December 2008

As the year draws to a close, and the Christmas holiday looms large on the calendar, we find ourselves straining to remember what it’s all about.  On the one hand it’s easy to let the shopping and the lights get in the way.  On the other hand, when I see a crowded mall this time of year, I remember what a very wise man once said; basically, that everyone you see is there because they’re thinking of someone else for a change.

There are those who the season find a dollar short and a day late for various reasons.  There are those who, for various reasons, never get to really celebrate at all.  While we accuse each other of forgetting God this Christmas, it’s not hard for a few of us to think God has forgotten them.  But, just because this time of year goes by with more a whimper than a bang, that hardly means you were forgotten.  He knows who you are, He reads your mail, and your circumstances have not escaped His notice.

You are no more forgotten than a frightened, pregnant teenager living in the armpit of the Roman Empire 2000 years ago.  You are no more forgotten than her carpenter boyfriend, a nobody from nowhere with nothing.  He didn’t forget them; so why should He forget you?  He didn’t forget a bunch of rough-hewn field hands working the graveyard shift.  In fact, when He decided to enter our dirty little world, they were among the first to know.  He didn’t forget to tell the best and the brightest either, even though they were pagans from half a world away.

He never forgot the blind and the lame, nor did He forget the high and the mighty.  Emperors, presidents, popes, beggars, thieves, prostitutes, He remembers all of them.

Like He remembered the poor immigrants who drove the stakes on those first railroads, He remembers the pilot with 300 lives and a multi-million dollar aircraft in his hands.  Just as He remembered the doctors who sweated out plagues and fevers with no x-rays, no antibiotics, and no electricity, He remembers the cardiac surgeon who repairs an organ that was never designed to rest long enough to be repaired.

Like He remembered the shell shocked little French girl through a piece of chocolate from an American G.I., so He remembers a wounded little Iraqi boy resting in the arms of a U.S. Marine.  He remembers those who bleed for freedom, whether as liberators or those who would be liberated.  He remembers the oppressed; and as for the tin hat, pot-bellied despots who oppress them, take notice.  You haven’t slipped His mind either.

He has not forgotten those who risk their lives to read His word.  He has not forgotten those who give their lives to deliver it.  He doesn’t forget the burned out pastor with the rebellious daughter, or the spiritually single mom who takes her kids to church alone lest her husband miss the game.  He doesn’t forget the stranger who shows up every Sunday, whether anyone else notices or not.  He knows who you are, and if you didn’t show, He’d notice.

His memory is in the handshake of the greeter in the church foyer.  It’s in the flowers a woman gets when she least expects them.  It’s in the laughter of children when Daddy’s had a bad day.  It’s in the tears of a friend you’ve spilled your guts to.  His memory is in the sound of sirens, and in the monotonous beep of a heart monitor.  It’s in the fingerprints left at the scene of the crime.  It’s in the slam of the cell door, and in the sliver of sunshine passing through iron bars.  It’s in the smell of home.  It’s in the taste of ice cream.

It’s in your very next breath.  This last year may have put you through the wringer, and He remembers it all, with more detail and accuracy than you can imagine.  People say that God never gives us more than we can handle.  I disagree.  If He never gave us more than we could handle, we wouldn’t feel any need to run to Him.  You may have been given more than you can handle; but you’re still here.  You’re still breathing and still standing because He has not forgotten you.

November 2008

It’s been a while since I’ve written anything in this space.  It’s also been a while since I’ve gored any of Christianity’s (tm) sacred cows.  I figure I’ll kill two birds with one stone.  The views expressed almost certainly do not reflect the views of my pastor, my assistant pastor, the worship leader, the board of elders, the board of deacons, the ladies Bible study group, the neighbors, or that couple who sits in the third row on the left and looks like it’s been years since they…….  Oh, never mind.

Today’s target of opportunity is Men's Ministry.  I’ve had it up to here with it, and I don’t even bother with it.  I know.  If I don’t bother with it, how can I comment on it?  Observation guided by experience.  You don’t have to eat sushi to know it’s going to taste like cold fish.  Maybe it’s just my caustic personality.  Maybe it’s just my narrow interests.  Maybe, just maybe, I’m not the only one who feels this way, but the other guys are afraid to agree, or they just never had the right words.  I don’t either, but here goes.

It seems that ever since Promise Keepers got done ruining it for the rest of us, men's ministry has gotten increasingly homogenized.  It’s like, no matter where you go to church, every men's ministry group is reading from the same playbook.  There, I just did it!  Without even thinking about it, I automatically made reference to a football analogy by using the word “playbook.”  What is it with men's ministry and the assumption that every man is interested in sports?  I am sick to death of being invited to church Super Bowl parties (which of course don’t count as ministry unless halftime is spent doing something overtly spiritual).  I’m tired of hearing about “God’s Game Plan for Your Life.”  I’m not even remotely interested in joining a “huddle.”  And nothing makes even a regular bible study type gathering more of a drag than spending the first twenty minutes listening to the rest of the group discuss how this team’s defense sucks, or that team squandered an early lead, etc.  Another thing – this is probably just a sad coincidence, but it seems like most of the guys I’ve come across have very boring occupations.  Maybe that’s why they secretly fantasize about being the next big sports star.  It’s simultaneously amusing and disheartening when I tell them what I do for a living and I see their eyes glaze over.  (And it’s not as if I’m a rock star or an astronaut or something like that.)  It’s even more fun when they ask me if I watched the game last night.  “Uh, what game?”  The deer-in-the-headlights look on their face says it all.  I know what you’re probably thinking; and no, I don’t really want to get interested in sports any more than they would want to get interested in vacuum tubes.

The other thing I never understood was why, when men's ministry groups meet for breakfast, it’s always at some ungodly early hour, even when they meet on Saturday.  I’m absolutely useless at 6AM.  I couldn’t even study a tube of toothpaste long enough to figure out which end to aim at my toothbrush, let alone study the Bible.  And if we pray, don’t be surprised if you have to wake me up when it’s over.  What’s wrong with meeting on Saturday afternoon?  Oh, right.  That’s when the game is on.  Women never seem to have to get up early for this sort of thing.

Now on to what gets covered at these meetings.  If you’re a man, and a Christian, the first thing you’ll find out is that you suck at it.  It doesn’t matter how hard you try, you’re a loser.  Before they even know what you do for a living, you are obsessed with your job at the expense of your family.  Never mind the fact that men are inherently wired to gain their identities from what they do.  You’re not supposed to.  Working for a living to support your family should be the furthest thing from your mind.  Did I mention that you never help around the house either?

If you should ever even hint at acknowledging that an attractive woman is attractive, you’re a pervert.  You are obviously a lecherous, porn-addicted, pig who has a problem with lust.  It is also immediately assumed that if you go out in public during the summer months, you will suddenly find your drop-dead gorgeous wife, to whom you’ve been faithful for years, grossly unattractive compared to anything in a short skirt.  Here’s a solution for you guys who “struggle” with this.  Just have your wife wear a miniskirt and then walk behind her.  Fixed.  I don’t know about you guys, but I’ve seen just about all there is to see, and by God’s grace I’m perfectly capable of saying “No, thanks” without feeling the need to spill my guts once a week to an “accountability partner.”  What’s up with that?  I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again.  What’s wrong with being accountable to my wife?  She’s the one who was standing there when I made those vows in the first place.  Since when do I owe you Neaderthals an explanation?  If you think I need to be told I should only have eyes for her, you’ve obviously never met her!

In short, I get the feeling that I’m supposed to apologize for being a man.  I’m apparently supposed to become very sensitive, and maybe cry a little.  I’m supposed to act like a woman.  Sorry, but I’m not sorry.  You’ll have to take it up with the Manufacturer.  The fact that I’m a guy, with testosterone in my veins and sex, tools, machinery, and red meat on the brain is sort of by design.  I work for a living, and I take pride in what I do.  Yeah, it makes me feel like a real man.  There.  I said it.  I’d rather stay home with my hot wife than waste a perfectly good evening in a room full of guys, talking about batting averages and agonizing over how to be a more “Godly man” (pat.pend.) by hugging and weeping and confessing and basically acting like a girl.  There.  I said it.

Are we still friends?

April 2008

Well, it’s been a while since I sat down and wrote something; so you can well imagine that something significant must have driven me to it.  It’s been an interesting couple of weeks.

It all started the weekend before last, when I received news that my Uncle Tony had passed away.  To be honest, it wasn’t much of a shock for me.  He had spent the better part of the last few years in a nursing home.  They don’t call it God’s waiting room for nothing.  He was done waiting, so he went home to Jesus.  Going to the funeral was almost enjoyable.  Everyone was in good spirits, and it almost had the feel of a family reunion.  There was plenty of laughter and smiles to go around, which is how I hope it is when I check out.  I’ve often told my wife that when I die I want her to put me in the cheapest box she can get and use the extra money to hire a caterer and a DJ.  They can put the kegs on my coffin.

At the funeral, I asked for my cousin Michael, Tony’s only son out of six kids.  His sister informed me that he was in the hospital and too ill to travel.  Here’s where I need to fill in a little of the “back-story.”

Several years ago, Michael was driving home in the wee hours of the morning after helping a friend move.  He fell asleep at the wheel and, barely a mile or two from home, hit a tree head on.  His injuries were horrific.  By one account, he flatlined twice on the way to the hospital, where he spent a very long time essentially being rebuilt by the doctors.  By the time they were done, he probably had more metal in him than what was left of his car.

A while ago, he moved out to California and things took a turn for the worse.  He had developed an infection in his heel (which had been reconstructed with steel) that found its way into his bones.  He was back in the hospital, with doctors trying to bring the infection under control.  He developed an infection in his heart.  Then he got the news about his father.  Unfortunately, his doctor couldn’t clear him to travel. 

The morning the family was to bury Uncle Tony, we received the news that Michael had died the night before.

I can bury my grandparents.  I can bury uncles and aunts.  When it comes time to bury my parents, we’ll see how I do.  But I have a hard time burying cousins, especially one who is so much younger than me.  I wasn’t supposed to be going to his funeral; he was supposed to go to mine – a very long time from now.  Suffice it to say that the atmosphere at this funeral was a bit different.  None of us were ready for this kind of heartbreak.  It was tough seeing his sisters again so soon under the same circumstances.  “We have to stop meeting like this,” I told a couple of them.

I thought about the last time I saw Michael.  It was before his accident.  I don’t remember much about it, except that a lot of laughter passed between us.  I thought even further back and recalled that one of the formative experiences of my life involved both Uncle Tony and Michael.  I couldn’t tell you the year, but I know it was Memorial Day weekend.  My father and I went with them to McGuire Air Force Base to see the Blue Angels.  It was my first time ever seeing them, and if you know me well, you know the rest of the story.

So the inevitable questions come.  Why so young?  Why now?

Only each of us who pass through that veil into eternity knows what passes between us and the Almighty in the moments leading up to it.  I imagine the Lord arriving in that hospital room and the conversation going something like this….

“Michael, you’ve walked a pretty hard road for a while.  I know because I’ve been there all along, and I know there’s nothing more they can do for you.  The truth is now we’re closer to my house than we are to yours.  So why don’t you just come home with me?  I know someone there who’ll be really glad to see you.”

Godspeed, Uncle Tony and Michael.

June 2007

Note to self:  Don’t ever kill a man in Memphis.  If you do, the Memphis Homicide Squad will eat your lunch and go back for seconds.

One of my favorite TV shows is “The First 48” on A&E.  It’s basically a documentary where a camera crew follows homicide detectives around as they work a case.  The premise is that the chances of solving a murder case drop exponentially if they don’t get a significant lead within the first 48 hours.  The murders are real, the cops are real, and the bad guys are real.

A recent episode involved a case in Memphis.  A man was found shot to death behind a convenience store, the victim of an apparent drive-by shooting.  As the detectives worked the case, they received a tip that brought to their attention a young man named Mike.  He was supposedly at the scene.  After tracking him down, they brought him in for questioning.  He denied any involvement in or knowledge of the crime; but he also mentioned the names of the two other young men he was with that evening.  As he left the interrogation room, the detective was quick to point out, “This ain’t over for you!”  They already had a feeling he was being less than honest.

They found one of his friends a while later and talked with him at headquarters.  He immediately pointed out than Mike was in fact there, but offered no more information.  At this point, the lead detective was losing his patience.  He reveals to the young man that he already knows he’s lying and asks if he would like to “revise” his statement.  “I told you not to **** with me!”  (Like I said, this is all real.)

Fast forward to the next day.  The detectives have found a couple witnesses that put both men at the scene of the crime; but they have no solid evidence as to who the trigger man was.  At this point, they bring Mike back in for questioning.  This time, they decide to be less than honest with him.  This is where it gets entertaining.  They print up a photo line-up of six young men from their database, one of which is Mike.  (Apparently, this is not his first run-in with the law.)  One of the detectives, a woman with a penchant for extracting confessions with seemingly little effort, writes under Mike’s picture in the worst chicken scratch she can muster, “This is the guy I saw driving the car.”  She signs it with a fake name.  They walk into the interrogation room where Mike is waiting.  She puts the paper in front of him and asks him what he has to say about it.  As Mike starts to talk, she quickly excuses herself and leaves the room, pretending to need to take a call.  The door closes on the camera.

A few seconds later, a most dreadful wailing noise is heard from the other side of the door.  Mike is screaming and crying so loud that detectives from all over the department are flocking to see what the noise is about.  When the detective reenters the room, she finds Mike sprawled on the floor, crying.  “What’s the matter with you?”  “I’m scared for my life!”  Needless to say, she had no problem getting him to tell the whole story.  Meanwhile, in another interrogation room, the lead detective is talking to Mike’s friend, who continues to be evasive with his answers.  The detectives decide to tip their hand slightly.  They walk Mike up to the open door of the room and ask him in full view of his friend if his friend was involved.  Mike nods and is returned to his room.  No honor among thieves, they say.

In the end, with mere minutes to go, Mike’s friend spills his guts.  It turns out that Mike was riding in the back seat, his friend was in the passenger seat, and another man was driving.  The man driving asked Mike if he had a gun, and Mike didn’t.  The man in the passenger seat said he knew where to get one.  Once they obtained the weapon, the passenger handed it to the driver, who then pulled up and shot the victim.

The next morning, Mike was back in the interrogation room, waiting to hear his fate.  He was potentially looking at a minimum of sixteen years in jail.  The lead detective walked in with a handful of paperwork.  He sat across from Mike and talked about his meeting with the attorney general.  He then slid a sheet of paper across the table to Mike.  He said to read what it said at the bottom.

“Release without charge.”

Mike’s eyes began to fill with tears as he realized what that meant.  He was free to go.  The attorney general had decided he was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong kind of people.  The detective told him he was getting another chance to get his life right.  The profound relief was evident in Mike’s face.

So many times, I’ve felt like Mike.  No, I’ve never been involved in a homicide.  My worst encounter with the law has been a speeding ticket.  But there have been times when I’ve found myself in the wrong place and the wrong time, usually by my own choosing.  And I’ve found myself being the wrong kind of people.  I’ve blown it badly, and I’m desperate to get away with it, but God sits across the table from me with all the evidence He needs to bury me.  He’s heard every excuse before, and He’s not fooled.  The truth is I know I deserve it.  Then He slides a Bible across the table, opened to Romans 8:1.  “There is therefore now no condemnation to those who are in Christ Jesus.”

Translation:  Release without charge.

May 2007

The last few weeks have pretty much sucked.  On top of the usual silliness, we had the Virginia Tech shooting, the NASA shooting, a Nor’easter (which made a mess where I work), and to top it all off, the Blue Angels crash.  Just when I figured things couldn’t possibly suck any more, one of my heroes lost control of his plane during an air show and got killed in the process.  The past month has felt like a twisted version of Psalm 91:5-7.

“You do not need to fear terrors of the night, arrows that fly

during the day, plagues that roam the dark, epidemics that

strike at noon.  They will not come near you, even though a

thousand may fall dead beside you or ten thousand at your

right side.”

Yikes!

I’ll be perfectly honest with you.  The Blue Angel #6 crash hit me the hardest.  I spent the rest of that Saturday moping around like I’d lost a friend, even though I didn’t know the pilot personally.  Then again, I’m sort of biased when it comes to these guys.  Like I said, they’re my heroes.  Even for a fat, cynical, old fart like me, it sure puts things in perspective when you're brutally reminded of the mortality and fallibility of your heroes.  I think it was also the circumstances surrounding LCDR Kevin Davis’ death, compared to the others, that made it hard to swallow.  Let’s compare notes.

The kid who walked on to the campus at Virginia Tech and started shooting people was arguably unstable.  But after hearing description after description of him, I kept coming away thinking the kid was basically a jerk.  Look, we’ve all been awkward and uncomfortable in our own skin.  We don’t always all fit in on the first try.  Deal with it.  I could understand become withdrawn and sullen, but this kid was just plain nasty.  He didn’t need therapy and hug; he needed a punch in the throat.  Someone needed to take him aside and tell him, “Stop whining and get a life, or I’ll kick your sorry a** to the curb!  You think you’re the only one who’s ever been made fun of??”

Then there was this dope who walks into work at NASA and shoots a couple of people before shooting himself.  For what?  Because he got a less-than-stellar job performance review.  Yeah, that’s a good reason.  Like nobody’s ever had to deal with that.  You’re just soooooo alone in the world, aren’t you!  What is it with these people??  Don’t get me wrong; it’s not like I don’t care if someone kills himself, but if you want to kill yourself, fine.  Why do these idiots insist on taking someone else with them?  If you want to die, then die; but leave everyone else out of it.  It’s not their fault you’re a mal-adjusted creep!

At some point in your life, you become an adult.  It’s time to take all the extra metal out of your ears and face, dress like a civilized human being, go out and get a real job, and quit blaming your problems on everybody else.  At some point, you should reach a level of maturity where you accept at least some responsibility for the direction your life takes.  At some point, you can no longer blame your parents, your upbringing, your teachers, the schoolyard bully, or President Bush.  At some point in your life, you alone are to blame if your life isn’t what you want it to be; and nobody else is responsible for how your feel.  Their only responsibility is to respect your rights and your space, and if they don’t, deal with them and move on.  If you want to punch your own ticket, you go first, O.K.?

In sharp contrast, Kevin Davis was not angry because some girl looked at him cross-eyed.  He was not disgruntled.  He was arguably at the pinnacle of his career, doing what he loved, doing what most other guys I know would give anything to do.  It’s not like he was doing something foolish.  He wasn’t trying to get away with anything.  I’m sure he was surrounded by people who loved him and respected him.  How did he get to that point?  I’m pretty sure it wasn’t by sitting around feeling sorry for himself when things didn’t go his way.  I’m sure the same could be said for most if not all of the other victims of the past few weeks.  In some ways, their rather abrupt departure is all the more painful for the potential that will never be realized. If you ask me, I think we gave way too much press to the wrong people.

At the end of the day, I’m still reminded that God was not caught off guard by any of this.  He has the ultimate say in how much time we are given here, and He knows the end from the beginning.  How do I explain that to the ones left behind?  I have no easy answers.  Sure, there are answers; but they’re not always easy to hear.  How do I deal with my lack of compassion for the perpetrators?  Well, I wouldn’t say it’s a lack of compassion.  Let’s just say that I suffer from an over-developed sense of reality.  I have learned this much.  Things can always be worse.  I might be sick as dog, flat broke, and have to put up with all sorts of B.S. from everybody; but at least nobody’s trying to put a hole in me.

April 2007

A couple weeks ago, I attended a reunion at my old high school.  It’s been twenty years since I’ve seen a lot of these people.  (Yes, I’m old.  Thank you for pointing that out.)  It was a good sized crowd, the food was good (very important), and a fair part of the official festivities was spent talking about the athletic program.  I think you’d get that at any high school.  All in all it was a nice evening.  I was a little bummed about the absence of most of my graduating class.  You missed a good time.  Know that when your name came up in the conversation, it was spoken with fondness.  Of course, that was after I called you a slacker for blowing us off!

What I always find interesting about this place is the depth of the relationships I took away from it.  People I haven’t talked to since 1987 hugged me and meant it.  And it was as if we’d never left.  The same things made us laugh, the same things made us cringe, and about the only thing missing was that Jen didn’t try to take a swing at me!  Teachers who I know for a fact were driven to distraction by my past lack of studiousness remembered me well, and were happy to see me, happy that I was back.  I was happy that they were still there too, even if they bored me to tears once upon a time.

It was interesting to hear about the history of the school and fascinating to see some of the first students ever to attend.  They all have grandchildren now, probably close to my age.  Not that this matters a bit to me, but it was still amusing to see guys who graduated a year or two after me sporting considerably less hair.  Then again, it just sort of drove the point home even more just how old I really am! 

There were some genuine success stories too.  Everyone seemed well.  There was the expected flurry of kids’ pictures.  They were all cute, but not as cute as my kids.  As far as a few of the success stories I mentioned go, the successes were simply that the person in question was still standing.  One gentleman at my table in particular has been fighting a long hard battle with cancer, and it was good to see him there, still in good spirits, still with us.

So, a good time was had by all.  I hated to leave when the time came, and I hope it’s not too long before we can all do it again.  I hope you can make it.  Fortunately, my greatest fear was not to be.  No one got up and sang “Friends” by Michael W. Smith; so no one got stabbed in the throat with a salad fork.

March 2007

I got an invitation recently to attend a high school reunion.  This year marks twenty years since I graduated from Timothy Christian School.  Of course, I’m going to attend.  It’ll probably be fun.  At least I can’t think of any reason why it wouldn’t be.  I’m sure it will be interesting to see what everyone looks like twenty years later.  Looking at myself (an activity I usually avoid), I suppose I could extrapolate that most of my fellow alumni have become a little – shall we say – swollen.

Bear in mind, in 1987 I was eighteen years old and probably weighed a hundred and twenty pounds soaking wet.  I’m happy to say that, twenty years later, I’m still a hundred and twenty pounds soaking wet.  Here’s how it works.  You’re probably at least a little familiar with the concept of water displacement, even if you’re not familiar with the term.  It’s basically what makes boats float.  If I submerge my ponderous bulk in a swimming pool, I am, of course, soaking wet; and once I’ve achieved something close to neutral buoyancy, I am approximately the equivalent of one hundred and twenty pounds.  Like Shelly Winters said in “The Poseidon Adventure,” “You see…under water, I’m a very skinny lady!”

I’m guessing that the guys who spent the most time on their hair are now probably well in the throes of male pattern baldness.  In light of the fact that we were children of the Eighties, I’m hoping that the girls who used to put enough flammable chemicals in their hair to launch a space shuttle have dialed it back a notch or two.  And speaking of weight, I’m also hoping that, for their sakes, a few of them have actually eaten something!

Then there are the ones who swore they would never have kids.  Yeah, I was one of them.  And like at least one other that I know of, I thankfully lost that bet!  It’ll be fun meeting the spouses too. 

“So what have you been doing for the last twenty years?”  That will be the inevitable question.  I just hope I can come up with an answer that doesn’t take the better part of the next twenty years to give.  Not like I owe these people an explanation or anything.  What have I been doing anyway?  I got a book published; but trust me, that ain’t hard!  I moved around a lot.  I got married and had a couple kids.

I took a look at my high school year book a while back and looked at a picture of a skinny, zit-faced punk with the same name as me.  Next to the picture is said: “Goal:  To go on tour with my band and earn a gold record for God.”  Ish.  That was a pretty pointless goal.  I mean, really, God needs a gold record like I need a third armpit.  On the other hand, maybe I was betting too low.  There seems to be a glut of platinum and double-platinum records out there, made by people with little or no talent.  If we only had better marketing……

So I’ll go.  I’ll sit, I’ll eat, I’ll listen, and I’ll talk.  Who knows?  It could be fun.  But if someone gets up and starts singing “Friends” by Michael W. Smith, they’re getting stabbed in the throat with a salad fork.

January 2007

So the New Year has started.  After today, the “Holidays” are officially over.  Good.  The whole thing was a blur for me anyway.  I feel like they landed on me.  I probably forgot to send you a card.  Sorry.  Then again, you forgot to send me one too; so I guess we’re even.  We’ll be sure to forget each other next year.  Deal?

For some of us, it’s not hard to imagine God forgetting about us too.  There are those who the season found a dollar short and a day late for various reasons.  There are those who, for various reasons, never got to celebrate at all.  But, just because the day went by with more a whimper than a bang, that hardly means you were forgotten.  He knows who you are, He reads your mail, and your circumstances have not escaped His notice.

You are no more forgotten than a frightened, pregnant teenager living in the armpit of the Roman Empire 2000 years ago.  You are no more forgotten than her carpenter boyfriend, a nobody from nowhere with nothing.  He didn’t forget them; so why should He forget you?  He didn’t forget a bunch of lower-class guys working the night shift.  In fact, when He decided to enter our dirty little world, they were among the first to know.  He didn’t forget to tell the best and the brightest either, even though they were pagans from half a world away.

He never forgot the blind and the lame, nor did He forget the high and the mighty.  Emperors, presidents, popes, beggars, thieves, prostitutes, He remembers them.

Like He remembered the poor immigrants who drove the stakes on those first railroads, He remembers the pilot with 300 lives and a multi-million dollar aircraft in his hands.  Just as He remembered the doctors who sweated out plagues and fevers with no x-rays, no antibiotics, and no electricity, He remembers the cardiac surgeon who repairs an organ that was never designed to rest long enough to be repaired.

Like He remembered the shell shocked little French girl through a piece of chocolate from an American G.I., so He remembers a wounded little Iraqi boy resting in the arms of a U.S. Marine.  He remembers those who bleed for freedom, whether as liberators or those who would be liberated.  He remembers the oppressed; and as for the tin hat, pot-bellied despots who oppress them, take notice.  You haven’t slipped His mind either.

He has not forgotten those who risk their lives to read His word.  He has not forgotten those who give their lives to deliver it.  He doesn’t forget the burned out pastor with the rebellious daughter, or the spiritually single mom who takes her kids to church alone lest her husband miss the game.  He doesn’t forget the stranger who shows up every Sunday, whether anyone else notices or not.  He knows who you are, and if you didn’t show, He’d notice.

His memory is in the handshake of the greeter in the church foyer.  It’s in the flowers a woman gets when she least expects them.  It’s in the laughter of children when Daddy’s had a bad day.  It’s in the tears of a friend you’ve spilled your guts to.  His memory is in the sound of sirens, and in the monotonous beep of a heart monitor.  It’s in the fingerprints left at the scene of the crime.  It’s in the slam of the cell door, and in the sliver of sunshine passing through iron bars.  It’s in the smell of home.  It’s in the taste of ice cream.

It’s in your very next breath.  This last year may have put you through the wringer, and He remembers it all, with more detail and accuracy than you can imagine.  You may have been given more than you can handle; but you’re still here.  You’re still breathing and still standing because He has not forgotten you.

December 2006

Ask anyone who knows me well, and they’ll tell you that one of the things I find most irritating about modern Christianity (pat. pend.) is its thorough lack of originality.  The music is always a churched-up version of something secular from about ten years ago.  The movies are so bad that we usually end up co-opting – or blatantly hijacking – Hollywood productions with religious themes.  And if I see one more “God’s Gym” t-shirt, I’ll be hard put not to beat its overweight, out-of-shape owner senseless.  We who worship the Most Creative Being Ever have become the biggest bunch of rip-off artists since Jacob donned some roadkill to cheat his brother Esau out of a whopping big inheritance.

So I tend to look at Christmas with a profound sense of joy, not just because it represents an eternal God stepping into time to get dirty and tired and smacked around by His own creation to tell us how much He loves us, but because it’s one of the few original ideas we Christians have left.  We actually came up with it first, and for once, everybody else is co-opting it from us.  So I, for one, take ownership of this holiday and everything that goes with it.  Everything.  Starting with “X.”

There are much more pressing issues in the world today than whether or not the word “Christmas” is rendered “Xmas.”  Every year, we weep, wail, and gnash our teeth over it, claiming that it’s just another example of how we’re being forced to the back of the ideological bus.  The joke seems to be on everybody here.  The letter “X” has a long and distinguished history of being shorthand for “Christ.”  This abbreviation is about as old as Christianity itself.  So when you see “Xmas,” lighten up.  They are keeping Christ in Xmas, whether they know it or not.

The thing that really gets my goat is the ridiculous level of discomfort some Christians exhibit toward any reference to Santa Claus.  You’d think the guy’s red suit came with horns and a pitchfork!  Would someone please tell me what the problem is with a jolly fat guy who likes to make children happy?  Before you preach to me about materialism, you first need to find me a young child who understands that concept as well as you do.  Find me such a child, and I’ll show you a couple of parents who probably haven’t had sex since they conceived said offspring.  I’ll say it again – LIGHTEN UP!!  They’re kids!  Could we let them be kids??  Pretty please??  What have you got against the jolly fat guy?  I’m a jolly fat guy, and you like me.  (You do like me, don’t you?)

I have yet to meet an adult whose life is a mess because their parents let them believe in Santa Claus when they were kids.  I can think of plenty of people I’ve come across who are messed up because of repeated contact with uptight, legalistic Christians.  And I’m still looking for anyone who was seriously traumatized upon realizing that it was their parents, and not Santa, who left the presents under the tree.

My kids believe in Santa Claus, because I believe in Santa Claus.  Oh, come on now, you already thought I was nuts before I told you that!  But let me tell you about the Santa Claus I believe in.

O.K., Mr. Peabody, set the Wayback Machine to about A.D. 325.  Let me introduce you to a guy named Nicholas.  He’s a bishop at a church in a city called Myra.  He’s a short, scrappy fellow who really loves Jesus.  (I like him already!)  He’d be the last to admit to it, but he has a reputation for giving gifts in secret to those in need.   See, he likes to follow Jesus’ suggestion that when you give, you should not let your right hand know what your left hand is doing.  Anyway, he’s not in Myra right now.  He’s in Nicea, along with a few hundred other clergymen from around the Roman Empire, at the invitation of the emperor Constantine.  They’re there to hash out some rather important matters of theology, among them whether or not Jesus Christ is really divine, one with God, or just a really nice guy.  Nick believes wholeheartedly what Jesus said Himself: “I and my Father are one.”  He believes what the Bible says:  “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.”

Enter another bishop named Arius, who’s theologically out to lunch.  He believes that Jesus was a created being, a sort of “lesser” version of God – God-Lite if you will.  As Arius drones on about his position, Nicholas sits there doing the slow burn.  Finally, he can’t take it anymore.  He gets up and punches Arius right in the kisser!  (I told you I liked him!)  I know; it’s hardly appropriate behavior for a man of God, but here’s a guy who takes Jesus seriously.  He doesn’t believe in a Jesus who’s a meek, pallid wimp, the kind you see pictures of everywhere, the kind who just wants to get along with everybody.  He believes in a Jesus who has dirt under His fingernails and calluses on His nail-scarred hands.  Like Jesus, he doesn’t suffer fools easily.  And don’t tell me you never wished you could do that!

So here’s a guy who loves the Lord and expresses that love by being generous to people who could do nothing for him in return, and somehow, he’s the bad guy at Christmas.  If Arius had gotten his way, we might not even be celebrating Christmas.  Unfortunately, his heresy is alive and well today, being hawked by guys who go door to door, handing out magazines.

Nick’s my brother in Christ, and I sometimes wish I could do what he did.  (No, I’m not talking about punching someone’s lights out!)  Maybe I’m not in a position to give away my vast wealth, especially since I have no vast wealth.  But I can use his example to teach my kids about generosity, and how we can express our love for Jesus by sharing it with each other.  I can teach them how generous God has been by giving us Himself, in the person of His Son, when there was nothing we could possibly do to return the favor.  Now, I’m not suggesting that we owe St. Nicholas any reverence.  Far from it.  I’m just saying that he was our brother.  He was a fellow child of God.  He belongs in this family, and I want him back.  He’s no different from any other early Christian we look to for an example of how to follow Jesus.  He’s more than just the fat guy with the presents; he’s another way to show our kids what Christmas is really all about.

Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus.  You’re looking at him.

November 2006

A few years ago, I told someone that having children has taught me more about the love of God than I could ever have imagined.  Donald Barnhouse once said that all of life illustrates Bible doctrine, and although I don’t know much about him, I can tell he must have had children. 

After all, God’s relationship to us as believers is very much the same as any good father/child relationship.  Throughout scripture, He refers to Himself as our Father.  That’s what sets this faith apart from all others.  He’s not just a big scary deity out there waiting to be placated, looking for excuses to step on his followers.  (Sure, He’s big and scary, but sometimes my dad could be big and scary too.)

Like any good father, He commands respect; and He’ll let His kids know when they’re out of line.  But, like any good father, He’s still approachable and won’t cut them off at the knees for it.  One passage comes to mind to illustrate the relationship He wants to have with us.  Romans 8:15-16 says “For you did not receive a spirit that makes you a slave again to fear, but you received the Spirit of sonship.  And by him we cry, "Abba, Father.”  The Spirit himself testifies with our spirit that we are God's children.”  That word “abba” is Aramaic for “father.”  Actually, it’s a more endearing term than that.  A better translation would be “daddy.”

When I come home from work each day, my kids hear me coming in the door, and the first thing I hear is “DADDY!!!” – usually shouted at ear splitting volume.  Before I can get my jacket off, I’m double-teamed.  It’s a hero’s welcome, and all I did was show up.  How many of us approach God that way?  Or are we too busy worrying about what He must think of us having made the same mistakes over and over?  Are we afraid to approach because we’re all tied up in knots about things our big brother Jesus already took care of?  Did we forget?  Jesus said even the worst of us know how to treat our children well.  So why do we sometimes act as if God were some kind of child abuser?

My kids are professionals at making a mess.  They can trash an entire house in minutes, making their bedrooms look like I’ve rented them either to drunken rock stars or epileptic gorillas.  I’ve poked my head inside my daughter’s room and wondered, “Where the hell did she get a grenade??”  It quite frankly drives me up the wall when I tell my kids to clean up their mess, and ten minutes later, the place is still a disaster area.  “How many times do I have to tell you………”

How many times does God have to tell me?

My son is a button pusher.  When he’s not pushing my buttons, he’s pushing the buttons on the TV remote, the microwave, the dishwasher, and his mother’s computer (that was fun to fix!).  The problem is that most of the time, he has no clue what he’s doing and succeeds in screwing something up.  He’s getting better, though.  He knows how to hook up his own video games.  I’m not quite ready, however, to give him the run of the studio yet.  I can’t tell you how many times I’ve chased him away from something he’s been told not to touch.  “How many times do I have to tell you……..”

Yep.

And at the end of the day, I still don’t want to imagine life without them.  As much as they ignore me, scream at me when I say “no,” and react with supreme indignity at the very hint of discipline, they are still my most prized possession.  The house can burn to the ground and take my studio, my Blue Angels models, and my pocket watch collection with it; as long as I still have my kids.  They’ll always be the smartest, most beautiful, funniest, and most well-behaved kids in the room.  In spite of all the things they do to drive me to drink, they know who loves them the most.  They know who to run to when they fall down.  They know who’s going to pick them up.  They know whose lap they can climb into. 

Right……..Mom’s!  (I’m not fooling anyone, am I?)

But seriously, they know Dad still loves them no matter what, even when all the thunder and noise is coming from him.  Even though he’s big and scary, at least to them anyway.  Do I love my kids?  You bet I do.

Does my Daddy love me?  You bet He does!

September 2006

After a long hard struggle with writer’s block, I might actually come up with something this month that makes sense.  If it doesn’t….well…..sorry to bring you all this way for nothing.  I kicked around a few ideas, most of which sucked.

I kept thinking about guys who don’t go to church, but more specifically, guys who don’t go while their wives and kids go.  Relax guys.  I’m not going to spend the next page and a half making you feel guilty.  Your wife has likely tried that to no avail.  I don’t know why you don’t go, at least once in a while.  I promise you the roof will not cave in on you, nor will the place be struck by lightning.  If you find it distasteful that they pass the plate and collect an offering (“the shearing of the sheep” as my uncle likes to call it), stop and think a minute.  How do you think they pay the electric bill, nimrod?  Maybe you just think going to church cramps your style.  Trust me; you don’t have that much style to begin with.

In defense of the guy who doesn’t do church, allow me to address the missus.  Maybe it’s not going to church he doesn’t like.  Maybe it’s going to your church he doesn’t like.  Churches are like any other family, or any other tightly knit group.  They seem to have a collective personality that’s different from one church to the other.  Maybe your husband just doesn’t feel at home in that particular church.  I know that makes no sense to you, because you love it there so much that you can’t imagine him not liking it; but it is entirely possible.  But then this goes back to something I wrote about a few months ago, about how church has become more consumer oriented.  We’ve come to expect our worship experience to be custom-made for our personal enjoyment.  If we don’t like it, we won’t go.

Maybe, guys, you just need to learn to suck it up.  I know I have.  I’ve learned to stick it out through praise songs that quite frankly made me sick.  I’ve learned to grin and bear it when the worship leader tells me to shake hands with every total stranger within arms reach, who I’m not going to say any more that three words to for the rest of my life.  And you’re never going to believe this, but sometimes the plate goes by, and I pass it on without putting a dime in it.  No black looks from the usher.  No gasps of horror from the old ladies sitting behind me.  No thunder from above.  And they even let me come back next week!

While I certainly like the pastor of our church (he’s a fellow Jersey boy), and I’m getting to know a few interesting people, the other huge reason I go to church is simply to be there.  I don’t go to be seen by a few hundred strangers who probably wouldn’t like me much anyway (especially if they ever read some of what ends up on this page!).  I go for my family.  One of my favorite parts of church comes at the end of the service, when I go down the hall to the Sunday school classrooms to collect my kids.  One of the coolest feelings in the world is when my son or my daughter spots me standing in the doorway.  “DADDY!!”  It’s akin to the hero’s welcome I get when I come home from work.  They’re happy to see me.  They know I’ll be there when class is over, and they can’t wait to show me what they made out of macaroni and cardboard.  I don’t think ESPN carries anything that exhilarating.

I know my wife is glad I’m there too.  It sure beats sitting in a big crowded room alone.  And it’s nice to know that you’re sharing something that’s deeply personal and spiritual with the number one person in your life.  It’s nice to know that you’re both on the same page.  I’m not saying you have to agree with everything that happens.  I’ll be willing to bet that she doesn’t either.  But she really does need you there, just like she needs you everywhere.  Yeah, it’s that important.

Be there.

August 2006

A while back I got one of those e-mails from a friend of mine that asks a bunch of questions about me, and I’m supposed to answer the questions and send it to everybody on my mailing list.  You’ve probably gotten at least one, so you probably know the drill.  One of the questions that was interesting to me was this one: “What is your best childhood memory?”  It took me a while to think of an answer.  It wasn’t that I had a bad childhood; far from it.  There were just so many, and I felt like I needed to pick a really good one.  So here was my answer: “My first tape recorder.”

I figured this was good because it most reflected something of a watershed moment in my life.  And the circumstances behind it make for a good story too, so I thought I’d use this opportunity to share it with you.

I was about seven or eight years old and in second grade back in the mid-seventies.  I was friends with a kid who lived up the hill from us and was often over at his house.  As far as I remember, his father managed a construction supply company, and they seemed well off enough.  My friend never seemed to need anything and certainly seemed to want for very little.  Anyway, one of his gadgets that fascinated me the most was his tape recorder.  Just the fact that he had his own tape recorder was pretty remarkable to me.  By today’s standards the thing would easily be regarded as primitive, but for a second-grader in the mid-seventies, it was cutting edge technology.  It was a Panasonic, and it had a big shiny silver and black case.  I thought it was the coolest thing in the world that he could record anything and play it back at will!  I thought, “I’ve got to get me one of these.”  Then I thought, “There’s no way my parents will waste good money on something like that.”

Some time after this, I got dragged to the local department store by my mother for another painfully boring shopping excursion.  This place was sort of the Wal-mart of its day.  While my mother did her shopping, I wandered over to the electronics department.  There in a glass display case I saw a veritable cornucopia of portable tape recorders.  Well, O.K., there were maybe seven or eight different ones, but hey, I was only eight.  They were lined up from left to right according to price, with the most expensive ones on the left.  Naturally, that’s where I found the same exact one my friend had.  At the time, I think it cost about $30, which to an eight-year-old in 1977 was roughly equivalent to the national debt.  On the other end of the display, the cheapest one in the case was a small green plastic little tape recorder.  It cost about $14.  Even that was well out of my price range.  I knew my parents weren’t going to go for it, so I decided then and there I would simply have to save up for it.

At the time, my father would pay us a small allowance for chores around the house, so I knew I had that.  But where was I going to come up with the rest?  As the next several months unfolded, I would scrape together anything I could.  I would dig through the furniture, looking for loose change.  I would even slip into the laundry room and take the change my mother had found in my father’s pants and left on the dryer.  You won’t tell, will you?  Occasionally, I would return to the department store with my mother and make tracks for that display case, just to gawk at that cheap, green, plastic Holy Grail.  “She will be mine.  Oh, yes!  She will be mine!”

I remember the night I counted my savings and discovered that I had finally saved enough to buy the tape recorder.  My hands were shaking as I recounted the money, making sure I had reached that magic figure of $14.  There followed days of incessant badgering as I tried to get my mother to take me back to the store.  Finally, the blessed day arrived.  I was about to part with every nickel I had to my name.  I dragged my mother to the display case and tapped the glass between myself and my prize.

My mother looked at it with that look mothers get.  You know the look.  “Is that the one you want?”

“Uhh….yeah.”

“Are you sure?”

Was she serious?  Where had she been for the last several months?  I was practically licking the glass, and she’s asking me if it’s what I want??  The pregnant pause after that left me surprisingly hesitant.  Mothers have that power.  They can ask the simplest question and have you doing some serious soul searching over what should be a relatively simple thing.  It was only a tape recorder.

“Which one does your friend have?” she asked.

Where was she going with this?

“That one over there.”  I pointed to the black and silver beauty at the other end of the case, its $30 price tag mockingly displayed in full view.

“Well, what’s the matter with that one?” she persisted.  I thought, Duh!  It only costs way more than I have.

“I only have enough for this one.” I mumbled, pointing at the cheap one.  Suddenly, this thing over which I obsessed for months was almost embarrassing to even look at.  I hung my head.  What happened next left me speechless.

“We’ll take that one,” my mother said to the clerk, who was waiting patiently behind the case this whole time.  She was pointing to the other one!  Before I could react, she said, “Give me what you have, and I’ll cover the rest.”  She took her wallet out of her purse.  She even bought a package of blank tapes for me.  I forgot all about those!

I’d bet a lot more than $30 that my mother had no idea that day where her “investment” would lead.  That day began the journey of a lifetime, a journey I’m still on, and enjoying every minute of it.  That tape recorder is long gone, and others have taken its place, and been replaced themselves; but I still remember the feeling.  I still enjoy just setting up a mic or two and running a preamp directly to tape, then hitting rewind to see what I got.  It’s a bit like taking a picture with film (remember film?).  You’re never entirely sure what you’re going to get, but when it works out, it’s magic. 

So what did I learn?  I learned that if you want something badly enough, somehow you’ll get it, often in a way that will surprise you.  And looking back, I can now see how often we knock ourselves out for something, thinking it’s just what we need, when in reality, it’s second best.  If we’re willing to let go of it, God always works it out for us to have what is really best for us.  O.K., that might be a stretch in light of what I’m talking about, but then God knew what I’d end up doing with my life, didn’t He?

July 2006

Well, for those of you keeping score at home, you know by now that I have released my first book.  “Tempus Fugit” hit the……whatever it is that books hit a couple weeks ago.  It was a long time coming, and it seems such a long time ago when I started writing it.  Now that I think of it, it was a long time ago.  Six years to be exact.  Actually, it started even before that, when I wrote a short story by the same title for a creative writing class I was taking back in 1997 or ’98.  I hung on to it, because I thought someday I might like to expand on it.  I remember buying a spiral notebook and writing it longhand at first.  What a mess!

Now here it is, in actual print.  Now the fun really starts.  Now I find myself asking that question again – “How did I get talked into this?”  Of course, I have no one to blame for this silliness but myself.  It was my bright idea to write it in the first place.  I was the one who decided to send it around to publishers; and why else would I have done that if not to get it published.  No one dragged me down a dark alley, stuffed me in a van, drove me to a secret location and forced me at gunpoint.  I have no one to blame but me.  So there it is. 

The scary part is that the publisher is actually charging money for this thing.  It’s a bit unsettling knowing that real people are going to part with real money for something I wrote.  I’m sure there are better things they could be spending their cash on – things like milk and eggs and underarm deodorant.  I’m going to feel like a royal schmuck if they don’t like it.  I have to remind myself of a conversation I had with a friend a while back, where I expressed the same misgivings.  My friend was quick to remind me that the story must be good, or the publisher wouldn’t have accepted it.  I sincerely hope my friend was right.

When the publisher sent me a galley copy, I took my first look at the story in a long time.  I found myself thinking, “I could have done better.”  I guess that’s normal, but I’m sure there comes a time when you have to just let it go.  Some people create something and then tweak it to death, until there’s nothing left, or until trends or technology pass them by.  And who knows?  There’s always a sequel.  (Yikes!  That was NOT a hint!)

I think of John Harrison, the guy who invented the marine chronometer, the device that made it possible to calculate longitude at sea.  His invention saved thousands of lives and sent exploration into overdrive.  Even when he had a proven working model, and he was fighting to convince the powers that be of its worth, he still found ways to improve on the design.  He couldn’t just leave it alone.  Likewise, athletes are always pushing themselves harder.  The Blue Angels can fly what looks to their audience like a flawless performance, and yet if you ask them, they’ll tell you they’ve never flown a perfect show.  Have you ever met anyone who didn’t want to be better than they were?

All that to say……I’m grateful to all of you who hung in there with me, waiting for this thing to come out.  Thanks for your support.  I really hope you like it.  I was just having fun telling a story, and I hope you have as much fun reading it.

June 2006

I’m looking back about 8 years ago.  I left New Jersey to seek greener pastures (somewhat literally) in the Midwest.  I had accepted a job as program engineer for the newly formed radio department at the Billy Graham Evangelistic Association in Minneapolis, MN.  So, one late spring day, Dawn and I shoved all of our earthly goods into a 15 foot truck and headed west.  It sort of reminded me a little of Abraham and Sarah, leaving behind everything and everyone they knew.  It didn’t take long for doubt to set in.

I remember when we first arrived.  We hadn’t been there one week when a tornado moved through the town where we were temporarily staying.  We had just come out of the grocery store when I saw the already darkened sky take on that look.  The clouds seemed to be boiling, and they took on a color that could best be described as greenish black.  Those of you who’ve seen it know what I mean.  This was followed by the hardest rain I’d ever seen, which was followed by hail.  Just then, it occurred to me that I was hearing a strange noise under all the other noises of the elements pummeling my car.  I cracked the window to get a better listen.  It was the storm sirens.  “You’ve got to be kidding me!” I said as I immediately parked the car.  We took cover back inside the store.  Fortunately, we made it back to our accommodations unscathed, but it wasn’t an easy ride.  We passed fallen trees, fallen utility poles, pieces of siding that had come loose from buildings, and even a small radio tower lying on its side in a cow pasture.

It was hard to tell my hysterically crying wife that everything would be O.K.  Not when we were both imagining all our possessions scattered across a corn field.  I found myself asking a question I’ve asked myself more times than I could count.  “How did I get talked into this?”

I remember the first time I walked into the studios where I was to work.  Up until this point, I was sort of a big fish in a little pond.  Of most of the people I ran with in New Jersey, I was one of the few who actually had a handle on the technical side of recording.  Plus, I had my own studio.  When I first entered the studio at BGEA, it was sobering to say the least.  Most of the equipment in that room was way beyond anything I had ever worked with before.  Most of it was stuff I had only read about.  There were maybe one or two pieces that I had actually used.  I felt like a bush pilot climbing aboard the space shuttle.  I went from feeling like a big fish to feeling like plankton, all in the time it took to open a door.  I went home that day convinced that I would be fired for incompetence within a month. 

“How did I get talked into this?”

A few weeks later, after I got home from work, another storm moved through the town of Golden Valley, where Dawn and I had found an apartment.  As it approached, I made the odd suggestion that we go out to dinner.  I’m not sure why, but I just felt a need to get out of the apartment.  So we made our way to a nearby restaurant.  Wouldn’t you know they gave us a table right next to a huge window?!  As the storm passed overhead – and fortunately, this one was mild by comparison – Dawn and I talked about what we had gotten ourselves into.  It seemed like every doubt I had, she had.  We talked about our future there, if we even had one.  From the events surrounding our arrival, to the insecurity I felt about my new job, it seemed like this whole thing was one big mistake.

Then it happened.

The storm had moved off to the east, and as the sky brightened, Dawn and I both looked out the window.  There it was, against the backdrop of the departing storm, lit up by the setting sun.  It stretched from horizon to horizon -- the biggest, brightest rainbow I had ever seen.  Dawn and I looked at each other.  We didn’t say a word.  We didn’t have to.  We just laughed.  When we finally did speak, we confirmed that each of us was feeling the exact same thing.  It was like God was telling us both, “You don’t need to worry.  You’re right where you need to be, doing exactly what you’re supposed to do.  And I’m right here with you.  I’m not going to leave you.”

“I promise.”

May 2006

"And I will restore to you the years that the locust hath eaten." Joel 2:25

"I'm going out to rake leaves," he said.

He stood at the end of the bed in his flannel jacket, looking at her, not knowing what else to say.  She lay on the bed with her face pressed into the pillow.  She didn't make a sound, except for the occasional sob.  This was her third miscarriage.  She had only been pregnant for a few weeks.  It had taken every bit of the last two years to get to this point.

His eyes scanned the room as he shifted nervously.  Across the room, an old brown teddy bear sat in a chair.  She had kept it all these years, perhaps hoping to hand it down to her own child.  He walked over, picked it up, and studied its dark button eyes.  Without another word, he brought it to the bed and placed it gently in her arms.  For the first time since he entered the room, she looked at him through reddened eyes.  If he had blinked, he would have missed the smile that struggled to emerge only to disappear as her face contorted in pain, a deep-seated pain that nothing but time would ease.  He turned and left as she buried her face in the back of the bear's head.

Out in the yard, he absently dragged his rake across the freshly fallen leaves.  Normally, he loved this time of year.  He loved being outside when the air was crisp with the approach of winter, when the warm sun on his face fought the cold air over his senses.  Today, he felt nothing.  The air seemed to grow staler with every breath.  He felt as lifeless as the dry, brown leaves under his feet.  He had to do something.  He really wanted to help her, but there was nothing he could do for her.  Still, he had to do something; the yard needed raking, so there he was.

There began the questions.  Why was this happening?  Why didn't it work this time?  Would it ever work?  Why her?  Maybe it wasn't her.  Maybe it was him.  He began to think back to a time he had all but forgotten.  It seemed like a different lifetime, and when he saw himself there, he almost felt like he was looking at someone else.  It was before they were married, when they were attending college.  They were alone in her dorm room.  As one would expect, one thing led to another.  Exhilaration turned to anxiety.  Soon, anxiety turned to fear, then fear to panic.  As weeks went by, panic turned to desperation.

He remembered with a shudder the day she broke the news to him.  He knew all along, but to hear her say it hit him like a truck.  He could feel the color leaving his face.  She told him that a nurse at the campus health clinic discussed her options with her.  Options?  He scarcely dared to imagine what "options" she meant.  Soon enough, though, his imagination would collide headlong with reality.

He stabbed angrily with his rake at a clump of leaves as he remembered his response, or lack of a response.  When she asked him what she should do, he said nothing.  When she went to her friends for advice, he said nothing.  When she discussed the matter further with the nurse, he said nothing.  When she told him the appointment was made, he said nothing.  When she called him the morning of the appointment, he said nothing.  When she came back after it was over, he said nothing.  He just sat there, watching her cry herself to sleep.  When people he had never seen conspired to destroy his only child in the name of doing her a favor, he said nothing.

For years after, he said nothing.  For years after, he tried to live as though it never happened.  But for years after, he refused to ever hold a baby.  It wasn't that he didn't like babies.  He loved them, and that was why he stayed away from them.  Often, a new mom would offer to let him hold her newborn, and he always refused, making excuses like being ill or nervous.  Inside he was thinking, "Lady, if you only knew what blood was on these hands, you'd want to keep that kid as far away from me as possible."  He felt like a monster.

Now, it seemed, the chickens had come home to roost.  Now, he had no right to expect God to bless him with a child.  He had callously thrown away the last one God tried to give him.  More than that, he recalled how he had practically begged God to take it away.  While those words never crossed his mind, he had to admit now that that’s exactly what he had wanted.  He wanted God to cover his tracks, to wipe away the consequences of his irresponsibility, to let him off the hook – just this once.  Just this once.  He almost chuckled at the words.  He now knew himself better than that.

But why did she have to suffer?  Hadn't she been through enough?  Sure, she made the decision to go through with it, but she was young and confused and frightened.  He could have stopped it.  All he had to do was open his mouth.  In his mind, he knew he deserved this.  She didn't.  He pleaded with God to give her what she wanted more than anything.  Although she never talked about it, he knew she was forever sorry for what she had done.  He knew that if she had it to do over again, she would already have what she so desperately wanted.  If he knew that, he thought, surely God knew it; and surely God knew the difference between fear and cowardice.

He prayed, "If You don't want her to have a child, then please take the desire for one away from her."  He didn't dare ask for a child on his own behalf.

A few weeks later, he got his answer.  Nine months after that, he stood in the delivery room, clutching her tired hand.  Those were months of anxiety, discomfort, and pain for her.  There were moments of sheer terror, when it seemed like they would have to live through the anguish again.  It was all coming to a head right here.  With one final push, the new life growing inside her drew a first breath.  The nurses moved in to do what they needed to do, and he was forced to move back, craning his neck to see, every muscle tensed, every nerve on edge, every sense focused.

 

When the doctor finally had a good look at the baby, she announced that it was a beautiful baby girl.  The yell he let out made everyone in the room, including his new daughter, jump.  He bodily picked up the nurse in front of him and moved her out of the way.  He took one look and lost all control.  Just like David danced with all his might before the Lord when the Ark of the Covenant returned to Jerusalem, so he danced in that delivery room.  He approached the warming table, looking at that tiny quivering body with awe.  Was she all right?  Was she healthy?  Was she real?  Finally, the nurse handed him her tiny bundled body.  For the first time in nearly twenty-four hours, he sat down and looked into her hazy blue eyes.  Her mother’s eyes, he thought.  It was almost an intrusion when his wife asked to hold what for years she had dreamed and prayed for.  For that first day of her life, the child never saw a bassinette.  One of her parents was always holding her.

That night, he fell asleep on the hard bench near the window.  It was a narrow bench, fastened to the wall, with cabinets underneath for supplies.  It had a thin, cheaply upholstered cushion on top.  Clearly, it was there more for storage than comfort.  It might as well have been a giant featherbed.  That night, he slept the sleep of the forgiven.  That night, he slept the sleep of the restored.

April 2006

There is a God.  Let's get that straight.  Anyone who feels differently is obviously not paying attention.  You need look no further than your own hand, the one holding the mouse you used to find this.  Really look at it.  It’s a masterpiece of engineering.  We’ve tried for centuries, and the best replacement we can come up with for it is nothing more than a cross between a pair of needle-nose pliers and a meat hook.  Have you ever tried to tickle a child with one of those?  Yet there are people who will insist that it’s nothing more than the end result of a series of lovely bio-chemical accidents.

There is a God, and it's not you or me.  I think that's really where most atheists are coming from.  It's not that they don't really believe in a Supreme Being.  They just don't like the fact that the Supreme Being isn't them.  And if there is a God, and it's not them, then they have a real problem.  If someone created them, there was obviously a reason for it, and if there's a reason for it, they are obviously responsible to that Creator.  If we’re just mutated monkeys, then nobody is ultimately responsible for anything.  Then there is ultimately nothing wrong with me picking up a gun (rock) and blowing (beating) your brains out.  I’m simply weeding out the weaker of the species.  If there is no God, then there is no arbiter of right and wrong, good and evil.  If it’s just about survival, then we have no use for nursing homes, special schools for handicapped children, or even wheelchair ramps.  If there is no God, then would somebody please explain to me why the mother of a child with Down’s syndrome would think nothing of lavishing as much love on that child as she would on any other?  Would somebody please tell me where music comes from?

"So, if there is a God, why is there pain and suffering and death?  Where was God on September 11th?”  I’ll tell you where He was.  He was right where we wanted Him, sitting in the corner, minding His own business, and staying out of ours.  Where was He on September 10th?  When someone says, "If God is so loving, why do children get cancer?" a better question might be, "If God is so just, why don't I have cancer?"  (Not that I want cancer!)  The bottom line is that the evil in this world is the result of evil people with the free will to choose evil.  This is the broken, messed up world we’ve created for ourselves, because of the choices we all make.  We made this mess.  And it’s not because we are inherently good with just a propensity for evil.  I dare you to pick up a newspaper and tell me with a straight face that we’re inherently good.

The great paradox is that God, being all-powerful, is not a party crasher.  He doesn’t show up where He’s not invited.  He’s not going to barge His way into your life.  That’s what free will is about.  God loves us.  That makes perfect sense.  Would you create something just so you could hate it?  Do parents have kids with the firm intent of despising them?  Of course not.  So if God created us, He obviously loves us.  The act of creation is an act of love.  God loves us, and He wants us to love Him back.  Otherwise, what's the point?  Now, how many of you have ever been able to compel someone to love you?  Love, by its very nature, has to be an act of free will.  I believe that God gives us the choice to love Him, and in so doing, gives us the choice not to love Him too;  because otherwise, our love for Him would be forced and artificial.

Now, a lot of people seem to think that they can just approach God in any way that suits them.  “What you believe is not important as long as you are sincere, and anyone who says there’s only one way is being narrow-minded.”  Well, truth by its very nature is narrow; and all the sincerity in the world doesn't make something true.  I could sincerely believe that boiling water won't scald the heck out of me, but that won't help me a bit if you dump a steaming kettle over my head.  Besides, I'm not the one who made up the rules.  It seems clear to me that God's the one who can dictate how we come to Him, and His plan for approaching Him is available to us.

First off, there's absolutely nothing  - NOTHING - we could possibly do to impress God.  Think about it.  He's all powerful, all knowing, all seeing, all present, and to be any less, He would cease to be God.  So what makes you think you'll do anything to make Him say, "Wow?"  Did I mention that He's also ultimately perfect?  Nothing less than perfection could exist in His presence.  But, don't despair.  If you know there's nothing you can do to reach Him on your own, certainly an all-knowing God knows it too.  And the cool part is that He's already taken care of it.

The Bible says that the penalty for sin is death, case closed, end of discussion.  Not just physical death (separation of the soul from the body), but spiritual death (separation of the soul from its Creator).  Dying in our state of sinfulness would leave us eternally separated from God, and that's something He does not want.  He loves us, remember?

Enter Jesus Christ, God's Son.  He stepped up, being 100% God and 100% man, and offered Himself to take what we had coming to us for offending God's justice and righteousness.  He became the embodiment of God's mercy and love.  But He went a step further.  Simply dying for us would have only solved half the problem.  Sure, our sins would have been paid for, but death would still have a hold on us.  It would still be something to fear.  Jesus beat death at its own game.  He came back from death. 

And because He did, we no longer have to fear death and judgment.  Our sins are paid for.  And it's a free gift, not because of anything we did, but because God loves us.  As I just said, it's a gift.  It doesn't become yours until you accept it, and make it yours personally.  It sounds to me like a pretty good deal.  It sure beats working your butt off to impress someone who's impossible to impress, hoping it's going to be good enough, hoping He won't be too mad at you, hoping you make it to Heaven.  Much better to know that it's taken care of, that the good you do is a result of your salvation rather than the means of it, that you’re assured of a place in God's presence, and that you no longer have to be afraid.  He loves you, because to Him you are worth loving.  Jesus died for you, because to Him you were worth dying for.

So, what are you going to do about it?  If you've read this, you’ve heard the truth.  I know, some people get nervous when someone sounds this sure about something; but I’m just being honest with you.  This isn’t true just because I say it is, or because I happen to believe it.  Even if I didn’t believe it, it would still be true.  I have nothing to gain from telling you this.  I’m not getting paid for this, and I get no closer to Heaven if you believe this.  And God certainly has nothing to gain from lying to you.

You've heard the truth; and you can no longer go on living as though you haven't.

There it is.

Recommended Bible Verses:

Psalm 14:1, Proverbs 12:15, Proverbs 26:10, Matthew 5:45, John 3:16, I Timothy 2:5, Hebrews 9:15, Romans 6:23, Romans 3:23, Ephesians 2:8,9, Romans 5:8, Isaiah 40:21, John 8:26, Revelation 3:3.

March 2006

Those of you who know me well know that, within a few days of my posting this, I’ll be having another birthday.  Yippee-frickin’-doo!  Now that the celebrating is over…..

I’m sure I’ll have to endure yet again the predictable and compulsory wisecracks about old age, and the occasional words of comfort from those much older.  “You’re not that old.”  I’m not.  I know that.  Getting old doesn’t bother me all that much.  I actually look forward to going bald.  The way I see it, it’ll be one less thing to worry about.

I think the painful thing about getting older is looking back and wondering if you’ve actually accomplished anything.  Now, fortunately, I’m still relatively young; so if I find myself wanting in this department, there still may be time.  I think it will especially noticeable once I reach 40.  I still don’t know what’s so magical or horrible about that number.  It’s like the end of the world for some people; and I admit, even though I’ve still got a few years before I get there, I’m looking at it with some trepidation.  I think it will all come down to what I’ve achieved by then.  By most statistics, my life is arguably half over.  What have I done with it so far?  Did I do what I set out to do when I thought I knew what I wanted to do?  Am I doing what I’m supposed to do?

A while back, I was talking with a friend about the things we dreamed of doing when we were younger.  I wanted to be a rock star, and my band mates and I actually tried to make a go of it.  We were well on our way to stardom, as far as we were concerned.  But, things change.  Bills have to be paid.  Children must be cared for.  Other things take precedence, things that sometimes take us to places we never imagined.  You’ve heard me occasionally mention a band reunion, and some new music we’re starting to work on; so it’s not a lost cause just yet.  But as I said to my friend, I feel like I’m too young to be this nostalgic about it, but I’m also too old, too established, and too responsible to too many people to try it again.  But who knows?  As John Wayne said in “True Grit,” “Come see a fat old man some time!”

I guess I’ve accomplished a few things.  I’ve helped others achieve their goals.  I’ve at least tried to be where I needed to be, to do what needed to be done.  I’ve shared a bit of myself through my writing, stuck my chin out, and invited others to take their best shot.  Whether that will amount to anything, time will tell. 

I think the biggest accomplishment, aside from managing to stay married beyond the national average, is having children.  And that’s something that will continue to unfold as they grow up.  It’s been a lot of fun watching them develop.  My son is only three years old, and not only does he know how to play video games, he knows how to hook up the game console to the TV!  I’ll have to turn him loose in the studio one of these days.  Not that I’m planning to turn him into an audio engineer.  I don’t care what my son does with his life, as long as he’s doing what he loves and loves what he’s doing (as long as it’s legal!).  If he wants to be a ballet dancer, fine.  If he wants to be a Marine scout sniper, fine.  If he wants to be a Blue Angel, even better!  (I’ll get a ride in that two-seater one way or another.)

What I don’t want him to be is just like me.  If he says he wants to be like me, it’ll be time for a serious talk.  If he’s talking about being an engineer, that’s fine as long as it’s what he loves doing; but that’s not the point.  His mother didn’t bring him into the world so he could be just like me.  The last thing the world needs is two of me.  I want him to be better than me.  Otherwise, what’s the point?

The same goes for my daughter.  She can be whatever she wants to be, except a doormat for some Neanderthal.  And I don’t want her marrying someone just like me.  I want her to marry someone better than me.  At this point, I’m the number one man in her life.  Any pretenders to the throne had better be worthy, because I have a gun and a shovel, and I know how to use both.  If I see a guy who reminds me of me, he’s out on his ear.

The bottom line is that it’s still too early to tell how big a dent I’m leaving in this world.  It may not be obvious, even in my lifetime.  That’s fine, as long as I can look back at age 95, and be satisfied that I’ve finally decided what I want to be when I grow up.

February 2006

Well, if you remember last month’s spiel, you’ll remember the trouble I was asking for.  It definitely got the most response of anything I’ve written so far.  It struck a chord with some, and a nerve with others.  Some people got downright upset with me.  For those who were offended, don’t worry.  Someday soon, in the interest of fairness, I’ll take a shot at those “King James Version Only” churches, and Christian colleges that forbid their students to have sex standing up because it might lead to dancing.

What surprised me was how many of you actually agreed with me.  You took all the fun out of it!  Anyway, I appreciated all the feedback, and it definitely got me thinking (in case you were wondering about that burning smell…).

So, what is church…..really?

I can tell you what it isn’t.

It’s not a bunch of uptight, paranoid legalists huddling together, looking down their noses at someone, incapable of looking past the leather jacket, or the tattoos, or the short skirt, or the pink hair.  It’s not inviting someone to a Bible study for the sole purpose of “straightening them out” before we’ve bothered to really get to know them.  It’s not a committee going fifteen rounds over the color of the carpet in the sanctuary.  And I’m pretty sure it’s not the back nine at the local country club.

There are several dozen regular folks in the mountains of North Carolina who get together the same time every Sunday to sing a few old hymns and listen to an old preacher preach from an old Bible. Nothing fancy. No praise band, no multimedia, no cameras. Just a bunch of regular folks who work for a living. This is church.  There's a 3000 seat coliseum of a building with a state-of-the-art sound and video system, live orchestra, and a pastor who drives a Lexus. A friend of yours got saved there. This is church.

Church is a group of students huddled in the corner of the school cafeteria praying for their friend who’s just been dumped by his girlfriend.  Tomorrow, they’ll pray for ‘A’s on their math tests.  It’s a bunch of teenagers from the same youth group setting up shop every Christmas at a local mall to wrap shoppers' gifts for free, just so people will ask why. "I'll tell you why!"

It’s a few Roman believers meeting in secret in what amounts to the city sewers, sharing some memorized scripture, and scratching a little fish symbol into the damp limestone to remind each other that they’re not alone.  Fast-forward to another small, anonymous congregation in modern-day China or Saudi Arabia, where meetings like this still carry heavy penalties.

It’s a young man who spends his Sunday afternoons at the local nursing home, sharing God’s love with people who, by the world’s standards, have long outlived their usefulness.

There are kids in inner city neighborhoods who risk getting shot to spend an hour a week meeting with a Bible club set up by a white guy who actually gives a damn about them. This is also church.

Church is an 800 square foot shack in India where the poorest of the poor come together to sing and worship for hours. It was built with the pocket change of fellow believers half a world away.

You know, I could have saved a whole lot of time by just looking at what Jesus said about it.  “Where two or three have come together in my name, I am there among them."

Some of them stand. Some of them kneel. Some speak in tongues. Some hardly say a word. Some show up in BMW's. Some show up in bare feet.  Some burn incense.  Some burn me up, quite frankly!  But they love Jesus, so I guess I can put up with their crap, knowing He'll take care of it if it really bothers Him all that much.

How’s that?  Better?

January 2006

Several months ago, I went on a carpet bombing raid over some of modern Christianity’s sacred cows.  All of my targets stand unscathed to this very day, so for those of you who were offended: Get over it!  As I said before, I found it to be therapeutic and fun, so before you get to the next paragraph, know that you’ve been duly warned.

This month’s target is something that has enjoyed increased popularity in recent years; and if you know me, increased popularity is an automatic bulls-eye.  I’m talking about “seeker-friendly churches.”

Would someone please tell me where the heck we got the idea for these places?  On second thought, never mind.  I don’t care.  More to the point, I’d like to know who these “seekers” are and why we suddenly feel the need to bend over backwards to cater only to them.  At which point do they stop being seekers and become plain old, church-going Christians?  By the way, I do know who they are.  They’re people my age and younger who have somehow decided that everything they experience must, without exception, be made to order.  Every little preference must be met, or else they will feel left out, disenfranchised, and alienated.

Somewhere along the line -- and I must have missed this meeting -- we decided that, in order to get these people into church, we had to get church to stop looking, sounding, smelling, and feeling like church.  We decided that their comfort was of paramount importance, that we had to be extra careful not to scare them away.

The biggest thing to go was the music.  Hymnbooks are now just there in the pew (if the church still has those) so you can have a handy writing surface for taking notes.  Organs have basically been abandoned in place and are no longer included in newer buildings; and the piano has been buried behind a wall of poorly mixed electronic instruments played, in most cases, by marginally capable musicians.  It seems no “worship team” is complete unless it has more standing members than a football team.  The music itself must never deviate from standard pop-music quarter time.  You must be able to clap to it regardless of your own sense of rhythm.  Should your hands tire, simply rock back and forth until the guy standing behind you pukes from seasickness.  All we need now is more cowbell!

The next thing to go was the sanctuary itself.  What used to happen under vaulted ceilings, stained-glass, and ornate architecture now happens in what amounts to a glorified gymnasium.  I’ve actually attended services standing under a basketball hoop in a building that has a traditional sanctuary right down the hall!  Even the ones without the athletic equipment look like the local convention center.  Incidentally, I’m not talking about the churches that meet in gyms because they don’t yet have a building of their own.  Some places have even done away with the pulpit, simply because having someone in a suit and tie standing up on a platform, behind a large podium leaves some people feeling “threatened” and uncomfortable.  Yet these same people have no problem going to a business seminar where a guy in a suit and tie stands on a platform behind a podium.

The reason usually given for this is that the church is trying to be “culturally relevant.”  Fine.  Since when did being culturally relevant involve providing the seekers unfettered access to Starbuck’s during the service?  You want to be culturally relevant?  Unload the $50,000 multimedia light and sound extravaganza, and spend the money on helping single mothers in your neighborhood.  And if someone feels put off by the sight of a man in a suit, are you sure they’re not one of those people who take offense to other people being put off by their appearance?  When someone says they have a problem with organized religion, do you ever wonder if they have a problem with organized sports too?  What’s so terrible about being organized?

As I mentioned earlier, I’m still trying to figure out at which point these seekers stop being seekers.  If you’re seeking, it stands to reason that there’s something you’re looking for.  I would think that once you find it, you are no longer a seeker.  So at that point, do I still have to cater to you as if you’re still a seeker?  What are you looking for anyway?  Are you looking for truth or comfort?  While those two things are not mutually exclusive, they don’t necessarily go hand in hand either.  What if you had to deal with some things that ran counter to your personal preferences to find something other than God?  I’d be willing to bet you’ve done that already, without even realizing it.

At this point, let me go on record as saying that I have no real problem with modern worship, beyond my own personal preferences.  I don’t begrudge anyone their affinity for it.  I just feel like, in this little game of give and take, I’m the one, with my admittedly old-fashioned tastes, having to do most, if not all, of the giving.

Here endeth the rant.

December 2005

This month, Zerro House Productions is pleased to present the lovely and gracious Dawn Yengst, with this year's Christmas letter.

Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays to our dear family and friends!  We pray you are all doing well and enjoying yet another holiday season. 

This past year, with all of its uncertainty and transition for our family, has really opened my eyes to the many blessings that God has given us.  We have a roof over our heads, two wonderful children that we adore, and we're closer to family and old friends, which allows us to celebrate nearly every holiday and special occasion with them.  Certainly, those families who have lost loved ones due to the continued struggles in the Middle East will be feeling their losses this holiday season.  I'm also reminded of the violent hurricane season our country has endured, which claimed numerous lives and devastated communities.  You see, it's so easy to become bogged down during the holiday season with all the things we "need to do" or gifts we "must have."  And it's equally easy to become overwhelmed with uncertainty and worry when our finances are stretched to the limit.  And despair and even anger overtake us when forces of nature destroy lives and communities.  But I'm reminded that without such heroic men and women, our country would not be the free and blessed nation that it has become.  I personally am very thankful for our soldiers who honor our great nation and protect it for us living today and for future generations.  And despite the devastated losses endured from hurricanes like Katrina, we have seen so much goodness and love come from the hearts of men and women who have helped and continue to help the victims.  Perhaps events such as these are needed to help keep our focus on what's really important in life and in particular, the ultimate goodness and love of God that He sent to the world through his son Jesus.  May we always remember this as the true reason to celebrate this holiday season.

After the numerous transitions our family has endured this past year, I think it's safe to say that we are finally feeling settled in our new surroundings.  Curt and I have begun an adult Bible study class at our church which we greatly enjoy and we're looking forward to the class Christmas party in a couple of weeks.  Developing relationships with others has made our transition to this area much easier.

Isabelle is in preschool and having a great time!  She's always very excited to begin a new day at school and enters her classroom each morning with a great big smile for her teachers and a lot of enthusiasm.  We've already enjoyed her class's Thanksgiving Feast in which the children made special headdresses and necklaces and sang songs about thankfulness for their parents and grandparents.  Apparently Isabelle has made quite an impression on another girl in her class, Gabby, because her mother told me that Isabelle is all Gabby talks about at home.  We'll be setting up many playdates for these two in the near future.  At home, Isabelle keeps us entertained with her vivid storytelling and who knows, perhaps one day she'll follow in her father's footsteps and have her own story published.

Miles also enjoys his special nursery time at church while I'm attending the women's Bible study or aerobics.  This is great practice for next year when he'll be attending preschool.  He continues to amaze us with his memory.  I can't even remember half of the things he does!  And Miles loves to work on his United States map puzzles.  Not only does he know all the states, but he can also name at least one thing that is particular to each state.  "What do they make in Ohio?"  "Tires!"  Guess we'll have to work on state capitals next!

We pray for God's love, peace and joy in your lives, especially as you celebrate with loved ones this season.

Love,

The Yengst Family

November 2005

I had an e-mail conversation with an old friend a while back.  They were facing a tough road financially speaking, and there seemed to be no end in sight.  My friend expressed a lot of things: sadness, confusion, and disgust at other Christians who were always telling her about how they were in similar circumstances and how God just sort of "worked things out" in their favor.  As could be expected, my friend protested to me that she thought she was doing all the right things.  She was praying about the situation constantly.  She and her husband were doing their best to focus on God and not the problems they were having.  It could safely be said that they were "playing by the rules."  Yet things were not working out.

I don't think I'm going out on a limb to say that we've all been there at least once.  Circumstances have us with our backs to the wall, or have us hanging on by our fingernails.  (Insert your favorite metaphor here.)  We see other people, some of them arguably no more deserving than us, step in horse manure and have it come up roses.  We cry out to God, and the silence is deafening.  We start to think we've done something wrong.  Maybe if I prayed more, or read my Bible more, or stopped swearing so much, God would show up.  Bullsh-t!

That's not how God operates!

Now before you think I'm about to beat up on my friend, bear in mind that I was (and in some ways still am) in the same boat.  Been there, done that, couldn't afford the t-shirt.  I've watched savings disappear.  I've seen the emergency room entrance looming on the horizon.  There have been plenty of times in my life when it seemed like my prayers never made it past the ceiling.  "Is there anybody up there?!"  I've made the mistake of buying into that flawed mentality.

The problem is the box we try to put God in.  "If I do this, God will automatically do that."  God doesn't work things out for His kids just because they behave a certain way.  Steve Brown put it rather well when he said, "Love in the face of good behavior is not love; it's reward."  God is not a cosmic vending machine.  He's not a genie, and He's not Santa Claus.  Above all, He is keenly aware of what we need and when we need it.  He knows the end from the beginning; and He knows where He's taking us.  The hardest part of this for a lot of us to swallow is that God does not owe you an explanation, He doesn't owe you a favor, nor does He owe you the last breath you just took.

On the other hand, when you see others doing so much better, it's easy to think that it has to do with something they're doing that you're not doing.  It comes back to expectations.  I can't help seeing a little bit of spiritual snobbery on the part of people who tell you that God "just worked it out for us."  That's like one sibling telling another, "Daddy loves me best!"  It's entirely too easy to get discouraged by that sort of thing.  Maybe God's letting them off easy because He never gives us more than we can handle.  Know what I mean?  Let's see how spiritual they are when it really hits the fan!

He allows adversity because it's the only thing that makes us grow.  If you never take your baby out of the stroller and let him fall flat on his face a few times, he'll never learn to walk.  Not only does adversity make us grow; it helps us to help others grow.  Most people don't give a rip what you think unless you've been where they are.  It's tough to hear other people tell you to keep hanging on, especially when they're doing much better.  I don't know how long you'll have to wait for an answer.  Maybe you already have one.  I don't know when things will turn around.  I'm not the one in charge.  What I do know is that He is still there, He has no sweat on His upper lip about it, and He knows exactly where He's leading you.  Another thing Steve Brown likes to say is, "Never forget in the dark what God showed you in the light."

I think St. Paul said it best: "I know what it is to be in need, and I know what it is to have plenty. I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want.  I can do everything through Him who gives me strength."

October 2005

I've often said that the only thing in my life about which I have no regrets is marrying my beautiful and gracious wife Dawn.  That's the one thing where I can look back and, without hesitation, say "Good call."  But recently, I've been thinking about that mindset, having regrets about all but one aspect of my life.  Sure, we all have regrets, because we all make mistakes.  We're human.  But sometimes it's easy to make another mistake, the one of allowing the regrets to far outweigh the mistakes that led to them.  At some point, it's possible to allow regret to leave you feeling like less of a person, like you can never get past a certain point because of something you did, or didn't do, once upon a time.

As I look back, there are plenty of mistakes I've made.  Some of them were real doozies; and if I shared one or two of them now, it might forever change the way you look at me.  Now, if I had it to do all over again, would I change anything?  Absolutely!  I don't think I would change the outcome all that much.  I'd definitely still be married to Dawn, and I couldn't imagine life without Isabelle and Miles.  But I probably would not have been as awkward and insecure at times when I had no reason to be.  I would probably have tried a little harder at times and not so hard at other times.  I would have cared less about the opinions of other kids who were just as insecure and awkward and scared of what others thought of them.  And, yeah, there's a bully or two that I would have just punched directly in the throat!  I would have spoken when I kept silent, and shut the hell up when I was too busy shooting my mouth off.  I would have shared my faith more, shared my blessings more, and shared my opinion less.

But wait a second...

If I never made any of those mistakes, would I be where I am right now?  Would I have ever met Dawn?  Would my kids be my kids, or someone else's?  Would I be who I am?  Of course not.  It's the lessons I've learned from the mistakes I've made that have pointed me in this direction.  That's not to say that I'm defined by my screw-ups, although once in a while I feel that way.  It means that an all-knowing, sovereign God, who happens to be very fond of me, knows I'm just human.  He expects me to blow it.  But He never uses my failure as an excuse to step on me.  He uses not just my mistakes, but even the occasions when my actions brazenly fly in the face of everything I know to be right, to teach me.  And yes, some lessons have been harder than I would have liked them to be.

Now, if He knows me the way I really am, and He knows what I'm going to do before I do it, if the God who knows me tomorrow loves me today, then I guess it's safe to say that I have no business having regrets.  It's not that I don't care what I've done; but that I don't dwell on the mistakes of the past that I've already learned from.  At some point, I have to accept that what happened was part of His plan for me, that it didn't surprise Him, and that it was going to make me who I am and ultimately who I'm supposed to be.  At that point, I can let go of the regret.  At that point, I can say that what happened happened, and I've learned from it, and I'm better for it.  I can leave the past in the past, and I have no earthly business holding the mistakes of the past against myself.  I can no longer beat myself over the head about this stuff.  It doesn't matter anymore beyond what I've learned.  I can move on, knowing that there have been plenty of times where, by God's grace, I've gotten it right, and taking comfort in the fact that God doesn't hold my past mistakes against me; so neither should I.

September 2005

I've developed a new hobby, and I'm really beginning to enjoy it.  It's goring sacred cows, especially those of my fellow Christians.  What can I say?  It's a target rich environment out there, it's therapeutic  and it's fun!

Ask anyone who knows me.  I'm as conservative as they come.  I'm pretty sure Rush Limbaugh's a commie; but I have had it up to my teeth with the likes of James Dobson, Pat Robertson, D. James Kennedy, et al.  Every week, it's the same crap from these people about this piece of legislation or that court decision.  They're convinced the whole system will come crashing down around us any minute now.  I don't pretend to paint a rosy picture of current events, but for crying out loud, it's a wonder these guys can get out of bed and leave the house every day.  Of course, if a homosexual should deign to do the same, it's the end of the world as we know it as far as they're concerned.

I'm sure God is sitting up there in heaven, wringing His sweaty hands and wondering, "What am I going to do??  It's a lost cause unless Dobson does a radio program about this!  Whew, am I glad he's there to take care of this!"  It's almost laughable if it weren't completely IMPOSSIBLE!

Look guys.  You're my brothers in Christ and I love you.  But I'm sorry; my reservoir of righteous indignation just doesn't run that deep.  Some of us have listened for years, and we're done listening.  We know who to vote for, and we know how to call our congressman when we get around to it.  You One-Note-Johnnies have done a great job, but your work is done, so kindly put a sock in it.

Speaking of One-Note-Johnnies..

God, I hate praise and worship music!  A bigger pile of homogenized fluff I have never heard.  I'm really happy for Darlene Zschech for making piles of cash on it, but if I hear "Shout to the Lord" one more time, I'm going to strangle the worship leader right in front of the congregation.  And why is it when a church talks about compromising on the style of music, it's always the ones who like traditional hymns who end up doing all the compromising?

I'm still waiting for someone to show me the chapter where it says a worship band must have three guitar players.  While they're at it, they can show me the verse where it expressly forbids one of the guitarists from tuning his instrument.  And somewhere in that same chapter it must mention the requirement that the guy running sound be at least partially deaf.  Nothing quite draws me closer to the Lord than a state of the art sound system, costing tens of thousands of dollars, squealing like a stuck pig.

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Most of Christian music in general, in my not so humble opinion, sucks!  It represents a level of formulaic pedant that is simply breathtaking.  To make matters worse, it's usually about five to ten years behind comparable secular music.  Could we get with it people??  It is no longer 1994.  Maybe I need to just find the three studios (from the sound of it, there can only be four at the most) in Nashville where all contemporary Christian music is produced and burn them to the ground. Don't talk to me about Michael W. Smith.  He's a hack and you know it.  And thanks a bunch, Mikey, for giving us a bunch of P&W music that's even more obnoxious than "Shout to the Lord."

Memo to the guys who used to make up DC Talk:  If you're going to start other bands, that's fine; but they should at least sound different than the band you used to be in.  Who do you think you are, Phil Collins?  Memo to other male vocalists:  The secular music industry has had a long standing problem with male singers all sounding like Eddie Vedder from Pearl Jam.  Take this as an example of what not to do and stop trying to sound like Mac Powell from Third Day.  Memo to Mac:  Thank you for giving us a low standard to aim for.

Lest I forget the ladies, I wish they would all stop singing through their noses.  That sort of whining may fly on "American Idol," but real singers have voices.  Note:  Rebecca St. James is not a real singer.  Her voice is a drive-by unpleasant chemical reaction waiting to happen.  I wish someone would marry her, so she could finally stop wearing her virginity on her sleeve.  We all know how chaste and pure you are, Rebecca.  We heard you the first 800 times.

Then there's the Dove Awards, the most pointless event in the history of history.  Gee, I wonder whose going to win this year.  Will it be Smitty, Steven Curtiss Chapman, or Third Day?  There's a real nail-biter!  It doesn't really matter, because they've all won enough of them to prop open every door in their homes.

By the way, when's the last time you've seen a fat, ugly Christian artist?

And then there's Promise Keepers.

A bunch of yuppie guys stand in a stadium and hang all over each other, crying and hugging, like a bunch of Oprah-tized wusses, and somehow this translates to spiritual growth.  When PK was in its heyday, I worked at a radio station that used to carry their events live, so I had to sit there and listen to it all.  Were you aware that men are supposed to love their wives?  Whoa!  That's news!  Did you hear that they're supposed to nurture their kids?  Ya think??  And by the way, your wife will be soooooo impressed if you do the dishes.  Been there, done that, got the dishpan hands.  But my personal fave is how none of this counts unless I'm "broken" and weepy and acting like a girl.  Oh, and let's not forget "accountability partners."  Apparently, I'm not a real Christian man unless I have some guy I meet with once a week to spill my guts to.  What's wrong with being accountable to my wife?  She's the one that was standing there when I made those vows in the first place!

I believe in a world where men are men and women are glad of it, and I don't need a bunch of emasculated bilge, complete with visual aids and catchy songs.  If you ever get the bright idea to attend one of these shindigs, leave your testicles at home.  Better yet, sell them on E-bay.  You won't need them anymore.

Now honey, get your sexy little butt in that kitchen and cook me a steak!  Ooga booga!  Hairy, knuckle-dragging, meat-eating, power-tool-brandishing dittoes from flyover country, Rush!

I recently overheard a discussion on the Song of Solomon.  What the heck is it with certain people who refuse to accept that book at face value?  "It is an allegory of Christ's love for the Church and God's intimate relationship with..blah, blah, blah."  Aw, bullpucky!  No it's not!  It's a love story, O.K.!  A good old fashioned love story.  It's a book about two people who are head-over-heels in love with each other, and they aren't afraid to say they want to get BIZ-ZAY!!  It's love poetry at its finest.  Barry White had nothin' on my boy Solomon!

What the heck are you puritans afraid of anyway??

Speaking of the Bible, is anyone else willing to admit that, most of the time, studying the Bible can be a drag?  Notice I said "studying" and not "reading."  I love reading it, but sitting there with a study guide and a concordance and poring over all that stuff just makes it entirely too much like work.  Suddenly, I can think of a hundred other things I'd rather do.

My wife has saved every note, letter, and card I've ever given to her.  If she were to sit there day after day, parsing every word of a particular note, using dictionaries and reference books, trying to figure out what I was really trying to say to her, I'd think she was a few tacos short of a fiesta platter.  Why not just read it?  Have you ever just read the Bible for the sake of reading it?  Have you ever just read a passage that you like just because you like it?  Try it sometime.  Chuck the study guides, concordances, and devotionals, and take God's book for what it is; a love letter to people He is incredibly fond of.

Well, I might have actually injected something of redeeming value into this.  Sorry about that!  I know; I need to repent....one of these days.

August 2005

Once upon a time on this page, I threatened to share with you my "theology" regarding boredom.  "Theology?" you say.  Yes, theology.  And since I'm bored silly at the moment, now would be as good a time as any to share it.  So here we go..

A few years ago, I was in a Bible study class at my church, and the discussion steered in the direction of what heaven was going to be like.  People threw out the usual descriptions of eternal bliss.  When it came to my turn I simply said, "Heaven will be the absence of boredom."  I was asked to elaborate.  Before I share what I said, let me establish a few things here and now.  I believe firmly in such places as heaven and hell.  I believe that when you die, you end up in one place or the other.  I believe that where you go depends entirely on choices you make this side of death.  God has made it very clear what will get you there, and at that point, it's your decision whether or not to listen to Him.  He doesn't send you to either location; you send you.

Having said that, where does boredom factor into this?  First let me say that this is simply my own opinion.  I don't claim to be able to back up this position with scriptural references.  It just makes sense to me.  I've discussed it with a few pastors and other Bible teachers, and I've yet to be called a heretic.

While hell is generally described as a place of everlasting torment, flames, brimstone, etc., I believe the worst part of it, at least one of the worst parts, will be the boredom.  Maybe this view comes from just my own personal aversion to boredom, but stop and think about it for a minute.  Yes, hell is all those things the Bible says it is, but I don't see anything to suggest that anything new or exciting happens there.  It's the same thing, day after day, year after year, for all eternity.  It doesn't get better, and it couldn't get worse.  There's nothing to do but think about the decision that put you there.

On the other hand, there's heaven.  Most people picture heaven as a bright, shiny place full of white fluffy clouds, where everyone sits around playing harps.  Whatever.  One description of heaven from the Bible suggests something akin to a huge bustling city.  But whatever way you look at it, heaven places us in the direct presence of God.  Let's take a closer look at that.  God is certainly all-powerful and all-knowing.  To be any less, He wouldn't be God.  But He's also the creator of everything.  One could say He is all-creative.  As if living in the presence of ultimate power and ultimate wisdom weren't cool enough, imagine living in the presence of ultimate creativity!  In hell, you're separated from it forever, and that's exactly what makes it so excruciatingly boring.  Heaven's going to be a pretty happening place.  There's always going to be something going on, something that's never happened before.  There's always going to be something interesting to do.

According to Genesis, when God finished creating everything, He said it was all good.  He was happy with it.  Fast forward to the first century A.D.  Jesus told his disciples He was going to prepare a place for them, obviously referring to heaven.  I'm probably reading more into this passage than I should, but it could almost suggest that heaven is still sort of "under construction."  Even though God created it, He's still working on it, getting it ready for us.  Now if He created everything else we see around us: oceans, mountains, stars, supernovas, and a whole bunch of other jaw-dropping marvels, and said it was all good, and said it was all created for His glory, imagine what heaven is going to be like if He's still working on it!  On second thought, don't bother.  You'll just give yourself an aneurism.  Our little finite minds couldn't possibly wrap themselves around it.  That's what's going to make it so exciting!

What do you think?

July 2005

At first I thought I should write something patriotic, but I decided not to.  It's not that I'm not patriotic; you better believe I am.  I just have other things on my mind right now.  This month's spiel would probably be better titled "Curt's Monthly Rant."  So without further ado.

"Jesus is coming.  Everyone look busy."

I saw that on a bumper sticker recently and just had to laugh.  Why?  Because it was funny, that's all.  I just picture a bunch of Christians suddenly scrambling to get their act together as if Jesus would somehow be ignorant of their apathetic behavior up to that point.  For those of you unfamiliar with the concept, Jesus is coming back.  He said he was, and I have no reason to believe He was attempting to misinform.  You guessed it kids.  This month's "rant" will be on eschatology.  (For those of you with a public school education, eschatology is the study of the end of the world, usually from a Biblical perspective.)  Relax, though, it's not what you think.

I just feel a need to vent some of my frustration with certain ways in which this sort of thing is handled.  What I'm referring to is commonly known as "newspaper eschatology."  Too often, I see learned Bible scholars, and more often people with no formal training in theology, take something they read or hear in the news and shoehorn it into a single passage of scripture to suggest that the end is nigh.  Now before I go any further, and risk being branded a heretic, let me say here and now that I do believe what the Bible says about the end times.  I do believe, as I said earlier, that what Jesus said would happen will happen.  I also believe that, according to my understanding of scripture, there is no way to predict when that will be.

Here's one of my major beefs with some so-called "prophecy experts."  They have a tendency to stretch an obscure piece of news out of all proportion to claim that something mentioned in the Revelation is being fulfilled here and now.  My personal favorite revolves around microchip and RFID technology.  "The mark of the beast," they claim.  I read that passage over and over and I don't read anything about implants.  What I do see is a plainly visible mark that is easily identifiable.  And I don't see anything about anyone sneaking up on you and slipping in there without your knowledge.  These same people have said the same thing about credit cards and social security numbers, two things I have had in my possession for years.  I guess that puts me in league with the antichrist.  When it does happen, I believe the people who accept it will know exactly what they are getting themselves into.  Moving on..

I wonder how many of these experts had to go back to the drawing board or start revising manuscripts when Yasser Arafat kicked the bucket.  Or when 1988 came and went with several million people still hanging around.

Speaking of manuscripts, am I the only one who finds it rather ghoulish that an entire cottage industry has cropped up around the sale of a certain series of fictional books about millions of people going to hell?  Some of these are targeted at kids.about other kids..who are going to hell!  And while we're on the subject of eschatological fiction, don't even get me started on the movies!  Oops!  I just did.  I don't know what's worse; that these piles of celluloid manure were produced in the first place, or that well-meaning Christians actually show them to their friends.  I think it's especially hideous when they are shown to children.  I myself was, on more than one occasion, a young hapless victim of these cheap attempts at scaring people into salvation; and I was already saved!  Not only is fear a poor motivation for salvation (Am I just in it for the "fire insurance?"), but it's also a poor motivation for good Christian behavior.  That's how legalists are born.

Imagine you're a young child, who's just barely learning about God's love and all the wonderful things He's done for you.  Suddenly, you're parked in front of a movie screen and told that the world will end tomorrow and a ton of really horrible things are going to happen to people.  If you're able to sort out the fact that none of the bad things necessarily apply to you, well, you're smarter than I was at that age. 

It didn't get much better when I was a teenager.  A respected elder in a church I attended at the time once suggested to a group of us that if we were committing a sin at the exact moment the rapture occurred, we'd be left behind!  Talk about salvation by works!  If that isn't going to make a person paranoid and uptight, I don't know what will.

Saint Paul, in one of his epistles, once described the end and then said, "Comfort one another with these words."  Are we really doing that, or are we just scaring the daylights out of each other?  The last I checked, going home was supposed to be something you looked forward to.  Once, I actually attended a Bible class where the book of Revelation was taught with Paul's words in mind.  The teacher actually started by saying, "Yeah, this book talks about some pretty heavy stuff, but it also tells a lot more about some really cool stuff too, and that's what we're going to look at."  It was pure gold!  For the first time, I realized just how wonderful it was going to be, and that it was nothing to dread.  For years, all I ever heard about was the judgment.  Judgment, judgment, judgment.  But finally, I heard about what going home really meant, and I could relax.  And in case some of you are wondering, my ears didn't itch once.

My advice to those end times experts out there is this.  First off, wipe that smug little grin off your face when you talk about the judgment to come.  You seem to take pleasure in the fact that an awful lot of people are going to miss the boat.  You probably don't, but sometimes it seems that way.  Second, if you absolutely insist on scaring kids with this stuff, make sure you've worn yourself out teaching them how much God loves them, adores them, and is simply head-over-heels crazy about them first.  Make sure they know that He's not looking for excuses to stomp on them.  Lastly, put the newspaper down and try just teaching from the Bible for a change.  I already know the world's going to hell in a hand basket.  Jesus told me.  Besides, you'll sound a lot less like a conspiracy theory nut job from the "black helicopter" crowd.

That said, I'm starting to learn to look forward to going home.  If it's tomorrow, great.  If it's fifty years from now, that's still O.K.  It just means more opportunities to serve Him this side of eternity.  As long as I'm busy, and not just looking the part.

Here endeth the rant.

June 2005

Well, as I promised last month, after a wait of over a year, I finally went to see the Blue Angels.  It was an outstanding show, and I expected nothing less.  Even though storm clouds moved in during the show, the rain didn't start until they completed their last maneuver.  So needless to say, I had the time of my life.  I'll be seeing them again this month.  It all got me thinking..

The Gospel according to the Blue Angels (sort of)

For the uninitiated, the U.S Navy Blue Angels Flight Demonstration Squadron involves six of the best naval aviators flying six of the finest military aircraft in the air today.  They regularly perform maneuvers that push pilots and airplanes to the edge of their performance envelopes, all within just hundreds of feet of thousands of spectators.  The Blue Angel diamond (jets 1-4) flies in very tight formation, with only a few feet or less between the planes.  The lead and opposing solos sometimes fly toward each other at closure rates approaching 800 MPH.  Other maneuvers have them flying in close formation without seeing each other.  This kind of flying requires absolute trust in both pilots and aircraft, not to mention the maintenance crews who keep the planes ready for each show.

In recent years, I've become quite a student of the Blue Angels, learning a lot about the inner workings of this organization and sometimes trying to incorporate what I've learned into my own professional life.  What I've also noticed is that a few aspects of Blue Angel life can translate to the life of a Christian as well.

Follow the leader.  When the Blue Angels fly in such close formation, the key to keeping it tight and moving as one aircraft is for the other pilots to keep their eyes on the leader.  They are looking at him, not the sky, or the ground, or even their own controls.  If they take their eyes off the leader, they soon find themselves, and possibly their fellow pilots, in trouble.  As believers, we need to stay focused on our Leader.

"It's not you; it's the uniform."  Most new Blue Angels are told this at one point or another.  People don't come to see the individual pilots.  The pilots come and go every couple of years.  It's the Blue Angels as a team, as a unit, that people come to see.  We need to remember that it's not about us, even though we are all important to Jesus Christ.  It's all about Him.

"We are all Blue Angels."  Most people think of the Blue Angels as just the six pilots who fly the demonstration.  In reality, the Blue Angels are made up of dozens of personnel, all with important jobs to do.  Most of the Blues are maintenance personnel who keep the planes in perfect condition for each show.  No show has ever been cancelled for maintenance reasons.  Most of these men and women are never seen at the airshow, but their roles are still vital to the success of the show.  So it is in the church.  God has given us all gifts to bring to the table; and they are all important, regardless of how visible they may be.

"I'll fix it."  After every Blue Angels demonstration, there is a post-flight debrief, where issues regarding the show are sorted out.  The Blues basically view a video of the show and critique their own performances.  Each pilot is expected to call his own "safeties," or mistakes.  He then says what he will do to fix it, or make sure it doesn't happen again.  Most of these mistakes go unnoticed by the audience, but they are still something to be addressed.  This is part of what builds trust in the team.  A pilot who is willing to take ownership of even the most minor flaw in his performance is sending a message that his fellow pilots can trust him.  We, as Christians, need to be ready to admit our own faults to each other, as well as hold each other up when we need to fix something in our walk with Christ.

"I'm happy to be here."  Whenever a Blue Angel pilot raises an issue during the post-flight debrief, he will often close his remarks by saying, "I'm happy to be here."  He knows what it means to be a Blue Angel, what that represents for him personally and for the team, and he realizes that there are others who would love to be where he is.  As Christians, do we realize who we are in Christ and what that ought to mean for our everyday lives?  Are we "happy to be here?"

Needless to say, being a Christian takes total commitment, just like being a Blue Angel.  And it can be a wild ride!  By the way, if you ever get a chance to see the Blue Angels, I would highly recommend it.

May 2005

Is it May already?!  Yikes!  I don't have a clue what to write about.  Let's see.  For those keeping score at home, Zerro House Productions is settling into its new home in Salisbury, Pennsylvania.  It's amazing how much junk you have when it comes time to move it.  "Where did I get all this stuff??"  "Does Dawn really own that many shoes???"

I can tell you that this summer will see the construction of a new digital recording studio with DVD and 5.1 Surround capabilities.  I can also tell you that the band will be making a bit of a comeback.  (Scenes from "The Blues Brothers" come to mind "The band!  The band!!")  Of course, the one thing I'm immediately looking forward to is the end of a very long Blue Angels withdrawal.  As some of you know, I love the Blue Angels about as much as people from Boston love the Red Socks.  (They're a hockey team, right?)  A friend of mine once asked what the appeal of the Blue Angels was, and by the time I got done, they were sorry they asked.  Well, having been stranded in North Carolina for a year, I never got to see them.  This year, I plan to make up for that.  They will be appearing the end of this month in Willow Grove, PA, and then next month at Maguire AFB in New Jersey.  Methinks I'll take in both shows!!  I feel better already.

Maybe next month, I'll tell you all about it.  Gotta love those airplanes!

Can I let you in on a little secret?  The supreme irony of all this is that I'm afraid of flying.  Go ahead; laugh.  Get it out of your system.  The guy who nearly gets an erotic thrill out of seeing fighter jets up close and personal turns into a quivering puddle of chicken sh*t at the mere act of buying a plane ticket.  It's bizarre.  Then again, maybe not.  It really seems to come down to control.  I'll be the first to admit I'm a control freak.  That's why I'm an engineer.  Engineers control things.  We keep the genie in the bottle and only let it out when you say "pretty please."  Someone once asked me which "Wizard of Oz" character I most resembled.  I said, "The man behind the curtain."  Control freaks make great engineers, but I'm also told that they make great pilots too.  A pilot I knew actually suggested that I take flying lessons.  Still thinking about that one! 

The funny thing is that the first time I got on a plane I loved it.  But then, with every subsequent flight, I seemed to get worse.  There's something about strapping yourself to a chair with 100 strangers inside a pressurized aluminum tube that's moving through the air at just under the speed of sound, five to six miles up, and you have no contact or interaction with the guy who's driving.  If there's any other time where you are more out of control of your circumstances, it's probably on an operating table.

But then the reality is that we really are not as "in control" as we think.  Ultimately, it's God who's really in control of the situation.  I don't take the fatalistic attitude that we are merely along for the ride, but He ultimately knows what He doing with us.  So why be afraid of flying?  Why be afraid of anything?  It still comes down to control.  I need to feel like I'm in control of what's happening to me.  The last few flights I've been on have taught me a hard lesson about trusting Him.  They were totally uneventful flights.  No delays, no turbulence, no problem.  But there I was, quietly coming unglued for no reason whatsoever.  Nobody else was scared, at least not that I could tell.  It was just me and Him, hashing it out.  Along came some verses from Psalm 91.  "He will cover you with His feathers, and under HIS WINGS you will find refuge."  (My emphasis added)  "Because he loves me," says the Lord, "I will rescue him; I will protect him for he acknowledges My name."

Maybe the more supreme irony is not that I'm afraid of flying and still love airplanes.  Maybe it's that I'm afraid of flying and claim to believe in a God who is in control of it all.  In the end, I'm forced to admit that I have nothing to be afraid of.  Someone once told me that God has purpose for each of us, and until that purpose is fulfilled, we are bulletproof.  Yet it's so easy to try to take the controls and plot the course ourselves, because we think we know better.  We think we're better off taking matters into our own pale, clammy hands.  Someone else once said, "If you want to hear God laugh, tell Him your plans!"  You can almost see Him chuckling as He leans back in His throne and says, "I know the plans I have for you."

(Guess I found something to write about after all!)

April 2005

Well, kids, it looks like spring has sprung!  As you can see, the website has a slightly new look, which will continue to evolve in the coming months.  More importantly, for those of you keeping track, we finally bought a new house!  That's right boys and girls!  The new ZHP Northeast Command will be located in Salisbury, Pennsylvania, just outside of Allentown.  The plans for the new studio are already in the works, and I can hardly wait.  It's been quite a ride to get to this point.  The whole situation is not quite what I expected, but then God has a way of making things happen that way.

Most of you have followed this story pretty closely, from my arrival over a year ago in North Carolina to my unemployment barely seven months later.  Then there was the six month job search, wondering what the heck I was supposed to be doing, and the albatross of a house I could no longer afford to keep but couldn't seem to sell.  Sometimes it seemed like the bottom was falling out, but God proved to me again and again that it was not my problem; it was His.  He knew exactly where all the pieces fit.  Now I find myself doing exactly what I love doing, and doing it for all the right reasons.   I always wanted to live in Pennsylvania, and look where I landed!  And sure, I'm kicking myself for doubting Him, for thinking He didn't care anymore.

Right now, it seems like all I have in front of me are possibilities.  A new house in a new town, new neighbors, a new church home.  I wonder what sort of things God has waiting for me there.  I hope I don't just drift into the picture only to blend into the scenery and never make a bit of difference for anyone.  There have been too many times in my life where I let that happen.  I don't want to just draw attention to me, but I'd like to leave more than footprints and a trail of pocket lint, or just a warm spot on the back pew.  Those who know me well know I can't tolerate boredom, but I don't want to be busy for the sake of busy.  I know, I know.  I should be careful what I ask for; I just might get it.  But whatever it is, it has to beat spending the better part of last year in a holding pattern.

There are some people I know who are still waiting, still cooling their heels, wondering what's next.  A couple of them have all but given up.  They've waited so long that they figure the answer isn't coming, that God is basically saying "no."  It's easy for me to tell them to hang in there.  I got my answer.  All I will say is that I know what it's like.  Waiting sucks!  I don't know what's worse; sitting in the dentist's chair enduring the discomfort, knowing it'll be over in a few minutes, or sitting in the waiting room.  For me the worst part of flying is sitting at the gate, with seemingly all the time in the world to think about all the possible things that can go wrong.  Then I find myself on the plane, irritated by the fact that this 1000 mile trip is going to take two whole hours!

It's so easy to look around at other people whose prayers get answered immediately and think, "What about me?"  It's easy to think that we've been overlooked, or that we're being somehow punished for something.  It's hard to see timing in it when we're going through it.  But somehow, sooner or later, we all get through it.  When we come out on the other side, we may not always be better people; but we have a better idea of who we are and who God is.  It's sort of like something my favorite Bible teacher, Steve Brown always says.  "Never forget in the dark what God taught you in the light."

March 2005

Note:  For those of you keeping track, I am pleased to announce that I have finally severed all ties with the Confederacy.  We closed the sale of our house in North Carolina.  So now begins the search for a new permanent home.  Having said that..

Lots of things are happening this month.  There's St. Patrick's Day for one; then spring is coming, along with Palm Sunday, Good Friday, and finally Resurrection Sunday.  I'm looking forward to celebrating how a dead man got up and walked and said we could too.  But before all that happens, I'll be having another birthday.  I actually had to stop and think how old I'll be.  Some will blame it on the early onset of senility, but the truth is I stopped keeping track years ago.  I plan to live forever, so who's counting?  I seriously hope the celebration of that will be as low key as possible.  Non-celebration would be fine with me.  You don't even have to get me a present.

Anyway.

Speaking of presents, there have been a lot of times in my life when I have wanted something so badly it was hard to care about anything else.  You've probably been there too.  It becomes the only thing you think about, the only thing you talk about, the only thing you dream about.  It becomes hard to focus on anything else.  That thing becomes the prism through which you see everything.  Yet, for whatever reason, what you want is somehow just out of reach.  I'm not talking about things in a purely materialistic sense.  Sometimes what we want is just "stuff."  We think it'll make us happy, but in reality we need it like a hole in the head.  I'm talking about wanting something perfectly legitimate, like a home or a job or just companionship.

I can remember times when I was so consumed with a desire for something, and that desire was unmet.  I can remember scraping and clawing my way toward what I wanted only to have it moved further away from me.  I can remember begging and pleading with God to give me what I wanted, sometimes to the point where my frustration turned to anger at Him.  What was I doing wrong?  What was I not doing right?  Was He even listening?  Did He give a rip?  Should I?  Suffice it to say it would get pretty ugly sometimes.  Then an interesting thing would happen.  I would get to a point where I simply didn't care anymore.

I would simply decide in my heart that life would go on, that if God wanted me to have something, He would let me have it.  If not, "Oh, well."  I decided to move on to other things, to occupy my mind with something other than what I was obsessing about.  I would find something else to be interested in.  It was always at times like this that I found myself drawn closer to Him.  Rarely was it a conscious effort: "I'm going to be more spiritual now!"  It just happened.  Another thing that usually happened is that I would often experience a sharp increase in my own creativity.  Some of my best ideas would hit me at these times.  And then another interesting thing would happen.

Just when I least expected it, and from where I least expected it, the very thing I wanted so badly I could hardly function would appear right in front of me.  There it was, just what I wanted.  Maybe all that time waiting for it was just making me better prepared for it?  Maybe I just needed to be reminded that God's grace was more than sufficient for me; and as long as I kept my focus on Him, the other things would fall into place.  What has been certain is that, even though it seemed like it, God hadn't forgotten me.

Maybe He was just busy wrapping my present.

February 2005

Do you have any idea how much He loves you?  Have you ever been told just how fond He is of you? 

Before He spoke light into existence, you were the first thing on His mind.  When He sat down a week later and said it was all good, He was thinking of you and how much you would enjoy the creation He had provided for you.  Every star, every planet, every galaxy, all moving in clockwork perfection, is just a piece of the love letter He's written to you.  He didn't need any of it, and He didn't have to do it.  He did it because He wanted to.  He didn't have to create you either, but He did because He wanted to; because the idea of you meant so much to Him.  You are valuable to Him.  You matter to Him.

Years ago, my father gave me a pocket watch that once belonged to his grandfather.  It's a rather plain looking watch, not very ornate; and on the open market, it's probably not worth more than a few hundred dollars.  But because of the value I place on it as a family heirloom, it's priceless as far as I'm concerned.  I wouldn't part with it for any money.  That's what He thinks of you.  You are priceless to Him.  There's nothing for which He would give you up.

My father also owns a 1957 Ford Thunderbird.  The car is in near mint condition, completely restored from top to bottom.  Arguably, the car is worth tens of thousands of dollars; but right now, sitting in my father's garage, the car isn't worth anything.  That's right; I said it wasn't worth anything.  It's not worth the thousands of dollars it could fetch on the antique car market because my father isn't selling it.  It has no monetary value if he's not willing to part with it.  And even then, it's only worth what someone will pay for it.  Even if the garage burned to the ground and my father collected on the insurance, he would still have to lose the car to gain anything for it.

So how much are you worth to Him?  He was willing to part with His own Son to make you truly His.  He was willing to lay down the life of his Son so you could have a life you didn't deserve.  To create you and then leave you in a fallen sinful state would have been a waste.  It would have made you worthless.  He loves you too much to let that happen.  He turned His back on His son so He would never have to turn His back on you.  You matter that much to Him.  He is incredibly fond of you.

Just thought you'd like to know.

January 2005

Some time ago, my wife summoned me to my daughter's bedroom as she was getting my daughter ready for bed.  My daughter, Isabelle, had somehow managed to get a splinter in her thigh.  It was a tiny splinter, but it was causing a fair amount of discomfort.  My wife was trying to pull it out with a pair of tweezers, but she only succeeded in pinching my daughter and irritating what was already a tender spot.  By now, Isabelle was making no bones about making sure we knew just how uncomfortable she was.  I told Dawn to get me a pin.  While Dawn was gone, I took a moment to comfort Isabelle.  I explained to her that we had to get the splinter out and that she needed to calm down and be still.  Easy for me to say.  Dawn returned with the pin, and I told her that it would be her job to hold down the patient while I went to work. 

I've removed many splinters from my own extremities and have become quite adept at it.  The secret for me is to simply accept the fact that it's going to hurt, that I'm probably going to do far more damage than the splinter did.  I ignore the discomfort and dig the thing out as quickly as possible.  The resulting injuries heal much faster when they don't have tiny scraps of wood in the way.

Needless to say, Isabelle was not the least bit impressed with this.  It's amazing how much super-human strength a tiny child possesses at times like this.  It can be quite a task to keep her still, let alone in one place.  I imagine rodeo bull riding comes close to it.  The quicker I get this done, I thought, the sooner the blood curdling screams will stop.  I think I set a new record for myself.

"All done!" I announced.  I stood over her and wiped away the tears running down her face.  It was like shoveling the sidewalk before it's done snowing.  She repeated my words over and over, half crying, half laughing.  My wife put a band-aid on her "boo-boo," which she would proudly display to anyone within 50 feet of her.  When it was all over, she quickly forgot the whole episode, and was once again a happy, playful 3-year-old.  And I was still Daddy, the coolest guy in the whole world.

So where am I going with this?  There are plenty of times in our lives when we have "splinters."  There can be things in our lives that adversely affect us, and they may even make us uncomfortable, but we'd rather just leave them there than deal with them.  As much as the splinter needs to go, we leave it there, because we know that getting rid of it will be a painful experience.  Along comes our Heavenly Father to remove the splinter, and we scream and kick and fight.  We wonder why He's putting us through this pain.  We wonder whether or not He still loves us.  We ask, "How could You do this to me?!"

Nothing breaks my heart like the thought of my children  or any children for that matter  being made to suffer.  But it would have been foolish to allow my compassion to prevent me from doing what I had to do.  If I decided that the pain of removing the splinter was too much for her to handle, and I left it there, it would have been allowed to fester and cause greater trouble down the road.  If I love my daughter, I certainly would not wish to inflict pain upon her; but sometimes the pain is necessary if I'm to protect her from further suffering.

Sometimes, God needs to remove a splinter from my life, and it's no picnic getting it done.  It's easy to think that He doesn't love me because He's causing me pain; but if He doesn't cause me a little pain now, the result will be greater suffering later.  The pain of getting the splinter removed is only temporary, and I'm better for it.  If He wasn't willing to allow me that small bit of suffering to deal with a small problem, it could very easily become a disaster.  I have to remind myself every time it seems like God is leading me through a rough time that maybe He's just removing a splinter, that I need to just be still, know that He is God, and I'll be in much better shape in no time.