I remember the last night I lived in our house with Christopher. He was not moving out. I was. Cleveland, Ohio was on my agenda. Christopher had considered moving with us but a job and a girl had convinced him otherwise. (Not in that order.) I woke up in the middle of the night, acutely aware that this would be the last time I would sleep with one of my kids officially residing with me under our roof. I got up, crept outside of his closed door, lay my hands upon it, and I prayed. I asked God to bless him. To keep him safe. To provide him with reason and purpose, direction and a holy filling. And then I headed to the shores of Lake Erie. By the time I moved back into the area Christopher had taken a bride and a lovely bride she is. They had moved to the far side of the city. We see each other often and I love that. But I'll never forget laying my hands on that door and praying.

And now Christopher is doing some praying of his own. We were sharing dinner as a family last Saturday evening at my daughter Kelli's house. It was casual. Clearly there was no agenda. When it was time for the food to be served Christopher asked the blessing. He thanked God for family, food, and his pregnant wife, Laura.

His pregnant wife ... Laura.

My eyes snapped open. Everybody had their eyes open except for Christopher. We stared at him. We stared at each other. Christopher said "Amen" and the hugs and tears came. My youngest son is going to be a dad. And he's going to be a great one. So many things just scream out to be said about this momentous event. They will have to wait. There is plenty of time.

For now? My son is going to be a dad. And I could not possibly be happier.

To Slam or not To Slam ... that is The Question

There is this guy who really ticked me off a while back. Don't worry. If you are reading this you are most certainly not him. I don't think he can read. But I mean he REALLY made me angry. A guy I thought was a friend who turned on me when he deemed it financially beneficial for him to do so. You know the type. Making brownie points with someone who wasn't terribly appreciative of some ministry decisions I had made. He has since learned that he was wrong. Not my problem. And he finds himself "out in the cold" so to speak. Perhaps literally.

Soooo ... today he made a connection and said some things that made it way too easy for me to ... well ... slam him. Have I mentioned that I'm taking Prednisone this week? Yeah, it's a poor choice prescription from a doctor that's try to fix my 3 month old ear/dizzy/disoriented/vertigo problem. Seems that one of the side effects of this "miracle drug" is it assists you on walking the thin line between good decisions and bad decisions. I mean like ... between being merciful and being merciless. Just call me "Ming."

I was merciless with my former friend. I slammed him ... total verbal body slams three consecutive times. I was referring to him and he kept believing I was referring to the person he was upset with. I don't even know WHO he is upset with. I have a pretty solid guess though. (Amusingly, I think he's upset with the guy who was upset with me. Ahhh ... sweet justice.) But he never even figured out that, in reality, he was the one I was talking about.

So here's the lesson learned by one pastor who has been spending too much time out on the ledge this week. If you are going to slam someone just go ahead and tell them that they are your target. At least you get the satisfaction of getting your point across. It remains to be seen if that will make you feel better or worse. (And we all know that life is about making me feel better. Right?) Or better yet, show grace and don't slam them at all. That's "the Jesus thing" to do. Seriously.

I'll sleep well tonight but I'll kick myself in the morning.

No More Dr. Buttfeel

I officially fired Dr. Buttfeel this week. It was a mercy firing. I was having mercy on myself. I replaced him with a female doctor from St. Johns. She listened to my heart. She looked up my nose and in my ears and mouth. She hit my knee. She asked me how I'm feeling and I told her my Dr. Buttfeel saga. That's when she did it.

She prescribed Prednisone. She thinks I have messed up tubes behind my ears that can become unmessed up with steroids. I don't know anything about that but I can hardly wait to get to the gym on Monday. By then with the help of steroids I should be able to throw the "bicep machine" through the wall. This will bring me joy.

But there are problems with Prednisone.

I'm going to eat my arm. I'm not even slightly sleepy. My insides are trying to crawl out through my pores.

In the meantime, of course, Debbie is sleeping like she just took a nearly lethal dose of Tylenol PM. And we are sleeping in the same room for the first night in four nights because she was wrestling with a nasty bout of food poisoning. And though I love her I didn't want to wake up to find myself fraught with vomit. (I hereby trademark that phrase. If you use it you have to send me $20.)

As I said, my new doctor is a woman. She probably hates men. She didn't like my lab numbers. That's because they are all nearly perfect. I think she wanted me to be dying of something so that she can heal me and I'll be forever in her debt. Literal debt. Maybe she'll be satisfied when I owe her for stitching my new arm back on.

Should have stuck with good old Buttfeel.

The World's Upside Down

I spent the evening quietly, my bride by my side, cruising the channels and watching the world go by. And as the night comes to a close I have to wonder which crises is bigger. The Haitian earthquake or Conan O'brien leaving "The Tonight Show."

Yes, I know. I'm not really serious. We are all very aware of what the major headline is. Albert Pujols is not sure he'll retire a Cardinal. He as much as said so on the evening news tonight. He could easily wind up in Yankee Pinstripes. Or ... Cubbie blue. Oh yeah. Oh yeah.

Again, I jest. There is no getting away from the main issue of the day. Hours upon hours have been devoted to it. It's obvious. Ted Kennedy's senate seat went to a Republican last night. Oops. That's not it either.

How can I keep forgetting? The Holiday-Inn just announced the availability of "Human Bed Warmers." No, I'm not kidding. Nothing can eclipse a story of that magnitude.

Did I mention that they had a tornado in L.A. this week?

I can't help but wonder if any broken and desperate survivor still buried under the rubble that use to be Port Au Prince is aware of the magnitude of events that they missed this week....

Stupid Picture Chronicles #44

Am I the only one who sees a problem with their corporate slogan?

Stupid Picture Chronicles #43

The couch was coughing. The table had a temperature. The lamp had a lump. So we didn't buy any living furniture. We prefer sitting on inanimate objects. Silly us.

The Katie Chronicles: The Truth Must Be Told

Well, my precious niece, Katie, has returned home to Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Today I put her on a jet and she flew from St. Louis to Baltimore. That's in Maryland. From there she boarded the next flight to Milwaukee. Do not ever allow Katie to be your travel agent.

But now that she has departed the comforts of my home it is time for the truth to be told. Yes, Katie has some deep and abiding secrets that must see the light of day. Perhaps it will set her free from the inner torment of her own demons (small "d.") And so, as I promised her on the trip to the airport, I am revealing her dirty laundry to the world tonight. I hope you have the stomach for it.

-Katie is hot for John Wilkes Booth. Yes, the same John Wilkes Booth that assassinated President Lincoln. I don't know anything I can say to make that better. It is what it is.


-Katie likes to break restaurant furniture. Here she holds the back of her chair from a Qdobe on Grand Avenue in St. Louis. It's a tough neighborhood but Katie is tougher. I mean, catch that look on her face. Ruthless.


Katie tells her parents that she does not have a job. She lies. Katie is a pimp. This is how she was dressed when she got off the plane from Milwaukee last Friday. Need I say more?


Being a good Catholic, Katie believe in the sprinkling form of baptism. Here she practices on her uncle Jim.


Perhaps most disturbingly Katie has an odd attraction to paper mache sumo wrestlers. The following photo speaks for itself.


In addition, though I have no photographic verification to back these claims up, I can also tell you that a she is also hot for Alec Baldwin. She enjoys throwing the occasional tooth brush into the toilet. She is quite capable of eating 8 Krispy Kreme Donuts in one morning. Vanilla Coke is flowing through her veins. She likes to date over-the-road truck drivers. She seems to have a thing for Bosnians. She gets nervous in theaters, fantasizing that her chair is about to blow up under her. Tivo is her best friend and I'm betting it will be the name of her next dog. She is easily duped and believes that the "Hollywood" nightclub in East St. Louis is actually a bumper car emporium. Basements freak her out. And finally she is incapable of lying because she is so ruthless in her telling of the truth.

And these are just a few of the reasons why her Old Uncle Ron (better known as O.U.R.) loves her so much.

Katie, thank you for coming to visit us. I had more fun hanging out with you than I've had in a looooooong time! I know that I'm so old (in your eyes) that I'm nearly dead but thanks for letting me share the time with you, a mere punk kid, and enjoy being a kid again myself for a few days. I really needed the break. It was priceless. But for the record we really should have gone and visited "The Tree." Your loss.

Now be nice to me or I'll tell the world the one thing I promised not to tell. Yes ... that one thing. (We have a mutual annihilation pact but I'm quite willing to pull the trigger first.)

Hot Dog Goodness With A Sick Sort Of Twist

I am not a cook. I can't tell a frying pan from a crock pot. But I scored BIG tonight thanks to a meal that I ate at The Iron Barley in St. Louis recently. Yum. Here's how you do it...

Split and cook your self up some good old American hot dogs...


Next butter up some open hot dog buns and then grill 'em...


Now get an appropriate scowl from your spouse ...


Ignore her skepticism and put some sliced up swiss cheese on the fried up dogs and some strawberry jam, (yes, strawberry jam) on the buns...


Stack everything where it belongs...


Add appropriate trimmings suited to your own tastes...


Feed aforementioned skeptical wife ...


Reward yourself for a job well done...


Repeat as needed.

If I Were The "House" Version Of A Pastor ...

-I would use my cane to slap at little children and then give them the children's sermon of a lifetime. They would all repent even before they knew what sin was. Their parents would scowl at me at first and then carry me out of the church on their shoulders because now their kids would never do drugs or have sex outside of marriage.

-I would use a special "Ministry X-Ray Machine" to look into peoples brains and see what they are REALLY thinking. Then I'd crack jokes about their secret sins in Sunday morning sermons. Everybody would know who I was talking about but wouldn't say it out loud because they knew I was right and that my scorn would be directed at them next.

-I would treat my staff like morons ... they are not but I would treat them that way ... and they would thank me for it later because they spontaneously realize that I am always right and my sarcastic behavior was used only to get their attention and to make them be all that they can be.

-I would come in later in the morning than everyone else. Oh. Wait. I already do that.

-I would forsake shaving and develop that 2 day growth thing so that people would think I was tougher and manlier than they are. Which I am. If "they" are all "hers."

-I would only deal with the toughest of spiritual cases where people were sure to self-destruct if I didn't ride in to their rescue. But first I would make them feel terribly guilty for being in my office. Then, after I fixed them, I'd look 50% condescendingly and 50% kindly so that they wouldn't know If I was cocky or correct.

-I would develop a "laser look" indicative of my ability to gaze directly into a persons soul reducing them to rubbery kneed individuals desperately in need of pastoral care which I would then delegate to my Associate Pastor, much to his deep gratitude. (I know what you are thinking Mike. Shut up! ;) )

-I would put a glass door on my office but keep my feet on my desk so that people would all say "he looks like he's reading the National Enquirer but he must be working or he wouldn't have a glass door on his office."

My head hurts. I'm pretty sure it's a tumor. Or a cranial tape worm. Stay tuned.

K-K-K-Katie is C-C-C-Coming!

Katie is coming! That's right, my soon-to-be "corn rowed" niece (don't ask) is coming to town this Friday and will remain until the next Wednesday. And I am SO pumped! I love Katie because she's... she's ... insane. The last time she was in town I got her addicted to Vanilla Coke. Her life has not been the same since. Life in Milwaukee maybe a vanilla existence but it isn't generally added to Coke products and so I have promised to provide her with a vanilla IV while she's here.

Kate is a student at the University of Wisconsin in Milwaukee. She's Debbie's sisters daughter. That explains a lot. She grew up wearing lederhausen (I tried to spell that 6 times so if it's wrong just get over it) and dancing to German tunes with her parents and her sister, The Amazing Teresa. I'm not sure why but I suppose it's because her last name is Voitek which is most certainly German.

Katie gave me a tour of her dorm room at UW a few years ago. It was shortly after that that I gave up cleaning all together. I figure if she can get away with it then so can I. We toured the Joan of Arc Chapel together on her campus and managed to wrangle a special tour out of the resident Joan of Arc Guru. Very cool. Surprisingly, Katie is much taller than Joan was. And yet Katie has never won a war. Such a waste.

(By the way, that's not Joan of Arc she's hugging. I think it's Bret Favre.)

I have no idea how we are are going to spend the time. We'll be sharing her with Jim and Alisha, my brother-in-law and sister-in-law. But I'm the only one who sings to her "K-K-K-Katie! Beautiful, K-K-K-Katie! You're the only G-G-G-Girl that I adore! When the M-M-M-Moon shines ... over the C-C-C-Cow shed ... I'll be waiting at the K-K-K-Kitchen door!" So I'm absolutely certain I'm her favorite. How can you beat Vanilla Coke and cow sheds? Can't be done!

Why You Don't Turn Your Back On My Family

I am not safe all by myself

Now I remember why I got married. Debbie has been gone since Sunday. Oddly, it seems like it's only been a couple of days. God gave me this woman to keep me alive. Sane. (Sort of.) Operating like a finely oiled machine.

It's not that I don't know how to take care of myself. But when she's not around things just ... I don't know. They just happen. Maybe with her here I just don't need to pay as close attention as I do when she's away. She's the one who screams "TRUCK!" when I'm driving, singing, and playing "Slug Bug" with myself. There's true value in that.

Yesterday I decided to be the good husband and take down Christmas. All alone. That means there is nobody there to hear your screams when you are de-ornamentizing and the tree falls on you. Then I decided to clean up the mess I made while I was cleaning up. The more I clean the messier it had gotten. (How DOES that happen?) So after using a dry dust mop I squirted the polishy stuff on the floor before using the special space-age mopper head to make the hard wood all shiny. And slippery too. I decided to do my best Tom Cruise-slide-across-the-floor-singer imitation. I guess I ran too fast because I slid too far. I slid into the kitchen where the floor was not nearly as slippery. After I got up it only took a little pressure to stop the bleeding on the back of my head where I fell into the edge of the cabinet counter top. I had to take another shower to get the (wee little bit) of blood out of my hair and I decided to use the shower head that is on a hose in order to really get my hair blood free. Problem is, it hurt insanely (soap in a wound kind of hurt) causing me to drop the hosed shower head. If slipped outside of the shower curtain running full blast. So I decided to dry the floor and walls with a towel wrapped around my head. Well, I didn't actually use the towel wrapped around my head. I used a different towel. You know what I mean. That's when the door bell rang. I didn't answer it. I didn't even peek. The last time my doorbell rang was Christmas morning and it was the Jehovah's Witnesses coming to read me scripture because they don't celebrate the birth of Jesus. I find that ironic. Why do they want to read me scripture if they don't celebrate the birth of Jesus?

Today has been a pretty safe day. I drove without incident. I worked out and didn't fall off the treadmill. I brought in food rather than risking using the microwave. I built a fire this evening and it even stayed in the fireplace. Well. Most of it. I had the foresight to hook up a water hose outside and purchased a fire extinguisher for inside because chimney fires and I have history. I turned the TV off and pushed my mega chair (other wise known as "My Fuzzy Buddy") over in front of the fire. I was envisioning a really awesome fire-flickering quiet time alone with God. I woke up an hour later and God had gone on back down stairs to The Man Cave where I usually meet with Him. I would have gone down to check on Him but the stairs ... well, it was dark. And Debbie's not home. Staying upstairs just seemed prudent.

(The preceding blog contains undiluted truth and is guaranteed embellishment free. And I have an empty Tylenol bottle to prove it.)

Paisley's first Christmas gift EVER!

Silent Monks

I had nothing to do with this. A friend sent it to me. I found it quite worth sharing. Enjoy...

The 10 Best Things About Having "The Amazing Elle" Spend The Night

10 - I can act her age and get away with it.

9 - Watching her explore the ornaments on the Christmas tree.

8 - Listening to her say that she doesn't want to meet my friends only to find her in their arms 30 minutes later exposing them to "The Wisdom of Elle."

7 - Her sock hat. Only she can get away with a hat like that.

6 - Hearing her tell "local reindeer" what to tell Rudolph to tell Santa that she wants for Christmas.

5 - Telling her not to put a toy (esophagus size) bell near her mouth only to have her pretend that it's a cup and offer me a drink out of it and when I take it for the faux drink she tells me with very serious eyes that I really shouldn't put it by my mouth.

4 - Singing with her at bedtime. Only Elle can stand to hear me sing. She treats me like I'm John Mayer.

3 - Staring at her bare feet in the light of the Christmas tree. How can feet look innocent?

2 - Watching her shell peanuts at the "Texas Roadhouse" for the simple joy of throwing both shell and nut on the floor. When I asked her about it she said, "Yes! It's just like home!"

1 - "The Hug."

Ms. Elle Steals The Show

Winning The Game That Matters

Can I tell you something? I stink at writing lately. I've been "going back into time" on this little web site and reading some of the stuff that God gave me to say a few years ago. I've enjoyed reliving some of those experiences. And then I read what I write today and ... phew. Stink-o. Maybe it's a dry spell. Maybe I've just run out of words. I dunno. I'm struggling. We'll have to see what the future holds. But this little post just has to be written. It isn't very eloquent. It's clumsy and sounds full of braggadocio. I don't mean it that way. I'm sorry about that. Really I am. The words just are not flowing. But it has to be written ...

I've only played in one really BIG ball game in my life. I was on the church softball team back around 1980 and we were playing for the championship of the southern baptist churches in the Chicago area. Last game. Last inning. We were up 7 - 4 over an inner city team. Looked like the suburbs were finally going to rule.

And then our one and only pitcher totally blew apart. The poor guy only had one thumb and it wasn't on his pitching hand. When he started walking people we knew we had to do something but honestly, he's the only guy we had who had thrown a strike all season. We lost the game 8 - 4. That was nearly 30 years ago and it still hurts. It's bad enough to lose a ball game. But to lose "The Mother of All Ball Games" is far worse. We had not lost a game until the championship finals. Then we crashed and burned in a way very reminiscent of most Chicago baseball.

Oh well.

That isn't what I really want to write about anyway. Not even close. You see, that game actually wasn't that big of a deal. Not in the eternal scheme of things. And it's only the eternal things that really counts.

I was on the treadmill at the gym this week when I got a text message from my youngest son. I wasn't setting any record pace so when my cell phone lit up indicating I was being looked for I didn't hesitate to pick it up and read it. It simply read he was leaving his current job and has been hired for a ministry position at his church.

That probably means a whole lot more to me than it does to you. Even those of you who know Christopher well. I mean, I raised him from a pup. And when I got this text I realized that in an extraordinary fashion God has worked a wonder in our family that I not only never dreamed he would work ... but that never even occurred to me that He might want to work. It seems that all three of our kids are now serving in a "career fashion" in ministry. I lost my balance and nearly fell off the tread mill. It isn't pride. It has nothing to do with that. It's ... shock. Brokenness. A deep sense of humble thankfulness. How did this happen? How did God reach in to our little home and move through all of the mistakes that were made by the parents and work this incredible work in the lives of our kids? I mean, all three of them were great infants/preschoolers/kids/teenagers/young adults. But ... all we did was give Him our home and try to stay out of His way. Yes, we prayed for them every day. Usually multiple times each day. We did our best to point them to Jesus and to show them integrity and faithfulness in our spiritual walk. But we just did not do that good a job.

And then the light kicked on in my brain. We really had nothing to do with it. It's God. My parents were good parents but they did not go to great lengths to make certain my brother and I were in church or taking it all too seriously. And yet we both grew up to be youth pastors and then pastors. My mom and dad would be the first to tell you that it was just "a God thing." And now I understand that. It's a God thing.

And yet it brings tears of gratefulness to my eyes. Serving God has been the greatest experience and joy of my life. I am humbled to be able to say that a lot of young men and women that walked through the youth groups God allowed me to lead are in ministry around the country these days. And that means more to me than I can possibly say.

But this. This is just off the charts. This just takes my breath away. I can't over state it. In the "ball games of life" this was the seventh game of the World Series. This was the Super Bowl. And because of God's decision, God's faithfulness, God's kindness .... we won. It's quite odd but I think that I can say if I screw up the rest of life (which I have no intention of doing) I'll be able to live with myself because ... we won our kids. They "get it." Life is about serving. Serving God by serving others. It is about loving your neighbor as you love yourself. It is about loving God with all of your heart, mind, soul, and strength.

Honestly, all I can do is kneel before my Maker and say, "Thank you." Because we truly did nothing worthy of causing this. But we'll take the win. This was the game that matters