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.

The Nerd Factory

By Don Keele Jr.

Who makes them? Is there a factory somewhere? How come we seem to have so many of them running around? Where do nerds come from?

Everywhere you look, there are nerds (or nerdettes) running around. You know the type: They don’t when to be quiet, they drop their tray in the cafeteria, they wear half-matching clothes, and most of them know the cube root of an airplane propeller (or at least could find it with the help of their trusty, ever-present calculator.)

I befriended a real nerd a few years ago, and as soon as it seemed safe, I asked him that question. “Where did you come from?”

His reply was typically nerdy. “From my parents,” he said.

Seeing that I wasn’t getting anywhere, I began relentlessly interrogating the nerd in search of some clue to answer my question. I asked about his parents, his clothes, and even the cube root of an airplane propeller (he didn’t know). Now, in hopes of helping all of us, I will report my findings. I must let you know that I have found, at least in part, the answer to this perplexing question.

Let me tell you his story.

Alan was born young, as many nerds are. But he didn’t know that he was destined to be a nerd for life, because actually Alan was very normal at birth. He did things like normal kids do. It wasn’t until later that he began developing nerd tendencies.

At first the problem centered in Alan’s parents. They didn’t want him. He was, as they told him many times, an “accident.” A ruining of their lives. At best, he was a major intrusion into their already-rocky relationship.

And he was hard to take care of in their nomadic existence. They had to be up early to get their trailer into the best slot at the flea market of whatever town they happened to be in. And to stop and feed a baby, or to chase him down as a toddler, was a huge bother. Sometimes too much of a bother. Mostly he had to go hungry or put up with being locked in a tiny trailer closet most of the day so he wouldn’t wander off. Sometimes when he cried he got beat severely. I mean, who was he to get hungry at their busiest time? So what if he was only 1 year old? The kid had to learn patience and obedience.

Alan grew, and as state laws dictate, he had to be put in school. His parents couldn’t afford to pay the fines for keeping him out of school. But putting him in school would restrict their travels and their income.

To make matters worse, they had another “accident” about this time and were having to teach this new one the hard facts of life like they had taught Alan. They finally decided to settle in a community close to a large metropolitan area. At least while Alan was in school, they could lock the younger one in the closet and go sell at the flea market.

Life for Alan was getting more complicated. He tried to do well in school, but he had problems understanding everything. It probably had something to do with the time, at age 3, when his dad knocked him unconscious and fractured his skull. But Alan never thought of that. He only knew that he wasn’t as quick as the other kids. He’d heard his teacher tell his mom and dad that he was very slow, and that’s why he needed to repeat the first grade. On the way home his dad cursed him for being stupid.

Learning wasn’t the only area that caused him problems. Some of the other kids said he smelled funny. Some said that he had a bowl haircut (before it was popular). Others simply laughed and pushed him away whenever he asked to play with them. Sometimes he didn’t mind, but sometimes it made him mad, and soon he was labeled a discipline problem for fighting with the other kids. His dad beat him severely for being so violent with other kids.

By the time Alan reached the third grade, the other kids absolutely despised him, and his teacher simply tolerated him. The other parents talked about him, the principal knew him well, and the cafeteria director was totally disgusted with the way he “snarfed down” his food at lunch. “Why, it’s as if he hadn’t eaten in a week!” she exclaimed.

One day Alan’s dad dropped him off at school (it was kind of embarrassing to climb out of their beat-up motor home) and told him he would pick him up at 3:00 p.m. as usual. Alan said good-bye and went on into his third-grade room. At 3:00, he wandered outside and waited for the old “rolling garbage can,” as some of his classmates called the motor home. But it never showed up.

He waited: 4:00 p.m., 5:00 p.m., 6:00 p.m., 7:30 p.m. And he was really getting hungry.

The police caught him digging through the trash dumpster behind a local college cafeteria. They took him to the trailer park where he lived and dropped him off.

His parent’s motor home wasn’t there, so Alan went to the office. “They checked out about 10:00 this morning. Paid their bill up and pulled out. Didn’t say where they were going. They musta left you behind accidental-like.”

Alan crawled underneath another trailer and curled up to sleep. He would look for them in the morning.

Three days and 65 miles later, he found them at a flea market in a neighboring town.

“How did you find us, you little jerk? You were supposed to find somewhere else to go. Don’t you know by now that we don’t want you?” His dad drove him back to school and drove away.

The pattern that had begun three days prior was repeated again and again until Alan’s parent’s finally gave up.

At school it didn’t go without notice that whenever Alan did come, his clothes were dirty, his hair was uncombed, his face and hands were filthy, and he took unusually large portions in the cafeteria at lunch. Alan learned that society is cruel and vicious to people who don’t look just right. The more his classmates teased and taunted him, the more Alan lashed out at them. Yet he wanted their acceptance more than anything.

By eighth grade, Alan was considered a real nerd. He tried to fit in, but his vile mouth and nerd-like ways won him more rejection, more lunch hours by himself, and no friends. If anyone did feel sorry for him and show him the least bit of attention, Alan would dog the person’s steps like a puppy gone mad with affection. Of course, this would inevitably end in rejection, because he would drive the person right up the wall.

Upon Alan’s graduation, his dad heard about a school that boarded kids—an academy, they called it. And his dad found out that a kid could word off most of his bill. So he dropped Alan off at the academy in midsummer. That’s where I met him.

Alan was always grinning stupidly or fighting, either loudmouthed or foulmouthed, always dressed wrong, and always so insanely dumb that he could be nothing but a real-life nerd. A case study in the making, I thought. At least that’s what I thought until our conversation.

As we talked I suddenly began to realize that Alan was the way he was because of the people around him: his parent, his elementary classmates, and people like me, who are so incredibly blind and insensitive that we heap more rejection on someone who needs so badly the acceptance we could offer. I mean, what would you or I be like if we’d been treated like Alan all of our lives?

My conclusion? There really is a “nerd factory”. And its workers are those of us who constantly dole out large or small doses of rejection. Those of us who make fun of or play jokes on the nerds in our life. When we try to make ourselves look better by climbing high on the broken pieces of those we destroy daily, we are worse off than any nerd.

Is it possible that Jesus could have been referring in part to nerds as “the least of these brothers of mine”? (Matthew 25:40, NIV) Or might Paul have had nerds in mind when he wrote “Do not think of yourself more highly than you ought,” “but in humility consider others better than [yourself]”? (Romans 12:3 and Philippians 2:3, NIV)

I don’t know about you, but I’ve decided to quit the “nerd factory” and begin working at the “De-Nerding Center for Socially Deprived Children of God.” It’s going to be a hard and dirty job, but the way I see it, someone’s got to do it. And from what I hear, they have lots of positions available. Need an application?

COPS

By Don Keele Jr.

The mall had just closed and I had barely left the mall parking lot, heading down a street lined with condo’s, when suddenly I found myself in a scene reminiscent of a special episode of COPS. A police car just ahead of me had pulled in behind a white Suzuki wagon, and a second police car had stopped just behind the first, but partly blocking my lane. A blue Chevy pickup facing the same direction sat angled across the left side of the road with enough room between it and the police car for my car to ease through. Thinking it was a minor fender bender, I started to ease between the two cars when a man in a brown leather jacket brandishing a drawn revolver leaped from in front of the truck and banged on my hood.

“Stop!!” he cried. “Back up...NOW!”

No argument here. I slammed the car into reverse and started to back up when two more cruisers, lights flashing, pulled beside and behind me. Another cruiser came screaming down the road in front of me and parked in between the blue pickup and the other police car. I was trapped. For the next 20 minutes I sat there trying to stare past the flashing lights and watch the unfolding drama in the beam of the strong searchlight mounted on the first patrol car.

“Driver, get out of the car with your hands on your head!” A voice sounded from the grill of the patrol car. Around the scene, about 9 officers, both male and female, stood with guns drawn, aimed at the car. A tall, large-boned, heavy-set teen struggled to get out of the tiny car without using his hands that he had placed on his head.

“Everyone else put your hands on the inside ceiling of the vehicle.” Through the spinning whir of lights, I could see other hands being slowly raised to the roof.

I looked back to the driver who was now standing with his hands behind his head. He looked to be a young man of about 18 or 19 years of age. He was imposing in stature, and the whirling lights revealed a face that did not seem overly concerned with his current predicament.

The commands through the loudspeaker continued. “Kneel down—keep your hands on your head.” He struggled to kneel in his baggy denim shorts, while keeping his hands on his head.

“He’s still too close,” shouted one of the other officers.

Again the voice through the loudspeaker, “Stand up!” He struggled again, trying to keep his hands on his head as he rose to his feet. “Walk backwards.” He complied. “Kneel down.” Once back down on his knees, five officers rushed in and quickly handcuffed him. They pulled him to his feet and steered him to one of the waiting patrol cars right next to where I was trapped. Placing a hand on top of his head to keep him from bumping it, one of the officers guided his descent into the back seat. Still, he did not seem overly concerned. A cool, arrogance seemed to pervade his gaze as he looked over at me. I turned my attention back to the on-going drama.

“Passenger in the front seat,” called the loudspeaker voice, “come out slowly with your hands up.”

The passenger from the front seat was a girl who looked to be about 16 or 17. She was tall, slender and very attractive with long, dark hair. She had no look of arrogance or cool. She was visibly shaken by the experience she now found herself in the middle of. Tears streamed down her face as she cried out, “don’t shoot me, please.”

“Back up and kneel down,” said the voice. She did and two officers quickly had her handcuffed and led her to another waiting car. She sobbed uncontrollably as she passed between my car and the one where the driver sat watching coolly. She saw him in the back of the car next to mine and screamed at him through her tears. He just stared straight ahead, unwilling to meet her gaze. She was deposited in the car behind mine.

“Passenger in the back seat, come out slowly with your hands on your head.”

The heavy-set girl in the back seat bent down as if to pick something up. Nine officers with guns all aimed at her started screaming, “Get your hands up where we can see them.” She looked back over her shoulder into the glaring spotlight. A look of defiance clearly marked her features.

“Come out of the car with your hands on your head!” the voice repeated more sternly.

“Come and get me,” she mouthed into the light at no one in particular.

The loudspeaker voice intoned, “You have 10 seconds to come out of the car or we will come in. These officers have been authorized to shoot.”

Was I going to watch someone get shot right in front of me? “Please, girl, come out with your hands up,” I pleaded silently.

Suddenly the back door burst open and the girl started to make a break. The guy in the car next to me laughed and cheered her on. Instantly there were 5 cops on her. She struggled and kicked and even tried to bite one of the officers, but they soon had her subdued in handcuffs. As they pulled her to her feet, a defiant sneer crossed her face.

When they led her past my headlights, to put her in the car to my left, she was almost laughing at them. She saw me watching her from my car and she shot me a look of searing scorn. I held her gaze but inwardly flinched. I had seen that look before.

Defiance, hatred and a determination were there. How does one get to this state? It is in the daily decisions; the decisions that come to each of us from moment to moment. It is in the decisions to serve self rather than God. With each decision we begin to look more like whichever side we choose. And the more choices toward Satan, the more the look begins to be fixed.

It is the look of one who has beheld and idolized the dark side one day at a time until, little by little, they become so controlled by the enemy of our souls that they fail to realize the extent of his control. It is the look of one who, thinking they are being their own person and making their own decisions, are unable to recognize how deep they have moved into Satan’s territory. Even as the noose tightens around their neck, they continue to insist that they are free and nothing can touch them; they are above the law. It is the look of one who has taken on the appearance of a greater master.

It was apparent that, though she was young, Satan had left his mark on this one. I could almost see him laughing through her. She jerked her head away from the guiding hand of the officer and banged her head on the top of the door. “Don’t touch my #@$*# head,” she screamed as she fell backwards into the car.

Once they put her in the car, they moved the pickup truck aside and let me go through.

As I drove on home, I couldn’t help thinking about that look. It haunted me. And then I began thinking about me. And my church. What are we doing to help ones with “the look”? What responsibility do we have for those going to hell? Not just those who come to our youth groups, but ones that inhabit our neighborhoods. What is our responsibility to our community?

Have we taken our call to “come out of her, My people” so seriously, that we refuse to engage any but those who show up to our evangelism series or send in a Bible study card? Are we unwilling to take Jesus back into the world?

Has it ever occurred to any of us that Jesus called us to love even those with “the look”? To pursue them in love and let them know that they aren’t stuck with that sneer, that hatred and scorn.

Jesus said, “By this all men will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another.” John 13:35 NIV Do they see it in you?

Ed's Tohlet

By Don Keele Jr.

 

It was a frosty October morning.  A thin dusting of snow was on the ground as we drove up “Four-Mile Holler.”  Along the way sat rusted, bullet-ridden shells of old cars from the ‘20’s, ‘30’s and ‘40’s.  Black coal smoke came from several of the old shacks on each side of the road.  It almost appeared as if we were going back in time as we drove the winding road in this rural part of
Kentucky.  Some of the teens with me huddled further down in their warm coats as they imagined what life must be like for the people who lived in such run-down, rickety places.  We were on our way to see Ed and to work on his house as part of our on-going Appalachian Outreach project.

Ed lived at the very back of “Four-Mile Holler”.  A “holler” in Eastern Kentucky is a hollow between two mountains where the run-off water has carved a path on it’s way down to the valley.  This one was named “Four-Mile Holler” because it was exactly four miles long.   We were to later find out it was also known as a “shootin’ holler”.  A “shootin’-holler” is a hollow in which a feud is still going on.  This particular feud, I learned, had already lasted 126 years.  Ed had seen many people die in the feud, but since he had remained neutral, he was rarely shot at, though his house did sustain some bullet wounds received while he was entertaining members of one family or the other.

As we pulled up in front of Ed’s place, we began to realize that this was not going to be an easy job.  His “house”, to use the term loosely, sat back off the road at the confluence of two fairly large, rapidly-moving streams, one of which we would have to cross on a log that had been cut in half and laid across the creek.  This particular morning it was encrusted in a layer of ice that looked wickedly dangerous as it showed every twisted warp of a log perched about 8 feet above the wildly rushing creek.

My teens watched from the warmth of the van as I got a square-point shovel out of the trailer and began to slowly chip away the ice and inch my way across the treacherously uneven surface of the log. A gust of wind almost sent me plunging into the icy stream, but I held onto my shovel and braced against it. Ten long minutes of chipping and slowly inching my way across finally yielded success as I stepped out onto the other side.  I relaxed.  Too soon.

A giant dog leaped out of the tall weeds near the log bridge and snapped.  I screamed and leaped as the dog hit the end of the large logging chain restraining it.  The teens, watching from the warmth and safety of the van, screamed with me, but once they realized I was still alive, began to laugh at my plight.  I couldn’t get back across the log bridge if I wanted, and they weren’t about to come to my aid.

Fortunately for me, Ed had heard my scream and the door to the shanty jerked rapidly open.  A rather large man, slightly hunched over an adjustable, dirty metal cane, limped out onto the porch.

“GIT’OWN!” he screamed.  The large dog slunk back into the weeds.  I didn’t fully understand the language, but I was extremely glad the dog did.

“Hi!” I tried to sound cheerful despite my shaking knees and racing heart, “I’m Pastor Don.  Are you Ed?”

“Thasright” Ed replied. “Lemme git sum ashes to put on the log and tie back the dog.  Make him safer.”  He grabbed an old steel pail filled with coal ash and hobbled down to the creek bank where I still stood rooted to the ground.

“Take ‘is here and shovel it out on the log,” he instructed, handing me the pail.  He went and grabbed the beast and looped his chain over a large, metal stake farther back from the bridge, effectively making the landing safe.  I shoveled ash across the log and one by one the teens began spilling out of the van and making their way across.

“Can we pet your dog?” one of my students asked.  I was incredulous after my near-death experience.

“Well, I reckon ya can…jes don’t turn yore back on ‘im,” Ed responded.

“What do you mean, Ed?” I asked.

Ed didn’t reply, but bent down and rolled up his right pant leg to reveal a nasty looking six-inch scar on his calf.

“What happened?” we all asked, almost in unison.

“Well one day, I’s down here afeedin’ ‘im, and I turnt around to git some water, and the fool dog done grapped ahold a mah leg and wunt let go fur nothing!  He was agrowlin’ and a shakin his haid around, ‘bout to rip mah leg plumb off. Well…I commenced to jerkin’ on his jaws, an’ abeatin on his haid…but he won’t let me go.”

“How did you get him off?” I asked.

Ed looked up toward the side of his shack which had many old-fashioned iron objects hanging on the outside wall and said, “Ya see that big iron skillet ahangin’ over there?  Well I unhooked his chain and I went adraggin’ ‘im up there and got that ole’ skillet and I beat him on the haid till he went plumb out! Then I jerked his jaws offamah leg and dragged ‘eem back down there and hooked ‘eem up.  And ya know, that dog ain’t been right ever since.”

“Don’t touch the dog, kids.” I said

“Whul, that’s mah liddle dog.” Ed responded. “Mah big ‘un, I had to lock up afore you’uns got here. Had ‘em both bred special.  Part Doberman, part Rottweiler and part Pit Bull.  Not many get past ‘im on the bridge there. Kinda surprised you did.” He gave a look my way and I felt a new ripple of respect among the students.

“So Ed, what do you need us to do for you today?” I changed the topic while the respect was fresh.

“I needja to put a new wall in mah kichun. It fell out on to mah porch about 3 year ago. C‘mon on in…all uh you’uns.”

As we entered his house, the smell was almost an entity of its own. Getting past that, the next problem was finding a route through the junk.   From the front door, a trail led between stacks of old junk radios, magazines, eight track tape players, tapes, a car transmission and other assundry items, to the kitchen.  Another trail led from the main trail over to a TV that played in two colors, red and offset green.  Another trail went from the TV to the coal burning stove over in the corner and then from the coal burning stove back to the main trail.

In the kitchen, things weren’t much better. Actually, it got worse.  I did a double take as I looked at the dishes in the sink. The top ones looked alright, but as I looked deeper, I saw black and grey mold growing out from between the dishes on the bottom two-thirds of the stack.

“Ed,” I asked, “How long have these dishes been in the sink?”

“Well, Ah warshed ‘em all fur ‘bout the first 3 years after muh wife lef me.  Then figerd…ain’t no one eatin’ off’n these but me—so ah’ll jes’ warsh the ones ah need when ah need ‘em.”

“And how long ago did your wife leave you, Ed?”

“Les see,” he scratched his head, “it’s been ‘bout fifteen year ago.”

“WHAT?  So your saying these dishes have been in the sink for twelve YEARS?” I asked incredulously.

“Dat ud be ‘bout right,” he concluded proudly.

I asked him where they went when they were all clean.  He pointed to a cabinet.  I opened the cabinet to find a lot of rat and mouse droppings and an old Oatmeal box and a box of grits with long grey mold growing out of the side.  As a matter of fact, mold abounded.  I marveled.  This  would certainly be a place where penicillin could gain a foothold.

The back wall of the kitchen was completely gone–rotted away, with the remains lying on top of a broken down porch floor.  All that was left was the screened-in walls of the porch, inside of which Ed had stapled black plastic as a shield against the cold.  The floor of the porch was rotted through, and to one side of the porch, was another “bedroom”.  Actually, it was more of a storage area for more junk, with rotting floors.

I marshalled the troops, about 15 high-schoolers, and a couple of adult sponsors and prepared them for battle.  We would clean the junk out of the living room, clean the kitchen, even washing dishes and cleaning out cupboards, and carrying out all of the garbage.  We would also build a new wall into his kitchen.  The porch and back half would have to wait for another day. This would probably take us all day.

Once all of them were busy, Ed had one more request.  “I’s wunderin’, preacher,  couldja do somthin’ ‘bout mah tohlet?  It kindly peenches.”

“Your what?”

“Mah Tohlet.  It kindly peenches.”

“I’m not sure I understand what you’re saying, Ed.  Why don’t you show me,” I suggested.

He then led me around the corner to his bathroom.   A whole new smell emerged.  Old urine and waste smells lurched out and pierced my nose.  He pointed to the toilet.  A quick glance at the seat and Ed’s problem was obvious. Apparently he had slipped and fallen, and the front half of the ring had broken away from the back half and they were only joined now by pieces of plexiglass and superglue on the underside.  So every time Ed would sit, it would “kindly peench” him.  

Glancing around the rest of the bathroom revealed a nasty looking sink as well as a tub and shower enclosure. The tub and side walls were a deep rust color that looked to be layers thick.  The glass doors were also covered in whatever it was.  It was apparent that we needed to do something about that as well.

I had to ask.  “Ed,” I ventured, “how long has it been since you cleaned your tub?”

“Mah wife warshed it real good jes’ before she left.”

“You’re telling me it’s been fifteen years?” He nodded.

One of the adults headed to town to find a toilet seat, while I went to the back of the trailer to find some long rubber gloves and strong cleaning supplies, a few brushes, some steel wool pads and whatever else seemed potentially helpful for the task at hand, then headed back in, looking for a teenager to redirect.  In the meantime, Ed said he was tired and shuffled off to the back of the house to lay down for a nap.

Spying a student not doing anything, I called for him to follow me.  I led him into the bathroom and showed him the nasty shower and tub enclosure. He swallowed hard and started turning pale.  Obviously fighting back waves of nausea, he began to try to speak.  Nothing came out, so he motioned for me to follow him.  He ran outside.  I followed.

“Pastor Don,” he began, “if you want that shower cleaned”…long pause…careful thought…deep breath… “you’re going to have to do it yourself, ‘cause I ain’t touchin’ that thing!”  With that, he turned and ran back to the job he was supposed to be helping with before I had called him.

“OoooK,” I thought to myself, “it’s up to you, big guy.  You’ve got to buck up and show them a little servant-leadership.”

I donned the heavy rubber gloves and picked up my cleaning supplies.  This was do or die.  Put up or shut up.  I headed in, and the odor once again attacked my senses.  Shut up was sounding like a better option all the time.  I looked back and saw 5 teen-age guys watching me wavering at the door. No backing down now or I would never hear the end of it.   I plunged in determined to conquer or be conquered.

I slid open the shower door and peered in. It was worse than I had imagined. A brown, encrusted goo hung on the sides of the shower.  I aimed my spray bottle of strong chemicals in and began pumping furiously, thoroughly saturating the sides and bottom, and then quickly retreated to the fresh air outside.  

Back inside I attacked with the scrub brush and the goo started peeling off in layers.  Layer after layer came off as the strong cleaning agents worked overtime.  As each layer glopped to the bottom of the tub, I scooped it up and plopped it in a heavy-duty garbage bag.  Then it was spray and repeat. The toxic combination of cleaning supplies and incumbent smells necessitated taking frequent breaks to gasp in some fresh air.

Three hours and 8 layers later, it was beginning to look better.  My runaway student abruptly reappeared at the bathroom door.

“Umm…” he began.  “I’ve been thinking about things, Pastor Don.  And I’ve been feeling a little guilty for running off.  So, if you really…long pause…um…want me to…big swallow…work on that shower…extremely long pause while choosing his words carefully…I guess I will…adding rapidly…so you can get started on that toilet.”

I had almost forgotten.  He handed me a new toilet seat and I relinquished the scrub brushes and chemicals.  Still wearing my heavy gloves, I tried to lift the seat.  It was stuck fast.  There was a black and brown substance holding it tight.  I went out to the trailer, procured a long, thick screwdriver,  a wrench and a Makita cordless drill, and set out to find the screws that kept the lid attached.  Using the long screwdriver, I pried the seat loose and as it popped up, suddenly a whole new smell emerged.  The kid and I both ran, gagging and retching, outdoors.   It was then I spotted what was to be our new friend.  On top of an army stretcher piled high with junk, that some of the boys were carrying out to the barn, lay a rather large box fan.

“Wait,” I shouted, “Does that thing still work?”

“Dunno,” came the response, “didn’t try it.”

My bathroom buddy and I were on it likes flies on stink.  We hauled it to the nearest outlet and plugged it in.  Miraculously the blades started spinning and we felt like we had won a small victory.

We hauled it into the bathroom and put it in the already open window.  We plugged it in and immediately the stench eased.  Just as quickly, however, the people hauling stuff past the window started yelling and gagging as the toxic air spewed forth.

It was back to work. I chipped and scraped the offending substances into the toilet and flushed, repeating the process until I was down to the porcelain.  A few borrowed chemicals and scrub brushes soon had it looking good. Now to the seat.

Scraping down, I located the screws and carved out a slot on top.  Then kneeling down, I realized that there was no dignified way to change a toilet seat.  You simply cannot accomplish the task without hugging the bowl.  Working furiously, again with “air breaks”,  I worked on breaking the nuts loose.  The first took about 45 minutes;  the second about 25. (I learned some tricks on the first one that helped with the second)  Needless to say it was one of the most nauseating, disgusting tasks I’ve ever undertaken.

As I knelt there hugging that bowl, suddenly the thought struck me: “Is this what it means to be a servant of Jesus Christ?”  And as I reflected on the life of Jesus, coming from all of heaven’s glory and splendor down to the dump Satan has made of His creation; the toilet bowl of the universe, if you will, with the ugly mold and goo of sin growing from our hearts, I had to concede that I was probably closer to being a disciple, hugging Ed’s “tohlet”, than I had ever been.   For we are never more like Jesus than when we serve.

Mark 10:42-45 NIV Jesus called them together and said, “You know that those who are regarded as rulers of the Gentiles lord it over them, and their high officials exercise authority over them.  43 Not so with you. Instead, whoever wants to become great among you must be your servant, 44 and whoever wants to be first must be slave of all. 45 For even the Son of Man did not come to be served, but to serve, and to give his life as a ransom for many.”

Secret Weapon

by Don Keele Jr.

Secret Weapon

I’ve always had the athletic ability of tree bark.  I’m the type that can’t walk and chew gum at the same time.  I’ve even been known to pull over to the side of the road to honk the horn.  Athletics and me just don’t mix.
 
I learned this early on when I realized, as I mentioned in the last chapter, that due to asthma, if I had to choose between running and breathing, I would usually chose breathing every time, which left me with little time to develop my athletic prowess. Nowhere was this truer than at recess.  While I enjoyed the break from studies, I hated the pressure of recess, especially in the fourth grade.
 
Our teacher, Miss Lester, thought it important that all children learned to play together, so almost everyday, she would say in her unique nasally way, “Children, line up on the line.”  I hated those words because I knew what was coming next.  “The Line” was just on the edge of the blacktop, and it is where all teams were chosen for whatever game we would be playing that day at recess. She would then continue.
 
“Vance, Bobby, you be our captains today.”  Vance and Bobby were always our captains, because they were the most athletic in our class. And the ritual, no matter what sport we would be playing, was always the same.
 
“Bobby, it’s your turn to choose first today.”  Bobby would then select the next best athlete in the class, and then Vance would choose the third best while Bobby and his first pick talked over who to pick next.  No matter how it started, every day it ended up the same.  Everyone else would be picked, and I would still be standing on The Line, kicking at a small rock, or uneasily shifting from foot to foot until we could be past the dreaded words that I always knew were coming.  It didn’t matter who had last pick, it always went something like this.
 
“We’ll give you two girls if you take Keele too.”  “No way, we had him yesterday!  It’s your turn to have him.”  “Well, we don’t want him, he can’t do anything right.”  “Well, it’s your turn to have him, so let’s get this game started.”  “No wait, what if we gave you three girls?” At which point Miss Lester would finally intervene.
 
“Vance, it’s your pick and there is still one person, so Donnie, you are on Vance’s team today.” A gigantic groan would emanate from all of Vance’s teammates and someone would utter the words I least liked to hear;  “Oh, great, now he’ll make us lose.”  
 
I’m not sure how I could do that because I always thought it took a whole team to win or lose, but somehow they were convinced that I was the key to winning or losing.  And since they were convinced, I rapidly became persuaded as well.  I came to believe that I truly was the weak link on any team.  Which is why my becoming a secret weapon on any sports team was so unusual.  Fast forward to my junior year in academy.
 
My dad became principal of Thunderbird Adventist Academy in Scottsdale, Arizona, the summer before my junior year.  Dad was a competitive sportsman and a good athlete despite his large frame. Ask anyone who caught his fast-pitch softball or tried to defend against him in basketball or who stepped on the racquetball court with him.  Dad had a drive to win.  My younger brother, Rusty inherited that gift of athletics.  I inherited other gifts, but athletics wasn’t one of them.  Nonetheless, dad wanted me to get out there and try whatever sport might be going on at the time.  It was time for basketball that year and dad pleaded with me to sign up to be selected for an intramural team.
 
“Why don’t you try it, son?  Just sign up,” dad pleaded.
 
“Because I can’t run and breathe at the same time.” I shot back.
 
“Now that you have an inhaler, you can’t really use that as an excuse anymore,” dad responded. “So why don’t you sign up?”
 
 Because I’m no good at basketball, dad, that’s why. Besides, I hate the sport. Every time I mess up, some jock gets in my face telling me what a dumb move I just made and how stupid I am for making it.”
 
“But this is a new school.  You can make a fresh start here!” dad insisted.
 
“Too late for that, dad.  They’ve already seen me in PE class and know that I’m as coordinated as concrete.  I hate the pressure and I freeze every time someone throws me the ball.  Then someone steals the ball and the rest of my team yells at me.  No thanks.”
 
He continued to plead until finally, just to please him, I signed up.  Not that I was real worried that I would actually have to play.  In our school, there was an “A-league”, a “B-league” and a “C-league”.  A-league players were the best in the school.  They lived ate and breathed basketball. B-league guys were ok, but not outstanding.  And C-league…let’s just say they were the leftovers. Even at that, my skills were so poor that if there had been a “Z-league”, I would have played in it.  I knew, even if picked for a C-league team, that I would be adequately prepared to warm the bench.  So I signed up just to get dad off my back.
 
The system for choosing teams went like this.  The coach would select the best of the best to be A-league captains and they would come in the first evening and choose their teams.  Then the coach would post the A-league list the next morning.  The second day, he would choose the best of those not chosen the first night and they would become B-league captains.  That evening, they would take the remaining list and make their selections, and the next morning the B-league list would be posted, and the same procedure would follow for C-league on the third day.
 
When the A-league list was posted all over campus, the jocks would all gather to see what team they were on.  They would high-five each other if they found they were on the same team or start talking smack about how they were going to deep-six the other team if they found out they were on opposing teams.
 
I was walking past the library on my way to the Ad Building just before the first bell rang when coach put up the A-league list.  The jocks swarmed it like flies on a cow-pie.  It was disgusting.  But it had nothing to do with me, so I decided to ignore it.  I had two more days before I would have to start worrying.
 
“WHAT!?” one of the jocks suddenly shouted.  “You’ve GOT to be kidding me!  LOOK!” he said pointing to a name on the list.
 
“NO STINKIN’ WAY!” yelled his new teammate. “What was Richard thinking?”
 
They take this way too seriously, I thought.  It’s only a stupid game.  Reminds me of elementary school.  
 
“Have you seen him play?” the first exclaimed, “He’ll make us lose!”
 
Some things never change, I concluded.  They just need to grow up.  Oh, well, none of my concern.
 
The bell rang and doors all over campus flew open as students streamed out heading for their next class.  I headed around the corner to the Ad Building.
 
Suddenly, though my feet were still walking forward, I found myself rapidly moving backward, carried by two big jocks.
 
“Hey,” I started.
 
“Shut up, we’ve got to get to the bottom of this,” one of them said.
 
They turned me around and plopped me down right in front of Richard.  Richard was a senior, and one of the best basketball players in school.  He was about 6’5” and at that height was also one of the tallest kids in school.  He always carried himself with an easy air about him, and a toothpick was always hanging out of one side of his mouth.
 
“Richard, what were you thinking by picking Keele for our team?  Have you never seen him play?  He’s horrible!  He’ll make us lose?” jock one almost shouted, his face red and his veins popping out on the side of his neck.
 
“What?” I exclaimed as the words wormed their way into my understanding.  “You picked me on your team?  Why?”  
 
“That’s what we want to know!” jock two jumped in. “What in the world were you thinking? Oh, you weren’t!” Richard just kind of grinned and chewed on his toothpick.
 
Jock one joined back in, “Really Richard, have you seen him play?  He’s got to be the worst of the worst.  Go back to coach before they pick B-league and pick up someone else.  Maybe Randy.  He didn’t get picked yet.”
 
I was starting to panic as the reality of the situation sunk in.  This could be extremely humiliating, because everyone came to watch A-league games.   Almost no one came to C-league games.
 
 “It’s true, Richard,” I said, “Randy would be a much better choice than me.  I have been making teams lose for years now.  I’m not your man.  I really am bad!  Just give me three minutes on the court and I’ll prove it to you.  Get someone else while there is still time.”  
 
“He’s making a lot of sense,” jock two said.  “Listen to him Richard, before it’s too late.”
 
Richard deftly flicked his toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other with his tongue and then said, “No gentlemen, I want him on my team.  I have a plan for him.  He’s going to be our secret weapon.”
 
“WHAT???” we all cried in unison.
 
“That’s right. I’ve got a plan that I think will work.”
 
“But Richard,” jock one started.
 
Richard looked at him and said, “Listen, I want him on the team and he’s going to be on the team—so either you accept that, or you can find another team.”
 
I swallowed hard and decided to try one more tactic.  “Look Richard, what if I don’t want to be on your team.  What if I don’t want to play at all?  Did you ever think of that?”
 
“Your name was on the list,” Richard said, “which means that you wanted to play.  I picked you, so you will play on my team.  Now listen, all of you, before we’re late to class.  Coach said that we could have the gym Sunday at 2 for just our team.  I’ll tell you what I’m thinking then.  Be there Sunday at 2, dressed out and ready to play ball.”
 
“But,” I began to protest but didn’t get any farther.
 
Richard turned and started walking towards his next class.  “If you’re not there, Keele,” he said over his shoulder, “I will hunt you down and drag you there.  So make it easy on both of us.  Show up ready to play.”
 
Jocks one and two angrily stomped off towards their next class and I shuffled on to the Ad Building and dad’s office to lament this unfortunate turn of events.  Dad was thrilled.
 
“Wow,” he said after hearing my story, “A-league!  Now you can show them what you’ve got!”
 
“Yeah, dad,” I responded, “Which is absolutely nothing.  I got nothing! And now the whole school will know and I’ll be the laughingstock of the entire student body.”
 
Sunday came and I briefly thought of skipping, but remembering Richard’s threat and knowing that he would follow through, I changed into my basketball shorts and headed over to the gym.  I hated my PE clothes. I was so skinny my shorts hung on by the drawstring for dear life.  They were so big around my spindly legs that I could take three steps before the shorts even started to move.  
 
Entering the gym, I quickly slouched to one of the benches to watch my new teammates as they warmed up.  There was Joe, a short but very quick outside shooter. He would be playing guard, no doubt. There was Kevin, a 6’1” senior. I had seen him play both forward and guard.  Then you had “Tank”, a rather large, very enthusiastic forward.  Tank was not his real name. It was actually John, but I had a bad habit of giving people private nicknames based on their characteristics. John was so enthusiastic in his play, he was often oblivious to anyone around him.  He had run me over as I walked across the court one day, thus earning the nickname “Tank” in my mind. Eddie was another who could play forward or guard. Richard, of course, would play center and I guessed my position to be sub after everyone had fouled out if they were really in desperate straits.
 
Richard saw me on the bench and said, “Ok, we’re all here.  Have a seat guys and I’ll explain my plan.”
 
They all sat along the bench leaving a wide margin between them and me, which was ok with me. As it turned out I wouldn’t be sitting there long anyway.
 
“Keele,” Richard said looking my direction, “come out here.”  I got up and shuffled out towards the center of the court where Richard stood.
 
“Keele,” he said, “this year you are going to be our secret weapon.”
 
“I think you’ve got the wrong guy, Richard,” I began, but he cut me off.
 
“Here’s the plan,” he continued.  “Everyone already knows how bad you are at basketball, and by now word is out that Richard is nuts. We’re going to use that to our advantage.”  He paused. Somewhere off in the distance a cricket chirped as we all waited to hear what the plan was.
 
“Keele,” he went on, “I’m gonna teach you how to play basketball.”
 
“Coach already tried that and it hasn’t worked yet,” I said.
 
“I’m not finished, so just shut it,” Richard responded.  Then to Joe, “Throw me the ball.”
 
“Keele,” he said, “we’re gonna get real basic here, so follow me.  This is a basketball.”
 
“Yeah,” I said, “we’ve got those in C-league.”
 
“I said shut it,” Richard replied.  “How you gonna learn anything if you’re always yappin’?”  I shrugged.
 
“These,” he pointed to the lines surrounding the court, “are the boundary lines.”  I started to let him know we had those in C-league too, but his look told me I should just keep it shut.
 
“Everything inside those lines is what we call inbounds,” he continued.  “Everything outside, we call out-of-bounds.  To score, this ball must go through that hoop. We call that ‘making a basket.’”
 
I stood there, somewhat embarrassed, trying to figure out the point he was trying to make with such obvious information, as my teammates just sat and snickered.
 
“Your first job on this team comes whenever the other team makes a basket.  I want you to run over, grab the ball and take it out-of-bounds.  Can you do that?”
 
I nodded.
 
“Let’s practice. Pretend this is the other team.”  With that Richard shot the ball into the basket.  I went over picked it up and walked out-of-bounds.
 
“Good,” Richard said. “Now, watcha gonna do?”
 
“Throw it inbounds,” I replied.
 
“To who?” Richard asked.
 
“Whom,” I replied.
 
“What?” he asked.
 
“The correct word to use would be whom,” I said.
 
“Hey,” Richard shot back, “This ain’t English class.”
 
“Obviously,” I responded, “or I would be doing a lot better.”
 
“Look, just answer the question—Who you gonna throw it to?” Richard said.
 
“Somebody on my team,” I said sarcastically.  This was getting old and I failed to see the point.
 
“Only two people on this team will you ever throw it to,” Richard instructed.  “Me or Joe.”  I decided to pass on the English lesson.  “Now,” he said, “Let’s try that.  Joe, come out here.  John, come guard him.”
 
He shot the ball. I went and picked it up and headed out-of-bounds.  “Tank” followed me.  When I turned around, he was waving his arms frantically in my face trying to keep me from throwing the ball in.  My view was limited to big, hairy armpits.  Nasty.
 
“Come on, Keele,” Richard shouted, “throw it in.”
 
“Get this baboon with the hairy armpits out of my way and I will.” I shouted back.
 
“That’s the point, Keele,” Richard said, “There will always be someone trying to keep you from throwing the ball in.  If that should happen, turn your body sideways, keeping the ball away from your opponent.  Simply throw it one-handed way up in the air, like you’re doing a hook shot, and I’ll get it. Now try that.”
 
I turned sideways and launched it up over my head.  It easily cleared John’s waving arms.  Richard leaped into the air and snatched it.
 
“See,” he said, “No problem.  Now watcha gonna do?”
 
“Come inbounds,” I replied.
 
“And go where?” Richard asked.
 
“To the other end.” I snapped.
 
“And do what?” he asked.
 
“I dunno,” I said, “Run around and around and around until somebody throws me the ball.”
 
“No,” Richard said. “There is only one place you will go.  This little painted section in the middle we call the key.  You’re going to run down and stand at the top of the key on the right hand side.”
 
“That’s it?” I asked. “Just stand there?”
 
“No,” Richard answered, “You will never just stand there.  You will always have your hands up like this.”  He demonstrated by bringing his hands up in front of his chest, palms out, as if ready to catch the basketball.  He continued, “Then always turn to follow the ball.  Keep your hands up and just follow the ball with your eyes, keeping your body facing towards wherever the ball is.  If it should come to you, simply turn towards the goal and launch it up somewhere in the vicinity of the basket.  I’ll be there to take care of it.  Got it?”
 
“I think so,” I responded.
 
“Good, anyone else have questions?” Richards asked the rest of the team.
“Yeah,” said Tank, “I still don’t get how this is going to work.  Keele is still no good at basketball.”
 
“He doesn’t have to be,” Richard countered.  “That’s the beauty of it.  Because we are good at it, the other teams will be guarding us, but no one will guard Keele.  So once we get the ball to him and he throws it towards the basket, I’ll be able to shake my guys by going up after the ball.  From there it should be easy.  Get it?” We all answered back with blank stares.  It was obvious that no one got it.
 
“Ok, let’s try it.” Richard said.  “I’ll show you what I mean.”  Then to me, “Keele, try to get it somewhere close to the rim.  That will help a whole lot.  Ok…get in your places guys.  Keele, hands up, follow the ball.”  Richard whipped the ball to Joe who threw it to Kevin.  I turned and followed the ball with my hands up in front of my chest.  Kevin to Tank, Tank to Richard.  Suddenly, whump, it hit my hands like a cannon ball.  I went two steps backwards.
 
“No, Keele,” Richard called out, “once you get the ball you can’t move your feet!”
 
I pulled on my jersey to release my chest from the collapsed position.  “Well, I wasn’t expecting it that hard,” I countered.
 
“Always expect it hard,” Richard said. “That way, if it is, you’re ready.  And if it isn’t, you’re also ready.  Ok…let’s try it again.  Remember Keele, close to the rim.”
 
Richard to Kevin, Kevin to Joe, Joe to Tank and, whump, back in my hands.  This time I turned and heaved it towards the basket. Like a flash out of nowhere, Richard came blazing past me, leaped into the air, grabbed the ball and slammed it through the hoop.  I stood there with my mouth open.  Whoa—that was cool!  He turned and looked at the rest of us.
 
“Now do you get it?” he asked.  We all nodded and then simultaneously broke into a spontaneous rant.  
 
“Dude, that was awesome! Did you see that?  That was so cool!  There is no way to guard that!  Unbelievable!  Who would have thought?”
 
“Now do you see how Keele will be our Secret Weapon?  If he can get it up in the air just like that, it should be no problem to take the lead.”
 
I stood there shaking at the thought of not being a loser any more.  Maybe I did have hidden talents in basketball.  Just be there in my spot with my hands up. Be ready.  And if the ball came to me, heave it towards the basket. I could do this!
 
We tried the play over and over again.   Sometimes I threw it flawlessly, other times, not so well.  Richard developed contingency plans in case I messed up.  Joe or Kevin would run in to help try and recover the ball in case things didn’t go well.  We kept at it until I was getting pretty consistent—and very tired.  Some of the guys were running over to the water fountain.  Richard called for a break.  I slumped to a bench on the side of the gym.  Richard came over.
 
“Good work, Keele! Now we just need to teach you how to play defense,” Richard’s words sent virtual cramps through my tired body.
 
“What do I have to do there?”  I asked.
 
“Just run around and around and around till somebody throws you the ball,” Richard grinned.  
 
“Yeah, right!” I said, as I smiled for the first time that day.
 
“Actually,” he said, “That’s not far from the truth.  I just want you to follow the ball.  Get in the face and yell at whoever has it.  Try to freak them into making a mistake.  If they don’t know it’s coming, it can cause a turnover.  We’re going to try it on they guys in a minute.  Are you game?”  
 
“Just run to whoever has the ball and yell?  That’s it?” I asked.
 
“Well, that and wave your hands in front of them as you yell.” Richard said.  “Ok, here’s the deal.  You and me and Eddie are going to take on Joe, John and Kevin in a little scrimmage game.  You just try that defense.  If we get the ball, just run back to your spot and get your hands up.”
 
“Ok,” I said, “I’ll try, but can we play half-court?  I can’t keep running this way.”  Richard grinned and nodded.
 
We started into the scrimmage game and the ball went to Tank.  I ran over and yelled loudly, “WOOOOOOOW!”  Tank jumped back and Richard stole the ball, going in for an easy lay-up.
 
“What was that about?” John yelled looking in my direction.
 
“That,” Richard said, “was exactly what I wanted him to do.  And if it worked on you, it will work on a lot of guys.”  He looked my direction and gave me a thumbs-up.
 
Richard threw the ball to John.  “So, you guys ready to take on our secret weapon?”
 
We practiced until I couldn’t yell, or for that matter, move any more.  I dragged myself home for a shower, exhausted, but feeling it might not be so bad after all.
 
Our first game came a few days later.  The gym was packed to watch the A-league guys play.  They made a big deal of calling the starting five from each team.  You know the drill. “And starting at forward, and a big senior, is Kevvvvvvvvvinnnnnnnn.”  Every one cheered as Kevin ran out.  “In the other forward position, another senior, heeeeerrrrrrreeesssss Johnny!!!!”  The crowd again cheered as Tank trotted out and high-fived Kevin.  “Playing guard, he’s short, but he’s fast as lightning, please welcome, junior Joooooooooeeeeeee!”  The crowd went nuts as Joe ran out with both hands up and high-fived both Kevin and John.  “And in the other guard position, also a junior, for the first time in A-league—heeeeerrrrrrrreeeessss Donnie!”  The crowd went totally silent as I took the first three steps to get my shorts moving.  Somewhere off in the distance a dog barked.  Then suddenly, I heard it—small a first, but building in intensity.  A snicker, then a short laugh, and before I knew it, the whole gym erupted into laughter.
 
All of my loser feelings swiftly returned.  Maybe I didn’t belong on the court.  I was about ready to bolt for the door in shame when I heard something else.  A single clap. Then another one, quickly followed by a third.  One person was clapping!  I looked around and spotted my dad standing in the corner of the gymnasium, clapping for me!
 
Tank high-fived me and whispered, “Don’t worry about it man, they don’t know you’re our secret weapon. We’ll call you SW for short. Just stay undercover for a little while longer.”  Instantly I felt better.  
 
And immediately, when the rest of the students heard their principal (my dad) clapping, the laughing died away.  The announcer continued.
 
“He’s the captain of the team, he’s a senior, playing center, let’s hear it for Riiiiiiiccchhhhhharrrrrddd!”  The crowd abruptly went wild again as Richard trotted out and high-fived the rest of us.
 
After the other team was announced, we went out to line up for the jump ball.  We had never covered the jump ball in any of our practice sessions, so I wasn’t quite sure what to do.  I stood out a little bit away from everyone else.  No one came close to me either.
 
The whistle sounded, Richard out-jumped his opponent and drilled the ball straight to me.  I had my hands up and caught it, but now what?  Like a flash, Joe came right past me, snatching the ball and running straight towards the basket for an easy lay-up.  Cool.
 
“Defense, Keele!” Richard yelled.  “Let it go, boy!”
 
I ran down to the other end of the court and spotted the ball.  Running full-bore towards  the guy I shrieked, “YAAAAAAAAA!” as I lunged in waving my hands frantically.  He jumped back, startled, and tried to get a pass off.  Tank was all over it and Joe was already running down-court.  We were up by 4 in the first minute of the game.
 
They threw the ball in and brought it down.  I was all over my defensive game!  “Yaaaa!  Wooooow, HAAAAAY! “WatchOUT!”  I was having a great time waving my arms and yelling.   Suddenly, we had the ball and everyone was running down-court.  
 
“Get in your spot, Keele!” Richard yelled.  I ran to the top of the key and had my hands up just turning and following the ball.  I began to feel like a real dufus when people started pointing and laughing, but I kept my hands up.  Whump.  I turned and launched it towards the goal. Perfect throw! Richard was on it in a flash and quickly slammed it through the hoop.
 
The loudspeakers came to life as the voice of the announcer tried to drown out the roaring crowd. “Two-points, Richard! Assist, Keele!”  
 
I looked and my dad was going nuts!  Clapping for all he was worth.  “Get down here, Keele!” Richard yelled.  Oh, yeah!  I plunged into the melee. “YAAAA!  Woohooo, HAAAAAY!  “WATCHit!”  I was like a hard-core squirrel on caffeine.  It was the most fun I’d ever had on a basketball court.
 
At the end of the game, we were up by 16 points and I had 12 assists behind my name.  I couldn’t believe it.  I was actually on a team that WON!  And I had, beyond doubt, contributed to the win! That was the first of many wins. As a matter of fact, we went undefeated the entire season.
 
To be sure, the other teams caught on to our strategy.  I began to be heavily guarded.  “Don’t let Keele get that ball in the air!” other captains would caution their guards.  So Richard showed me a few other moves.  A head fake and toss out to Joe.  A bounce pass under the jumping blocker to Tank. An around-the-back dump-off to Kevin.  A hand-off to Eddie. Always, I was in my spot. Always with my hands up, ready to get the pass.
 
And in the championship game, with three minutes remaining in the game, I had a slow-motion moment. We were going against Ron’s team. Ron was about equal in skill to Richard, and this particular game was hard fought.  Someone on his team answered every basket we made. The game was tied. Adrenaline was running high. I was in my spot and I was open. Suddenly the ball was in my hands and I turned and launched it towards the basket.  That’s when things went into slow-motion.
 
Up, up, up went the ball.  Ron and Richard both went up at the same time to try and gain control of the ball. It continued going up, right over both of their outstretched hands.  They waved, arms colliding.  Beads of sweat went flying, glistening under the mercury lights.  Still the ball was on its’ upward arch.  They swung again and missed, as it reached the apex, and then all three started their slow-motion descent together: Ron, Richard and the ball, with a perfect slow-motion backspin.  I stood there in my spot, watching it all unfold slowly before my eyes. As Ron and Richard hit the floor, the ball swished through the basket, nothing but net.  It went IN!  I couldn’t believe it!  It actually went IN!
 
Somewhere in the distance I heard the announcer say, “Two points, KEELE!”  My dad went absolutely nuts, jumping and yelling, “Way to go son!  Good one!”  I stood rooted to my spot, soaking it all in until Richard’s voice jerked me back into reality.
 
“Get down here, Keele! We need you!”  I sprinted down the court and went into the fray like a shark on a feeding frenzy.  “YO!  HAY! WATCHIT! LOOKOUT! YAAAAAHHOOOOOO!”  I was all over the place!  We got the turnover and Joe was down-court in a flash.  Tank to Eddie.  Eddie to Joe.  Joe in for the lay-up.  We were up by two.  They were back down-court and working it. Ron drove the basket and we were tied again.
 
Back and forth it went.  Final ten seconds. We had possession and we were down by one because of a free throw.  I was in my spot.  Hands up. Turning and facing the ball at all times.  Richard to Tank.  Tank to Joe. Joe to Kevin.  Kevin to me.  I turned and started to launch, but two guys came out of nowhere to block it. I switched up and bounced it under them as Richard came zipping by on his way to the hoop.  He took the pass and drove for the goal, with Ron guarding closely. Releasing the ball, it went up, hit the backboard and dropped through the hoop just as the buzzer sounded.
 
The whole place went nuts.  Suddenly I found myself on the shoulders of my teammates as they chanted “SW, SW, SW!”  My dad was pounding me on the back, yelling, “Way to go, son!  Good job!”
 
Wow, from the loser’s bench to the winner’s circle. I had never been there before.  It was an unbelievable feeling.  I reveled in the glow as I went home that night. But I also felt a lot of gratitude for what Richard had done for me.
 
For some reason Richard had chosen me, a major loser, to be on his team. I think it was because he secretly wanted to date my sister (which didn’t work).  But he took a chance nonetheless.  Even though I was a loser, he picked me to be on his team of winners.
 
And even though I had been the one they picked up off the floor and bounced around, I knew full well that I couldn’t really play basketball.  I had only done what Richard had taught me.  He taught me how to stand at the top of the key and how to throw the ball up in the air.  He taught me a head fake and a bounce pass and how to act like an idiot on defense, but if the truth were to be told, I’m still no good on a basketball court.  I still can’t play the game.  But that didn’t matter to Richard.  What mattered was that I did what he asked.
 
My job was to be in my spot and be willing.  I needed to have my hands open and ready to catch whatever was thrown. I needed to keep my eye on Richard and not worry about what everyone else was screaming at me.  And when the ball came to me, I was to just heave it towards the basket and let him take care of the rest.  Which brings me to you and your spiritual growth.
 
You may think that you are no good at this spiritual walk thing.  You may still be stunned that for some reason, God chose you to play on his team.  He knows that you may not be the best at playing.  He knows that the spiritual walk is hard.  He knows that you don’t feel adequate- but for some reason, He picked you.  Look at what the Apostle John wrote.
 
John 15:16   You did not choose me, but I chose you and appointed you to go and bear fruit --fruit that will last. Then the Father will give you whatever you ask in my name.

He isn’t asking that you have it all together. He isn’t asking that you be the star player of the team. Just be in your spot and be willing to serve. Keep your heart open for whatever Jesus decides to throw at you. Jesus has rarely picked the most adequate or the most competent.  But He has always used the most willing.  Remember, it’s not based on how bad you are, but rather on how good He is.  Just be in your spot, with your hands up, ready to do what He asks of you.  Throw it up there, and He’ll take care of the rest.

Philippians 1:6 “He who began a good work in you will be faithful to complete it.”

It’s His job to take you from a spiritual loser to a spiritual winner, and He wants to finish that work in your life.  Allow Him to do that work and simply do what He asks you to do.  
 
What’s He asking you to do? God wants you to be in your spot with your hands up and He wants you to put your heart and soul into it. Mark 12:30   Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind and with all your strength.'
 
Question: How well have you been playing the game?  Have you been pleading to get off of the team?  Have you tried to stay on the bench?  There is no excuse a Christian can stand on for not fulfilling the Gospel commission.  It’s a command of Jesus, not a suggestion.  And with every command comes a promise.  Check this out.
 2Pet. 1:3,4 His divine power has given us everything we need for life and godliness through our knowledge of him who called us by his own glory and goodness.   4 Through these he has given us his very great and precious promises, so that through them you may participate in the divine nature and escape the corruption in the world caused by evil desires.
 
Did you catch that? His divine power has given us everything we need for life and godliness.  He’s already given you everything you need to be in the game. So get in there and get your hands up!
 
And you’ll find, if you’re faithful, that when the final game is played, and the final buzzer sounds, you’ll be hoisted up onto the shoulders of angels and carried past God the Father and there you will find Him applauding, saying “Way to go, son!  Way to go daughter!  I’m so proud of you!  Not because you’re the best basketball player out there, but because you’re my child, and you learned to trust me and you learned to trust my Son, Jesus, and together, we’ve made you a winning secret weapon in this whole Great Controversy.”
 
So don’t take yourself out of the game.  Don’t sit and whine that there are others better or more qualified than you.  Don’t excuse yourself because you aren’t having fun or the work is hard.  Stay in there and play.  Hold on a little longer, because someday soon—it won’t be long now—it’s going to all be worth it.  Hey, life is short, play hard!