“MOLLY”

“To be frivolously minded brings death, but to be morally minded is life and peace.” (Romans 8:6)

She was 40 pounds of playful puppy, and that was when she was but a wee one…a slippery, slimy, slobbery, Saint Bernard. Molly was our pet, the neighborhood bundle of puppy love. There were nine of us kids in the Rhoades clan, all of which thought Molly was the ultimate “man’s best friend.”

We taught her to wrestle, literally. I mean moves and all. She was charming and chubby. Well fed and well bred. She made coming home a whole new adventure.

The concrete path to our garage became known as the driveway of doom. The jingle of her dog tags was a friendly reminder to take cover or get run over. If I was up for it (or not), she would attack, usually at my feet. Down I would go and then it was off for a five minute grappling session with “Beethoven.” Slobber went everywhere. There was licking and grabbing, pushing and pulling. When I was totally exhausted, she still wanted more. She was as playful as she was powerful. The way to end it all was to escape into the house for a good bath.

But, Molly had a problem. You see, she just wouldn’t grow up. We paid for training. We brought in friends that were experts in the field of obedience, but she just never seemed to catch on. At first (as with most of the dogs in our suburban section of town), we let her roam free with her friends (a couple of German shepherds and a beagle) . They were buds. But problems loomed “large” on the horizon. As she grew older, the damage increased. It went from a few flowerbeds crushed under the weight of a man-sized scratcher, to several garbage cans torn hither and yon. The neighbors were in a dither, and our dog would have to go “on the leash.”

We started with a corkscrew-type restraint that twisted into the ground. It didn’t last long. The next day, when I pulled into the driveway arriving home from church, Molly came running. The chain and corkscrew were dangling from her neck like a 70’s peace sign. Up she went, and down I dropped. It was no time to play. I was left with spit and muddy paw prints on my Sunday best.

Dad began to suggest that we get rid of Molly. Perish the thought! She was a Rhoades, and we would see this thing through. All she needed was a new set of boundaries. We bought her a bigger doghouse, ran a huge eye hook through the frame and hooked it to her leather necklace. Our monster, “Molly,” was now safe. Or so we thought.

One crisp fall morning in my junior year of high school, I had to ride the cheese bus (my 68 Pontiac was in for repairs). As we were leaving my stop, the kids started craning through the crowd to look out the windows. With my eyes still straining to free themselves from sleepers, I looked, too. Here came Molly, dragging a 120 pound dog house down Rural Route Number Two. It was hilarious. The bus driver was laughing so hard she had to stop old “Cheeser.” Molly was going to school with a backpack the size of Rhode Island.

My bus driver gave me a reprieve. I drug our charming chubby friend and her domicile back into our yard and hoped she would understand. I told her to stay, and she did--long enough for me to get around the corner and our bus driver to wipe the tears of laughter from her eyes.

Within a few days, as I arrived home from soccer practice, I extricated myself from my ugly tan Pontiac, prepared myself for a pounding, and headed for the big oak tree that was now Molly’s margin maker. It seemed like we just had to keep going to something bigger and stronger to keep her from blowing it.

I didn’t hear any jingling. I couldn’t see those big dirty paws prepared to seal my doom to dirtdom. I was sure she had run off again. I walked into the house, only to be met by the tearful eyes of my younger siblings. Mom said sorrowfully, “Molly’s gone. She broke her chain and met her fate at the hands of the garbage truck. Dad had to take her to be ‘put to sleep.’” I sat down and cried, and went through the list of “if only’s,” trying to diminish the disappointment.

You see, Molly had the same problem many people have. They seem charming enough. They mean no harm, and surely, if given the chance, they would show you their playful side. If we could only keep them from drinking, or get them to stay off drugs. Convince them to keep their paws out of someone else’s stuff. Sometimes they make us laugh, like the day the big brown and white slobber machine pulled her townhouse down the highway. But eventually, they always seem to make us cry.

We try bigger and stronger boundaries, anything to keep them safe. Unfortunately, boundary breakers are sure they can handle it. Life becomes a spiraling spin into the world of “living on the ragged edge.” Eventually, they take a trip to where the garbage lies, and we get the bad news: “they have reached the end of their rope.”

If you find yourself, like Molly, stretching the limits all in the name of harmless hoopla, you may be headed for a tragedy. It will leave Mom, Dad, and the whole family sitting in tears. The fate of Molly awaits those who won’t exercise restraint. For the sake of us all, stop straying. We love it when you leave mud on our Sunday best

“FOR EVERY BLESSING THERE IS A BOUNDARY”

“The body is not meant for sexual immorality, but for the Lord.... . .Flee sexual immorality.” I Corinthians 6:13 & 18.

“How did I get started?” That was my first encounter with a curious five-year-old wondering just how he made his way into this world. Panic riddled my body and brain as I sprayed off the last bit of soap from the mini van and his big wheel. I was being hit with the big question. Parenting had just taken a turn for the worst.

My brain searched frantically for an appropriate response to a toddler’s inquiring mind. I mentally clicked on files and retrieved what Dr. Richard Dobbins said in his book entitled, “Venturing Into A Child’s World:” “When your children become curious, appease their curiosity, don’t arouse it.” Looking down at the blonde-haired, blue-eyed questioner, I responded: “You get started when you’re small.” He looked at me and said, “Oh.” That was it. It was all he needed, and all I could come up with. He quietly mounted his yellow three wheeler and silently rode away into the sunset. My work was ended for that day, but rest for the weary is short-lived.

Several years later he came back to me and said, “Hey Dad, you remember when you told me I got started when I was small? Well, how did I get small?” A simple answer was not going to satisfy his wide-eyed query. We had what would become the first of several father-son chats about the Biblical perspective of “Christian Married Love.”

The apostle Paul makes it abundantly clear when it comes to a proper sexual relationships: “For every blessing, there is a boundary.”

In most modern cultures where sexual mores have blatantly moved towards pagan standards, the doctrine of the sanctity of the body needs to be heard anew within the church. Sexual immorality is still sin, even though it has been justified under every conceivable rationalization.
The question is, “How do I avoid immoral behavior?”

There are two steps that will help for building fences around the most cherished of relationships. The word “flee,” comes from the Greek word, “Fyoo-go,” which has two avenues in it’s definition: the primary root, “to run away,” and the analysis, “to shun.” Two battle plans for managing morality.

WHEN AT RISK, RUN (Genesis 39:1-15): We find our example from the life of Joseph. Joseph was at risk. He was in a country and culture he didn’t know, surrounded by a language he didn’t understand, and thrust into a position of great trust. He had found success and in the process come face to face with it’s seduction.

Thomas Carlyle once wrote, “Adversity is sometimes hard upon a man, but for one man who can stand prosperity, there are a hundred that will stand adversity.”
Potiphar’s wife took the direct approach. But Joseph didn’t flinch, even for a moment. Without hesitation and being absolutely secure in himself and his God, he responded with equal boldness. There are two distinct reasons why he didn’t yield to moral failure:
First, his loyalty to his master. He said to the woman, “My master trusts me. He has given me responsibility for everything he owns. The only thing that is not mine is you—his wife. I could never betray his trust.”

Second was Joseph’s loyalty to God. “How could I do this great evil and sin against God?”
Potiphar’s wife refused to take no for an answer. She wasn’t about to be ignored, so she pressed Joseph day after day. All his talk about noble reasons for resisting only intensified her determination. Joseph refused to budge. And he is a good example to us all.
Joseph ended up dashing out into the street. What a clear image! What a practical spotlight on truth from Joseph’s life. What strong Biblical counsel. Whenever the New Testament lingers on the subject of sensual temptation, it gives one command: “RUN!!!!!” The Bible does not tell us to reason with it. It does not tell us to think about it and claim verses. It tells us to FLEE!! The command of God is to run! And that is exactly what Joseph did. In the end he suffered for it. But he did the right thing. The lesson of Joseph teaches us when at risk, RUN!
The second avenue for exercising moral muscles is:

WHEN SHAKEN, SHUN (Judges 16:15-16): Psalm 1:1 states in modern language, “In order to stay out of trouble, it is best to avoid it.”

Matthew Henry states: “Samson had been more than once brought into mischief and danger by the love of a woman, yet he would not take warning, but is again taken in the same snare, and this third time is fatal. Lack of moral restraints is one of the things that takes away the heart. This is a deep pit into which many have fallen; but from which few escape, and those by a miracle of mercy, and the loss of reputation and usefulness, and almost all, except their souls. The anguish of the suffering is ten thousand times greater than all the pleasures of the sin.”
Take warning from Samson’s fall. Delilah was trouble, but he just couldn’t muster up the courage to “shun her.” This time it cost him his life. A little shun here and a little shun there and this magnet of immorality could have been resisted.

My encounter with my little boy on his big wheel made way for the moral message, “for every blessing there is a boundary.” Any three wheelers coming your way? Being prepared purges panic. To shun and run is good advice.

“THE MAN IN THE TRENCH COAT”

I Corinthians 13:13: “But the greatest of these is love!”

Have you ever seen a man in a trench coat with six legs? A nurse at a VA hospital did.

It all started as a young man. He was a carpenter at heart, but a laborer by trade. His job? Grinding brake linings in an auto parts manufacturing plant. Not exactly his passion, but it brought in the bread and fed the babies. While his hands were grinding asbestos lined parts, his mind was envisioning finely-crafted cabinets of cherry, oak, ash and maple. He was a hardwood connoisseur. Pine was for construction; hardwoods were for custom cabinets, his passion.

Years later he lived his dream: he built kitchens. Not just any kitchens, custom kitchens. Why, one kitchen was so nice a photo of it made it into a national magazine. He was good! Real good. Don’t check the archives, you won’t find him there. He wasn’t famous, just a man with a knack for wood and a fondness for fine furnishings.

For years he was just like you and me. Got up early, read the paper and his Bible. Dressed in those blue work pants and shirt that he bought at Sears, then filled his thermos full of black coffee and out the door he went. Until one day he got the flu. Nothing unusual, we all get the flu. He coughed, sometimes heavy and hurtful. But it was just the flu.

He kept working. That’s what people from his generation did. Sickness on a grand scale was never in his thinking. He tried hot tea, hot soup, expectorants and all the normal things that we fellow sufferers have downed in our times of influenza. One day it had gone on long enough. Time to see a doctor, this cold just wasn’t taking flight. “Breath in, breath out,” the doctor said. “Your lungs are a little congested. We’ll take an X-ray.” Within days a cough became cancer--asbestosis. Asbestos from grinding brake linings had found it’s way to his lungs, and now he had a fatal disease.

Not much changed for a while. The cough hung on and became gradually worse, yet many a kitchen was still touched by the hands of this master carpenter. Sadly, there was no cure. Eventually, this dread disease would slowly but surely take his life. The concluding scene was on the third floor of the Veteran’s Hospital. A ward, not a room.

It was in the final days that the man in the trench coat stopped to see the finest craftsman he had ever known. The clerk at the desk stopped him and said: “Where are you going?” “To the third floor to visit,” came the response. “No children!” came the curt reply. The visitor smiled, leaned over and whispered, “It’s their grandpa. He’s real sick. I mean real sick (he didn’t want to use the die word). What do ya’ think? Can we get ‘em in?”

“If you can get them there without anyone seeing them, have at it,” the clerk responded.

Their daddy looked down at the two pre-schoolers and said: “You guys each grab a leg. Every time I step, you step.” He then wrapped the coat around them and headed for the elevator. A man in a trench coat with six legs. They boarded what they hoped would be an express to the third floor. The little ones were giggling and fidgeting and making far too much noise, but they were all alone. It was O.K.. To the dismay of the father, at the second floor the elevator stopped, the door opened slowly, and in came the meanest looking nurse in all of nursedom. She looked at the twenty-something man (whose heart began to pound like a low-rider), gazed down at his legs and said, “Never seen a man with six legs before. Must be real hard keeping them all going in the same direction.” Then she smiled. “Where you going, sir?” she asked. “Third floor,” the nervous father responded. “That’s where I’m going,” came her response. Just then a girlish giggle came from under the coat. The nurse just smiled and asked, “Who you going to see?” “Ah, Ed, ah, Ed Lobley,” the father chortled. “I’ll take you right to him,” the now-not-so-mean looking nurse replied.

Off they went, past nurses stations and custodians, who were all snickering at the young father with six legs. Into the ward they shuffled. The over coat was opened and out popped a blonde boy and a brunette girl. “Hi Grandpa!” they giggled.

“How did you guys get in here?” He asked through gasps for air. “Children aren’t allowed on this floor.” They told him the whole story, and then said something that made his thin face flinch to hold back tears. “We snuck up under Dad’s coat because we love you, and we wanted to see you!”

A few days later, my father-in-law, one of the finest finish men the carpenter’s world has ever known succumbed to cancer. That six-legged journey was the last time my children got to be tickled and teased by Grandpa. All because they loved him.

What journey do you need to make to show your love? It might just be a trip down the hall to a child’s bedroom to kiss a sleeping cheek. Or maybe a stroll to the lady loading the dishwasher to share a hug and a thank you. It might cost you a plane ticket, a bus ticket, three hours in a car, or it may only necessitate a little sneak to the third floor.

By the way, if you see a man in a trench coat with six legs, don’t be concerned. It’s just some dad with his kid’s going to the third floor to visit Grandpa!

“SURVIVING THE FAMILY CALAMITY”

Genesis 7:6 “Noah was six hundred years old when the flood waters came on the earth. Noah and his sons and his wife and his sons’ wives entered the ark to escape the waters of the flood.”

Sometimes I ought to just leave those leadership journals sitting on the shelf! One day after reading one, I came home from my office and told my wife that the latest copy of “Preacher Today” said that every dad that was worth his salt should take his family on a camping trip. Of course my mind went immediately to that lot down the highway that rented motor homes with all the amenities. A veritable house on wheels. But the author of the article said “this family adventure” needs to be one where our creature comforts meet the rustic road. Tents, firewood, S’mores and sleeping bags. This had to be the real thing. I conceded (which was a real switch, since I always said, “my idea of camping was a Holiday Inn without an indoor pool”)..

Our children were seven and five. I made the announcement, and they got pumped. Dad in a tent. Bugs, snakes, chipmunks and sleeping on the ground. A family of four in a three man tent. I didn’t even own my own sleeping bag (still don’t). I went to the basement, pulled out Brandon and Erin’s tent (a three man tent we had purchased with green stamps), gathered up blankets, fresh fire wood, cut coat hangers to cook hot dogs and marshmallows over the fire, then stuffed a cooler full of camping food. We were ready. After we had all our gear packed in the “second car” (a 1988 Pontiac T1000 compact, two doors and four seats), off to “Red Rock Mountain, Pennsylvania” we went. The kids singing songs and me asking questions. How do you set up a tent so it doesn’t blow away? Are you really allowed to have a fire outside? What if I can’t sleep? What if we don’t fit? It must have been an interesting scene, me smiling at the kids in the rear view, all the while my city slicker’s soul squirming inside my head.

How come I didn’t come home and say, “Hey, let’s set the tent up in the family room, eat popcorn from the microwave, make milkshakes and watch the ‘Brady Bunch’ on T.V.?” They would have went for it, and I would have met the standards of full-fledged fatherhood.

I am convinced to this day that although my wife was gung-ho on this whole idea on the outside, she was laughing herself to tears on the inside. “Stephen sleeping in a tent? This should be good.”

We arrived at Red Rock, paid the customary fine (I mean fee), found our site, and unpacked. The children were already feeding the live animals peanuts when it hit me, “What if it rains?” Perish the thought. God would never subject me to a punishment like that.

After four hours of stories, S’mores, snacks and a stroll through the woods, it was time to settle in.

I know they were watching. Who? You may ask. Who was watching? You know, Eddie Bauer and Mr. Coleman. The guys on the sites next to us. Grown men with families, camping in 35-foot houses on wheels. I could just hear them saying: “Honey, look. Remember when we used to do that? Boy, am I glad those days are over!” They had to be watching. A family of four sleeping in a green-stamp tent. Well, at least we were good entertainment.

Off to bed we went. Four little people, tucked in a little red tent, wrapped up in a pile of blankets that would remind you of Joseph’s coat of many colors.

We were long since settled when it hit. The thing we feared had come upon us. First the sound of a few little splattering drops hitting the side of our shelter from the storm. Within minutes, the whole sky cut loose. I held Susan close, and she said, “Don’t worry, Honey. Everything will be all right.” After about 35 minutes of torrential downpour we felt it. The family camper had sprung a leak. No, not just a leak, our green stamp shelter had become a sponge. We did all we could to fend off Mother Nature, but there was no way out. The old “tentster” just wasn’t going to cut it. We were swamped, the blankets now weighed 35 pounds a piece, and I was facing the question that every seasoned woodsman has asked himself, “What do we do now?”

At that point in my life there was only one thing that I hated more than camping and that was “giving up.” I looked over at Susan, and gathered up my two offspring. I flipped down the rear seat of the Pontiac, grabbed the dry clothes we had left in the car, made a bed in the back and told her we would sleep in the reclining buckets. This storm wasn’t going to beat us. I was determined--no motel was going to suck up our family fun.

I’m sure we looked a bit odd. Can you picture it? Bauer and Coleman next door in their Winnabago’s watching the ball game and eating marshmallow cookies, when out of the corner of their eye they see “tentman” and his family of four sleeping in a compact.

Embarrassing? Yes. Me, quit? Never. A good challenge doesn’t destroy a true woodsman.

Are you facing a family calamity? If not, don’t worry, you will. Noah did. It is obvious that his story wasn’t all that funny, but he did survive! Why? Because he was prepared and determined!

WHAT DO THESE STONES MEAN?”

Joshua 4:7 “These stones are to be a memorial to the people of Israel forever.”

Don’t ever start the Star Spangled Banner in the wrong key! Francis Scott Key would have held his ears the last time I did. On July 27^th, 1990 (the hottest day of the year), I was asked to sing the great song that honors our flag. At the end of a parade commemorating Armistice day, a crowd of several hundred gathered in the driveway of the local VFW hall where speeches were made, and I was called upon to sing the national anthem.

As the first “Oh say” passed through my lips, I knew that I was heading to notes that were an octave out of my range. By the time I arrived at “the rockets red glare,” the veins in my head were “bursting in air.” I was literally screaming to try and reach the high notes. My version sounded a lot like Alfalfa in The Little Rascals. You can only imagine how horrible I sounded and how terrible I felt. After I finished the final line I was glad to be “free” and not quite sure if I was “brave” enough to ever sing our nation’s song in public again.

I tried hard to slip into the crowd unnoticed, hoping to get to my car without crossing paths with a veteran. I just wanted to go home. What happened next renewed my hope that there were better times ahead.

As I hastily made my way to the car, an older man, well into his sixties, laid his hand on my shoulder, stopping me in my tracks. As I sheepishly looked up at the tall, gray-haired fellow, he had huge tears in his eyes. He looked down at me and said, “Reverend, I want you to know that was the best I have ever heard anyone sing the national anthem.” What could I say? He was either lying or deaf. In my ears that was the worst I had ever heard anyone sing that powerful song. He said one more thing that remains etched in the granite of my soul. “I fought in the Korean War, and saw many of my fellow soldiers die. Every time I hear those words and see that flag, I cry like a child. You warmed my heart today. Thanks for taking your time and coming to our parade. You sure are a great singer.”

I thanked him, knowing full well that his exposure to great singers was severely limited. As I rode home, I made a pact that I would turn down any future opportunity to do acappella projects. I kept that promise for several years.

It wasn’t until the winter of 1993 that I sang the national anthem again in public. I was standing in the middle of a wrestling mat preparing to officiate a high school wrestling match. The athletic director asked the crowd to rise and honor our country. He pressed the button to play a Whitney Houston C.D., and it just wouldn’t play. He pressed it again and still nothing. You could hear the ripple of nervous laughter roll through the crowd as he said, “Well, I’m not going to sing it. I guess we’ll just have to go without it tonight.”

I had a flashback to that driveway and the encounter with a my tone-deaf friend. My heart said, “You sing it.” Without hesitation I looked at the school official and said, “May I have the microphone? I’ll sing it.” He looked at me and said, “Have at it.” I let it rip. Right key. Right place. Right time. I don’t know whether it was for my reffing or my singing, but from that night on I officiated at least one home match at that school every season.

The sincere words of a tall, gray-haired veteran helped me realize that notes weren’t the only thing that moves a heart. It’s the memories. I gained a new appreciation for those who served this nation, especially the ones who gave their lives. I am forever grateful for the tenderhearted soldier who took his time to mend my mistake and give patriotism a seat in my soul. He helped me understand the statement of the ancients that said, “Tell the next generation what these stones mean.”

“POOLING PENNIES FOR PERFUME”

Proverbs 31:8 “Her children arise and call her blessed….”

Affordability and diversity. They were the determining factors in Mother’s Day gifts. However, the range in both categories were “slim and two.” In a family of nine children the weekly allowance consisted of three squares and a roof over our heads. Outlays of cash were few and far between!

When Mother’s Day arrived, the common procedure was a pooling of pennies and a request for Mom to drop us off at the local shopping center. For the next few hours we walked the sidewalks hoping to outdo last year’s purchase. After treks through jewelry stores, Penny’s, and Sears, inevitably, we wound up at Old Faithful--Woolworth’s.

The whole brood would wander the aisles hoping to stumble upon a treasure for less than five bucks, but each year the consensus would steer us back to the front counter for another gaze at our old standby. Our wallet and the front counter had two things in common, Prince Machiavelli or Evening In Paris. The toughest decision on those warm Saturdays was which incredible fragrance we would bless our mother with tomorrow.

We made our purchase right before Mom picked us up at the back entrance to Sears. As we hid our prize all the way home, we’d play twenty questions to see if she could guess what we had come up with. Although I think she knew all along that it was one of the two affordable fragrances we gave her every year, she never once said either of their names. She kept the surprise alive.

When we arrived home, we scurried to find wrapping paper (sometimes it was yesterday’s newspaper), wrapped it as best we could, then hid the purple bottle somewhere that Mom would never look.

The next morning before church, out came the gift and up went Mother’s praise. She splashed a little on, and out the door we flew. The whole way there we could smell Mom’s new fragrance and feel the joy of giving from a poor man’s wallet.

I don’t think they make those fragrances any longer, but I’m sure if they did, I would recognize them. That aroma would bring back warm visions of Mom’s loving acts. Homemade spaghetti and meatballs, chicken pot pie, warm hugs and encouraging words. You may not believe this, but the thought of Evening In Paris still makes me think of how much Mom loved me and the ways she proved it.

At 72 pounds in seventh grade, I probably wasn’t much of a threat to the competition. But in my mother’s eyes, I was an athlete. I didn’t look like one. My wrestling uniform was three sizes too big. The straps were gathered at my shoulders and held tight with athletic tape. We couldn’t afford real wrestling shoes, so my P.F. Flyers were secured tightly to my feet with more athletic tape. How I looked didn’t matter to Mom. She was my biggest fan. And she never missed.

It didn’t snow often in my hometown, but the day of my first official wrestling match we got whacked with several inches. There was some question as to whether our meet would be canceled, but the coaches and officials decided to stay on schedule. I knew Mom wouldn’t be able to attend because we only had one car, and Dad was out of town.

Adorned in my mummified uniform, I joined the team in the locker room to prepare for the pre-match rituals just before it was time to run out around the mat to warm up. Every ounce of adrenaline that could be produced by a 72-pound weakling was pumping through my veins. I was the first one out the door. Running full speed, I spied Mom out of the corner of my eye sitting in the second row of the bleachers. I remember seeing her rubber see-through boots (with the little elastic eye hook that held them tight to keep out the snow) still on her feet. Mom was here! As I peered her direction to make sure she could see me, suddenly, my feet hit the curled-up edge of a wrestling mat that had been in storage all winter. I went flying, which caused the rest of the team to cascade into a helpless heap. I was so embarrassed. That was the last day I went out of the locker room first.

My first match wasn’t exactly an Olympic performance. I lost 17-2 and got turned every which way but loose. But it didn’t seem to matter to Mom. She just wiggled through three periods of me fighting off my back, and walked back home smiling proudly.

I learned something valuable that day: “Whether I won or lost, it had no effect on how much my mother loved me!”

It wasn’t a stretch for me to give all I had for a purple bottle of perfume. A snow-soaked mother made it all worthwhile.

"Wrecked But Not Ruined"

“WRECKED, BUT NOT RUINED”

ROMANS 12:14: “Bless those who persecute you, bless and do not curse.”

My first real car was not a car at all. It was a truck. A 1967 G.M.C. pick-up truck. The first time I saw it I had feelings of disappointment and hopelessness. My brother-in-law made a statement that will stick with me for the rest of my life.......... “DON’T LOOK AT IT FOR WHAT IT IS NOW, BUT FOR WHAT IT CAN BECOME.” Over the next several months we turned that finger painted primer mobile to a “MEAN GREEN MUSIC MACHINE.”

When we finally finished the truck I enjoyed summer rides down Kirkwood Highway with my girlfriend, Susan (now my wife). We listened to the top 40 on my 8-track player relishing every moment as people at red lights stared at the fruit of my labor. There was just something about that old truck that made me feel good. In the morning, I couldn’t wait to drive it. On the weekends, I couldn’t wait to wash it; and when people would come close to it, I couldn’t stand to have them mess with it. It was finished, and it needed to be protected. I would guard it in a scrupulous fashion. I was going to preserve this machine, and I did everything I could to see that nothing would soil it’s fine design. But that was soon to change.

One fall day when the leaves were just beginning to come to their peak colors, I was driving down the back roads of Yorklyn, Pa.. My friend Ben and I were returning from a football game. The music was playing (I think it was James Taylor’s “Rock-a-bye Sweet Baby James”), and the weather was beautiful. THAT IS WHEN IT HAPPENED! As I was approaching the bottom of the hill and stopping for the intersection’s stop sign, some 16-year-old in his mother’s car was going too fast, hit his breaks, and skidded out of control into the left front corner panel of my “MEAN GREEN MUSIC MACHINE.” That was “THE DAY THE MUSIC DIED.”

I could hear the metal crunch and see the shattered glass go flying across the intersection as we felt the impact. My heart sank, and my temperature rose. As I went to open the door, it sounded like the back door on our shed out in the yard. CreeeeeK!!!!! And then there was the “POP!!!!!” of the metal corner panel unlocking itself from the passenger door. I actually had to kick it open. I checked on the driver of the other car. He was all right. I checked on Ben; he was fine. Time now to survey the damage. I CRIED. “REAL TEARS!” The truck was smashed. Ruined? No! Wrecked? Yes! It was then I learned a valuable lesson.

“NO MATTER HOW HARD YOU TRY, YOU’RE GOING TO GET BROADSIDED!” You can’t avoid it. You can’t block it out. Sometime, someplace, you will meet with someone’s child driver. They will loose control, and you will find yourself pushing open the door, finding out if everyone is O.K., and then staring at broken parts, shattered glass, cracked paint and a dream gone to demolition.

As I stood at that intersection waiting for the police to arrive, I was already making a decision. What should I do with the truck? This accident wasn’t my fault. I was just plain innocent. I was hit broadside, and my belief in restoration was facing the test of resiliency. What was I going to do? Determine it was a wreck to be restored, or a waste declared ruined? Restoration was hard, but it was right. To bless when you’ve been burnt isn’t easy.

“She has every reason to be bitter. Though talented, she went unrecognized for years. Prestigious opera circles closed their ranks when she tried to enter. American critics ignored her compelling voice. She was repeatedly rejected for parts for which she was easily qualified. It was only after she went to Europe and won the hearts of the tough to please European audiences, that stateside opinion leaders acknowledged her talent.

Not only has her professional life been a battle, but her personal life was also marked by challenge. She is the mother of two handicapped children, one of whom is severely retarded. Years ago, in order to escape the pace of New York City, she purchased a home on Martha’s Vineyard. It burned to the ground two days before she was to move in.”

Professional rejection. Personal setbacks. Perfect soil for seeds of bitterness. A receptive field for the roots of resentment. But in this case, anger knocked and found no one home.

Her friends don’t call her bitter, they call her “Bubbles.” Beverly Sills. Internationally acclaimed opera singer. Retired director of the New York City Opera.
Her phrases are sugared with laughter. Her face is softened with serenity. Upon interviewing her, Mike Wallace stated that “she is one of the most impressive--if not the most impressive--ladies I’ve ever interviewed.”

How can a person handle such professional rejection and personal trauma and still be known as Bubbles? “I choose to be cheerful,” she says. “Years ago I knew I had little or no choice about success, circumstances or even unhappiness; but I knew I could choose to be cheerful.”

Have you been broadsided or betrayed lately? Amidst the broken glass and tested career, will you be known as bitter or Bubbles?

"GIVE FLOWERS WHILE YOU CAN SMELL THEM"

“GIVE FLOWERS WHILE YOU CAN SMELL THEM”

“But the greatest of these is love” I Corinthians 13:13

My parents always told me it is best to, “give flowers while you can smell them.” Here’s a sweet aroma we all can live by!

My grandparents were married for over half a century and played their own special game from the time they had met each other. The goal of their game was to write the word "shmily" in a surprise place for the other to find. They took turns leaving "shmily" around the house; and as soon as one of them discovered it, it was their turn to hide it once more. They dragged "shmily" with their fingers through the sugar and flour containers, to await whoever was preparing the next meal. They smeared it in the dew on the windows overlooking the patio (where my grandma always fed us warm, homemade pudding with blue food coloring). "Shmily" was written in the steam left on the mirror after a hot shower, where it would reappear bath after bath. At one point, my grandmother even unrolled an entire roll of toilet paper, to leave "shmily" on the very last sheet.

There was no end to the places "shmily" would pop up. Little notes with "shmily" scribbled hurriedly were found on dashboards and car seats, or taped to steering wheels. The notes were stuffed inside shoes and left under pillows. "Shmily" was written in the dust upon the mantel and traced in the ashes of the fireplace. This mysterious word was as much a part of my grandparents' house as the furniture.

It took me a long time before I was able to fully appreciate my grandparents' game. Skepticism has kept me from believing in true love, one that is pure and enduring. However, I never doubted my grandparents' relationship. They had love down pat. Their relationship was based on a devotion and passionate affection, which not everyone is fortunate enough to experience. Grandma and Grandpa held hands every chance they could. They stole kisses, as they bumped into each other in their tiny kitchen. They finished each other's sentences and shared the daily crossword puzzle and word jumble. My grandma whispered to me about how cute my grandpa was, how handsome he had become, as he grew gracefully older. She claimed that she really knew "how to pick 'em."

Before every meal they bowed their heads and gave thanks, marveling at their blessings: a wonderful family, good fortune and each other. But, there was a dark cloud in my grandparents' lives: my grandmother had breast cancer. The disease had first appeared ten years earlier. As always, Grandpa was with her every step of the way. He comforted her in their yellow room, painted that way so she could always be surrounded by sunshine, even when she was too sick to go outside.

Now the cancer was again attacking her body. With the help of a cane and my grandfather's steady hand, they went to church every morning. But, my grandmother grew steadily weaker, until, finally, she could not leave the house anymore. For a while, Grandpa would go to church alone, praying to God to watch over his wife. Then one day, what we all dreaded finally happened. Grandma was gone.

"Shmily." It was scrawled in yellow on the pink ribbons of my grandmother's funeral bouquet. As the crowd thinned and the last mourners turned to leave, my aunts, uncles, cousins and other family members came forward and gathered around Grandma one last time. Grandpa stepped up to my grandmother's casket, and (taking a shaky breath) he began to sing to her.

Through his tears and grief, the song came (a deep and throaty lullaby). Shaking with my own sorrow, I will never forget that moment. For I knew that (although I couldn't begin to fathom the depth of their love) I had been privileged to witness its' unmatched beauty. S-h-m-i-l-y: See How Much I Love You.

Thank you, Grandma and Grandpa, for letting me see. (Author unknown)

“DAVID AND THE CINDER TRACK FOX”

“DAVID AND THE CINDER TRACK FOX”

Hebrew 12:1 “Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles, and let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us.”

4 x 100 meters, or as it is known by true track aficionados, the 4 by 1. Four runners, three hand offs and a shot of jet fuel at the passing of the baton. From middle school to the Olympics the scene never changes…wear as little as possible, don’t false start and don’t drop the baton. Did you see that? Wear as little as possible. I love what Tom Peters said in his book entitled In Search of Excellence, “Be brilliant in the basics and keep things simple in a complex world.”

In the world of sprinting the trend has been just that. Lightweight and unobstructed is in vogue. Uniforms for sprinting have gone from the most famous runners in the world wearing cotton shorts and a tank top to almost no weight nylon singlets.

Lightweight and focused were the themes of the writer of Hebrews, who was obviously a track fan. He warned us that excess weight and sin would “easily entangle us.” Weight? “A burdensome load which hands us a handicap.” Sin? Distracting negative activity outside the track that frays our focus. World class runners travel light and keep life simple.

Thirty years ago, on a rural cinder track in upstate Missouri there was a 4 x 1 race laced with anonymity. No press…no crowd and surely no world record. The anchor leg for the day was David, not a sprinter; he was only on the team because he was dating the coach’s daughter. You date my daughter, you run track, and it’s that simple. The coach, was Mr. Fox who to this day is affectionately known only as Fox. That’s it, no mister, no coach…just Fox.

On this cold and cloudy spring day David was waiting for the baton in his passing zone still in his sweats. His plan was to take the sweats off when the first hand off was successfully completed. The transition was successful so off came the sweats.

Fox was a screamer, and this day was no different. He began at the starting blocks and made his way around the infield to every passing of the baton. When he came to David he was screaming like a brontosaurus. “DAVIIIIIIIIIIIIIID!!!!!!!” “DAVIIIIIIIIIIIIIID!!!!!!!” All David was thinking was “Fox, leave me alone. I am trying to focus.”

Fox screamed again, “DAVIIIIIIIIIIIIIID!!!!!!!” “DAVIIIIIIIIIIIIIID!!!!!!!” David screamed back, “Fox, leave me alone I am trying to focus!!!!” To which Fox replied; “You don’t have any pants on!” From then on it was a mad scramble to stay in your assigned lane, catch a pair of shorts thrown from the infield and get them locked and loaded before the baton showed up. In twenty seconds David went from overexposed anchor to a ready runner.

Extra weights will only trip us up on our journey toward triumph. The time has come to throw off the extra weight and get focused. Always remember, when you’re striving toward mastery, travel light…just not too light.

Alert but not alarmed

“ALERT, BUT NOT ALARMED”

Acrophobia? Agoraphobia? Algophobia? Arachnophobia? Brontophobia? Lygophobia? Panophobia? You may not recognize the first half of these words, but most likely you are familiar with the second. From heights, open spaces, crowded places, pain, spiders, thunder, lightening, and darkness, to the fear of everything. Phobias affect us all! Everybody fears something. Even Superman was afraid of Kryptonite.

Jesus understood this fact. However He was concerned that we not become focused on our fears. One time He said to His disciples, “I have told you these things so that in me you will have peace. In this world you will have trouble (tight spots, pressing pressures, fears), but be of good cheer, I have overcome the world” (John 16:33).

Several years ago a friend of mine was speaking in New York City. The church he preached in had bars on the windows, and the people had every reason to be concerned about the environment. My friend asked the pastor how he handled the concerns of the congregation. The inner city pastor responded: “It’s really no problem. We live by the code: “be alert, but don’t be alarmed!” I will always remember that. It makes sense.

This principle became reality in my life 25 years ago. “There’s cracks in that dock, Dad. I can see the water down below.” Those were the words of a 5 year old who was quite concerned about walking on water, even though there was a dock to keep him dry. But when you’ve almost drowned twice in your first five years of life, water takes on a whole new meaning. Instead of splashing and swimming, you feel paralysis and panic.

As I walked with my pre-school child along a perfectly safe dock in Baltimore, Maryland, I realized that as his father it was going to be up to me to make sure he had a healthy fear of water. I stooped down to his level, looked him right in the eye and said, “those two times you almost drowned still scare you, don’t they?” “Yeah,” he replied. We ventured on. As we walked slowly out to the boats, there was still a little tremble in his step; but he got over the fear, and we enjoyed the boats. Anxious? Yes. Panicked? No. By the way, this past summer he caught a fifty-pound Tuna fish, 47 miles out into the Atlantic ocean.

That moment brought back the old principle I learned several years ago: “sheep scatter sheep, SHEPHERDS SETTLE SHEEP.” Loving leaders make sure we know there will be pain, but they don’t push the panic button every time there are cracks in the walkway. Paul told Timothy, “God has not given us the spirit of fear, but of power, love and a sound mind.”

Overcoming fear is found when you meet the man who proclaimed that he was the “Good Shepherd.” His name is Jesus. He hasn’t come to Scatter the Sheep by filling their lives with panic. He has come to Settle the Sheep by bringing peace. The next time your phobias kick in remember the “Good Shepherd” is with you. Be alert, but not alarmed!

Three most dangerous people.

"THE THREE MOST DANGEROUS PEOPLE IN THE WORLD"

Proverbs 21:16 "A man who strays from the path of understanding comes to rest in the company of the dead."

Some people are just flat dangerous. I am not talking about stalkers, murderers and borderline personality disorders. I am referring to people who get in way over their head.

In 1980 I took a trip with some college buddies to the state of New York to do some summer missions work on an Indian reservation. Our main job was to tear down an old barn to make room for a small parking lot. Throughout the project there was a former Eagle Scout who taught me how to tie knots in the two inch thick rope we were using to pull out the main supports. By the weeks end I thought for sure I was a master knotsman.

On the final day of our community service we were treated to a swim in the Niagara river. It wasn't a treacherous body of water, but deep and swift enough to thrill a few college sophomores. We all decided to jump from the bridge and let the current carry us between the shore and a small island off to our left. Off we went like horses released from a starting gate. The shoreline was only about fifty yards away and all but one of us arrived there quickly and safely.

As we stood on the shore we noticed that one of our team was still on the bridge. Then he jumped. He was no further than twenty five feet down the rapids when he screamed, "somebody help me...I don't know how to swim." A plethora of frustrating thoughts raced through my noggin, however, my sympathetic nerve system kick in, and I jumped in, grabbed him around the chest and let the current carry us to the island. As we stood on the shore I asked him if I could just swim him across the twenty feet to the other side. He was emphatic: "NOPE, I am petrified; I will only go across if I am tied to a rope."

No Problem...I was now a master knotsman. I yelled to one of the guys on shore to get me a rope and throw it to us so we could swim across to safety. In less than five minutes I had the rope and our not so wise friend tethered and ready. Into the water we went. A rope tied to his waist, my arm around his chest in twenty feet of rushing water. I screamed "Pull" and they did, so hard that my not so perfect knot came unknotted in a millisecond. I was now left with a frantic and panicked non swimmer in the middle of the den of death. I swam like crazy and in a few seconds we were on the other side. He was grateful and I was mad. Not because he didn't know how to swim and I nearly had a catastrophe on my hands. I was mad because my knot came out. I had personally assured him that I knew how to tie a knot and there was no way he was going to slip out.

For a brief moment in time I had become what I now term, "All three of the most dangerous men in the world." I had become a man "(1) who knew what he knew, but he didn't know much, (2) who was sincere but sincerely wrong and (3) who doesn't know what he doesn't know."

Believe me, I was sincere, I thought I knew how to tie knots and I was a good swimmer, but lifesaving was not my expertise. I am sure that most of us won't face life and death situations, but when get in over your head...call for the experts.

WHY JESUS CAME

“WHY JESUS SAID HE CAME”

LUKE 4:18 The spirit of the Lord is upon me because he has anointed me to preach good news to the poor.”

“Once, a young sculptor fell deeply in love with the woman of his dreams. They were made for each other, having similar interests, sharing values, and agreeing on the priorities of life. A wedding took place, and the marriage was as fresh and exciting as the courtship.

However, tragedy struck when it was found that she had an incurable disease. After his wife’s death, the artist desired to dedicate a work of art to her memory. He created a magnificent sculpture that was chosen to adorn a new plaza in the middle of town. The work was instantly popular, so much so that the young artist’s work was all at once in great demand.

A year later several more of the young man’s works were added. He became so well known that art lovers would travel from throughout the region to view his work. Eventually, the plaza area was so cluttered with art pieces that some of them had to be removed. A friend asked what the piece of work in the center of the plaza was intended for, since it was the least popular of all the sculptures. The young artist agreed that it looked out of place and ordered it removed. What was once the centerpiece of his work and his driving force, had become unimportant and obsolete. So it was replaced.

Notice that the driving force did not suddenly become unimportant, but slowly became obsolete. Thanks to author Max Lucado we have a friendly reminder of just what can happen to Christmas.

Is the message that Jesus gave to the poor still relevant? It is if you know the definition of poor. How poor are you?

·You’re poor if you run out of answers. Jonah did.

·You’re poor if you run out of patience. Moses did.

·You’re poor if you run out of strength. Paul did.

·You’re poor if you run out of friends. John the Revelator did.

·You’re poor if you run out of safety. Joseph did.

·You’re poor if you run out of support. Joshua did.

·You’re poor if you run out of discipline. David did.

·You’re poor if you run out of money. Nehemiah did.

·You’re poor if you run out of food. Elijah did.

·You’re poor if you run out of wisdom. Job did.

·You’re poor if you run out of health. Namaan did.

·You’re poor if you run out of protection. Daniel, Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego did.

·You’re poor if you run out of God’s hope. The prodigal did.

·You’re poor if you run out of determination. Paul did.

·You’re poor if you run out of man’s approval. Jesus did.

·You’re poor if you run out of morality. David did.

·You’re poor if you run out of perseverance. James did.

·You’re poor if you run out of love. A humiliated prostitute did.

·You’re poor if you run out of optimism. We all will.

Jude said, “Be merciful to those who doubt, snatch others from the fire and save them, to others show mercy mixed with fear.”

Gallup reports that in 1963, 65 % of all Americans believed the Bible was infallible; that number dropped to 37% in 1982. Why? Charles Colson believes it is because the prevailing attitudes of the culture have thoroughly infiltrated the ranks of faith and belief.

Though Christians say they hold fast to the truths of God’s word, they are succumbing to relativism and modern cynicism. It is no wonder really, that millions sit in the pew on Sunday and never bother to think about what they believe or why; thus they are easy prey for the trendy clichés that dismiss scripture.

The English word “gospel” is derived from two words---God which means: “good” and spell an old Saxon word meaning “a word or speech.” The word gospel means “a good message.” Has the “good news” that was once the centerpiece of your world become unimportant and obsolete? Has it caused you to become poor? If that is the case, Jesus has a good message. Call on him, his LIFE is not unimportant or obsolete.