Years ago I had the privilege of enjoying an 8-day Caribbean cruise to Martinique, Barbados, St. John’s, Antigua, St. Martin and St. Maarten, San Juan and the Virgin Islands. God’s creation is on display in each of these beautiful places. It’s a trip I’ll always remember. If you’ve ever wondered whether cruises are as much fun as the commercials portray, they are. Fabulous food, stunning scenery, fascinating people from all over the world, and nightly entertainment.

One of the shows I saw was a sleight of hand artist. Except he didn’t use a deck of cards. He used people. He called individuals and couples out of the audience to come up on stage and visit with him. His interviewing skills were superb. His questions got them talking about themselves; questions about where they were from, how long they’d been married, what they did for a living, and what was the occasion for coming on a cruise.

As they talked he did, in front of a live audience, things I thought would be impossible. He took off their wristwatch. He picked their pockets. He removed rings from women’s fingers. He pulled cash from a guy’s front pocket. He took off one guy’s belt.  Each time continuing to ask them questions while dangling the pilfered item behind his back to the audience’s delight while we howled with incredulity. When he finished with each person or couple he directed them back to their seat, each and every person oblivious they’d just been fleeced faster than a sheep at shearing time. The last man he called up on stage had seen everything that happened and was quite confident his self-awareness exceeded those who came before. Not only did the sleight of hand artist take his wallet, watch and belt, he also removed the Windsor knotted silk tie from around his neck, all the while engaging him in a conversation about his work and career.

The next morning as I was leaving the ship for a day trip onto the island I saw the entertainer in the lobby, standing about ten feet away. I nodded a “hello” and when he smiled and nodded back I realized my hand was on my pocket making sure my billfold was still there.

Every time I play the memory of that experience I wonder how he was able to take from these people items that were so close to them. In fact, everything he removed from them was touching their person. How is it possible they couldn’t feel their valuables leaving them?

The trick, of course, is that he got them focused on something other than their wallet, belt or tie. When he moved in close to ask them a question, the caring hand with microphone touching their shoulder was a decoy for the hand that was about to lift their wallet. The friendly bump in the midst of happy banter about how long he’d been married disguised the lightning fast twist that loosened the knot. The question about his career distracted him from feeling the quick tug that pulled the tie from around his neck.

My twin daughters turned 11 years old yesterday. I know it’s just another day in their growing up and not all that different than the day before. Yet I looked at my girls as they walked out of their school. I always watch for their smiling faces but on this day I really looked. They aren’t little girls anymore. And they certainly aren’t the sub-4 pound preemies I held when they came into the world 7 weeks ahead of schedule. They are “tweeners” now. All about hair and hoop earrings and math class and music. No longer little girls and not yet teenagers. I’ve done my best to make the most of the days and I’ve enjoyed every stage of their lives. But I wonder…

How much of their lives have I missed by being focused elsewhere? Have I allowed my pockets to be picked? Am I missing quality opportunities with them, perhaps even when I am with them because I’m distracted by worry? Am I allowing myself to be fleeced of what’s important to me because I’m paying more attention to the decoys in life that appear urgent, but aren’t important?

What am I allowing to be taken from me by not having my focus on what’s truly valuable?

Thankfully, the sleight of hand artist gave back everything he took from them, except for the momentary dignity they lost on stage.

Time isn’t that generous. It takes what it takes and never gives it back. Which is to say at the end of this day what we’ll have to keep is what we’ve kept our hands on.

Keep your hands on what’s valuable.

Let us not be distracted.

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

Todd A. Thompson – ASliceOfLifeToGo.com

I will never forget the first time I ever held Emma to give her a bottle. She was a day old. She was hungry so I’m thinking this should be easy, right? Holding her in my left arm, bottle in my right hand I said to myself, “It’s time to be a Dad.” I put it up to her mouth, which is in this moment open and screaming. About one inch away, her jaw clamped shut like a bear trap.

That’s odd. She’s hungry. Why did she do that? Being a guy and sensitive Dad that I am, I thought, “No problem. I’ll just wedge it in here.” But she’s not having it. Any of it. So I try again.

Complete lock down.

The NICU nurse shakes her head and says, “With this one, ya gotta do things a little different.” Little did I know in that moment what a prophetic statement that would turn out to be. The nurse, still shaking her head, says, “You’ve got to put a little drop of formula on her bottom lip so she can taste it first or she won’t drink.”

I didn’t say anything but the look I gave the nurse, roughly translated, was “Please. You have got to be kidding me.” NICU nurses are very kind. And very no nonsense. She pointed at me and commanded, “Do it.”

I put a drop of formula on her bottom lip. Emma let it sit there for a half second, tasted it, then opened her mouth wide as the Grand Canyon.

“How cute!”, I thought. That will make for a charming story in her baby book. But can I tell you something? Every day after that whether it was 2 o’clock in the afternoon or 2 o’clock in the morning we had to play the drop on the bottom lip game until she graduated into a sippy cup.

From day one, Emma wanted to do it her way.

From the day we are born, there is something inherent in us that wants to do things our own way. As human beings, we don’t like submitting to authority. We don’t like it. We buck against it. We submit when we have to. Submitting to authority in our jobs and careers, in most cases, beats getting fired. Submitting to the rules of the road beats getting a ticket or being arrested. But make no mistake, we don’t like it. And if we think that’s not true, then why do we do so many passive aggressive things when we’re under authority? Why, when we are under authority of our boss at work, do we surf the internet when they aren’t looking? Or take an extra ten minutes on a lunch break? Why on a road trip do we set the cruise 3-5 miles an hour above the speed limit?

Whatever the situation, we don’t like submitting to authority.

The Bible says that we are to “submit to one another in love”. How are we doing on that one? In our relationships do we sincerely defer to one another? Do we, for the sake of the relationship, set our needs aside for the purpose of showing love? Or are we insisting on having the last word, being subtly superior because we can’t bring ourselves to submit even for the sake of love?

And while we don’t think about it much, Ephesians 5 tells us that the church is to be subject to Christ. Most of the time we get stuck in that chapter arguing about what it means for wives to be subject to their husbands and how husbands should love their wives as Christ loved the church. But in the middle of all that it says we as the church are to submit to the authority of Christ.

As the church, how are we doing at that? How often does the church get off track by pressing its own agenda, defining God by religious, cultural or political views instead of submitting to the authority of Christ? How often is the mission of the church driven by a pastor or an elder board’s idea of what a church should look like in the American Christian sub-culture instead of submitting to Christ and allowing Him to define it and direct it? Even in the church we struggle with submitting to Christ’s authority.

It goes all the way back to Genesis 3. The Bible says that in Adam, all sinned. King David said in Psalm 51 “in sin did my mother conceive me.” Ephesians 2 tells us that before God got hold of our lives and saved us by grace through faith, you and I were “children of wrath”. Romans 3:23 reminds us that all of us have “sinned and fall short of the glory of God”.

Bottom line: We’re all natural born sinners. And natural born sinners don’t like taking orders.

So what to do?

Hang around the church long enough, be a Christian long enough, and you’ll eventually hear someone say, “You need to make Christ Lord of your life.” I think we know what is intended by those words. But may I propose that “making Christ Lord of your life” can’t be done? You and I can’t make Jesus Lord of our life. Why? Because you can’t make someone something that they already are. According to Philippians 2, Jesus is Lord whether you and I acknowledge that or not. And someday, all of us will.

If someone is employed by Microsoft, they don’t drive to work saying, “I think I’ll make Bill Gates in charge today.” Microsoft employees don’t make Bill Gates in charge. He is in charge. You can’t make someone what they already are. When the Pittsburgh Steelers go to training camp, they don’t say, “I think I’ll make Mike Tomlin coach this season.” Mike Tomlin is their coach whether they like it or not. The only question for the players is whether or not they choose to place themselves under his authority on the field.

Some may say, “That’s just semantics”. But it’s not. It’s more than that. According to the Bible, Jesus Christ is Lord to the glory of God the Father. Whether we acknowledge or admit that or not, Jesus Christ is Lord. He was Lord before the world was created. We can’t make Jesus what He already is. And when it says that the day is coming when “every knee will bow and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord”, understand this clearly; it’s not the bowing and the confessing that makes Him Lord.

On that day God the Father isn’t going to say, “Wow, Jesus! Take a look! What a great turn out here! Look at the response! All these people paying homage to you. By popular vote, I guess that makes you Lord.” Nope. Jesus Christ is Lord right now. Our response or lack of it does not make it so. The only question is, are you and I going to align ourselves under that authority? Are we going to submit to His authority as Lord of the Universe and agree to live life by His terms?

Hard questions. And the answers are even harder. If we’re wise, we’ll spend the rest of our earthly life wrestling with them.

It all starts with a decision. Am I willing to submit to God and allow Him to define Himself by His terms?

When we do, we’ll find God true to His word. That He is gracious, slow to anger and abounding in lovingkindess. That He has a plan for us that includes good works that He prepared in advance for us to do. And that He will always forgive, never leave, and always love.

Emma’s ten years old now. Her stubborn streak is still intact. Yet she’s learned that her Daddy loves her unconditionally and has her best interest at heart. Knowing that, it’s easier for her to trust and obey. Likewise, you and I can submit to God’s Father heart without fear, because He loves us perfectly.

“How deep the Father’s love for us,
How vast beyond all measure
That He should give His only Son
To make a wretch His treasure”

- Stuart Townend

Todd A. Thompson – ASliceOfLifeToGo.com

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

“Remember who you’re talking to.”

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

“Remember who you’re talking to.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Do we remember Who we are talking to?

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

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

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

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

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

Do we remember Who we’re talking to?

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

Todd A. Thompson – ASliceOfLifeToGo.com

Some years ago my friend Duane Cross and I were in the Chicago area attending a preaching/speaking conference at Willow Creek Church. Before going to O’Hare to catch our plane, we spent several hours at the Chicago Art Institute.

If someone gave me a ticket to anywhere in the country to spend a day in solitude, I’d be walking up the steps of the Chicago Art Institute. I get misty just thinking about the big lion statues that guard the front doors. Even though I can’t draw a straight line if you spot me a ruler, the Art Institute is a magical place for me. Home to some of the world’s most famous masterpieces, it is at once a place of awe, romance, inspiration and reverence. It’s impossible for me to be in the presence of such exquisite art and not worship God.

The Art Institute has an extensive Monet collection. As Duane and I stared at one of his genius examples of Impressionism, Duane said, “Check this out”, and pointed to the signature on the lower right corner of the canvas. It read simply,

Monet 77

Duane astutely observed, “Just “Monet 77″. Not “1877″. Because for Monet, what other “77″ would there be?”

However self-aware Monet was of his God-given talent to paint, I doubt he could have imagined that this canvas he signed off on would be hanging in a world famous American gallery being admired by thousands of people some 130 years later.

It’s 2011. Whatever you and I sign off on today, literally and figuratively, ends in “11″. Unless you’re born this year and possess some stellar genes, it’s highly probable that this “11″ is the only “11″ you’re ever going to know.

Which brings us back to the question. What are you signing your name to today?

Are you signing your name and “11″ to acts of service and generosity? As you walk through the parking lot at Sam’s Club are you looking for the elderly lady who could use a hand lifting the 20-pound box of Tide into her trunk? Are you stopping to buy Girl Scout cookies from the red haired, freckle faced cutie in the Brownie vest because it will make her day and if you’re going to overpay it may as well be for Thin Mints?

Are you signing your name and “11″ to working with integrity in your job? Are you standing up for a co-worker who’s being gossipped about in the break room? Are you refusing to engage in office politics, choosing instead to focus on being your best in the position you occupy?

Are you signing your name and “11″ to being an amazing spouse in your marriage? Are you loving your wife unconditionally and working hard to speak her love language? Are you respecting your husband unconditionally and working hard to speak his love language?

Are you signing your name and “11″ to being a good parent? Are you looking as hard for what your kids do right as what they may be doing wrong? Are you building them up with words of encouragement and praise? Are you taking time to tell them stories about their heritage and where they come from that they may develop a sense of place and belonging?

Are you signing your name and “11″ to being honest with God? Can you summon the courage to dump the trappings of church and religion and ask God for genuine relationship with Him? Can you release your grip on who you think you are so God can show you who He designed you to be?

What kind of brush strokes are you laying down on the canvas of your life today?

If we are signing our name and “11″ to a life of living for and loving others, then the canvas of our life will be viewed and remembered long after we’re gone. Because a life lived for others leaves a legacy that points people back to God.

Monet couldn’t have imagined his canvas being honored and appreciated 130 years later. He just applied the paint with the talent God gave him and signed off on it. Which is another way of saying that if we focus on painting a beautiful life of loving others and loving God, our legacy will take care of itself.

Todd A. Thompson “11″ – ASliceOfLifeToGo.com

]]> http://www.asliceoflifetogo.com/2011/02/16/monet-77/feed/ 0 http://www.asliceoflifetogo.com/2010/12/23/lonely-at-christmas/ http://www.asliceoflifetogo.com/2010/12/23/lonely-at-christmas/#comments Fri, 24 Dec 2010 06:10:09 +0000 todd http://www.asliceoflifetogo.com/?p=513 It began as a desperate act of self-preservation.

In December of 2007 I’d been living in Lubbock for several months after 14 years in the Phoenix valley. I was a not by choice divorced single Dad living in a place I never wanted to live. Somewhere in the middle of the month I realized that this would be the first time in my life that I’d be alone for Christmas.

It was a pretty awful thought.

I volunteered to help with my daughters’ school Christmas party. Among the other parents there was a lady wearing scrubs. I asked her where she worked and she said, “Carillon House”. I didn’t know what or where that was. She explained it was a skilled care facility. “It being Christmas time I suppose they get lots of visitors up there”, I said. She shook her head. “Sadly, no. Even a lot of the residents who have family here in town don’t get visited on Christmas.” That’s sad, I thought. I went back to passing out candy canes and overly frosted cookies.

Christmas Eve afternoon I was starting to lose it. I’ve always been with family and friends on Christmas. Lonely was what other poor souls struggled with during the holidays, not me. “Lonely at Christmas” was an article I read in a magazine, not what I saw when I looked in the mirror. Now lonely was me.

Lonely sucks.

Ever feel like running and you don’t know where to go? I got in the car and started driving, trying to remember where I saw a thrift store. It was about an hour before all the stores closed on Christmas Eve when I found the Savers store. I went in and bought all the vases I could find, then drove to Wal-Mart and bought some ribbon and several bunches of roses. That night I prepped all the flowers and vases and went to bed.

Christmas morning I drove to Carillon House. I hit the elevator button for the second floor. When the door opened I walked to the first room on the north side, took a deep breath and went in.

“Merry Christmas. I’m Todd. Here’s a flower for you.”

The gray haired lady in her hospital bed looked at me with a mix of surprise, gratitude and suspicion. “Why…thank you. Do you have someone up here?”

“Nope. Just here to say hi and give you a flower. How are you feeling? What brought you in here? Are you getting better?”

In case you ever wondered, I’m the best in the world at asking questions. It’s because I’m genuinely interested in people and their stories. And it’s a control/defense mechanism. If I keep people talking about themselves, they won’t have a chance to ask me about me.

And so I went, room to room. I spent over four hours at Carillon passing out flowers and hearing people’s stories. The time passed until it was Christmas past.

A few days into the new week I starting thinking about the roses in the vases. They’d be drooping by now. Few things are sadder than a rose browned and bent over in a vase. They’d have to throw them away. And the vases would be empty.

It was one of those private “come to Jesus” moments. If I didn’t go back to Carillon, then my Christmas day visit would be a pure act of selfishness. Sure, I took flowers. Sure, I visited with people. But the truth is I was there because I didn’t want to be alone. If I never went back, what would that say about me?

So on New Year’s Day I said to Annie and Emma, “Girls, we’re going to go visit some people.” We got more vases and roses and off we went. We’ve been going ever since. With the exception of several out of state vacations and the girls having the flu, we’ve been there every week for the past three years. After the first several months Emma asked me, “Daddy, what’s on the 4th floor?”

“That’s Vista Care Hospice”.

“How come we don’t go up there?” I didn’t have a good answer so after that conversation we’ve been there every week, too.

Over that time we’ve met many fascinating people and heard the stories of their lives. My girls have learned what it means to “serve each other with love” (Galatians 5:13b). At ten years old they are completely comfortable around the elderly, their wheelchairs, walkers and canes. They talk and visit and laugh and I couldn’t be prouder of them. We’ve gotten to know people, developed rich friendships and grieved when they left for heaven.

Christmas is in a couple days. With due respect to my dear friends here, I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t still a sizeable loneliness in my life. There’s no getting around the fact that the holiday season magnifies what’s broken in a person’s life. I still deeply miss my family and friends in faraway places and wish that I could be in their kitchen laughing and eating and sitting by their fireplace. Yet from that long ago dark night when the angel announced the Good News to shepherds in the hills of Bethlehem, Christmas comes to us where we are. And where I am, like it or not, is here.

It’s Christmas in a couple days. We’ll go to Carillon House to visit our friends who also know something about “lonely”. They’ll be thinking about their spouses who died this year or last, about all the friends they’ve outlived,  and how they probably never imagined spending Christmas in a skilled care center. We’ll spend time together, encouraging one another and hopefully remembering that Christmas comes to us where we are. And in the coming, it brings the hope that someday we’ll all be in a place where lonely is nowhere to be found.

Wherever Christmas finds you this year, remember that Jesus comes to you where you are. And that He can take even desperate acts of self-preservation and redeem them for something good.

Merry Christmas.

“But the angel said to them, “Do not be afraid! For behold I bring you glad tidings, good news of great joy which shall be to all people. For unto you this day in the city of David is born a Savior, which is Christ the Lord!” – Luke 2: 10-11

Todd A. Thompson – ASliceOfLifeToGo.com

“This morning the little kids came upstairs (very early) with cake and frosting on their faces. They said, “God told us we could have cake for breakfast.”

It’s a delightful image, is it not? Little cheeks covered with cake? It reminds us of a simpler time when life wasn’t complicated by propriety. Think about it. At what point in your life did cake stop being an option for breakfast? Why are bacon and eggs designated as appropriate menu items to begin the day instead of cherry pie and ice cream? (That example alone makes me question the “with age comes wisdom” maxim.)

After I read Heather’s post, I wondered what people would think when they saw it. Immediately I imagined grown ups like myself with a sanctimonious laugh saying, “That’s cute. But we all know God didn’t tell them they could have cake for breakfast” before scrolling down the page and dismissing it as another entry in “kids say the darndest things”.

Because of all the adults I know and because I know me, I’m not about to question whether or not God told them to have cake for breakfast. I wouldn’t dare. I’m too familiar with my own struggles of faith to question what God’s doing and saying in other people’s lives. What I love about the declaration of these children is that it allows for the possibility that God would want them to enjoy something good. Something fun. Something that would bring them pleasure. And in the process, He just may want to do that in a way that breaks rank with what’s “appropriate”.

As one who continues to press through a very lonely and difficult season in my life, I struggle with the feeling that God is far away. That even after years of prayer and crying out to God, my situation seems unchanged. In some respects, the circumstances have gotten worse instead of better. As I recently confided to a friend, “I feel like God’s far away and I don’t have anything to look forward to.”

Looking at my life right now I can’t imagine God wanting to give me cake, let alone have it for breakfast.

When I take a step back from my feelings and a step toward what I know to be God’s truth, I realize that I’m allowing my circumstances to define God. I’m viewing God though my troubles and in doing so, limiting in my mind His ability to transcend my reality. Which is why I’m having a hard time imagining that God might want to give me some cake. I’ve been defining God by my experiences instead of allowing Him to define Himself by His terms.

Before responding to her little ones, Heather says she wondered to herself, “Who am I to overrule God?”

Indeed. Who am I, and who are you, to allow our circumstances to dictate instead of God’s desire to bless? God wants to bless because it is His nature to bless. Who am I, and who are you, to overrule that?

So Heather told her frosting faced kids, “Use a fork.”

That’s being a great Mom.

Because table manners are important.

“If you then, being evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Heavenly Father give what is good to those who ask Him?” – Matthew 7:11

Todd A. Thompson – ASliceOfLifeToGo.com

It was sometime around 1951. L.D.’s cousin Burdette Carlson came out for a visit from Illinois. Burdette was in auto parts and some of the dealerships he sold to were in Iowa. So he used L.D.’s place as a home base from which he made day trips to take care of business.

Burdette drove a Buick Roadmaster. He bragged to L.D. more than once about what great gas mileage it got. When gas is 19 cents a gallon, it doesn’t matter too much what kind of mileage you get. But Burdette was proud of it just the same.

L.D. thought he’d help that Buick get some really phenomenal mileage. So every night after Burdette had retired for the evening, L.D. went out and added a few gallons of gasoline to the tank.

After several days of this, he casually asked Burdette how the Buick was running. “Great! It’s hardly using any gas at all!”

Burdette went back to Illinois at the end of the week. L.D. made a point to call him a few days later.

“How was the gas mileage going back?”

“On that first stretch, it was terrific! Just unbelievable! I’ve never gotten mileage like that in my life. But on that second tank of gas it dropped off something terrible. I can’t figure it out.”

Our family still laughs about it. L.D. has been in heaven for a few years now. Burdette is still alive and kicking in his 90′s. And to this day he’s still scratching his head about that crazy decrease in his miles per gallon.

There’s no getting around the fact that life is difficult. We all have struggles and battles to fight. We live in a broken world where hurts are deep and many and real. But I wonder…is it possible that we’re doing as well as we are, even in the hard times,  because other people are pouring into our “life tank” without our knowing?

Elmer and Margaret Franks were members of our little Baptist Church for as long as I can remember. He sang and she played the organ. Wonderfully kind people, I still remember them shaking my hand and congratulating me on the day I got baptized and joined the church in the 4th grade.

Fast forward many years to adulthood. I’m home visiting my parents and they tell me that Elmer is in the nursing home. His health is slipping and he probably won’t be around much longer. I drive to see him and find him laying in his bed, weak but still smiling. We visit for a bit and then he says, “I want you to know that I have prayed for you every day since the day you were baptized.”

What do you say to that? “Thank you” doesn’t begin to cover it.

We said our good-byes and I walked out knowing I wouldn’t see him again this side of heaven. Driving away I thought about everything I’d experienced since 4th grade. The good. The bad. The sad. The ugly. And I wondered how Elmer’s prayers for me likely helped my good be better. My bad and sad not be as bad and sad as they could have been. And how just maybe his prayers during the ugly times helped make the difference between quitting and pressing on.

Elmer poured prayer into my life for decades and I never knew it.

When it comes to the people in our lives, let’s be purposeful about adding to their tank.

God knows we all need help to get further down the road.

“I thank my God every time I remember you. In all my prayers for all of you, I always pray with joy because of  your partnership in the gospel from the first day until now, being confident of this, that He who began a good work in you will continue to perfect it until the day of Christ Jesus.” – Philippians 1:3-6

Todd A. Thompson – ASliceOfLifeToGo.com

Inside we are second in line. A good spot, I think, until I realize that the lady behind the cash register is either really new or Whataburger is having a hard time finding help. She struggles with the coded buttons, correcting herself five times before finally concluding the transaction. I take a step toward placing our order when the lady customer who’s politely and persistently made her wishes understood has an attack of honesty. “I don’t think you charged me enough”, she says. This sets in motion a five minute detailed audit of order #52, Whataburger with cheese, no onions, mustard only, fries and a medium Dr. Pepper.

My kids are surprisingly patient throughout. Emma stares at the back lit menu board while reciting her order over to herself. Annie is facing backwards. It appears she’s looking around me to what’s behind. I glance over my shoulder. The frail man has successfully gotten his wife’s sweater sleeve in place and they stand gamely, him hanging on to her and her leaning hard on the cane. They are smiling smiles of age and experience and perspective. Yes, this is taking a really, really ridiculously long time. But it’s just an order at a hamburger stand.  Their smiles seem to say that, in the span of their lives, they know it’s not that big a deal.

Annie motions me to lean toward her. “What’s up, Annie?”

“Daddy,” she says, still looking past me, “I think we should let the wiser ones go first.”

I’m always proud when my girls get it. Proud when they think of others without my prompting. Because of our weekly time spent at Carillon’s skilled care center and Vista Care’s in-patient hospice unit, they are comfortable around the elderly and all the canes, walkers and wheelchairs that come with that stage of life.

What strikes me is her choice of words. “I think we should let the wiser ones go first.”

We step back and motion to them. “Please, go ahead. I’m still deciding what I want and we’re in no hurry.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.”

Mrs. Frail says, “Thank you so much. I’ve been to the doctors and I’ve had to stand a lot today. I appreciate it.”

Mr. Frail smiles and guides his wife forward. “Thank you so much.” And they step into their own game of Whataburger order roulette.

The wiser ones. I wonder what it is that makes Annie see them as wiser? It’s a given that with age comes experience. Yet experience runs the gamut. Good and bad. Wise and foolish. Thoughtful and impulsive. Generous and selfish. Age and experience do not guarantee wisdom. There is such a thing as an “old fool”. Experience becomes wisdom only when we are purposeful in applying truth to the process. It is, as they say, the difference between having 30 years of experience and experiencing the same year 30 times.

Do a search of the Bible on the word “wise” and one discovers that the quickest path to wisdom is to possess a teachable heart and spirit. Even King Solomon, the wisest man who ever lived, when told by God He could have anything he asked for chose to ask for “a listening heart”. God was most pleased with that request. God loves a teachable heart because a teachable heart pushes personal pride aside for the sake of growth. When we listen to everyone, when our hearts are open to instruction, when we’re not afraid of criticism and correction, then we’re able to learn and grow in every situation.

Let’s live so that when we become the frail person in line at Whataburger, people might see wisdom instead of age.

“The wise person accepts instructions, but the one who speaks foolishness will come to ruin.” – Proverbs 10:8

Todd A. Thompson – ASliceOfLifeToGo.com

It’s bedtime. Past bedtime, actually. Being a bad Dad or good Dad, depending on your perspective, I had allowed Annie and Emma to finish watching the movie they had started.

Thankfully, my girls don’t fight sleep. Most nights it’s an easy transition from eyes open to eyes shut. In fact, Annie falls asleep faster than anyone I’ve ever known. If we had a “who’s out the fastest” contest between Annie and any light switch in your home, Annie would win every time. She falls asleep so quickly that if I have a question for her I have to ask while she is still vertical. Because a microsecond after her head hits the pillow, whatever it is has to wait till morning.

Emma, the other half of my twin tornadoes, has her own routine to ease into sleeping. She changes it up from night to night, but mostly variations on a theme.

“Daddy, tell me a story.”

“Daddy, I’m thirsty.”

“Daddy, …. ” followed by a pause as she quickly tries to think something up.

On this night they are tucked in. We’ve said our prayers. Annie is out in .047 seconds. Emma is laying on her back, hugging a purple pillow with her left arm. What will it be tonight? A request for a story? A glass of water?

“Daddy, my ice is big again.”

“My ice.”

I’ve been following their thought trails now for going on 10 years. I know them. But I’ve got no clue how to track this one.

“Emma, what are you talking about?”

“Ughhhhh!!! Daddy! Don’t you remember what you told me?”

Remember what? Ice? Huh? Maybe it’s true. Maybe parenting makes us slowly lose our mind so we can’t remember what we’ve said.

“Honey, I love you but I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Emma is exasperated now. I’ve seen this look on her face before. It’s the “my point is so obvious that I can’t believe I have to explain this to you because you’re the grown up and you’re supposed to get it” face.

She sits up.

“Daddy, you told me! You said that every day is a new day and that any bad things are in the past. So 12 AM is a new day so my ice is big again! It’s big! You know…thick!”

Click.

Several days before Emma was pushing the limits and I warned her, “Emma Elizabeth, you better knock it off because you’re on thin ice.”

And several days prior to that incident was a discussion following her being disciplined. I had explained to her that what’s done is done, she received her discipline and that Daddy wasn’t angry with her because it was all over.

“It’s in the past, Emma. And every day is a new day.”

Midnight marks the new day. And with the new day, “thick ice” on which to skate.

Emma had connected the dots. I was astounded and humbled in this moment. God is at work in my daughter’s life.

Wow.

The prophet Jeremiah put it this way, “Yet this I call to mind and therefore I have hope; because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail. They are new every morning; great is Your faithfulness. I say to myself, “The Lord is my portion; therefore I will wait for Him.” (Lamentations 3:21-24)

We are God’s children. And from time to time we all skate on thin ice. Thanks to God’s mercy, His compassion never fails. He shows it to us in many ways, not the least of which is to give us “big ice” at the start of every new day.

Which, as Emma will tell you, starts at 12:00 AM. Or midnight. Whichever you prefer to call it.

Todd A. Thompson – ASliceOfLifeToGo.com

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

After the sun and sugar had their way the girls were ready to go home. We loaded our loot from the silent auction into the car and rolled down 19th Street, happily chatting about how fun it was to smash confetti eggs on people’s heads and when we were going to use the movie tickets we’d just won.

In mid-sentence Annie said, “Whoa, Daddy. Funeral.”

We all looked to the right. Resthaven Cemetery. The familiar roll away green awning. A small group of people huddled in a semi-circle. An American flag fluttering in the wind in front of the honor guard from the VFW.

At 45 miles per hour the solemnity passed quickly.

We were all quiet for a moment. Even Annie and Emma, about to turn 8, seemed aware of the contrast. Just a few blocks away kids are running and laughing, playing ring toss and bouncing around on giant inflatable moon walks.

Such a short drive.

Near where I grew up in Iowa there is a quaint country church, surrounded by corn and soybean fields. A big shade tree sits on their property, the perfect spot for the playground equipment they erected…right next to their cemetery. Not even a fence to separate.

I recall thinking how odd to see monkey bars and swings so close to headstones. As if one has nothing to do with the other. Then a moment later realizing that, intentional or not, this was a picture of life. In the scope of eternity, the distance between the playground and the burial ground is shorter than we think. A quick ride down the slide and we’re bumping against the granite.

Glancing in the rear view mirror I see my daughters. My beautiful, sun-kissed, sweaty, sticky mess squirrely girlies.

Take them home.

Hug them.

Hose them off.

Hug them.

Eat lunch.

See if they’ll share some of their Pixy Stix while we watch Scooby Doo together and remember my childhood as I enjoy theirs.

It’s such a short drive.

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

Todd A. Thompson - www.ASliceOfLifeToGo.com

I hear this often from my daughters. 2nd grader’s this year, they love learning. I wonder what her question is this time? What’s 16 + 16? How to spell “clock”? Or maybe something regarding a favorite place, like “When are we going to Krispy Kreme again?”

“Sure, Emma, what’s your question?”

“Do penguins toot?”

In all my years of schooling and countless conversations with teachers, professors and fellow students, I can’t recall a single discussion of flatulence in the Antarctic region. Even “March Of The Penguins”, the most detailed penguin documentary to date, didn’t mention if their eating too many fish caused that bloated feeling. 

“Do penguins toot? Good question, Emma.”

As an undergraduate student at Northwestern College, I experienced the value of a Christian liberal arts education. My faculty advisor was Dr. Wayne Norman. Many who make their living as scholars prefer to be holed up in libraries and labs, more comfortable with books and Bunsen burners than humans. Dr. Norman’s people skills match his considerable intellect. Anyone who can teach a Statistical Research Methods class in such a way that it makes sense to a 2+2=5 math idiot like myself has special gifts.

One afternoon I was visiting with Dr. Norman in his office. I looked around at all the shelves, crammed with books representing years of academic study and research. I wondered out loud, “Does having your PhD mean you know everything that’s in these books?”

He laughed. “Heavens, no. Having my PhD just means I know where to look to find it.”

He continued. “You know, Todd, students come to college to prepare for a career. Nothing wrong with that. But by the time you graduate there will be thousands of jobs that today don’t exist. The world is changing fast. Chances are high that ten years from now you’ll be doing something completely different than your major. If all you prepare for is what you see today, you’ll always be behind.”

He put a fat textbook back on the shelf. “So the most important thing you can do in college is…learn how to learn.”

Somehow that wasn’t what I was expecting to hear from my faculty advisor. I sat there and thought about it. Learn how to learn. It made sense.

“So what’s the best way to do that?”

“Learn how to ask good questions. A genuine liberal arts education means you can sit on an airplane next to anyone in the world going anywhere in the world and be able to carry on an intelligent conversation. You won’t know all the answers. But you’ll know what questions to ask.”

I’ve never forgotten that conversation. Knowingly or unknowingly, Dr. Norman connected the dots for me. The key to “learning how to learn” is learning the value of a question. I took it to heart. After a couple decades of practice, I ask questions with the best of them. It’s a skill that serves me extremely well.

Dr. Norman was right. It’s all about asking the right questions.

In the asking, we learn things we otherwise wouldn’t.

In the asking, we add to our knowledge base.

In the asking, we acknowledge the value of another person and their life experience.

In the asking, we often save ourselves embarrassment.

In the asking, we are saying, “Teach me. I want to learn.”

In the asking, we are building relationships.

And always, always remember…if in doubt of what to say, ask a question.

As you encounter people this week, purpose to ask more questions. In a conversation, see if you can ask five questions in a row. Don’t use their answers as a springboard into telling them everything you know. Rather, ask another question. Then be quiet and listen. You’ll be amazed at what you learn. And more amazed at the positive impact it will have on your relationships.

Do penguins toot?

Yes, they do.

(We Googled it.)

“Judge of a man by his questions rather than by his answers.” – Voltaire

“The heart of the discerning acquires knowledge; the ears of the wise seek it out.” – Proverbs 18:15

Todd A. Thompson – www.ASliceOfLifeToGo.com

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then I looked in her brown eyes.

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

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

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

Is this about my feelings? Or about our relationship?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Todd A. Thompson – www.ASliceOfLifeToGo.com

“Daddy, look! There’s Hazel!” Annie and Emma take off running to give her a hi and a hug.

At the other end of the long hall, sitting in her wheelchair, is Hazel. She came here a couple months ago after suffering a stroke. A Southern belle originally from Baton Rouge, her soft Louisiana voice is charm school sweet and dipped in Mint Julep.

During our first conversation the topic of her age came up. Her daughter told me she was 93.

“Hazel,” I said, “I’m gonna take you to the fair and make a lot of money having people guess your age because there’s no way you’re 93.”

“Why, thank you.” Her smile seemed to agree that I’d make bank.

Hazel’s memory has been affected by the stroke. Almost like a sporadic dementia. Some days we visit without difficulty. On this day, her short-term memory has stepped out for a bit. She is slowly wringing her hands; anxious, fretful and nervous.

“I’m hoping they’ll come for me. If I sit here I think I’ll see them. I hope they find me.”

Her daughter Nita is running errands and will be back in an hour or two. Hazel has forgotten that. She squeezes her hands together and leans forward in the direction of the elevator, anxiously looking for the familiar face that will put her heart at ease.

Emma pats her shoulder. “It’s ok, Hazel. We’re right here.”

Perhaps a distraction will help. “Hazel, I’m sure Nita will be back soon. You can hang out with us while we put out the flowers. Why don’t you come along with us to the rooms. Emma can push your wheelchair.”

“I can push you, Hazel.” Emma grabs the handles and Annie puts a hand on her shoulder.

Hazel is lost in her worry. “I hope they come for me. Because I’m here. I hope they come for me.” She looks up at me with tears in her eyes. “I’m right here, you know.”

“I know, Hazel. And we’re right here with you.” And we are. But we’re not sure if today is a day that Hazel can know that.

We begin putting out the flowers. Hazel doesn’t want to move, afraid she might miss whomever she is hoping for to come around the corner.

We make our rounds, visiting with our elderly friends while replacing last week’s roses with fresh ones. By the time we get around to Hazel’s room, a nurse’s aide has helped her into bed. Her demeanor is changed. She seems relaxed. At peace. I wonder what happened to make it so.

She points to Annie and Emma with excitement. “They found me! I was waiting for someone to find me. And they found me!” Hazel is happy now.

Making certain she has my attention, she points to Annie and Emma. “These are my precious little girls. They are my fairy princesses. I see their angel faces in my dreams.”

I don’t doubt that she does.

As I turn to leave for the next room, Hazel reaches up and squeezes my hand. Hard. With a relieved smile she says, “I’m so happy to be found.”

Sometimes we wander through our days oblivious that we are lost. Sometimes we feel lost and we’re fearful that what is comforting and familiar to us will never return. Sometimes we’re running hard away, knowing full well we are lost but afraid of what will happen if we stop long enough to admit it.

However it happens, being lost is scary.

Saying goodbye to the patient in the last room, I go looking for Annie and Emma. I hear crazy loud laughter coming from Hazel’s room.

Peeking in I see the three of them playing volleyball with a balloon. Hazel, laying down in her bed says, “Oh, girls, you’ve got to hit it harder than that. You’ve got to really smack it!”

Smack!

Hazel serves up a high floater.

The girls giggle and trip over themselves, whacking it back to her. The volley goes between them till Hazel’s return puts the balloon out of reach, stuck in the lamp.

“Hazel!”, the girls shriek, “What a shot!”

Hazel is proud. She showed them how to really smack it.

I step quietly away. It would be a sin to stop this game.

More giggles. More “smacks!”. More laughter.

Indeed, it is a happy thing to be found.

“Then Jesus told them this parable: “Suppose one of you has a hundred sheep and loses one of them. Does he not leave the ninety-nine in the open country and go after the lost sheep until he finds it? And when he finds it, he joyfully puts it on his shoulders and goes home. Then he calls his friends and neighbors together and says, “Rejoice with me; I have found my lost sheep. I tell you that in the same way there will be more rejoicing in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous persons who do not need to repent.”

- Luke 15:1-7

- Todd A. Thompson   www.ASliceOfLifeToGo.com

My first experience with Rudy’s was in Austin, Texas while visiting with our friends Andy and Lynn Neillie and Ron Sciarro. At Rudy’s, your plate is a sheet of waxed paper spread out on a picnic table. Brisket, ribs, sausage, smoked turkey, all smothered in Rudy’s BBQ Sause (sic). Or for those who can’t handle the regulation flavor, some Rudy’s Sissy Sause.

The philosphy at Rudy’s is summed up in the phrase printed on the back of the employee’s T-shirts. “I didn’t claw my way up the food chain to eat vegetables.”

Is Rudy’s good BBQ? Let’s just say that when I relocated here and saw the Rudy’s sign off Loop 289 I grabbed my cell phone, called Ron back in Phoenix and said, “There is a God in heaven and He loves me.”

As you wind through the line at Rudy’s you walk along big rectangle metal tubs full of ice, packed with sodas and beer. Annie and Emma like to pull out bottles of IBC Root Beer and Cream Soda. The first time they did that and it came time to open them, I walked them over to the opener that was screwed into the wall, right above the mounted box that catches the bottle caps.

“Daddy, what’s this?”

I grew up with openers on the wall and snapping the caps off Coke bottles. It didn’t occur to me that something so old would be so brand new to Annie and Emma.

It set me to thinking about other experiences that my kids will never or likely never have. They will never watch TV around midnight, hear the national anthem played before the screen goes fuzzy white and off the air until morning. They won’t know what it’s like to have to get off the couch to change the channel. And they will never know the anticipation of viewing “A Charlie Brown Christmas” on network television with the understanding that you wouldn’t see it again for a whole year.

They won’t know what it was like to ride in cars that didn’t have seat belts. The first thing they hear from me is, “Buckle up!” When I was their age my sister and I were free to roam the back seat like goats in a pasture. And unless we’re ever passing through Orange City, Iowa and stop at Mulder’s Phillips 66, they won’t ever know what “Full Service” at a gas station means.

The only way Annie and Emma will be aware of what life was like back in the day is if I tell them. Which I do. Bedtime stories always start with Emma saying, “Daddy, tell us about when you were little. Tell us the WHOLE story.” They pull the covers up to their chin and snuggle in, eyes bright with anticipation. And we begin.

“When Daddy was a boy…”

The story is old to me.

Brand new to them.

In the Old Testament book of Judges, we find several brief verses that detail one of the saddest and most tragic downward spirals in all the Bible.

“After Joshua had dismissed the Israelites, they went to take possession of the land, each to his own inheritance. The people served the Lord throughout the lifetime of Joshua and of the elders who outlived him and who had seen all the great things the Lord had done for Israel. Joshua the son of Nun, the servant of the Lord, died at the age of 110. And they buried him in the land of his inheritance, at Timnath Heres in the hill country of Ephraim, north of Mount Gaash.

After that whole generation had been gathered to their fathers, another generation grew up, who knew neither the Lord nor what He had done for Israel. Then the Israelites did evil in the sight of the Lord and served the Baals. They forsook the Lord, the God of their Fathers, who had brought them out of Egypt.”

- Judges 2:6-12

This generation, the ones who didn’t “know the Lord or what He had done for Israel” were the grandchildren of those people God delivered out of 400 years of bondage in Egypt; those who were eyewitness to God parting the Red Sea, providing manna in the wilderness, water from a rock, and whose presence was represented in the pillar of cloud by day and the pillar of fire by night.

What happened? These people who knew the Lord and saw with their own eyes the miraculous protection and provision of God didn’t tell the whole story. All it takes is one generation to drop the ball, to be silent, and the next generation will know nothing of the Lord and what He has done for us.

Tell the story. Tell it to your kids. Tell it to your friends. Tell it to strangers. Tell the story. Every day. In some form or fashion, tell the story of what God has done in your life. How He has protected and provided. How He has guided and directed. How He has forgiven and forgotten. How He has brought beauty from the ashes. How He has shown Himself faithful when there seemed no hope. How He has done miracles in your life. Most of all, tell the whole story of how He saved you from your death penalty of sin and made you a brand new creation.

We can’t afford to be the generation that drops the ball. The story might be old to us. But it’s brand new to them.

Tell the story.

And as Emma would say, “Make sure it’s the WHOLE story.”

“Only be careful, and watch yourselves closely so that you do not forget the things your eyes have seen or let them slip from your heart as long as you live. Teach them to your children and to their children after them.”

- Deuteronomy 4:9

- Todd Thompson, A Slice Of Life To Go

“Tell us a story, Daddy! Tell us a real one about you when you were little,” says Annie.

Emma said, “I like the one about when you fell down and cracked your head because you didn’t mind the teacher.”

Annie and Emma particularly enjoy the stories where Daddy learned a lesson the hard way.

“Ok, girls. Let’s see…when I was your age we would spend Christmas in Texas with your Uncle Jack. He’s my cousin, you know.”

“One Christmas when we were about five years old he and I got the coolest present. It was a dart gun. But not just any dart gun. A double barrel shotgun dart gun. It came with a wind up mechanical rabbit that would scoot around on the floor. We’d shoot the rabbit with our dart guns and knock it over. It was so much fun.”

“But after a couple days of this, we got bored. So we started shooting the darts at other things.’

“Ooh, Daddy, that’s bad.”, says Emma with cautious tone.

“I know. Well, we started shooting them at the ceiling.”

“Daddy, you’re not supposed to do that.”, Annie reminds me.

“I know. But your Uncle Jack figured out that if you licked the dart first, it would stick on the kitchen ceiling tile. They’d stay up there for a while, then fall down.”

“Daddy, whose idea was it to lick the darts?” That Annie asks this question means I’m not spinning the story well enough.

“It was your Uncle Jack’s idea.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive. Anyway, we were busy licking the darts and shooting them at the ceiling. What we didn’t realize is that when the darts fell down they left little rings on the ceiling tile.”

“Daddy! You are so in trouble!” Emma is sitting up now.

“We heard the car pull into the driveway. Our Moms had been down the street at the store.”

“Uh oh, Daddy! What did you do?”

“We dropped our guns and ran like the wind. We hid under the bed. Then the darts started unsticking and falling off the ceiling. That’s when your Aunt Evelyn yelled, “Where are those boys?!!!”

Annie and Emma are both sitting up now, more than ready to hear what form of retribution would befall me.

“I told your Uncle Jack we should go out there but he said “no way”. We’d get a spanking for sure. We could see their feet walking down the hall while they looked for us. Just like the Tom & Jerry cartoons when Jerry is looking out from his mouse hole.”

Annie scolds me. “Daddy! You shouldn’t have listened to him!” I must be spinning the story better now.

“Then what happened?”

“Your Aunt Evelyn yelled something about going outside to cut a switch. I told your Uncle Jack we should surrender but he said he didn’t have a good feeling about that switch remark and that we should stay put.”

“Daddy, did they find you?”

“Oh, yes. They found us.”

Emma leaned forward, smiling and almost giddy. “Daddy, did you and Uncle Jack get a spankin’?”

“I think your Uncle Jack did.”

Annie is unconvinced. “Yes, but Daddy did you get a spankin’?”

“I can’t remember. My memory is fuzzy on that point.”

The girls laid back, pulled up the covers and looked at each other.

Says Emma, “He got a spankin’.”

Says Annie, “Yep. A big spankin’.”

Some 39 years later, Jack still has his wind-up mechanical rabbit. It sits on a shelf of memorabilia in his home, an all-time favorite Christmas present from childhood. 

The joy of Christmas is enthusiasm and anticipation to be sure. The joy of Christmas is also presents. Under the tree, hidden in attics and closets and on high up garage shelves, tied up with ribbon and beautiful paper. Presents are wonderful. Who doesn’t like to give and receive a present? Even Dr. Seuss’ cold-hearted Grinch eventually warmed to the spirit of giving. We all have memories of opening a Christmas present that made our face light up like the star on top the tree. Life around Christmas is presents and all that comes with them.

I hate to say it, but sometimes well-meaning Christians are a real downer this time of year. More concerned about what they see as commercialism run rampant, they approach this wonderful season with the freshness of last year’s fruitcake. Some of them, which is to say some of us, try to emphasize the true meaning of Christmas with phrases like “Remember the Reason for the Season” while decrying the buying and selling and the emphasis on gift giving.

When we communicate this either/or approach to Christmas, we give the impression that  genuinely remembering the reason for the season means being serious, somber and boring. We symbolically shake the snow dust from our boots as we pass the Super Wal-Mart and Toys-R-Us, as if celebration and partying have no part in the reason for the season.

Jesus Christ is the reason for the season. There is no better reason than Him to celebrate and party. God is the gift. We give because He gave. Let not your heart be troubled when you see malls full of stores making money hand over fist at Christmas. Nor should you waste your time crusading against commercialism. A moment spent decrying the holiday profit margin of The Gap is a moment not spent pondering the miracle of God with us.

If you want people to know the real reason for the season, let your celebration be worthy of the Gift you’ve been given. What’s the proper expression of celebration for being on the receiving end of forgiveness, unconditional love and eternal life?

Smile. Sing. Laugh. Party.

Be grateful. Give gifts.

Give of yourself. Volunteer.

Extend grace.

Be joyful.

Here’s hoping the memories you make this Christmas will become stories you tell to those you love for years to come.

Merry Christmas.

“For to us a Child is born, to us a Son is given, and the government will be upon His shoulders. And He will be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace. Of the increase of His government and peace there will be no end.”

- Isaiah 9:6-7

And what I wouldn’t give to have a mandatory nap time again. How great would it be to stretch out on the floor at 1 o’clock every afternoon? Annie and Emma were so giggly during rest time that they were getting me in trouble. I almost had to pull a ticket and get my name put on the board.

But before rest time I got to do lunch with the kindergarteners. 

Whatever else you have to say about school lunches you can always count on interesting menu combinations. Give me a week and a stack of cook books and I’d never think of corn and blue Jell-O cubes as good compliments to a beef and bean burrito. (If you cringe reading the words “blue Jell-O cubes” and “beef and bean burrito” then, trust me, the visual would be entirely too much for you.)

I squeezed into place at the table between Annie and Emma. Our dining companions for the next 30 minutes were Alissa, Alessa, and Zach. Almost in unison the five of them freed their yellow plastic straws from the cellophane wrapper by pounding them on the table, not unlike veteran smokers tamping down a fresh pack of cigarettes. Together they expertly stab their “bag” of white, chocolate or strawberry milk and take a drink. 

Annie starts the dinner conversation by informing everyone that she has a really, really, really loose tooth. “See?” She wiggles it back and forth.

Alissa, her jet black hair pulled back into a ponytail, says, “I lost 4 teeth already.” She smiles to verify her claim.

Zach, a brown-haired dry wit with a future as an attorney or a stand-up comedian deadpans, “I lost a thousand already.”

“A thousand? Wow. You must have had a lot of teeth to start with.”

“I so did.”

Alessa, not to be confused with Alissa who sits next to her, listens as she proceeds to take the fruit on her tray and make her own fresh squeezed orange juice.

“If my tooth comes out tonight then the tooth fairy will come! Daddy, what’s the tooth fairy’s real name?”

“Gertrude. At least that’s what it says on her driver’s license. But she doesn’t really like that name so she goes by Tooth Fairy.”

Strangely, this makes sense to them.

Emma takes a bite out of her apple. “Where does the Tooth Fairy live, Daddy?”

A good question. Everyone knows Santa resides at the North Pole. But what about the Tooth Fairy?

“Well, she travels all the time. And she’s got to cover both coasts and everything in between so she lives in the middle of the country. In Kansas City, I think.”

“The Wizard of Oz is in Kansas…..did you know my birthday is in October?”

Nobody does random conversations like kindergarteners.

Zach stares at me. “My birthday is in October. I’m having a party. You wanna come? I’m inviting the whole world.”

Alessa, done squeezing oranges, brushes her tousled dirty blonde hair off her face. It falls right back again. She smiles at me. Then picks up her yellow straw and begins doing chocolate milk titrations into her blue Jell-O cubes.

It’s time to clean up and line up. A quick look around says I hope the trash can is hungry for beef and bean burritos.  The girls head left and I head right. Along the way two second grade boys who don’t know me but must think I’m big enough say, “Hey! Can you help us with this?” 

“Sure.”

Two sealed fruit roll ups. Only after they press them into my hand do I realize they’ve spent considerable spit trying to open them with their teeth. Thankfully I don’t have to resort to using my own incisors to free the fruit.

At that moment Annie runs up with a shout. “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy! My tooth came out!” She smiles, pulls down her lower lip and shows me the empty space. “Is it bleeding?”

“No, Annie. Not bleeding.”

For the rest of the day it was show and tell for Annie. “Hi! I’m Annie. I lost a tooth! Look!”

God, thank you for little girls and boys. For their tousled hair and sticky fingers. For wiggly teeth and the Tooth Fairy. For their love of life and delight in the present moment. I learn so much from them.

One wiggly tooth down. And, God willing, lots of wide-eyed wonder to go.

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

On my very first Sunday with the cribs and the crawlers I wasn’t there 10 minutes when my friend Mark brought his 8-month old daughter Amy. He handed her off to me so he could go to the church service. She was fine for all of five seconds until she saw him walking away. Then it was open the hydrant, turn on the faucet, open the flood gates it’s cryin’ time baby. How such a little girl could generate such big tears was beyond me. I tried everything to get her to stop. Toys, walking, talking, and saying please please please don’t cry. Nothing was working. If anything it felt like she was picking up momentum. She was crying louder and longer.

I wasn’t a pro at this but I figured that a noisy nursery isn’t the best place to try and quiet a screaming kid. So Amy and I went next door into the pastor’s study. He had a nice glider rocker in there. We sat down and she cried some more. And I kept talking to her. I told her in my best calm, logical voice that the situation wasn’t really as bad as it seemed. Her Daddy would be back in half an hour. He was still in the building. I told Amy that I wasn’t such a bad guy and that her Dad wouldn’t leave me with her if he didn’t trust me.

And you know what? She responded to that.

She cried harder.

After about ten minutes Amy just flat cried herself out. Now it was just short little breaths and some quiet tears. Finally after a time Amy did what little children do when they are afraid and confused. She pulled in, put her head down on my shoulder, and after a couple more minutes fell asleep to the rocking of the chair and the steady tick-tocks of mantle clocks.

Holding Amy and feeling my left arm joining her in a nap, I was so relieved to see her calm down. As proud as I was of myself for hanging in there until she went to sleep, the fact is Amy didn’t understand a thing I told her. In her little frame of reality, she didn’t know for sure if her Daddy would be back. She didn’t know if everything would be ok. The fact is as she sat on my lap she didn’t understand anything about the situation she was experiencing. So she did the best thing she could. She pulled in, settled in, put her head on my shoulder and went to sleep.

Friends, when life is hard, the best thing you can do is sit on God’s lap and let Him hold you. It might seem simplistic to say when life is hard, just be still and trust God. But that’s what God says we are to do. And please understand that sitting on God’s lap when life is hard doesn’t guarantee a full understanding of the pain you’re going through. There are some hardships of life that can never be humanly explained.

What explanation will comfort parents after their 11-year old son drowns in the bathtub after an asthmatic attack? How do you adequately explain a house fire that destroys every single possession? A drunk driver taking innocent lives? How do you explain a relentless cancer that refuses to be contained? How do you explain the abandonment of a spouse? There is so much pain and suffering that makes no sense and this side of heaven, never will.

We do one another a disservice when we say trite religious things to put a good face on what God openly acknowledges is heartbreak of the deepest degree. God admits to us that life is hard. “Many are the afflictions of the righteous” says God. (Psalm 34) Yet God also says that He is in full control of the chaos that surrounds us. When life is hard, God says, “Be still and trust me.”

Friend, when life is hard, the best thing you can do is sit on God’s lap. Be still and let Him hold you.

Life is hard. But God is good. That’s what we comfort one another with. Whatever our pain, in the middle of it we remind ourselves and one another that the God of the universe who created the world and hung the stars in the sky and calls them all by name is the God who knows us intimately. He loves us with an unconditional love, a patient and forgiving heart, and a perfect ability to work all things together for good in our lives. Even the gut wrenching, soul ripping pain we experience that we don’t understand.

When life is hard, take refuge in God.

When life is hard, be still and trust God.

When life is hard, crawl up on God’s lap. Be still and let Him hold you. He is our Heavenly Father who “has compassion on us as a father has compassion on his children.” (Psalm 103)

In His promises you and I will find the peace that passes understanding.

“God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in time of trouble. Therefore we will not fear, though the earth should change, and though the mountains slip into the heart of the sea;

“Cease striving and know that I am God; I will be exalted among the nations, I will be exalted in the earth.” The Lord of hosts is with us, the God of Jacob is our stronghold.” – Psalm 46:1-2; 10-11   

Ours is covered with photographs and the obligatory magnets to hold them all in place. It’s a hodgepodge of themes. An Andy Griffith Show magnet holding a photo of Allison, Shelby and Shaun; our nieces and nephew. A Chicago skyline magnet securing a winter photo of my Uncle Ev’s farm in Iowa. The profiles of Evelyn and Josie, two girls from South America we sponsor through Compassion International. And there are advertising magnets with crucial phone numbers like Ben Franklin Plumbing and Hungry Howie’s Pizza. The best photos on our fridge are of our kids. There are lots of those. They’re all fun, especially the one of Sara in the rocking chair with a baby in each arm.

Six years ago this morning, October 18th, Annie and Emma were born. Seven and a half weeks early at 3 pounds 9 ounces and 3 pounds 14 ounces, respectively. After a month or so in the NICU in Spokane, we brought them home. We asked our dear friends Linda and Lisa to pick us up at the airport.

Sara had been gone for at least six weeks, staying with the girls while they were in the hospital. So when we got back to our house, there was a lot to do. After we got in the front door, Sara handed Annie to Linda and I handed Emma to Lisa. They sat down on the love seat and held the babies while we set about unpacking. Before they left, we took a picture of the four of them. After the film got developed it got put on the fridge. A year later at the girls’ first birthday party, we took another picture. It’s been a tradition ever since.

After this week there will be seven pictures of them sitting on the love seat, Linda holding Annie and Lisa holding Emma. When you see the pictures grouped together in sequence on the fridge it’s a striking reminder of how quickly time passes. And it makes me thankful that we stumbled on a simple way to mark the most significant life event for our family that we celebrate every year.

What’s on your refrigerator doors? Hopefully some great snapshots of the people important to you. Pictures that make you laugh and smile and remember. Pictures that take you back to a different time and place; images that remind you who you are and where you come from.

When we’re purposeful in capturing our Kodak moments, we’re marking time and making memories. Marking time keeps us honest about our mortality and tempers our tendency to take life for granted. Making memories builds a legacy for us and our children.  

Yesterday Annie and Emma were standing in front of our fridge looking at all the pictures. It was a conversation between twin sisters, a delightful privilege for me to overhear. They were discussing a photo of themselves taken a couple years ago at their pre-school graduation. Dressed in their blue mortarboards and tassels, they are striking a classic pose with two of their friends. After reliving the memory together, Annie sighed and said longingly, “I miss those days.”

I miss them, too. But the best I can do is make memories at every stage. And take more pictures to put on the fridge.

 “Memories are times that we borrow, to spend when we get to tomorrow.” – Paul Anka

Six years ago tonight I was working in the Kid’s Team Shop at America West Arena. It was a Phoenix Coyotes hockey game. I was standing in the middle of the store when my cell phone rang. It was Sara. She was screaming. I couldn’t get what she was yelling about.

“Slow down! I can’t understand you! What’s going on?”

“They picked us!”

“Who picked us?”

“They picked us! The birth Mom and her family! They picked us!”

She rattled on, something about a December 8 due date. But to me it was all Charlie Brown teacher “wah wah wah, wah wah wah” in my head. I hit the end button on my cell phone, stared at the green backlit screen and realized my life had just changed.

October 7. December 8. Two months. Two months till twin babies. After years of waiting and multiple disappointments hoping for one child, now two babies in two months? This is fast.

Ten days after the phone call in the Team Shop my cell phone rang again. This time I was sitting at a Sonic drive through in Tempe waiting for my large Cherry Flurry. A strange area code on the caller ID. It was the birth Mom’s sister. In a chipper carefree voice she said, “Hey! Just wanted you to know my sister’s water broke. The babies will be born tonight. Can you get here?”

Get here? It’s only October 17th. What happened to December 8th?

Fast just got faster.

We were two first-born, organized, step by step, we love sequence, A + B = C, don’t throw me a curve ball, I like things in order kind of people. I had a DayTimer. Sara had a DayTimer on steroids. I guarantee she had nothing written down on October 17th that said, “get phone call at noon, twins to be born today, take leave of absence from school, fly to Spokane at 6, stay for a month.” Nope. The only plan that was in place was God’s plan. And that’s precisely the point.
 
In my journal I wrote, “This experience is reminding me once again, perhaps as never before, that DayTimers and Palm Pilots are, at one level, high tech human tools of denial. They may keep us organized but they also fool us into thinking we have some measure of control over the events of our lives. Being smart and making decent decisions gets us a little further down life’s road. But rarely, if ever, do we begin our DayTimer moments acknowledging that God could throw our 7-ring into a divinely appointed tailspin. We don’t like to admit the reality that God controls everything and we control nothing.

Certainly there is something to be said for time management. Stewardship extends to time as well. Yet when God unfolds His plan, the DayTimer is the first casualty. We learned that this last month. Everything that has happened to us in the last 30 days has been upside down, backwards, premature, surprising, unexpected, unusual, unplanned… and all God.”

When we speak of “God’s timing” more often than not we think of it as far removed from the urgency of our circumstances. We tend to view God as a slow moving, deliberate deity. A divine curmudgeon who holes up in a big dark paneled office, seated behind a giant desk poring over every request, petition and prayer, taking them all under advisement. Compared to our desperate desire for progress, God moves with speed of a tired sloth. Or so it seems. We’re anxious for results and we see nothing from Him. God must not be listening or He must not care.

In retrospect, I think part of God’s purpose in having us endure long seasons of waiting is that we learn to cling tighter to Him. It’s in this season of waiting that we develop the grip we’ll need to hang on when God decides to go fast.

No doubt there are periods of our lives when God’s timetable is slower than we would like. But sometimes God goes fast. Really fast. Circumstances and situations where He accelerates the timetable beyond our imagination. And before you know it, you’re getting more than a taste of what you asked for. You’re drinking from a fire hydrant and God’s the one holding the big wrench.   

God isn’t always the God of “slow down and wait”. Sometimes He’s the God of “hurry up and go!” In the waiting and the rushing, He is working out His higher purposes for our good and His glory. Fast or slow, He’s always lovingly in control.

Can God go fast?

No kids to twins in 23 days. From a standing start.

Yep. God can go fast. Really fast.

How’s your grip?

“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you a hope and a future. Then you will call upon me and come and pray to me, and I will listen to you. You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart.” – Jeremiah 29:11-13

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

Of all the delightful kids who come to Aqua-Tots for swim lessons each week, Megan is my favorite. The joy she expresses in the water is unbridled and genuine.

Beautiful. Smart. Strong. Stubborn. Expressive.

Megan is all of these.

She’s also a prisoner. Trapped in her own body. She can’t walk on her own. Nor can she talk. The best she can do is make noises. She relies on a wheelchair and a digital communicator to interface with the world around her.

According to her Dad and the medical team in California that saved her life at birth, Megan is a miracle kid. Severe complications during her delivery have left her with a form of cerebral palsy. The most hopeful prediction was that she would live her life in a vegetative state.

Her Dad says to me, “Megan knows exactly what’s going on around her. She sees the other kids her age and knows what she should be able to do. She wants to be running with them.” He says it with a brave face and an optimistic smile that can’t hide the pain he feels for his daughter.

When it’s time for Megan’s lesson, we look for each other. Not because she needs me. Because I need her. Her smiles make my week. When we see each other Megan always leans out of her chair, excited, arms open to give me a hug. I don’t know why. They say you can’t fool kids and dogs. I’d like to think it’s because she knows that I really love her.

Inevitably, it seems, she arrives for her lesson just after I’ve gotten off the phone with a parent who hasn’t gotten the memo that the world doesn’t revolve around them. In the world of customer service I make them feel as if it does and when I hang up the phone wonder if a reality check wouldn’t have been more honest than reinforcing their belief that they are the center of the universe.

One day I was kneeling in front of Megan in her wheelchair as she was waiting for her swim lesson to start. We were face to face but she was looking past me, over my shoulder to the gymnasts who were practicing their tumbling runs. A sprint, a handspring, launching themselves up and over, twisting and flying into the foam rubber pit.

She knows.

She knows that’s what she should be doing. I could see it in her expression. The sadness and the longing. The “why not me?” in her eyes.

Selfishly, I wanted to distract her from reality.

“Megan, it’s great to see you today! How are you?”

She brought her attention back to me with an extra large smile. She awkwardly tried to bring her hands together. With her thumbs and index fingers she made a triangle.

“Megan, you’re a lot smarter than I am. I don’t know sign language.”

She leaned forward and extended her hands toward my face, as if to make the sign more visible.

Her Dad said, “You asked her how she is.”

“So what’s she saying?”

“She’s telling you she’s perfect.”

I felt like someone dropped a Steinway on my chest.

Ask me how I am and my healthy, mobile, verbose body will give you a half-hearted and sometimes discontented, “I’m fine”.

Ask Megan how she is and she’ll tell you she’s perfect.

And she is.

She so is.

Perspective comes to us in many ways. The best way is when the life lesson takes us outside ourselves, far away from our selfish, self-absorbed lives. In 43 years I’ve received many doses of perspective. None more powerful or life-impacting than Megan’s sign.

We all have challenges. Megan’s challenges are off the chart. The difference between Megan and me is I can discuss my challenges. I can give voice to my complaints. I can whine and grumble about how I’ve been inconvenienced or hurt or slighted. I can get up and walk or run away from situations where I am angry or frustrated or overwhelmed.

In short, I have freedom to move through life fully ambulatory and fully vocal about every blessing I think I deserve but don’t have. And every injustice I have suffered but didn’t deserve. All the while oblivious that my whining and griping and walking away is made possible by a body… that works.

God must appalled by my chutzpah.

Megan, my friend, I owe you more than you will ever know. You are a continual source of inspiration and perspective for me. God will be pleased if I can someday attain the maturity of attitude you possess.

You come to Aqua-Tots each week for a lesson. Thanks for coming.

You’re a great teacher.

“O Lord, who lends me life, lend me a heart replete with thankfulness.” – William Shakespeare

01:02:03; 04/05/06

It won’t happen again for a hundred years.

We tend to take note of events that don’t come around often. Halley’s Comet makes an appearance every 76 years. If you didn’t see it in 1986, you have to wait till 2061. Which for many of us means we won’t ever see Halley’s Comet. It’s the same feeling I have when I try to put “Super Bowl Champions” and “Minnesota Vikings” in the same sentence.

When thinking of things astronomical, we understand that certain alignments of planets and stars happen only once, if you’ll pardon the metaphor, in a blue moon. So what is it about the ordinary moment that makes us think they are ordinary?

This morning I took my parents to the airport. They have been visiting for the past week. I remember thinking when I picked them up that the days would fly and before I knew it I’d be taking them back to the airport. And that’s what happened. We thoroughly enjoyed our time together but the week was a blur. This morning it dawned on me that we were so busy having fun that I didn’t take a single picture while they were here. So engrossed in the moments that I didn’t think to capture any of them to look at later.

It’s good to be fully alive in the present moment. Yet this week I was reminded again how easily it is to take the present moment for granted. My parents commented on how much Annie and Emma have grown since they last saw them. It’s not as obvious to me because I see them everyday. Yet how important to pay attention to the ordinary day. Each day, a little growth. A little change. A little here and a little there and before you know it you’re picking out high school graduation announcements.

It’s a wonderfully cool, Winnie the Pooh blustery day in Phoenix. All my windows are open. The leaves of my orange/lemon tree are scratching on the window screen to my office. Roses are blooming in my backyard. My grapevine is leafing out. The chimes hanging on my patio play random compositions with each gust of wind. Palmer the Eskimo Dog is chilling in the grass. And I’m about to go play Chutes and Ladders with Annie and Emma while we listen to some Big Band music.

We won’t see 01:02:03; 04/05/06 on the calendar again for a hundred years.

We will never be where we are with the people we’re with on this day again…ever.

That makes this ordinary day extraordinary.

Carpe diem.

“This is the day that the Lord has made. Let us rejoice and be glad in it.” – Psalm 118:24

Growing up in Iowa, fall was my favorite season. Cooler days and nights sent the chlorophyll into retreat, revealing brilliant reds, yellows and golds in the maple leaves. When their colorful autumn show closed in late October and the leaves took their final bows, the resulting leaf piles were magnificent to kick through and jump in.

Here in Phoenix, October temperatures can still be 100 degrees. For the leaves on the trees, it’s business as usual. Not until late December or early January do trees start looking fall like. Until then, the only way we know winter is approaching is to watch the license plates change colors.

“Daddy, can we make a pile of leaves and jump in them?”, Annie and Emma ask again. I start to say no. I mean, really. Fig leaves? It doesn’t seem right. When’s the last time you heard someone reminisce about their childhood saying, “Fig leaves were my favorite. The boring browns and dull greens. Fabulous.” No, when it comes to leaf piles, I’m pretty sure fig leaves aren’t regulation.

“Daddy, can we? Make a pile and jump in?” Annie and Emma persist. I look at them and feel sad. Sad that they have so little to work with. My kids want to jump in a pile of leaves just like Linus in “A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving” and the best I can do is a shallow pile of pathetic fig leaves. What kind of Dad am I?

“Daddy, please!!!”

Then I realize that Annie and Emma don’t care about the leaves. They care about the moment. Taking what they can find in front of them and having fun with it. Twenty minutes ago it was a couple of river rocks they put in a plastic pail. Twenty minutes from now it might be a pretend tea party with their stuffed animals. Right now it’s a pile of fig leaves.

“Sure. Why not?”

God, thanks for the privilege of learning from my kids. They teach me the value of the present moment.

That it’s a pile of fig leaves isn’t important.

What’s important is that they jump.

“This is the day that the Lord has made. Let us rejoice and be glad in it.” – Psalm 118:24