The End

Two words.  They can leave us satisfied or wanting more.  Sometimes you might even be overjoyed to come to the end.  We might get to the end of a good movie and feel satisfied.   We might get to the end of a good lasagna and want more.  Or we might get to the end of a grueling backpack trip or an off-key rendition of a song and be overjoyed that it is the end.  Some have even expressed they were glad when I came to the end of a sermon.   But no matter what you are talking about, when you get to the end...that's it.  It's the end.  So whether your satisfied or wanting more or overjoyed or relieved,  really depends on where you are and what you are doing and how you feel about it when the end comes.

We all have times when the end comes and we are sad.  The end of high school.  The end of a favorite childhood dream.  The end of childhood innocence. (...and naptimes.)  The end of a job that you like.   When the end comes--that's it.  And transitions leave us just a bit unsettled.

Sometimes when the end comes, we are more ready for it.  We are anxious to move on.  Like the end of high school.  Or College.  Or a job we hate.  And suddenly we find ourselves again in transition.  Even there though, the transitions can still be unsettling. 

A few weeks ago, my uncle came to the end of his earthly journey.  And the next week, a very dear friend also came to the end of his time on earth.  And the interesting thing is, when one comes to the end, there is only a split second between life and death.  One second they are alive-the next, they aren't.  And for those left behind,  life is also split in two.  Before that moment and after that moment.  They will never be the same.  They came to the end with their loved one and then they entered the transition from normal to chaos and eventually they will come to a new normal.

But now you and I (as well as the rest of the world) are coming to another end.  The end of a year.  Some will be relieved.  Some sad.  Some overjoyed.  Some wanting more.  Your reaction to it will depend on what type of year you have had.  If you have had a great year, you probably hope things will continue on into the new year.  If you have had a bad year, you are probably looking forward to 2011 with renewed hope and higher expectations.

No matter what your view, this year will come to an end.  Gone. Behind you.  Receding into history.  It can never be lived over.  Mistakes can't be undone.  Words can't be unspoken.  And though relationships can mend over time, the damage that you cause will always leave a scar.  So the question comes: How did you live this year?  How did you respond to the good times?  What about the bad?  Did you meet them with an unshakable faith and determination to let God grow you through them or did you find yourself whining and complaining about all of your trials?  Did you grow more like Jesus in the way you learned to depend on the Father, or did you blame God and everyone around you for making you miserable?

The interesting thing about coming to the end of many things is that they often give you a chance at a new beginning.  Kindergarten ends and you move on to first grade.  Elementary ends and you start over in high school.  When that ends, you move on to a new start in college or you begin to pursue an occupation.  And the same thing happens with years.  When one ends, another starts, bringing with it a new chance to step up and meet the challenges with a new attitude and renewed determination.

As you face this new year, what things do you need to address in order to grow?  Where do you need God to step in and grow you?  What are some of your hopes, dreams and aspirations for this new year?  I'm not talking about New Year's Resolutions that won't make it past January 15.  I'm talking about real, deep, lasting life-change brought about by allowing the Spirit of God to work in and through you?  Will you grow this year?  Or will you come to the end of another year still hobbled by your habits, controlled by your lack of self-discipline, and unable to control your anger?

Here's the deal.  None of us can make decisions for the other--but I can make decisions for me.  And I want to grow.  By this time next year I want to be a better person.  I want to be a more Godly man.  I want Jesus to shine into and through me.  As I come to the end of this year, I want to leave my failures behind and press on towards my ultimate goal: knowing Jesus.   And I hope you do too, so that when the End comes and Jesus returns, you and I will together take the next natural step over the threshold of heaven into a brand new beginning.



May you have a blessed and hope-filled New Year.  And may God bless you real good!
The End. (at least for now)

Vending Machine God

Dad holding my son, Donnie to get a drink

"If you let Dad die, God, I’ll quit the ministry,” I muttered to myself as I sped down I-205 towards my parent’s house in Portland, Oregon. Up to this point, my life had been one of pleasant memories, successful youth ministry and happy times with my family. To be sure, we had our moments, but now, suddenly I was faced with one of the most difficult situations of my life.  We had watched as a rather large lump under dad’s right arm had turned into an ugly, oozing, bleeding, ulcerous tumor that was approximately 7-9 inches across. The diagnosis: melanoma, the worst form of skin cancer.  The prognosis: 3 to 6 months.

We prayed. We wept.  We encouraged others to pray with us.   Thousands from all across the country, even across the world, prayed that dad would be healed.  I felt sure that healing was in the bag.  If it had to do with the amount of prayers or the sincerity of prayer, then dad should have been healed.  If it had to do with faith and seeking the Lord, then dad should have been healed. But he wasn’t.  He died.

A few Sundays before dad died, he could not stand up without two or three people helping him out of bed. I had spent the greater portion of the night praying.  I really wanted God to work a miracle.  I had read the stories in the gospels of all the people that Jesus healed. I had read the stories in Acts where Peter (Acts 5:15,16) was walking through crowds and people were clamoring to put their sick in his shadow as they passed and they were healed. I had read stories of
Paul (Acts 19:11,12) walking through crowds who were passing their handkerchiefs and aprons over to Paul so that he might touch them and send them back, and Acts declares that all of them were healed.

Then there were the proclamations of Jesus, “If you believe, you will receive whatever you ask for in prayer.”( Matt 21:22) “Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you.” (Matt 7:7) “Then the Father will give you whatever you ask in my name.” (John 15:16)

I had believed. I had asked.  I didn’t doubt that God could do it. I had prayed hard and long that night, yet somehow, was still like the disciples in the Garden. Somewhere along the line, I had fallen asleep.  Now doubt plagued me. Would my sleeping preclude my miracle?  Never mind that I had only averaged only 3-4 hours of sleep for the previous 3 weeks as I sat by the bedside of my dying father. Never mind that I was driving 40 minutes one way to go home at least once during each 24 hour period and see my family, and that usually for only an hour or two. This particular night, I had decided that I would keep a prayer vigil and pray all night. Yet, I found myself waking up on the floor of my study at 4 am loathing the weakness of my humanity. “Lord, I believe!” I cried, “Help my unbelief!”

About 6 o’clock, I felt an impression to go to dad’s and say to him, “In the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth, rise up and be healed.” And so now I sped down I-205 wrestling with myself and God. The struggle raged.  Inwardly, I said, “If I go and do this thing, and nothing happens, I’ll be really embarrassed.  How would that look for a pastor?”  On the other hand I thought, “But if I don’t, that could be the very thing that saves him.” I thought of Namaan’s servant saying, “If he had asked you to do a big thing, wouldn’t you have done it?” I wrestled.  I prayed.  And then the thought came, “If you let Dad die, God, I’ll quit the ministry.” The turmoil continued to rage for most of the trip down.  As I turned into dad’s neighborhood, a peace overtook me, and I was resolute that God wanted me to go in and pray and ask Him to raise dad up. I was confident that God would do that.

I entered the room. No one was with dad at the time, so I told him that I felt impressed that we should pray for his healing once again, only this time I felt that God was calling on us to demonstrate our faith in Him by actions.  Dad said, “I think you are right.  I appreciate that about you...always being a man of faith.”

I prayed. Hard.   And then I said, “in the name of Jesus Christ, I say to you, get up and be healed.” Without hesitation, dad holding on to my hand, swung his feet off the bed and began to feebly stand. About halfway up, he gathered strength from somewhere and straightened all the way up.  We both stood there holding on to each other for a magical moment wondering if indeed the healing was happening, and then he said, “Help me lay back down.  God may heal me in stages.”  I helped him back into bed and then he said, “Thanks for your faith.  Thanks for your love that would prompt you to pray for me. And don’t worry.  God will heal me.  Now or then.”

I left the room very bewildered and very embarrassed.  Angry with God for asking me to do that.  Angry with myself for possibly misreading His cues. Angry because it felt as if the devil was just taunting me.  Throwing my faith in my face as totally preposterous.  Was it a lack of faith?  Was I acting on what I believed God wanted me to do? Why would God have me do something that He wasn’t going to answer.

I don’t think dad ever mentioned it again and I wondered if he was embarrassed by it. He didn’t seem to be.  The thing that got me was that his trust was immediate.  He was willing to try whatever means were available because he loved us and he loved life so much.  And he truly believed that God was going to heal him.  So to him, I don’t think he was embarrassed, even though I was.

After much thought, here is what I think the point must be. (Or at least some thoughts that can be drawn from the whole experience.) First, I think that God may have been testing me to see if I would trust Him no matter what. I had thought that if dad died, I would leave the ministry.  What use would it be to serve a God who didn’t answer prayers?  Why minister to the goodness of a God that wasn’t so good?  I think God’s point was, “Hey, no matter what happens, I will still be in control and you don’t h
ave to worry. I will take care of your dad.  And I will take care of you.  So do you believe me or not?”

Second, I would have regretted never trying it if I had kept silent and dad had died. I could truly say that I had tried everything, and could rest knowing that God had another plan.  If I had never experienced that, I could never have forgiven myself, and so I think God gave me the urge to go ahead and try what I had read in the Bible. I think God wanted me to see that sometimes all of the notions that we have, or all of the “magic” words we want to speak do not hold the power. Only God does.   I figured that if those words worked in the Bible, they just might work now, and that if I didn’t try them, they might have been the words to save dad.  But such is not the case.  

God is not moved by our “magic” words. He is moved by our heart.  He isn’t interested in our notions. What He wants is to be loved freely.  With no strings attached. With no “magic” words.  And He risks being misunderstood and spurned rather than perform to my tune. The love He wants me to share with Him is not a love based on manipulation or insecurity. It is a love based on a deep abiding trust.  And the question comes back, “Do I trust Him no matter what?” If I only trust Him when things are going my way, then I have a conditional love. If I only trust Him when He responds to my “magic” words, then I have reduced Him to a vending machine God; put in the right amount, say the “magic” words and out will pop your desired outcome.  That’s not a relationship.   It’s manipulation.

When I say to God...”do this and I will love you” or “don’t do this and I will not love you,” I am basing my relationship on my own immature desire to manipulate Him to get what I want.  God has never worked that way.  Not even when it would have saved Jesus’ life.  Herod wanted Jesus to perform a miracle in exchange for Jesus’ freedom.  He didn’t yield because He wanted our love to be from a genuine response to His love, not from a manipulated response based on what we might get.

And so, I am finding a deeper relationship with God, even though dad died. Even though healing didn’t occur the way I wanted.   Why?   Because I can’t blame God for all of the misery...we chose it.  WE sinned, not God.   But He commended His love towards us in this, while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us. Romans 5:8

Love only wants a genuine response.  So Love stretched out His arms and died.   To show us He loved us.  To show us that though the devil has made death to be a fearful thing, we need not fear it.  To show us that he understands even the worst of what happens to us, and yet has promised us a better day. And because of that promise, I still have something to share in the ministry. And because of that Love, I’ll stay in the ministry until that day. A day when all will be made right.   A day when we will see why things didn’t work out here.  A day for joy instead of tears.   And a day when dad will be raised up.
 

A Patch of Sunshine

“Pastor Don, it’s pouring down rain!  How are we going to paint that lady's house today?”

What do you say to a group of teens who have just posed a very pertinent question?

It was the last full day of our mission trip in the mountains of Eastern Kentucky.  The previous day we had worked on Barbara's house.  Barbara had three children she was trying to raise on her own.  Six years earlier, Barbara had returned to their small hillside shack after going to the store for her husband, only to find he had committed suicide while she was gone. 

Living had been meager since then.  It had also grown more violent.  A friend of her late husband had decided that Barbara was going to be his woman whether she wanted to be or not. Whenever he got drunk and decided that he needed a woman, he would head up to the hillside shack and break down a door, or bust a window or even tear off boards from the side of the shack and break through the inner sheetrock and then brutally rape her as her three children cowered in one of the other rooms of the small house. Repeated calls to the police yielded no results since they "didn't really see nothin' happen, so how do we know ya ain't lyin'"? These episodes were repeated about two or three times per month.

Day one, we fixed a hole in her foundation that allowed the floor to droop downward away from the wall, leaving a gaping 12—inch hole for the rats to run in and out at will.  We re-roofed her sagging, leaking roof, and fixed her chimney and stovepipe to reduce the risk of this becoming a fire hazard. We re-floored her bedroom and patched sheetrock throughout the house. We painted the inside of the house and even fixed the bare—wired electrical outlets. We worked as hard as we could, but somehow, it seemed that every time we finished one project there were two more that we still needed to do.  We decided that we would have to come back and finish the exterior the next day.  We would fix all of the holes on the exterior and broken windows and then paint the house.

I was up at 5:30 am and looked outside.  Rain.  Pouring rain. Instantly, I panicked.  How would we finish Barbara's house?  A small voice reminded me that Jesus had controlled the storm on the lake and if I would just trust, He could do it again.  I relaxed and began my personal devotions.  By the time I had finished reviewing the story in scripture, I was sure that God would work a miracle for us.  During my prayer time, I asked God for a miracle.

I stepped out of my room and headed for the kitchen. One of the staff came into the dining area and informed me that the weatherman was calling for 100% chance of rain.  So far, he was right.  But the weatherman forgot to talk to my God about it.  Each time a student asked me what we were going to do, I simply answered, "We are going to pray and ask God not to let the weather interfere with our work and then go for it." 

They gave me that look that only teenagers can give.  That look that says,  "I think you'd be better off in a straight jacket," but simply shrugged their shoulders and just said, "OK, whatever".

At the close of worship, I asked everyone to join me in a prayer session where we claimed the promise found in John 14:13,14 "And I will do whatever you ask in my name, so that the Son may bring glory to the Father.  You may ask me for anything in my name, and I will do it."

"Lord", I prayed, "You've given us Your promise, and we believe that we are doing Your will.  Please don't let the rain interfere with our work.  May we show Your love to Barbara and her family today.  In Jesus name, Amen."

"All right, load up."  We headed out the door into the pouring rain.  The farther up the valley we drove, the harder it rained. "Um, Pastor Don," one teen ventured, "it's still raining."

Without thinking, I shot back, "We're not there yet!  He doesn't need for it to stop yet."  We drove on in silence.  Finally we turned onto the little road that led up the hillside to Barbara's little shack.  Amazingly, the higher we drove, the less it rained, until we finally turned off into her little driveway.  Just a mist now.  "All right, guys,"  I said, "God's done His part, let's do ours!"  By the time we finished unloading ladders and tools, the sun was beginning to peek out.  Our whole group was pumped!  God had performed a miracle just for us!

It was about an hour later, as I finished pounding a nail into some siding that I happened to look off the side of the mountain down to the main road that wound through the little town of Pineville, Kentucky.  It was then that I realized that we had a bigger miracle than we had at first realized.  I called the whole group together.

"Look down there.  What do you see?" I asked.  "Why, it's raining hard down there," someone exclaimed.  "Look, you can even see trucks and cars with their windshield wipers going." 

Another joined in, “Look, it’s raining so hard down there that the road almost looks white!”

"Hey guys, look over there to the left,” someone else exclaimed. 

Another yelled, “Hey, look to the right.” 

Everyone spun around to look behind us up over the mountain.  Sure enough.  Rain.  We had rain on every side!  We were under God's umbrella as we stood there in that little patch of bright sunshine looking 500 yards in every direction at the pouring rain.

John 14:13,14 "And I will do whatever you ask in my name, so that the Son may bring glory to the Father.  You may ask me for anything in my name, and I will do it."

The Big Dark Woods

I was five years old and I was ticked.  My older sister had pushed me too far this time, and I decided it was time to get away from her and head out on my own.  So I packed my car and left.  Ok, I put my favorite hot wheels into my pocket and went out the door.  Same difference.

I marched across our big backyard, looked both ways at the road that came behind our place, marched across it and across the big field and down the hill into the big, dark woods.  Usually the big, dark woods were not a place I would go to play by myself.  But this day was different.  I was angry and I didn’t care.  So I marched my little five-year old self right into them.  Down the big hill I went and came abruptly to the big creek.  It was a bit big for me to cross, but no matter. I would turn and walk along it.  Anywhere just to be free from her. 

I hadn’t noticed that it was getting close to dark, because I was mad.  Have you noticed that when you’re mad you tend to miss important things like that?    So there I was, ticked off and marching upstream along the creek with the sun going down.  I pushed on through the briars and the thickets, thinking five year-old angry thoughts.

“Who needs her anyway?” I muttered.  “Well, I’m five years old and I can take care of myself!  I’m never going back! Never. Never. Never!  I’ll live out in the woods like Swift Arrow.  Only I won’t live with the Indians.  Just out in the woods.  I’ll learn to swing from tree to tree and everything.”  On and on I went for some time.

When I finally noticed the lengthening shadows and the deepening darkness, I reasoned that I could live in the woods a bit closer to home. I would still be in the woods, but closer to home, you know,  just in case. So I turned around and headed back down the creek bank the way I had previously come.  Only now, I wasn’t quite as mad, and I was starting to get a little bit scared.

In the part of the country where we lived at the time, there were coyotes that roamed quite freely.  Usually, after dark.  In my five year-old anger, I had also forgotten about them.  Now somewhere behind me, farther upstream, I got a chilling reminder.

“AHHOOOOOOOOOOW,” came a coyote howl.  The little hairs on the back of my neck stood on end.  I was a little less angry and a little more scared.  I picked up the pace as I pushed back through the briars and thickets I had come through earlier in my anger.

“AHHHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOWWW!” came a response a little closer to where I was.  I picked up the pace again.  Not real angry anymore, but a whole lot scared.  As I pushed on, my ears and my imagination began to hear everything that was and wasn’t out there.  I heard (or thought I heard) heavy, coyote breathing.  I could imagine the saliva dripping off of the long coyote fangs, just like the cartoon wolves looking at a flock of sheep, as the coyotes could see me with their night vision skills.

“AAAAHHHHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOWWWWW!” a loud one came real close by.  Forget the anger…I was now in a full-scale panic.  My eyes bugged out, my heart raced and I began clawing my way through the thickets, bouncing off of trees and yelling my little five year-old lungs out.  

“HELLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLP!!!” I screamed as loud as I could.  I bounced off the sixth tree before I heard a voice that was sweet music to my ears.

“Donnie! Dooooonnieeeeeeee! Where are you?”  It was DAD!  He was looking for me! “Donnie!”

 “Over here!” I yelled as loud as could. 

“Keep talking, son!” dad yelled back.

“Overhereoverhereoverhereoverhereoverhere.” I yelled, and soon I was scooped up into my Dad’s strong arms, and before long found myself being carried out of the big, dark woods, across the meadow, across the road, across the big, backyard and into the safety of home.

Here's the point! There is in the heart of God a place I know as home.

It doesn’t matter how angry I get at my sister.  It doesn’t matter how far into the big, dark woods I go.  It doesn’t matter if the coyotes are coming.  No matter how dark and scary my picture looks, if I listen, I can hear the voice of my Father calling.   He’s looking for me!  He’ll stride right into the middle of my dark and scary woods, even though my anger and my running is what caused the problem, and He’ll pick me up and carry me back to the safety of home.  There is in the heart of God a place I know as home. 

And if I read scripture correctly, there is a place in the heart of God for you too! 

John 6:37 says:  “I will never turn away anyone who comes to Me.”

Matthew 6:6, “Come to me, all of you who are tired from carrying heavy loads, and I will give you rest.”

And here’s one of the best: “Lo, I am with you always, even unto the ends of the earth.”    Matthew 28:20

This world has become a dark and scary place to live.  As the shadows of earth’s history lengthen and the darkness deepens, we know that our enemy is on the prowl.  The Bible doesn’t compare him to a coyote, but to a roaring lion, looking for someone to devour. (see 1 Peter 5:8)  He’s closing in because he knows his time is short.

You, like me, may be angry at a brother or a sister in the church.  You may be running away from home.  Running across the street into the big, dark woods.  You may suddenly find yourself being tracked by a ferocious predator, and your hope is rapidly vanishing into a world that seems dark. 

But stop.  Stop running and listen.  The Father is calling your name.  He’s looking for you!  He's asking you the same question He asked Adam and Eve.  “Where are you?”  And if you answer, He’ll come and scoop you up into His big, strong arms and carry you back to the safety of HOME.

There is in the Father’s heart, a place that you can know as home.  He’s calling.  Are you answering?

Me at the age of 5 standing by my dad.------>>>

Indoor Rapelling (or the coolest way down to lunch)

Somewhere in my younger life I got the impression that to be a good Christian, one had to look like they had just sucked on a lemon and have breath that smelled like they had refused dental care because of the Lord’s imminent return, as it would just be a waste of money.  
 
I think I got the impression from a few of the older ladies in our church when I was growing up, one in particular, who backed me into the corner of the church porch with her cane and wilted me down with both her breath, and a verbal barrage about not “being ready for the Kingdom with behavior” like mine.  Her style of Christianity was fine, I guess, but it sure didn’t appeal to me. Besides, I reasoned, if she were going to the Kingdom, it would be reason enough for me to stay away.
 
I just wasn’t wired that way.  I had a hard time keeping my mind on anything very long.  If there was any lull in the action, I could think of something to occupy it.  My mind would race along with new ideas popping in all the time.  I just never knew when something new would come in.  And I wasn’t always good at deciding whether it was a good idea or a bad one until I had tried it.
 
“Wherever did you come up with that idea?” my second grade substitute asked after she discovered all of the boys in their seats after recess and mud on the windowsill. During recess one of my friends and I had been discussing the “girls are always first” rule.  He had stated that he didn’t like waiting all of that time, because he felt some of the girls took advantage at the water fountain and drank like camels and used up all of the guys time to get a drink.  Then we were all told to cut it short because we needed to get back to class.
 
I simply observed that it was actually a shorter distance to the ground-level windows of our classroom than back around the building to line up.  All of the guys could climb through the windows, I reasoned, have their drinks and be in their seats before the girls line got there.  We would tell the substitute that our teacher always let us do that to save her time.  What did substitutes know anyway?  We passed the word and Operation Windowsill was born.
 
It worked as planned, except that I hadn’t factored in the substitute’s lack of patience as she waited with all of the girls in the hot sun outside.  I also hadn’t figured it would actually get us in trouble since we didn’t do any damage.  All of us got marched back down the hall and had to line up outside, and then each of us got a whack on the seat with the paddle as we were then sternly told, “Now WALK down the hall and to your desk.”
 
Then there was the time in seventh-grade when my friend, Charlie and I decided to test the theory of gradually increasing the temperature of water on a frog to see if it would jump out.  It didn’t. Stupid frog actually stayed in and met his demise.
 
Or the time in high school when another friend and I put on garbage cans with a “push” lid, and tried to follow the night watchman that we had dubbed “Barney Fife”, up the center campus sidewalk. Each time he would spin around with flashlight in hand, we would stoop down on the side of the sidewalk in the garbage cans.  “Hmmm,” he would mutter, “I could have sworn I heard something.”   It would have worked if we hadn’t gotten fancy and tried to criss-cross the sidewalk each time.  As we were running across we accidentally banged into each other. When he spun around this time, he found himself face to face with two garbage cans with legs!  It was hard outrunning him with those cans, but somehow we managed.
 
So, given my history of unique ideas coming from a lull in the action, it should have been no surprise that my History of Western Civilization class in college, became a veritable think-tank.  A time of churning out the ideas.  Some good.  Some not.  But who’s to know till you try?
 
History was at 1 p.m. And, as any college student can tell you, there is no worse time to have to take a class than right after lunch. There is no blood leftover from the digestion process to go to your head and actually make it work.  And when you have a history teacher that has been teaching the one o’clock slot for years because his delivery matched the time slot, you’ve got a real recipe for disaster.
 
Our professor was a real nice guy, but his delivery of the material was designed to aid in the sleep and digestion department.  We had a class of about 120 students.  History majors had dibs on the front seats, and then it was alphabetical from front to back down each row. I sat, alphabetically, about half way back in the middle. Which is too far back for my type to get anything from a class which doubles as a sleep aid.
 
The Prof would look down at his lectern, simply reading the material. Every so often, not at any regular intervals, mind you, he would stop, look up and smile.  Then he would look back to the lectern and proceed in his best monotone.
 
So this is what I got. “In the year, humahumahum, there was humahum, blah blah blah humahumahuma.” Pause. Look up. Smile.  Look back down.  “Furthermore, they wanted to hummmmmahummma….” Snore.  And my grade reflected my rapt attention.
 
I woke up one day in the middle of class to make an accidental discovery.  My arousal from slumber inadvertently coincided with one of his “pause and smile” points.  I accidentally happened to hear what he said just prior to the smile, and realized that it was a humorous statement.  Well, as humorous as history can be under the circumstances. I was jazzed.  To think—each time he smiled, he was spewing forth historical humor, and I was missing it.
 
I woke up several friends around me to share my discovery.  “Hey, you know when he smiles?” I asked.  “Yeah, so?”  “Well, every time he smiles, he’s just told a joke!”
 
“No way!”  
 
“Way!  Just watch.”  I now had about 12 in my immediate area watching and trying to listen intently. Suddenly he looked up and grinned. Somehow we had missed it.   
 
“Excuse me, sir,” my friend Rick now had his hand in the air, “but could you repeat that last line.”
 
The Prof looked truly pleased for any sign of life and was only too happy to oblige.  He reread the line and it was, indeed, somewhat humorous.  Of course we all burst into laughter, and again, looking intensely pleased he made a note in the margin.  I think it must have been, “This is a very funny joke.  Pause longer, smile broader.”
 
His notes were so old they were yellow, and one day, as he turned the page, the page actually broke off.  It was the first time anyone ever heard him say anything in class that wasn’t scripted.  I didn’t actually see it break, but those who did, described it as a scene of extreme frustration and bewilderment. He had flipped the page and the papyrus had actually broken.  (Ok it wasn’t papyrus, but it had to be the first run right after they discovered paper.)  Anyway, he couldn’t figure out what to do.  A horrified look crossed his face, and the awkwardly long pause is what woke me up.  
 
I woke up to actually hear him utter his now infamous, unscripted statement.
 
“Hmmmmmm,” he said. Just like that. “Hmmmmmmm.” Then he continued, “Guess I’ll have to retype that page.  (Yes, boys and girls, this was back in the day before computers, when every page had to be re-typed, not just reprinted.)
 
At any rate, he abruptly went on with the lecture, and I went into warped-mind mode.  A few days earlier, I had discovered a little door at the back of a mechanical closet in the student center.  Being the curious sort, I opened it to see where it went.  Well, as luck would have it, it didn’t go anywhere, it just sat in its frame and swung back and forth.  But on the other side of the door, I made a grand discovery.  The little door was actually an access door to the space above the college dining hall.  Not having time to do anything with this new information at the time, I had closed the little door and gone on my merry way.  
 
Now, in the middle of history, my mind began to formulate a plan.   Wouldn’t it be cool to somehow tie on to a beam up there, open one of the ceiling tiles and rappel down to lunch?  Oh, that would be cool!  But I would need help.
 
My friend, Ronnie, quietly slumbering two rows over, was well known for his mountain climbing skills.  He had all sorts of equipment.  He would be a great choice for a partner on this escapade.  I hastily wrote a note describing my discovery and my idea and passed it to Rick, sitting next to me, to pass over to Ron.  Rick quickly scanned the note and then passed it on, while leaning back my direction to let me know that he wanted in on the gig too!
 
As soon as class was over, we headed for the student center.  We slipped into the closet, and swung open the magical access door.  Wonderment and glee played on Ronnie and Rick’s faces as we eased out onto the catwalk above the dining hall ceiling.  It was a whole huge room by itself.  Ronnie quickly located a beam above the ceiling grid that would work, and we lifted one corner of the tile to see where we would be in the dining hall.  Perfect.  We would drop right into the front left corner closest to the tray return.   There was an exit nearby, so we could make our grand entrance and then if necessary, beat a hasty retreat.  
 
We decided since the next day was Thursday, and as such, there was chapel just before lunch, we would all take a chapel skip and set up while everyone else was in chapel.  Then, after chapel let out, the dining hall would fill up quickly with the chapel rush.  We would wait until it got fairly full, and then make our big appearance.
 
Thursday, we worked the plan.  Ronnie showed up with all of his gear.  He’d even gone so far as to put on his little German leather knickers and lederhosen, to give it the alpine flair.   We checked to make sure no one was looking and then ducked into the mechanical room.  Once inside the attic of the dining hall, Ronnie located the right spot again and slipped a piece of webbing over the top of the beam and brought it back through, tying it off to make a loop.  
 
Next, he tied the rope to the webbing and then pulled seat harnesses out of his climbing pack. After giving each of us one, he showed us how to put them on and how to clip in and went over safety procedures. We became aware of the cafeteria starting to buzz below us.
 
Chapel was out and the rush was on.  We had told no one of our plan, except my roommate Keith, so he could take pictures of the big event.  We waited until the noise below us grew very lively, and then Ronnie stooped down and picked up the tile, moving it out of the way.
 
“You’re first, Keele,” Ronnie said.  “This was your idea, so go for it.”
 
“What do I do? What do I say?” I stammered, suddenly thinking maybe this was not such a good idea. 

“Just clip in and go. As far as what to say…say something witty like you always do, and we’ll build on it when we come down,” Ronnie said as he dropped the rope through the hole in the ceiling.
 
A hush suddenly fell on the crowd and Ronnie clipped me in.  I swung off the catwalk over the hole and began my descent.  I got about halfway down and stopped as I looked all around the dining room.  About a thousand people were staring back at me.  I looked back up towards my comrades.  Rick gave me the thumbs up sign and grinned.
 
“We should have turned left instead of right back there, guys!”  I said, still looking up.  The crowd roared.  I slid on down the rope and landed right beside the academic dean who stood holding a tray waiting for me at the bottom of the rope.  How had I missed seeing him before now?
 
“Keele,” asked the dean, “does your mother know you’re out doing stuff like this?”
 
“Um, no sir,” I said, “And it would probably be best if you didn’t tell her either.”
 
He laughed and walked away! I was to later find out that he thought this was some sort of SA announcement and that I had asked permission from Mr. Evans, the cafeteria director.   I looked around and there was Mr. Evans, who naturally assumed since the dean was laughing and walking away, I must have asked permission from the dean. So he turned and went back into the kitchen.
 
Rick was next. He came down about halfway and stopped.  “Whoa, we should have gone over a lot further!”  He said.  Again the crowd laughed.  
 
He came on down as I said, “No, I think we should have turned left instead of right back there.”
 
“No, we should have gone over farther!” he countered.
 
“Let’s see what Ronnie thinks!” I said.  “Hey Ronnie!”
 
“Yeah?”
 
“Come on out and give us your opinion.”
 
“Ok, just a second,” came the voice from the attic.
 
I told you that Ronnie was wearing the little German leather knickers and lederhosen.  What I didn’t tell you is that Ronnie decided to really look the part, so he had put on his climbing pack with an ice axe and crampons and ropes all on the outside of it.  In fact, he is wearing so much stuff, that his ice axe gets stuck in the ceiling as he tried to come through it.  Ronnie had to pull himself back up with one hand and free his ice axe with the other, then turn and wiggle his way through the hole in the ceiling. Once free of the ceiling, he slid down about halfway.
 
“Hey—this ain’t the girls dorm!”  The crowd roared its delight yet again.
 
“I told you we should have turned left instead of right!”  “No, we should have gone over farther.”  “You guys said we’d be in the girl’s dorm.”  We went around and around with our lines as we walked out the nearby exit.
 
For months, people would stop me to ask me why we did it.  “To bring a smile to someone’s face, and to let them know that you can have fun as a Christian,” was my only answer.
 
Some would just laugh and walk away.  Others would walk away shaking their heads muttering about reprobates. Still others would simply make a statement about how Christians should act, implying that our behavior wasn’t truly representative.
 
Let me ask you a question: Do you think God loved me any less at the bottom of the rope than he did at the top?
 
Somehow we’ve gotten the idea that God the Father is sitting up on his throne as, humorist Ken Davis portrays Him, saying, “My people are having fun.  NO!” as he stomps on the ground.
 
I think Ken is right when he continues.  “What God is probably really saying is: ‘Hey angels, come look at this idiot. Ah, I love this guy!’” (video: A Twisted Mind)
 
See, what I’ve learned since being cornered by a cane and halitosis is that God isn’t stuffy at all.  God loves me, warped ideas and all.  God loves you, too.  Which brings me to my point.
 
 God’s vision for me: Life as He lives it.  When you’ve got the most Creative Person in the universe, how could He settle for a boring drab life?  God is concerned with the quality of human life.
 
3 John 2 says: I pray that you may enjoy good health and that all may go well with you, even as your soul is getting along well.  (NIV)

God wants you to enjoy life.  Maybe not slide down a rope into the dining hall, but truly enjoy life.  Too many of us slip into a humdrum life of just going through the motions.  We go to school, go to work, go home, go to bed.  And in between, we seek to fill our days with artificial things; the glitz and glamour of this world.  And we wonder where the joy is.
 
While that may be ok for a little while, God has much bigger plans for you and I.  Check out one of my favorite texts in all of scripture.
 
“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you a hope and a future.”        Jeremiah 29:11 NIV

God cares about your life!  He cares about how you live it, because He wants you to maximize it.  Don’t use the line: “You only go around once” as an excuse to throw your life away.  God’s vision for you is life as HE lives it.  Full. Abundant. Exciting. Creative. Adventurous. Free of guilt, shame and despair. He wants you to have a quality life. To have LIFE as He lives it. 

Family Photo Albums

My mother loves photo albums. Oh, it’s not just the albums. She loves taking the pictures for them. Growing up I can’t remember an event where she didn’t have a camera in her hands. For years it was the Kodak Instamatic with the little flash-cubes that rotated on the top after each picture. She used to buy those flash-cubes in bulk. It’s obvious by our photo albums that my sisters got preferential treatment.

See, for each of us kids, mom started a photo album. All the pictures she took of each of us went into our individual photo album. One for Pam, my eldest sister, then me, then Rusty, my kid brother and then years later, Michelle, my baby sister. Each photo album chronicled each life. All of the birthdays, vacations, big events and candids went in. Then there were the school pictures.

I hated those things. You know the ones. Your teacher lets you go to the bathroom to check your hair in a mirror. Then you head back to the classroom where you fill out the information card. Once your card is filled out, you get in a line. Next, you walk into the school gymnasium or cafeteria or library or wherever the photographer happened to set up for that year. Then they process you.

“Hand me your card please,” the photographer’s assistant would chirp. Then she would make some sort of comment about each one. “Oh, you’re a cutie.” “How precious.” “Look at this gorgeous doll.” “You must be an angel from heaven.” When my turn came she said, “My, that’s a colorful shirt.” Then you go to “the stool of unnatural positions.”

The photographer would say, “next please” in a voice that was neither friendly nor unfriendly—just kind of bored and flat-toned. He would then grab the stool and deftly raise or lower it to accommodate your particular body size. Then he would position you on the stool and walk around behind his camera. After making adjustments to the height of the camera and very quickly checking his lighting, he would try to get your body into a position that would rival the moves of the world’s best contortionist.

“Ok. We’ll put your knees pointing this direction. Lean forward. Turn your head slightly to the left. Good. Chin down. Tilt the top of your head slightly to the right. Chin down. Good. Look into the camera.” Then he would say the line that almost always cracked me up. “Look natural and SMILE.”

And I always wanted to say, “Buddy, I don’t naturally put myself into this body position, so there’s no way I can look natural while I’m here. Smile, maybe—but it sure won’t look natural.”

Of course, I never said anything, because it would have broken both my pose and his thinly veiled veneer of patience, so I just tried to smile and look as natural as one can in that uncomfortable position. Click. Flash. And your torture was over.

“Next Please.” And you got to watch your buddy behind you squirm on the stool as his body was forced to do unnatural things. They would hand you an information card to take home to your parents, and barring any horrible mishaps requiring retakes, you could rest easy for another year—or at least until the pictures came.

Most years they would hand them out at school and the comparison games would begin. “Let me see yours! Ha! You look like a dork!” “Oh yea? Well let me see yours? Well you look like a contortionist!” Well, that’s not my fault! That photographer made me get in that position.”

You would dutifully take them home and your parents would decide whether they wanted them or not and send the money back in the supplied envelope. Naturally, my mother would always buy them, and naturally they went into my book, which was rapidly becoming the world’s guide to human contortions.

That system changed my seventh-grade year. Actually, we moved to another state, I changed schools, and the new school was trying out a new system. Instead of the teachers having to go through the hassle of trying to get everyone’s money or their pictures back, it was announced that this year everything would be pre-paid, and the photographer would mail them in a special cellophane-panel envelope directly to your home. No money. No pictures. If you didn’t like your pictures for any reason, there would be guaranteed retakes until you were happy.

I decided I would be happy with the first time around, since retakes would bring on the "humorous" remarks from your classmates. Oh, I had heard the comments from the class clowns to those who had to get retakes when their name was called. “What, you broke the camera the first time so they had to come back with a special beefed-up ‘no-break’ camera just for you?” Hahahahaha. Or: “It doesn’t matter how many times they do it, they can’t fix it, because they got nothin’ to work with!” Hahahaha. Or: “Hey, keep your mouth shut this time so the flash doesn’t bounce off your braces and blind the photographer.” Hahahaha.

Not only had I heard the class clowns spewing forth such comments, I had joined in. Ok. Sometimes I started it, thinking I was being clever. So why would anyone who made those comments want to go back for retakes until they were happy? Be happy the first time, because it probably wouldn’t get much better anyway.

Let me digress just enough to tell you that I was not much of a looker in the seventh-grade. As a matter of fact, I didn’t lose my two front teeth until the third grade, and I had already started playing trumpet by then, so in the absence of my two front teeth, my gums became rock hard as I practiced my trumpet. Unbeknownst to me, it didn’t stop my two front teeth from growing, it just didn’t allow them to cut through the now-thick gums. I went almost 10 months without front teeth, all the while they were growing up towards my brain. When I began having severe headaches, we went to the dentist and x-rays revealed my need for help in freeing my front incisors. A few pain injections and a sharp dental tool cutting through my numb gums quickly set them free. My teeth dropped down half an inch in the first hour, and to my horror, I discovered that, not only did I have two front teeth instantly, but they were HUGE! They were way bigger than the rest of the teeth I had in my mouth, and instantly earned me a nickname from my loving, elder sister.

“Beaver, beaver…you are a beaver,” she exclaimed as she saw them for the first time. “You know,” she continued, “I read that if beavers don’t gnaw on something, their teeth will grow into their brain and they will die. Do you want something to chew on?”

School the next day was no better. In fact, it was worse. My teeth became a hot boredom-busting topic. You got nothing else to talk about? How about MY TEETH?

Fast-forward back to the seventh-grade. The only thing that had changed was that I had lost all of my baby teeth, so my other teeth were now a bit larger, but still no match for my “killer fangs”, as one of my new classmates had dubbed them. Only he had such great wit as to warp my last name into the mix as well when he called them “Keele-r Fangs”, trying to put a fake Hispanic accent on my name to make it sound like he was saying “killer fangs.” As in, “You got some real Keele-r Fangs, Senor!” Bahahahahaha.

“Did your mother have any kids that lived?” I retorted. To which he only gave me a confused look and said, “What do you mean?”

“Never mind,” I replied, “it’s obvious she didn’t.” He was unfazed.

“Do you have any venom in those Keele-r Fangs?” Bahahahaha. “Don’t bite me, if you do, Senor!” Bahahahaha.

Back to the story. Picture day in seventh-grade. New photographer. New protocol. Pay in advance. Retakes until you’re happy. Yeah, right.

“Next please.” Some things never change. There was the stool of torture. He deftly adjusted it for my body. He quickly positioned me on the stool and then walked around behind his camera. After making adjustments to the height of his camera and very quickly checking his lighting, it was contortionist time. Only this guy was like a hyperactive squirrel on caffeine. Everything came in rapid-fire, machine gun cadence.

“Ok. We’ll put your knees pointing this direction. Lean forward. Turn your head slightly to the left. Good. Chin down. Tilt the top of your head slightly to the right. Chin down. Good. Look into the camera. Look natural and SMILE. WAIT!”

What? Wait? Wait for what?

“Your lips look a little dry, son. Why don’t you lick your lips?” he said as his trigger finger toyed with the button on his wired remote. “Go ahead, quickly now,” he continued. “We have lots of other children to photograph.”

I was halfway through licking my lips…that is, I had wet my top lip and big teeth with my tongue, and was using the back of my big teeth to wet my bottom lip, when his twitching trigger finger got the better of him. Click. Flash. “Next please.”

“Um, wait. Could we do that over? I was like this,” I said as I put my protruding incisors out in front of my lower lip.

“We’ll do it over on retake day if you aren’t happy with it. Next please,” he said all in one breath.

“No, you don’t understand,” I pleaded. “That picture will make me look like a beaver or killer fangs or something that I don’t want to look like. Can’t you just take another one now?”

“On retake day…not a moment sooner. Move along. Next please.”

The laughter of my classmates faded into the distance as my world closed in around me. All I could think about was a special cellophane-paneled envelope showing up in our mailbox. All of the postal workers would have a good laugh. I could hear them now. Probably even with New York mobster accents.

“Hey Chah-lie! Get a load of ‘dis kid! Looks like a beav-ah or somethun.”

“Is ‘dat right? Lemme see…whoa…poor kid. Looks like he needs to gnaw on somethun. Ya know, I read somewhere dat if beavers don’t gnaw on somethun, ‘deir teeth will grow right up into ‘deir brain and kill ‘em.”

“No kiddin’? Wow, maybe we should have Mavis put a note on ‘dis one when she delivers it to warn his mo-thuh. She could at leas’ stock some celery or somethun’.”

I shook my head and cleared the images of my imagination. Then a thought more horrifying hit me. What if Pam found them first? I’d never hear the end of it. I determined to be the first one to the mailbox everyday until they came.

Two weeks later, I opened the mailbox to see three cellophane-paneled envelopes staring back at me. The top one was my brother. Third-grade. Lively. Energetic. And the photographer’s assistant always said, “Oh, aren’t you a cutie!”

Next, was my sister’s. Eighth grade. Long-hair. Sophisticated, and secretly, though I would never admit it out loud to her, I thought she was beautiful.

On the bottom, probably out of pity for “that poor beaver-kid”, lay mine. It was as bad as I had expected. Two giant pearly whites shining forth like beacons in the night. I rapidly developed a plan. I took the mail inside and removed my envelope from the pile.

Quickly running downstairs, I lifted up my mattress and slid them under. No need to open the envelope and stare at 36 more identical pictures. If you don’t like the 8x10, you definitely won’t like the 5x7’s, the 3x5’s and the 20 wallets “for trading with your friends.”

Instantly, to avoid my siblings, I set about doing my chores. I said nothing about the mail, and they didn’t seem to think of it, so it lay in a pile on the kitchen counter until mom and dad came home with my younger sister.

“Oh, look,” mom exclaimed. “Your pictures came! At least Pam and Rusty’s are here..”

Pam ran to grab her package from mom’s hands while proceeding to do what every eighth-grade female does when they get their pictures, but before they actually see them. “Oh, mother, those are horrid. Don’t let anyone see.”

“No they’re not, dear. It’s a beautiful likeness of you. Don’t you think so, hon?” she asked, showing them to dad.

“Oh, yes,” dad said, pulling the picture from inside the cellophane envelope and studying it. “You’ve become a very lovely young lady.”

Pam snatched them away from dad and then proceeded to do what every eighth-grade female does after they see their pictures. “Oh, look at these…they’re horrid. Look. No. Don’t look. What do you think? I think they’re simply awful. Look. No. Don’t look. Aren’t they terrible?” Inwardly you knew she liked them, but she wouldn’t be caught dead admitting it.

“Yeah, you’re right,” Rusty said looking over her shoulder. “You do look like a real dork.”

“You hush your mouth! I wasn’t asking you anyway.”

Mom was working on opening Rusty’s package. “Oh, these are precious! You’re so cute! I know that Grandma will like these!”

Where are yours, Donnie?” my dad suddenly asked.

“Oh, they must not have come yet.” I lied, trying to sound convincing.

My younger brother was quick to rat me out. “Um, no. They came. Um. ‘Cause I, um, saw him putting them under his mattress in his room.”

“You little ratfink!” I started, but was cut short by my dad.

“Go get them, son,” he commanded.

“Ah, well, they’re really not very good.” I began.

“That’s what your sister said,” my mom responded, “and hers are absolutely beautiful. Now go get yours.”

“Well, see,” I was grasping for anything to save me, but nothing seemed to be forthcoming. Then out of nowhere, “Um…I think I will need to have retakes, cause I wasn’t ready when he took it and the picture came out looking really dumb.”

“Well, considering what they had to work with,” my sister started.

Dad cut off the rest of her remark as well as my quickly formulating comeback. “Well, you let us be the judge of that. Go get your pictures—NOW!”

“Yes sir.” I knew it was best not to try and argue the point. I went downstairs to my room and got them. I would have to try a new tactic.

“You have to promise not to laugh.” I started as I came back upstairs clutching the cellophane window to my chest.

“We would never laugh at you,” my mom countered. “You’re our son and we love you very much. A little picture won’t change that.”

“Maybe not, but I know you're gonna laugh, and I don't want to you laugh.” I shot back. “Promise me you won’t laugh.”

“Ok,” said mom. “We promise not to laugh. Now give them here.”

I handed her the cellophane-paneled envelope upside down. She turned it over and with one look at the picture, her hand went over her mouth to stifle a laugh.

“It’s cute,” she chortled. “I think we should keep it. I’ll put it in your album.”

“NO! Don’t EVER put it in my album!” I shouted.

“Calm down, son,” my dad said. Then to my mom, “Let me see it.”

He took one look and a big grin came across his face followed by a suppressed chuckle. Next it was my sister’s turn. “Beaver, beaver…you are a beaver!” Then she imitated what she thought a beaver would sound like by rapidly smacking her lips. Chupchupchupchupchup.

I was getting angry now. “I told you it was an awful picture and you promised not to laugh—and now you’ve broken your promise.” I shouted.

“We’re not laughing at you,” my sister began. “We’re laughing with you!”

“Yeah, only I’m not laughing,” I shot back angrily. “So that means you’re laughing at me and I don’t like it at all.”

Fortunately mom did concede not to send my school picture to all the relatives that year. But no matter how I pleaded, it still went into the album. And every time I would steal the picture from the album, another would mysteriously appear to take its place. And, why not? She had paid for the whole package.

I’m grown now, with young adult children of my own. We still get together for holidays and birthdays, and sometimes when we are together, out come the old albums. I always know whenever someone is looking at my album and they turn to the page containing my seventh-grade picture. It still brings a laugh and a comment. And I’ve learned to laugh at it as well. I did kind of look like a beaver.

Dad died almost 15 years ago and mom lives alone now. Sometimes, she tells me, on a Friday night, she’ll pull out all of the albums and go through them. She’ll relive the good times and recall stories of our growing-up years. She’ll remember how we were at every stage, and yes, she still laughs at that stupid seventh-grade picture. But most of all, she looks forward to the day when we will all be reunited as a family; her, dad, all of us kids and now, grandkids. Actually, she doesn’t just look forward to that day, she longs for it. But as much as she longs for it, God the Father, longs for it more.

Point : God keeps a family album, and my picture is in it.

It’s true! God keeps a family album and my picture is in it. And so is yours. As a matter of fact, He has a family album for each one of us, and He longs for the day when we’ll all be home, together for eternity.

But aside from eternity, the Bible says that God loves me and has a plan for my life right now. And He has a plan for your life as well. And He wants to complete His purpose in us so that He can take us home and be reunited with Him for all eternity.

The Lord will fulfill His purpose for me. Lord, Your love is eternal. Complete the work that You have begun. Psalms 38:8 TEV


So that it is no longer I who live, but it is Christ who lives in me. This life that I live now, I live by faith in the Son of God who loved me and gave His life for me. Galatians 2:20 NIV

Though God longs for the day He can take you and me home, He also longs for the day that you and I will learn to live our lives according to His purpose and through His strength. As He turns the pages of His family album, He relives those days that we lived with Him and it makes Him long all the more for the day when He will reunite His family for eternity.

Grandma's House

My grandma’s house hasn’t changed in 50 years. Well, ok, there was the addition of vinyl siding and central heat and air, but besides that, it still looks the same. My grandfather built the house back in the 1950’s when they moved to Collegedale, TN for my dad to go to college. But ever since I was born, I’ve only known that house as “grandma’s house.” To be sure, granddaddy lived there too, and sometimes we’d say that we were headed to “grandma and granddaddy’s” house. But to keep things short and simple, it was “grandma’s house.”

I loved to go to grandma’s house. It had the best brick wall on the side of the carport that went halfway up to the roofline, and from there, two sets of fan-shaped poles bolted to the top of the wall held the roof up.

Early on, my cousins and I would have to stretch to reach the bottom of the poles on the top of the wall, and we would strain to pull ourselves up, while our bare feet wind-milled their way up the red brick. Once on top of the wall, we could go back and forth along it for what seemed to be hours without getting bored. We would swing around the poles and balance along the wall until all of a sudden, something more exciting would capture the attention of one of us on the wall, and off they would go. Once one person had jumped down to run off, the others were sure to follow if the new pursuit was indeed more exciting than the wall.

There were lots of exciting things to do at grandma’s house. The tree swing. The tree house. Running through the sprinkler on a hot day. Games of Simon Says and Mother, May I and of course, the favorite on the large front lawn was Red Light, Green Light.

We also each had to take our turn helping granddaddy plant the garden, water the garden, fertilize the garden, weed the garden, or pick the garden as well. “The Garden” was actually 2 and a half acres of plowed ground on either side of the house from which corn, popcorn, watermelons, cantaloupes, okra, squashes of all kinds, beans of more kinds, peppers, radishes, lettuce and all sorts of other great things grew. We knew it was hard work, because we all had to help and our small hands and backs would grow very tired until finally we were released from the hard labor. Then we would head back up to the house, and with our last ounce of strength, pull ourselves back up to the top of the wall, where we would sit and brag about who did the most work in the garden.

But what was, and still remains, my favorite thing of all at grandma’s house, is what happens when I first get there. As a kid, I was usually one of the first out of the car and into the house, so I could hear it. The Greeting. It usually went something like this.

“Hey kid, C’mon in. Sit down and rest your feet. Can I get you something to eat?” (I loved that last part) If grandma was busy she’d just say, “look in the refrigerator and see what you want. I’m just saving”…and she would list what we couldn’t touch in the fridge. Everything else was fair game.

I still love going to grandma’s house. It’s not because of the wall, though my kids enjoyed it growing up. It’s not the tree swing or the tree house because they are both long gone. I no longer get jazzed about running through the sprinkler on a hot summer day, though my cousin’s youngest has just discovered it. Simon Says and Red Light-Green Light are rarely played there anymore. Even the garden is gone, because a few years back, my grandfather died and my grandma can barely make it around the house.

No. I love going to grandma’s house because of grandma. And the greeting. No matter how old I get she still calls me kid. I walked in a few weeks ago and there it was. “Hey kid, C’mon in. Sit down and rest your feet. There’s some cake on the counter if you want something.”

Through the good times and the bad of my life, no matter how much life changed around me, I’ve always known that I could go back to grandma’s house and my acceptance there was always automatic and unconditional. That never changed.

Grandma is now in her 90’s, and I know that at some point in time I will get a call letting me know that grandma’s house has changed forever. I don’t look forward to that day, because there are so few things in this life that you can always count on. As a matter of fact, I’ve only discovered one.

Here's the Point: Jesus Christ is the One who never changes in a universe that always does.

The bible says “Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever.” Heb. 13:8 NIV

As to His divine Holiness, He was shown with great power to be the Son of God by being raised from death. Romans 1:4 TEV

This is My Son, whom I love. Listen to Him! Mark 9:7 NIV

Wouldn’t it be nice to know that you have a place to go that never changes? A place where you know that you are safe and loved. May I suggest Jesus? He never changes. Your acceptance with Him is always automatic and unconditional. That will never change.

Of Rulebooks and Roadmaps

I went to college in the late 70’s at what was then known as Southern Missionary College, in Tennessee. There’s nothing unusual about that. My parents lived in Arizona. Here’s where the problem lay. If you know anything about United States geography, you know that there was no quick route home. As a matter of fact, during the days of the 55 mph speed limit, it took about 36 hours by car to go between the two. That’s a long way to drive by oneself. So I didn’t.

My cousin, Paul, who also attended Southern, but lived six hours further away, in Southern California, purchased the coolest truck from the California Highway Department roads crew. It was a 1972 Dodge step-side pickup. Oh, it didn’t look like much when he bought it. Road-crew yellow. Plain. Ugly. Not the sort of vehicle college guys try attracting women with. The only ones that would have been attracted to it would be ones that naturally wear safety vests around the house—which weren’t exactly the types that we were interested in. We at least wanted ones with a full set of teeth.

Anyway, back to the truck. After he and his dad did a makeover, this thing was one cool ride! Metallic-blue paint job. Mag Wheels. A topper on the back with a full carpeted deck to stretch out a sleeping bag or two and plenty of room underneath to pack all of our luggage. Along with all of that, in keeping with the rage of the late 70’s, it had a nice Cobra CB Radio to communicate with all the truckers across country. And for internal communication, there were windows in between the cab and the back for shouting through or even crawling between when we were tired of one or the other.

Once my cousin had completed the makeover, and knowing that my ’69 Ambassador Rambler was on it’s last leg, he called to offer to share the truck with me at college if I would help him drive it across each time. I was game. Three days later he pulled into my driveway driving what he had now dubbed “The Blue Burrito”, ready to head east. What a setup! One could stretch out in the back and one could drive. We could drive it straight through and feel good when we got there. It turned out to be a great way to go.

By Christmas, there were many more “westerners” wanting to ride with us back across. We quickly calculated that with 6 of us in the truck at 14 miles per gallon, if we split the gas cost among everyone, we could get by on about $20 each cross-country. (This is back when gas was at an unbelievable high of $.88 per gallon. Hard to fathom, I know. We were outraged.)

We crammed four in the back in sleeping bags and put two in the cab. Since there was no heat in the back, we figured that four across would add the extra warmth, with the warmest sleeping bags on the outsides. In the cab, one would, of course, be the driver, while the other rode “shotgun”. The person riding “shotgun” would be responsible for navigating through the cities to make sure we stayed on Interstate 40 and didn’t end up heading north or south. We would rotate teams every two hours for safety and to let someone in the back sit up for a while as well as warm up, and let the driver and navigator lay down in the back for some shut-eye. In this manner, we figured that we would always have an alert driver and navigator. Besides, after four hours in the back you were ready to get out and do anything but lay down.

We divided into three teams of two. Since each person would only drive every other time their team came around, we figured that each person would only have to drive 9 of the 36 hours to Phoenix. Paul would have to drive the additional 6 hours to Southern California himself.

It was 4 a.m. The back of the topper door was abruptly jerked open and cold air blasted in to awaken us. “Keele, Jansen—your turn to drive.” Paul was already scrambling for his shoes, knowing that he was the next driver, and as such, he had to pump the gas so that he would be fully awake to drive. I slid out of the back and just slipped my feet far enough into my shoes to allow me to step on the heels and tiptoe around to the cab. I was seat-belted into the “shot-gun” position in the warm cab in no time, and with my head on a pillow against the door, was quickly back in dream land.

Abruptly Paul jerked open the driver's door, slid in behind the wheel, and slammed the door shut. I sat up, eyes half-open. “Well, navigator,” Paul said, “Which way?”

“Wha?” I half-responded.

“Which way?”

“West, you dufus!” I leaned my head back against the door and started back to slumber city.

“Yeah, that’s what I mean? Where’s the freeway, and which way is west?”

I sat up and looked around. The station that the last team had selected was out in the middle of nowhere. Looking all around us, I couldn’t see the freeway either north or south of us.

“So do we go left or right?” Paul asked.

“Go left…no right…no—hold on.” I opened the little window from the cab to the back, but they had the topper window shut tight against the cold. I banged. No one moved.

I got out and walked around and jerked open the back window. “Hey, which way is the freeway?” I shouted. One guy looked up and said, “It’s down there,” and pointed toward the roof of the topper. He abruptly broke into a snore and I was sure there would be no more helpful information coming from his direction. The other three never moved.

I closed the topper door and walked back around to the cab.

“Do you think we should ask for directions back in the station?” Paul queried.

“What, and break the man-code?” I gave him a shocked look. “No—we’ll find it! Besides, I got a small clue from the dead-heads in the back. They said, it was ‘down there’, so that means we need to turn South. So go left.” I was proud of my powers of deduction and Paul seemed to be satisfied.

He turned the “Blue Burrito” left and we headed out. After about three miles, he turned to me and asked, “Are you sure this is the right way.”

“Well, no, not exactly.”

“Why don’t you check the map?”

I flipped on the cigarette lighter, flexible-necked map light from K-Mart and opened the glove compartment and started fishing around.

“Will you look at this?” I exclaimed, drawing out a California Highway driver’s manual. I flipped it open and began to read.

“Seat belts are now required of all occupants traveling in a motor vehicle. You got your seat belt on?

“Yes, but are we going the right way?” Paul countered.

“If you’ve got your seatbelt on and I’ve got mine on—looks like we’re doing fine. Oh, look at this. It says you are not supposed to follow any emergency vehicle closer than 500 feet.” I scanned the dark horizon. “Look dude, I can’t even see any emergency vehicles, so we’re doing great!”

“Yeah,” Paul said weakly, “but are we going the right way?”

Point: The Bible is the Word of God—not a rulebook, but a roadmap.

Heb. 4:12 says For the word of God is living and active. Sharper than any double-edged sword, it penetrates even to dividing soul and spirit, joints and marrow; it judges the thoughts and attitudes of the heart.

2Pet. 1:21 For prophecy never had its origin in the will of man, but men spoke from God as they were carried along by the Holy Spirit.

The Bible isn’t there to just let you know all of the rules. God gave you the Bible to help you get where you need to go—heaven. Has it ever occurred to you that you could be doing everything right and still miss The Way?

NOTE: For those of you who remain curious. Yes, we did turn around and yes we found the freeway about 4 miles back.