Pujols ... eat your heart out

"What doesn't hurt doesn't work." I suspect that will be my mantra in the morning.

Tonight, out of the kindness of my heart, I came to the rescue of the Towerview Baptist Church softball team. Summer vacations have hit them hard and tonight they needed players. They stooped low to find them. Really low. Like ... down to the stratus of subterranean softball that I dwell in.

Before tonight it had been 27 years since my last softball game. It use to be my passion. I played it for fun. One year, while playing for FBC Clarendon Hills, we went to the championship game for Southern Baptist Churches in Chicago. Sure, we lost but we played. We only had one pitcher and he only had one thumb. Unfortunately, it was not on his pitching hand. We were winning by 3 or 4 runs until the bottom of the 7th when he sealed our fate for all of history by walking the bases loaded and then walking in the winning runs. He turned up missing shortly afterward. They take their softball seriously in Chicago.

I ditched the spikes shortly after that. But tonight I borrowed a glove, threw on some clothes that looked remotely appropriate for the game, a Cubs cap, and took to the field. "Da Coach" decided that I would be a worthy catcher. Some might find that degrading. But I figure it makes me a part of EVERY defensive play when we are on the field. So I choose to believe that the team viewed me as indispensable.

Shaddup.

I made this deal with "Da Coach." I play softball, placing undue stress on this aging body, and he, in turn, has to preach if I bat .500 or greater. Da Coach seemed comfortable with that arrangement. I think he felt pretty secure after my first at bat. For some reason I have always batted left handed. It's the only thing in my life that works that way. I usually can't even wave hello with my left hand. But since I was a kid batting left handed has just felt right. Natural. So the first time up I hit the ball fairly well and like a good base runner I didn't watch where the ball went. Hey, it was in the air. If they catch it, they catch it. If they don't I'd rather watch it fall from first base.

It wasn't to be. They did catch the ball. And IT watched ME fall. Yeah. That's right. The first time I hit a ball in a game situation in 27 years and I fall on my face on the way to first base. As if that wasn't bad enough, as I struggle to get up I did it again. I bit the dust not once, but twice. On the same trip down the baseline.

Ugh.

And naturally about 30 or 40 people from Towerview showed up to cheer on their team. (One of the opposing players told me ... I talked to all of them ... did I mention that I was the catcher? ... that the crowd cheering for us made them sound like the visiting team which they were not. Tough noogies, baby!) And naturally one of them had a camera.

Ugh.

And then it was as though God remembered my prayer. Oh yes, I had most certainly prayed about this moment today. I didn't pray to win. I didn't pray to hit a home run. I should have prayed not to fall down but it didn't occur to me. I prayed ... to bat .500. We lost so badly that in a 7 inning game I only had to ... I mean got to ... bat twice. But this second at bat was a solid base hit to right center field. Yes, sports fans, it fell cleanly between the infielders and the outfielders. And I didn't fall down. I, a 54 year old FORMER softball player, ran safely to first base. And I pulled "A Zambrano." I pointed up, putting the credit where it belongs. And then I looked across the infield into the dugout at Da Coach. The poor, in shock coach. I suppose he's sitting at home tonight, behind a keyboard, writing his first sermon. How sweet it is. I did what Pujols has never done. I batted .500 for the season.

Oh yeah, and after the first game of this double header I had to leave. It seems that there was a death in the church family and I needed to go and visit the grieving family. It's what I do. I'm a pastor. A pastor ... with a free Sunday coming ...

God's Laughter and The Man Cave

*This blog is dedicated to a certain couple that mentioned tonight that I have been neglecting writing. You know who you are. ;)

God doesn't hate me. Actually, He loves me tremendously. He just likes to laugh at me. And I actually think He gains great pleasure in laughter. Even at my expense. Perhaps ESPECIALLY at my expense. Hmmmm.

It seems that I've been working on my new office in my basement lately. She's turning into quite a beauty. A true work of art. It started off as a little girls bedroom under the decorating skills of the previous owners of our "love hovel." It previously had three white walls, one blue (or green depending on who is making the call) wall, honey pine wooden floors and white trimmed baseboards. It also had a lovely light fixture descending from the ceiling that was created from pink beads hung on wires reaching about a foot from their point of origin. It was really nice if you are 6 years old and into fuzzy things.

Now? Now it has beautiful white wainscot topped by dark slate blue walls. I've purchased a dark mahogany table/desk with hand pounded marks on it's surface placed their by an Indian tribe in the far reaches of the Amazon. (Would I kid about something this serious? I think not.)

I'm pretty much aware of what my "skill sets" are. Carpentry isn't among 'em. I can speak. I can write. I can hold my own in a rousing game of Uno, Apples to Apples, or Trivial Pursuit. I can pound a nail but seldom do my thumbs come away unscathed. And the floor on my new "Man Cave" isn't perfect. I mean, the concrete of the basement floor isn't quite flat. There's a slight roll to it. That threw the wainscot off a bit. Which threw the chair rail off a bit. Which threw me off a bit. It's not all finished but it's getting there. When it's done it will be a first class hide-away! It's got a closet. It has no windows. It's going to have cool lighting which I haven't selected yet. And we all know that lighting is EVERYTHING.

Did I mention that I never ever try to do mitre corners? I did once and it cost me a fortune in ruined wood.

So tonight Debbie and I found ourselves at dinner with a really wonderful young couple that has been visiting our church. We had a great evening just talking about life, church, God, families, and ... unfortunately ... my Man Cave. That's when it came out that the young man, the husband (who shall remain unnamed lest he hunt me down) ... is a cabinet maker. A professional cabinet maker.

That means he works with wood.

That means he works with wood very successfully.

That means Debbie made SURE to tell him about my most recent creative exploits in trying to build a perfect room in a less than square environment.

Let's see. How can I best say this. Oh, here's the word. "GEEZ!"

Did I mention that I moved the electrical outlets without shutting off the electricity? I didn't blow anything up or burn anything down. (Notice how I didn't do anything UP or DOWN? I was on an even keel the entire time.) It probably was not my best decision. I never even thought about turning the power off until I was on the fourth and final outlet. Once the smoke cleared it all looked really good.

Okay, laugh if you must. But when you see my Man Cave in all of its completed glory (did I mention that it's all about lighting?) you will probably ask me to come and redo a room for you at your house. And I will smugly reply, "no." Each man must decorate his own Man Cave. It's a personal thing. And besides, now that I know a professional I have decided to retire. I don't want to cut in to his work load.

You can thank me later. (Again ... you know who you are!)

I'm Toast

I have always had a unique home. Except for when I was growing up. That was a fairly normal time. Then I got married and Debbie and I began our journey of weirdness. We have been married 31 years and we have moved 21 times. Some moves were very long distances. Some were just down the hall.

Our first home was a studio apartment in Tinley Park, Illinois. As I lay in bed I could access the television, the refrigerator, the air conditioner and, if I reached really far, the sink. Our dresser was in the closet.

Weirdness.

We lived in a rented house once when our kids were small. Our church youth group loved to stage gorilla attacks on it. They saran wrapped our van to the front porch.

Weirdness.

We lived in a church parsonage for seven years. It seemed like twenty-seven. Once the air conditioner (in the attic) broke and water leaked from it, through the ceiling, and pooled in the light fixture above the kitchen table. It dripped onto the table, warping and ruining it. The church trustees told us it was no big deal. "Nah. Don't worry about the electric light filled with water. It won't hurt ya."

Weirdness.

We rented another house and lived in it for a year. The youth group attacked it with forks. They planted them in the front yard topped with pickles. Sliced pickles. I went into the crawl space of this house once and found slugs as big as my fist.

Weirdness.

Finally we purchased our own home. We absolutely loved it. It was just made for the years of finishing up raising our kids. Of course there was the chimney fire. And the lime green fiberglass garage door. And the trees that kept getting knocked over by storms and punching holes into the roof. And the unkillable holly bush.

Weirdness.

Of course we followed that up with our mega-apartment building in Cleveland. That's the place where I found the grad students throwing their laundry down the garbage chute (one of them would be downstairs catching it before it hit the compacter. Then they'd haul it to the laundry room.) This was the place where I froze to the patio door on the 9th floor during a winter storm. I lived alone and didn't have any furniture. So I sat in the dark leaning against it blogging ... kind of like now. When I finished writing and tried to stand up my sweat shirt had frozen to the door.

Weirdness.

Well, now the kids have grown and abandoned home sweet home. I assumed things would calm down. Finally there would be normalcy. Nah. It's just beginning. I'm not sure how weird this place will be. We really, REALLY like it. But weird has already begun. I wanted a bagel last week. A nice toasted Cinnamon Crunch bagel. So I sliced it open and popped it into the toaster. I only turned away for a few seconds. Just long enough to grab some veggie creme cheese out of the fridge. When I turned back ... flames were leaping out of the toaster. You know. Like... fire. My bagel and my toaster was on fire. Not only is the toaster dead but so was the wall socket. (Yes, it has since been tweaked and is doing well.

Weirdness.

I mentioned "The Great Toaster Debacle" on facebook last week. Tonight when I arrived at church for Wednesday evening Bible study there was a plastic bag hanging from my door knob. Inside? A new toaster. A really NICE new toaster! I have no idea who put it there. (If it was you ... thanks! You rock!) But perhaps the weirdness is waning? Perhaps this new toaster is a sign that goodness is fighting back? Then again, my next door neighbor has a weed growing in her yard as tall as my second floor deck and my dish washer turns itself on.

Weirdness.

The Top 10 Days I'd Live Over And Why (just off the top of my head)

10 - My wedding day. Because it was a truly fantastic day that started with a brown sugar cinnamon pop-tart and ended with ham. Oh yeah. Other stuff happened too.

9 - The first day I skied Colorado. I was all alone and it was REALLY COLD and REALLY WINDY and REALLY SNOWING and totally worth driving 1,000 miles for.

8 - The days my kids were born. Because ... wow ... I had no idea that could really happen like that. And it didn't even hurt!

7 - The day I ate my first REAL (aka: non-frozen) pizza. It was at a place called "Veneuzio's" in Tinley Park, Illinois. My taste buds are still thanking me.

6 - The day I hiked Mt. St. Helens. Because it was amazing and started spewing stuff when I got about half way to it from the visitors center. And when I got back my wife bought me cobbler. Or maybe I ate hers. Either way.

5 - The day I first sat in a jacuzzi. Just because.

4 - The day my dad and I sat all alone in the upper deck in the right field at Old Comiskey Park and watched the White Sox beat the A's twice. Nobody was within 20 yards of us. Because, well because it was just one of the best days of my life.

3 - The day my bride and I celebrated out 10th wedding anniversary and I gave her a ring with 9 diamonds. Because she cried in a good way and I knew she loved me as much as she always tells me she loves me.

2 - The day she and I sat on a boat dock on Lake Superior and watched the northern lights. Because ... it was a moment.

1 - The day I asked Jesus to forgive and save me. Because I would love to feel that clean and fresh and unjaded again.

Now Here's The Way To Kick-Off A Wedding!

Candy coated popcorn, peanuts and a prize ...

Today I helped my son and his bride of 9 months move into a new apartment in St. Peters. It's a much nice, much safer place than they have been living in. It was actually fun to help them move their stuff and see them light up at the prospect of life in their new "joint."

But the coolest part of the day came before the moving began. I met my brother-in-law, Jim, at their old apartment and they had not yet arrived from picking-up their key at the new place. So we did something all red blooded American men do. We went to ... THE BATTING CAGES!

Okay, it's been about ten years since I was THAT red blooded. But I got my tokens, my complimentary helmet, loaner bat, and headed to the baseball "medium pitch" batting cage. Debbie and Jim stood outside as I took a few practice swings, deposited the fake coin into the slot, and stepped into the batters box.

You know. Ten years is a long time. This particular cage was suppose to clock out at 60 MPH. That might not be much to Albert Pujols but it's about the speed of a bus on the highway to me. The light came on at the machine. I dimly saw a baseball drop into a rocket like contraption. And then, "Holy moley, what was that?" Zing! Swing! Whop. The ball came. I pulled the trigger on the bat just about the time the catcher would have been throwing it back to the pitcher. Zing! Swing! Whop. I slapped at the first three swings as a right handed batter without so much as a foul ball. I looked and felt sadly pathetic swinging wildly. Zing! Swing! Whop. And then the strangeness kicked in. The very first time I picked up a bat as a little kid I started swinging from the left side of the plate. I have no idea why. I don't do anything else left handed. I golf from the right side. I write right handed. I pet doggies and tickle "The Amazing Elle" right handed. But batting left handed just always felt natural to me. So I moved over.

Suddenly the aluminum bat began meeting the horsehide ball. That's when I remembered the purpose for batting gloves. I mean like,... ouch! Still, it felt so sweet to hit a baseball for the first time in this millennium. I didn't set the baseball world on fire. And I didn't dare step into the 80 MPH batting cage.

Yet.

It felt good. Right up to the moment when my elbow popped and I remembered that I'm not in high school anymore. So I hung up the bat and helmet one more time. I'll be back. I'll have more tokens. And once again I'll make the cubs wonder why they didn't sign me earlier. (I'm holding out for a last minute contract just in time to propel me into the upcoming World Series.)

Ahhhh. Eyes on the ball. The swing of the bat. The sweet vision of the ball rocketing toward left field KNOWING it would most certainly evade the grasp of all outfielders.

Can you smell it? Can you? That's the smell of .... Cracker Jacks. Candy coated popcorn, peanuts and a prize. You. Are. All. Mine.

I take it back

I wrote a blog post last night. I reread it this morning and read the comment posted below. After thinking about it and especially after praying about it I have decided to remove the post. I do not know if my anonymous friend who left a comment is correct or not. If he or she is correct ... and that just might be the case ... then I threw a "spiritual torpedo" in the water at a church and that was wrong. If my friend is wrong and my original thinking is correct, well, the world will carry on quite well without this piddly little post.

I try to live what I believe. And I believe that it is wrong to do harm to those trying to do good. And so to my friends in the church I referred to, I apologize. Even though you probably didn't even know this blog exists much less that you appeared in it. That's not the point. I bless you and ask that you exalt the name of Jesus.

Ron

How Not To Take A Nap

The Amazing Elle Catching A Well Deserved Nap

I have this lunatic friend...

I have this lunatic friend who is totally A.D.H.D. No, I mean really. His doctor gave him the test today. It's a done deal. No room for doubt. He's a nice guy and all but he has the attention span of a gnat. I don't know what to do with him. Suggestions are welcome.

He once closed out a bank account because he did such a lousy job of balancing his checkbook that he just gave up. He stopped writing checks until he knew for sure what the balance was. Then he withdrew his money and opened a new account at a different bank. Nobody ever knew.

He did premarital counseling recently and for the entire hour he twirled a pair of sharpened scissors on his index fingers and never once thought it odd. He could have killed somebody. My friend was blown away when it was pointed out to him.

He spoke to hundreds of church staff members a few years ago on how to survive ministry while being A.D.H.D. About a quarter of the way through the 90 minute meeting a late-arriver walked in with a suit case in tow. He paused his entire presentation and told her that she had really nice luggage. Every staff member with A.D.H.D. turned to look. Their spouses buried their faces in their hands. I saw it myself. I know it really happened.

He confessed to me one time that sometimes in the middle of an illustration when he is speaking he will totally forget what the point of the illustration is. After he panics for a second he laser focuses until he remembers where he was going or he fakes it. He's learned to stick more closely to his notes and that's a really good thing. I'm proud of him for that.

He was told by several Junior High School students once that he makes them tired. How does that happen?

He could not sleep one night when he was living alone. He said that his mind would not be quiet. And so he took three Tylenol PM's. He woke up at 3:30 AM with an entire gallon of milk in one hand and freshly made chocolate chip cookies in the other. Yes, his mouth was full.

I could go on. I mean I have a TON of illustrations about this guy. But honestly, this is getting boring and there's something shiny over there in the corner and I think I need to go see what it is.

Later.

After Kicking The Tires ...

After "kicking the tires" of the claims I mentioned a few days ago, what do you think?

1. I am deeply loved of God.
2. I am fully pleasing to God.
3. I am totally accepted by God.

Do you buy into that? Are you skeptical about God's love for you? Do you feel like a failure? Is there a deep and abiding sense within you that you are constantly letting God down and, thus, He is holding you at arms length?

Consider.

The Apostle Paul was a man who made it his passion and calling to kill as many Christian's as possible. Oh, he believed in God. He just didn't buy the "Jesus stuff." He actually thought "Christians" were working contrary to the God of the Old Testament. And so he took it upon himself to stop those propagating this nonsense. And then God interrupted Paul. He stepped in one day, knocked Paul off of his horse as he was on his way to kill more Christ-followers, He blinded him and sent him on into the city to chill a while. And then God gave him the incredible privilege of spreading the gospel of Jesus to the Gentiles (all of the "non-Jews.) God chose Paul against all common sense and all odds.

Later on Paul penned the following words...

"I pray that out of his glorious riches he may strengthen you with power through his Spirit in your inner being, so that Christ may dwell in your hearts through faith. And I pray that you, being rooted and established in love, may have power, together with all the saints, to grasp how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ, and to know this love that surpasses knowledge—that you may be filled to the measure of all the fullness of God. Now to him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to his power that is at work within us, to him be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus throughout all generations, for ever and ever! Amen." (Ephesians 3: 16 - 21)

"Love that surpasses knowledge." Hmm. And yet Paul said he wants us to be able to comprehend how wide, long, high and deep God's love is. Paul understood because he was guilty of murdering God's kids and God loves him anyway. If God loves Paul so completely ... do you really think He doesn't love you?

Paul said he prays that God will strengthen us out of His (God's) glorious riches with power through His Spirit in our inner being. He wants us to be strong and He wants to use is to do good in this world. God has a vast army of angels. God has believers that have stood the test of time. God has been known to speak through a donkey (Numbers 22: 21 - 31.) So if God can use anybody and anything He chooses and He has so much to choose from ... why would He use you? The answer is simple. He is pleased with you. No, you are not pleasing to God because you are so good or have never failed Him. Give me a break. We all know better than that. You are pleasing to God because (and IF) you have trusted His Son as your Savior. You see, it actually was God's will to crush His Son and set you free. Incomprehensible, but true. (Isaiah 53: 10) Your mess ups are all on Jesus. Your "junk" was transferred from your account to the account of Jesus Christ. God purchased you back from sin with the blood of His Son. And since He owns you He can feel any way He wants to about you. And He chooses to be pleased with you. Believe it or not. I Peter 2: 9 - 10 says it rather well. "But you are a chosen people, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, a people belonging to God, that you may declare the praises of him who called you out of darkness into his wonderful light. Once you were not a people, but now you are the people of God; once you had not received mercy, but now you have received mercy." Rather than arguing with God you might consider looking upward and saying "Thank You."

Paul said that God is able to do immeasurably more in us that we could ever imagine to ask Him to do because of His power at work within us. God's power ... at work ... in ... you. You. He accepts you as worthy. I have no idea why. I only know that His Word says He does.

Loved by God. Pleasing to God. Accepted by God. It's true.

Kick the tires as hard as you want. You can't break them. They are paid for. And so are you.

It's True...

Some years ago a guy named Robert McGee wrote a book called "Search For Significance." It was quite ground breaking. They turned it into an entire study. (Don't they always? And who ARE "they" anyway?) The whole thing was good but God reminded me today of three facts taught in "Search" that will change your life if you buy into them. And if you don't? Well, you life will turn into a spiritual train wreck.

So it would be not so nice of me to withhold them from you. Here they are. Simple but life giving.

1. I am deeply loved of God.
2. I am fully pleasing to God.
3. I am totally accepted by God.

Give that some thought. Kick the tires on it for a while. Do you buy it?

Tomorrow ... we'll talk.

Un-In-Spired

Writing is more than a pass time or a hobby. It's like life to me. When I write it often takes on human form in my head. I'm not sure how that works.

But it's like this.

When I was a youth pastor I took something like 50 week long trips with teens. That's nearly a year on the road. There were mission trips, Centrifuge trips, choir trips, all sorts of trips. And every one of them, in my brain, took on a life of their own. For some reason, to me, those trips were not static events that simply took place in life. They actually feel like living breathing things that are out there someplace. Lives were changed. Eternity was changed. Only God Himself knows how deeply and how far reaching those changes are. But to me, the trips themselves took on life.

And that's what writing is. To me.

I've been about this blogging thing since my son-in-law, Joe, introduced me to the concept way back around 2002. This is like nearly the 600th post. (Thanks, Joe!) I just love to write. And it too takes on life. You are reading this blog and that means that in some weird way my writing reaches beyond myself and touches someone else. You. And approximately 70 other souls per day. Thanks for dropping by.

Rarely, but every now and then, I seem to lose the ability to formulate anything inspiring in my brain. All things that matter go on sabbatical. Even humor goes AWOL. This is one of those times. I've been trying to figure out why. I think it's a bunch of things that all clumped together. The thrill (sic) of moving 4 times in 20 months tends to dilute the humor in life. It's nice not to be living out of Tupperware anymore but my garage is full of unopened boxes. So it's a trade off. Even more seriously, the deaths of 3 close friends this year as rather taken the wind out of my sails. I find myself thinking about the brevity of life a lot lately. Not the fear of death. Not even the fear of the process of dying. My thoughts just seem to gravitate to the reality that all of this ... THIS ... can end without even a moments notice. I don't like that thought. It isn't so much my own departure from this earthly soil that has my attention but ... yours. People that I know and love. I didn't get an opportunity to say good-bye to any of my 3 friends and they were just ... gone. That stinks. And I wonder when it ends. Then I realize that it doesn't. I've been contemplating going to visit my parents graves sometimes soon. I have not been there since my mom died in 2004. Five years. And it's a six hour drive. I keep putting it off because, quite honestly, I don't want to go. It doesn't seem prudent at the moment. So I wait.

Anyway, I say all of that just to say this. I am currently a really terrible blogger. Sorry about that. Thanks for sticking with me and checking back here every now and then. I'll get my act together soon. Maybe even tomorrow. But in the meantime I just really stink at writing.

As a friend of mine use to say ... sucks to be me. :)

John And Kate Plus Five

Okay, I know this is warped. But I saw it when it aired on Conan and I've been watching it on their web site ever since and every time I do I start ... like ... laughing and rolling and crying and falling out of my chair. This is not an editorial on divorce or child abandonment. It's just humor. Oh, and if there is a booze commercial before the video I'm not in favor of that either. SO DON'T SEND ME MEAN EMAILS! :)

The Hand of God

It has been said that God works in mysterious ways His wonders to perform. I'm a believer. I have written a few times over the last weeks about the death of our friend, Lynda. It's tough to lose a friend. It hurts when God calls a long time "pal" home. We all know that we are suppose to celebrate for them. And we want to. We really do. But sometimes the pain is so real that we forget to be happy for the one who no longer has any pain. Sure, it's selfish. But it's also true, honest, and real.

When Lynda passed away her husband Dave, who is my equally good friend, asked me to not only conduct but to totally PLAN her funeral service. The friendship that the four of us shared was always a little warped. In a good way. We always knew that with Dave and Lynda we could laugh at the misfortunes of life. Humor was abundant. Along with chocolate. And steaks. It's just that kind of friendship. And the loss of 1/4th of this equation makes it all the more difficult to fathom the fact that things will never be quite the same.

Oh, that and the fact that she stiffed me for Debbie's birthday present. She decided to have Debbie's bible rebound for her as it was falling apart. Ephesians was literally taking a plunge to the floor. So I got it to a re-binder, paid for it, and Lynda was going to pay me back. But God called her on home and she skipped out on me. (Please know that I'm saying this with a HUGE smile on my face knowing that in at least one way she got the last laugh on me! I'm honored to be a part of this process between her and Debbie. And when I arrive in heaven ... you betcha ... she owes me!)

But God did a couple of really weird things to drive home the point to Dave, Debbie and I that HE was the one sending for Lynda. She did not die by accident, chance, or fate. God dialed her up. He sent for her. And as He so often does He left His fingerprints all over this event for us to see and learn from.

For instance ...

Since I planned the entire service I determined that all music would be from prerecorded CD. No live music. Lynda loved contemporary Christian music. And so I chose two songs. (Dave later added a third.) The songs I chose were "I Will Rise" a very new song by Chris Tomlin and a very old hymn, "Come Ye Sinners," performed by Jami Smith. I had never heard either song performed live by anybody. Yet I felt strongly that they were the songs to be sung at my friends funeral service.

And then God's Hand left their fingerprints.

The day after her funeral, at our church, a young man who had just returned from college in Alabama picked-up his guitar and sang a solo just before I spoke. The song? "I Will Rise." I talked to him later. He had just found out the day before that he was singing and he just selected that song on that morning. He didn't know the music and had never played it before. He just felt that it was what God wanted him to sing. Yeah ... I'd say so.

That was the day Dave flew back to his home near Fort Worth. He didn't get to attend church until the following Sunday. He emailed me the next day and mentioned that at their service they celebrated "The Lord's Supper." As the elements were being served several men stood up and performed an acoustic version of "Come Ye Sinners." Dave said he chocked back tears and then "smiled at Lynda" knowing that she was getting a kick out of it. That was the first time Dave had heard the song since his wife's funeral and the first time he had heard it performed at church ever.

So what do you think? Two songs that we had never heard performed live but that I chose for my friends memorial service are suddenly "front and center" at the very next worship services that the three of us attend? In two different churches in two different states 600 miles apart. Chance? Coincidence? The Hand of God? I can't think of a third option. As for me I believe my Father, "Abba," was wrapping His Holy Hands around the hearts of three hurting people and, in so doing, was reminding us that "precious in the eyes of the Lord are the death of His saints." (Psalm 116: 15)

The Peace Train (VBS Style)

I guess there was too much beef on the peace train.

Too pooped to write

Yeah. I don't mean to complain so don't take it that way. But it seems that moving is serious work. And it's seriously hot. And I'm totally ready to have it all over with. ONE. MORE. DAY.

And I was just thinking. Crunching some numbers. Just for curiosities sake. It doesn't really matter. But I just finished living 593 days in apartments. Hey, I wasn't living in a refrigerator box under a bridge. I had the refrigerator ... not the box. I had balconies. I had flushing toilets and nice showers. Two of the apartments had absolutely killer views. There is absolutely no hardship in any of that.

And here's the deal.

About 80% of everything I own has been stored away during those 593 days. I thought all of that stuff was important. Sometimes I've missed an item or two. But over all I've realized that life has continued on quite splendidly without it all. I mean there's some nice stuff there. A leather sofa. A huge heavy wooden entertainment center. Gigantic wooden dressers that my clothes usually go in. I've been living out of tupperware for 593 days and it really hasn't hurt me at all. All of my baseball memorabilia has been in storage. And honestly, it's been okay.

Yesterday I set-up our bed and a few other items into our new house and we've been living there. Tonight is our second night in the new place. The amazing 47 inch LCD flat screen that my wonderful friends at Towerview Baptist gave us for my birthday (can you believe that? WOW. I am totally humbled by their love. And I totally do NOT deserve it.) is up and running. I haven't connect the blue ray player yet just because I haven't had time. But we've been living in a rather sparsely furnished home since yesterday. And can I tell you ... no big deal. I could, I have, done without the stuff. And it hasn't hurt me at all.

I owe God an apology. And I'll gladly make it in a public setting like the world wide web. God, I'm sorry I have placed such value on my things. Thank you for the lessons that you have taught me in 593 unique days. I don't understand all of them. Some of the greatest frustrations have come because I have wanted to make absolutely certain that I'm learning the lesson You are teaching. Please don't let me miss it. My heart realizes in a new way that there is a new home waiting for me and I'll never have to pack another box or store another item. You are the Decorator. The Designer. Please put it together any way that brings you pleasure. And in the meantime, thank you for reminding me that You, my precious Father, are enough.

If you want me to live in a tent, I will live in a tent. I just want to live close to You.

MOOOOO-ving

Today we began our move from apartment living into home ownership again. So I'm just wondering. I've moved five times in the last twenty months. Each time it has been either over 95 degrees or below zero.

What's with that?

Curve Ball Shy

I was 15 year old and playing sandlot ball. My next door neighbor came home early. He was a steel worker, walking the sky high beams of the growing Sears Tower in Chicago's loop. He watched for a few minutes and then offered to pitch for both teams. Jack was a big guy in his mid-thirties. I'm sure he went gentle on us concerning speed. I'm sure he made certain not to hit any of us. But when I came up to bat I fouled off a couple of pitches. He never threw anything but strikes. The next pitch was moving a little and I was able (for probably the first and last time in my life) to time my swing just right, sending the ball soaring to dead center field. I watched my own fly ball as it left the ball park, crossed the street and landed ... on the fly ... in the back yard of some guys house. I remember floating around the bases knowing that this one swing would lift me into the baseball hall of fame in our little neighborhood of guys. I also knew that my days playing here had probably ended. I was getting too old, too big, to keep playing in our neighborhood ballpark.

The next time up Jack struck me out on three pitches.

But the reward of the day came later that evening when I saw my neighbor sitting on his front doorstep. I walked over and sat down next to him, silently hoping he wasn't going to kill me. Instead he said the nicest thing anybody ever said about any athletic ability I ever had (which was not much.) He looked straight at me and said, "You killed the most wicked curveball I ever threw."

Honestly, I had no idea. I never really noticed a wicked curve. I just saw a ball coming and I did my best to put my bat where I thought the ball would go. In reality I probably put the bat where I never meant to put it and just got very lucky. Dead serious about that.

I've faced a thousand curve balls since that day. None of them came in the form of a baseball. They have all come in the form of the incidents of life that I never expected. A suicide. An accident. An argument. A moral failure on the part of a person I trust. A murder. A job change. A confession. A run away. An offer. A rejection. A death. Ad nauseam.

I've been thinking about curve balls this week. You know what makes them so wicked? The fast balls that precede them. If you always expect a curve you will be ready for it when it comes. But when you see fast ball after fast ball after fast ball, well, a curve ball catches you off balance and you swing like a drunk with a thousand pound bat. Fast balls are nice. They are predictable. You know where they come from and where they are going. You know what to do with them.

Then comes the curve. You swing so hard that you look positively cartoonish as you corkscrew yourself into the ground. You end up laying in the dust, wondering where the ball went. Then the catcher pulls it out of his mitt, laughs at you, spits in the dirt, and throws it back to the pitcher. And it's time to get ready for the next pitch. There is always another pitch. And you must always be ready.

We are still trying to brush the dust off this week. It's been a long 2009 when it comes to curve balls. There have been plenty of fast balls too. And we've turned on them pretty well, planting a few across the street behind the houses. But we've yet to truly connect on a curve ball. Honestly, the thought of another one leaves me queazy. I'm a little "curve ball shy." Wondering when it's going to come and from where it will originate.

I am not use to playing in the dust. I can't say as how I like it. I know the final score of the game even though we are still playing. I think I need a pinch hitter.

Jesus. You're up.

Free Floating Thoughts

It's been such an insane weekend. I've tried to turn my brain off with minimal success. One of my greatest downfalls is that I think too much. So I talked to God for a while today. Actually, I talked to God for a long while today. And I decided to tell Him what brings me great joy in life. It came as no surprise to me that each and every "thing" ... was a person. Unexpected death will make you think. It will keep you up late nights. It will wake you up early mornings. Honestly, I am getting tired of sleeping four hours per night. And there isn't a switch to it that I've been able to find. So if you have to think, I figure you would be wise to think about the joys. Otherwise the sadness will overwhelm you and send you tumbling into a dark and seemingly bottomless hole.

So. The list I gave to God was very long. I'm going to share the top 10 with you in no particular order. And my one rule? No sentences. Just a name followed by solitary words that, to me, defines that person. You will notice that this list is a family list. If you are not on it ... no worries. You were very likely on the list I gave to God. And one other thing ... each person could have twenty more things on their list. These are just the top ones that I can remember sitting here in the darkness of a late night living room.

Debbie - Solid. Dependable. Dedicated. Passionate. Wise. Loving. Emotional. Trustworthy. Mine.
Kelli - Stable. Committed. Caring. Focused. Overwhelmed. Capable. Intuitive. Charming.
Joe - Talented. Funny. Inspired. Able. Happy. Carefree.
Elle - Hugs. Arms. Whispers. Laughter. Smiles. Joy.
Scott - Energetic. Mature. Visionary. Trustworthy. Loyal. Creative. Reliable.
Amanda - Sweetness. Able. Strong. Friend. Focused. Athletic.
Christopher - Amazing. Mature. Growing. Hilarious. Fresh. Unsuspecting.
Laura - Real. Brilliant. Caring. Sacrificial. Honest. Thinker.
Jim - Smart. Brother. Independent. Creative. Seeking. Survivor. Fun. Fun. Fun.
Alisha - Caring. Committed. Loyal. Capable. Deep. Creative.

Family ... I love you. This past week has reminded me to tell you that more often. So if you see me staring off into space a bit more frequently over the next few weeks I trust you will understand. If I call you or text you more than usual it's because I want you to know that you are my life. Next to my relationship with my God you are the reasons that I want to continue to walk the planet.

How Fragile We Are

Sometimes, no matter what you say, your words just sound stupid in your own ears. Raw emotions leave you feeling like a frayed rope that has been torn from its anchor. Fragments of memories spin through your mind like falling leaves in a summer storm.

We lost another friend this week. Thus far 2009 has been "The Year of Loss."

Fred Winters.

Woody Foreman.

Lynda Edelen.

Our friend of a quarter of a century succumbed early this morning to complications following cancer surgery. How do I tell you about this friend? I think ... by stories. Glimpses of a life lived with gusto and passion.

When I think of Lynda I think of ...

-A ski trip to Wisconsin. Convinced by her husband, Dave, to attempt one of the more difficult trails with him, she climbed on the lift. Debbie and I waved goodbye and headed to our van, too chicken to attempt the descent with them. In about 10 minutes Dave skied up ... alone. We looked at him. His glance held no hint of humor. He quietly said, "Not a word." We looked up the mini-mountain to see Lynda walking down the slope carrying her skis. It was a moment. It was also a silent trip back to the hotel!

-Dad gummit!

-Driving all day with our kids for a round trip White Sox/Rangers double header in Chicago during the last year of Old Comiskey Park. Being glad that Dave loved to drive and Lynda loved to keep him awake.

-Ten consecutive 4th of July celebrations at their home. Launching highly illegal bottle rockets into the sky to impress our kids only to have one sail into the neighbors roof. Oddly enough, they purchased that house and moved into it a few years later. I think it was a "guilt purchase."

-Hoppin mad!

-Another ski trip to another mini-midwestern mountain. Sharing a bed and breakfast with them and sitting in their room watching the winter olympics. Lynda had back pains and Dave used a little massager on her as she lay on the floor. I fell off the couch laughing as she gasped, "If I knew it was going to feel this good I would have started moaning sooner!" That became a running joke for years.

-Teaching teenagers to "foot wrestle" during "JPL" in the late 1980's ... and losing to her. (You grab each others hands and try to stomp on each others feet while dancing out of the way of their feet trying to do the same to yours.)

=Sitting in a lawn chair and watching Lynda and Debbie dig two feet of snow out of their driveway while I nursed my broken arm in a sling. An arm I broke ... you got it ... skiing with them.

-Watching her host my son Scott's (approximately) 4th birthday party in our home because Debbie was sick in bed with mono. That's what friends do.

-Listening to Lynda and Debbie talk on the phone every Sunday for the last few years. Each conversation lasted about two hours and ended as I heard my wife say, "I love you, Lynda."

-Conspiring with her every Christmas and birthday as she worked to find Debbie the perfect present.

-Emails that always included a minimum of three "Ha!'s" as she laughed at the events that life was throwing her way. Even the events that start with a "C" and rhyme with "Lancer." She never complained about it. Never showed fear of it. Always treated it like a side light to be dealt with but not mastered by.

The stories do not stop there. There are so many more. I did her grandmothers funeral. I did the funerals of her in-laws. At her request I did the funeral for a 10 year old little girl named "Anna" that lived next door to her and died way too young. And now on Saturday I will do her funeral. Honestly, I do not know what to say. Like every good pastor I have a well stocked and often used file of funeral sermons. But they will stay in their digital file cabinet this weekend. You see, I have to talk about my friend. And someway, somehow, I have to help my other dear friend, her husband Dave, find hope in the midst of pain. I cannot for the life of me figure out how to do that. When his future consists of coming home after work to their dream home, decorated by his bride, with food in the cabinets that she purchased. How do you get through that? For that matter, how do you help someone else get through that?

Lynda lived life with passion. Joy was her friend. She knew her cancer was very serious and very dangerous and yet she seldom spoke of it. It was, for her, an obstacle to be navigated around. It turns out it was an iceberg to be sailed into. Which reminds me that in our last email we talked about a cruise that she, Dave, Debbie and I had talked about taking in 2010. But there will be no ship. No ocean. No cruise.

In one of the last emails she sent me she said, " I don't feel happy right now. Hate that. I like to live my life in my happy place but can't seem to find it these days. Have you seen it??????????????? Not on the GPS currently. " Tonight I know that Lynda has found her happy place. She is home. How do I know that with confidence?

Two nights ago, when we believed that all was well and she would be home by the weekend, Debbie and I went to bed. In the middle of the night she had a dream. She was in her class room with her students. Lynda walked in. She invaded Debbie's dream. Debbie was surprised in the dream to see her. Even in the dream she knew she was out of place. She said, "Lynda!" And Lynda said, "I'm okay. I'm in the arms of Jesus." Debbie told me the story the next morning. I assured her that Lynda was fine, the doctors said the danger was passed and it was just her own brain playing out its fear. Two hours later Dave called me with the horrible news. The unexpected truth ... that had occurred in the middle of the night. Just about the time Debbie was having her dream.

A gift from God. A last visit by a dear sister who just stopped by on her way to heaven. I don't really have any answers about how that works. But I believe it. So does Debbie. So does Dave. Don't bother trying to tell us otherwise. It will be fruitless.

Tonight she is okay. She is in the arms of Jesus.

But I'm not at all sure that the rest of us are doing that well. How fragile we are.

Lynda being "pick pocketed" by The Amazing Elle

Everybody Deserves To Be Loved

What is it about being at 30,000 + feet that makes me want to write?

Debbie and I are on the final leg of a journey that took us from our “love hovel” in the St. Louis ‘burbs to visit her dad and step-mother-in-law in the Richmond ‘burbs. We are truly “burben.” It’s been a great trip. One of the memorable ones. The weather was good three out of four days. Debbie’s step-mom is winning a battle with breast cancer. She was tired but doing well. Hey, if ever you have a right to tiredness it’s after a round of chemo therapy.

But that’s not really the point.

Somewhere along the way in the last few years I’ve begun to question “love.” I don’t doubt its existence or that I have experienced it frequently on my earthly journey. Still, I seem to have traversed a period where things in general have been ... harsh. There has been plenty of frustration. A fair amount of angry people. And over-all I’ve just seen a lot of things that I don’t really want to see. Ever. Not again. “Good” can turn “mean” in an instant. “Trusting” can turn “accusing.” Friendship can fade. What you once believed to be solid can prove itself sponge. I’ve found my motives called into question so many times that I’ve begun to question them myself. The Hand of God has been frequently visible but His voice has often been quiet. Less than a whisper. More like a memory. A very desired memory.

If you are reading this and thinking I am talking about you the odds are tremendously high that I am not. So relax. Read or don’t. My job is to write.

The point of this trip we are wrapping up is love. Hopefully it has been love in a pure form. I hope we have given it freely though it has come at a cost. Nothing is free in the world of commerce. Still, if I have learned anything over these trying episodes it is to always err on the side of love. Even if nobody believes that is what you are doing. Love anyway. Even if they attack your motivations. Love anyway. And so when weighing financial considerations against the desire to love without reservation ... indeed without “counting the cost” ... we voted on love. My in-laws are probably reading this and I wish they were not but I have to write it anyway.

Everybody deserves to feel loved. I do not know where I was sitting or what I was doing when it suddenly occurred to me that perhaps I (we) needed to show them that they are a loved and cherished part of our family. They have been to my home multiple times since I have been to theirs. I am ashamed to admit that. But I do admit it. I have not done a good job of showing love. Honestly, what better time to show someone that you care deeply for them than when they are sick? What better time to break your habitual absence than when they might just be in need of a hug? There is an answer to that question. It is not rhetorical. The appropriate answer is “at every opportunity.”

When it comes to love, I fear that I have not been very opportunistic. I have no plea but guilt. No excuse but ignorance. I have made an art form out of speaking before I think, acting before I consider, and living to draw attention to the wrong thing. I have forgotten that humor can coexist with gentleness, fun with kindness, and that I most often receive when I am focused on giving.

And for the fact that it took chemo therapy to remind me of that, I do nothing but repent.

Stupid Picture Chronicles #32

Today I ...

-Woke up at 9:15 (EDT). Sweet!
-Realized I was in Richmond, Virginia and had a sudden craving for tobacco. Odd. I've never used any in my entire life. I resisted. I won. (Thanks to "The Patch.")
-Got a wasp stuck up the sleeve of my t-shirt and got stung 4 times resulting in numb fingers and a shoulder playing the "1812 Overture."
-Mowed my father-in-law's HUGE yard (we are talking acres here) with his nifty zero-turn-radius mower. Had a blast.
-Found a concrete slab with the hand print and initials of my son and my brother-in-law left there when my son was about ... 10 years old. I had "A Moment."
-Found out that Lama's really do spit. No joke. They do.
-Had another encounter with a wasp as I was putting the mower away. He got me twice on the leg before I even knew he was there. Today's score? Wasps - 6. Ron - 0. Not acceptable. I have numb toes and a swollen calf. (Not the animal kind. The leg kind.)
-Ate steak and 8 deviled eggs. Marveled at how "ate" and "8" sound the same and yet have totally different meanings.
-Talked to my real estate agent in Illinois who told me that I sounded oddly relaxed and that I must be having a nice vacation. Suddenly realized that I was.
-Drove 2 kids that I don't know around my father-in-laws property on a golf cart. I found that ball I lost back in 1987. Not really.
-Drove Bud The Dog around the grounds on the golf cart until he fell off. He looked at me like I had pushed him. I had not.
-Taught same two unknown children to salute the flag.
-Watched 15 minutes of Nascar and craved tobacco again. Currently looking for another "patch."
-Missed Costco.
-Threw a steak to "Bud the Dog" which never even came close to hitting the ground. Bud is "a dogs dog." If only he could kill wasps.
-Vacuumed a gazebo.
-Sat with my brother-in-law and made fun of our wives without their ever knowing. Until they read this blog. (If I do not blog again in a couple of days ... print this and take it to the Hanover County, Virginia Sheriffs Police.)
-Sweat.
-Prayed.
-Thought about how much I will miss Towerview Baptist Church tomorrow.
-Left in my rental car for an hour and no once noticed. I was pleased.
-Blogged.
-Said "good night, planet earth."

My brother-in-law fishes for bass

My brother-in-law fishes for bass. BIG bass.

That is all.

Stealing Sky Malls and Lusting After Waffles

I like to blog from way up in the air. Yeah, they just told me that my laptop is hovering 39,000 feet above … uh … well, they didn’t tell me where. Must be close to Indiana by now. The clouds are thin but the world is invisible. How many places can you go where the world is invisible? Last night I lay in my bed toying with the idea of sleep. I was in that sweet spot where the tension of the day had faded into the “who gives a darn” of the night. I thought about closing my eyes when a huge gust of wind hit my outside wall , coinciding with a clap of thunder that would make applauding angels jealous. We are talking loud here. But that puny little 70 mph gust can’t compare with the 500 + mph with which my current vehicle is rushing across the continent. We left St. Louis 45 minutes late but not to worry. We’ll land on time. The nice man in the big chair with the blue suit and plastic wings on his chest says so. I believe him. When I boarded I almost asked him if this was the plane that lands in the Hudson or the Chesapeake. I thought better of it. Sounds rather terroristic to me. Some things are best left unsaid.

It took me 53 years to learn that truth.

A young lady who lives far away from where she will sleep tonight just handed me .75 oz. of peanuts. HONEY ROASTED peanuts. This is what separates us from the rest of the world. Some dream of peanuts on the ground and ask “why?” I eat them in the air and ask “Why not?”

I have also pilfered three copes of Sky Mall” from the seat backs in front of me. The little sticker on them says it’s appropriate to take one and they will replace it. I read the sticker three times, which entitles me to three magazines. One for Topher. One for Scott. One for Jim. They will thank me. But they will not really order anything. That’s because they are married. When you are married you are allowed to read Sky Mall but you are not allowed to purchase anything in it. It’s a shame really. They have truly good stuff. Like real motorized “bumper boats” for your pool. No matter that they don’t have pools. Just owning your own bumper boat would be a great reward in itself. It’s alright if you don’t understand. But if you don’t … I’m betting you are a girl.

Baltimore is calling. Enterprise is waiting. Washington D.C. is in the way. Richmond is open late. I wonder if they have a Waffle House?

My Stuff

I was just crunching numbers in my head and realized that I've spent the last 19 months living in 3 different apartments. That's not a really big deal. Then it occurred to me, I have not lived on the ground in 19 months. That gave me an entirely new perspective on the issue. I've lived on the 9Th floor facing a huge lake. I've lived on the 3rd floor facing a huge lake. And I now live on the 3rd floor facing what will eventually be a corn field. I've noticed some coyote's prowling about in that field lately. Thank God they aren't dingo's. Lot's of kids in the neighborhood. I wonder if the lack of altitude will affect me. Maybe the nose bleeds will stop and the heart palpitations. Okay, I'm kidding about all of that. Calm down.

If God were to say to me, "Hey Ron! I want you to live in an apartment for the rest of your life!" I could easily say, "Okie dokie. No problem, God!" I mean, I don't live in a grass hut, a mud and cardboard shack, or a tenement slum. All of my apartments have been nice. No complaints. Well, there were some amazing snow storms coming in off that big old lake but you've already heard those stories. Did I mention that it got down to -14 degrees on that lake shore this past winter? I did? Never mind then.

Then I remember "my stuff." Throughout these months most of my "stuff" has been in the house it took me a year to sell or in the basement of some of my bestest friends, Bob and Cindy. And occasionally, when reaching for my undies or socks in my Tupperware type dresser, I remember my real dresser. It's all wood and shiny and really, really heavy. And I go, "Hey! I miss my stuff!" Then I feel a little bit guilty. I think about my hammock and they way it feels when it's tied between two trees and I go, "Hey! I miss my stuff!" And I feel even guiltier. I miss my bricks. I don't expect you to understand that but I have these bricks that are really important, memory-filled bricks. One is from Old Comiskey Park where the White Sox use to play. My dad use to take me to ball games behind that brick. We walked under it together but we didn't know it at the time. One is from the outfield wall at Wrigley Field. One is my "paver brick" that's got my name on it and the date of the first time I took my kids to Wrigley Field. It's a replica of the real one that's on a patio there at the ball park. My kids bought it for me. Very cool. There's just lots of "stuff" and I think when I open the boxes again in a few weeks it will be a little bit like Christmas morning. I'm sure I've got "stuff" that I've even forgotten that I own.

Which brings me to the fact that I bought a house. Did I mention that? I did. It's a "Villa" which means I share a wall with a neighbor. She is a solider in the United States Air Force. She has a 2 year old little boy. I think he and I are going to be best friends. She has a gun so I'll probably be very polite around them. Anyway, It's like a condo only I have to mow my own lawn and shovel my own driveway. I really, really like it. From the outside it looks rather small but when you open the front door and go in, it's like ... WHAM! It opens up really quickly. It's actually bigger than the house that we raised our kids in. I have no idea why we bought a house so large except that the price was right and we prayed and God kept pointing at it like He was saying, "Hey, buy this one! I saved it for you!" In reality I actually believe that He did exactly that. More about that in a later blog. The house has one of my favorite things ... a wood burning fire place. And a finished basement. And a special hidden away room with no windows that I'm going to turn into a secret office that nobody knows about. Not even Debbie. I mean, she'll know I'm in there doing who knows what but it will be SO off-limits to her. It's going to be my "Man Cave." Pictures will never be published so don't wait around.

So that's my confession for the day. I miss my stuff. I can live without it. But it will be neat to have it again. After living a little sparsely for nearly 2 years most of it might wind up on e-bay. Bid high. I'll have a mortgage soon.

The Guggenheim for (nearly) 3 year olds

My Friend Mike

I have a friend named Mike. We've been buds for a very long time. Maybe like, oh, 30 years. When we met I was a youth pastor in Clarendon Hills, IL. Mike worked for the Illinois Baptist State Association. He worked for the part of that organization that helped youth pastors be better at what they do. And I am sure he did a great job of it. Yet I don't recall anything that Mike ever taught me about youth pastoring. We just didn't talk about it much. In retrospect I realize that his agenda was higher than the one he was paid to carry out. Mike did something much more important than teaching me strategies and procedures.

Mike loved me.

I hold this odd distinction in the wonderful world of ministry. I've been a pastor of one sort or another all of my adult life. I actually began this journey of servant hood at the not-so-ripe age of 19. The first pastor I "worked for" got mad at me when I quit. He thought it was a personal insult. But the reason I quit was because, well, he was nuts. I think the poor guy was way over-medicated on something. At times we would be the only people in the building and he wouldn't speak to me. Then he started accusing me of saying things very controversial about him at meetings I was not even at. So it was time to leave. After I left, the church fired him. He refused to leave their "parsonage." As a matter-of-fact, he started a new mission in it. I call that "loony." They had to get a court order to make him vacate.

My next pastor ... well, my next pastor got caught with his secretary. (That wouldn't happen these days because somewhere along the way they began calling them "Administrative Assistants." So it's impossible to get caught with your "secretary.") The guy who took his place got mad at me when I resigned a few years later. (That made two out of three pastors who became angry at me when I quit. No biggie. Later on I found out that sometimes they actually encourage you to quit. It's a weird phenomenon but one I learned to live with.) He became so angry that he went and got the latest copy of the church history and then he got a sharpie and then he crossed my name out every where it appeared. I served there for four years and today they have no record that I ever existed. This man had a PhD. For stupid people like me that means he had a doctorate. He was brilliant and I was stupid. Yet he "got even with me" by striking my name from all historical records. I thought that was rather immature but what do I know? (These days I sit "in the big chair" in our church. I like my youth pastor. My Administrative Assistant is safe. I don't keep sharpies in my desk. All is well.)

But I think you are picking up a pattern here, are you not? I have a history of relationships with people I do ministry with becoming a bit dysfunctional. And that's why it meant so much to me that Mike decided to love me. We did a lot of things together. He, five other youth pastors, and I pulled a cross once from Marion, Illinois to Springfield, Illinois. We did it to draw attention to the fact that Jesus loves people. Each evening we stopped at a church or a school and held youth oriented services, complete with a band and a speaker. Lots of kids showed up. It was March and I remember it being very, very cold outside. But inside the deeper parts of me it was tremendously warm. There's just nothing like serving with brothers. Some years later Mike resigned his position and he asked me to take over the leadership of our state associations huge two day youth event held between Christmas and New Years. I asked him why in the world he would want ME to do that. Plenty of other people had better qualifications. His answer left me humbled with a dry mouth and a spinning head. Mike said, "I'm asking you to do it because I know you don't want to. Everybody else wants to. I want somebody who has the sole motivation of serving Jesus." I had to say "yes" after that. I will never forget that twenty-six kids got saved at that event.

After that Mike and I kept in touch as often as possible. Sometimes we could meet in person, sometimes merely by telephone. But we never lost touch. He came to town last week and called me up to ask me to meet him for lunch. I would have walked the twenty miles to that restaurant if necessary. I knew what Mike's motivation for wanting to meet with me was. He wanted to check on me. He wanted to love me. No way I was missing that lunch date.

Mike is a full fledged Jew. He wears the little beanie on his head but these days it's covered by an Australian bush hat. With Mike there is no reason to ask why. You just accept it as it is and laugh. You see, Mike is a renegade. He's unique. Only he hears the drums that ring in his hears. He has been that way as long as I've known him and I'm pretty certain he will never change. I surely hope not. He spent several years as the Rabbi of a Messianic Jewish synagogue. When we talk about those days his eyes light up with passion. And today Mike lives a life of wonderful retirement. He and his wife own a place just southwest of Colorado Springs. His gaze became distant as he told me how his living room window is a perfect frame for "Pikes Peak." In his free time he rides his mountain bike and climbs 14,000 foot mountains. Did I mention that he's 71 years old? He's got me by 18 years and I have to stop and catch my breath when I climb a mere 14 feet to my apartment perch on the third floor.

It's nice to be loved. It's even better when you know that the person loving you doesn't have to. He's doing it simply because he's a rabbi with a passionate heart for Jesus and Jesus kids. I could write stories about Mike all night but I think I'll just say this. He's my friend and I'm very glad.

Elle Sings The Oldies

Running To God Means Running Away From "Why"

Life gets busy. Life gets crazy. Sometimes you get overwhelmed with questions and the search for the "why's" of life. That's the way I've been feeling lately. Kind of like I want to sometimes chase God into a corner and say, "I'm not letting you go until you tell me WHY." A guy named Jacob did that once. He wrestled all night. It didn't turn out all that well for him. He limped around the planet for the rest of his days.

I went on a two day mini-sabbath this week. I decided only to ask God for one thing. I eliminated all questions that have confused and frustrated me. I figure it's not the important thing anymore. I have long felt that if God would just allow me to "touch Him" again the questions would resolve themselves by becoming meaningless. All things pale in His light. And so I asked simply to be allowed the grace to be held. By Him. To know that He is still here and that He still cares. That I have not been kicked out of the family or orphaned for some sin that I cannot for the life of me remember. I'm betting that you know exactly what I mean.

After settling in to "The Mercy Center" I put on a rain jacket and decided to walk the labyrinth. I've only done that 3 times previously in my life and each time was profound. I tucked my ipod in my pocket, put the headphones on and put the 4,000 plus songs on "shuffle." As I left the building I uttered a plea for God to program anything He wanted to pour into my head. And if I wound up listening to some rock-n-roll version of "Johnny Played With One Hammer" I'd know that He had decided not to work that way in me this time. His call. As I stepped out the door music started playing. A raindrop splashed directly between my glasses and my eyeball. Immediately the words of Sarah Groves melted into my soul with "Call it what you will ... I call it rain ... when trouble come and pat against my soul. Go in if you like, I will remain, and let the washing waters make me whole." For the next 90 minutes I walked over 5 miles, including the labyrinth. God programmed every song. The next day I drove to the "Lincoln Memorial Gardens" in Springfield. I asked God for the same thing and He granted it. He was tangible. He was interactive.

I realized some things. When I think about entering God's presence I fully expect to feel dirty. Shameful. Disgusted with myself and disgusting to God. And yet each time I find that I feel clean. Washed. Worthy. Loved. Held. And I believe that is the way He intends for it to be. I realized that the "where" of my bodily location is not nearly as important to Him as I thought. Where He wants me to be is simply seeking Him. He is the pure place. And He will work where ever I find myself if I am in the pure place of His Heart. At one point the "shuffle" led me into a 2 1/2 minute introduction to a Willow Creek podcast. I thought God had dropped the ball for sure. The introduction was to teaching about being "in it for the long haul." It concluded with those words ... "no matter what, be in it for the long haul." The ipod shifted immediately into the old rock/folk song, "The long and winding road" which begins, "the long and winding road, that leads to your door, will never disappear. I've seen that road before. It always leads me here. Lead me to your door." Perfect. And you know who was singing it? Wellll .. I have this old album burned onto my ipod that is "daffy duck and friends sing the Beatles." Yes, God was teaching me and loving me through Daffy Duck.

Take that Billy Graham.

I could go on. And on. And on. Over 40 songs throughout 2 days covering 10 miles. And every-single-one ... was a clear and on-target gift from the Father's heart to mine. I could tell you stories about how they ministered to wounds and bruises that I've been carrying for way too long. But it isn't for the consumption of the world. Some things are just to ... personal.

I feel like I got to touch Him again. I sat in the chapel of the "monastery" all alone Monday night in the dark from 11pm until midnight. (I do not recommend this unless God sends you. Scary!) I didn't speak a word. Neither did He. But He was there. I felt Him. It was like breathing again after holding your breath for way too long. I recalled an old axiom that I learned some years ago while taking a mini-sabbath in the Minnesota back woods. "In the calm of Jesus, what matters?"

I think that God likes it when we intentionally hide from the world and go out seeking His presence. I think He enjoys honoring that. I think He realizes that it is a very counter cultural thing to do and it brings Him pleasure. And yet sometimes I have gone off for a couple of days only to come home with nothing to show for it. That only means you cannot program or predict God.

And that's one of the things I really love about Him. You see, I NEED Him to be in charge. Because I don't do a very good job of it myself.

Stupid Picture Chronicles #31

Sometimes you need to fix your sign or unplug it altogether.

Twenty-Four Years And Counting ... A Salute To One Of My Best Friends

Twenty-four years ago I encountered a stress inducing day. However, my stress was not the only thing that was induced. My wife was induced as well. She was nine months pregnant and scheduled to give birth to our third ... and last ... child. He was pre-named Christopher Tyler and the birth was a cake walk. I don't remember any of the pain whatsoever. It was a little messy though. And gross. But he was worth it.

Christopher put us through some interesting days. He was that wonderful flavor in life that you can't quite identify but you know it when it's missing. I could expose you to a long litany of things that he did that brought him close to going home to heaven earlier than planned but .... Oh what the heck ...

There was the time he got detention for telling his teacher to "put a sock in it."

Or the time he got in trouble in school and the principal made him draw a picture of himself saying "I'm sorry" and then take it home to get his mom to sign it and bring it back to him the next day. So Chris promptly went home, got in trouble and was grounded to his room. While there he faked drawing an "I'm sorry" picture for his mom. He presented it to her, totally melting her heart. He ... in his infinite wisdom ... asked her to autograph it for memories sake. She did with tears of grateful joy running down her cheeks. The next day he turned the signed picture in to the principal. He got away with it for several day until the principal, a friend of mine, mentioned "The Incident" to me. I had been out of town and was fairly sure I would have heard about this story. So I asked Debbie about it. Lights began flashing in her eyes and sirens began going off in her ears. He paid a dear price for that one.

How about the time he had his friends duck tape him to a stop sign to see what drivers would do when they came by? The first car? Yep. The police.

Or the time he and a friend made a cardboard cat with tin foil eyes and tied a string to it, leaving it laying in the middle of the street in front of our house. When the first car came by they pulled the string, jerking the cat to attention as the car came to a screeching and panicked halt. That car? Yep. A squad car.

Did I mention the time he went to work at a local golf course and ran over the golf pro with a golf cart? He informed us of the incident rather casually that evening. The golf pro was taken to the hospital after golfers lifted the cart off of him. He spent at least one night in the hospital. I'm not certain but I think he went into vinyl repair shortly thereafter.

I could go on but I think you get the drift.

Now let me tell you the most remarkable part of the story. God was working in Christopher's life from day one. Chris never puts up with "boring." He has a desire to blaze trails and do things his own way. (Did I tell you about the time he and his friends went "stag" to their high school homecoming ... in the back of a dump truck?) Today this twenty-four year old man is one of the most talented, creative, gifted, passionate people that I know. He is deeply in love with his "cutting edge" church and is learning more and more every day about his "cutting edge" God. And His Lord has honored that. Christopher is simply living out life the very same way that God built life into him. You see, God took all of these stories (as John said about Jesus at the end of his gospel, "Were every one of them to be written, I suppose that the world itself could not contains the books that would be written.") and molded him into one of my best and most trusted friends. I love the spark in his eyes, the fire in his belly, the laughter that echoes from his mouth to my ears. We do things differently sometimes but that's because I've gotten old and crotchety and, honestly, his ways are almost always more fun. Chris use to learn from me. I think that, these days, more often than not I learn from him.

Christopher, you aren't the kind of person to read many blogs. But should you stumble across this one I just want to say, "Thank you for bringing great joy to your father's heart. I love you, son. ...Dad"

My Eye Is On The Sparrow

Today was a day of great experimentation. I joined friends after church for a nice lunch of Vietnamese food. I read the menu and understood nothing. NOTHING. I could not pronounce a word. Fortunately, each entree had a number next to it and a list of the items in the dish. Even more fortunately, Connie, my Administrative Assistant had already ordered, received her food, and it looked edible. she was still sitting upright in her chair. I do take these things into consideration when placing my order. So I joined Connie and ordered #41.

It arrived quite a few minutes later. (They flew to Vietnam to get it.) It looked ... wrong. The first clue was that it was in a bowl and Connie's meal was in a dish. The second clue was that it had long clear noodles in it that looked like "tape worms." I guess that's okay. You eat it and it should be able to eat you back. The first bite told me something was severely wrong. It tasted like ... napalm. Fire. My tongue turned a lovely hue of blistered. (Yes, blistered is now officially a color.) They asked me if I liked it and I smiled and nodded a "yes" through tear filled eyes. I ate for about 5 minutes and then the manager came out with a plate, took my bowl, and told me they had given me the wrong meal.

Oh.

This meal didn't look like Connie's either. There weren't any tape worms in it but I'm pretty sure I saw various parts of a sparrow. Like, oh, the claw? The beak? They tell me I'm wrong but I know a sparrow when I see it. God's not the only one who has His eye on them. And the meat had the distinct taste of bird. Don't ask me how I know this. I've lived a long full 53 years on this planet. This was a sparrow. And I ate my share. They offered to box up the rest but I knew I'd be compelled to bury it out in the yard someplace and so I just said a polite "no thank you," paid my bill and left.

Tonight some wonderful college students invited Debbie and I to supper after church. We went to a place called "White Cottage." That sounds so homey after eating lunch in Vietnam. I ordered the biggest, juiciest bacon cheeseburger I could find. I never ever eat bacon. But I wanted the pigs of the planet to know that I was not forsaking them in favor of fowl. I had them throw in an order of waffle fries for good measure. The conversation was great (i.e. insane.) The food had no beaks or claws. Just cow parts and fried vegetables grown underground. You know. American food.

My tummy is happy tonight. And a happy tummy makes for a happy me.

Do you suppose...

Do you suppose Jesus ever wished He had been born 2,000 years later? LIke maybe for the pizza?
Do you suppose the name "American Idol" bothers God?
Do you suppose Moses would wet himself if I could take him for a ride in my Mustang "top down?"
Do you suppose Noah had to put fish on board too?
Do you suppose my new book on "Facebook Evangelism" will make any money?
Do you suppose God ever messes with our heads "just 'cause He can?" (I would if I were Him.)
Do you suppose Uriah kicked David's butt when they met up in heaven? And if so, who did Bathsheeba cheer for?
Do you suppose God snickered when He thought up circumcision? 'Cause, honestly, it's not all that funny.
Do you suppose God made the world "middle aged" just to throw us off track with built in fossils?
Do you suppose I'd get more sleep if I'd stop getting up to blog after Debbie dozes off?

Elle gets her pie

I Am Barabbas - by Mark Batterson

I am reprinting some words penned by author Mark Batterson in his blog yesterday. I could not possibly say it any better than he does.

This thought keeps going through my mind today: I am Barabbas.

Imagine what that Friday must have been like for him. He was sitting in a jail cell awaiting his execution. He knew it was the last day of his life. It was the end. There was no hope. Then he hears the crowd chanting his name and the next thing he knows he's a free man. The charges are dropped. His life that was almost over starts over. And a sinless man named Jesus literally takes his place. He expected to die. He deserved to die. But his execution, in the sovereign plan of God, was scheduled on the same day Jesus was arrested.

If ever there was a picture of II Corinthians 5:21 this is it: "God made him who knew no sin to become sin for us."

I am Barabbas.

Why Good Friday is so very good

"Good Friday." What a strange name for the day that witnessed the execution of the Son of God. The beatings. The whipping. The mockery. The cross. The nails. The hammer. The spear. The tomb. The tears. The screaming. The horror. The clouds. The earthquake. And it goes on and on and on and on.

Evil seeming to win. Holiness seeming to face ultimate defeat. Joy nowhere to be found. Utter loss.

And then ... and then Sunday. Sunrise. Gleaming brightness of the resurrected Lord. Victory. Life. Eternity. Promise. Joy ever lasting.

Today you might be experiencing a "not so good Friday." Your life might be characterized by darkness these days. Pain might be your driving motivation. You might think that your future is to bleak to contemplate. Read these next words and allow them to penetrate deeply into your heart ...

IT DOES NOT HAVE TO BE THAT WAY! JESUS WINS! DEATH LOSES! BE PATIENT! VICTORY IS SURE! THE SNAKE IS DEAD ... BUT HIS TAIL STILL SWISHES! And today, if you know Jesus but seem to be facing more than you can bear let me assure you ... it's just the swishing of the snakes tail.

We win. Because of Good Friday. Because of Jesus. We win. We really do.

We really, really do.

Top 10 Subdivisions You Don't Want To Live In

Since we have begun our home search in earnest I have noticed that all of the subdivisions in our area (meaning in America) have certain things in common. Cool and trendy names. They all want to be called "Hunter Glenn," "Cambridge Estates," or perhaps, "Providence Commons." Who wouldn't want to live there?

All of that started me thinking. That's what I do. I think. it's a common thread that runs through the course of my life. And as I thought I realized why nobody ever asks me to name their neighborhoods. It is probably because I believe in truth in advertising. And so, with that thought in mind, I give you the top 10 subdivision names you probably don't want to move into.

10 - Foundations Crack

9 - Septic Runnoff

8 - Cellar Mold

7 - Stagnant Waters

6 - Rats Landing

5 - Mine Subsidence

4 - Sinkhole Estates (sister subdivision to Mine Subsidence)

3 - Cesspool Commons

2 - Crackhouse Courts

And the number 1 subdivision you certainly don't want to live in ...

1 - Squatters Rights

What's The Deal With That?

For the last year I've been following the adventures of a pastor's son who has been sailing around the world on a 29 foot sailboat. I have been living vicariously through him. Together we have caught tuna, fought off renegade waves, and met the natives on various Pacific islands. We've never met but we've had a blast together!

Then today I mentioned to my son that this particular guy was in Bermuda at the moment before finishing his global circumnavigation. He's taking a well deserved rest and then will sail on home. That's when my son said, "Huh. That's odd. I know him. And I just saw him here at church about an hour ago."

Huh? What's the deal with that?

Why I Miss Ohio

Yep. You heard me say it. There is something that I definitely miss about the Buckeye state. The land we call "Ohio." The only state so friendly that it says "hi" in the middle. See if you can follow me on this.

It started before I moved there. Debbie and I were driving with a real estate agent, looking for the house we never purchased. He pulled up to a stop sign. I looked at the house on the corner. Nice place. I especially liked the trees. Then I looked at the base of the tree. And I found ... CREATIVITY! I am not much of a botanical kind of guy but even I know that good flowers require good dirt. Evidently the guys dirt wasn't too good. So he imported "the right stuff." But gosh, you know how much work it is to move dirt around. And so the homeowner simply carried bags of good black dirt to the base of the tree, lay them down, split them open, and planted the flowers directly in the bag. it worked. The flowers were still growing there when I moved away 14 months later.

Then there was the Hicks family. I really love them! They are a tremendous couple and have great kids. And when I visited their home I found ... CREATIVITY! They have a tombstone in their garage. It was there when they bought the house, a little concrete cross stuck in a neatly hidden little closet door in their garage. Nobody was quite sure who was buried where and so they did the logical thing. They left it there. I can't argue with that logic. Besides, it makes them rather unique. Tom and Patty are the best! (Hi guys!)

Oh, and there were these two guys that had an apartment next to mine on the 9th floor. They were graduate students working on an internship at a local corporation. I came home from work one day, stepped off the elevator and found one of them throwing their clothes down the garbage chute. I just watched for a second. And then it hit me. I had found ... CREATIVITY! The guys roommate was downstairs catching the laundry and hauling it into the complexes laundromat. I didn't ask how they were going to get it all back upstairs. I was afraid it might have something to do with rocket propellent or trebuchets. (I so want my own trebuchet....)

But after all of that I do believe that this wins the award. I came across it tonight while surfing the news on the web. It seems that a gentlemen in the town of Newark, Ohio, about 100 miles south of where I lived, decided that he needed new transportation. He could not afford a new car. But it was important to him that he be able to access the local watering holes and it was too far to walk. And as I read about his plight I found ... CREATIVITY! I mean, who else would think of taking a bar stool and attaching a briggs and stratton engine to it? Ladies and gentlemen, I introduce to you ... the world first motorized bar stool!

Unfortunately our friend was driving his stool AFTER drinking. And he wrecked it. And in the process he hurt himself. And so ... he called 911. The operator asked him what his emergency was and he said, "I wrecked my bar stool." The police went to the scene. You guessed it. He was treated for his injuries and arrested for drinking and driving as well as driving without a license. And the bar stool? It will go up to 40 mph. The police didn't impound it. Perhaps that's the weirdest part of all.

You gotta love creativity.