Don't Let Their Death's Be In Vain!

Some days just go down in the annals of history as unbeatable. Unmatchable. Without peer. This ... March 28, 2007 ... is one of those days.

I drove to my wife's school where she teaches in a behavorial disorder classroom. I was taking her a gift. A mid-morning diet Dr. Pepper with Cherry. It is her favorite beverage. I was only three blocks from the school when the approach of my car, an emerald green Mustang, scared a bird into flight. It was a Cardinal. A red bird. I watched as it flew safely in front of my car only to double back (What? Did it forget it's purse?) and WHACK into my windshield. It bounced over my car and landed on the road behind me. The operative phrase here is "stone cold dead." While I was sad for the little winged creature it was totally not my fault. HE (She? We will never know.) flew into ME.

I delivered the goods to a mildly grateful wife.

Returning to my car I examined the windshield to make sure there was no damage. Those things are expensive, don't ya know. All was well with my glass and so I slipped myself behind the wheel, started the engine and began retracing my route home.

That is when the unthinkable happened.

Within a block of the site of the previous ... incident ... I spied two red birds on the road ahead of me. They were about 4 or 5 feet apart and directly in my path. Now, at this point I must honestly tell you that in my previous experience birds usually notice an oncoming car and take flight. They may be birds but they seem to instinctively understand the weight/speed ratio and have no problem issuing an immediate evacuation order. And so I do not worry too much. I have actually hit birds because I swerved into what turned out to be their escape flight path. That made me feel rather badly. And so when faced with a situation like this I have instituted a policy of ignoring the birds and let them do the fleeing. I do not think that I am over stating things when I say that an "Active Fleeing Declaration" is in order for birds dealing with these circumstances.

Obviously these two red birds did not get the memo.

I kept driving and they kept pecking at whatever was the object of their attention on the road. As I drove over the spot they were standing I assumed they had flown safely out of the way. And yet I did not seem them do so. And I did not see them hop their little bodies toward the adjacent curbing. I saw nothing. I felt nothing. I heard nothing.

And then I looked in the rear view mirror.

Two objects were lying in the road. I remember thinking, "no way." I stopped, put the car into reverse (hey, I am by nature, a kind hearted guy and I was ready to CPR the little fellows back to health) and backed up within about 10 feet of the objects. I put my car in park. I had my convertable top down and so I unbuckled my seat belt, twisted my body and got up on my knees in the seat. Clearly visable from this perch (pun intended) were two dead Cardinals. Two very flat dead Cardinals. They had been perfectly positioned so that each of my front wheels erased one bird.

I felt badly for them. They are just birds. God says he counts the birds and not one hits the ground without His knowing it and crossing them off His list. I figure that if hitting the ground gets noticed by God, pulverizing them into the ground would probably not escape His attention. I had single handedly caused God to use his eraser three times within ten minutes on three identical birds.

I drove away feeling quite melancholy. Then it hit me. It's our year. It's an omen. IT'S OUR YEAR! I consider myself the premiere Cub fan in the region and I had just terminated 3 red birds! During spring training! Within twenty miles of Busch Stadium! What are the odds of that? I'll tell you what they are. They are unbelievably A-S-T-R-O-F-R-E-A-K-E-N-O-M-I-C-A-L!

My friends. It is only March. I urge you, nay, I plead with you ... recognize this incident for what it is. 99 yeas ago the Cubs won the World Series. That was the last time. But it is very clear that the drought is ending. And I am declaring it right here. Perhaps William Shakespeare said it correctly, "I wasted time and now doth time waste me," but THIS is not a time for YOU to waste! I am declaring amnesty for all pagan cardinal lovers living on the Illinois side of St. Louis. It is time to come home. Not just any home. Sweet Home Chicago. Friends, like it or not, it is your city. YOUR city. You pay taxes to support it's parks, roads, and yes, ball parks! Amnesty is your for the taking.

From NOW until the first shout of "PLAY BALL" echoes from behind home plate on Monday, April 9, 2007 at 1:20 PM, in the beautiful confines of Wrigley Field you can come home to YOUR Chicago Cubs! This is a limited time offer and will not be repeated. There is no time to waste. Three dead red birds spilled their life blood today to get your attention. Did they die in vain?

That, my friend, is up to you.

Alfred Had It Right

It is time for a confession. When I was a kid ... I did not exactly set the world of "little league baseball" on fire. I was the first baseman for the team. As such it fell upon me to catch any ball hit my way or thrown my way. If it was thrown to me I knew there must be a guy running in my direction down the first base line. If I caught the ball and tagged the base before he ran over it he was out. If he got there first he was safe. That's a pretty important job. And this one guy always stood near me. He was known as "The Umpire." His job was to decide who got to the base first so that he could call the batter "safe" or "out." He also watched to make certain that the runner stayed in the base line during his run. If he stepped out of the prescribed area he was automatically out. So the base line was important. If you want to win you have to stay in the base line.

There is another kind of base line that is important as well. I go to my doctor for a check-up every year. He pokes me. He prods me. He puts his fingers where God never intended fingers to be put. He looks up my nose, in my ears, and deep into my eyes. He takes my temperature, checks my pulse and knocks me on the knee with a nasty little rubber mallet. He makes me pee in a cup. And then he asks me if I have eaten yet today and if I have not he sticks a needle into my arm and takes some blood. I suppose he checks the blood to make sure it's still red and wet. Or maybe he's looking for a rare disease. Probably he checks my cholesterol and stuff like that. The reason he wants to be sure I have not eaten is because food would throw off the results. You see, when you have not eaten your blood evidently assumes its natural level of ... of ... of whatever it is in your blood that levels off. And that is what is also called your baseline.

With this kind of baseline you find out what the normal level of a given situation is. That way if you check the levels later (of what ever you are checking) and it deviates from the baseline you know you have a problem.

This is where it gets good. Sit down and shut up for a minute. Turn the TV off. Maybe you will learn something. If not, just remember this web site is free. So get over it 'cause it didn't cost you anything.

Ever wonder what your baseline is with God?

They tell me I am a.d.d. That stands for "attention deficit disorder." It means I have trouble sticking with a project, focusing for long periods of time, sitting still. Geez, I don't need a special set of initials to tell me that. I've been living in this skin for a long time know. Sometimes with God I just.... don't spend as much time with Him as I should. I am an expert at having a "Power Quiet Time." You know what I mean. I can spend an hour alone with God in twelve minutes. Except that it really does not work very well. I know it. God knows it. And those who know me well can tell when I'm spending really quality time with God and when I'm cheating.

I used to be a "type a" personality. That means I was a "driven" kind of guy. I never stopped. To be awake was to be busy. To have a job was to always work. Sleep was something you could do after you die. Well that life style didn't work too well for me and I transformed myself into a solid "type b" personality. Actually I did it with the help of a nasty illness. But if you read this blog often you already know that. I'm much more laid back now. I wouldn't say I'm actually the relaxed type but I'm much closer to it than I used to be.

We all have things in our lives that are working on us. You have a certain temperament. You have passions. You have things you disdain. All of these things help to determine what your life actually "looks like." It makes you ... you. It determines your baseline.

But what about the God factor? What is your base line with God?

Much of my time serving God is spent dealing with schedules, deadlines, instructions, rules and ... guilt. Guilt because I don't always keep the schedule, meet the deadline, follow the instruction and abide by the rules. Are you with me? Can I get an "amen?"

But is that really your God baseline?

I remember a day in May 2002. I was in Minnesota to attend a "Sabbath for Youth Pastor's." I arrived early and checked into the part convent/part retreat center that it was being held at. I was one of the first to show up and there were hours before I had to be anywhere. It was a Monday. I had left home on Friday and had driven to Minneapolis to rest before the Sabbath began. I wanted to spend time with God before I was scheduled to. Turns out this was a very good idea. He honored my efforts and came and loved on me in that little hotel room. After I registered at the retreat center and moved my bags into my room I got back into my rented convertible Sebring and drove a few miles down the road. I parked on an overlook that had a panoramic view of the upper Mississippi River. Trees and water surrounded me. A sailboat was anchored in the middle of the river. The sky was the bluest of blues. The only noise came from rustling leaves and singing birds. The top of the car was down and I sat on the driver’s door with my feet dangling over the edge. Do you know why I remember that moment? Because it was the most relaxed moment I remember experiencing since becoming a full-fledged adult. God showed up on that wide spot in the road. I felt Him. It was as though His hand was on my shoulder, His heart in my chest, His Spirit sharing a special communion with mine. And I realized that I had no worries, no fears, nothing to rush to. My attention was all His. And with that realization came peace. It was the peace that the bible speaks of when it mentions the "peace that passeth all understanding." I do not think I had ever experience that before. Not in this incredibly deep form. I have, blessedly, experienced it several times since. And you know what I think?

That is my baseline with God.

The usual daily stress? The constant battle to be "good enough to please Him?" The war with sin that I too often lose? Those are things similar to the sugar or fat or caffeine that I dump into my body. They give false readings. They mess up who I am supposed to be. They are NOT my baseline. They are deceivers. Their job is to trick me into believing that I am NOT who I really AM.

I am God's kid. He takes an insane amount of joy in me. Because of that I do not have a worry in the world. He counts my hairs, guides my steps, lights my path, watches my back and ordains my days.

Because of Him I can join that old philosopher Alfred E. Neumann...

What? Me worry?

Under My Roof

I flew over my house one time. I was in an American Airlines 727 coming from Chicago and preparing to land in St. Louis. It was nighttime. As such it was much too dark to pick my house out of the thousands of lights down below. But I know I was over it because I found the Burger King about a mile away. And the street layout was clearly my neighborhood. I suppose if you were to look at my house from the air during a sunny day there would not be much to make it stand out from any other house in the neighborhood. I have brown shingles. I have a chimney and several other assorted vents protruding upward from the roof. There are gutters on every side. That is about all you can say about it. It's just a roof.

It is what is under my roof that makes this little plot of ground unique. My roof has kept my family dry for nearly fourteen years now. When we moved under it my children were nine, eleven and thirteen. I was thirty-eight. My wife was even younger than that. The nine year old is now about to turn twenty-two. He still lives here and I am so glad that he does. I know that he would rather live on his university campus or in his own apartment but he has accepted the fact that these things will come with time. This wonderful young man stays busy and yet loves to sleep. Sounds like a twenty-two year old, doesn't it? I love the sound of my garage door going up at night because it means that he is home. The house brightens when he walks in the door. Just seeing him makes me smile. The eleven year old is now twenty-four. He lives in Crystal Lake, Illinois and serves God in the middle school ministry of a very large church. On July 6th he will give me my very first daughter-in-law. She is one of the sweetest girls on the planet and I would do anything for her. My thirteen year old is now twenty-six. She lives with her husband and baby daughter in another suburb of our city. I watched her hold her baby girl tonight and I got chills, remembering how I used to hold her the same way and feeling awestruck that my baby girl now had one of her own. She is one of the best mom's I know.

Which brings me to my roof. Things were very busy under it this past week.

First my father-in-law showed up. He flew in and spent the week with us. I have one of the best father's-in-law every. He raised a tremendous daughter and then he simply GAVE her to me. No charge. And he treats me like his real son and not his son-in-law. I am proud to be in his family. Next came Scott. Scott is the twenty-four year old that I mentioned a few paragraphs back. He flew in on Thursday. He is a lot of things but about the best thing I can think of to say about him is that he is one of my best friends. I am not at all certain why a twenty-four year old with everything going for him and the world at his fingertips would bother being close friends with his fifty-one year old father but I am so glad that he does. He will never know how much I love him, enjoy him, and revel in the time we spend together. Actually, I think that I bug him more than I should. I call him everyday and text message him whenever the urge hits. He handles it with patience and love but I know he has more important things to do. Still, he loves me and allows me this grace ... to be an interactive dad. Anyway, the next to show up was my grandbaby, Elle and her dog Rigby. Elle's mom was going to Nashville overnight to listen to her husband’s band. Yes, Joe is in a band that actually tours. I suggest you go to itunes and run a power search for the "Fundamental Elements." You'll love their music and the four young husbands that make up this indie band could use the financial support. Remember what it is like to be young and have a family? Me too. And then my brother-in-law and sister-in-law (I hate to have to add the "in-law" part to their names. I consider them my brother and my sister) came by and stayed for a few hours and we got to talk about serious issues for a few minutes. Health issues that we ask God to be working on for my sister (in-law.) She leaves tomorrow for two weeks at Mayo Clinic. My wife will go and spend the better part of one of those weeks with her so that she will not have to be alone. You see, that is what family does. And nobody should have to be sick alone.

So we had a busy, crazy, loving, caring, wonderful time under our roof for the past week. We ate together. We sat and simply talked. We watched favorite TV programs. We went places together. We took turns playing with Baby Elle. What a great week it was! It will go down in my personal history books as one of my favorites ever!

And then early this morning my father-in-law's jet left for Richmond. Late this afternoon Scott's jet left for Chicago. Late tonight my daughter came and took Elle and Rigby the dog home. My awesome son who lives down the hall from me went out with some friends to enjoy a Saturday night. I know better than to wait up.

And now? Now my wife is asleep. Bailey the Killer Beagle is asleep. And I just finished walking through a darkened house, stopping in every room and remembering the joy, the noise and the love of the last week. I thanked my Father ... the one in heaven ... the one that created us all ... for allowing me the honor of living out the past seven days. The walls still echo with the laughter and the wise cracks. The carpet needs vacuuming because of the eating and walking and playing that took place on it. Several sets of sheets could use a washing machines attention. No major damage was done to anything and yet everywhere I look are the blessed "scars" of the time we spent together. You know how your kitchen table, the one you eat your meals together on every night, begins to show wear after a few years. A mark where a knife was dropped. A dent in the wood where somebody slammed down a game piece while playing some noisy, rowdy family game. The usual signs of life lived around a shared table. You know what I mean, right? Well, my entire house shows those marks tonight. And I do not want them ever to be repaired. Several times during the past week I just stepped back from the scene and took in the moment. I reminded myself to memorize it all because it would not last forever. And now every mark, every dirty dish, every damp towel has a meaning. Add them up and they equal the priceless gift of family.

My roof is blessed. It is solid on top and blessed underneath. I cannot ask for more than that.

And it was good ...

December 1982. It was cold and it was snowy. I clearly remember the day. I walked into the dispatcher’s office at DuPage Motor Coach, the great leaser of school buses in the western suburbs of Chicago. They handed me my paycheck and I walked out the door knowing that I did not have to crank up another bright yellow monster until after the Christmas break. What I did not know was that I would not bother going back to work at that part time job because by then I would be pretty certain that God was moving my little family and I out of the Chicagoland area. (I believe that south side Catholics such as lived in Mayor Daley's neighborhood considered it a mortal sin to leave the windy city for any reason other than to help friends in other places move to Chicago. But I was going to risk it.) And I was correct. On March 26, 1983 we finished packing up and drove the nearly 300 miles to Bethalto. And here we sit this very day. But that paycheck they handed me way back in 1982 was the last paycheck I would receive from a non-church related vocation for a long time.

The next time I worked one single hour for someone other than the church or one of its related organizations (i.e. Youth Specialties or the Illinois Baptist State Association) would be ... today. March 22, 2007. That is 25 years and change. A long time.

I remembered some things today. I remembered what early morning looks like because my phone rang at about 5AM asking me if I would be willing to substitute at Lewis & Clark Jr High. I must have been really sleepy because I said "yes." And you know what? I had a GREAT time. I spent the day with 6th and 7th graders. I guided them through language arts, science, math, reading and something else but it escapes me at the moment. It was so cool to see those bright eyes again. I had never met any of the kids in any of my classes but that isn't important. They were kids. And I'm passionate about them. God just put that in my heart and I don't suspect I'll ever get over it.

You know what was really hard? I had to be "The Teacher." And that means I could not tell them about Jesus. So sad. So truly and deeply sad. And at one point late in the afternoon somebody came on the intercom and told all of the students to please stand and recite the ... and I lost her voice in the noise created by dropping books, shuffling feet and moving chairs. I immediately put my hand over my heart and began reciting the pledge of allegiance. (What happened to the pledge of allegiance? That's what we used to say when I was in school! Hey, the mascot of Lewis & Clark Jr. High is "The Patriots." Shouldn't they be saying the pledge just by default?) Unfortunately the students were repeating some kind of pledge of loyalty to good old Lewis & Clark Jr High. Even more unfortunately an aid was standing next to me and heard what I said. She couldn't finish the recitation because she was doubled over in laughter while staring at me like I was a Martian... which I might as well have been. And then I started laughing at her because she's about five months pregnant and she just didn't have what it takes to double over for ANYTHING, much less laughter. But we got through it. And you know what? All day people called me, "Mr. Woods." Because that is my name. Yes, I love being a pastor and it's most certainly the direction I am heading in. But in 25 years I do not think anybody had called me "Mr. Woods." Hmmm. I would rather they call me simply Ron but evidently that shows a lack of respect so I have to stick with Mr. No problem. I can do that.

And then I went home. And it's the oddest thing ... my phone did not ring. Nobody wanted a question answered, a door unlocked, a phone number, an address, an announcement scribbled down for Sunday, a special appearance at a meeting .... nothing. I went home and I was off. OFF! I forgot that is how many people live. No, not all of them. Many people have jobs that follow them home. I am certain that the teacher I replaced has a desk or a table totally lined with notes, lesson plans and schedules.

But I don't.

And God saw it. And I believe He said.... "And it was good."

Harpo Marx ... I Am He

My personal definition of "Insane" ...

"Ad-Jec-tive. One who decides to send out a personal resume for the purpose of securing a position as Sr. Pastor of a church. Adjectives are often added to a verb to show action such as, "The man was GROWING progressively more insane with the reciept of every letter inquiring about his resume."

I must be seriously mentally ill. If I am not ... I will be by this time next month.

Being a pastor generally means that you believe in a "Higher Being." This Higher Being is most often referred to as "God." I believe that He sent His Son, Jesus, to hang on a horrible cross of execution to offer a sacrifice for the sins of people like me. God is large and in charge. It is also my personal belief that God often gets the giggles. I think it happens everytime He watches me try to figure out precisely what He wants me to do. Three weeks ago I asked God for a favor. I asked Him to please tell me by the NEXT week one of three things.

A) Where do you want me relocate to on my next ministry assignment.

B) Do you want me to forget ministry for a while, maybe a year, and just take some time doing something else. ANYTHING ELSE. Things that don't make me want to beat my head against brick walls several times each week. Things that require little skill and even less thought.

C) Give me peace knowing that I am doing exactly what you want me to do right now ... rest. The last few years have been long ones and the rest has been very healing. I mean, VERY HEALING. And maybe I am supposed to just keep doing that for a while longer.

I woke up the following Monday and, lo and behold ( <--- two biblical terms for the price of one!) I quickly realized that God had granted me my request. C! I had no stress, no anxiety, no sweat. God placed His Hand on my shoulder and whispered, "Chill." Or the theological equivelent of that. "C" stands for "chill."

All of that week He and I sat quietly just about every day. We spent time NOT talking. Just, you know ... being. I wondered things but decided not to ask them. He made His presence real. Tangible. But in a quiet way. My phone was quiet. My email box was quiet. Very little was going on.

And then came last week. To say that things changed would be cheating the week of its full glory. Everyday brought a new phone call, email or letter from a church that is looking for a pastor and wants to talk. Another one was added today. They say that war can be defined as long stretches of great boredom punctuated by bursts of sheer terror. That's another good definition for a "church search." Please do not misinterpret this and think I am complaining. No way! I am excited as I watch God play out his objectives for my life. It's just that we went from ... zero to 120 ... in about a day! In my experience God often works that way. Cool. His way is better than mine.

Who was the silent and semi-crazy guy that was one of the Marx Brothers? I think .... Harpo. Yeah, Harpo Marx. He never spoke and he played the harp. That is me. I am the Harpo Marx of the Christian church. I am spending a lot of time looking skyward, silently, reflectively, objectively. But I am not asking a lot of questions. I am just watching in patient awe as God works. I sit strumming the "harp" of my curiosity hoping that the tune of my heart brings Him joy. I am not bugging Him ... not harassing Him. He has given me peace. He really has. And yet He has my head spinning. I am mentally juggling a lot of places right now. Some near. Some not. A huge part of me cheers for near because my incredibly precious kids and granddaughter live close by. Only God is more important to me than they are. A smaller part of me cheers for far because ... well, let's just leave it at "because." That way nobody gets any arrows to shoot at anybody else. But sometimes far looks really good. Really good.

Still, it does not matter because I know that I don't get to choose. I only get to watch, wait, wonder ... and cheer. I figure that either way I win. Because winning (to me) means being in God's perfect will. Nothing less will do.

Harpo. That's me. You can learn a lot when you are silent.

Anything to get that hug...

Since assuming my current position of "kept man and my wife's boy toy" I've been doing a lot of those things that I've wanted to do for years.

Oh. Wait a second. No I haven't. That was supposed to be in my fantasy blog. Drat. Allow me to start over.

Since quitting my 162 hour per week job (yes I know that there are only 162 hours in a week ... that's called "sarcasm") I've been trying to reassimilate myself back into reality. I now know that we are at war in Iraq, Boston won a World Series and gas is priced over a dollar a gallon. What? It is over two dollars a gallon? Sheesh. And it hit three dollars a gallon last year? And it probably will again this summer? Can we go back to the fantasy blog now? Anyway, I met my neighbors. Walmart is bigger than Walgreens. Who would - a thunk it? They no longer make Dutch Apple Pop Tarts (the demise off which should be considered a crime against humanity.) It is aMAZing what you learn when you actually stop and look around. When did Standard become Amoco become BP? (Does BP really stand for "bad petroleum?")

I have also been making great gains on a few goals I set. I do the laundry. I wash the dishes. Well, the dish washer and I do. I write a lot and I let you read a little of it. I eat less. Unfortunately, I also eat less healthy. (Who knew that nearly all fast food drive-throughs are open 24/7?) And one goal was to read the bible front to back ... cover to cover ... approaching each of the sixty-six books in no particular order. I'm really tearing that one up. Hey, it's been fifteen weeks but it's a long book. Back off and give me a break, would ya?

And the more I read the more I sit and think. And the more I sit and think the more I find my mouth hanging open as all of my brain cells bail out of the muscle control business in a vain effort at coming to grips with what I am reading. Some of what I read amazes me. God is bigger than I ever remember acting like He is. My behavior is more appalling that I ever remember realizing that it is. Especially the behavior that never gets past my hard to find "internal monologue," making it into my speech or actions. In other words sometimes my thought patterns el-stinketh.

But there is some other stuff in God's best seller that just flat out makes my head hurt. Like ... I do NOT understand. Want a prime example? I knew you would. So here goes. In the New Testament Jesus tells us that adultery is wrong, wrong, wrong. Don't do it. As a matter-of-fact, don't even DWELL on the possibility of doing it. You can read Matthew 5: 27 - 28 if you need a refresher course. Or, if you REALLY need a refresher course have your spouse read it to you. That might make a difference. Ok, and then I happen upon the book of Genesis. Things were pretty hairy back then. God had just finished making the world and the dust had settled leaving Adam and Eve in it's wake. (Play on words intended.) Fast forward a couple of generations. Suddenly you come across this .... unusual phenomenon. Abraham and Isaac both employ odd tactics in that they have married what must have been astonishingly beautiful brides (Sarah and Rebekah, respectively.) You might flip over to Genesis 26: 6 through whatever if you want an example of the Isaac and Rebekah deal. You know what these guys did? Their wives were sooooo lovely that when they entered a foriegn place they told these thoroughbreds of lovliness to pretend that they were their SISTERS rather than their wives, thus saving their own hides if the King wanted to get all cozy with the little woman. (Please interpret "cozy" in the most erotic of definitions.) Both guys did this and both guys got busted for it. And here's the crazy part ... the didn't get busted by God. They didn't get busted by their wives. They got busted by the foriegn king who caught on to their kinky ways and realized that they came within a hair of committing adultery and ticking off Abraham and Isaac's God. You know the one. The BIG God. The REAL God. And so what do these kings do? They give them their "sisters" (aka: wives) back along with lots of neat stuff. I mean if you count sheep and oxen as neat stuff. And then ... then ... (this is where my head starts to hurt) ... then God blesses Abraham and Isaac. In Isaac's case God did not just bless him ... He blessed him one hundred fold. ONE HUNDRED FOLD. That is a lot of folding.

Can somebody please 'splain that to me? I mean, if I mess up by accident at the local grocery store I feel guilty for a week! Of course, I have a vast army of friends that just love to feed that guilt. (You know who you are and I know where you sleep ...) We live under the wonderful grace of a great and loving God. His boundless care and provision absolutely leaves me breathless sometimes. No joke. So don't you even think of assuming that this is a tirade against God. What? Do you think I am stupid? God has His reasons and His ways. He will be gracious to whom He will be gracious and He will show mercy to whom He will show mercy. (That one is in Exodus 33: 19.) God seldom ... ok, never ... asks my permission to do anything. This is a good thing because I would really screw the world up. And I'd probably come after you first. But you see, those guys lived "under the law." Not grace. And they pretty much offered their wives up to commit adultery. And, as you know, adultery is one of "The Top Ten No- No's." Yet they wind up getting their socks blessed off.

This is just one of those things that makes me go "hmmmmm." As a matter-of-fact the more I read the more I go hmmmmmm. Because when I am in the attitude of going "hmmmmmm" I am realizing that God is much bigger than I am. He stretches out long before I arrived on the scene and will be around long after I am gone. And when He decides to do something He really does not consider what my thoughts on the subject are going to be. He just ... does it. And I find out about it later. And I roll it around in my head. And then I cozy up next to Him and say, "God, I really don't get that one. But you be God and I'll be Ron and I know everything will be ok." And He hugs me.

And everything is ok. Cause I will do anything to get that hug.

I Wonder ... (Caution: the following article contains the answer for global warming)

Today nothing happened. Well, nothing of note. That means I have nothing to write about. Have you ever known that to stop me?

I wonder who put the big pickle sized jar at the end of my driveway last week. I wonder what is in it. It is clear and the label says "Dill Spears" which leads me to conclude that once upon a time it actually did hold pickles. Now it is about half full of a brown putrid liquid. I have not touched it. It just appeared there one morning. Coincidently three beer cans (crushed, not squashed) turned up on my front lawn the same day. I threw the beer cans away. But I ain't touching that bottle. Neither are my neighbors. It has just been sitting there for many days and many nights. At what point should I call the department of homeland security?

I wonder if Tom Cruise really is going to be the reincarnation of Jesus as good scientologists claim he (soon to be "He" is?) If he is I think there will be a line of people volunteering to be Judas.

I wonder what my dog thinks about. I know she thinks because she has spastic reactions to certain stimuli. Like people walking down my street. She concludes that they need to die at the end of her razor sharp Beagle fangs. And like when I say, "Milky Bones" she salivates and gets tremors. So what does she think about in moments like these when her chin is resting on my leg? Is she daydreaming? Is she thinking about quantum physics? Is she plotting her next escape? Is she wondering if Christopher will come home and watch the Simpson's with her? I wonder.

I wonder if our furnaces affect the alleged global warming we are experiencing. Why does no one ask this question? I understand the claims about automobile emissions and such. But what about the fact that we actually turn on these big coffin sized devices created for the sole purpose of pumping heat into the atmosphere. And you KNOW it sneaks out of your house. Of course it does. Otherwise it would only have to run once each winter and you would be all set. Same thing with ovens. Isn't that more suspect than car flatulence? How about we test a theory together. Saturday night at 10pm CDT let's all turn our air conditioners on high and open all of our doors and windows. Let them run until about, ohhhhh, 6am. Put fans up so that the cold air will blow outside. Can't you just see Sunday morning’s news programs? All of the anchor people announcing with breathless wonder that global warming just ... disappeared. Over night. It's just ... gone. Al Gore will sleep better that's for sure.

I wonder why churches feel compelled to compete and to be cool? They do you know. They might deny it but I was once behind the curtain. Every church wants to be the biggest in town. Every church wants to attract the young people. I have to be careful here because I've got a whale of a lot of youth ministry in my past. I know a church that put up a billboard on a local expressway with a picture of four TOTALLY looking cool early twenty-something’s on it. The wording says, "A Church For Today's Generation." Which generation is "Today's Generation?" Hello ... I'm alive. I don't think they mean me but here I am. "Yesterday's Generation" checked-out and left us for greener pastures. "Tomorrow's Generation" hasn't been born yet. If you are alive and breathing you are today's generation. So does this church mean that if I/we don't look like a cool twenty-something we should just keep driving? Maybe down the street somewhere you will find a church for "Today's Generation That Is Old Or Tired Or Ugly." I think that church is the one I would want to go to. And it most assuredly is the one I would want to pastor. (As a side note I have noticed that most tithers are old, ugly, tired or probably all three. That means without us the cool church of "Today's Generation" will be meeting in a field and carrying umbrella's to church soon. God help them if the tornado sirens go off.)

Ok, that will do it. I was just wondering.

I See ... Part deux

I admit it. I was wrong about the eye guy. Remember I told you how much I hate going to see him and how bad it is? Well. IT WAS TEN TIMES WORSE THAN I REMEMBERED! Who gives these people license to practice? Attila The Hun School of Optometry?

The doctor was the last one in the room and he was nuttin compared to the winch that he sent in ahead of him. She does his dirty work. All he did was shine some bright lights in my eyes that have the approximate candlepower of the sun X 10. And then he asked me to read an eye chart. Eye chart? All I could see was the fiery pits of hell. So he let me wait a minute. How kind. And then he told me not to worry about all of the horrible things the lady that works for him told me ... things that she thought were going on in my head even now. She was "probably" wrong.

What a real sweet heart she was. When she came in I thought, "Great! I got a nice one! She looks happy and appears to like working here." The she opened her little pouch of utensils, which included multiple hot pokers, pruning shears, a blender and a car battery. But those were simply a diversion. Her secret weapon was her first tool. It looked for all the world like a permanent marking pen with a round glass tip. She began moving it sslloowwllyy toward my right eye and told me "DON'T YOU BLINK EVEN ONCE" and 'IT'S GOING TO LOOK LIKE WATER IS SPLASHING IN YOUR EYE." Where in the name of all that is pure and good did she get that idea? She put that thing on my eye and I blinked. She told me to stop it. She put it on my eye again. I blinked again. So she went for the drops that some textbook once upon a time told her would deaden my eyes sense of touch. HAHAHAHAHAwrong. She handed me a Kleenex and told me to wipe my eyes. I was crying yellow. YELLOW! For all I know I was actually peeing out my eyeballs. Then she put her magic marker back in my eye and began rolling it around. (Note: Yellow eye drops do nothing to ease the sense of touch. Lies. All lies.) She rolled it around for about thirty of the longest seconds of my life. And she yelled if I even blinked my other eye. Holy smokes, woman! She said, "blinking one puts pressure on the other." Well, yeah Einstein. So she does the right eye again. I was silently threatening my eyes with a marathon of "Oprah" reruns if they blinked even once. Then she takes her pent-up rage out on my left eye. Guess what! The little pen from H-E-double hockey sticks beeped before five seconds had passed. (It beeps when it has figured out how much pressure is in your eye. My right eye had taken over thirty seconds.) She said, "no way." So she tried it again. BEEP! Attempt number three. Same thing. She put her pen down and scowled at me telling me that the pressure in my left eye was really high.

Oh. I'm sorry. Next time I promise to unscrew the cap on the valve and let some of the steam off before I come in. I didn't mean to ruin her day. She stood up and actually looked disappointed that she couldn't think of anything else to do to me. So she said the doctor would be in any minute (translation: before the new moon rises in the eastern sky) and that I should just relax.

Relax. Great plan. I tried to shove a chair under door handle but it was on wheels. I was in the process of building a barricade with office furniture when "The Big Guy" came in.

Well, the doctor told me my vision was screwed up in my left eye and charged me my co-pay, handed me my prescription for a new left lens in my glasses and told me to come back in a year. I stopped him. I told him that when I close my eyes late in the afternoon or evening and then open them (like after a short nap) that everything is like ... pale. Like the color has gone to never never land. I told him that my vision is nearly normal until mid-afternoon and that as I start to get tired it deteriorates. He looked me in the eye (the right one) and said, "I don't know of anything that would cause that. Have you been checked for diabetes?

Diabetes? In my eye? I eat sugar. I don't eat sugar. Either way. No difference. MY EYE IS SCREWY. It's my EYE MY EYE MY EYE. The one crying yellow! AAARRRGGGHHH.

Aww, never mind. I went to Lens Crafters and gave them something over $250 and they told me my two new lenses (one for my regular glasses and one for my ultra-cool prescription "look at me because I'm together and totally what's happening" sun glasses) would be ready in around a week. Huh? When did their advertising campaign begin saying, "Lens Crafters! New glasses in about a week??????"

Ok, I'm done. Nothing more about opthowhatevers. My head hurts. My eyes burn. The laptop screen is waving good night. I'm waving back.

Good night, Tess.

Good night, Ron.

I See ...

Tomorrow I am doing the one thing I hate worse than going to the dentist. Wait. I hate throwing up worse than going to the dentist too. So that's two things. And then there is kayaking. (Except for on snow. I love to kayak down snow covered hills. Preferably backward. No, I'm not kidding.) Oh, and trying to explain to my cell phone company why I refuse to pay their stupid "activation fee" when I already have six of their stinken cell phones and a contract that doesn't end until Rudy Giuliani kisses and makes up with HIllary. Aren't I "activated" enough for cryin out loud? Yes, I won the argument. Thank you for asking.

I think I maybe should just start over.

Tomorrow I have to go to the eye doctor. Actually he's an optho ... optho ... ok, sound it out with me because I can't spell it OR find it in the dictionary. (How are you supposed to find the correct spelling of a word by using a dictionary which REQUIRES that you know how to spell the word in order to look it up??? I hate that worse than the dentist too...) Tomorrow I have to go to the OP - THO - MALL - A - JUST. He's more expensive than a simple OP -TOM - A - TRUST. So he must know more. And tomorrow at 3pm central daylight time (in case you want to be praying) I have to go sit in his chair. That part is just fine. But then I know what he's going to want to do.

HE'S GOING TO WANT TO TOUCH MY EYE!

This is way high on my list of no-no's. Nobody touches my eye. Not my right. Not my left. If you want me to look in a cool little scope and tell you which way the "E" is pointing, fine. I can do that. If you want to put eye drops in my eyes we can make that happen too. I'll just close my eyes and you squeeze your miracle drops into the corner of my eyes and then I'll open them and your stuff will get in my eyes. Deal? They always say, "no deal." Then they make the OP - THO - ASSIST - A - MALL - A - JUST sit on my feet until I stop kicking while the doctor uses one arm to get me in a half nelson and hold me down and the other hand to pry my eye open and stick his potion directly onto my cornea. And if that is not bad enough his drop of stuff makes my already over sized pupils open up like my son Christopher's mouth when I bake Chicago deep dish pizza. And that is HUGE. And then I can't see. (After the eye drops, not after the pizza. I can see just fine after the pizza.) I mean isn't the eye doctor guy supposed to make you see better? Then how come I go to see him and I drive myself to his office but when I leave my wife has to drive me home? Hmm? Isn't there something wrong with that logic? And for his final act he puts this thing about 1/1,000,000,000th of an inch from my eye and hits a button that shoots air that would make a jet engine jealous right into it. AND I DON'T LIKE THAT. And then ... (excuse me, I'm getting queasy) ... because he doesn't trust that test enough, he actually ROLLS SOME LITTLE WHEEL ACROSS MY EYE!!!!! All in the name of making certain that I don't have glucoma. Geez! A couple of years ago I went to see Dr. Dufus when I was sick, sick, sick and his test showed that I was one precious point below the beginning level of glucoma. That scared him which in turn scared me. So now I have to go to his torture chamber once a year even though he admitted last year that I was no longer that close to GLU - COMB - A. "Why," you ask? Beeeecause heee saaaaysss sssoooo.

And tonight I got a phone call from a church that wants to consider me as their future pastor. I do not know how many people go to their church but I believe the population of their community has been hovering around 12 for the last decade. That sounds like a very biblical number to me. So how about I skip my appointment tomorrow and go there as their first blind pastor? They can do the Jesus thing and spit in the dirt and make mud and rub it on my CLOSED eye lids. We can make it a yearly event. You've got Christmas, you've got Good Friday, you've got Easter, and now you've got Spit In Ron's Closed Eyes Day. Sounds like a deal I'd make.

But something tells me Debbie's going to make me go to the optho ...optho ... awwwforgetaboutit. Don't send your white canes with postage due...

Why Do I Believe In God?

You have to admit; the title of this particular blog posting is pretty big. HUGE. I have been thinking about it though and I believe that I can actually answer the question relatively quickly and efficiently. You be the judge...

-I believe in God because of life. I have never seen life just start all by itself. Somebody always starts it. Here's a simple test. Take a two liter bottle, empty it, clean it REALLY well, dry it REALLY well, put the lid back on it and seal the lid with wax. Make sure nothing can get in or out. Make sure you cleaned it well enough that no germs or bacteria remained in it. Put it someplace where you will see it daily. When life spontaneously begins in your bottle ... I will agree that there may well be no God. Until then I'm convinced that somebody had to get the ball rolling. Somebody had to make person #1 and person #2.

Which brings me to the second reason I believe in God.

-Sex. Yes, sex. Forgive me for being so bold and blunt. I trust that we are all adults here and I promise not to get graphic, gross or explicit. If life just happened ... if nobody created people ... well that's pretty big news. But how unimaginably unlikely is it that those people would be spontaneously generated with organs that would allow them to recreate themselves? How far fetched would it be that there would be two genders and that each would have a sex organ that would perfectly compliment (aka: fit) the others? And how phenomenally lucky that using those organs would be not only the most fun and pleasurable things that human beings activate but that this would be the case for both genders? Unlikely? Hardly. Incredibly, stunningly, incomprehensibly impossible is more like it.


-The third reason I believe there is a God is because the Cubs won the World Series last year. Oh. Wait. That was not the Cubs. Never mind. Scratch that one.

-I believe that there is a God because of bright eyes. After working with teenagers for thirty-two years I have pretty much seen it all. Teenagers, by their very nature, are fun. Especially if they are not yours. But I defy you to find a group of people with brighter eyes ... more energetic joy ... than teenagers that have discovered the reality of God and are beginning to learn to live within His reality. Adults get bright eyes too. But ours tend to dull and become jaded over the years. Even when we know and love God. The long grind of life beats you up and wears you down. It is the nature of life on planet earth. I would rather hang out with teenagers in love with Jesus than with any people group I have ever met. And that includes generous millionaires and waitresses from Hooters. Not that I have met any of them. But a friend told me they are fun. So that is strictly second hand information.

-I believe in God because of crabby, mean spirited, cold-hearted, dishonest, big-mouthed people who claim to be Christians and yet have neither desire nor clue on how to live a Christ-like life. I don't know if they are Christian's or not. It isn't my call. I'm just taking their word for it. I have known my share of them. But here's the deal. The fact that these people exist within the church today and throughout history is proof that there was enough evil in the church two thousand years ago to cause a riot of adequate proportions to drive self-declared righteous men to crucify the Son of God. If these people were not in the church today I might be tempted to conclude that the story of the gospel could not have happened because church people are always good people. And they are most definately NOT. Yes this is strange logic. But is it not true?

There are more reasons but why shoot all of my bullets at once? Stick around. We'll talk.

Fun At The Grocery Store

I'm going to narc on myself. I've already confessed to my wife and kids so what the heck ... might as well tell the planet.

I got "hit on" in the grocery store yesterday. How cool is that? I mean, really? I had been given a rather long list of items to be purchased for a couple of meals Debbie wanted to prepare. Being the one with all of the free time I was elected the go getter. So I goed. I mean, so I went. And I went to the biggest, nicest grocery store that I know of. It's new and it's big and they have E-V-E-R-Y-T-H-I-N-G. They have a chocolate store within the main store and I recently bought malted milk balls there the size of your head. I am totally serious!

But yesterday's shopping excursion was just an excursion. I did not buy even one thing that was not on my list. Nada. Zilch. I was so proud. Still am! And I was cruising along doing fine and making time right up till I hit the tortilla's.

Tortilla's are always my downfall.

I had been instructed on the right size of tortilla shell to buy. I noticed them on a very neatly displayed shelf and I picked up the ones I wanted. Trouble. The package held only eight shells. Debbie wanted twelve. More trouble. There was only 1 package. What to do, what to do?

Well don't do this ...

A voice over my right shoulder said, "Don't they have any more of those?" A quick glance revealed a 30ish soccer mom type. Dark hair in a pony tail. Sun glasses on her forehead. I told her that this seemed to be the only package and that was a shame because I needed two. She said that she only needed one. I told her to go ahead and take it because I either had to find an employee to see if they had more or I had to go to another store. A guy has to have the right tortilla shells, don't ya know. She smiled and politely refused my offer saying I needed to take the one package in case I couldn't find more. I insisted she take them. She insisted I take them. She asked what I was going to use them for. The correct answer was chicken enchilada's. She was making burrito's. Somehow that led to us talking about our kids. Hers live at home. Two of mine do not and one of mine does. That led us to talking about church. Ok, the truth is that I took the subject there on purpose. If life is ultimately about God (and it is) I like to make certain people know that. I go to a baptist church and she goes to a presbyterian church. I told her that I'd probably be a presbyterian if I were not a baptist. I didn't mention that I'm a pastor because I'm not currently practicing. If you know what I mean. I wasn't WASN'T wasn't trying to hide anything. I suppose we stood and talked for about ten minutes but I stopped wearing a watch when I quit my job so I'm not really sure. We laughed a lot because, well, that's what you do during good conversations. And I like to laugh. And I like to make people laugh. It's fun. I don't know what it is but I am passionate about talking to strangers. It doesn't usually get me into trouble but Debbie often has to say "RON" in that "I'm seriously going to kick your butt if you don't come on" kind of way. So soccer mom was in a talking mood and I'm almost always in a talking mood and so we talked.

That's when she asked me if I'd like to come over and we could cook together and share the tortilla's.

This was a new twist. I remember cold hands. How can cold hands be sweaty? I don't know but believe me they can. I said the only thing I could think to say and fortunately it was the absolute right thing. I said, "I think I would need to check with my wife about that." To say that she turned red would be like saying the sun is bright. Scarlet might be more appropriate. I remember it set off the high lights in her hair. (Just kidding, honey.) She took a full step back and began apologizing profusely and pointed at my hand and said, "I am SOOOO SORRY! You don't have a wedding ring on!" I said the only thing I could think of. "Oh. My bad." That is word for word the best I could come up with. Doh. Then as I tried to explain about having left my ring off because my hands were cold which kind of shrinks my fingers (really!) I didn't want to lose it and so ..." but it didn't matter because by now she was half way to frozen foods.

I felt horrible and I felt horribly flattered. Hey, I'm just being honest. I wound up in the check out line next to hers and I apologized again. She was still red. To her credit she jokingly said that she usually tries to pick-up men at the gas station and not the grocery store. Heads turned and she got even redder. (I forgot to tell my wife that part.) I finished first and told her to have a nice Tuesday and thanks for making my day. She smiled and I rode off into the sunset.

Life is weird.

Later in the afternoon I found myself an another grocery store. I had forgotten milk or something. I don't remember. I went to a VERY dumpy neighborhood store figuring I couldn't hurt anything or anyone there. But as I was paying, the check out lady (who happened to have a total of four teeth) complained about how cold it was. I told her "Yeah, I don't know why they don't put the cash registers in the back of the store where it is warmer." I promise you that this is really what she said .... "Yeah! Have you noticed that almost all grocery stores have the check-out lines up by the front doors? Except for the Super Walmart. They put the doors on the sides." I smiled. I didn't say anything. I am learning.

So what do you do when you are 51 and you get hit on at the grocery store by a soccer mom? I narrowed it down to two options. Either "blog it" or make a bumper sticker announcing it. Blogging is free. So there ya go.

LIke I said before ... the days are packed.

Mona who?

I thought I would write tonight. You know, it's dark, damp, windy, threatening. They polished up the tornado sirens today because there's some huge monster storm coming this way in the dead of night. We'll probably all be dispersed across the east coast by noon tomorrow. I could write a killer (no joke intended) blog about that.

But I decided to go with art. Sometimes you can write art. If you are really good. And I'm not. So instead of trying to write art I decided to show it to you. Here it ... I mean she ... is.


Simply Elle. Eat your heart out, da Vinci.

Good is ... good

It sounds redundant but it is not. Good is good. And feeling good is VERY good.

It is hard to believe that 3 months ago today was my last day as a pastor at FBCB. 3 months? How could that be? So many of the days since then are just a blur. Some bring pleasant memories. Some ... not so much. Honestly for the first week I felt a sense of relief. Relief that I could concentrate on the things that were going wrong in my body. I had been living in denial for about 6 months and I could not ignore or hide it anymore. Once again the old adrenal system just crashed. I had promised myself near the end of 2001 that I would never allow that to happen again. Turns out I lied. The feeling of relief was accompanied by decreased symptoms. I thought it was over with all that easily. Wrong. The next 6 weeks saw the bottom falling out again. I made a deal with myself to forget the past, not worry about the future, and simply experience the day. It was usually nearing noon before I could stay vertical. Part of my personalized "deal" was that I would be showered and dressed every day before the morning ended. That sounds so insane, doesn't it? It wasn't. My body didn't work. Well, I could force it to work like I had been doing but that wouldn't do any long-term good. So I decided to let the flesh and blood have its way. I was out of bed at the usual time only to relocate to a horizontal position on what we lovingly call our "date chair." Bailey usually joined me under a down comforter. No music. No tv. No books. Just more sleep and rest. It was not fun.

The next stage was just kind of ... blah. It wasn't so important that I stay horizontal and that made my other issues stand out more clearly. My vision drove me crazy. Everything was often fuzzy through both eyes by mid-afternoon. If I closed my eyes for a nap or simply became more active than usual my left eye saw the world as being pale. Colors were not vivid. Everything took on a whiteish hue. Just through one eye. My right eye was normal. Strange, very strange. Dizzyness and I became close friends. I was an expert stumbler. My muscles would decide to spasm all on their own. Debbie says it was the worst at night. I would not know but I have no reason not to believe her. Sometimes my hands would tremble but I could keep other people from noticing it. Energy? Nada.

The third stage played on my brain. I started "shoulding" all over myself. You ever play that game? I thought of all of the ways I should have acted and all of the decisions I should have made to stay well. Don't ever "should" on yourself.

And then suddenly, sometime early last week, I felt ok. Really ok. I noticed it but decided to ignore it lest I do something stupid to mess it up. And another day or so down the line I felt good. GOOD. Not just alright but GOOD. Laughing came easily. I actually wanted to eat. Going outside sounded like fun. Playing with my granddaughter became a delight again instead of something that scared me because I was afraid I would accidently drop her or something. Quiet moments were no longer fearful moments. They were rewards for behaving. I had already read about 50% of the bible the youth group gave me on my last Sunday and it was covered in yellow high-lighter. I started going back over those verses and praying them to God. One dumb eye is still reminding me every day of the price of living stupid ... living outside the perfect will of The Father even when you think you are doing it as a kindness to Him. How ridiculous. How prideful. I have to get it checked out because I am really tired of it.

That's when I truly remembered. He loves me. I hadn't actually forgotten the truth of that statement. I had just stopped living in the constant awareness of it. Abba ... Abba is my everything. I would die for Him. My doctor had told me to keep on living the way I was living and that was exactly what I would do. And I realized that was not what He (Abba) wanted me to do. So under His watchful gaze and loving care I slowed down. I lay down. I calmed down. And He had begun raising me back up.

What is next? Don't know. Don't have to know. Just have to keep hearing Abba. And avoid EVER living stupid again. Jesus died to save the world. That means I don't have to.

Thank you, Abba. Good is ... good.

Blazing Inferno's

It is Sunday afternoon. Cloudy. Cool. Muddy. Damp. My car, Emma, is unhappy because she sits in the driveway instead of in the garage. My dog is unhappy because I will not let her outside to chase squirrels in the swamp known as my backyard. Some would call this a God forsaken day. But God does not forsake days. Days forsake God.

Sunday afternoon.

I sit propped up on a comfy chair, feet resting on a matching ottoman, clothed in sweats. Most of me is hidden under a soft down comforter. The house is quiet. That is all well and good but what really makes the difference in my today stands in the corner upon a base of stone. She is one of the reasons why I bought this house. She is a wood burning stove. She has no name. After all, she isn't a car. But if I were to name her it would be Ashley. Most of the time she sits alone and filled with ashes, memories of cozyness gone by. However, on days like today she is filled with light, heat, flame. She brings me cheer and I like being cheerful.

I read the news a few minutes ago. Another child was kidnapped recently. Fortunately it all ended happily with him escaping his captor. A rogue country is hell bound on creating a nuclear bomb. Nobody knows yet how that story will end. A professional football player collapsed and died last night at a hospital 20 miles from my house. He had just played in a charity game to benefit his brother who had received a heart transplant. Irony does not begin to define what happened to that family. Tornado's tore up part of Arkansas last night. There were no deaths reported but 27 people were injured to varying degrees.

It seems that outside the doors of my house the world is not a safe place. Of course it was in this house that I once broke a toe, recovered from severe bouts of adrenaline exhaustion, picked my golden retriever up for a final trip to the vet, watched my wife struggle for breath as asthma gripped her lungs with nearly life robbing fury, covered my son with a cold cloth as a migrane left him screaming in pain, prayed over the sleeping body of my youngest child after he made a really bad traffic decision that could have ended his life, and watched my (now very happily married) daughter go through the painful ups and downs of adolesence and dating life.

Perhaps it is not that safe in here either?

I cannot fix yesterday. I cannot dictate tomorrow. All I can do is sit by my blazing inferno and look heavenward for the smile of my Father. He has a name but I did not give it to Him. Actually He has many names. He seems to like it best when I call Him "Abba." It is not a complicated name. It means "daddy," or "Papa." Others call him "Jehovah," the great "I Am" or a variety of other biblical titles. Some simply call Him God.

When I was a boy I would travel with my parents to their childhood home in Arkansas. It was a yearly event. They looked forward to taking my brother and I there to show us to their friends and relatives. I guess we were trophy kids. When we would arrive we were greeted with hugs and kisses. One special aunt always had strawberrys waiting for us. The beds were fluffy and covered with warm blankets. But what I really remember was the trip down. We would leave our home in Detroit when my dad got off of work and drive all night. I did not know it then but now I find that Mapquest says it is 721.32 miles from our driveway to grandma's. Dad really had to want to get there badly to make a trip like that in one night. Mom didn't have a drivers license in those days. We would leave the very southern tip of Illinois and enter the bootheel of Missouri. If my brother and I were awake this was the sign that we should strap in and hold on for dear life because the closer my dad got to his home the faster he would drive. It was all 2 lane roads in those days and my dad liked big cars with big engines. I only recall a policeman catching him once. You can't radar what you can't see and dad surely drove faster than the human eye could keep up with on those straight, dark roads. All he wanted to do was to get home.

That is a pretty good picture of life. The closer you are to getting "home" the faster time seems to move. The scenery does not impress you as much anymore. You are focused on that city limit sign in the distance. I suppose these are deep thoughts for a dreary Sunday afternoon sitting by a beagle and a wood burning stove. I hope you do not mind. I don't mean to confuse or depress you. I love my stove. I love the journey I am on. I love my beagle and even my muddy back yard.

But you know what I really love? I really love my Abba. Sometimes when it is very quiet ... like it is this afternoon ... I hear my heart calling His name. I wait quietly hoping He will answer. Psalm 42 says it well. "Deep calls to deep at the roar of your waterfalls; all your breakers and your waves have gone over me. By day the Lord commands His steadfast love, and at night His song is with me, a prayer to the God of my life." When I look at my world and all that goes on around me the breakers knock me off my feet. I cannot stand. Not on my own. But my Abba ... my precious Abba. He commands His steadfast love by day and sings a song over me at night.

And I know it's all going to be alright. No matter what. No matter who. No matter. I feel Abba's love. I hear Abba's song.

So. Take that, world.

The Days Are Packed ...

I am so overwhelmed with options. I just cannot decide what to do. I've been between "pastor gigs" for nearly 3 months now. No really, that's a good thing. I'm just now feeling human again. 3 months of no stress, no meetings, no ... well ... nevermind. I am having fun being a person again just like most everybody else. I only have one remaining hold over from the stress induced Adrenaline Exhaustion that sometimes bops me upside the head. About mid-afternoon my left eye begins to get blurry. I can still cope. It is not a problem driving or anything. Except for when the sun is up or at night time. (Relax. That was a joke.) But the problamatic symptoms were legion 3 months ago and now I've reduced them to 1. I am a happy man. I am looking at some ministry opportunities. Actually, they think they are looking at me. I know better. They are spread far and wide over several states. That's kind of exciting. As long as my daughter knows that if we are told by God to relocate out of the St. Louis area our grand daughter WILL be coming with us. (Hi Kelli!)

So as I was saying, the days are just full. Like just this morning. I sat in front of the fridge trying to decide between orange juice and pineapple juice. The orange juice won. It was an arbitrary decision. Then I had to decide whether to clean the bathroom before I showered or shower before I cleaned the bathroom. (I cleaned bathrooms today trying to win brownie points with the little woman. Didn't work.) The shower took a back seat to the cleaning. It made sense. I checked my email and didn't have any. That too is a new thing for me. An empty email box is a clean email box. I got dressed and chose jeans over dockers. The dockers needed ironing and the jeans ... who cares? Easy call. Then I drove to Maryville to make my appointment with the Christian Counselor at our church. Jack's a great guy. He tells me his problems and I tell him mine. He thinks mine are worse. He has trouble keeping his eyes the same size when I tell him the kind of stuff that's rolling around in my head. I find that hilarious. I give him my reality in small doses so as not to overwhelm him. I'd hate to scare him out of the ministry business. So far he has given me really great advice. He says things like, "Write a book! Nobody will believe it!" I figure if they don't believe it they won't buy it. So why bother? I'll stick with blogging. Well, actually I am writing a book that nobody will buy. It's about how to survive 32 years in youth ministry without going postal.

Ok, then it was time to eat. I met my wife and two friends at a local eatery. Here is the tough question. Baby back ribs vs. riblets? Riblets won by a nose. I mean by a bone.

Next my daughter called me. She lives 50 miles away but I would run there on broken legs if she needed me. I had given her an old laptop a few months ago. It was a hold over from 1970 or something. But she was only checking email on it so it was alright. And then today she began getting "The Blue Screen Of Death." That is the same screen that drove me to the joy of "Mac Land." Anyway, after supper Debbie and I drove to her home. I "accidently" woke little baby Elle and so I had to hold her. Tough assignment. Then I messed with the laptop. Is the hard drive supposed to click and whir? I thought not. So I fired it up for about the 10th time, held it about 3 feet above the floor ... and dropped it. You know what happened? No, I still got "The Blue Screen Of Death." The next time I go to her house she and I are going to beat it to death with hammers. Don't worry. We'll wear goggles.

And now it's late at night and I need to go to sleep. Another decision. Do I sing myself to sleep with my ipod? Do I start sleeping on my right side or my left side? Here it is nearly midnight and STILL I'm having to make judgement calls.

The days are packed ...

A Lesson That Sucks ... I Mean, Seriously

Last night Debbie and I drove to the home of our daughter, son-in-law and granddaughter. We spent the night so that we could baby sit early in the morning and throughout the day. So we visited, we slept and we got up to be with baby Elle.

This is a child of 9 months old who loves people! I mean, she finds her toys (which she has in abundance) to be cool but she would obviously rather play with people. Just my kind of girl!

So play we did! We flew around the room. We crawled. Well, I crawled. She "army crawled." But somehow she still managed to beat me to the toy or the keys I had thrown across the room. That little sucker is f-a-s-t! The she took her nap. I was tempted to do the same but refrained. And after she got up ...

THE FUN STARTED!

You see, baby Elle likes to be upside down. She is happiest when she is totally inverted. I picked her up by the feet and let her giggle at her grandma sitting near her. Then I took her for upside down tours of the house. She giggled and cackled like a 9 month old. Which is exactly what she is. Then we played "Grandfather Clock!" That's where I hold her upside down by her feet and swing her back and forth like a pendelum while saying "tick, tock, tick, tock." Yes, I have video if you care to observe. She loved it.

Then it was time for the finishing touch of our fun soaked day. Elle was sitting on the couch by her mother who had just returned home from work. She had her pacifier (aka: pacy) in her mouth. I really don't know why I did what I did. It just happened. I reached out and quickly pulled it out of her mouth and put it in my own. You have NEVER seen a little child look as stunned as she looked. I thought she was going to cry but she did not. She did not pout. She simply took stock of the situation and then reached out and snatched her "pacy" back! She put it straight into her mouth and began sucking and chewing on it while her mom and her grandmother grossed out.

And then ... then the most unusual, unexpected thing happened. Baby Elle looked at me. She took her pacy out of her mouth and held it out toward me. I opened my mouth and she put it in. I didn't know what to do. So ... I sucked on it! It's been a few years since I last had a pacifier of my own. (Honest!) And then she took it back and chewed it herself. For the next 5 minutes my lovely granddaughter and I shared her precious "pacy." She and I both delighted in the sharing. Pacy spit is no big deal between a grandfather and a granddaughter.

I learned from Baby Elle today. I remembered how wonderful it is to give. I recalled what it feels like to forget about yourself in favor of someone that you love. Maybe this is way too deep a conclusion for such a silly game. But it was more than a game. Elle shared with me her most prized possession... the coveted pacifier that she uses to comfort herself when she is going to sleep or is simply restless. Why can't I remember the lesson of a 9 month old? Do I have to wake up in the morning and be the same old jaded adult that I too often find myself being? You know, I am tempted to go out and buy my own pacifier so that I won't forget the lesson of Elle ... and so that the next time I hang out with her ... we can swap pacy's. After all, that is what really good friends do.

I love you, Elle. Thanks for reminding me.

Beware of Pink Hockey Pucks

<----This is a real hockey puck. It is black. It has "NHL" written on it. Make a note of it.


Remember Judy? Sure you do. I wrote about her a couple of blogs back letting the world know that she is the best volunteer youth staff member ever to grace planet earth. She blushed but got over it. It's still true. Nothing has changed.

Well ... something has. But it has nothing to do with youth ministry. It has to do with janitorial services. Cleaning. In particular, cleaning the mens room.

It seems that many people volunteer at First Baptist these days. The church is ministering with a reduced staff for a lot of reasons. They have nothing to do with the story. What is important is that volunteers are cool people. They give expecting nothing in return.

Well, I happen to have a Judy update for you. I think you will be interested in this. You might want to sit down before you continue reading. Do not be drinking anything that you don't want to blow out your nose. Trust me on this.

It seems that Judy was doing her weekly volunteer cleaning one day recently. She usually cleans what is fondly referred to as the "Fireside Building." They call it that because it has a fireplace in it. You can sit beside it and have a nice cozy meeting. Or it has been known to add flame to an already heated discussion. Tough to tell ahead of time. But on this particular day Judy was not cleaning in the Fireside. She was in the main building. She was cleaning ... the mens room.

By her own admission Judy had never been inside a mens room before. When she arrived she rolled up her sleeves and fearlessly got to work. You have to admire her spunk. She cleaned the sink. That was probably a yucky experience. Men are pigs. I know. I am one. She emptied the trash cans. I can't imagine the odor eminating from the tissues used for blowing noses and drying hands. She mopped the floor. She scrubbed the toilet. I am sure there was a brush for that. Toilets are not fun to clean but they don't have to be that bad. Just use the correct tools and cleaners. Oh, and wear gloves.

Judy ... did not wear gloves.

She said they make her hands sweat. There are worse things than sweaty hands. Much worse things.

There was only one place left to clean in the mens room. All men know what it is for. It is politely and correctly called a "urinal." Judy approached the urinal. She looked inside of it. It must be a strange looking object to a woman. That is when she noticed something in the bottom of the urinal. It was just sitting there. It was pink. It looked like a hockey puck. A pink hockey puck. Everybody knows that hockey pucks do not belong in urinals. So Judy picked it up. She looked it over. She felt its texture. She brought it to her nose and smelled it. I believe that was the moment that Judy realized that this pink hockey puck belonged in the urinal. So she put it back.

<---This is NOT a hockey puck.

Playing with the faux pink hockey puck was just the first mistake that Judy made. The second one took place at Walmart. That is where Scott and I saw her shopping. We were so happy to see her! We hugged! We almost danced. Customers stared. Fortunately we did not shake hands. We talked about the events that are current in our lives. She told us her pink hockey puck urinal story. Scott looked at me. I looked at Scott. At that point things become blurry. I couldn't see through the tears. Scott was gasping for breath. Judy looked sheepishly shocked. She asked us to promise not to tell anybody.

Riiiiiight. I love me some Judy. I encourage everybody to love on Judy. She deserves it. She is one of the best people I know. But whatever you do ... remember ... friendship with Judy is to be a hands-free experience.

Friends...

A few days ago I ran into an old friend while shopping for groceries. I was walking behind a woman when she turned around and we suddenly were face to face ... and we both lit up at the same time. Denise has always been a remarkable young woman. She was in my church youth group a loooooong time ago. Long enough that her age now puts her in the final decade that begins with a "T." That's the only clue you get. We were both very surprised to have stumbled over each other and we talked for about 15 minutes. By then my wife had found us and joined in the catch-up conversation. Eventually we had to pay for our food items and leave. But it was so, so good to see Denise again. It has been a couple of years since we talked.

And then she sent me an email. It was an update on the life of another young woman from my youth group in the same era Denise was in. Sheri. I had lost track of Sheri in the late 90's. I knew she had married and moved to Florida but that was about it. She seemed to have fallen off the planet. It happens.

This is where God's Hand begins to show up. Denise had called Sheri after we met in the grocery store. They talked and at some point she mentioned that she had seen me. Let Denise tell you in her own e-mailed words what happened next...

"I tell you this because she wanted you to know that God had been placing you on her heart for about six months, but her health was so poor, and her energy was so low that she never picked up the phone to call you, but she has been lifting you up in prayer. As soon as I told her that I had seen you she said, "How IS he doing??" before I even had a chance to tell her you weren't at 1st Baptist Bethalto anymore. She said to tell you that she's sorry she didn't call, but that she has been praying for God to strengthen you and restore you for about 6 months now. That's the message!"

That is the way my God works. It was about 6 months ago that I began my second experience with adrenaline exhaustion. It was about 6 months ago that I began to realize that God was in the process of releasing me from my 23-year ministry at my church. It was about 6 months ago that life began to really hurt. And it was about 6 months ago that God told an old friend now living one thousand miles away to start praying for my strength and health.

To quote the old hymn, "I stand amazed in the presence of Jesus the Nazarene, and wonder how He could love me, a sinner condemned, unclean."

This is not the first email or phone call I have received like that in the last 3 months. It has happened multiple times and EVERY SINGLE TIME has been from a person who had allowed me the honor of being their youth pastor years ago and had now grown into adulthood. EVERY SINGLE ONE has come at the perfect moment when I needed to be reminded that all of those years count to God and to people. All of those youth trips, JPL nights, True Love Waits retreats and everything else we did together as a small part of the family of God COUNTS.

And I am so humbled. So honored. So broken. To be used by the Hand of God. Thank you, Denise. Thank you, Sheri. Thank you, Melanie. Thank you, Lisa. Thank you, Ed. Thank you, Shannon. Time prevents me from listing you all by name. But to each of you ... thanks. You have been here ... Jesus with skin on ... when I have needed you so much.

I am blessed.

Emmanuel … "God with us" ... God with ME

God. I wonder what He thinks about when He thinks about me. The bible says He is thinking about me all of the time. Before you begin to wonder if I am in trouble or something rest assured that He thinks about you all of the time too. He has a brain big enough to do that. So don't go getting cocky on me. We are in the same boat. God's watching.

Maybe that's the first thing I know about God. He is watching. If I hide under my bed He sees me anyway. If I close my mouth He still knows what I am thinking. In other words ... I can't get away with squat.

The second thing I know about God is that He loves me. You too. So relax a little bit. He's not looking for reasons to squash us like a bug under His size gazillion shoe. He's looking for reasons not to. That is where the love thing comes in. This God paid for my sin. It was a gift which I have accepted. So my screw-ups are paid for. Forever. Yours are too if you have asked Him to forgive you and have intentionally accepted His offer of free grace (forgiveness.) That's a pretty good second thing to know about God. If there is a God ... and there is ... then I want Him to go by the nickname of "Love."

The third thing I think I know about God is that He has a plan. I know so many people that have trouble with that. It's like we all want to do things our own way and live out our own plans. But you know what? At the ripe age of fifty-one I now realize that I really do not want my own way. I've screwed up enough, thank you very much. It has finally occured to me that every time I listen to Him and do what He tells me to do ... I come out just fine. Sure, I might go through some deep waters. Things might get hairy for a while. But so far I've always come out on top. I believe that someday I am going to die. I've been watching and the birth to death ratio seems to be 1/1. For every birth there is a death. And everybody who is born eventually dies. I've never met an exception. That would seem to indicate that I too am going to get boxed up and sunk in the ground someday. But here's the thing. God's not screwed up one thing in my life yet. Even when He does something or allows something that hurts it has always turned out for my good. So why should I believe that He will break His pattern just because my body wears out or a truck runs me down? If He's really God He should be able to overcome a little thing like death. Right?

In case you are wondering, these ideas are not original with me. I first read them in the bible. But life seems to prove each of them to be true. And God said that if we trust Him we'll even conquer death because He conquered death and so we can too. It's another part of that gift I was telling you about.

The fourth thing I now about God is that He is very big, very intentional and very in charge. I know He is big because I have seen what He has made. Well, I've seen part of it anyway. There are places like the other side of the moon that I've not caught a glimpse of yet. But from what I have seen He has done a very good job. I've often stated that I'm a "lower 48 kind of guy." In other words I have no desire to leave my homeland. I love me some America! I've seen both oceans as well as the Gulf of Mexico and the Great Lakes. I've skied the Rocky Mountains and I've done some minor hiking in the Blue Ridge Mountains. I've fallen from the top of a ladder only to land in a fluffy snow drift and laugh about it. I've walked in snow deep enough to make you trip over the top of street signs. I've watched hundreds of times as the mighty muddy Mississippi River floats barges and boats around about 7 miles from my home. I've caught glimpses of thousands of square miles of corn, wheat, bean, cotton and tons of other types of vegetable fields. I've driven across Texas and that will make you certainly HOPE there is a God! I've seen and survived more than one tornado. (FYI, I will be perfectly happy not to see another though I'm holding on to the surviving part.) I've seen the northern lights. I've eaten freshly picked oranges and stood 3 feet from a Florida alligator. I nearly collided with a VERY LARGE wild boar while driving across the wild life refuge adjoining the Kennedy Space Center. And come to think of it I have watched in person as God's creation was harnassed by man as the space shuttle roared off into the utter void of space. I have stood atop the continental divide more than 12,000 feet up and looked both ways. Both were down. I think you get my point. This wonderful stuff did not just happen. Somebody did it. Somebody made it. When I eat a yummy piece of chocolate it never enters my mind that things like cocoa, sugar, etc. just went "BOOM!" one day and the net result was a bag full of M&M's. How dumb. But not as dumb as thinking that all of those things I just mentioned happened by another even more unlikely "BOOM!" No way. I don't buy it.

I think that I know more about God. But I am guessing that you get my point. He's got me hook, line and sinker. I'm totally sold on the whole God concept. I would .... and have .... staked my life on it more than once. I've gone places and done things that I should never have survived just because I deeply felt He was directing me to. And again, I've always turned out on top.

How very cool is that?

Still I wonder what God is thinking as He looks at me tonight. It's nearly midnight and I'm propped up in bed typing on "Tess." I should be sleeping. But no, I am thinking about God. And He is thinking about me. He knows me inside and out. I know only what He has revealed about Himself to me. But that is enough. It is enough to make me trust Him. I've been doing a lot of nothing for 11 weeks now. I am beginning to feel health returning. I'm not dizzy anymore. My body feels rested. (I don't believe I ever thought I would feel that way again. But I do.) I still have some issues like a blurry eye that is driving me crazy. I still have a muscular tension that has not totally subsided. My wife says I still do strange things in my sleep. Jerking. Twitching. Crazy stuff. But the fog of the last 3 years is lifting. Slowly but surely it is lifting. And I just do not know how to say "thank you" to God. Words are just words. I want to say it with my heart. I'll find a way. It won't be enough either but it will be a start.

Someday I am going to sit down with Jesus and He will show me His scars. I fully expect that will make me forget my own.