When Thanksgiving rolled around, they had been there for some time. Long enough to be missing home and family in the United States. They thought it would be good for their morale to prepare an old fashioned Thanksgiving dinner. They planned and cooked and with great excitement sat down to enjoy the feast. Taking a bite of the turkey, they were surprised to discover the flavor was nothing like the turkey their taste buds were anticipating. In fact, it was a bad surprise. Steve said it tasted awful. They cooked it the way they always had. So how could this be?

Then it dawned on him. Turkeys in England aren’t corn fed. They are raised on fish meal. Therein lay the difference. The flavor of the turkey has everything to do with the turkey’s steady diet.

What’s your steady diet?

Proverbs 23:7 reminds us, “As a man thinks in his heart, so is he.” Our thoughts are powerful. And our thoughts, whether we like to admit it or not, are fueled by whatever “steady diet” we feed into our mind.

What’s your steady diet? Does your day start and end with Constantly Negative News (CNN)? Is break room gossip part of your Monday through Friday routine? Is your mood dictated by what you hear on talk radio or read on the front page of USA Today? Do you spend time on the phone with a whining partner, talking about everything that’s wrong in your respective lives? Is the music you’re listening to angry and depressing? The people you hang with…is their glass chronically half empty?

What’s your steady diet? Does your day start and end with hope? A prayer of thanks? The thought that no matter how ugly life looks God can make it beautiful? Are you listening to positive music? Are you reading books that stretch your mind and feed your soul? Are you surrounding yourself with people who have just as many problems as you yet choose to look for positive solutions? The people you hang with…is their glass half full?

It’s a given that we get bumped around in our rough and tumble world. No amount of positive thinking can shield us from that. We’re going to get knocked around. It’s when we get bumped that people find out what flavor we are. A crisis here, an emergency there, an injustice done to us and no one has to guess what our steady diet has been. It’s right there at the surface. In our words, our reactions, our response.

Whatever our steady diet is determines our flavor.

I can’t speak for you, but I’ve got to spend more time paying attention to my diet. More God, less fear. More God, less worry. More God, less whining. More God, less short-sighted human thought. More God, less me.

From the outside, all turkeys look the same. Their steady diet determines their flavor. When people have opportunity to discover my flavor, what’s real on the inside of me, I don’t want them to be badly surprised.

What’s your flavor?

“Whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, think on these things.” – Philippians 4:8

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 

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.   

At the end of the day on our way out of the park was a giant snowman. One of those oversized inflatable costumes with a person inside. I took the kids’ picture by it and Emma shook the snowman’s hand.

As we continued on to the car, Emma said, “Daddy, that wasn’t the real Frosty.”

“Why do you think so, Emma?”

“Because I felt a finger.”

Kids have a sense about what’s real. And what’s not. They know. Like the old saying, “You can’t fool kids and dogs.” Emma knows that Frosty isn’t supposed to have fingers. And when it comes to matters of the heart, kids have discernment beyond their years. They know what’s real and what’s not. It’s a God-given protection, I think.

Real.

What’s real? Is it the oversized, puffed up costume that other people see? Or is it what’s attached to the finger on the inside?

Our culture places a high value on how things look on the outside. It’s why we wash our cars, paint our houses and our faces, get plastic surgery, ink tattoos and buy designer clothes. We spend a lot of time and money on looking good.

There’s nothing inherently wrong with presenting well, unless it’s the basis for our identity. Yet do we spend equal time on what our inside looks like? The condition of our heart and soul? The places no one but God can see? Our Frosty may be all white on the outside, but what does he look like on the inside?

During Jesus’ days of walking the earth the Frosty’s at the gate were a group called the Pharisees. No one could argue with their diligence, their discipline and high regard for God’s law. The problem was they focused too much on outward appearance. They made sure everyone knew how holy they were. Their polished exterior covered an inner heart of pride and self-righteous arrogance. Jesus called them “whitewashed tombs full of dead men’s bones.”

Ouch.

Let’s choose to be real. Even if we are able to make it through life fooling kids and dogs, we can’t fool God. He knows the condition of our heart. We may succeed in fooling everyone around us but the day will come when we’ll have to be honest with God. You might say that He, too, knows that the real Frosty doesn’t have any fingers. And He’s going to ask about what’s inside. Because He cares more about the condition of our heart than the costume we’re wearing. 

The good news is that God is always here to help us clean up. He isn’t surprised by what He finds inside our heart. A simple, “God, I need help with this” is all it takes to start the process. He is unfailing and unconditional in His love, forgiveness, mercy and grace. He is the gentle healer.

Let’s be real.

“Woe to you, experts in the law and you Pharisees, hypocrites! You are like whitewashed tombs that look beautiful on the outside but inside are full of the bones of the dead and of everything unclean.” – Matthew 23:27

“You desire integrity in the inner man; you want me to possess wisdom. Sprinkle me with water and I will be pure, wash me and I will be whiter than snow.” – Psalm 51:6-7

The type of weed determined how you killed it. Corn, milkweed, lambs quarter, pig weed, and water weed could all be chopped. Nightshade had to be pulled. As did velvet leaf, a.k.a. “button weed”. One button weed could have a hundred seed pods, each containing at least 700 seeds. When it’s ripe it explodes, sending on the wind a “be fruitful and multiply” scenario that anyone in a John Deere hat cringes to see. So you pull the button weed to make really sure it will die.   

When I was in junior high my Dad bought some farm land in north central Iowa. It was excellent land for growing corn and soybeans. The first year we farmed it we discovered a major weed problem. Apparently the previous owner didn’t care much about keeping the field clean. There were huge patches of cockleburs growing in the soybeans.

Cockleburs fell into the “pull” category. Only they weren’t as easy to pull as velvet leaf/button weeds. Some things are like they sound. Velvet leaf is soft. A warm fuzzy in the weed kingdom. Pulling cockleburs is like grabbing sandpaper. Itchy. Scratchy. Irritating. I can still recall the smell of cocklebur juice on my leather gloves and the blisters on my hands.

The cocklebur patches were so thick that one time I pulled 34 plants without moving my feet. Even then my Dad looked back and saw we were missing some. So in the worst of it we got down on our hands and knees to look under the soybean plants to be sure we got them all.

We weren’t walking beans. We were crawling them.

Sure enough, under the leaves were small cocklebur plants that, had we not looked, would have grown up to mock us as we drove by the field two weeks later. Just when I thought I’d got them all, I found some more.

Lately I’ve been thinking about how I live my Christian life. Some weeds are easy to see. And because they are easy to see they are relatively easy to get rid of. Walk and chop as you go along. An obvious unkind word? Yank it out. Lose your temper and make a fool of yourself? Whack it hard and it probably won’t come back. It’s not hard to walk along and get rid of the weeds you see.

More difficult are the weeds growing underneath. The cockleburs of an arrogant spirit. The velvet leaf of pride that, left to grow to maturity, will explode into seeds of destruction. 

The only way to find them is to get down on your knees. It’s awkward at first. You even resent the fact that you’re having to kneel. It seems so, well, beneath you. But once you’re down there, the more you look, the more you find. And when you find, you have to pull. Don’t chop at it. Small weeds, left to grow, will later mock you. It was always embarrassing to drive by your field and see one lone button weed, five feet tall and waving at you in the breeze. You had to go back and kill it. But this time the stalk is an inch thick and the roots are set. Much harder to pull out. A back breaker.

If only you’d pulled it out when you were down there on your knees.

As we walk, look back and look under to see what we’re missing. Time spent on our knees pulling weeds makes for a cleaner field.

A cleaner field makes for a better crop.

A better crop makes for a great harvest.

Praying for you as we pull together.

“He who wants his garden tidy doesn’t reserve a plot for weeds.” – Dag Hammarskjold

“When we confess our sins, He (God) is faithful to forgive us our sins and cleanse us from all unrighteousness.” – 1 John 1:9

Standing in the church parking lot, if the wind is right (or wrong, as it were) you get a good whiff of the Holsteins. Growing up an Iowa farm boy, I’ve always smiled at city folks’ olfactory sensitivity. A little scent of cow yard in the breeze and they run to their car as if trying to escape a nuclear cloud. “They’d never make it in the country”, I smile to myself.

A few days ago, walking across the church parking lot, I caught the scent myself. It brought back memories. And it got me thinking.

When I was on the farm everyday working around hogs and cattle, horses, chickens and sheep, I got used to the smells. It’s not that my nose quit working. It’s that the scents of animals, hay barns, feed bins, and manure became normal. So much so that when city friends came to visit and held their noses I didn’t understand what their problem was. After being away from the farm for a few years and going back, I was now the city guy. The aroma of the hog barn was more potent than I remembered it.           

As I stumble along each day, seeking God’s face in my awkward imperfect way, He is faithful to kindly show me more about myself. I am learning that my own fallen nature keeps me from realizing just how fallen I really am. Like the farm kid whose nose has adjusted and no longer experiences the full aroma of manure, my fallen sin nature keeps me from realizing, apart from Christ, how sinful I really am.

It’s taken years being away from the farm to realize how pungent the odor of a cow pie can be. Farm boy or not, there are other things I’d rather lay a nose to. Here in the city I can roll up my window and drive away from the dairy farm to the good smells of restaurants and mall stores. It’s not easy to drive away from my sinful self. Apart from Christ, it’s impossible. Still, somehow I need to get some distance from myself to get God’s perspective on who I really am if I am to become the man He wants me to be.

There’s no easy way to do that. It starts, I think, with time alone with God. Really alone. Time in prayer. Time reading the Bible. Time in honest conversation with God. Time spent doing a ruthless self-inventory to see where I have failed and where I need to grow. My friends who attend Alcoholics Anonymous put it more crassly, though I think more accurately. They call it the “process of owning your own shit.” I like that. Because that’s exactly what it is. It’s not a fun process. It’s a necessary one. I never looked forward to cleaning the hog pens, but it had to be done.

We shy away from it. We bury ourselves in activities and fill our schedules with every imaginable distraction. Anything to keep from “owning it”. Yet something happens when we “own it”. When we own it we are admitting to God that we are broken. When we own it we take a step away from self-delusion and a step toward truth.  To own it means it no longer owns us. When we own it we are living more truthfully. We are able to say, “This is who I am. Good, bad, and ugly, this is who I am. A person in process.” A person God, in His incredible mercy and grace, accepts with unconditional love.

It’s that unconditional, unfailing love that makes the process possible. As the Bible reminds us, “it is God’s kindness that leads us to repentance.” (Romans 2:4) God’s love creates a safe place where we can deal honestly with our stinky stuff. God doesn’t hold His nose at our sin. He loves us into submission. His kindness draws us back to Him.

Yet He doesn’t stop there. He is not content with that. He wants to grow us. To stretch us. Because He is committed to “perfecting the good work that He began in us.” (Philippians 1:6) God loves us too much to allow us to be nose-numb when sniffing the breeze of our life. He wants our senses fully awakened. To smell in our life everything that’s beautiful and everything that stinks. Then to make more room for the beautiful by being honest about everything that stinks. The more we “own” our stinky stuff, the more we experience God’s love and forgiveness. The more we experience God’s love and forgiveness, the more we become the people He wants us to be.

Owning it.

Lots of pain. Lots of tears. It’s not a fun process. It’s a necessary one.

But there’s no better feeling than being honest with God.

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

“The Lord is gracious and compassionate, slow to anger and great in lovingkindness.” – Psalm 145:8 

That’s why it was so confusing to me when he painted over the entire frame with a cheap can of olive green spray paint.

“Are you crazy?!! Why in the world would you do that? Why would you ruin that gorgeous metallic blue paint job?”

His answer?

“This is all I’ve got to get me from coast to coast. If the bike looks expensive, someone will want to steal it. If they steal it, my trip is over. If it’s ugly, everyone will think it’s junk and leave it alone. I don’t care how it looks. I care how it works.”

“Okay, okay, I get it. But that metallic blue was so cool. Couldn’t you have saved the paint job and just bought a really big padlock?”

He laughed and pedaled away. The bike must have been sufficiently ugly as he completed his Pacific to Atlantic tour without incident.

We live in a culture where image is everything. Looks are more than important. They are essential to success. At least that’s the premise incessantly sold to us. The right toothpaste, deodorant, shampoo, clothes, car and credit card will bring more of everything wonderful into our lives. Looking good is the key to landing a new job, getting promoted, and finding that special relationship. And if one is able to associate with other people who look good, so much the better. When Calvin Klein Gucci Obsession Lexus people network with Armani Rolex Louie Vuitton Crest White Strips Mercedes people, corporate success is sure to follow.

No one disputes the importance of personal hygiene and presenting well. Yet at some point, isn’t it worth asking what it is we’re dressing up?

It would be simplistic to say that the two kinds of people in the world are metallic blue and olive green. Both paint jobs can cover quality or cover junk. Sometimes what you see is what you get. Sometimes what you see is not what you get. Appearances can be deceiving in both directions. No person is entirely good or entirely bad. Curiously enough, God thinks we’re all worth redeeming regardless of our paint job. And He seems to care more about our being top of the line in how we work rather than how we look.

That’s especially true in how we treat one another as human beings.

Greet one another. Encourage one another. Serve one another. Pray for one another. Bear one another’s burdens. Forbear one another. Forgive one another. Cry with one another. Rejoice with one another. Admonish one another. Exhort one another. Spur one another on to love and good deeds. Be kind to one another. Treat one another in the same way that you would like to be treated.

That last one is golden. 

Let’s think about our paint job today and ask ourselves, “Is it covering quality? Or covering junk?” If it’s covering quality, it doesn’t matter if it’s metallic blue or olive green. If it’s covering junk, let’s strip the paint and work on the frame.

Given a choice, how it works is more important than how it looks.

“…for God sees not as man sees, for man looks at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart.” – 1 Samuel 16:7

They are still learning and don’t yet understand the importance of a soft touch. Emma had a two footer to finish out the first hole. At the top of her backswing I had to grab the club because her follow through would have driven the ball down the Superstition Freeway. Annie couldn’t get to the next hole fast enough. Hit the ball and run. Hit the ball and run. We had the best time together and they enjoyed figuring out the ramps and which door to hit their ball through.

It was getting to be about 7:30 and they were starting to fade so we stopped to come home. We weren’t done with the course but it didn’t matter. They were whining a little on the way out and weren’t acting as nicely as they could. Their behavior was nothing I had to discipline them for. It had been a long day for them and they were tired. I got them home for some food and a bath and bed.

In the middle of the night, maybe around 4 AM, I felt someone looking at me. Annie was standing there. She crawled in and snuggled up next to me, face to face.

“Daddy, I’m sorry that I quit golfing tonight.”

That didn’t sound like the real reason she was out here talking to me in the wee hours. I told her she didn’t quit, we just decided to come home.

Then she said, “Daddy, I’m sorry that I wasn’t very nice to you on the way home.”

So that’s it.

I told her it was ok. That she was tired and we all get cranky when we’re tired. I hugged her and told her how much I appreciated her apology. “It’s not easy to say you’re sorry, Annie. I’m very proud of you. Do you want to go back to bed now?”

She nodded.

“Are you ok?”

She smiled, “I’m ok.”

“I love you, Annie. So much.”

“I love you too so much.” And she trotted off to her room.

I learn from my kids all the time. Here’s what I learned from Annie at 4 in the morning.

Annie thought it was so important to make things right with me that she got up in the middle of the night to do it. It is a hard thing to come to someone and confess and apologize. I know that’s true for me. More often than not, our ego keeps us from saying the things we need to say to those we’ve hurt or offended. The longer we wait, the harder it gets.

That’s what the Bible means when it talks about “giving the devil a foothold.” When we let our conscience grow cold, we clear a spot for all the wrong things to grow in our heart. Hard feelings. Bitterness. Grudges. Resentment. Once those grow deep, pride becomes a ruthless gardener who is loathe to let them be uprooted.

Annie’s apology reminded me of another truth. When we care enough about the other person to say “I’m sorry” and make things right, we elevate and honor the relationship. Annie showed me in word and action that I was a person she cared about enough to talk about what was troubling her. And significant to me was how I felt when it was over. When she apologized for what she perceived was a hurtful thing she had done, I would have moved the world for her. I don’t know that I’ve ever been more proud of Annie. Because of the respect and honor she showed me, it makes me want to work even harder at being a better Dad. That single 60-second transparent moment deepened our relationship.

When we confess and apologize for the hurts we’ve caused, we:

Communicate a contrite heart that cares about making things right.

Communicate respect to the person and our relationship.

Communicate that the person is more important than our pride.

Communicate a desire to move forward in a healthy, restored way.

God, help us be people who care enough to say, “I’m sorry.”

“And be kind to one another, tender-hearted, forgiving each other, just as God in Christ also has forgiven you.” – Ephesians 4:32

“Do you see a man skilled in his work? He will serve before kings; he will not serve before obscure men.” – Proverbs 22:29 

One Sunday during a worship service at a church in Mesa, the pianist played a solo. An arrangement of an old hymn. It was one of the most beautiful pieces I’d ever heard. I was moved by the music. As he sat behind the Steinway Grand I felt the floating arpeggios and the rolling bass notes. When the last chord resolved, I whispered, “Wow.” It was very worshipful.

When the service was over I made my way to the front to express my gratitude to the musician. “I wanted to thank you for the song you played. It really helped me to worship.”

He was putting away his music. “Thanks. Yeah, this is a decent gig. They pay pretty well.” He went on to say a few more things that confirmed this was just a way for him to make money while he was in school. He didn’t care about the church or the message of the music. To him it was just another piano solo that he got paid to play. Excellent technique, but no heart.

I walked away sad and disillusioned. How could there be such a disconnect between the beautiful music and the person playing it?

I can’t be critical of the piano player. There have been times in my life where my products and projects are visibly excellent, yet void of heart. It looks good from the outside. People may even benefit from it. Yet it’s not been completely consistent with what’s inside me. There’s a disconnect between what is visible and what can’t be seen, that being what’s going on in my heart.

The word is integrity. Simply put, it means your words and your actions line up together. That what’s on the outside is consistent with what’s on the inside. We tend to expect integrity from others. We want the salesperson to represent the product fairly. We want the doctor to fully explain both the benefits and side effects of a prescribed medication. We want the realtor to tell us all about the house we’d like to buy, not just the parts that show well.

We expect integrity from others. But sometimes we lower the expectation of integrity with ourselves. Businesses use politically correct terms like “margin” or “cushion” to describe the leeway. There are other words, too. Words like “inconsistent”, “disingenuous”, “misleading” and “lies”.

When we live in the margin, we compromise our integrity. It affects us. But it also has consequences for those we interact with. When integrity breaks down, trust goes out the window. Maybe not right away. But eventually those you deal with must decide whether or not they wish to continue dealing with you. You may or may not be able to regain their trust.

The sad irony is that once trust is lost, even that which is genuine is viewed with suspicion. My Grandpa bought a Ford back in 1935. It was, to hear him tell it, the lemon of all lemons. After that, all Fords were bad cars. Somehow Ford managed to sell millions of vehicles in the decades following 1935 but to my Grandpa, they were all lemons. Once trust is broken, it’s difficult to regain.

We’re all fallen people living in a fallen world. Which is to say we all have a proclivity toward sin. We’ve broken trust with others. Others have broken trust with us. All of us have broken trust with God. The Bible says we’ve all sinned and fall short of God’s glory. (Romans 3:23).

If you’ve broken trust with someone, resolve to restore your integrity with them and ask forgiveness. Remember that rebuilding the relationship will take time. Be consistent. It’s worthy of the effort.

If your trust has been broken, extend forgiveness. Forgiveness, as Lewis Smedes defined it, is “me giving up my right to hurt you for hurting me.” Remember, too, that people can change. God believes that so strongly that He didn’t write us off when we failed Him. The Bible tells us that “God showed His love toward us in that while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us.” (Romans 5:8)

People can change. Even the most trampled on trust can be rebuilt with a commitment to integrity. It means, over time, doing the hard work of putting away the past. When God redeems us, He doesn’t hold our past against us. The Ford Motor Company redefined it’s product since 1935. People broken and contrite over their failings who commit to integrity can redefine themselves, too. Hopefully it won’t take 70 years. But even if it does, it will be worth it.

Wherever you’re at this week, here’s hoping our hearts are on the same page as the music we’re playing.

Ever since high school I had a sense that seminary would be in my future. After graduating from college I realized it wouldn’t be wise for me to go straight to graduate school. My head knowledge needed to be balanced with heart knowledge. Simply put, I needed more life experience. So I purposely chose to become a life insurance agent with Northwestern Mutual Life, “The Quiet Company”. It was one of the best decisions I’ve ever made. Hands down, those nine years were the best training and preparation for ministry. The experience taught me people skills, especially the importance of listening for meaning. I learned countless lessons about communication; written, verbal, and non-verbal. I further developed my already established Iowa farm boy work ethic. And working straight commission taught me a lot about living by faith.

My first General Agent was Whitey Thompson (no relation). Whitey was the quintessential old school life insurance man, in the very best sense of the word. Sharply dressed, always smiling, always enthusiastic, and always made you feel important. He genuinely cared about his clients and the agents who worked with and for him. Even after attaining his General Agent position, he led by example in his work ethic. One day I had a 7 AM breakfast meeting with a client that lived 90 minutes away. Arriving at my destination I was feeling proud about how early I’d left and what a great jump I had on the day. Slowing for the first stoplight in town I pulled up behind a gray Cadillac with plates that read “NML 1″. Whitey had driven even further for his 7 AM appointment.

Of all the lessons learned from Whitey, and there were many, the one I think about most is one he didn’t teach at a sales meeting.

Whitey had an agency support staff of four or five people. This particular day was the first day on the job for a new secretary. Whitey had been in conference all morning with an established client, working out the details on a large case. Their meeting had gone for several hours when he buzzed the desk and asked the new secretary to come in. Whitey introduced her to his client and then politely asked if she would bring them some coffee as they continued their work.

The new secretary informed Whitey and his client that she was a highly skilled secretary and bringing coffee to people was not in her job description. In no uncertain terms, she made sure they knew that bringing coffee was beneath her. Whitey graciously said, “No problem” and walked downstairs to get the coffee himself. Her point made, the new secretary returned to her desk.

The office manager said, “I wouldn’t get too comfortable if I were you.”

“Why not?”

“Who do you think makes the coffee?”

Whitey was always the first to arrive at the office. Usually around 5 AM. And Whitey always made the coffee. That way it was ready and waiting for everyone else.

Jesus said if we would aspire to greatness, we must learn how to serve. That sounds backwards. Jesus said a lot of backward things. Give to get. Die to live. And this curious idea that to be truly great we must humbly serve. And serving others isn’t just a means to an end. We don’t stop when we reach the top. In fact, it’s when we attain our degrees and our titles and our positions and our wealth that we need to serve even more. Whitey was the boss. And the boss made the coffee. Why? Because good leaders understand that little things matter. As someone has wisely said, “If you’re too big to do little things for God, then you’re too little to do big things for God.”

Oh, the new secretary? Her first lunch break was a long one. She probably picked up a newspaper when she stopped for a sandwich. That’s what most people do when they’re looking for a new job. That’s another thing Jesus said. Something about “those who exalt themselves will be humbled.” But that’s a column for another time.

Go make some coffee.

“Whoever wishes to become great among you shall be your servant, and whoever wishes to be first among you shall be your slave; just as the Son of Man (Jesus) did not come to be served, but to serve, and to give His life a ransom for many.” – Matthew 20:26-28