David Whitlock Ministries Inc.: Recent Episodes
None
“What’s that over there?” Lori asked.
We were rummaging through all the stuff you have to rummage through for a garage sale. In a corner, sagging under the weight of outdated CDs and old magazines, a box was hiding.
“House plans,” I answered when Lori asked what was in it.
“House plans? From where?”
She had forgotten how difficult a time I had finding the right house for our then-to-be blended family over twenty years ago.
I had dreamed of the ideal house for this family. But nothing on the market seemed to work for us: four kids between the ages of 12 and 16 and two schnauzers.
Finally, I gave up looking and decided to build. I found an ideal piece of property. After finding a builder, I had the house plans drawn up and was ready to go to the bank for the loan.
“This would have been an amazing house,” Lori said, looking over the plans spread out on the garage floor. “A two-level house with a huge front porch and 12 windows,” she said of the house I never built.
“A three-car garage,” our daughter, Madi, exclaimed. “You had big plans.”
We oohed and aahed over the spacious kitchen, eating area, entertainment room, porch with an additional patio, ample laundry room, and three and a half bathrooms.
“I don’t see how a preacher and school teacher could have afforded this,” Madi said.
“I’d still be paying for it,” I chuckled.
Maybe the bank wouldn’t have loaned me the money, but it doesn’t matter because another house became available that was just what we needed. It wasn’t as impressive as the house I never built, but with some adjustments, the one I chose worked just fine. Best of all, it was available.
As I walked upstairs later that night, with those old house plans in hand, I thought of Psalm 127:1: “If the Lord does not build the house in vain do the builders labor.”
For a moment, I thought I heard the kids bouncing in at different times after a Friday night football game, tiptoeing upstairs when they were late.
Glancing around the open room upstairs, I smiled, for that’s where our four kids would sit in front of the TV. Strange how I thought I could hear David, Jr. tromping down the stairs on Saturday morning to join Lori and me for College Game Day. And there was Mary in her pink robe, nestled on the couch, with a mug of my strong coffee in hand. I had an image of Madi, our future nurse, dressing one of Dave’s football wounds — Madi, with her spacious smile and wide-open arms, embracing her new family. And Harrison always had plans for additions to the house. “You know what would be cool?” he would start as he shared his plan. In that memory, a pain pricked my heart as I looked down the hall and felt Harrison’s absence.
Downstairs, at the dining table, was the place where we shared stories, and our family blended, though we teased Lori for insisting that we eat regularly together as a family. The six of us would join hands at the table and give thanks to God.
And then, as quickly as they polished off a Sunday dinner, they were all gone, having flown the coop one by one.
Only to return, time and again, with friends, then spouses, and then grandchildren. And now, Lori and I get to live it over again, in the same but different ways, in our house, complete with little children’s finger smudges on the windowpanes, food crumbs on the floor, and giggles echoing through every room. And while they bring their dogs with them, our schnauzers are now down to one: Ol’ Max, who mainly sleeps.
Clutching those old house plans, I gently placed them in the corner of my study, content in our house, the house God built.
When Dad was nearing the last years of his life, when he could no longer move about and travel like he once had, he would sometimes wistfully talk of how he wanted to visit someone, somewhere, “one more time.”
“One more time,” he would say.
“I’d like to drive to Kentucky and visit you one more time,” he’d tell me, or “I’d like to drive back to Altus (Oklahoma, where he spent most of his life and career) one more time.”
We would wink at each other when he dreamed of a European cruise or an all-inclusive resort in Mexico “one more time.”
After Dad could no longer drive but still had his vehicle, my brother Mark saw him sitting alone in the driver’s seat, staring, dreaming, I suppose, of traveling somewhere “one more time.”
That’s why I felt a tug in my heart when our son, David, Jr. (Dave to our family), wanted to visit his Uncle Mark (my brother) perhaps “one more time” because of Mark’s ALS condition.
Lori and I followed Dave, his wife, Kayla, and their three little ones: twin daughters Addie and Vera (20 months old) and Stella (3 years old) from Kentucky to Oklahoma.
Once in Altus, Mark’s three children and all their kids arrived, too, from Lubbock, TX, Shawnee, OK, and Altus. Even Lori’s nephew, Cooper, broke away from studies at Weatherford, OK, to join the family.
Soon, the kids were splashing on a slip ‘n’ slide while the adults told stories. We had plenty to eat, but not so much that some of the more ambitious adults could join the kids in a game of kickball.
I’d forgotten how much I’d missed Mark’s infectious grins, and though his voice has weakened, he still has a knack for “putting the jam” on a story to draw an extra laugh. In a quiet moment, Mark whispered to Dave that the only way it could be any better was if we had homemade ice cream. Without hesitation, David retrieved Grandmother Whitlock’s recipe for ice cream, and before we could ask what was for dessert, we were lapping up the homemade ice cream.
Our time together quickly blossomed into a family reunion. The next morning, we all had breakfast together at our favorite hometown café and shared stories about how Dad could give a master class on working the buffet.
Then Dave and his family headed back while everyone waved bye, wondering when we would reunite “one more time.”
We tell ourselves stories at family gatherings, and in those stories, we see ourselves as part of a larger story, filled with joy, sadness, pain, and happiness—a collective story of life together, embracing the past with its mistakes and successes, opening into the present with its fears and possibilities.
Journalist Ellen Goodman has said of herself, “This packrat has learned that what the next generation will value most is not what we owned, but the evidence of who we were and the tales of how we loved. In the end, it’s the family stories that are worth the storage.”
This Father’s Day, I will pause and remember to tell a story about my family, nourished by the visits I have with my heavenly Father as we meet in his Word, the Bible, Torah and Gospel stories recounting life in my forever family, expanding my identity to a time and place beyond this time and place, ever awakening me to this present moment.
As Mark swallowed his last bite of ice cream, he whispered to me, “I sure am glad Dave came.”
“Me too,” I thought, especially since we aren’t sure we will have, “one more time.”
“You can ride with us to the awards ceremony,” my daughter Madi told me. She would pick up my wife, Lori, and sit together to watch our 2nd-grade granddaughter, Emmie, receive several achievement awards.
“But what about Eli?” I asked. Eli, a 6th grader, was at another school, and his and Emmie’s ceremonies were close in time but miles apart.
The day before, Lori and I had taken Eli and Emmie out to eat to celebrate the end of the school year. “Whose going to be at my school’s award ceremony?” Eli asked.
“I’m going to Eli’s assembly,” I told Lori the next morning. “Emmie has you and Madi there for hers. And I can check Eli out after his assembly.”
Sitting in the bleachers, I couldn’t find him at first. My eyes roved up and down each row, looking for my grandson.
I tried to compare this awards ceremony to mine in the 1960s and 70s and drew a blank. My older brother later reminded me we didn’t have much of an awards ceremony in those days. “In grade school, we’d all sit on the floor, and the superintendent would only recognize those who made the superintendent’s honor roll, and that was it.”
“No wonder I don’t remember,” I said. “I don’t think I ever made the superintendent’s honor roll.”
I did make the honor roll, but not consistently. I ambled through secondary school, an average to good student, certainly not outstanding. It wasn’t until I went to college that I made a genuine effort to excel. I was fortunate to have been accepted into Baylor University.
Much of our educational success is more a result of our efforts than our natural ability. It has been my observation, after years in education, that rarely is someone naturally excellent in an academic area. It takes work and practice.
Professor Brian Cox, who holds a doctorate in high-energy particle physics and teaches physics at the University of Manchester in the U.K., said in an interview on high performance that when he transitioned from a career in music to academia, he earned a “D” in math. People seem shocked to hear that a physics professor received such a low mark in math. “Nothing is easy,” he said. “it requires practice, and it requires attention to detail, as well, (as to) take responsibility for getting it right.” When asked when he first realized that concept, he chuckled and said it was when he got a “D” in math.
I was afraid I would fail in college, so I worked at it. Most of us have a natural affinity for certain subjects, such as math, literature, or mechanics. While I was drawn to literature and classical languages, I had to practice to become proficient in them.
Beneath the drive to achieve was the awareness that someone cared about me enough to encourage me. My parents did that for me, and although Dad predicted I would be back home after one semester, he provided me with the opportunity for a college education. And whether he knew it or not, his prediction of my failure motivated me to try all the more. That may be why he said it. Whichever the case, I knew for certain he cared. His parting words to me at the beginning of that first year in college were, “We’re always just a phone call away.”
Sitting in the bleachers trying to find my grandson at a 6th-grade assembly, I remembered that part about caring. When I finally found Eli, I could see his eyes were roaming the bleachers for someone, too.
And when our eyes locked, we both smiled in silent recognition.
I doubt that Eli would admit to it, and he may as yet not be self-aware, but I believe he was looking for that special someone to acknowledge that he and his efforts mattered.
And they do to everyone in his family.
I’m grateful to have been the one there that day to remind him.
Often, the little worries surprise us the most, arriving like special operation forces, attacking us in the middle of the night.
None of them by themselves pose an ominous threat. It’s not like the Huns are pounding on the city gate, threatening to destroy civilization as we know it. But one by one, they mount their attack, lining up to destroy an otherwise restful sleep. During the day, we ignore them, but in the middle of the night, they demand our attention.
I mistakenly submitted the wrong book for one of my theology classes. The identification of the classes was similar, with only one number differentiating them. Mine wasn’t a monumental mistake; the class doesn’t begin for weeks, so it should be an easy correction.
But that’s not what my army of worries told me at 3 a.m. “What if students have already ordered the books online, only to find them unnecessary for the class?” the little army’s captain whispered. “And what about the other class that will need the book? They won’t know they need to purchase it. Won’t you have to rearrange the syllabus?”
Books, like everything else, have become more expensive. And so, my anxiety army expanded its assault to encompass potential complaints. “What about the dozens of emails you will receive from students wanting to know why you required them to buy an expensive book that wasn’t germane to the syllabus?”
That word “expensive” led to financial questions. “By the way,” the voice queried, “are you sure you have enough in your retirement account? What if you end up destitute? How will you seek employment when you’re 85? Will you be healthy enough to work?
The mention of health empowered the “anxiety army” all the more. “Haven’t you read how important sleep is to your health? Of course, you have. So what are you doing at 3 a.m. trying to sleep? Lack of sleep is harmful to your health.”
No one in the history of the world has gotten back to sleep when worried about getting back to sleep, especially when fearful that a lack of sleep may keep them from ever seeing the sun rise again.
For the record, studies show that approximately 85% of the things we worry about never happen. But, of course, statistics don’t diminish our worry. We worry that our worry is in that 15%. We’re like the person who quipped: “When I don’t have anything to worry about, I begin to worry about that.”
So, what to do?
Anxiety can stimulate creativity. If it’s a matter we can do something about, do that. I’ve gotten up in the wee hours to work on a project or write out possible solutions to a problem that bothered me. It’s easier to rest once we’ve addressed the elephant in our mind. There is satisfaction in knowing we’ve done something about the potential problem.
But we are helpless in resolving many things, like the weather or the economy.
And there are issues we can’t rectify. What happened yesterday happened. We can’t go back.
I am learning that much of the problem with worry is pride. Most of us, including me, must be intentional about giving up control, admitting that God is God and we aren’t. We are lousy substitutes for God’s role in this universe. If something is beyond our control (hint: most worries fall into this category), we must humbly let them go.
And trust God.
Do what you can and leave it in God’s hands. Paul the Apostle reminded the church in Philippi of that truth: “Be anxious for nothing, but in everything by prayer and supplication, with thanksgiving, let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus” (Philippians 4:6-7).
The world’s greatest administrative assistant, Sherry Bowen, at Campbellsville University’s School of Theology, notified me the morning after the anxiety army had bullied me. No problem, she told me. She had already taken care of the textbook issue. It was as simple as that.
One more lesson on the threat of little worries.
And I’m still learning.
The living can bring back the dead.
Seventy-eight-year-old Barney Tharp of Lebanon, Ky., is proof.
When he was barely 21, Tharp was wading through a rice paddy field in the Mekong Valley of Vietnam. Having been selected by Uncle Sam’s draft, Tharp, no “Fortunate Son,” dutifully complied, and when the band played “Hail to the Chief,” Tharp stood to attention with star-spangled eyes.
He had been in Vietnam barely three weeks when his combat unit, Alpha Company, serving the 9th Infantry Division, was on a reconnaissance mission near Sung Hieu. The Viet Cong were waiting for them that day, September 26, 1968. Moments before, from the safety of the helicopter, Tharp had been admiring the picaresque scene below, the lush rice paddies, when suddenly the copter landed with a jolt, and under cover of its machine gun fire, he splashed onto the rice field, chopper blades whirring behind him.
His company had suffered multiple casualties when Sergeant Tharp saw that his “point man,” Richard (Rick) Jordan, had been hit and was exposed to the enemy. “Something– I believe it was God— nudged me. I ran to rescue him.” Only later would Tharp realize he was the only one who left his position to run to the front, exposing himself to intense enemy fire as he made repeated trips dodging bullets to rescue the wounded—five of whom were fatally wounded.
Even the medic (Kim Stanton) was hit, and Tharp, while rescuing Stanton, administered a shot of morphine to Jordan before dragging them back to safety.
The living tell the stories for the deceased.
Those five men killed that day had a life waiting for them, cut short by war. 1968-1969 were horrible years in many ways. In Vietnam, the average death toll of American soldiers rose to almost 1500 a month in 1968 and 1,000 a month in 1969.
Barney Tharp believes it is part of his duty to help us remember those soldiers. Even those who made it back often felt less than alive, frequently ignored, and sometimes ridiculed in a turbulent United States.
As Tharp put it, “Many just faded into the shadows.”
Tharp reconnected with his unit, showing up for reunions. “I’ve tried to bring them back into the light,” he said, “encouraging them to tell their stories and remember the ones who didn’t come back.”
Rick Jordan’s wife and three adult daughters drove eight hours in 2016 to thank Tharp for their lives, for if Tharp hadn’t responded to what he believed was God’s nudging, Rick would have never met his wife, and the three daughters wouldn’t be here. Tharp cherishes the family’s gratitude more than the Bronze Star for Valor the military awarded him for his bravery.
In 2003, Tharp wrote on the Virtual Wall of Vietnam’s War Memorial, thanking each of the 13 men in Alpha Company who were killed while in Vietnam. Nine families responded to him, grateful that Tharp helped them process their grief. “I did it for us all, including myself, a band of brothers.”
During his tour in Vietnam, Tharp received multiple military honors, including the Purple Heart. He didn’t carry those medals in battle, but he always packed a little New Testament in his shirt pocket. In its pages, there’s a story of the Apostle Paul being “compelled” by the Spirit to go to Jerusalem (Acts 20:22), which would eventually result in Paul’s death.
Barney Tharp didn’t have time to ponder it, but he too obeyed, “compelled by the Spirit,” to rush into the heat of battle to save the lives of others.
This Memorial Day, if you are in a restaurant and bump into what appears to be an old guy wearing a Vet’s cap, refuse to walk by without words. Stop long enough for the Spirit to nudge you and say something, maybe “Thank you for serving.”
And then, thank God. Open your heart large enough and long enough to pause again sometime, perhaps before you eat barbeque on Memorial Day, and thank the Lord for the sacrifice of those who didn’t make it, the thousands through the years who gave so you and I could enjoy this day.
And then, thank the Lord for you. Step out of the shadows into the light.
Maybe, just maybe, you’ll find that you too have been brought back to life, that in speaking their memory, the dead come alive.
“What’s his name?” I asked Paul.
“I can’t remember,” he answered.
My college roommate, Paul Oglesby, and I were looking at a group photo from our fraternity forty-six years ago.
“I can’t believe you remember as many as you do,” Lori and Alix (Paul’s wife) said almost in unison.
For years, I wondered what had happened to my college roommate, Oglesby (as I called him). We had been in the same pledge class (Sigma Chi) at Baylor University.
Then, after graduation, we lost track of each other until a couple of years ago. I felt like an F.B.I. agent as I searched “Paul Oglesby.” Finally, our wives helped, and they put us together by comparing pictures from social media.
And so, when part of the Oglesby clan (daughter, son-in-law, four grandchildren) visited our part of the country on vacation, we met them at Mammoth Cave, where we all took a deep dive into the caverns.
Though it had been years since Paul and I had seen each other, we picked up where we left off. “Don’t park there, you Jack-meat,” Oglesby yelled at me when he rolled down his car window. Lori looked at me askance as I explained, “Jack-meat” was a word we invented in college for bad drivers— a combination of Jackass and Meathead.
Later that night, at the hotel, we reminisced. Lori and I had brought some pictures of our fraternity days. Lori and Alix grinned as Paul and I struggled to remember. “Who is that?” one of us would puzzle. “I remember, that’s, oh, you know…’ what’s his name.'” Most of the names we could remember, but some slipped away.
It wasn’t that we were stupid. I had told Lori that I was an average student who tried hard. “But Paul was brilliant, and like me, he tried hard but was more gifted than I was.”
Paul earned a Ph.D. in physics (University of Arizona) and worked, among other things, on National Missile Defense, highly classified stuff that he still keeps to himself. Paul had traveled all over the country, sharing his research with the nation’s top military brass before he retired.
And so there we were, two guys with different Ph.D.s scratching our heads, struggling to remember once familiar names.
As we chatted, our conversation ran the gamut from our favorite sports teams to deeper subjects, like can a physicist believe in God (Paul does) to Paul trying to explain in terms I could understand my questions about simulation theory (the theoretical hypothesis that we humans are living in an advanced, computer simulation, perhaps created and overseen by a higher being.)
“You two are so different but so alike,” Alix observed.
“I tried to answer ‘the how’ about the universe; David sought the ‘why,'” Paul quickly responded.
My journey into the “why” was limited by the nature of the subject matter: God. Immediately, Paul quoted the famed quantum physicist Richard Feynman, who said, “If you think you understand quantum mechanics, you don’t understand quantum mechanics.” So it is with the “Why?”
Job, struggling with why bad things happen to decent people, finally concluded: “God is greater than we can understand” (Job 36:26). Isaiah seemed to agree, even as he chastised a disobedient people while holding out hope for them: “My thoughts are not your thoughts,” he said, speaking for God, “and my ways are far beyond anything you could imagine” (Isaiah 55:8).
But this God has revealed what we need to know, though certainly not everything: “The secret things belong to the Lord our God, but those things which are revealed belong to us…” (Deuteronomy 29:29).
For me, the Why is answered by the Who: Jesus Christ, in whom it all comes together, the perfect revelation of all human searching for the good, the true, and the beautiful, all fulfilled in this messianic figure who took the judgment for us—the imperfect, the flawed, the marred—and who in his resurrection gives us life eternal.
While some of our frat brothers’ names remain lost in the recesses of our memory, Oglesby and I took solace in our God, who will never forget our name, the God Isaiah says calls us “by name” (Isaiah 45: 4).
The God who forgives.
And yet always remembers.
Each of us by name.
I may have picked up the card years ago in the “Humorous” section of Mother’s Day cards, one with the teaser on the outside, “What’s the Best Way to Remember Mother’s Day?” And if you’re the least bit curious, you open it, where you read, “Forget it once,” on the left ( with a laughing face) and the words, “Mom, your love for this family is too amazing to forget!” on the other side.
It’s a stark reminder to remember Mom this Mother’s Day.
I grew up in a family where my mom worked at home with the kids, and my dad worked at the office. Mom and Dad loved their respective roles. That’s why Mom took it especially hard when Dad let Mother’s Day slip by him one year. To her, it was like Dad forgot her special contribution to the family.
It only happened only once, because once was was enough for Dad always to remember.
I don’t recall the Sunday sermon that morning, but either the preacher chose not to preach about the love of mothers, or Dad slept through it. So, apparently, the church was not a safety net for forgetful dads.
What I do remember is watching Mom in the kitchen when she finally realized there would be no Mother’s Day “surprise.” I couldn’t have been more than seven or eight at the time. I thought Mom was slicing onions when I walked into the kitchen: her face quenched up a little at first and then more and more as she fought back the tears. I was cautiously backing out of the kitchen when Dad sauntered in. If we had had a dog house, Dad’s name would have been on it that day.
In Dad’s defense, he was at a time when his life was full-on. His dental practice was thriving. His first appointment was usually at 8 a.m., and he worked hard all day. Plus, he had three rambunctious boys at home. And Mom was not one to leave hints about what to get her for Mother’s Day. So, when he walked into the kitchen that day, he had no idea what was coming, but in an instant, Dad knew he was in deep trouble.
I can say this: Dad never missed another Mother’s Day. He went all out for Mom’s birthdays (which happened to be Valentine’s Day) and Christmas.
Here’s a fair warning to all: remember Mom this Sunday. Find a way to thank her for all her sacrifices.
I love the story about the second-grade teacher who asked a little boy in her class this question: “Suppose your mother baked a pie, and there were seven of you—your parents and five children. What part of the pie would you get?”
“A sixth,” replied the boy.
“I’m afraid you don’t know your fractions,” said the teacher. “Remember, there are seven of you.”
“Yes, teacher,” said the boy, “but you don’t know my mother. Mother would say she didn’t want any pie.”
Our house had plenty of food, including pie, but Mom sacrificed in a thousand other ways. She died several years ago (March 17, 2019, at the age of 97); Dad preceded her (October 25, 2016, age 92), but I still think of things she did for me. She was involved in big events, like birthdays, award banquets, and graduations. But she was also there in the small stuff, like soothing my sniffles when I was hurt or trying to talk me to sleep when I was too wired to fall asleep, or cheering me on in football, wrestling, or track, and supporting me when I failed, or congratulating me when I succeeded.
Mom did it all.
Milton Berle once asked, “If evolution really works, how come mothers only have two hands?
Good question. One thing is for sure: moms haven’t evolved beyond the point of needing affirmation and recognition.
Just ask the dad or the child who forgets Mother’s Day.
“Hey Whitlock, there’s a lady on campus who will walk right up to you and ask if you are ‘confessed up,'” one of my friends said, amused at the reported spectacle. We were students at Southwestern Baptist Theological Seminary in 1980.
It’s an excellent question we could all ask ourselves, even if not a Christian. Reviewing one’s day, for example, is a habit most recovery programs seek to incorporate into their daily structure, thanks to the 10th step of Alcoholics Anonymous: “We continued to take personal inventory and when were wrong promptly admitted it.”
Confession can be healthy, clearing the past of soul-burdening baggage, providing a clean slate for the path ahead.
But on that day back in seminary, I hoped to avoid an encounter with that lady, for I wasn’t sure what I would say. “Yes, I’m all ‘confessed up,’ except, oops, I just had a resentful thought about you for asking a borderline inappropriate question.”
I later learned the lady was a retired missionary named Olive Bertha Smith, whom Southern Baptists affectionately called “Miss Bertha.” She would have been in her early 90s when she visited Southwestern Seminary while I was there. Miss Bertha began serving as a missionary in China in 1917, ministering there until the government excluded Christians (she spent 6 months in a Japanese internment camp), which necessitated her move to Taiwan, where she became the Southern Baptist’s first missionary to that country. She preached there and in the United States, even if Southern Baptists would not call what she, as a woman, did as “preaching” but only as “speaking.” But truth be known: her “speaking” preached well.
Miss Bertha authored several books emphasizing that a Christian must be “confessed up to date” to stay in step with the Holy Spirit.
The back story is that as a missionary to China, she was at a prayer meeting in 1927 when a missionary stood and confessed his self-centeredness, jealousy, and hatred in his heart. One missionary after another stood and confessed sin in their lives. As a result, the Shantung revival started, which lasted until 1937, affecting every province in China.
Miss Bertha wanted these seminary students, future servants in the church, to be “confessed up” because she yearned for revival among this generation of preachers.
Public confession can be dangerous. Generally, private sins should be kept private, and public sins should only be confessed to those affected— except when doing so would cause further damage to others.
I think of the story about the four preachers meeting for coffee. One morning, they decided to confess their shortcomings to each other. One admitted to dipping occasionally into the offering for extra cash, another confessed to gambling, and a third smoked cigars. The fourth had remained quiet. Finally, he blurted, “I love to gossip, and I can’t wait to get out of here.”
Christians need to remember that being “confessed up” is a matter of keeping in fellowship with Christ—provided one already has a relationship with Him. Private or public confessions concern the closeness of a walk with Christ, not the security of salvation.
One can disrupt fellowship with a father, but he would still be the father. And so it is with our heavenly father, who loves us infinitely more than an earthly one.
We should certainly be wary of presuming on God’s grace, for such an attitude would reveal the lack of awareness of sin’s enormity and thus reveal a callousness to the price Christ paid for our forgiveness, resulting in a pridefulness which in itself would necessitate forgiveness.
The fact that in Christ I am forgiven, now and forever, prompts in me a desire for fellowship with Christ, not the “freedom” to sin against Him.
I never encountered Miss Bertha. But I have thought of her across the years, as if she followed me with her question hovering around me, prompting a humble reply, “Yes, I have, and Christ has absorbed and forgiven them, one by one, so that they no longer exist for me to recite, for He no longer remembers them.”
It’s the week after Easter, and everything is back to normal. After the celebration on Sunday—sunrise services, baptisms, Easter lilies, family gatherings, and children finding Easter eggs—the same worries, fears, and anxieties await us at our bedside Monday morning.
But wait. Isn’t something missing? What happens after Easter?
My thoughts drift to a story that supposedly happened in a small town in southwest Oklahoma years ago. This community celebrated Easter with an Easter pageant.
It so happened that the character playing the role of Jesus was miscast, appearing more like a Roman soldier than Jesus.
The character was a roughneck, a seasoned oil field worker known for an occasional barroom brawl. He was a rough and tumble, brawny guy with a no-nonsense personality; he could have been a bouncer at any of the bars he frequented.
In the moving scene when Jesus was carrying the cross to Calvary, a host of characters shouted, “Crucify him! Crucify him!”
At that point, one little man got caught up, shouting, “Crucify him!” with energetic gusto. This small guy, who could have passed as the skinny man in the “before” pictures for the old Charles Atlas commercials, shouted insult upon insult at Jesus.
And then he did the unthinkable: He spit in the face of Jesus.
What did the big, burly, tough guy do? He stopped, wiped the spit from his face, glared at the scrawny man, took one step toward him, and whispered through clenched teeth, “I’ll be back to take care of you after the resurrection!”
The week after Easter, Jesus came back to take care of us. He didn’t come back to exact revenge on those who had falsely accused or tortured him, and neither does he want to punish us for our failures. Instead, he assures us that despite our missteps, he is for us; he forgives us. John 3:16 (“God so loved the world…”) is true after the resurrection as much as before it. And he gives us a purpose to live for and the power by his grace to do it.
Think about it: Jesus’ lead disciple, Peter, denied him three times. His chief financial officer had committed suicide after embezzling funds and betraying Jesus. The rest had scattered, and only one (John) had shown up at the crucifixion.
But Jesus went to them after the resurrection to take care of them.
Of course, it took Jesus’ special appearance to Thomas for the doubter to return to faith. Then, Jesus had to remind Peter three times that he was forgiven in that conversation by the sea of Galilee.
But Jesus did show up. He did come back. And he would take care of them. Everything was different.
I’ve never seen Jesus, but I’ve felt his presence. I know that just as he came back for the disciples, he came back for me.
After Easter, we still are the same mess we were before. The same temptations are waiting for us. And we still stumble and sometimes fall flat—more than once. We are repeat failures.
I like how Brennan Manning said it, “Sin and forgiveness and falling and getting back up and losing the pearl of great price in the couch cushions but then finding it again, and again, and again? Those are the stumbling steps to becoming Real, the only script that’s really worth following in this world or the one that’s coming.”
Jesus came back for us, recovering sinners that we are.
If we receive him, we can walk in a life ever new.
Sunday through Saturday. Every day of every week.
And that’s what happens after Easter.
As an undergraduate student at Baylor University, I was part of a volunteer ministry that arranged for students to minister in churches once a month. I’ve wondered how those mainly small, rural churches tolerated what a kid preacher like myself had to say. But they did, and most of them did so with grace.
One church (the only thing I remember about it) had a pulpit with a small plaque on the side facing the speaker with the words engraved, “We would see Jesus.”
It’s a quote from John 12:21 where certain Greeks had sought an audience with Jesus and went to one of the disciples, Philip, with their request. Philip, in turn, went to Andrew, and both of them approached Jesus. The Greeks’ request was simple: they wanted to meet Jesus.
The event occurs six days before the Passover feast. Those Greeks would have probably been “God-fearers,” not Jews but people attracted to the Jewish faith. They would have been with other Jewish pilgrims crowding Jerusalem for the annual feast of Passover. And talk about Jesus was buzzing in Jerusalem that year. Maybe they had heard about Jesus’ miracles—the healing of the man born blind or even the raising of Lazarus. “Could this man be the Messiah?” many were asking. But these Greeks were curious enough to seek out Jesus, and being Greeks, maybe they recognized that Philip had a Greek name. John makes a point of telling us (John 7:21) that Philip was from Bethsaida in Galilee. Perhaps they guessed Philip would be their most likely entree to Jesus. And so these Greeks, who would have been allowed access only to the outer court of the Jerusalem Temple, approached Philip, requesting to “see” Jesus.
John, the mystical writer he was, likely used the word “see” metaphorically. So, these Greeks didn’t want to see Jesus to take a selfie with him. They wanted to know him on a deeper level, to “see” him with the mind, to know him in a deeper spiritual sense.
So what’s the point?
This week is an important week for the religious. These are days to press in toward the inner spiritual recesses of our lives. It’s an opportune time to ponder what we find when we dig deep into ourselves and ask who we are beneath all the exterior protective designs we place before others and ourselves to keep our true selves a secret.
Who is that, lurking in the shadows? What image do we find? Is it only a reflection of our past doings with no being, simply our lifetime’s accomplishments? Are our lives nothing more than what we’ve done? The accumulation of cherished belongings? A faded family portrait?
But, if we look only within, we are bound to be disappointed, discouraged, and even depressed because we could teach a masters class in the art of self-deception. Jeremiah, the prophet, warned us, “The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked; who can know it? (Jeremiah 17:9).
We need something (Someone) beyond ourselves to enlighten us.
Perhaps our most urgent request this week should be that of the Greeks, “We would see Jesus.”
I wish John had told us what happened to the Greeks. It’s a mystery. Instead, John artfully shifts to Jesus’ words: “The hour has come for the Son of Man to be glorified.”
That’s it, for the main plot wasn’t the Greeks who sought Jesus, but Jesus who sought the Greeks—sinners like you and me, for whom Jesus would go to the Cross to redeem.
The “hour” has come. These next days, leading from Palm Sunday to Easter, we contemplate the mystery and glory of it all.
The words on that pulpit surely were meant to remind the preacher that Greeks still show up, representing all who “would see Jesus.” And while my days of standing behind a pulpit may be past, I still want to meet with Jesus.
That’s my hope this Holy Week.
And beyond.
The hour has come.
“We would see Jesus.”
“The true Christian does not hunger and thirst for his own political party to get into power.”
I was reading those words the day after the presidential election. They are from the pen of Charles Spurgeon, the prince among 19th-century English preachers.
I immediately thought about how often I had delved into the news about the presidential race during the past few weeks, like a puppy dog whose anxious ears perk up when its owner enters the room. How many newspaper columns had I read about the election, and despite alarming forecasts, why did I still keep reading?
The news leading up to the election was both enticing and repelling; I wanted to know but only sometimes liked what I read and heard. Eventually, I distanced myself from certain social media sites because I knew what they would say, and I read others for the same reason. I was giving the news permission to determine my emotions.
After the election, the vitriol on social media continued. People were still hurling incendiary remarks back and forth, some of whom, despite professing the same Lord, exchanging harmful, poisonous barbs.
Spurgeon’s comment, spoken over a century ago, has that ring of timelessness and speaks to us today, regardless of what side of the political divide one may stand.
Though he doesn’t mention the Kingdom of God in this statement, he alludes to it, for the Kingdom was central to Christ’s mission and, therefore, to his followers. His Kingdom signified his reign or rule; it’s the place where his righteousness prevails. He promised that when we seek the Kingdom, we find it, and by His grace, we are satisfied. “Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they shall be filled” (Matthew 5:6).
Whenever I’m hungry or thirsty, that’s all I can think of. If I haven’t eaten for a few hours, all varieties of cuisine appeal to me. I whiff Mexican food a mile from the restaurant as I drive towards it. I sense Italian food, maybe pizza baking, as though I’m in the heart of Rome. And somewhere in my neighborhood, someone is grilling something: it must be a juicy steak or hamburger. I think about food when I can’t have it.
When I played football, coaches mistakenly thought withholding water in 90-plus-degree weather would make us tougher. Finally, the team managers would bring out water bottles, and we would practically fall on our knees in gratitude. Drinking water consumed our thinking until we had it.
We forget that we receive the Kingdom and its righteousness only by God’s grace. Without it, we are anxious and discontent. We imagine that if we can only muster enough votes, we can do it: we can make everything right. We will no longer need to fear. And when it doesn’t happen, we become as fickle as the crowd of people who hailed Jesus as king with palm branches one day and nailed him to a cross a few days later.
And so, I pondered Spurgeon’s words the day after the presidential election.
What am I hungry for today? Does it affect my life direction, decisions, thoughts, and actions? For what am I really thirsty? Do I search for it with the intensity of someone probing for water in the desert? Am I thinking about it like someone who hasn’t eaten in days? What consumes me today? Is it God and his Kingdom?
When it is, when that’s what drives us more than any physical food or drink, more than the election of officials who are here and gone in a few years, when the Kingdom’s righteousness is the driving force of our lives, then we will have received something much more valuable and eternally greater than any earthly election can promise.
So, when we open our hearts to the Kingdom’s righteousness, it’s a time for celebration, even dancing and singing, (if only within our heart) even TODAY, for the Kingdom of God has come.
The desire to strike off into the wilderness while feeling the tug to stay close to home can be conflicting. We want the thrill of the venture with the guarantee of a safe path back to the campsite. The way back is not always clear, we remind ourselves. So, we stay stuck in our mode, refusing the adventure of living in the moment, and we miss discovering our true selves.
My grandson, Eli, who was then 9 years old, was standing outside the garage early one morning. I was taking him to school that day.
“PopPop, PopPop” I heard him shouting. “Come see, hurry.” I checked my watch. We had plenty of time to get to school. Our dogs were quiet, so I didn’t suspect any critters loose in the yard.
“What is it?” I yelled from the garage door.
“Come feel the fog,” Eli beckoned.
Eli was standing still in the early morning fog with his arms spread wide.
“Come feel the fog,” he repeated.
And so, I did.
I stood with him, my arms stretched wide, and twirling around, let the fog settle on my skin, breathing in its dampness.
Driving in the fog is a matter of necessary caution, especially at night. We take it slow, headlights on low beam.
But feeling the fog—the droplets of rain floating around, landing on our faces, dampening our clothes, and muffling sounds—can be both comforting and alluring. It’s like being wrapped in a comfortable blanket yet exposed to the elements. We can see, but only a short distance.
We may feel strangely disoriented yet centered. It seems perfectly natural to stand and feel: no call to move onward and upward, no evaluation of how we are getting along, no one watching, for the fog’s murkiness disguises our presence in grayness. We are hidden but not lost. In the mist, we simply are; we exist in our “thisness.”
And to the quieted soul, this can be inviting, even soothing.
But beware: Feeling the fog can become as dangerous as driving in it. We like it, but it’s possible to get lost in it, too. It can anesthetize us, carrying us further to sea or wherever the danger zone may be for each of us. Then, the fog’s dampness begins to slick down our arms, and we become convinced its vastness is smothering us, which gives birth to fear, anxiety, and panic.
The fog may be that once-fulfilling relationship that has soured. It might be a substance that once took us where we wanted to go but has now become an oppressive god; it’s a career that once satisfied the longings for security but somewhere grew dull and drab and oppressive. It can be us wrapped in ourselves, our bodies, our youth, our image, our egos.
It is possible to get lost in the very place where we once felt safe. Something that once upon a time wrapped itself around us in peace no longer exists. It’s become mysterious, strange, even foreign. Waking up and looking at the clock, we no longer know the time. Standing on wobbly legs, we peer in the mirror and ask, “Who am I, really?”
Yet, feeling the fog, really feeling it, can be the first step towards home. It can become the road to liberation, for we have taken the time to confront our false selves.
Standing in the fog and facing ourselves for who we are, where we are, and what we’ve become might clear the mist, making way for light.
The renowned Swiss psychoanalyst Carl Jung observed: “People will do anything, no matter how absurd, to avoid facing their own soul. One does not become enlightened by imagining figures of light but by making the darkness conscious.”
For the Christian, it comes through the light of Christ, as the Apostle Paul confirmed: “We don’t yet see things clearly. We’re squinting in a fog, peering through a mist. But it won’t be long before the weather clears and the sun shines bright!” (I Corinthians 13:12)
The mist lifts when we find the courage to feel the fog.
Awakening, we find ourselves.
And it’s a beautiful place.
October 24, 2024, marked six years since Dr. and Mrs. Whitlock’s son Harrison died. Though the Whitlocks still grieve, they do not grieve “as those who have no hope” (I Thessalonians 4:13).
After Harrison died, he lingered long enough to brew a pot of coffee.
Earlier that day, he visited us from Paducah, KY, where he had been “trudging” the “Road of Happy Destiny” with others on the sober journey. Harrison had moved out of the treatment facility where he lived and, with his sponsor’s guidance, found full-time employment, with a promotion and full benefits imminent.
Lori and I finally breathed a sigh of relief. Harrison seemed steady, centered, and moving forward. It had been a ride: two years “in the madness,” as those in sobriety describe their time before hitting “bottom.” For Harrison, it took four treatment facilities, life on the streets, and finally, incarceration. Then, at CenterPoint Recovery Center for Men in Paducah, KY., Harrison began finding himself.
He was stable enough to come back for a visit. Returning home had not been an option: old connections were too tempting.
He arrived home before we did, and by the time we arrived from work, he had installed a new shower head for our bathroom. I grilled him a steak and let him choose the restaurant the next night. We relaxed by watching one of his favorite TV comedies, Schitt’s Creek. The next day was the church’s chili cook-off, so Harrison helped us prepare our contribution to the event: a pot of chili.
I felt at peace because he did. Harrison was enjoying family, and it appeared that he was claiming the promises of sobriety.
Before retiring, Harrison proudly presented me with a pound of coffee he had bought with his money. Earlier in the day, he had met a friend at a coffee shop in a nearby town. “I think you’ll like it. It’s strong coffee,” he grinned, knowing my penchant for dark roast.
Little did we know that his meeting with a “friend” would prove fatal.
Sometime in the night, Harrison took heroin. That’s bad enough, but this hit, unknown to Harrison, was laced with fentanyl.
I smelled it; I know I did: that freshly brewed pot of coffee. The aroma woke me, and glancing at my phone, I saw it was 3:17 a.m.
Half-awake, I asked Lori; she said she smelled it, too. But really, I wasn’t surprised: Harrison had always been a night owl. So, smiling at the thought of him getting into the coffee he had bought for me, I drifted back to sleep.
When I got up, the coffee pot appeared unused, as clean as I had left it the day before. And the new bag of coffee was unopened. I was puzzled.
I thought I would ask Harrison later when he got up. That time never came, for we found Harrison’s lifeless body slumped over in his bathroom.
I knelt by the paramedic: “If only I had gone upstairs to check on him when I got up at 6 a.m. Maybe I could have called 911, and maybe Narcan could have saved him.”
At that moment, I was pulled into the choir no one wants to join, where grievers sing the ancient lament, “I should have…” accompanied by the never-ending chorus, “What if?”
“I think you would have been about three hours too late for that,” the paramedic remarked. I quickly did the math: had Harrison been sending me a distress signal at 3:17 a.m.? Was it a message from God, waking me, calling me to action? Or was it Harrison’s way of saying “Goodbye” as the angels escorted him home?
I will never know this side of eternity.
Standing stunned in Harrison’s bathroom, the paramedics by then having left with his body, the warm tears I felt streaming down my face were the visible overflow that the shame of inaction was drilling into the deep recesses of my soul.
Later, I would find solace in God’s Word, in the many promises comforting those walking through the valley of the shadow of death.
But not then.
That moment,
was stuck
hugging death,
where comfort is a distant stranger,
where the only companions
living
are the haunting questions
with
no
answers.
Even though the words are the same, Arnold Schwarzenegger has changed the jingle for me. I’m sorry, but I can’t help but hear “Like a good neighbaaa” instead of “neighbor,” even though the commercial’s “director” or even Danny DeVito repeatedly corrects Arnold. Now, whenever the chorus in the commercial sings, “Like a good…” I hear Arnold’s husky voice intervening with “neighbaaa.”
However you hear it, I know this: my mail carrier is a great one, neighbaa, that is.
He’s no Arnold, but his kindness overpowers The Terminator’s strength.
My neighbaaa, I mean neighbor, has had some physical problems. Before a heart condition put her in the hospital, she accidentally knocked down her mailbox while mowing her lawn. So, Troy Edelen, our mail deliverer, took the extra time to place her mail directly on her doorstep rather than taking the easier mail route, which would mean holding it at the post office. When I caught up with Troy at my mailbox one day, I complimented him for his doordash delivery. Troy smiled. “I’d like to put up a new mailbox for her.”
I thought back to years ago when someone accidentally knocked down our mailbox. My friend Charles West, the custodian at our church then, was kind enough to help me reinstall it.
I doubt that I could have done that by myself. Later, my son, David, replaced the old one for us. He knows I had a “maintenance bypass” somewhere in the past. When he was here a few weeks ago, our son-in-law, John, tried to sympathize with my ineptness in all things practical. John, throwing up a yellow flag in my defense, mentioned that he wasn’t too handy either.
“Can you hang a picture on the wall?” David teased, to which John nodded an affirmative.
“Then you are a step ahead of Dad,” David said, to which we all laughed.
So when Troy mentioned putting in the mailbox for our neighbor, and I tepidly offered to help, he grinned at me like he knew something about me. “Oh, my wife will help me,” he quickly responded, as if he were defending himself from potential disaster. Walking back to our house, I wondered if Troy had observed my handiwork—or lack thereof.
Several weeks later, I noticed a deluxe mailbox replacing the broken one in my neighbor’s yard. It wasn’t just any old mailbox, either. It was a first-class, sturdy, attractive mailbox firmly planted in concrete, the detailed work of someone who knew what they were doing when they installed it.
Troy? I wasn’t sure, but I was as suspicious as Bewitched’s Gladys Kravitz.
Several days later, our neighbor posted a “thank-you” to Troy on Facebook, confirming my suspicion.
Ahh, yes, the work of a talented mail deliverer. Troy readily admitted that another postal worker had helped him, the two working “off the clock” to finish the job.
Troy is more than a Mr. Fix It. He is talented in more than one way. Troy plays in a local band, “STR8FWD.”
I’ve never heard Troy sing as he delivers our mail. I tell Lori he reminds me of a 70-ish Peter Frampton, and I can imagine him strumming the guitar section of “Do You Feel Like We Do” as he drives the streets with a mail truck full of deliveries.
Troy expresses his gift for and love of music by praising God at his church. But Troy’s kindness exceeds his vocal abilities. As the Scripture says, “Let’s not merely say that we love each other; let us show the truth by our actions” (I John 3:18).
My mail carrier shows it. And if I can’t hear him singing it as he delivers the mail, I think I can see him living it, “Like a good neighbaaa.”
Looking behind me, I realized I had not completely tightened my Stanley tumbler when I walked upstairs to my study. As I followed the water spots, drying them with a paper towel, Lori asked what had happened.
“It looks like I left a veritable ‘trail of tears,'” I joked.
The actual Trail of Tears was no laughing matter. In the 1830s, the Federal Government forced the removal of over 60,000 Native Americans from their homelands in the southeast United States to Indian Territory (present-day Oklahoma). Thousands died along the journey. Some historians have referred to it as an act of “ethnic cleansing” and others as “genocide.”
The Trail of Tears wasn’t the first such terrible act in history. Humans have managed to do worse: more recently, the Darfur genocide in Sudan, with the displacement of close to 3 million people and around 300,000 killed. Then there’s the Islamic State persecution of Iraqi Turkish, as well as the Yazidi genocide in Iraq and Syria that continues. Some of us remember the Rwandan genocide of the 1990s. The Holocaust takes our breath away; it’s so horrific it’s the “gold standard” for genocides. I haven’t touched on recent events in Ukraine or the Middle East. It’s too much.
Jeremiah warned the Hebrew people what the Babylonians would do to them. The “enemy from the north” would swoop down, destroy their temple, viciously murder many, and displace others. It happened. One of the survivors wrote about it: “By the rivers of Babylon we sat and wept when we remembered Jerusalem” (Psalm 137:1).
The Bible doesn’t gloss over the capacity humans have for hurting each other, the evil we have inflicted on others. It’s part of our sad and shameful condition.
Maybe that’s why the Bible contains over 500 references to tears and crying. God doesn’t make light of our tears: “You keep track of all my sorrows. You have collected all my tears in your bottle” (Psalm 56:8).
Isaiah prophesied that the Messiah would be a “man of sorrows, familiar with suffering.” No doubt, since the Messiah would redeem humans from their sins, taking our evil upon himself.
But that’s not the whole story. It’s not all sadness and sorrow.
After my “trail of tears” remark, Lori responded, “Well, it doesn’t have to be.”
Knowing she has experienced her share of tears in life’s losses, I paused from where I was cleaning on my hands and knees and looked up. “What do you mean?”
“Not all tears have to be of sadness,” she said.
We also know tears of joy, celebration, compassion, and forgiveness after repentance. The Bible records those, too. “Those that sow in tears shall reap in joy” (Psalm 126:5).
Though we walk in a valley of tears, there is a promise of joy on the other side. When Jesus endured the cross, taking all our sorrow and pain upon himself, he endured it, the Bible says, “for the joy that lay before him” (Hebrews 12:2).
As painful as our trail of tears can be, there is the promise of joy. “He will wipe away every tear,” the Apostle John promised of heaven. (Revelation 21:4).
I have wondered, in those lonely, heavy moments, if when we arrive in heaven, the Lord will hand us our personalized bottle of tears, filled with our history of sorrows, which we, I imagine, will receive in gratitude, fully aware that he knew our pain, and looking up into the eyes of Jesus, who absorbed them all, we realize the bottle has disappeared, vanished, for we are in a place where there will be
No more tears.
We were whooping and hollering for our favorite college football team, the Oklahoma Sooners. Our family was together for the weekend. Only one of our six grandchildren, eleven-year-old Eli, was old enough to enjoy the game with the adults.
We had complained throughout the game about our team’s poor offensive performance. It was the fourth quarter, and we had lost all hope for a win. Shaking our heads, we each predicted the final score for our defeat.
Then Eli looked up at us—innocent as Christopher Robin in a crowd of Eeyores—and said something that set us back on our fault-finding heels: “Well, the game’s not over yet.”
What a novel idea. The game wasn’t over, although we had concluded otherwise. I laughed and thanked Eli for reminding us, tousling the top of his head, “That’s right, Eli, the game’s not over.”
But I thought, “Naïve kid, he just doesn’t know.”
Doesn’t he know what? All the negative, unexplainable setbacks we inevitably face in life? The circumstances that topple our joy like so many collapsing Lego blocks? All the times we hope someone will show up only to be disappointed? All the times we shoot for the stars only to fall short?
Too many adults have learned that it’s better to expect disappointment and not try than to try and risk experiencing the agony of defeat. “Nothing ventured, nothing lost.”
Suddenly, our team scored a touchdown. In short order, one of our players intercepted a pass, returning it for a touchdown, and we added a field goal. Our team made an astonishing comeback. “That’s ‘Sooner Magic,’ Eli,” I shouted as we all high-fived each other, dancing around the living room.
Then I asked everyone to pause as I hugged Eli, drawing everyone’s attention to him as I thanked him before our little football audience for reminding us that a game’s not over till it’s over.
I was quoting Yogi Berra, the legendary baseball great, when I said it’s not over till it’s over. Berra had a knack for quips known as “yogisms.” He made this one while managing the New York Mets in 1973. In July of that year, they were last in their division. When a reporter asked Berra if the season was over for his team, he responded by stating the obvious in his own inimical words, “It ain’t over till it’s over.” The Mets rallied to win the National League East, took the National League title, and made it to the World Series.
Eli must have been channeling Yogi when he said the game wasn’t over. I hope our grandson remembers what he said that day. I had drawn everyone’s attention to him because I wanted Elito remember what he said. It’s a truth he will need to hold close to his heart as he faces life’s bumps and bruises, challenges and disappointments, setbacks and defeats, and the mounting chorus of naysayers determined to muffle any voice that dares sing, “Don’t Worry Be Happy.”
Persevering through life’s storms and getting back up when knocked down must be intentional actions. It’s easier to drift to the dark side of the world, wrap ourselves in excuses, and quit when all goes south rather than stay the course. If we are passive and not mentally alert, negativity spreads within us like a deadly virus. It can overwhelm us without our recognizing it.
That’s why I love Yogi Berra’s response to the reporter: We should never give up because “It ain’t over till it’s over.”
He was right.
Even if, in this lifetime, no one recognizes our faithfulness and determination, we can fight on, knowing as believers we play to an eternal audience, an everlasting host of witnesses, cheering us on, so that we can declare,
“It ain’t over till it’s over.”
One of the benefits of journaling is being able to see, through the words we have written, sometimes long, long ago, where we have been, how we’ve progressed—perhaps where we’ve strayed or even gotten lost along the way, and most of all: the realization that what we once saw as a detour was, in fact, the main road.
This recognition that what we perceived as the way around was actually the way through is sometimes revealed to us in a simple statement, catching us by surprise, hidden in one of those throw-away sentences we don’t recall scribbling, a thought that, in retrospect, stands alone, above the rest, because it captures more than a moment. It is both the past and future; even if the future is now history and time spreads itself before us, the yawning mystery that it is, was, and is to come.
Lori and I have passed another milestone now that our daughter, Mary, is married (September 7). All our kids have been up and gone and on their way for years, yet the wedding gave us pause for reflecting on our journey as parents.
Lori, more faithful than I am at journaling, retrieved her notebook from when we first “blended” as a new family with her two and my two. It was challenging: four kids, ages 12, 13, 14, and 16. At times, I felt like the Old West stagecoach driver, bouncing along an uneven trail, pulling one reign and then another, steering around a pothole here, struggling to keep the coach from crashing in a ravine over there.
We had been together less than a month when Lori wrote a long prayer for the kids in her journal, concluding, “Lord, I leave our kids to You and ask that you continue to gently guide them as we blend together.”
One of the most difficult challenges as a parent is not always knowing that you’ve done the right thing. “Should we have waited, let the kids get through the teenage years before blending?” But every decision has a flipside. Had we waited, the question would be, “Should we have blended when they were younger?” They would have missed out on family, or at least this family they could have had.
As Lori and I sat on the back porch, with her old journal in hand, she continued reading. I listened. Her next entry was another prayer, concluding with a request for wisdom as a parent and trusting the Lord for the kids. Then followed something one of the kids said that Lori didn’t remember, a parenthetical sidebar sentence.
“I just heard Dave say, ‘Good night, Harrison—I love you.”
In our first house, the boys were in one room and the girls in another. Lori was walking by when she heard Dave say those simple words.
Lori and I sat staring at each other, soaking in Dave’s words.
Even after all the years, we need reminders of the good, the wholesome, the positive, pointing us to a hopeful future that is now history. Time has a way of erasing the mind’s etchings.
Love was there from the very beginning.
“And above all these put on love, which binds everything together in perfect harmony” (I Corinthians 13:14).
Yes, I would have to steer the coach over the rough spots, sometimes wiping the dust from my eyes, other times swishing the rain from my face, always it seemed, straining for the middle ground, sometimes flailing about, and when the fog blurred all I thought was certain, when I thought I’d lost the trail, or fearful that I’d become a ghost driver with no one aboard any longer, I kept driving.
Love was there, binding us together, even in a sometimes discordant harmony. Even when I didn’t feel its presence, it was always there, for God’s faithfulness never leaves or forsakes.
Sitting on the back porch, watching the sunset, listening to Lori read her old journal, letting the breeze gently brush my face, God reminded me once again that He was there all along.
And where God is, there is love.
Love was there.
And still is.
As powerful and daunting a historical figure as the Apostle Paul was, he didn’t go it alone.
As a young Christian with only a casual acquaintance with the New Testament, I had mistakenly assumed that The Great Apostle powered solo from church to church, epistle to epistle, controversy to controversy. Yes, the Spirit fueled him with supernatural strength for those tasks, but he accepted help from others, beginning with the otherwise obscure disciples: Ananias in Damascus and Barnabas in Jerusalem. Paul not only trained others who would assist him, but he also enjoyed a host of friends and acquaintances. In his letter to the church in Rome, Paul sent greetings to no less than twenty-six people, two of whom may have been blood relatives. In the Book of Acts, Luke tells us that Paul’s nephew informed Paul that a secret coterie of his enemies had vowed to neither eat nor drink till they killed him (Acts 23). The nephew’s tip, delivered to Roman authorities, saved the Apostle’s life.
If a larger-than-life figure like Paul needed others, why should lesser lights like us think we can navigate life as solitary people? We need others.
My recent lesson in this: my relatives by marriage, Lori’s brother and sister, who traveled over 1,000 miles to attend our daughter’s wedding in the Catskill mountains of New York, showed up, making small contributions that made a big difference to me.
Whenever I looked around, it seemed either Brian or Lisa was there to say, “Let me do that.”
After joining Brian and Lisa at LaGuardia Airport in New York City, Brian drove us to the Catskills. I offered to drive, but Brian insisted—much to the relief of Lori and Lisa—while I secretly sighed with relief. Brian maneuvered with the skill of a New York cabbie, even cussing with the best of them. Despite my sometimes inaccurate attempts at navigation, Brian steered us safely to our Airbnb.
Upon arrival, we stopped to buy some groceries. As we were about to pay, Lisa said, “Let me do that,” and plopped down her credit card.
On the wedding day, Mary—our daughter, the bride—needed someone to pick up the pre-ordered lunch for the wedding party while they got ready. I volunteered, but Brian intervened: “Let me do that,” he said, then drove twenty minutes each way to deliver lunch. His little gift of time allowed me to get to the venue early, spend some precious moments with Mary, and then stand prepared for my part in the ceremony instead of arriving frazzled and frantic, having rushed to get there.
Our grown children, Mary’s siblings, have children of their own. Their hands were full, preparing themselves and their little ones for the big event. When the photographer began herding us together for pictures, Brian looked at our six grandchildren, three under the age of three. As David lifted one of his eleven-month-old twins, Brian said, “Let me do that,” holding the child like a pro.
Then, after the ceremony, Lisa walked down the stairs in her long dress and high heels, carrying one of the babies, focusing on NOT tripping, delivering the child safely to the babysitters. Her actions said, “Let me do that.”
The day we left, I took our suitcases to the porch. When I returned to load them in the car, Brian had beat me to it, grinning with his “Let me do that” attitude.
Could we have made it without Brian and Lisa? Of course. But the accumulation of their small acts made life easier for a special event in our lives. As the artist Vincent Van Gogh noted, “Great things are done by a series of small things brought together.” Brian and Lisa had “brought together” their small acts of kindness into one large contribution.
Waving bye to Brian and Lisa at the airport—they catching their flight to Oklahoma, Lori and I to Kentucky—I felt the Apostle Paul’s words in my heart: “I thank God through Jesus Christ for… you” (Romans 1:8).
We all need at least one “you” in our lives.
Because of Brian and Lisa, my life was a bit richer, and my determination stronger to join with them in saying,
“Let me do that.”
We were comfortably lodged in the picturesque Catskill Mountains. The venue for our daughter’s wedding was magical. We could hear the water rippling in the river behind the lodge in this area known for its fly fishing. Wildflowers decorated the grassy knoll next to the hiking trails that beckoned us. A grassy lawn sprawled behind the lodge leading to a pond that doubled as a picnic spot in summer and an ice skating rink in winter.
The weather was splendid: clear blue skies with a hint of fall crispness.
Perfect.
Except for the day of the wedding.
That day, the forecast was for rain and cold temperatures.
Our daughter, Mary, texted us the week before we left for New York, warning us of the foreboding forecast. She had meticulously planned her dream for this outdoor wedding. The day before the event, the weather forecast was ideal—the day after was pleasant. But the day of the wedding was cold and rainy. Indeed, the weather forecast was splendid every day, including the week before and after, EXCEPT for the wedding day.
So Lori and I prayed for better weather.
Before we left, my brother told me I would have to be like Moses when he raised his hands at the Red Sea and the waters parted. “I don’t think I have that kind of power,” I rued.
At the rehearsal dinner, I had given up all hope. The rain percentage had increased, and our prayers seemed ineffective. “Such a lovely venue for such lousy weather,” I grumbled.
Then I met Gabby and Sydney.
Gabby and Sydney (Syd) are Mary’s colleagues. They have an effervescence that pops like the cork out of a Champagne bottle. Bubbling with positivity, they sang Mary’s praises for what an outstanding team leader she is (“I’d donate my last kidney for her,” Gabby declared). When I mentioned the stressful drive from New York City to the Catskills, they shrugged, then giggled, as if it had been an adventure at an amusement park.
“Syd is the driver,” Gabby said, leaning in like she was letting me in on a secret. “She drives like Mr. Magoo.”
“I focus only on what is right before me when I drive,” Syd defended herself, explaining her driving methodology.
“We’re like driving along,” Gabby elaborated, “and Syd has both hands gripping the wheel, shoulders hunched, oblivious to the possibility of danger. I’m like, Didn’t you see that squirrel dart in front of us? What about that deer over there and that driver that cut you off? And she just keeps rolling, snickering, ‘Oh well.'”
Gabby and Syd had breezed their way from the City to the Catskills on the wings of joy and excitement.
Then, I brought up the unpleasant weather forecast.
It didn’t faze them. “Some of the best weddings I’ve been to were in the rain,” Syd smiled. I asked her to repeat that, which she did, pausing and furrowing her brow as she carefully worded it. Gabby nodded in agreement.
I was anticipating disappointment; they were anticipating happiness. I was viewing the weather as a hindrance to a magnificent moment; they were viewing the weather as part of the magnificent moment. I was focusing on the negative, wishing for the positive; they were focusing on the positive, wishing only for the moment itself.
I had been praying but not trusting God to bless us on whatever kind of day it might be.
Listening to them, I felt a cloud of gloom lift within me. Yes, it would be a beautiful wedding, no matter the weather.
John Ruskin observed, “There is no such thing as bad weather, only different kinds of good weather.”
It rained the day of the wedding.
And it was chilly.
But it was good weather, just a different kind of good weather. I was happy, joyous, and free in the raindrops.
And then (why was I surprised?) the rain stopped. Moments before I grasped my daughter’s hand, God did part the waters. Attendees put their umbrellas away.
And Mary and I walked hand in hand to the altar, on sunshine, even if it was only shining in our hearts, in a moment no cloud could darken.
My older brother has ALS (otherwise known as Lou Gehrig’s Disease.) How Mark, in excellent health and with no family history of ALS, got this disease is a mystery. It took almost a year, with trips to multiple diagnostic centers, including the Mayo Clinic, to finally conclude that it is ALS.
At my retirement, Mark and his wife, Joy, came for my last Sunday in the church where I had pastored for 20 years. Joy recalled him having trouble lifting the carry-on luggage on their return flight.
Then, when he landscaped his son’s yard, he thought he had torn the rotator cuffs in both shoulders. He dreaded the thought of surgery—a procedure he would now trade for ALS in a heartbeat.
ALS can affect anyone, anywhere, at any age. Currently, it is considered a fatal disease, with the patient surviving an average of 2-5 years after diagnosis. We pray for a medical breakthrough. 1 in 300 people will receive an ALS diagnosis in their lifetime. Of course, my older brother is the one we are most concerned about now.
Our sister-in-law, Rebecca, had a friend with ALS who had seen the renowned ALS specialist, Dr. Stanley Appel, former chair of the Stanley H. Appel Department of Neurology and currently the Director of the Ann Kimball & John W. Johnson Center for Cellular Therapeutics in Houston, Tx. So, Mark and Joy traveled to a conference where Dr. Appel spoke.
Mark had a brief but significant personal conversation with Dr. Appel, in which Mark shared a capsule of his story. Dr. Appel looked directly at Mark and said, “You’re one of the good guys.”
As Mark shared this story with me, I immediately thought, “Of course, Mark’s one of the good guys. He’s the good guy who showed up for me when I was a kid, and some older boys had taken over our sandlot football game, pushing us around. Looking at them, Mark said, “You wanna play rough?” Then he fired the football at one of the bullies so hard that the boy couldn’t catch it, the ball thumping him in the chest. “Pick on someone your age,” Mark told them.
He’s the good guy who spent countless hours hitting ground balls to me, trying (with little success) to make a decent baseball player out of me.
He’s the good guy who threw me football pass after football pass, was willing to coach our sandlot football team, and later cheered for me when I played in elementary, junior high, and high school.
He’s the good guy who was first a teacher and then a principal, influencing countless students and teachers in public education for 40 years.
He’s the good guy who taught his son to play ball, hunt, fish, and be a good man.
He’s the good guy who was there for his daughters’ proms, weddings, and grandkids’ births.
He’s the good guy who stood by his wife through every breast cancer treatment, and today, after 54 years of marriage, is burdened that he can’t help her as he once did.
He’s the good guy who looked after Mom and Dad in the retirement center.
He’s the good guy there for his family today, traveling hours to be with them, even though his physical capabilities increasingly limit how much and how often he can.
That’s what I thought.
But that’s not what Dr. Appel meant.
ALS is known as the “good guys” disease because so many who are diagnosed with it seem to have pleasant personalities. Doctors have made this observation so frequently that some see it as more than an unfortunate coincidence. Researchers surmise there may be an unknown genetic connection, an interplay between the properties of such traits and the disease. Studies at the Center for Disease Control are currently exploring the possibility.
It only underscores the mystery of the disease and the need for more funding for research.
But, while so much about ALS is unknown, one thing is certain.
With or without ALS, my brother is one of the “good guys,” exemplifying Matthew 7:16: “By their fruit, you shall know them.”
He always has been.
And he always will be.
In 1896, Pastor Charles M. Sheldon published a book based on a series of “sermon stories” he had used for his church’s Sunday night services. The book was a huge success, selling over 50 million copies, and today ranks as an inspirational classic. “In His Steps” posed a question in its subtitle, “What Would Jesus Do?” The book became better known by its subtitle, eventually giving rise a hundred years later to the “What Would Jesus Do Movement.”
As we approach the election of a president in a few months, and so many seem to be hyperventilating over which candidate poses the most dangerous threat to democracy and civilization, perhaps the question would be apropos: “What would Jesus do?”
A friend posted on Facebook that he was taking a leave of absence from social media for the next few months, or at least until the presidential election. He rightly recognized that the anger and vitriol voiced by many regarding the upcoming election was draining his emotions.
Someone immediately chastised him for his decision, urging him to stay in the fight, that the outcome in November depended on people like him working for the cause. Immediately another posted in response to that person, stating the remarks only proved the very reason why my friend was avoiding social media.
How can we tone it down and maintain some emotional equilibrium? For some, it might mean disengaging for a while. Others find meaning in the fray. For all, self-examination is key. We are better people when we don’t let our emotions rule us, slowing down long enough to ask the question Charles Sheldon presented to his congregation.
Perhaps the question, “What would Jesus do?” wrongly assumes Jesus ISN’T here, so maybe we should ask, “What would the presence of Jesus have ME do in this situation?”
The answer is not always clear. And Jesus himself was unpredictable.
Who could have guessed that Jesus would respond as he did when the Pharisees posed that trap question about taxes? “Is it right to pay taxes to Caesar or not?”
What did Jesus do? He answered the question with a question. Asking for a coin, Jesus asked, “Whose picture and title are stamped on it?” Of course, the coin had the Emperor’s imprint and name. “Well, then, give to Caesar what belongs to Caesar, and give to God what belongs to God.” Jesus’ interrogators sulked away.
Who would have predicted Jesus’s response to Pilate when he grilled Jesus about his political aspirations? Jesus could have weaseled out, begging for his life, denying his cause. Instead, he admitted he had a kingdom: it was just not of this world. He left Pilate scratching his head and even more puzzled by Jesus’ follow-up: “Actually, I was born and came into the world to testify to the truth.” Pilate then asked the question of the ages, “What is truth?” when it was standing before him.
So, given our political divide, what would Jesus do (or ask his followers to do) today?
While Jesus meant what he said about his kingdom not being of this world and even warned about those who say, “There it is,” he did tell us where we could find it: “The kingdom of God is within you” (Luke 17:21). If it is within, it is from God and thus a miracle of God’s grace. We can see evidence of it in our attitudes and actions, such as humility, justice, righteousness, peace, kindness, and love.
How is it possible? “Humanly speaking,” Jesus told his disciples, “it is impossible. But with God everything is possible” (Matthew 19:26).
It is possible to live so that we impact God’s kingdom on those around us and, through others and even organizations, on our culture.
So, “What would Jesus have me do in these next few months leading up to November 5?”
“Turn from your selfish ways, take up your cross, and follow me” (Matthew 16:24).
“How? Where?”
“The Holy Spirit whom I send will guide you” (John 14:26).
“But what about those who don’t see it my way?”
“As for you, follow me” (John 21:22).
Try doing that between now and election day.
It may not be easy, but it is possible.
Lori texted our friend Emily, letting her know we had been praying for her son, Connor, and their family as they moved him into one of the freshman dorms at the University of Kentucky. Years earlier, I had baptized Connor, so I felt connected to him as a part of his spiritual journey. Emily posted some pictures and shared her mixed emotions—feelings common to parents at that moment: sadness, anxiousness, and happiness. Having raised four ourselves, Lori and I could identify.
Often unrecognized, fear is an emotion that fuels a parent’s anxiety when kids leave home. It’s the fear of letting go, of no longer being the one who is steering them safely to shore at those critical moments when, in the absence of the parent, children would surely shipwreck, or so we think.
If parents aren’t attentive to themselves, they become “what if” victims, where the child’s every imaginary choice becomes the fulcrum for a series of events ending in disaster.
Unwittingly, the caring mother or father becomes like that innocent parent sunbathing on the beach who suddenly looks up from reading or napping and, not immediately seeing the children, instantly envisions a shark attack, a riptide, or a kidnapper and, in a panic, flings the book or magazine in the air, sprinting toward the water—only to find the children frolicking in the sand, joyfully building sandcastles.
Sitting back down beneath the umbrella, the parent calls herself the silly one to worry, relaxing again—but not entirely—for there is always that possibility that out there, near the water, on the beach, beneath the sun (As Ecclesiastes wrote, “Under the sun,” and Manfred Mann sang: “But, mama that’s where the fun is,”), sandcastles will crumble.
And they will.
Such is the burden of parenthood. We’re there but not there, sleeping with one eye open, checking their whereabouts, or imagining we are in some weird way with them. Maybe Cooper’s (Matthew McConaughey) mom in the film, “Interstellar,” had it right: “Once you become a parent, you become the ghost of your children’s future.”
Not all children leave home for college. College isn’t the point. Some make career choices that don’t require a college degree, while others stay home. The point is, it’s better to let them go, let them explore the beach, and let them build their sandcastles without parental supervision. Not being in control can be scary, for it carries the possibility of failure. But it’s freeing—yes, healthy—for everyone.
Letting them go isn’t the same as indifference. Even though parents are not there, they can pray, interceding for them as the Psalmist did for himself: “Thy word is a lamp unto my feet and a light unto my path” (Psalm 119:105).
My parents moved me into a dorm at Baylor University in Waco, Texas, five driving hours away from home. Mom was having trouble letting go of “her baby.” To make matters more challenging, I was a lovesick kid, leaving Lori, my high school girlfriend, back home. It was a veritable trail of tears. Dad was ready to be done with the ordeal. “Either stay or go,” I felt him saying, though he didn’t.
We were shopping in Waco for dorm supplies. All the while, I was moping from aisle to aisle. Maybe it was somewhere between the aisle for toiletries and bedding that Dad looked back at me with a combination of anxiety and exasperation, then shaking his head, grumbled to Mom, “He’s never going to make it. He’ll be back at junior college (in Altus, Ok) by Labor Day.” To this day, I wonder if Dad was relieved at the thought of me returning home or fearful that I would.
But I didn’t return, although the path forward was winding, often hazy, rarely obvious, and always filled with the wonder of His grace. Sandcastles crumbled along the way, though thanks to the Solid Rock, they weren’t washed away in vain. Mom and Dad kept praying for me, and though they weren’t there, I knew they could be (Dad’s parting words to me: “We’re only a phone call away”), while God was lighting my path, even when I didn’t recognize it.
Always with the same Light.
Shining on the same mysterious, intriguing path.
Where sandcastles are still being built.
Transitioning a loved one to a long-term care facility is never easy. But there is one thing we can do to lighten the emotional toll it takes, something that can give meaning and purpose to the process.
Ruth Ann, my wife Lori’s mom, transitioned to an assisted living facility this summer. Though she has a lovely and comfortable arrangement, the move has been challenging for her, Lori, and her two siblings, Brian and Lisa. Lori has been back twice this summer, and Brian and Lisa, who live in the same area as Ruth Ann, regularly visit.
We are thankful Ruth Ann is optimistic and tries to see the best in every situation. “This is a wonderful place,” she said as she settled in. But the move has, at times, confused her and troubled us.
My parents, both deceased, went through a similar experience, although their move necessitated a transition from their home of more than 50 years in Altus, Oklahoma, to Lubbock, Texas. I’ll never forget Dad’s silence and Mom’s tears as we drove away from Altus. The air in the car seemed heavier with every mile. I felt like a parent delivering a child to a new school in a different city, only worse, for hope doesn’t readily spring back in life’s latter stage.
But it did get better, and although Mom was less active than Dad, she found enjoyment and friends there. But it took time.
On my first night in Lubbock with Mom and Dad, I went outside to retrieve some items from the car. It was after hours, and the door was locked when I tried to reenter.
“Do you know the code?” a lady approaching me asked.
When I told her I was helping my siblings move my mom and dad into the facility, she punched in the code for me.
Like me, she was visiting someone in the long-term care facility.
“Do you have a friend or relative here?” I asked as we stepped inside.
“An old friend,” she told me, and then after pausing, as if hesitant to confide in me, she added: “It’s not always easy to visit her. It was tough at first.”
Then she concluded, “But the trick is to keep on going.”
Her last statement caught my attention.
“Could you repeat that?” I asked.
She kindly obliged: “The trick is to keep on going.”
I recall my visits to a long-term care facility as a college student. I was serving as a “pastoral intern,” a requirement for a class I took in pastoral ministries. One resident always seemed to cry loudly, repeating the same word, “Momma.” The smell of the facility made me wince. I determined, “When I’m a Pastor, this is ONE thing I’m not going to do.” But, like many things I thought I’d never do, I did.
The more I visited, the more I stopped thinking about what I didn’t like about the facilities and started entering the world of the residents.
Months after Mom and Dad had moved in, he commented while in the dining room. “Look around, David,” he said. “Everyone in here was somebody, sometime.”
It was a keen observation. The residents have stories to tell, although some cannot share them.
Although our loved ones cannot contribute to society like they once did, each one is still “somebody.” They may appear “less than” but are often “more than” in their wisdom, love, and compassion.
The longer Mom and Dad were there, the easier it was to visit, though I hid my tears each time I left as Dad would stand outside, waving bye to me. But while there, I did my best to live Hebrews 3:13: “Encourage each other daily while it is still ‘today.’”
“God bless you,” I said to the lady visiting her old friend, a resident in my parents’ long-term care center.
“He already has,” she responded.
Yes, indeed, He has and will.
And we receive it.
As long as we keep on going.
Our oldest daughter, Mary, was home for a week this summer. She is getting married soon, so this was her last visit with us before her big day. After she left, Lori and I found little notes she left us scattered throughout the house.
On the coffee pot, her note read, “Loved our morning coffee, xo, Smiles/Mary.” (“Smiles” is the pet name I gave her when she was a child.) On my desk, “Love you! Have a great day!” By Lori’s mirror, “Love you, miss you,” and on the kitchen cabinet, “Love you for everything!” We smiled through the house, finding surprise notes tucked in nooks and crannies.
“I guess Mary is carrying on an old family tradition,” I said, grinning to Lori.
I don’t know exactly when I started doing it, but somewhere along the line, when they were but little tikes, I began writing short notes to each one of the children, first reading the notes aloud for them, then when they could read, slipping the notes into their backpacks, and later, on the steering wheel or console of their automobiles. I’ve even taped notes on the gas cap of their car after giving them gas money. When they moved on to college, I used email and text messages.
The little notes I wrote for my kids were nothing profound, although on occasion, I would include some wise quote from someone, and frequently, I would include a word from the Bible appropriate for whatever circumstance they might be facing that day. Most of the time, it was just a one or two-sentence note to remind them I was thinking about them. They were simple notes like, “Praying for you as you take that test today,” or “I’ll be there tonight for your game,” or “You’re prepared; you’ll do fine.”
I wasn’t even sure if they always read them.
So, I was surprised when my kids, once grown, told me how much those little notes meant to them. Some even kept their notes secured in a box or drawer; if they didn’t keep them, the assurance of love was still there, hidden in their heart.
The oldest two of our six grandkids are back to school for another school year. Eli has moved to another school for 6th grade, which means his little sister will go to school in 2nd grade for the first time without her older brother with her. I wonder if she is a bit nervous about that.
Children arrive on the first day of school with issues we don’t always know, which can be a frightening experience for them.
That’s true not only on the child’s first day of school but also when they move from one grade to the next or wave bye on their way to college.
They are likely just as anxious (even if they try to hide it) as the parent is sad, happy, or nervous for them.
Need some encouragement this school year? Each of those days, some more difficult, some easier than others, will build on the next and the next to make a life. Your positive words may make the difference between a child giving up or staying with it.
Proverbs 18:4 says, “A person’s words can be life-giving water…”
Just as we are to provide a cup of water for those in need, words, like a stream in the desert, can bring life to someone in desperate need of refreshment. And that “someone” might be your child.
I was talking to our son, David, on the phone while he was taking his two-year-old daughter, Stella, to daycare. In between David leading her in nursery rhymes, I asked him, “Now, how long will it be till she enters first grade?”
“Too soon,” he said.
Yes, indeed, too soon. And too soon, she will graduate from high school and too soon fly away on her journey from home.
But “too soon” can also be “just right.” Leaving gives children room for growth and, consequently, nourishment for others.
Then our words will not have been in vain, for we are still with our children (though we yet long for their presence), in those words we’ve given them, words they pass along to others.
I am sure Mary, David, and Madi will give the right words for their family to carry with them.
And if someone asks why they do it, I’ll say, “They’re just carrying on an old family tradition.”
Even the most ardent of President Biden’s supporters acknowledge it wasn’t a smooth landing. His exit from the presential race was less like the door quietly shutting on the way out and more like someone stumbling down the stairs, unaware of the tumble, dazed and confused about what just happened.
For older people like myself, the episode hit close to home, or at least in the same neighborhood. Biden represented to me the “Everyman” who hangs on too long, unaware that his time has passed, having lost his effectiveness, clueless that his ageism is all too evident to others.
For some time, I’ve wondered, “Why? Why does the President continue?” Setting aside his public explanations, I still thought, “He’s missing out on so much of life.”
My dad established his dental practice in Altus, Ok., where I grew up, and he practiced dentistry for almost 60 years, retiring completely when he was 86, tapering back the last few years, eventually working only 2-3 days a week. He had made a pact with Dr. Mark Goodman, the younger dentist he brought in, to take over his practice eventually: “If you ever see my work slipping, you have to be honest and tell me.” That time never came, and Dad kept working. He loved his profession and was good at it until he quit.
When Mom and Dad finally moved to a retirement village in Lubbock, TX, Dad took it all in: indoor swimming exercise, going to the movies with others, themed cookouts on the patio, relishing every meal, and yes, even the snacks.
Then, Dad had a series of surgeries. As my sister-in-law, Joy, was helping him after one of those surgeries, he commented, “This is not exactly what I thought I’d be doing in my retirement,” to which Joy innocently questioned, “Do you think you might have worked too long?”
I wonder.
That’s why my ears perked up when one of my friends, a parishioner in the church I pastored, asked when I thought I would retire. He quickly added, “I’m not suggesting you need to retire; I just don’t want you to miss out.”
“I just don’t want you to miss out.” Indeed. I didn’t want that either. And I knew he had my best interest in mind.
I was physically and mentally sound, confident I could keep going, like Dad. But my friend’s comment, “I don’t want you to miss out,” kept echoing. I didn’t want to look back and wish I had quit sooner, but at the same time, I didn’t want to let go while I could still make a positive difference.
The key, I realized, is to quit before you have no choice, to exit before people are relieved when you finally announce your retirement.
Before I told anyone publicly, I began making plans for a well-timed exit, transitioning myself and positioning the church for my departure.
I have yet to feel like I’ve retired because, mentally, I have simply entered into a new phase of my career. I continue teaching as an adjunct professor at Campbellsville University and have invested my time in my own research and writing projects.
Caleb, the Bible character, is a good model for those experiencing ageism. Remember him? At 85, he declared, “I am still as strong today as the day Moses sent me out (45 years earlier); I’m just as vigorous to go out to battle now as I was then” (Joshua 14:11). Maybe he was a tad overly optimistic about his skill set, but I like his confident attitude. He had the gumption I hope to have at 85, and apparently he did conquer the mountain Moses had promised him.
Being honest with ourselves and our capabilities or lack thereof is complex but critical to a fruitful end of any career. Stevie Nicks sang: “Even children get older/And I’m gettin’ older, too.” Coming to terms with that reality takes time and reflection.
The brutal truth is that whether we are 32, 65, or 85—all we have is one day at a time.
And I don’t want to miss out.
Not even for one day.
My wife, Lori, and I took an Alaskan cruise to celebrate our 20th wedding anniversary. After boarding the ship, the cruise director held an optional orientation meeting. During his introduction, he involved the crowd.
“How many of you are celebrating a wedding anniversary this week?” was followed by, “How many have been married five years?” Many responded, but the show of hands decreased as the anniversary years increased, with several couples acknowledging 20 and 30 years, a few at 50, and the longest-married couple celebrating their 61st anniversary.
“What’s your secret?” the cruise director shouted to the couple sitting in the auditorium’s back row. Only those close to the husband could hear his answer. Nonetheless, everyone applauded, and the cruise director continued his presentation.
I remained curious, wondering what the gentleman had said in answer to the question about the secret of a long and enduring marriage.
I saw the couple at dinner a few days into the cruise. “Isn’t that the couple married 61 years?” I asked Lori, who wasn’t sure.
“Sir,” I inquired as I stopped at their table. “Excuse me, but aren’t you the couple married for 61 years?”
“Yes, that’s us,” he said proudly.
“I couldn’t hear your answer to the secret of staying married 61 years. Would you mind telling me what you said?”
“Treat her like you did when she was young,” he loudly whispered. His wife seemed teased, even elbowing him as he answered me. From his words and their demeanor, I could see that their love was still vital and alive. He had apparently been intentional in treating his wife like he did when they were young.
After thanking and congratulating them, I turned to walk back to Lori to report my findings, but I couldn’t help but ponder.
Looking at Lori sitting there, I thought, “I hope I love Lori better than I did when I was younger.”
Our relationship falls into three parts of “younger”: one as young teenagers, then as young middle-aged adults, and today, as young seniors. (Maybe years from now, we will be “Young Oldies.”) This October, we will celebrate 50 years since our first date. After several years of dating as teenagers, we went separate ways, only to meet again years later, a miracle of God’s grace.
Our love has deepened, matured, and remained steady, strengthened, yet tender through life’s curves and crashes over the past twenty years. I certainly didn’t have that as a senior in high school on our first date at Sonic Drive-In. And though I loved deeply as a middle-aged adult, I would like to think my love deepens and widens as I age.
How is that possible?
The prophet Isaiah wrote, “The grass withers, the flower fades, but the word of God stands forever.”
Like the grass, all of us wither and, like flowers, we fade. If love is to stay green and fruitful, something within must revitalize it. The word of God within Lori and me is a binding force that unites and, like fresh water, keeps us young and vital spiritually, even though we may sometimes have bodily aches and pains, and brittle emotions. We share God’s Word every morning and last thing before sleeping. The Word of God is the source of our strength and the bedrock of our love. But I still have to choose to see her with the eager eyes of a youthful lover.
As I approached our dinner table that night on the cruise, Lori smiled, and suddenly, I saw the 15-year-old girl grinning, holding her Sonic water with extra ice on that first date almost 50 years ago.
And I realized the man married 61-years years had been right.
Love will continue to mature yet stay fresh the longer two lovers attempt to see each other with the passion and zest they did when they were younger, even if it means playing like “fools in love.”
It’s true: treat her young, and she will stay young.
And so will the marriage.
I gently placed the pine cone in Stella’s tender hands, careful not to let its rough edges scratch her.
Stella, my two-year-old granddaughter, had spent the day after her mother’s surgery close to her, perhaps a daughterly instinct to care for her mom. But the next day, she was ready to romp with me.
We chased each other through the house, playing hide-and-seek, until, fearing we might wake her eight-month-old twin sisters, I suggested we move our game outdoors, though I knew the July heat would wilt us. Across the yard, we ran, I in pursuit of Stella—up and down her slide, pushing her back and forth on the swing set—and she, snickering, challenging me repeatedly: “Catch me, PopPop.” And so we skipped and hopped across the backyard.
I felt the sun more than she did, or so it seemed. Partly for my survival, I pretended to be a tour guide, a naturalist calling her attention to nature’s wonders hidden in Stella’s backyard. First stop: her daddy’s garden; next: a hands-on tour of the shrubs, comparing the texture of the Tiger Lily with the Milkweed.
Her two-year-old attention span dictated momentary pauses rather than restful stops. We were trekking across the yard, a few minutes here, a few there, uphill towards the wooded area, stopping at the fence row along the way. That was where I discovered the pine cone, lying there alone as if it were longing for someone to find it.
Squatting down to her eye level, cupping the pine cone as I folded my hands in hers, Stella stroked the cone’s rough edges with her fingers as I turned it over for her, allowing her to feel the texture. “It’s a pine cone,” I said, as she squinted, repeating the words after me, “Pine cone.” She studied the cone, then looked back at me with a broad smile, gratified with our discovery.
Stella raised her eyebrows as she massaged the pine cone’s gnarly texture with her smooth hands. The young child held the old pinecone in her hands, the cone’s life now spent, hardened by as many as a dozen summers and winters, come and gone, a survivor of nature’s harshness, its mission of protecting seeds done, now resting solitarily on the ground, waiting for someone, anyone—even one ignorant of its purpose and significance on God’s good earth—yes, even someone who wouldn’t appreciate it for the bitter winters or brutal summers it had endured, who would no doubt pick it up as a souvenir, a mere artifact, maybe, or toss it aside, leaving it to reunite with the soil that birthed it.
The pine cone, a noble member of the gymnosperm family whose heritage harkens to prehistoric times—now toughened and strengthened on nature’s anvil, which had hammered wrinkles of pain and anguish in it, wrapping it in a faint smell of pine—rests confident and secure in who it has become.
As my 68-year-old fingers enfold the two-year-old’s, both of us grasping the cone, I know that one day, it will be me: it will be my turn to take my place in the last cycle of life, joining the pine cone, lost in the dirt, waiting to be found, confident that the Promise of the Ages, the eternal I AM in me and There, will come again for His own.
Stella giggles and drops the pine cone, watching it fall to the ground, as I quickly retrieve it for a keepsake, joining her in a chase back to the house.
And I pretend not to catch her.
Grasping this moment for all its worth as this day stretches before us.
I run in her direction.
With the pine cone secure in my hand.
The phrase jumped off the page. “Let go and let God.”
I flinched.
And then I asked myself why. Why did that phrase cause an automatic response within me?
I was sitting among several kindred spirits. The person who read the devotion had no idea I winced.
As a pastor, I sometimes heard it in the context of a problem. Someone might say, “We’re behind in budget,” or “Attendance is down,” or “We don’t have anyone to keep the babies during worship.”
Then someone else would shrug their shoulders and say, “Just let go and let God,” and walk away.
So, I came to associate the phrase with an excuse for passivity when action was needed.
When the people of Israel wavered at the Red Sea, grumbling to Moses (they did that quite often), suddenly opting for the security of slavery in Egypt over the fear of freedom in an unknown land, Moses told them to take courage, “Just watch the Lord rescue you today,” he pleaded.
But instead of saying, “Yes, Moses, coddle the clan, just let go and let Me, God asked Moses: “Why are you crying out to me?” And then God commanded, “Tell the people to get moving!” (Exodus 14:15).
So, I felt justified in my distaste of that quip, “Let go and let God.” It’s no good to “let God” when it’s time to “get moving.”
It reminds me of the farmer who inherited a field in miserable condition. It took him months to clear away the brush, dead timber, and rocks. Finally, he was able to fertilize the ground and then plow the field. The soil looked rich, ready to receive seed and produce an abundant crop. A passerby commented, “God has blessed you with a beautiful field.”
I love the farmer’s response: “Yes, he has, but you should have seen it when the Lord had it all to himself.”
But then, I dug deeper into my psyche, again asking myself why I cringed at the “let go and let God” phrase.
Yes, there are times when, as Delilah taunted Samson, “the Philistines are upon you” (Judges 16:20), and a leap into action is required.
But then again, perhaps my dislike of that phrase had something to do with my desire to control matters.
I could DO something and increase revenue; I could Do something and increase attendance. I could Do something and get teachers in the right place. I could, I could, I could.
And when I did, I could be tempted to publicly praise God while privately patting myself on the back.
God acts when we surrender to Him. It sounds counterintuitive, but when I let go and let God, he uses me to accomplish his will. “Not my will by thine be done” is a prayer of surrender to let go and let God. It’s not a concession to apathy. Paul the Apostle, a man on the move if ever there was one, said, “When I am weak, then I am strong.” It was when he admitted his inability, surrendering his weakness to God, that God made him strong in his weakness.
Yes, Samson did jump into action, but sadly, he had grown so accustomed to his own strength he wasn’t aware until it was too late that the Lord had left him.
If left to ourselves, we become cheerleaders in our own fan club, applauding our abilities, talents, and savoir-faire.
Until ourselves is all we’ve got.
I appreciate Father Don Dolindo Ruotolo’s simple prayer, “O Jesus, I surrender myself to You, take care of everything.”
It’s in surrendering ourselves to God that God does take care of everything, maybe not in the way or the timing we think best or like, but in God’s way, which is always best. God does take care of everything, if not in this life, then in the next.
Moses reminded the people, paralyzed in fear on the shores of the Red Sea, “The Lord himself will fight for you. Just stay calm.”
Yes, stay calm. Then, get up and cross that river. And remember, God is the one who parts the waters.
“O Jesus, I surrender myself to You, take care of everything.”
And He does.
When we let go and let God.
Most news companies and book publishers have a “summer reading list” of book titles guaranteed to keep us reading from June to September. They roll out list after list, from books to read on the beach, to books for a rainy summer day, to the perfect reads before drifting off to a summer night’s dream. There’s a list for almost everything associated with summer.
I’m overwhelmed by all these choices, drawn first to one title and then the next. The book promoters are professionals at making the books so appealing—from the book covers to the captivating blurbs—that I could easily spend several summers reading my top selections and still have plenty of material for fall and winter reads.
So, what to do?
My wife, Lori, has been taking our 7-year-old granddaughter (who is going into second grade) to a summer reading program taught by a friend, Mrs. Lois Jean Patton, a first-grade teacher. It fills a need: teaching children to read books is becoming a lost art.
Mrs. Patton introduces the children to books, beginning with lessons on the basics of reading, a core phonics survey, and phonological awareness and comprehension. She has a knack for getting the kids interested in books, the result, I suppose, of her unique combination of expertise in and enthusiasm for reading. We noticed an immediate effect: our granddaughter is more excited about reading. That in itself is a win for the summer.
Lori, who taught reading in primary school for years, reminds me that children should learn several basics about reading. For one, it’s essential to read daily to be a better reader. Twenty minutes a day would be great. Then, find a “good-fit” book for the child (one that interests them). Something else: select books that build confidence in reading skills and comprehension. That’s not easy. It requires knowing the child’s capabilities, likes, and dislikes while awakening them to new vistas of learning. But it makes good sense to me.
So, what can we learn from that?
Read every day. Even for adults, twenty minutes a day is a wonderful goal. Then, find challenging books and some that are “good-fit” books. Lastly, read something that builds confidence by conquering challenges.
With that in mind, I made a list. My goal is to continue the habit of reading for at least twenty minutes every day.
Then, I made my “challenging” list for the summer, including one book I’ve already read this summer but adding one more. Finally, I chose one “good-fit” book plus one memoir.
That’s a manageable list. If I finish before summer’s end, I can add more reads, maybe purchasing one or two as a personal reward.
There is one book I read every summer but never finish. It’s part of my reading curriculum each summer. This book checks all the boxes, meeting the requirements for good reads: it’s challenging, and it’s a “good-fit” book that also builds confidence.
I’m referring to the Bible.
From Genesis to Revelation, the 66 books of the Bible contain epic stories of heroes and villains, murderers and saviors, people falling from grace only to receive it again, people promoted to the pinnacle of success and then plummeting to the valley of despair, individuals rising from the pit of slavery to the palace of royalty. It contains accounts of events that have changed the course of history, not to mention words of wisdom and poetic literature, collections of songs, prophetic visions, and romantic literature. It’s all arranged in one book collection, the Bible.
I’ll keep my summer reading list but continue with my summer-to-summer read of the Bible. It’s a book for all seasons. I can take it to the beach or, as I prefer, read it in the comfort of my study. And there is no need to hurry through. Twenty minutes a day, and I know its Author a little better with each read.
Now, that’s a challenge and the perfect “good fit” for anyone interested in reading this summer.
Michael’s eyes darted around his classroom, hoping to find a familiar face. It was his first day in school, first grade. His parents had explained that this school would provide him with more opportunities, better facilities, and diverse resources. Hopefully, he would make friends, too. As Michael continued investigating his surroundings, he realized he was the only African-American student in the entire school.
Michael Caldwell was the first African-American student to attend Cane Valley Elementary School in Adair County. The year was 1956. Michael was six years old. His sister, Rose, would follow him the next year as the first female African-American to enter the school.
Their entry was the direct result of a lawsuit filed through the NAACP by parents of “Negro” children in Adair County in 1956. Only two years before, on May 17, 1954, the Supreme Court issued its landmark decision, Brown v. Board of Education, ruling segregation unconstitutional. Mr. Gene Caldwell, Michael and Rose’s father, took advantage of the rulings, and after speaking to the school superintendent, Michael entered the first grade in the all-white school. His two children would be pioneers, paving the way for integrating African-American children into Adair County Public Schools and among the first in Kentucky.
Michael and Rose became painfully aware of prejudice. But these two little ones had an inner drive to succeed. Children mimicking the prejudicial animus of their parents would not stop Michael and Rose from pursuing their love of learning.
Michael learned to stand up to the boys who called him “nigger,” while shoving him down on the playground. “The teachers were quick to break up the scuffles,” he told me, crediting them with alertness.
Rose encountered bullies on the school bus. Racial slurs were a daily occurrence. “One boy would hit me on the back of the head and call me the “N” word,” she said. Others would walk by, touch her ebony skin, pretend to see if the color had rubbed off on their own, and then mockingly snicker at Rose as they displayed their hands and arms.
None of the girls would play with little Rose, so she stayed inside during recess. “My teacher, Ms. Judy, made the difference. She treated me just like the other students, allowing me to participate in all activities.” Mrs. Judy was pivotal. “During recess, she let me stay inside and brush her hair.”
Rose didn’t tell her parents about the bullying because she wanted to go to school and learn. “I loved my teacher and learning and was afraid my parents might take me out of the school.”
When the African-American school closed, these two courageous children made it easier for other African-American students, including their ten younger siblings. Michael and Rose set the example of handling adversity and succeeding despite opposition.
Rose would eventually earn a Bachelor of Science in Nursing from the University of Kentucky, contributing to the lives of others as a school nurse, loving children of all races like Ms. Judy had loved Rose.
Michael earned a degree in Agriculture from the University of Kentucky and worked as a County Extension Agent, helping integrate African-American children into 4-H programs in the state.
Both invested their lives in the church. Michael eventually became an ordained minister and has served as Pastor of Pleasant Union Baptist Church in Campbellsville, Ky., for the past 20 years.
Reverend Caldwell and Mrs. Jones cite their parents’ fortitude in encouraging them to brave the gauntlet of racial prejudice to better their education and possibilities for their future. Their father, Gene Caldwell, age 98, has been honored this year with a Lifetime Achievement Award for Juneteenth, 2024.
I first met these two winsome people while teaching a night class for Campbellsville University. Though they have earned degrees and are retired from successful careers, they remain eager to learn.
Neither Rev. Caldwell nor Mrs. Jones carries burdens of resentment; all I see in them is love. They live the truth of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.’s statement, “Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that.”
During Juneteenth, commemorating the end of slavery in the U.S., I will pause and give thanks for the little-known struggles for racial equity, evidenced in people like Reverend Caldwell and his sister, Mrs. Rose Jones, as well as their father, and yes, Ms. Judy—people whose example of love, courage, and passion for learning should remind us of the tremendous difference unsung heroes have made.
“Look up there,” I whispered to Luna, my four-year-old grandniece. We were exploring the backyard while the adults were visiting inside. “You can show me Roo’s (Luna’s great-grandmother) patio and yard,” I said as I leaned down, grasping her fingers in mine.
So Luna took me on a tour, and I invited her to find treasures. I let her be the guide. We passed up a small, faded rubber ball that had lost its bounce long ago, ignored a chewed-up dog’s toy, and prayed over a dead bird.
Then, I saw it.
“Up there, Luna,” I repeated. “Look again, do you see it?”
A butterfly’s chocolate-colored wings camouflaged it against the house’s brown brick wall. Large circles with different shades of blue decorated the butterfly’s wings, footed with orange and topped with narrow white markings that added a distinguished flair.
Squinting her eyes, Luna studied the rhythm of the butterfly’s wings as it lazily basked in the sunlight.
“See how it blends in with the brick? That’s how it protects itself. You have to look to see it.”
Her open-mouth grin flashed an ah-ha moment.
“What do you want to name it?”
“Polka Dot,” Luna said, attracted by the butterfly’s circular wing decorations.
We certainly weren’t the first to sense the power wrapped in a butterfly’s technicolored beauty. Butterflies have inspired many a soul, from the fortunate ones breathing in the fresh air of freedom to the downtrodden suffocating in despair.
Pavel Friedmann, a Jewish Czechoslovakian poet, was one of those who discovered a butterfly in the most awful of places—a Nazi concentration camp. Friedman was murdered at Auschwitz a couple of years after he wrote a moving poem about a butterfly. “For seven weeks I’ve lived here,” Friedman wrote at Theresienstadt concentration camp on June 4, 1942, before the Nazis transferred him to Auschwitz. “Penned up inside this ghetto…”
The poem “The Butterfly,” describing a butterfly’s magnificent power and beauty against the backdrop of the concentration camp’s horrors, concludes with the haunting lines, “That butterfly was the last one/Butterflies don’t live in here/In the ghetto.”
His poem was found posthumously, Friedmann having died on September 29, 1944, in Auschwitz. Years later, the poem would inspire the Butterfly Project at the Holocaust Museum in Houston, Texas, where an exhibition of 1.5 million paper butterflies created by children represents the number of children murdered in the Holocaust.
The Project’s Executive Director, Keren-Dee Hamui, writes on the project’s webpage: “I do not take lightly the seriousness of this moment as we witness the relentless incidents of antisemitism, Holocaust denial, and hate-fueled bullying against other marginalized groups in our communities. We must take action now.”
Holding Luna’s hand, I don’t feel like I’m taking action. But, maybe—just perhaps—introducing a child to the wonders of a butterfly, as counterintuitive as it seems, could be a powerful antidote against hate, bullying, and even antisemitism.
Jesus not only loved in response to hate, he also showed us the importance of embracing life, the world around us (“See how the flowers of the field grow” Matthew 6:28 ), and children (“Let the little children come to me,” Matthew 19:14).
Thinking of Friedmann, and millions of others like him, including children, whose lives were cut short, I pray that connecting with God’s creation in something as simple and complex as a butterfly can help us remember—even as we observe the hatred of antisemitism still in full bloom— so we can take action, each on our unique way, insuring that the lives of all little children are valued, secure in a place where butterflies can live.
For that moment, I dared not attempt to explain the process of metamorphosis from caterpillar to butterfly or teach her a lesson on the pain that comes with growth—much less warn her of the world’s dangers and evils.
We had found a treasure in Polka Dot, saving our backyard venture from the disappointment of deflated balls, chewed-up dog toys, and dead birds.
And that was enough for this one venturous moment with a bright-eyed four-year-old.
Why is it so difficult to remember the good stuff while we let all the negativity hang around like tiny grease spots on a tie? The more attention we pay them, the bigger they seem to grow.
My wife, Lori, and I write in our thankful journals almost every morning. I was giving her a blank stare the other day when she asked me to share my list.
“Who was that person who said something nice to me the other day?” I asked, because I couldn’t remember.
Squinting her eyes in my direction, she pondered and couldn’t recall who it was, either.
Frustrated with our mutual memory lapse, she grabbed my thankful journal and thumbed through the pages.
“I know you wrote it in your thankful journal,” she said, “because you shared it with me.”
In less than a minute, she had found not one but four entries about people who had thanked me for something I had said or done.
“I’ll bet if someone had said something critical about me, I would have had no trouble remembering that,” I commented after Lori read my positive entries from days ago.
Why is that? Why are we like that?
Nine people can give us the thumbs up on a new outfit, but then one person stares up and down at us and walks away with the comment, “It’s just not my style.”
What do we do? We spend the rest of the day wondering if we should sneak home and change clothes.
We tend to have what psychologists call a negative memory bias.
According to Laura Carstensen, a psychology professor at Stanford University, it has to do with our history of survival. “Many psychologists think that this has evolutionary roots; that is: It’s more important for people, for survival, to notice the lion in the brush than it is to notice the beautiful flower that’s growing on the other side of the way,” Carstensen said, in The Washington Post.
Another researcher attributes it to how our brains are wired: “The brain handles positive and negative information in different hemispheres,” said Professor Clifford Nass, who teaches communication at Stanford University. “Negative emotions generally involve more thinking, and the information is processed more thoroughly than positive ones,” he noted in The New York Times. Thus, we tend to ruminate more about unpleasant events.
Being overly tuned to negative statements will eventually lead us into the land of imaginary criticisms—a dangerous place where we pre-play critical comments and experience rejection when it’s not there.
I like what Anthony Hopkins said about how he avoids that trip into the imaginary land of critical conversation: “My philosophy is: It’s none of my business what people say of me and think of me. I am what I am, and I do what I do. I expect nothing and accept everything. And it makes life so much easier.”
While I admire his philosophy, how do we do as he does?
For me, it comes as I focus on what I am thankful for, which leaves less room for the negative. Negativity expands to fill up space in my mind.
So, I must be intentional about it, or I’ll invariably drift into the dark side. Maybe that’s why the Bible mentions gratitude at least 157 times. Most of us need a reminder. So, I make sure I recite Psalm 95 to myself early in the day. I love verse 2, “Let us come into his presence with thanksgiving.” I want to stay in God’s presence from morning until night with a sense of gratitude.
Releasing the negative doesn’t mean ignoring it. I won’t pretend the lion isn’t real, should there be one in my life, but I don’t want to forget the daffodils and Azaleas either.
Come to think of it, that will be one of my entries in my thankful journal for tonight: those beautiful Azaleas I saw on my afternoon walk today.
Now, that’s something I’ll remember to share with Lori tomorrow morning.
I don’t know who said it first: St. Francis Xavier, St. Ignatius Loyola, or Aristotle. All three are credited with it. When I first read it, I questioned its truth, especially when I learned that among the three, only one had a child. (Hint: It wasn’t one of the saints.)
So, excusing the gendered language, here it is:
“Give me a child when he is seven, and I will show you the man.”
Maybe, contrary to my initial assumption, Francis, Ignatius, and Aristotle were on to something.
Think back to the time when you were 7ish. Weren’t environmental factors instrumental in your personality development? Did you have a stable or turbulent home? A nurturing or abusive parent? Traumatic or comforting life events over which you had no control? Like most people, you’ve probably had a mix of positive and negative forces.
Lori and I came across my second-grade report card. Under “Follows Directions,” my teacher, Mrs. Tally, had written in red ink, “Not always.” Oops. Apparently, I tended to rush through my work, but she included a note of encouragement, “David has slowed down considerably.” As the youngest of four boys, I had to hurry with everything. Or risk getting left behind.
A couple of years later, under the category dubbed “Whispers too much,” Mrs. Coker had marked out “Whispers” and underscored, with red ink, “Talks.” Again, growing up with three older brothers, I learned that whispering was about as effective as saying nothing. My Type A personality was germinating.
“Looks like your elementary teachers were on to you,” Lori chuckled because those are characteristics I have, at least to a degree, today.
Why seven years of age? Some child development studies lead many social scientists to conclude that an individual’s personality emerges by the early elementary grades or even earlier, crystallizing in the early teens. So, Francis, Ignatius, and Aristotle were actually on the mark.
We have a video clip of our two-and-a-half-year-old granddaughter, Stella, singing and doing her best to pronounce the words of the song “Jesus Loves Me.” Of course, someone taught her the words, in this case, her parents. She asks for her “Bible Book” when she sings it because she associates the song with her mother’s Bible. That’s learned behavior.
It’s too early to tell if that desire will be a part of her more developed personality. Will she sing uplifting Bible songs as an optimistic sanguine? Or sad laments as a melancholic? Will it be soothing spirituals to calm down a choleric personality? Or as a phlegmatic, peaceful biblical songs, maybe to slow down her PopPop?
Time will tell.
Personality development is complex. The nature versus nurture debate lives on, and the interplay of genetics and environment is complicated.
Even as adults, who is to say we can’t change or make adjustments? “It’s never too late to be what you might have been.”
We all have our foibles, idiosyncrasies, and quirky personality traits: some of us rush ahead while others drag behind; some are controlling while others are passive; some are excitable while others are languid.
Hopefully—with love, compassion, and patience—we can learn to appreciate each other, from the Peter Rabbits to the Eeyores.
I like that when Jesus said, “Let the little children come,” he didn’t include only the sanguine personalities who giggled with anticipation as they ran and jumped in his lap. Jesus embraces all, the melancholic ones who cautiously lingered back, hiding behind their parents’ robes, and those who talked so loudly that they almost missed the moment.
I’m still working on my personality defects, confident that Mrs. Tally and Mrs. Coker are smiling with approval from heaven, erasing their red-inked warning marks, gratified that they made a positive difference in at least this one.
“Amazing, just amazing,” I observed repeatedly with each photo of the northern lights.
We were waiting for the children to begin their ballet routines. The parents sitting next to us at our granddaughter’s dance recital showed us their pictures of the northern lights on their cell phones. Lori and I oohed and ahhed at the various purple, green, and yellow colors shimmering across the night sky.
Just as the little ballerinas lined up, I whispered to Lori how I wished we had known about the northern lights.
Later that day, Lori showed me several photos people had posted of the previous night’s display.
“How did we not know about it?” I asked.
Then, another friend in our community sent us her pics. “We’re supposed to see them again tonight,” she said, along with her helpful instructions on viewing them with our cell phones.
An internet source confirmed we would have one more opportunity to see the aurora borealis.
So we started watching at 10 pm. We walked outside about every 15 minutes, peering into the heavens, and stayed up just past midnight.
Nothing.
Lori was determined. She awoke at 2 am. I followed her to the front porch and then to the backyard.
Nothing.
We were up again at 3:30, 5, then again at 7.
“So much for a good night’s sleep,” I muttered as I gave up and started brewing coffee.
“What happened?” Lori asked.
“More like, ‘what didn’t happen?'” I answered, sipping my coffee. “We missed it— a day late,” I concluded.
I thought of my dad taking my brother and me fishing at Possum Kingdom Lake in Texas when we were kids. Sometimes, we reeled them in; other times, we sat for hours with no catch. Invariably, someone at the bait shop would tell us as we shared our sad story, “You should have been here yesterday.”
“You should have been here yesterday.” I’m sure it’s on a plaque for sale at a Cracker Barrel somewhere.
Sometimes, we miss opportunities because we don’t know, like Lori and me with the northern lights. We can’t help that. We might wish for what we missed, but this is no reason for remorse.
It’s the opportunities we know we had and didn’t take that disturb us.
It’s the letter we were going to write to that friend who has now passed away; it’s the dinner we bypassed with someone who has moved on; or the ballgame we left because we grew impatient, only to learn later that the child or grandchild hit a home run five minutes later; it’s the person we were determined to visit in the retirement center until it was too late; it’s the longing to end a relationship with “I love you,” now that it’s no longer possible for them to hear the words.
“Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine,” penned poet Mary Oliver.
But the worst regret is not to have lived, truly. The ultimate remorse is to have wasted days and years—a life—gazing backward, consumed with guilt for the missed opportunities, carrying burdens from the past into the present, robbing each day of its life, one by one, unaware that the days are slipping through our fingers until it’s too late and our life is done. It’s our final day.
Dante Gabriel Rossetti’s Sonnet 97, in “The House of Life,” has those haunting words, “Look in my face; my name is Might-have-been/I am also call’d No-more, Too-late, Farewell.”
Before retiring Sunday night, I glanced at my cell phone pictures from the day before and smiled at my granddaughter’s ballet poses: first position, second position, then on her toes, the grand plie—all the while, flitting about the room like a butterfly testing its wings —a repressed grin camouflaging her satisfaction with her beginner’s performance.
And maybe, just perhaps, a part of her smile bloomed from the awareness that someone was there just for her, that in that moment, someone she loved relished this one-time opportunity with her.
I had missed the lights, but something just as magical, at least for me, had happened.
Whispering Psalm 4:8, “I will lie and sleep in peace,” I drifted off, assured that I had lived, really lived, that day.
The little things often derail us, preventing us from reaching our desired destination.
In his book, A Walk Across America, Peter Jenkins tells the story of his pedestrian journey across the continent. After he had completed it, someone asked if any of the obstacles prompted him to consider quitting. Was it the wind in his face, the heat that sapped his strength, or the automobile drivers that buzzed too close?
According to Jenkins, it was none of those things. “The only thing that almost made me give up, was the sand in my shoes.”
The sand in his shoes.
It’s the little things that prove most annoying.
The other day, I reached for one of my favorite coffee mugs. Lori and I have entirely too many favorite mugs, but each has a story, so we try to make more space for them.
This one slipped out of my hand, crashing on the cabinet as I stretched for it on my tippy toes. Lori had given it to me after one of her Oklahoma trips. I immediately reached for the broken mug as if my quick retrieval would restore it. But when I picked it up, the jagged edge cut the tips of two fingers.
Tiny cuts, requiring two small band-aids, mainly to keep the bleeding from staining everything I touched. I was far from needing any assistance.
But those little cuts annoyed me for two or three days. Every time I typed, turned the page of a book, or opened a jar of peanut butter, they reminded me of my little mishap.
Little things arrive on a larger scale, too. They can derail a day, a week, or even a year. Minor annoyances can even destroy a job, a marriage, or a family.
Just talk to the unrecovered alcoholic or addict, still “out there in the madness,” whose one little slip led to another relapse until one drink was too many and a hundred not enough.
Listen to the remorse of the serial adulterer whose one innocent online chat led to a clandestine meeting, and another, and another, and another.
Or observe the gambler drowning under the debt brought by the illusive charm of opportunity just beyond one more bet.
That’s not you?
What about the driver who cuts you off on the way to work, setting you in a “mood” for the entire day? The visual of that errant driver follows you to work and sits next to you in your office. And maybe it’s happened on more days than you care to recount.
Or what about those early morning interruptions that throw your day into a tailspin, causing anxiety that builds and builds until, like a radiator overheating, it boils over in another emotional outburst, poisoning your relationships at work or with those you love the most at home?
Solomon, known for his wisdom and his many loves, has a line in the Song of Solomon that captures the danger: “Catch all the foxes/ those little foxes/before they ruin the vineyard of love/for the grapevines are blossoming!”
The “little foxes” could refer to the seemingly innocent things that can grow into obstacles, minuscule issues barely worth addressing, preventing the consummation of romance.
How many relationships have been stalled by arguments over what to watch on TV, where to eat, or how to arrange the furniture?
Eventually, the partners rehearse their ennui ad nauseum in stale drama, the repetitive conversations saturated with boring details that neither partner cares to listen to anymore, the romance having flattened into an endless desert, burned dry of any sense and sensibility.
My little cuts healed, and so did my broken coffee mug—thanks to Lori’s skill at repairing it with glue.
And so can the days—sometimes derailed but potentially back on track, like the love for life, once clamped cold by the little foxes but reignited by hope, hope in the Hope-Giver, the One who can bring peace transcending our understanding, the One who guards our hearts and minds in Christ Jesus, the Healer who births life from death.
So, I’m reaching for a coffee mug on the top shelf, that special cup just beyond my reach. I’ll be careful to clutch it tightly, avoiding any sand in my shoes that could trip me, preventing me from tasting the memory it holds.
It was in hiding in the back of a drawer. How did it get there?
Admittedly, my Mom wrote me so many encouraging notes through the years I probably wasn’t thinking when I thoughtlessly placed it in the corner of my desk drawer rather than safeguarding it in a safer place, properly secured as a relic of the past, a treasured moment she mailed me.
Mom’s been gone since March 17, 2019. Dad preceded her with his departure three years before. They had been married 73 years when Dad died. Mom was never the same.
I would visit her whenever possible, but Lubbock, TX, isn’t a quick and easy trip from my home in Kentucky. Now, I wish I had traveled there more. Now, I long for just one more moment.
Most every day, I would call Mom. I used to say, “I’ve enjoyed eating lunch with you, Mom,” for I made a point of calling during that time. Even though we had visited the day before, she would answer the phone like she hadn’t heard from me in years. “David!” she would declare with a lift in her voice. “You called!” She could have talked the rest of the day.
Then, she gradually weakened until long pauses extended to stretches of silence when I would have to repeatedly call her name, rousing her back when she drifted away from our conversation. Towards the end, I felt her weakness as I strained to hear her soft, halting speech.
But the words she wrote in that note, retrieved from the darkness of my desk drawer, were full of light and life.
In the faded ink, I deciphered a date: 2-5-08. (Mom dated everything.)
At 53, I was beyond being a full-grown man. Mom was a week shy of her 87th birthday.
But it could have just as well been one of those notes she mailed to me as a freshman in college in Texas, or later, as a young man in New Jersey, Alabama, Louisiana, or Kentucky.
“Please read every line several times,” she pleaded in the note. “These are my words to you, Love you, Mom.”
Her note was attached to a bookmark with a poem addressed to “Son.” The unnamed author wrote of the special memories with her child, like his scribblings at three years old, pictures of him with two missing teeth, the ball he would leave in the corner of his room, and the muddy shoes she would clean for him each day.
It concludes with the mother’s comfort that her sacrifices of love could not compare with the joy of being his mother: “But your hugs at night made my days worthwhile. Muddy shoes were forgotten with one little smile. At night I’d watch you sleeping in your room and I’d thank God for one more day with you.”
This Mother’s Day, before I lay myself down to sleep and pray the Lord my soul to keep, I (now closing in on the end of my sixth decade) will glance at some of those childhood pictures: one when I was missing a couple of teeth, another of me playing ball. And I’ll look at some of my earliest childhood efforts at writing, though I doubt I will find a worn photograph of my muddy shoes.
And having pondered those childhood moments, I will imagine Mom smiling beside me.
And maybe, remembering how Mom would peek in on her youngest boy at night, I’ll whisper just before drifting off to sleep:
“Yes, Mom, I did what you asked: I read each line several times, knowing they are your words to me,
This Mother’s Day.”
“It’s a lamp unto your feet and a light for your path,” Lori said as I stepped out the back door into the early morning’s darkness.
I carry a flashlight with me when I walk before sunrise. It’s no ordinary, puny flashlight. It’s more like a robust baton, heavy-duty enough to use as a defensive weapon. Lori got it for me because she worries about my pre-dawn walks.
At first, I resisted the idea of carrying a flashlight. Then she asked, “What if something attacks you?” She followed the question with a warning, “You know how we’ve heard coyotes howling in the field behind the house.”
I’m not concerned about a hungry coyote or rabid skunk attacking me on our street, and I’m on friendly terms with the occasional barking dog.
As I venture closer to the highway, cars become the more dangerous beasts. Hurried drivers, perhaps on cell phones or unaware of my presence, pose more of a threat in the morning darkness than roaming coyotes or stranger-danger-sensitive dogs.
The fog wrapped its wet arms around me, obscuring my vision, magnifying the night’s stillness, and seeming to amplify every minuscule sound as I crunched along our road. But I had my protective flashlight at my side, and Lori’s allusion to Psalm 119:105 (“the lamp to my feet, the light of my path”) echoed in my ears.
I thought of Dr. Giles Fort, the legendary physician to Zimbabwe, Africa. When my father, a dentist, served there (It was still Rhodesia then), I was a budding youth, a 7th grader, in awe of Dr. Fort—the man who had started the Baptist mission there long before we arrived. Dr. Fort still made his rounds at Sanyati Baptist Hospital in Dr. Albert Schweitzer-like fashion, complete with a pith helmet and khaki pants.
“Come along, David,” I can hear him say. “I’m making evening rounds. You can walk with me.”
And I would tag along, hanging on his every word as he spoke tenderly to his patients, many of whom had journeyed on foot for days in the African bush to get to Sanyati.
Although it was a short distance home, I was skittish as we walked along the trail, with tall grass on each side. I could hear the critters scurrying in the grass on either side of us, motivating me to pick up the pace and stay closer to Dr. Fort, thankful for him and the big flashlight he carried by his side.
“Don’t worry, David,” he would reassure me. “They won’t hurt us. They’re just common African bush snakes.”
I edged even closer to his side and his flashlight.
God’s Word is the true lamp unto my feet and light for my path, shining the way and making clear the journey of faithfulness to God in a world enveloped in darkness—summer, fall, winter, and spring.
But whether in Zimbabwe, Africa, or Central Kentucky, a good ol’ high-powered flashlight in the early morning or late night darkness sure is comforting.
Lori grinned as she read the text message. “What does it say?” I asked.
She had just read another birthday text message, this one from her nephew, Jackson.
“Happy Medicare Day!”
I couldn’t suppress my laugh.
Lori had been celebrating her 65th birthday. Facebook friends and others had messaged her, wishing her well.
The 65th birthday is still a milestone, like turning 21, although it’s not like it used to be when it was the age marker for retirement.
It does come with benefits; the top five government benefits for seniors over 65 are Social Security benefits, Medicare medical coverage, food assistance, employment, and housing allowance, according to medagap.com
I wasn’t aware or had overlooked some of those benefits, even though my 65th celebration was three years ago.
“Do you mind letting people know you’ve turned 65?” I asked Lori.
I thought of how I used to ask that question years ago as a door-to-door salesman working summers while in college.
“I know I’m not supposed to ask a lady her age, but…” My supervisor had trained me to pose the question like that to avoid offending. Things have changed, and many women are not as sensitive about their age as in years past. Lori is one of them.
Without hesitating, Lori declared, “Absolutely not. I’m glad to be alive at 65.”
A year and a half ago, Lori found she had breast cancer. Even though the diagnosis was early-stage breast cancer, it shook us. And the treatments were no fun. But Lori saw good even in that: the nurses and doctors are kind and compassionate, some becoming lasting friends.
Lori’s smile was contagious; I mirrored her smile with mine.
Earlier that morning, I had decorated the kitchen with posters wishing her a happy birthday. I was hesitant to write, “Coming alive at 65!”
“Should I mention 65?” I thought as I wrote it. I shouldn’t have hesitated.
I admire my wife’s attitude: her gratitude gives rise to gracefulness.
The Old Testament has the beautiful story of Ruth, who followed her mother-in-law, Naomi, back to Bethlehem, where Naomi, because of her tragic circumstances, considered herself forsaken, even refusing to let others call her Naomi. Instead, she insisted they call her “Mara” because, she said, “The Almighty has dealt very bitterly with me.” But by the end of the story, Naomi recognized God’s provision for her and Ruth. The story ends with the women of Bethlehem blessing Naomi, exalting the one (Boaz) who had “redeemed” her and Ruth. “May he sustain (you) in old age?”
I don’t think of Lori or myself as “old,” although our grandkids, and probably my college students, do. The Lord has sustained us as we’ve aged.
Turning 65 can come with benefits the government can’t provide: as long as we remain as grateful as Lori was on her 65th, we will age gracefully. And I might add, to God will be the glory.
Yes, we can come alive at 65.
Or 25, 55, 85, or 105.
When we rest in the hands of a great and mighty God, we have come alive.
Now, that’s a benefit worth claiming.
“Could you tell me where the sizes 7’s are?” Lori asked a young man standing at the store’s counter.
We were in the mall, where a well-known shoe store offered her many options.
“I’m sorry, I’m ‘off the clock,'” he responded.
He wasn’t being sarcastic or angry; he just matter-of-factly commented, “I’m off the clock.”
“Off the clock? What do you mean!” But I didn’t say it.
He was standing, arms crossed, doing nothing. It would have taken about the same effort for him to say, “Over there, aisle 8′” as it did for him to say, “Off the clock.”
I get it, at least in part. He was afraid that one question might lead to another, and we would have him dragging all the size 7s to us while he was on break.
In which case, he could have said, “Let me get someone to help you.”
“Maybe all the talk about the younger generation lacking a strong work ethic is true,” I whispered to Lori as we searched for her size.
I don’t see it in all young people, and certainly not our kids. And, in all fairness, it’s not only the younger generation whose work ethic has been the subject of question over the last few years. For example, Jean M. Twenge, Ph.D., Professor of Psychology at San Diego State University, published findings on this topic in an article whose subtitle reveals her conclusion: “Gen Z really does have a work ethic problem, or maybe we all do.”
Was it post-pandemic burnout: the result of lockdowns, virtual school, or strife over whether to mask? Or maybe the extra time alone allowed people to ask, “Is the ‘rat race’ worth it?”
We’ve heard or read about the effects in headlines like “The Great Resignation,” in which workers resigned from their jobs en masse, triggered by the pandemic.
Then there’s “Quiet Quitting,” a term for those workers who stay on but do the least amount of labor possible without getting fired.
The latest trend is “Bare Minimum Monday,” where employees do the least possible on Mondays, which I suppose could be in tandem with “Quiet Quitting.”
Why did our commitment to work take such a hit? Twenge concludes it is “a bit of a mystery why the work ethic dropped so much in 2021 and 2022.”
Maybe the type of Protestantism (Calvinism) that Max Weber (who coined the phrase “work ethic”) in his classic book, The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism, has diminished to the degree that a “work ethic,” at least one undergirded by a desire to seek God’s approval, isn’t nearly as pervasive in our culture as in years past.
Or do we as a nation no longer have an intrinsic cultural identity that values work?
Or perhaps we’ve lost the notion that work has a purpose beyond labor.
I can’t imagine the Apostle Paul putting down his needle as he wove fabric into tents and telling someone who asked about the gospel, “I’m off the clock now. Come back next week, and I’ll tell you the Good News if you make a contribution.”
Granted, the location of shoes isn’t the same as proclaiming the gospel, but perhaps we’re missing the larger picture: how we live and work is a declaration of our life values.
As Paul said to the Corinthians: “Whether you eat or drink or whatever you do, do everything for the glory of God” (First Corinthians 10:31).
Paul had a purpose based on his calling, and his desire to do his best flowed from that. If we have no purpose in our work, if we believe what we are doing is pointless—other than “staying on the clock” and getting a paycheck—then obstacles can become mountains, reasons enough for not working.
Walking from the mall to the parking lot (no, Lori didn’t find a pair of shoes), I had a renewed sense of gratitude for God’s grace as manifested in those who, through the centuries, carried the message and did not walk away, so that when I asked what it was and how I could have it, I found someone who could give me an answer.
Someone who wasn’t “off the clock.”
It’s how the Looney Tunes Cartoon hour would conclude on Saturday mornings. Porky Pig would poke his head through a curtain fashioned into the image of a drum and stammer, “Th-th-th-th-that’s all folks.”
It signaled to my 7- or 8-year-old mind that the fun part of Saturday morning was over. It was now an ordinary Saturday.
For many who celebrated Easter as the apex of the religious year, life continues as usual. The Roman Catholic Church even has two periods of its liturgical calendar designated as “Ordinary Time,” one after Christmas Time and the other after Easter Time. We tend to think of “ordinary” as routine, regular, or even dull.
A Sunday School teacher had just finished telling her third-graders about how Jesus was crucified and placed in a tomb with a massive stone sealing the opening. Then, wanting to share the excitement of the resurrection, she asked, “And what do you think were Jesus’ first words when He came bursting out of that tomb alive?”
A little girl’s hand shot up from the back of the classroom. She was leaping out of her chair, stretching her arm, anxious to answer.
When the teacher called on her, she said, “Ta-da!”
What’s left after the grand “Ta Da”?
“Th-th-th-th-that’s all folks.”
Ordinary Time.
But maybe ordinary is not as ordinary as we think.
Sure, I admit: Easter Sunday has passed, a day filled with the joy of Christ’s resurrection, celebrating the reality that all things are new, a day of singing, clapping, and praising God.
And yes, the ordinary can be routine: a tedious Monday staff meeting, waiting in the school pickup line, or preparing a meal from Easter Sunday’s leftovers.
I can appreciate the little girl’s prayer: “Dear God,” she started, “Daddy still hasn’t gotten a raise, sister still doesn’t have a date for the prom, and Momma still makes me eat turnip greens. I’m tired of praying and not getting any results.”
Yet, after Easter, we have the opportunity for Christ’s resurrection power to penetrate the depths of our being. This is the season when growth can occur, when spiritual roots have time to work deeper into the soul’s soil.
It’s not usually the singular moments of euphoria that spur us to growth. Rather, those moments are the result of months or even years of faithfully attending to the mundane disciplines during ordinary times. Strength percolates slowly over time as we do what has to be done in the shadows, away from the limelight. Slowly, in the process, spiritual fruit appears.
Charles Haddon Spurgeon, the British preacher of the 19th century who struggled with persistent bouts of depression, admitted: “It is good for me to have been afflicted, that I might know how to speak a word in season to one that is weary.”
Practicing ordinary spiritual disciplines during seemingly mundane times, even when they are accompanied by affliction, may allow us to minister in extraordinary ways, transforming the ordinary into the extraordinary.
We can take courage knowing that, like extraordinary times, ordinary times don’t last. Seasons change. Ordinary time anticipates the extraordinary, eliciting a longing for The Day, or as the Bill Gaither Trio used to sing it, that great “Gittin up Morning,” when “you see the lightnin’ flashin’,/When you hear the thunder crashin’,/When you see the stars a-fallin’,/When you hear the chariot’s callin.'”
It’s the day Christ returns, the day when all our pain, turmoil, boredom, and misery fold into Christ’s permanent presence.
No, the resurrection of Christ isn’t a depressingly sad announcement,
“Th-th-th-th-that’s all folks.”
Instead, it’s a grand proclamation:
“The best part is yet to come.”
Our son, David Jr., was always a happy child. When he was but three or four, I nicknamed him my “Happy Tiger,” so playful and joyful was he.
So I shouldn’t have been surprised when early one Easter morning, before dawn, David, then 7 or 8 years old, awoke me with a shout.
I was quietly meditating in the other room. The house was still, and I was sitting alone, preparing for Easter Sunday.
And so David startled me. Was he crying for help? A bad dream? Sick?
Standing up and rushing to his room, I recognized the words. David was singing the chorus of the Don Francisco song, “He’s Alive.”
David was in his room, belting the words: “He’s alive, yes, He’s alive! He’s alive, and I’m forgiven!”
I felt like laughing and crying: my son knew Easter Sunday was something to shout about.
Woven throughout the Scriptures are songs. From the Song of Moses, in Exodus 15, when the Israelites burst into praise after God delivered them from Egypt to the angels singing in the Book of Revelation, “Worthy is the Lamb,” the Bible is replete with examples of believers singing songs of praise and thanksgiving. So, if ever we should praise God in song, it should be Easter Sunday, the day Christians celebrate the resurrection of Jesus Christ.
But the Scriptures also record for us the faithful singing not just in times of joy but also in times of pain. The writer of Psalm 104 vowed to sing praise to God “all my life.” I would assume “all my life” included more than the bright and sun-shiny days. And we find Paul and Silas singing in prison chains after Roman authorities had severely flogged them (Acts 16:25).
It’s a good reminder for the faithful to be faithful—not only on this Sunday, perhaps the most “feel-good Sunday” of the ecclesiastical year, but also on other days.
This Sunday reminds us why.
Easter Sunday is the declaration from the heavens that hope reigns. As the Bible scholar, N.T. Wright said, “Easter was when Hope in person surprised the whole world by coming forward from the future into the present.”
The depth of that truth is something worth singing about— if not vocally, at least from within.
W.E. Sangster was an influential Methodist minister who pastored the prestigious Westminster Central Hall in London, England, from 1939 to 1955. During World War II, Sangster used the church’s basement as an air raid shelter during Germany’s assault on London. During that traumatic episode in London’s history, Sangster ministered to people’s spiritual, emotional, and physical needs.
Sangster distinguished himself as a fearless leader, spiritual innovator, and powerful communicator. I still refer to his classic work, The Craft of the Sermon, when I teach on the ministry of proclamation.
Sangster’s popularity soared in the 1940s and 50s, and he spoke frequently in the United States. While lecturing in Texas, he noticed difficulty swallowing and walking. In 1958, he was diagnosed with an incurable disease that caused muscular atrophy. I’ve wondered if it was ALS.
Later, he wrote: “There have been great gains already from my sickness. I live in the present. I am grateful for little things. I have more time – and use it – for prayer.”
Over the next 2 ½ years, he slowly lost control of his muscles and finally could no longer use his voice, communicating with two fingers. Yet, with only that limited capacity, he was able to write.
On Easter morning, just a few weeks before his death, he managed to write to his daughter, Margaret Phippen: “How terrible to wake up on Easter and have no voice to shout, ‘He is risen!’ Far worse, to have a voice and not want to shout.”
This Easter Sunday, whether you shout, “He’s alive,” or “He is risen,” I hope you have it in your heart to try—even if your voice won’t let you. I hope you know there is One who hears your heart’s cries and joys.
As David Jr. sang that Sunday years ago, “He’s alive! He’s alive! And I’m forgiven!”
Now, that’s something to shout about.
No matter what.
A little boy was sick on Palm Sunday and stayed home from church with his mother. His Father returned from church holding a palm branch. The little boy was curious and asked, “Why do you have that palm branch, Dad?”
“You see, when Jesus came into town, everyone waved palm branches to honor him, so we got palm branches today,” his dad answered.
The little boy replied, “Aw Shucks, the one Sunday I miss is the Sunday that Jesus shows up.”
Jesus can be elusive. Just when we think we’ve got him figured out, he throws us off balance with one of his head-scratchers: “The last shall be first, and the first last” (Matthew 20:16).
“Those who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted” (Luke 14:11).
“Whoever wants to save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for me will find it” (Matthew 16:25).
And likewise, when we imagine that we can anticipate his schedule and be at his next stop, giving him a courtesy wave as he passes by, we miss him.
Peter and the disciples discovered this early on in their journey with Jesus. Early one morning, after they had finally found him—”Everyone is looking for you” (Mark 1:37)—Jesus only told them to step it up and follow him to the neighboring villages.
“What’s your plan, Jesus? Where are you going to be? I’m busy, so please don’t waste my time.”
Jesus refuses to be controlled by us.
We shouldn’t be surprised. Hundreds of years before Jesus, when his ancestors were wandering in the wilderness, the Israelite sanctuary contained no statue of a deity. God would descend, often in the form of a cloud that would fill the tabernacle, particularly as it was assembled in a new encampment. Then, whenever the Israelites saw the cloud of God’s presence move again, they would gather the portable tabernacle and follow the cloud, hiking the wilderness road again.
So, if Peter and the rest of the novice disciples expected Jesus to say, “Ah, you’ve got me now; guess I’ll have to stay here and take my directions from you,” they were in for a shock. Instead of settling, Jesus said, “Let’s go.”
What was in that tabernacle the Israelites carried as they wandered in the wilderness? Among other items was a God-signed copy of the covenant, detailing the terms of their relationship. So, at the center of the tabernacle was a covenant, representing a relationship, not an idol.
We shouldn’t be surprised that God didn’t give them an image to ogle, an idol they could leave and return to as they pleased. Instead, he offered them a loving relationship. But they had to be present and attempt obedience to participate.
This Holy Week, instead of placing an order for one deity on Amazon, hoping it arrives by March 31, try something more satisfying and challenging.
Try sitting quietly, letting the peace of God settle slowly. Breathe in and out, paying attention to each inhale and exhale. Like a fog that silently surrounds you until, without you even noticing, it has enfolded you, let that imaginary cloud shut out the world, allowing God to descend into your troubled soul. Retreat from the world’s frantic effort to grab and go and instead let the ever-present One stop and stay.
But don’t get too settled there, complacent and bored, for if our ears are attentive to the Spirit, we will likely hear that voice beckoning us on, like when Jesus said to his disciples, “Let’s move on; this is why I have come.”
And off Jesus went.
And we must follow.
One thing is sure: we will find him when we seek him wholeheartedly.
Jesus promised: “Ask, and it will be given to you; seek, and you will find; knock, and it will be opened to you.”
When that happens—sometimes in ways we may not yet know or recognize until later—somewhere along life’s rocky wilderness road,
Jesus shows up.
I hear it from fellow travelers in the airport or on the plane: “Flying isn’t fun anymore.” About the time I’m ready to dismiss the comment as mindless repetition, something happens to confirm the grumbles.
Like the other day, when we were flying back from Oklahoma. Our airline had routed us through Houston, where we ran into trouble. Our plane had a flat tire, so we waited, grateful we weren’t trying to make another connecting flight. Finally, having boarded, placed our carry-on bags in their proper place, fastened our seat belts, and arranged our reading material, we noticed how hot it seemed. So did several other passengers who tried adjusting the air vents. It only got warmer as people grew more agitated.
I could feel it if I didn’t hear it: “Flying isn’t fun anymore.”
The pilot informed us that there was a mechanical problem, part of which involved the air system. We would have to deplane. (“At least it had good tires,” I thought). It was the last flight to Louisville (our destination) from this airport. I could hear the concerns: “How long will this take? Would they cancel the flight? If they do, will we have to stay at the airport, or will they give us a voucher for a hotel?”
The tension began to build in my solar plexus and rise to my throat where I wanted to shout, “Flying is NOT fun anymore.”
Then I made my way to get coffee while we waited, the flight attendant having assured me I had plenty of time.
That’s when I heard it: the music, that is.
Turning around, I was instantly drawn in and refreshed by an oasis of music.
The Houston airports (we were at Hobby) have designed and created something to soothe the weary, frustrated, or simply waiting passengers. It’s called “Harmony in the Air,” part of a performing arts program that showcases live music from some of the finest professional musicians in the Houston area. I had stumbled upon a free concert performed by some of the best in the Houston area.
I’m not an expert in classical music, but I know what I like. And this was a treat. I enjoyed a rendition of a contemporary song (maybe from Green Day). Then, a selection from Vivaldi’s “The Four Seasons” rejuvenated me even more. Had I traveled on a different day, I might have heard jazz, bossa nova, or a Western country quartet. I was pleased my flight had landed on the day the classical string quartet performed.
The airport had arranged seats for people who had the time to stop and listen. I stood back and took it in, noticing the relaxed smiles and light applause from the small gathering around the performers.
For a moment, I let the musicians and their selections bathe me in a musical whirlpool, soothing my travel-weary soul, releasing the tension, and lifting me emotionally.
And then, I got a text from Lori: our departure gate had changed. She was already on the way, lugging my carry-on herself. I quickly left the musical performance and hot-footed it toward her, glancing back at the string quartet as I shuffled along, wishing I could stay longer.
The strain of airport travel returned.
But thanks to Hobby Airport’s “Harmony in the Air,” I felt calm as we pressed forward.
And with Vivaldi lingering in my ear, my step was a bit lighter, my tension lower, my vision clearer, my attitude brighter, and believe it or not—if only for a fleeting moment—flying seemed more fun than it used to be.
Daylight Savings Time (DST): I dread it every year, grumbling through the week before the clocks spring forward. Not only does DST increase health risks, disrupting sleep patterns for 300 million people, but scientific research has questioned the very rationale for which it was enacted: conserving energy.
So, I am justified in my complaining (I tell myself), which grows stronger the closer DST gets.
Then I came across a quote from Billy Graham, reminding me of a truth I know but easily ignore. “Never forget,” he said, ” that God isn’t bound by time the way we are.”
By lamenting the time change, I was programming myself to feel tired and irritable—negative emotions I was stockpiling until launch day, March 10, when I would release them, proving that I was right in my complaints about the time change’s adverse effects.
But God, Billy Graham reminds us, doesn’t work any differently because it’s DST. The time change doesn’t rouse God an hour earlier. He is up early anyway. God doesn’t wring his hands in despair, peering from heaven, wondering how he will get things back on the divine plan, what with the hour’s leaping forward.
We know this, of course, if we stop long enough to think about it. God is not subject to the time zones that circle the planet. He is above and beyond them. He can be active at a prayer meeting in Bangalore, India, and comfort a grieving mother in Montana while guiding a wayward believer in Australia.
God is what theologians call “transcendent.” He is above and beyond all he created. David could declare, “The heavens proclaim the glory of God” (Psalm 19:1). The heavens God created are not contingent on our time zones or changes.
Yet God is with us in the nitty gritty moments of each day. In another place, David took comfort that in our pain, God is “close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit (Psalm 34:18).
And thousands of years after King David’s words, Simon Peter wrote, “With the Lord, a day is like a thousand years, and a thousand years are like a day” (2 Peter 3:8).
In another place, Moses prayed, “Teach us to number our days, that we may get a heart of wisdom” (Psalm 90:12).
Looking at the calendar, I focused on that day: March 10. Beneath the date were the bold letters: “DAYLIGHT SAVINGS TIME BEGINS.”
I smiled.
This time, I’m getting ahead of DST.
I’m going to set my mind before I set my clocks.
I’m going to remind myself, before closing my eyes on Saturday, March 9, that the same God who watches over me while I sleep will awaken the dawn on his schedule, even when all my digitized timepieces automatically leap forward one hour.
And when I awaken, God willing, after thanking the Lord that he has restored my soul, I will spring forward, turn to my ever-patient wife, and proclaim, “This is the day the Lord has made, let us rejoice and be glad in it” (Psalm 118:24).
And I will step into the day rejoicing in a God whose loving-kindness isn’t affected by time regulations to fall back or spring forward.
Then, I will go about my happy DST day with a smile of contentment and a heart full of gratitude for each moment of that God-given day.
“It is written that the Christ would suffer and rise again from the dead the third day…”
—Luke 24:46
It’s been years since I stood by my friend in the hospital. The grueling days of graduate school had forged our friendship. I wanted to be there with him when his wife was in labor, a few hours (they hoped) from giving birth to their third child.
A nurse noted, mistakenly perhaps, the record of my friend’s first child, who had died several years before, only hours after her birth. The mention of her name while his wife was in labor jarred him. His eyes welled up with tears; his lips quivered.
“It’ll be okay,” I said, putting my arm around him, not knowing what words would console and calm him.
“How can you know it’ll be okay? It could happen again, ” he said, his crackling voice expressing frustration with what I’d said.
And I didn’t know it would be okay. How could I? Why did I say that?
I lowered my head, thinking I had hurt rather than helped. Seeing my friend’s pain, I felt small in comparison to the enormity of his emotions: grief from the past and fear for the future. It was another life lesson for me: “When you don’t know what to say, it’s usually best to say nothing.”
And yet, while “it’ll be okay” are usually not the best words to use when someone is facing a potentially traumatic situation, I have learned, down the years, that there is truth in that seemingly naïve statement.
It will be okay in the grand scheme of life and eternity. I’ve looked in the mirror of life more than once and, seeing fear in my face, found courage in repeating those words, “It will be okay.”
Yes, it will be okay.
When a car accident takes a brother’s life, it will be okay.
When a spouse and a brother die of cancer, it will be okay.
When parents pass away, it will be okay.
When a child dies from an accidental drug overdose, it’ll be okay.
When the one you love dearest faces cancer, it’ll be okay.
When sickness attacks those you love, it’ll be okay.
It will be okay when we face trials and tribulations, the outcome of which we can’t, from our myopic perspective, begin yet to fathom.
It’s a statement of faith. And faith is not forged in the easy times, when all is well, when we are gliding across calm waters with the sun warming our backs.
It’s amid the storm with its wind, thunder, and lightning that those words— “it will be okay” — find their subject.
And if we grasp onto the ship’s captain and hold tight to Him, it’s possible to remain faithful and even find calm in the turbulence and peace in the turmoil.
Faith empowered Alexei Navalny ( who converted from atheism to Christianity) to say, “Everything will be all right. And even if it isn’t, we’ll have the consolation of having lived honest lives.”
Of course, it does not seem okay when it’s not okay. That’s why it’s a statement of faith.
It wasn’t okay with the disciples of Jesus at noon on Friday. Had someone whispered, “Everything will be all right,” on Friday afternoon or Saturday night, they would have looked like the wounded animal that got kicked when already hurt.
But then.
There was the third day.
Someone has said, “In the end, it’ll be okay, and if it’s not okay, it’s not the end.”
I had much to learn about what to say or not to say when ministering to people facing fears. In such moments, though some words are valid, they may not be comforting—not the words we should speak in those instances.
But by God’s grace, the truth of those words has sustained me.
As for my friend’s newborn?
It was okay; today, she is a healthy mother of three.
Thank God for the times when joy comes in the morning.
Thank God it is written: “that the Christ would suffer and rise again from the dead…
the third day.”
Being left behind can be traumatic: left behind as the bus drives away, left behind when the plane takes off, left behind as the ship departs.
It can happen in less significant instances, too, like when I was a child and my mom and older brother, Dougie, were leaving to run an errand.
“Do you want to go, Davey?” Mom asked me, allowing me to go or stay home with Dad and my older brothers. I decided to stay, but then, too late, I changed my mind. Mom and Dougie were backing out of the driveway and couldn’t see me running after them, waving for them to return and get me.
Left behind.
Lent began last week with Ash Wednesday. Now that the season of Lent has taken off and the 40-day countdown to Easter has already started, isn’t it too late to climb aboard?
Lent started cross-ways anyway, beginning on the same date as Valentine’s Day, knocking some people off balance. The date on the calendar that called for repentance also invited romance.
If Ash Wednesday is only about attending a church service and receiving ashes, it doesn’t matter, really. And if Lent is only about giving up something you enjoy between dates on a calendar, then those who didn’t observe Ash Wednesday are hopelessly left behind, for it will never be 40 days till Easter, at least not this year.
But it’s not too late, and the spirit of Lent, of contrition, repentance, and transformation, does matter. Lent is more than acts of self-denial beginning on a particular Wednesday, just as romancing your love is more than ogling that special one over a candle-lit dinner on Valentine’s Day.
Lent is about opening ourselves to God and perhaps giving up some things that have kept us from intimacy with him.
We can set aside seasons when we dedicate ourselves to giving up certain habits or pleasures to focus more intently on our first love, who, for the Christian, is supposed to be Jesus Christ.
Expressing that love within a community of like-minded believers is wonderful, but it doesn’t necessarily have to be so. Jesus himself told his followers, “Whenever you pray, go into your room and shut the door and pray to your Father who is in the secret place, and your Father who sees in secret will reward you” (Matthew 6:6). He spoke those words because a group of religious hypocrites were making a public show of their fasting and praying.
What matters is intentionally pausing our lives to reflect on and reevaluate what’s keeping us from a closer walk with God. Then, we can open our hearts to Him. That can happen after Ash Wednesday.
I like something Paulo Coelho, the Brazilian novelist, said. “One day or day one. You decide.”
We can wait for “one day” to come when it’s the perfect time to return to God, the day when it’s convenient for us to give up what’s keeping us from God, the day when the universe seems to be smiling on us, the sun is shining, we’re in perfect health and debt free, the day when the kids and grandkids are all safe, happy and healthy, and gainfully employed.
That “one day” will never come.
We can, however, begin “day one.”
But Coelho is right: we must decide. “Day one” can be today, as imperfect as this day is. It’s the day we decide it’s time. It is the day we do what we know we should do but may be afraid to do it. It may be the time to allow God to wrap his fingers around our tiny, frail ones ever so gently, and we, having warmed to his touch, grasp his hand, letting him take us on the adventure of a lifetime.
You can call it Ash Wednesday if you want.
I prefer to call it “Day One.”
It’s the day you decide not to be left behind.
Anyone watching me walk might have wondered what I found so funny at such an early hour. We were in Oklahoma, and I awoke predawn, taking to the streets while all were asleep in the house. That was when my daughter-in-law, Kayla, sent me a Facetime call. Our granddaughter, Stella, was up early too, as children are prone to do, despite their parents’ wishes. Stella was in rare form, full of a one-year-old’s energy, climbing on furniture, trying to ride the toy car Lori and I had just gotten her, but most of all, throwing me BIG grins. What PopPop wouldn’t laugh out loud with joy?
Our FactTime call lasted only a few minutes, giving me a little extra bounce in my step because this particular call was specifically for me. I texted shortly afterward: “Thanks for the FaceTime call, (it) made me feel special!”
“You are special!!!” Kayla texted back.
Later, I reread my text. “You made me feel special,” I had written, and Kayla’s response: “You are special.”
The fact is, I am uniquely me, whether I feel it or not. Kayla was right. People can express their kindness and love to us in caring ways, making us feel special, which is good. We should intentionally demonstrate the worth of others, but the truth is, our significance remains, regardless of what others may or may do for or think of us.
Could you do me a favor right now? Find a mirror, look at yourself, and repeat this aloud: “I AM SPECIAL.” You are allowed to read further only once you do that. (Okay, just kidding, but really, do it, not for me but yourself.) Even if you’re hair’s a mess, or you have no hair left, or your face is wrinkly from sleeping on your pillow, say it anyway with meaning: “I AM SPECIAL.”
I can confidently say you are special, even though I may never know you. How can I be so sure? Because I believe what I learned as a child: “Jesus loves me, this I know, for the Bible tells me so.”
For instance, in Psalm 139, the poet declares to God, “I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made,” and then continues, “How precious are your thoughts about me, O God. They cannot be numbered!”
Feeling lost and unworthy? The Bible reminds us that Jesus came for the lost sheep (John 10:16) and that he holds his followers so firmly in the palm of his hand that nothing and nobody can extract them from his grip (John 10:29). That’s how important we are to him. And Peter declared to God’s people, “You are a special people” (I Peter 2:9).
It’s true: you are special, not because I or someone may or may not make you feel it, but because you are. As you look in that mirror, you might imagine you’ve cracked it, so messed up you believe yourself to be. You feel broken beyond repair. That’s okay. That’s the honest admission of all who aren’t perfect, and therein lies the hope. As the late Reverend Timothy Keller said, “You’re more sinful than you ever dared believe, but you’re more loved and accepted in Christ than you ever dared hope.”
So, are you ready? Look at your tarnished reflection and declare, “I AM SPECIAL.” Then go live it because you are.
You are, you really are.
The Bible tells me so.
It’s being called “The Working Class Anthem.” The song by Oliver Anthony, “Rich Men North of Richmond,” resonates with millions. Anthony describes the working person’s struggles in the song’s first lines before pivoting to the social-political changes that dominate so much public conversation today. The song has become a YouTube sensation with tens of millions … Read more "“Rich Men North of Richmond” on Labor Day"
I don’t know how many grave markers surrounded me as I walked through the cemetery, the early morning dew glistening on the neatly manicured cemetery lawn, donning the gravesites with a heavenly aura, giving me the sense that I had entered another dimension: a sacred one. Except for a few priests, who had served at … Read more "Voices in the Cemetery"
I sat in my doctor’s office for my annual wellness exam. I felt a sense of satisfaction as he carefully reviewed my lab work: “Vitamin D3: great; cholesterol: excellent, potassium, fine….” It all checked out favorably as he analyzed each item. I was glancing toward the exit when my doctor hesitated. “Let’s see, did you … Read more "Inch by Inch"
From my first day at Washington Elementary—when I reluctantly released my mother’s hand to take the hand of my first-grade teacher, Mrs. Speck—to the day when I hoped no one would detect the nervousness in my voice as I defended my doctoral dissertation, school has been a process of letting go of the familiar to … Read more "Little Notes for School and Life"
“Just think, Eli, God knows you by name.” I couldn’t tell if he was listening. It was early. I had picked him up at 6:15 a.m. to take him to “Wildcat Baseball School,” a baseball day camp for kids at the University of Kentucky. Madi had warned me: “He’s tired and not in a good mood.” … Read more "The One Who Knows You By Name"
“I like to sit on the porch with a cup of coffee and have my ‘private time,'” Glen told me when I asked him about his morning routine. I’ve respected Glen, a retired farmer, and admired his walk with the Lord since I met him years ago. His homespun wisdom has guided me through many … Read more "If We Only Get to Jesus"
I wiped my forehead with my sweat-soaked shirt sleeve. “Finish this one little section, and I’ll jump in the pool,” I mumbled, giving myself a quick pep talk as I weeded my way through the garden row, my gloves caked with dirt. Weeding a garden is a lot like updating an old house: by the … Read more "Toil and Trouble in the Garden"
Charles Spurgeon, arguably the greatest of Baptist preachers, knew how to begin the day: “The early morning hour should be dedicated to praise: do not the birds set us the example?” And what an enlightening example God’s creatures perform for their Creator each morning. They are up early, giving back to God what God has … Read more "Birdsongs"
I don’t remember my first communion. Now, my baptism, I do remember, especially because I almost choked to death on a piece of candy less than an hour before the Pastor immersed me. The adults were having a Bible study the evening I was to be baptized. Because I had met with the Pastor instead … Read more "Two Communions and a Baptism"
Our waitress had just served our tea at Inspirations Tea Room in Edmond, Ok, where Lori and I had taken her mother for a special outing. The table setting, complete with scones, finger sandwiches, fruit, and various delectable delights, reminded me of our afternoon tea in London several months ago “Look,” Lori smiled, “they included … Read more "When Random May Not Be Random"
“It’s been a joy having you in my class. I wish you the best as you continue your education in Germany,” I wrote Jannik, one of my students at Campbellsville University, where I teach as an adjunct instructor. Then I added, “Let me know if I can ever do anything for you.” Why did I … Read more "You Can Be An Answer To Someone’s Prayer"
NOTE: The column below is my revised version of this article, published in May 2010. Last week, May 24, was the 62nd anniversary of my older brother Doug’s (Dougie’s) death. My older brother, Mark, posted a message about Doug’s death last week on Facebook, including the newspaper article reporting the car accident that resulted in … Read more "Backpacks to Death"
I lifted Adalyn out of the baptismal waters, barely leaving a trace of a ripple as I steadied her. The six-year-old seemed light as a feather in my arms.
It had been four months, almost to the Sunday, since I had preached in the church where I had pastored for twenty years. As usual, I had awakened long before dawn. Walking outside, peering into the heavens, I wondered what it would be like back in the pulpit. How would I respond to people since I was a guest but certainly not a visitor? Would they whisper, “The old guy has come back? What’s he trying to do?”
Since I was the only pastor little Adalyn had known, her parents, Alex and Abby, had asked me if I would be willing to talk with her about committing her life to Christ. She had been asking them about making what my church tradition calls a “profession of faith.” So, her dad brought her to our house, and on the floor, Adalyn and I discussed what it means to follow Jesus. She gently took my hand and voiced her simple but profound prayer of faith.
Though Adalyn was only six, she had always been a precocious child. Her grandmother reminded me of something Adalyn had written a few years back. It was during the Christmas season. Adalyn’s letter to Santa that year told him that her Mawmaw needed yarn, her Pawpaw needed wood, and Dr. David needed people to listen. I quipped, “From the mouths of babes,” when Adalyn’s Mawmaw first told me that story.
And on Adalyn’s baptismal day, the people were listening. I sensed the love of God’s people as my words flowed naturally during my sermon, just as if I hadn’t been away. And afterward, my heart overflowed with joy as Lori and I hugged and reconnected with our church family.
Adalyn had made public a much deeper commitment to someone who was more than a Christmas season wish-giver. She was saying Christ was her Savior and Lord. And coming out of the water in the baptistry, hair dripping, wiping her eyes, she looked out on a church family that had claimed her years before she claimed them. Adalyn’s broad smile matched her shining eyes.
Then like a tiny minnow, Adalyn literally swam out of the baptistry. And watching her paddle in the water toward the ladies waiting for her with open arms and towels, I smiled because I saw in Adalyn my oldest daughter, Mary, who, like Adalyn, was a young and wee one when I baptized her almost thirty years ago. “Mary, you were so small, you swam out of the baptistry,” I remind her occasionally, always with a grin for that precious memory I savor.
Glancing at the ladies who embraced Adalyn in the baptistry, I prayed God’s grace for her next thirty years of life, when she will have grown into a young lady and, by then, will have faced trials, tribulations, and disappointments, along with great joys and thrilling victories. Maybe she will be listening to the preacher just as she had asked people to do on what will be a Christmas of the long-ago past by then. Or perhaps she will teach the Word herself, praying for the people to listen as she preaches. “Who knows?” I wondered.
But for now, I watched her glide out of the baptistry water, searching for the steps.
And with one last swift kick of her feet to shake off the water, she stood on solid ground.
Where the world was waiting for her.
Physical ailments, even small ones, as annoying as they are, can serve us well, reminding us of our limitations, opening the door for growth in humility.
In weakness, we find the source of true strength.
The precise point where I sometimes feel threatened pinpoints that place where pride has metastasized in my spiritual physiology. It doesn’t take much pain for me; I’m a wimp when it comes to discomfort. Not long ago, one of those little annoyances grizzled at me. This time it was the tendon between my index finger and thumb. At least, I guessed it was a tendon. Lori told me it was probably arthritis, “You know it will get worse with age,” she diagnosed. “You might as well get used to it.”
So I ignored it and continued my regular workout routine. “Work through the pain,” I heard the voice of my high school football coach saying in one ear, and “Take two salt pills and drive on,” my wrestling coach was saying in the other. Though their voices are almost fifty years old, they still speak, sometimes loud and clear.
“Okay, coach, I’m on it.”
But the pain only got worse.
I came home after my grandson’s baseball game. “I’m parched,” I told Lori as I downed a glass of ice water. When she asked me why, I had to admit that my hand was so tender that I couldn’t twist open the water bottle I had taken to the game.
The voice I heard later that night wasn’t Lori’s or a ghost from the past. It was me talking to myself.
At 3 a.m., I heard myself say.: “If I can’t open a water bottle, how can I plant my garden? And if I can’t plant my garden, what will I say when my kids and grandkids ask me why I left the tilled ground fallow? “Where’s the plants?” they’ll ask. And I’ll have to tell them. They’ll bend over laughing, “Dad didn’t plant his garden because his finger hurts. Then the grandkids will chime in, shaking their heads: “PopPop sure is OLD.” Then everyone, including Lori, will say, “We sure will miss the ripe tomatoes, fresh squash, and crispy cucumbers.” And I’ll be sad, holding my lame finger, rumpled up in a rocking chair.
The early morning conversation with myself escalates. By 4 a.m., I’m asking, “How can I exercise with weights if I can’t even plant a garden? How can I do bicep curls if I can’t hold weights? And if I can’t even do bicep curls, how can I do pushups and shoulder shrugs? If I can’t train with my weights my arms will start atrophying. Then, my entire upper body will shrink while my stomach bloats. Soon I’ll be slumped over, my entire body the epitome of deterioration, like an abandoned house with a sagging roof and buckling walls.”
All because of a compromised index finger.
In the spiritual realm, it’s not a fit and vigorous body that connotes strength. It’s weakness, expressed through the virtue of humility, that translates into spiritual power. Paul the Apostle said of himself, “Whenever I am weak, then I am strong.” Paul’s admission of his weakness and fragility was the key to Christ’s power being perfected in the Apostle. (2 Corinthians 12:9-10).
For some people, it takes a ding in the pocketbook; for others, it’s a poor peer review. Some people look away in shame when they glance in the mirror. And some are threatened when the boss passes them over for a promotion. The possibilities for humiliation are as myriad as our personalities are complex.
The question is, do we face ourselves—weaknesses and all—humbling ourselves before someone or something does it for us, seeing emotional or physical pain as an opportunity for spiritual growth? Or will we walk the plank of denial until, at last, we plunge into a sea of self-delusion?
After a few doses of Ibuprofen and several days of rest, my hand was better; I was back into my weekly workout routine.
But not before I had dove a bit deeper, mindful that my circumstances, whether a lame finger or an aging body, do not define who I am. They repeatedly remind me of my weaknesses so that I am learning daily to lean more completely into Christ, buoyed by His Spirit—the source of my strength.
“The glass door sure is clear and clean, not a spot on it, ” I commented to Lori, admiring the front door. I surveyed our living room and kitchen. Lori had set the pillows in perfect position on our bed (I once took a picture of her arrangement so I could duplicate the exact placement); the rug had vacuum marks, proof that it was clear of any debris; the dishes were neatly in place; the kitchen cabinets sparkling; and all the bathrooms had that aromatic combination of candles burning and disinfectant pureness. Lori had put all the laundry away, and fresh sheets clothed each bed.
I smiled and breathed deeply with satisfaction.
And then everyone arrived.
Not long after I had surveyed my pristine domicile, David Jr., his wife, Kayla, their 16-month-old baby, Stella, and canine, Sadie (a rescue dog that looks suspiciously like a Blue Heeler) arrived for a weekend visit. A couple of hours after that, our daughter, Madi (anxious to see her older brother, no doubt), son-in-law, John, and their kids, Eli, Emmie, and six-month-old baby, Noah Kate, entered immediately, carrying in the pizza.
As I was helping David carry some of their luggage in, I glanced at our dog, Max, and noticed Sadie trying to entice him into a game of chase. Max sat stoically, trying to ignore the younger, feisty dog, a mere adolescent to Max. If assisted living existed for dogs, Max would have a room where he would stare out the window and then sleep and sleep and sleep. How would Max respond to this upheaval in his sedentary lifestyle?
Later, Emmie (age 6) begged to stay the night, wanting more time with baby Stella, Uncle Dave, and Aunt “KK.” How could you turn that sweet child down?
And so it went for the weekend: Waking up to the giggles of younguns already up and geared for play; stepping out of the children’s way as they ran in and out of the house; wiping wet grass off doggie’s paws and kids’ shoes; furniture rearranged to make room for babies and rambunctious little ones; and the repeated question, “Can you play ball, PopPop?” (Of course, I can. I’m PopPop.)
Sunday afternoon David and I were playing catch with ten-year-old Eli. I chuckled while Stella watched us at the glass door, grinning and banging on the glass with her little hands while we played. Then Emmie joined her, helping her younger cousin pretend to cheer.
Between the outdoor and indoor playing with the kids, we all swapped stories of how these kids of ours—now with children of their own—had grown up in this house. We laughed and cried and then laughed at our crying. And then we longed for the three that weren’t with us, two in New York and one in heaven. And through the shouts and murmurs, dogs barking, and dishes clanging—joy bubbled up and spilled over. I wanted to grasp everyone and hold each one tight, bottling each moment.
Then everyone left as quickly as they had arrived.
And it was quiet again. Lori and I collapsed on the couch and stared, taking in the stillness.
The next day, as I returned to the house after walking to our mailbox, I noticed the front door. It was no longer clear and clean as it had been before everyone arrived. I could see Stella’s little hand prints and the smudge of Emmie’s too. And there were doggy nose prints from Sadie. I smiled.
No dogs barking, kids running, adults chattering, no grandchildren singing or calling me outside to play.
I missed the feel of their hugs around my neck, their wet kisses, and that look in their eyes that said, “Your mine, and I’m yours.
Standing still there on the front porch steps, I felt empty.
But only for a moment, for looking at their handprints on the door, I felt their presence and was filled with their love.
“Welcome to Stonehenge. Today you’ll be stepping back 5,000 years to explore this wonder of the world.”
So said the brochure at the visitor’s center, where we disembarked from the tour bus after a two-hour drive. I had looked forward to this day with my son, David Jr.—just the two of us—and it happened to be his birthday.
Some fathers and sons go fishing or enjoy a ball game to celebrate special days. My son and I had enjoyed times like that across the years, but today was Stonehenge. How many times does a dad get to visit one of the world’s most ancient monuments with his son on his birthday? All those times before, I was the one who had taken my son somewhere for his birthday, but instead of me treating him this day, he was the one who had brought Lori and me along for this trip, not just to Stonehenge but to England. It was part of my retirement gift from David and Kayla. Lori and I had enjoyed every moment with them and their baby, Stella. Today the girls were relaxing at the hotel and shopping while David and I spent a day together.
We walked around the Stone Circle, gazing at the monuments along with the other tourists. “Somebody had to strongly believe in something to set up those stones like that,” I commented.
No one knows the why or how of Stonehenge, only that it is. People have floated a plethora of theories, and I’m sure one of them is correct. Was it a burial site, a monument to the dead, during the Late Neolithic period? By studying the remains of the dead at the site, scientists have determined the stones were somehow transported as far as 120 miles away. Carbon dating of the remains suggests they were cremated off-site, then transported to Stonehenge 4,400 to 5,000 years ago. But why?
Or were the stone formations built to track the movement of the sun, moon, and stars thousands of years ago, as some think?
Was Stonehenge a monument built as a pilgrimage site of healing?
As for the stones themselves (each weighing about 25 tons), they were transported some 180 miles away. But how? And why?
We gazed. And wondered.
Our day continued to the city of Bath, named after the baths where hundreds of years ago, Romans relaxed and soaked in the warm water for a spa day with some hoping, no doubt, to imbibe the water’s purported healing powers.
Hours later, we hopped back on the tour bus along with other travel-worn passengers at the tour’s close. Later that night, Lori and I would treat David and his little family on his special day at one of London’s restaurants. But for the moment, the hum of the bus’s diesel engine lulled the passengers into an afternoon nap as we passed peaceful country fields in Somerset County, England. As for me, I couldn’t help but keep one eye open, lured into pondering life’s question marks, prompted by the sites of the day. Yet at the same time, I was at peace with the mysteries (the answers to which only God knows), satisfied with God’s gift of a spectacular day, and supremely grateful that I was seated next to my best gift of the day: my son.
The visitor’s brochure had been right after all: I had experienced the wonder of the world.
“He’s afraid you might embarrass him when you drop him off,” my daughter, Madi, said, with shrugged shoulders and a half-smile, her body language signaling me not to take my ten-year-old grandson’s concern too seriously.
Eli needed a ride to school for a field trip. He’s in fourth grade, but there would be some older kids in this group besides his school-age friends. The uncertain terrain—not knowing who would be there— had made him a little skittish.
“Do I have to get out of the car?” I asked Madi. It was early morning before school started, and I volunteered to take him. I’d been up a few hours but still wore a well-worn hoodie and sweatpants. Maybe Eli was expecting me to be dressed up, I wondered.
“No, just drop him off,” Madi said.
“Well, then, what’s he afraid of? What’s he think I’m going to do, get out of the car and call all the teachers and kids together for a prayer meeting?” I teased.
When I returned home, I told Lori about Eli’s fear.
“He’s just like Madi was at that age,” she immediately responded.
“Hmm,” I thought. “Can fear of embarrassment be an inherited trait?” And, of course, it can be, at least to a degree. According to studies, some aspects of temperament, including shyness, can be detected as early as four months of age, suggesting it’s largely inborn. But that doesn’t mean a person will be introverted. Nor does it mean shyness will be a lifelong personality trait. According to psychologists, just because our temperament has a biological basis doesn’t mean it’s set in stone. It has to do with the age- old “nature vs. nurture” dynamic.
I was shy as a boy, hesitant about meeting new people or mixing in a crowd. When I was nine years old, about Eli’s age, I went forward in church one Sunday to make what people in my faith tradition call a “profession of faith.” The preacher, Dr. Gene Garrison, asked me to step forward and stand next to him so he could tell the congregation about my decision. Looking out at the auditorium full of people, I literally stepped behind Dr. Garrison, trying to hide from everyone. “Now, David,” I remember him saying while the whole church chuckled as he pulled me from behind his back, “come around here so people can see you.” I did, albeit reluctantly.
Kids go through stages. Some may be predisposed to shyness. In time, that can be overcome, although there is nothing wrong with being reserved in social situations. Part of it is contextual: how comfortable a child or adult feels in certain settings. Eli had never been afraid of talking to strangers when he was with me or someone he felt safe with. His other granddad jokingly called him “Brother Eli” because he was so talkative to people in the grocery store. He was like the village parson.
The fact is, our personalities evolve. While certain characteristics remain relatively stable, we do change. I’m not exactly the same as I was at twenty, thirty, or even fifty, thank goodness.
We can be content with who we are yet willing to grow into who we are ever becoming. Even the Apostle Paul hinted at that over two-thousand years ago when he confessed, “By the grace of God, I am what I am” (I Corinthians 15:10) while admitting that God’s grace was transforming and shaping him and other believers into the image of Christ, so that although “now we see things imperfectly,” as he put it, “like puzzling reflections in a mirror,” there will be a day, “when we will see everything with perfect clarity” (I Corinthians 13:12).
But not yet.
So, I won’t worry about Eli’s apprehension with his peers. Come to think of it, I’m sure I would have been a bit wary if my grandad had shown up to take me to school in sweatpants and a hoodie that looked like they were ready for the trash bin. I’ll just have to remind my grandson that God’s not finished with PopPop, either.
To whom it may concern: George Gallup Public Opinion Research:
I’d like to suggest an opinion poll you need to conduct: a survey on the most annoying words and phrases people use. Your readers can then read the results of your respective research and be enlightened, avoiding using those expressions that irritate sensitive people like me.
You need to let me be the first to participate in your survey since I’m suggesting it. First on my list is the phrase: “You need to.” Like a firecracker in a crowded airport, the term immediately creates havoc. Just the words, “You need to,” even if you know the speaker is right, skyrockets the adrenalin, creating an instantaneous resistance to the suggestion. So, you need to include that phrase in your survey.
I have several other suggestions. No offense, but if you’ve done this, you need to stop saying, “No offense, but…” The “no offense” precursor is like saying, “I’m getting ready to say something that’s probably brutal but don’t get defensive about it because I warned you.” You need to tell people to stop doing that. No offense, but it’s irritating.
Which brings me to another annoying phrase: “We’re good, right?” This one is especially bothersome because it’s usually spoken when the listener disagrees with what someone is saying, and then suddenly they drop that line, “We’re good, right?” It’s like they’re putting their arm around someone’s neck, “We’re going to get rid of Bugsy, quiet-like. Then we’ll throw his body in the East River. We’re good, right?”
“No, no,” you want to throw up your hands, “I’m neither good nor right with it.” Unfortunately, by then, their verbal embrace is bringing you in for a hug with something you may detest.
You also need to include the phrase, “It is what it is,” among the options for your respondents to mark as annoying. What does “It is what it is” mean, anyway? “I can’t change the situation?” “Accept things like they are?” Who knows what it means?
And that brings me to another suggestion: “At the end of the day,” which is a close cousin to “It is what it is.” What exactly does “at the end of the day” mean? “Because the sun is setting, everything somehow comes into focus?” Or does it mean “Finally” or “Ultimately”? And have you noticed that people use this troublesome phrase at all hours of the day, not just “at the end of the day”?
And remember to include, “Never mind.” How frustrating it is to ask for an explanation when you don’t agree with someone and they reply, “Never mind.” It stops the conversation cold, making it seem like you’re too simple or insensitive to understand. Forget about inquiring, “What do you mean?” because they can repeat, “Never mind.”
One last annoyance: it often comes when you’ve had a bad day. For instance, someone has T-boned your car, and you’re in the hospital for observation. Your wife arrives and says, “Honey, did you renew the car insurance because I sure didn’t.” And you wince as you prop up on one elbow to plead for an explanation. “What?” you inquire, and your mother-in-law chimes in from the corner of the room, “Now calm down.” Anything you say at this point will appear as though you’re upset. The phrase assumes you’re out of control before you’re out of control or even venture an objection.
So there you are. I do hope you’ll take my advice. It’s something you need to do, but of course, no offense, because at the end of the day, it is what it is, so “just do it,” and oops, there’s another annoying phrase, but never mind.
We’re good, right?
I noticed a cartoon posted on Instagram last week by thesimplecatholic. It showed the little children sitting at Jesus’s feet as he teaches them, and he’s saying, “So then I was like, ‘Mom, chill out, I’ll be back in like 3 days, tops.'”
I smiled, then winced. It seemed to make light not only of Jesus’ pain and suffering but his mother’s as well. I saw the cartoon on what many Christians call Maundy Thursday, the day they remember how Jesus humbled himself to the clueless disciples by washing their feet and instituting the Last Supper. Judas had left to betray him, setting in motion the horrible events that would soon transpire, beginning early Friday morning and concluding with Jesus’ suffering and death on the cross at 3 p.m. that day. Christians held services commemorating these events last Thursday and Friday.
But, of course, that’s not the end of the story. Thousands of believers gathered to celebrate the victory this past Sunday. Easter Sunday marks the day Christians rejoice in a risen Lord. Because Jesus rose from the dead, the torture people inflicted on him changed the world’s worst Friday into its best Friday: Good Friday.
And that means Christians can smile today, the week after Easter, knowing that what Christ did can transform their lives, replacing their sad faces with happy ones. On Easter Sunday, sadness turned to joy, tears of shame into tears of praise, and mourning into dancing. Christians affirm that they will see Christ and their loved ones again because Christ rose from the dead.
With that wonderful news, the mystery is why so many choose to live in negativity and melancholy. Of course, there’s plenty to be sad about these days and enough meanness to make the most optimistic of people want to stand in a pit of anger, kicking and screaming about how ugly this life can be. But according to the gospel accounts, Christ has (past tense) overcome the world, including Vladimir Putin, Xi Jinping, the nastiest drug dealers, the most heartless school shooters, the sickest child abductors, habitual gossipers, and, yes, don’t forget: the potential for all kinds of evil lurking within each of us, roaming around in our inner being looking for the opportunity to incite a coup d’etat in our souls.
So, why shouldn’t Christians smile, even in pain, if it’s only on the inside when the heart is so heavy that any attempt to break a smile would seem hypocritical?
Years after the resurrection of Christ, a tradition emerged. Following the thrill of the resurrection on Sunday, the early saints gathered together on Monday to feast, sing, and dance. One author commented on this practice: “With Eastertide began the ‘laughing of the redeemed and the dancing of the liberated.'”
Some believe John Chrysostom (c.349-407), Archbishop of Constantinople, inspired this tradition with a famous Easter midnight sermon. In that message, he described his vision of Christ confronting the devil. To Chrysostom’s amazement, Christ laughed at the devil.
It makes sense: Satan thought he had won on Friday, but God had the last laugh on Sunday. It was God’s cosmic joke on Satan.
And that brings me back to the cartoon. I learned that the post’s author, Matthew, has endured his portion of pain. His blog is the fruit of his suffering from losing his unborn child, Jeremiah, the posts blossoming into a mission intended to inform others about the Christian faith and “to show how joy can be found in daily life (even in suffering).”
Matthew’s story and humor remind me that though Christians grieve and mourn, they aren’t like those without hope. The pain of life’s evils will always be with us. But take heart: if Jesus told his disciples he would be back in “like 3 days, tops,” why should we doubt him now and trade today’s joy, even laughter, for tomorrow’s worries?
After all, he did say he was coming again.
Like, any day now.
Right?
“Are you from Oklahoma?” the gentleman asked as he extended his hand to me, followed by a quick, “We’re from Missouri.”
I was wearing my crimson and cream Oklahoma sweatshirt. We’d just landed in London, England, earlier that morning, having flown all night. The man from Missouri and his family had their bags in the lobby, ready to leave, just as we watched over ours, waiting for our room to be available.
“You’re going to love London,” he said, grinning. “Every day, we asked ourselves, ‘Can today be as fun as yesterday?’ And it was,” he said. “We thoroughly enjoyed every day.”
I wasn’t feeling it. It was 7:30 a.m. But my body said it was 4:30 a.m. We had been on the plane for about 8 hours, not to mention another flight earlier in the day.
But the man from Missouri was so bright and cheery that I couldn’t help but smile back. My smile turned inward, instantly seeping into my tired body and mind like massaging oil. I suddenly felt energized as the Missourians left the lobby. I offered a silent prayer: “Lord, may I be smiling at the end of our week here, just like that guy from Missouri. And may each day be like he described: a wonderful gift we enjoy.”
The man from Missouri couldn’t have known from my smile, but I had arrived in London with a bundle of apprehensions: “What if our luggage doesn’t make it? What if our flights are delayed? What if we are too busy during the week? What if we aren’t busy enough? What if it’s more expensive than we planned? What if it rains every day? What if it’s too hot? What if it’s too cold? What if I packed too much? What if I didn’t pack enough?”
But when I smiled back at the man from Missouri and prayed, all my apprehensions dissipated at once. Then, I made it a point to pray that prayer each morning: “Lord may this day be a wonderful day, full of surprises and adventures in this amazing city that we have this opportunity to enjoy, given as a gift by our son, Dave, and daughter-in-law, Kayla, to Lori and me.”
And it was: every new day was more impressive than the day before, each filled with sights and sounds of places and events and people that brought me joy and made me want to smile and even dance, which I did, once (if that’s what you would call it). We bounced from Trafalgar Square to Buckingham Palace, from Westminster Abby to the Tower of London, from Stonehenge to Bath, from pubs to shopping, and even cruised the Thames River.
Before I knew it, our eight days in London were over. Then it was my turn to wait in the lobby for our ride to the airport. “Where are you from?” I asked a man guarding his bags while waiting for his room to be available. He had traveled from Washington, a longer flight than mine had been, and he appeared even more exhausted than I imagined I had looked upon my arrival.
“You are going to love it here,” I told him. “Every day, we asked ourselves, ‘Can today be as fun as yesterday?’ And it was,” I told him. And like the man from Missouri before me, I couldn’t help but smile as I told him. I had just started to tell the new arrival about Stonehenge and Bath when my son said, “Time to go, Dad,” so I wished the man from Washington well.
As I walked through the door, carrying two bags and another across my shoulder, I glanced back to my beloved hotel lobby one last time. And there was the man from Washington with a big grin, which I thought looked like the one I had after I talked to the man from Missouri.
We’ve read the standard graduation quips on congratulatory cards: “Be strong.” “Be courageous.” “Life is before you: walk into it.” Then others take place within a story.
“Don’t let her know we want to surprise her after her last treatment.” And so I went along with the scheme. Some of Lori’s friends planned to show up at our house after Lori’s last radiation treatment. “We’ll knock on the door right after she gets home,” one said with an uplifted voice. Lori had completed 33 treatments, five each week.
“Let’s go out to eat breakfast after your last treatment,” I fibbed, so she would be ready for her friends when they arrived.
Lori had been brave, but most of all, she had kept her smile, despite some of the uncomfortable side effects of radiation. But her smile couldn’t disguise the weight she carried for others: “I hurt for those who suffer from chemotherapy,” Lori frequently said when she returned home from treatment. Then she would pray for them daily: morning and evening.
Augustine of Hippo once said, “What does love look like? It has the hands to help others. It has the feet to hasten to the poor and needy. It has eyes to see misery and want. It has the ears to hear the sighs and sorrows of men. That is what love looks like.”
I think the great theologian would also agree that love looks like a person kneeling in prayer, interceding for those who suffer, praying not just once but consistently, persistently, as a way of life.
With every treatment, I saw in my wife what love looks like, for her heart of compassion lifted the names or, if not the specific name—a description— of someone who suffered more than she did. And in her prayers, Lori included those healthcare professionals who helped the cancer patients.
Before we left the cancer treatment center that last day, we took pictures with all those who had been so essential in the treatments: Paula, Deetra, Marie, and Tammy, and of course, the doctor who directed the therapy. They all had gently walked Lori through her treatments, each person a little oasis of encouragement and hope in the desert of fear.
And then Lori was done. We were all smiles, high-fiving, like it was graduation day so long ago, with Lori posing alongside her teachers and friends for pictures.
The last one we met with was the doctor, who congratulated Lori and shook her hand like he was giving her a diploma. “But you know we don’t consider you cancer-free unless your tests are clear for five years,” he said.
“Five years,” I thought, “that’s a long time, about the time it could take to earn a graduate degree.”
“That’s what I’ll do, “I said to myself while Lori was still unaware that her friends were waiting to surprise her. “I’ll call the same people together for another graduation after five years and present Lori a diploma that certifies she is cancer-free.”
As Lori and I walked from the doctor’s consultation room to the exit, I noticed another patient with signs of advanced sickness, apparently far from completing treatments. The whites of his eyes were yellow, his face tired, his demeanor beaten down. And yet he looked up, struggling to smile, a silent congratulation to us, the ones who had made it through.
It was his graduation quote for us, spoken without words.
And I walked my radiation graduate out the door with my arms clasped around hers. It was as if we both were holding on to an imaginary diploma, signed, as it were, with the sighs and sorrows of others who were still hurting, some with terminal illnesses. Aware of their pain, we walked with a renewed determination to wear graduation caps of love and mercy, practicing prayer as only fellow sufferers can, never to let them go.
A surgeon once tried to explain to me the positive effects of a medical procedure. I thought I understood but was struggling to grasp the details so I could correctly relay what he was telling me to others. After my fifth or sixth question, the surgeon smiled and said, “Just say, ‘God moves in mysterious ways.'”
Indeed God does. Sometimes we see that people, like the surgeon, become the agents of God’s work. At other times, God’s mystery is in observable phenomena, like the weather. And sometimes, it’s unexplainable, in which case, all we can do is scratch our heads and wonder. But God moves mysteriously in all those ways—in more ways than we usually acknowledge.
I love teaching my night class: the subject intrigues me, but most of all, the students make it work. They range in age from 19 to 70 and older. They are encouraging, kind, and eager to learn, making the class a joy. The trouble for me is not teaching the course; it’s getting there. I’m not referring to the traffic. I’m talking about motivation: the mental challenge of leaving the comfort of home, traveling at night, and returning at 10 p.m. or later.
On one of those nights, as I was driving to the class, sipping my coffee, I thought I saw God moving mysteriously. It was as if his finger had written a message across the sky before the setting sun. A perfectly formed cross appeared. God seemed to be saying, “Take heart, David. Remember, what you are doing has a higher purpose. Keep moving in that direction.”
What made this all the more intriguing was the fact that part of my teaching material that night involved the story of Constantine the Great and how, as a young general, he faced a formidable opponent in battle. Constantine prayed that God would stretch forth his right hand to help him. Precisely what happened just before the Battle of Milvian Bridge on October 28, 312, remains a mystery. Still, for Constantine, as his biographer, Eusebius, reported, it was undoubtedly an instance of God moving in mysterious ways, for the Emperor saw a bright cross of light emblazoned against the midday sun accompanied with the words, “In hoc signo vinces,” (“In this sign conquer.”) Constantine was victorious and didn’t forget what he had seen, thus converting to Christ, making this a pivotal moment in Christian history.
My little experience of the cross in the sky pales into insignificance when compared to Constantine’s epic moment. I was far from facing a significant battle with historic implications. And I knew what caused the cross I saw in the sky: the vapor trail of two airplanes, a perfectly explainable event.
And yet I contend God was still working in a mysterious way, for I saw in my experience something that encouraged me. And what about those two airplanes forming that cross and appearing to me just when I needed to see it, not the day before or the day after? And who or what opened my eyes to interpret the vapor trails as I did?
Sometimes the mystery is seeing the uncommon in the common, the mysterious in the unmysterious, the unusual in the usual. Opening ourselves to the possibility of small epiphanies awakens the torpid soul to the ever-present mystery of God’s presence in life’s ordinariness.
And what about that phrase, “God moves in mysterious ways”? William Cowper, the English poet, wrote them in 1773. Cowper struggled mightily with depression through his adult years. The darkness was so severe that he unsuccessfully tried to commit suicide. Yet even in the misery that engulfed his life, at least for a moment, Cowper perceived God moving in mysterious ways: “His wonders to perform, He plants His footsteps in the sea, And rides upon the storm.”
How could I not be joyful as I parked my car upon arriving at my class? After all, God had touched me ever so gently, reminding me that he still moves in mysterious ways, his wonders to perform—even on a seemingly uneventful night when all I did was show up to tell an old story.
I like the story about the guy who was going to try and quit smoking. “I’m going to a hypnotist to help me,” he told a friend.
“Do you think it will help?” the friend asked.
“Sure,” the man answered, “it worked last time.”
Starting well is one thing. Staying with it and finishing well is quite another.
But sometimes it’s hard to know if you’ve finished well.
I officially started my career as a pastor 37 years ago and finished, or at least retired, a couple of months ago. Being a pastor is not a 9 to 5 job, though there were times when I wished for that, especially when I would get called out in the wee hours of the morning, or late into the night, or when an evening committee meeting would drag on and on, and all I wanted to do was go home and watch, “Everybody Loves Raymond.”
There is tremendous joy in ministering to others and seeing them grow spiritually, but with it comes a burden: the care of souls. Preaching God’s grace is paramount, whether people approve of it or not. But the saying is true: people don’t care how much you know until they know how much you care. After fearlessly preaching God’s grace, The Apostle Paul listed the physical and emotional challenges ( thankfully few of which I have experienced) that accompanied it, concluding: “Besides everything else, I face daily the pressure of my concern for all the churches” (2 Corinthians 11:28).
Ahh, yes, the “the daily pressure.” It goes with the territory of pastoring. The word “pressure” can also be translated as “anxiety.”
Pastoring is a bit like parenting in that you are never quite sure when you’re done with it. And like parenting, there comes a point when it’s time to transition to another phase of life. Then, though you are still a parent, your role changes.
It’s something like that with the pastor’s flock. For me, it happened soon after I announced my retirement date. People transitioned. With that comes the reality of no longer being consulted, and a part of me craved being consulted. Not being consulted means not being The One whose opinion is necessary. Its emotional cousin is the feeling of irrelevance: being there but not being there, at least not being there as the relationship once was. The apparent neglect can ding the ego, which is good, for this can reveal how stealthily pride has invaded the borders on the map of one’s spiritual geography.
And that awareness can open the soul to fresh waters of grace.
I recently learned that one of my parishioners was in the hospital with a health situation that, at his age, could be life-threatening. One of the church’s leaders texted me, “Thought you might want to know.”
And so I visited the hospital where he was, as his former pastor and as a friend.
We enjoyed a good visit, chatted for a bit, and then I prayed for him and left.
As I stepped into the hallway to leave, I couldn’t help but overhear him shouting (he’s a tad hard of hearing) to his daughter across the hospital room, “He was always so good to me.”
I mentally paused, taking note. What he said wasn’t a bad epithet for a pastor. My care, my “anxiety,” and the “pressure” I felt for his well-being had somehow mattered to him across the years. He was affirming me as his former pastor, and his unawareness that I was privy to the conversation made his words all the more meaningful, like a startling splash of God’s grace on my face.
My church had given us a heartfelt and endearing “goodbye” on our last Sunday, honoring me with a beautiful plaque captioned with “A Good and Faithful Servant” and a reception where people brought cards with loving words of appreciation.
But sometimes, in the stillness of the night or early on a foggy Sunday morning, I would yet wonder, “Did I finish well?”
Walking out of the hospital room, I realized I didn’t need to be consulted to know I’d finished well.
I just needed to listen.
It’s official: walking outside is good for your health. I remind myself of that when it’s raining or snowing, and I’m trying to balance myself on my exercise bike. “I hate this,” I mumble as I peer out the window at the inclement weather, debating whether to dismount, gear up and head outdoors, despite the winter weather advisory.
Given a choice, I’d rather be outside. And studies support the health benefits of being outdoors. Even a ten-minute walk outside can reduce blood pressure and lower cholesterol and blood sugar, which can help fight heart disease and type 2 diabetes, according to the CDC.
And there’s more. Walking outside has benefits not only for your body but your brain. It can improve attention, concentration, and problem-solving, not to mention giving you a better night’s sleep, which is essential to good health. But there’s even more: according to the Anxiety and Depression Association of America, a 10-minute walk may be as effective as a 45-minute workout to reduce anxiety and depression.
Okay, I’m in.
But I didn’t become an outdoor-walking aficionado by reading about its health benefits. It happened quite by accident. And I have my Schnauzer, Max, to thank.
Max’s brother, Baylor, died about three months ago. Those two were constant companions. They would rush outside together first thing each morning, Baylor always the leader. Then they would return, like two feisty bear cubs, pawing each other, energized by the morning sun.
But after Baylor passed away, Max seemed lost. He would stare at me as if to say, “Are you really expecting me to go out there all by myself?”
I was concerned that Max, without the companionship of Baylor, would wander in the street and get hit by a passing vehicle, particularly one of the school buses, which don’t usually stop for little Schnauzers. So I started taking Max out. At first, it seemed inconvenient, but I soon began enjoying our time together, Max and me.
Our morning times don’t take long, only 10-15 minutes, but it gives the two of us “alone time together” — a splendid start to the day. We go out early while it’s still dark. Nonetheless, I still take in nature: the stars, the moon, the wind whispering in the trees, dogs and coyotes barking in the distance. And somewhere along the way, I repeat aloud to Max my favorite Psalms. We’re both all the better for the recitation.
Even when the weather is foul, even when rain, wind, sleet, or snow pelts us, we go. I check the forecast the night before and pick out my clothes accordingly. So, first thing, I’m up, dressed, and out the door with Max, my walking buddy.
In his book, The Age-Proof Brain: New Strategies to Improve Memory, Protect Immunity, and Fight Off Dementia, Dr. Marc Milstein, Ph.D., maintains that walking outside helps keep your brain young. It can lower the risk of memory loss and dementia by about 60%. It doesn’t have to be a walk in a national park, either. He cites a study in Japan where people stared at a plant on their desk for two minutes, and their stress levels dropped. There’s something about the brain and nature. I remind Max of that as I put the leash on his collar and open the door.
“Let’s take in the outdoors and stay healthy, ol’ boy,” I say as he stops and smells along the path. Then, Max obediently reverses course when I tell him it’s time to turn back. And as we open the back door and Lori welcomes us in, we feel all the younger.
Whenever Lori says, “Let’s not do anything special for Valentine’s,” I flinch.
I’m thinking: “Is this a test?” If I say, “Okay,” will she give me “the look,” that glance that says, “I’m so disappointed you are skipping this special day for us.”
A word of caution as Valentine’s Day draws nigh: don’t underestimate the potential impact of that question; how you respond to it can affect your love life.
That Valentine’s Day question and I have a deep and complicated history.
It started fine. I had Valentine’s gifts for all my little girlfriends when I was a kid. Dad, a dentist, kept a stash of adjustable rings for children to choose from after they had endured the pain of a tooth pulled or cavity filled.
This made Valentine’s easy for me: while Dad was putting in a crown here or a bridge there, I was rummaging through his drawer of trinkets reserved for kids. No one could compete with the wide assortment of rings I could give the girls. For several years I had a corner on the market for grade school Valentine’s gifts. I found myself riding a wave of popularity. Indeed, I was the veritable Valentine’s Gift King of Washington Elementary School, thanks to Dad’s pretend rings.
But by 6th grade Dad’s rings were out; they had run their course; girls no longer seemed interested in adjustable faux rings. A box of chocolates and a card for Dana was all my 6th-grade allowance could afford; Edna and I broke up not long after exchanging bracelets in 7th; Trish and I split up a few weeks before Valentine’s in 8th: I wonder now if I was avoiding the unspoken Valentine’s Day question, “How will you surprise me?” Perhaps fearing failure, I conveniently remained unattached during Valentine’s.
In my last year of high school, I again found myself searching for a Valentine’s gift. I scrutinized and examined every piece of jewelry in town within my price range and consulted my older brothers for advice before finally settling on a “drop” (1970s type of necklace) engraved with my initials, “DBW,” which I proudly presented to Lori. I succeeded that Valentine’s Day. She would lose the drop, but forty-nine years later, she still smiles when I mention it.
The problem with the Valentine’s statement, “Let’s not do anything for Valentine’s,” is that you can never be entirely sure. Sometimes the underlying message is: “I want to be surprised but want you to figure it out without me having to tell you because if I tell you, it won’t be the surprise I’m expecting you to surprise me with.”
But then again, it might simply be true: “Let’s not do anything special for Valentine’s.”
We can find direction in stories, and this one might help us. A little boy always helped his grandpa work around the garage. He would fetch this car tool, then that one. Eventually, Grandma asked the little guy, “What’s Grandpa paying you to work with him?” And you’ve got to love the little guy’s answer: “Grandpa pays me attention.”
That’s what’s behind the chocolates, a drop, an expensive ring, or flowers.
It’s the act of paying attention, of saying: “I care about you; I want to be where you are. And I want to do what pleases you.” You took time to get whatever it is you got for your love. It can be nothing more than a card, even a hand-made one. The point is, you’re saying: “I thought about you with this. I’m paying attention to you. I love you.”
So this Valentine’s Day, I’m going to give the gift that can never be lost and lasts forever: paying attention. We’re going out to eat somewhere special, just the two of us, and I’m going to look across the table, and whether I have a surprise gift or not, I’m going to gaze into my love’s eyes, and like a sixteen-year-old with an initialed drop in my hands, I’ll get lost in those eyes.
Paying attention.
We drove away from the church, just the two of us. Glancing at Lori, I could see her tears sheening her cheeks.
It had been a marvelous Sunday. We had all our children and grandchildren, my older brother and sister-in-law, and Lori’s sister and mother with us. Our church had a beautiful reception for us, and people from the community—plus some friends from my first pastorate 37 years ago and some local friends who had moved away—were there to congratulate me on my last Sunday before officially retiring from the pastoral ministry.
In those 37 years, I had moved from churches, starting in Kentucky when I was still in seminary, to Alabama, Oklahoma, Louisiana, and finally back to Kentucky, where I’ve stayed a little over 20 years.
For 18 of those years, Lori has been at my side, a vital part of my ministry: making pastoral visits with me to homes, hospitals, and shut-ins, writing encouraging notes to church members, praying faithfully daily, and smiling at me whenever I stepped into the pulpit. She was there. Whenever someone complimented me on a sermon, I often smiled and teased, “Lori wrote that one,” and I was not too far from the truth, for she would listen to almost every sermon before I delivered it on Sunday mornings.
As we approached the final Sunday, I noticed that Lori was already grieving the anticipated transition, although she looked forward to this next phase of life. “I’m going to miss my Bible Study group, hearing them pray and teach.” Or, “I don’t know what it will be like to sit by your side in a worship service. I’ll have to get you some coloring books and crayons,” she laughed.
This church was her only experience being a pastor’s wife. She had heard me reminisce of Livingston First Baptist in Livingston, Alabama being, as I described it, “the perfect first full-time, ‘live-on-the-field’ pastorate.” Lebanon Baptist couldn’t have been a better place for Lori to dive into the role of pastor’s wife. They had wrapped their arms around her when she—the educator taking on the role of pastor’s wife—arrived here. And they hugged her tight through the deaths of her dad, and then, Harrison, supporting her in good times and bad.
The sweet fellowship of Lebanon Baptist sustained her through it all, including the joy of seeing our brood fly away: the weddings, the grandchildren, job promotions, and baptisms. For 18 years, she absorbed the agonies and the joys that come with living life on life’s terms. Through it all, her friends at church never wavered, locking their arms around her side.
In my last sermon, I told about the young preacher who asked an older, wiser, retired preacher what it was like to pastor. The senior pastor reflected and spoke of three phases he had gone through as a minister. In the first phase, as a young hotshot preacher fresh out of seminary who thought more highly of himself than he should have, he saw himself standing on a dry shore while the congregation was out in the deep water, going down for the third time. He admonished them, telling them how they could get from where they were to where he was.
Then his concept changed. After a few years in the ministry, he came to a new understanding. The people were still in the water. And they were still in trouble. But now, he was at the edge of the water, with one foot on dry land and the other out in the water with his hand stretched out toward them to help them get from where they were to where he was.
After many years, in the twilight of his ministry, he finally came to a clear understanding. He was in the water with the people. They were holding him up. And underneath them all were the everlasting arms of God.
Looking in my rearview mirror as Lori and I drove away, blurry-eyed, I realized it was not I alone whom the Spirit of God was holding.
Reaching across the car’s front seat, I held the hand of the one uplifted by the Spirit with me as we stepped onto a new shore, into a fresh beginning.
Still together in ministry.
Some moments you can see coming, a time hanging out there, at once ominous and inviting like it’s standing outside of time—so deep does its anticipation grab you before you have experienced it.
When I announced my retirement to my church in October of 2022, effective January 15, 2023, it seemed like three months would be a long time. But the closer it got, the more the moment hovered over me, sometimes with a welcoming “Yes, I’m ready,” and sometimes with a “No, not yet.”
My little friend, Katie (as well as a host of adults), felt it. I say, “my little friend.” Katie is no longer a little girl.
When she was a tiny tot, Katie started coming to my “children’s time” in the worship service— when I would share a story with the children. And after my sermon each Sunday, she would give me a note. At first, it was a drawing, a child’s sketch: the cross, the pulpit from which I preached, the Bible, a child’s depiction of things relating to the church. Then as she grew older, Katie would write something I had said from the sermon, like “God loves us,” or “Jesus died for me,” or a Scripture I had quoted. Every Sunday, without fail, she would do that.
I put her first note on my refrigerator, then I started a “Katie file,” so touched was I by her habit of note-sharing. “She takes better notes than the adults,” I would wink to her parents in Katie’s presence. When she missed church, I would tell her the next time she was there, “I missed my note when you were gone.” And she would give me two or three notes that Sunday to make up for however many Sundays she had been absent. Katie took her note-taking seriously.
And then, one Sunday, the notes stopped.
I understood why: Katie was growing up, becoming a teenager. That’s the way it should be. Maybe she became peer conscious, or perhaps she became aware that giving a weekly note to the preacher was a children’s activity, not something a budding young lady does.
“You’re a teenager already, growing up too fast,” I would say, affirming her maturity.
Then I announced my retirement from the church, and my last Sunday came nearer and nearer.
“I’ve got a request,” I told Katie a few weeks before. “Can you write me one last note?”
And I forgot about it.
But Katie didn’t. After my last sermon, she handed me a piece of paper.
“It has been a while since I wrote a note during one of your sermons,” Katie’s note started. “I wanted to stop time and not let this Sunday come. I tear up a lot this Sunday,” she continued. “I do not want you to leave. I will miss you. I love you and your family. Love, Katie.”
Then I was the one who teared up as I re-read her words, “I wanted to stop time and not let this Sunday come.”
My last sermon had been about each one of us being a work of art: the workers change, but the work continues, for we are still in the process, each of us, by God’s grace, being transformed by God.
I wanted to tell Katie we can’t stop time. It moves on, whether we like it or not. But there are those moments we know are coming. They need to pass, even though we want to grab and freeze them.
One of my favorite poets, Mary Oliver, wrote, “I held my breath as we do sometimes to stop time when something wonderful has touched us.”
Something wonderful touched all of us. The ministry continues, though the ministers change. God keeps working. And our notes can document the process, often in artful ways. By reading them, we can revisit those memories, and time stops.
Later that night—after the sermon, the reception, the hugs, time with my family, and yes, the personal notes from our beloved congregation—I remembered to do one last thing before going to bed.
I tenderly placed Katie’s note on my refrigerator, like it was that first one so many years ago. Then, as Mary Oliver said, I held my breath.
And stopped time.
The biting wind swirled the dead leaves around the mound of dirt where I was digging the grave for our dog, Baylor. “Good ol’ Baylor Boy,” I mumbled as I shoveled.
It had been over a month since he died. During his illness, our veterinarian, Dr. Irene Ballard, told us, “We’ll keep him for a few days. If you don’t hear from me, that’s good.” She held Baylor in her arms, gently stroking him as she detailed the seriousness of his condition.
Several days later, we visited Baylor at the clinic. “Take your time. Hold him as long as you want,” Dr. Ballard said. As we left, I told Lori I felt like we were making a hospital visit to a loved one. And, of course, we were. Our pets become part of our family. Letting go is difficult. A few days later, on a Sunday evening, Dr. Ballard called and gently broke the news: Baylor’s time had come.
We gave Baylor’s remains to Charles Mills, who has a crematory for pets. Several weeks later, he delivered Baylor’s cremains to our house. “I had a Schnauzer, too,” he said. “Jager was his name.” Mr. Mills’ face brightened as he told us how much he had doted on Jager. “I told my wife I would never have a dog in our house, but then, Jager ended up sleeping with me,” he laughed.
And so, like grieving parents, Lori and I joined in, sharing stories of Baylor and how he must have envisioned himself a Pit Bull, the way he would patrol our property like a police watchdog, careful to chase any living thing away. We talked about Judy, our friend who would keep our two Schnauzers, and how she had once commented that Baylor liked to scout around her house. “Maybe I should have named him ‘Scout,'” l grinned.
Baylor would sometimes aggravate me, especially when I would have to chase him down the street early in the morning, on one occasion, while still wearing my bathrobe. I would yell his name, ordering him back. Baylor would look at me with what I swore was a smirk and then turn and run. “Dang, dog,” I would grumble.
Instead of “Scout” or “Dang dog,” I settled for “Baylor Boy,” and so that’s what I affectionally called him.
I grinned at those memories as I continued digging Baylor’s grave, the sweet words of our dog-loving friends echoing in my ears. As I tenderly placed the box containing Baylor’s ashes in the grave, it felt like Dr. Ballard, Mr. Mills, Judy, and all our children were there with Lori and me.
“Baylor would have been sitting right about there where you’re digging, resting there in the grass while you worked in your garden,” Lori observed.
“And he would have been a step ahead of us if I tried to catch him,” I remarked as we placed his ashes in the grave, praying aloud, “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection to eternal life.”
Back inside, away from the cold wind, I poured myself a cup of coffee in a mug Lori had given me for Christmas. “Can’t catch me!” the mug said, with an image of the Ginger Bread Man on the cup’s other side. “Appropriate not just for me but for Baylor, too,” I grinned. “He was always running ahead of us.” We both smiled in agreement.
While I don’t believe Baylor has a soul that will be in heaven (it’s okay if you disagree with me), the Scriptures do indicate that there will be animals of all kinds, including dogs, I suppose, in heaven, in the resurrection of the life which is to come.
And so, if I hear a dog barking at me, teasing me to give chase, and then racing away as soon as I step in his direction, I’ll know God had Baylor on his mind when he created that scurrying celestial canine.
And then I’ll take off, running after him.
The late Peter McWillians’ seems to have had it right when he said: “The news media are, for the most part, the bringers of bad news… and it’s not entirely the media’s fault, bad news gets higher ratings and sells more papers than good news.”
It’s sad but true.
The prophets of foreboding are now perched on their fence lines of doom, warning us to tiptoe into the New Year, urging us to creep into hovels for our safety, for indeed the sky is falling: “Watch for the worldwide slowdown in the economy to accelerate into a depression, more catastrophic than ever imagined.” “Look for a prolonged shut-down of the government this year.” “Social Security will collapse sooner than anyone thought.” “Another pandemic is about to erupt with Mt. Vesuvius effects.”
Wait a minute. Instead of getting sucked into the vortex of ominous predictions, why not turn a listening ear to the possibility of good news this year?
I stare at my complimentary 2023 Norman Rockwell calendar, compliments of my favorite financial planner, my son at Edward Jones. And I wonder, “What happened to that world? Was it ever really there?”
But if you go back and read the newspapers in Rockwell’s day, you will find bad news there, too, for bad news is generational. It’s just that Rockwell, whether you consider him an artist or merely an illustrator, had a knack for taking everyday life scenarios and depicting them on canvas. I am no art critic. Yet even I know that any successful artist must be able to see what others miss. Somehow those seemingly ordinary events were captured by Rockwell’s eye and depicted in a homespun, attractive way.
This year, why not see through the bad news that will always be there and instead try painting some good on the canvas of your soul? Why not declare yourself an artist of sorts, one with an eye for the good and hopeful?
Just how does that happen?
A seventeenth-century French Jesuit priest named Jean-Pierre de Caussade gives us a clue. As far as I know, he never painted a picture, but he was a craftsman specializing in soul care. De Caussade was appointed the spiritual director of a Jesuit retreat house where he undertook the spiritual development of the nuns. They wrote down what he taught them; years later, those notes were published as a book, The Sacrament of the Present Moment.(If you teach, it’s frightening to think your legacy could lie in the notes your students take.)
De Caussade taught that God speaks to every individual through what happens moment by moment.
How is this done? De Caussade said that “the only condition necessary for this state of self-surrender is the present moment in which the soul, light as a feather, fluid as water, innocent as a child, responds to every movement of grace like a floating balloon.”
Why not try it, starting this New Year? Live each day in the present moment, mindful of the Lord’s good intentions for you, willing to obey Him, and thereby seeing through the obvious bad to the possible good.
“Ok, fine,” you skeptically acquiesce. “But what about the bad moments we will inevitably encounter this year?”
De Caussade was well aware of that, too. He points to Mary, the mother of Jesus, as the example of how to apprehend the presence of God even in ugly circumstances, for what could be worse, he maintained, than watching your son being crucified while the world laughed at him? We don’t deny the pain but “leave the past to the infinite mercy of God, the future to His good Providence…” and “give the present wholly to His love by being faithful to His grace.”
From the stable to Calvary, from Advent and Christmas to Lent and Easter, and all the ordinary times beyond, it may not always be easy to find Him. Still, the artist in you can see through, even getting better at sensing His presence and painting the picture in your life. After all, His love is finding you.
And that’s good news for every day of 2023.
“It feels like a dark cloud is hovering over me,” a friend commented. She recognized she was suffering from depression and wisely sought help.
A few days later, someone else said, “I’ve been struggling, stuck in a dark place.” She, too, found a therapist.
Another friend said with a milder form of depression commented, “This time of year is difficult. The dark clouds, cold weather, the season—it gets me.”
I wondered, is depression “on the move,” like the flu or COVID?
Nearly 10% of Americans suffer from depression, with the mood disorder increasing fastest among teens and young adults, according to a recent study. Another study concludes that nearly 18% of Americans will suffer from an anxiety disorder “in any given year.”
And the time of “any given year” when depression and anxiety disorders seem to spike is the holidays. For years doctors have documented the increased rates of depression during the holidays.
It’s not difficult to see why. Responsibilities increase. Sometimes it’s from work or year-end demands. Or it could be the situation at home: the arrival of guests, the consequent adjustment in schedules, cleaning the house, extra baking and cooking, and the increase in expenses for entertaining. Then there is the anxiety that accompanies traveling to see relatives for Christmas. And I haven’t even mentioned budgeting for Christmas gifts. Hovering above it all are the memories associated with the holidays, prompting a complex vortex of emotions.
It can be overwhelming. A sense of foreboding, even dread, prevails. It’s no wonder that between late November and mid-January, people frequently feel depressed and anxious.
What to do? How to cope?
Sometimes an effective acrostic can be a place to start, although it’s not permanent solution and certainly not a panacea for more severe depression. However, the word “ACT” reminds me that I am not a victim; I can do something about how I may feel this time of year.
A is for attitude. My thoughts do affect my behavior as well as my feelings. What I dwell on affects how I feel, and how I feel affects how I behave. People can work themselves into a state of anxiety, even mild depression, by overthinking and anticipating the worst in a situation. As I visualize the negative, I experience it as if it happened. But the opposite can also be true: I can picture the positive and the good that is possible.
C can stand for confide. Confide in someone you trust. We all have negative feelings; none of us are perfect. Confiding in the right person about how you are feeling can help you process and redirect your emotions more fruitfully. Being honest with yourself empowers you to confront the problem. Name it to tame it.
T is for thanks. If I can cultivate a thankful attitude in advance of the situation, I can move outside myself. How can I be someone for whom someone else is grateful? The less I focus on myself, the better my emotions tend to be. The more I work on cultivating an attitude of gratitude, the more optimistic I become. As Michael J. Fox said, “With gratitude, optimism becomes sustainable.” It’s true. By anticipating moments of gratitude, I infuse myself with positivity.
Getting through seasons of depression requires more than simply repeating an acrostic. People are wise to seek professional help. But perhaps my little acrostic might at least be a place.
The night air must have been chilly as the shepherds tended their flocks on that first Christmas. Once again, they had to work late. Who would care for and protect their flocks? But the shepherds went anyway, and the Scriptures indicate that at the birth of Jesus, they glorified and praised God (Luke 2:20). They had to start where they were and head in the right direction.
And so can we.
The Christmas tree lights invite me to sit down and enjoy a cup of hot tea.
Or so it seemed as I was traveling alone to my night class. That’s when I saw it: the family had positioned the Christmas tree front and center in the picture window. The curtains had been pulled back, showcasing the tree—decked out with tinsel, aglow with red, green, and white lights. Maybe it was because it looked like a 1960s house, reminiscent of my boyhood home, that I thought of Mom and how she would keep the fireplace burning this time of year, warming us as we stood close to it. Our eyes would shift from the tree’s lights to the presents nestled beneath it, anticipating the day we could open them.
My fond attraction to the 1960s house led me to look for it again the following week. Not finding it, I looked closer, slowing down on my return later that night. For the next two weeks, I searched for the house with its lighted Christmas tree. Peering along the road, coming and going, I tried unsuccessfully to find it.
Had they closed their curtains, deciding to keep Christmas to themselves? But why decorate a tree with lights, and place it in front of a window, only to close the curtains? Had something happened to the family, perhaps an emergency, causing them to leave? Was it my imagination and longing for Christmases past that summoned my search for that Norman Rockwellian Christmas scene?
Or had the lights of Christmas gone out?
The lights of Christmas can go out. They can flicker, then grow dim, and eventually die. It can be a slow death, sometimes taking years, or it can happen quite suddenly, between the beginning and middle of one Christmas season or even between Christmas Eve and Christmas morning. You might find yourself standing in a dry place, alone, surrounded by darkness. And you don’t have it in you to celebrate Christmas anymore. You hear yourself saying, “What’s the point in trying to pretend?”
And the lights of Christmas cease shining for you.
Deaths—recent and past—can do it. Christmas can be a most lonely time of the year for those grieving the loss of loved ones. The empty chair (or chairs) at Christmas dinner is a stark reminder that someone is absent. And the pain can be too much to bear.
The lights can go out when loved ones can’t be there, maybe because of distance or because they no longer desire to come. Either way, it’s not the same without them, and you feel alone.
The death of Christ can darken Christmas. I don’t mean his death on the cross. Though he lives, Christ can die in your heart. The belief in him, who he is, and what he has done: his birth, life, death, and resurrection may seem like a fairy tale to you. Or at least it no longer matters to you. Maybe the halo shining around the Christ child in the manger ceased glowing long ago for you. No one has to tell you that the darkness in the manger reflects the night in your heart.
But then it happens: something reminds you of Christ’s love. Someone who has hurt you calls, “I’m sorry,” they say. And you say, “Me too. I love you.” And the lights come back. Or perhaps a student writes, “Thank you for showing me the way.” And a light shines. Or a child says, “Thank you for loving me when I acted like I didn’t love you.” And your heart warms. It could be the doctor calling you. “She’s going to make it,” she says. And the light dispels the darkness. Christ’s light shines even when the darkness would prefer to suppress it.
My eyes grew large as I exited the highway close to my home. I didn’t recognize this house though I’d seen it many times before. They must have put up their Christmas lights only a few hours ago. At 10 p.m., it seemed like a lighthouse, a beacon guiding sailors adrift on darkened waters back home.
Yes, the Christmas lights had come back on.
If only for me.
One of America’s most significant poets, Emily Dickinson, knew a thing or two about words, even though she had no formal education. In a short poem, penned in a letter to her cousin, she capsulized the power of words:
“A word is dead when it is said
Some say –
I say it just begins to live
That day.”
It makes me ask, “How are my words living today?”
American singer and songwriter Amy Grant certainly knows the power of words. She’s spent much of her life singing the words she’s written. Amy talks about how her father, a respected radiology oncologist, trained at M.D. Anderson Cancer Center—taught her about the power of words. Maybe it was when she was a young mother, or perhaps it was in the midst of his struggle with dementia that in a moment of clarity, he held up his hand and gave her the visual for words.
“Hold up your five fingers,” he said. “Do you know the most important five words you can say?”
“No,” she nodded.
Holding up his thumb, he said in his southern drawl: “How can I help you?”
So simple, I thought as I listened to her tell the story. But how often do I use those words? Am I so self-focused that I forget? Do I not ask because I’m afraid they might tell me? It prompted me to pause and reflect.
“Put your thumb down,” he went on. “Now, what are the four most important words?
Again, she didn’t know the answer.
“Here they are,” he said. “’I’m proud of you.’ Say to your son, ‘I’m proud of you.’ Let him know.”
I thought of a time my dad spoke those words to me. We were walking down Nassau Street in Princeton, N.J., shortly after I’d graduated from Princeton Seminary. We were browsing in an old bookstore. Dad noticed me admiring a set of books, The Encyclopedia of Philosophy. The next thing I knew, he had paid for them. “I’m proud of you,” he said, handing them to me. I still have those books today. Much more valuable than the books themselves is the memory that accompanies them, my dad saying: “I’m proud of you.” Those books occupy a place on my bookshelves today, though I can get most of the information in them online. They remind me of when my dad said he was proud of me. Think of the power those four words carry.
Then Amy’s dad held up three fingers. This time she had it, “I love you.” Yes, we do love others, especially those closest to us. But do we say those words with meaning?
The Book of Proverbs states the startling truth: “Better is an open rebuke than hidden love” (Proverbs 27:5). Look a loved one in the eyes, say the words, “I love you,” and mean it.
Amy guessed the next two words as her father held up two fingers: “Thank you.” Now, that’s easy to say, but we often forget to tell those closest to us. I’ll thank a server at a restaurant and forget to thank someone near and dear to my heart.
Only one finger was left. Amy tried but couldn’t guess what that last word would be. “We,” her dad told her, “We.” It’s true: all these words involve more than one person, don’t they? The good news is we are not alone. We may feel alone, but someone, somewhere, cares. We can help friends and family get through life’s big and small obstacles.
Now, back to Emily Dickinson. Something of a mystery, Dickinson was incredibly reclusive. Today, students write doctoral dissertations about her. She is one of the most widely read poets, though she died in 1886. Yet only ten of her poems were published in her lifetime.
It should remind us that we can have a positive influence that survives beyond our lifetime. And though we may never publish our words, they can live on, through others.
And to remind you of that, hold up your hand and repeat Dr. Grant’s five most powerful phrases to yourself. Then go and share them with someone.
Lori and I have been stuck in traffic for 15 minutes, snailing along, inch by inch. I could ride a tricycle faster than this. My google maps told me this route was three minutes quicker than the one I had planned to take. Three minutes quicker turned into 30 minutes longer.
Waiting isn’t easy for me. On occasion, when I’ve been pressed for time, I’ve careened down the grocery store aisles, swooshing by those slow pokes ogling canned goods and examining box labels. Lord have mercy on the ones who stop in the middle of the aisle to double-check their shopping list. My impulse is to grab their list and start finding the items myself, tossing boxes and cans in their shopping cart as I scoot them out of my way. When I’ve got all my groceries, I bolt out of the aisle, hanging onto the shopping cart handle as my cart I and careen toward the checkout. While waiting in line, I tap my foot, resisting the temptation to unload the shopping cart of the person in front of me or, even worse: swipe their credit card for them to facilitate the process. “Just do it,” I want to say, “Unload your cart, swipe your card, move along.”
I worry about what I will do when I retire, and I’m sitting in the pew, waiting for the preacher to get on with the sermon’s point. Oh, dear me, what will I do? Take off my eyeglasses and start massaging my face with my hand, like my dad used to do when the preacher droned on and on?
Maybe I should take a lesson from the faithful Jewish people who waited and waited and waited for the Messiah. “I will wait for the Lord who is hiding His face from the house of Jacob; I will even look eagerly for Him,” said the prophet Isaiah (Isaiah 8:17).
And finally, it happened: “The people dwelling in darkness have seen a great light, and for those dwelling in the region and shadow of death, on them a light has dawned” (Matthew 4:16).
This time of year, Advent, is all about God teaching us hurried ones to slow down and experience the joy of waiting. Waiting reminds me that I am not in control, neither of the person idling in the grocery aisle, the traffic jam, or the visitation of my Lord. It humbles me because I must slow down if I’m going to experience joy in others or the blessing of God’s presence. Waiting teaches me to feel my breath, for that breath delivers each present moment, a gift hidden within the molecules we call oxygen. Each moment is one of many moments, accumulating into the span of time that constitutes a life. Waiting reminds me that I’m not in charge of this event, this show I call my life. I must trust the God of the eternal now for each moment as God gifts me with it. And so, I slow down, breathing in and out, in and out: the very breath of life.
I wait as I learn, and learn as I wait. In the process, God is teaching me how to live.
Now, as for that imaginary preacher I may one day hear dawdling through the sermon, well: please be patient if you see me tapping my feet while rubbing my face with my hands.
A friend of mine was trying to tell me how to pray for my wife. “Tell her Satan has no claim on her life,” he emphasized. “Go home, stand on the Word of God, and pray for her healing.” Seeing my raised eyebrows, he explained: “Take a Bible, put it on the floor. Stand on that … Read more "Standing on God’s Word"
There is a moment, just before surgery, when a pastor can pray with a parishioner. I have no idea how many times, easily hundreds, when I’ve stood next to someone right before they underwent surgery. There is something about that moment just before the anesthesiologist administers the “happy medicine” and the attendants wheel the patient to … Read more "Just Pray"
It’s an age-old aphorism: “Things are usually not as bad as they seem or as good as they appear.” In reality, we live most of our lives between the utterly miserable and the indescribably perfect. We get shocked and thrown into a tailspin, but then we regroup, maneuvering through the crags along life’s slippery slopes, … Read more "Together We Are Better"
Hearing the word evokes fear. Even pronouncing it carries sinister undertones. The nasty little word has an eerie echo, evoking the image of a snake slithering across the jungle floor, forked tongue probing for prey. Cancer. Repeat it slowly, “cancer, cancer, cancer,” and it grows louder with every repetition, even if you only whisper it. … Read more "Not The Doctor’s Call You Want"
Sweet quotes about a new baby abound: “A baby is God’s opinion that the world should go on” (Unknown). “Every child begins the world again” (Henry David Thoreau). “Babies smile in their sleep because they’re listening to the whispering of angels” (Unknown). “Sometimes the littlest things take up the most room in your heart” (Winnie … Read more "Life’s Disappointments"
With my dogs pulling me on their leashes like we were an Iditarod sled team, we rounded the street corner towards the house. That’s when the car’s headlights almost blinded me in the early morning darkness. Not recognizing the vehicle, I assumed the driver to be an interloper in our neighborhood. Whomever it was, they … Read more "A Look in the Mirror"
It’s been called The Devil’s Hour, 3 a.m., supposedly a mocking inversion of the hour Jesus died: 3 p.m. I have my doubts: would that be 3 a.m. Jerusalem time, which would be 8 p.m. my time? 8 p.m. doesn’t carry the mystique for devil-doings like 3 a.m. What I do know is that I … Read more "3 a.m."
We caught the early morning flight, 6:15, out of Lincoln, Nebraska. As our plane ascended, enveloped in the darkness, most passengers were sleeping with their window shades pulled down, ignoring the stewardess’s memorized flight instructions. The cabin lights were off. All was hushed. I tried closing my eyes and dozing like everyone else. No success. … Read more "Let The Sunshine In"
If your goodbye wave pulls on your heartstrings, it’s likely because someone you love is leaving. The feeling is reminiscent of Shakespeare’s famed line, “Parting is such sweet sorrow.” I’m not sure when I started the little ritual. Whenever the kids, now grown, leave, I follow them out the door, waving goodbye as they drive … Read more "Remember Jesus Most of All"
We had just sat down for dinner on a beach in Destin, Florida. Lori and I were guests of our son, a financial advisor with Edward Jones Investments, and his wife, Kayla. It was a gala event, a gorgeous setting: the evening sun’s soft glow was about to disappear below the water; the tables had … Read more "When Birds Spot You"
Consciously trying to walk across the room as softly as a monk on his way to Vigils, I quietly unlock the back door and tiptoe outside, careful not to make a noise that would awaken Lori or our ever-sleeping dogs. The stars at 4:30 a.m. glimmer, greeting me as if to say, “Finally, we thought … Read more "Picture-Perfect"
A few days before graduating, several of us who had journeyed together on the road to our Ph.D.’s sat drinking coffee, reflecting on our future. Where might we teach? Where would we pastor? One commented that whichever work she and her husband took, she would go to stay. “I’m a stayer,” she declared. In my … Read more "On Being a Stayer"
“Sorry to hear that COVID caught up with you!” a friend texted me. He didn’t know, but this was the second go-round for me. Lori contracted it, probably on our return from our vacation, and passed it along to me. We both have had our vaccines and boosters, and I was confident I would resist … Read more "Oops, I Got It Again"
I had Michelangelo on my mind as I marched to my garden, spade in one hand, a hoe in the other, determined to clear the weeds. The week before our vacation had been a busy one: working fast and furious to get projects done so I wouldn’t be swamped when we returned, getting packed, and … Read more "Michelangelo’s garden"
As the political divide the nightly news both reports and foments continues to gash the fabric of our culture, churches—long the safe places of healing and security—struggle to forge a peaceful path forward. Who is “in” and who is “out” in the fellowship at your church? When does one’s position on a political issue, for … Read more "Welcome to the Table"
Spending a week at summer church camp was something of a rite of passage for the boys in my family, of which I was the youngest. “You gotta go to church camp,” Mark told me when I initially resisted the idea of a week at the Baptist encampment nestled in the Quartz Mountains of southwestern … Read more "Just As I Am"
We humans need reminders that we are not, after all, the center of the universe. That’s why I try repeating all 14 verses of Psalm 19 by memory most every morning. The act of memorizing forces me to slow down and meditate on the words, which is necessary for me, lest I forget and fall … Read more "Looking to the Heavens"
We bumped into each other at the coffee pot, both reaching for the same Styrofoam cup. I yielded, deferring to his seniority. “You don’t know who I am, do you?” This can be a dangerous question. It can mean I’ve either met the person and forgotten who he/she is, or this is a person whom … Read more "God of the Coincidences"
I’ve got to have a Bible, so I can learn more about Jesus,” our five-year-old granddaughter insisted. She was speaking to her Gigi (Lori) and her Great Aunt Lisa, Lori’s sister, visiting us from Oklahoma. They were going to church together on Sunday, and Emmie insisted on carrying a Bible. After all, it wouldn’t do for … Read more "Do You Know Patience?"
In the summer heat, when I feel like snoozing under the air conditioner for a siesta— baseball—like an umpire, nudges me in the ribs and whispers, “You better wake up, or you’ll miss it.” Miss what? The stuff of life that matters, that’s what: the essential things that so easily slip through your fingers, the … Read more "Joie de vivre"
Walking downstairs from my study to get a cup of coffee, I overheard Hoda Kotb on the NBC News morning show interviewing someone about walking. The gist of the interview was that walking is a simple exercise you can fit into almost any time or place. “Some people tell me they only have thirty minutes … Read more "Sometimes a Getaway is Necessary"
Standing in the hall outside the patient’s room at the long-term care facility, I heard her pleading: “Could someone help?” “Can I get someone for you?” I asked, poking my head in her door. “Oh yes, thank you,” she said before looking at me, as if my voice itself were that of an angel. I returned … Read more "Questions to Ponder"
Like ancient Greeks at the Oracle of Delphi, many people wait, anticipating something prophetic from their loved one’s last words. Maybe it’s a revelation into the eternal, a release from guilt, or the secret to peace from life’s fray that people hope to hear. On rare occasions, it happens, as it did for those gathered … Read more "Last Words"
“Lament: /ləˈment/ a passionate expression of grief or sorrow.” —dictionary.com “Isn’t it horrible,” two residents chime in unison at the long-term care facility where I make a pastoral visit. They point to the television, tuned to the news of the Texas school massacre. I had stepped into their room after walking down the hall, having prayed with … Read more "Death’s Lament"
We plan for lunch meetings with colleagues, appointments with physicians, getaways with loved ones, and portfolio reviews with financial advisors. But the exact date of our exit plan from this place is still a mystery that eludes us. Unless death pounces suddenly—as it sometimes does, like a panther catching its prey—we might see it coming, … Read more "Sunset in Kansas"
As my brother struggles to speak, I listen closely, trying to understand his words without requiring him to expend his energy repeating them. Lowell has been at M.D. Anderson Cancer Center for over a week now. His nineteen-year battle, first with lymphoma and now with advanced Merkle cell carcinoma, has ended here. The white flag … Read more "I’ll See You in Kansas"
PopPop, are all those people up there Christians?” Eli asked me, tugging on my shirt sleeve, pointing to the performers on stage. Lori, our grandson, Eli, and I were at a concert featuring the popular Christian musical artists, We the Kingdom and Casting Crowns, watching them with thousands of others at a packed Yum Center … Read more "How We Know if They Are Christians"
I think I may be addicted to Alexa. Sometimes, I talk to her early in the morning, even before greeting my lovely wife. Still rubbing my eyes as I awake, I ask Alexa, “What’s a good way to greet my wife this morning?” Alexa has the perfect words for me to say to Lori: “Good … Read more "Alexa for Mother’s Day?"
If we aren’t intentional, we’ll let the fear of the destination ruin the joy of the journey. We miss out on the wonderful life stretching before us. My two Schnauzers were shaking and panting uncontrollably in the back seat of my car like they always do when I take them anywhere. This time, we were … Read more "What a Wonderful Life"
I heard about a town in western Oklahoma that had a community-wide Easter pageant. It so happened that the character chosen to play Jesus had been miscast; he was more suited for the part of a Roman soldier. This man, a roughneck, a seasoned oil field worker, was known for an occasional barroom brawl. With … Read more "What Happens After The Resurrection?"
I’ve always liked the cartoon depicting the man who shows up at church only once a year on Easter Sunday. Exiting the church at the close of the service, the man grabs the preacher’s hand and complains, “Every time I come to church, you always preach on the same topic.” As thousands make their way … Read more "Easter: ho-hum or ta-da?"
Every day I have access to the latest breaking news: from inflation (which impacts my pocketbook) to the events in Ukraine (which nourishes fears of a third world war, one that could go nuclear) to the fallout from “the slap that was heard around the world.” News alerts show up on my phone, providing access … Read more "The Best Way to Read the News"
It was the first week the students at Campbellsville University were not required to wear masks, the surge from the delta and omicron variants having subsided. As usual, I was the first person in the classroom that day, and a student I didn’t recognize had also arrived early. She was sitting where one of my … Read more "Unmasked"
I asked Lori to rewind a portion of the evening news, which we had been faithfully watching each evening, keeping abreast of the latest developments in Ukraine. “Did he say that?” I incredulously asked. “Let’s hear that again.” Sure enough, I had heard it correctly. At a rally in Moscow, Russian President Vladimir Putin cited … Read more "Mr. Putin Goes To Scripture"
“My mother reads your column every week,” the gentleman said as he accompanied his mom through the line at the funeral visitation. She immediately added, “I read every word,” and before I could respond to her, she warned, “so be careful what you write.” We both chuckled, but what wise words, not just for me, … Read more "Be Careful What You Write"
Whether a surprise visit is good or bad depends on the kind of people who show up at your doorstep, I’m convinced. Sometimes it’s not good, like when Ernest T. Bass, the comical but annoying mountain ruffian, shows up to disrupt the sleepy town of Mayberry, once again. Andy warily acknowledges Ernest T.’s arrival, and … Read more "Surprise Visits"
I thought I saw an opening at the car wash on my way home. I’d been eyeing the lines for several days, waiting for the onslaught of clean car devotees to subside. I’m far from an automobile neat-freak, but the recent snows, ice, and rain had left its nasty residue on my once white vehicle.
Pulling in, I was mistaken about the lines. The opening was for the older drive—through. The newer, and of course, better one, was at least five cars deep. Impulsively, I opted for the older one.
I swiped my card for the $8 special: nothing. I swiped it again: nothing. And again, and again and again. Nothing, nothing, nothing.
Seeing a couple of employees, I waved.
“We don’t work for the car wash. We just do repairs,” the younger man informed me as he sauntered over to me. Still, I explained my plight. “I think my boss can help,” he said, passing on my persistence to his superior.
“Swipe your card again,” the next man instructed me. I did: nothing. After several repeated tries with no results, he called someone else and told the next guy the problem. By now, the cars in the other line were moving along quite efficiently.
“With all these men on it, we’re getting somewhere,” I thought. “The main guy will surely know something.” But the longer I waited, the less optimistic I became. I started channeling George Costanza: “Surely I’ll get a free car wash for all my trouble.”
With phone in hand and no results, the maintenance person finally looked at me: “He doesn’t know, either.”
“I hope it hasn’t been charging me for every time I’ve swiped my card, ” I told him. I could imagine my wife asking, “What’s this $250 car wash charge?”
All I could do was take a picture of the customer service number on my cell and hope for the best. By then, I had waited longer than if I had gotten in line for the newer car wash.
Driving home, I shook my head at myself.
There are no shortcuts to cleanliness.
My Bible reading earlier that morning had been from the Old Testament. God was giving instructions to Moses about the tabernacle. Chapter after chapter delineates the outlay of the place where the people were to meet with God to cleanse their sin. God gave ornate and detailed instructions, from the ark of the covenant, to construction of the mercy seat, the altar for the burnt offering, the clothing for the priests, and even the curtains in the tabernacle. And I hadn’t even gotten to the Scripture about how they were to present the actual sacrifices themselves.
I’m grateful I don’t have to build an altar or find a priest to receive God’s cleansing grace. I awake every morning and thank Him, “Great is your faithfulness.” But I do have to think about it. It’s not enough to wave my hand at God, “I didn’t mean to,” unless I am genuinely sorry and want to come home to my heavenly Father, on his terms. It’s easy for me because it was enormously difficult for God, for Him to come to us in the Son, Jesus Christ, demonstrating his love on the cross.
I need a cleansing more than my dirty car. But ducking into the short lane, opting for the cheaper wash, or even hoping for a free one, going about it on my terms, would make a mockery of what God did for me.
In a now-famous quote on grace, German theologian and pastor, and anti-Nazi dissident Dietrich Bonhoeffer, who was executed at Flossenburg concentration camp in1945, put it like this: “Cheap grace is the grace we bestow on ourselves. Cheap grace is the preaching of forgiveness without requiring repentance, baptism without church discipline, Communion without confession…Cheap grace is grace without discipleship, grace without the cross, grace without Jesus Christ, living and incarnate.”
If my car could have honked its horn to thank me, I’m sure it would have done just that the next day, when I drove away from the car wash, all spick-and-span. But I had not taken the shortcut; I had humbly gone through the process on the car wash’s terms.
And I was all the better for it.
My daughter, Madi, attached a smiling face emoji next to her text message: “Your phone is full of the backyard.” My other daughter commented, perhaps trying to humor me, “Wow, beautiful pic of the sunrise.” My wife added to the group text, “We can never move. He loves his backyard views.”
They were responding to another group text with pictures and video clips of my backyard, a string of images where I’m trying to capture the rising sun as it bursts forth on the horizon. I will send them pics of the setting sun, too. And the night sky: all from my backyard.
Some people complain about the early morning chill in the winter or the warm evening breeze in the spring or summer. But I’ll take them both. I’m blessed to be able to step outside and welcome the sun’s announcement of a new day and hours later, watch it sign off as the curtain falls on the eastern horizon.
Mainly, I send the morning shots since it’s the crème de la crème of my day. I’m not sure why I do it: it’s as if I can somehow catch that moment and crystallize it, like I can bundle it up and share my joy through my phone.
And I listen too, not just to the birds and crickets, the wind and the rain. I will tell you this if you won’t tell anyone: I’ve stood out there in the wind and rain at that hour. And I believe it’s perfectly fine to do that, on occasion and not for long. But a little warning: should you do such a thing, don’t tell anyone who doesn’t know you well, especially when you’re shopping at the grocery store. The distinct possibility exists that they will raise their eyebrows, squinch their face, and before you can finish what you’re saying, they will have ducked into the next aisle, leaving you standing alone, talking to yourself in the peanut butter and jelly section.
Strange (should I be surprised?), it’s in those moments, with the wind and the rain or snow or sleet, that God whispers his love, reminding me that he doesn’t change, though the weather does in a snap. From the rising sun to its setting, the fickle weather reminds me I’m not in control of the day. I’m not God. God had to remind Job of that in his moment of confusion: “Have you commanded the morning since your days began, and caused the dawn to know its place” (Job 38:12).
All I can do is greet it. David did that with music: “Awake, my glory! Awake, O harp and lyre! I will awake the dawn!” (Psalm 57:8). I leave the music to myself (My neighbors appreciate that), but I love to be there, witnessing the Lord awakening the dawn.
On those occasions, when I awake at 3 or 4 in the morning, I step outside, usually while my coffee is brewing. I’m not crazy enough to stand there in the cold mist, but I do look to the night sky when it’s clear. Where I live, I can usually get a spectacular view of the stars. My brother-in-law showed me an app where I can see the names of the stars and constellations with them, and sometimes I can figure that out, but mostly I gaze into the heavens and ponder. And most always, Psalm 19:1 comes to my mind: “The heavens declare the glory of God. /The skies display his craftsmanship.”
And I thank the Lord for the sky, and the morning hour, and for my eyes to see it. Although my phone can’t capture the luminary’s brilliance, I take a picture anyway, and later, I’ll look at it and ponder the moment I pondered earlier, for it points to the miracle of another morning, not just out there, but in my soul.
But one thing I’ve learned NOT to do at that early hour: send that group text then, awakening all my family at 4 a.m.
“Make sure you text me and let me know you made it there safe,” Lori told me. The frigid air was my uninvited companion as I quickly closed my car door and turned up the heater. Driving away, I pulled down the visor to shield the setting sun. I love teaching my night class, but the comfy couch seemed more inviting than traveling alone on a freezing night. And I knew I wouldn’t get back home till close to 10 p.m. The longer I drove, the more I felt like the truck driver at the 14-hour limit.
Then I turned Sirius XM to one of my favorite channels and heard Gregg Alexander, lead singer for the rock band, The New Radicals, singing, “But when the night is falling/You cannot find the light/You feel your dreams are dying/Hold tight/You’ve got the music in you.”
In an instant, I had time-traveled to another day, years ago, when I was mentally exhausted and emotionally drained, alone, and on the brink of quitting. Back then, that song was a catalyst, reviving my spirits and spurring me forward. Hearing it again on my way to teach recharged me. At once, my commute turned joyous; I was anxious to see my students. All because of a song.
It’s happened to me before. You’ve experienced it too. You hear a song from years ago, and suddenly you are there, in that place, perhaps with that person, feeling emotions associated with that memory.
How does a song do that to us?
It all has to do with our brain and memory, of course.
Psychologists distinguish two kinds of memory: explicit and implicit. Explicit memory is something you choose to remember, like the lesson I would teach on theology that night. The material will be on a test at some point, and students will have the joy of recalling what they’ve learned. That’s explicit memory.
Implicit memory is unconscious and automatic. It’s ingrained in the sense that it comes back to you without your thinking about it, like riding a bicycle years after you’ve been on one. Psychologists say implicit memories last longer.
We experience an emotion that is in some way connected with a song. Maybe it was that high school dance when you were all goo-goo crazy for that person. Now, every time you hear the song playing, you get goose-bumpy again.
We tend to remember songs from our teenage years and twenties more than we do later in life. Psychologists have called it the “reminiscence bump.” It makes sense: our teen years and early twenties are punctuated by emotionally significant events, like the thrill of first love and the pain of rejection, the exhilaration of finding independence, and the disappointment of knowing a painful failure. Song association with memories happens in later adult years, too. They’re just more frequent in those earlier years. Studies have found that familiar music activates regions of the brain linked to autobiographical memories. So, we hear that song years later, and we are back there again.
What’s fascinating is that people who have Alzheimer’s or some brain injuries often have healthy implicit memory systems compared to the explicit memories that have been damaged. It explains why your loved one with dementia can sing those childhood church hymns when they can remember little else.
Professor Petri Toiviainen from the University of Jyväskylä in Finland has found that listening to music ignites the auditory areas of the brain, but it also employs large-scale neural networks. Janata’s work also indicates that autobiographical memories linked to music seem to be spared in people with Alzheimer’s disease. One of his long-term goals is to use this research to help develop music-based therapy for people with the disease. Let’s hope he’s successful.
I turned the sound down as I pulled into the parking lot. Gregg Alexander was closing with words that could be an aphorism for our life experience: “Don’t give up/Can’t forget/Don’t let go.”
And so it was, and so it is: for me that night, and for others, especially those less fortunate ones, holding to the string of a memory, dangling on the notes of a song.
We may come close to approximating our ideal or perfect day, but rarely if ever, do we get to live it. Even if we could have it, we would inevitably try and repeat it. And if realized, it would become a routine, ordinary day, spiraling into plain vanilla. Then, we would fantasize about a different perfect day: a mythical day where we pause, look to the heavens, and proclaim, “I love this day.”
But, while perfection may be beyond our grasp, we can still love this day, the one we have.
The recent string of snowy weather, plus the uptick of Covid, meant my granddaughter, Emersyn (Emmie), missed several days of her kindergarten classes. My wife, Emmie’s “Gigi,” kindly pitched in, filling the gaps for Emersyn’s extra hours at home. On one of those occasions, I substituted for Gigi when she had an appointment.
“What should I do with Emmie?” I wondered.
Emmie decided for me.
“PopPop,” her voicemail said early that morning, “we’re going shaawping,” sing-songing her pronunciation of shopping, thereby propelling it into the stratosphere of highest expectations.
“This is a big deal to her,” I thought.
Baby doll clothes and selective items for arts and crafts topped her shopping list. So, off we went. I pushed the cart, trying to keep pace with Emmie while she sashayed up one aisle and down another. She paused only long enough to say, “Let’s see, I need that,” and “Oh yes, I need that too,” tossing each item in the cart as she marched through the store. Not everything in Dollar Tree is a dollar anymore, which I learned upon checkout, where our little spree topped out at $25.76.
“Oh well,” I thought, as we exited, our items poking out of our shopping bags. An older gentleman was grinning at us, as if to say to me, “I’ve been there, son.”
“PopPop, I didn’t find the baby doll clothes I wanted,” Emmie informed me as we drove away from Dollar Tree. She suggested Family Dollar. Obviously, the child was more familiar with these shopping establishments than I was, so I agreed, and off we drove to our next destination.
Unable to find our baby doll clothes at Family Dollar, she asked to have a glittery ball. “Of course, get two of them,” I said, thinking I had enough pocket change to pay for two balls.
“$22.26 for two balls?” I looked incredulously at the checkout lady.
“Those are lol balls, $11 apiece,” she informed me. “They’re ‘the thing’ now.”
I peered down at Emmie as we walked out, balls in the bag. Without a word of defense, she raised her eyebrows while shrugging her shoulders as if to say, “Don’t blame me for your ignorance, PopPop.”
“We still haven’t found the baby doll clothes I was hoping for, PopPop,” she told me as we got in the car.
She wasn’t whining, but just one look at her sad face in my rearview mirror, and we were in the baby clothes section at Wal-Mart.
“Let’s try to find clothes on clearance,” I suggested, steering her to the sale-item section, when a friendly employee, trying to be helpful, redirected us to the more attractive infant items, not on sale, of course. Before I could turn my head, Emmie was displaying the perfect ensemble for her baby doll.
Emmie was bargaining with me for a second item when her internal lunch alarm saved me: “PopPop, I’ve got to eat. I’m starving.”
Several lunch items later, we were checking out.
“Emmie, I’m going to get in trouble with Gigi when she sees all I’ve bought for you.”
“I love getting you in trouble, PopPop,” she giggled.
“Of course, you do,” I laughed as we got out of the car, back home.
I watched from the other side of the room as Emmie bragged about her items, lifting each one out of the bag so Gigi could eye them one at a time. When Emmie had finished her display, I heard her exclaim, “I love this day.”
And looking back, I did too, Emmie. Even though I wouldn’t have envisioned it as my iconic, ideal day earlier that morning, it was, in fact, the perfect day.
Because, after all, you loved it.
“Where ya from?” I find myself asking that whenever I talk with people I don’t know. On the opening day of the classes I teach, I naturally ask it as I take attendance for the first time, “Where ya from?” One student is from London, England, another from the Congo, another from Cincinnati. A few are Marion County, Kentucky, where I live. The question is a way of getting acquainted with students. They are real people with their own stories, just like me.
When I visit my daughter in New York City, she winces when I ask that question to a taxi or Uber driver or server at a restaurant. “Da-ed,” she will say, drawing out my name in a hushed tone, letting me you just don’t do that in NYC. But they still answer me—most of the time.
I’ve become acquainted with people from all over the world, from different cultures, religious backgrounds, and ethnicities, just by asking, “Where ya from?”
I think I learned to ask that question by listening to my dad. It was his way of opening a conversation with strangers. When I was a teenager, he asked a waiter at a restaurant in Oklahoma City that question. “India,” replied the young man, whose name I learned was Abraham. Mom and Dad made friends with Abraham and visited him whenever they dined at the restaurant where Abraham worked.
Years later, when Mom and Dad served as summer missionaries at Bangalore Baptist Hospital in Bangalore, India, Mom and I visited Abraham’s family in a remote area in the south of India. Abraham had urged us to visit his family when he learned we would be his country. But he failed to mention that neither of his parents spoke English. So, there sat Mom and I, in a hut with his parents, staring at each other while the villagers surrounded us, peering in the open windows, wondering what these strange people with light-colored complexions were doing in their neighborhood. It turned out to be one of my life’s most intriguing adventures. And it was all possible because my dad asked a waiter, “Where ya from?”
I’ve learned to suspend judgment after I’ve asked that question. It’s natural to either be intimidated or feel superior when someone tells you where they are from. It’s a mistake. In her book, Dakota, A Spiritual Geography, Kathleen Norris, poet, and writer, talks about how people with low self-esteem often look with raised eyebrows on people from other places: “Small-town people are often suspicious of the professionals who move to the Plains; ‘if they were any good, they’d be working in a bigger place,’ is how the reasoning goes.”
It’s best to let people tell their own story, rather than assuming negative things about them based on their origins, for in asking where someone is from, we’re seeking an entry into their identity, their unique story. And prejudging them limits how we hear their story. Everyone’s story is significant because it’s their own story.
When Philip, one of Jesus’ first disciples, found his friend, Nathanael, Philip told him, “We have found the one Moses wrote about in the Law, and about whom the prophets also wrote—Jesus of Nazareth, the son of Joseph” (John 1:45). And Nathanael’s response was, “Can anything good come out of Nazareth?” He probably said that because Nazareth was 55 miles north of Jerusalem, and therefore closer to the region of Galilee. That meant the people of Nazareth had to mingle with Galileans, whom devout Jews considered “unclean.” But what Nathanael didn’t realize at that introduction was that reaching people beyond Israel would be part of Jesus’ mission. He almost missed the Messiah because of his prejudgment based on place.
When I ask, “Where ya from?” I am opening the door for someone else to share their spiritual biography. It introduces me to a part of their world. It so happens that we begin by talking geography before we enter into the more significant rooms in each other’s lives.
So, should we meet, you and I, let’s stop, let’s pause, and take the time to ask, “Where ya from?” And let’s wait long enough for the answer.
You never know where it may lead us.
My windshield wipers were scraping back and forth, trying unsuccessfully to clear the snow now accumulating quicker than the blades could clean that icy debris. I was squinting to make sure I was keeping in the center of my lane. My winter weather muscle memory was kicking in: no jerky movements with the steering wheel, eyes fixed ahead, slow down for turns, don’t slam on the breaks if I start to skid.
I breathed a sigh of relief when I eased into my garage, my car by then covered with freshly fallen snow.
Snow can be frightening if you’re traveling. It’s certainly not your friend. It can be your mortal enemy if you’re stuck on I-95 in Virginia for over twenty-four hours or more than six hours on I-75 in Kentucky, as many were for this, the first real snowstorm of the winter.
I was grateful that my little journey was only a few miles from home.
After my wife greeted me, I stepped outside, just a moment, to feel the snow on my face.
Most of all, I wanted to hear the silence of the snow.
The snow was quietly laying its blanket over the brown leaves and dead grass where my garden is planted in spring, hushing to sleep the fallow ground and the back yard surrounding it. Only moments before, people were scurrying to get home before the snow accumulated more. Now all was eerily calm with only the snow falling on me and my surroundings. In a matter of moments, it seemed like the snow had enforced a lockdown on all our activities.
I seem to hear better while the snow softly falls. In the past, I’ve hiked in the snow. I’m far from being a tracker or a hunter, but I’ve heard owls screeching, deer brushing through bushes, a flush of duck flapping across a pond, tree limbs creaking—all while the snow was finding places to rest or drift, all while my footsteps were making crunching sounds as I made my path through the snow.
Science has an explanation for the silence of the snow. There is more air between the fresh individual snowflakes, and therefore, the snow is more porous, making it absorb sound easier, like the way sound insulation works in a sound booth or the absorbent material on the walls of theatres. Those materials are mechanically designed to minimize sound. Snow does it naturally.
So, as I watch the snowfall, I take in the minimal sound, the silence of the snow, which is like moisturizing lotion for the soul.
In his book, Tuesdays with Morrie, Mitch Albom, tells about his former professor at Brandeis University, Morrie Schwartz, who was dying from amyotrophic lateral sclerosis (ALS), Lou Gehrig’s disease, a fatal illness of the neurological system. In one part of that book, Mitch flashes back to an experiment Morrie had done with his sociology class at Brandeis. For fifteen minutes, Morrie sat there in the room with his students, not saying a word. The class was uncomfortably silent. Morrie finally broke the quiet by asking: “What is happening here?.” Then a discussion followed about the effect of silence on human relations.
In the silence, we can find who we really are, our core values, our authentic selves, and thus, discover how we can relate in more meaningful ways to others. We are more apt to name our emotions and relate them more holistically to the significant others in our lives.
As the deceased Trappist monk and contemplative Thomas Merton put it: “It is in deep solitude and silence that I find the gentleness with which I can truly love my brother and sister.”
You certainly don’t have to have snow for that to happen. The desert monks of another era certainly didn’t have snow. But for a novice like me, snow is a catalyst for a refresher course of sorts, one that reminds me to cherish the gift of listening. Snow is a kind of mandated retreat on valuing quietness and solitude, a welcome relief from life’s sometimes mundane routines, a guide for a hitchhiker along those sludgy avenues of life. Unless, of course, you happen to be stranded for hours on I-95 in Virginia or I-75 in Kentucky.
Sometimes calendars do more than chart the days and months of any given year.
We’re almost a week into this new year. By now, you’ve probably placed your new 2022 calendar on your refrigerator or tucked it away in a desk drawer. Maybe you’re like me and have a variety of calendars. I especially like the ones with pictures that bring a soothing breeze in summer or warm me in winter, you know, the ones with that picture of a beach house nestled on golden sand that unfolds into crystal clear water, or a cozy cabin surrounded by fresh snow in the mountains. Then I’ve got the spiritual calendars with scenic nature pictures and Bible verses for each month.
But my favorite calendar is the one my wife makes. She starts long before the new year, meticulously selecting photos of our family, then she sends them to a company that creates a calendar from her selections. It’s quite the undertaking because she makes sure she has individual pictures of family members on their birth month, plus she finds photos from family gatherings and special occasions appropriate for each month.
Lori also includes those who are no longer with us. For Harrison’s birth month (July), she chooses photos of happy times with him. Harrison will have been gone four years this October, but he has been in every calendar since.
Why does Lori include the dearly departed in our calendars?
For us, it’s a way of remembering that they are still with us.
Author, Joanne Didion, who recently died, wrote her book, “The Year of Magical Thinking,” reflecting on the grief she experienced during the year after her husband’s death in 2003. At the time, Didion’s daughter, Quintana, was hospitalized in New York with pneumonia which developed into septic shock; she was still unconscious when her father died. Then she died of pancreatitis in 2005. Didion later wrote about Quintana’s death in another book, “Blue Nights.” Both are memoirs, books about life, relationships, and mourning the loss of those relationships.
In “The Year of Magical Thinking,” Didion wrote, “I know why we try to keep the dead alive: we try to keep them alive in order to keep them with us.”
Yes, it’s true: keeping the memory alive is part of keeping them with us.
But, sometimes the pictures are too much, too soon. The stark reminder of their absence feels harsh and unbearable. The burn is still red hot. And who knows how long before the open wound forms scar tissue?
It’s been almost ten years since a friend told me she couldn’t have a family photo unless her deceased son were in it. “I can’t display a new family portrait. Not yet. Not without him in it,” she said to her husband.
Her grief still hovered over her like a black cloud that no fair wind could whisk away.
Didion is right. We want to keep them alive, though we know they are dead.
But counterintuitive as it seems, we can also keep them alive while letting them go. I’ve noticed that Lori doesn’t need to keep calendar pictures of our parents, all of whom, except for her mom, are now deceased. In years past, even the mention of their deaths brought tears. But now, it’s good enough to place their photos tenderly around the house. The thought of their absence isn’t as raw. We let their love rest, though it’s no less present with us.
It reminds me what Didion wrote in the completion of that thought about keeping the dead alive. She went on to say, “I also know that if we are to live ourselves there comes a point at which we must relinquish the dead, let them go, keep them dead.”
Even though their pictures may not always be on the calendar, they are still here with us. We let them go and rest in peace, even as we touch them still, even as we live our days, marking our time on calendars, where others will think of us, one day, someday, as somehow still being with them.
It seemed like the closer Christmas came this year, the more tenuous it became. I was beginning to think all was well, and then the Omicron variant pounced on us. More than 3,000 Christmas Eve flights were canceled globally. In New York City, the Rockettes canceled their Christmas Spectacular. “Hamilton” and “Aladdin” on Broadway paused performances last week.
This is the second year many were not able to make trips to celebrate the holidays with family. It became personal with Lori and me. Our daughter, who lives in New York City, had to cancel her trip home because she contracted Covid.
One of our friends announced she had Covid, for the second time. It was going to be the first Christmas she could spend with her parents in many years. “It…stinks!” she said.
“Christmas this year has gone to crap!” blurted another friend, whose family Covid had upended Christmas.
Covid seemed to have won, two years in a row.
Then my grandson came over. Because Covid had dampened our plans for Christmas activities, I was able to listen to him more closely than I perhaps would have. He had seen me baptize a young lady at church the Sunday before, and he had some questions about what it means to be a follower of Jesus. Slowly I told him, trying as best I could to explain heavenly truths in an earthly enough manner that he could begin to grasp them.
“It’s okay,” I said at one point, “I don’t understand it all myself and never will.” I told him we can never completely understand how God would come to our messed up world and be born in a manger.
Christmas comes to us in the mess of life. It certainly did for Mary and Joseph. They didn’t call ahead and schedule a midwife to meet them when they arrived in Bethlehem. “Make sure we have a clean birthing room, please.” That’s wasn’t an option.
Jesus was born in a barn of sorts. That’s how he came to us, in a birthing suite that not only echoed with his infant cries but with barn animals mewing, grunting, and snorting. The aroma filling the room that night was not the clean, antiseptic smells of a baby-friendly environment but the stench of fresh manure, dried hay, and dirt. Most of us would have wretched at that potpourri. “Welcome to earth, Baby Jesus.”
Christmas comes not to those who have their lives put together, nice and neat like, so that they can lean back, poke their chests out and boast, “Look what we did.”
No, Christmas comes in those desperate folks who have stumbled in the darkness and fallen flat on their ego-centered faces.
Christmas comes to those who hear cancer hissing, “I win.”
Christmas comes to those whose homes have been destroyed by a tornado, or a foreclosure notice, or a divorce settlement, or addiction.
Christmas comes to those who are isolated in a retirement home, whose only guests are health care workers.
Christmas comes to those who fear that the darkness has overcome hope for light.
And, oh yes, Christmas comes to those whose dog jumped on the table and chowed down on the Christmas ham while the family ran outside to watch Johnny ride the new bike Santa put by the tree. It comes to whose least favorite aunt and uncle announced they could stay “one more day,” after all.
Christmas, it’s never perfect. That’s why it’s Christmas, after all. Christmas is for those who have somehow come to the end of themselves, recognizing their desperate need for what Christmas is, the welcoming of Christ into our broken lives, the One who can make us whole again, able to live and love again.
“I want to be a follower of Jesus, PopPop. I know I need Him,” my grandson said to me in an unusually soft voice.
And so, right there, not in a temple or a church sanctuary, but sitting on a messy couch with some of my newspapers strewn about it, next to a dog’s blanket, there, in the stillness of the morning, the two of us traveled to Bethlehem and bowed at the manger of the Christ child. And prayed.
And it was Christmas, after all.
My son, David, was telling me of that moment last week when the nurse handed his newborn baby girl, Stella, to him. His wife, Kayla, had been in labor for hours. I don’t pretend to know what she had been through, but I do know something of the feelings—pride, humility, awe, wonder, and relief— that cascade on dad at once when the nurse first introduces a him to his child. I’ve had two by birth and two by adoption. When a dad takes that one into his arms as his own, it’s bound to melt the soul of even the most austere of dads.
“Can I hold her?” David asked the nurse.
“Of course! She’s yours,” she said.
“Of course! She’s yours,” those words sunk in my heart, too.
I remember that moment for me. How could I forget? I felt like asking, “Does an owner’s manual come with this?” I wanted to brag, “Yes! I’m the man!” and at the same moment confess, “I’m so small. I’m not sure I’m up to this.”
But mainly, it was joy, pure joy.
“I’m choking up even as I’m thinking about it, Dad,” David said, his voice breaking as he unsuccessfully held back tears.
It’s a moment for a parent to grasp, hold, and recount as a momma or daddy jumps on board the parenting roller coaster for life.
“Yes, she’s yours, David,” I think I told my son.
“But, then again, she’s not. At least, not completely.”
But I didn’t say that to him, not then. It will come to him soon enough, I’m sure.
Our children belong to the Lord; we only have them “on loan.”
Or as Kahlil Gibran said it in his poem, “On Children”:
“Your children are not your children.
They are sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you.
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.”
We don’t “own” our children. They are unique, each one being their own person. Although we bring them into the world, and although we definitely have a tremendous influence on them, we do not determine who they are.
With Christmas only a few days away, I think of Joseph, the legal or earthly father of Jesus. Jesus’ conception, according to the gospel accounts, was like no other. According to the Gospel of Luke, Jesus was conceived in the womb of the Virgin Mary. The gospels indicate that Joseph was not only a “righteous man,” and a considerate husband, but also a father who was involved in the life of his child, Jesus. He and Mary took Jesus to the temple for his circumcision and the Passover celebration when Jesus was twelve. Although Jesus got left behind on the return trip, it was likely not a result of parental neglect. It was common for children to travel back with the parental clan. You get the sense that when they found that Jesus was not with the family, mom and dad frantically rushed back to find Jesus. “Where’s Jesus? In the temple? Of course, he is.”
Jesus was where he was supposed to be: in his Father’s house. I wonder if Joseph pondered that—just as Mary pondered the mystery of Jesus’ birth (Luke 2:19) —as they traveled back to their home in Nazareth.
And then, Nazareth wasn’t Jesus’ real home, either.
Perhaps along the road, in the caravan, with Jesus once again safe and secure by his side, Joseph looked at his child, Jesus, and thought of Jesus as his but not his, even as he felt God nodding his approval at Joseph’s efforts, for he was doing what God expected him to do as a parent, pointing his son, the Son of God, in the right direction.
As mommas and daddies, that’s about all we can do: point them in the right direction. And love them with all our heart, through all of life, with its many hills and valleys, for unlike Jesus, our children, like us, won’t be perfect. And so, earthly parents that we are, we savor the words, “Of course! She’s yours,” even as we know deep inside ourselves that a child’s eternal destiny is beyond our grasp.
If you’re like me, your mind tends to drift towards the negative, the worst-case scenarios, that vague sense you have on a sun-shiny day that it’s going to storm. It’s not the place you need to be because it blinds you from seeing the good within the bad.
Like the other day, I went for a walk. It’s a daily routine that is part of my commitment to cardio health. On that particular day the weather was warmer and the ground drier, so I headed out for a souped-up hike across the fields. It’s not exactly the Appalachian Trail, but it’s not residential either. And I’d read where walking in the woods or simply wandering in nature is stress relieving and endorphin enhancing. It acts as a mood-enhancer, even immune-booster. For me, it’s also a time and place to pray: I’m in God’s creation. I’m moving. I’m thinking positive thoughts.
I was trekking at a pace that would have made Daniel Boone smile, when I decided to go off course, cut through a field, and explore new territory. About fifty yards into my new path, something kept pricking my hand. I looked down at my gloves to find they were covered in cockleburs. As were my blue jeans. And coat. I stopped and start picking the prickly burs off my clothes. Then when I started walking again, I only attracted more cockleburs. With every step, they seemed to multiply all over me.
Instead of thanking the Lord for the wonder of His creation, I was praying that I wouldn’t have bad dreams about being smothered by a horde of cockleburs and discovered by friends in an open grave somewhere in the wilderness. “Poor, ol’ David, darned fool. He got caught in a cocklebur patch, and never found his way out.”
Retreating was bad because I would have to retrace my path through Cocklebur Central. But going forward was worse, not knowing exactly how much further I had till I would be in the cleared field on the other side. So, backpedal I did, all the while mumbling to God concerning this particular creation of His.
A man named George de Mestral had the same problem I had, only worse because he went hiking with his dog, so not only did the pesky cockleburs attach themselves to his trousers but to his mutt as well. It was 1941 in Switzerland. De Mestral was an engineer, and one of those kinds of persons who likes to ask questions, and the question he asked that day as he was pulling cockleburs off himself and his dog, was, “How do these cockleburs naturally attach themselves to material so that it’s next to impossible to pull them off? What is the hook and latch arrangement in them?”
He pondered that as he made his way down the mountain, and then when he got home, he put a cocklebur under the microscope, and voila, invented something he called Velcro, a combination of the words “velvet” and “crochet.” He successfully reproduced the natural attachment with two strips of fabric, one with thousands of tiny hooks and another with thousands of tiny loops. Of course, it wasn’t easy. It took him nearly fourteen years of hard work before he had a patent and manufacturing process. It would be twenty years before the idea took off as a moneymaker, the big financial break coming when NASA utilized the Velcro system for astronauts.
At one point, de Mestral was ready to give up. He couldn’t figure out how to duplicate the process of hook and latch for production. He needed a machine to cut the nylon hooks in the uniform fashion he envisioned. While he was waiting in a barbershop, the pieces fell together (or should I say, hooked together) for him. Suddenly it was clear: he would create a machine that would simulate the cutting motion of barber shears and thus cut uniformly the nylon hooks he was looking for.
Henry Miller, the American author, said, “The moment one gives close attention to anything, even a blade of grass, it becomes a mysterious, awesome, indescribably magnified world in itself.”
Where I saw only a nuisance, de Mestral saw Velcro, though not all at once. But it began with looking at God’s creation with a sense of mystery, rather than frustration, a reverence that evokes silence, a sense of awe in the presence of God’s wonderfully magnificent world—even when it’s pulling one more cocklebur from your trousers.
It’s safe to say that neither Lincoln Riley (formerly Head Coach at Oklahoma University) nor Brian Kelly (formerly Head Coach at Notre Dame) will be invited back for anything like “Honor Our Coaches Day.” Both left their positions in less than honorable fashion last week.
They coached in programs that are the envy of many in collegiate football. Oklahoma University hasn’t had a coach leave for another college job since 1947. Notre Dame hasn’t had it happen since 1907. I know it’s a new day: collegiate football is big business, a billion-dollar enterprise. Failing to recognize that is to imagine living in a bygone age. “It’s a different time,” they tell me, “‘ things” are “different,” they remind me, meaning circumstances dictate a different modus operandi for those vocationally involved in big-time college sports.
True, collegiate football lost its amateur mystique years ago, long before these two coaches sneaked out of town for more lucrative salaries. But, regardless of the time in which we live, or the dollars and cents (In these cases millions and millions of dollars) on the negotiating table, some things remain the same, things like character and integrity. How you leave a place—with or without character and integrity—has everything to do with what you bring to a place, with or without those same virtues.
You can’t blame Coaches Riley or Kelly for moving on for bigger money. But, it’s the way they exited that is disturbing. Both coaches had denied having any interest in other schools and vouched their loyalty to the team they coached…right up until they had their new contract signed, sealed, and delivered and were on private jets to their new location. It’s wasn’t a good look for college football.
Kelly left his team with an 11-1 record and at the time, still having the possibility of making the College Football Playoffs. The College Football Playoff Selection Committee does consider matters like coaching changes and injuries to key players, both of which are critical to a team’s success. So, Kelly left his team in the lurch, announcing to them that his love for them was “limitless,” and that he was “so proud” of what they “have accomplished.” Shortly after, he was on his way to Baton Rouge.
Riley said goodbye to his team in a two-minute farewell, leaving his team blindsided, taking key staff with him, leaving the squad without key personnel as they try and prepare for a post-season game. And he has flipped numerous OU recruiting commits to USC. When he proclaimed that he would make USC a college football “mecca,” OU defensive lineman and team captain, Isaiah Thomas, fired back, “He told us (OU) that last week.”
Both schools will rebound; each has hired very able replacements.
Let us reflect on the larger issue here: the story is about the influence of an institution, in this case, football, on young men in their late teens and early twenties and their character development. Character and integrity will endure long after an athlete’s prowess on the football field has vanished, and the coach has retired. Loyalty to others, commitment to duty that is contingent on money is neither loyalty or commitment to duty.
We would all do well to ponder the words of the legendary basketball coach at UCLA, John Wooden, who knew a thing or two about success, winning 10 NCAA basketball championships in a 12-year period. It was Wooden who said, “Be more concerned with your character than your reputation, because your character is what you really are, while your reputation is merely what others think you are.”
Working on character and integrity is more challenging than winning games because it’s a lifelong project. But those timeless virtues determine who we are in our life journey, whether you are an athlete or not.
Who we are in leaving is who we are in arriving. It is life’s ultimate litmus test, especially in that final departure and arrival. So, my friend, let us live in such a way that we give the people where we arrive something worthy of applause for the ages, not just for a temporary, though more lucrative, new deal.