Angry Birds For Angry Believers

So I'm officially lousy at blogging now. I've finally become one of those people who say, "I know I should write more but gee I just have been so busy that I don't get it done but stick with me 'cause I'll get my act together." I always hated blogs like that. So I don't think I'll write one. Therefore this paragraph officially does not exist. But since it doesn't exist I'll go ahead and tell you that I've simply slowed down because this dumb foggy eye makes it hard to concentrate on a blurry screen. But I didn't tell you that because that would be cheating since I'm not really writing this.

(enter erase mode)

So I've gotten addicted to "Angry Birds" lately. For those of you not as up to speed and trendy as I am, "Angry Birds" is a game played by techno-addicts on smart phones, I-Pods, etc. There are 20 levels and I've been stuck on level 19 for a week. Your job is to destroy these pig-like creatures by launching angry birds at them from this nifty sling shot like device. (I wish I had a real one.) The piggies (or whatever they are) are protected by wooden structures or slabs of ice and they progressively become harder to hit and destroy. On level 19 the pigs are surrounded by thick wooden planks which also have embedded stones all around them. Oh, did I mention that you only get 3 or 4 birds to kill them off with? It's fun but I do warn you that it's very hard to stop playing. So don't take it to work with you. And while it isn't texting I don't suggest you play it while driving. Heaven help us all if you do. Tell Jesus I said "Hello."

Anyway, I was having some "God time" today. I was in my cave. I spent some time reading Romans for the gazillionth time this year. I'm on a Romans kick. I'm anxious to get to heaven but I dread meeting Paul. He's my biggest phobia. Eventually I closed my bible and took a deep breath. Okay, I'm only telling you this because it's important to me. And I think you might relate. So listen up. I was talking to God about the deepest frustrations in my life. God knows I'm a whiner. He seems okay with it. He's yet to tell me to "shut-up." But this time as I was talking about the things that I'm trying to win out over God came and He clearly had something He wanted to get across.

I am "Angry Birds."

I have these issues, you see. And some of them are people instead of situations which is even worse. And they bug me. Big time. And most every day I spend time loading up my spiritual sling shot with bible verses and great quotes from people smarter than I am (both of them) and then I launch them at my deeply embedded issues. Usually they hit the big rocks or the wooden planks and they just bounce off, doing minimal damage and giving me minimal satisfaction. And in my spiritual life I get stuck on level 19.

Yet the real problem is not that I'm stuck on any given level. The real problem is that I'm playing at all. I've gotten so focused at shooting at my issues that I've forgotten that life isn't about me "winning the game." No. It isn't. Really. Life is about learning to share a yoke with Jesus and pull in rhythm with Him. Life is about getting to know Him better and resting in His embrace. And that's really hard to do when you are loading sling shots and shooting at stuff.

I've learned a lot over the years as I've walked out this life with God. But I keep forgetting the most important part. It isn't about my winning. It's simply about this ... "Jesus loves me, this I know, for the bible tells me so."

I just thought maybe you could relate. Either way ... you may now resume your regularly scheduled life. Oh, and keep your eyes on the road and off your smart phone.

I Can Be Such A Dork

Every good story has a follow-up story. Usually at the expense of my personal pride. Case in point ...

It has been a semi-difficult eight days dealing with a wonky eye. It isn't all that bad. It still fogs up every few minutes but at least I know why. I have "The Mother Of All Floaters" impeding my vision. Still, a few blinks and maybe a little shifting of my eyes and it usually moves on for a few minutes. I repeat that venture about every twenty minutes or so and put it out of my mind. If this is my greatest health difficulty, well, I have no complaints.

And then last night happened.

I woke up from a sound sleep around three in the morning. Our bedroom is pretty dark. There are two windows facing the north. At the back of our rather shallow backyard is a tree line with wonderfully tall trees. The block the shining lights from the homes behind us. But we are one house removed from a major thoroughfare in the Illinois suburbs of St. Louis. So there is a dim light from street lights standing guard along that avenue. I opened my eyes and noticed more wonkyness as I turned over. A line. A non-moving line, this time across my right eye. It is my left eye that has been giving me problems and so this was new. I turned my eyes in each direction and the line stayed put. It did not move with my eyes. I moved my eyes up and down. Again, the line stayed in its stationary position.

Weird. This. Cannot. Be. Good.

I felt that sick feeling on the inside. The one you get when you realize that something outside of your control is happening. The feeling that tells you that you are going to have to go to the doctor like ... now. I was warned both at the emergency room and at my ophthalmologists office that if anything changes ... anything ... come back immediately. I dreaded the thought of waking Debbie and telling her that I had to return to the hospital in the middle of the night.

I pushed my head deeper into my pillow and sighed. I just wanted a minute to clear my mind before starting what would surely be a long medical journey on a day when Debbie and I both had pressing things on our agendas to accomplish.

My nose itched. I scratched it. What? I paused and then allowed my fingers to coast across my face. Indeed something was wrong. Something needed immediate attention. I often get a clogged head at night and before turning in I had plastered a "Breath Right" to my nose. The right side had come unstuck. It was sticking up. Pointing out. Directly across my line of sight.

The unmoving line that I was seeing was the narrow edge of the "Breath Right" as it jutted out about half an inch in front of my eye.

I can be such a dork.

Blessed X 20,200

Sometimes I forget. I have lived approximately 20,200 days on this planet. Every now and then God sends or allows an event into my life that reminds me just how blessed I have been. I am in the middle of one of those events. And as I navigate my way through it, it is so very important to me to learn what I am to learn and, as Paul said, to "Rejoice in the Lord always." You see, very, very few of my 20,200 days have been days of extreme difficulty. And not one of them has been a day of true devastation. And yes, sometimes I forget.

I am 55 years old and this morning was the first time I looked down at my arm to see this ...


Most of you recognize that as the tubing apparatus of an "IV." You recognize it because you have had one ... or many ... before. And it took me 55 years to have my first.

How blessed I am!

Yesterday I was riding with my son, Christopher, through the streets of St. Peters, Missouri. Our quest was simple. Secure a load of Chinese food to take home to our respective brides. Yes, we are the "hunters/gathers" of our family. Suddenly I noticed an influx of "floaters" crossing my field of vision in my left eye. This isn't totally new to me. I've had a few of these harmless yet annoying things since I was in high school. But this was extreme. By the time we got back to Christopher's apartment my left eye was hazy. It would come and go ... but mainly come. I chalked it up to some unknown intercranial event and hoped it would pass quickly. Evening came and with it a dark house. I walked across the living room to the light of the television behind me. I turned my head quickly to the left to glance down the hallway and immediately noticed a bright flash of light rocket in an arc through the periphral visioon of the same eye. Every time I turned my head I saw this flash.

Uhhhh ... not good. I recognized those as signs of a potential tear of the retina. This is referred to as "an emergency situation." I caved in and told Debbie what was going on. We decided to sleep on it and see if it went away over night. It didn't. And so I did something I've never done before. I asked my assistant pastor to speak in my place with only a couple of hours notice. (Thanks, Mike!) And I told Debbie that I needed to go to the emergency room. Now THAT is another something that I have never done. I set my own broken toe once, buddy taped it to the one next to it, put my shoes on, and darted off to pray with a woman before her surgery. My toe was at a total 90 degree angle before I set it. But real men don't go to the emergency room!

Until it starts "lightening" in his head. That's a game changer.

So I found myself lying on a gurnee staring at my first IV this morning, waiting for a doctor to come and do an ultrasound on my left eye. As of now they have pretty much decided that my retina is just fine, thank you. Actually, they didn't find anything wrong. That's because we passed about 10 hospitals to get to the mega-hospital where my doctor's all work. You know. The one that's also like a "level 1 trauma center." And their main eye examiining machine is on the fritz. Go figure.

The agenda tomorrow includes a fun visit to my opthomologist who will do all of those things that the hospital could not. They suspect that the gooey fluid inside of my left eyeball (there's a real name for it but neither of us would be able to pronounce it so I'm going with "gooey fluid") has torn away from the wall of the eye, causing all of this fun. If so, there's a good chance that it's self-healing. Or maybe not. All I know tonight is that this guy is going to do the one thing that I hate more than I hate eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. He's going to actually TOUCH my eyeball. This could put one of us a great risk for bodily harm.

But all of that is not the important part. That's just the details to help you understand this....

God? I hope you read my blog because there is something that I want to say to you. Thank you so very much. You've given me this body. It was never designed for speed. That's always been obvious to anyone who has been watching. It can't run a fast mile or do a 30 foot long jump. This body was built for duration. Endurance. Thank you for 55 years without an IV. I do not feel sorry for myself because I am having some problems, God. (Though if you would like to take them away that would be fine with me.) I feel blessed X 20,200. And I thank you, Sir.

The Death Of My Childhood

My world has been rocked.

It all began with a wonderful evening! At 4PM Debbie and I picked-up The Amazing Elle and took her to see the "Yogi Bear" movie. Me and Yogi go back. Way back. He was my favorite cartoon during my growing up years. That says a lot because he had to beat out Huckleberry Hound. And Huckleberry doesn't go down without a fight. But I was always a Yogi guy. Boo-Boo, while pretty cool in his own right, was just a sidekick.

Before the movie began we sat through a few of the obligatory "Previews of Coming Attractions." And then ... a cartoon! How long has it been since you saw a cartoon precede a movie? Never mind. You probably are not old enough. This was not just any old cartoon either. It was Wile E. Coyote VS. The Roadrunner. Pure class. Warner Brothers, I love you.

And then it all blew apart. Oh sure. Wile E. coyote was chasing the Road Runner. The basic plot remained unaltered. But today ... today he does it on a Segway. You know. That battery operated thing you stand on and it does your walking for you. I don't want to give too much away ... not that it matters ... but Wile E. Coyote did not win. Neither did the Road Runner.

The Segway won.

Can you believe that? It must be 2011. It's come down to this. The flippen coyote is to lazy or old to run and he has to resort to technology. Where does it all end, I ask you? My childhood has come crashing down. Rumor has it that Dudley Do-Right is out of town at a law enforcement conference. But never fear! He's skyping with the lovely Nell. Rocky sold Bullwinkle to a local zoo in order to pay for his drug habit. And Mr. Peabody? He's running a meth lab down on 32nd Street.

Oh, the spirits of cartoons gone by. And no, this time they aren't friendly spirits, Bullwinkle.

10 Children's Books You'll Never See

(Unfortunately, these are not original with me but I couldn't resist making them available for your reading enjoyment....)

10. The Boy Who Died From Eating All His Vegetables

9. Curious George And The High Voltage Fence

8. The Magic World Inside The Abandoned Refrigerator

7. "Pop Goes The Hamster" And Other Microwave Games

6. Daddy Drinks Because You Cry

5. Strangers Have The Best Candy

4. What Is That Dog Doing To That Other Dog?

3. Controlling The Playground: Respect Through Fear

2. The Pop-Up Book Of Human Anatomy

And the #1 Children's Book You Will Never See ...

1. Grandpa Gets A Casket (I am a grandpa so I'm exercising my right to use this one)

Gloom Can Last A Very Long Time

As I was preparing to go to Fort Worth, Texas, last week to conduct the wedding ceremony of a long time friend I decided to download a new book onto my Kindle. I've always been a little bit intrigued by the assassination of President Kennedy. I was 8 years old and in the 3rd grade when it happened. I remember it clearly. And so it wasn't unusual that I would purchase a newly published book, "The Kennedy Detail." This book chronicles the tragedy from the perspective of the Secret Service detail that was assigned to protect the President in Dallas. These agents have remained quiet for 47 years. They have finally come forward with their story. Due to their ever advancing age they realized that the world needed to hear from them before they were gone.

So I settled into the flight from St. Louis to Love Field in Dallas and began skimming the book. I found myself fast-fowarding to the part that describes the presidents last night on the planet. He and his wife, Jackie, spent the night at the "Hotel Texas" in downtown Forth Worth. That intrigued me because downtown Forth Worth was where we would be staying. Our address would be the Hilton Hotel for the next two nights.

We arrived in Dallas, got our luggage, rented a car, and drove into Fort Worth. The hotel check-in process went smoothly and in minutes we found ourselves in room 434. I stowed the luggage and took a break to check the place out. In the restroom I found a framed print of the building we were in. On the bottom of the print was a engraved brass plaque that read, "This hotel is the former "Hotel Texas." This is the location where President and Mrs. Kennedy spent the night before giving a speech and leaving in the motorcade that would forever cost our country its innocence."

Whoa. This is the place. I had just read about the Secret Service Agents walking its hallways. Riding its elevators. Trying to catch a quick nap while rotating guard duty on the 8th floor. Hearing the Presidents New England accent through the door as he chatted with his wife for what would prove to be the final time. It felt ... strange. Not ghostly. Not haunted. But certainly historic. It made me want to find someway to reverse everything and shout at whoever would listen, "Don't go! It will mean the end of Camelot!" And there was a certain overwhelming hint of sadness. I can't say that I liked it.

We left the hotel for an evening at our friends house in suburban Burleson. After enjoying time with the families and a wonderful meal we returned to downtown and left our rental car with the valet parking guy. As we entered the lobby we were greeted by the concierge. He quickly asked us how our evening was and if we needed anything. I couldn't help myself. I asked him what he knew about the history of the hotel. How much had it changed since the fateful night of November 21, 1963? He walked us through the lobby, pointing out that, while most things had stayed the same, it had pretty much been made-over to look much like it did on that night. He told us that suite 850, the Kennedy Suite, no longer existed. The management realized that it would be a place of morbid curiosity and so they expanded suites 349 and 851 to occupy the space that once house 850. (I actually walked the hallway and the number 850 did not exist.) And he asked us if we would like a tour of the current Presidential Suite. Well, duh. YES WE WOULD!

I have to tell you, it was pretty cool. And it was certainly big. The walls were covered in Kennedy photographs and paintings and all sorts of things that are dedicated to his memory. Huge chandeliers hang from the ceiling. The bathrooms are the size of my home bedroom. And, honestly, I could not sleep in that place if I tried. It felt more like a museum or a library than a hotel suite. 15 foot ceilings, huge thick drapes, marble floors, not exactly places where I like to kick my shoes off, lay on the floor, and watch a football game. Not to worry though. I'm not really considering spending the $2,500 per night that the room costs to rent!

All in all it was a very interesting experience. However, I felt that it was difficult to sleep there. The sense of history overwhelmed my sense of sleepiness. And it takes a lot for that to happen.

A slice of history. Another time in that same place held some amazing moments. There is really no good way to wrap up this little article. It is obvious how it ended. Not well. Not well at all. 47 years is a long time. But evidently it is not long enough to erase the sadness held in a building that never expected to be historic. Occasionally gloom can last a very long time.

I Wish I Liked Christmas As Much As I Like Christ

Can I be brutally honest? I mean, this is my blog. You get to read it for free. So I guess I can say what I want to say. Perhaps I'm feeling a little "post-holiday cranky." I've had 3 different viruses in the last 4 days (though number 3 might be an allergy. Who can ever tell about these things?) So watch out.

I warned ya...

Christmas is not my favorite time of the year. I know, I sound like a pagan or a communist or something for saying that. I've spent 55 years denying it but it's time to 'fess up. Let me make a few things very clear first.

A) I love Jesus. Actually, I love the whole Trinity. Father, Son, Holy Spirit. And I totally do not mean to be flippant or disrespectful in my phraseology. I am not merely a Jesus fan ... He is my Savior. I owe Him everything. He is my best friend. I would rather spend time alone with Him than anyone. I take joy in worshipping Him. So my lack of passion for Christmas is not a lack of passion for the birthday Boy. Not even close.

B) I love the church. She is the Bride of Christ. I am a part of her. I do not disrespect her, feel cynical about her, or in anyway mean to trash talk her. Never trash talk Jesus bride. That would, I suspect, be a very dangerous thing to do.

C) I love my family and my friends. Both my local family and my long-distance family. I would do anything for them. My local friends and my long-distance friends. Again, they are on my short list of things (people) I would die for. So I don't mean any of this as a slam against them. For that matter, I don't mean it as a slam against anybody.

So now that we have that out of the way, here we go.

The Christmas season sometimes leaves me cold. It is all of the usual things that people complain about when they analyze Christmas and it is more. Crass commercialism? Yes, of course. I detest the way that the media insists on a day by day dissection of whether or not we are going to spend as much money on each other as we did last year. How despicable is that? While Santa reigns in center court of every mall, Jesus sits outside somewhere beyond the parking lot. And we do not even try to hide it. "We" being the church. We fall for the same thing pagan's fall for. The only possible difference is that we spend our money in "Christian" bookstores ... of course they are owned by conglomerates that have nothing to do with anything remotely Christian. On the other hand I am well aware that I should not expect anything better out of the world. I mean, at least we are giving each other gifts. We are generally not killing each other. We are, for once, being nice and thinking of people other than ourselves. So I suppose that there is a plus side. It's just a smaller plus side than I would like.

I confess to being bugged by eight foot tall glowing Santa's. Mine is only four feet tall. I suppose my problem must lie in the additional four feet?

And then there is "The Little Drummer Boy." Have you ever really listened to that song? It's about some guy playing a drum solo for baby Jesus and getting a smile in return. Isn't that just a little bit goofy? There are twenty-one "rum pum pum pum's." This lyrical masterpiece has one hundred and sixty eight words. Ninety eight of those words are either pa, rum, or pum. That leaves seventy words for substance and story line. Do I really need to say more?

Fudge. I love fudge. Vanilla is my favorite but nobody makes it so I settle for chocolate. It is usually polluted by nuts of some sort. All nuts are evil so it doesn't really matter. I suck the fudge off of them and spit them out. Why do people only make fudge at Christmas? Have you ever seen fudge at an Independence Day celebration? Memorial Day? Have you ever seen green fudge on St. Patricks day? Face it, if it is not Christmas your only hope for getting fudge is to go to some tourist spot and pay $7.99 per pound. Not even fudge is worth $7.99 per pound. Carrot Cake is another evil thing that seems to dominate Christmas. People ... vegetables do not belong in cake. Ever. Make a note of it.

Now that I am fifty five years old the gifts that I receive at Christmas tend to be designed to encourage me to do things that will not hurt me. You know. Things that point me to my favorite easy chair rather than participation in a wild eyed sporting event or even a minor league work-out. I suppose that I should make that concession to Christmas. I can't get hurt watching a dvd in my new sweater. Well, I can. But only if I fall out of my chair.

And here is the real problem. Who has the time during December to really sit down and contemplate what Christmas means? Can you honestly say that at any time during the stretch between Thanksgiving and Christmas day you are able to simply reflect on the magnitude of what this holiday means? I'm not really all that bugged by the shopping and the culinary gorging and such. I'm just irritated that the entire season slips by and I feel so pressured to "do the Christmas thing" that I never connect with Christ Himself. And you know who's fault that is? Mine. You don't run my schedule. Nobody runs my schedule but me. So it's my fault. Not yours. Certainly not God's. The gavel crashes down on nobody but yours truly.

I could go on but what's the point? I am always more tired when Christmas is over than I was when it began. I just wish that we (the church) could find some way to love Jesus out loud without having to fake it. And that is what Christmas so often seems to be. Faking it. Convincing ourselves that we are really loving and caring and self-sacrificing when maybe it's just not so. I think that it would be really cool if, for instance, someone would just forget about the fudge and instead call up a friend and just say, "How are you doing? Tell me the truth. What is on the front burner of your brain these days? Let me in on it so that I can pray for you or simply encourage you. Because I care and I don't need to spend a penny to prove it." How refreshing that would be!

Ok, enough. This is probably a really bummer/detestable little article.. I apologize if I drug you down with my thoughts. That was not my goal. Honest. But every now and then I have to just say, "Hey, this is MY blog spot and so I'm just going to write what is on my mind." And that is all that this has been. It's what is on my mind. It may or may not be close to the truth. It may or may not apply to you, the reader. I haven't a clue. It's just where my brain is. I'll probably wake up at about 3AM, burp, and be over it. So sleep tight and puh-lease don't let these mini-ranting make a dent in your tomorrow.

God is good. He can take it when I'm feeling less than exhilarted. I hope you can too. Let's worship Jesus in January even more than we did in December ...

It's How The World Works ...

Life is interesting. Eternity? Even more so.

Have you ever noticed that life on planet earth begins with our growing up in a desperate attempt to leave home, live on our own, and govern our lives as we see fit? I remember saying "I do" to a 19 year old blonde girl that had captured my 22 year old heart. We are still doing life together and loving it. We began putting together our own place and haven't lived under any other persons roof since that day back in 1977.

I have spent much of today dwelling on the realization that the day comes when this trend reverses itself. Sometimes I long to "grow down." I hunger for the guiding touch of a loving father. And ultimately, I long to go home. Our real home. The one that we will never have to leave.

It has been an amazing couple of days. Our kids, our grandkids, extended family, and many friends have made a revolving door out of the front of our home. And we so love it that way! These are the kinds of days that we dream of on the overly quiet evenings when a little noise might be welcome. I cannot think of one minute that I would change. And at the end of each of these days everybody goes home. This is as it should be and we are pleased with it. But I cannot help thinking about that day ... just over the horizon ... when "Home" will be under one roof for all of us. When the Father welcomes His kids into His door and tears well up in His Eyes as He welcomes each and every one of us, shows us to our rooms (or however that works!) and tells us when supper will be served.

Indeed, as life goes on it switches directions entirely. It isn't a death wish! Not at all! It is simply a desire to experience the fulfillment of all you have dreamed of and longed for.

Family.

Friends.

Home.

And most of all ... Father.

Strange Thoughts That Today Brought To My Attention

-Maybe when we drown the fish will be our friends.
-Someday, someone will be unearthing my bones.
-In twenty years your favorite song will be played in an elevator.
-My subconscious is smarter than I will ever be.
-You cannot unscramble scrambled eggs.
-Solid theology is deeper than a bruised ego.
-Wrinkles are symptoms of deeper flaws. If you listen closely your skull is cracking.
-You can judge even the finest restaurant quickly by the waiters reaction to being asked, "So how is the grilled cheese?"
-In the land of the blind, the man with one eye is King.
-If your doctor played the game "Operation" as a child it would be fun to wear a buzzer in your pocket when you go for your next check-up.

That is all. You may now resume your regularly scheduled day.

The Top 10 Oddest Things I've Done To Others In Ministry Or Had Done To Me In Ministry (that I will admit to)

10. The first church I ever served on staff at no longer exists. Therefore, for all practical purposes, I never served there.

09. The pastor of the second church I ever served on staff at literally used a "Sharpie" to cross my name from their church history because they got mad when I resigned and went to another church. Therefore, for all practical purposes, I never served there either. (Although they ordained me.)

08. A deacon yelled at me in a deacon's meeting once because I would not let his son go on a youth trip as an adult chaperone because he had just taught some of our teenagers to play drinking games. The pastor defended me by purchasing a "Sharpie." (See #9)

07. A teenage boy decided to "get clean" and gave me his marijuana cache to get rid of for him. I dumped it out my office window. In a few weeks I noticed an odd crop growing on the church lawn. I slid a "Sharpie" under the pastor's door knowing that he might want it. (See #9)

06. I did a funeral once where the entire middle row of the congregation were bikers drinking from long neck bottles of beer ... in unison.

05. While pulling a cross from Marion to Springfield, Illinois, a guy named Chuck stopped and said he wanted to contribute to our cause. (Revival!) He had just been laid-off from his job and was on the way home to tell his wife. We reluctantly accepted the last dollar he had in his wallet and promised to put it in the offering plate. We called it "Chuck's Buck." Every night in youth rallies one of our team took the dollar, held it up, and told the story of Chuck's sacrifice. On the day they gave me the dollar I forgot ... and spent it on Chiclets. I replaced it with another dollar and didn't tell anybody for a year.

04. I raided a boys luggage and sent all of his underwear to our pastor's office by UPS because he raided other people's luggage and put their underwear on the ceiling fans of a church we were sleeping in on a mission trip to Iowa.

03. I tricked my Sr. Pastor into believing that a black velvet picture of "The Lord's Supper" had been given to him by the widow of a man he had buried, that the deceased man had painted it for him, and that she would be by later in the week to see how it looked on his office wall. (It hung over his desk for a week.)

02. I crazy-glued my Sr.Pastor's pens to his desk. All of them.

01. I dated a girl from my first youth group. Then I married her. Then we had kids. Then we had grand kids. Now we don't even want a dog.

R.I.P. Old Friend

"I hold it true, whate'er befall; I feel it, when I sorrow most; 'Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all." Alfred Lord Tennyson's poem "In Memoriam" says it well. You see, I lost a dear friend today. We shared many, many moments. Most of them very good. Some a bit tenuous. Yet generally we loved well and today, well today I lost this friend.

I could tell you stories. We go back about 10 years together. Few were the days that we did not share moments of reflection, relaxation, and sometimes .... tears. I suppose that good friends share all of those things. My friend seemed to understand my moods and actually shaped his own attitude to echo mine. This allowed us to have a "hand in glove" kind of relationship. My family knew my friend and loved him as well. Even my "pets of old" knew him and could not get enough of his comforting presence. He was a shared friend. I would introduce him to my friends and they would inevitably say later on that they wish they had a friend like mine. I was blessed ... richer for having had this relationship. I miss him so much. We always did supper together on Sunday nights after church. Tonight I had to eat with a new friend. It was not an altogether unpleasant experience. Neither did it rival Sunday nights gone by.

The end came today around 2PM. I can't say it was unexpected. I had helped make arrangements for the inevitable. One never enjoys that kind of duty. And yet someone must do it. These things don't just take care of themselves. And so today I drug my friend out to the garage and lay him on the floor. He was, for all practical purposes, gone. Less than a mere shadow of himself. I don't have a picture close by of his good days. But today ... toward the end ... we hugged. And I took one last photo. And I lay him to rest.

R.I.P. old friend.

Bozo to Cronkite ... the view from my own grassy knoll

I remember being 8 years old and sitting in the elementary school gym eating my lunch and watching "Bozo the Clown" on an old black and white television. 3rd grade. 1963. As far as I knew it was a good time to be alive. I knew little about the recent "Cuban Missile Crises" or the brewing war in a southeastern Asian country named Vietnam. I just knew that Tuna + Twinkies + Bozo = a rollicking good time. And little did I know that this impending seat in history was provided for me by the mere fact that it was a rainy Friday and we couldn't go out for our post-lunch recess. Thus the noisy gym, plenty of bouncing balls, and a handful of Bozo fans.

Then this guy name Cronkite screwed it all up. He invaded our convex vacuum tube and, pulling his glasses from his mustached face, told us that the President of the United States had just been shot in Dallas. I remember thinking, "Dallas. That's in Texas. There's lots of guns in Texas." And then the teachers were ushering us out the door, whispering in hushed tones that we should go to our class rooms, sit at our desks, fold our little not-yet-wrinkled hands, and wait for our teachers.

In a few minutes Mrs. Schilling showed up. She was the best 3rd grade teacher e.v.e.r. She "got" my jokes. She even allowed herself to laugh at them on occasion. Mrs. Schilling began teaching us something. I have no idea what it was. I was thinking of presidents and Texas and guns. And then there was a man standing at our door. His name was Mr. Reeves and he was an individual of epic personality in our little school. Everyone loved and respected Mr. Reeves. He stepped inside of our class room and reverently told us that our President was dead. I was too young to really get a handle on the concept of "dead." Today I am a pastor and I've been one for the last gazillion years. And I've buried a gazillion dead guys. And death doesn't really bother me anymore even when I realize that someday I'm going to be the guy in the box and maybe some 3rd grader will be wondering what it means that his pastor is dead. I truly hope it doesn't bother him too much. I don't expect that it will bother me.

But on that day I was bothered. I went home after school and my mom was crying. My dad came home and he seemed empty. Shell shocked. That didn't happen often to my dad, a grizzly veteran of a fighting "half track" in WWII. Nothing shook my dad. He single handedly destroyed the Nazi machine and even captured one of their nasty flags and brought it home as a little bit of memorabilia. (You ROCK "2nd Armored!") But today he was off his game. He was shaken.

And now it's been 47 years. I've been to Dallas a few times. I've walked around the streets where my president was murdered. I've stood on the exact, precise spot where he sat in the back of his open-air limousine when the assassins bullet took his young life. I've reclined on "the grassy knoll" and contemplated what it all meant, vacillating between images of Bozo the Clown and a flag draped casket. I've climbed to the 6th floor of the old "Texas School Book Depository," to the snipers perch where the rifle spit out death and robbed us of innocence and a sense of invincible glory. I don't know why but I'm drawn to that spot. I'll be back in Dallas to do a wedding on New Years Eve. I imagine I'll conjure up a good excuse to at least drive down that road while I'm there. I know. It makes no sense. But something in my heart knows that my country began to change nearly as quickly as that speeding piece of lead. I don't understand it at all. But you will never convince me that that was not the point at which we crested the hill and began a downward coast.

I've never written about history before. And now propped up here in my bed late at night I realize that I have witnessed my fair share of it. If I lived in a typical 3rd world country I would probably be dead by this ripe old age. But, by virtue of being a resident of the United States of America, I might well have a decade or two left in me. Who knows what's left to see? I mean how do you follow up 3 huge assassinations, hippies, anti-war riots in downtown Chicago (25 miles from my sandlot baseball diamond,) guys getting hurled into outer space, other guys landing on and walking around on the moon (I was only 14 and we haven't done anything that impressive since,) the creation of Pop Tarts, "shock and awe," and let's not forget crumbling burning collapsing skyscrapers. I could go on but suddenly I don't want to. You see, I'm typing words without ink onto a glass screen and I'm going to hit a button that doesn't really exist that says "Publish Post" in a minute and then people in Trinidad and Beijing, and Poughkeepsie will be able to read this on their own glass screens if the want to.

But you know what I really want? What I think might really make me happy?

A tuna sandwich. A black and white television. Bozo the Clown. The entire show this time. And then I want to go back to class and listen to Mrs. Schilling teach me something. But that is not going to happen. Truth is, there's just not much "shock and awe" left in me.

Stupid Picture Chronicles #52

Hair. Wigs. Cell Phones. One of these things is not like the others ....

This Is A God I Want To Worship

Tonight afforded one of those honors that are so special that you feel required to call them "Holy." A 92 year old gentleman named Ray, a long time member of Towerview Baptist Church, stepped out of his body of flesh, blood, and all of its DNA trappings and into the presence of the King of Glory, Jesus Christ.

I did not know Ray as well as most of the people in our church. Having only been the pastor of Towerview for twenty-one months placed me at a disadvantage. Ray spent all of those months living in a very nice "assisted living" center several blocks from my home. He was at church most Sunday mornings. I have had multiple opportunities to visit him in his home. I honestly do not think he remembered me from one visit to the next. Oh, I am quite certain that he always knew when he answered my knock on his door that I was his pastor. But I was never quite certain that he remembered that I had visited him before. He delighted in talking about his children and grandchildren. Seldom did he mention his life before assisted living became a needed part of it.

And then the weekend came. Ray went to climb out of bed and wound up on the floor with a broken hip. He was taken to the hospital and by the time I got the call the next day he was quite medicated and very unaware of his surroundings. Truth is, he never spoke again.

It became evident last night that life on this planet was winding down for Ray. Still, life begins on God's timetable and it ends on God's timetable. We often forget that. But God doesn't. Psalm 139:16 says it quite succinctly, "Your eyes saw my unformed substance; in your book were written, every one of them, the days that were formed for me, when as yet there was none of them." Doctors do what they can but God makes the final call. God writes down the number of our days before we are even born. Humbling, huh?

And then tonight. Family and friends abounded. The hallways of the hospital buzzed with talk but Rays room was a quiet haven. The mood was nearly worshipful. I met with the three brothers and one sister in a conference room and, as we discussed options, they decided that it was time to remove the oxygen mask. Nobody really knew if it was doing any good. Nobody could really say if it was making him more comfortable. The decision was made to remove the mask, allow him to breath on his own, and let God do what God wanted to do. (As if we could stop Him.)

The entire family gathered around his bed. A prayer was prayed. I asked a granddaughter if she knew what his favorite hymn was. Through tear filled eyes she replied, 'The Old Rugged Cross.' And I sing that to my kids every night before they go to sleep." I asked if she thought she could manage to lead us through it one time. Sometimes it is just evident that God is calling a child home. Holiness is in the air. Tonight was one of those times. Hands were clasped, tears ran down cheeks, and Amanda began, "On a hill far away stood an old rugged cross, the emblem of suffering and shame. And I love that old cross, where the dearest and best, for a world of lost sinners was slain. So I'll cherish the old rugged cross, till my trophies at last I lay down. I will cling to the old rugged cross, and exchange it someday for a crown." The words which began slowly and worshipfully suddenly built to a mild crescendo toward the end. A nurse stood just out of our circle, between the foot of Rays bed and the doorway, tears streaming down her cheeks. As the singing subsided she approached Ray, stethoscope in hand. She checked him twice and quietly said two simple words. "He's gone." She told me later, "You guys did it right. I've seen it both ways and this is the way to go." High praise coming from someone in her profession.

So tonight we sang a saint of God through the gates of heaven. When the song began he was trapped in a body of decay and pain. When the song ended he was gazing into the eyes of the one who defeated death on his behalf. The Man ... Jesus Christ.

How does it work that God performs miracles like this? Before Psalm 139: 16 was penned ... when Rays days were yet to be formed for him ... the King of Glory determined to bring his earthly life to an quiet conclusion as his entire family sang a song of victory beside his nearly lifeless body. How does it work that God chooses to orchestrate our life so that even our death brings Him glory? How does it work that though we may live to be 92 years of age, the same song that sings our great grandchildren to sleep each night is sufficient to sing us through gates of splendor and leave us gazing upon the beauty of the one who hung on that old rugged cross. I have no idea how many death beds I have stood by in my 36 years of being a pastor but I do know this. There is somebody behind it all. There is no chance. There is no "probable cause." There is sovereignty.

This ... this is a God I want to worship.

God Bless The Candy

God works in such cool and awesome ways. Sunday I was offering to "allow" people to dump their left over halloween candy on me if they had a problem getting rid of it. I didn't really expect anybody to do so. We had zero "trick-or-treaters" at our house this year. Or maybe we have 300. I have no way of knowing. We were at church. But if some came and found no answer at my door (or perhaps they simply ran after reading my "Go Away!" welcome mat) at least they didn't egg my house! Any way the challenge was out there. Got candy? Dump it here!

Enter Peggy.

Peggy came into our church sanctuary last night following evening bible study and promptly hit me with a HUGE zip lock back of left over candy. And this was quality stuff! There was actually real chocolate in that bag! She seemed quite pleased with herself. All I could think of was how that candy was going to look under my belt. To paraphrase an old friend of mine, I might as well just tape it to my tummy.

This morning came and I stopped into a local quick mart for a hit of caffeine. On most mornings a young mom is behind the cash register. She is single and I would expect that money is rather tight for her. I paid for my liquid habit, leaned against the counter and engaged in a few moments of run-of-the-mill small talk. It seems she had to work all day and then was heading to a halloween party with her months old son. They were both going to be dressing up as devils. Yuk. But okay. I mean, the primary purpose of my engaging this young woman in conversations over the past months has been with the intent of "relationship building." I am doing my best to get to know her and allow her to get to know me casually. My prayer ... which I pray frequently ... is that sooner or later God is going to nudge my heart and give me the "go ahead" to share my faith in Christ with her. For now I'm just trying to win the right to be heard. At Towerview we call it "Walking Across The Room."

As we were wrapping up the two minute long chat she mentioned that she was suppose to bring goodies to the party but really didn't know what she was going to do about that. She was out of candy. And since she was working all day, making something was out of the question.

Hmmmm. I told her to hang tight and I'd be right back. I think you know where I was going.

I drove the short mile to my office, grabbed the mega-bag of "Peggy Poisen" off of my desk and headed back out the door. When I walked back in to the quick mart I dropped the bag on the counter and said, "Problem solved." She looked at it, a startled expression on her face. "What is this for?" she asked. I told her it was hers to take to tonights party. And then she asked the key question. "Why would you do this?" I just smiled. "Because you need it. And I certainly don't!" And I was back out the door.

No sharing of scripture. No mention of Jesus. No invitation to church. Yet. (She's already asked what I do for a living and when I told her she looked like I'd strangled her pet cat.) But it occurs to me that maybe a simple gift of candy, a gift that cost me nothing but a few spare minutes, will help solidify the fact in her mind that I really don't want anything from her. I'm not just being a creepy old guy. I have no agenda other than friendship.

But I'm clearly aware ... and become more aware every day ... that friends don't let friends enter eternity without Jesus.

God bless the candy. Literally, please.

Stupid Picture Chronicles #51

All I can assume is that some church is now serving crepes instead of communion wafers.

A Study In Contrasts

I was thinking today. No, seriously. I was. I actually rose before the sun this morning. I'd like to tell you that I did so because I decided that it was a wonderfully righteous thing to do and I decided to be righteous. Alas, it is not so. I needed to be at the hospital a good part of this Friday to visit with two friends from my church having surgery. I needed to be there early and so I found myself backing out of my driveway, glancing to the east, and actually seeing a rising sun peeking through the clouds. Now, I've seen sun rises before. I'm just wired to enjoy sunsets more. They look the same. Just backward.

But obviously that's not my point. My point is "rest." Rest vs. rush. I'm going to be talking about that a little bit this coming Sunday morning when I speak at our church. Rest is a rare commodity in 2010. Not because it's not avaiable so much as because, well, nobody really wants it. But rest is important. Very important Without it ... you'll eventually run into "The Wall" and maybe even die. Don't argue with me on this. I'm an adrenaline junkie. I know what I'm talking about when I mention that Wall. It's real. And it hurts to hit it. So don't do it, okay? We were designed by our maker to need "down time."

As a matter-of-fact, God actually initiated the idea of rest. You didn’t know that? It’s called “Sabbath.” It’s about slowing down the pace of life, relaxing, and allowing your system to replenish and refresh. So do some of that! Maybe it’s time to turn on some quiet music, dim the lights, put your feet up, and simply exist for an hour or so. The truth is, many of us don’t find that restful anymore. We’ve rewired our systems and instead of “rest” we search for “rush.” You know the rush I mean. The adrenaline rush! I admit that there’s nothing like that experience of feeling totally alive when that little chemical goes sprinting through my bloodstream. I just wrapped up a two week vacation and, honestly, I tried to avoid adrenaline. As I've mentioned Debbie and I slipped up to northern Michigan for a few days and soaked in the fall colors as the leaves peaked along the shores of a cobalt blue Lake Superior. We walked around Mackinac Island, admiring the Victorian architecture, horse drawn carriages, and a healthy (or maybe NOT so healthy) ice cream cone. (Yum.) And then we did something I had never done before. We drove down to Chicago and watched our son, Scott, compete in the Chicago Marathon. I cannot imagine running 26.2 miles on purpose! I have a hard time focusing long enough to drive 26.2 miles. We were very proud of our son as he ran for “Team World Vision” to raise money to feed hungry people world wide. But I couldn’t help contrasting the two ends of that trip. What a stark difference between gentle waves lapping up on a Great Lakes beach while leaves fell silently around us and one million screaming people gathered in downtown Chicago to watch forty-three thousand runners focusing on the finish line.


As I drove away from Chicago the next day I let Debbie do most of the driving. That's a major milestone for me. I always subscribed to the theory that "real men drive." But I pushed the passenger seat back, grabbed a book, smiled at her as she enjoyed holding the wheel for a while, and simply ... rested. And then I took the second week of my vacation and did nothing. I mean a serous amount of nothing. I had planned on power-washing and re-staining my deck. I decided not to. My body was saying that there is this long stretch looming down the road called "The Holidays." This was the last rest stop before the tree goes up. So I jumped on the chance.

I'm not sorry that I did. The two weeks turned out to be a study in contrasts. Falling leaves and deep breaths. Gentle waves and long, luxurious stretches, I like it. It gets addictive. And then all of the cheering people. Fast paced runners. Deep dish pizza and Chicago hot dogs. There is room for both. But right now ... I'm learning to re-appreciate simple, God ordained ... rest. I truly hope maybe you'll consider doing the same.

Gosh. That sounded like a sermon.

Today's Guest Blogger ... Mrs. Laura Woods

Call me a sucker for my new grandson, Judah. Call me in love with my son, his wife, and the family they are creating. You'd be correct on both counts. I plead guilty. Laura is a prolific writer. I am her biggest fan. She posted the following blog last night on her on corner of the web. I asked for, and received, permission to repost. If you are a mom, a dad, or a grandparent ... you'll "get it."

Take it away, Laura....
***

Dear Judah,

Two months little man. Two months you’ve been breathing oxygen with your lungs and stealing my heart with your eyes. And what an eventful two months it has been. I know you won’t remember a second of it, but I’ll never forget one. I’ve filled up my camera a hundred times over with pictures of you smiling and drooling and eating and crying and sneezing. I post them on Facebook and Twitter daily, much to the annoyance, I’m sure, of everyone who has bothered to friend or follow me (I love how by the time you read this, NONE of that will make sense…try to reference Google if it still exists….if it doesn’t, God help us all).

Last week, in order to celebrate our anniversary appropriately (without a squirmy baby at the dinner table), your dad made me get an overnight babysitter so we could go out and be normal people again for an evening. It’s amazing how in such a short amount of time you have totally changed the face of who we are as humans. For example, we have been attempting to go grocery shopping for well over a week now. There is just no easy way to accomplish this effectively now that you live with us. In part because your car seat takes up 99% of the shopping cart, leaving little room for more than a day’s worth of groceries. And also because who wants to go shopping when they can stay in their pajamas and stare at a brilliant and beautiful baby from the comforts of their living room? I’d rather starve in most instances than leave you for more than one second longer than I have to.

That being said, I should tell you that I had to go back to work this month. Doing this has easily been one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. I knew when I got pregnant that there was no conceivable way that we could manage for me to be a stay at home mom. Despite my desire to be at home with you 29 hours a day, our current situation dictates that I must daily put on tall shoes and head out into the gritty world of office politics and potlucks. It’s not ideal, but it’s a blessing. One that God has provided for us so that we can pay the bills and still afford to let your dad stay home with you most days. It’s unconventional for sure, but you so far seem to still be functioning as a normal infant, so I try not to beat myself up about it too much. Although, I have let the convictions of other moms in more conventional situations get the best of me from time to time, your dad is an amazing encourager and never lets a day go by without reminding me that not only are you happy and healthy, but that it in large part has to do with the fact that I am actually a good mom. So…if today as you read this, you are harboring some deep rooted resentment at me for not being around for you when you got home from school all those years, please know that I would rather be with you in our home more than any other place on the face of the planet. And I would sacrifice anything to ensure you always find joy in this life, despite our non conventional situation. So I didn’t write it, but please remember this always….


i carry your heart with me
i carry it in my heart
i am never without it
anywhere i go you go, my dear;
and whatever is done by only me
is your doing, my darling….

-e. e. cummings

On a less serious note, your diapers are generally very disgusting. There are times when I’m nervous to lay you on the couch or to pick you up with bare hands. You just never know what colorful goop is going to be seeping out of your clothing at any given moment. I have a feeling that this is representative of your future love of fart jokes and immature behavior. Which to be honest, I couldn’t be more thrilled about. I’ve dreamt for years that I could live with someone who understood my sense of humor. Your father has NEVER appreciated my ability to burp on command with great zeal. In fact, he finds it offensive at times. Mostly when we are in public places, like church for example. I say, God created these escape hatches for digestive gasses, you might as well embrace the beautify of His genius. Please remind me of this when you are older and I scold you for the very thing I enjoy so much. You deserve the same freedoms as me (mostly).

I have very little to add from here. I am sure that by the next time I write, you will have accomplished some small feat of wonder that your dad and I brag about for weeks on end, despite its mundane, every day, run of the mill, infant-like behavior. We just still can’t believe you are real. It’s hard to believe how much you’ve grown and developed just over the last 8 weeks. And to think about the man I am writing to now, almost puts a crack in my brain. Do me a favor and take your time getting there.

I hope as you read this you are doing well. Saved by grace and deeply rooted in the love of your family and Creator. I also hope you still like fart jokes.

So much love that there aren’t sufficient words,
Your Sassy Momma

Yoopers

I do love me some vacation.

I have a job that I love. It isn't really a "job" job. It's ministry. It's serving God and being paid by a church so that I don't have to make a living in other ways which frees me up to spend my time being their pastor. (aka: serving God.) Sometimes it is a lot easier than a "job" job because I feel "called" to it. "Called" by God. When you are doing what you are convinced God wants you to do ... what you were created to do ... it makes it a lot more palatable, even on the tough days. And history has caused me to see some pretty tough days.

But I do love me some vacation. I am about 3/4 of the way through a two-weeker. And last week was just in-cred-ible. I grabbed my bride and drug her up to "Da U.P." Better known as the "upper peninsula" of Michigan. Those in the U.P. call themselves "Yoopers." I think that is suppose to be a good thing but I'm not sure. Anyway, let me be a "Yooper" for a minute. Here's what life looks like right about now if you are one of those ...

That, my friends, is a nice view to wake up to!

And this is what a very much in love couple of Yoopers looks like. Cool, huh?

And in Yooper-ville they have waterfalls that appear to be made of root beer! Way to go, Michigan!

There are places up there where you can leave notes for God to read. I left lots of notes. This was the first one. Just making sure He remembered that I was up there.

Their bridges are really long...

...and really tall ...

... and they even let you play underneath them! (I am a graduate of Trinity Christian College. Our school mascot is the "Trolls." I felt right at home under the bridge.)

In the U.P. you can drive down beautiful roads.

In the U.P. you can watch beautiful sunsets over pristine lakes.

In the U.P. you can watch your wonderfully wacky wife pour popcorn into her Tomato Bisque Soup. On purpose.

And perhaps the best of all, in the U.P. you can fall asleep on a piece of driftwood and nobody will steal your wallet.

In the U.P. we looked at stuff from sunken ships and we ate deep fried White Fish. We walked through indian cemeteries and we ate deep fried White Fish. We relaxed in a swirling hot tub and we ate deep fried White Fish. We watched Clydesdale horses pull their carriages on an island in Lake Huron and we ate deep fried White Fish.

I ate four consecutive meals of deep fried White Fish. White Fish that were swimming in Lake Superior when I woke up in the morning were coursing through my digestive system when I went to bed at night. If there are White Fish in the Sea of Galilee I am pretty sure Jesus cooked them up.

I have never been to the Sea of Galilee. But I could get use to being a Yooper.

Stupid Picture Chronicles #50

For our special "50th Edition" of the "Stupid Picture Chronicles" we have ... well ... a stupid picture. We discovered this on the way up to vacation in Michigan's beautiful U.P. I guess they have a lot of steeples needing a good home ...