A Woodshed Moment

Ah, there you are. I thought you were dead.

So I was thinking all the way through south Georgia yesterday afternoon. Actually, the ghost of my “old man” spooked me a couple times this week. Earlier in the week someone close to me spoke a hard word into my life and my self went into self-defense mode immediately. I wouldn’t even take it to the Lord to see if this was Him. I knew it wasn’t. Couldn’t be. Not from this person. Flames shot from the orbs of my eyes and smoke billowed from flared nostrils. I told my wife about it and promptly opened the screen of my laptop intending to write them the mother of all emails.

“Don’t do it, Scott,” the Holy Spirit warned.

How strange that He looks a lot like Sandy, I thought to myself.

“If you can’t support me, then leave!” I commanded Him (her).

“I’m telling you, you’ll regret it.”

“No I won’t. Now leave me alone!”

Out she walked. I fumed. Pecking out a string of words, I could feel the evil rise up in me. A mirror of sorts materialized and I saw my old self grinning devilishly, egging me on. Oh, he’ll pay, it said. And you will feel so much better. That gave inspiration for another phrase or two and yet another niggling unsettledness prompting me to go “Pac-Man” on them with my backspace key. Y’ever get so mad you don’t know who you’re mad at? That’s the place I was in. Although I never sent the email my mirrored image was dying for me to send, my heart was wrong. And the anger only festered. Yeah, I ‘obeyed’ the Spirit, but there was no life in it. The Lord had me dead to rights and was setting me up.

I suppose that ire was bubbling away inside me still as I came upon the shaved-headed so-and-so in the red car outside of Tifton, Georgia yesterday afternoon. He was in the left lane and traveling slower than Christmas so I flashed him. Immediately I saw his fist go to the air and watched it sprout a middle digit. About this time, Sandy looked up from her book when she heard me snort. Just in time to see the middle finger and me hitched to his rear bumper. It was then she looked over at me and gave me the finger, albeit with her stare.

“What are you doing?”

“I want this…this…JERK to get out of the way. Can you believe him?” my voice shrilled, looking for sympathy from my beloved.

Alas, there was none.

“Stop it, Scott!”

“What?!?” I could see immediately it was going to be my issue.

“Slow down, you’re going to get us all killed!”

“All? I think this bozo needs to die.” The words came out like toothpaste from a tube. Too late.

Sandy went back to her book. I sulked. I fumed. God bided His time. No one was speaking, not for the longest time. I’d turn to God in my thoughts with a C’mon, give me a break! Can’t you see how crappy this week has been? And I’m the innocent one in all this, but I could feel Him looking down at whatever He was reading too.

A few hours ago, the Lord summoned me. They were the first words I’d heard Him speak in my direction for some time, so I was glad. What I didn’t know was He had opened the door to a woodshed and invited me in. I was so delighted with the attention I gaited merrily inside, thinking it’s about time. I opened my journal and began pouring out my heart to him, defending myself from the get go, reminding Him I was His man and this must be persecution and all that. Instantly, He went into silent mode again. I wasn’t listening. I was doing all the talking and defending, so He quietly shut the door behind Him and cleared His throat.

I stopped. Looking around, I could tell I didn’t like this room at all. Then I had the strange sensation I’d been here before. Many times. I sat still as a stone, knowing I’d best listen as what I was about to hear was going to be the answer to my cry for so long: Lord, whatever is in me that needs to die, painful as it is, do it. Do me, Lord!

The one thing about God, He doesn’t tap dance very often. Mostly, He gets right to the point.

“You were wrong, Scott.”

“You mean, the other day? Well, I know I was yesterday. But, Lord…”

“You were wrong. I sent My servant to tell you.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“If you continue to reject his word, you reject Me.”

He showed me this in the context of 1 Samuel 2:30 (the very end of the passage). The clarity was unmistakable.

“I’m sorry, Lord.”

“Not that easy. Not to Me. To him.”

He told me I was to write this person, humiliating myself in the process, telling him I was wrong, he was right and (gulp) asking his forgiveness. He also told me what to say, no more, no less. But still I found a way to obey God and get an old man ‘dig’ in as well. That should do it, I thought somewhat satisfactorily. I wanted to save a little face at least, to hold onto some measure of dignity. Ah, but that’s the stuff of self.

There you are, you old codger. I thought you were dead.

“Take that out,” the Lord said. “Nothing more, nothing less.”

“Yes, Lord.”

Did it hurt to do it? Oh my, and how. But I could never want to be on the other side of God’s holiness. The woodshed is as far as I want to ever go. Funny thing how it is also such a grace-filled room. There’s some real one-on-one attention in the woodshed, some real heart-to hearts in there.

Even still, I think I’ll steer clear of it for awhile, thank you very much.

No Nerd Here

Overall, (I) scored as follows:

90% scored higher (more nerdy),
1% scored the same, and
9% scored lower (less nerdy).

What does this mean? (My) nerdiness is:

Definitely not nerdy, you are probably cool.

(Of course, I didn’t need a test to tell you that.)

800 Pacos

He was a man’s man. A tough guy.

He lived hard, fast and free, with no discernible moral restraint or conscience.

His colorful life ran the gamut from fighting bulls and running with them to being one of the most influential writers of the twentieth century. His resume popped and sizzled with entries like lion hunter, globe-trotter, war hero, womanizer, Hollywood celebrity, expert fisherman and he could drink you under the table. For a time he was the most well-known figure of the last century and though his oeuvres are canonized in modern literature, his philanders were legendary.

If I told you the man I just described was a miserable wretch, would you believe me? Before you answer, consider these plaintive words, spoken autobiographically:

“I live in a vacuum that is as lonely as a radio tube when the batteries are dead, and there is no current to plug into.”

Alcohol-related depression plagued him and he received shock therapy to reduce the depression and paranoia. Tragically, the therapy caused him to lose his memory and thusly, his writing skills. He left Mayo Clinic one day in the middle of treatments and returned to his home in Ketchum, Idaho. In the early hours of a July Sunday, Ernest Hemingway, the man who had lived such a storied life, decided living was too painful, so he rose from his bed, went to his basement and carefully picked out a shotgun among his collection. When he returned to the upstairs foyer, he found a place to sit down and placed the barrel of the shotgun between his teeth and blew the top of his head off. It was just a few weeks before his 62^nd birthday.

What is rarely known about Mr. Hemingway is that he was born to parents who were devout in their relationship with Jesus Christ. He was raised in a home that could adequately be characterized as evangelical. His dad, a doctor who practiced in the suburbs of Chicago, was a personal friend of D.L. Moody, and young Ernest was himself a dedicated churchgoer into his youth.

After leaving home to join the war, Hemingway abandoned his earlier professed faith. So much death and debauchery challenged his thinking about God and his rebellion showed in his writing. His earliest works so horror-struck his parents they returned the volumes to his publisher and all ties were severed.

It is interesting that one of Hemingway’s short stories The Capital of the World hints at the autobiographical. The story deals with the falling out between a father and his teenage son and the son’s resultant flight from home. Over time, the father was so distraught over the broken relationship he searched all over Spain for his boy but to no avail. Finally, he took out an ad in a local newspaper with the words: “Paco, Meet At Montana Hotel Noon Tuesday. All is Forgiven. Papa.”

On Tuesday at noon, as the story goes, over 800 Pacos showed up, looking to be restored to their father. Each had hoped the message was for them.

That story gets me on so many levels. Of course, it can address what Eldredge’s Wild At Heart calls the “father wound” that is found in so many men and boys in today’s society. It is true that men are tragically estranged from their fathers and consequently from the fullness of their own manhood. But in the context of this post, and my futile wish that the story of Ernest Hemingway could have played out differently, I wonder if “Papa” (his nickname) saw himself throughout life not as the main Paco of his story so much as the 800 Pacos who would not be given the satisfaction of forgiveness.

The demons he lived with were unpardonable tyrants. He saw no way out.

And so he reached for a shotgun.

And the blast could not drown the cacophony of 800 plaintive wails released from his dying soul with the single pull of a trigger.

I realize the whole of my limited readership are those who follow Christ but every once in a while someone stumbles across this page who has no idea why they did. Perhaps, just maybe (especially if you’ve read this far) you are not here by some random improbability. And so, before you click off, I want to say…

…Cry Out To Jesus.

Believe me, you are being lied to. That bottle sitting by your bedside. That strange woman you are bedding. Or want to. That next fix you are dying for. The invitation you received to that wild party. Even your vain philosophy. The code you live by: I’m the Captain of My Soul. The estrangement from your family. The penthouse, the pearls, the pools. The porn, the booze.

Lies. All lies.

Remember what this so-called modern man said of his own piteous life?

“I live in a vacuum that is as lonely as a radio tube when the batteries are dead, and there is no current to plug into.”

You feel like that, don’t you?

You will never find what you’re looking for until you give yourself completely over to the One who can silence the inner cries of your 800 Pacos and set them free. He will set you free and make you a son, a citizen of a new Kingdom. Until you allow the Son of God to reign over your life, you are subjecting yourself to the reign of another, and that is called bondage. Stop kidding yourself. You keep chasing the wind, you’ll reap the whirlwind.

Turn to Christ, not to religion.

Do it now.

800 Pacos are waiting.

Mind If I Brag?

My Dad can beat up your Dad.

Today is Father’s Day and I am reflecting on my one true example of fatherhood and, I can tell you, he’s got your Dad beat by a mile. Okay, so he only took me to White Sox games in the 60’s when they were awful instead of Cubs games as I was growing up in Chicago. And I never remember them winning. But I complained long enough that he took me to the north side one time to visit Wrigley Field when Fergie Jenkins was pitching.

And yes, the Cubs won. 4-2. See? It made an impact on me. Dad did that.

Sure, it’s true that he worked for the phone company and they kept transferring him in the middle of the school year, making it hard to make new friends and easier as time went by to say bye to old friends. So what if I learned over time not to get too close to people. I did, in fact, learn to make friends quickly and my penchant for cave-dwelling has turned me on to spending long hours shut away with God (a ‘plus’ in ministry) and learning though other friends may come and go, He will never leave me nor forsake me.

Yeah, my stinking memory still holds onto the ONE time he looked so disappointed in me after a little league game where I had muffed a pop fly and caused us to lose a big game, amid all the other times he praised me in all things big and small and taught me the art of encouragement. Sorry, Dad. I did get over that a long time ago, and the fact of the matter is, I was kind of a goof at baseball. Thanks for all those years of leaving work early to pick me up from basketball practice and for rarely missing any of my games. You rock.

My Dad can beat up your Dad.

He’s a study in meekness and gentleness. He’s one of the kindest men you will ever meet. Many have been the times I’ve heard it said of my Dad that “he’s so cute.” Yeah, he kinda is. He’s just a short man but he stands head and shoulders above most. He’s also the youngest looking 77 year old you’ll ever know. And he doesn’t drive like an old man, which is always nice. ‘Tis true he has more hair than I do and in MUCH better shape but the one thing about my Dad that I can honestly say I have never known him to do is make fun of anyone. You won’t hear put-downs from his mouth. He builds up. He doesn’t tear down. And I have never, ever felt degraded by him.

Thanks, Dad. You rock.

And another thing. This man I am talking about? This man who is my Dad? Well sir, I’ve never seen a man love a woman like he loved my Mom. A few months shy of fifty years, right up to her passing from a three-month battle with cancer, he put her first every time. Not before God, mind you, but her needs always came before his own. The man’s a saint, I tell you.

There’s a whole litany of things I could say to honor my Dad but all of them would fall way short of the one thing that has stood out in my memory above all others. Growing up in my house, you always knew where Dad would be before the sun rose on his day: at the breakfast table with an open Bible and bowed head. His life has always been a worship to His Lord. And because of his devotion, his life has the mark of integrity on it. Before there was PromiseKeepers, he was the mold for what a promise-keeper should look like. I never knew him to leer at another woman or cheat God with the tithe or shirk his work responsibilities. They don’t make ‘em like Dad anymore.

My Dad can beat the tar out of yours.

Dad was a great provider, a committed husband, a kind father and he showed me it’s never out of place for a grown man to cry, indeed it is quite masculine—all these things, yes, but there will never be a more bold statement over his life than that sweet head bowed in a fixed amen to the Holy Book that shapes every moment of his life. How? He didn’t grow up in a Christian home. He never received much in the way of love from his Dad or stepmom, and yet he filled my sisters’ and my life with it in abundance. Man, it just leaves me shaking my head. Here’s to you, Dad, with love. Thank you for being Jesus to me with skin on.

Sylvester Stallone still has one more Rocky to write. You are the Rocky Balboa of Dads.

What You Can't Have

Jesus set a child in front of the audience and said, Look carefully, ladies and gentlemen; if you want to live in My eternal kingdom, you must come to Me just as this child has (Mark 10:15), which begs the question: How did the child come?

I imagine Jesus called him or her up to the front and the little person approached, perhaps sheepishly and skittishly, but obediently. His or her countenance surely reflected openness and readiness, eyes widened for whatever the Master had in mind. Also, I am sure everything in Billy’s or Sally’s body language resonated with humility, don’t you think? Can’t you just see the child feeling uncomfortable beneath the stares of the throngs and don’t you imagine their heartbeat quickening with each uneasy step?

I also picture the child having hesitated, not because of her weighing whether or not to go—indeed she wanted to go for all she was worth!—but wondering if she should go without her parents. The child looks back at his parents hoping to have them go as well but Jesus’ reassuring words allay all that. It’s all right, child, you can trust Me. Come to Me.

Obediently. Trustingly. Humbly. That’s how it’s done!

Then Mark’s narrative offers a handful of scenarios showing what many try to carry into the kingdom. These are things you cannot have.

Scenario #1: A wealthy man “RAN” (Mark 10:17) to Messiah and fell to his knees and asked the Savior how he could solidify his place in heaven. This is the only time in Scripture where we see someone kneeling before the Lord but leaving in worse shape after such an act of deference. Should we see a parallel between this and what happens in modern day church gatherings? How many ‘posers’ are there on Sundays at 11:00 in the morning who have head thrown back, eyes upward, arms extended but heart empty and self-serving? Or, how many like this young man who came to Jesus, are truly sincere in their piety but far from the kingdom because they are not ready to make Jesus everything through the week?

You know this vignette well, I suppose. Jesus touches on the one thing that blocks this young seeker’s way into the kingdom: his riches, yes, but more importantly, who reigns? (see note following) Messiah even tells his disciples afterward, “How hard is it for the rich to enter?” It was a foregone conclusion to all in that ancient culture that the rich were “shoo-ins” with regard to the kingdom of God. In the day’s thinking, obviously the rich were highly favored by God on the evidence of their wealth so their hallowed place was a no duh.

But here Jesus turns this notion on its head and says, “Not so!” Riches can be an obstacle to faith, He reasons sadly. This tragic story tells us that one cannot BUY their place at the King’s table—yea, the turnstile onto the narrow road permits no luggage. He must be given Lordship over everything or we have no claim to eternal life. Check all at the door, if you will.

(NOTE: I am not saying all rich people are going to hell; the issue here and everywhere is the reign of Christ. Do not miss the obvious: I don’t think Jesus was merely testing the young man to see if he would sell his possessions as I have long thought. Could it be that our Lord was commanding him to do so—and he refused? This is the so-called ‘faith’ of many today: Lord, I believe, but I still want to manage my own life. Fat chance that heaven sees this as saving faith!)

Scenario #2: A few verses down (Mark 10:41-45) the disciples have been having one of their epic tiffs with one another over which would have the higher place in the kingdom. Jesus quickly diffuses it with a sound bite on authority with God, that authority is given to those who are servant-hearted, who are willing to sit at the kids’ table. One cannot muscle their way into the kingdom. The kingdom is for those who will be made weak (as a child).

Scenario #3: The last treasure found in this Markan trilogy of childlike faith is about a blind man who calls out to Jesus for healing. The man has no name. You say, yes he does! It’s clear as day his name is Bartimaeus! And you’d be…wrong. That’s not his name. It’s how he was known in the community: “Son of Timothy.” He couldn’t even rate a name, his situation was so pathetic! Here is something else we cannot have in order to lay claim to the kingdom of God: a name.

We are so busy trying to make a name for ourselves, to be recognized, to grapple for influence and status, but this nameless blind beggar who “got in” tells us that we must lose our names if we will wear the namesake of God. “Son of God” should be our response when someone requests our name.

So there you have it. Three things we cannot have if we are to come through the turnstile onto the narrow road:

• Treasure on earth. (in the stead of giving God its ownership)

• Personal power and status.

• A prestigious name we make for ourselves.

We must have the heart of a child: obedient, weak, humble, empty-handed and dependent. To such the Lord offers His lap and eternal life.

Sound Familiar?

Mandy Houk’s been published in Marriage Partnership Magazine and you can read her article “Stop, Drop and Kiss” here. After you do that, please visit her site. You can often find a daily pick-me-up, a good chuckle and a “man, that sounds just like yesterday at my house…”

Kudos, Mandy!

Oh, and please remember us little people on your way up, girl.

She's Right

Her uncle had a dream but she wants us to wake up. Dr. Alveda C. King, niece of the late Dr. Martin Luther King recently commented on what she calls the ‘consequence-free’ mindset that has sickened a generation. Citing the cases of Paris Hilton, recently jailed for violating parole from an earlier drunk driving rap, and Genarlow Wilson, a 17-year old student athlete from Douglas County, Georgia (my home) sent to prison for ten years because of having criminal consensual sex with a minor, Dr. King says the issues raised by each, though not similar in scale, are nonetheless telling in today’s society.

“They seem to be examples of an attitude that’s at the root of society’s problems,” she says. “Too many of us feel we can do what we know is wrong and not have to face the consequences of our actions.”

Then the good Doctor made this startling observation: “I believe that a generation’s having grown up with legal abortion is a big reason for the consequence-free mindset that plagues our young; after all, if a culture says you can kill a baby to ‘fix’ unwanted pregnancy, how serious could it be to deal with other problems you cause? We need to pray for our children. We need to monitor the media they absorb. And we need to teach them — if you want to avoid the rude awakening of painful consequences, don’t do what’s ‘right for you,’ do what’s right.”

Preach it, sister!

Of Fleas and Flowers

Some see the glass half full. Others see it half empty. Then there’s Woody Allen’s version which sees the glass half-full, yes, “but with poison.” Remember the bit about the boy with never-ending optimism? No matter what he encountered he was always finding the good side to it, so much so that he drove his parents crazy. Finally, to teach him a lesson about life, they filled his room with horse manure on his birthday, just to show him that sometimes life can be bad with no upside. Later on, when they visited his room, they saw him digging and clawing in the manure and in answer to their dumbstruckedness, he looked up with smeared face and beamed, “with all this horse manure, there’s got to be a pony in here somewhere!”

It’s all about how you look at things.

On Christmas Day, 1849, one hundred and seven wagons set out from Utah en route to the gold rush hills of California. Over time the large group splintered into smaller trains, each one seeking their own path to fortune. One of these fractious groups consisted of twenty-seven wagons of wide-eyed emigrants, but because of some poorly investigated information, followed what they believed was a shortcut to the gold-laden California hills. They had been told the shortcut would carve 20 days off their journey but not everyone agreed. Captain Jefferson Hunt, the leader of the entire expedition told them as they parted, “you are walking into the jaws of hell.”

They were not convinced. But despite their unfounded optimism, this small party of gold-seekers encountered hardships they had never known. For the next four months, starvation, heat, and dehydration took its toll on the party and most lost their lives. Their journey was a study in misfortune: impassable volcanic rock, basalt mines, poisoned springs and 134 degree daytime temperatures and freezing nights. During this “shortcut to hell” they had to kill their oxen for meat, burn their wagons and walk much of the way through the desert.

Only two wagons made it across the arid valley and when the handful of road-weary emigrants made it to Mariposa on the other side, one of the lone women left among the tattered party looked back on the wide expanse and quothed, “Goodbye, death valley.”

And the name stuck.

Conversely, the Spaniards had another name for this, the harshest basin of the American desert. They called it, “Le Palma de la Manos de Dios” translated “in the palm of God’s Hand.” Not the flat of God’s backhand, mind you, but the palm of His Hand. Think of palm and what’s the first word that comes to mind? Gentleness, yes. How could two groups come away from such a place with such starkly opposite views, one seeing it as harsh and deadly while the other came to know it as gentle and tranquil?

Let’s look at this from a spiritual context. Anything that brings to death in us those things that dishonor Christ, we should welcome and ask for grace to see it through. James told his readers to “count it all joy when you encounter various trials” because of what these character-shaping holy chisels can do. The littlest things can do this.

Even fleas.

One of the stories to come out of the Ravensbruck death camp involved Corrie and Betsie ten Boom who would read the Bible every night to their fellow inmates in Barracks #28. They could do this because of the horrible infestation of fleas in that hall, so the guards steered clear of it unless absolutely necessary. Consequently, many women came to know God intimately through His Son Jesus Christ as a result of this annoyance. God can use anything.

It’s all in how you look at things.

Those Utahans were hell-bent on finding temporal happiness and passing treasure and paid for it with their lives. The Spaniards who came before them were looking to expand horizons and witness the beauty of God. One missed God completely as they sought a shortcut to personal wealth while the other saw His handiwork in the beauties and hidden delights all about them. One couldn’t wait to bid farewell; the other couldn’t leave for missing the flowers.

One saw sand; the other, His Hand.

How about you? Got any manure in your life? Start digging! Any fleas? Perhaps they are gathered just for you and woven into a holy curtain to usher you into the Most Holy Place. Are you in a desert place? Wait for manna and hidden streams. Look for blooms. Hello, Death Valley. Rest safely in His Hand. For a very long time now, our Lord has specialized in bringing His people through the wilderness and He will bring you through as well.

What Would YOU Say?

You’ve seen and heard it. A rock star or actor stands at a podium and before a global audience thanks all the little people for their award then adds the obligatory nod in the direction of the “Big Guy” for making it all possible. In the sports arena an MVP or grateful champion might want to “first thank God” for their hard-fought victory.

Immediately after besting the Chicago Bears 29-17 in Super Bowl XLI, Indianapolis Colts coach Tony Dungy said before all the world, “I’m proud to be the first African-American coach to win this, but again, more than anything, Lovie Smith (Bears coach) and I are not only African-American but also Christian coaches, showing you can do it the Lord’s way. We’re more proud of that.”

In fact, it was Lovie Smith, the losing coach who said of the Super Bowl that it was the “perfect stage” for the coaches to confess their faith in Jesus Christ. In a USA Today ad both coaches took out days before the game, they stated, “We’re pro football coaches, but we are also men of faith. A faith that defines who we are. It comforts us in tough times and produces hope in the midst of adversity. It is through our common faith in Jesus Christ that we have individually experienced God’s love and forgiveness.”

That’s pretty clear.

But, there are other cases when a cultural icon has elsewhere professed faith in Christ (not mentioning names) and been given the perfect opportunity to speak for Christ on the world stage but muffs the chance. No witness whatsoever. So, in the interest of all that is at stake, let’s pretend you are given a mike and a platform with an audience of almost every breathing human being looking in.

What would you say?

She Loves Deeply

My Sandy, an avid Jane Austen fan, took this “Heroine Quiz” and found she is a dead-ringer for Anne Elliott, the main character in Persuasion. In fact, when she first watched the film version many moons ago, told me then how like this literary figger she was.

For me, I have no idea who this “Anne” is but if she’s anything like Keira or Emma (the actress), then I’m Persuaded!

:: A N N E ::

You are Anne Elliot of Persuasion! Let’s face it, you’re easily persuaded, especially when faced with choices that are or aren’t ‘the Elliot way.’ But this doesn’t mean that you don’t have conviction. Actually, your sense of duty is overwhelming. And though you won’t stick your neck out too often, you have learned to speak up when it counts. To boot, you know how to handle sticky situations. You love deeply and constantly.

Take the Quiz here!

Will You Be There?

Jesus said, quoting Himself from the King James, “Lo, I am with you always.”* And that doesn’t just mean when we’re on the ground, either. He also said, “I will never, ever desert you and I will never, ever, ever forsake you.”** (which is how it reads literally in the Greek New Testament).

I just finished a sweet little article by a pastor who listed “The 3 Coolest Things About My Life Right Now” (the list actually cited six things, which was neat what he did) and among those he listed was a little nugget about his four year old daughter who hasn’t quite learned the order of her days of the week just yet, but she knows that her Daddy is home on Saturdays and Mondays. “And so she asks every single day if tomorrow is one of those days,” he writes.

That’s just plain adorable!

Once upon a time, when I was a first-grader at Vandenberg Elementary School in Dolton, Illinois, school was dismissed because of a blizzard. The GREAT Blizzard of ’67. When I had toddled off to school that morning, the ground was visible and the air was (as I remember it) clear. But old man winter came in with a vengeance between those school bells and when I stepped out on the school’s porch and faced a whitened world with snow up to my knobby knees, such fear gripped me that I cried. A lot. How would I get home? I wondered. A most pitiable sight I was.

The sky looked no higher than the top of the roof and the ground was fortuitously catching up. I would not dare step in among those swells of snow. They fairly looked like they would swallow me in an instant, so I held my ground on the school’s steps beneath the awning, snow swirling all around, gales howling. And me, crying my little heart out.

Then, magic. Out of nowhere a voice materialized, one that I well knew and one that immediately set my heart aright and sent every ounce of fear packing: Mom.

“I’m here for you, Scott.”

“M-Mom?” I curved a gloved hand over my brows to make sure I wasn’t seeing things.

She looked from my vantage point to be the Ruler of the Snows and appeared to be walking on top of them! It was a sight to behold for a scared little boy in mittens and goulashes.

“It’s me, honey. Just put your feet inside the boot tracks I make for you. I’ll lead you home.”

And that’s exactly what I did. Step by step, I put mine inside hers, always close behind so as to never lose sight of my Heroine of the Drifts, becoming braver with each plant of my boot; but my bravado wasn’t in my ability to heft my weary legs, it was in the pace she set and the size of her tracks. That, and the fact that she was always looking back, checking on me, smiling her encouragement. While the inches rose all the way home, I took comfort that my Mom’s legs were always taller than the inches in spite of the telling fact that mine weren’t.

You know, my Mom took me to school that morning. She must’ve known the weather might turn, but that’s not the story. She was there for me even as the storms mounted and led me bootprint for bootprint through a scary world and got me home, safe and sound. That’s what’ll get us home, too. This One who made the seas, walks atop them and His legs are always longer and stronger than the worst that life can give us. This journey is taking us to Him and the way is to follow in His steps.

Little kids never need to fret over the days of the week. They never need to wonder, Is tomorrow one of those days, Dad? He is there for them, be it a Saturday, a Monday or a Snow Day.

“Daddy, will you be there?”

He says, “I AM.”

*Matthew 28:20

**Hebrews 13:5

Screen Gems

My wife and I just conversed on our Verizon phones, she with the nicer one, and in the midst of our repartee, I called her “baby” followed by “and nobody puts Baby in a corner.” Which got me thinking about famous movie lines. Not very spiritual, I know. Sue me.

I quickly imagined a blog about such matters, thinking your comments might add to these memorable quotes off the top of my head:

“That’s enough about me. Let’s talk about you. What do you think of me?” (Bette Midler, Beaches)

“I’m the king of the world!” (Leonardo DiCaprio, Titanic)

“Bond. James Bond.” (Sean Connery, Dr. No)

“My momma always said ‘life is like a box of chocolates; you never know what you’re gonna get.’” (Tom Hanks, Forrest Gump)

“Every man dies. Not every man really lives.” (Mel Gibson, Braveheart)

“Yo, Adrian!” (Sly Stallone, Rocky)

Care to add more?

The Least Of These

40,000 children die every day worldwide to starvation and pestilence. India and Africa combined are burdened with ninety percent of this sad figure. The rest are spread over Latin American countries. Fifteen million children die every year worldwide.

Do you cry?

In Afghanistan, children as young as 8 years old are being given away in marriage for the bride price to keep families from starving. According to Starvation.net, someone dies on our planet every other second to AIDs, starvation or waterborne diseases—eighty-five percent are children. 20% of children in Niger, Africa will die before they reach the age of five.

Am I paying attention?

One out of six members of the human race lives on less than a dollar a day while the average American consumer has to dig around in their wallets and purses for a measly $88. Oh, this is our hardship each and every day. The average American family has 16 credit cards that carry a debt load of $8000. Our average yearly income puts us in the ‘richest in the world’ category. Even those at the poverty line in the United States with cars, cable and air conditioning are among the elite class of the world.

Is this easy to swallow?

How hard it is to say that we are the gluttons at the world’s dinner table, hoarding the food on our end and giving only one-hundreth of a single percent ($33 per day per American household) of our bounty and toss it to the starving masses like crumbs. Those kind of crumbs are hard to divide up and spread around. No wonder so many in the world hate us.

Can we blame them?

While we do not even remotely resemble a third world country here on our end of the globe, it’s still awfully risky for children to make it past the age of five in these here United States. Abortion takes care of that with almost 1.5 million murders of our children every year. Fortunately, 4 million others make the cut.

Should we celebrate?

How ironic that we choose to kill our young while scores across this globe wish their children had one more day.

True Colors

I love this photo and I’ll tell you why. The athlete pictured above is one of the best soccer players in the world and suits up for the recently crowned AC Milan team that beat Liverpool to win the European Cup. His name is Kaka’ and is a strong believer in Christ despite living and playing in a resolutely post-christian Europe. When interviewed, he gives a bold and clear witness for Christ, and his lifestyle, obverse to the world many of his playmates know, is one of self-discipline, humility and consecration to his Lord.

When the game ended, a 2-1 Italian victory, all the Milan players went into a frenzy of celebration but this one lone figure dropped to his knees and worshipped the Lord. And, just so no one would question whose side he is on, Kaka’ removed his jersey, revealing to all the world whose colors he wears.

(Thanks to Vox for the inspiration for this post, even though I’m not a fan of international soccer)

God And Going Postal

Postage has gone up.

(Yay.)

I recently came across a story in blogdom that might make this a good thing. Turns out, a pastor was sick, tired and fed up with ministry. It was late on Sunday after a full day of preaching and he felt yet again that he was facing a bunch of zombies and malcontents and he had had enough, thank you very much. So he sat right down and wrote his congregants a letter. It wasn’t exactly a letter of resignation but he did confess, “Perhaps my work here is finished.”

Where was his wife in this? No, she wasn’t telling him to pray on it, sleep on it, see if he feels differently in the morning. She wasn’t giving the poor man any of those tender, wifely “suck it up, mister” speeches. She was pulling the letters out of the printer, stuffing them in envelopes and addressing them by hand! Then, before midnight, she was at the post office opening the central mailbox of their town and dropping the stacks of letters inside.

Later the next day, all of the letters found their way back at the church office. Not realizing postage had gone up overnight, they were returned to sender, marked “undeliverable” because there was not enough postage!

“This isn’t funny, Lord,” he railed to the ceiling. Then he busted out laughing.

Shamed by his own impulsiveness, that pastor thanked God that that day, of all days, the post office had decided to raise the price of a stamp and quite possibly saved his job.

The next time you want to quit, ask yourself:

(1) who am I doing this for? Myself? Or the Lord?
(2) who stands to lose the most if I quit?
(3) exactly how have I arrived at this decision?
(4) have I sought counsel from those who would tell me the truth? (avoiding them tells a lot)
(5) will this decision deepen my character, or betray it?
(6) is this decision best for the long-term, or short-term?
(7) will intimacy with Christ grow? Or wane?

Do you have any other questions worth asking?

An Erudite Moment

Mostly, I’m unaware. I admit it, I miss stuff. What was she wearing? my wife asks me. Ummm, not sure I can help you there. I think she was wearing a dress, though. Does that help? Honey, isn’t that our turn? Oh yeah…sorry…

I’m the guy a few years ago who missed the earth tremors in the middle of the night—in Georgia! Huh? Tremors? When?

So when my wife asked me on the phone tonight to help her understand somebody, my dormant Dr. Phil kicked in, so much so that I stood outside myself and listened in awe at what was coming out of my mouth. I actually enlightened my wife by psychologically profiling said person! She was listening to me with a lot of ohhhhs and mmm-hmmms and ha’s and I could actually feel her nodding her head in rhythm with my professorial lucidness.

“Wow, Scott, I’ve known (them) for years and I’ve never heard it explained quite like that to me before,” she countered.

“Well, you know…” I inwardly gushed.

“I mean, really. You nailed it on the head. You got (them) pegged.”

Funny how things can turn. Sandy went on to share some other concerns of life and my mind slipped back into neutral. I guess a man can only be lucid for a few moments at a time. I found the autopilot switch (men can find it in the dark, you know) and tepidly involved myself in the conversation with a lot of uh-huhs and you don’t says, interjecting an occasional oh honey, here and there. Just because we may be on auto doesn’t mean we can’t appear supportive.

“I can tell this conversation is over,” she chuckled.

I was caught. “What? No! Wha–?”

“Scott Mitchell, I know you,” she said playfully.

Indeed she does. And it’s true of just about every husband unless you happen to be in a Jane Austen novel. But it’s not by choice, ladies, really it’s not. On those rare occasions when a man’s synapses fire in the brain, there has to be intermittent cooling or we could permanently damage something.

You just mostly catch us during the cooling down period, ladies.

Hey, another Dr. Phil moment!

That’s two in one day…

Marriage Is Communication (And Comical!)

These might just save your marriage:

Book One: “Does This Dress Make Me Look Fat? (A Man’s Guide To The Loaded Questions Women Ask)”

Book Two: “Yup. Nope. Maybe. (A Woman’s Guide To Getting More Out Of The Language Of Men)”

And An Honorable Mention From The Comic Book Genre (because men don’t typically like to read, and this one has pictures!):

Get it? This one puts the “pure” in Puritan!