"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.