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.