Everything good dreams are made of.

TapTapTapTapTap.

Each poke of her little index finger on my shoulder hit the elevator button on my slumber, bringing me up from a sub-terrainian Stage 5 sleep to the lobby of reality.

Ding.

“Huh? Hey, Emma…what is it, baby?”

“I have a headache and my stomach hurts.”

So much for the happy place. I’d love to close my eyes and go back. But on this day I’ve been tapped out of my dreams.

Dreams. We are fascinated by them. So much so that they are part of our speech. “You’re dreaming”, we say to someone we think to be living in La-La Land or are hoping for something impossibly out of reach. To which they may reply, “Oh well, I can dream can’t I?”, expressing that hope really does spring eternal.

“Dream with me!” says the team leader at work when he wants to inspire thinking outside the box, or cubicle, as it were. And when the cumulative results are presented to the boss, she may say, “This is what happens when we dream big!” Or she might say, “Nice try. But it’s a pipe dream…” a poetic way of saying you’d come up with better ideas after an all-nighter in an opium den.

Guys hope for their “dream girl”. Girls hope for their “dream guy”. And in the dreaming neither stop to consider that even if and when they find them they will be creatures who squeeze the toothpaste in the middle and leave wet towels on the floor.

People speak of their “dream job” and their “dream vacation” knowing that if they can ever figure a way to combine the two they’d be “living the dream”, a phrase that suggests there’s no point in sleeping because what you see with your eyes open beats anything you’ll see with them shut.

Dreaming is the hope for something better. Something grander. Something that takes us beyond ourselves. Out of the mundane mud into the golden glory. Wherever we find ourselves, we long to live and exist on a higher plane. A tall order in this broken world, but we still try because inherent in each of us is a desire to be more than we are. We all want to live the dream.

It’s the broken world part that gets in the way.

Some 55 days ago my friend Greg was living the dream. Beautiful wife, three precocious children, and a job he enjoys. Because of a senseless, thoughtless driver, Greg’s dream was shattered when his wife Leigh Ann was killed.

My high school friend Crysti watched her Mom pass away last week after a long battle with cancer. She already lost her sister to that disease.

A few days ago one of my Facebook friends sadly posted, “Baby Jackson lost his fight to survive today. At 6:52pm today, Jackson Thomas Watt took his last breath on earth & his first breath in Heaven…he’s with his Maker now…we love you little man…”

When it comes to dreams, Greg and Crysti and Jackson’s parents are all tapped out.

Maybe you are, too.

Psalm 121:4 tells us that God never sleeps. Nor does He slumber. And in that verse the Psalmist describes God as “Israel’s protector”. There’s a degree of security in having a body guard. But even they need sleep. Imagine a protector who never tires and never needs a nap? Better, imagine that same Protector as the One protecting you?

In this broken world, some of our dreams will turn to nightmares. They are awful and terrifying. Yet even in these, God is our protector who never sleeps. When our dreams are broken, when our dreams seem impossibly far away, God is wide awake; always paying undivided attention to the details of our lives. We may toss and turn, yet God is here for us with the divine calm that comes from having everything under control.

I did manage to go back to sleep. That happy place was just around the corner. I could feel it.

TapTapTapTapTap.

Ding.

“Daddy…I had a bad dream.”

“No worries, Annie. It’s all good. God’s right here.”

“I will lie down and sleep peacefully, for you, Lord, make me safe and secure.” – Psalm 4:8

Todd A. Thompson – ASliceOfLifeToGo.com

Pulling into the parking lot, I ask my 9-year-old twin daughters the same question I ask every week.

“Girls, what are we here to do?”

“Galoshes 5:13b.” (We’re still working on the reference part.)

For the past two years, Annie, Emma and I have been bringing flowers and hugs to the residents of Carillon House and Vista Care, a skilled-care center and in-patient hospice. God uses our simple act of service to teach us many life lessons, like the power of encouragement and the frailty and brevity of life. It’s also allowed us the privilege of witnessing the final chapters of beautiful love stories.

Say to any couple, “Tell me how you met,” and you’re guaranteed a fun and fascinating story. Beginnings are full of romance and anticipation.

Sadly, romantic beginnings do not guarantee happy endings. If only couples could be glued together like the souvenirs in a wedding album. Some thrive during seasons of “better”—times of health and wealth. Yet when the “worse”—sickness and poverty—happens, their commitment wanes.

“How we met” stories are many. “How we stayed together” stories are much rarer.

There are many love stories among our Carillon friends. Ray and Margaret had been married 65 years when she died last month. Mr. Williams is a steady presence at the side of his bride of over 50 years. He watches helplessly as Alzheimer’s assaults her memory.

What choices do you make when “for worse” will never get better? Buddy and Shirley were married 50 years when he went in for a hip replacement two years ago. Complications from the anesthesia have left him bedridden ever since.

My Emma asks me, “Daddy, is Shirley with Buddy every day?”

“Yes, honey.”

Emma pauses before concluding, “She loves him.”

Indeed.

Dub stares at a photo of himself and his wife, Cody. “She was the pick of the town. Everyone told me how lucky I was. A kind and godly woman of high moral character. Everyone loved her.” After combat in the Pacific Theater during World War II, Dub came home and proposed. They built a life together as West Texas cotton farmers.

Through better and worse, God was good to them. He blessed them with children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren. As he speaks, Dub doesn’t want to cry. Yet with the memories come the tears.

“I had a stroke 18 years ago,” he says. “I was dependent on her. She was so good to me. No matter what, she made sure I got out of the house twice a day. She would drive me to McDonald’s, and we’d sit and have a 37-cent cup of coffee and talk.

“I had to have a hospital bed in our bedroom. When I woke up, I always looked over at her. She’s been gone for over a year now, but when I wake up, I still look that direction.”

When your eyes have awakened to the same beautiful face for over six decades, how could you not keep looking and hoping she would be there? Dub and Cody were married 62 years when she died.

“Those 18 years after my stroke were the best years of my life because I got to see her every day. If I hadn’t had that stroke, I’d have been out playing golf or out fishing and I would have missed that time with her,” Dub concludes.

Sometimes it takes the worst to teach us what is the best.

Ecclesiastes 7:8 tells us, “The end of something is better than the beginning.” Maybe Solomon was saying that however something starts, finishing well is more important. Better a beautiful final chapter than a happy first paragraph.

My daughters know the reason we come to Carillon is to “serve each other with love.” I hope someday they realize the Dubs and Codys they met here succeeded in marriage for the very same reason.

Todd A. Thompson – ASliceOfLifeToGo.com

“Hi, I’m Greg.”

“I’m Todd. Good to meet you.”

Dr. Oberholtzer opened the class by asking everyone to introduce themselves. When it came around to our table, my new acquaintance said, “I’m Greg Tonkinson…and I’m scared out of my mind.”

I liked him right away.

We were all scared. But Greg voiced what everyone was feeling. How can you even begin to see the end of a 94-hour Master’s degree on the first day? We had no idea what was ahead.

The unknown becomes known, one day at a time.

Over the next few years we spent tens of hundreds of hours together riding back and forth to seminary classes, sitting in class, talking ministry and theology over coffee, working on staff together at FBC-Tempe, planting a church, and playing in worship bands together.

Today my friend Greg is once again scared out of his mind. His beloved wife Leigh Ann was killed in a car accident on Saturday night. Leigh Ann was only 35 years old. I don’t remember ever seeing her without a smile on her face. A kind and gentle spirit, she was a nursing supervisor at Phoenix Children’s Hospital. More importantly, a godly wife to Greg and amazing Mom to three children.

Everyday we drive our cars and trucks down streets and roads and freeways, and almost always our minds race faster than the wheels we ride on. Schedules, work assignments, kids, to do lists, errands to run, and people to call. We multi-task at 60 miles per hour and our thoughts are almost always focused on what we are going to do next.

Only a series of painted white and yellow lines separate us from life and serious injury. Or life and death. We count on the fact that the other person will stay on their side of the line. And when they don’t it all comes to a tragic screeching halt.

And life is never the same.

Can I say it? Even Bible verses sound trite in times like this. Romans 8:28 promises that “God works all things together for good to those that love Him and are called according to His purpose.” True. And I believe that. But I hope no one says that to Greg for at least a year. Because from where he stands it’s impossible to see how losing your wife and best friend and mother of your children in a horrific accident could ever be worked into anything positive.

Psalm 138:8 promises that “God will accomplish everything that concerns me.” True again. Yet this side of heaven how can anyone who knew Leigh Ann comprehend that God accomplished everything that concerned her when she leaves behind a grieving husband and three young children?

Inherent in God’s sovereignty is that it will rarely make sense to us.

God’s promises are there. And they are true. And we take comfort in them. If not now, eventually. Yet for now, in these moments and days of stunned shock and disbelief, there are no words.

My friend and Pastor Duane Cross is no stranger to grief. He and his wife Sheri lost their 10-year old son Tyler in a car/bicycle accident. A couple of their closest friends were missionaries in Africa and were unable to return for the funeral. They sent a letter of condolence in which they said that within the African tribe they were living with, their word for “grieve” means “to sit in tent with”.

How profound. No words. Only “to sit in tent with”.

My friend Greg is scared out of his mind. How can you even begin to see the end of the rest of your life on the first day without your best friend? He has no idea what’s ahead. He will need people to “sit in tent” with him as his unknown becomes known, one day at a time.

Leigh Ann’s death makes no sense. There’s nothing good about it and everything bad about it. In our anger and sadness and confusion and agony and grief…God and His promises are there.

Even, and perhaps especially, when there are no words.

Greg, I love you, brother. I promise to keep you and yours in my prayers every day.

“God is near to the brokenhearted. He saves those who are crushed in spirit.” – Psalm 34:18

Todd A. Thompson – ASliceOfLifeToGo.com

Way back when, it was Emma’s idea to come here for the first time. We were replacing the flowers on 2nd North at Carillon House, visiting with our elderly friends when Emma asked why we didn’t go to the 4th floor, too. I didn’t have a good answer. So up we went.

We’ve been going every week since.

True to her word, we are back the next morning. Emma and Annie are looking lovely in their high heels and fancy purple skirts that spin out beautifully when they twirl and dance, their number one criteria for the perfect dress.

The twins race to see who can punch the elevator button first. Up to the 4th floor. Vista Care’s inpatient hospice unit is located here. A wonderful facility with caring staff. I was impressed early on with how nurses Elizabeth and Kelli handled Annie and Emma’s questions. Not the least of which was Kelli’s answer to one of the girl’s most significant “why?”. Kelli said, “For some people this is the last place they come before they go to heaven.” Annie and Emma are good with that answer.

On this Saturday morning in addition to dresses and heels, the girls have accessorized their outfits with three bottles of bubbles. It makes perfect sense to them. What else would girls in purple dresses and high heels do? They blow bubbles, of course.

It’s pretty quiet on the floor. After chatting with the nurses, they say goodbye and head back down the hall. There’s an open door to the left. A family they’d left flowers with yesterday. The patient, a gentleman who does not look nearly old enough to be here, and two ladies sitting bedside who appear to be family.

I lean against the inside of the doorway, watching Annie and Emma…be Annie and Emma. Their 2nd grade dialogue about random and disconnected topics, engaging the ladies in their conversation. All the while blowing bubbles, watching them float and trying to catch them without breaking them.

Soon they involve one of the ladies in blowing bubbles, too. Smiles all around. Laughter. The laughter that feels and sounds so free; the unfettered laughter of an adult being a kid again. It’s fresh air in this room.

Emma manages a big double bubble. “Whoa! Look! It’s like a Mommy and Daddy bubble!”

Poof.

Annie says, “Daddy bubble just popped.”

More laughter.

“Try to catch them! See? Look!” With her wand, Emma slides underneath the giant bubble she just blew and raises it up. Against the back light of the window I see the shimmering surface tension just before it pops and disappears.

Here in this room that is the last place some people come before going to heaven, life is being lived to the fullest. I dare say there is nothing more or better that anyone here can do in this moment than to blow bubbles and laugh, to enjoy human companionship and the simple delights of children.

Watching the bubbles hover over the bed, I am reminded that God tells us our life is like a vapor. Just like these bubbles. Delicate and beautiful. Incredibly fragile. Floating and fleeting. And in the time it takes to “ooh” and “ah” and giggle…poof!

They are gone.

It’s time to leave. Emma and Annie hand their bottles to the two ladies. Emma says, “Now you can blow bubbles all day even after we’re gone!”

“Are you sure, girls?”, the ladies want to know.

“No worries”, says Annie, “we’ve got lots of bubbles.”

“LOTS of bubbles!”, Emma affirms.

When you’re 8, it feels like the bubbles will never end.

The man in the bed understands better.

The man in the doorway is understanding that better, too.

“Why, you do not even know what will happen tomorrow. What is your life? You are a mist that appears for a little while then vanishes.” – James 4:14

 “Teach us to number our days aright, that we may gain a heart of wisdom.” – Psalm 90:12  

Todd A. Thompson – www.ASliceOfLifeToGo.com

One email came from VJ, a good friend with whom I was on staff at First Baptist Church-Tempe during my seminary days. VJ says, in part…  

“My dear sister Charla has joined the heavenly chorus as of August 29th of this year. Her body just began to fail in many different areas and God in his infinite grace brought her quickly to Himself. As family we had the reassurance that Charla was ready when she told us (in April) “I just want to see Lord Almighty!” We weren’t talking about her sickness or heaven or anything that would have prompted that thought. It has been a great comfort to us.”

Charla was developmentally disabled. She was also confined to a wheelchair, at least every time that I saw her. VJ would sometimes bring Charla to the church during office hours to spend some time while waiting to be picked up for adult day care. I remember her attitude as happy and joyful, a delightful person to be around. She would sit in her wheelchair and greet with a smile everyone who walked by.

What I remember about Charla was that she made me ask questions. Oh, none that I would voice out loud. Rather, silent introspective questions like, “Why her in that chair and not me? Why do I get the benefit of a reasonably sound mind and the opportunity to further my education while Charla will be forever stuck at this level? How is it that I can walk about, fully ambulatory, while she depends on others for transportation and daily care? How fair is it that she doesn’t have a say in changing her condition?”

Obviously there were no satisfactory answers. The questions would linger in my mind for a brief moment, pushed quickly aside by the tasks at hand.

In Matthew 20, Jesus tells the parable of the workers in the vineyard. The owner of the vineyard agrees to pay the workers he hires in the morning a day’s wages. He hires more workers in the third, sixth, ninth and eleventh hours, telling all of them he would pay them what is right. And they all agreed to work.

At the end of the day when they line up to collect their wages, the eleventh hour people are paid a full day’s wage. Those hired in the morning see that and think they will be paid more since they worked longer. But they are paid the same day’s wages, just as they had agreed to.

The point of the parable being, the owner of the vineyard has the right to be generous if he wants to. Jesus finishes the parable by saying, “So the last will be first and the first will be last.”

I’m not sure even the best Biblical scholar knows for certain the full meaning of that sentence. If you would ask me for my two cents, I think it includes people like Charla. Down here she didn’t have the benefits of good health, the opportunity to expand her knowledge, to mature in social relationships. Charla didn’t get to experience the joy of running full tilt down a green grassy hill on a spring day. She didn’t get the satisfaction of living independently, being able to say,“That’s OK, I can do it myself.” She didn’t experience the pride of accomplishment in earning a college degree, a promotion in her career or raising children.

Down here, Charla didn’t get to do a lot of things. Up there, I think it is a much different story for her. I have to believe that Charla discovered on August 29th that, in heaven, she is one of the “firsts”.

When I would see Charla in her wheelchair, sitting in the office at FBC-Tempe, I’d think of Jesus’ words about the “last being first”. And I’d wonder if, just maybe, I was looking at the person who might be my supervisor in heaven.

I guess someday I’ll find out.

If she is, I hope God is putting her in charge of the rose gardens.

Because that’s where I want to work.

Todd A. Thompson - www.ASliceOfLifeToGo.com

We’ve been buddies ever since.

They say there are “dog people” and “cat people”. I am a dog person. Though I have nothing against felines, I think dog ownership is a significant mark of mental stability. When you hear someone described as having a lot of dogs, you think friendly and fun and chasing Frisbees in a big backyard. Hear the phrase, “big house, lots of cats” and you picture rooms stacked with old newspapers and a woman with the psyche of a tippy canoe. Besides that, I just can’t see paying to keep an animal that is indifferent to you half the time.

One of the reciprocal commands given in the New Testament is to “greet one another”. Palmer made everyone feel welcome. And his watchdog abilities were superb. Door knocks, doorbell rings, cat in the backyard, someone in the alley, garbage truck, all got barked at. I grew to trust his senses. If I thought I heard a noise outside, I’d just look at him. If he didn’t lift his head off the tile where he was chilling, then I went back to my business.

Palmer was a looker. When he was groomed, one of the prettiest dogs I’ve ever seen. Wherever I took him, he got compliments. He was charming, even in his disobedience. Though it was probably a coincidence that he chose to do it on my blind side, during my first semester of seminary he sat right next to me while I was writing a paper and chewed the straps off my backpack. Upset as I was, it was tough to be mad at that face.

I wasn’t the only one who observed that Palmer was very tuned in to people’s emotions. During several episodes of profound sadness and concern, including the deaths of friends and my Dad’s stroke, Palmer would come to where I was sitting, put both paws on my leg and stare at me. If you were crying, he’d stay close till he thought you were ok, then lay down. But always close enough to keep an eye on you.

The lifespan of pets are mile markers in the timeline of a family. When the holiday dinner is finished and reminiscing begins over cups of coffee and slabs of pie you’ll hear someone start a story, struggling to remember the particular year. Coming up empty on the numbers, they’ll pause, and say, “Well, you remember. It was back when Dad had Pete the dog.” And everyone who was around back then smiles and nods. And the memory of old Pete eases them into the recollection, as smoothly as sliding into the seat of that ’67 Chevy pickup Pete used to ride in.

Palmer’s lifespan included significant markers in my life. My first year in seminary. My first house. My last year in seminary. And of course the birth and adoption of my children. When Annie and Emma came home from the neo-natal unit, Palmer kept his distance. He wouldn’t get close to them. Maybe he was hoping that they were only visiting. This went on for a couple months. One evening I was holding the girls on the love seat, one in each arm. I called Palmer over and told him to join us on the cushion. He came over and after some encouragement, reluctantly hopped up but immediately turned and gave us the cold shoulder.

I said, “Look, Palmer. This is Annie. And this is Emma. They are here to stay. You need to be nice because they’re going to grow up and want to play with you.” I turned so he could see them both. He looked at me, gave each of them a lick on the head and jumped back to the floor.

After that, everything was fine.

The last road trip Palmer made was relocating with me to Texas. A younger Palmer would have found a way to get in by himself. But I had to lift him up into the seat because it was too high and he was too old. Driving out and away from our home of many years, I cried and prayed, talking out loud to God and to my dog. Palmer sat in the passenger seat, tongue out, face in front of the air conditioning vents, watching the white lines approach and disappear under the U-Haul; every turn of the tire taking us further away from familiar faces and closer to everything undiscovered.

Palmer died last Thursday. Just three days shy of his 15th birthday. Lots of dogs don’t make it half that long. Chalk it up to a good life, plenty of cool tile and air conditioning in Arizona, and lots of people loving him back for the affection he so freely gave.

The Bible doesn’t say if dogs are in heaven or not. It does say that in the future God will create a “new heaven and a new earth”. We don’t know what that will look like. Yet it stands to reason that if God’s first created earth had dogs and He pronounced it “good”, then the new earth will probably will have plenty of room for all the Fido’s and Rover’s and Palmer’s to run and play. 

I sure hope so.

“Heaven goes by favour. If it went by merit, you would stay out and your dog would go in.”

- Mark Twain

Todd A. Thompson – www.ASliceOfLifeToGo.com

“When I grow up I am going to be the world’s greatest hockey player. Then I will be a famous scientist, marry a perfect wife and have 5 kids. In the end, I will die.”

Being a strong believer in the value of a liberal arts education, I appreciated his understanding that he can indeed excel in both hockey and science. With the right approach he can transition his career from slap shots and body checks to titrations and electron microscopes. And I loved his innocent naiveté in believing that there exists such a creature as a “perfect wife” (or husband). A precocious kid like Ryan may be well on his way to accomplishing everything on his list, though someday that “have 5 kids” thing will require some serious co-operation from his perfect wife.

However it turns out for him, he nailed one truth to the wall.

“In the end, I will die.”

I can’t help but think if Ryan keeps that fresh in his head, everything that comes before the end will be rich for him.

When we acknowledge each day that there is an end to life on earth, it helps us live with a sense of purpose.

According to the actuarial table used by the United States Social Security Administration, my life expectancy extends another 33.28 years.

http://www.ssa.gov/OACT/STATS/table4c6.html

I can probably add several years for not being a smoker, a drinker or recreational drug user. And the family genetics indicate that 80 plus years is a good possibility. But my cholesterol and blood pressure are a little on the high side, I tend to worry too much and wherever I go I seem to be surrounded by crazy drivers. So it’s probably a wash. All things considered, if I escaped city traffic and moved to North Dakota, I could probably fire up a Cohiba, start drinking Guinness and still come out ahead. But I’m an average guy and the average 44-year old guy lives another 33.28 years.

I’ve never been good at math. But I can see the obvious. Statistically speaking, my life is more than half over. That in itself is sobering. Not that 44 is old. But it isn’t 34. Or 24. Or 12. It’s 44. I’m closer to the end than I am the beginning.

We’ve all heard or been posed the hypothetical question, “If you knew you only had a year to live, what would you do?” Such a question sends us rushing to prioritize. What’s worth my time? What’s not? What would I do more of? What would I do less of? What would I not do at all?

Of course, the follow up question is, “If there’s things you’d do more and less of if you knew you only had a year to live, why aren’t you living that way now?” Junk mail is junk mail, right? Opening it is a waste of time whether we have terminal cancer or have another 50 years on the planet. That the people in your life know you care about them is important all the time. So why wait for a tragedy to say “I love you”? Especially when telling them now will enrich the relationship for whatever time you have left?

The “what would you do if you knew you had a year to live” question is a healthy exercise if it reminds us to live with purpose. The danger lies in thinking the question is hypothetical. Because whatever the Social Security Administration’s actuarial table says about our life expectancy, there’s a more important statistic to keep in front of us.

1 out of 1…dies.

It’s just a matter of when.

There’s a difference between living with a sense of panic and living with a sense of urgency. The former is based in fear. The latter flows from confident purpose. God desires that we live with a sense of urgency because He created us for a purpose.

In Psalm 139 God tells us that He “had all our days written down in His book before there was yet one of them.” And in Ephesians 2:10 God says that “we are His workmanship, created in Christ Jesus for good works that He has prepared in advance that we should walk in them.” Simply put, we can live out each day knowing that God has our life in His hand. He has a plan for us. A life of good works that He has prepared for us to do. If we live fully each day, how much time we have left becomes irrelevant. Because all we can do is make the most of the time God grants us.

And He grants us one day at a time.

So whatever you’d do more of and less of, start doing it and not doing it. Live with a sense of urgency.

Thank God for writing all your days down in His book.

Then ask Him to help you make the most of this one called “today”.

“Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom.” – Psalm 90:12

I was blessed to live near all my grandparents. I got to see them all the time. Grandpa and Grandma Thompson lived the closest. A short half mile down the gravel road on the farm. In the summer of 1981 they had been married for 56 years. That the marriage happened at all was a tribute to my Grandfather’s considerable charm and persistence. In a letter my Grandmother wrote to my cousin, she said, “I once told your Grandfather it would be a cold day before I would ever marry him. And it was. 34 degrees below zero on Christmas Eve in 1924.”

Grandpa Thompson was quite a character. A gifted conversationalist. A skill that served him well as a salesman and in talking his way out of speeding tickets. He had a dry sense of humor and a keen wit. He was a great story teller. An excellent woodworker. He taught himself to paint in his 70′s. He had a green thumb, loved to grow raspberries and roses. Best of all he was a quietly strong Christian role model. A Grandpa who was a wealth of wisdom and seasoned life experience for his grandkids.

About a month before he passed away, a big storm blew through. Summer storms in our part of Iowa always came from the northwest and this one had been building all day. It wasn’t a matter of if it was coming, but when it would arrive. We knocked off work at 4 pm, poured some lemonade, watched the horizon and waited. According to the radio, this one wasn’t some wannabe wind. This was going to be a “head for the basement and it wouldn’t hurt to pray” kind of storm.

The clouds were more ominous than anything I’d ever seen. Rolling, dark blue, then fading to black. The radio station said this weather cell had spawned a couple tornados and was leaving a trail of serious damage. I stayed out by the field taking pictures until I felt the air temperature quickly drop. Then it was a sprint to the house with my Shetland Sheep dog right on my heels.

Everyone went to the basement but me and my Dad. We looked out the window and watched the wind flip the switch to high. It was as impressive as it was sobering. Then just as quickly, the switch flipped off. Completely off. It was the first and only time I’ve literally experienced the “calm before the storm”. Everything outside in an instant went eerily still. Not leaf moved. There was no sound. The sky was a scary green gray. The air felt charged. It made my skin crawl.

Dad said, “Look out. Here it comes.”

Wham!

The storm after the calm shook the house. Trees bending, shingles flying and it sounded like a train was rolling through our living room. We went to the basement to ride it out. Time passes. Slowly and fearfully when you’re thinking your house could blow away.

After the noise died off, we went upstairs. The house was still there. But outside, what a mess. We’d be cleaning this up for days.

My cousin Jack, in a voice of urgent concern, said, “Man, we better get down the road and check on Mom and Pop. I hope they had time to get to the basement.” They were 81 and 82 years old. Trying to navigate those stairs in a hurry would be dangerous for them.

We jumped in the truck and headed south. All the way down the road we zigzagged to avoid the debris. Heading up the lane we saw chunks of corrugated steel roofing draped over power lines like laundry hung out to dry. A couple small buildings had fallen in. The tornado had hit the edge of Grandpa’s farm. It tore the roof off the hay shed and sent it screaming across the acreage. There was a ten inch hole in the siding where the wind had javelined a tree limb into the side of the house. A huge branch was blocking the front door. Jack and I scrambled to lift it out of the way.

Flinging open the door we instinctively headed for the basement but there was no light on down there. Curious. We poked our heads around to look up into the kitchen. There sat Grandpa and Grandma at the table, drinking coffee and having an afternoon snack.

Jack went off. “Pop, what the heck are you doing up here? Why aren’t you in the basement?! Didn’t you know it was storming outside?”

“Yep.”

My turn. “Then why the heck are you up here? Don’t you know a tornado lifted the roof off the hay shed and blew it over your house? It knocked your chimney down!”

“I thought I heard somethin’.”

“Heard somethin’?! You’ve got a hole in the side of your house! Another two feet over and that tree’d come right through the window and killed you. Why aren’t you in the basement?!!!”

He looked at us and without pause graced our 18 year-old questions with an 82 year-old answer.

“Because if you’re gonna go, you may as well go eating pie.”

And with that he put down his fork.

I can’t speak for Jack. But in my memory that was perhaps the first time I realized that in the sovereignty of God, when it’s your time to go, it’s your time to go. The best we can do is make sure we’re living life to the full every day, even in the storms, until we go. In this, we have a choice.

Several weeks later the entire extended family was gathered at our house for dinner. We grilled steaks and hamburgers, ate sweet corn, drank iced tea and enjoyed being together as we had so many times before. Grandpa Thompson was at the table, relishing the conversation and the laughter and his family when he fell out of his chair and died. A massive stroke or heart attack. I think he was gone before he hit the floor.

He was drinking a cup of coffee.

And eating a piece of apple pie.

“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

We are loaded down with the weight of living in a fallen world. Even our best days are sprinkled with sadness, disappointments and tears. And on our worst days we feel like it will never end.

The good news is that Jesus died that we might have life after this fallen world. The day is coming when the weight of our imperfections will be lifted for eternity. Heaven is a real place. A place of redemption, restoration, reunion, and rejoicing.

(Presented to Hope Covenant Church – Chandler, AZ – 11/20/2005)

“No, Annie. You’re five now. Happy Birthday!”

For weeks Annie and Emma have been talking about how they would soon be five years old. Now that the day is here, they seem a tiny bit wistful pondering that being five means they are no longer four. I understand that. We look forward to arriving and when we do we can’t help but look back.

Driving them to pre-school, we stop at Fry’s Grocery to buy some cookies to share with their classmates. Annie and Emma announce to the checkout clerk that today is their birthday and they are now five years old.

“Really? If it’s your birthday then you need balloons!” An attentive employee walking by hears the conversation and is back in a flash with two balloons, one pink and one orange. The girls giggle, toss a thank you over their shoulder and bounce out the door.

We are pulling out of the parking lot when my Dad calls. He can barely find the words to say that Steve Logemann, a high school acquaintance of mine, has died in a farm accident.

Steve was a couple grades ahead of me at North Kossuth High School. I didn’t know him well except to say hi to him in the hall between classes. He was very tall and very nice. The kind of person your parents would describe as “a good kid”.

Two years ago and 23 years removed from our high school days I received an email from Steve. Somehow one of my “Slice of Life” columns had found its way to his inbox and he asked to be added to the distribution list. Steve and his wife Gail now had four kids and a family website with pictures of their Iowa farm and of their children. The website is called www.twinkleye.com, a not so subtle reference to the Biblical passage in 1 Corinthians 15 that speaks about how believers in Jesus Christ will be changed in the “twinkling of an eye” when He returns. And that because of Jesus’ death on the cross, “death is swallowed up in victory”.

Pressing the end button on my cell phone, I turn right on to 40th Street. Annie and Emma are chattering happy twin talk in the back seat. Driving a little slower than normal, I look around. Palm trees are swaying and gray clouds are rolling on an unusually cool and windy Phoenix day. A phone company technician bends over a junction box, making repairs. Kids with packs on their backs and I-Pod’s in their ears head for the bus stop. A McDonald’s semi truck on its way with a supply of everything needed to make Big Macs and Egg McMuffins. Two ladies aerobic speed walking down the sidewalk. A Dad pushing a stroller. And me driving my kids to preschool on their 5th birthday before going off to work.

The thing about death is that it happens in the middle of life.

Pulling into the school parking lot the kids unbuckle their seat belts and we do what we always do. We have a little talk. We talk about how important it is to be a good friend to others, to be respectful of their teachers, to take care of each other and to remember that they can talk to God anytime about anything. On this day I add that 5 years ago my whole life changed when God blessed me with their lives. I tell them how proud I am of them and how much I love them. We hug for a little longer than usual.

Getting out of the car, Emma says, “Daddy, let’s let the balloons go and watch them go high in the sky.”

“Is that ok with you, Annie?”

“That’s a great idea! I go first!”

“Ok, go ahead…no. Wait Annie. Please. Just a second. Daddy needs to get something.”

Maybe it’s because today is their birthday. Maybe it’s because I’m thinking about Steve’s wife and kids and how terribly much they are going to miss their Daddy. Maybe it’s because with all my formal theological training I don’t have a single satisfying answer as to why bad things happen to good people. Maybe it’s because all of the above makes me remember that life is short and oh so unpredictable.

Whatever it was made me grab the camera.

“Ok, girls! Let ‘em go!”

Annie was right. It was a great idea. We watched them dance into the clouds and out of sight.

Happy Birthday, Annie and Emma. I love you more than you’ll ever know.

See you later, Steve. Thanks for reminding me to look forward to the “twinkle eye” time. You’ve arrived. I’m sure there’s lots to do on your first day in heaven, but if you happen to see a couple of pink and orange balloons float by, just know they’re from friends in Phoenix who are looking forward to the day of no more looking back.

“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

“Thanks be to God! He gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.” – 1 Corinthians 15:57

A gathering of friends to watch Monday Night Football. A Pampered Chef party. A Neighborhood Watch meeting. Maybe even a Bible study.

There’s lots of houses in this valley of 3 million people and more cars than houses. So many cars that to the eye they become invisible moving pieces against a background of stucco houses and palm trees.

The extra cars parked in front of the house could have been there for any reason. Those that drove by in their minivans full of kids coming home from soccer practice or clarinet lessons probably didn’t give it a second thought, save an extra tap on the brake to cleanly split the middle between the Ford Expedition and the Chevy Silverado pickup parked on either side of the street. We live in a big city. Cars park anywhere and everywhere at every hour of the day. As long as we get from A to B and back again without a scratch to ours or anyone else’s, it’s a good day.

The extra cars parked in front of the house could have been there for any reason. Unless someone told you, you wouldn’t know their drivers were inside doing their human best to comfort the family of a young man who, for reasons no one will ever know, made the decision to silence the ghosts of his mind with a bullet through his head.

There was an extra car parked in East Mesa a couple nights before. The young man behind the wheel, parked in a favorite spot. He’d been there many times before to escape the city lights and look up at the stars. No one knows if he looked up this night or if he looked only at the gun in his hand. Only God knows what his thoughts were, what words were spoken, or how he expressed the torment and pain that pushed him to his limit. Only God knows.

From now on there will be one less car in the driveway of this house. Unless we’ve experienced the same, we can only imagine the pain. We can only imagine the reality of living the rest of our life without a beloved son or grandson or brother. Only God understands what happened. Only God has the answers. Only God knows. We make ourselves too big and God too small when we pretend otherwise.

The extra cars parked in front of the house were there for a reason. The pickup was big, but not big enough to hold any answers. Just big enough to bring people to gather around the grieving. To hug and to hold. To cry and to comfort. To sit and stare. To pause and to pray.

The stucco houses all look the same. Yet behind every front door are unique human beings created in the image of God who share the common burden of living in a fallen world. We don’t always have answers but we have God and we have each other. In the face of tragedy, we often discover both. When ours is the extra car in front of the house, we’re showing the love of God as best we can by “comforting one another with the comfort with which we ourselves have been comforted by God”.

On its best days, life is rough and tumble. You don’t have to wait for a crisis to comfort and encourage. Be the person who drops by to say, “I was thinking about you today. How’s life?” Be the person who makes dinner and brings it over to your friend just because it’s Tuesday. Be the one who sends the funny email to give someone a laugh. Be the person who buys the coffee and listens to the concerns. Be the friend who says, “I’ve been there and God helped me through.” When you bring comfort and encouragement, nobody minds if you park in front.

Be the extra car in front of the house.

Because the day will come for all of us when we’ll want a crowd in our driveway.

“Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort; who comforts us in all our affliction so that we may be able to comfort those who are in any affliction with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God.” – 2 Corinthians 1:3-4

Surrounded by appropriately noisy young families juggling kid packs, baby strollers and otherwise testing the limits of allowable carry on luggage, this matched pair sat quietly together with only their jackets and boarding passes in hand. Their appearance was pleasant. He in a tweed sport coat, she in a turtleneck and heavy gray sweatshirt with “Charlevoix, Michigan” elegantly stitched across the front in navy blue thread. They would be flying along with us and a DC-10 full of holiday travelers from Phoenix to Minneapolis. As I watched them I silently wondered what kind of Christmas they would have.

Upon arrival at my parent’s home one day later, we were told that my Grandfather had suffered a heart attack. He stabilized a bit for a few hours, but died early Christmas morning. My Mom woke me up to say simply, “Grandpa’s gone.” I guess if you had a choice of where to spend Christmas, heaven would be right up there.

My Grandmother asked me to speak at the funeral. During the next several days I sorted through the memories I had of my Grandfather. One memory in particular elbowed its way to the front of my mind. When I was a small boy, I loved to play in the snow. If I happened to be outside at my Grandparent’s farm when Grandpa Walt was headed toward the barn to do chores, he would pull me across the snow in a scoop shovel.

I remember the first time he ever pulled me. “Sit down and hang on.”, he said.

“But Grandpa, this is not a sled!”, I said.

“Sit down and hang on.”, he said.

“But Grandpa, this is a scoop shovel!”

“Sit down and hang on!”

So I sat down in the scoop and grabbed hold of the handle. Even as a preschooler I dripped with firstborn perfectionism. I spent every second of that first ride to the barn worried that this was not a sled. It was a scoop. Sleds are for pulling. Scoops are for scooping. This is not practical.

Before I knew it we were at the barn and the ride was over. Grandpa went in to milk the cows. I was left to look back toward the house and ponder the trip.

Sometime after that first ride in the scoop I quit worrying that it wasn’t a sled and started to enjoy the ride. I held on for dear life when Grandpa spun me in a circle over icy packed snow and swung me high and wide up the sides of giant drifts. I laughed and shrieked when he broke into a run; a mere eighth inch of aluminum between me and the frozen ground. Always before I knew it we were at the barn and Grandpa would go in to milk the cows.

I confess to you that I have spent too many of my nearly 40 years worried about what I’m riding on through life. I’ve wasted too much time wishing my scoop shovel was a sled or a sleigh or a snowmobile. And I think I’d hate to know how much excitement and joy I’ve missed by being practical instead of enjoying the ride. We Americans are particularly good at working for the future at the expense of the present. We’re so consumed with upgrading to a sled that we rarely experience the thrill of riding in our scoop.

Ecclesiastes 3:1-2 tells us that “there is a time for everything”, including a time to be born and a time to die. In between those two events is the trip to the barn. Are you enjoying yours? Are you hanging on for dear life and allowing God in His sovereign love and plan to swing you high and wide over the big drifts of life during this thrilling, exciting and sometimes scary pull? Or are you still trying to explain to God that your scoop should be a sled?

Whatever God wants to pull you in, sit down and hang on. Enjoy the ride. Before you know it, you’ll be at the barn. At the end when you’re left to look back and ponder the trip; you’ll want memories, not regrets.

When we boarded the plane in Minneapolis for our return flight to Phoenix, there they were. The Tweed and Charlevoix couple. Row 5, seats E and F. I wondered what kind of Christmas they had.

I can’t say for certain, but it looked to me like they were riding happily in their scoop.