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.