Morning Through My Eyes

(swish swish swish swish)
What. What?
(swish swish swish swish)
What is that noise? What is that moving on my face?
(swish swish swish swish)
(right eye opens)
Please, Lord. No. The room! It is not dark. Is it ... mourning. Already? Could it be? Nooooooooooooo... it is mourning.
(swish swish swish swish)
What IS ... ceiling fan. Oh.
(low rumble. higher pitched rumble. consecutive non-ending rumbles)
Pleeeease turn the noise down. Could those be cars? Why are cars driving at this time of the mourning?
(close right eye. Quickly enter low level dream mode. Sandra Bullock walks up and readjusts my Cubs cap. She looks me up and down. She gives me a thumbs-up and tosses me my mitt. I look at the field but before I can run out there she begins fanning me with palm branches and feeding me grapes. I hear a low rumble...)
Wait. WAIT! DON'T GO! That's a truck. Where did Sandra go? Where's my ball glove? Nooooooooo.... God. If you can hear me make it midnight again. You know. Just a simple way of saying, "I love you." I promise I'll go to church Sunday.
(Feed my sheep.)
Huh? Yeah. I know, I'm the pastor. Hey, that's not fair, God! You know I've gotta go anyway! I ... I don't have any bargaining chips.
(both eyes open into squints. head falls to the left. drool runs onto pillow case.)
Okay. I can to this. I've been doing it for 5 decades. I can do it again.
(Mammoth amount of energy expenditure results in a half sitting/half laying position, propped up on elbows. Another blast of will power and the upper half of me is vertical. Dizzy but vertical. A third shot sends my feet over the edge of the bed onto the carpet below.)
You hate me, don't you, God.
("My mercies are new every morning.")
What? Where? Could it be that the entire bible is inspired except for that sentence?
("Seek Me while I may be found.")
You aren't kidding, are you? You want me to ...
(My eyes close. I stare at the earth from my tethered perch. I dangle from the last space shuttle flight. All of the work is finished. I am the last man to walk in space from the shuttle. The beauty is astonishing. I feel a tug from behind me. Mom? What is she doing here? She stands in the cargo bay in her bath robe, reeling me in, pulling me back from my dream view. As I approach the door she hits me with a rolled up newspaper and admonishes me to wipe my shoes before I enter the cockpit where I will guide my high tech bird to its final landing at Kennedy Space Center. Dad sticks his head out of the bathroom and askes if we have any more toilet paper. I tell him that I need to go land our shuttle and ask if he can wait a minute. He gives me "the look" and slams the bathroom door startling me back to ....)
I stand. The bathroom. The bathroom use to be this way. It's probably still here. I enter. Dad is not on the toilet. I must be awake.

Noooooooooooooo.....

Because His Face Is Gone

I have a new hobby. It's one I latched on to late last year after we appeared to have an intruder attempt to penetrate our home defenses in the dead of night. A basement alarm was going off and all I had to defend the fortress with was the equivalent of a soggy English Muffin. Honestly, it just is not a rollicking good time to go poking around a 2,100 square foot house spread over 2 floors with many doors and nooks and crannies to hide in. English Muffin in hand.

And so I began studying up and decided to get involved in the age old art of "shooting." You know. A gun. The only one I have ever owned was my father's old rifle that he got for Christmas one year when I was 10 years old. That makes the gun 45. I found out that he was about to sell it to a policemen in his retirement town for $100. Not acceptable. And so I gave him $100 and claimed a part of my inheritance early.

Somehow I missed the class where they taught you that your inheritance was suppose to INCREASE your net worth rather than DECREASE your net worth. Thanks for selling me my own heirloom dad. What a guy. But, in his defense, it came with the original bullets, cleaning kit, and scope. Somehow I don't think that firing 45 year old bullets is that great an idea. So the gun just sat all wrapped up in it's cover until I decided to try it out recently.

It jammed.

So much for inheritance. And now back to our story.

I decided to follow the advice of a good and trusted friend. I purchased a small caliber hand gun. I know, I know. Everybody tells me that it's all about "stopping power." You know, drop the intruder in his tracks. One slug from a .45 and the battles over with. But practicing with a .45 or the time proven .357 is an expensive hobby for a novice such as I. So I purchased a Ruger Mark III. It's a .22 caliber. That's considered small. One guy told me it was good for home defense if you shoot yourself in the foot and the intruder laughs himself to death. But can I tell you something? If somebody tells me they are going to poke a hole straight through me with a pencil and that the pencil is going to be moving faster than sound ... I'm going to turn and go the other way. And when was the last time a crooked crook stopped to ask what caliber bullets you were shooting after hearing the first "BANG!?" So I figure as long as I shoot first I'll probably win even if I miss and blow up the thermostat. Chances are he'll head out the door he came in. Unless he's all hopped up on Crack or PCP in which case I'm gonna tell Jesus on Him in just a couple seconds. So please pray that if a bad guy breaks into my house he's sober and not doped up. I like my burglars sane and thinking straight.

Anyway, I've been having a great time at the shooting range with the pop gun. I've learned how to tear it down, clean it, and reassemble it. For those of you who know fire arms, that is a major accomplishment with this particular hand gun. I went to the firing range this afternoon and shot at a paper target that was a shaped like a human being. The girl behind the counter asked how I had done when I was leaving. I showed her the target and she said, "he's dead." I asked her how she knew that. She said, "His face is gone and his belly button is definitely an "innie." Cool. 250 bullets and they all went through his face except for the one I used to enlarge his navel. I was proud that she had noticed.

Last week I took dad's rifle to the range. I had cleaned it up really well and learned a few tricks about it. It still jammed after about every third bullet. But what got my attention was that they told me I could only use a rifle at the range if I moved it at least 20 yards out. I said fine without really thinking about it. And today, as I was shooting with just the Ruger, I realized .... why does it matter how far out the target is? The bullet is going all the way anyhow. I mean, the paper target wouldn't stop a cork gun. Why do they care how far out I move the target? Sounded like a very good question. So I asked the young woman as I was leaving. She gave a satisfactory answer. It seems that in the rifle part of the range the floor is sloped. If the target is closer than 20 yards your bullets will hit the floor, ricochet to the ceiling and then go .... right back where it came from. She says they call that their "Duck and Cover" lanes. Hey. That's good enough for me.

Okay, boys and girls. There is no spiritual lesson to be learned from this late night writing session. So don't dig too deeply. Some days you teach a valuable nugget of wisdom. Some days you just blow stuff up. And today we just went "boom."

A Place To Land

The day began with a hard wooden bench in a church constructed of stone and mortar. A white casket in the middle aisle held a body ready to be consecrated to the winters earth. What began as pain and blood and water was now finished and would today be returning to the dust from whence it had come. But only a cold and lifeless body lay enshrouded in the pale white coffin. The soul, the spirit, has flown to its maker. The tears born from beings of clay were most surely not heard in the heavenly realms where the cries were of the joy experienced as a wandering soul returned home.

The slow, rain soaked drive to my office was punctuated by a warm soft drink and a slice of cold pizza purchased from a place that specializes in selling fuel for vehicles and not the human body. Funny how temperatures often invert at the least desirable moment.

An arrival at a desk brought my action to a crawl as phone calls were returned, emails were read, and the foundation for plans were laid pertaining to an evening meeting. I am not a man of details. Desk time is ugly time. Sometimes ugly is necessary.

Home came none too soon. A quick glance at the news, an hour of "quiet time" in my home office, and the bride of my youth and I were off for a meal of hastily prepared italian food and the aforementioned meeting. All went well.

And the day was over. My "she" went to bed early, having slept poorly last night. I turned my attention to an unwelcome and yet needed home repair, washed my hands, and allowed my heart to take over.

And so it is that I find myself at my landing spot. It is a blue chair, half reclining, half supporting. As I rest in it, it rests in the room I call my favorite. The craftsmanship is far from perfect but it was created with my own hands. The slate blue coloring of the upper walls gives way to the white wainscoting below. The hardwood floor is mainly covered with a rug that stands out and brings color to the tameness of the blue and white. And the walls. The walls are covered with items of meaning. They would bring little on the open market. And yet to me they are priceless. Autographed baseballs from childhood heroes. A classic bobble head collection of saints the likes of Martin Luther, John Calvin, and the evangelist of all time, Billy Graham. I wonder if they would be proud to be so enshrined? There are rocks collected from vacation beaches and active volcano's visited in my past. My childhood first basemen's baseball glove. No, don't bend it! It will crack in half with age. And so will I if I do not land in this chair.

Yes, this is the place where my day ends. The place where the landing gear of my life is lowered and I descend from cruising altitude into this tiny corner of a room that I call my personal hanger. More rightly, my cave. It is dark, it is quiet, it is filled with history. My history. A picture of a dashing soldier in dress uniform greets me and I see the smart smile of my father, a decade removed from life now. An authentic baseball jersey bearing the number 31 of the Chicago Cubs, personally autographed with the addition of the numbers of strike-outs, career wins, and year voted into the baseball Hall of Fame. A part of Ferguson Jenkins over my left shoulder and a neon sign screaming "Cubs" glowing over my right. This room is as close to home as I get on this tumbling sphere named Earth.

A place of peace. A place of solitude. A place where I spend as much time prostrate before God on the floor as I do reclining with an open Bible in my chair. Everybody needs one of these.

A place to land.

Where I land.

These are a few of my favorite things. (Song reference not intended.)

My favorite book case containing a copy of "The Biography of Martin Luther" dated 1873.

"The Glove" and an original brick with paint intact from "Old Comiskey Park," former home of the Chicago White Sox ... where my dad use to take me to ball games.

My father's "WWII Dog Tags" and my first wedding ring (which my finger out grew. I kept the same wife and simply changed rings.)

Pure Peace

Today was a day of unexpected twists and turns. I had my Monday all planned out when I arrived at my office. I'm not a "morning guy." But I arrived late even by my standards. It was about 9:45. I didn't feel too badly about it because I was in the prayer room praying and talking with a person who needed help until shortly before the big storm hit last night. So even arriving at 9:45 meant that I had only been gone from the office for about 12 hours before I was back. I didn't mind that. Pastor's live for the moment of crises. That is when we have the most influence and effect upon others.

But back to my point.

I spent part of the morning returning phone calls, updating a few things on the church web site, getting a relatively early start on next Sunday mornings message, and other minor details. My 32 ounce styrofoam cup of caffeinated adrenline was on my desk and being steadily drained.

Then the phone calls started coming in. Then more of them. Finally I decided that one of the really important goals of the day was to make contact with a 90-something year old woman in our church who is dying. She is hospitalized. And so I left the building and drove to the hospital. I left my Mustang in the parking garage in a a "Clergy Parking" spot and entered the building. Within moments horns started sounding, bells started ringing, and buzzers started buzzing. Hallway doors automatically closed and displayed signs saying "Emergency Status." Oh. Great. The elevators were shut down and the volunteers left their desks. I picked-up a house phone and dialed the operator. She gave me the room number I was looking for but warned me that I probably would not be able to get their until the undefined emergency was settled. Well, that didn't work for me. Their emergency didn't fit into my schedule. So I wound my way through back corridors, up seldom used stairways and eventually came out on the desired floor. In minutes I navigated my way to the room I was seeking. As I sat talking to a friend in the room I noticed that my elderly friend was looking at me. She was motioning toward me, calling me to her side. I got up and approached her bed. We began to talk.

"Are you ready to go home?"

"Yes."

"You know what I mean, don't you? I'm not talking about your house. I'm talking about the 'home' that Jesus went to prepare for you."

Her tired eyes gazed up at me. "Yes. I know. I'm ready."

"Do you realize that in a few days your Father is going to meet you? You will be introduced to Jesus. You will get to walk and run and jump and do all of the things you've missed? You can wade through crystal clear streams or maybe climb a mountain!"

A weak smile played across weary lips. "I'm ready."

I prayed with my friend. I told her I would see her soon. And I made my way back to my car.

You don't plan moments like that one. They just happen. I could have still been sitting at my desk doing some sort of administrative work. If I had done that I would have missed this priceless opportunity to bless. And it is a high and holy privilege to bless like this.

The rest of the afternoon fell apart. An assortment of "stuff" got in the way and I felt like I accomplished nothing of importance. But my friend lingered at the back of my mind.

And then at 4:00PM Debbie and I picked-up our son, Scott, at the train station. He came down to spend a couple of days before heading back to the ministry God has assigned to him in Chicago's suburbs. We drove to join my other son and his wife, Christopher and Laura. They were playing with our amazing grandson, Judah. And then we all drove together to meet up with the rest of our family for a wonderful 90 minute long meal that we share each week. My daugher and her husband, Kelli and Joe, were there with their daughters, Elle and Paisley. And my brother-in-law, Jim, came with his newborn son Anderson.

And then came the very best part of the day. Paisley. My precious Paisley. She's only 18 months old and she sat on my lap and watched her sister eating an ice cream cone. And then I realized ... Ron, you dummy. What are you doing? Paislely is WATCHING Elle eat ice cream! I asked Paisley if she would like some ice cream. She smiled and babbled incomprehensible words which, loosely translated, meant "Yes, please." And so I carried her up to the counter and we bought her an ice cream cone. And then we went back and we sat down and together we alternated licks for the next 15 minutes. And we giggled. And we dripped ice cream on ourselves and on each other. And I looked into the eyes of my granddaugher and I saw ... love. I saw happiness. It was ice cream. And it was grandpa. I never had the opportunity to know a grandpa of my own. But Paisley will. And as we shared our ice cream I felt it for the first time in a very long time .... pure peace. Thank you, Paisley. Thank you for slowing me down. For getting sticky with me. For giving me a reason to laugh. For reminding me of innocence. And pleasure. And a reason to look beyond myself and enjoy the gift of you.

And Then There Is Kelli ...

I cannot write about my boys and not tell you about my daughter. She will cringe when she sees this. ESPECIALLY the picture above. But it is her life and ... well ... Kelli is a very thorough person and I cannot leave out a bit of history. She didn't want a blog about her. She certainly didn't ask for it! But she's getting it anyway. And yes, it would be inappropriate of you not to leave a comment or your favorite "Kelli story" before you leave this place. I must say, there is one photo here that is not at all horrific and I pray that it is not offensive to her. It's one of the best dances I've ever had. And I was certainly the most expensive. :) (And worth every penny...)

The DECADE of Chris ...

For cryin out loud! Now EVERYBODY wants a special blog to call their own! Scott feels lonely and left out so I write about him. Then Christopher feels slightly ... slighted. So here we go, little buddy! Remember a few years ago when you declared it, "The Year of Chris?" As I remember it, it probably didn't turn out the way you wanted. But never fear. God heard your heart and I do believe that we find ourselves smack in the middle of the DECADE of Chris! I'll provide the best photo's of you but your family and friends will have to supply the memories. Let's hope they do a better job than they did with Scott. I texted them encouraging them to write stories. They deleted the text. They don't love him as much as I do. Scott's still not feeling the love. Maybe you'll fare better?

Feeling The Love... Scott Woods

If you read the comments on my previous blog you may have noticed that Scott was not "feeling the love." He did not make it into the photo (for reasons please see Kelli's blog today at this link). Scott is also concerned ... and rightly so ... that his life has become defined by "snow mounding." It saddens me greatly to think that I may have hurt my sons feelings. And so I am rectifying this situation by adding a few photo's of Scott. And I would love to invite all of you to help ... redefine Scott ... by telling your favorite "Scott story" in the comments.

So come on, America! Let's help Scott FEEL THE LOVE!

We Swing From Bent Branches

Today my 4 year old granddaughter, Elle, painted her left eyebrow with pink fingernail polish. This is not an oddity in my family tree. We swing from bent branches. Elle is just getting started. I tremble to think of what the future holds for her.

I received an email request today to confirm that I am the father of Scott, my oldest son. He joined a web based "family tree organizer." I admitted that we are related. And now I am a member of the web based family tree organizer as well. They tell me that nothing on the web is truly hidden. Once you put something on the web it is there f-o-r-e-v-e-r. So think before you post, boys and girls.

And since that is a fact, Jack, I thought I'd go ahead and tell you about some of the more interesting twigs in our tree. Perhaps then you will understand why I act ADHD, suffer from PTSD, and am addicted to HFCS. The following people drove me to it.

First there is my brother. His name is Jim. He just got a new hat. A friend gave it to him. It's a "pre-sweat-stained" cowboy hat. He likes it that way. Pre-sweated. The company that made the hat offered to put a bullet hole in it for a small extra fee. I offered to put one there for free. He declined.

Then there is my wife, Debbie. You remember her. She's the one that told the Canadian Border Guard that asked us where our destination was when we were entering his country, "Canada." I found it much funnier than he did.

Kelli pops up next. She is very normal. Not an odd bone in her body. One day half of her lifetime ago she bounced into my kitchen with a carry-out bag from Taco Bell and the news that she had just gotten her first "road kill." We smelled it before she even said it. A skunk. She was doused in his sweet revenge. When asked what she did when she saw the skunk she replied, "I just closed my eyes and kept on driving." See. Totally normal.

Scott. The name sounds rock solid, doesn't it? He's intelligent and seldom screws up. He has a blog site too. It's dedicated to "Snow Mounding." He waits until a heavy snow falls and the plows push it into big piles and then he climbs the piles, has his picture taken, and posts it along with the longitude, latitude, and altitude. Nothing odd about that, huh?

Christopher is the youngest of my off spring. I could dedicate an entire blog site to his antics over the years. Problem is, you'd never believe me. Let's just say that once upon a time he had his friends duct tape him to a stop sign so that he could see what people would do when they drove up. The first car on the scene was a police car. Did I mention that he believed until he was in his early twenties that our admittadly brilliant Golden Retriever was writing to him in poop in his dog run? Oh, and he seldom wears pants. Christopher's branch is exceedingly bent.

Kelli married Joe. Joe is totally normal. Except, of course, that he use to hold the windshield wipers of an old van he drove on with rubber bands. We all do that now and then.

Scott married Amanda. She is such a sweet soul. She works helping homeless women find a home. And she eats fried pickles coverd with "Devil's Spit." They say it's a sauce. I say it's a punishment.

Christopher married Laura. She is the one that makes our family sleep better at night, knowing that because of her Christopher is well cared for. Laura is about 5'4, weighs maybe 110 pounds, and can out belch any sailor you've ever met. She kept the car running for me one night while I lay the Christmas gift of a half eaten ham on the front porch of "a church official," rang the door bell, and ran. In other words ... Laura drove my get-away car.

Paisley is Kelli and Joe's other daughter. Elle dropped to one knee and proposed to her a couple of weeks ago. Paisley screamed and threw a ball at her. She's only 18 months old and, I suppose she figured that was too young to be getting married.

Judah is Christopher and Laura's son. He's only 6 months old and hasn't done anything wrong. At least not that I know of. I'll ask him later. Right now Christopher is nursing him.

This is my family and I am proud. (More family introductions to come. Be afraid. Be very afraid.)

Angry Birds For Angry Believers

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

(enter erase mode)

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

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

I am "Angry Birds."

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

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

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

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

I Can Be Such A Dork

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

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

And then last night happened.

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

Weird. This. Cannot. Be. Good.

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

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

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

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

I can be such a dork.

Blessed X 20,200

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

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


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

How blessed I am!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Death Of My Childhood

My world has been rocked.

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

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

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

The Segway won.

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

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

10 Children's Books You'll Never See

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

10. The Boy Who Died From Eating All His Vegetables

9. Curious George And The High Voltage Fence

8. The Magic World Inside The Abandoned Refrigerator

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

6. Daddy Drinks Because You Cry

5. Strangers Have The Best Candy

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

3. Controlling The Playground: Respect Through Fear

2. The Pop-Up Book Of Human Anatomy

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

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

Gloom Can Last A Very Long Time

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I Wish I Liked Christmas As Much As I Like Christ

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

I warned ya...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's How The World Works ...

Life is interesting. Eternity? Even more so.

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

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

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

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

Family.

Friends.

Home.

And most of all ... Father.

Strange Thoughts That Today Brought To My Attention

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

R.I.P. Old Friend

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

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

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

R.I.P. old friend.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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