The Rev's Ramblings

Saturday was moving day, part 2 for our daughter, Jessica. Part 1 was just before we went down into Mexico on our church mission trip. Part 2 was to have been last week ... instead of moving Jessica to Azusa, we moved Muz to her forever home.

Knowing it would be a very tiring and demanding day, I decided to start the day by doing something really nice for myself. I would go and get some donuts! Not just any donut ... but chocolate glazed donuts. I might even leave enough for the others to enjoy, assuming they would not mind splitting one three ways! Angel's Donuts, a place where they know me too well, once sold glazed donuts w/ chocolate icing over the glaze. It was God's way of saying, "This is why I created sugar!" When new owners took over they decided to cut a corner and skip the glaze. Just a donut with chocolate icing. They're okay, but not the spiritual experience of a glazed / chocolate adornment. So I had the guy make me a special order. He was the only one working the morning shift.

While awaiting my donuts, an African-American man walked in and stood at the counter with me, wondering why no one was working the counter. I told him I was having a special order made ... which led to a brief conversation about donuts and some street ministry his church was involved in. Naturally my interest was peaked and we shared stories about our respective church's involvement in street ministry here in Long Beach. He handed me a card and said, "Here's our preacher." I didn't pay that much attention, but then I realized the guy in the picture on the card (wearing a cool green top hat) looked a lot like the man I was talking with ... mainly because they were one and the same.

He told me he once terrorized the streets of Long Beach as a gang-banger and now evangelized the streets as a gang-banger for God. He added, "It blows them away when I give my testimony to the kids in the gangs today." I guess it does! We shook hands, asked God's blessings on each other as fellow-believers / ministers and I came home to enjoy my second spiritual experience for the morning.

The following poem was written to honor Mom by Jennifer Smith, a younger lady who attends the Creekside Church where Mom was loved deeply.

Ms. Muriel England - A Wonderful Christian Example

She always had a smile on her face paying no mind to her physical pain
For she knew this earthly life was temporary and in the end, heaven would be her gain.

Words of wisdom and encouragement flowed from her lips to all,
She was there to spiritually catch a fellow Christian whenever they would fall.

She challenged her church family and friends to be better Christians for the Lord,
She fought the good fight with her holy shield and sword.

I can still clearly hear her soothing voice in my head as her life speaks to my heart,
And though she has joined the Lord, we know we are not that far apart.

My prayer today is to be more like her in every way,
To show the world God's true love in everything we do and say.

So Ms. Muriel, if you are listening, we miss you very much
Because our lives, spirits, and souls you have touched.

We know you are in a better place with our Father in heaven above,
And we thank you for sharing with us your life, your heart, and your love.

Mom and Dad on Mother'sDay,1987.Dad already had terminal cancer and would be dead within a couple of years. I believe some of their happiest days were in the final years of Dad's life.

Christmas with her children. Rex, Elaine, Mom, Yours truly, Alan. I don't remember the year, but it was the last time we were all together for the holidays.

I was escorting Mom into the room for the wedding of my brother, Alan, to Margie. It was a very happy day for our family. Margie has been a wonderful addition to our family and a God-send to Alan.

Home is, without a doubt, one of the sweetest words in any vocabulary, any language. Home is where, among other things, you have friends who are as close as family when family can't be close. Last week when we drove in from Mexico, unpacked and repacked for an early morning departure the next day, a dear friend offered to be at our house at 5am to drive us to LAX. We took her up on her offer. I've driven friends to LAX at that time of the morning many, many times. It seems very different when on the receiving end.

My children flew home on Tuesday and arrived tired but safe. And, again, friends were there to not only greet them, but to take them to dinner before bringing them home. How does one place a price tag on friendship?

Friends from all chapters of our lives were at the funeral home to wrap their arms around us in love and to cry with us. That is when the line between friendship and family becomes very blurred.

Janice and I left Alabama Tuesday morning about 9:40 and drove beyond Oklahoma City by 40 miles before stopping for the night. Again, friends called several times to ask where we were in the journey and to make sure I was headed west and not some other direction. (I've never blogged about my directional "skills" but they are legendary.) Yesterday morning we climbed back in the rental truck (our "home" for three days) and drove 16 hours to the three corners of Arizona, Nevada and California. I would have driven into California but my eyes gave out long before my body got the news that we were tired. The trip into Long Beach today was just under 6 hours. A short drive in comparison. I've spent that time on the freeways out here trying to get 15 miles down the road!

We knew we were "home" before actually arriving at the house when a guy in a mini-van passed me on the left and I was in the carpool lane! Only in California.

While going through some of Mom's things, we came across a note she knew we'd find only upon her death. It was attached to an insurance policy of some type. In the note she told us to be thankful that she could now see and was no longer coughing. Before saying, "I love you," she wrote: "I'll be waiting at the gate for you!" Now that's home!

I never knew exactly what happened and when, but for far too many years there has been a rift in our family. My older brother Alan described it as a schizm ... a deep and difficult gorge to cross over. There had been attempts to cross the schism in the past, but they ended in failure and futility. For years, Mom's wish in life was that her family would love one another (seems to have somewhat of a biblical sound to it, doesn't it? Someone should write a song about that!). She, like her father and mother, anticipated a family reunion in heaven and she wants 100% attendance from her family.

So when my younger brother, Rex, visited Mom shortly before her death, he asked what he could do for her and she told him she wanted her family to love one another. I was dreading the trip to Alabama because I didn't want to step back into that rift between my brothers and our sister. Upon arrival to Mom's house on Wednesday night, the change was immediately noticeable! There was no longer any rift. The love and the laughter and the tears and the feel of genuine family were incredible. As we talked about what of Mom's things she wanted each of us to have, there was not only a complete agreement over it, but an unselfish willingness to give to someone else what had always been treasured as "mine" whem Mom died.

Instead of dreading to return to Alabama where pretense was the only way we could be together, I now look forward to our first family reunion as orphans where we can truly honor Mom and Jesus by loving each other.

Did I mention someone should write a song about that? Someone did. Jesus. And it was played in concert at a hill just outside of Jerusalem. Center stage was a cross!

It's Sunday evening and we're just dirt tired, but very blessed! Friday night several hundred people came by the funeral home to pay their respects to our family. Saturday afternoon we celebrated Mom's life with lots of laughter. I was very surprised to walk in just before the funeral was to begin and see Steve and Laura Hay standing there. Steve is one of our shepherds at the Long Beach church as well as one of my closest friends. We have loved them dearly for years, but I told him he could treat me horrible the rest of my life and I'd always love them for making that trip just to encourage our family. My mother loved the Hay family and always wanted to be with them during her visits to Long Beach. Friday morning Barbara and Cecil Walker arrived after a grueling drive from central Florida. He was just another son to Mom and their friendship paid huge dividends this weekend!

Anyone who knew my mother at all knew that she was born with a genetic disorder that resulted in her being chronologically challened. She literally could not be anywhere on time so we arranged to have her casket wheeled into the chapel about 15 minutes after the funeral started. It was a risk, but the people broke out into laughter and applause. They knew Mom well! The funeral directors had never done anything like this in decades of running funerals. They'd never run into anyone like my mother and her children.

The Creekside Church where Mom was a member treated us like royalty! What a sweet family of believers. Their minister, Keith Davis, is a God-send to our family and to that church family. He and his wife, Ellen, were at Mom's side when she took her final breath and slipped into eternity. I'll write more about that in a later blog. This morning the worship at Creekside surely must have been close to what heaven is like. After about an hour of praise / worship, Keith asked people to share whatever was on their heart that made them want to praise Jesus. Most people talked about Mom. That assembly was a wonderful follow-up to Mom's funeral. She touched so many lives and will be missed deeply.

My brothers and sister are home now. The Walkers are safely home in Florida (Cecil made a 13-hour drive in 11 hours, 45 minutes ... he was very proud of himself!) and the Hay family is inflight to California as I write this. My children will fly back to Long Beach on Tuesday. Janice and I will start out to California in a 15-foot rental truck to carry back some items (mostly furniture) that Mom wanted us to have. Some of it is well over 100 years old and belonged to my maternal grandfather and grandmother. They are just things, but for the time being, I treasure them!

God has been gracious to us in more ways that I can relate to you. I know that sounds like something a preacher would say, but words simply cannot express the blessings that have come from the illness, death and burial of my mother. It is true that all things work together for good for those who love the Lord!

We flew from Los Angeles to Huntsville, AL, yesterday and joined the rest of my family at Mom's house for an evening of memories and laughter. I have been amazed (again) at God's grace and his power to work for good what might otherwise seem a disaster.

For many years, my siblings have pretended to like each other while jealousies and junk have been the reality of the relationship. I was dreading Mom's funeral because of this prevailing factor. Mom's dying and death seemed to be the catalyst for their confessing this and moving beyond it. For the first time in many years, I actually sensed peace and love among them / us. I wish it had not taken our mother's death to bring this about, but she would have considered a price worth paying.

We are meeting in just about two hours to arrange her funeral services. In the meantime, her siblings are coming in from New Mexico and Birmingham, AL., and I have dear friends driving up from Florida. We are confident God will give them grace in their travels as he has the rest of us.

As a family, as hard as it is to give up someone we've loved so deeply and so dearly, we are very grateful that she no longer suffers from the respiratory problems that have stolen her breath and limited her energy for many, many years.

I'll write more about my mom in the coming days. We covet your prayers.

We had to return from our Mexico mission work three days early to catch a flight from Los Angeles to Huntsville, AL to bury my mother. I'll resume blogging sometime after the middle of next week. Don't have access to a computer there and probably won't have time.

Link on to Randy Wray's blog site (the link is to the right of what you're reading right now, for those of you who might not know what a link is ... and I have many friends who don't know what a link is! bless their hearts) to see pictures / read info about our mission trip. regret not being able to see the end result of our labor, but it was a GREAT group of people to work with! Randy's people hold him in high esteem (as do I) and that speaks volumes about a preacher's relationship with his church. Pray for their safety as they return to Virginia.

[Note: For an update on our Mexico mission trip, go to Randy Wray's link on this page.]

I suppose I should know how this nickname got started, but for the life of me I can't recall now. But for years my mother has been known simply as "Muz." Long before she was Muz, she was Mom. And somewhere between Mom and Muz she became one of my closest friends, and I'll forever treasure the years we've spent together as friends.

When I was processing my religious heritage and questioning a lot of the dogma I was taught for doctrine, my parents were nervous, to say the least. As I progressed in my walk with the Lord and my understanding of grace, they thought I was on the highway to hell ... in the fast-track lane! No stopping. Satan had paid all the tolls.

Then something happened when my father died. Mom started attending a church where a wonderful biblical scholar by the name of Dr. Bob Hendren preached and she learned to love Jesus rather than religion. All that time she and dad thought of me as far too liberal for their comfort zone ... well, for years she has put me to shame as a branded "liberal"! By that I mean she let go of the issues that have divided us and the orthodoxy that has walled us off from others in the kingdom and come to simply embrace Jesus. That always makes people nervous, church of Christ people notwithstanding.

I'm writing this because while we're spending the next few days trying to finish up a house here in Mexico, Muz is spending those same days possibly finishing up her life here on earth. She's ready to go. Has been for a long time. Doesn't fear death. Is completely confident in her eternal destiny. Her confidence in the work of Jesus at Calvary.

We talked for a few moments by phone. Her voice was very weak but she wanted to tell me how proud she was of what we were doing here and that she was praying for us every day! As much as I would love to see her again, if I don't this side of eternity I'm okay with that. For the past few years, we've talked several times a week and usually at least an hour or more. It was a highlight for both of us to visit by phone.

She's fought a devastating respiratory problem for many years and I've thought more than a few times that she would not survive much longer. The last time she visited us in Long Beach, I was certain we would ship her home in a casket. But she's been a fighter ... for an 80 pound / 80-year-old, a pretty good fighter. In our all-too-brief, and possibly last conversation she told me, "I don't think I'm going to make it this time."

Say a prayer for my mom, if you don't mind. Not so much that she'll pull through but just that God will be gracious to her. If God chooses to heal her, we will praise him. If he takes her home, we will praise him. And though she will never know just how many people might have prayed for her because of this blog, some day in our forever home we'll share the story with her. And you'll get to meet one of life's special ladies.

It's Friday night and we're tired. But it's a good kind of tired. We arrived in Mexico Thursday afternoon and immediately lost half of our caravan! Coming through the border was quick and easy ... just couldn't all stay together and a couple of drivers took a wrong turn. If you don't speak Spanish, you don't want to take a wrong turn in Tijuana! After about an hour and a half, and working through one of the driver's wives back in Long Beach (we could call Long Beach, but could not call each other) we connected in Rosarita and worked for about three hours on the house there.

The Christians in Rosarita were wonderfully hospitable and the food (real Mexican food) was delicious. Or, as my wife attempted to communicate to the cook, deliciosio! Because there are too many workers for one job site, several of us left Rosarite last night late and drove to Ensenada (about an hour drive) to begin work on the house here. We got three of the exterior walls up before calling it a day. That doesn't sound like a lot, but we had no power tools so everything had to be cut by hand and we wanted the younger folks to learn that skill.

I've showered and am about ready to just get off my 52-year-old feet! Our hosts, Dr. and Mrs. Javier Comancho, and their two children are very special people. We've come to love them dearly in such a short time.

Enjoy your weekend ... I'm looking forward to a day off Sunday. Well, sort of. They go to worship here at 10am and it all wraps up about 3pm. So the next time my son says we are "in church" too long, I may just put him on a weekend bus to Ensenada!

[Note: My wife, daughter and myself will be leaving Thursday morning for a 10-day mission trip to Mexico. We're going down with about 20 from Long Beach and a group of 13 from Arlington, Virginia, led by the fearless (and all but hairless) Dr. Randy Wray! This will be my last blog until after July 24th. We spent the day moving my daughter into her new apartment in beautiful Azusa, California today. As I was writing this blog, my wife sat down for a few minutes and then said, "Something smells bad." I told her it was probably me. She said, "No, something smells sour." I need to finish this up and get a shower! God's grace to you while we're in Mexico!]

A few days ago a dear friend emailed and asked if I had my sermon notes from a sermon I'd preached at least 15 years ago in Florida. The subject matter was grief. To her dismay, II had to inform her that I no longer had sermon notes from my years in Florida.

I kept them for a while. Never re-preached them, though I used a few of the themes or texts here in Long Beach, I always re-worked the sermon to fit the culture, the congregation, and the context of my life and those in my church family. If nothing else, sermon illustrations that worked in Florida didn't always work here. And stories from my southern heritage? When I use them, I can see people scratching their heads wondering, "Twelve years ago, we had a choice of Greg and two other guys. Why in the world did we choose Greg?"

I've grown in the past twelve years (and really need to lose some of that weight!). But I've grown spiritually as well. I've always preached first to myself and then to my church family. I'm not the guy who stands on a spiritual pedestal and dispenses ecclesiastical platitudes as if I've arrived spiritually. I'll never arrive spiritually. In many ways my life is just as much as mess as the next person. But I'm growing. Maturing. I'm not the guy I used to be when I preached in Florida. I'm not the guy that moved to Long Beach. It's a lifelong process.

So a few years ago I went back through my old sermon notes and basically threw them all away. Some were downright embarrassing to read. Others just seemed irrelevant as I look at the culture in which we live today. Not that the Word is irrelevant, just what I chose to do with it.

While in Florida, I was asked to lead singing when I arrived that particular Sunday morning, so right after Sunday School I had a few minutes to select some songs and asked the co-preacher (he was supposed to have retired when we arrived, but never quite made that retirement) what he was speaking about that morning. I would try to select songs that at least came close to his theme or text. He stood in his office, looking down at the desk where two old, yellowed sermon outlines were laid out and he was trying to decide which one to use! From that day on, we had a nick-name for him: Old Yeller. And from that day I decided I would never do that to my church family. I heard someone once say, "No preacher has ever earned the right to be boring." I believe that and am very intentional about bringing the Word to our church in a way that challenges, encourages, and confronts us. So long as no one ever comes up with a saying, "No preacher has ever earned the right to be long." My son thinks I've been there far too many years!

I am determined to never rehash an old sermon with no preparation. I need the Word of God afresh and so does my church family. How about you? Do you settle for what you've known (or think you know) ... for what works best within your comfort zone ... for the explanations that no longer satisfy a new generation ... or are answers to questions they are no longer even asking? How fresh is the Word of God in your heart each day? Just wondering . . . .

On that fateful January morning in 1986 I stood in the church parking lot in Rockledge, Florida, and watched Challenger lift majestically into space. We'd watched numerous shuttle launches from our home, but I never ceased to be amazed by the majesty of a launch. To go out to the launch area was even more awesome ... the air was literally alive with static electricity when the shuttle lifted from her pad. We were given a pass out to the VIP launch area one time and spent the better part of a day (including being out there before sunrise) only to have the launch scrubbed. But several times we went out and sat along the canals leading out to KSC, along with tens of thousands of others, and saw a great show. Not only was the launch spectacular, we would take our lawn chairs and spread a blanket out for the children to play on. It was not unusual for more than one alligator to swim by during the wait ... always close enough to sling a dead cat and hit it. (Sorry, cat lovers, but I'm not among your litter.) We'd eat a picnic lunch and talk with some of the most friendly people in God's creation. Night launches were the most spectacular, especially when there were layers of clouds over Florida. As the rockets passed through each layer, the sky between layers would explode in brilliance.

I remember as clearly as anything I remember these days ... I had already started the car, but got out to watch the shuttle ascend. The radio was on, broadcasting Launch Control from Houston. The man basically read a script, oblivious to the reality of that day. I watched Challenger disintegrate and fall to the earth in millions of pieces while the Houston expert told us how the orbiter was downrange at such and such altitude and such and such speed. Finally, reality caught up with his script and he announced the infamous "major malfunction." It was the most surreal experience of my life.

Of course the nation was in a state of shock. But those of us who lived in that area and knew so many people connected with the program (one of our church elders was one of the three top level directors at NASA) felt it even deeper. We knew this would have a major impact on almost every area of our lives for months, maybe years (as it turned out) to come.

That night, I was scheduled to officiate a varsity basketball game at Vero Beach High School, about 60 miles south of home. I drove down wondering what the evening would be like. The girl's varsity team was state ranked and always drew a large, boisterous crowd. That evening the gym was empty. Eerily empty. Two teams. Bench personnel. Scorekeepers. And two officials. There was also an announcer, but there was no need for his services that night. No one complained about the calls. No one really cared who won the game. No one seemed to care about the score. With the death of the Challenger crew, life took on an entirely different perspective. Priorities had changed. People just wanted to be home with their families. And for a while, though not nearly long enough, as a nation we turned to God in prayer.

By the time you read this, NASA may have already returned to space. I hope so. May God's grace guide Columbia into space and safely home.

Occasionally the scales of justice tip in my favor. Not enough to write a book or preach a sermon series or start a weekend seminar at the Holiday Inn of Long Beach, but enough that I knew today would be a good day.

My wife and I were at Michaels (an arts and crafts store) looking for some silk flowers for a sermon idea I stole from a Presbyterian. It involves having the people of our church take home a flower and return it at a later date. That's all I'm saying because I don't want to tip my hat to the 2 - 3 people in my church who actually read my blogs.

So I'm next in line behind a man (whom I allowed to go ahead of me) who is asking why the store didn't charge him the full amount for his two items. It took the cashier over 10 minutes of explanation before he finally realized what, exactly, a sale happens to be. But I was patient ... and dog-gone proud of my patience! Not so with a lady who walked up, interrupted the clerk's explanation of what a sale is and demanded that other registers open so she doesn't have to wait in line.

Now I'm the next in line and usually when another register is opened, they take a person such as myself as their first customer. Next in line. Patient. Obviously living by a higher moral code. It's only fair. The impatient woman in a hurry saw a cashier-looking lady walking toward the front and asked, "Which register are you opening?" and quickly made her way to that register. I found myself in a familiar position: next in line again, with a basket of about 200 individual silk flowers. She was so proud of her strategic move ... paid and left. I let the lady behind me go ahead since she only had a couple of items. Then my turn. Two hundred silk flowers. Either the register did not allow one to put in a formula such as "20 items @ .30 each" or she didn't know how to do that, so she scanned them individually. Seeminly in no hurry to complete the sale.

By now people were leaving my line to go to the other where the old man finally accepted the fact that occasionally one can save money at Michaels and left with his purchase and a renewed gratitude for our economic system. We were about half way through my transaction when the impatient lady returned. She had forgotten something and was now back in the line again ... BEHIND ME! I made eye contact with her and gave her my most winsome smile. If looks could kill, I'd be on my way to the coroner's office with a wad of silk flowers impaled somewhere on my body.

She was not a happy person, and I could not have enjoyed a trip to Michaels any more than the one this morning. After all, I got everything at 50% off. But I'm thinking about taking my flowers and receipt and asking the manager why it cost so little.

Being a preacher, I've done a lot of funerals. Being an assistant funeral director, I've done even more, and I'm fascinated with how we honor the dead. Other cultures have some downright bizzare (to my heritage) traditions. Some of ours are no less puzzling to me.

Can't remember how many times I've stood at a casket, peering into eternity as I look at the face of the deceased and someone has made the comment, "She looks so peaceful." or "He really looks good!" To the latter comment, I want to say, "No, he looks llike a reject from a cheap wax museum! He looks dead!" With cremations, about all one can say is, "He looks remarkably like the beach!"

And why we dress people up in "Sunday-go-to-meeting" (as they used to say in the deep south) clothes is beyond me. If sleep is a metaphor of death, I don't know of anyone who goes to sleep in a suit and tie! Obviously people in church, but I'm talking sleep through the night kind of "going to sleep." Seems it would make more sense to dress them in pajamas, or at least casual clothing. My grandfather was buried with his glasses on and a bible opened in his hand. Looked very spiritual (and he walked close with the Lord) to the adults, but to this 10-year-old at the time, it just looked plain stupid.

One thing I miss from the old days, and that's the way people in traffic honored the dead during the procession from the church or chapel to the cemetery. They would actually pull over to the side of the road and often stand outside their car or truck with hand over heart until the entire procession passed by them. I've seen farmers plowing a field, stop and get off their tractor to honor the passing of a funeral procession. Police officers (not the contemporary professional escort services of "look-like-policemen" with attitudes) escorted the funeral coach, often volunteering on their day off, and they stood at the entrance to the cemetery w/ hat over heart or with a salute to the family that passed by them. Where I grew up many funerals were on Wednesday just after lunch because most businesses closed at noon on Wednesday. This was the perfect day for a funeral ... anyone who wanted to attend could do so.

Coming from the south, there is the whole pot-luck-meal ritual after the funeral. I'm convinced there was a time when it was county ordinance (if not state law) that a person could not be buried unless there was proof that a pot luck meal would follow the internment (fancy funeral director term for burial). Those meals must include several of the following: Fried chicken (both home made and store bought). Ham. Roast beef. Those half sandwiches typically made with tuna salad, chicken salad, or pimento cheese. (People who bring pimento cheese sandwiches to anything should be buried alive!) Potato salad. Orange or green jello congealed salad. Not-so-fresh rolls. Corn bread, both sticks and from a large round cast iron frying pan. Green beans. A wannabe "salad" consisting of onions and cucumbers, and perhaps slices of tomato in a vinegar-like liquid. I assume the "vinegar" was something siphoned from a still somewhere out in the nearby woods and should not be consumed by human beings. Corn (on the cob and fried). Tea, both sweet and non-sweetened (non-sweetened being a tool of the devil himself). A large assortment of pies and cakes. Bags of store-bought cookies for people who didn't have time to make something fresh. Brownies. And fresh melons, season permitting. A really good pot luck meal would have at least a dozen very fresh glazed donuts. But I've been to very few really good pot luck meals, though I have been known to frequent a nearby Krispy Kreme shop.

At least our grief was quickly transformed into heart-burn and gas! Perhaps there is some merit to our customs.

As I write this, it's almost noon on Thursday. I met with a Mrs. Harris and her son this morning at the mortuary where I work part-time. The deceased Mr. Harris was present as well, only in a slightly reduced form. His cremains were in an urn on the table around which we were seated. (Why is it that sentence is grammatically correct, yet so stupid it sounds?!) Anyway, we talked a few minutes but the son was in a great deal of pain caused by a heart condition, so I decided to honor their wish and keep this short.

I asked them to tell me about Mr. Harris, a fellow-southerner from the great and sovereign state of Alabama. She shared a little, but seemed to want to get this over, so I read from Psalm 90, where Moses reflects on the brevity of our days on earth and then concludes with a prayer request of God: Teach us to number our days with wisdom. I then went to the most beloved of all psalms, Psalm 23, and reflected on the final verse ... that life on this earth is not a forever life. We prayed and they went home.

Mr. and Mrs. Harris were married 67 years. He was very successful in business and in personal relationships. They had many, many friends. He treated people with respect and dignity. He was always willing to help others, even at his own expense. The widow and son are crushed at the thought of life with out him.

That being said, the saddest statement during our few minutes together came from the son: "We grew up Catholic but never practiced it. We don't have a church ... don't have much of a faith to fall back on at a time like this."

As much as "church" can be frustrating and as ornery as we can be to one another at any given time (that being a part of the spiritual battle in which we are the pawns), I cannot imagine life without my church family, for family we are! And I shudder to think of facing death knowing I had been taught faith and rejected it as meaningless to life.

I also believe God intended me to be the person to talk with them and pray with them and I left the door open for further involvement. For those of you who were praying for me this morning, you are indeed family!

[I just discovered when I don't change the date of a blog written earlier, it appears way down the list when published!]

Last Friday was not a slow day as I still had a sermon to complete plus PowerPoint slides for Sunday's assembly, but I decided to spend the day with my daughter and some friends. Ed did not have classes that day at the Junior College he attends. Ashley was not scheduled to work at Disneyland until later in the afternoon. Tom (a teacher) just completed his school year on Wednesday and Jessica was willing to get up early that morning. I did something w/ Jess that I'd not done in many years. It was a first for Ashley. We drove about 50 miles north of Long Beach to Angeles Shooting Range and gave my girl her first taste of shooting a 12-guage shotgun.

Being the man I am I gave them a quick safety lesson on how to hold and load the gun. What the safety was and where it was located and then demonstrated my skills. Five targets. Five shots. Five misses. Perfect!

Tom proceded to show them what a clay target actually looks like when hit by a pattern of number 8 birdshot. As a matter of fact, he just stands off to the side when anyone else shoots and picks off our misses. He seldom misses. For the most part we give him lots of opportunities to shoot! After a couple of more misses, I finally got into my groove of hitting at least 4 out of five shots, and often 5 out of 5.

I was impressed with how quickly Jessica picked up on that shotgun. In no time she was hitting 4 and 5 out of 5. The recoil rocked her back a bit on her back leg, but she kept a steady aim.

Then I gave the girls my Remington Black Apache semi-automatic .22 rifle to play with. It shoots 15 rounds as fast as you can pull the trigger. They fell in love with that gun (no recoil) and eventually went down to the other end of the range where they could shoot at dozens of targets from 25 to 100 yards out.

Jessica already knows what she wants (in part) for Christmas. Her own shotgun. One that doesn't kick quite so much. I'm in the market for an affordable 20-guage for my 20-year-old daughter. What more could a girl want? What more could a dad want?

So ... how did you spend the Fourth? It's not as much fun here in Long Beach because fireworks are illegal in our city. That was quite obvious by the incessant explosions all around my house for about three hours Monday night! Even the annual fireworks show hosted by the Queen Mary was cancelled because of a dispute as to who (whom??) should pay the police their $90,000 for extra patrols that night. There were fireworks at the beach, but none were legal.

Last year, one of our newer members at church hosted a cookout at the beach. About 100 people showed up. Great time. Great fireworks over the Queen Mary. Police cars drove up and down the beach announcing over their PA systems that fireworks are illegal in Long Beach and violators will be prosecuted. Violators were actually shooting fireworks over the squad cars as they drove along the beach! My friend, Tom, and I were more than willing to drive our cars along the beach and make the announcement for less than $90,000. We were thinking more $50,000.

This year not as many people showed up for Wayne's cookout. We went early as Josh had tickets to the Angels game and Jessica had plans with college pals down in the ritzy part of Orange County. About the time we left, most of the crowd showed up, so I missed out on hanging with my homeys. But the day was not without its moments. Wayne's motive for the cookout is evangelism. He gets enough hotdogs and burgers to feed our group and anybody passing by who will stay and eat! Monday he invited a group of volleyball players nearby to come eat lunch. Though they were mostly wasted from a morning of volleyball and beer, they accepted the invitation and we enjoyed talking with them for a few minutes. When they found out we were connected with a church, they hurried their meal and went back to their blankets and chairs.

All but Joseph. A very impressive volleball player. He is from Africa and has a Grace Baptist background. Joseph stayed and talked. Was very intentional about remembering all of our names, though I had to ask his a second time! (After all, there was only one of him!) He talked about his home ... his transition to our culture ... how he worked menial jobs for years until someone told him to get an education, so he eventually earned two master's degrees so he could better understand the business world and better help his people back home. He was an impressive young man. Very friendly. He and I talked for about 20 minutes, then he asked, "So is your pastor going to be here today?" I told him, "You're talking to him." His eyes lit up and he backed away a step, offered his hand, and bowed in respect. Now that's what I'd like to see our church folks do on Sundays! :) He assured me he'd come visit with us soon and I assured him I'd take him to lunch when he did.

The rest of my "celebration" seemed appropriate for a day honoring our independence from England. I cleaned three shotguns and a .22 rifle! Spent a little time with Chipper (our dog). Watched a stupid movie ... a waste of 90 miniutes. Then went to sleep, trying to keep an ear open for Jessica coming in.

Hope you enjoyed your Fourth! Hope you never take for granted your freedom.

Last week I was called in to work a funeral at the mortuary. Routine. Just try not to upset the family and keep the casket upright at all times. I've done dozens of them. But our manager, Vickie, called me off to the side and asked if I would do something that would forever place her in my debt. How could I refuse such an offer? A family needed a preacher. Would I do the service? Again, I've done many of those ... no big deal. We have a preacher that comes in quite often and uses exactly the same sermon for every funeral. Just changes the names and adds the appropriate euology. I've decided never to sink to that level.

I got a name and phone number and called the son and asked what it is they wanted. He said, "You're the preacher, right?" Some of our church people (not to mention my best friends) have often asked that question and would argue my answer! But I kept it simple and assured him I was. He wants me to meet them on Thursday morning at the mortuary. 11:00. We will pray and I'll tell them something that will help them deal with their grief. Then his second question: "That shouldn't take over about 20 minutes should it?" I'm thinking more along the lines of 5 minutes, but I'm also a professional. I can stretch it out to 20. I may even come away from there with a preacher's count well above the actual attendance!

People are calling the mortuary to inquire as to when the funeral will be, so I know he had friends, or other family. But the widow and son's request will be honored. No casket. No reception. No viewing. No service for friends. Just the three of us.

So if you think about it, on Thursday morning ... about 10:30 or so Pacific Time ... say a prayer for me! I'll be talking with them and praying with them, but I need to know some of you out there are talking with God on my behalf.

By the way, in case I forget to tell you later ... THANKS! I'll let you know how it turns out.

Something strange happened to our family (well, 3 of the 4 of us) last summer. We became avid readers. I'm talking about lying in bed at night, television off, both of us absorbed in a book, Jessica on the sofa in her own literary world, just-let-the-phone-ring kind of readers. Let's go out for dinner so we don't have to interrupt our reading with cooking kind of readers.

What is strange about this is that until last summer you couldn't hold a loaded gun to Janice's head and force her to read a book. Because of dyslexia, she'd never enjoyed reading, finding it far more of a chore than a chosen habit. But she stumbled into a series by a Christian author, Dee Henderson, and couldn't wait to buy the next book. It's the O'Malley series ... about a "family" of orphans who found each other at the orphanage and, as adults, made their separate journies into faith. Seven books in that series. We've passed them all around our church family and everyone in the circle of readers can't wait to get the next novel. We're still awaiting the return of four of those books. Henderson wrote another series about heroes. Four books. We've devoured them all. Spent hours in the pool, not a word spoken among the three of us as we read books.

This summer Janice discovered an author by the name of Ted Dekker. I just read his book, Thr3e, a mystery set in Long Beach (where we live) and it was very good. Starts off fast paced and never slows down. Great twist at the end. His trilogy, Black, Red, White (or something like that) is a confusing, difficult read (so they tell me) so it really doesn't interest me. Jessica found them tedious at best, so buy them at your own risk of disappointment. But his other books seem to be worthwhile.

I'm also reading the Winslow series by Gilbert Morris, Ph.D. Thirty five books in the series so far, following a family from England that comes over on the Mayflower and is a part of the establishment of this nation. It's fiction as far as the Winslow family is concerned, but very historically accurate and wraps the fictional characters around historical characters to make a fascinating read. Don't know if I'll be able to afford 35 books at $14 a pop, but I'm into the third one. Our church secretary, Sharon, is also reading them (she put me on to the series), so between the two of us, maybe we can read them all for half price. That's still over $240 for each of us, and unless a lot of people die and I get their funerals, that ain't gonna happen. For that kind of money I could buy the latest Fender practice / modeling amp. (Gotta keep my priorities.)

Janice has also read three of the five books in the "Baxter" series by Kathy Herman. I'd just finished reading "Thr3e" and was flipping through a Musician's Friend catalog (sort of a musician's reference bible and fantasy guide) when she said, "I guess you're not going to read the Baxter series, are you?" Give me a break, I'm just looking through the mail! But she really wants to know what I think of that series.

So, if you enjoy reading you may want to take a look at these fine Christian novels. No porn. No prfanity. Good characters. Good story lines. Good reading.

Stoogeman. Stoogelover. Stoogemeister. Why the monikers?

Once upon a time in a galaxy far, far away .... Actually, it was not so far away. It was the east coast of central Florida, and I was working for a church and trying to be a decent husband / father to my family. It was a summer afternoon when the loud police sirens very close to our house interrupted my work on our pool deck. My children were beside me "helping" by scattering nails, when I received a phone call from the local police department requesting my presence at the ER of the hospital. As much as I didn't want to lose this moment with my children, I quickly cleaned up and changed clothes and rushed to the hospital to find a family in shock over a tragic auto / bicycle accident that left their daughter in a coma with massive head trauma. The accident happened just a block from our house. My role was to minister to this family.

That was my initiation into becoming for first on-staff chaplain for that small department of about 35 sworn officers. We'd had discussions at the PD, but whether or not such a small department could actually benefit from a chaplain was the question sticking in Chief Kallas' mind. This incident seemed to provide the answer he was seeking.I remained in that position until my resignation from that church and our move to Long Beach.

Shortly after my recognition as chaplain, I met a detective in the hallway of the PD. John Shockey. Seasoned veteran. Good detective. Good cop. Very smart. Very cynical. Very opinionated about preachers in general. He said, "So you're the new chaplain?" I introduced myself and he said, "Well, I'm Detective Shockey and I just want you to know I have no use for a chaplain and I have no use for you in this department." We made an agreement there in the hall that I'd stay out of his way (I resolved to try and stay out of his line of sight!) and he'd stay out of mine. Sort of a gentleman's agreement.

This worked fine for a while, but one day he came to my church office on police business, walked in and saw a framed picture of the Three Stooges on my wall. His eyes lit up, "So you like the Stooges, huh?" As it turned out, John loved the Stooges and because of that picture on my wall, he invited me to come to his office that day and hear something. I dropped by later and he played for me the sound track of a Stooge short he had recorded on cassette tape. We both laughed at the verbal antics of our favorite Stooge, Curly.

Not only did John and I become close friends, I performed his wedding later to a beautiful lady police officer. Stood with him at the hospital when their son was born. Listened to him for hours on end at all hours of the night as he poured out his woundedness from a previous marriage and a pastor who insisted he stay in a miserable marriage. We were dispatched to my first suicide call and I learned invaluable insights that day as I listened to John deal with this widow because my theology (at that time) left me with nothing to say other than, "From all I've been taught, your husband is on the fast track to hell." Not much comfort in that!

I wanted to attend a three-day "street survival" seminar that was restricted to sworn officers. John pulled some strings so I could attend with him and his detectives. We wrote policy and procedure together. We did post-traumatic event de-briefing together. We rode around Rockledge, Florida, for hours on end talking about God and church. And when we moved, he sent a card saying how much he valued our friendship and how much he wish he could know the God I know.

Over the years we've lost contact, as often happens. He has been Chief of Police there for almost a decade now. But I'll never forget how a picture of the Three Stooges opened a door that would never have otherwise been opened, providing a friend who would do anything for me.

Today I have nine more framed pictures of the Stooges hanging in my church office. The original one and the nine that John gave me over the six years I spent with the PD in Florida. Added to those framed pictures are literally hundreds of Stooge items. My office is affectionately referred to by members of this church family as "The Shrine."

I'm not so much of a Stooges lover as I am a lover of Stooge items. I have close to twenty Stooge plates that are valued at over $100 each. Dolls that are now priceless. Antique Stooge stuff. But the most valuable item in this office, of a Stooge nature, is the picture that formed the foundation of a friendship and allowed me into the heart of a street hardened cop.