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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Keep your hands on what’s valuable.

Let us not be distracted.

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

Todd A. Thompson – ASliceOfLifeToGo.com

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

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

Complete lock down.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So what to do?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

- Stuart Townend

Todd A. Thompson – ASliceOfLifeToGo.com

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

“Remember who you’re talking to.”

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

“Remember who you’re talking to.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Do we remember Who we are talking to?

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

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

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

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

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

Do we remember Who we’re talking to?

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

Todd A. Thompson – ASliceOfLifeToGo.com

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

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

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

Monet 77

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Todd A. Thompson “11″ – ASliceOfLifeToGo.com

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

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

It was a pretty awful thought.

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

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

Lonely sucks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s Vista Care Hospice”.

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

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

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

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

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

Merry Christmas.

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

Todd A. Thompson – ASliceOfLifeToGo.com

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

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

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

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

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

“How was the gas mileage going back?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Todd A. Thompson – ASliceOfLifeToGo.com

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Todd A. Thompson – ASliceOfLifeToGo.com

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

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

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

“Daddy, tell me a story.”

“Daddy, I’m thirsty.”

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

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

“Daddy, my ice is big again.”

“My ice.”

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

“Emma, what are you talking about?”

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

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

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

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

She sits up.

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

Click.

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

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

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

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

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

Wow.

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

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

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

Todd A. Thompson – ASliceOfLifeToGo.com

Everything good dreams are made of.

TapTapTapTapTap.

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

Ding.

“Huh? Hey, Emma…what is it, baby?”

“I have a headache and my stomach hurts.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe you are, too.

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

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

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

TapTapTapTapTap.

Ding.

“Daddy…I had a bad dream.”

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

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

Todd A. Thompson – ASliceOfLifeToGo.com

“Yeah, Dad. I know. I’ll remember.”

It was daylight when I left for Fairmont, the closest “big town” for us just across the Iowa state line into Minnesota. I was 16 years old and thoroughly enjoying the independence of my newly acquired driver’s license. And the Oldsmobile was a sweet luxury ride. A big engine and padded velour seats, it felt like you were driving a La-Z-Boy down the road.

I ran my errands and stopped at Hardee’s for two Big Twin burgers, one roast beef sandwich, fries and a Coke. It would all get run off at basketball practice. Then I headed for home.

About five miles out the Olds started sputtering.

Ugh.

I forgot to remember.

I’m out of gas.

Shifting into neutral I let it coast as far as it would go before pulling onto the shoulder on Highway 15. With my Dad’s words ringing in my ears, I started walking toward a farm house up the road about three quarters of a mile.

It was about 9 PM on this December night. Frigid cold, but no wind. A coal black sky full of sparkling stars. I would have appreciated the beauty were my face not freezing.

I rang the bell. The farmer warily opened the door. “Uh, I, uh…Hi. My name is Todd and I was wondering…I, uh, ran out of gas up the road.” He didn’t say anything, just reached for his coat and came outside.

Walking over to a shed, he got a gas can and pointed me to his pickup. “I’m really sorry about this. Thanks for helping me. I’ll be happy to pay for the gas.” He shook his head no.

He’s not talking. He must be mad. I’d be mad, too, if someone got me out of my toasty warm house to haul gas for some teenager who can’t remember the difference between “E” and “F” even when it lights up. “I’m really sorry for getting you out here on a cold night”, I said. The farmer said nothing. He just drove down the road.

I hate this.

He did a U-turn and pulled up behind the Oldsmobile. Then he opened the gas cap and poured a full five gallons into the tank, about four and a half gallons more than I deserved. Again, I offered to pay and again he shook his head “no”. I thanked him profusely. Then he spoke his only sentence.

In a kind voice he said, “Son, it’s just as easy to keep the top half full as the bottom half.”

He got in his truck and pulled away, probably wondering if I’d be smart enough to remember his advice.

I did remember. And aside from having never run out of gas since, the thought occurs to me that there is an application of this truth to my relationship with God.

If I’m honest, too much of my relationship with God has been lived from the bottom half of the tank. Too often I’ve allowed myself to run on fumes. Too much time without prayer and without time reading God’s Word. Not enough time spent with other believers. Then, when life gets cold and harsh, I ring God’s doorbell and foolishly wonder out loud to him why I’m not capable of handling the situation with confidence and strength?

God always listens, then kindly points to my empty tank.

The farmer’s advice is true. It’s just as easy to keep the top half filled as the bottom half. Being disciplined to pray, worship, study God’s Word, and regularly learn from others older and wiser than myself keeps my tank full. And when my tank is full, I’m better able to handle life when circumstances turn cold and harsh. Life is hard, but it’s harder when we’re running on empty.

Praying that we all focus on the top half of the tank.

Go fill’er up.

“I will never forget Your precepts, for by them You have revived me…Your Word is a lamp to my feet and a light to my path.” – Psalm 119:93;105

Todd A. Thompson – ASliceOfLifeToGo.com

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

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

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

At 45 miles per hour the solemnity passed quickly.

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

Such a short drive.

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

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

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

Take them home.

Hug them.

Hose them off.

Hug them.

Eat lunch.

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

It’s such a short drive.

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

Todd A. Thompson - www.ASliceOfLifeToGo.com

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then I looked in her brown eyes.

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

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

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

Is this about my feelings? Or about our relationship?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Todd A. Thompson – www.ASliceOfLifeToGo.com

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

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

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

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

“Daddy, what’s this?”

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

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

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

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

“When Daddy was a boy…”

The story is old to me.

Brand new to them.

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

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

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

- Judges 2:6-12

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

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

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

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

Tell the story.

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

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

- Deuteronomy 4:9

- Todd Thompson, A Slice Of Life To Go

We looked up to see a man screaming at his kid.

The dad was a barrel chest with a flat top haircut. Movie casting would have made him a football coach or drill sergeant. The way he was barking at his son, he may have been either or both.

The son looked to be about 15 or 16 and slightly built, the water boy to his Dad’s football coach. Wearing a black fleece zipped up around his neck, as if to protect against the cold air and the heat of his father’s words, he was leaning against the back quarter panel of a new burgundy Nissan Altima. Inside, looking pained and shamed and staring straight ahead, his mother and a younger sister.  

Alan and I purposely looked the Dad in the eye. He saw us but didn’t temper his words or lower his volume.

I can’t speak for you but if someone looks at me when I’m acting stupid, my immediate reaction is one of embarrassment. Not this guy. He just kept yelling. I got the feeling he wouldn’t have cared if we set up bleachers and sold tickets. Step right up and see the big bad Dad humiliate his family.

While he blustered and blew, the son stood motionless, hands in the pockets of his fleece, staring straight ahead. Not looking at his Dad, not up at the sky and not exactly on the ground. Just gazing at someplace in between, no doubt wishing he could disappear.   

I sat in my car and watched, cell phone in hand, half wondering if there would be a need to call the police. I found it curious that not once did the son speak back a single word. No rebuttal, no self-defense, no retaliation. It was as if he knew to speak would only invite more wrath. He seemed to know, too, that to walk away from this blistering attack would mean there would be hell to pay. Whether by fear or default, the son was demonstrating infinitely more maturity than his father.

My gut had the sad feeling that this wasn’t the first time the son had done some leaning against the rear quarter panel.

When the ten minute tirade was over the young man opened the door, got in next to his sister and slid down in the back seat like a prisoner headed to jail.

Tragically, whatever point the angry Dad was trying to impress will be forever overshadowed by the young man’s memory of being humiliated by his father in the parking lot at Loop 289 and University.

Admittedly, Alan and I weren’t there to see what happened before the yelling started. But it doesn’t matter. This was horrible parenting. Even if the teen had done something wrong, matters of correction and discipline aren’t to be paraded in front of total strangers. As a parent, our responsibility is to protect our children. That includes protecting their dignity in teachable moments.

It is true that “hurt people”… hurt people. It’s not a stretch to assume the screaming Dad had, as a son, done some leaning up against the rear quarter panel himself. Who knows what kind of a childhood he had? If it was bad, his pain deserves equal compassion. It’s true that children learn what they live. If we’re yelled at, we learn to yell. If we’re shown kindness we learn to be kind. Certainly the atmosphere we are raised in shapes us. Yet to say our behavior as adults is determined solely by the environment we grew up in is to abdicate personal responsibility and our power to choose for the better.

There are far too many examples of individuals enduring a hellish childhood who made the choice to live rightly in spite of it. I have friends who grew up with fathers and mothers who were absent, abusive, alcoholic and/or who abandoned. These people made the choice to live better. More importantly, they made the choice to be the kind of parent to their children that they wish they had themselves. Regardless of our upbringing, we have the individual responsibility to live and act appropriately. It is irresponsible and wrong to blame our adult sins and dysfunction on our childhood. 

God is our heavenly Father. The Bible is clear that God disciplines those whom He loves. God corrects us when we sin and make mistakes. That is not a pleasant process. God is all about shaping our character. By definition that means we often have hard lessons to learn. But God never humiliates us. He always leads with love. Always. Romans 2:4 tells us, “Do you not know that it is God’s kindness that leads us to repentance?”

God doesn’t yell and scream at us. He loves us into submission. When we stand corrected, we stand in His grace.

God is love. When He corrects us, it is never apart from His loyal love. Because God protects our dignity when He disciplines us, our hearts remain open. The next teachable moment, though it may be painful, is able to be received because we know His heart toward us is His unfailing love. God lovingly maintains His relationship to us without compromising the truth or the process of conforming us to the image of Jesus. It begins and ends with the fact that His kindness leads us to repentance.

As we parent, may we always follow God’s example and lead with love, protecting the dignity of our children and in doing so keeping their heart open to receive the next teachable moment.

“The Lord is gracious and compassionate, slow to anger, abounding in love. He will not always accuse, nor will He harbor His anger forever; He does not treat us as our sins deserve or repay us according to our iniquities. For as high as the heavens are above the earth, so great is His love for those who fear Him; as far as the east is from the west, so far has He removed our sins from us. As a father has compassion on his children, so the Lord has compassion on those who fear Him.” – Psalm 103:8-13

This time of year we joke about what kids give to their Dad. I’ve been thinking about what my Dad’s given me. Gifts through the years to be sure. All the “firsts”. First football. First bicycle. First BB gun. First record player. First car. Yet as an adult I see that the balls and bats and bicycles were tokens of a deeper love that transcended the birthday parties and the Christmas days I so anticipated as a child. 

To me it was a green Schwinn bike with chopper handles and a banana seat. To my Dad, it was about teaching me to ride on my own.

To me it was a Daisy BB gun. To my Dad, it was about teaching me what it means to hold power in my hand.

To me it was a 1970 Orange Chevy Blazer. To my Dad, it was about preparing me for the responsibility of independence.

They say you can’t fully appreciate your parents’ perspective until you have children of your own. I think that’s true. Now that I’m a Dad giving gifts to my children I see they can’t understand that the scooter given at Christmas, the one that makes me “the best Daddy in the whole world!”, is but a token of a far deeper love and commitment. To them it’s the cool Barbie scooter with the pink tassels on the handle bars. To me it’s teaching them to ride 2 inches off the ground before they ride a 12-speed on the street. And realizing that from here on out, the wheels just get bigger and roll faster. Right through adolescence and into adulthood.

Watching them ride and fall and get up to ride again I wonder if they are learning the life lessons I’m trying to teach them. More importantly, I wonder if I’m teaching the lessons well.

Whether we like it or not, our children learn what they live. Which is to say more is “caught” than “taught”. When I think of what I’ve learned from my Dad, it’s more about who he was and is as a person than specific lessons or chalk talks.

He told me he loved me a lot. And that’s important. But the fact that he would shut the combine down on the only dry day of the week during harvest to come watch me play a football game made the “I love you” ring true.

He said, “I’m behind you all the way” quite a bit. But his sacrificing valuable work time on the farm to attend every event I was involved in during my school years made his support real to me.

He said, “You can try out for anything you want, but once you start, you finish.” But his not letting me quit when I realized I didn’t like running track as much as I thought taught me the value of seeing things through to the end.

My Dad is the best Dad anyone could ask for. But he’s not perfect. He knows that. I know that. And I’m not perfect. My kids will tell you that right quick. As parents, we’re going to screw up and our kids will see it when we do. But if they know in the core of their being that we are committed to loving them unconditionally, then the mistakes we make in our parenting won’t be as costly.

Or as the Bible puts it, “Love covers over a multitude of sins.” – 1 Peter 4:8

Happy Father’s Day, Dad. No English Leather this year. Just a thank you for all the gifts you’ve given me over the years. The best being your unconditional love and commitment.

When I tell Annie and Emma, “I love you so much!” they smile and roll their eyes and say, “I know…you tell us that a million times.”

Next time I’ll tell them I learned that from their Grandpa Gene.

“My father didn’t tell me how to live; he lived, and he let me watch him do it.” – Clarence Kelland

Often Hallmark cards are accompanied by flowers and a family dinner to a restaurant, because Mother’s Day is also the biggest day of the year for dining out. And because not everyone’s Mom lives nearby, it’s also the highest volume day for telephone calls. Whether up close in person or long distance by phone, we want to tell Mom how much we appreciate her. 

For some, Mother’s Day isn’t all hearts and flowers. Some people are frustrated that Hallmark doesn’t make a card that says, “Hey Mom, I’d like to take you to dinner but since you abandoned me when I was three, I don’t know where you are.” Or, “Dear Mom, I’d call you today if I knew you wouldn’t hang up on me.” Not everyone has a caring Mom. That’s really sad. But true. And part of living in a fallen world.

For others, Mother’s Day is wondering what might have been. I have a friend whose mother died when he was a month old. Try as I might, I can’t imagine what that’s like for him. They say you don’t miss what you never had. I can’t believe that adage holds true when speaking of the woman who brought you into the world; a woman of incredible significance that he has no memory of and never got to know. 

Come Sunday people from New York to Newport Beach will pause during a celebration dinner with the Mom who raised them to ponder over the Mom who gave birth to them.  And during that moment of reflection hopefully realize that it’s the secure commitment of the former that allows the freedom to wonder about the latter. 

My guess is that most mothers would be surprised by what their kids remember about them. It’s likely not the big events or fancy birthday presents we received. It’s the moments in the routine of living that made a lasting impression on their child’s heart. A routine that, when she’s in the middle of it, every Mom wishes she could get a break from.

When kids get sick, for them it’s a day off school. A day to lay in bed and sleep or read comic books or play video games. For Mom it’s added caretaking and subtracted time from an already hectic day. But who doesn’t remember how their Mom took care of them when they were home with the flu? Or the chicken pox? Or the mumps? Or the broken arm that we got falling out of the tree she told us not to climb?

I doubt my Mom remembers the day I had a severe allergic reaction to something that made me break out in some unknown rash and caused a mild asthma attack. Or that I remember her being lovingly firm when at the doctor’s office I desperately filibustered against getting a shot. I lost, 2-1, Mom crossing party lines to vote with the doctor in favor of poking my butt with a needle. I hate needles. Mom knew that. And that evening she gave me a Hallmark card to say what a brave boy I was. I was only 23 at the time.

Not really. I was 10. But to this day Mom knows I’d probably try just as hard to talk my way out of a shot.

I doubt my Mom would know that among my vivid childhood memories is her waking me up for kindergarten on a sub-zero Iowa morning and coming downstairs to see that she had my clothes and boots laid out over the furnace grate so they would be warm when I got dressed.

Now why would I remember that?

Maybe because acts of love stick to our heart.

If your Mom is near, take her out to dinner. If she’s far away, call and talk to her. Near or far, take time on Sunday to tell her what acts of love have stuck to your heart. She will be surprised by what you remember.

And to my Mom in Iowa…Happy Mother’s Day. I wish I could be there to take you to dinner. 

Oh, and you should know…my room is clean now. For real.   

“Honor your father and your mother, that your days may be prolonged in the land which the Lord your God gives you.” – Exodus 20:12

“An ounce of mother is worth a pound of clergy.” – Spanish proverb  

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

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

“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

Before we have kids, parenting is a black and white process. Like a textbook or a flow chart you put on the refrigerator door. On any particular issue, if “yes” follow this arrow. If “no”, follow this arrow.

But then the baby comes and you realize babies don’t read books and they don’t do flow charts. This bundle of joy is also a bundle of will. A little pink baby blanket burrito with a mind of her own.

How do we raise our babies into toddlers into kids who know who they are, are who they are, and like who they are?

The challenge of parenting, including a word to those who long for children but for reasons of infertility and otherwise, don’t yet have any.

(Presented to Hope Covenant Church – Chandler, AZ – 6/12/2005)

I have a jar of sand from Newport Beach, California. Now, I know what you’re thinking…a person would have to be out of their mind to count sand in a jar.

I started on a Monday. And this is what I did…I went to the kitchen and pulled out the smallest measuring spoon I could find; one eighth of a teaspoon. Sitting at the table I dipped this measuring spoon into the sand, leveled it off with a knife, and tapped it out on to a sheet of grid paper. I turned on a small overhead light, picked up a straight pin and started to count.

Some of the grains were small. Some were very small. And some were so tiny that I’m quite sure an ant could walk over them without noticing. Guess how many grains of sand were in my one eighth of a teaspoon? Approximately 32,500…give or take a thousand. That means that in this jar there are approximately 15,600,000 grains of sand.

Have you ever been to Newport Beach? How many “15 million grain jars” do you think we could fill? In Psalm 139, King David paints a beautiful picture of God’s intimate care for us. In verses 17-18 he makes this most wonderful statement, “How precious also are Your thoughts to me, O God! How vast is the sum of them! If I should count them, they would outnumber the sand.” Imagine! God’s thoughts toward us are more than all the grains of sand in all the sandboxes and all the beaches and all the deserts of the world. God’s thoughts toward us are countless.

As human beings we know what it’s like to be ignored. We’re familiar with that. We could all go to the mall right now and be ignored by hundreds of people. Yet the Biblical truth that God pays infinite attention to us isn’t so familiar. We simply can’t begin to comprehend anyone thinking that much about us. But just for a moment let’s suppose that when you’re born, along with a slap on your tush and a Social Security number, you’re given a jar of 15 million thoughts from God for your lifetime. I wonder what kind of thoughts are in here?

During the first several years of our life there are a few thoughts in here to protect us from ourselves. You know, a thought or two to keep us from kissing the electrical outlets or pulling the ironing board down on our head. There are thoughts about our growing up and how to get along with our family. Thoughts toward keeping us safe from the playground bully. Thoughts to help us survive puberty, first dates, and algebra. Thoughts about what college He wants us to go to, the direction of our studies, the friendships He wants us to develop and if and when and who we should marry.

There are “God thoughts” in our jar about the gifts and talents He has given us, and how we can best utilize them in ministry within the body of Christ. Thoughts about wisely using the money and resources God will entrust to us. Thoughts about how we can someday best raise our children in the fear and wisdom of God. And lots and lots of thoughts about growing and maturing into the godly person He desires us to be.

While 15 million thoughts will take us a long way, in reality our jar of thoughts from God will never be empty. In His great love for us, God pays eternal attention to the details of our lives. There is nothing that happens in our lives, whether big or small, that He is not concerned with. With God we are never alone and never ignored. His thoughts toward us flow from His heart of goodness and kindness, of mercy and grace, forgiveness and love.

“How precious also are Your thoughts toward me, O God! How vast is the sum of them! If I should count them, they would outnumber the sand…” – Psalm 139:17-18

“What is it, Emma?”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too, Emma. More than you know.”

“Daddy, you my best fwend!”

“You’re my best friend, too, Emma.”

“But you my best fwend first.”

I started to disagree, but left her with a big hug and a kiss on the head instead. It’s tough to debate a soon to be 4-year old. They possess a maddening combination of stubbornness and charm. I could say, “Emma, you’re wrong.” But she’d just tilt her head and respond with a confident sing-song lilt in her voice, “Noooo, I’m not.”

When it comes to being best friends, Emma thinks she picked me first. In her mind, it was all her idea. A decision she made and allowed me the privilege of being part of. “You my best fwend first.” Of course, it wasn’t that way. We adopted Emma and her twin sister Annie. It was our decision to make them part of our family. Our choice. We picked them.

Emma thinks it was all her idea, this best friend business. She’s too young to understand that it was just the opposite. She’s too young to understand what it was like for her Daddy to stand frozen between two incubators in a Spokane neonatal intensive care unit, not knowing what to do. Like being in an art museum in front of a Rembrandt and a Van Gogh, not knowing which masterpiece to look at first.

She doesn’t understand what her Daddy felt like the first time he saw her tiny three pound fourteen ounce frame and feel the life changing reality of realizing that little bundle would be coming home with him to stay. She’s too young to understand the thrill and the fear and the wee hour bleary-eyed wonder with which her Daddy gazed at her, night after night after night.

Emma thinks she chose me. Of course, I know otherwise. She didn’t choose me. I chose her. I laugh at Emma’s short sighted self-confidence. But I wonder…

How often does God laugh at me for the same reason? How often does He shake His head and smile at my myopic ideas? Truth be told, how often do I “choose God”? Too often, I fear. Though my head knows the correct theological answer that God chose me first, my actions sometimes show otherwise. I choose God to be my best friend when it’s convenient for me. God is my idea that I move around in my schedule. On Sundays I move Him up on the priority list. It’s His day, after all. But Monday to Saturday God sometimes gets shuffled around like an appointment I know I need to keep, but can’t commit to. So I choose to slide Him down after work is over. Or slide Him up if I have an opening or when I’m in a pinch. All the while forgetting that God being my best friend wasn’t my idea. It was His. He chose me. His idea first.

Someday I hope Emma and Annie will understand how much I love them. I hope they will understand that I gladly chose them to be part of my family. To be my kids. To live fully and enjoy everything I have to offer them. I hope they someday realize my unconditional, unwavering, fiercely protective, never ending love for them.

God probably hopes that someday I will understand that, too.

“We love because God first loved us.” – 1 John 4:19

What will your kids be looking at in the picture albums when they become adults?

Children learn what they live. What kind of environment are we creating for our children? What are we doing to help them develop a sense of identity and place? How do we teach our kids about God and His faithfulness?

Joshua 4 is a wonderful account that teaches a valuable lesson in “building rock piles to remember”.

(Presented to Hope Covenant Church – Chandler, AZ – 6/13/2004)

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

The only time I want to be part of “lots of people have it” is if I’m part of a group who won the lottery. There’s no comfort in knowing I’m one of lots of people seeing their bathroom from a brand new perspective.

Whatever it was that was going around came around here with a vengeance. Full body ache. Sore muscles. Painful joints. My head felt like it sounds when you spill a box of wrenches on the garage floor. Admittedly, my pain tolerance is rather low. But when my plastic eye hurts, I know I’m really sick.

It’s never pleasant to be sick. That’s why they call it “being sick”. Yet some ailments are low profile. No one ever knows when you’re on antibiotics. You can take anti-inflammatory medication covertly and no one is the wiser. Even if carpal tunnel symptoms require you to wear a wrist brace while at your computer, the worst people can think is that you’re a professional bowler working on a spreadsheet.

But there’s nothing subtle about the flu. It’s hard to disguise dizziness and profuse sweating. And while one may be able to politely blow their nose with a clean linen hanky during a cold, there is simply no way to upchuck with dignity. The physiological term is “reverse peristalsis”. It sounds clinical. A topic you could discuss with someone in a white lab coat, clicking a pen and holding a clipboard. Yet when someone sees you running toward the bathroom only to return minutes later as white as the porcelain bowl you just made friends with, they never ask, “By the by, old boy, did you reverse peristals?” No. They ask, “Dude, did you puke?” To which you mumble a very soft response because to speak the actual word might send you running back to your newly appreciated friend from Kohler, Wisconsin.

When it’s just the two of you, getting sick at the same time is manageable. You just go to opposite ends of the house in solitary misery until you feel better. Getting sick at the same time when you have kids presents a new challenge. We experienced that for the first time when our twins were 18 months old.

Being sick when you have little kids means you can’t be as selfish as you want to be. When hosting a virus and you hear a crash in the next room followed by a tiny voice saying, “Uh oh…” there is no leaping out of the chair to survey the damage. Neither parent wants to get up and tend to the kids because doing so would be to admit that your pain isn’t as great as theirs. So you just stare at each other, hoping the other person will demonstrate themselves superior in servanthood and godly maturity so you can remain a selfish, semi-comatose blob on the couch. When neither one moves, you just tell yourself that Grandmas’s antique figurines were never your favorite anyway.

I had just returned to the couch after scoring perfect 10 on my reverse peristalsis with a twist. Exhausted and unable to move, I was flat on my back and everything was perfectly still. The sounds of the TV and the hum of the air conditioner blended into so much white noise and I began to doze off into what I prayed would be a sleep with remarkable powers of recovery.

I couldn’t have been more stationary in my reclined position had you rolled me in Super Glue and C-clamped me to the couch. I was seconds away from drifting into the arms of Morpheus, when right next to my ear,

“Da da da da, da da da da, Elmo’s world!”

Twin toddlers. Fully rested from a long nap and ready to push every button on their Sesame Street audio books. Annie brought hers to show me. I wish she’d waited till my eyes were open. That way I could have prepared myself before she slammed it onto my queasy stomach.

While I lay helplessly paralyzed on the couch, the two of them found every musical toy they possessed and proceeded to push every button, switch and trigger device. What followed was an eerie round of irregular musical meter. Try singing “Old MacDonald Had A Farm”, “The Muffin Man”, “Itsy Bitsy Spider” and the theme from “Blue’s Clues” all at the same time. Even if you’re not sick, you’ll need an aspirin when you’re done.

A virus is like a bad movie. The best part is when it’s over. And when it’s over you realize how good it feels to feel good. To walk and talk and eat and drink and breathe. These are blessings overlooked.

If the viruses are going around where you live, I hope they don’t stop at your house. If they do and you have toddlers, keep an eye peeled for Big Bird. He lands hard on the stomach.