New Site Test

I am testing a new site to continue the growth of this little venture.  Point your clicker here to view the site as it is being built:   http://rebarron.wordpress.com/

Be patient with design... the content is as poorly written as ever....

The aged wood is beginning to reveal its weaknesses against the power of the weather; cracks and chips follow its sinewy grain.  The door hangs at a slight angle, giving way to the rise and fall and movement in the frame of the house itself; floating slightly with the spring rains, sinking again with the cooler weather and contracting concrete slab.

The door has translucent panels of yellow glass that sets off the dark brown stain.  Hardware is more than 30 years old, original with the house and the heavy door placed in its protective, yet friendly station in the mid-'70's.

Yesterday, we lost the doorknob.

For weeks, it had showed signs of weakness.  We thought it was simply cold, and would recover with warmer weather this week.  We were wrong, and yesterday, the knob- the heart of the front door- died.

From inside the house, I removed the knob and its coverplate, revealing its internal organs and mechanical apparattus that allowed the knob to function so well for so long.  I could not find any reason for failure, and I decided that the knob must be replaced.  With only the strike bolt in place, we prepared to say farewell to the old knob and to begin the search for its replacement.

But the striker bolt refused to budge.  I tapped it lightly with a scredriver handle.  I struck it forcefully with a hammer and chisel.  As little pieces of metal were flying off in all directions, I assumed that we would soon have a replacement knob in place, and we could actually use the door again.

Sadly, I was mistaken.

Today, I removed the hinge pins in an effort to remove the door from the back side of the frame.  I would not be denied use of the front door of my own home!  Pushing; pulling; lifting; prying.  Again, the door refused to budge.  The heavy, weather-worn wooden door that had served as our protector from the outside for so long, has turned against us.  It is now our captor.

We are now on day two without the use of our front door.  The deadbolt locked; the hinge pins replaced; and the outer half of the knob in place so the neighbors wouldn't see a towel sticking through the gaping hole to block the cold weather.

And tonight I will dream of the day when the difficult and obstinate old striker bolt gives way, and we can replace the door knob for good.  Soon.... someday soon.

Middle of the Road Churches

William C. Taylor writes in his new book, Practically Radical:


        "Imagine any and every field possible. There are so many brands, so many choices, so many claims, so much clutter, that the central challenge is for an organization or an individual is to rise above the fray. It’s not good enough anymore to be “pretty good” at everything. You have to be the most of something: the most elegant, the most colorful, the most responsive, the most accessible.

        For decades, organizations and their leaders were comfortable with strategies and practices that kept them in the middle of the road—that’s where the customers were, so that’s what felt safe and secure.

Today, with so much change and uncertainty, so much pressure and new ways to do things, the middle of the road is the road to nowhere.

        As Jim Hightower, the colorful Texas populist, is fond of saying, “There’s nothing in the middle of the road but yellow stripes and dead armadillos.”

        We might add: companies and their leaders struggling to stand out from the crowd, as they play by the same old rules in a crowded marketplace.

        Are you the most of anything?"

        In these paragraphs, you can replace the words "field", "organizations", and "companies" with the word "church".  Query: Are we content with a church that looks, acts, worships, and reaches (or doesn't reach) people the same as every other church in our market?  

I believe it is time to get the church out of the middle of the road.  Stretch!  Squeeze!  Move!  Change!  Reach!  Focus!  Simplify!  Prioritize!  Be the Most!

The Cost of Discipleship

I stand (sit at my desk, actually) convicted by these words, written ages ago by Deitrich Bonhoffer:

“He wants to follow, but feels obliged to insist on his own terms. Discipleship to him is a possibility which can only be realized with certain conditions have been fulfilled. This is to reduce discipleship to the level of the human understanding. First you must do this and then you must do that. There is a right time for everything. The disciple places himself at the Master’s disposal, but at the same time retains the right to dictate his own terms. But then discipleship is no longer discipleship, but a programme of our own. . . .”

When God calls, go. Do not try to see how it fits into yours or anyone else's plans. Do not dictate your terms. God has plans. When you find them, though you may not understand them, you will find they fit.

Life is Good!

Hoops Season is Here!

Today is the day!

It's snowing on our little hillside in Oklahoma this morning. Morning temp around 0 to 1 degrees is seemingly squeezing the moisture out of the air and packing it into little snowflakes that dust the roads and fills in where the Christmas Eve blizzard has melted in the yard. Beautiful.

It is a beautiful backdrop for the best of winter sports, basketball! My daughter's team will meet in a few short hours to play the first game of the season. It will be a challenge, but they are ready!

Let's go get 'em!

Roll...... SEC!

The University of Alabama has just defeated the Unversity of Texas in the national championship game in college football. Pasadena and the Rose Bowl (sponsored by CITI) played host to the big game, and was a gracious host city. The hype, the pre-game buzz, the months of trash-talking has come to an exciting end. And I wish I could say I couldn't be happier.

Truth is, I could be happier.

Let me say this now: I don't hate Texas. I am neutral towards Texas and all Big 12 schools and teams. I live in a Big 12 state, yet I feel nothing.

But I do hate The University of Alabama.

Let me elaborate.

As a child who grew up in TENNESSEE, there was never an option to like alabama. As kids, when we played a pick-up game of football, one team was always TENNESSEE and the other was always alabama. And even if the team called "alabama" was winning, the team knew it was inevitable that the team called "TENNESSEE" was going to come from behind for a big win. Even if the team called "alabama" had to purposefully fumble, throw an interception, or miss a tackle or two. There was no way "alabama" was gonna win. They could not stand the peer pressure, the beatings, the broken friendships if they did win. So, it's sort of a socially genetic condition that prevents me from pulling for the team from Tuscaloosa.

Which is odd, knowing that my mom grew up in Alabama. That we have precious family who still live in Alabama. I have experienced some of my favorite memories while visiting my family in Alabama. I have high-school friends whose children attend that school over there. Birmingham and Sand Mountain are two of my favorite places to visit.

Yet here I sit, thrilled that Texas made a game of it, but still with just a little bitterness in my heart when I think that for the next year, I will time and time again hear the 5 worst words imaginable in college football- "Alabama- The Defending National Champions".

So, I will default to my optimistic, 'my glass is always half full' attitude, and celebrate a BCS record 6 wins for the Southeastern Conference this season in the Bowl Championship Series. And as I recall, the last 4 BCS National Champions are from my beloved SEC.

I can rest, knowing that the University of Alabama has added to the storied history of the SEC. And I can persevere through the next season, hearing those five dreaded words.

Sadly, next season, the five words will probably turn to seven: "Alabama- The Two-Time Defending National Champions".

Roll.... SEC!

Weather Update...

It's a balmy 18 degrees.

No snow.

Beautifully sunny day.

No vacation day for me.

Get a Grip, People....

It's official. It's winter here in Oklahoma.

We have had snow on the ground for about two weeks, and supposedly more is on the way. Bitter, frigid temperatures hovering below the -0- mark are in store for us over the next few days. And maybe, just maybe, and inch of snow.

And so, all schools are closed tomorrow, some for Friday as well.

There is no milk or bread at Wal-Mart.

Church attendance tonight was so low that we didn't take an offering.

And the internets are abuzz with criticisms of all kinds- critical of having classes in this horrible weather; critical of not having classes just because it might get cold; critical of those being critical...

Get a grip, people. Decisions have been made. Don't waste a minute of your lives griping about a decision that was not yours to make. Not only is the decision not yours to make, the responsibility for that decision is not yours to carry.

Me? I'm gonna enjoy a day at home with my girls who are out of school.

But I'd better go find a store that has some bread and milk..... the weather is awful!





Life is good!

The Relativity of Sacrifice

One of our friends at The Springs donated a jacket for the homeless.

Not an unusual story, until you hear the backstory behind the donation.

Anne (not her real name) has had a hard life. A single parent of three boys (one living in Alaska), working two jobs while living in a housing complex for single and abused mothers and their kids, Anne has enough on her plate to keep her busy. Rent, gas, school supplies, all constant worries.

But God has done something in Anne's heart.

Anne needed a stove in her apartment to be able to keep living there. And God provided her a stove through some connections with our downtown campus.

Moved that someone would offer help for her family without knowing or judging her, Anne was determined to pass the blessing along. However, with her current life situation, extra funds were just not possible. Then the weather turned very cold, and God gave her an idea.

One of the cherished items from her past is an authentic leather Dale Earnhardt Jr. racing jacket. A holdover from better times, Anne decided that someone else might make better use of the jacket rather than it living in a closet as a collector's item.

So, Anne donated a jacket to the homeless.

Worth more than $250, this jacket, once sold, will purchase winter coats for 8 or 10 homeless people in Tulsa. And oh, what Anne could use that money for....

It is Anne's desire to help someone else. Anne chose to give sacrificially.

How long has it been since we have actually sacrificed something valuable to us for someone else? Maybe it's time....

The Worst of the Worst

As the self-confessed worst blogger in all history, I thought I'd break out my 2010 New Year's resolution article today, on January 2, 2010.

If this were a serious attempt to mend my broken ways and become more committed to sharing simple stories from my simple life, I would have written yesterday, January 1. But this is the best I can do for now, and it feels good to have a new article in the January 2010 list on my front page.

The holiday season is technically past, unless you count Martin Luther King's Birthday (January 18th) or the combination of Valentine's Day and President's Day as one holiday (February 14th and 15th, successively). I don't count them because I have to work all those days, so they are just another day for me. We've invested time in putting away all the decorations in their closets where they live the other 11 months of the year; finding places for the new toys, gadgets, and gee-gaws that were received for Christmas. By the way, I vote for sainthood for whomever invented re-gifting! We struggle to find new ways to serve leftover turkey and ham and Reese's Peanut Butter Cups. We dread the closet because we know our clothes will be uncomfortably tight, and that's where we hid the sweater vest we received from Uncle Carl. That sweater should never again see the light of day.

One thing, however, that will remain unpacked and storage-free is how this season of celebration changed me. I have been reminded of the love my family has for me; the power of words; and the brevity of our time here in this life. I have seen how little it takes to make someone happy; and how often we neglect to make those little gestures. Of how hard it is to take care of ourselves and to allow others to care for us as well.

I remember that the journey the Magi took, following the star in the East, took years. The Baby was no longer a baby when they showed up with all their gifts. In our church, He would be in the Toddler 2 department....

My journey has taken, is taking, and will continue to take years of following Christ, of reading and taking to heart His words in the Bible, and shedding all the stuff in me that doesn't look like Him. While I have no precious jewels, or fragrances, or gold to offer, He doesn't ask for those things.

I do have what He asks for- my life; every part of it. I also am learning that that is a good thing- to let the Lord be the Shepherd and for me to be the sheep. His rod and His staff will protect and save me, and He will provide for me. He promises that as His sheep, with Him as Shepherd, that I shall not want.

There is a better translation than want- because I still want stuff (let's see, a new Tahoe, an AR, membership at the gun range, a 56"plasma HDTV.....); the better translation is that He will provide everything I need to do what He asks me to do.

So how hard can that be?

Harder than it seems.

So, we'll pack away the things that don't matter much, and hold on to the things that do.

Family.

Love.

Christ.

Hopefully my next article, will be much more timely than this. I don't want to always be known as the worst blogger of the bad bloggers. If I can achieve the level of the best of the worst... I could live with that.

Life is Good!

Merry Christmas

It's early on Christmas Eve morning. The house is quiet, except for the sound of the coffee pot and our local meteorologist friend telling us about the rain, sleet, and snow on the way. The only illumination in the room is from the beautifully decorated tree, filled with lights and with ornaments from years past, each with a history, a story of its own.

In a few hours, we'll rip through the presents under the tree (we're supposed to travel to visit family tomorrow) and the quiet will give way to the happy celebration of a family blessed beyond measure.

But now, for a precious few minutes, I have time to think about the blessings of this day and this celebration- a happy, healthy family; a warm and safe home to protect us from the elements; good friends with whom we journey together through this life.

I am especially thankful for a Savior, born as a baby, who changed the world. My world. Your world, too, if you let Him. I am thankful for grace, forgiveness, and second chances; for hope and a future.

For coffee and a warm bed. I've decided to pile back in. The day will start soon enough.

On the Necessity of Alarm Clocks

As a young teenager, getting permission to hunt by myself was always a big deal. One fall morning, I persuaded my parents to let me hunt with my best hunting buddy growing up. We'll call him Roger (I could say that I changed his name to protect his identity, but then, really, how would you know?). Better than that, I was privileged to take my dad's prize Belgian-made Browning A-5 12 gauge shotgun, famous for recoil that could pummel the unsuspecting shoulder and knock slobber from your sinuses. It was a beast, but it was mine for a day!

We set a time and place to meet in the squirrel woods across the road from my house, and up the road from his. We wanted to hunt early, while the squirrels were most active, so we decided to meet at first light at the big oak that stood at the center of that part of the woods. We knew it to be a den tree, and to contain more than one family of squirrels.

Active imagination and youthful anticipation kept sleep at bay, so I got up early and dressed. I packed a lunch and my hunting vest and took out, still too dark to see anything but the stars still twinkling overhead. The walk to the big oak was less than a half mile from the house, but I just couldn't wait at home, so I decided to walk on over, and just wait for Roger at the tree.

Down the drive, maybe 100 yards east down the gravel road, then north in the neighbor's drive. I would follow that drive up to the creek, then head west to the wood line. I followed the wood line north through a pasture, then a grassy opening, until I arrived at the small opening that led to the big oak.

It was still dark when I arrived at the opening, and even darker inside the wood beneath the fall canopy that had not yet fallen. I decided to sit at the base of a small cottonwood and wait for dawn. I sat on my vest, and cradled the Browning between my knees, barrel straight up.

When I awoke, the sun was up and Roger was yelling for me. He hadn't seen me, nor I him. As sleep faded and the haziness turned to sharp focus, I saw them. Hundreds. Thousands. Hundreds of thousands...

In the wee hours of that morning, some kind of spider invasion had happened while I slept. Garden spiders were everywhere, as far as I could see. They were on my boots; my pants; a web was under construction between the cottonwood and my gun barrel. Above my head.

I jumped up, dropped the Browning, and brushed my clothes. No, I beat my clothes as if I were on fire while screaming like a schoolgirl.

When I was sure that I was not about to die from spider poison, and that arachnids had not taken residence in my hair or laid eggs in my inner ears, I stopped to evaluate.

Vest, gone. Stripped when I realized I was not on fire and that it had lots of pockets.

Jacket, gone. Again, pockets.

Hat, gone. I used it for a while to beat the spiders to death. Lost it while running and screaming like a schoolgirl.

Shotgun-

Dang... it was still in the twilight zone.... on the ground.... Dad would not be pleased.

It took a few minutes to gather my wits and return to the meadow and retrieve my hunting clothes and gun. Carefully, I picked up a dead tree limb to use in defense against the marauding spiders. A very long tree limb.

Eventually I gathered my clothes and my gun, and met Roger under the tree. He had heard me screaming, but did not see the garden of spiders. I don't think he believed me, either.

We hunted the rest of the morning, but I never saw a squirrel.

I was too busy looking toward the ground.

You and Me

"Cold" just wasn't a strong enough word.

I had been in the stand since well before first light; first, stumbling through thick briers and underbrush before walking in circles looking for the blaze orange strip of plastic that led to my stand.

Ten degrees was the readout on the thermometer when Dad and I left camp, but another front was crawling through, dropping the temp toward zero along with a heavy, wet snow.

My stand was high in a dead oak tree, still strong, despite years of decay and rot. The wind rocked the stand a little, but that was not so bad. I couldn't help, though, but wonder about the weight of the snow now piling up on my stand, the limb on which my stand sat, my gear, and on me.

By eight-fifteen, there was about two inches of snow on the limb where my rifle rested; the overcast skies above heavy with snow yet to fall. The ends of my soda can were bulging with the expanding pressure of frozen Diet Coke trapped inside. I had tried to take a drink earlier, but I couldn't pull the tab because I could not feel my finger tips. So it was sitting on the stand, the lone item that was not hidden in camouflage or blaze orange.

By nine o'clock, I mostly held my head down so the snow would not fall behind my glasses and get into my eyes. My runny nose would run down the tip, but would not drop; it froze in the hairs on my upper lip. From time to time, I had to wipe it off. I never understood why it would freeze, when I was breathing out warm air through my nose. I guess some things aren't meant to be understood.

I was careful to look around, always watching for the deer that we had come to find. While some hunt for sport, some for trophies or recognition, we hunted for food. Not that any other reason is bad, the reasons are just different. When you hunt for food for the table, you go out earlier, stay out longer, and come back later than most.

But on days like today, the deer tend to find a dry spot in coverage and bed down, wait it out. The hairs on the outer coats are hollow, and hold warm air as insulation from harsh winter weather. They can be found covered in snow, bedded down, quite comfortable.

I voted to bed down myself. I had lost the feeling in my feet hours ago, and I could feel my sinuses about to drain down the back of my throat, causing a coughing fit that would render my wait in the stand worthless.

With great effort, I stood as quietly as possible. Dad was still in the woods somewhere, and I didn't want to ruin his hunt with my noise. Just as I stood, I heard a crash at the base of the oak. I looked over carefully, hoping to see the buck I have worked so hard to harvest, but instead saw the Diet Coke can on its side, spewing its contents all over the underbrush. I knocked it off when I stood.

I carefully lowered my rifle and my backpack by rope; then climbed painfully down the seventeen ladder steps to the snow-covered ground.

When it is cold like that, and still, and overcast, the sound of the snow falling is fascinating. Nowhere else in nature is found that muffled sound of a heavy snowfall in the hardwoods. Occasionally, you hear the limbs shift under the weight, and some old dried leaves will rattle, but mostly you hear.... you hear.... the sound of nothing.

I walked out of the woods to the ancient logging road that wound through the hardwoods, up to the pine thicket, then to the edge of the bean field where we were camped. The remains of the morning fire were still smoldering; probably the only thing that could survive the cold snow was fire.

As I approached, I saw my Dad's Remington 742 leaning against the camper, and I was glad to see it. It was never a good thing to be the first one back to camp on a tough day, so at least I wouldn't have to live with that. Not today, anyway.

As I opened the door, I saw my Dad standing there, making sandwiches.

"You a quitter?", joked my Dad, knowing that he had quit first.

"Yep, I'm a quitter... just like you", I replied, knowing we would be back in the woods in just a little while.

"You know," my Dad said "there are only two kinds of people who would hunt in weather like this."

"Really?", I said, knowing I was about to gain some of my Dad's quirky wisdom.

"Yup. You and me."

I was a sophomore in high school that winter we camped along the edge of the state park in West Tennessee. It had been a difficult time; my older sister in college, Dad's work not going well; me growing too big for my britches as sophomore boys will do. But how I cherished those words "You and me". How I cherish them even more now that Dad is gone.

I wanted something hot for lunch, to warm me on the inside. I looked through the groceries we had brought, but didn't see anything that we could whip up in a hurry. So, Dad walked out into the snow with a cast-iron skillet, set it on the fire, and dropped a hunk of butter in to grease the pan. When the butter was sizzling, he dropped two peanut butter and banana sandwiches in the skillet. The bread soaked up the butter and quickly began to sear the bread. He flipped them over, repeating the process for the second side.

I cannot tell you how tantalizingly wonderful that sandwich smelled! The warmth of the fire, the toasty bread and melting peanut butter... oh, I cannot tell you the wonderful flavors we enjoyed! They were so good, Dad made us two more, and cooked them on the fire, just to make sure the first was not a mistake.

And as good as the sandwiches were, they could not compare to the warmth of the camaraderie we shared around the fire. Even at night, sleeping inside the frosty camper, we talked well past talking time. We talked about work; about school; about life. Something special was happening to us at camp, and it started with the fried peanut butter and banana sandwiches. And it never really ended until my Dad went to his eternal home last Easter.

You and me. These are powerful words.

And I have tried to fry those peanut butter and banana sandwiches a few times since then.

They are awful.

Some things aren't meant to be understood.

Speaking in Tongues

I have always known my father to be a caring, loving father. But I forgotten how "holy" he was until recently when I was walking through some old memories of my dad when I was a young pup of 9 or 10.

One specific remembrance comes to mind of a sweltering southern summer morning when we wanted to go to the River. Now, the River is not necessarily a holy place, but we spent a lot of time there, and when we weren't there, we were thinking about being there.

On this particular day, we needed bait so we could bait our lines stretched across the muddy unknown bottom of the River. We stopped at a deep drainage ditch, full of the previous night's rainfall. The ditch was about three and a half feet wide, and the spot we were working was about six feet long. The water was probably only two feet deep, but at that time, that was deep water to me.

We were seining that little stretch of water for crawdads. Catfish love crawdads, and plus, they were free, if we could catch 'em in our seine. Those little devils are fast.

Dad stood on one end, his work pants rolled up to his knees revealing pasty white legs and bare feet. I stood opposite my dad, wearing denim shorts and a shirt my mom had warned me to not get dirty. The Tennessee clay oozed between my toes, triggering all kinds of fight or flight responses in my kiddish mind.

The job was simple, really. Hold the net to the bottom of the ditch, and across to both sides, creating a trap from which the crawdads could not escape. And while holding the net tight in those three dimensions, I would walk the net- and the bait- towards my dad. I had to keep the net on the bottom, and against both sides of the ditch. In my good shirt. Barefoot. And those little suckers are fast.

Dad was in a bit of a hurry, because it took some time to bait all the lines, wait for the fish, and then run the lines to gather the fish. Back then, he could get impatient really quickly.

I was not in much of a hurry, due to the shirt and bare feet mentioned above. And again, those little suckers are fast.

I think I had fallen two or three times and wasted ten minutes, with nothing to show for my effort (not even a clean shirt) when I heard my dad really get in the spirit- he raised is hands to the air, looked into the heavens, and let fly with a long string of words unknown to my ears that signified one thing- daddy was speaking in tongues!

My dad put on a verbal display of spirituality that would make a charismatic blush with envy. His voice was as strong as any preacher, unknown words flowing like milk and honey. And while I didn't understand the words, I wondered if the expression on his face was what Moses looked like when he came down from the mountain to find all the golden idols his people had made in his absence.

Suddenly fearing that my dad was about to call down fire from heaven, I made well sure I got my sticks in the muddy bottom, my net across both sides, and with a mighty rush we must have wiped out two full generations of crawdads in one fell swoop.

We hurriedly got our gear back in the truck, and with our hard-earned bait, we fished until well after dark.

We never spoke of that day again, but one question has always lingered.....

Who was the interpreter?

Joy in the Morning

The following tale is one that may lead many to exorcise the mental images to follow. Be warned; be ware.

This morning found me running a little late; therefore I had just stepped out of the shower when I heard the rap on the restroom door.

"Who is it?", I asked...

"It's me, Madilyn" came the cheerful, almost giddy response. "Oh, great", I thought, as I stood there wearing only a towel and a mouthful of toothbrush.

"Just a minute", I yelled, as I quickly toweled off so I could slip into the clothes that nobody but me sees; the clothes I wear under the clothes that I wear that everybody sees.

"Whaddya need, Sweet Pea?" I asked through the final rinse of Colgate toothpaste. "I just need a hug, Daddy", she sang. "I need a Daddy hug before I go to school".

While my heart melted and I slipped on my clothes, I heard her say "I'll just give you a hug through the door", and she proceeded to hug me in her mind, complete with the soothing sweet sounds of a 10-year-old's gi-normous hug.

Now that just would not do. Still a little damp and barely clothed, I opened the door to see her standing there, with her arms crossed and eyes closed, hugging me in her mind. She wore a smile that could outshine the Milky Way galaxy on a sunny day.

Now with my heart full, I gave her the biggest hug I could, and sent her off, smiling the joyful smile of a contented little girl.

Have you ever seen another person's expression when they hug you and they don't know you can see their face? Their expression tells the true story. In my sweet girl's opinion, it was better for her to hug me in her mind than to go without. Now it wasn't a fake or pretend hug, either. It was all or nothing, open for all the world to see. And I was privileged to get a rare glimpse of the joy my little one gets from loving, and being loved, by me.

The way I was dressed, it's good that her eyes were closed. My eyes, however, have been opened.

Love you, Mads.

Life is Good!

Birthdays, Memories, and Hope

I am sitting at the kitchen counter while two tattooed and frizzled gentlemen deodorize, sanitize, sporicide, and otherwise clean my carpets. The chemical smell has done wonders for my sinuses, and the noise is frightening. Their constant coughing leads me to believe that I may be better off with all the scary microbes living in my carpets.

I have a while before I can go into the living room (or the bedroom or the bathroom), and my mind wanders to the calendar for the weekend. I see it again, and it only amazes, excites, and depresses me all at the same time- our son's birthday is in two days. Nineteen? Who'd ever believe that a kid who played with a tazer in his college dorm or who built a potato gun that runs on hair spray or who wears a rainbow clown wig on his FaceBook status photo is that old.

Our son is a freshman in college, and for the first time in his life, will celebrate without his family. We are involved in a new church start in our community, and are deeply committed to its development. The drive time to his campus is over 10 hours one way; not bad, but requires three days for a visit. There are many more excuses, but they really sound weak when I think of them. Of course, he could come home, but then again- the trip requires three days, and he only has two days between classes on the weekend.

Of this I am sure- he will fare far better than his parents and his little sister. He is active on his campus, in the local church, and every now and then takes a little time to study. He has made new friends, and will find plenty to help him celebrate.

We will celebrate here, without him. We are planning to barbecue a pork shoulder; my beautiful wife is baking, and we have tickets to Mamma Mia (final night!). It should be a whale of a wing-ding....

But still, I miss that little boy who used to ride on my foot; who threw up in my shirt pocket on my way to the pulpit to start the church service; who wrecked his bike and spent time in the ER to sew up his beautiful face. I even miss the kid who always needed money, who bought weird stuff with it, and then stuck it in his closet never to be seen again.

Those memories and thousands more are locked safely away safely in my heart where my memory cannot lose them. There, they are safe; they are mine.

I have so much confidence in him! Our son is a people person; an influencer of people with a beautiful personality and a crooked smile (see bike wreck above). He offers so much- and with that, he gives me hope. Hope for a successful college career; hope for beautiful daughter-in-law and grandkids; hope that I won't have to repay his college loans.

And while we might miss a birthday or two while he is in college, we look forward to the man he will become; no, the man he is becoming.......

If he stays away from college geeks with tazers.

Love you, son.

These chemicals are sure hard on my tear ducts......

The Power of A Worshipper

I am a huge fan of believers acting like believers. We don't always.... I admit it. I am especially jazzed when believers act like believers in times designated for believers to express their beliefs. I have always believed, and am more convinced now, that times of private worship often inspire God to do some, uh, well, "supernatural" things.

Now, I am a huge fan of corporate worship, so don't misunderstand.... but I am sure that our private worship sets the foundation for our corporate worship, as a family of believers, at whatever House of God we choose to worship. And the power of a worshipper is... well, ... powerful.

This article is, to me, evidence that supports my theory of the power of a worshipper.... enjoy.

http://www.worldmag.com/articles/15762

For Better or Worse

During the final months of my Dad's battle with cancer, I tried to visit as often as possible. It was on one of those visits where I witnessed one of the most moving acts of selflessness and love I have ever seen.

I am proud to have an Uncle (who shall remain nameless; even though all my family will immediately know to whom I refer, I did not ask his permission to share this tale, and so anonymity will be enforced).

Growing up in West Tennessee in the '70's, my family didn't take many trips, but we did visit family. There was lots of family to visit, and we had such great fun! We often visited an aunt and uncle and cousins in the next town North of ours, where we shared watermelon, cantaloupe, and heated games of Rook and Dominos.

My uncle and aunt, as many spouses do, had some difficult years early on, including a time of separation. But once reconciliation was reached, they were reunited and our frequent visits continued.

As time passed, and we grew up and moved away, my aunt began to lose the strength of her health, and has now required the constant care of a caregiver for quite some time. My uncle and hischildren (my cousins), all take turns with compassion and great patience to care for her many needs. Feeding, bathing, cleaning, this once vibrant lady has become a choice, not a chore. Loving hands care for her needs; a gentle voice maintains a single-sided conversation when she is not able to speak. Great pains and an even greater amount of time and compassion are required to meet her needs.

And my uncle is no spring chicken, himself. We had become concerned with his own health while lovingly caring for his bride. My dad had even spoken with him about placing her in a home where she could receive round-the-clock care. It seemed evident that it was time to relinquish that amount of care to the professionals at the nursing home, and to give my uncle some rest.

So, eventually, the decision was made to place my aunt in a nursing facility nearby. A visit was made, paperwork completed, and a room secured.

Yet the compassionate heart of my uncle for his bride made him reluctant to complete the deal. His head told him it was best; his heart said no.

While I was "working the road" with my dad one hot summer afternoon, my uncle drove up. He bounded out of his car, and with a grin as wide as the Tennessee border, told us he had made a decision about his wife.

Dad was glad that she was going where she could receive care she needed, and his brother could rest from all that work.

I will forever remember the words my uncle spoke that afternoon: "I have decided that she will stay at home. I called the nursing home and put the whole deal on hold. She doesn't want to go, and realized that I don't mind the time and work it takes to take care of her.

She is staying with me, and I can't be more proud of my decision".

Still today, my uncle cares for his bride. Daily, often hourly changes of clothing and bedding; one-sided conversations about this and that; and a stubborn commitment to "for better or worse".

That situation still may, in the future, necessitate a move to the nursing home. But my uncle can always say that he has done all he could to care for his wife. He took no short cuts, no conveniences on his behalf.

And while my aunt may not know of his commitment on this side of eternity, I see it.

I see it.

Thanks, Uncle.

It's Not Your Fault!

While watching a late-night movie version of a Tom Clancy novel, I happened to notice that TMC runs commercials every 7 minutes. Being a late-night movie, rates are lower, and you can see a lot of interesting things advertised that can't afford prime-time rates, every seven minutes. One particular ad caught my eye- and my ire.

A young lady was advertising her credit counseling business, and her tag line, spouted 6 times in her 29 second epic, is "It's Not Your Fault!". Over and again, she tried to sell us poor insomniacs on the idea that our financial situation is not our fault- the blame lies somewhere else- the economy; our bosses; the government.

While I will agree that the downturn in our current economy has wreaked all kinds of wickedness on all kinds of good people, the honest truth is, we are responsible for our own financial, social, economic, physical, and spiritual situation. That's right- as Jimmy Buffet sings, "it might be my fault..".

Let's be frank. We must train our children, our neighbor's children and our community's children to prepare for their own futures. We have lost the importance of spending less than we make; of saving for a rainy day; and planning for our lives and our children's lives. As a matter of fact, I am really weary of our government telling us that we deserve all that... and the government will provide it for us! Have we forgotten where the government gets its money? Have we become that lazy and arrogant? Say it ain't so!

No matter how success is defined, there are no entitlements to it. Some good folks work really hard to scratch out a meager living; others use gifts and talents and skills to earn more than they can realistically use. Either way, they have earned it. It is theirs.

The rub comes in planning for the proverbial rainy day; and it will come. And rainy days are not the fault of the previous administration in the White House; neither are they the result of poor planning in the fiscal meteorology department at the pentagon. And neither are we entitled to having someone reimburse us for the rain.

Sometimes, it just rains. Things break. Prices go up. People get sick. Businesses scale down. It happens; and it is our responsibility to plan ahead for those unthinkable events. If we do not plan for those times-

It is our fault.

Hard decisions are required to plan for those times we hope never come. And we are not entitled to never needing to make a hard decision.

So lady, while your ad costs less than most, in at least one instance, your message did not pass the truth test. I know because I am certified in the scraping by, making hard decision departments. And that is my own fault.

Changes in Latitudes, Changes in Attitudes

I think that is a great song title, from a great songwriter. Jimmy Buffet has always been a favorite, although I couldn't admit it until later in life. What a shame...

The title is quite descriptive of my life at the moment. I am faced with opportunities to make some changes in my ministry assignment here in Tulsa. Changes in attitude and latitude are certainly required.

For several months, we have been discussing and planning beginning a satellite campus in the community in which my family and I live. The campus, called, The Springs, will meet in a school that my kids have attended. The prospects for a new church work in our community is almost endless- 18,000 people have no connection with a church of any kind. There has not been a new church in Sand Springs for almost 20 years. And it is obvious to us that God is leading us to do this. I have been, and still am, very excited about it! I have been allowed to help plan staffing, technology, administration, all the way from top to bottom. Only a few variables remain, one of them being....

The Springs needs a Campus Pastor.

As I said, I have been very excited about this work for a long time. If our plans continue to track the way they are now, in a few weeks, I will be named one of the Campus Pastors for The Springs. I will begin as Worship Leader, working to assure excellence in music, technology, video, and volunteer training. For the first three months, one of my favorite fellow staff members will serve as Launch Pastor, freeing me to handle the physical and practical aspects of a new church start. This will bring about quite significant change for me- not only in "attitude" but "lattitude" as well. I will keep many of my current responsibilities, and give up some of my current responsibilities (some I absolutely LOVE!), to be replaced with things I am called to do, and am excited about doing.

Some think I am crazy; some think I have lost my mind. Quite the contrary, I believe this is part of God's plan for me, and I have lost nothing. In fact, I am finding the whole prospect terrifyingly comforting. I encourage you to pray for me as I pull a Jimmy Buffet; keep the whole project on your hearts and on your list.

Life is indeed Good!