One week ago at this moment I was at the hospital waiting for my mom to be air-lifted to a bigger and better hospital in St. Louis. I knew that she was having a heart attack. I did not know that she was dying. It took her 2.5 days to accomplish that feat. Chances are strong that she never really understood the gravity of her own situation. The last time we talked it was to share a bit of humor. Then she went to sleep. Ten hours later she was no more. Well, that isn't exactly true. She was available to me no more. To say that she was "dead" is not completely accurate. She was dead as far as this world is concerned. The part of her that I was accustomed to seeing had transformed itself into a piece of room tempreture clay. The heart that had been attacked would never beat again. Her lungs would never again hold oxygen. She immediately began the process of decay.

Still, I know that my mom lives. My faith in Jesus Christ is such that I really do not question Him. Nor do I question her trust in Him. And I believe that she is now, as I type, securely in His presence.

So why do I feel so sad? Why is there an empty place in my heart that I cannot seem to fill? For better than four years I was her care taker. I provided for her. I did not seek out her advice or her help. I am a grown, independent adult male. And yet ... I miss my mom. Is that silly? No, I mean really, is that silly? Why do I feel as though she was suppose to leave me directions on how to get through this? Wasn't she suppose to do that? If I had some sort of written directions, signed by her, about how to "get over it" maybe I could.

Instead I have to go and clean out her home one more time. I did it four years ago when my dad died. I thought that was enough. Nope. I have to sort through her belongings yet one more time. I have to decide what to keep and what to throw. And I really don't want to do that. If she is gone then why can't she just be GONE? Why do I have to keep picking up pieces of her? I do not mean to sound as though I am mad. I am just weary. It has been a terribly long year and she just put the icing on my cake.

And worst of all, it seems like everytime I pick up her stuff some of my own stuff breaks loose and falls apart. Ok, she squeezed me form her loins. She put me through diapers and listened to me scream while I was teething. Then there was school and dating and all of that adolescent stuff. I owe her. And, yes, I love her. Very much. That is exactly why it is so hard. And I just do not want it to be hard anymore.

I know that God called her home. I finished preplanning and prepaying her funeral the day before she had her heart attack. Her apartment lease is up two weeks from the date of her death. Two days after she died I decided to take her bedroom set as my own. I felt like that was maybe a wrong thing to do. That night my water bed sprung a leak. I drove my family 290 miles from our home to her grave site. We got stuck in morning rush hour traffic. Relatives delayed us when we stopped to let them follow us. We made two stops, one for gas and one for ... you know. We did not stop when we arrived in the town where she was being buried. We drove straight to the cemetary. I parked my van directly in front of her grave at 1:29PM. It was a one minute walk to her casket. The scheduled time for the mini-service was 1:30PM. What are the odds of that? It would seem that God has controlled this entire event. So it should not hurt. Right?

I guess my heart did not get the memo.

It is not just a slogan. It is a truth. God IS good. ALL of the time.

This morning at about 10:30 my mother departed planet earth and stepped into the presence of God. She and I had talked many times over the past year and she made a point of telling me that she was so ready to go Home. Those were words I needed to hear but didn't really want to hear. You know what I mean? Parents are suppose to be supermen and superwomen. It turns out that at 49 years of age I finally discovered that they are not.

Mom had a heart attack on Saturday night. It was touch and go throughout the night but by yesterday afternoon it really looked like she would "rock on" to fight another day. A phone call from an ICU doctor dashed those thoughts and we stayed at her bedside until around 1 this morning. My last words to her was to promise to vote democratic if she would just go to sleep! She smiled, closed her eyes, and was snoring minutes later. (Mom told me a couple of years ago to just get over the fact that she was a "flaming liberal" and that I would never change her. She was right! But she still knew Jesus very, very well.)

I confess that my heart is a little tender right now. My emotions a little bruised. Pastor's, it seems, are not supermen either. But I know who is. Jesus is my superman. He is my hero. He answered my prayers and took my mom from decent health, through the valley of the shadow of death, and into His presence in a very brief amount of time. We were spared the agony of long illnesses and nursing homes. What a gift! It is because of my mom that I know Jesus. When I was just a kid she became a youth worker at our church just to make sure that we had a youth ministry for her kids to be in. And so, in a sense, she taught me how to be a youth pastor as well. Dont' get me wrong. She was far from perfect. We knew all about each others warts. But we loved each other anyway.

Jesus died specifically so that today would not hurt too much. And it is only because of Him that it doesn't. It isn't my faith. It isn't my church. It isn't my family. It isn't my brilliance. It is Jesus. Life is all about Him. Today is a perspective check for me. I have looked at life and death from this side of the curtain and I have found Him worthy. If you look hard enough you will too.

My mom wanted me to tell you.

Water. Can’t live without it … can’t live with it. I’m typing this blog from my living room as I glance over the laptop screen at the weather channel. The awesome force of the wind-blown ocean as hurricane Charlie beat against the Florida coast today is scary! I called a friend of mine this afternoon. She lives in Bradenton, just up the shore from where the monster made landfall. Shannon was in my youth group in Chicago and now is a 37 year old with a masters degree and a family. She laughed as I asked if they had a basement. I guess they don’t dig basements in Florida. Shannon left Chicago and went to college in Tulsa and she settled down there with her husband some years later. They are use to tornados by the dozens. But this is something different all together! She was not too worried. After all, they had a pantry to hide in if they needed to.

Now, maybe I’m odd but I thought a pantry was for storing food. I don’t remember reading about them being hurricane proof. But if Shannon was happy, I was happy.

I received an email from her just a few minutes ago. (By the way, that is a very good sign.) They got to see the eye of the hurricane but she said it never felt like the wind blew over 40 mph. Those Okie’s are tough. All is well for Shannon and her husband. I’m grateful for that. She’s too nice to get blown all the way to Alabama.

Two weeks ago I sat on the end of a pier jutting out into Lake Superior from Madeline Island, Wisconsin. It was 11 at night and the water was calmer than calm. You had to listen closely to hear its mini-waves lap against the wooden pilings holding the pier in place. I watched some ducks swim by and then I look to the north. The sky was aglow. Hmmm. The nearest city was Duluth, Minnesota, about 60 miles to the west. What could possibly be glowing in the north? And then the glow moved. It was nearly imperceptible at first. The movement accelerated and began to change from a ghostly white to fingers of bluish gray. The “northern lights.” They reached from the northern most part of the horizon too directly overhead. I lay on the pier for half an hour, amazed at the wondrous glory of God as his sky danced brilliantly above me.

Sometimes water is calm. Sometimes water is turbulent. Just like life. Seldom do you get to determine which one it will be. Circumstance seems to interrupt our plans and knock us silly. Sickness strikes. The bills cannot be paid. The car breaks down. Without any warning your quiet seas are turned into raging storms. What to do, what to do?

After 49 years of life I only have one answer to that question that works for me. I can give it to you in two words. “Trust God.” You cannot understand life and you cannot understand Him. You cannot predict life and you cannot predict Him. But you can trust Him. He’s been around for a very long time and He has yet to drop one of His kids.

Are you facing a storm tonight? I truly hope not. But if you are, please consider turning to Him and asking Him to guide you through your seas. He’s just waiting. He might not tell the wind to stop blowing but He will certainly keep your personal “boat” afloat. Have you got a better plan? No, I didn't think so...

Who would have known? I mean, how COULD anyone have known? As we gathered our church family together on Sunday morning for worship God had made His message clear to me. It was one of those days when there was really no doubt about what He wanted me to say. The scripture we studied was Mark 5: 21 - 43. It is the story of Jairus and his very little, very sick daughter and it burned in my heart.

As the story goes, Jairus goes to Jesus and tells him that his twelve year old daughter is sick and asks if He would please come. Jairus is afraid that she is going to die and he recognizes that Jesus is the only chance she has for survival. Jesus begins to follow our friend. He is interrupted by a woman who has been bleeding for twelve years. She touches his garments and is healed. A brief conversation ensues and then they continue on to the home of Jairus ... where his daughter has already died. When Jesus arrives He goes to the little girls room, commands her to get up, and she returns to life. Everybody is astonished. Now THAT is the understatement of the year.

How good is God anyway? Is He good enough to show up when we hurt? Is He good enough to follow us home? Is He good enough to raise our children from the dead?

Very. Yes. Yes. Yes.

This morning, very early, death visited the home of another precious young girl. Many of us knew her. Jennifer Smith was 18 years old. Her father is Mike Smith. She lived with her mother and step father in Rosewood Heights and just finished her freshman year at SIUE. She attended the First Assembly of God in Wood River on a regular basis. She also attended our church many times. She frequented Centrifuge with our youth group. Jennifer Smith was my friend. Her smile made me smile. Her laughter made me laugh. I cannot ever remember being sad when Jennifer was in the room. Sometime during the night Jennifer stopped breathing. They believe it was a result of her diabetes. At least that was the physical cause. The real truth is something that only God's children can understand.

Jesus came to Jennifer's house last night. He went into her room. He told her to get up. And she returned to life ... but this time the life He restored was the same life that Jesus Himself enjoys. Real life. Eternal life. A life of perfection in a body of perfection. Jennifer left her father's house and went to live in her Father's house. Today was a day when heaven won one of its greatest victories.

Jennifer Smith was all set to go on a mission trip to an Indian reservation in South Dakota next week. Yesterday her dad prayed over her and anointed her with oil for her journey. He thought he was anointing her for her journey to another state. Only God knew that he was anointing his daughter for the journey to Heaven. When Jesus called the daughter of Jairus back from the dead ... back into her bedroom ... that was a miracle. But that little girl faced death again sometime later. Hopefully years later. When Jesus called Jennifer back from the dead it was a permanent calling. There is no greater miracle. There is no greater reason to worship Him.

Peace to your heart...

I remember Kevin when he was about 14 years old. He had been rushed to the hospital with his appendix in trouble. As they did surgery to remove this little organ ... it burst. This, as you know, is not good. He was a very sick young man for a long time. He scared us. You can die from a burst appendix.

Well, Kevin did not die. He got well and went on to resume his junior high and then high school career. He married a lovely young woman named Jenny. Together they have produced two great kids. Life was good.

And then the government called. He got the message 15 months ago. He did what all good soldiers do. He responded by packing up his stuff and hitting the road. Kevin is a good looking, strong young man. He is the quiet type. But that trait belies what resides deep within him. Because deep inside my friend Kevin ... he is a hero.

He is at home tonight. He is safe and sound. His children are down the hall. His wife is in his arms. And Kevin ... Kevin is not in Iraq. For the first time in a long time he is home. It was good to see him this afternoon. Good to stand in his front yard waving an American flag as he pulled into the driveway. Good to hug him and tell him that I love him and am glad he is safe. Good to put my hands on his hard shoulders and pray a prayer of thanksgiving for his safety. It was just all good.

Welcome back, Kevin. Thank you for doing the job. Thank you for laying it on the line to protect my family and I. Glad to have you home, my friend.

Justice comes in the most unexpected ways. At the most unexpected times. But it does come.

Several years have passed since that Wednesday night. I walked from the Fireside Building, across the parking lot and into the courtyard of the church. As I approached the main entrance he stopped me. A middle-aged man like me. He was drinking from a can of Sprite. I don't remember what he asked me but a question was posed. I told him that I did not know the answer but that I would try to remember to research the issue when I got home. That's when he did it. Without even pausing he took the semi-filled can of Sprite and poured it down my shirt. "There. Now when you get home that will remind you so that you don't forget." He looked at me. I can clearly remember the thoughts that flashed through my head. I am not ashamed of them. I was thinking what any sane man would think. I will not tell you. Simply use your imagination. You will most certainly be correct. On the other hand, no thoughts were going through his head. He didn't have a brain. You cannot think without a brain. He was living proof. I did not say a word. I glared. I stepped to the side and walked around him. We never spoke of the incident again. We seldom spoke again at all. I was pleased with that arrangement.

I saw him again yesterday. It has been well over a year since we had crossed paths. He has left our church. But I came across him in a combination gas statiion/convenience store. I was entering and he was exiting. We caught each others eye. He spoke first. It was a tame and suitable greeting. I returned it. He was drinking from a plastic cup from the fountain soda area. As I asked how he was doing, he turned the bottom of the cup upward to take a drink. He missed his mouth. It was only a slight miscalculation on his part. But it was enough. The soda leaked out from around his lips and ran down his shirt. He looked down with disdain.

I looked up. Beyond the ceiling. Beyond the sky. Beyond the stars. And i winked. I stepped around him and walked on.

Justice comes in the most unexpected ways. At the most unexpected times. But it does come.

I think I've said this before. It's time that I said it again. I do not vacation well. I appreciate the time off. And I know that I need it. I just ... don't know what to do with it.

Take today for instance. I got up. It was 8:15. That's not overtly late for a guy on vacation. I'll try to do better tomorrow. I showered. I fought the dog. The dog lost. I got a scratch and she got put in her cage. Score one for humans. I went and indulged in an early vanilla coke. When I arrived back home it was raining. Actually, it was RAINING. (There is a difference.) I sat in my favorite chair and had some quiet time alone with God. Best part of the day. Then I went with Scott to Missouri Baptist University and attended a class with him. This was my first college class since December of 1982. Long time coming. I enjoyed it but I also remembered why I was glad to graduate. I had supper with Scott, Kelli, and Joe. Nothing fancy. Just Jimmy Johns. I came home. I sat. I went to work out. I went to my moms and delivered hot chocolate and her meds for tomorrow. I came back home. And here I am.

That isn't a bad day. It's just ... a day. Nothing special or out of the ordinary. I guess that is what I think is wrong. There was no REASON. I've always felt like days are suppose to have a reason for existing. Somewhere I learned that. On closer examination I suppose it's stupid to feel that way. But I do.

I'll work on that and get back to you. Ok, so this was a waste of a blog. Sorry. I'm in a funk. Not sure why. I'll work on that too.

Ok, now I think I get it. Finally, I get it. The difference between being a "Youth Pastor" and a "Real Pastor." I've been wondering for years. Now I know.

A youth pastor can have weird things in his office and people love it.

A real pastor has to have an office that convinces people that he knows what he's talking about.

A youth pastor gets to eat pizza after school everyday with teenagers and people think he's doing his job.

A real pastor has to take people someplace where you don't get your own napkins out of a dispenser or order your meal at the counter.

A youth pastor enters late for worship and everybody thinks you were ministering to a kid.

A real pastor enters late for worship and everybody thinks you didn't have your sermon done yet.

A youth pastor says "I don't know" and everybody thinks he'll figure it out and then get "his own church."

A real pastor says "I don't know" and everybody wonders how he got "his own church."

A youth pastor has to care how much money is left in the years youth budget.

A real pastor has to care how much money was in the offering today.

ON THE OTHER HAND....

A youth pastor has to act his age and understand theirs.

A real pastor has to act his age and let other people understand theirs.

A youth pastor has to show up with plans for 50 or 5 because you don't know how many will be there.

A real pastor teaches the same thing to 500 or 5 because you are speaking to individuals instead of having to win the attention of a crowd.

A youth pastor takes kids to summer camp and people assume it is your vacation.

A real pastor shows up for 3 days at summer camp and people think it's great that he cared enough to go all the way down there to support the youth ministry

A youth pastor has to know when a cool word ceases to be cool and what word replaced it.

A real pastor has to know what "propitiation" means.

A youth pastor has to play games with kids.

A real pastor gets to play games with a youth pastors head.

And so, after careful consideration, I figure it's a wash. Neither is better. It's all about hearing God and doing what He says. I like it.

It is all about blood. Blood. How many slasher movies have been made since the birth of the film industry? I do not know. I do not care. They are mindless and dangerous. But this movie ... this blood ... it is different. Very different.

I watched "The Passion of the Christ" in a special preview at Willowcreek Community Church on Tuesday. It's a little project paid for, produced, and directed by Mel Gibson. Mel was actually in the house. He got interviewed by Pastor Bill Hybles. But he got shown up by Jesus.

Bloody Jesus. Beaten Jesus. Broken Jesus. It has been two days since I watched this film and I am still processing it mentally. I did not like it. I could not take my eyes off of it. I hated every minute of it. It held me spellbound. I knew how it ended before it started. I was breathless, waiting to see what would happen next. Jesus did not just die on a cross for me. He was murdered. Brutally. Laughing, gloating, bullying centurians beat him to an unrecognizable pulp. And then they didn't even have the courtesy to carry him to his death. They made him carry himself ... and his cross. He couldn't do it alone. He had to have help. God needed help. Some guy was chose, seemingly at random, and it changed his life forever. He didn't want to go near Jesus and then he fell in love with Him.

And then there was evil. It was named Satan. He is a snake. He is a person. He is hatred incarnate. I hate him more now than I did before I saw "The Passion." "Hate" really is not an adequate word. I detest him. Even that word does not do it. There is no word. He plays a minor role in the movie. Because, you see, as Jesus pointed out, no man takes His life from Him. He lays it down willingly. Satan was the pawn of Jesus. He was just too stupid to know it.

I will go to see this movie again. And probably again. And maybe one more time. I cannot get it out of my mind. It was too vivid. Too real. I needed to see this movie because I had forgotten the truth. Without the shedding of blood there is no remission of sin. It was only a movie. The real thing had to be far worse than even this. I cannot imagine. I do not want to.

I had an appointment with "my psychiatrist" this week. Yes, friends, I go to a psychiatrist. I've been doing so for neigh onto three years now, since my little 'bout with adrenaline exhaustion. He likes to keep track of me. He has to because he addicted me to medications. Oh, he denies it but it's true. He says you don't get "addicted" to this stuff. You become "dependent" on it. Oh. Thanks for clearing that up. All I know is that when I don't pop the pill the room spins and my equalibrium is ... less than equal. He says I don't really "need" it anymore. The under lying sickness is long gone. So why do I keep taking it? Good question. I keep taking it because everytime I try to STOP taking it somebody in my life (usually me) does something stupid and launches stress grenades in my direction. And when those things go off you don't want to be dizzy and disoriented, my friend. Trust me.

Anyway, about this psychiatrist. What a trip. You think I'm crazy? You should meet this guy. He's about 55 years old. He has a wall full of diploma's. He has an office full of receptionists and assistants. He has an address in a very nice neighborhood. He also has a pony-tail. And a Harley. And well over 200 frogs. In his office. Stuffed frogs, crystal frogs, plaster frogs, embroidered frogs, painted frogs. You name the frog and chances are very good that he has it.

But the frogs don't really bother me. I guess a psychiatrist can be obsessive/compulsive too, can't he? I mean, I'm a pastor and I preach against sin ... but I'm still a sinner. So why can't a psychiatrist be a little nuts? Frogs are relatively harmless in the over all scheme of things.

It's the pony tail. And the Harley. And the hint of leather in his clothing. That bothers me. He showed me his picture this week. He was in the middle between two guys who are most definately either Hells Angels or he just chipped them out of arctic ice as relics from the last onrushing glacier. They all wore funny helmets. I recognized them from my father's old WWII pictures. They are just like nazi helmets.

My psychiatrist wears a nazi helmet. His pony tail sticks out the back. He prescribes my medication. And then I go to church and hundreds of people look to me for spiritual guidance. They get out of bed way too early on Sunday morning just to hear me speak about God. Think about that for a minute. Or maybe ... don't.

I had a Christian counselor a few years ago too. He's out of the business now. These days he drives a route delivering cookies to little quick-mart type gas stations. He doesn't have a pony tail. He has a buzz cut and his eyes are crossed. Really. I saw him this week. I bought him lunch. That's when I noticed it. He has these piercing blue eyes and their gaze intersects about 8 inches out in front of his head. I do not remember them doing that when he was my counselor. I suppose it could be my fault. I am pretty hard on doctors and counselors.

My dentist does not like me. He did a root canal on me about 18 months ago. He didn't use any pain killer. Oh, he gave me a shot. But it did not work. I kept raising my hand like he told me to do if it hurt. I assumed that meant he would give me another shot. I have come to realize that it only increased his sadistic pleasures. He lives to see grown men raise their hand. He would pat me on the leg and tell me to hang on because he was almost done. Then I tried raising my head up really, really, quickly everytime he would hit a nerve ... which was constantly. Because it was, after all, root canal. Finally, I tried lifting my entire body off of the chair at once. I didn't do it on purpose. It was totally involuntary. He drilled and I flew. When he finished he told me that I was proof that he could do root canal without any pain killers. I tried to snarl but I could only manage to drool.

I am not sure what the point of any of this is. I am not stretching the truth on any of it. My regular MD is a great guy. He's about 72 years old and should have retired long ago. He could own his own beach home in Maui. He likes to help people though so he keeps working. I suppose that somehow he balances the others out. I like going to my MD. No pony tail. No nazi helmet. His eyes are straight. He doesn't hurt me. He alone gives me faith in the medical community.

Well, I just thought I needed to put those things into print. If I come up dead after a psychiatrist appointment or a dentist appointement ... call somebody. Like the International Enquirer.

I had forgotten just how cold "negative 9" is. It's pretty chilly. I had also forgotten what 7 inches of snow feels like under the tires of a rear wheel drive car. It feels pretty chilling. This is typically called, "Winter in Chicago." It has been 20 years since I lived there and you know what? I realized this year that I still miss it. There is something oddly invigorating about walking outside in the morning and hearing crusted-over snow crunch under your boots. There is an amazing feel to the unusual whine your car engine makes when it starts and it is that cold outside. Well ... IF it starts when it is that cold outside. Mine did. But I also saw a late model sedan being towed from the hotel parking lot. It was a foriegn job. I smiled in the direction of Detroit.

Chicago in the winter. I enjoyed my forays into the outside world. But I admit that I enjoyed it best as I viewed it from the glass enclosed hot-tub-by-the-pool in the rear of the hotel. Outside and across the street was a huge office building. The sign glowing from the top said, "Zurich." I don't think they were referring to the city. I believe there must be a company by that name. I'll bet they make something really neat. Something really Scandinavian. I wonder what it is. I invaded the hot tub 3 times in 4 days.

Nobody entered the hot tub/pool room any of the times I was there. I owned the place. That was good because I invited Jesus to come and sit with me in the tub. I went to Chicago simply to get away from life for a few days. Reality sometimes really does bite. Lately it has bitten more than usual. So I ran away. I used my trusty "AAA" card to get a killer rate. I made an appointment to talk to a man that is suppose to be much wiser than I am. Just to get his view of things. But mainly I spent hours upon hours in my room alone. The TV was a big "no-no." I turned it on 3 times in my days there. Never for more than 15 minutes in any one stretch. TV tends to distract one from reality. I didn't need distractions.

So it was me, my bible, my headphones with praise music attached, and ... when it pleased Him to come ... Jesus. Actually, I guess it would be more accurate to say "The Holy Spirit." But I'm claiming the "I and my Father are One" rule and I'm calling this wonderful presence "Jesus." He was kind enough to sit with me until nearly 2AM my first night there. We hashed out some really hard things. It got loud once or twice. Ok, I got loud once or twice. He listened and then responded in that still, small voice that so characterizes Him. I have learned that in our conversations, if there is a scream it is probably me. If it is a whisper it is probably Him. If there is silence it is probably for a reason. Silence is good when you are sitting with Jesus. Most people do not know that. It took me 40-something years to learn it. Silence means that He is just present and is enjoying being with you. It is good when God enjoys being with you.

On my last night in the big city I attended the mid-week worship service at Willowcreek. I have officially declared Willow my "church away from church." Every pastor needs one of those. It's a place where you can go and worship and not be expected to lead or talk or be wise. You can just sit, sing if you want, listen, pray if you want, and leave quietly without anybody caring or waiting at your office door. At Willow you can get lost among about 4,000 people and they will just assume that you belong there. You can wear jeans at any time. They don't care if you want to sit alone but they will make room for you if you want to sit with them.

That is where it got interesting for me this time around. I sat alone. I arrived about 20 minutes before the service and found a seat to the far right and about 8 rows up from the stage. I was the first person in the row so I sat on the inside aisle. After a few minutes a 30-something woman asked if the seats next to me were saved. I said, "nope." She went around, entered the row, and sat one seat removed from me. The remain seats filled quickly except for the one between us.

The praise and worship singing began. It was AWESOME. You can't beat singing along with 4,000 people. About 10 minutes into this time a man tapped my shoulder and motioned toward the empty seat. I stepped back to show that it was available and allow him access. The woman to my right slid over into that seat and he slipped past both of us and sat in the seat she had been in.

Hmmmm. I made notice of that but really didn't think anything of it. I figured the guy on the other side of her must have really smelled bad. The singing finally ended, Pastor Hybles spoke, he finished speaking, and we all stood to leave. One of us started a conversation. I don't remember who or what it was about. But we stood and talked for a few minutes. It seems that she and her husband had moved to the area over a year ago. They had lived in the Memphis area. Since coming to Barrington, (the suburb,) they had failed to find a church that was "a fit" for the two of them and their children. She mentioned that her Memphis church had been a big Baptist one. I simply said, "Bellvue?" She said yes. They had gone to the mega-Southern Baptist Church pastored by Adrian Rodgers. Cool. We talked about that for a minute then she said that her husband had come to Willow the week before and stayed home with the kids on this night so that she could try it. She said she liked it but was concerned that it might be overly charasmatic. She asked me what "we" believed.

That's when it happened. I told her that I didn't belong to Willowcreek. I told her that I was a Southern Baptist Pastor from St. Louis and I just attend Willow when I'm in town. That is when the floodgates broke. She poured out her desperation to find a church for her children to grow up in. She wanted them to learn the truth of scripture in a place that was vital, dynamic, and Christ centered. She was afraid such a place might not exist there.

I became a pastor. I explained how Willowcreek works. I told her about their smallgroups and how you become a member by attending them and eventually getting sponsored for membership by them. I told them that Baptist churches and Willowcreek agree on most everything. I said that if I lived there and was not a pastor myself it is exactly where I would join. She seemd relieved. She WAS relieved. What this dear lady needed was to have someone who shared her "SBC roots" tell her that it was ok ... even right ... to join this church. It was not too good to be true at all. I then walked her to the information booth where I introduced her to someone I did not know myself. She was a woman volunteer. She immediately took my new friend under her wing and began answering her questions. I tapped the visitor on the shoulder, extended my hand, and found it full of hers. As I shook it I told her that I was glad to have helped and that I would be praying that she and her family would settle where God wanted them. With tears still in her eyes she thanked me.

As I walked off into the night I thought I heard her ask the volunteer, "Who was that masked man?" The volunteer replied, "I don't know ... but he left this silver bullet." Ok, you have to be relatively old to get that joke. Nevermind.

I left feeling good. I felt like I had done something just because it was the right thing to do. Our own attendance and offering would not be affected one bit by my actions. I had nothing to gain. It was just ... right. It was still cold outside and the snow still crunched. But I didn't need the hot tub when I got back to the hotel. I was alread warm inside.

Maybe it's just me. Today seemed more like Christmas than Christmas did. I didn't have to cook anything. (We served Chicago style deep dish pizza for Christmas dinner this year. The kids asked for it. It felt odd ... but tasted great. I missed the stuffing though.) I didn't have to wrap anything. I didn't have to help set a nice table or worry about getting all of the used wrapping paper up off of the floor.

No, today I just was. I slept late. 9:40. That is a good way to celebrate Christmas. Do you think Jesus would sleep late on His birthday? I think He would. Then I played with "Bailey The Killer Beagle." We got in the car and I introduced her to life in a Mustang. I think it's going to be fun with her in there next summer when the top is down. I can see her long ears flopping in the breeze now. It's a match made on ... Christmas. After that we went and had lunch with an former youth group teenager who is now a youth pastor himself. I watched as he and his wife coped with their two small children and tried to eat lunch. They reminded me of my own life 15 years ago. What a gift. It felt a bit like ... Christmas. Let's see. Then we came home and did a little more of nothing. That was a gift to ourselves. A gift like you give on ... Christmas. We ate dinner. It consisted of leftover pizza from yesterday and a wonderful deli tray brought by a dear friend two days ago. It was her way of saying ... "Merry Christmas." Finally, I went to the gym and worked out while Debbie did whatever Debbie does when I am not around. At the gym I ran my 1.5 miles and did a few weight machines. I talked to a friend from church and then slid into the hot tub where a man that I don't know told me about Jesus. I listened. I let him tell me. It was the story of ... Christmas.

Yeah, I'll take today over yesterday. Yesterday I went to bed tired. Tonight I'm going to bed happy. Happy because today ... finally ... it was Christmas.

Now that I am the official "Teaching Pastor" at FBC I am learning all sorts of new things. Like for instance ... oh ... this person mentioned today that I am speaking out of Luke 2 during the month of December. They noted that they have heard many sermons out of Luke 2 previously this time of year. Yeah. Well. Is this a shocker to anybody? It is Christmas, after all. Does anybody really expect me to teach out of the book of Job to celebrate the birth of the Christ Child? I'm thinking the deacons or the leadership team might want to talk to me about that. Luke 2 it is. Deal with it.

And then there is the whole counseling thing. I'm a lousy counselor. My wife disagrees but she is wrong. I really am bad at it. It's not that I don't care about people or their problems. I do. I just think that most problems would, you know, go away if people would just pay attention. It isn't that hard. Now some people have REAL problems and they really need advice. And I wanna be there for them. If I can't help, by golly, I'll find somebody who can. But some people ... I mean, come on. Life DOES come with an instruction book, you know. That is what the Bible is. Read it, for cryin out loud. It might answer your questions. And if it doesn't ... well ... why don't you ask God about it? He's a lot bigger and smarter than I am anyway. So go ahead and ask Him first. It isn't exactly a toll call. If God chooses not to answer then you probably shouldn't expect too much out of me either. But if you think He's answering and you just can't hear Him or figure out what He's saying, maybe I'm your man. I hear pretty good. God doesn't speak that loudly but I've finally learned to shut-up and listen-up. It took me 47 years to manage that. But I finally think I have got it down pretty well. Somedays better than others, of course. But that's the key. Shut-up and listen. As a matter-of-fact, that is the key to much of life. It's right up there with "read the instructions" and "chew 15 times before swallowing." Have you noticed that most old advice is good advice? There is a reason why it has lasted so long.

Ok, well, that's about it. I stepped in Beagle doo-doo twice today. Once with each foot. It happened about 5 minutes apart. The net result is that I have clean feet, chapped hands, and the dog is in bed early. I'm learning to stare at the carpet while I walk and she is learning how to get locked-up ahead of schedule. It could be a long 15 years.

Aww, geez. (It seems that I'm using that exclaimation more and more lately.) I just noticed that it is December 18. That means one week from right now we will be celebrating ... Christmas. The birthday of our Lord and Savior. And actually I am just a little bit jealous. Seven days before His birth He didn't have to worry about gifts and ornaments and parties. All He had to do was lay there, absorb nutrients from His mother, and sleep. Can you picture that? God sleeping inside of a human tummy? (Ok, womb. Don't you dare get technical on me.)

Contrast that to the situation I am facing today. I have not entered a shopping mall since, ohhhhhh, October. October? Yeah, I think I picked up some kind of halloween trick to use on the person I share "the big bed" with. She didn't laugh. Another ten bucks down the drain.

The point is this. I haven't purchased any Christmas gifts yet. None. Zero. Santa's bag is empty. And I have one week left. And my calendar is not "shopper friendly." What ever happened to those services that you paid to go out and shop for you? Are they still out there somewhere? How do you find them in the phone book? Are they listed as "Shop for You" in the yellow pages? Or maybe, "I'll Bail Your Lazy Butt Out You Bum?" I need those people now. Still, Bethalto is not a hot bed of cutting edge societal evolution. The closest thing we have to a coffee shop is McDonalds. God help you if you want hot cider with a hit of cinnamon or carmel. Back to the point ... no gifts.

Oh, wait. I did make one purchase! I got what the kids wanted the most. (By the way, the "kids" are 18 and 21. But how do you say "I got what the mini-adults wanted?) I was tripping through Petsmart one week ago today and happened across a woman pushing a shopping cart full of ... Beagles. Baby Beagles. All of them were sold, save one. She was the runt of the litter. She looked so sad ... her face wrinkled and her tail quivering. I looked at my wife. She sighed. I bought the dog. She is now known as "Bailey the Killer Beagle." The only thing she has killed thus far would be dust mites in the carpet. She has drown her fair share of them. No, not with drool. There are other ways a puppy puts moisture in the carpet. Don't ask.

Now that the adult-kids have a dog they don't seem so anxious to claim her as a Christmas present. Ha! Like they are going to get away with that. Not happening. I'm tying a red ribbon around Bailey's little neck and hanging her from the Christmas tree on Christmas morning. I might use a "noose knot" if she doesn't stop killing the dust mites.

Well, it feels good to be blogging again. Hope somebody is still out there reading. Either way, I have to go now. The malls are opening but there is no time on my calendar for it until tonight. Maybe I'll pick-up a parakeet.

Nah.

Well, blogger fans. It has been way too long since anything has been posted here. Since October 27 (the last post) the world has changed. If you know me personally you are aware of that. I hope you won't give up on this spot and I long to begin recording history for posterity sake in this little corner of the web. Be patient. check back occasionally when the urge hits.

Can't wait for sanity to reign supreme once again...

I almost killed a nun last week. That's right. A nun. I suppose the story requires some explaination. Here's the best I can do.

I am currently on vacation. Two weeks. Actually 15 days but who's counting? (I am.) I decided that I need to get away. I felt the call to silence. The call to solitude. All I really wanted was to spend some time alone with God. Is that a bad thing? Is that asking too much? I think not. So I mounted my Mustang and drove to Villa Maria. This is a truly wonderful retreat center/convent owned by the Ursaline Sisters. In other words ... nuns. It is about an hour southeast of Minneapolis. I have been there twice before for youth pastor retreats led by Youth Specialties. This time I was going it alone. I soon learned that I was the only guest on the premises. Cool. That, my friend, is the route to silence and solitude. There are about 50 guest rooms and I mine was the only one filled. Just me and a handful of nuns. Selah.

Things got interesting as soon as I arrived. It was about 9:15PM last Tuesday, October 21. One little nun waited up late for me to arrive. You see, they usually hit the hay at 9PM. But the call to be a nun is a call to sacrifice and this wonderful little sister waited up for me to arrive. She took me to my room.

Oh my. I have always stayed in rooms on the upper floors before. Those rooms are very sparsely appointed. Each has a bed, a chair, a desk, a dresser, and a sink. The bath is down the hall. But tonight, since I was the only person there, they gave me the premium accomodations. That means I got my own potty. Sweet. But I almost choked when she led me to my room. There was only one way in. In order to get there you have to go through the sanctuary. I'm not a catholic. But I know enough to realize that they take their sanctuaries very, very seriously. They have little coin boxes at the back. As we entered the sister knelt and crossed herself. I removed my baseball cap. She stood and led me down the aisle and onto the stage. Huh? We went past the communion table, past the harp, and made a hard left at the candlestand. There we went through another doorway and into the sancricity. I'm not sure what this room was really for but it was sure scarey enough. A short walk across the sancricity brought us to three guest rooms. They were named. There was peace, hope, and faith. I got peace. I had hoped that I would. I even had faith that I would. It was peace for me. My sister friend took her leave of me and returned to her own room hidden deeply within the bowls of this castle-like structure. I went and got my luggage and made myself at home ... 50 feet from the altar.

Fast forward. Friday evening, October 24. The sun has gone down and the dark, Minnesota night has fallen hard. It's more than cool. It is totally crisp. Very fall like. Most of the leaves have faded to a deep brown and some have even taken their suicide plunge to the forest floor. I have been walking, wandering through the countryside across the maze of trails for a couple of hours. It's a great way to talk with the Creator of the Universe ... walking through it and checking out his handiwork. We had a nice walk and a nice talk. It was nearing 10PM when I arrived back at the front door of Villa Maria. I had been given the numerical code to punch into the key pad. This unlocked the front door and allowed me inside.

The nuns were well asleep by now. I owned the place. But there was not a lot to do to entertain myself. It is, after all, a convent. Only dim lights burned in the lobby. I climbed the marble steps and made my way to the entrance of the sanctuary. The wood framed glass doors were closed. I made a mental note of this oddity. I do not think I had ever seen them closed before. No big deal though. I pulled on the handle and they opened easily enough. Inside the sanctuary it was even darker than it was in the moonless night outside. At least there were a million stars out there to shed a bit of light on my path. In here there was a single candle burning steadily at the very back of the altar area. I was, in effect, blind. I felt for the first pew and found it with my left hand. From that point it was easy to find the second pew and the third and so on until I reached the front of the seating section. It was blacker than ever now. I pointed myself toward the candle and began to shuffle my feet ... moving slowly forward without lifting them off of the floor. I continued on this way until my toes found the first step. I knew that there were two steps leading to the stage platform. I took them one at a time and then I began moving to my left. I also knew that just before I reached the wall I should find a large harp. I had never actually touched a harp before. My hands found it quickly. My first thought was to see if I could rip off a few chords of "Dueling Banjo's." For once I made a right decision and resisted the temptation. I reached out again and found the wall behind the harp. Almost home free now. Just follow the wall to the right until I feel the doorway. I moved so slowly. By now I was near enough to the single glowing candle that I could actually make out vague shapes in the immediate area. The first thing I noticed was an area that was blacker than the rest of the room. I guessed correctly that this was the doorway. The fingers of my right hand reached out and curled around the door jam. I took one final step in that direction and paused, preparing to step into the darkest place I had been all evening . Remember, this is being done by a man that had just completed a walk in the woods without a flashlight in rural Minnesota. My walk had taken me through a cemetary of deceased nuns. They are buried in circles ... facing outward. I do not have the slightest idea why. But this room was about to redefine "dark." I clearly remember telling my right foot to get up and get in there ... when I glanced down. Down to my feet. Down to the floor. Down in the dimmest of light. Down at the head of a nun resting 6 inches from my Nike. DOWN AT THE HEAD OF A NUN RESTING 6 INCHES FROM MY NIKE! DOWN AT THE HEAD OF A NUN RESTING 6 INCHES FROM MY NIKE!!! I didn't think. I didn't act. I REacted. I plunged through the doorway into the pit of the sancricity. I glanced back. The sanctuary looked positively glowing in comparison. Laying between the glowing candle and my present position was the body of a nun, facedown on the floor of the stage in the sanctuary. Her nose was actually pointed into the floor. Her body formed the perfect shape of a cross. She was praying? She was sleeping? She was dead? I have no idea. I do not have any desire to know. My heart rate was breaking all of the laws of physics. It was located in my throat and it's speed was absolutely unhealthy for a 48 year old man. I trusted my memory of the room having a clear path from door to door and I relatively cannoned myself toward the next dark hole. I hit the light switch. I was in love. No, not with the decor. Certainly not with the nun behind me. I was in the room "Love." AAARRRGGGHHH. I turned the light off and moved one room to the left, pounced on the switch, closed the door and collapsed on the bed. Peace. At last. Peace.

I confess that I did not sleep well that night. I also did not leave my room until long after sun up. When I finally peeked my head out the doorway I had my luggage in my hand. I walked across a clear stage ... no sign of last nights fiasco. I passed by the nun/innkeeper's desk and dropped $100 on it. She stuttered something about my leaving a day early. I stuttered back that she should keep the change. Luggage met Mustang. Mustang met highway.

It has been 50 hours now since my run-in with the phantom nun of Villa Maria. Who was she? What was she doing there long after her bed time? Didn't she know that a poor, tired, stressed out, pastor seeking only solitude and silence would be making his way through the doorway by her head when she lay down there? Did she know that she would be the catalyst of my early departure from her convent? I do not know. I will never know.

As I turned into my driveway later, after the next moonless night had fallen, I took another walk. This one was across my neighbors front lawn. I knocked on his door. On my way home I had recieved a phone call that Chris, his wife, had died. He wanted to know if I would do her funeral. Of course I will. Bob and Chris have been my neighbors for 10 years now. I knew that Chris had not been healthy. He thought he was going to lose her several times in the past months but she always had a way of bouncing back. Not this time. My first walk began at a cemetary. My next walk will end at a cemetary. Vacations can be odd things. Some people go to the mountains. Some go to the beach. I go to convents and cemetaries. I really need to rethink the way I handle my free time.

I hate baseball. I've had days to think about it now. I didn't even have the energy to watch the Rams win today. The Cubbies just broke me. I did watch the news tonight and saw ... at the world series, in the stands ... Dusty Baker. Yup. The manager of the Cubs. He seemed happier than I feel about the past week.

So I officially hate baseball. We'll see what spring brings. But at the moment I'm thinking it's gonna be really, really, tough getting "up" for it.

I don't believe in the curse of the goat. I just believe in physics.

It's physics. Plain and simple. It's like gravity. You can fight it but it wins. It always wins. There is this place deep inside of me that knew it all along. You cannot beat it. It is just going to be that way.

The Chicago Cubs can never, ever win the pennant. Ever. Not in my lifetime. Probably not in the remaining history of the planet.

5 outs. They were 5 outs from the World Series. It was not the Florida Marlins they were battling. It was ... physics. It wasn't an exuberant fan down the left field line that grabbed a playable ball. It wasn't a botched grounder to short. It was the laws of the universe. That poor guy could no more have grabbed that ball and turned a double plan than Niagra Falls could reverse it's flow. You cannot beat the laws of physics. I know. I tried. I begged. I pleaded. I wore every piece of Cubs clothing I own. I was abolutely layered. I went out into my backyard barefoot. I looked up through my trees at the stars God has planted in the sky. I asked him ... out loud ... "Please, Sir. Just once. Just this one time. Please." I went back inside to the horror of the 8th inning. And God said, "No."

It isn't the Cubs fault. They are a very good team. They deserve better. It isn't the city. It isn't the fans. It isn't the curse of a billy goat. It's just the law. I don't know why it is that way. It just is. The sun will come up tomorrow. The snow will eventually fall. The Grand Canyon will be there. The Cubs will weave back and forth season after season. They will sometimes come close. Maybe even closer than 5 outs. But they will never win it all. Never.

Do not gloat Cardinal fans. It isn't you. It isn't that you have a better team than we do. It isn't a battle of cities. It isn't even a battle of fans. You are just observing a phenomenon. It's much like the eclipse of the sun. It's just the way it is. When you beat us you can be happy. When we beat you we can be happy. But you can expect to win the big one. We can't.

It's physics.

TOP TEN REASONS WHY I AM WORRIED

1. The Cubs. 'Nuff said.
2. I have become addicted to Taco Bell's "Zesty Chicken Bowl" ... and now it occurs to me ...Zest is soap.
3. I start 2 weeks vacation at 4PM on Friday. Something is going to screw it up.
4. I'm craving a dog again.
5. They just told me that my broken wedding ring can be fixed but it won't stay that way because of ... chlorine. Nobody told me that you shouldn't wear gold in a hot-tub or pool. Now I have to choose a new ring. I'm not very good at that.
6. For the first time since June 2000 I have felt "normal" for an entire month. No dizzyness. No extreme fatigue. No disorientation. It can't last...
7. The St. Louis Bread Company keeps running out of Cinnamon Crunch Bagels before 6PM. They aren't taking this seriously enough.
8. I take more pill every day than Ashley Brown.
9. I got "dog bit for Jesus" in July and it still hasn't healed.
10. The Cubs. 'Nuff said.

Keys are important. They open doors. They unlock locks. They allow us into an “inner sanctum” denied to all but a few. If you own one of these sacred places and you want another key, no problem. You take your original key down to the hardware store, drop a couple of bucks on the counter, and they make you a new and identical one. Sometimes they even work. But if they don’t you just keep going back and they keep re-trying until eventually they get it right. This is one of the cool things about living in America. You can get your own place and only people that you want inside can get inside. And you can get them in cheaply.

This “law of the land” has been violated. My Mustang key cost $85.00. Each. I own three. I actually had to NEGOTIATE extra keys into the price of the car. How absurd is that? I use to negotiate on air conditioning or reclining seats. Those things now come as standard features. But if you want a new key … you have to deal.

You see, they put a special computer chip in these keys. When you put your key in the ignition something with mystical, magical, powers knows that chips is there. The engine is allowed to start. If you make a key without the chip it will only cost you maybe $2.00. But that key will only open the door. No way will it start the engine. No chippie chippie … no go-ee, go-ee. It’s called a “passive theft deterrent.” I think that is a good name for them. Passive thieves will no longer steal your car. They will not be bothered wasting time busting open your window, unlocking the door by hand, and hot-wiring the car. That is to active. So I have a “passive deterrent” on my car. That’s fine … as long as I don’t need any more keys.

When I gave Debbie a key to my Mustang she lost it within a week. It was my fault. I do not know why or how. But it was ruled that way. She found her key a few months later. All was well in the house again. And then I lost one of my keys. I always carry two car keys on me. One is too easy to loose. And, true to form, one of my keys turned up missing. I looked for weeks and did not tell anyone. No reason to give them cause to laugh. They seem to find enough reason to take pot-shots at me. I don’t want to help them along.

The key I lost had a worthless little blue laser light on its key chain. I say “worthless” because I never once used it. But it looked cool when you turned it on so I popped for the $3.95 in Target one day and bought it. I had not turned it on since. So now I was actually out $88.95, this being the cumulative cost of one key and one laser light.

But sometimes God has other ideas. Sometimes He wants to teach me something. Call it a “Holy Pop Quiz” if you will. He never puts it on my schedule or asks my permission. He just does it. I know God well enough to pray and ask for help with a problem. And so I prayed about my key. I prayed about it for maybe … oh… 10 times. Then I put the thought away. If God cannot hear me in 10 attempts either He isn’t listening or He said “no.” I can live with that. I asked. He answered. Good enough for me.

And then the rain came.

It had proven to be a boring Saturday afternoon. Rain on Saturday is wrong. It should be against the laws of nature. But it is not. I believe that statistics would prove that it rains more on Saturdays than on any other day of the week. But I digress.

It was raining. It’s a fact. I was sitting on my mega-cushy-chair eating re-heated pizza. I was watching a ball game. Upon finishing the pizza I walked through the dining room toward the kitchen. I simply wanted to put my dirty dishes in the dish washer. As I was praying that the dish washer would contain dirty dishes (so that I would not have to empty it before putting mine in) I glanced outside into the front yard to see if it was still raining. It was. Hard. As I turned to walk away, something in the grass caught my attention. Something … blue. Bright blue. Electric blue. I made a mental note about the oddity of that and went on to the dishwasher. As I returned to my chair I checked again. It was still there. A bright blue, glowing, something-or-other. Hmmmm.

I went into my bedroom to get my binoculars. They were nowhere to be found. So I did the next best thing. I grabbed my rifle. It’s a mere .22 caliber semi-automatic with a 10X scope. Nothing to get excited about. I suppose in a pinch I could pick-off a squirrel a football field away but I had never wanted to. I removed it from its case, went into the dining room, stood on a chair, and took careful aim through the scope at the blue object. Sure enough. It was blue. And it was powered by something.

Debbie entered the room. Debbie does not like guns. No, wait. That isn’t strong enough. Debbie is horribly terrified of guns. She only let me buy mine because it was a family heirloom and my dad was about to unload it on an Arkansas policeman. (“Unload” as in “sell.” Not “unload” as in “Unload.”) He wanted a 9mm pistol so that he could … so that he could plug whoever came through his back door in the middle of the night. No matter that in 18 years NOBODY had tried to make an unauthorized entrance. His mind was made up. This wonderful rifle that I remember my mom giving him for Christmas 30 years earlier was going on the block. I beat the cop to the punch and bought my own family memory. Thanks a lot, dad.

Where was I… oh… Debbie entered the room. She let out a squeal much like … well, like a girl when she sees a gun. I had expected that.

I put the gun down and told her something was blue and glowing in our front yard. She pretty much didn’t care about that. She just wanted the rifle out of her dining room. That glowing blue thing could have been invading aliens from the center of the earth for all she cared. Just get RID of the stupid GUN.

So I did. And I went to the garage. I raised the door. I opened an umbrella. I ran into the grass. I looked down. I saw my car key. My $85.00 car key. It was attached to my $3.95 blue laser light. The light was on. It was pointed at my house. More specifically, it was pointed at my dining room.

It appears that several weeks ago I had dropped my key in the front yard. I mowed over it once or twice. It lay there, bothering no one. It was a dry month. There was no reason for it to be upset. And then it rained. It REALLY rained. It rained enough to penetrate the hard plastic case of the laser light. When the light fell it pointed directly at my dining room window. Or it didn’t. Maybe the lawn mower blade spun it until it pointed that way. Maybe somebody kicked it and it pointed that way. Maybe God reached down late one night and directed it Himself. Maybe He sent Michael the angel. I will never know. But it WAS pointing that way NOW. The water shorted out the wiring. The light came on. I finished my pizza. I looked out the window. I saw it. I found my key. My $85.00 key. What were the odds?

100%. It was God. Of course it was God. It is ALWAYS God. He orchestrates everything. He is in control of my life. Every event and every occurrence is sifted through His hands. There are no exceptions and no mistakes.

So why did God go to the trouble? He could have just allowed the event to teach me a lesson. “Be more careful with your keys, son.” That’s why my worldly dad would have done. Why did my Heavenly Dad go to all of the trouble?

The question isn’t that hard. He wanted me to relearn how much He loves me. He wanted to remind me that every little detail in my life is under His control. He wanted to put my mind and my heart at ease in the middle of difficult and tumultuous times.
And I think He just wanted me to smile. To not take life so seriously. You see, there are not many things I life I can fix. He planned it that way. He wants me to trust Him. Because when I trust Him I smile more And He likes it when I smile.

Isn’t God crazy? Yes, He is. He’s crazy in love with you and with me. If you’ve managed to lose your way in the current struggles of your life, don’t worry. He’ll leave the light on for you.