The Quandary Of A Death

I'm having a problem. Osama Bin Laden. He is dead. He is assumedly in hell. It is rather clear that he died without Christ in his life. And it brings me no joy.

Please do not misunderstand. I despise what he did. "Despise" is not a strong enough word. I can throw out a lot of other words in an attempt to be more specific. More accurate. I am horrified. I find him despicable. I detest who he was, what he stood for, and what he did. Hell is precisely what he deserves. Eternal punishment in never ending torment.

And so do I.

Of course I have never given the orders to fly people filled passenger jets into people filled buildings. I have never ordered or even cheered for the death of a human being. But it doesn't take that kind of evil to cause a person to deserve hell. It just takes one simple act of rebellion against God. Even a small one. Need convincing? Ask Adam and Eve. It was just a piece of fruit. A simple piece of fruit. It was the only fruit on the planet that God told them not to eat. And they ate it. Sin. Rebellion. Just a little. And it multiplied and multiplied and multiplied until we witnessed that mind-numbing moment of history we call 9/11. It still turns our stomachs. I still feel the shiver of horror when I think of that day ... those images ... the desperate families seeking lost loved ones.

And it all began with a piece of forbidden fruit.

Every lust filled thought I have ever had, much less acted on, is the result of the fruit salad the first couple dined on thousands of years ago in that beautifully perfect garden. Every lie I have ever told. Every law I have ever broken. Every idol I have ever worshipped. I could go on but it makes my stomach hurt to think about "the real me." The one underneath "the pastor me." Oh yes, the pastor one is real too. But only by the grace of God.

1st John 1: 5 says, "The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it." You see, light and darkness can never occupy the same room. Light always wins. Always. There was a lot of darkness in me. I invited the light in one day and the darkness had to flee. I can still taste it. Still remember its chill. But today, thanks be to God, I walk in the light. There was a lot of darkness in Osama Bin Laden. He chose to die in that darkness. And that causes the light in me to grieve. I believe we see that same effect in the heart of our God when we read in Ezekiel 33: 11 "Say to them, As I live, declares the Lord God, I have no pleasure in the death of the wicked, but that the wicked turn from his way and live; turn back, turn back from your evil ways, for why will you die, O house of Israel?" I do not grieve because his evil reign of terror has come to an end. I do not grieve because their was a fire fight and the bullet found it's mark in his head. I grieve because the darkness won another one. Osama Bin Laden was not Satan. I suppose they knew each other quiet well. But until the very moment the bullet ended his life even OBU could have repented and come to The Light of Christ. He chose not to. And that is why I grieve. The real terrorist ... Satan ... won the battle for the soul of Bin Laden.

There is one death that will give me great joy. It is spoken of in 1st Corinthians 15: 26. "The last enemy to be destroyed is death." Now that will be a day to cheer. There will be no place to be found that does is not filled with the light of Jesus Christ. No soul remaining to reject His love. No graves to visit. No taste of fear in our mouths. No "breaking news" that causes our hearts to skip a beat. There will be light. Sweet, precious Light.

The Light of my Jesus.

Stupid Picture Chronicles #55

Yeah. Let me look under my bed and see if there's any scrap gold under there I'm not using.

Getting my money's worth

There are moments in life when you just have to call "stupid" by its first name. Stupid. Capital "S." My friends, one of those moments is here. I seldom blog during the day. It's my midnight pastime. It's what I do when the house is quiet and I feel a surge of inspiration. And then there are other times ...

I was driving down good old Frank Scott Parkway a few minutes ago and an advertisement came on the radio for the lottery. Upon hearing it, it took a moment for the message to sink in. When it did red lights flashed and offensive sirens sounded in my formerly complacent brain. The message of this advertisement took me so by surprise that I cannot keep from sharing it. As I said it was a lottery sponsored commercial. Not sure which state. Could have been Illinois. Could have been Missouri. The airwaves draw no distinction where I live. If I stand on my roof I can see the St. Louis Arch. Use to be if I stood on my roof I could see some big tall nameless (to me) building in downtown Cleveland. Of course my roof in those days was 11 floors off the ground and I was only up there once. Doesn't matter. You could see it. You could also see the Canadian waters of Lake Erie. But I digress. Long ago if you stood on my roof you could see Sears Tower and numerous other buildings in downtown Chicago. That was a lifetime ago. None of these things have anything to do with why I am putting cyber-ink to cyber-paper. All that matters is that I heard a lottery commercial. It went something like this ..

"How would you like to have $1,000 per week for the rest of your life? That's what you'll get if you play and win (insert whacked lottery name here.) The game where the longer you live the more you earn!"

Really? I mean ... really?

"The longer you live the more you earn."

Have we gotten so dumb that we now need to point out to people that after they die they will no longer get a paycheck? And perhaps the bigger question, have we gotten so brainless that it has not occurred to us that after we die we no longer NEED a paycheck? Is this the very best that the ad agency that holds the lotteries account can come up with? If so, I have some suggestions. Maybe they will read my blog, use one of these, and I'll be a rich man. Well. Until I die and they stop paying me, of course.

"Play the lottery! If you win you'll be rich until you turn into dirt!"

Or...

"Play the lottery! If you win you'll be rich until you aren't anymore!" (Note: there are two ways you can take that and both are correct.)

Or...

"Play the lottery! If you win we'll pray you die soon so we can stop paying you!"

Or...

"Play the lottery! If you win watch your back because we'll be giving Vito your name and address and we'll keep paying you until Vito brings us your eyeballs in a jar!"

Or...

Never mind. I think you get the idea.

I've thought it over since hearing that commercial. I'm going to take a pass on their offer. But here's a little advertisement of my own ...

"Forget the lottery! Use your money to support the work of your church, keep missionaries on the field, feed the hungry, clothe the naked, sponsor a child at one of the two links below, and help researchers find cures to horrific diseases!" Maybe it's just me but I have a hunch I'm going to get a much great return on my dollar.

World Vision

Compassion International

Here's Mud In My Eye

I believe in God. I believe that He sent His Son, Jesus Christ, into this world "to seek and to save that which was lost." The phrase "that which was lost" refers to ... us. Without the forgiveness paid for by Jesus through His sacrificial death on the cross we are pretty much toast. But God loves. And God loves to forgive. And Gods love is directed at us. And God loves to forgive us. And that is a very good thing because it seems like we have a propensity to do wrong. That means we are in desperate need of forgiving.

Please allow me to tell you how that truth is working out in a very unexpected way.

When I moved to the St. Louis area from a foray into Cleveland, Ohio, it quickly became obvious that I would be needing to locate a new source of morning caffeine. I am not a coffee guy. I like my caffeine cold, sweet, opaque, and very fizzy. It's easier just to call it Coke or Pepsi. If it isn't coursing through my system by 11AM at the absolute latest I'm a wreck. After checking out a few options I settled on a little quick mart about half a mile from my office. The product was acceptable. But what really drew me to it was the people. While it's not a "mom and pop" place it was a big step down from the mega-chains like the ever present Moto-Mart or Quick-Trip. But I liked the people there. Nothing special about them. They are just people. The barely said "good morning" unless I said it first. But I began to go there on a regular basis and as I did so I did my best to engage them in conversation. That's what I do best. I talk. Eventually I met a young woman in her early to mid-20's. She was pregnant. She was not in a relationship with the father of the child anymore. She lived at home with her father. I remember feeling compassion for her. I began praying for her, asking God if He would allow me to build a relationship with her that might lead to her being introduced to this forgiver-of-sinners, Jesus. After nearly two years she and I have become friends. Yesterday she asked me to wait for her to finish with a customer so she could show me her latest photo's of her pride and joy son. I waited. He's a real head turner. A young man with a dashing smile for his 18 months of life. My young friend had asked me long ago what I do for a living. I told her that I pastor one of the churches around the corner but we had never really gotten beyond that. I honestly never felt God open the door for me to walk through it. I've wondered why. But I have learned that good things happen in God's timing or they don't happen at all.

And then today came along. My friends car was not parked in the lot when I pulled in. I was on the phone and I waited in the car until I completed my call before climbing out and walking toward the building. I had noticed the woman leaning against the building. She works at the store as well. Actually, she is the manager. She is about 60 years old and we have talked casually many times. Today she reached out and touched my arm as I walked by and asked if she could talk to me for a moment. I leaned against the building and told her that I had all of the time in the world. She looked away from me for a full minute. when she turned to face me again there were tears in her eyes.

"My husband has liver cancer. He's dying. He asked me if he could talk to a minister and you are the only one that I know. Do you think you could go and talk to him?"

My heart broke. It broke for her. It broke for him. It broke for my blindness. All of this time I thought that God was probably directing my attention to one person. It turns out that I was looking past one person to see another. I do not believe that Jesus would do that. I hope that I never do again.

I put my arm around her and asked her name. Nearly two years of seeing her 4 or 5 times each week and I didn't even know her name. I am very ashamed of that. She told me. And she told me her husbands name. I told her that I would consider it an honor to visit with her husband. I took out one of my business cards and wrote my cell phone number on it. I told her to tell him to use that number any time. 24/7. I am the only one who answers it. I will go to see and talk with him any time that he wants. Day or night. I told her how sorry that I am that he is sick. I explained how I lost my father to liver cancer 10 years ago and that I can feel a little bit of what she is feeling. She wiped the tears away and thanked me. I went into the store, got my daily "fix," and went back to her on the way to my car. I told her again how glad I was to be able to help her. I started to ask if I could pray with her there on the sidewalk but felt a definite sense in my own spirit that she was not ready for this step. So I passed ... for now.

This evening my cell phone rang. Her husband was calling. Tomorrow morning at 11:00AM I will go to his house and we will talk. And you know what the funny thing is? (Funny "strange," not funny "ha ha.") We are neighbors. We live off of the same highway less than a mile from each other.

And tonight I wonder ... how many of my neighbors are hurting? How many of them are hungry? Hungry for Jesus ... even if it isn't Jesus that they know they are hungry for? How many have I walked by without thinking twice ... without making eye contact ... without taking the time to get to know them. Two years. I suppose that God knew that it would take two years for this moment to come. It would take two years for both of them to be ready to talk. Maybe if I had tried earlier it would have ship wrecked everything. I don't really know. I just know this ...

I need Jesus to open my eyes. I need him to spit in the dirt like He did in the New Testament and rub the mud into my eyes and give me greater spiritual vision. I don't want to be blind anymore. I don't want to let one person in need walk by without their knowing that they are cherished by their creator and at least one member of the human race. God forgive me for the times I have done otherwise.

The God of Eyes That Shine

I have been living in Psalm 19: 7 - 14. Allow me to quote it here.

"The law of the Lord is perfect, reviving the soul; the testimony of the Lord is sure, making wise the simple; the precepts of the Lord are right, rejoicing the heart; the commandment of the Lord is pure, enlightening the eyes; the fear of the Lord is clean, enduring forever; the rules of the Lord are true, and righteous altogether. More to be desired are they than gold, even much fine gold; sweeter also than honey and drippings from the honeycomb. Moreover, by them is your servant warned; in keeping them there is great reward. Who can discern His errors? Declare me innocent from hidden faults. Keep back your servant also from presumptuous sins; let them not have dominion over me! Then I shall be blameless, and innocent of great transgression. Let the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be acceptable in your sight, O Lord, my Rock and my Redeemer."

This portion of scripture is so very significant to me. Oh how welcome it is. I am still mining its depths. Simply moving beyond the first verse has proven difficult. I am in great need of having my soul revived. How to explain the difficulties life throws in the direction of any given individual? I will not even try. Suffice it to say that my soul is sometimes flat. Bland. Tasteless. All of the enthusiasm has been beaten out of me. Time does that. Life does that. Life is lived at a cost. We are instructed over and over again in scripture to be sure to count the cost. I have counted. It has occasionally been enormously steep. Yet I think it not as steep as the cost of disobedience. A flat soul beckons me to seek an audience with the Savior. Too many people depend upon me to hear what the Spirit says. And, quite honestly, that is the way I want to live my life. I want to have a "hearing life."

"The law of the Lord is perfect, reviving the soul..." The paraphrase according to Ron says, "God's way, decisions, and direction is perfect and will revive the flat soul..." May it be so. I have not yet figured out how that works. I suppose I am just asking for His working in me to produce the revived soul. Quite simply, I am asking for His miracle. He is God. That is not asking for too much.

"...the testimony of the Lord is sure, making wise the simple..." God can be counted on. There is no need to get a second opinion after God speaks. And I love this thought, though I be simple all I must do is hear and obey the direction of the Holy Spirit. I do not have to understand it. I do not have to figure anything out. All I must do is hear and obey. And if I will do that I will always come out on top, looking wise, leaving the doubters and nay sayers in the dust. How beautiful is that? How wonderful the thought! My Father will look out for me if I will turn to Him in simplicity, listening to His voice and doing what He says. It does not get any better!

"...the precepts of the Lord are right, rejoicing the heart..." God shows me the way to go by the statutes He has put in place. His precepts ... statutes ... never change. If I follow them I will move through life with great joy because the guide posts have been placed perfectly. Not one is out of place, out dated, or missing. Learn the precepts and live in joy!

"...the commandment of the Lord is pure, enlightening the eyes..." Because God tells me which way to go, moment by moment, and because His directions are pure of ill motivations or evil gain, I will find delight along the path. That delight will display itself through "enlightening the eyes." In other words, knowing and following God's pure and holy commands will give me shining eyes! Oh how I love that thought! Oh how I love to serve beside people with shining eyes! I want my eyes to shine. I sometimes lose track of His commands. They have been misplaced under mountains of policies, procedures, and heart ache. That is not acceptable. If God gives shining eyes ... I want shining eyes!

"...the fear of the Lord is clean, enduring forever..." I stand in awe of my God. And yes, I stand in fear of Him. Not just awed fear. I stand in old fashioned, knees knocking, teeth chattering, fear. I have seen Him at work, tearing apart what displeases Him. I have seen His mighty power as made manifest through what we call "nature." Nature can do nothing without it being a part of His plan or permissive will. Have you ever seen the devastation brought on by a tornado? I have. Up close and first hand. No cloud has ever spawned a tornado without my God's permission. And it is an awesome, fearful thing to behold. And because I know Him to be a fearsome God I also see His strength. And His strength works to my advantage because He loves me. It is as simple as that. Will a tornado tear up my stuff someday? Maybe. But not without His permission and not without His reason. Even if He does not tell me His reason He still has one. And I can trust forever that His reason is right, pure, and I can count on it for good.

"...the rules of the Lord are true, and righteous all together..." God always decides correctly. His placement of every grain of sand, every kernel of wheat, every cloud in the sky is flawless. Every day. Every where. To the most minute detail. He is all together correct in everything He does.

This is the God I worship. The God of eyes that shine.

Stupid Picture Chronicles #54

My daughters friend, Nicole, sees this sign frequently and always thinks of the "Stupid Picture Chronicles" when she does. Wise girl! So, Nicole ... this one's for you! And honestly, you'd be surprised how many people think of me when they see this word.

(The author of "Lost In The Woods" neither endorses, uses, or suggests that you use the naughty word in this picture. But as my former pastor use to say when we would narc on somebody for using a bad word ..."Have you heard that word before?" We would say "yes." He would respond, "Well get use to it because you are going to hear it again.")

Stupid Picture Chronicles #53

Missouri ... the state where if you haven't been born by today you don't get to drink today.

What Really Matters

What an interesting day. It ran the full spectrum of numerical possibilities.

I began the day at a nursing home. I was there to visit a very sweet 92 year old woman. Elsie has seen a lot of life. Her smile has a hint of a devious personality that has been rather dormant of late. Elsie is not well. She is combatting bone cancer. It was a bit of a shock to see her today. It's only been two weeks since we last visited. But today she had virtually no voice and she was very concerned that she didn't look appropriate for a pastoral visit. But her memory is far better than mine and we had a wonderful conversation, raspy though it was. Elsie kept telling me that she would be alright if she can "just get back to Belleville." I so wish that were true. But Belleville cannot fix what is wrong with her. Jesus can. And He will. But He will do it His way. He always does.

And then I picked up a young man to share lunch with. Ben is 14 but looks and acts a bit older. He could easily pass for 15. I know, I know. That's not much. Unless you are 14. And then it sounds like an eternity. I ate a Chicago hot dog and Ben ate a chili dog. We both had fries and shared a basket of ... don't throw up ... deep fried macaroni and cheese. It was marginally interesting. I think it needs to be dipped in something but I have no idea what. Ben is everything that Elsie is not. Young. Energetic. Vibrant. Hopeful. He's only a high school freshman but he's already thinking about what college to attend. And he's in the process of selecting precisely which mission event he will volunteer for this summer on our youth mission trip. The time spent with Ben was like rewinding the clock 5 years. I still think being a Youth Pastor is the best job on the planet.

When I arrived back at my office Adam pulled in behind me. He is 29 years old. On Friday he will move away from our church, our small group, and our community. Adam is returning home to Florida where he will live with his brother for a while. He is somewhat a victim of the recession. He went from fully employed to unemployed to way behind in his bills in very short order. We talked together, prayed together, and shared a guy-hug before he climbed into his car and headed back to pack up his apartment.

Six hours and three people. Each living very different lives. Each living through a different era. Each deeply in love with Jesus. There's a lot of discussion going on in the evangelical world these days. Questions about heaven and hell are rocking boats. Analogies about the differences between "doctrine" and "story" are creating battle lines in places where battle lines are wholly inappropriate. I have clearly defined thoughts about these differences. And I grieve the battle lines. But through it all I find joy. The joy is in the people. People who just love God and want to learn more about Him. People who have bright eyes when they talk about knowing this God and the way He is working in their lives. I don't back away from controversy. But neither will I allow it to disrupt the mission. And the mission is clear.

Love the Lord your God with all your heart, soul, mind, and strength. Love your neighbor as your self. And let's not forget doing justice. Loving mercy. And walking humbly with our God.

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.