A Walk To The Veil

Very early this morning my phone rang and I didn't hear it. That's unusual. My phone is welded to me. And it was about 2 feet from my head when it sounded off at 2:24AM. Doesn't matter. After a typical Sunday my brain is mush until Tuesday and I didn't even roll over from the intrusion. It rang again at 2:55AM. God obviously knew that I was a few levels deeper in sleep than usual and he went to the trouble to wake Debbie up several minutes before this final ring. Now that is truly unusual. Debbie fades into a deep sleep less than 5 minutes from landing on her pillow and is comatose until sun-up. But she was awake when it rang this time. And she ... ahem ... "gently" woke me. I grabbed the phone a second to late. I had 2 voice mails and both were from the home of our dear friend and Towerviews nearly life-long deacon, Bob McMillian. Bob has been locked in a desperate battle with Leukemia since last November. The doctors originally believed that he would live 2 weeks past his diagnosis. Many prayers and a quietly determined spirit on Bob's part turned that into 5 months.

Still, last night was the night.

We arrived at the McMIllians minutes after 3AM. At precisely 4AM our beloved friend filled his lungs with the air of earth one last time. And he was gone. He left surrounded by family and a pastor and wife that loved him more than we can say. Tonight I could try to write eloquent words about my friends life. Really, he gave me a lot of material. It would not be a task to put the thoughts together in a way that would perhaps stir a heart and remind us all of the man he was. But tonight I don't feel like that is good enough. Actually, that is not at all what Bob would want me to do.

Debbie called me from the school where she works this afternoon. We talked for a moment and then she said something that I did not expect. It was something like, "I was there with you when Bob died. Really, I haven't seen death like that very often. You know, being there when a person takes their last breath. You have a lot more experience with it than I do. I'm wondering how to deal with it." That is a big statement coming from the lady who has walked through ministry opportunities with me for nearly 35 years. She has seen the wonderful, the wicked, and the weird. She's been with me enough to know that peoples lives take on twists and turns that you never know about until they choose to reveal it. And sometimes it leaves you nearly speechless. I know what I'm talking about here. Unfortunately. If I were to write a book about what I have seen, heard, and experienced in my years of pastoring I would get rich. I would also get sued. Truly, these secrets do go to the grave with us. That is the way it is suppose to be.

That conversation brought me back to a place in the back of my brain that I last visited when another close friend passed away recently. You can check out that story by clicking right here. After I clicked the "end" button following our phone conversation I closed my laptop and forced myself to do something that I would never do if I did not know how very important it is. I simply stared at the wall in front of me and mentally relived the predawn moments at the McMillian household. I made myself see Bob as he was propped up in his bed. I recalled how he breathed. What his breaths sounded like. And I watched again as those breaths became more gentle ... farther between ... until finally they ceased. I tasted the salt in the tears of those around me. I heard their sobs. I hated the fact that I wasn't crying because somewhere in the middle of adulthood I forgot how. I remembered the prayer that I prayed and the scripture I read. And then I asked myself the question that I so seldom ask myself.

"And how did that make you feel?"

I'm a "stuffer" and not a "spewer." And I've learned the hard way that when you stuff too much you eventually pay the price. You fall apart. You run into an unmovable brick wall. Your own body turns on you and it's too late to deal with the individual crises situations. And you aren't big enough to deal with them as one giant whole. And it nearly kills you. Really. It does. So after something like this happens I now dig deep until I find the pain. I poke at it like you might use a knife to dig out a bullet. I cut it open with an emotional scalpel and try to suck the poison out so it doesn't ruin my soul. Stuffers of the world, listen to me. Learn to do this. It will save you great heartache someday. It is not a fun way to spend an hour or so but it's one way to stay emotionally alive.

But that's not what I really want to tell you about. After I go through that process I sit and think about the fantastic. Somethings are nearly too good to be true. And if anything on this planet still takes my breath away it is this. I sit and marvel over the fact that the man I just said goodbye to ... the one whose hand I last shook 48 hours early ... the eyes that looked into mine so very recently ... they have now encountered the real historical Jesus. Not the comic book Jesus. Not the one that I sometimes find myself settling for when I'm reading about Him or the one I try to explain in children's sermons.

THE. REAL. JESUS.

And you know what I feel when I spend time dwelling on that nearly ungraspable thought? I feel ... fear. I finally know what it means to "fear God." It means having the light finally come on and understanding that He really is alive. That He really knows about me. And someday I am going to meet Him face to Face. And as much as I know He loves me ... that nearly scares me to death. I simply cannot comprehend what that moment will really be like.

Several weeks ago when it became clear that Bob's time in this world was drawing short we sat together and we wrote his funeral service. And when we were done I told him that he would not face this alone. I promised him that I would walk with him all of the way to that veil that separates earth from heaven. I told him that I would hold his hand on this side until Jesus took his hand on the other side and ushered Him through the curtain we cannot see beyond. As I stood at his bedside this morning, as I held his hand, I silently thanked God for waking Debbie up for that phone call. I was doing the best that I could do on this side of the veil. And I asked God not to drop His end. I asked Him to come and meet us at the veil and take his "Mr. Bob" home.

And he stopped breathing.

And he was gone.

And I had completed my task.

And I am totally intimidated by God's presence in that most Holy Moment when He takes His child Home.

And there are no more words.

Deader Than A Hammer

You learn to pick-up on the clues. The little hints. My first one came when I entered the funeral home and the 4 funeral directors saw me and scattered like roaches. When they avoid you ... it is for a reason.

I walked into the viewing room at the funeral home. It was empty save for a lone body encased in a wooden casket at the front of the room. The gentleman inside looked like he had lived a hard life. I glanced around for a family. Though the visitation had been going on for half an hour I was the only one present. Odd to say the least. I walked the perimeter looking at a video presentation of the mans life. I read the notes on the flowers. Finally a man in his mid-twenties entered. I introduced myself and asked who he was. It was his father in the box. I asked if I could talk to him about his dad. He spoke two words before walking out. "H*** no."

In a few minutes a young couple entered. They looked hardened. Like life had not been very good to them. Or perhaps they had not been very good to life. Sometimes it is hard to tell the difference. I introduced myself and discovered that this was another son. I asked the same question and received a somewhat exasperated sigh followed by, "In a few minutes." And they were gone.

I took a seat and waited. The young man appeared alone 15 minutes later. He sat on the same sofa I was one. He let out a masterful 10 second belch that was alcohol tainted. Turning in my direction he said, "Okay. Let's shoot the s***." This wasn't going as I had planned. I began asking questions about his dad and their family. The son was not a student of the King's English. When I asked how many kids were in the family his reply caused him to jab his finger into the air as if he were picturing them. He counted out loud ... "one ... two ... three ... four ... five ... six ... ... ... Oh, h###, just call it four."

Four it is.

I asked what his father enjoyed doing. Did he have any hobbies? "My old man was a Moose. And he was a roofer. He was the best d### roofer I've ever seen. And I'm a roofer myself. He was a good man and he loved God. And Jesus too. Right now I know where he is. He's sitting with my mom up in heaven, drinking some beers and smoken some cigarettes by that stream every one always talk about." I decided not to debate that issue.

This conversation was going nowhere but it was making good time. I closed by asking what his father had died of. "H### if I know! We were sitting up in his room shooting the s### (evidently this family loves to shoot) and I turned to get a drink of my beer. When I turned back he was face down and deader than a hammer." I have subsequently checked and let it go on record that hammers are exquisitely dead. Or as the famous Wizard of Oz quote goes, "and she's not only merely dead, she's really most sincerely dead." Only in this case she is a he.

Before leaving I asked if there would be any music being performed at the service. The son told me that he had given all of that to the funeral director. I made my way to his office, finding 4 of them fidgeting around a desk, averting their eyes. Afraid to make contact with me. I broke the silence and enquired about the music for tomorrow. That is when everything blew. The laughter was immediate. Loud. Raucous. I moved quickly to close the door. This was the kind of laughter that had them doubled over the desk gasping for breath. I didn't "get" it. Then they gave me the playlist. Tomorrow's funeral "hymns" would include ...

-Bob Seger peforming "Turn The Page."
-Aerosmith and "Dream On."
-The Eagles and that toe tapping favorite, "Hotel California."
-And the benediction would be sung by the Reverend Ozzie Osborn with "Good-Bye To Romance."

No sign of "The Old Rugged Cross."

I cleared my throat, told them that I had seen worse (I have) and that everybody deserves to be served when they are grieving. I would see them in the morning. As I left they were doubled over the desk again ...

The morning dawned rainy and gray. And for the skeptics among you, yes I know that for a fact as I was, indeed, awake for it. At the appointed hour I made my way to the home for funerals and once again found myself alone. Eventually the lead funeral director entered and told me the family would be there in a few minutes. Time passed quickly and uneventfully. Eventually I found myself in a room that smelled of cheap booze and cheaper cigarettes. I read appropriate scripture. We listened to the entire play list. I waited patiently. And finally the time had come. I stood up, walked to the podium, and looked out at the family and friends. Their number was about 20.

What to do.

I don't do this often but I folded my notes, closed my bible, and walked away from the podium coming to a stop between the congregation and the casket. A quick prayer was whispered in the silence of my own mind and we dived in.

"Thanks for letting me come and serve you today. I know that you hurt. It's in your eyes. But can we talk? I don't like death very much. Neither do you. Neither did Carl (not the real name of the deceased,) But it is something we have to deal with today. And you all know who I am and you think you know what I do for a living. I need you to know that you are wrong. Yes, I am a pastor. But you think that I spend my time telling people that they should be better and that they shouldn't sin so much. I don't really do that. It isn't that I don't think those things are true. It's just that I've been doing this long enough to know that, even if I tell you that, you won't do it. Actually, you won't be ABLE to do it. We're all messed up. Yes, I said we. I'm messed up too. And I've learned that it's far better to tell people that Jesus knows they are messed up but if we will come to Him and admit it, if we will tell Him that we are sorry they we messed up, and tell them that we would really like Him to forgive us for being messed up ... well ... He will. And I think you need to know that. I didn't know Carl. So I don't hurt like you do. But I get to see my fair share of death and I hate it. I also know how to deal with it. You deal with it by looking it square in the eye and telling it that because Jesus loves you and died for your sins you aren't afraid of it anymore. Of course, you can only say that if it's true. And it is for me. Is it for you? If it isn't, I think Carl would want me to tell you how you can fix that."

And it took about 20 minutes. And they cried. Loudly. And some had to leave the room. Some fell from their seats into the arms of those sitting next to them. I didn't let it stop me or distract me. Pagan's really know how to grieve. And that's good. Because it means they are really in need of hope and help. That's where we come in. We get to tell them. With apologies to The Eagles, we will all check out someday. And if we trust Jesus ... we WILL leave. We'll go home. To Him. In heaven. Forever.

And that, my friends, isn't just shooting the ....

Between My Ears

Seldom, if ever, have I written a "request blog." But tonight I make an exception. A very close friend, (Hi, Adam!) listened to my sermon at Towerview Baptist yesterday and was evidently puzzled by the inner workings of my mind. I discussed the episode where the disciples are in a boat rowing their way through a storm while Jesus slept in the back. I had more questions about that event than answers. And so my message was built around questions. It seemed reasonable enough to me. And then Adam came along. He's a very level headed guy. As level as they come. Highly intelligent. Extremely motivated. Completely dedicated. And so when he began wondering about my brain ... well ... so did I. Adam asked me to "blog my day" today. He wanted a blow by blow account of what I encountered and how my brain handled it. Sounded easy enough to me at the time. I decided to enlist the assistance of an app on my iphone called "Voice Memo." All day long as events occurred I recorded my thoughts. And so Adam, I present to you without commercial interruption ... my day.

(DISCLAIMER) You are about to read a "stream of consciousness" essay of how my day unfolded. It isn't always pretty. Names have been omitted or changed to protect both the innocent and the guilty. What can I say? It is what it is...
************************************************************************************************************************************Okay, so I'm starting the day off, job one, showered, cleaned-up. Ready to rock and roll. It's been a normal day so far but that won't last long. It's Monday and on Monday my brain is scrambled eggs. I burn all of my brain power on Sunday and my thoughts are muddled with a side of bacon all day long. I had planned on enjoying a slow morning but circumstances have conspired against me. So I find myself driving to the first hospital of a very hospital filled day. I'm going to visit a gentlemen who is having a pretty major piece of surgery. We'll call him "Burt." Because his name isn't Burt. It's something else altogether. None of your business. The thing that bothers me right now is that he's having this surgery at a place named "Memorial Hospital." This raises the obvious question. Who is the hospital in memory of? And why didn't the poor soul survive? Do you really want to have major surgery at a place named in honor of someone who is in need of memorializing? Is this really a good idea? Count me out. If I'm having surgery I want it to be at "Take Up Your Bed And Walk Hospital." Or maybe, "We Were Wrong About That Mole You Have A Hickey Hospital." In my experience hickeys are preferable over moles. But I digress for the sake of my future as a husband. 'Nuff about that.

Well, I just made my first stop of the day at a place called "Casey's" for a little caffeine and "High Fructose Corn Syrup." Here's a lesson from Old Uncle Ron for those of you who hang out at hospitals a lot whether you are a pastor or not. Never ever visit a hospital without at least some degree of a foreign stimulant in your system. It's important when you arrive at the hospital that those in charge, particularly those with scalpels, be able to tell the difference between the patients and the visitors. Don't ask me how I know this. Just trust me and get yourself jacked up a bit before you walk through those doors. A little note along the way. I just passed Sonnenburger and now that we've reached the last day of winter and all of the cold is over with you can, according to the electronic sign, order up your firewood by phone. Congrats on that. Let's dial up that number and get our firewood stocked up for summer. Which brings us to the all important question of just how much firewood do you need for summer. And the truth is, nobody seems to know. Darned if any weather man can figure out what's going on. It seems that the jet stream has slipped up so high that it just might flip over the top of the planet and come down on the other side. My personal weather man, Mr. Joseph Dills, is in Spain right this very minute. Obviously he's on a humanitarian mission checking out the jet stream. Maybe he's seeing if the rain in Spain really is falling on the plain. Joe, if you are reading this, we need a shout out. Or maybe the rumors are true and he's really over there running with the bulls. While I can confirm that he's in Spain I can't confirm that he's running with the bulls. Personally, I don't think that would be a good idea. We all know Joe is full of bull himself. This would obviously leave the Spaniards wondering if they should run with Joe or from him. Fortunately, that's not our problem. Love you, Joe.

Okay, we knocked that first hospital down. It's about 10:45. I mentioned that I won't divulge the names of those that I'm visiting. We all know that there are Hippa Rules to protect your medical records from becoming a public spectacle. Your hickeys should be grateful for that. But you might not know that there are also Hippo rules. Hippo rules come into play when you talk about somebody on the world-wide-web that doesn't want to be talked about. They call them Hippo rules because they will hunt you down and beat you like an angry hippo. Again, don't ask me how I know this. I must apologize to Mr. Adam Page. He asked me to please avoid embarrassing elevator moments today. I tried. Really I did. But it didn't work out that way. I was going to room 140 in the central wing. So I got on the elevator and pushed number 1. Nothing happened. It just stood there With the door open. That's when I realized that I was already on 1. Never get on an elevator and punch number 1 if you are already on the first floor. It just doesn't go anywhere. And you feel really stupid afterward. So don't do it. The only win was that nobody noticed. I only confess here for the sake of honesty and transparency. Sorry, Adam. I didn't even make it until noon.

Now we move on to Mercy Hospital. Once again we are left wondering who names these places. From Memorial to Mercy. Mercy is what you beg for when you check in. And now I'm just passing a church where the sign says, "Members wanted. Apply inside on Sundays." To which my thoughts are ... "Hahahahahaha." Yeah, that's going to bring all of the hardened sinners in. They are going to read that and say, "That's cute. Let's go see what's going on at this church." Probably not. Bad plan, guys. You can do better. Let's ratchet it up a notch or two, eh? 10:37 and do you know what happens if you blow into your cars tire gauge? ABSOLUTELY NOTHING. So don't do it. Besides, it's dirty. It tastes like Michelin. Just drove by Winstanley Baptist Church. I've heard of that church. Never been there. You can't see it from the road. I wonder what you would do if you drove past and your name was Stanley? Who is Stanley? They've had that name for years. How long is it going to take them to win him? Wouldn't you think that Stanley would just go ahead and give up? Get saved? I mean, if for no other reason than to get his name off the sign? And now I think I had better shut-up before Stanley or someone at the church learns about the Hippo Rules. (Love you, Winstanley!)

Oh, wow! Here's the "Banquet Hall Salon & Spa Barber Shop." You can relax in the spa while getting your hair cut for the big banquet in the other room. This requires a picture ...


Right, so now I'm driving down I-64 and here's another church van with a very cool logo. "Come Grow With Us." That's certain to peak the interest of all the lost people out there. Because they are all sitting around thinking, "I wonder which church I can help grow?" And how amazing is this? At the same time there is a bill board on my right that is advertising "www.23minutesinhell.org ." Now you tell me. Which one is going to get the attention of those whose eternity is hanging in the balance? I wonder how this poor schmuck got stuck with 23 minutes in hell when every other author gets to go to heaven for a while? Let me add this little disclaimer. No disrespect intended. Just in case the Almighty really did send this fella down below. I guess somebody has to get the tough assignments. I'm a Cubs fan. Enough said.

Well, it's 11:30 and we just experienced the thrill of driving 40 miles to pray with someone only to find that our surgery candidate ... if you are having surgery are you a "candidate?" Or maybe a "victim?" Never mind. We had the thrill of driving 40 miles to find out that they were taken to surgery two hours early. So while I'm an hour early I'm also an hour late. And this is another reason this hospital has us screaming, "Mercy!" If Obama-Care fixes this ... I'm for it.

(Sadly, after this some things went wonky and the day got serious and I had to forego my stream of consciousness journaling. For now. To be continued ... maybe)

How Not To Visit The Hospital

Truly, I don't know if life conspires against me or if I just need to be taken out back and put out of my misery.

I visited a local hospital this morning. Two of my congregants were in for various reasons and I thought a drop-by might be nice. I got the room numbers and made my way to the bank of elevators. I pushed the button and "DING!" the chime sounded and the door opened instantly.

(Teachable moment: For those of you who don't make hospital visiting a part of your weekly routine, hospital elevators run on the equivalent of Chipmunk power. They are never there when you want one and when they do arrive they are generally occupied with one orderly and an empty blood stained gurney. Fun.)

I stepped through the open door, ascended to the appropriate floor, and made my visit. When it was time to leave I went back to the elevators, pushed the button and "DING!" Once again the same door opened immediately. For a pastor this is fair cause for mild shock to set in. I actually build 30 minutes into most hospital trips to wait for vertical transportation.

Not this time. "Ding!" came to my rescue. It came so quickly that I was still looking at the button as the door opened. I felt instantly compelled to thank the elevator!

"Oh, you beautiful thing! Have you been waiting for me?" I said that. Out loud. And then I looked up ... into the elevator ... where a lone nurse stared at me. Mouth and eyes wide open in fear. I stopped in mid-step. Nearly mid-air. I felt like Wile E. Coyote after he had just stepped off a cliff as his feet peddle furiously seeking non-existent traction. The next five seconds passed in slow motion. For both of us.

"Uh. I was ... uh ... talking to the elevator. I ... I uh ... I'll wait for the next one." The door closed. I found the stairs and exited the building as quickly as possible, praying to avoid security guards and camera's.

I now sit at my desk. Blinds closed. Lights off. The "Pervert Task Force" should be here to collect me any minute now...

Hooah

It was early March, 1983. A Saturday evening. I was in town to speak at FBC Bethalto the next morning. If things went well they would be voting on calling me as their associate pastor that evening.

But on Saturday I found myself at His dinner table. It was just his family, a few of their friends, and my family. His name was Jerry and to know him was to know how to laugh. He had a serious side but could also see a bit of humor in everything. Perhaps it was because of the warm, friendly nature of this man and this family that the church selected them to be the first ones we shared a meal with in what was soon to become our home of twenty-four years.

After we relocated to their village Marsha and Jerry became close and fast friends to Debbie and I. Our kids were little and Marsha was an expert in all things medical. She made her share of trips to our home on the spur of the moment to dispense wisdom and assure us that all was well. She was a part of the volunteer staff in our youth ministry and Jerry was around anytime we were leaving town as a group. He loved the kids and they loved him. He was also a deacon and involved anytime there was a repair or a decision to be made. He is the kind of guy you want to have around your church when you need either brains or brawn.

I have been thinking much about my friend Jerry over the last weeks. He called me one Sunday evening in 1992 after I had spoken in our evening worship service. Game six of the World Series was just about to begin in Atlanta. He asked me if I had a bag packed. I told him that I didn't but I could get one together quickly. I trusted Jerry. I didn't even need to know why. Within the hour we were on the road driving to Atlanta. We were not going to the ballgame. We were going to bring home his daughter who had run away from home to seek greener pastures. It was thirty-six hours I would never forget. We drove all night, arrived around 7AM and proceeded to poke around inner city Atlanta for hours. Without going into detail I'm pretty sure that I came as close to death on that trip as I ever have. He and I were separated by a building and about 30 yards when I was confronted with two of the largest, fearsome looking men I have ever met. I think an angel blinded them and whispered lies into their ears because they concluded that I was a plain clothes narcotics officer and they made a hasty retreat. When we got back into Jerry's car we had his daughter with us. Jerry drove through downtown Atlanta while I (literally) accepted punches from and wrestled with "his little girl" who was trying to get past me to strangle her father. It was well after dark when we arrived back at home. Jerry and I seldom talked about that trip but it cemented a bond between us that stood the test of time.

Jerry is famous around my family as being the one who would steal my son's dinner on Wednesday evenings at church and hide it. There was little Scott could do to retaliate against the Vietnam veteran that knew all of the tricks. I do believe that he got a small measure of revenge one evening when Jerry encountered him and randomly said, "Boxers or briefs?" Scott replied, "I'm not wearing either." Jerry never messed with "Captain Commando" again.

I could go on and on about my friend. He shared his war testimony for the very first time when he was with us on a youth retreat. His story was something that no man should have to live through. He wept between each sentence as the stories poured out of him. Stories that nobody had ever been told. I understood why he had no time for war movies. It was all too real for him. Jerry is a true hero. The fact that he returned from the brutality of Vietnam is a testimony to the grace of God. The fact that he remained sane in the wake of it is just as much a testimony.

Before yesterday I had not seen Jerry in five years. I had moved in a different direction and I got separated from this man that I love so much and respect so greatly. And then came the news that he is fighting a new fight. His latest battle is against an invisible enemy named "Leukemia." I remember how Jerry has been a platelet donor for as long as I have known him. Now his own blood has turned against him. This battlefield is his own body. I followed his story as closely as I could through friends and an occasional email from Marsha. It seems the battle is about over. As surreal as it seems, Jerry may have met the enemy that will finally take him down. Yesterday I made the trip I have been dreading.

I walked into his hospital room and into the arms of Marsha and their two daughters. Jerry lay on the bed, life giving fluids flowing into his body through a vast assortment of tubes. Monitors recorded every heart beat and every fluctuation in his ravaged system. He mainly slept. Yet every now and then his closed eyes would become barely open slits and he would look up at Marsha. He draws peace from her presence. We have all done that at one time or another.

And then it was time to go. I walked to the side of his bed. Marsha spoke loudly to him, "Jerry, Ron and Debbie are here. They want to pray with you." Jerry opened his eyes fully. He turned his head slowly, giving Debbie a smile. His eyes finally settled on mine. He didn't say anything. Really, he couldn't. I didn't expect anything more than a quiet moment to pray and then he would certainly drift back off into a merciful sleep. But I suppose there has just been too much shared between us over the years. We have walked through many good times together. And we have both watched each other get beaten up by the various twists and turns of life. Bonds between friends form tightly through the stress, strains, and confusions of this fallen planet.

Jerry raised his hand toward me and I took it. He pulled my hand toward his face. He drew my fingers to his lips. In the holy silence he gently kissed my hand.

What do you do with that? How do you respond when a weary soldier ... one of your few living heroes ... kisses your hand? I did the only thing I knew to do. I placed my other hand on his head, bald from the ravages of chemo. And I prayed. I asked our Father to hold my friend. To allow him to find God's arms of grace. And yes, I prayed for healing. And Jerry will find his healing. Here ... or at "home." He is destined to be well.

As for me, I carry the symbol of a friendship that has endured more than a quarter of a century. For our friendship is etched forever into my memory through the tears I saw a father shed for his daughter on a night long drive ... through the honor of being asked to accompany him on that most important trip of his life ... through holding his angry daughter at bay until he could get her home and teach her the depths of his love for her ... and through a silent kiss placed upon my undeserving hand.

It was an honor to serve with you, Jerry, in The Holy Army of Our Lord. HOOAH.

I Would Be Toast

I was born at just the right time in history. Recently a friend and I took up the challenge to read the Bible through in 66 days. If you didn't know, there are 66 books in the Bible. That's a book per day. More precisely, it is 18.0151515 chapters per day. Some chapters are short. Psalm 117 only has two verses. On the flip side, Psalm 119 has 176 verses. Psalm 118 languishes there in the middle with a more typical 29 verses.

Last week I decided to take down two of the "giants." You know what I mean. It's easy to read Genesis. Hey, God's creating the world! It's a good read! And then you jet through the first half of Exodus with stories of plagues of locust and water turning into blood. Frogs everywhere. Riveting stuff. Then suddenly ... BOOM. The last half of Exodus brings you back to earth with its boring monologue of rules and regulations. Still, you can get through it because the odor of sweaty, terrified, Israelites lingers in your nostrils from their trek through the Red Sea.

Leviticus and Numbers ... that's a whole new deal. The sin of fallen man required that animals be sacrificed and rules be obeyed. It was a band-aid. A temporary fix to the sin problem. But it was very real and very important to those Israelites to whom it applied. And as I waded through the details my mood sank like Pharaoh beneath the waves of the sea. And I realized ...

If I lived in the days of Moses I would be toast.

How did anyone survive? I mean, I understand why anybody who gives their child to Molech the pagan god should be put to death. Give your kid away and you deserve pure wrath-filled judgement. But I knew I was in trouble when I found out that whatever animal you sacrifice to the Lord must be without blemish. You see, I don't really know what a goat is suppose to look like. What constitutes a blemish on a goat? Honestly, the entire thing looks like one big blemish to me! Same thing with Rams. Fact is, I live in St. Louis where all Rams are blemished. (Sly football reference.) And then God says in Leviticus 26 that if you disobey Him, He will "visit you with panic." Panic? Can you imagine the panic God can visit you with if He sets His mind to it?

THIS. IS. NOT. GOOD.

You see, I have a sin problem. I'm better than I use to be but I'm still pretty messed up. I don't need panic adding to my issues. Numbers 19 tells me when I should burn a heifer. Not just a heifer. A red heifer. Friends, the only way I would recognize a red heifer is if it was standing next to a blue chicken and you told me to guess which was which. Furthermore if I find myself in a tent with a dead person I'm unclean for seven days! I don't go in many tents and now you know why. My "camping-avoidance-mechanism" suddenly makes total sense. And then there is the statute that says if I accidentally drop a rock on someone and he or she DIES (this hasn't happened to me yet but obviously it does happen or God wouldn't have mentioned it) then it is up to the congregation to judge whether the "Avenger of Blood" gets me or I can hide out in a "city of refuge." Avenger of Blood? How do you get that job? Honestly, I don't have that great of a track record when my future has been "up to the congregation." But I digress.

It is clear that, in order to survive in the days of Moses, you had to be very, very, careful. And it wouldn't hurt to have the spiritual gift of administration because you certainly want to have your act in order. As for me ... I'm grateful to be a New Testament believer. I'm thanking God a little more profusely for grace today. I'm more aware than ever of how vitally important the blood of Jesus is.

Without it ... I'm toast.

Stupid Picture Chronicles #60

"Hello? Mr. Jones? We just wanted to let you know that your car has arrived here at the dealership. Yes, sir. They are taking it off the truck right now. Give us a few minutes to put it through the car wash and you can come and pick it up!"

And God Smiled...

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

How do I know that?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That's What Heaven's Going To Be Like

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

That's what heavens going to be like.

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

That's what heavens going to be like.

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

That's what heavens going to be like.

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

That's what heavens going to be like.

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

That's what heavens going to be like.

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


nearly heaven

Thank You From Mr. CrabbyPants

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

I hate alarm clocks.

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

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

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

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

It is an honor to be your pastor.

It is an honor simply to be your friend.

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

Post Holiday Thoughts

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jesus Just ... blew up

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

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

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

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

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

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

But would somebody mind blowing out Jesus?

The Dark Side Of Christmas

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

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

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

--from The Face in the Sky, Frederick Buechner

Jesus With Skin On

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

...Jesus with skin on.

Thanks

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Final Straw (almost)

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

It started and ended with a straw.

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

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

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

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

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

And The Moment Was Golden

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Adidas On The Asphalt Revisited

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

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

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

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

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

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

Use the time wisely.

Adidas On The Asphalt

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

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

Not good. Not good at all.

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

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

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

And the never ending question mark.

Stupid Picture Chronicles #59

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

Lousy At Rebelling

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

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

It will never change.

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

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

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

I'm just lousy at rebelling.

Rex

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

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

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

Say "goodnight," Rex.

Reflections From A Parking Garage

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I Bleed Gold

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

I. Bleed. Good.

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

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

Where was I?

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

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

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