The Fifteen Most Important Things I Did Today

Okay, so break time is over and it's time to start blogging again.  I mean, seriously.  I've been missing in action for a bit.  Taking a sabbitical of the brain.  You can't get this close to 1,000- posts and quit.  Know what I mean?  I believe this is post number 907.  907 posts in ten years.  I'll never win a pulitzer that way.

So I went to see my rock star doctor yesterday.  I like her because she's a real human being.  I was there on a "sick visit."  They called my name and I was led back into the inner sanctum.  I came across the doctor in the maze of hallways and she looked surprised to see me.  As we crossed paths she patted me in the shoulder and said, "Hi!  Good to see you!  How are you doing?"  She may be a rock star but sometimes she asks dumb questions. I told her that if I was doing all that great ... would I be there?  She didn't get mad at me like Doctor Buttfeel use to.  But she got even with me a few minutes later when she showed up in the examining room and pronounced me as dwelling at deaths door.  The verdict ... an upper respiratory infection, a sinus infection, and double ear infections.  Hey, if you are going to get infected, go all the way.  She gave me 21 little pills, we shot the breeze for about 10 minutes, and I went home.

That brings us to today.  Home.  No work.  No fun.  Boo.  So here's how I spent my hours ...

1.   Rise and shine. Well. Rise and think about shining. I don't do morning. And I'd been sleeping in our guest room trying to keep my asthmatic wife healthy. So who really slept?

2.   Ice Road Truckers. " Ya can't stop the Chop!"

3.   Surgical strike on Moto Mart to get caffeinated. And gum. And chips. And...

4.   Ice Road Truckers.  I wanna drive The Dalton.

5.   Stare at the can of tuna fish. Put it back in the cabinet.

6.   Whoa!  iOS 6 is out!  Upgrade 2 iPads. What?  I now have Siri?

7.   Spend 90 minutes asking Siri stupid questions.

8.   Ice Road Truckers while jonesing for a pizza.

9.   Nap time!

10.  Lay near the window sill. Stare outside cat-like. Remember the tuna fish. Shake it off. That almost got seriously feline-ish.

11.  The garage door is going up!  (Act sick for sympathy sake.)

12.  Stop and smell the roses. No. Really. She bought me roses yesterday. She loves me, you know.

13.  Go with her to get a pizza. (Playing sick works.)

14.  Watch cat-like from the window again when she leaves for church.

15.  (Sigh) Ice Road Truckers.

Stupid Picture Chronicles #64

Attention:  Do not attempt to roller blade on inverted triangles!

Greater Love Has No Man Than This ...

On a bright and blue skied day in late July we found ourselves driving wide expressways and winding two lanes between Cleveland, Ohio, and Richmond, Virginia.  Like Little Red Riding Hood we were on our way to grandparents house.  We did not happen across any wolves but we did discover a field where wolves died.

While driving down one of those beautiful Appalachian mountain highways we came across a sign pointing us to the "Flight 93 National Memorial." If your memory is eleven years long you will recall that this is the place where passenger's disrupted a hijacking attempt by suicidal terrorists on 9/11.  They wrestled the plane out of the hands of murderous wolves and, unfortunately, sent it hurtling into the pastoral tranquility of Shanksville, Pa.  In so doing they apparently saved the nation from having to build a new capital.  How many places can you go to within the borders of the United States in the post-civil war years and say, "Here is a place where men took a stand for freedom?"  Honestly, I cannot think of one other than this.  You can't be eleven miles from this kind of heroic history and fail to stop and pay your respects.

The field where the fallen heroes died is ... well ... a field.  That pretty much sums it up.  The point of impact is marked by a seventeen ton rock moved there after the crater was filled-in. If you follow the line created by the 40 marble markers dedicated to the passengers and crew of flight 93, you will see the incoming flight path of the plane over a long row of naked hills.  This is where the locals are attempting to reclaim the area marred by coal bearing strip mines.  You will also hear a National Park Ranger tell you that the huge jet came soaring over that nearest hill ... forty feet off the ground ... upside down ... at roughly 600mph ... and slammed into the ground directly in front of you. The very thought is jarring.  My first thought was simply, "No way."  The concept is totally out of place with the tranquility of the landscape.  Isn't that always true in war and in cemetaries?  Death should never mar beauty.  And yet it always does.

And you will wonder what it felt like to be on that jet.  Fighting.  Knowing you were about to die.  And you wonder if you have what it takes to make the decision they did.

You wonder what it felt like to be one of the men working in a scrap metal salvaging plant up on top of those hills as the jet sent them sprawling to the ground, convinced that it would not clear their heads.  And then as they felt the impact and saw the ball of fire erupt mushroom like, realizing that theirs were the last eyeballs to see these people alive.  And then when they discovered that these were not just ordinary men and women ... but patriots.  The first combatants in the war on terror.  And you realize that in death they won.  In death.  They ... won. 

It seems that victory is not defined by life.  It is defined by knowing "right" and doing it.  It is defined by honor.  By integrity.  No matter the cost.  Honestly, I doubt that the freedom fighters knew for certain that they were about to die until it was too late.  In my imagination I believe that they must have convinced themselves that they could regain control of the jetliner and somehow, miraculously, manage to land the thing.  That does nothing to diminsh their bravery.  It does not tarnish their sacrifice.  It makes them human.  And it reveals how strong and self-sacrificing they truly were.  For when their dreams of survival died they fought on.  Heroes till the very last inch.

Had they not fought we would have had a much different ending to 9/11.  We would have had a crater where the United States Capital building now stands.  That beaufitul and familiar dome would only exist in photographs today.  We would have had to face the trauma of completely restaffing congress.  And desipite jokes about how that might have been a good thing ... it most certainly would not have been.  America would have survived.  But think of the impact on our economy had the congress and the Capital been destroyed.  Think about what Wall Street would have done.  Think about suddenly being nearly leaderless.  Words like "Marshal Law" come to mind.  If frightens one to the core.

And the terrorists were only twenty-minutes (by air) from successfully accomplishing their task.

Twenty minutes.

I thank and honor the men and women on Flight 93.  I stand in awe of them.  When the coroner brought "cadaver dogs" to the scene after the FBI relenquished if from "crime scene" status, the dogs walked into the field ... and lay down.  They were overwhelmed.  This was their way of saying "Their are parts (fragments really) of bodies everywhere here."  And so the coroner had the field covered with five inches of top soil.  And he declared it a cemetary.  And he left it alone.

And it is holy ground in the truest sense of the word.

"Greater love has no man than this, that he lay his life down for his friend."  John 15: 13

stupid picture chronicles #63

So how do you tell people, "I live on highway 666?"  I suppose it cuts down on guests...

The First Ten

Well, happy blog-o-versary to me!  Yes, ten years ago today I began this little piece of writing.  It was set-up as a token gift by my son-in-law, The Amazing Joe.  He included this note which is actually the very first post...

"Ron, I know how everyone loves to get your emails and how funny your stories are, so I thought I would set up this site as a way that you can share your stories with the world. 

Enjoy
-Joe"

That was August 1, 2002.  And here we are on August 1, 2012.  If you do not count Joe's opening post I have written precisely 900 seperate articles since that day.  That is a lot of writing.  I've watched many people start blogs.  Some don't stick with it very long.  Some write for a year or two and life gets busy and they eventually fade.  What's the secret to a ten year run?  It's actually pretty simple.  You have to have something in your soul trying to get out.  Often it's something that's just on a slow boil ... consistent ... on-going ... never ending.

I've had a few conversation lately with some people who are close to me.  They mentioned that I don't blog as frequently as I once did.  That is true.  After some thought I've uncovered what I think are the reasons for that.  When I began writing in this corner of the web I was a youth pastor.  I did not have the weekly obligation to create a minimum of three original pieces of material teaching God's Word.  That is what I do these days.  I find that so much of my creativity has to be poured into that endeavor.  Sometimes it doesn't leave much for an interesting blog.  Yet I think that the real reason is a little more complicated.  I write what I think.   What I feel.  And for those who know me it is clear that my though processes are occasionally ... warped.  Off balanced.  At least I'm told that on a regular basis.  People expect their Senior Pastor to be sane.  Somewhat reserved.  Certainly not bizarro and mentally scary.  Suffice it to say that I've gotten in more trouble with more people over blog posts during the last five years than I did in the first five years.  I'm quite happy with my thought processes, but I don't like defending them.  I just write what I think and if it works for you ... great.  If it doesn't work for you ... great.  I don't like fighting over it.  And I certainly don't like hurting peoples feelings over it.

So anyway, here's to the next ten years.  Thanks for reading.  Thanks for encouraging.  I hope you have enjoyed it.  And I promise you one thing ... I've had more fun writing thatn you have had reading.

I Am More

At birth I was more than a squealing lump of slimy infant.

I grew into more than an awkward kid with no meat on his bones and a cowlick.

I sat still long enough to get educated but I was more than a brain full of knowledge.

She said yes and I gave her a ring but I was more than a rookie husband who wanted to please.

I helped create them and they call me "dad" but I am more than a father.

They gave me a signed paper and told me I was a minister but I am more than a "preacher."

I got to share life with thousands of students, baptizing many but I was more than a spiritual babysitter.

And now I have married many, I have buried many, and I have carried many.  But I am more.

I have spoken to crowds and I have spoken to one.  But I am more.

I have a desk but I am more than a body sitting and studying.

They ask me for advice and direction and I do my best.  But I am more than a guide.

I dream and I plan and I coach and I mentor and I promote and I administrate and I guide and I teach and I visit and I pray and I listen and I shepherd and I protect and I ...  But I am more.

I am coming to Christ. (I Peter 2: 4)

I am a living stone.  (I Peter 2: 5a)

I am a holy priest.  (I Peter 2: 5b)

I am a chosen person.  (I Peter 2: 9)

I am a part of a holy nation.  (I Peter 2: 9)

I am God's very own possession.  (I Peter 2: 9)

I am a temporary resident, a foreigner.  (I Peter 2: 11)

I am free.  (I Peter 2: 16)

I am, by my own choice, God's slave.  (I Peter 2: 16)

And because I am, God is pleased with me.  (I Peter 2: 20)

God is not upset with me.  God is not mad at me.  God thinks I'm special.  God thinks I am as special as His Son, Jesus.  I know that because Jesus is the price He paid to buy me from satan.  If you trust and submit to Him, no matter what you have done or how guilty some one else tells you that you are, and no matter how guilty some one makes you feel (listen close ... put your ear to the screen ... you need to hear this ...) HE IS NOT MAD AT YOU!  And if some one says He is they do not know what they are talking about and you should not buy a used car from that person.

He is my reason, my purpose, my example, my leader, my guide, my counselor, my comforter, my truth, my joy, my Savior.

He thought of me, designed me, created me, wept over me, died for me, and bought me back.  And so I will love Him, serve Him, follow Him, submit to Him, obey Him, trust Him, defer to Him, worship Him, and confess Him.

Just when I think I know who I am ... I find out that I am more.  (And so are you.  If you want to be.)

Recapturing The Glory

I'm not too smart.  This comes as no surprise to those who know me.  I speak too quickly and act too slowly.  Well, most of the time.  At least that's my own observations of myself.  I don't say this to prompt any one to disagree with me.  We all have images of ourselves that may or may not be accurate.  The fact that we feel that they are accurate is what makes them so important.

Those whom I serve at my fantastic church bless me with five ... count 'em 5 ... weeks of vacation each year.  That is ample time to rest, refresh, and reinvent.  My problem isn't having enough time.  My problem is managing what I am given.  The year is more than half over and I have neglected to take one vacation day.  A smarter me would have taken at least two weeks by now.  I say "smarter" because I began a two week vacation three hours ago and honestly, I'm limping into it.  Again, no whine intended.  I am a big guy and I make my own decisions.  I did not have to wait until mid-July to take a break.  I just ... did.  There is no real reason why.

Here's the thing.  When the calling that God has placed upon you is a deep calling ... a calling that empties the soul more than it stresses the flesh .. a calling that requires that you taste the salt in the tears of those who cry ... well, it tends to wear you down in ways you don't even notice.

I had forgotten the truth of that statement until this evening just after sunset.  Debbie had left to go to our daughters overnight so that she could be there to babysit our three grandchildren first thing in the morning.  After seeing her off on her mini-journey I made my way toward a local drug store to pick up some things I've fallen short of in my gym bag.  After I made my purchase I prepared to turn back onto the highway home and it was impossible to not take notice of the way God was putting His sun to bed. I snapped a picture of the brilliant reflections bouncing from drifting clouds.  I pulled to the side of the parking lot and just looked at what He had made.  And I wasn't impressed.  My pulse didn't beat any faster.  I didn't catch my breath.  And it took me a full minute of looking at the sky to remember how I use to feel when catching a view like this one.

And I missed the feeling.  The peace.  The joy.  The thankfulness.  I missed them.

So I am taking fourteen days and I am dedicating each of them to recapturing a bit of the glory.  The glory of God blazing its way into my heart.  I want to find Him in the unexpected places again.  I want to hear His breath when I wake in the mid-night hours.  I want to sing in worship again for a couple of weeks instead of rehearsing in my head what I am going to say from a pulpit after the song is over.  I want to look at the feet sticking out the end of my pants and find wonder in the design of God in the making of toes.  The simple things.  My grandkids grasp on my finger.  The sound of my wife's voice.  The smile of my kids who have turned into full fledged adults.  I want to be still for hours in a row and listen to my heart beat to the rhythm God tuned it to.  I want to talk to Him and know ... KNOW ... that He is listening.  Not because He said He would but because I can sense Him in my spirit.

It's a noble task.  And it is an impossible task.  It will take the Hand of God to make it happen.  And I suppose that more than anything else I want to feel the thrill of knowing that He entered into my life afresh, met me, and raised me from my fatigue.

There is no better vacation than that.

The Little Man

He was only three. Barely old enough to be able to choose what he wanted included in his happy meal. Scarcely enough experience under his belt to maybe walk beside mommy or daddy through the aisles of a grocery store instead of having to always ride in the cart. Three years old.

I'm certain he was having a great day. It was a weekend and he was at grandma's and grandpa's. Mom was there too. Every kid loves to go to his grandparents. Especially when it's hot outside and they have a pool. Mom was folding laundry and he was squirting through the house with all of the energy his little body could muster. Every parent knows that is a substantial amount of energy. Space Shuttle's have been launched on less. And so the little man was navigating the familiar surroundings like an expert helmsman steers through the familiar waters of one of his favorite ports. Life was good.

Ten minutes passed. Fifteen at the most. There were enough adults around to put all minds at rest that the little man was well cared for. Until mom noticed she had not heard him for a bit. And so she went looking. He didn't readily respond to her call and that got grandpa's attention. He joined the hunt. They looked in all of the usual places and he was not found. Quick glances under the bed and out into the yard no doubt were responsible for the shot of fear that blazed its way into grandpa's heart. No. Not possible. It couldn't be that. The little man was too smart ... to well prepared and too well schooled. He had heard the warnings and he understood them. It just couldn't be. Grandpa ran out into the backyard anyway, glanced down, and his life was changed forever. All of their lives were changed forever. The little mans body rested at the bottom of the pool.

Grandpa jumped in, pulled him out, and began CPR. His agonizing shouts had alerted mom and she dialed 911. Experts arrived but grandpa had already gotten the little man to stir. He vomited up water. A helicopter was summoned and the nearly lifeless body was flown to a bigger, better equipped hospital. He put up a valiant fight. For three days he battled. And on Independence Day, 2012, the little man drew the stuff of earth into his lungs for the last time. And he was gone.

Gone.

And so my life intersected with theirs. A funeral director searching for a minister was given my phone number. It was the kind of call you never want to receive. Surely there had to be something on my calendar. There absolutely had to be a reason to turn down the request to come and try to bring a measure of solace to the inconsolable. My calendar just glared up at me. Friday evening and Saturday. Empty blank days in the middle of a calendar that often resembles a crossword puzzle.

Given my choice I never want to see a four foot long casket again. I've seen too many. The experiences of 38 years of ministry has shown time and again that there is nothing more difficult, my trying, more draining, more breaking, more devastating than standing at an open four foot long casket and gazing inside, knowing that somehow you are going to have to explain to crushed, shell-shocked parents exactly why their child is gone. And where he is. And how God could let this happen. And what kind of a God is he anyway?

He is a good God. He is the definition of "love." He is kind. Patient. Generous. Giving. Sacrificing. Perfect and pure. But the world is broken. We live in a war zone where the prince of evil brings all of the pain and destruction that he possibly can to bear on God's people in a last ditch attempt to lash out and spew his venom from his dying fangs. Indeed it is a war zone. All too often the serpent appears to be winning.

Not so. Not so for one minute. Because the word is true.

"For we know that all things work together for the good of those who love God and are called according to His purpose." Romans 8: 28. Please pray for my new friends. They will never fully understand what has happened. Pray that the goodness of God will be whispered to them through human hands and human words, moving them toward the Heavenly Hands that hung on a cross so that they can see their little man again.

That's truly all there is. And it is truly all we need.

Better A Hero Than A Zero

I have been humbled before. In a good way and in a bad way. Sometimes I come across a person so gifted, so talented, that I am humbled as I gaze upon my own limitations. (They are plentiful. Not whining. Just being realistic.) And occasionally I have been humbled to find out that God has used me when I had no idea that He was even busy in my life.


I have been visiting a man in the hospital frequently of late. He is pretty ill. There is a whole list of things weighing him down, threatening his existence. Cancer is the main one. I hate that beast. My friend is not the type of person that engages often in deep and meaningful conversation. That is not to say he is not deep. It is simply that he chooses not to express that area of his life.

And that is why his words made me feel much like I did as a little kid when I decided to figure out what that thing on the wall was.  You know that thing.  It's two simple slots on a plastic cover.  I'll never forget the moment I decided to stick my fingernail in one of the slots and check it out.  I developed an appreciation for electricity on that day.  My friends words had the same shocking effect on me.

We had been talking about how he is feeling and the challenges he faces. Most of our conversation revolved around lousy hospital food and his inability to digest it anyway. And then I prayed with him, preparing to move along with my day. As I said, “Amen,” he looked up from his bed and said the words that are still rattling around in my brain two weeks later. “You know you changed my life, right?”

What’s this? Huh? I asked what he meant and his eyes filled with tears. I love my friend. I’m his pastor. And I know that he only tears-up when his beloved baseball team loses. But no, we were not talking baseball and yes, those were real tears in his eyes.

“Since you came to our church I’ve been listening. And because of what you have said I have started caring more about people and about God. I realized that I don’t have to be grumpy. You changed my life.”

I just don’t know how to respond to something like that. I know who I am. I’m a nothing that God made a something because of His immense love. I’m a zero that God says is priceless and He proved it by paying the price of His own Son to buy me. But I still feel and act like a zero most of the time. That’s not false humility. That’s simple honesty. And the words of my friend totally took me by surprise and made me realize one huge God-driven truth.

God turns zeros into heroes. But He only does it by His grace and when His power works through us. Left to our own devices. Zero. Surrendered into God’s Hand. Hero. That can be you. It only takes the simple walking out in obedience the truths found in the Bible. It only takes saying “Yes” to the quiet promptings of the Spirit of God whispering in our hearts.

I know the truth. Jesus changed my friends life. I just got to be the tool He did it through. How amazing is that?

Stupid Picture Chronicles #62

So as I drove down I-64 tonight approaching St Louis I came across a guy in a motorcycle. Yes indeed, he was wearing pink fishnet stockings, pink panties, and maroon boots. Just another day in the burbs...

Stupid Picture Chronicles #61

I'm not sure this was the pic-a-nic that Yogi and Boo Boo had in mind. (But you've got to love the Excedrin tablets on the same rack. Head Ache? No problem!)

I Can't Believe I'm Old Enough To Write This

As I stood in the short line recently to pay for my wonderfully refreshing mid-day beverage I eyed the young man in front of me. He might have been 8 or 9 years old. 10 at the max. He was reciting numbers to the overly bubbly worker staffing the cash register. Hmm. I had no idea what they were doing but they seemed to be on the same wavelength. I was perplexed. And then the employee turned to the lottery ticket dispensing machine.

You've. Got. To. Be. Kidding. Me.

Boy wonder had been sent into the store by mom or dad who waited outside in the car for him to return with their lottery tickets. Welcome to 2012 and the newest way to teach your kid math.

This morning, while in Missouri, I lined up behind granny and grandson. She propped herself up on a walker and had a little machine trailing along behind her. The boys job was to push the machine wherever grandma went. The machines job was to pump oxygen into her nostrils. After asking the clerk three times for the total amount of her purchase she wrote a check to pay for the twenty packs of cigarettes and the gas at the pump outside. Then she handed the bag to her servant boy and off they went.

At the risk of sounding very old and uncool ... WHAT THE HECK IS GOING ON? Did I miss something? When did stupid become the new brilliant? Seriously, do I live in a bubble or something? I never got the memo that it's now "Bizarro-Month" and we are all suppose to do the exact opposite of whatever is sane, normal, moral, and ... well ... RIGHT. I've spent a life time paying attention to kids. I did the youth pastor thing for 33 years. Then I did a stint substitute teaching. My reason for going to Missouri this morning was all about a kid. My granddaughter, The Amazing Elle, was graduating from Kindergarten and I wanted to watch her sing about her experiences to the tune of "The Theme To The Adams Family." Kids are awesome. I mean, geez, I use to be one. Admittedly I wasn't very good at it, but still.

So. There are just a few words that I would like to share with whatever part of the human race reads this part of the blogosphere. Yes, both of you. Here goes.

Spare the rod, spoil the child. Raise up a child in the way he should go and, when he is old, he will not depart from it. Clean your room. Don't hit your brother. Don't stand so close when your brother is trying to hit you. Stop running with those scissors. Keep your arms inside the car at all times. Don't spit on the sidewalk. That's your mother and you WILL respect her. The police will not think that's as funny as you do. The crust is good for you. Don't you dare light that fuse in the house. Eat your vegetables. Get those peas out of your pocket. Do your homework. Go to bed. Turn that light off. There is nothing under your bed and I'm the only monster you have to worry about.

There. Those are pretty much the only words I heard for the first 10-ish years of my life. Except for the three that matters most. I love you. And because they said all of those other words ... I believed the last three.

Give it a try. It just might work.

What Just Happened?

What just happened?

Tonight I was calling the deacon's of our church. I was running an idea I've been tossing around in my mind by each of them. I do that sometimes when an idea is beyond the norm. And so I was dialing them all up one at a time and getting their thoughts on this particular subject. There is a ministry opportunity that I think our church needs to take part in. Recently some of our small groups have participated in "The Micah 6: 8 Project." Micah 6: 8 says, "He has told you, O man, what is good; and what does the LORD require of you but to do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God?" That means we should do good works in a variety of ways. We should do them humbly and without seeking self-glory. And that's why I'm not going to tell you what the project is. Suffice it to say that it will allow us to bless some people in a truly life altering way. It will cost us. And it will be oh so worth it. Years ago I claimed Micah 6: 8 as my life's verse. I've tried to live it out ever since. And I've tried to lead my church to live it out as well.

As I was making the calls to the deacons I dialed up Don. He answered his cell phone and I said, "Is this Don?" He said that it was. And so I spent 7 minutes ... I know because I looked at my phone ... 7 uninterrupted minutes telling him about the need and how I think our church should go about meeting it. He listened quietly and only responded when I asked a specific question. At the end of my presentation I said, "So what do you think?"

"I think it is a tremendous idea. But I have to ask you ... who is Don?"

I didn't know what to say. So I said the obvious, "You are Don."

"No I'm not. My name is John. When you asked 'Is this Don,' I thought you said, 'Is this John.' That's why I said 'Yes it is.'"

I didn't know what to do. Or say. I was beyond shocked. I suppose I sputtered around sounding like the doofus that I am. And then I apologized. "John, I am so sorry! I am a pastor and I thought you were one of the deacon's at my church. I can't believe that you listened to that whole thing! Why didn't you stop me?"

John laughed. "I think what you are doing is great! Your church sounds like the kind I would like to go to."

And so I issued him an invitation to attend. I told him who we are, where we are, and that he would be very welcome.

With another chuckle he said, "I just might show up." And then he was gone.

It has been said that God takes care of children and idiots. Well, I'm not a child. But I am well taken care of.

My Poor Confused Friend

I've been kicking around a thought lately. It all originated with a post I read on Twitter. It was written by author Ann Lamont. This is what she said ... "You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should've behaved better."

I'm attempting to decide if I agree with that. And if I do are there parameters around it which should not be broken. It is a more difficult question than it might appear at first glance.

I like what she wrote. When I contemplate allowing people who have cause pain over the years to be allowed to take ownership of their acts it feels good. It feels right. I do try to own my actions. I'm quite the professional at screwing-up. I've had decades to work it into an art form. Most of my friends and family avoid hesitation when they catch me in a mess up. They absolutely adore the opportunity to bring it to light. Even more so if the mess up is intentional. Every Sunday I stand up and speak to many intelligent adults. I teach them biblical truths. I deal in theology. And I deal in the human spirit. The technical definition of "theology" might be something like "the study of God." That's a big and unwieldy statement. How do you study God? That is like a dust mite trying to study the Serta factory. It's better in theory than in practice. A more realistic definition of theology might possibly be "studying the connection of the human Spirit to God by way of the Holy Spirit and pretending to figure out God's actions and intent throughout history." Still pretty impossible, isn't it? But if, in the process of my teaching, I get it wrong there are any number of highly intelligent and biblically literate humans listening who will quickly and succinctly correct me. As they well should. I encourage them to do so. I live in great fear of speaking incorrectly about God. I have been given much and, thus, much is required of me.

So hold me accountable.

But I have this friend who has been wounded by other Christ-following believers. Really deeply wounded. It happens all of the time. And what if he has pretty much held all of that in for years. And the truth of what happened doesn't get any lighter. On the contrary, with each and every passing month his history just gets heavier and heavier. And he has a really bad taste left in his mouth from all of it. Try as he might he just can't quite put it all to bed because it's tied around him and has become a part of him. Sure, things have settled down. The wounding is historical. But the wounds themselves are still scabbed over. And the scabs keep falling off at the most inopportune times. Now that it's all history it can be left alone and everybody is happy. Except, of course, for the wounded warrior. He's moved along and is back in the thick of true spiritual victory. He's being blessed and used by his creator. Still ... there is this place. This dark place.

And along comes Ann Lamont. And she makes the bold statement, "You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should've behaved better." And my friend thinks that maybe if he takes Ann's route he will finally sleep better at night. He'll finally find a measure of relief and peace. Because it's been a long while since he truly owned those things.

I wonder what my friend does now.

Precious

I believe in life. I'm "for" it. I'm "pro" it. And I plan on hanging on for every day I can squeeze out of this ride. You need to know that before you read another word. Have you got it? Life is good and I plan on continuing it as long as possible? Got it? Good.

God whispered two nights ago and it woke me up. It has been a while since He's done that. I believe that God often speaks the most clearly at night because that is when our hearts and our minds are the most quiet. At least that is how it seems to work in my life.

If you've been paying attention (and I do not blame you if you have not) my middle name lately has been "Funeral." I think I've conducted or attended 5 in the last 2 months. Therefore it is not surprising that life and death have been on my mind. Lose a couple of friends and write a few funeral eulogies and you will understand a little more profoundly. When you stand behind a podium that is half hidden by a casket you look for things to say that will give meaning to the life of the deceased and hope to the lives of those left behind. You say things like, "He lived life to the fullest, giving everything he had to everyone he loved because life is precious." Or perhaps, "Though she is gone she would want you to continue on living life and loving one another because life is precious." True enough. And I stand behind every word.

And then God whispered.

His whisper did not change my belief in the aforementioned statements or in my "precious life" attitude. But it made me think. When God whispers it usually does that. His Words were few and they come directly from the Bible. He simply whispered Psalm 116: 15. "Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of his saints"

Death. Precious. Precious death. Really? God looks at the death of His children and to Him it is precious?

You betcha it is.

Every now and then one of my kids comes to visit. I count "my kids" as being my blood kids as well as my kids-in-law. And my grandkids too. They are all "my kids." (I'm thrilled that their inlaws treat my kids as their kids too. We are all equal opportunity parents.) When I know that my kids are coming I start praying. They may be coming from a suburb not far from mine or they may be coming from the distant reaches of suburban Chicago. Either way I pray because I want them to arrive safely. Though they have never lived in the house I reside in right now, in my mind they are coming home. My house is their house. My home, their home. And I want them there as much as possible. When they arrive it is, well, precious. Golden. Beyond special.

"Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of his saints." Could it be that God looks at me as one of His kids? And, if so, could it be that He longs for me to get Home safely? Even though I have never lived there? Furthermore, is it just possible that He stands by patiently waiting for the day when I will get home because to Him that moment will be ... precious?

Yes. Yes. And yes a third time. I am a bit slow in spirit right now because of the loss of some friends. My energy level is sagging a bit. I'm tired of burying bodies. But I've never buried a friend because my friends had shed their earthly "tent" in favor of making a precious entrance at "Home." I may have temporarily lost them but my Father has got some of His kids home at long last. To Him it is precious.

He woke me up two nights ago to remind me. And I am really glad that He did. And I wanted to remind you. Because you need to understand what death is to a child of God. It is deeply, profoundly ... precious.

A Walk To The Veil

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

Still, last night was the night.

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

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

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

"And how did that make you feel?"

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

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

THE. REAL. JESUS.

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

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

And he stopped breathing.

And he was gone.

And I had completed my task.

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

And there are no more words.

Deader Than A Hammer

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

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

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

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

Four it is.

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

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

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

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

No sign of "The Old Rugged Cross."

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

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

What to do.

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

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

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

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

Between My Ears

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

How Not To Visit The Hospital

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hooah

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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