Do you have a green thumb and grow beautiful plants? Are you a whiz in the workshop, building lovely pieces of furniture? Are you a talented public speaker or a great cook? An expert teacher in your discipline?

How did you become good at what it is you’re good at?

Whatever it is we’re good at, part of the reason is that we learned from someone else. We were instructed. We were taught. Pick any field of study or any skill and you can be certain that the best and brightest didn’t get there on talent alone. The most talented surgeon learned techniques from other surgeons while in medical school. The most learned scholar was challenged to think by elementary, high school, and college teachers. The best jazz musicians, like Wynton Marsalis, studied technique and listened to the recordings of jazz greats like Louis Armstrong and Dizzy Gillespie.

Isaac Newton, one of the most brilliant men who ever lived said, “If I have seen further it is by standing on the shoulders of giants.”

We are who we are because we’ve learned from someone else.

What about God?

The prophet Isaiah asked the rhetorical question, “Who taught God how to be God?” (Isaiah 40:13-14)

In theology, it’s known as “the freedom of God”. God is completely free and independent from His creatures and creation. Perfectly independent. To answer Isaiah’s rhetorical question, no one instructed God. God had no teacher. No one enlightened Him. Words you’ll never hear God say…

“So that’s how you do it!”

“Now I get it!”

“With a little practice, I think I’ll have it down.”

Or, “I have a question…”

We are who we are because we learned from someone else.

God is who He is because…He is Who He is. God is God. And He learned from no one.

Besides being an interesting theological concept, how does this relate to you and me? The freedom of God has everything to do with His relationship to us. Because God is self-sufficient, He is not obligated to us. We can never put Him in our debt because we have nothing that He needs. God will never owe us anything. We contribute nothing to Who He is. God is the only One who can stand on stage with the award in His hand and say with complete integrity, “I’d like to thank no one. Because it’s all about Me.”

When thought about in those terms, it can make God feel distant. A perfectly self-sufficient God who is independent and completely free from His creatures and creation. The correct assumption is that God does not need you or me. And it is this very freedom of God that blasts meaning into our relationship with Him.

God does not need a relationship with us. He wants a relationship with us.

God doesn’t love us out of obligation. In the freedom of His self-sufficiency, He chooses to love us with all of His being. God doesn’t watch over us and take care of our daily needs because we bailed Him out of a tough spot and He’s paying us back. God takes care of us because He wants to. God doesn’t stick with us because we helped him through a difficult period in His life and feels He owes us a debt of gratitude. God sticks with us because He wants to.

One might wonder, “If God is here with me because He wants to be and He doesn’t owe me anything, what’s to say He won’t leave someday?” God won’t leave us, not because of His lack of obligation to us, but because He is bound by His own perfection. 2 Timothy 2:12 says that “even if we are faithless, God remains faithful; for He cannot deny Himself.” God is bound by His own perfection. His volition is permanently attached to His perfect integrity. So when God says, “I will never leave you or forsake you”, it’s an eternal promise.

God doesn’t love you because He has to. He loves you because He wants to. In His freedom, the God who doesn’t need anything wants an intimate relationship with you. And with that desire, He brings everything He has to the relationship. Friendship. Courage. Peace. Forgiveness. Patience. A plan for your life that is grand and goes beyond what you can see. And it’s all wrapped up in a loyal love that will not let you go.

If we see further by standing on the shoulders of giants, how much further by standing on the shoulders of God?

Todd A. Thompson – www.ASliceOfLifeToGo.com

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

We’ve been going every week since.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Poof.

Annie says, “Daddy bubble just popped.”

More laughter.

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

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

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

They are gone.

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

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

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

“LOTS of bubbles!”, Emma affirms.

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

The man in the bed understands better.

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

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

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

Todd A. Thompson – www.ASliceOfLifeToGo.com

It was around Halloween when I noticed it. Near my kids’ elementary school on the corner of 17th and Toledo Streets someone had put a pumpkin on top of a stop sign.

Even if you’re not normally aware of your surroundings, your brain takes note of things like a pumpkin on a stop sign.

It stayed there longer than I expected. Surely the street department or a neighborhood resident would remove it. But it remained for at least a couple weeks till I saw it smashed on the street, a messy clue fingering kids as the disposal crew.

Whoever put that pumpkin up there had another one. Because a day later the stop sign was once again sporting an orange gourd hat. I laughed when I saw it and wondered how long this one would stay perched.

People were either too lazy to take it down or just got used to seeing it there because it survived the entire month of November. And into December. Looking quite resiliant, I might add. Definitely the freshest looking pumpkin I’ve ever seen on a stop sign after seven weeks. But it is December. Pumpkins are supposed to be gone long before the holiday fruitcakes show up.

Dropping my kids off at school the other day, it was still there. Except someone, in the spirit of the season, had painted it gold. Now it fits in with the Christmas lights. It’s still a pumpkin on a stop sign. But it’s spiffed up now. And I think anyone who sees it turned out for the holidays would have to agree that the stop sign would be under-dressed without it.

Can I say it? Christmas the event, the birth of Christ, is joyous. Christmas the season, with all its stress, is not. For most of us, our level of angst during this time of year is high as the North Pole. Every unresolved situation, every strained relationship, every financial hardship, every unmet goal, every failed resolution bubbles to the surface. Somehow we hope “the most wonderful time of the year” will fix everything that’s broken in our life. We try our best with carols and cards, parties and presents. We cover our houses with everything that glitters and glows.

Yet more often than not, it simply illuminates how undone we are.

All my adult life I’ve hoped for the perfect Christmas. That just once everything in my sphere; relationships, goals, finances, mindset and emotions, situations and circumstances, would be as perfectly synchronized as the blinking lights on the tree.

Is it a big surprise to say it’s yet to happen? I’m always disappointed. In fact, several of those years have truly been “The Nightmare Before (and during and after…) Christmas”. You’d think I’d adjust my expectations. But every year, sure as stripes on a candy cane, my hope for the perfect Christmas appears.

So what to do? Abandon hope? Embrace cynicism? Quit on Christmas?

Those are options. Many people have chosen one or all of them. Having been there myself, I can’t blame them.

I’m moving toward another solution. To accept, as best as my kicking and screaming self can, that that this side of heaven my life will never be in sync. I’m a broken person living in a broken world. My idealistic expectations are getting in the way of my potential joy.

Reality is, this side of heaven, my Christmas (and my life) will more often look like a pumpkin on a stop sign than the star on top of the tree.

So the best I can do is paint the pumpkin. To dress up and turn out and not worry about the frayed edges of my life. To express sentiment without fear. To celebrate what is instead of bemoaning what isn’t. Most importantly, focus on Jesus. The One who loved this out of sync world enough to leave His throne and show up as a baby so He could live our life and walk our walk.

Jesus our Savior, born for us.

Immanuel, God with us.

The One who understands that painting the pumpkin gold is sometimes the best we can do.

Merry Christmas.

“The Word became flesh and made His dwelling among us. We have seen His glory, the glory of the One and Only, who came from the Father, full of grace and truth.” – John 1:14

Todd A. Thompson – www.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

“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

Crack a joke.

Help the carry out person wrangle a couple stray carts. Write a real paper and pen note to a former teacher telling them what you learned from them. Call your parents and tell them you noticed how much smarter they got after you went to college.

Hold the door for someone.

Let the person behind you go ahead of you in line…even if they have more items than you do. Volunteer to take someone to the airport – and pick them up when they return. Don’t go through the shirt pile at Target like a hog rooting for truffles…find your size and stack the rest neatly back. Pay attention to body language – if the words say “I’m fine” and the face says, “I’m not fine”, ask what’s wrong. Then listen.

Develop eyes for the “invisible people”…they are created in the image of God.

Hold someone’s hand.

Send someone in need an anonymous gift card with a note, “God will never let you down.” Don’t go slow in the fast lane. Help someone change a tire. Pull your kids close, look them in the eye and say, “I wouldn’t trade you for the world. I am so proud to be your Dad/Mom.” Go to the nursing home and give Gladys and Lily a makeover while you ask them about the good old days.

Tell your neighbor not to buy a new lawnmower…he can use yours anytime he wants.

Love your wife. Respect your husband. Cherish your children. Offer your God-given talents to the church and community. Make the cashier at WalMart laugh. Hug. Visit someone in the hospital. Clean up your mess.

Own your mistakes. Say “I’m sorry.”

Forgive.

Invite someone to church. Pass along the magazine article that made you smile. Gather your friends in crisis and host a “Life is Hard But God is Good” party – 30 minutes of crying and complaining followed by two hours of laughing and reminding one another that the joy of the Lord is your strength. Smile and say “thank you” and make eye contact when you do.

Ask someone, “How can I pray for you?”

Then pray.

Share a beautiful photo. Give an I-Tunes gift card with a note, “Buy the music that speaks to your heart.” Stop being grouchy. Compliment other people’s kids. Show up at someone’s door with a decadent chocolate cheesecake. (And don’t forget the coffee.) Read to your children. Give someone a roll of quarters for the car wash. Be a surrogate Mom/Dad, Grandpa/Grandma to a college student from out of state. Take out the trash without being asked. Post your child’s artwork on the refrigerator.

Leave a big tip.

Be patient with your kids.

Buy a bag of groceries for someone, put them on the step and do a “ring and run” (it’ll be a rush and you’ll feel like a kid again.) Rake leaves for an elderly person who wishes they could but can’t. Give a single parent a break by entertaining their kids for an evening. Pay compliments to those who least expect it…”Something I always notice when I come here is how clean it is. Thanks for scrubbing those restrooms. You do a great job.”

Make those who feel insignificant feel significant. Make those who feel unloved feel loved. Call out the obvious talent you see in someone and spur them to develop it.

Stop being prideful. Apologize.

Call a long lost friend in another state, tell them to go outside and look at the same moon while you talk about old times.

Play a practical joke. Make a memory.

Be thankful.

Be grateful.

Live your life as a gift to God.

Point people to Jesus.

“This is the message you heard from the beginning: We should love one another.” – 1 John 3:11

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

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

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

“In the end, I will die.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

1 out of 1…dies.

It’s just a matter of when.

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

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

And He grants us one day at a time.

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

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

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

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

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.

“No.” She pulled her arms in a bit and gathered her purse closer to her.

Thanks to the “print your boarding pass the day before” option at Southwest Airlines I was in the “A” group. Which means I was at the front of the cattle call free for all in finding a seat on this flight from Las Vegas to Lubbock. If you’re ever unsure about which gate for a flight to Texas, you just look for the one with the most cowboy hats.

Two rows over a young 20-something couple were sleeping upright, using each other for a pillow. Her head on his shoulder, nuzzled in so tight all you could see were cheek and chin. To my left and down a bit a large woman on her cell phone, laughing so hard and so loud that she was wheezing. Directly in front of me a nervous man in a western shirt, Levi’s, boots and a cowboy hat, fumbling with his Bluetooth ear piece as he tried to make appointments. “Is that better? Can you hear me now?”

However old the silver haired lady was, she dressed young. A snappy black and white outfit and burgundy polish on her toes and fingers. She had a firm grip on the boarding pass, her thumb covering her last name. The first name read “Melba”.

Sometimes I read and keep to myself. Sometimes I like to see what I can learn from a stranger by asking questions. I had a couple good books in my briefcase. But then again, when would I see Melba again to ask her anything?

It’s now or never.

“So are you living here and going someplace else? Or live someplace else and visit here?”

She said, “Just here to see my granddaughter. I’m going back to Ft. Worth today. I live there. Have to drive to Dallas to catch the plane but I leave my car at a friend’s house so it’s pretty easy. I live alone but I’m fit and active and want to be on my own as long as I can.”

“So does living in Texas mean you have to be a Cowboys fan?”, I asked. She looked too smart to be a Cowboys fan but every person has their weakness.

“Let me tell you, football is my sport. The Cowboys, the college teams. I love it. I went to the University of Oklahoma so I really follow the Sooners. That’s where I met my husband. He was a World War II veteran.”

“So were three of my great uncles. Did you ever read Tom Brokaw’s book, “The Greatest Generation”?

“I love Tom Brokaw,” she fairly beamed. “I think he’s the man.”

“Well, I think he’s a little full of himself, but that sure was a good book he wrote.”

She bristled a little at that. But even Tom Brokaw’s mother thinks he’s full of himself.

“So where did your husband serve during the war?”

“In the South Pacific. Saipan. Gaudalcanal. He was a nurse in the Army. He wanted to be a doctor but ended up going into the service when the war broke out. When it was over and he came home, he wasn’t able to pursue medical school. So he went into sales. And he was darn good at it. Made a good living selling air conditioning systems for the big office buildings. We were very happy. We had a vacation house on the lake. It was the best time to have our family and friends there. A lovely place.”

Her eyes looked up to the ceiling for a moment. Remembering, I think, the lake. And him.

“We cooked these big meals and sat around the table together with everyone. What a wonderful place that was.”

“Do you still go there?”

“I sold it after my husband passed away. Couldn’t keep up with it anymore. And it just wasn’t the same.” She sounded wistful. Like seller’s remorse.

“I’ve had a good life. Great family and friends. And lots of wonderful memories.”

Perhaps remembering she was talking with a stranger she collected herself, smoothed a wrinkle on her sleeve. Then looking me in the eye she reflected with sober certainty, “Memories. At my age you live on a lot of memories.”

Memories.

You have to make them before you can live on them. God-willing I live as long as Melba, I want a lot of memories to live on. Living life in the moment, making memories on purpose rather than by chance is the only way to do that.

The nervous man had managed to set a couple appointments while trying to get his Bluetooth to work. The large woman was still on her phone, but breathing normally now. The young couple woke and stretched, him wandering off in search of a restroom or a coffee. And me and Melba, boarding passes in hand, waiting for our plane.

Just thirty minutes at the Las Vegas airport on a Thursday morning.

Memory made.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dad said, “Look out. Here it comes.”

Wham!

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yep.”

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

“I thought I heard somethin’.”

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

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

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

And with that he put down his fork.

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

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

He was drinking a cup of coffee.

And eating a piece of apple pie.

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

It’s 8:40 PM. I smell water in the air.

The palm trees are swaying in a breeze that is more than a breeze but not yet a wind. It feels like the atmosphere is getting ready to take a really deep breath before exhaling.

The rain starts falling on my drive home from downtown Phoenix. There are no proper introductions, no polite pitter patter. These are big, kamikaze raindrops hurling themselves into my windshield. My car stereo’s auto-volume turns itself up to compensate for their noisy splats.

At home, my dog greets me with more sincerity than usual. Thunder bothers him and from the looks of his brown eyes he’s been bothered a lot in the last hour. I stop at the fridge to pour a glass of iced tea before finding my seat in the dark theater that is my patio. It’s time for the storm show.

I sit far enough back to stay dry and far enough out to feel the cool gusts of wind. The canopy of grapevine, long branches hanging full with fruit and wide beautiful leaves make a picturesque frame around the moving pictures of clouds and sheets of rain.

Just to listen. So many sounds within the storm. Big drops pelt the grape leaves then, momentum gone, slowly drip from top to bottom, leaf to leaf like a Slinky moving down a flight of stairs. A roof river waterfall, thunk thunk thunking an empty plastic bucket below. And the incessant din of water hitting concrete.

The backdrop of sky is ever changing. Endless blue and clear just hours ago, it is now gray and hulking. Like a surly fat man in an overcoat in no hurry to move along. Rolling angry clouds filter the lightening which, like an irregular strobe, lights up the dance floor for my rose bushes. Pink and white and coral colored blossoms moving to the music of the storm.

I sit and watch the show thinking it the best I’ve seen in a very, very long time.

My dog is close by. Content to stay because my right hand is stroking his fur. His loyalty keeps him near me, though his back is turned. One eye on me and one eye on his doggie door.

I drink my tea and count the seconds between flash of light and sound of thunder. One thousand one, one thousand two. Then, no chance to count. A lightening bolt strikes all too close. A piercing laser clap I see and feel and sends my dog scrambling into the house. A magnificent display of raw, unbridled killer energy; as if God unplugged His bass guitar before turning off His amp.

The smells.

Of water in the air and wet bark and mud.

The sounds.

Of raindrops and a rumbling sky. Of trees shaking in the wind. The sound of the water is a comfort. It rocks me into a few brief moments of sleep before jostling me awake with far away thunder.

I watch the rain fall and the wind blow knowing this is a one night only engagement. This is the desert. Rain doesn’t play one venue for very long.

As the party moves to the south I walk into the yard, take a deep breath of wet wonderful air and raise my glass to the sky. A toast to the smiling moon peeking through the mist, watching me enjoy this magic moment of monsoon.

“O, Lord, our Lord, how majestic is Your name in all the earth, Who has displayed His splendor above the heavens!” – Psalm 8:1

Funny that the scraggly looking lawn didn’t bother me until I went to cut it and couldn’t. Then it drove me nuts. I left the stubborn mule of a mower with a couple choice words and went into the house.

Being busy with work and routine over the past few weeks, I didn’t have time to take it in for repairs. So it just sat there, smugly reminding me of what it could, but wouldn’t do.

A couple days ago I looked at the lawn and realized a decision had to be made. I either had to get the lawn mower fixed or rent a hay baler. Knowing I’d just get mad all over again if I tried to start it, I tried anyway. On the first pull the engine took off like a scalded cat. The happy surprise of grass cutting potential quickly turned to the urgent, serious thought of “don’t let it die or it won’t start again.” For me, a lawn mower that quits after one stripe of cut grass is like your barber closing up shop in the middle of your haircut.

Listening to every fluctuation of engine noise, I babied the green machine through the tall rye and Bermuda and didn’t let up on the safety kill switch handle until the turf had an even shave.

Victories.

We celebrate the big ones. Graduations. Promotions. A series deciding Game 7 win. Landing the big account. Becoming fully potty trained. The big victories stand out because they are, well, big. They don’t happen every day. And because they don’t, we tend to remember them.

We don’t give much thought to small victories. But we should celebrate them more than we do. If for no other reason than there’s more of them to celebrate. Like your three year old making it all the way across the carpet without dumping their juice. A morning’s worth of work that doesn’t spill over into the afternoon. A post-surgery check up that shows you’re on the way to full recovery. Fighting rush hour traffic and still arriving on time. Hearing your kids say “please” and “thank you” to the server at the café without being prompted. And yes, a mower that starts on the first pull.

There is an unintended benefit to celebrating small victories. Celebrating small victories grounds us in the present moment. For this moment, my grass is cut. I smile and feel good and go back to the window just to look. For this moment, my yard looks great. It will be scraggly again in a week. Who knows if the mower will start next time? It might not. I might rip some more skin off my finger trying to make it run. But for this day, it’s all good.

And this day is all we have.

Celebrate the small victories today.

If my mower starts, it’s party time.

“When ya’ got one foot in yesterday and the other foot in tomorrow, yer’ pissin’ all over today.”

Cowboy vernacular aside, that’s the truth. Too often we’re paralyzed by a past we can’t change and fret over a future we can’t control. The word is “worry”. And if you’re anything like me, you do it way too much. Worry is like a rocking chair. It gives us something to do, but it doesn’t get us anywhere. Worry is counter-productive and won’t add a single minute to our lives. In fact, if medical studies are accurate, worry may well shorten our life.

Worry is associated with stress. And stress is associated with elevated adrenaline levels in our body. In God’s design, adrenaline is for emergencies; for crisis situations that demand a “fight or flight” response. But in our western culture we’ve made “emergencies” out of many routine situations. So much so that many of us live each day as though we are on an adrenaline drip. When we continually spend a dollar’s worth of adrenaline on ten cent problems, our minds and bodies pay a price.

Our heads may know that worry is an exercise in futility. But honestly, when life presses in and puts the squeeze on, a Hallmark card telling us to “take life one day at a time” isn’t all that comforting. Maybe you’re worried about your kids. Maybe it’s a chronic health problem that has worn you to a frazzle. Maybe it’s a bad church experience that has left you wondering how to sort the truth from the trappings. Maybe your career has lost its luster and you’re wondering what to do with your life. Maybe you’re experiencing a loneliness of the soul that cannot be expressed. Maybe you’re grieving the loss of a friend or family member. Whatever worries you, weighs on you.

This past week I found myself worrying a lot. The usual pressures of life were magnified a bit. I found myself at odds with Jesus’ practical advice. “Don’t worry about tomorrow. Tomorrow will care for itself. Each day has enough trouble of it’s own.” (Matthew 6:34) When I thought about my attitude and my worry, there was only one conclusion. I wasn’t trusting that God would take care of me.

So this is what I did. I encourage you to do it, too. Right now. Grab any piece of paper in front of you and for 60 seconds (no longer) write down as many blessings in your life as you can think of. Don’t ponder them and don’t edit your list. Just write as many as you can as fast as you can. Ready? Go.

Now flip the paper over. On this side take 60 seconds (no longer) to write down as many worries as you can. Whatever’s weighing heavy on your head and heart, jot it down. Ready? Go.

When you’re finished, look at your list of blessings and ask yourself this question: “Is there anything on this list that I have ever worried about in some form or fashion?”

I bet there is. My list of blessings was loaded with items that I’d worried about at one time or another. Not the least of which are my children, Annie and Emma are my biggest blessings. For years I worried that I’d never have opportunity to be a Dad. I was finally coming to grips with the fact that God in His sovereignty may have decided that parenthood wasn’t part of the plan for me. Then out of the blue God said, “Ok. You think I’ve been really slow in responding. It’s go time now. You better buckle up because we’re going to go really fast.” And we did. From zero kids to two kids in 23 days.

The point is, if the items on our blessing list used to be on our worry list, then it’s tangible proof that God takes care of us. On His timetable and in His way, yet tangible proof that God can be trusted with the details of our lives.

There is a piece of Jewish wisdom that goes like this, “Do not worry over tomorrow’s evils, for you know not what today will bring forth. Perhaps tomorrow you will not be alive and you will have worried for a world that will not be yours.” Whatever stress you’re staring at this week, start by getting both feet in today. There’s enough trouble to kick around without borrowing trouble from a tomorrow that may not come.

Oh, and remember…God will take care of you. Those items on your blessing list that used to be on your worry list are proof of that.

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

“After the first of the year.” During the frenetic Christmas holiday we speak of early January as though it were a wide open, barren expanse of schedule where meetings, appointments and get togethers are free to roam and plop down at their leisure. Somewhere along the way we’ve convinced ourselves that January is December’s pressure release valve; the calendar’s junk drawer where we shove everything in our schedule we don’t have time for now but plan to deal with someday soon. It seems a distinction we give only to January. When’s the last time you heard someone say, “Things are crazy right now. Let’s wait till after Flag Day.” ?

Practically speaking, there’s no difference between turning the calendar page from December to January than turning it from July to August. And if we really analyze our schedules, every month is as busy as another. We mark time by clocks and calendars. Calendars offer the potential to set deadlines. That’s good. Calendars also offer the potential to slide commitments to a future day. That’s procrastination.

Those who know me well compliment me on my ability to be productive under pressure. I do my best work, they say, in the 11th hour. They mean it as a compliment. The fact is I work well under pressure because I’ve had years of practice laboring at the last minute. I’m a procrastinating perfectionist. I could count on one hand the number of papers in undergraduate and graduate school that I finished early. I’d need a calculator to count the papers and projects I finished at 3 AM on the due date. My college advisor, Dr. Wayne Norman, wisely described it as “going beyond the optimum level of stress.” My ability to work well under pressure is born of several decades of my bad habit of procrastinating.

There is something insidious about “the first of the year”. Insidious in that it becomes an acceptable escape for our failed resolutions and procrastinations. “I’ll start in January” we tell ourselves (sometimes in February or March) when we fail to follow through on a personal improvement promise. After twelve months of pushing them off, we arrive at the New Year only to find it loaded down with the old year’s unfulfilled goals. Add this year’s good intentions and it’s almost too heavy for lift off.

Now that we’re here in 2006, how are we going to spend our time? Some of us make lists of resolutions only to feel guilty a month later when we haven’t followed through. Nothing wrong with resolutions. But maybe a better way to be productive is to admit and act on the fact that some things just aren’t worth our time.

One time study done some years ago showed that Americans in their lifetime will, on average, spend 6 months sitting at stoplights, 8 months opening junk mail, 1 year looking for misplaced objects, 2 years unsuccessfully returning phone calls, 4 years doing housework, and 5 years waiting in line. Analyzing those statistics another way, if we got rid our our phones, quit buying Windex and Lemon Pledge, moved to a cabin in the middle of Montana and traded the car for a horse, we could get 13 years of our life back.

A simple step toward making the most of this year is to not give our time to everything that screams for it. Maybe it means listening to more music and less TV. Reading more books. If you don’t use coupons, don’t waste time cutting them out. Maybe it means admitting that the planet will continue to spin if your house goes an extra few days without being vacuumed and dusted. Don’t reorganize the junk in your garage. Purge it. And could we all make a corporate resolution to recapture 8 months of our lifetime by holding the junk mail in our hand without opening it and speak aloud the words of King Solomon, “Behold, there is nothing new under the sun” before throwing it in the recycling bin?

A successful 2006 may depend as much on what we don’t do as what we do do.

It’s officially “after the first of the year”. Here’s to not doing the unimportant. Here’s to not procrastinating in doing that which is important. You know which is which.

Now go make friends with your recycling bin.

“There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven.” – Ecclesiastes 3:1

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is that ok with you, Annie?”

“That’s a great idea! I go first!”

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

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

Whatever it was made me grab the camera.

“Ok, girls! Let ‘em go!”

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

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

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

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

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

Steve Nash, Shawn Marion and Amare Stoudemire have been a three-headed scoring monster in the second half, breathing 3-point fire from the perimeter and pounding down earthshaking slam dunks underneath. The clock ticks toward double zeros.

Marion, aka “The Matrix”, launches from the free throw line as from an invisible catapult. Twisting. Weaving. Flying. At the apex, over the outstretched arms of sweaty seven foot behemoths, he floats a soft high arcing shot that bounces once on the rim, once against the glass and through the net at the buzzer.

The crowd goes wild.

The crowd standing around the TV, that is.

Of all the curious human behavior I observe while at my job in America West Arena, one is most mystifying. It happens, without fail, every time there is a close game. In the final moments of the contest with the outcome hanging in the balance, a crowd begins to gather around the TV monitors in and around our Team Shop.

They’ve left their eye witness seats inside the arena to watch the end of the game on a 21″ Sony Trinitron. And the closer the game, the bigger the crowd. From time to time I’ll ask them why. Their answer? “We want to beat the traffic.”

These people paid anywhere from $60 to $500 per ticket. The live event is less than 40 feet away, yet they’re watching the end of the game on a TV monitor. Just so they can be one of the first out of the parking garage.

Who goes to a movie, sits through an hour and 45 minutes of suspense and at the point of “who dunnit?” says, “C’mon, Marge. Let’s go home. We’ll see the end when it comes out on video”?

It doesn’t make sense that we will sit through a movie to the end for an outcome that’s been recorded on film but walk away to watch on a television screen a live event whose outcome has yet to be determined.

What is it about us Americans that we find it so difficult to live in the moment? Why are we always thinking about the next big thing (or worrying about the next little thing) instead of enjoying the here and now? It’s certainly not because the here and now is lacking. We live in the most prosperous country in the world. What we as a nation spend on video games each year is more than the gross national product of some Third World countries. We have discretionary income. We have leisure time. We are, for the most part, well beyond the basics of food, shelter and clothing.

Years ago a missionary returning to America after many years serving in a remote area of a poor country was asked if he was surprised by the level of affluence in the United States. He answered, “No. It doesn’t surprise me how much you have. What surprises me is how little you enjoy it.” We have a lot. So why are we not enjoying it? Why are we consumed with the future at the expense of the present?

Jesus talked about the importance of living in the moment. That’s intriguing, seeing as how that advice comes from the One who was literally on a mission to save the world. Jesus had reason to think ahead. But He never walked away from today to get a peek at tomorrow. He said, “Don’t worry about tomorrow. Tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.” (Matthew 6:34)

Perhaps this week we can be mindful of how we short-circuit the present moment. In what ways are you watching life on TV instead of living it live and in person? We can think about tomorrow but it only becomes ours if God gifts it to us. Today is all we have. To walk away from today is to not open the gift He has given. How many unopened packages have you left behind?

If you come to America West Arena, don’t let me see you standing in front of a TV at the end of the game. If I do, I’ll take your ticket and go live your moment for you. Trust me, there’s no need to leave early. To paraphrase, “Do not worry about the traffic. The traffic will worry about itself. Every freeway has enough traffic jams of its own.”

Carpe diem.

I remember my Grandfather saying these words. “My roses are blooming. Wanna come see?” He’d want me to follow and I would. Not because I had a passion for roses. More out of respect for Grandpa. Oh, I liked them ok. But he loved them. He even painted pictures of them. Me, I would lean over and smell them and say they were pretty with as much enthusiasm as a kid could.

Now that I’m (much) older I’m seeing what my Grandfather saw. I’m developing a passion for roses. Not just for the beautiful blooms, but for the entire process of cultivating and tending them. For example, since we don’t have a real winter in Phoenix, roses won’t go dormant on their own. If you want beautiful flowers in the spring, you must force them to take a three month rest. You accomplish this by stripping them of their leaves in January and pruning them back to naked canes. When you finish, if you step back and think you’ve surely killed them then they are probably pruned about right.

In March the rose bushes begin to wake up. They begin leafing out. Roses are big drinkers and big eaters. Ample amounts of water and fertilizer help the buds begin to form and in April they begin to bloom. I have twenty rose bushes in my small backyard. Hybrid tea roses, grandifloras, climbing roses and floribundas. They have delightful names like Rio Samba, Moonshadow, Sheer Bliss, Brigadoon, Midas Touch and Garden Party. Everyday I go out to enjoy the palette of colors and literally stop to smell the roses.

A few days ago I laid my nose on a perfect rose. I closed my eyes and inhaled the intoxicating scent. That’s when I noticed the bloom next to it. It had opened several days earlier and looked nothing like the one I was admiring. Its petals were spread out and displayed a different shade of yellow and pink. Only several days earlier it was a perfect rose.

Looking at the two of them I was reminded of a truth that God reminds us of. Our life, He says, is like the flower of the field. We bloom and then the wind passes over and we fade away. Which is to say our life, even if it’s long, is short. What’s 80, 90 or even 100 years in the span of eternity?

The challenge when you’re not a rose is that you’re slow to see your bloom fading. We tend to think of ourselves as younger than we are until birthdays and class reunions remind us that time is passing quickly. God instructs us to number our days so we’ll make the most of the time He gives us. Given that, it’s good to ask each other questions while the wind of life is blowing over us.

Do your kids know how much you love them? Have you told them specifically how they delight you? That you love to hear them giggle? That you are proud of them? That when you look in on them when they are sleeping you’re so overwhelmed by God’s blessing that it brings tears to your eyes?

Do your co-workers and employees know you as more than the person who gives the orders and checks off the checklists? Are you using your God-given talents and abilities? Are you chasing the American dream at the expense of God’s peace in your life?

Are you living today? Or are you wasting valuable time trying to change the past and/or fret over the future? Are you making a daily difference in the lives of others? What are you doing today that will last forever?

What are you doing while the wind is blowing over? What are you doing before your bloom fades?

My roses are blooming. Wanna come see? Better hurry. They won’t last long.

“As for man, his days are like grass, he flourishes like a flower of the field; the wind blows over it and it is gone, and its place remembers it no more.” – Psalm 103:15-16

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

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

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

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

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

“Sit down and hang on.”, he said.

“But Grandpa, this is a scoop shovel!”

“Sit down and hang on!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sound advice for drivers approaching railroad tracks.

It’s also good advice for parents.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stop. Look. Listen.

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

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

Plopping down with my briefcase next to me, I chugged some of my Coke and bit into my cookie. A Ghirardelli chocolate chip fell to the floor. About .42 worth, I estimated. Oh, well. I’ve had chocolate chip cookies before, but how many opportunities will I have to eat one in the Omaha airport? Even ordinary moments only come around once. I took another bite and leaned back to look around. There were the usual newspapers with fingers peeking around the edges, gate agents fielding questions about departure times, and a few tired travelers like myself with $5.80 expressions on their faces.

You might say I heard the thunder before I saw the storm. “C’mon! Let’s go!” Headed my direction, darting through people and Samsonite suitcases as big as himself was a brown haired, three year old tornado in a jean jacket. “C’mon, Dad!”, he yelled to the grown up bouncing along behind him like a guy being walked by a Great Dane. The kid was on a mission, whatever it was.

It was in the days pre-9/11 when you could meet your party at the gate. They stopped in front of Gate 20. “Is that the plane?”, the son wanted to know. “No, not that one. Mommy’s plane isn’t here yet. Pretty soon.” He heard his Dad’s answer but just to be certain he asked about every plane he could see through the giant glass windows overlooking the runway. After about 10 minutes, which feels like forever to a small boy waiting for his Mom, an America West plane docked at the jet way. “Is that the one?”, he squealed. Dad, anticipating a breakaway attempt,  slowly and gently firmed his grip on his son’s little shoulders before answering. “That’s the one!”

Ever try to hold a tornado by the collar?

Passengers began filtering off the aircraft, slowly at first then en mass. The small one’s mission had just been elevated  to red alert status. I watched his eyes perform rapid fire reconnaissance on every face coming through the door. He knew who he was looking for and when he finally made a positive ID there was no holding him back. “Mommy!” Using a masterful “squirm and sprint” technique, he left Dad grabbing the air. Mom, too, heard her little thunder before she saw him and smiled at the thought. As if knowing he would find her, she dropped to one knee just in time to be hit with a flying hug that almost knocked her over.

After welcome home kisses, the three of them walked toward baggage claim. They had  traveled only a few feet when the tornado fell back a few steps behind his parents. Like a wide receiver in motion he ran past his Mom, tagging her on the leg as he blazed by, laughing hysterically. Mom laughed, too, and catching up to her son tagged him back before running on ahead. Their jubilant game continued all the way down the concourse until they were out of sight.

I looked around the way one does just after they’ve seen a shooting star. We want to know if anyone else saw the same streak across the sky. About 20 feet away, in front of me and to my right, sat a businessman dressed to the nines. Soft leather briefcase and overcoat, silk tie, Italian leather shoes, and a suit that was definitely not off the rack. If it was Gucci, he carried or wore it. Certainly he had to have seen what I saw. But he hadn’t. His nose was buried in a book. When I walked by to throw away my empty Coke cup I looked to see what he was reading. It was a self-help selection from the airport newsstand on how to get more out of life.

I felt sorry for Mr. Gucci. He was busy searching a paperback theory for wisdom on how to get more out of life and missed the living, breathing, whirling cyclone of joy that danced right past him. Tempted though I was, to judge him was to judge myself. How many times have I been reading about life instead of living it? How often have my eyes been open to my book and blind to God’s blessings?

The businessman and I had something in common, I decided. We both paid too much for what we bought at the airport that afternoon. Still, even at .42 per chocolate chip I think I got the better deal. That 3′ dynamo who laughed loud and hugged hard saved me a future fortune at the bookstore.

Airport layovers. Diet Cokes. Chocolate chips.  Little boy laughter.

Even ordinary moments only come around once.

It was a typical guy place with Sports Illustrated’s on the coffee table, basketballs, footballs, and baseball gloves laying about the porch, and cable TV for watching Cubs games on WGN. The decor was eclectic in a “my parents remodeled and said I could have their old couch” theme. The interior color scheme had a predominant green tone, shades of which were often matched with orange shag carpet popular in the 1970’s.

In the living room on the wall above one of the green couches hung a framed print of Picasso’s “The Old Guitarist”. We liked it. It was this bachelor pad’s token piece of sophistication. The dude looked a bit uncomfortable, all twisted around his six-string like a grapevine on a trellis. But you won’t find many of Picasso’s subjects striking a button-down Sears catalog pose.

Years later, January of 1991 to be exact, I spent a day at the Chicago Art Institute. Surrounded by the works of the Old Masters, I walked through the museum in awe. Monet’s over here, Rembrandt’s along the wall, Van Gogh’s across the way. Around every corner priceless canvas squares enjoyed soft spotlights, illuminating the genius combinations of pigments and brush strokes.

Nodding a polite greeting to the security guard in the doorway, I looked up at the wall behind him and there it was; Picasso’s “The Old Guitarist”. Feeling almost reverent to be in the presence of the original masterpiece, I stood in front of it, absorbing every detail. The subdued blue colors. The old man with his eyes closed, his long fingers curled over the frets. His ragged shirt. Then it occurred to me. Something was askew. “Hey, wait a second. This painting…they have it hanging the wrong way.”

After spending a brief, yet significant moment alone with my profound ignorance of classic art, I realized that my friend at The House had, as a joke, hung his print horizontally instead of vertically. It just took me six years to get the punch line.

In the midst of our busy and frantic schedules, I wonder how often we stop to check the frame of our life to see if it’s hanging straight? I dare say that many of us have become so accustomed to looking at the picture of horizontal frenzy painted in our DayTimer’s that we’re unaware when our priorities cease being vertical. It took me six years to realize that Picasso’s Old Guitarist played his music sitting up instead of laying down. For six years his position looked right to me, even though it was 90 degrees off.

What does it mean to be vertical in our priorities? Being vertical means learning what God’s priorities are for us and and making those priorities our own. What happens when you adjust the sides of a picture frame? The the other two sides of the frame adjust along with it. In the process of adjusting the sides, you also level out the top and bottom. As our vertical priorities adjust, the horizontal priorities naturally follow.

Being vertical in our priorities doesn’t mean ignoring everything horizontal. Certainly there are daily duties in our routine of living we must all perform. Many of them are boring and mundane. It’s hard to make dish washing, lawn mowing or diaper changing motivational experiences, though the latter does offer it’s share of surprises. When our priorities are vertical, we begin to understand there is no such thing as an insignificant task. Because in some form or fashion, every mundane task is an opportunity to serve another person. In serving others, we serve God. In that light, when our heart is set to serve, everything we do is significant.

“Whatever you do in word or deed, do all in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks through Him to God the Father.” – Colossians 3:17

Scottsdale – Welcome – “Most Livable City.”

The sign stands twelve inches away from a brown block wall marking the west edge of Green Acres Mortuary and Cemetery.

I laugh every time I drive by it. A Chamber of Commerce welcome to their most livable city and the first sight you see is a mortuary. The irony of “live-ability” is especially thick for me and anyone else who’s attempted to navigate the maze of bureaucracy in the Puzzle Palace known as Scottsdale City Hall. There’s a code number and a restriction ordinance for everything.

It must be difficult for Green Acres Mortuary and Cemetery to stay in business because in Scottsdale you’re not allowed to pass away without the proper permit. Even if you’ve been granted a Planetary Departure License, you’re not allowed to expire within 1,320 feet of any establishment not zoned for cessation of respiration, unless it’s a C-2 or C-3 business in which case you need to submit written agreement from the property owner that upon your demise you will not linger longer than 2 hours and not between the hours of 9 PM and 6 AM. And when you go, you’d best go gently into that good night because if you don’t you’ll be cited for disorderly dying. Removing all the red tape in Scottsdale sounds like a wonderful idea until you realize it’s the only thing holding the city together.

There’s humor in seeing a proclamation of livability set against a backdrop of tombstones. A sign of progress so close to the wall of finality. There’s a fine line between life and death. On one side of the block wall thousands of cars speed back and forth to jobs and homes and sales calls and Little League games. On the other side of the block wall, guys with Weed-Eaters trim Bermuda grass off inscribed granite grave markers; each one a dated proclamation that life does have an endpoint. Sooner or later, the cars on Hayden Road make the turn into Green Acres or a cemetery like it. There’s a fine line between life and death.

There’s also a fine line between living and existing. Genuine living requires our involvement with the people and world around us. Existing requires only our presence. In that light, the grave markers at Green Acres exist. We can point to them and say, “There they are. They were here yesterday. They are here today. They will probably be here tomorrow.” They are present, but not involved. Some days, that’s an apt description of me. Present. Busy, even. But not involved.

It’s easy to confuse living with existing because we too often confuse activity with significance. We think we’re productive because we’re doing so much. Ask 10 people, “How are you doing?” and I bet 6 of them will say, “Busy.” Our daily routine can have us busier than a raccoon at a crawdad hole. But unless that activity involves us in the lives of others in a meaningful way, something more than checking items off a list, busy just gets us tired.

The grave markers at Green Acres exist and never move from their spot in the cemetery. We exist flying all over the place. If neither one of us genuinely interact with people in the process, the only difference between us and a tombstone is that they exist in one place and we exist in many.

Right or wrong, we’re stuck with a certain amount of busy. It’s the world we live in. Meetings and errand running and caring for families are what we day in and day out do. It’s a fine line between living and existing. Though we think we can’t possibly fit another responsibility into our schedules, it really doesn’t take much to stay on the living side of the line. Asking your co-worker how his daughter is adjusting to her first semester of college and thanking the grocery clerk for smiling and getting down on the floor so your kids can climb on you like a jungle gym all get us involved with people. Those aren’t grand gestures. They are common courtesies that, at the end of the day, people remember. When we make it a point to actively care about someone, we don’t exist. We live.

Tomorrow’s Monday. I’ll likely be on the phone again with someone inside the Scottsdale Puzzle Palace. I’ll do my best to inject some humor into my conversation with the city code-talkers. What are you going to do on Monday? How will you inject some meaning into your routine?

“What did I do today that set me apart from the people buried at Green Acres Cemetery?”

It’s not such a dumb question to ask.