Eviction

“Help those who deserve it when its within your power." ~ Proverbs 3:27

Phuong plopped her plaster cast onto a foot stool, clicking the remote to scan through the channels.  Hurrying to finish her final chores at work resulted in a slip, a snap, a shattered ankle.

She felt the tension begin like a cluster of spark plugs in her gut.  Her body screamed at her to sprint down the street, to expend tension that kept piling up regardless of her inability to use it.  In wasn’t the pain of injury, but the fear of the unknown that stoked a primal urge to flee.

Phuong was 38, with citrine-toned skin and world-weary eyes.  She’d supported two small children over the years by working multiple part-time jobs rather than relying on welfare.  Currently she had a cleaning job at Embassy Suites by the airport and waited tables at the Mainstreet Tavern.

They’d been able to (barely) make ends meet with the help of her mother’s social security check.  But when she died earlier this spring, they’d started falling behind.  Their rent was five hundred and fifty dollars a month without utilities - the going rate for a two-bedroom apartment in one of the worst neighborhoods in America’s fourth-poorest city.  Shelter costs took 88% of Phuong’s $625 monthly take home pay.  Without income, she knew what came next.

Her first eviction had taken place 14 years earlier.  She figured that she’d rented more than 20 houses since then.  An “Eviction Notice” had been taped to her front door but she’d been too depressed to tear it off.

First, the landlord would summon the sheriff, who would arrive with a gun, a team of movers, and a judge’s order saying that her home was no longer hers.  They would be given two options: “truck” or “curb.” “Truck” meant that her things would be checked into bonded storage for an exorbitant monthly fee.

Phuong didn’t have the money, so she’d opted for “curb,” which meant that the movers would pile everything onto the sidewalk: mattresses; a 24” television; a lumpy couch, her mother’s dining room table and lace tablecloth.  They’d be spending Christmas at a homeless shelter.

Her landlord’s knock at the door could be the weight that finally crushed her spirit into oblivion.   Arleen, a short black woman with bobbed hair and freshly done nails, took the note she’d left off the door.  It read: ”Thanks for always paying your rent, I know it hasn’t been easy.  I’m waiving your rent until you can get back on your feet.  Merry Christmas!”

Arleen handed Phuong several bags of groceries, some she’d paid for with her own money and the rest she picked up at a pantry.  She knew Phuong needed it.

Phuong thanked Arleen and promised repayment.  Things were off to a good start.

Lord, thank you for the generosity of strangers.  From facing my fears and healing my wounds, I’ve become more resilient and faithful.  Through Your grace, let me be an inspiration to others of peace and compassion.  Amen ~ Phuong

Ho, Ho, Glow

“Clothe yourselves with compassion, humility, kindness, and patience." ~ Colossians 3:12

Maury had grown weary and who could blame him.  At 71, he’d been doing the St. Nick shtick for over 25 years.

Technically, there's not much to being Santa Claus.  You must follow a script that deals with both children and adults – the main questions being "Have you been good?" and "What do you want for Christmas?"  You must wave at every person in eyeshot.  And shout "Ho ho ho!" occasionally then bellow, "Merry Christmas!" in a jolly yet grumbly voice.

But there’s a few challenges.

Looking the part is sweaty and expensive.  Encased in fur and velvet, cinched into gut-crushing belts and boots that don’t breathe, he became a rock star of the holiday stage hawking overpriced 8x10s.  Hopefully, there’s bathroom nearby – it takes about 15 minutes to escape his custom-made outfit.

His real beard requires careful styling.  Too much bleaching and it burns or turns yellow.

Sitting in the same spot for long hours does a number on his body‚ as does being tugged, hugged, squished and squeezed by hundreds of strangers.  At 6 feet tall and 276 pounds, staying in shape requires yearlong exercise.

Don’t even talk to him about the unruly boy who punched him in the private parts, the baby vomiting on his chest, or the girl wetting her tights while sitting in his lap.

When asked what it's like playing Santa, Maury says that it “simultaneously destroys and builds up your view of humanity.”

Occasionally kids blow your mind, and not in a good way.  A shocking number of kids ask for expensive gifts like the computers and flat screen TVs.  A 7-year-old asked for a Corvette last year.

There are humorous requests – a unicorn that poops rainbows, a penis (Peanuts) book, or a maid to clean his room.  Sad ones include getting dad out of jail, giving a blind sister the power of sight and bringing Mom home for Christmas (who’d recently died in Afghanistan).

Then there was little Maddie.

When Maury heard her story, he showed compassion for the 5-year-old battling cancer.  He took her hand, and placed a small bell in it, saying that every time she rings the bell, Santa, Mrs. Claus, and all the elves will pray for her recovery.  He added that he knew that she’ beat cancer.

It took everything he had not to weep.  Maury called a break to 'check on Rudolph' . . . and for some thoughtful reflection.

Playing Santa, he reminded himself, is about maintaining a sense of Christmas cheer in the face of holiday madness; about keeping the magic alive for hundreds of increasingly skeptical youngsters.  “I'm a respite from the sales racks, the jostling shoppers and traumas and dramas of holiday parties.  It makes me a better man.”

Dear Lord, don't let us miss You this Christmas season.  Help us to simplify our activities and traditions so we can focus our celebration on Your birth.  Thank You for the simple but life-changing message of Your love for us.  Amen

Crossing the Finish Line

“There is a time to be born and a time to die." ~ Ecclesiastes 3:2

Rhonda had always been an optimistic person.  She believed that negative events were temporary, limited in scope, and always manageable.  Her life had been rough at times.  She’d watched three siblings battle cancer and buried two of them way too early.  She should have been angry and bitter, but she wasn’t.  Rhonda looked forward to each new day and its endless possibilities.

That’s why the diagnosis of glioblastoma multiform (GBM), the most common and most malignant of all brain tumors, barely rattled her.  She vowed from Day 1 that her hope would never be extinguished before her earthly time was complete.

Seven days after the initial diagnoses, Rhonda had a partial craniotomy and a partial resection of her temporal lobe.  Both surgeries were an effort to stop the growth of my tumor.  When the tumor returned weeks later even more aggressively, doctors prescribed radical chemotherapy.

What many people don't realize is that chemotherapy carries a very real risk of death and other complications such as heart or kidney failure, not just the well-recognized hair loss, vomiting and infertility.  Balancing those serious risks against the potential benefits including life prolongation in the final phase of her life became a heart-wrenching balance.

There comes a point where death must be accepted; where quality is pursued over quantity; where hospice care beats lying in a hospital bed hooked up to an IV filled with poison.  When told that she had only months to live, Rhonda wasn’t upset, angry or frightened.  She’d already hit rock bottom weeks earlier.

Rhonda elected hospice care forgoing any more procedures related to the GBM diagnosis.  She chose to enjoy the rest of her life as pain free as possible without any medications that would directly attempt to attack her cancerous brain.

The always-optimistic woman was giving up; throwing in the towel so to speak.

Or was she?

“I’m not quitting,” she suggested.  “I’m dying … but I’ll live my final days positively.  I’ll still enjoy time with my family and friends.  We’ll still make memories together.  I’ll still answer all of the questions they’ve ever wanted to ask.  And as I prepare to cross the finish line, death marks the end of my earthly race and the beginning of eternal life.”

For Christians, the promise of everlasting life offsets the fear of the dying process.  Respect for the sanctity of human life does not mean that life must be prolonged by every technological means possible.  While we might long to be with Christ and out of our suffering bodies, Christians recognize that God’s will and purpose for life can still be accomplished by preparing spiritually for life beyond our earthly existence up until the moment of death.

Gracious God, may those approaching the end of life experience freedom from distress, spiritual healing, and complete trust in You.  Receive them with mercy and love, so that they may share joy, peace, and the richness of life with You forever.  Amen

Under Siege

"God’s peace stills. . . and stirs our hearts.” ~ Rev. David Eardly

Seventy-five years ago today, U.S. Navy Ship's Cook Doris Miller had just finished serving breakfast to the crew of the battleship USS West Virginia moored along Ford Island at Pearl Harbor.  At the time, the ship's mess and laundry were some of the only Navy jobs available to Black sailors.

It wasn’t exactly the most glamorous gig in the Fleet, but it offered him the opportunity to enjoy the warm Hawaiian beaches and picturesque palm trees.  When he wasn’t cooking or cleaning, he took out some of his aggression by becoming the heavyweight boxing champion of the ship – a Colorado-class warship housing over 2,000 Sailors and Marines.

When the alarm for general quarters was sounded, he headed for his battle station, the anti-aircraft battery magazine amid ship.  Unfortunately, the ship was under attack by more than 200 Japanese torpedo planes, bombers and fighters that had destroyed his battle station.

This was a guy who’d spent his entire life overcoming adversity; he wasn't about to let a trivial thing like the entire Japanese Naval Air Force stop him.  The biggest, strongest, toughest man aboard the ship immediately started running across the deck, grabbing wounded men and carrying them to safety on the quarterdeck, where his injured comrades were partially shielded from the shelling Zeroes.

Then Dorie noticed that some of the deck guns were unmanned.  He rushed over to a .50-caliber anti-aircraft machine gun, strapped himself in and immediately went to work putting a giant curtain of bullets between West Virginia and the enemy.

Despite not having any training on how to operate the .50-cal, the ship’s main cook held his ground for fifteen minutes straight, blasting away from an exposed position.  The specific details of Dorie Miller's efficiency aren't well-documented.  His kill count ranges from "at least one" to "several" – but no one denies the fact that his courage and gallantry inspired many.

He only backed down after he ran out of ammunition and his half-dead commanding officer ordered him to abandon ship.  But not before he again helped move countless wounded shipmates through hellfire and chaos to the quarterdeck undoubtedly saving their lives.

The West Virginia sank at her berth in shallow water after on an even keel after being struck by six 18-inch torpedoes in her port side.  Sixty six fellow shipmates went down with her.

Although Miller’s bravery was initially overlooked, the black press pressured the Navy to recognize him.  On May 27, 1942, Admiral Nimitz honored him as the first African-American awarded the U.S. Navy Cross.  He later toured the country promoting war bonds before being reassigned to the escort carrier Liscome Bay.  Sadly, Dorie Miller was among the 646 crewmen killed when the ship was torpedoed and sunk in 1943.

Father, Thank You for the men and women that protect this nation!  As they protect us, protect them as well!   Be with them wherever they are and guide them through whatever challenges and trials they face today and every day.  Amen

For the Love of God

“Self-sacrifice is the way to saving yourself." ~ Mark 8:35

During WWII, the death camp Auschwitz became the killing epicenter where the largest numbers of European Jews were murdered by the Nazis.  In order to discourage escapes, Auschwitz had a rule that if a man escaped, ten men would be killed in retaliation.  In July 1941, a prisoner escaped from the camp.  What followed became . . .  well you can decide for yourself.

When the fugitive had not been found, the commandant announced that “Ten of you will be locked in the starvation bunker without food or water until you die.”  The prisoners trembled in terror as ten were selected, including a member of the Polish Resistance.

“My wife, my children,” he sobbed in anguish.  “What will they do?”

Just then a Catholic Priest stepped silently forward, took off his cap, and stood before the commandant.  “I’m old; let me take his place.  He has a wife and children.”

The commandant remained silent for a moment.  Nazis had more use for a young worker than for an old one, and so he gladly made the exchange.

Weeks of unimaginable horror followed as the men suffered the pains of dehydration and starvation.  Some drank their own urine; others licked mold off the damp walls.

The holy man not only offered to be one of the suffering, he ministered to them as well.  He encouraged the others with prayers, psalms, and meditations on the Passion of Christ.  The priest never asked for anything and didn’t complain.  He even pleaded with his fellow prisoners to forgive their persecutors and to overcome evil with good.

One by one the captives died until only the starving priest remained alive.  This annoyed the SS guards as they needed the cell for new victims.  So it was on that day at the age of 47 years, Prisoner 16670, Father Maximilian Kolbe looked cheerfully in the face of the SS men and was executed by a lethal injection of carbolic acid.

Father Kolbe's body was removed to the crematorium, and without dignity or ceremony was disposed of, like hundreds of thousands who’d gone before him, and hundreds of thousands more who would follow.

Father Kolbe's incredible deed became an inspiration for all mankind.  In that desert of hatred he’d sown love.  In the harshness of the abattoir Father Kolbe maintained the gentleness of Christ.  His legacy serves not as an ode to the past, but rather as a beacon of hope for the future.

The cell where Father Kolbe died is now a shrine.  He was beatified as Confessor by Paul VI in 1970, and canonized as Martyr by Pope John Paul II in 1981.  The prisoner, whom St. Maximilian saved, Franciszek Gajowniczek, attended his canonization.

Bless us O Lord, that we too may give ourselves entirely without reservation to the love and service of our Heavenly Father in order to better love and serve our fellow men in imitation of your humble servant, Maximilian.  Amen

The Popsicle Man

"Work hard at everything you do; your reward will come from God." ~ Colossians 3:23

Life is funny.  Just when you think you know the ending, the signs change, the wind blows another way and heartbreaks turn heartening.

Orphaned at 6 months, Fidencio Sánchez had been working to support himself since he was 13, first in the fields of his native Mexico, and since 1990 in Chicago.  For longer than anyone could remember, Sánchez shuffled the streets of Chicago’s Little Village neighborhood pushing a freezer cart stocked with icy treats.

Dogged determination and a permanent smile greeted local customers year round, even through bitterly cold winters.  But at age 89 and on failing knees, he was forced to retire.

Two months later, their daughter and only child, passed away saddling the Sánchez’s with a new set of expenses.  She’d been helping the family pay rent and utility bills.  Since her death, they not only had to absorb those bills but the added cost of caring for 2 grandchildren.

So back to the work he loved.  And his world changed again.

While driving through the neighborhood, Joel Macias snapped a picture of the octogenarian struggling to push his paleta (popsicle) cart.   “God bless you!” Joel said after purchasing 20 frozen desserts.

Later, so moved by the street vendor’s work ethic, Marcias created a GoFundMe page for Sánchez, seeking $3,000.  He hoped to give the elderly man a day or two off.

Within hours, support from 69 countries poured in.   By the end of the fundraiser, 17,500 fans had raised more than $380,000.

Upon receiving the check Sanchez shared his gratitude towards the thousands that heard his story and contributed to the fund.  He also thanked Joel for sharing the photo and opening the account.

Then this humble and faithful Chicagoan thanked his Lord.  “Most of all I’d like to thank God for this miracle.  There’s more than enough money to spread around,” Sánchez added.  “I’m going to give part of it to my church here, part to the church in Mexico.  Some will go to my grandchildren.  Some will go to certain people that are also in need.”

He also hopes to buy a small house and may “indulge” in some hearing aids.  But in the meantime, he’s not quite ready to stop working.  It's what he’s done all his life.  He’ll likely die walking while continuing to ‘sweeten’ other people’s lives.

Work is integral to life, and approaching work as God-given gives us more pleasure in it.  We can work cheerfully and without complaint because we’re working for a Lord who loves us and has redeemed us.  A good work ethic can also be a witness to others.  Others take notice of your efforts and wonder why.

Dear Lord, we know that this life is not all there is; that the best is yet to come if we live for You.  So, help us each day to live our lives in ways that honor and please You.  And let us not forget to give You all the praise and thanks.  Amen

Two Cute

“Teach your children well; they’ll remember it forever." ~ Proverbs 22:6

We met the day I turned seven.  The kindness that he showed me that night bonded us forever and gave me reason to battle on!  Back then, new friends came along about as often as lottery wins.  One moment they were showering me with sympathy; the next they vanished taking every precaution to avoid accidental contact.

I could’ve met a million fabulous kids, all of them with sweet smiles and just the right touch of shyness, but none of them could’ve replaced Dylan’s unexpected warmth.  We made cinnamon pies and chased butterflies?   We ate chocolate-chip pancakes and watched cartoons together until our sides nearly burst.

Forgive me - I’ve gotten way ahead of myself.  Let me back up about 30 years to the night we met for the first time.

I’m Maisie and at way too early an age, my doctor diagnosed acute lymphoblastic leukemia.  My treatments spanned almost 48 months because of complications, mostly infections.  I lost all my hair and suffered nerve damage from some of the drugs.

During my 6^th round of chemo, I actually felt good enough to attend a Red Wings hockey game.  I loved hockey – the skating, the scoring and even the brawling.  The poster I held “Chemo by Day, Wings by Night,” appeared on the JumboTron and prompted a standing ovation from the Joe Louis faithful.

The Wings eventually won but it was Dylan who stole the spotlight that night.  Between the two final periods, he won a stick signed by the team's rookie sensation.  I was so excited that I raced down to see it close up.

I surely didn’t expect Dylan to follow me back to my seat and give me his brand-new treasure.

He told me that I deserved the stick way more than him.  His generous act of kindness still resonates with me nearly three decades and two children later.  You guessed it – Dylan became more than just my best friend.  He became my rock, my inspiration, and eventually my husband.  All for the love of a hockey stick.

This is far more than a story about childhood romance – it’s also a story about great parenting.  Mine gave me the courage to defeat cancer; Dylan’s taught him to be unselfish.

Sometimes our kids don’t listen, make bad decisions, and disappoint us.  They also make us proud, challenge our values, and teach us more than we’ve taught them.

The stronger your relationship with your child, the more their world (including the opinions of their peers) is filtered through the values they learned from us.  And kids with good self-esteem and a stable home life are more likely to pick friends who’re in sync with those values too.

Parenting is the most important job you’ll ever have.  Don’t take it lightly.

Heavenly Father, make me fair, just, and considerate with my children.  Help me grow up with them and provide the guidance needed for them to learn for themselves; to think, choose and to make righteous decisions.  Amen

Sgt. Bravo

“Friends love through all kinds of trouble." ~ Proverbs 17:17

Heroes are born every day.  Some of them even sport fur and greater senses of hearing and smell than their human counterparts.

So when a stray mutt wandered onto a U.S. military compound in Afghanistan, Sgt. Bill Snyder knew he’d found a new friend.  He had the speed of a puppy and the teeth of a grizzly.  And when his tail started to wag, Snyder knew he hadn’t chosen his companion; Bravo (his adopted name), had picked him.  Little did he know how important their friendship would become.

Weeks later after the blazing sun had gone to rest, a suicide bomber snuck into Snyder’s camp attempting to slaughter the 50 or so soldiers sleeping inside.  Bravo eyed the intruder sourly, refusing to let him pass, while barking to alert the soldiers that something was wrong.  Snyder woke and immediately ran toward the entrance.

Unable to get passed the heroic K9, his bomb detonated outside of the barracks, killing him instantly but sparing the lives of the troops inside.  Once the smoke cleared and the chaos subsided, soldiers searched the rubble for Snyder and Bravo.

They found Sgt. Snyder first.  His shrapnel wounds dictated rapid evacuation to the U.S. military hospital near Landstuhl, Germany.

For his part, Bravo also sustained life threatening injuries but was nursed back to health by the troops.  He’d earned the right to be treated like a soldier, so Bravo was “promoted” to share the rank of his original master.

Snyder survived the explosion, but after months of physical rehabilitation, he faced an even tougher battle - getting Sgt. Bravo out of Afghanistan.  Flying an animal to the States from a foreign country involves reams of paperwork, so Snyder was forced to leave his 4-legged buddy behind, knowing he’d likely never see him again.

But the story didn’t end there.  When an animal rescue group heard of the brave pet’s mission, they raised enough money ($21,000) to help Sgt. Snyder fly Sgt. Bravo to his home in Missouri.  Their reunion was epic – for both sergeants.  Praise the Lord!

Dogs that specialize in bomb search and security work day in and day out in Iraq and Afghanistan to help keep our nation safe.  These K9’s are soldiers and much appreciated by our troops.  When our troops return home from war, many come home with wounds that aren’t visible on the outside.  Service K9’s assist those veterans who are handicapped either mentally or physically, to live more meaningful lives.

So while March 13 is National K9 Veteran’s Day, let’s remember these special Veterans tomorrow too, who help protect and preserve our freedom!  On behalf of all Americans, we thank you for your dedication and service!  Woof, woof!

Heavenly Father, thank you for lending these beautiful creatures to us.  Because of them, I’ve learned a little more about loving, a little more about caring, and a little more about letting things be.  It’s one of best ways of knowing You.  Amen

"Always Faithful"

“The Lord saves me from my enemies." ~ 2 Samuel 22:4

On a breezy hillside under overcast skies, the roaring sound of motorcycles and automobiles with glaring headlights rolled into the Veterans Cemetery to honor a veteran the mourners had never met.  Respecting those who had faithfully defended our country, it all came down to a simple motto: “No man left behind!”

Six marines in clean, crisp uniforms carried their fallen comrade’s cremated ashes to the designated spot for one final goodbye.  A Marine Chaplain performed a simple service, noting their brother-in-arms’ honorable discharge and several medals and ribbons.

He’d died at the age of 53 due to congestive heart failure; homeless, indigent and addicted.  Little else was known about his post-USMC life.  With no known relatives to bury him, his cremains sat unclaimed on a shelf for almost 10 months.

Those gathered didn’t know him by face or by name or even by his actions.  But they’d walked in his boots . . . and he’d walked in theirs.  Memories of war billowed through their hearts: Iwo Jima, Chosin, Khe Sanh, Fallujah – Marines at their very best.

The firing of three volleys (one each for duty, honor and country), broke the silence of a wistful brotherhood. Its origin stems from the old custom of halting the fighting to remove the dead from the battlefield.  After the dead were removed, three musket volleys signaled a return to combat.

At the appointed time, the mournful sound of “Taps” echoed across the autumn landscape; pure, soothing, powerful.  It was called "Taps" because it was often tapped out on a drum as a substitute when firing shots was considered unsafe due to the enemy’s proximity.

Our American flag was held taught as the stars and stripes were precisely folded in crisp, tight triangles.  One of the spent shell casing was placed into the folded flag.  The leader of the Patriot Riders, flanked by hundreds of veterans, received the flag, a ritual usually reserved for family.

Next a soloist sang the Marines Hymn, the oldest official song in the U.S. military, immediately snapping the crowd to attention.  “First to fight for right and freedom.”

The marine chaplain’s benediction said it all: “Veterans don’t serve alone, therefore they should not die alone.  A proper burial is something they’ve earned.  And it’s also a way to show our nation's deep gratitude to those who, in times of war and peace, faithfully defended our nation.”

And finally, the wife of one of the veterans bowed before the cremains of the man she never met, so that he’d have one person to say goodbye to him.  ”Semper Fidelis” – always faithful.

“Almighty God, our veterans gave America some of the best years of their lives.  They defended our nation, served the cause of peace, and stood ready to give life itself.  For all that, America's veterans deserve the enduring gratitude of all citizens.  May God bless them and the nation they so humbly serve.  Amen." ~ George W. Bush, 2001

Look Closer, See Me?

“Honor older people, treat them with the respect due your parent." ~ 1 Timothy 5:1

In an overcrowded ward, Daryl sat alone.  The day broke only by the arrival of meals and meds, visitors to other beds, and busy practitioners.  Some are kindly, most are harried, none seem familiar.

Nurses sing his praises when they’ve reason to visit.  “Daryl’s no problem;" "a real gem;" and "one of a kind."  But inside he’s afraid that the love accumulated over the years is evaporating faster than a desert oasis.

Most days, the window served as his only connection to the outside world.  Without it this room felt like a tomb; as quiet as a crypt.  The phone doesn't ring; the door remains shut.  He stares through the foggy glass pane watching folks walk by, delivery trucks and the dull rumble of traffic.

Once a week his daughter stops by with the groceries.  He wished that she’d stay longer but he doesn’t have anything to say that would interest her and she doesn't want to burden him with her worries about money, the kids and a career stuck in neutral.

Occasionally he asks her to move some furniture or make some tea, anything to stop her from leaving so fast.  He can sense her frustration knowing he’s lived long enough to be a burden.

It isn't simply a lack of company, though that's part of it for sure, it's a black hole that grows more powerful with every passing day, swallowing whatever hope he had yet to spare.

When the old man died, many believed he had nothing left of any value.  Later, when the nurses were going through his meagre possessions, they found (excerpts from) this poem:

“I’m now an old man. . . and nature is cruel.

It’s jest to make old age . . . look like a fool.

The body, it crumbles . . . grace and vigor, depart.

There is now a stone. . . where I once had a heart.

But inside this old carcass a young man still dwells,

And now and again . . . my battered heart swells

I remember the joys . . . I remember the pain.

And I’m loving and living . . . life over again.”  ~ Anonymous

The accumulated wisdom of older people serves as a helpful guide to those younger.  Elders make us examine our assumptions and help us make more informed decisions.  But we have to be willing to listen.  Merely hearing the words they’re speaking are just vibrations in the air.

Listening requires that we open ourselves to the meaning of another’s words, that we sincerely enter into the experience those words are meant to convey.

Loving Lord, we lift up the elderly and infirm . . . not only those we know, but all who are facing this stage of their life.  Give them Your peace and grace as they fulfil Your purpose for their lives, in whatever situation they find themselves.  Amen

Stained Glass

“We are all called to be God's holy people." ~ 1 Corinthians 1:2  

Nathan, a recently widowed Dad, often found peacefulness in the old stone church; a cool open place to sit and contemplate.  And so, it was on this day that his young son Brandon sat quietly next to him during the All Saints worship service.

The Pastor preached a sermon about the saints - people like Peter, James, and Mary who knew Jesus personally.  He spoke about the early church leaders - saints like Tertullian, Irenaeus, and Augustine who helped lay the church’s foundation.

He talked about people who lived much later - like John Wesley, Martin Luther, and John Calvin who challenged us to find a deeper relationship with God.  And he mentioned modern day saints such as Gandhi, Mother Teresa, and Martin Luther King who struggled for the rights of all people.

While his father listened closely to the sermon, Brandon appeared captivated by the sanctuary’s stained-glass windows.  Brilliant ribbons of color animated by changing cloud patterns wandered across the floor, creating a mystical atmosphere and inviting his thoughts to wander.

It was as if a rainbow had shattered, covering the congregation with radiant shapes of reds, greens, golds, blues, and violets.  Images and scenes leaded together into windows illuminated the building and its people . . . literally and spiritually.

On their drive home after the service, Nathan asked his son what he thought of the church service.

“I liked it,” Brandon said.

“Did you understand the Pastor’s sermon?” Nathan inquired.

“A little,” the boy admitted.  Brandon confirmed that the sermon had something to do with people called ‘saints.’

Testing how attentive his son was, Nathan then asked, “And who are the saints?”

Brandon replied, “They’re the people who the light shines through.”

Outta the mouth of babes!

God sent us here to make a difference, to make our world that much better, to be a saint.  That doesn’t mean that you have to be canonized or immortalized in a statue to be a saint.  Sainthood is more ordinary and dirty than that.

It’s more profane than it is sacred.  It’s going into this dark world and making it just a little bit brighter.  This can be accomplished by word, by deed, by simply following God’s call and letting the radical, liberating message of Christ’s Gospel guide you and flow through you.

Embrace the task, my friends!  Go into the world and let God’s light shine through you - and may it rain the Gospel’s beautiful rainbow of truth across every road you take and upon everyone you encounter on this sacred journey.  As a popular songwriter once said, “Each small candle lights a corner of the dark.”  Be that candle, my friends, so that others may see.  Amen.

“Lord, make me an instrument of your peace: where there is hatred, let me sow love; where there is injury, pardon; where there is doubt, faith; where there is despair, hope; where there is darkness, light; where there is sadness, joy.” ~ St. Francis

Straight Ahead

"Trust the Lord; He made everything for its own purpose." ~ Proverbs 16:4

Jacob hadn’t missed voting in a presidential election since 1976.  He voted in Reagan’s unseating of incumbent Jimmy Carter who, it turned out later, had "found" Carter’s debate prep notes and obliterated Carter on live TV.  He’d voted in the controversial 2000 Bush/Gore election that was ultimately decided by the Supreme Court.  And he even voted in the 2008 campaign that some pundits believe was the most vicious in U.S. history.

Mudslinging is certainly not a new approach in politics.  Opposing candidates have been tearing each other down since Washington’s selection in 1789.  But to call what he’d seen from both sides a “circus” was an insult to the Ringling Brothers.

As the 2016 election nears, Jacob found himself at a crossroad for choosing the “lesser of two evils.”

The left offers Hillary Clinton - the Teflon candidate.  She’s weathered more scandals and been let off the hook for more misdeeds than probably any candidate in our nation’s history.

Donald Trump is to the right at this crossroad - an unrepentant bully who demeans women, immigrants and veterans.

We’ve already failed this cycle; either candidate will punish this nation.  So, Jacob considered “sitting this one out” incorrectly citing Spurgeon’s logic: “Of two sins . . . choose neither.”

That was until his Pastor may several excellent points in last Sunday’s sermon.

First: We’re always faced with the real challenge of voting among two or three ‘imperfect’ people.  Given the depths to which American culture has sunk, it’s too much to ask for a perfect presidential candidate.  And Jesus is not on the ballot.

Second: All throughout the Old Testament, God allowed for wicked leaders to be placed in authority over it’s people.  Quite often, it was to humble them and bring them back to Him.

Third: At a crossroads, you don’t have to take the left or the right.  Sometimes, you just go straight ahead.  There comes a time to stay the course and not be distracted or led astray by doubt, fear, or party loyalty.

Fourth:  Stay true to your faith, looking neither to the left or the right.  Our answers are not there.  Vote your values, whether those are popular or even successful in this election.

And Finally: Whatever happens, trust God.  He doesn’t measure us by who wins or loses, but by our faithfulness to vote our values without compromise.  To vote is to honor Him and let Him do the impossible.

So, Jacob has resigned himself to the notion that we will end up with one of the two evils the public has clamored for.  But, he’ll be faithful to what God has called him to do and leave the results in His hands, through the good days ahead and the bad alike.

Heavenly Father, thank you for the privilege of electing our leaders. Give us wisdom and discernment, that through the casting of our votes, Your Kingdom may come closer and Your Will be done here on earth.  Amen

The Mayan Forest

Lord, “Use my hands; use my feet, to make Your Kingdom come." ~ Brandon Heath

We’d passed that cornfield many times.  But in the Guatemalan highlands, where corn can reach 6 to 7 meters high, we were completely unaware that an entire community lived within its boundaries.

A footpath wound unpredictably through this Mayan ‘forest.’  Each muddy footprint unlocked cues to the difficulties faced by these families.

I faced the sun, feeling its gentle warmth, noticing how the sky was darker blue here.  Only the laughter of children hidden within the stalks reminded me that we’re called to this place by a God who asks us to follow Him into the homes of the broken.

Here we met Rosario Lopez (Rosy), who rose long before our arrival to prepare breakfast for a bustling household of six young children.  Juan Luis, age 11 and the oldest, left school after the fourth grade to pick coffee beans and help support the family.

Rosy spends her day tending to her home and weaving beautifully intricate textiles, a tradition passed down by Mayan women for centuries.  Her husband, a victim of the alcoholism so prevalent in Guatemala, no longer lives in the home or supports the family.

Sunny days will soon give way to cold nights where children struggle to stay warm.  This hidden village is wired for electricity, although the utility’s cost is far out of reach for Rosy and most of her neighbors.  Her father helped build thier small hut (8’ square) from scraps of bamboo and corrugated metal.

She cooks on a three-stone fire built on their dirt floor.  As a result, her current home is constantly filled with toxic wood smoke that causes serious health problems, particularly for the children.  No running water; chickens in the kitchen; dirt floor for a mattress.

Nearby, we’ll build a new home.  It will have a small porch to dry clothing during the rainy season, a steel door for security, cement floor, properly vented stove, and a few pieces of cheap furniture; rather well equipped by village standards.  So many more need our help.

As I stood on what will soon be Rosy’s front porch, I recall the story a boy tossing beached starfish back into the ocean.  When confronted by a man who questioned the sanity of his mission (there were miles of beach and thousands of more stranded starfish), the boy tossed yet another starfish back into the surf.

Smiling he said to the old man: “It made a difference to that one.”

Rosy was our starfish.

God’s plan calls us to bring help, healing and hope to people one person at a time.  May your light always shine to others in any kind of need, not just money.  Other needs may include our time, a smile, a kind word, assistance, or forgiveness.

Lord Jesus, “to those I have helped, I wish I’d done more. For those I neglected, I ask for understanding, to those who helped me – I thank you with all my heart.” ~ Yom Kippur Prayer

Tears Are Prayers Too

“God knows of your troubles; He keeps a record of your tears." ~ Psalm 56:8

Seven short weeks ago, Willie’s life changed forever.  The woman he married years ago, the one with big eyes and a bigger heart had gone home to their heavenly Father; the victim of a distracted teenaged driver.  He was now both Mommy and Daddy to his two small children.

After their baths, he’d given each the prescribed five minute back rubs.  Then Willie took up his guitar and began the nighttime ritual of folk songs, ending with "Jesus Loves You," - their favorite.  He sang it over and over, gradually lowering both volume and tempo until they fell asleep.

This is how it’d always been … with the exception that their Mommy was now gone.  Willie rose cautiously, trying to avoid making the slightest noise which might wind them up again, begging for more songs and stories.

He tiptoed downstairs and slumped into his favorite armchair.  For the first time tonight, Willie had some time to himself.  He’d cooked and done the dishes while responding to their endless demands for attention.  He helped his oldest with her second grade homework and ‘oohed’ shamelessly over his son’s elaborate Lego blocks creation.

Then it all crashed around him: the fatigue, the responsibility, the worry about bills, the endless details of running a house.  Only a short time before, he’d had a partner who shared these chores, these expenses, these bills, these fears.

The loneliness was overwhelming.

Unexpected tears trickled off his cheeks as he tried masking his grief.  There was a rawness to it; pain from a still-open wound.  Then his whole body shook; validating his devastating loss.

As he sobbed silently in the darkened room, a little face peered up at him.  He looked down into his four-year-old son's sympathetic face.

"It's okay to cry, Daddy.  My Sunday School teacher says that tears are prayers too.  They travel to God when we can’t speak.”

He climbed into Willie’s lap and they hugged for a long while before Daddy tucked his son back into bed.  Then he thanked God for the wisdom of innocence that had given him permission to cry, releasing him from his grief and reaffirming his ability to love and be loved.

In ancient times, tears shed for the death of a friend were captured in small vials, or ‘tear bottles’ and offered on the tomb of the deceased.  What a sweet thought is suggested (Psalm 56:8 above) by God's recognition of our afflictions!  He’s present with every tear shed; we can count on Him to collect them all.  No matter what sorrows we face today, we have confidence that God cares.

Lord Jesus, thank You for loving my babies even more than I do and for having compassion on them and me.  Help me feel Your comfort and reassurance when I face new seasons of life and emotional challenges as both a father and mother.  Please guide them in their decisions and keep them safe.  Love Willie

Life After Birth

“Don’t worry about earthy troubles; look forward to the joys of heaven. ~ 2 Corinthians4:18

As weeks turned into months, the twins continued to grow in their mother’s womb, noticing changes in themselves and each other.  Imagine for a moment their anxiety; fear of an unknown, maybe even the end of their continued existence.

“What a beautiful life we have here; so cozy and peaceful,” said #1.  “We have all the water, food, and oxygen we need.  Our womb keeps us safe from noise, light, and pressure.  Best of all – we have each other.  Nothing could ever be better than this world.”

But #2 disagreed.  “There must be something more than this dark place; some place where there’s light and freedom to move.”  After a brief silence, #2 continued.  “You won’t believe this either, but I think there is a mother!”

#1 became furious.  “A mother, are you nuts?  “I’ve never seen a mother and neither have you.  Who put that crazy idea in your head?”

“I feel this pressure sometimes,” replied #2.  “I think it’s preparing us for another place, one much more beautiful where we’ll see our Mother face to face!  Don’t you think that’s exciting?”

A troubling chill crept over #1.  "Were it up to me, I’d live here forever.”

#2 reacted ardently.  “I believe there’s life after birth.  We should enjoy the time we have left in this beautiful place, and when our time comes to leave, we should be ready.”

“NO!" shouted #1.  “If our purpose inside the womb ends at birth, then our life is pointless."  Clutching the precious life cord to his chest, #1 cried, "And if that’s true, then there can really be no mother!"

"There is a mother," protested #2.  "Who else gave us nourishment?  Who else created this world for us and protects us from harm?"

"We get our nourishment from this cord,” #1 interrupted.  “If there is a mother - where is she? Have you ever seen her?  Does she ever talk to you?  No!  You’re delusional."

Thus, while #1 ranted hopelessly, #2 placed his trust in the hands of his Mother.

Soon it was time.  Their birth was at hand, and they both feared what they didn’t know.

They screamed at the light’s intensity.  Coughing out fluid they gulped dry air.  When they were sure they’d been born, they opened their eyes grasping life after birth for the first time.  They gazed into their Mother’s adoring eyes as she cradled them in her loving arms.  They were home.

Just a Jesus promised.  He came so that we would look beyond the present life and prepare ourselves for eternal life with God.  Our time on earth is only temporary, and while frightening at times, is but preparation for our time in heaven.

Dear Lord, the brokenness of this world weighs me down at times – it sickness, depravity and injustice.  Help me think like an ambassador, a representative from heaven serving in this alien land to serve as many people as I can.  Amen

Best Job Ever

“With all my heart I’m waiting for You, Lord.  I trust Your promises." ~ Psalm 130:5

The coolest professions involve fighting fires, carrying a gun, or driving massive machines that could flatten houses.  Manuel’s was not one of those; he moved furniture.

While nearly all jobs have a purpose (or they wouldn’t exist), some jobs require a different kind of resilience.  Manuel’s’ was the kind that made him strong enough to bend steel and yet limp like wet laundry from exhaustion.   Every day was ‘Moving Day’ for him.

Imagine the murderous intent of stairs and lifts, and the back pain to go with it . . . every single day.  And if that’s not enough, make a quick mental list of the other health hazards of the trade.

Add muscle strain and tearing from days of strenuous lifting and the possibility of dropping some of those heavy objects on your foot.  Then there are arm injuries, shoulder and elbow injuries, and the constant potential of slipping and falling.

The hours were long and the pay was low.  The heat was oppressive in the summer; cold was constant in the winter.  Cracked lips, scaly skin and frequent headaches screamed of the dehydration that goes hand-in-hand with exhaustion.  Lack of restful sleep breeds fuzzy thinking, chemical imbalances and behavioral instability.

Manuel tried to keep his spirits up, but he felt himself wearing down.  Every morning he’d strap on an uncomfortably tight back brace and pull on worn out work boots.  And every night he’d drag himself home smelling of dirt and sweat and collapse on the bed (or couch) and fall asleep - just to wake up the next day and repeat the process over again.

One particularly difficult day, Manuel felt he could take no more.  “Why am I working myself to death here just to survive?  This is the worst job ever?  God, why are you punishing me so?” he thought to himself.

He wasn't really expecting an answer, but God loves to surprise us.  As Manuel struggled up the steps to his front door, he found all three of his young children waiting for him with smiling faces.  "Daddy, Daddy!" his youngest son yelled.

Manuel smiled and hugged them all.  Then he laughed for the first time in days and sat down peacefully.  It was just the answer he needed: “We work to live . . . but we live to love.”

Being a dad can be tough, it can be exhausting, and it can totally challenge your patience.  But I hope this inspires you to step it up a notch and give your kids the childhood they'll always remember you for - because that's the best job anyone could ever imagine.

Lord, we’re tempted to put our faith in things that may eventually disappoint us.  We hope a doctor will heal us, a teacher will pass us, or a friend will help us.  But it’s only through our faith in You that we gain abundant and everlasting joy.  Amen