You can imagine that when in August of that year God moved me to Phoenix, Arizona to attend seminary that it was quite an adjustment. Out of some two million people living there at the time I knew only four. It didn’t take long before I was missing my family and friends in a major way.

It took several months of visiting churches before God pointed me to First Baptist-Tempe. In December just before Christmas I was invited for dinner at the home of Chet and Rosie Farrington who were long time members there.

After a delicious meal, Rosie said to me, “Todd, there’s something here you might be interested in.” She reached out and pulled a small plaque off the wall. It looked old and it had a Bible verse on it. Nice, I thought. I like old things that have character.

“Look on the back”, she said.

I turned it over. A list of signatures. And the names…”Hey, I know all these people!”

“That’s the plaque the Men’s Brotherhood of First Baptist Church in Swea City, Iowa gave to Chet in January of 1956 just before we moved to Arizona.”

Swea City, Iowa is my hometown. And First Baptist Church is where I grew up from the week I was born. On the list of names are the signatures of my great grandfather, both my grandfathers, a great uncle, and many of my neighbors growing up.

What I hadn’t known in moving to this big city was that before I was so much as a twinkle in my parents’ eyes, Chet and Rosie had lived across the field from my grandparents and attended my home church.

To see those names and the familiar signatures of my family members in this new and lonely place was like water in the desert. It was a connection. A reminder of my heritage. That I come from somewhere. And most important, that the God who grew me up in Iowa was with me in Arizona.

That plaque didn’t just happen. Back in 1956, someone in the First Baptist Church thought it would be a nice gesture to give Chet Farrington something to remember them by as he moved away to the big city. 37 years later that person’s thoughtfulness encouraged another guy who had moved away to the big city.

Friends, when we extend kindness to others we never know how far it reaches. Or who it touches. Across the miles and across generations. Let’s be purposeful in our kindness and intentional in our encouragement.

That’s a legacy we can gladly sign our name to.

Todd A. Thompson – ASliceOfLifeToGo.com

In athletics we talk about the home field advantage. Any team in any sport at any level would always rather play at home. It’s our comfort zone. We’re familiar with our field, our arena, our diamond. We like playing on the same court that we practice on. Not to mention the advantage of playing in front of our home town fans who know us and cheer for us. Hometown fanatics in our bleachers give us an edge by encouraging us and making it impossibly noisy for the opponents. It’s why we dress up and paint ourselves in our school’s colors and pack out a stadium to scream for four quarters.

Simply put, we like playing home games because it’s familiar territory. And we don’t like playing away games because it’s unfamiliar territory.

So here’s the $64,000 question: How comfortable would you be if every game was an away game?

I’ve been thinking about home and away. Especially as it pertains to us as Christians in our relationships with those who have yet to meet Jesus. We might call them “disconnected people”. When we think about reaching out to our disconnected neighbors and friends our first thought is “I’ll invite them to church.” It’s a good idea. A good idea, that is, unless your church is stuck in a time warp of stale tradition where the music and preaching are sinfully boring and the mission of the church is as culturally relevant as a Commodore 64 computer. In that case you might want to skip the church invite, dig up an old “Four Spiritual Laws” tract and have a go at it yourself. (But that’s a column for a later time.)

All in all, inviting someone to church is a good idea. Our disconnected friends get to hear the music and God’s Word taught and explained. And hopefully all this is accomplished in an atmosphere of people who genuinely care about each other.

Inviting our disconnected friends to church is a good thing. Yet often forgotten in the process is that when our disconnected friends join us at church, it is an away game for them. We’re bringing them on to our home field, the place where we are most comfortable. We know the music. We know the preaching. We know what words like pulpit and foyer and fellowship mean. We’re surrounded by our home crowd, the people we know. The people who encourage us. We move easily through the routine and the rituals, like a center fielder who knows every dip and divot in his outfield. It’s all familiar territory.

If inviting our disconnected friends and neighbors and co-workers to church is the extent of our relationship building, then every game for them is an away game. Were the roles reversed, how comfortable would you be? How comfortable would you be always playing on someone else’s turf?

I think it’s fascinating that as far as everything we can read in the Bible, Jesus never invited anyone to church. Or to be hermeneutically specific, He never invited anyone to come to the synagogue with Him. In fact, one could argue Jesus never invited anyone to church because He was too busy going into their worlds, meeting them on their home field. When He called Simon Peter and James and John, He climbed into their fishing boat. When He called Levi, He met him at his toll booth. When He crossed paths with Zacchaeus, a tax collector crooked as a dog’s hind leg, Jesus didn’t say, “Our pastor is doing a series on integrity. You should come.” Nope. He said, “Zacchaeus, you best get down here because I’m coming over to your place for dinner.”

I can’t help but wonder if part of what made Jesus so winsome and attractive to disconnected people is that He walked onto their home field and met them there.

Jesus’ command to us was not to “invite everyone to church to hear the gospel preached.” Not that it’s a bad idea. What He said was to “go into all the world and preach the gospel.” That means we need to add a lot more away games to our schedule and get used to playing on the road. And not just get used to it, but to love it the way Jesus loves it. He delights in meeting people where they are.

You’re supposed to win at home. Great teams win on the road. And when it comes to sharing Jesus with your disconnected friends on their field, when you win…they win.

Go.

It’s time to play on the road.

“Then Jesus said to Simon, “Don’t be afraid; from now on you will catch men.” So they pulled their boats up on shore, left everything and followed Him.” – Luke 5:10b-11

Todd A. Thompson – ASliceOfLifeToGo.com

]]> http://www.asliceoflifetogo.com/2010/09/05/home-or-away/feed/ 0 http://www.asliceoflifetogo.com/2010/04/11/love-that-lasts/ http://www.asliceoflifetogo.com/2010/04/11/love-that-lasts/#comments Mon, 12 Apr 2010 06:32:15 +0000 todd http://www.asliceoflifetogo.com/?p=462 (This appeared as the back page “Classic Thoughts” column in the February 2010 issue of “The Classic”, the alumni magazine of  Northwestern College. I’m grateful for the privilege to contribute to this fine publication.)

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

Both times completely unexpected.

One from a friend. One from a total stranger.

Both times brought tears to my eyes.

Handwritten notes of appreciation and encouragement.

When is the last time you were on the receiving end of genuine encouragement? Isn’t it a wonderful mix of good feelings? Someone noticed. Someone cares. Someone took time to say so. Encouragement validates us. We are worth something. We have a place in the world and in the lives of others. Encouragement invigorates us going forward. We press on, this time with more purpose and renewed commitment. Because someone cared enough to say we’re making a difference. 

In my Grandparent’s day, a handwritten note was the preferred method of communicating appreciation, if only because they didn’t have our technology. Today we have phone, email, text, electronic greeting cards and, if all else fails, face to face conversations. I still think a handwritten note is the best. My handwriting was never good and years of typing most everything has made it worse. Yet there is something special about a handwritten note. Thoughts expressed with ink on paper feel more intimate than laser printed Ariel 12-point font. Handwriting is an expression of personality. And it takes more thought, more care, to pen a letter. Perhaps that’s what makes it special. I send handwritten thank you notes to my customers, even if it does take them 20 minutes to decipher my scrawl.

The medium isn’t as important as the message. Phone, note or card, are you encouraging people on a daily basis? If not, why not?

The beauty of encouragement is that it can’t be overdone. Encouragement is the Vitamin C of relationships; you can’t give too much of it and the receiver can’t overdose on it. And like Vitamin C, none of us get enough of it.

Pull up your contact list on your cell phone. Guaranteed that every one of those people would be blessed to have you call and say, “I just wanted you to know I appreciate your friendship.” If someone called you and said that, how much better would your day be?

As much as the people in your life need to hear your appreciation, the beauty of encouragement is that it is not contingent upon relationship. You can encourage a total stranger. 

In March of 1992 while living in Iowa I was watching the weather forecast on Channel 9 in Sioux City. Tom Peterson was the meteorologist there. A fine weather man and a beloved person in Northwest Iowa. It was late March, he said, and spring was on the way. That little blip on the radar was going to be nothing more than a “light flurry” that would barely even dust the ground.

The next day I was thinking about Tom’s prediction while bent over my scoop shovel for half an hour. We got absolutely dumped on with a heavy wet snow. I figured Tom would be eating some serious crow. I also figured that he had a good sense of humor so I decided to drop him a note.

“Tom – Was thinking about you today while scooping all 8 inches of your “light flurry” off my driveway. It must be nice to get paid even when you miss a storm the size of Montana. Would it help you tighten up your forecasting accuracy to work on commission? Seriously, you’re doing a great job. God still controls the weather and even experts like you can’t see ‘em all coming. Best regards, tat”

I got a note back in the mail the next week. It said,

“Todd – Thanks for your letter. It certainly brightened up a dreary (forecast to be sunny by noon) day! – Tom.”

That simple exchange of notes was between two people who had never met but the end result was a mutual encouragement. This note came to mean more to me about 18 months later when Tom Peterson was killed in a car accident during a blizzard. Which raises a sobering point.

The best time to encourage is always “now”. Not “later”. Do it now when it comes to mind. Do it now while you’re thinking about it. Do it now, when the person crosses your mind. Do it now when you observe someone hurting. Do it now when you see someone who deserves to be recognized for their efforts. Do it now when you think about the person who helped you become the person you are. Do it now.

We spend so much time on tasks that really don’t matter. Much of what we do could be put off indefinitely. Cleaning the garage can always wait. Encouragement should never be procrastinated. Encouragement should always be done now.

Simply put, we never know how many opportunities we’ll have to encourage people.

Do it now.

Now go make someone’s day.

Flatter me, and I may not believe you.
Criticize me, and I may not like you.
Ignore me, and I may not forgive you.
Encourage me, and I will not forget you.
- William Arthur Ward

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

A double glance in the rear view mirror (I’ve heard the stories about people backing before looking) tells me I’m cleared for takeoff. Out in the driveway I reach up, push the button to close the garage door and…

Nothing.

Ever notice that stuff like this never happens on days you have plenty of time?

Press the button again. And again. Harder. Really hard.

Nothing.

As if harder would fix it. Kind of like how every game of Pictionary has people who think their answer will be right if they just keep saying it louder.

Get out of the car. Check the wall mounted opener on the inside.

Nothing.

I was about to engage the manual override (pull that red cord thingy and drop the door like our grandparents, who were their own garage door opener) when I remembered a random thing my friend Brent had said in a conversation several months ago. He said during certain times of the year, during certain times of the day, his garage door won’t go down.

Could it be?

Remembering what he said, I checked the eastern sky and looked down at the safety sensor mounted at the bottom of the track. Positioning my body just so, I cast an intervening shadow…

…and pressed the button.

Door down.

The sensor was so blinded by the sun that it couldn’t read the steady signal being sent by it’s companion on the other side.

It happens to us, too. This blindness. For some, it’s an overbooked schedule that keeps us from hearing the requests for balance being sent by our families. For some, it’s a chronic circumstance or a painful past that, over time, we’ve allowed to define us. For some, it’s an addiction that dulls us to everything except our next fix of food or drugs or alcohol or pornography. Whatever “it” is, it’s in our face. Incessant and relentless, it prevents us from seeing the steady signals being sent by the other side; the side we need in order to function in the way we’re designed to do.

It takes an intervening shadow. Someone to step in between you and whatever is blinding your vision. A friend who stands in the gap long enough to get your attention and long enough for you to hear the messages you’ve not been receiving. In the extreme, it’s a full blown intervention. In the day to day, it should be a friend or friends we regularly invite to be the intervening shadow in our life.

These past couple years have been, in more ways than I can say, hell for me. Yet a decision I made early on has meant the difference between success and failure. The difference between sanity and insanity. The difference between hope and futility. The difference between character and cowardice. My decision? I purposely and pro-actively surrounded myself with intervening shadows. Counselors, advisors, mentors and friends, many of them older and all of them wiser than me. I gave every one of them permission to point out my blind spots. I gave every one of them permission to kick my butt if they thought I needed it.

Suffice it to say they did some pointing.

And no small amount of butt kicking.

And it made all the difference.

In relationships, there is a difference between “being transparent” and “being vulnerable”. Transparency means I control how much of me I let you see. Vulnerability means I give you permission to work truth into my life. We can be transparent with many. Vulnerable with only a few. A small circle of intervening shadows, committed to our growth and bent on doing their part in helping us to “be conformed to the image of His Son” (Romans 8:29). It’s hard work. Gut wrenching work, if you’re doing it right. You’ll cry and you’ll cuss. But the character and clarity of vision that comes from committed friendships is invaluable.   

Whatever’s in your face, whatever’s blinding you, get some intervening shadows in your life. You can’t afford to surround yourself with a bunch of “yes” people who tell you what you want to hear. You need people who will stand in the gap and tell you the truth until you’re able to tell the truth to  yourself.

My life and my future are too important. I can’t afford to be the leader of my own “rubber stamp parade”.

Neither can you.

“Better is open rebuke than love that is concealed. Faithful are the wounds of a friend, but deceitful are the kisses of an enemy.”

- Proverbs 27:5-6

Todd A. Thompson – www.ASliceOfLifeToGo.com 

The girls and I have a way of cramming a lot of theological discussion into the 15-minute drive to 1st grade.

Annie wonders out loud, “So we’ll get to see all our friends up there, right?”

Her question unknowingly intersected with my homesickness. I really miss all my friends back in the Phoenix valley. The people here in this new place have been more than kind. It’s made the hard work of starting life over not quite as daunting. Still, they are all new. Everything is new here. It’s the difference between the brand new loveseat at the furniture showroom and the favorite couch at your best friend’s house. The difference between sitting gently and not for long and flopping down, hugging a pillow and settling in for the entire four quarters of Monday Night Football.

New takes time to become comfortable.

Emma must have caught my expression in the rear view mirror. “Are you okay, Daddy?”

“I’m fine, baby.”

I thought she’d press the question. But it’s like she knew what I was thinking.

“You’ll make new friends here, Daddy.”

Who is this kid? Ten minutes ago we were standing in front of the bathroom mirror battling over ponytail vs. “some up, some down”. Now she’s Yoda, the life coach with a Hello Kitty backpack.

“That’s right, Daddy.” Annie joins. I love when they do this. The twin dynamic never ceases to intrigue me. They share a brain. And whatever thought they offer is delivered in stereo.  “It’s just like the song we sing at Girl Scouts, Daddy.”

I was going to ask what song but all Annie had to do was sing the first word and by the next eighth note Emma was in perfect sync and perfect pitch.

“Make new friends, but keep the old.

One is silver and the other is gold.

A circle is round, it has no end.

That’s how long I want to be your friend.”

A relational reality of living in a fallen world is that those we love are never “all together”. Even perfect attendance reunions of friends and family are only momentary distractions; a weekend glimpse of what life would be like without separation. When everyone gets in their car to go home, we all go back to loving from a distance.

The Bible says that no one can imagine what God has prepared for us in heaven. That we can count on. No one does surprises like God. And just think what He can do with all this time to prepare? And while I can’t point to chapter and verse to back this up, I have to believe a big part of heaven will be enjoying all the friends we’ve ever made without the tyranny of a fixed schedule. There is a freedom in “forever”. Not the least of which is never having to say the word “good-bye” again.

Till then God calls us to “…one another” one another. Pray for one another. Bear one another’s burdens. Encourage one another. Cry with one another. Laugh with one another. Serve one another. Forbear and forgive one another.

We do this where we live, wherever we live. Making new friends. Silver, perhaps, for the moment. But they will all be gold up there.

With no end.

“Eye has not seen nor ear heard what God has prepared for those who love Him.”

- 1 Corinthians 2:9

Todd A. Thompson – www.ASliceOfLifeToGo.com

“Friendship is the greatest of worldly goods. Certainly to me it is the chief happiness of life. If I had to give a piece of advice to a young man about a place to live, I think I should say, “sacrifice almost everything to live where you can be near your friends.” I know I am fortunate in that respect.”

Are you blessed to live near your friends? And should God move you, have you developed friendships that will transcend time and distance?

Having relocated six months ago to this new place, I am acutely aware of the importance of friendships. I sadly left behind 14 years worth of relationships in the Phoenix valley; people I had invested in and who had invested in me for over a decade. I miss them greatly.

What I’ve realized by being alone in a new place is that the only way friendships can transcend distance is if they were nurtured and developed with lots of “face time” before you, or they, moved away. In short, if you haven’t developed good friends before it’s time to rent the U-Haul, it’s too late. That I can call my friends, who now live hundreds of miles away, and pick up where we left off is because we spent lots of time together making memories and helping one another grow.

Sometimes the silliest things can help create a bond of friendship that, as Solomon said in Ecclesiastes 4:12, “isn’t easily broken.”

One evening in October of 1983 during my junior year at Northwestern College, my roommate Craig Pennings and I were studying in our dorm room. On my desk was a box of Ritz crackers that I was munching on. I offered him some and he said “No, thanks”.

I said, “What’s the matter? My crackers aren’t good enough for you?” He said, “Hey, I’m not hungry.” When he left the room, I put the box on his desk. Later, without a word he put it back on mine. And so it went for a couple days. One day when I got them back on my desk for the umpteenth time, I put them away.

Before going home for Christmas that December, I dug those crackers out, tied them up in their wax paper wrapping, and stuffed them inside a shoe in his closet. I scribbled a note that said something like, “Since you didn’t eat them in October, I thought you might be hungry by now.” Then I laughed and left. By the time I came back for second semester, I had forgotten all about it.

In May 1984 after final exams I was packing up to go home for the summer and found the crackers stuffed in one of my shoes with a note from Craig that he thought I should keep them.

I did keep them.

For a whole year I kept them.

I kept them until graduation in May of 1985 when I went to his closet and stuffed them back in one of his shoes just before leaving the dorm for the last time. I attached a note that said, “Thought you better have these crackers since you wouldn’t eat them in October of ‘83. You thought I’d forgotten about these, didn’t you?” I laughed, thinking it was the last laugh, and left.

In April of 1988, three years after we graduated from college, I got a package in the mail. Inside were the crackers, along with a note that said, “Remember these? I thought you might be hungry.” 

This was entirely too much. Thinking for three years that you’ve had the last laugh only to realize you were just dealing with a very patient person is a real jolt.

In 1991, I mailed them back to Craig with a note.

For my birthday in 1993 he mailed them back to me with a can of Cheeze Whiz.

In May of 1996 I sent them back to him with a note, “Roses are red, old buckets are rusty, after 13 years, these crackers are crusty”.

I got them back in the mail in 2000 as a belated birthday present.

While preparing a sermon on friendship in September of 2004 I realized I had the crackers in my closet. I thought it would be an appropriate occasion to send them back to him.

These crackers or, more accurately, cracker dust, gets mailed back and forth every 2 to 4 years. Always after the other guy has forgotten all about them. And always with a note stapled on top of all the other notes we’ve written. It’s been going on for almost 25 years. Being the good friend that I am, Craig knows that if he dies before I do and the cracker dust is in my possession, I will find a way to get it inside his casket. Being the good friend that he is, I know he will do the same for me.

To anyone else that bag of Ritz cracker dust is worthy of a trash can. For Craig and I it’s part of the legacy that is our friendship. This running joke is evidence of a friendship that goes much deeper. Craig is one of the most loyal friends I’ve ever had. He has been there for me during the most difficult times in my life. He is an encourager with a caring heart and one of the most dependable people I’ve ever known. The kind of guy you can call in an emergency on zero notice to drive two and a half hours to pick you up at the Omaha airport from a midnight flight and then drive you another two hours to Sioux Falls, South Dakota where your Dad is in the hospital after a stroke.

In his song “The Times of Our Lives“ Paul Anka wrote that, “Memories are times that we borrow to spend when we get to tomorrow.” Before memories can be spent, they must be made. How are you doing making memories with your friends? Are you making memories on purpose? Or by chance? Are you taking the camera with you when you go out to dinner? Are you playing the practical jokes that make for good stories later? Are you taking road trips? Going to concerts together? All these experiences now become valuable pieces of the “I remember when…” game later. They are all part of the legacy of friendship.

Here’s hoping you are blessed with friends near and far. And that wherever you’re living, you’re investing in friendships that will transcend time and distance.

If you’re not making friends, you might want to start. Your life will be richer for it.

And speaking from experience…

…if God decides to move you, it’s nice to have help loading the U-Haul.

- Todd A. Thompson

www.ASliceOfLifeToGo.com

Among the boxes I came across a manila envelope full of papers and old clippings my parents sent to me some time ago. One item was an unremarkable white window envelope with a postmark of April 6, 1965 and a return address of 200 First Street SW, Rochester, Minnesota. Inside was an itemized billing statement for $329 from the Mayo Clinic.

I’m not sure how far $329 would go at the Mayo Clinic today, but back then it covered all the lab tests, exams, X-rays, anesthesia and surgery to remove my right eye.

I was 20 months old at the time. The diagnosis was retinal blastoma, a malignant tumor on my retina. From what I understand, it was a scary time for my parents and grandparents. My Grandma Thompson told me about her conversation with the doctor after the surgery. She asked when they would fit me with an artificial eye. He answered, “If he’s still alive in six months, bring him back.” A response which, though poor bedside manner, is likely more indicative of how little they knew about cancer 40 plus years ago. They were worried the tumor had spread. Thank God, it didn’t.

Because I grew up with it, my brain made all the adjustments early on. I can judge distances with no problem. So it’s no big deal to me. I rarely think about it. In fact, I have no memory of what it’s like to see with two eyes. I literally can’t imagine how a person would focus two eyes on one object. It seems like extra work to me.

There are advantages to having one eye. I don’t have to squint when looking through a microscope or shooting a gun. And when the box of contact lenses says “90 day supply”? For you. 180 days for me. When I fly I always sit by the window on the left side. That way even if someone occupies the seat next to me, it still feels like there’s no one there. My own built in anti-claustrophobia mechanism. No stimulus, no response.

When discussing eyesight or the lack thereof, often people will close one eye to imagine what it would be like. The thing is, when you close a good eye, you still see black. I see nothing. It’s like trying to read a book with your elbow.

Friends who know me well have used my plastic eye to their friendly advantage. When playing driveway basketball my buddies Doug, Mark, Dave, Jeff, Ed and Kevin would remind each other to “set the pick on Thompson’s right. It’s his blind side.” And the lack of peripheral vision has caused me to bump into door jams, people and parking meters to name but a few embarrassments. It’s also one way I measure the depth of friendships. When people start cracking one-eye jokes I know they are comfortable with me. And I with them.

This past summer I forgot to order my contact lenses before the current supply ran out. So I was wearing my glasses until they arrived in the mail. One Saturday was a ”mow the yard, clean the garage, run errands” kind of day. At the end of it all I happened to glance in the mirror and saw the right lens of my glasses completely covered with dirt, grease and sweat. Superman couldn’t have seen through that lens. No wonder the clerk at Home Depot was smiling. I looked like a complete dork.

The dirt was less than an inch away from my eye, but I couldn’t see it.

Blind spots are that way. Right in front of our face, yet we can’t see them. I walked around all day, oblivious to the obvious. It took the unflinching honesty of a mirror to show the smudges I couldn’t see. 

Mirrors can help with a physical blind spot. But the best remedy for emotional, relational and spiritual blind spots is the unflinching honesty of a faithful friend. Someone who knows you well and loves you enough to not allow you to go bumping blindly along.

The past twelve months have been the most traumatic and stressful year of my life. The smartest thing I did in the midst of the pain and confusion was to gather an inner circle of faithful friends who were committed to my personal growth. I asked them to hold me accountable and gave them all permission to point out my blind spots, which they did.

Sometimes it made me mad to hear their observations. Sometimes their counsel was 180 degrees from the direction my impetuous heart wanted to go. Yet I deferred to their wisdom because I trusted their heart and commitment to me. I’m glad I did. The Bible says that “faithful are the wounds of a friend” (Proverbs 27:6) It’s true. God used them greatly in my healing process. I’m a better person for having been “wounded” by them.

Crisis or not in your life, give the people in your inner circle permission to point out your blind spots. If we are serious about becoming the men and women God wants us to be, then we can’t afford to have any “yes” people in our life.  Surrounding yourself with people who validate your blindness is great foolishness.

Don’t be the leader of your own rubber stamp parade. Allow others to speak truth into your life by pointing out what you can’t see. You’ll be a better person for it.   

Block walls. Cocooning. We name our housing developments but often don’t know our neighbors.

By God’s design, we are social creatures created for relationship. Strong friendships allow us to experience life in community.

How round robin letters and Ritz Crackers are proof of life long friendships.

(Presented to Hope Covenant Church – Chandler, AZ – 9/12/2004)