The Rev's Ramblings

I don't know where I first read this story, maybe one of Max Lucado's books, but I recently came across it again in Lynn Anderson's book, Longing for a Homeland (a book that prompted me to write my blog about "Home" ... I highly recommend his book). The story originally comes from William Willimon.

Due to car problems, he found himself the guest of a small village in the southern part of England. Like most small villages in England, that one had a church with a cemetery. While having the repair done to his car, Willimon wandered around the town, eventually coming to a churchyard. Over in one corner of the property was a small cemetery, and within that cemetery was a small section with 50 graves, enclosed by a low brick wall. The grass had nearly choked the plot. A large granite slab set in the wall bore the words, WE SHALL NEVER FORGET YOUR SACRIFICE. The young men under the headstones ranged in age from 17 to 25 and were all from New Zealand.

Willimon set out to learn why 50 young men from New Zealand sacrificed their lives for this small village in southern England, so far from home. Since the churchyard offered no clues, he started asking around town. The man running the museum told him, "Strange that you should ask. I have no idea, but given a few days I could certainly find out." As it turned out, no one in town had a clue. We might guess they were stationed there during WW I, but no one knew for sure. The inscription on the granite slab was a lie. The people of that village had forgotten.

I see weather-faded bumper stickers proclaiming a similar promise regarding 9/11. We Shall Never Forgot. Maybe it's just me, but when I read and / or listen to the news media, it seems far too many in our nation have forgotten what happened to 3,000 people on that fateful day, and it's only been four years ago. Will we, as a nation, even care in 10 years? Not if the media does its job well.

Monday is Memorial Day. Many years ago, I was at a football game somewhere near the middle of Alabama, sitting next to my older brother, Alan, watching one of his sons play football. The kid had talent. Don't know what ever happened as far as his football career, but we were there to cheer on family. I hadn't seen Alan in a while, and certainly hadn't spent much time just talking brother to brother. He was wearing an army cap that was covered with a number of service pins. Since he was a career army guy, eventually retiring (actually it was more of a forced resignation ... our nation is not much better at honoring vets than the village in England) with the rank of Sergeant-Major, the highest rank a non-commissioned officer can achieve, it seemed natural for him to be wearing that cap.

On his cap was a paratroopers pin. I asked why he would be wearing that pin since he had gone to VietNam as a member of the Navy SeaBees (construction battalion). He told me after arriving in 'Nam, he was sent back to the States and retrained as an Army Ranger. His stint in southest Asia was done behind enemy lines ... some of the most dangerous work of that war. Our government assured us there were no U.S. troops where my brother was serving! My respect and appreciation for Alan immediately soared. I've always held units such as the Rangers, Greet Berets and SEALS in the highest regard. Like most men of that generation and that particular war, he didn't want to talk much about it. But he shared enough stories at my prodding to convince me he had paid a high price (short of dying) for this country and for my freedom. I visited a part of The Wall in D.C. (it was under renovation) last year and wondered as I looked over the names, just how many of them Alan would have known. He lost a lot of buddies in that war. But I'll let him tell those stories when and if he so desires. He didn't tell me much that day. I suppose many, if not most, of those memories are best left in the past ... or remembered privately. I can certainly respect that.

So to my brother, and my brother-in-law, Mike (served in the Special Forces and has had nearly every bone in his body broken from parachute jumps as well as high altitude jumps), and to all the veterans of all the wars fought, including this present war, I salute you on this Memorial Day weekend ... assuming a salute from a guy who never spent a moment in the military (I was a police chaplain for six years, does that count?) means anything. Thank you for your service. Thank you for your integrity. Thank you for your bravery. Thank you for not running when so many ran. Thank you for never making a big deal out of it. Alan, you didn't deserve to have some flower girl spit in your face as you walked down the corridor of the airport in San Francisco on your return from VietNam. But she spit and you took it. Jesus took the same abuse. You will forever be a better person than she.

And if I haven't told you in a while, Alan and Mike, "I love you both and am proud of you!" Hope you have a good weekend. I am glad you can still celebrate. And I hope you and your brothers and sisters-in-arms are never forgotten.

The Discovery Channel asked for nominees for the title of "Greatest American." Obviously, they want to produce a television spectacular that will bore us for who-knows-how-many nights with dribble and commercials before finally pronouncing their version of THE GREATEST AMERICAN.

Some of the names on the list are to be expected: Lincoln. Washington. Alexander Graham Bell. Ben Franklin. Roosevelt (both Teddy and Franky). Eisenhower. Edison. Jefferson. Reagan. Interestingly, James Madison, the father of our constitution was not on the list. I doubt many people even know he was the main author of the document that secured our freedom and sustains (until the Federal Judges eventually destroy it) our liberty.

Other names were a surprise to me, though I'm not sure why considering the extreme superficiality of this present culture. But the list is graced with the greatness (sarcasm intended) of such celebrities as: Dr. Phil ... Brett Farve (really, does anyone outside of Green Bay care?) ... Clint Eastwood ... Ellen DeGeneres (excuse me while I throw up) ... Hillary Clinton (I just had another wave of nausea) ... Madonna ... Martha Stewart ... Michael Jackson ... and Michael Moore. I think I'll take the rest of the day off. Can't seem to shake off this barfing thing.

Maybe it's just me, but I would have thought a nominee would, at the very least, be supportive of the the ideals that are the foundation of this nation? I was wrong. Obviously the definition of greatness has changed since I was in school.

So who would you put on the list? Please don't tell me Elvis, Babe, or Tiger! It would be interesting to know the thoughts out there, but I'll await the response of the only two who ever respond! Thanks, RW and CW.

I refer to this site as my ramblings and this morning I have nothing more than that to offer. Got a call about 5am informing me of the death of the mother of our church secretary. I got up, showered, dressed (an important step in this process of going out in public) and went down to the hospital to see the family. They were waiting for another daughter to come have her "good-byes" with their mother before the mortuary people showed up to take the body. My friend and co-worker, Ken, is marrying into this family in July. He later emailed and thanked me for showing up ... said many in the family see the church as nothing more than an institution and they needed to see the relational side of Christianity. I wanted to support my secretary, so I would have gone anyway, but I now realize (again) just how much others are looking and the opportunities we have to impact lives by nothing more than simply being family to one another in the kingdom. Maybe God will give you an opportunity today to impact someone by simply being His child in attitude and action.

On another subject altogether, I was watching a special the other night on the world's most dangerous jobs. Typically these shows are somewhat boring at best, but I found this one almost encouraging. They featured some poor sap whose job is scuba diver at a waste treatment plant! So when the kids at school ask, "What does your daddy do for a living?" (do kids even ask that any more?) you can imagine how that child swells with pride to announce, "My dad swims in ________!" Growing up in the south, we have a word to fill in that blank that, in this context, would not be considered by fellow-southerners to be profane. But my wife says I shouldn't use that word in any context under any circumstances, so I didn't. When something is thrown into the system and that something (the show said it was usually the body of a murder victim ... this particular treatment plant was not in the States) blocks the bottom filter, this guy puts on his suit and takes a dive into zero visibility waste water to remove the obstacle. Sure makes me more appreciative of what I do for a living! I bore the living and bury the dead, which beats septic tank scuba diving on the worst day! I'd rather get up at 5 every morning to comfort a family in the time of death than take one plunge in that guy's professional world.

Have a great day and enjoy what you do!

I spent this morning at the Torrance office of the beloved DMV system here in California. DMV stands for Department of Motor Vehicles. In reality it's where you go to be abased and abused in the process of obtaining a driver's license. The state has made numerous attempts to make this process more tolerable, but it's still not the way you want to spend a Monday morning, or any morning of your life.

But I was there with my daughter, Jessica, who was taking the driving part of the test to be licensed as a commercial driver. We'd spent the weekend going over and over the pre-trip vehicle inspection, showing her all the things she never knew existed under a vehicle and then exploring the amazingly wonderful world under the hood of a van! She learned all about systems that are driven by a serpentine belt. Only a father can appreciate what it means to show his daughter the places that, earlier in my life, took up entire weekends and resulted in near-baptisms of sweat, grease and oil, depending on the job at hand.

We pulled into the parking lot 30 mintues early, parked the van, went over the material a final time and then just relaxed. Years ago, after completing my graduate work in psychology and counseling, I was certified in clinical hypnosis, so we took advantage of the opportunity for me to use hypnosis to relax her for the test as well as kind of "super charge" her memory. Jessica is a very deep hypnotic subject and I've done this enough with her it only took a few minutes. I'd like to take full credit for any success she'd have that morning, but I know better.

Two DMV workers brought out a cart filled with traffic cones and began marking off a section of the parking lot for the skills test part of the driving exam. One part of that test requires the wannabe commercial driver to pull the van to within two feet of a three foot high cone, both in front of the van and behind the van. I mention that because one of the guys (who happened to also be an examiner) asked if we were there to take the driving test. I told him we were and he asked if we would pull our van behind a large tractor trailer rig in the parking lot. Jessica backed the van up and immediately crushed one of his cones! Not a good sign! I was just hoping he was not emotionally involved with his traffic cones! As we walked over to the DMV office, he was trying to punch a two dimensional flat object back into the three dimentional cone it is designed to be.

While waiting to be invited into the inner sanctum of DMV, we witnessed a man drive rather rapidly up the wrong way into the parking lot and whip his sports car into a parking space. He got out, proudly displaying his DMV ID tag! Ironic, to say the least. I figured if anything was said about our crushing that cone, I'd enter this particular employee as exhibit one in our defense! If he can drive in the wrong way (speeding at that) as a part of the sacred priesthood of the DMV, then we can surely be granted grace for crushing a traffic cone. As it turned out, she didn't get that examiner and I didn't have to play attorney for the defendant.

While Jessica took her test, I sat among the herd of unfortunate people destined to spend Monday morning inside the DMV, listening to Hillsongs praise and worship while reading Tim Woodroof's book, The Church That Flies. I recommend both the CD and the book. After about 45 minutes, Jessica re-appeard with a bright smile and a thumbs up!

With this behind her, she can now enjoy her summer which includes leaving today on a "river trip" to Arizona with two of her closest high school friends ... a 10 day trip to Florida to work as a counselor at a youth camp at Central Florida Bible Camp ... a house-building mission trip to Mexico in July ... and her regular trips to the beach for a day of soaking some rays and hanging out with friends.

Jessica is the absolute delight of my heart and I'm very proud of her accomplishment this morning. More than that, I'm proud (and a bit envious) of her walk with the Lord and how seriously she takes her relationship with Jesus. When she asked to be baptized 12 years ago at the age of 8, I wondered if she really knew what she was doing and the committment involved. I've watched her grow in the Lord and have been amazed at her ability (and willingness) to impact lives for the Kingdom. I'm so glad Jessica takes after her mama!

When my son completed high school, he wanted nothing more than to play baseball and play percussion in a college marching band. He played two years in the marching band, enjoying the first year, hated the second. Baseball? Six years behind the plate left his knees shot, so he never played beyond high school. But he did manage to return to his high school and work with the team as an assistant coach for two years and then as head coach the past three years.

So it was with mixed emotions that we shared his final season. To digress a moment, our daughter, Jessica, was involved with her high school baseball team in her senior year as stat girl. Her school and Josh's were arch-rivals, so it didn't set too well with him when her team won the state championship that year. We were hoping Josh's team would at least make playoffs and have a chance. This year was the best of his coaching stint, with 14 victories against 8 losses.

And with that record, for the first time in 8 years, Brethren Christian High made the post-season playoffs. (If you only knew the history of baseball at that school, you would know just what an accomplishment that was!) The game was about 135 miles east of us, deep into the desert, very near to nowhere. I drove out to watch the game. Decided to take the 605 freeway north to the 10 (which runs from the Pacific to the Atlantic in Jacksonville, FL) and go out the 10 to Palm Springs. From there I'd go north until civilization as we know it ends. The 605 was a parking lot. I tuned into the traffic channel and learned that the 10 was no better. All lanes both directions at a standstill. Such is life in Southern California. I finally got off the northbound 605 and back onto the southbound and took the 91 (worst freeway known to mankind) and made the trip in record time!

End of the first inning, we're down by 5 runs. I thought it would be a blowout. After 3, we were within a run. By the fifth, we were ahead 7-6. By the end of the game, we were three runs short of the victory. Lost 9 - 7. It was a heartbreak to the kids, but they never gave up. I won't even go into the officiating as I want to be able to sleep tonight without profane thoughts keeping me awake. But it was bad. Very bad. Didn't cost us the game, errors cost us the game, but it did distract from the game on many levels.

I was hoping the final game of his career would be a victory, but with this game comes the end of the season and the end of a chapter of Josh's life. In many ways, the end of a chapter in all our lives because we tend to be involved in one another's lives as a family. There will be other chapters. Some may even involve baseball. But for now, he opens a new chapter. Full time employment. Some call it reality.

I recently wrote about our dog, Chipper. I'm sure that over time she'll be a frequent subject of my blogs as she is a major part of my life. Not so much by my choice as by her insistence.

Actually, she's really not my dog. When "my" dog, Fluff (actually, more Jessica's dog than mine), had to be put to sleep, we went looking for another dog. Gotta have a dog! We found a place about 60 miles away that specialized in puppies and we wanted a puppy. Josh and Jessica were almost immediately captivated by the runt of the litter. She was $300. I've never paid over $10 for a dog and wasn't about to pay $300 when there was another puppy, just as cute in another cage for a mere $250. But Josh had cash and he was willing to use his money to pay for this dog they'd fallen in love with. So Chipper is actually Josh's dog ... which is why I feed her, I play with her, I bathe her, I pick up after her, I take her for walks, I keep all the vet appointments, I make sure she has water, and basically anything else required of a pet owner. Josh? He calls her "the my dog," and allows me to do all of the above for his dog. What a gracious kid.

I give you that bit of history because the latest Chipper antic actually starts with Josh. He has a wide streak of mischievousness in him. (Got it honestly from his mother and her side of the family.) At some point in his development, he discovered that if he tapped me on the head without my awareness, my eyes instinctively close. (Go ahead, tap yourself on the head without you knowing you're doing it and see if your eyes close!) His favorite application of that little bit of physiological insight is to sit behind me while I'm driving and tap me on the head, causing my eyes to close! Not the smartest trick, but one that delights him. I probably get tapped on the head two or three dozen times a day. And about 80% of the time, I momentarily go blind and Josh momentarily realizes his calling in life.

Now, back to Chipper. We have a walkway between our backyard and the church office building that passes between a concrete block wall enclosing our yard and a garage / storage building. We have a pool deck that sits against the wall and Chipper loves to get on the deck, prop her feet on the top of the wall and look around at what freedom would be if she ever dared make the jump. Anytime she hears one of us coming from the church property toward the walkway to our house, she runs up on the deck, hangs her massive front paws and massive head over the wall, eagerly awaiting some attention from us. We usually pet her and say the stupid things we all say to our pets and then race her to the back door. Sundays, before and after Sunday School, she can be found there greeting the children as they come down the stairs from the classrooms. They all love her. They've also learned if they go stand under her to greet her she usually drops a glob of dog slobber on them. So they've learn to love her from a distance.

Last week, Josh and I were going to the house from the church office and Chipper was waiting for her customary greeting. I decided I would just stand there and see what she would do to try and get my attention. She moved her head as close as possible ... whimpered a little bit ... and then stopped. As if to think this through. She then reached out with her paw and tapped me on the head! Josh thinks she is now the greatest dog in the world!

Great! Now my dog is acting like my son.

[Note / Warning: I wrote this last week and debated whether or not to publish it. My daughter and my wife both said to go ahead with it. Maybe it will give you a bit of insight into how I think on certain days.]

I'm 52 years old and find myself feeling somewhat homeless at times. Most of the time I push aside the feelings and thank God for what we have and where we are. Other times I can't shake the feeling. Today is one of those "other times." I think part of it has to do with the fast-approaching "empty nest" that's rushing toward me. My son now a college graduate and my daughter following in about two years ... well, many of you are there so who am I to complain? But the feeling's there nonetheless.

Being a preacher doesn't do a lot to help the feeling. We live in a parsonage furnished by the church we've served the past twelve years. The church family here is wonderful and is intentional about our feeling "at home" in their home. I love them for that, and many other reasons. But we're just another family in a long line of people who have lived here while serving this church. It's a nice house and we've made it our home. But it's not "home" as I've envisioned home. And in time it will be someone else's "home" ... for a while.

Prior to living here in Long Beach, we rented a house in Florida for 8 years while serving a church there. A couple of times it looked as if we might be able to purchase a house there, but nothing ever worked out. We moved to Florida thinking that would be the last move of our life ... that we would serve that church until retirement or death. We've yet to retire and I've not seen my name in the obituaries. Working for a mortuary part-time the past two years, I think I would know if I were dead.

For many years I thought we would eventually go back to Alabama and build a place on a few acres of land passed down to my mother by her parents. Land that was homesteaded by my great-grandfather under the presidency of Teddy Roosevelt. When I was in high school, that land was dear to me. I spent numerous hours riding horses on that land ... running a bushhog over it ... checking fence lines ... camping out on weekends ... helping my uncle build a barn. We planned to be neighbors. He died from cancer at an early age. So went that dream. (Who was it said we make our plans and God laughs??)

My desire to return to Alabama seems to diminish with each subsequent visit back "home." There's not much to draw me back to that particular part of the deep south. Family is there, but we've been away so long, I feel like a stranger to most of my family. They don't treat me like a stranger, but I feel quite disconnected from both sides of family.

I'm not sure just how many more years we'll be in Long Beach. Though I'm making no definite plans and trying to leave it all in God's hands, I know we can't afford to retire here. For that matter, with college loans to pay off, we can't really afford to retire at all. As we enter the closing chapters of our lives, I find God opening doors for me to move out of paid ministry and into a different calling. I must confess, I've never known just how to read this sort of thing, so I'm trying to stay focused and not shut any doors. I think that's a part of living by faith.

Whatever my calling in life, I think the struggle to find "home" or, at best, to simply feel "at home" will continue to be just that. A struggle. A second cousin of mine is writing a book about our extended family. Most of the people in that book are unknown to me. They are family and I'm grateful for the heritage, I just don't relate to the people beyond my grandparents and that immediate familly. Nonetheless, I can't help but wonder if the family I leave behind will find me just as distant? Will I leave any better legacy to the second or third generation that follows me? Probably not.

I'm not even sure why I'm sharing all of this with those of you who read my ramblings, but I thank you for reading this. And to a few of you, I thank you for caring.

I remember that day as vividly as if it were yesterday, which is a stupid statement coming from me as I seldom remember yesterday very vividly. But that day is fresh in my mind. It was my first day in 10th grade. Mars Hill Bible School. Florence, Alabama. I was a 10th grader 200 miles from home. After my grandfather died and I was invited by Alabama Christian High School to enroll in another school, I left home to live with my grandmother and attend Mars Hill.

I walked into home room knowing no one except Gloria Burch. She was assigned to me by someone to make sure I felt at home in my new school. I also knew my cousin, Olivia, but she was a year ahead so that didn't help much the morning of Home Room, Day One.

Sitting in the back of the room, wearing a soft yellow short-sleeved dress, was this girl with jet black hair. Tall. Slim. Great figure! Seeminly popular with all the other students. I thought she was the prettiest girl I'd ever seen in my short 15 years on this earth. When she smiled and I saw those deep, beautiful dimples, I knew for a fact she was the most beautiful girl I'd ever seen. I eventually got to know a few people and learned she was a preacher's daughter and one of four very attractive daughters. I'd not dated much (none?) and didn't know quite how to go about having a date, but decided if I ever did date, she would be the girl I'd want to date. Or at least try to date.

And date her I did. Eight months later. Took me that long to work up the nerve to ask her out. And then only after carefully checking through my cousin and her connections if this girl would even give me the time of day. We had that date and I was in love. Only problem, she wasn't! Actually there was another problem to me: Her father.

Her father was the largest man I'd ever seen in my life. When I went to pick her up, I was asked to come in and meet her parents. When I met her mother I could see where this young beauty got her looks. Then her dad came into the den from his study. He had to bend over to walk through the doorway. My heart sank. There was no way I could ever impress this guy, much less win over his heart to date his daughter. But we had our first date. A movie, I think. I didn't dare try to kiss her good-night ... not with that man anywhere near. He had a lot of guns and loved to use them.

But we went out again ... and again. Then summer came and I went back to Montgomery (200 miles south) to spend with my family. We wrote letters and talked on the phone a few times and I couldn't wait to get back to north Alabama, Mars Hill, and this beautiful young lady. To say the next two years went well would be to tell a lie. I was an emotional basketcase during those years. She never knew from one minute to the next (literally) what mood I'd present. It was not a pretty sight and her sisters thought she'd lost her mind to continue to date me.

We graduated and went to college. She went to study education and become a teacher. I went to be near her. But our relationship was an emotional roller-coaster. I eventually dropped out of college and began a career pumping gas in Tuscumbia, Alabama. Home of Helen Keller and some other people. While exploring my life as a gas-station attendant, I decided to return to college and return to her. I bought an engagement ring and asked her to marry me. I learned just a few weeks ago she agreed to the marriage proposal because she thought I was joking!

Things leveled out. We were engaged four years (after dating three years), both finished college and I started graduate school while she worked for Sears and looked for a teaching job. That beautiful Alabama 10th grader will be 52 years old tomorrow (May 18), and next week (May23) we will celebrate our 30th anniversary together. Thirty-seven if you count the four years dating and three years engagement.

I would never recommend a 14-year-old leave home, but had I not gone to Mars Hill I would have never laid eyes on that slim, shapely young beauty with deep dimples, sitting on the back row in that soft yellow dress!

Happy Birthday, Honey. You're more beautiful to me today than ever! I can 't imagine life without you, Joshua, Jessica and the three dogs you've so graciously allowed me to have. Rascal. Fluff. And Chipper. (More about Chipper later this week.)

For many years I strictly kept to a health-food free diet of things fried or coated in sugar. Added to that was an almost religious avoidance of regular exercise. Imagine my surprise when, two years ago, my doctor said I had a high cholesterol count and referred me to a clinic specializing in that treatment.

A couple of weeks ago I had my blood work done and the report came back that the meds were doing an excellent job of keeping my cholesterol far within acceptable limits. So last week I went to pick up my refill and stopped to celebrate at Krispy Kreme Donuts on the way home. (If I'm going to pay good money for medication, I want to challenge it with something to fight.)

While enjoying the low fat, low carb, almost sugar free chocolate covered, cream-filled donut (okay, okay... two of them) I noticed a couple of young mothers treating their children to donuts. They could hardly contain themselves while eating their breakfast. They wanted to go see the donuts come through the conveyor belt! Can you believe that? They'd rather watch donuts being made than eat them! What ever happened to responsible parenting?

So they finished up their donuts and ran w/ delight to the long window that gives local residents (and all the members of the Long Beach Police Department who work in the substation just across the street ... was that a wise choice of location or what?!) a glimplse into the magical world of Krispy Kreme donuts falling out of a tray into hot oil, being flipped over at the appropriate time and then taking a shower in pure sugar glaze. If I ever built my own house, I'd want one of them istalled in the kitchen. Maybe even the sugar glaze unit in one of the showers. But I fantacize. They were smiling ear to ear as they walked up and down that window ... almost giggly with joy.

I enjoyed watching them as much as I did washing down those two low fat, low carb, almost sugar free chocolate covered, cream-filled donuts with one regular glazed. Well, almost as much. I know the joy they were experiencing. I feel the same thing when I go to Guitar Center.

Being one of about two dozen grandchildren on my mother's side of the family, I loved going to Sheffield, Alabama to visit family. From my perspective as a child, life just didn't get any better than being at Grandmama's house. Maybe that's because I was a favorite of hers, but let's not go there. Near her house, in the city of Muscle Shoals (famous in the 1970's as a music recording mecca), was the TVA reservation. The Tennessee Valley Authority produced hydro-electric power on a reservation of thousands of acres of beautiful property situated along the Tennessee River. Back then rabbits were in abundance and a favorite past-time for the grandchildren was to go for a drive through the reservation and look for rabbits. The competition to first see the most rabbits was fierce.

The man who loved to pick us up and take us for that drive was my uncle Frank. Married to my aunt Shirley, more affectionately knowns to us as "Too - Too." (Please don't ask about family nicknames as I'll have to go into such names as Sputnik, Bimbo, Dee-Dee, Sas-po, Frenchie, Bozo, etc. Maybe another blog another day.)

Frank would fill his Ford Fairlane with grandchildren, back when we sat in laps and weren't required by law to wear seatbelts. I don't even think his car had seatbelts back then. We could also ride in the back of pick-up trucks or standing on the running board while holding on through an open window. We'd drive through the reservation, eyes on the alert for rabbits. Every now and then, Frank would stop, we'd all pile out of the car and go surround some helpless rabbit. As it ran for safety, trying to break free of our circle of humanity, whichever grandchild in the path would scream with horror as if that rabbit could kill! From our perspective, nothing gave Frank more joy than taking us rabbit hunting.

One cousin in particular got so shakey when the rabbit came his way, Frank nick-named him "Wigley." When given a choice to go visit relatives other than Grandmama Mitchell, we'd always go to Frank and Shirley's house. Children were always welcome there.

The last few times I saw Frank, he would pat my stomach and ask me just how much fried chicken a preacher could eat! Somehow he managed to stay rather thin for an aging man.

Frank died this morning, rather unexpectedly. Over the past few weeks, the doctors in north Alabama and Birmingham couldn't seem to decide if he did or did not have cancer. Right or wrong, there was something going on that took his life. Many years ago, his only son and namesake died in a small plane crash on a January evening. Frank leaves behind his wife, Shirley, a daughter, Olivia and three grandchildren, Sidney, Tony and Ashley. Please pray for our family. The funeral will be on Saturday (May 14) at 11am. I wish I could be in Alabama.

Rick came by the office a couple of weeks ago, wanting to meet the preacher he'd heard was from his home state of Alabama. He was very down to earth, had a typical southern "folksy" way about him and I liked him almost immediately. Talking with him was like talking with any of my numerous cousins. He was thin and looked like people I've met here in southern California suffering from AIDS. I assumed that was the reason for his gaunt appearance. He told me he had been diagnosed with stomach cancer three months ago and was given, at that time, 12 to 15 months to live.

I had another appointment that day and left for a couple of hours. When I returned, Rick was waiting to continue our conversation. Said he needed desperately to talk to a preacher. Claims he grew up in churches of Christ in Alabama. As it turned out, he didn't need to talk as much as he wanted to ask for a place to stay and some money. Almost everyone who comes by insisting that my secretary let them speak to "the pastor" needs a place to stay and some money. We have a church policy not to give out cash, but I thought Rick was different. I wanted to believe his story. I wanted to trust a fellow-southerner. After all, if I were in Rick's shoes, dying of cancer and needing help, I would want someone from the church family to do the same for me. Rick offered to wash the church van as a courtesy. (As I've told this story, many of my friends have since offered to wash our church van!)

While I'd been away that afternoon, Rick went across the street to an apartment complex, met the manager and secured enough roofing / repair work to keep him busy the rest of the week and then some. She agreed to pay him a fair amount and even offered a one-bedroom unit at a reduced rate and waived the security deposit in exchange for him doing some much needed work. He seemed very happy to have the job and a place to stay. He would make more than enough money to live on, have a church family across the street, complete with a preacher from Alabama. Does life get any better? He seemed convinced God had sent him to me.

He returned the next day to start the job on the apartment roof and asked to borrow a saw, nail puller, extension cord, hammer and extension ladder. I loaned him the tools and saw him the next couple of days working hard. He came by every so often to tell my how much he appreciated me trusting him and loaning him the tools. Called me on my cell phone (never give out your cell number to people dying of cancer needing a place to stay and some money!) to let me know what he'd accomplished so far and could he keep the tools another night. Even took off a couple of hours on Sunday to join us for worship.

Later, he talked with one of our elders and received another cash gift. $175 to get a much-needed truck for his new-found job. When he returned later in the week to request yet more money, he was turned down. That's the last anyone has seen of Rick.

As much as I wanted to believe his story, it seems he's just another con artist taking advantage of "good church people." That sure complicates things for the next legitimate person who comes along requesting help. I ask the Lord for discernment and try to treat people as Jesus would treat them. But then Jesus never had a Craftsman power saw, hammer, nail puller and extension cord taken from him.

He did give his life, though ... for people just like Rick. And me. And you.

Ever have something you love dearly and wish you didn't have? That's a weird question, I know, but I have such an object in my life. It is a 96 pound mix of German shepherd, Lab, and just enough St. Bernard to give her those incredibly sad eyes. She is a beautiful dog with just the right mix of each of those breeds. She has a face that will steal your heart and a mouth that will steal anything you leave within reach! Fortunately, with her weight and strength, she has a wonderful personality ... even if a bit obnoxious.

Chipper is relentless in her attempt to get your attention. What was once our backyard is now her territory and anyone who happens to step foot into her territory (not to mention actually trying to remain in the yard) immediately becomes her playmate. She will run as fast as she can to the nearest object, grab it in her mouth (I know, that's about the only way dogs can grab things) and run to you in hopes that you will spend the remainder of your life trying to take it from her! If you walk away, she'll wrap her front leg and huge paw around your ankle to keep you near. If you show any attention and then, for any reason, stop showing attention, she'll go through a variety of antics to regain your attention. Stop petting her and she'll force some part of her body under your hand or foot. She never gives up!

We often shoot basketball in her territory. She'll sit off to the side apparently paying no attention and then suddenly burst after the ball, usually making a successful steal. She's never boring to be around, though often a royal pain. We have to restrain her when guests are over and we want to do something unthinkable, such as eat outside! Or just sit in the sun. Or spend some quiet time in the pool.

I love her dearly. I often think life would be much easier without her. Or with a different, less egotistical dog. I keep thinking if I can just hang in there another 10 - 12 years, she'll be so old she has to settle down.

I wonder if God ever has similar feelings toward me? I know analogies collapse at this point, but God is relentless in his attemtp to get my attention and realize just how important it is that we spend time together. I have a lot to learn from Chipper. Thankfully God and Chipper both love me. Unconditionally.

For almost two years, I’ve worked part-time at a local mortuary. My first job was to sit at a desk from 5 – 8pm while people came by to pay respects to a family I don’t remember. It’s called “working a viewing” and is the least desirable job for part time guys such as myself. In time I moved up to driving limos, assistant funeral director, and now to a funeral director. My next step is to become a state licensed funeral director. Hopefully this fall.

Recently I was given a double assignment for the same cemetery. I was to work a graveside at 10 and then go to the other side of the cemetery to work a second graveside at noon. The noon service involved a very close friend of our mortuary manager.

I drove out to the Forest Lawn with the casket bearing the remains of someone very dear to her family (you might assume that is always the case … not necessarily so), had the casket placed on the vault over the grave and awaited arrival of the family. Typically graveside only services are very short and not very well attended.

The family of about 20 arrived and I assumed the service would be brief. Her two sons led a couple of songs about hope in Christ and a home in heaven. Then the children and grandchildren began sharing stories … heart-warming stories of a woman who left a deep impression in their lives. A woman who loved Christ and honored him in her life. The stories went on for over an hour. There were prayers. Hugs. Kisses. Laughter. Tears. Reunion. And, finally, departure.

I told her family it was one of the most moving services I’d ever witnessed. In my opinion, that’s the way to say “Good-bye.” Actually, it wasn’t a good-bye as much as it was “till later, Mom.”

I guess I think about things like this today because I learned this weekend that my mother will be going back to the hospital today for treatment for a respiratory disease that cannot be cured. Returns about twice a year, each time with a vengeance. And becomes more and more resistant to the antibiotics that must be administered through an IV and under careful supervision.

I’m thinking it won’t be that much longer until we’re gathered around her grave … and it, too, will be a celebration of her life. And the confidence that we’ll “see you later, in a better place.”

Sunday nights are a special time at Long Beach. We only meet once a month and started out with about 30 – 40 people coming. After introducing our praise band, we now have about 100 in regular attendance (which I find interesting because the nights we don’t use the band, we have about half the people show up).

The last time we met, we had did not use our praise band, but had request night. After singing a few favorite songs, as well as teaching a couple of newer songs, we opened the evening up to “Stump the Praise Team.” We sang a wide variety of songs, both old and new. Some of the old “Stamps / Baxter” style songs were fun to sing again.

One particular request made the evening. It was for “Jesus Loves Me.” We called the children to come up and take the microphones from the praise team and lead us in that favorite song. Coby is four years old and loves Sunday nights ... has his heart set on some day playing drums and guitar. When he saw that he was going to be able to hold a microphone, his eyes lit up to match his ear-to-ear smile. He sang loud and off-key, but with all his heart.

I’m sure heaven never heard a sweeter sound. I know I haven’t!

It’s Sunday morning. Mother’s Day. We became parents over 23 years ago and I remember it well. It was a lazy Sunday afternoon of rest. We lived in north Alabama at the time and had been to Nashville the night before to attend the Grand Ole Opry with friends from church. Janice was in her eighth month with the child to later be named Joshua.

She came into the living room where I was watching TV and made some very odd comments just before collapsing to the floor in convulsions. Not knowing what to do, I called my sister who, in turn, called for an ambulance. By the time we reached the hospital, Janice was in a coma. Her blood pressure skyrocketing. I was assured as soon as the baby was delivered her blood pressure would drop.

Josh was born premature and Janice’s blood pressure continued to rise. And she continued to remain in a coma. Three more days. In the meantime, Josh was dealing with his own problems. He had a critical respiratory condition where the gasses in his lungs were not exchanging. He was slowly dying of carbon dioxide poisoning. We had to rush him to a neo-natal intensive care unit 60 miles to the east of us. Janice remained in a coma. The vessels in her eyes were rupturing due to the high blood pressure. It would be a year before she could see clearly again.

Finally, after three long days, Janice came out of her coma and Josh’s condition was stabilized. On that Wednesday it looked as if I might walk away with both my wife and our son alive.

He was small. Those proverbial people we refer to as “they” told me he might have some developmental problems. “They” were wrong.

Last night, surrounded by majestic mountains and 600 other graduates, Josh graduated from Azusa Pacific University with his degree in psychology. And today is a beautiful Mother’s Day.

It’s Friday and we’ll soon be packing our stuff in the van to head back toward life in the fast lane. Since Tuesday, we’ve been hiding out in the hills of Malibu … specifically Pepperdine University. I’m in my dorm room listening to Chicago’s greatest hits (I wanted something spiritual in the background!) and enjoying the serenity of this magnificent place.

It was fifteen years ago that I first came to Los Angeles for the Pepperdine Lectureship. Growing up in conservative north Alabama I stood at the baggage claim area of Los Angeles International Airport thinking I would be mugged any moment. That fear escalated as we went through the process of securing a rental vehicle. But I survived and found myself immersed in the teachings of people such as Rubel Shelly, Max Lucado, Mike Cope, Rick Atchley, Joe Beam, my former Greek professor, Dr. Carrol Osborne, and my all-time favorite, Dr. Oliver Howard. These men helped me think through some tough issues that had plagued me for some time. Particularly Drs. Howard and Osborne—both brilliant Greek scholars. Dr. Howard is also a Hebrew and legal scholar. Together, they walked me through some tough questions regarding women’s role in the Kingdom.

Where I grew up, Pepperdine had a reputation of being “the breeding ground for false teachers.” After 15 consecutive years, I can honestly report that I’ve never seen false teachers breeding here. But I have feasted on the teachings of men and women who love the Lord with all their heart, soul, mind and strength. I have a great appreciation for those who sacrificed so that I could be here.

Fifteen years later, the teaching is not what draws me to Pepperdine, not that I have found all knowledge and have no need of teaching. Today it’s the friendships I’ve developed here. When the weather is good, it’s the Thursday night trip out to “the rock,” a huge piece of whatever kind of rock these mountains are made of hanging out over a few hundred feet of nothing, overlooking the Pacific. For several years we’ve gone out on the rock to pray and hold one another accountable. It’s the highlight of the week. Unfortunately, this year the weather prevented us from going out there. Last year “the rock” visit resulted in a friend of many years finally deciding to give his life to the Lord. He was baptized a few weeks later back in central Florida and is back this year.

So this afternoon we’ll head down the mountain, so to speak, and return to Long Beach. Most of the guys will fly home from either LAX or Long Beach airport. My friend of 20 years, Cecil, will be staying an extra night to attend Joshua’s college graduation. I find it appropriate that Cecil will be with us. He has proven himself to be that proverbial friend “who sticks closer than a brother.”

Later …

This is my first blog so bear with me and have some pity on me as I suffer through the remainder of a week in Malibu, California. Pepperdine lectureship. I'll write more about the week in a later blog.

Last week our church had the main buildings tented for termite fumigation. Though I'm sure it's a common thing, I've never seen buildings that large tented. It was quite an impressive sight ... and an equal nuisance. Later in the week, I was walking through a neighborhood yard sale sponsored by the Brethren church down the street and happened to run into my doctor, Chris Turner. He told me he and his son were driving down Atlantic Avenue and noticed the buildings tented. He was so impressed by the enormity of it they pulled over and just looked. That's a guy thing that can only be experienced, not explained.

I hope some day Chris stops me to say how impressed he is with the mission and ministry of the church ... not that we tented for termites.