We hear it (or say it) when attitude takes on, well…an attitude.

“Remember who you’re talking to.”

I reminded my daughters of this the other day. All the signs were there. The raising of the voice. Exaggerated body language. Speaking with a tone that is too presumptuous. And though they are too young to understand the term, let alone spell it, a bit of condescension. A hint of “I know more, so let me educate you.” They were forgetting they are 10 and I’m, well…their Dad.

“Remember who you’re talking to.”

What is it in us that makes us forget who we are talking to?

We’ve heard it said, “Whatever it is you’re thinking and feeling, tell God. Even if you’re angry, pour out your heart. He’s big enough to take it.” This is true. God is big enough to take it. Indeed God invites us to “cast all our cares on Him, because He cares for us” (1 Peter 5:7). He goes even further in telling us to “come boldly before the throne of grace that we might obtain mercy and find grace in time of need” (Hebrews 4:16). God is clear. He wants us to communicate whatever is on our mind and heart.

I wonder, though, if in the communicating we sometimes forget who we’re talking to?

The perpetual challenge for Christians of every generation is to worship the whole of God. Our natural tendency as imperfect humans is to gravitate toward the perfections of God we like the most.  We like God’s patience with us. We like God’s forgiveness. We like that God never leaves us or abandons us. We like God’s love. I remember the Jesus Movement of the 1970′s where it seemed the love of God was emphasized above all else. It was the aftermath of Vietnam and the the anti-war movement. Years where the peace symbol was found everywhere t-shirts, bumper stickers, and records were sold. A popular book of that time by “Peanuts” creator Charles Schulz was titled, “Happiness Is A Warm Puppy.” That’s how many Christians viewed God. He was your pal. A heavenly fuzzy buddy you could get close to.

Certainly God is our friend. The Bible is clear on that. Yet in the process of becoming familiar and comfortable, it seems we’ve pushed aside other equally present attributes of God. Like His holiness. Or His sovereignty. Or the fact that He is self-existent and eternal. God’s righteousness and justice are no less part of His perfection than His love and mercy.

If we focus on God’s love toward us at the expense of His holiness, it is possible to forget Who it is we are talking to. The same God who bids us to cast all our cares on Him is the same God who, with perfect judgment, destroyed people and nations for their sins against Him. The God who calls us friend is the same God whose purity and holiness is an all consuming fire. The God who tells us to ask Him for our daily bread and promises to take care of our needs is the same God who spreads out the heavens like a tent and uses the earth as a foot rest.

Do we remember Who we are talking to?

I can’t speak for you, but during the inevitable episodes of deep frustration and anger in my life I’ve sometimes been guilty in my “God is big enough to take it” rants of forgetting Who I’m talking to. I’ve spoken to Him as though He is blind to my circumstances. I’ve prayed as though I need to remind Him of my plight, that maybe He missed the meeting where we discussed my life falling apart. My attitude in these moments has been equal parts “Where have You been?” and “What have You done for me lately?” Notice where the focus is. My “me” is asking God to explain Himself and to give an account as to His faithfulness. Talk about presumption and condescension. When I do this I’m forgetting that I am me and He is, well…God.

Forgetting that the One we are venting to is the One who created us is bad enough. But when we forget who we are talking to and abuse the “God is big enough to take it” privilege, I fear we sometimes relegate Him to an impenetrable steel diety. A divine punching bag who receives our verbal buffeting without emotion. As if we think God’s feelings cannot be hurt. Or worse, that He has no feelings at all.

To miss this is to miss God’s father heart for us. Follow God’s journey with His children from the beginning and we see Him as a Father who loves beyond reason, forgives without measure, blesses abundantly and relentlessly pursues us when we walk away. Even when we as fickle followers turn and take after gods that spell their name with a small “g”, God woos and pines and pleads with us to return to our first love that we might find our ultimate joy in Him.

The God of the universe has a heart. And of all His creation, we are the only ones who can break it.

Going forward, as we talk with God let’s remember Who we’re talking to. When we remember God’s holiness, it makes His love even more amazing. When we remember His justice, it makes His forgiveness even more incredible. Simply put, the best way to experience God fully is to worship Him wholly.

Do we remember Who we’re talking to?

“And can it be that I should gain an interest in the Savior’s blood? Died He for me, who caused His pain—For me, who Him to death pursued? Amazing love! How can it be, That Thou, my God, shouldst die for me? Amazing love! How can it be, That Thou, my God, shouldst die for me?” – Charles Wesley

Todd A. Thompson – ASliceOfLifeToGo.com

Have you ever been deeply wounded by another person who, with deliberate action and malice aforethought, hurt you on purpose?

Have you waited for justice to be served?

And waited some more?

Are you still waiting?

(Maddening, isn’t it?)

In our broken world, wounds come in three ways. Sometimes people wound us unintentionally. It is to be expected in the rough and tumble of imperfect people living on Planet Earth. These wounds are easier to forgive because there was no malicious intent.

Sometimes we wound ourselves by our own poor choices. We make bad and/or foolish decisions. That pain is at the self-serve pump. No one to blame but ourselves.

Then there are the wounds inflicted by others who hurt us on purpose. They knew exactly what they were doing and they did it anyway. Perhaps it was a quick measured decision. Perhaps it was a long process of planning to do evil to us. And when we are blindsided by their harmful actions we stagger back, wondering how anyone could do so much intentional damage with no regard or conscience?

In the middle of our pain we console ourselves with the thought that certainly justice will be coming. The account will be set straight. They will have an attack of conscience and come to us with apology and we will have our satisfaction. Then we will be vindicated.

At first we hope for that.

Then we wait for that.

Then we wait some more.

Then we seethe over the delay and think, “It will happen. It must happen.”

(Not you, of course. But people I know. They think this way.)

Then one day we wake up and realize that the apology we’re waiting for will never come. Their conscience has cobwebs on it. More infuriating, the one who did evil to us is cruising through life without hitting so much as a speed bump.

What to do?

Here’s what my friend Jennifer has to say on the topic. I don’t think anyone could say it better. If you see yourself at all in the above paragraphs, this will hit you like a train. Read this carefully, let it sink in. Apply it to your life if you need to, then pass it along to anyone who could benefit.

“Picture yourself walking through your life at this moment. But turn yourself around in your picture….you’re walking backwards. Not traveling to the past, but moving forward into your future, while facing backwards.

Instead of seeing your future and all the new people in it, you are constantly staring at your awful past. Especially at those who did evil to you.

As long as you continue to want to be vindicated and wish for an apology while looking back at how wrongly you were treated, reflecting constantly on how you were gipped, you will walk your life moving in a forward motion, only facing backwards.

Walking forward, facing backwards you will miss all the beauty of the things and people in your life right now. Because in your soul you are not facing them, you are looking backwards. And because of that you will see your future through past events. It will cause you to guard your heart and miss out on all the joy because of your “facing backwards” perspective.

It will happen in your thoughts. It will happen during what should be happy moments. All are tainted by facing backwards.

When you decide to grab your healing by the horns and shout it out that you refuse to allow one more day to be stolen, you will find yourself turning around and walking forwards, facing forwards.  Then you will see the new things, the new people and the good things that are happening in your life.” - Jennifer Hildebrandt 

 ”This one thing I do: Forgetting what lies behind and straining toward what lies ahead, I press on toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me heavenward in Christ Jesus.” – Philippians 3:13b-14

Todd A. Thompson – www.ASliceOfLifeToGo.com

Purposely provoking her sister Annie to frustration. Lots of button pushing in her communication with me. A good measure of “I hear what Daddy is saying but I’ll do it when I feel like it.” Then, when called to accountability, blaming her sister or feigning poor hearing as excuses for her actions or lack thereof.

She knew better, but on this morning she was determined to live on the edge. 

As a farm kid, I remember seeing cattle in a great big lot with room to roam, yet insisting to stand right by the electric fence. Then having the nerve to look surprised when they got shocked.

On this morning, Emma seems bent on getting a close look at the fence.

After reprimanding her for poking her sister while they watched Scooby Doo, Emma stood up and looked at me. Determined to make this my fault and not hers, in a full lung bluster of self-righteous indignation she blurted, “I never want you to talk to me again!” With high drama she made her exit, stage left.

As a parent there are things we do to show our children we mean business. Yet if truth be told, we’re just freezing them mid-step or mid-stomp, hoping to buy time till we think of something to say.

“Emma Elizabeth! You get back here right now! One, two…”

What the heck? How should I address this? Think….think….

Emma came back around the corner. Jaw clenched, eyes narrowed, shoulders squared. She was ready for a showdown.

Then I looked in her brown eyes.

Anger, yes. But fear, too. A dash of confusion. And playing peek-a-boo behind it all, a soon to be 8-year old saying, “Daddy, I’m in over my head and I don’t know what to do.”

“Come here, Emma.” When we’re mad and deep down know we’re wrong, we don’t like walking toward accountability. Her steps were grudging.

“Emma, you said you never want me to talk to you again. That hurts my feelings.” Her eyes lowered. I had begun the familiar “you shouldn’t talk that way to me because it hurts my feelings” argument. The one that attempts to modify the offending party’s behavior by making them stare at the verbal martyr statue of ourselves that we sculpt right in front of their eyes. But somehow it just doesn’t feel right.

Is this about my feelings? Or about our relationship?

“Emma, if I could never talk to you again that would make me so sad. If I couldn’t talk to you again then I’d never get to say, “Emma, can I get you some ice cream?” or “Emma, do you wanna play the Wii with me?” or “Emma, I have a surprise for you!”

Speaking of surprises, I was surprised at what was coming out of my mouth. If this teachable moment is for Emma, why do I feel like the one learning?

“And I could never say, “Emma, wanna go to Krispy Kreme and get some donuts?” That would be so sad.”

Maybe God wanted me to give enough examples to get Emma’s attention. Then again, maybe He wanted to get mine. See, I’ve been a Christian for 40 years. I know God loves me. He has to love me. It’s in His job description. Yet my heart has always struggled with wondering.

I know God loves me…but does He like me?

Too often I’ve thought about my relationship with God from the bottom up. How it looks to me. Rarely have I looked at God’s relationship to me from the top down. How it looks to Him. Sitting on the edge of the bed, telling my daughter all the things I’d miss saying to her if I could never talk to her again gives me pause to think, that just maybe, God would miss not communicating with me. It’s a thought I want to hold, but am not sure how. So I just say the next thing that comes to mind.

“And Emma, I’d never ever get to say, “Come here so I can hug you…”

At the sound of those words Emma’s defiance melted. She threw herself into my arms, sobbing and bear hugging my neck.

In the middle of our anger and our frustration, even in the middle of our sin, we crave relationship. God’s response to our clenched jaws and squared shoulders is not to say how much our defiance hurts His feelings. His response is to open His arms and say, “Come here so I can hug you.” God does not force our obedience. He loves us into submission.

Walking through Wal-Mart later that day, Emma had to be corrected a couple times. Except this time after the teachable moment, she grabbed me and said, “Hold my hand, Daddy. Wrap your fingers around really tight, ok?”

And that’s how we walked. Her ornery streak still intact, but with a grip on her Daddy’s hand.

“Do you not know that it is God’s kindness that leads you to repentance?” – Romans 2:4

Todd A. Thompson – www.ASliceOfLifeToGo.com

We looked up to see a man screaming at his kid.

The dad was a barrel chest with a flat top haircut. Movie casting would have made him a football coach or drill sergeant. The way he was barking at his son, he may have been either or both.

The son looked to be about 15 or 16 and slightly built, the water boy to his Dad’s football coach. Wearing a black fleece zipped up around his neck, as if to protect against the cold air and the heat of his father’s words, he was leaning against the back quarter panel of a new burgundy Nissan Altima. Inside, looking pained and shamed and staring straight ahead, his mother and a younger sister.  

Alan and I purposely looked the Dad in the eye. He saw us but didn’t temper his words or lower his volume.

I can’t speak for you but if someone looks at me when I’m acting stupid, my immediate reaction is one of embarrassment. Not this guy. He just kept yelling. I got the feeling he wouldn’t have cared if we set up bleachers and sold tickets. Step right up and see the big bad Dad humiliate his family.

While he blustered and blew, the son stood motionless, hands in the pockets of his fleece, staring straight ahead. Not looking at his Dad, not up at the sky and not exactly on the ground. Just gazing at someplace in between, no doubt wishing he could disappear.   

I sat in my car and watched, cell phone in hand, half wondering if there would be a need to call the police. I found it curious that not once did the son speak back a single word. No rebuttal, no self-defense, no retaliation. It was as if he knew to speak would only invite more wrath. He seemed to know, too, that to walk away from this blistering attack would mean there would be hell to pay. Whether by fear or default, the son was demonstrating infinitely more maturity than his father.

My gut had the sad feeling that this wasn’t the first time the son had done some leaning against the rear quarter panel.

When the ten minute tirade was over the young man opened the door, got in next to his sister and slid down in the back seat like a prisoner headed to jail.

Tragically, whatever point the angry Dad was trying to impress will be forever overshadowed by the young man’s memory of being humiliated by his father in the parking lot at Loop 289 and University.

Admittedly, Alan and I weren’t there to see what happened before the yelling started. But it doesn’t matter. This was horrible parenting. Even if the teen had done something wrong, matters of correction and discipline aren’t to be paraded in front of total strangers. As a parent, our responsibility is to protect our children. That includes protecting their dignity in teachable moments.

It is true that “hurt people”… hurt people. It’s not a stretch to assume the screaming Dad had, as a son, done some leaning up against the rear quarter panel himself. Who knows what kind of a childhood he had? If it was bad, his pain deserves equal compassion. It’s true that children learn what they live. If we’re yelled at, we learn to yell. If we’re shown kindness we learn to be kind. Certainly the atmosphere we are raised in shapes us. Yet to say our behavior as adults is determined solely by the environment we grew up in is to abdicate personal responsibility and our power to choose for the better.

There are far too many examples of individuals enduring a hellish childhood who made the choice to live rightly in spite of it. I have friends who grew up with fathers and mothers who were absent, abusive, alcoholic and/or who abandoned. These people made the choice to live better. More importantly, they made the choice to be the kind of parent to their children that they wish they had themselves. Regardless of our upbringing, we have the individual responsibility to live and act appropriately. It is irresponsible and wrong to blame our adult sins and dysfunction on our childhood. 

God is our heavenly Father. The Bible is clear that God disciplines those whom He loves. God corrects us when we sin and make mistakes. That is not a pleasant process. God is all about shaping our character. By definition that means we often have hard lessons to learn. But God never humiliates us. He always leads with love. Always. Romans 2:4 tells us, “Do you not know that it is God’s kindness that leads us to repentance?”

God doesn’t yell and scream at us. He loves us into submission. When we stand corrected, we stand in His grace.

God is love. When He corrects us, it is never apart from His loyal love. Because God protects our dignity when He disciplines us, our hearts remain open. The next teachable moment, though it may be painful, is able to be received because we know His heart toward us is His unfailing love. God lovingly maintains His relationship to us without compromising the truth or the process of conforming us to the image of Jesus. It begins and ends with the fact that His kindness leads us to repentance.

As we parent, may we always follow God’s example and lead with love, protecting the dignity of our children and in doing so keeping their heart open to receive the next teachable moment.

“The Lord is gracious and compassionate, slow to anger, abounding in love. He will not always accuse, nor will He harbor His anger forever; He does not treat us as our sins deserve or repay us according to our iniquities. For as high as the heavens are above the earth, so great is His love for those who fear Him; as far as the east is from the west, so far has He removed our sins from us. As a father has compassion on his children, so the Lord has compassion on those who fear Him.” – Psalm 103:8-13

A guy in a faded, forest green golf shirt walked up to the window. He looked a little frazzled.

Paul slid the window open. “Hi. How can I help you?”

“Do you take donations here?”

Donations? Maybe he has the wrong place. There’s a Salvation Army Thrift Store next door.

“Excuse me?”

More insistently this time, the same question. “Do you guys take donations here?” He was holding something in his fist.

Paul and I looked at each other and Ron looked over his shoulder.

“We’re a swim school. Why, uh…”

His question was so strange we didn’t know what to ask back.

“It’s just been a really bad day. Do you guys take donations?”

“Well, we teach swim lessons to kids…”

He cut in. “It’s just been a really bad day. Here.” He stuck out his hand, dropped some money on the desk and walked out.

The three of us sat there for about five seconds with “what the?” looks on our faces. Then Ron said, “Paulie, you need to go after him.” I said, “Yep. Go after him. This is too weird. Maybe it’s a God moment.” 

Paul went out the door. I straightened out the wad of cash. Three $20 bills.

Paul came back a couple minutes later. He said the guy told him that he had been gone for a few days and asked someone to take care of his Labrador puppy while he was away. Returning home from his trip he learned that someone had left a gate open and the dog got out.

Puppies are no match for the traffic on Southern Avenue.

Life is hard. Gates get left open and puppies get run over. Even worse, pool gates get left open and toddlers drown. People get cancer. Businesses fail. Relationships dissolve. Marriages are torn asunder. Dreams die. That’s life this side of heaven. At the Broken World Cafe, each day’s menu offers a fresh sampler platter of pain. New and different varieties of the same old hurts, arranged in different ways.

Pain, in all its forms, is the constant. The variable is how we respond. Our natural response when we are hurt is to turn inward. To focus on ourselves and on our pain. While this is natural, it makes our pain the object of our attention. Focus on our pain too long and the object of our attention becomes the object of our affection. We become attached to it. If we’re not careful, our pain becomes our identity. Our excuse for not taking responsibility, moving on and growing up. 

When Paul asked the man why the donation, he said, “I’m having a really bad day and I wanted to do something to feel better.”

His dog gets run over and his response is to give $60 to a swim school.

How bizarre.

How healthy.

We have options in dealing with our pain. This guy could have taken his anger out on someone. He could have stuffed the sadness in his pocket and tried to ignore it. He could have climbed up on bar stool mountain. But he didn’t.

Strange as it was to witness, the guy whose dog got run over responded to his pain in a positive way. He chose to do something peculiar to be sure. But positively peculiar. He chose to do something good for someone else. A $60 donation to a swim school doesn’t bring his puppy back. And it sure doesn’t fix a broken world. But it was good medicine for his broken heart.

If doing something good for others makes him feel better today, then maybe it keeps him going to do something good for others tomorrow. God knows we need more people doing good for others. 

We’re thankful for the donation. Some kid will get swim lessons courtesy of a stranger. And whoever gets the lesson, we’ll be sure to tell the story as to how that $60 came to be.

That’s another benefit about doing good for others. It makes for a story that makes you want to go do something good yourself.

Here’s hoping Mr. $60 Donation Guy inspires you to do just that.

Finally, we get off the ground. The Dad and Mom decide to switch places. He’s holding the boy and from my vantage point all I can see are two little legs sticking out into the aisle, flailing and kicking.

Then the little guy loses it. He freaks out. He red lines his volume. And that’s when it all breaks loose.

Mr. Wall Street Journal spins his head toward the Dad, “Can’t you keep that kid quiet??!!” The Dad exercises enormous restraint, “I’m doing the best I can!” Mr. Wall Street Journal then says a little too loudly to no one in particular and everyone in general, “I didn’t pay for a ticket to listen to this all the way home!” and in the same instant slams his fist into the back of the seat in front of him where the little boy’s Mom is sitting. He hits it hard enough to break the latch on the tray table so it won’t stay in its locked and upright position.

Ever experience one of those flashpoint situations where everything happens at once?

In the microsecond after the passengers realize what has happened, public opinion swings 180 degrees in favor of the little guy. They turn on Mr. Wall Street Journal like a pack of wild dogs. They yell and hiss and in short order make him wish he would have rented a car to get home.

Then something wonderful happens. A kind, wonderful, spontaneous thing that changes the entire atmosphere on the plane. Rolling like a wave from the front to the back, over the top of the seats all you can see are hands filled with bounty from purses and tote bags and backpacks, passed from one row to the next. In less than a minute the Dad’s lap is overflowing with stuffed animals, candy and toys.

Thankfully, a few minutes later, the little guy falls asleep.

Kindness. It transformed the atmosphere on that plane from hostility to peace.

Whatever shape it takes and however it’s offered, kindness has the power to transform. A harsh and angry attitude can be calmed with kind words. A closed and fearful heart can learn to trust when surrounded with kindness. Kindness helps welcome new folks into the neighborhood. Kindness helps dispel our fears. Kindness gives people the courage to try again. Kindness helps people out of awkward situations. Kindness paves the way for reconciliation.

Perhaps kindness is transforming because it’s so surprising. We live in a reciprocal world. Be nice to me and I’ll be nice to you. Be mean to me and I’ll be mean to you. That’s why kindness is often unexpected. It catches people off guard.

This idea of transforming kindness was God’s idea. God is not reciprocal with us. In our faults and failures, God responds with kindness. God is kind toward sinners, which is to say God is kind to me and to you. (Romans 2:4; Ephesians 2:7) That’s certainly a surprise when we’re expecting to be punished. He desires that you and I extend the same kindness to those around us.

Do something wonderful today. Go surprise some people.

Be kind.

“…clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness and patience. Bear with each other and forgive whatever grievances you may have against one another. Forgive as the Lord forgave you. And over all these virtues put on love, which binds them all together in perfect unity.” – Colossians 3:12-14

These best friends went out to ride their bikes together and never came back. Some despicable, evil bastard stabbed them multiple times and left them for dead.

In an unrelated Fox News story, a stray dog in Nairobi, Kenya found an abandoned newborn baby in the forest. The dog got the baby girl out of the plastic bag she was put in, dragged her out of the woods, across a busy street and through a barbed wire fence into a shed where her own puppies were. The 7 pound 4 ounce infant is now in the care of hospital workers who have named her “Angel”.

Adults who are supposed to protect the young, murder kids and abandon babies in the forest. What does it say about our human condition when a stray dog demonstrates a better understanding of care and nurture than we do?

Some say the world is going to the dogs. Maybe that’s a good thing.

Murder. A mafia hit is something we can make sense of. When Guido gets popped in the head while eating seafood linguine at the neighborhood ristorante because he spilled the family secrets to the Feds, we get that. When someone goes postal and brings a shotgun to work looking for the boss who made his life miserable, we shake our head and say we could never react that way but we think, “Some people just get pushed too far and then they snap.” Gang bangers wage turf wars and kill each other in drive by shootings. It’s a tremendous waste of potential, but we say, ala Karl Marx, “environment determines expression” and we can sort of understand the tragic cycle.

Second grade girls haven’t lived long enough to betray secrets or experience pent up, trigger happy anger or mark their territory with a Glock. Second grade girls watch Rugrats and Sponge Bob Square Pants on TV and show each other the shiny tassels on their handlebars and think it’s oh so grown up to have a tube of glittery watermelon lip gloss in their pink Barbie backpack.

When Guido sleeps with the fishes and quiet Bob goes off with the 12-gauge and Paco shoots Jimmy while he’s washing his street rod, we shake our heads. But we kind of sort of get it.

When innocent second grade girls are murdered, there’s nothing to get but absolutely, completely livid in an “I want to kill whoever did that” way.

Think it’s a little extreme to feel that way?

I don’t.

A couple years ago someone asked me what I would do if someone tried to hurt my little daughters. I answered in a very calm and rational tone. “Whoever it is better know Jesus because I’ll kill them so fast they won’t have time to get saved.” The questioner backed away slowly. I guess it wasn’t the response he was expecting. I make no apology for being Papa Bear. God put me here to take care of my cubs and this I will do, to the death if need be.

How does one be Christ-like when responding to evil? How is a Christian to respond to gut wrenching headlines like this? Don’t be too quick with the Sunday School answer that “God loves the killer, too.” Yes, God does. Theologically, that’s correct. And for the families of these girls, it’s a truth that’s as hollow as an old dead stump. God is also the creator of life. I can’t imagine He is anything but angry and heart shredded by their senseless deaths.

It’s maddening though. Because God does love the killer. My human mind rants and rails against it, but it’s true. God’s offer of forgiveness and mercy is on the table for all of humanity. Even the ones who murder little girls. And in that statement lies both the evidence and my conviction. “Even the ones…” It betrays a mindset that deep down believes some sinners are worse than others. And of course I place myself in the “not as bad as they” category. How could I be as bad as the evil maniac who murdered these girls?

I may not be as bad, but it’s not about being bad. It’s about falling short.

God says we all fall short of His perfection. “All have sinned and fall short of the glory of God.” (Romans 3:23) My prideful attitude, my occasional outburst of anger, my lustful thoughts, my desire for more at the expense of contentment, take your pick. Any one of these sins causes me to fall short of God’s perfection. Which means on my own merit, I don’t have a relationship with God and I don’t see heaven.

No, I’ve never killed anyone. But in a long jump contest at the rim of the Grand Canyon, there are no winners.

Only when we get up close to our own dirt do we realize the benevolent, gracious love of God. Romans 5:8 says that, “God showed His great love for us in that while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us.”

Southern Baptist preacher/writer Will Campbell paraphrases the verse this way. “We’re all bastards. But God loves us anyway.”

Amen.

Unlocking the door on my Mazda and getting in the way I’ve done thousands of times, I stopped half way. The feeling didn’t hit me at first. Then it did. Like a size-16 Tony Lama boot kick in the gut.

Shattered glass covered the seat and floorboard. Someone had, in broad daylight, smashed out the back windshield of my truck and stolen my stereo. The console had been cracked open with a pry bar, the wires clipped. They took the loose change in the ashtray and, for some curious reason, stole the bottle of hand sanitizer that was sitting on the seat.

I’d like to say I uttered something spiritual at that moment. Something that reflected a Christian maturity beyond my years. But I didn’t.

I cussed.

Then I began to process my thoughts.

Why did this happen? Why did it happen to me? I feel violated. My personal space has been invaded. Someone vandalized my truck and stole my stereo. Now my hand is bleeding because I cut it on the broken glass from my window that they smashed in my truck. Why would anyone do this? I’m really, really angry.

Maybe the next stereo I put in could have some kind of device that would blow up in their face if they tried to steal it. Nothing fatal. Just something that would leave them stunned and staggering blindly around the parking lot until the police came to take them away. Hey, they would deserve it, right?

Whoever did it was a small-timer, says Obed, my police officer friend. “Big-timers wouldn’t have stopped at the stereo. They would have stolen your truck.” Somehow that doesn’t make me feel better. The police didn’t help, either. “I know you won’t want to hear this, but it happens all the time here. We’ll take your information and give you a case number, but honestly, there’s nothing we can do.”

The insurance company said there was something they could do. After, of course, I paid my $250 deductible. Now I was wishing for some of that sub-zero Iowa weather. Grandpa used to tell me cold winters kept out the snakes and the riffraff, both of which abound in Phoenix.

With no radio to listen to, there was plenty of time to think on the way home. I’d processed some thoughts. Now it was time to process my theology. Did God understand me cussing first and thinking after? Did He understand my anger? And we’re supposed to give thanks in all situations. What was there to give thanks for? However mad I was, I’m sure other people in the valley had worse things happen to them today. And Obed was right. They didn’t steal my truck. I had to admit that was a good reason to be thankful.

Somewhere between Rural and McClintock on the eastbound 60 it occurred to me that I was using the word “my” a lot. My window. My stereo. My loose change in the ash tray. My truck.

My, my, my.

I stopped at Fry’s on the way home to pick up something for dinner. The checkout clerk asked if I found everything ok and was there anything else he could do for me. “Not unless you can find the person who smashed out my window and stole the stereo out of my truck.”

The guy behind me in line looked like a lost surfer in search of a beach. He set his groceries on the conveyor and said, “Dude! That really sucks. But ya gotta remember, it’s only stuff, man. It’s only material stuff.”

The only thing missing was a voice from heaven saying, “Thus ends God’s lesson for today.” God used faded sweatshirt flip-flop guy to school me in theology. It’s only stuff. What’s more, it’s not my stuff. It’s God’s stuff. In the end, stuff either wears out, gets stolen, or burns up. It’s only stuff. What matters is what we store up in heaven. That’s what lasts.

On the last mile home I thought about the person or persons who damaged my, uh, God’s truck. How could anything good come from this? Maybe they steal the stereo but don’t sell it. Maybe they keep it and put it in their own car. And maybe sometime when they’re listening to it the tuner breaks and sticks on one station. A Christian station. And maybe after they cuss and get mad about the stereo not working they turn it off.

But they get tired of not having any tunes so they turn it on and they hear something that sparks in their heart and reminds them of their need for God and maybe, just maybe, they get saved.

Ok, probably not. It’s just a fantasy to soothe my anger. But stranger things have happened. Like God loving a broken person like me enough to send His only Son to die that I might have life.

In everyone’s book but God’s, that was a real long shot.

Anyway, it was something to think about again last Saturday when I cussed again. This time a bullet hole in the driver’s window on my truck. Shattered.

Surfer dude wasn’t around this time, but his words linger. “Dude, ya gotta remember, it’s only stuff, man. It’s only material stuff.”

True.

And comprehensive glass coverage is definitely something to be thankful for.

“Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy and thieves break in and steal. But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where moth and rust do not destroy and thieves do not break in and steal. For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.”
 - Matthew 6:19-21

Sound advice for drivers approaching railroad tracks.

It’s also good advice for parents.

At 11:30 this night I stopped, looked and listened in the doorway of my babies’ nursery. Opening the door slowly, I peeked in. Maybe it was fatigue from a long day at work or maybe it was a reflective moment. But I stopped there, leaning against the door frame, not moving, the handle still in my hand. It’s only been 20 months but I honestly can’t remember how the room looked before it became a nursery. It’s Annie and Emma’s room now.

The room is peacefully serene. A nightlight tosses a soft yellow circle on the wall while a small globe lamp on the wood dresser provides backlight to the Brambly Hedge mural painted there. I’m biased but I think it’s the most beautiful painting any baby room has ever had. Annie and Emma fall asleep each night watching Shell, Pebble, Primrose and Wilfred, the furry field mice characters, happily playing in their own cozy nursery.

A giant size copy of “Guess How Much I Love You?”, a gift from dear friends to mark the day of the twins’ adoption, sits on top the bookshelf. Above it, a sheer canopy drapes from the ceiling, looping over antique porcelain doorknobs and old metal face plates mounted on the wall on either side of the linen curtains. Slivers of moonlight sift through the arch window while the leaves of the honeysuckle shadow dance outside.

Stuffed animals, species wild and domestic, have escaped the toy box. An unlucky brown squirrel who usually inhabits the crib rests this night face down on the floor, evicted by Emma. Books, including some Golden Books from my childhood, are loosely stacked in the corner.

Emma sleeps with her head resting on a blanket, hand crocheted by her Great Grandma Thompson. An embroidered fleece made by her friend Pat is wrapped around her arm. Annie has kicked her blankets aside. She has her fuzzy lamb in a sleeper hold. Laying there, stretched out on her bed, she seems so long. When I stop this night to look, I see baby girls who aren’t babies anymore. The feet of their pajamas that once flopped behind them as they crawled on the floor are now filled out to the toes.

The first time I looked at Annie and Emma, they were in separate incubators in a neo-natal intensive care unit. I’d never seen babies so tiny. Annie’s finger was no wider than my ring. How is it possible that a big guy like me could be wrapped around a little finger so small?

There were sounds that night. Beeps and chirps of heart monitors and oxygen sensors, the clicks of pens as busy nurses noted their vital statistics on charts and clipboards. The hum of fluorescent lights and high-tech equipment. The tiny squeaks of preemies as they were handled and fed.

The sounds were both comforting and unnerving. Beeps and chirps assure you everything is ok. Beeps and chirps would also alert you to a problem. The more time I spent in ICU, the less I noticed the sounds. I remember thinking that could be dangerous. To no longer hear sounds that contain a message.

The sounds I hear now each day are different than the sounds of the NICU. My daughters’ tiny squeaks have developed into shrieks and laughs and loud “Da Da!”s. The sounds contain a message.

Stop. If you don’t, you’ll be blind sided by a fast approaching future.

Look. You need to see what’s coming down the track.

Listen. Because the sounds you hear contain an important message.

The train is moving. It rolls from infant to toddler to child to teenager to adult without a stop.

Stop. Look. Listen.

When the train has passed, you’ll be glad you did.

“Show me, O Lord, my life’s end and the number of my days; let me know how fleeting is my life.” – Psalm 39:4

It was 4 PM on the afternoon of April 16th. I had just put my twins down for a nap. Annie and Emma, protesting mildly because it’s in their job description, were smiling when they grabbed their fleece blankets to snuggle in for a snooze.

Pulling the stroller from the back of my truck I looked over my shoulder to see a bizarre and frightening scene unfolding. A white Chevy pickup stopped suddenly at the intersection of Nebraska Street and Elliot, a major arterial street. Other cars, forced to slow and swerve because of the truck, moved to outside lanes during rush hour traffic.

In the middle of this commotion, in the right lane of Elliot Road, stood a crying two-year old boy.

I sprinted toward him but I was three houses away. Thankfully, the man in the white truck scooped him up and carried him to the sidewalk. He had purposely parked his truck at an awkward angle to block the lane in hopes of keeping the boy from being run over.  A lady in a Chevy Blazer stopped and turned on her hazard lights, yelling to me as she got out, “Get that license number!”

About 50 feet away, a 4-door 1980-something Chevy Lumina was stopped in the right hand lane. I memorized the plate number. Two women in their 20′s, occupants of the car in question, were now running toward the boy. One was his mother, the other probably his aunt. The mother took him from the man who had carried him to safety. She began walking back to her car while those who had stopped to help bombarded her with questions and heated commentary.

“I can’t believe what just happened!!! The kid fell out of the car!!! I saw it happen!!! The back door just opened up and he hit the concrete!!!”

“Why the hell wasn’t he in a car seat?! There’s no damn excuse for that! Kids are supposed to be in car seats!”

“Is he bleeding? Is he hurt? He’s gotta get checked out.”

“Has anyone called the cops?”

The mom looked strangely calm. That made me mad. Maybe she was too stunned to be anything but numb. Over my shoulder I saw the boy’s rescuer on the phone with the police. I followed the mom to her car. When I looked inside, my blood boiled. In the back seat, a baby less than eight months old was sitting in an infant seat. The straps were loose and floppy, the seat wasn’t secure and, worst of all, it was facing the front of the car. I’ve seen people take more care in hauling home a gallon of milk from the store. A collision would send that baby bouncing like a ping pong ball. Next to the baby was a three-year old boy, roaming around the backseat like a goat in a pasture. Three kids. One infant seat. No car seats. Now I’m seriously angry.

“Don’t you have car seats???!!!” Given the exponential degree of blatant criminal carelessness I’d just witnessed, I was hoping for a tearful, “No, I’m sorry. I don’t. I can’t afford them.” That was something we could help her with.

“Yeah. I do.”

“You have car seats and you’re not using them???!!! Your kid just fell out of the car!”

“His brother must have opened the door.”

Stupidity is no respecter of gender. Yet had this been a male, my name would have been on a police report for “assault with intent to do severe bodily harm to an idiot.”

“You have to get your boy checked by a doctor immediately. He could be hurt.”

“I think he’s ok.”

“Thinking doesn’t cut it. You need to wait here for the police.” She didn’t think so. She drove away.

After all the pertinent information was passed along to the responding police officer, I walked back to the house. A line from the movie “Parenthood” popped into my head. “You know, Mrs. Buchman, you need a license to buy a dog, to drive a car — hell, you even need a license to catch a fish. But they’ll let any #!$%^&# be a father.”

Or a mother.

A two year old boy fell out of a moving car on to a busy street because his mother chose not to protect him. That’s child abuse, plain and simple. By her own admission, she had car seats. She chose not to use them. Thanks to God’s protection and the quick thinking of a man in a white Chevy truck, the little boy wasn’t run over and killed. How sad is it when total strangers demonstrate more love toward your children than you do? We can only pray that this little boy will live a long life in spite of his mother’s neglect.

Sitting in church on a Sunday it’s easy to nod your head in agreement when the pastor quotes from Ephesians 4 and says,”be angry, but don’t sin”. But Sunday is one day out of seven. This is Tuesday and I’m angry. I want this lady found and cited for endangering her kids. For not using car seats. And if possible, a big fat fine for seeming indifferent to the fact that her toddler fell out of her moving car in the middle of rush hour traffic. Then again, when your own son bounces on the street like a tennis ball and you can’t muster a single tear, a citation from the police probably won’t put much of a wrinkle in your day.

Mercy is not receiving the punishment we deserve. Because she drove away before the police arrived, the mother wasn’t ticketed for not using car seats. She wasn’t warned. She wasn’t fined. She wasn’t arrested. She didn’t get a visit from Child Protective Services. Based on those who witnessed the incident, she deserved all those things.

On a higher level, the mother enjoys another mercy; the mercy of being judged by a perfect God. One might think of mercy and judgment as polar opposites. By human definition, they usually are. We humans aren’t capable of being perfectly angry and perfectly just at the same time. My desire to see the mother given a ticket for her negligence, while justified, also contained a selfish desire to see her punished. While I would punish out of anger, God in His perfection will, in His time, judge from perfect love. While I cared more about the babies in the backseat than I did the mother, God loves the mother and the children equally.

Grace is receiving blessings we don’t deserve. The mother received more than showers of blessings. She received grace like Niagra Falls. Her son is still alive, even though he fell out of her moving car. He didn’t get run over. He didn’t get killed. Her other children didn’t fall out of the car when the door opened. In spite of her profound neglect, this mother received what she doesn’t deserve; a second chance. I wonder what she will do with it?

I’d like to believe that the mother will realize the danger in which she placed her children. I’d like to believe that she’ll jump on this second chance like a duck on a June bug. I’d like to believe that she’ll recognize the mercy and grace God gave to her in that terrifying moment, and that it will be a turning point in her life. But only God knows what she’ll do with her second chance.

Mercy means being spared the punishment we deserve. Grace means receiving blessings we don’t deserve. When grace and mercy meet, God often gives us a second chance. We can embrace it.

Or we can drive away.

“God does not treat us as our sins deserve or repay us according to our iniquities. For high as the heavens are above the earth, so great is His love for those who fear Him; as far as the east is from the west, so far has He removed our transgressions from us.” – Psalm 103:10-12

Todd A. Thompson – ASliceOfLifeToGo.com