The Bad and the Good

Recently I had a conversation with my daughter concerning one of her friends. I had commented that the teen’s family had some issues that I was struggling to understand. The parents of the teen seemed uncaring about where the teen was or, when or how the teen might get home, if the teen ever got home. Abigail is the least judgmental person I know and in her very direct way, said to me, “You didn’t have parents with issues.” To which I responded almost reflexively, “I did.”

My mind then found its way back 40 years to 922 Franklin Street. My life was a bit “issue filled”. Before I was 14 I had been arrested twice. Should have been arrested several more times but I was sneaky. I wasn’t Al Capone and it was mostly kid stuff but still . . . My closest friends at the age of 14 would all eventually take up residency in the state penitentiary – every one of them, except for one. He committed suicide. On the weekends I could be found on the streets of my small town at almost any hour of the night.
My parents never knew. My sister who will be reading this may even be shocked, just a bit. They didn’t know because at home and school, I was the perfect kid. I got almost straight A’s, mowed the grass, hung up my clothes, was quiet, played baseball and loved apple pie. But the weekends and summers, well, fourteen year olds shouldn’t know what I knew or do some of the things I did.

That’s the bad.

Let me be clear. In my case, the issues that plagued my parents did not revolve around parenting. The lack of supervision was a symptom of other things and the fact that they really did think I was perfect. I know, hard to believe. My parents loved me and it was what sustained me during a very scary part of my life.

Then came the brown haired girl down the street asking me to go to church. I said sure. What 16 year old ever told a cute brown haired girl no? So, I went and never stopped. The church became a safe place. It was a place where Youth Sunday School teachers would drone on about Moses or Noah or some other dead guy. But that was ok because those boring youth teachers were there not because they liked teaching (obviously) but because they cared about the youth of the church. Mr. Branscome could kill the best story of the Bible, but he cared.

Then there were the youth. Mostly new faces for me but they adopted me, the only kid in the group whose parents didn’t attend. They let me go out to eat with them. They didn’t make fun of my clothes. They invited me over for cards and we shot baskets together. One night six of them lined the walls of my living room just to say hello and welcome me to church. I became one of them and it was as if I had always been.

My life changed because of that church, that Sunday School, that youth group - in Grenada, Mississippi. I went back not so long ago. I thanked them for all they had done and said, “God saved my soul, but you saved my life.” That’s what churches do. Thanks be to God for boring teachers and non-judgmental youth. Even for kids with . . . issues.

And that . . . is the good.

Belonging

Here is a great story. It didn’t happen in Shake Rag, but it could have. It is about a man who lives on a mountain. Shake Rag doesn’t have any mountains, unless you count Chalk Bluff. Chalk Bluff is just that, a bluff that is as white as Mamma Bea’s freshly bleached sheets. Back when, the young folks would ride their mules over and have bon fires and roast hot dogs. Kids are too sophisticated for that today. There’s not an app for that.

Anyway, this is a story about a man and it starts when he starts, with his parents. His parents were a couple of young people who made a bad choice in life that resulted in a pregnancy. 60+ years ago, this was a source of shame and humiliation for families. The local sheriff came and gathered up the young man, took him and the young woman to the local judge and forced them to get married. It didn’t last long, the marriage that is. It was really just to give the soon to be born son a name. The young couple divorced and went their separate ways. The father remarried and soon had children that he was very proud of but his first born remained a family secret. The “family secret” grew up, joined the army, went to jail for a period and then moved onto a mountain and lived in the woods. No house, no plumbing, no electricity, just the woods.

The mountain man knew who his father was and kept a watchful eye on his secret family. During family reunions, the mountain man would linger along the fringes of the woods watching, just watching. It sounds a bit scary and strange to us but it was hardly that. It was really more about a young man who wanted to belong. He could see his own face in the face of his dad and no doubt felt a connection that was powerful. Yet, he remained on the fringe, just watching. Never being a part.

He eventually married, had two children and built a one room shelter for his family from scraps of lumber that he picked up here and there. He made a living from harvesting ginseng from the woods and selling it. He became well known in the little community nearest him. He was known to be trustworthy, despite his oddities. He once wanted to borrow $500 to buy a car. He walked into the nearest bank, told them what he wanted and walked out with $500. No collateral, just his good reputation.

One day, one of his half sisters learned about the family secret. She pondered as to what to do. She decided it was time to meet this mountain man who was her brother. She took a drive, turned down a road that lead deep into the woods passing “No Trespassing” signs all along the way. She was a bit nervous wondering what kind of reception she would receive. She pulled up to what can only be described as a shack and got out. She was greeted by a rough looking man dressed in overalls, no shirt, a beard down to his belly button and a shotgun. But she didn’t see any of that. What she saw was the face of her dad. “Hello, my name is ….” He cut her off and said, “I know who you are.” They hugged, he invited her in. Now, she visits this brother on a regular basis. She has begun taking her daughter. They belong.
How many times have we stood on the fringes wanting to belong? How many times have we overlooked those standing outside the circle of inclusion? What a tremendous gift of grace this sister offered when she reached out and gently pulled the “family secret” into the circle of welcoming love. We can do that. We can, with a little effort and just a bit of courage, reach out and include others. Jesus did: the woman at the well, Zacheus, the thief, the rich young ruler, Mary, the adulterous woman, . . . me . . . you.

Mamma Bea might say, "Come in the house."

God says, "This son, this daughter, was lost but now is found."

Thanks be to God.

Kwerky Kid

Five years ago next month a little boy came to our house for the first time. A friend of a friend had mentioned that we might be interested in adopting. So they dropped him off for a trial run, sort of. He had all his fingers and toes. He had huge brown eyes. On the back of his hands were scars. I’m not sure he even knew they were there or that they shouldn’t be there. They just were. They spoke volumes to us though. This little boy had already travelled a long road from being abused as an infant and then passed off to a strange family for safe keeping and even now was being passed off again. He must have wondered why and for how long. Would this be another lay-over on the journey or would this house, this family, offer sanctuary from a nomadic life that began with wounds from a world of sin.

We soon discovered the little boy was, well, active. Way to active. Off the chart active. He didn’t walk through the house, he bounced, like the super ball I had as a kid. ADHD were the letters that were attached to his medical file. Drugs were in order. It had to be either Adderal for him or Prozac for us. He needed help more than we did. Being tossed from Kindergarten every other day would not be a resume builder for the first grade. ADHD kids have difficulties in many ways. They are usually developmentally behind as much as three years. They can’t focus. They are often labeled lazy because they can’t concentrate to do their work so they do nothing. And, with a brain that never rests, they can have behavior issues. In lay terms, they are trouble makers. Labels, discipline, being ignored, considered lazy and not being able to relate to peers are bound to leave scars. These are not as evident as the others but scars none the less.

The boy still displayed unusual behavior, even for an abused child with ADHD. We had every test done that could be done. Nothing. Nada. No one could tell us anything definitive. There were terms thrown around by professionals that described a developing Hannibal Lector. About then we adopted the boy knowing that his journey was getting longer and harder every day. We hoped that permanency would help. It didn’t. Tortuous melt downs. Chairs being thrown. Screams that “the music is too loud”, “it’s too cold”, “I have to eat before I can put on my socks”, constant whining, ignoring adults, reclusive behavior, repetitive sounds, intense desire to be right, correcting adults, melting down when corrected, and oh so much more. Then Jana said the right word, “Asperger’s”. He was tested and that was it. The brown eyed boy had Asperger’s Syndrome. It explained it all. We were concerned and relieved at the same time. Finally, a diagnosis. Wait. What the heck is Asperger’s? It’s a form of autism and that’s about all I know, for now. We are learning, almost daily. What we do know is that you can’t see it. It’s not a scar on a hand that explains a world gone wrong. It’s invisible. What we see are symptoms. Not everyone gets it. Recently a teacher called the boy by a derogatory epithet when what she was observing was a symptom, not a “normal” kid making bad choices. I was angry. I wanted to say, “Look at the scars.” but there aren’t any that can be seen. Not for this. I realized too that this would be part of his journey. Misunderstandings, assumptions, judgments, and labels that he is “kwerky,” if people are kind, will be his lot.

Thomas asked Jesus if he could see his scars. Jesus showed him his hands. The scars verified for Thomas that it was indeed Jesus but for me, the scars speak volumes about a world of sin. A world that is not what God intended. It is a world where tornadoes rip through towns, wars begin over greed, adults are left on the streets to live and that quirky children are teased and maligned. It is a world where children on the other end of the autism spectrum are locked away behind blank stares. It is a world where adults sometimes behave like children. It is a world . . . well, you get it. What holds it together for me is the unassailable belief that God will and does continue to work. Creation continues. Grace somehow brings humanity forward even at the almost intolerable pace of a snail. So, thanks be to God for not giving up on quirky humanity and little boys who say, “No Dad, it’s 8:31, not 8:30.”

Thanks to “Geek Palaver” for the seeds for this story.

A Wild Rose

My mom used to say that Mama Bea could grow anything. Mom thought it was the dirt she used from the barnyard. I think it was Mama Bea. Besides the huge vegetable garden, her yard was full of flowers. I don’t remember what she grew; I just know she grew a lot of it. There were some flowers that she identified as poppies to me one time. She said that they helped you sleep at night. I didn’t ask any questions. She had the elusive green thumb that seems to have disappeared from the DNA chain after her. She once dropped a nail on the ground and the following spring there was a hardware store in that very same spot. She was good.

Mama Bea enjoyed sharing her plants with others. I think she took great delight in digging up a plant, wrapping the root ball in a paper sack and sending it off to another home. The house where I grew up was surrounded by plants and flowers that had migrated from Shake Rag to Grenada. Along the back fence there was a rose bush that had come from Mama Bea’s. It must have been twenty feet long. Someone said it was a wild rose. Every spring it bloomed for about a week and then it was done.

When Dad died, I dug up a piece of the bush and took it back to Waco. I planted it in a sunny spot, watered it and waited . . . and waited . . . and waited. Nothing. Three years went by and the bush not only did not bloom, it didn’t grow, not even an inch. I guess being wild also means being stubborn. When we moved to Huntsville, I dug up the pitiful plant, threw it in a bucket, put it in the truck and planted it some three months after moving into our new home. After just a few days, it began to perk up. It grew . . . and grew . . . and grew. I think it sent runners out at about the rate of a foot a day. Then in May, like it always did in Grenada and has ever since here in Huntsville, it began to put on buds, little bitsy buds that begin with a yellowish tint and then open to white blossoms. Today, right now, there are about two hundred blossoms on the bush. They will showcase their beauty for about a week and then they will be gone until next year.

The wild rose requires a lot of work for just a week’s worth of enjoyment. I’ll cut it back at least three times during the summer and will suffer the pricks of some wicked thorns. It will never be tamed. But it is worth it, at least for me. The bush begins calling to me with the first signs of spring each year. I’ll peak out a window watching for the first of those tiny buds to appear. They are reminders. They remind me of a childhood that is long since gone, along with my parents and my grandparents. They remind me of the good and the bad of growing up at 922 Franklin Street in Grenada, MS. They remind me of my roots in Shake Rag and a farm that nourished many bodies and my soul.

“A wandering Aramean” the Hebrew grandfather begins as he recounts the story of his people. He remembers, because it is important to remember, the good and the bad, the lean times and the times of abundance, the delicate blossoms and the wicked thorns. We remember because where we came from makes us who we are and what we will become. We remember because it is important to recall God’s presence through all that life offers: the celebrations and the healing graces of pricks from life’s wicked thorns. Despite our hard work, life will always be untamed offering us a full slate of experiences. Thanks be to God for His faithfulness through all of it. Deuteronomy 26:5ff

I'll Fly Away

I have a favorite uncle on my mother’s side. Actually he’s my only uncle on my mother’s side but if he weren’t, he would be. I’ll call him “Uncle Fred”. Uncle Fred grew up at Shake Rag and is the source of many of my stories that occurred before I was even conceived, I mean thought about. He is a veteran of the Korean War and then served the state of Mississippi as a Highway Patrolman. He served faithfully for a hundred years or so, eventually becoming District Supervisor. After retiring, he had a brief stint as sheriff in his small town in north Mississippi. I always said he could have been on a recruiting poster. He is tall and has a stare that could stop most crooks in their tracks. I have a vivid memory of him pulling my mother and me over on I-55 as we made our way home from Memphis. As we stood on the side of the road chatting, my mother took her empty Coke bottle and heaved it out away from the highway. With arms folded, dark glasses, and wide-brimmed hat on, Uncle Fred stared down at her and said in a low but stern voice, “Sista, that’s a five hundred dollar fine.”

With his military and law enforcement career, it’s no wonder that folks would naturally turn to him when disaster strikes. There is one lady in particular that calls Uncle Fred even when the tiniest of clouds comes floating by. Now, Uncle Fred is a good man, a deacon of First Baptist Church and long on patience. However, Uncle Fred finally ran out of that patience and the next phone call that he got from the dear lady concerning some benign thunder cloud brought this response , “Mrs. Smith, why don’t you just put a cell phone in your pocket and when you land, call me. I’ll come get you.”

Dorothy could have used that advice when she landed in Oz. That is, if cell phones had been invented. “Auntie Em? This is Dorothy. Are you ok? That was some twister. Yes, I’m fine. The house isn’t quite the same. As a matter of fact, nothing is quite the same. There was this witch, and there are little people, and everything is black and white, and, well, I don’t know how to get home. Could you come get me?”

Or Elijah, you know, the prophet that was taken away by the whirlwind. Elijah: “Dude, I’m ridin’ this whirlwind and we just passed over Kilimanjaro. Oops, clipped a pink flamingo.” Then there’s Enoch. Who knows what happened to him? “I was there, now I’m not.”

One day, we will be here, and then not. Jesus said that He has prepared a place for us. What if we could have cell phones? “This isn’t quite what I expected, but you know, I like it. You won’t believe who I just saw. That grace thing was way bigger than I ever imagined. No, don’t be in any hurry about getting here. There’s plenty more to do where you are. Things are so clear now. Love. Peace. Grace. Tell Auntie Em not to worry. I’m home.”

Why don’t you join with me in singing or humming “I’ll Fly Away”? It seems appropriate. But, before you do, put a cell phone in your pocket. You just never know.

Fire Ants

There weren’t many dangers at Mama Bea’s and Daddy Freeman’s farm in Shake Rag. There weren’t any bears or cougars, at least outside of a little boy’s imagination. Probably the most prevalent and hated dangerous critter was the cotton mouth moccasin, like the one that bit Mama Bea in the strawberry patch (Snakes and Gardens). Daddy Freeman probably manufactured more dangerous situations than what actually existed. Like the time he had me stick my hand down into a paper sack to guess what was in it. Turns out it was a snapping turtle that grabbed my finger and wouldn’t let go. Ouch! Then there was the time he wanted me to ride a horse he had raised from a colt. As we were trying to catch him to put a saddle and bridle on, he busted through two 1 X 6 planks and ran straight through a four strand barbed wire fence. That was the end of that and I’m still quite certain my grandfather loved me, I think.

By and large, the 48 acre farm was a safe place for the meanderings of a little boy. However, there was one critter that caused grown men to cry. They had invaded our country from the west and were inching their way across the south. It was the fire ant. Most of us today know about fire ants but forty years ago they were rather new to the South. These little industrious insects would build mounds that dotted the pasture and gave fair warning to the cattle and kids that they were not to be messed with. For me, the mounds were invitations to wreak havoc upon these demon-possessed creatures. A long stick jammed into the heart of mound as if slaying a dragon brought ants streaming out in search of the invader. A few seconds of delight and off I’d be in search of the next beacon of terror.

One day I was fishing. Concentrating on the fine art of casting my purple worm, I hadn’t noticed that uninvited guests had arrived. It seems that fire ants have a way to subdue even the largest of their enemies. They, by the hundreds, will cover their victims and then, with a single signal from their blood thirsty leader, chomp down all at the same time. And they did. There is a very practical reason they are called fire ants. Fire literally began with my toes and seared its way up my legs to my knees. My screams offered no relief and I couldn’t wipe the beasts off fast enough so I decided to fight fire with water so with one great leap, I was in the pond. The damage was done though. I came out of the water and found my legs covered in dime-sized whelps. First there was pain, then itching and then for the rest of my life the memory and the hatred, no loathing, of those mean, deceitful, terrorizing, murderous, acidic, vile enemies of all that is right and good in the world.

Like the fire ant mounds that dot the pasture, it is sometimes easy to spot our enemies. They are the murderers, the rapists, and the terrorists that riddle our newspapers every day. They are easy to hate and we do, because forgiving them of such heinous behavior is crazy. Besides, it’s hard work to forgive. By in large they are faceless individuals or groups that we will never know personally so it is easier to relegate them to the hate column and save our forgiving for others. But even then, it becomes difficult. There are those folks that are closer to home that are our enemies. Maybe enemy is too strong for some of them. They just plain get under our skin. They are co-workers, in-laws, neighbors, and others that seem to take some bit of delight in making our lives miserable. They, like the ants, make their way into our space and then “chomp”. Damage is done. Forgiveness? We forgave them last week and the week before. That’s plenty, don’t you think?

Maybe those misguided words from a brother or spouse should not even be mentioned. It’s easier to overlook and forget, or at least try and forget, than it is to forgive. After all, why open the proverbial can of worms. We have a lifetime to live together and, well, it’s just easier.

Of course we know what Jesus said. Forgive seventy times seventy. Forgive as we are forgiven. Forgive, they don’t know what they are doing. All that stuff. It is stuff that takes hard work, tenacity, intentionality, patience, and love. Oh yeah, “love”, as in “love your enemies.”

Surely He didn’t mean the fire ants.

Naming Cows

Newcastle University in the United Kingdom reported that they have discovered that cows give more milk when they are called by name. The study reports that cows will produce as much as 500 pints more when named. It seems the cows respond better to humans when they are treated as individuals rather than just another bovine in the barn. The study doesn’t tell us how to find out what the cows’ names are. It would seem to me that Ol’ Bessie would not want to be called Ol’ Jill. In fact, Ol’ Jill might even take offense at Bessie being given her name. What would happen then? Less milk? They might even be moooooved to quit giving altogether.

As udderly ridiculous (sorry) as it might sound, we aren’t too unlike our hooved friends. We all like to be remembered and called by name. It makes me feel good when someone I barely know remembers my name. It makes me want to go out and buy them a gallon of milk or two. I had a friend in seminary, I forget his name, that after his first day of registration went home and wrote down the names of over 200 people he had met that day. He even included something that he had learned about them. He had a gift.

God has a gift too. Sixty buhzillion people and he knows every single one of them, by name. Not only that, he calls to us, each one of us, as he leads us on the journey. “Michael, follow me. Jennifer, over here. Leslie, it won’t be long.” Can’t hear God? Listen closer. God might be speaking through someone or something unexpected: like a friend, a book, a song, even blogs. We just need to pay attention.

The gatekeeper opens the gate for him, and the sheep hear his voice. He calls his own sheep by name and leads them out. – John 10

Ash Wednesday

Ash Wednesday was last week. Baptists typically don’t observe Ash Wednesday citing that it is “too Catholic.” Our church is one of the few but growing numbers of Baptist churches that do observe the day. It is my privilege each year to retrieve the dried palms that were used in last year’s Palm Sunday processional and burn them. It will be those ashes that are used to mark the foreheads of those who choose to have ashes imposed upon them in worship. It is a sacred task.

During the imposition, the worshipper comes forward to have the sign of the cross placed on their forehead. I plunge my thumb into the bowl of ashes and say, “From dust you came, to dust you shall return.” I then smear the black remnants of palms upon the forehead. It is a holy moment, each one. The act is to remind us that life is transient and all too short. We don’t have time to dawdle. There is too much to do, too much sin to deal with, too many injustices to make right, too many excesses to curtail, too many failures to overcome. Too many . . .

So with the mark upon our foreheads we enter into the season of Lent. It is a time of deep reflection as we ponder our relationship with God and with others. Some will practice the discipline of deprivation, giving up chocolate, or soft drinks, or some other craving. Others will give up time, volunteering somewhere or simply giving God the early morning hour for prayer. The 40 days, excluding Sundays, of “giving up” will allow us to be reminded daily that life is fleeting, that we are sinners saved by grace, that there is a day of great celebration that we are leaning toward. Let it also remind us daily that Christ gave up far more than we ever can. It was Christ who left the Presence and came to dwell among us, as one of us, and eventually bore a cross. A cross not of ash, but of death, for us.

Water Haul

On the farm in Shake Rag there were two ponds. The pond by the house was the bait pond. Daddy Freeman had rigged a giant dipping net on the end of about a 30 foot metal pipe. It pivoted on a post so that the weight was distributed and the net would not be so heavy, especially when it was wet. We would lower the net into the water, throw some corn bread out above the net and in just a minute or two could raise the net capturing plenty of minnows and goldfish for a day of fishing.
The other pond was further away from the house, out across the pasture. That’s where the big fish were. Mamma Bea liked to fish with the minnows, us big guys (all of eight years old) liked to fish with a rod and reel. It seemed the fish in this particular pond were fond of plastic purple worms. We would rig the hook so that the worm twirled in the water as it was reeled in. This seemed like a fair proposition for the fish. They could bite or not, then if hooked, fight ferociously to escape, and they often did. I still remember a perfect cast of my line, landing my purple worm less than a foot from the bank when WHAM. The worm was gone and my line came whizzing back past my ear. It was the one that got away. My nephew, at the ripe ol’ age of 4, would hook a five pound bass one day. His didn’t get away.

A not so fair proposition for the fish was when we seined. A seine is a long net that would stretch from one bank to the other. It had floats on the top and lead weights on the bottom. On either end would be a pole that was used to pull the net through the water. This was always an exciting time because it usually meant a fish fry was coming but better than that, I could get in the pond to help with the seine. I would follow along behind the seine and if it got hung on a snag, I would free the net. Catching a snag was never good because it might tear the net but it also gave the fish an opening to escape. It was great fun to finally pull the net up on the bank to see what the catch was like. You never knew because pulling the net through the water always made it feel full, even when it wasn’t. A good haul would include large bass and catfish. For us kids, a good haul included a turtle or two and a snake. We once caught a turtle that was so big it hissed at us while snapping at anything that moved. Every so often, the net would not be held to the bottom of the pond as it was pulled through and all that would be in the net were a few tiny brim and moss. If the seine was pulled through the pond without holding the seine down again, the same thing would happen. Daddy Freeman called it a “water haul”. No matter how many times or how hard everybody worked, if done the same way, there would only be a water haul.

The disciples knew about water hauls. John tells us in his gospel that the disciples had fished all night with nothing to show for it. A stranger on the shore tells them to cast their nets on the other side of the boat. This must have given them pause. “The other side is the same as this side,” they must have thought. But there must have been something in the voice, something of the man’s silhouette that got their attention because they did it. These professionals tried something new, as insane as it must have seemed to them. They probably didn’t know our definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over all the while expecting different results. So they did it. They listened. They obeyed. WHAM! The catch was huge and they realized what maybe they suspected but were afraid to accept. It was the Lord.

Listening can be hard work. Sometimes harder still is obeying, especially when it requires something new of us. Even small changes in life can be too hard and sometimes seemingly silly. If we take stock though, and listen, maybe we realize that some changes are in order. Doing the same thing over and over, expecting something different, plodding along in our faith journey and all we have to show for it is a water haul. How about being more attentive, more intentional, more willing to venture out and do something new. Let’s listen to that voice that calls out and says, “Try the other side.” It might work. And, well, that voice just might be the Lord’s. If he appears to be a stranger to you, you definitely need to listen . . . and try something new.

Learning to Drive

Abigail is learning to drive. I’m learning patience.
Now that she has her permit she has staked a claim to the front left seat of the car – the driver’s side. You’d think the girl had just crossed hundreds of miles of treacherous terrain whilst fightin’ the savages in order to possess this small piece of real estate. She thinks she has some inalienable right to drive on every occasion. Last night it was time to leave church so she assumed the throne of teen independence and reached for the keys. I yielded knowing that to protest that it was dark and that I hadn’t brought the defibrillator wasn’t much of an excuse to not let her drive. So off we went. It is my habit to not speak too loudly about her driving but to offer quiet, assuring words of correction. There was that one time that “STOP!” was necessitated by circumstances that are better not spoken of … ever again. Anyway, I was offering a few suggestions when Zackary spoke up from the back seat and said matter-of-factly, “Abigail, objects in mirror are closer than they appear.” Now, Zackary could not see the mirror from his seat and it was dark. Apparently he had committed the words to memory, waiting on an appropriate time to offer his suggestion from his vast wealth of driving experience. Normally, that would have been enough to send Abigail clamoring over the seat to put Zackary in a hold that would make the World Wrestling Federation proud. However, she was concentrating on driving so she ignored him.

“Objects in mirror are closer than they appear.” What was he thinking? No doubt he wanted to be helpful but what was Zackary offering? Maybe a warning as in, “Abigail, that Mack truck is really close.” Maybe it was a statement of fact as in, “Abigail, that’s a Mack truck, not a Tonka toy.”

Who knows? Jesus may have found the same words useful in his day. Actually, it seems he may have said something sort of similar. “Objects in mirror are closer than they appear.” Or how about, “The kingdom of God is at hand.” If you are like me, I tend to think that the kingdom of God is a good ways out there. It is far enough for me to have time to get things right. We (I) talk like we believe the kingdom will one day come, but, come on, really? We’ve got time. Objects in mirror are cl…o…ser than … Oops! You don’t even have to read the fine print. It’s as plain as that Mack truck. Jesus said, “The kingdom of God is at hand.” The word means “at arm’s reach” or “it can be touched”. In other words, the kingdom is here! God’s kingdom, God’s reign, is now. We’re not waiting for it, we are living it. The question is, “How are we living it?” “Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done,” we pray. How about we all climb down from our own throne of independence and let God . . . well, you know.

(Addendum: This story came to mind this week as Abigail, a year later, had her first major wreck. I say first because I anticipate more. My car might be totaled. The important thing though is that she was perfectly fine afterward except for a bit of the jitters. That object in the mirror was really, really close!)

The Big Dance

In my hometown of Grenada, MS, we didn’t really have proms. There was an organization known as the “Cotillion” that was made up of the young girls in our small community who had reached a certain age, perhaps 15 or 16. There would be a Cotillion dance about twice a year and it fell to the girls to ask the boys to the dance. I suspect that the whole event was really a way to perpetuate the segregation of our community, but it might have also been a way to keep certain “elements” from attending. Whatever the reason, it was always a stressful time for me. I wasn’t much of a catch standing at 6’ 4” and weighing 140 pounds, unless you needed a light bulb changed. Consequently, the invitations to the big dance weren’t exactly filling my mailbox.

One year, though, everything changed. A pretty girl who lived a couple of blocks from me asked me to the dance. Nancy (we’ll call her) was a year younger than me and she had always had my eye but I knew that we were operating out of two different leagues. I never gave the chances of us going out much thought. Nancy had been dating a friend of mine, Al, for a couple of years but had recently broken up. Now, nobody wants to be the rebound guy but when the girl is that dang pretty most principles go flying out the window. I waved goodbye to mine and gleefully accepted the invitation. Besides, her mother thought I was the best kid in Grenada and I had high hopes she might have some influence that would increase my future chances.
Have you ever tried to buy a suit for a kid that looks like a drinking straw? My mom had, many times, and she knew there would be nothing in small town Mississippi so we headed to Memphis. Twelve hours, and six big and tall stores later, we headed south to Grenada with suit in hand. It had been a painful endeavor for both of us but the chance to dance with Nancy was well worth enduring Mom’s grimaces. Did I say dance? That might be an exaggeration that is best not described in any great detail. Feet moved and hands waved. Enough said.
The big night arrived. I pulled into Nancy’s driveway in my 1962 Ford Galaxy with vinyl seats, rubber mats and AM radio. Nancy’s mom greeted me at the door with a big hug and a smile and then from around the corner came a sight to behold. Nancy appeared and she had to be the prettiest I had ever seen her. “Wow!” I thought. I handed her the orchid corsage that perfectly matched her gown which I had called and gotten the color of from her mom a week earlier. Nancy’s mom pinned it on, Kodak flash cubes popped and then we were off to the Cotillion.
The evening started well. A few fast dances, one slow dance, a glass of punch and we sat for a bit. Then “he” came over, Al that is. “Mind if Nancy and I dance?” he said. I didn’t mind. After all, she was my date. She had come with me. What’s the harm? Well, I found out. Two hours and too many glasses of punch later Nancy comes over to me. Al is standing a safe distance away. “Do you mind if Al takes me home?” “No, that’s fine.” I said as I pushed that giant lump in my throat back down to wherever it had come from. I left. Crushed. Betrayed.

If you are waiting for a happy ending, there isn’t one. But there was a lesson learned. My youth minister had an expression: “People will let you down, always.” Then he would say, “But God never will.” He was right. Though we may be crushed or feel betrayed, God always desires our good. He will never leave us or forsake us. He is ahead of us, above us, below us, behind us. God is working, always working God’s grace in our lives. Thanks be to God who dances the day we are born and celebrates our lives with us, even through the hard times.


. . . . for he has said, ‘I will never leave you or forsake you.’ So we can say with confidence, ‘The Lord is my helper; I will not be afraid. What can anyone do to me?’ Hebrews 13

Who will separate us from the love of Christ? Will hardship, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or peril, or sword? . . . No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us. For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord. Romans 8

Possum

When we lived in Waco, TX, we had a friend and church member that was quite the character. He had been educated at Baylor University and had taught biology for a while and then worked a few years as a restaurant inspector. When we knew him, he was in his late 50’s and had been dubbed “Possum” by another friend. I’m not sure why he was called Possum, he just was. Somewhere along the way Possum had decided that the traditional lifestyle was not for him. He didn’t have any family and never married, although he did have a girl friend for a brief time while we were living in Waco. He gave up his 8 – 5 job and mowed yards for a living. You could see him most any summer day in his little pickup hauling his push mower, rake and broom up and down the streets of Waco. He still lived in the house he had grown up in and inherited from his parents. Possum had an odd way about him that endeared him to everyone and reflected a deep wisdom that only comes from a life well lived. He was fond of saying, “Don’t criticize your enemies until you’ve walked a mile in their shoes. Then you’ll be a mile away from them and you’ll have their shoes.”

He frequently pulled into my driveway to chat. He would go to the door and then go back and stand by his pickup, waiting on me to come out. I could never get him to come in the house. We talked about many things: sermons, the weather, mutual friends, politics, the “Missus” and a hundred other topics. One of those other topics was the vacation that Possum was planning. Possum was always planning a vacation, usually to Wyoming to go fly fishing. We would discuss the route, the things he would need, even settle on a date. The day would inevitably come, Possum would pack, loading his pickup with every conceivable item and then go to bed to rest before the early start the next day. Possum would get up bright and early, go out, and unload his pickup, almost every time. Some of the guys at church even promised to pay for the trip if he would just go. One year, he actually left town headed north. He got as far as Fort Worth, about 100 miles, and turned around and came home. As far as I know, Possum has never made it to Wyoming.

The trip was obviously very important to Possum or he would not have planned it so meticulously every year. However, his reasons for not going were even more important, at least to him. We don’t like it but the fact is that many of us are just like Possum. We make big plans, especially this time of year, to make changes in our lives. We make meticulous plans to jolt us out of our ruts only to fall back on excuses for the status quo. Too much work. Not enough time. Next year for sure. Something came up. It’s my children. It’s my parents. The list really can be long, can’t it?

Maybe it’s time to stop making resolutions and work on making covenants. A covenant is a promise, not a wish. It’s a promise to another, or to God, and sometimes both. Maybe it’s time we see our need for change not as a physical or mental issue but as a spiritual issue. Give it to God. Regularly pray about it. Be accountable to another. If you fail at first, don’t consider yourself a failure. God doesn’t! Continue working and praying and working. Allow the Spirit access to empower.

Let me know how it goes.

See you in Wyoming.