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

In case you haven’t heard or in case there’s no billboard in your area making the announcement, Jesus is supposed to be coming back on Saturday, May 21, 2011. As of this writing, the rapture is going to happen tomorrow according to some who seem to be making a career out of predicting the return of Christ. Further, these same people predict that God will destroy the world on October 21, 2011.

For the record, Jesus can’t return soon enough for me. I’m ready to experience life in an unbroken world. I’ve already put in my request to haul dirt and work in the rose gardens in the new heaven and new earth that the Bible speaks of. I want that to be my job. As a farm kid, I’d be good at it. As for the mansion, I don’t need one. Just give me a nice tree to sleep under on a patch of heavenly green grass that will beat any TempurPedic mattress NASA technology could come up with. Add some food and water and I’ll be happy as a June bug on a hot rock.

I’m ready for the eastern skies to open. But one thing’s for sure. No one knows the day or the hour of Jesus’ return. Jesus told us that Himself. I figure if anyone would know, He would. So if someone says May 21, 2011 is the appointed hour then you can safely make plans for the day without wondering if your backyard birthday bash will be interrupted by a trumpet blast. That is, unless it’s by the guy you hired to do music for the party.

Plenty of sound Christian scholars and thinkers have offered well reasoned critiques of why the “May 21 rapture” crowd are wrong in their interpretation of Scripture. I’ve read through it and can tell you the arguments Harold Camping and his ilk have put forth contain more holes than a screen door. He appears to arrive at his conclusions more through numerology than a solid Biblical hermeneutic. His website states “these dates are 100% accurate and beyond dispute”, yet this isn’t the first time he’s predicted the end of the world. Obviously his prediction was less than 100% accurate and beyond dispute the last time around.

Rather than add to the theological debate, I offer a simple thought.

When I was a kid, back in the day when we didn’t worry about wearing seat belts and before cars had DVD players, you had to make up your own ways to pass the time on a road trip. One was to play the “license plate” game. The object as you traveled down the highway was to spot cars from as many different states as you could. It was great for keeping kids focused and not asking, “Are we there yet?”.

The reality of the license plate game is that license plates were all you looked for. When the 1970 Dodge Cornet passed you on the freeway your eyes went straight to the metal rectangle between the tail lights, hoping that it would flash a different color than the ones on your tally sheet. The unintended consequence of the license plate game is that license plates were all you saw. The Rocky Mountains or the Great Lakes or the golden wheat fields of Kansas could be passing by your window but all your eyes saw was whether the car ahead of you was from Colorado or Michigan or Oklahoma.

Trying to predict the day Christ comes back is like playing the license plate game. If all we do is focus on the date of His coming, we miss everything about the journey He has us on. And this life is all about the journey. God put a lot of thought into what’s passing by our window. Psalm 139 tells us that “all our days were written down in His book before there was yet one of them”. Ephesians 2:10 tells us that God has “prepared good works in advance that we should walk in them.” God doesn’t want us deciphering human code in a laughable attempt to prove we know something that only He knows. He wants us to be out there walking in the good works He has prepared for us to do. That includes walking in a manner worthy of the calling with which we’ve been called and sharing the love of Christ that He has so graciously extended to us.

As for the rapture, rest assured it is coming. But only God knows the day and time. And honestly, if we’re genuinely watching for it, doesn’t it make sense to be looking out the window instead of dates on a license plate? It’s the view through the window where we’ll see the good works that we’re supposed to be about.

In addressing the tension of the present and future, C.S. Lewis said, “Every Christian should be found at his post, living each day as though it were his last, yet planning as though his life will last a hundred years.”

As with most everything Lewis said, that is very wise.

“However, no one knows the day or hour when these things will happen, not even the angels in heaven or the Son himself. Only the Father knows.” – Matthew 24:36

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/2011/02/05/pecking-at-pebbles/ http://www.asliceoflifetogo.com/2011/02/05/pecking-at-pebbles/#comments Sat, 05 Feb 2011 18:08:01 +0000 todd http://www.asliceoflifetogo.com/?p=541 Have you ever tried to make something be what it can never be?

Annie and Emma are in the back seat at Sonic Drive-In, enjoying an after school snack while we sit with engine running. It’s unseasonably cold this week. So cold that there is no one dining at the outdoor tables, the same tables that smart sparrows know to be a smorgasbord of crumbs for them.

The sparrows are here this day, too, feathers fluffed against the wind and single digit temperatures. Looking for food in all the usual places, one sparrow flits under a red metal bench. Leaning down he picks up what must look to him like a tiny piece of a cast off tater tot or onion ring. He pecks it, picks it up and clamps down with his beak. But it’s not food. It’s a pebble that looks like food.

He drops it, looks at it, then picks it up again. Again he clamps down. Maybe it really is food but today it’s frozen food? Nope. Still a pebble. He drops it, hops away for about three seconds, looks back and returns to pick it up again. This time pecking really hard and trying to crush it in his beak.

Still a pebble.

Silly bird, I think. You can want it to be food. But it’s always going to be a pebble. It should be easy enough, I reason, for even a bird to tell the difference between food and a rock. But then I think maybe that sparrow isn’t the only one having trouble figuring that out. We humans do our own pecking at pebbles.

Are you trying to make something be what it can never be?

Maybe you’re pecking at your job. You’re telling yourself that if you just work a little harder and adjust your attitude and suck it up and buy into what management is saying that you’ll come around and really like what you do…even though your heart is screaming because you know you’re hard-wired for something completely different.

Peck.

Maybe you’re pecking at your dating relationship. He is a nice guy and it’s 90% pretty good and you’re telling yourself those nagging doubts you have that you never talk about aren’t really red flags at all. They’re just jitters and everyone has them and once you walk down the aisle all your fears will disappear and you’ll live happily ever after…even though the part of your soul that always tells the truth is telling you not to proceed because that missing 10% is the difference between forever joy and permanent misery.

Peck, peck.

Maybe you’re pecking at the relationship you have with a friend or family member struggling with an addiction. Yes, they drink more than you’d like them to but they function at a high level in spite of it and they aren’t like the other drunks you know. And if you just keep being the understanding friend then they’ll eventually see the light and change their behavior…even though your gut knows that their happy veneer is wearing thinner with every binge and their self-destruction is only an open bar away.

Peck, peck, peck.

Maybe you’re pecking at your relationship with God. You go to church every week except for the two times a year you’re sick and that Disney vacation to Orlando. Your Christianity is comfortable, like the fleece pullover you’ve had for years. It fits and it never rubs you the wrong way. In fact, it’s so comfortable you never think about it except lately you’ve been thinking about it and you don’t like thinking about it.

So you’re telling yourself that you’re far more dedicated than most people so why should you have these nagging thoughts that maybe, just maybe, there’s more to God than an hour on Sunday? Maybe if you just say “yes” to that committee and volunteer to work the nursery once a quarter then all your wondering about what it would be like to experience a raw, unedited, intimate, and unfiltered relationship with your Creator will be set aside like a church bulletin on Monday morning and you can go back to being comfortable.

Peck, peck. Peck, peck.

What are you pecking at, in spite of your better judgment, hoping that it will change?

Only you can answer that.

If you’re pecking at your job, ask God to point you in a direction suitable for the gifts and talents He gave you. He has “prepared good works in advance for you to do” (Ephesians 2:10). God will be more than happy to help you find your divinely designed sweet spot.

If you’re pecking at your dating relationship, ask God to help you discern between red flags and jitters. And as you do, write this down where you can see it everyday: Your absolute worst day as a single person is absolute heaven compared to your best day in a bad marriage.

If you’re pecking while you watch your friend’s addictive behavior send them into a death spiral, ask God for courage to do the right thing and intervene. “Faithful are the wounds of a friend” (Proverbs 27:6). Better to speak truth into their life and have it rejected than to remain silent. There are some regrets you can’t afford to live with.

If you’re pecking at your relationship with God, ask God for more of God. Ask Him to help you break free of your comfortable ideas of who He is and allow Him to define Himself and His relationship to you by His own terms. It’s scary to let go of the familiar. Yet there is freedom when we finally do.

For what it’s worth, it’s that last one that I’ve been pecking on. Moving away from my ideas about God and moving toward God as He defines Himself. I still come back to the pebble sometimes, but I’m getting better at not holding it in my beak so long. Hopefully the sparrows and I are getting smarter about that.

Todd A. Thompson – ASliceOfLifeToGo.com

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

(Every once in awhile I post a column that I have a fair idea is going to rile some people up. This may be one of them. For those I rile and for those who smile, the email address is: thompson1963@gmail.com 

Jack is what’s known in employment circles as “bi-vocational”. He teaches school and also pastors the church at Buffalo Springs Lake, just outside of Lubbock. Somewhere along about a year ago a pretty lady showed up as a Sunday visitor. She came back the next week and the next. She began inquiring about the pastor. Evidently she thought he didn’t look too bad all cleaned up.

They went on a date. Then another. And it wasn’t long before they were keeping steady company. Tonya’s beautiful inside and out. It’s easy to see what Jack sees in her. What she sees in Jack? I teased him that he better pull the trigger and propose before she went to her next eye doctor appointment.

She said “yes” a couple weeks ago. I called him last Tuesday and asked if they’d set a date. He laughed nervously and said, “We’re thinking about this Sunday at the end of church.” Telling only immediate family and a handful of friends, people they would need to pull this off, they put the plan into action.

Every once in awhile they do “Cowboy Church” at Buffalo Springs. A big potluck dinner with BBQ chicken and steak after the service. The place was packed, everyone sporting their Wranglers, hats, boots and pretty dresses.
After a great time of worship, Steve London recited a funny cowboy poem about how young cowboys grow up watching Roy Rogers and Tom Mix and they don’t need any girls around. The only thing they kiss is their horse. But then they grow up and discover a good woman and the horse doesn’t get kissed anymore. “You all know Jack and Tonya are engaged. And they want you to know that when they get married, you’re all invited to the wedding. And since you’re all here, why don’t we just do it now?”

The way the place went nuts you’d think someone spiked the communion juice. People screamed and shouted and clapped. I’d been keeping this a secret from my girls. Annie and Emma’s eyes were big as offering plates. Someone clicked on the music and the speakers lit up with “Goin’ To The Chapel”. The flower girl pulled a red Radio Flyer wagon down the aisle, carrying Tonya’s grandchildren tossing flower petals. Bridesmaids came out at random from the pews. Tonya’s Dad was prouder than ten peacocks walking her down the aisle. As he told me later, “This is every Dad’s dream wedding. All the fun and surprise…and the church feeds everybody steak afterward.”

The youth pastor superbly officiated the simple ceremony. Adding to the charm of the day, it was the first wedding he’s ever done. And I guarantee if he preaches another fifty years he won’t ever do one more memorable. Jack and Tonya got hitched. With only five days of planning, a simple lovely white dress, some yellow daisies, and a couple new pairs of cowboy boots. And everyone will always remember it.

Channel surfing later that night I came across a wedding reality show called, “Say Yes To The Dress”. The contrast was nauseatingly obvious.

“What’s your budget for the dress?”

“$15,000 to $20,000″.

15 to 20K? Really? You’re going to spend the equivalent of a down payment on a house you will live in for years on a dress that you’re going to wear for maybe 12 hours?

That logic makes me think I could start my own reality show called “Are You Smart Enough To Get Married?”

(If you’re wondering where I might be riling people up, this would be the spot.)

Americans spend way too much time and money on weddings. Months and months of planning and tens of thousands of dollars for one day that, if we’re honest, ends up looking like every other wedding that took months to plan and thousands to put on.

If I asked you to detail all the weddings you’ve attended, you’d be hard pressed to differentiate. They’d likely be an amalgam, a consolidated image of all the weddings you’ve ever been to. Guys in tuxedos and too tight shoes and girls wearing dresses the bride promises they’ll be able to wear again but never do. Unless someone faints on stage or the photographer goes National Geographic with the close up camera angles in the middle of the vows, there’s really nothing that sets one wedding apart from another. Even ring bearers and flower girls pitching a fit in not doing what they’re supposed to is as predictable as the feather on the guest book pen.

I’ve often wondered if we could put a dent in the divorce rate by taking half the time and money spent on the wedding day and investing in serious and extended pre-marriage counseling. It couldn’t hurt. Because the grandiose ceremonies and receptions certainly aren’t doing anything to make marriages last longer. My suspicion is that if couples spent as much time thinking and talking about what happens after the wedding as they do planning what color the ascots will be that they’d have a better chance of being together to celebrate an anniversary ten years later.

Weddings are important. God’s idea and illustration of His relationship with the church. Certainly weddings should be memorable. And that’s my point. The memories Jack and Tonya made for themselves and everyone else wouldn’t be any sweeter had they spent six months and thousands of dollars to plan it out. And what’s more important? A showy start? Or a faithful finish?

For those I’ve riled up, don’t worry. You may well have your revenge in due time. Remember, I have 10-year old twin daughters.

And you can bet for the next 20 years I’ll be reminding them how much fun they had at Jack and Tonya’s wedding.

(Yes, I said 20 years. That’s a column for another time.)

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

Pulling into the parking lot, I ask my 9-year-old twin daughters the same question I ask every week.

“Girls, what are we here to do?”

“Galoshes 5:13b.” (We’re still working on the reference part.)

For the past two years, Annie, Emma and I have been bringing flowers and hugs to the residents of Carillon House and Vista Care, a skilled-care center and in-patient hospice. God uses our simple act of service to teach us many life lessons, like the power of encouragement and the frailty and brevity of life. It’s also allowed us the privilege of witnessing the final chapters of beautiful love stories.

Say to any couple, “Tell me how you met,” and you’re guaranteed a fun and fascinating story. Beginnings are full of romance and anticipation.

Sadly, romantic beginnings do not guarantee happy endings. If only couples could be glued together like the souvenirs in a wedding album. Some thrive during seasons of “better”—times of health and wealth. Yet when the “worse”—sickness and poverty—happens, their commitment wanes.

“How we met” stories are many. “How we stayed together” stories are much rarer.

There are many love stories among our Carillon friends. Ray and Margaret had been married 65 years when she died last month. Mr. Williams is a steady presence at the side of his bride of over 50 years. He watches helplessly as Alzheimer’s assaults her memory.

What choices do you make when “for worse” will never get better? Buddy and Shirley were married 50 years when he went in for a hip replacement two years ago. Complications from the anesthesia have left him bedridden ever since.

My Emma asks me, “Daddy, is Shirley with Buddy every day?”

“Yes, honey.”

Emma pauses before concluding, “She loves him.”

Indeed.

Dub stares at a photo of himself and his wife, Cody. “She was the pick of the town. Everyone told me how lucky I was. A kind and godly woman of high moral character. Everyone loved her.” After combat in the Pacific Theater during World War II, Dub came home and proposed. They built a life together as West Texas cotton farmers.

Through better and worse, God was good to them. He blessed them with children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren. As he speaks, Dub doesn’t want to cry. Yet with the memories come the tears.

“I had a stroke 18 years ago,” he says. “I was dependent on her. She was so good to me. No matter what, she made sure I got out of the house twice a day. She would drive me to McDonald’s, and we’d sit and have a 37-cent cup of coffee and talk.

“I had to have a hospital bed in our bedroom. When I woke up, I always looked over at her. She’s been gone for over a year now, but when I wake up, I still look that direction.”

When your eyes have awakened to the same beautiful face for over six decades, how could you not keep looking and hoping she would be there? Dub and Cody were married 62 years when she died.

“Those 18 years after my stroke were the best years of my life because I got to see her every day. If I hadn’t had that stroke, I’d have been out playing golf or out fishing and I would have missed that time with her,” Dub concludes.

Sometimes it takes the worst to teach us what is the best.

Ecclesiastes 7:8 tells us, “The end of something is better than the beginning.” Maybe Solomon was saying that however something starts, finishing well is more important. Better a beautiful final chapter than a happy first paragraph.

My daughters know the reason we come to Carillon is to “serve each other with love.” I hope someday they realize the Dubs and Codys they met here succeeded in marriage for the very same reason.

Todd A. Thompson – ASliceOfLifeToGo.com

“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

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

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

What’s your steady diet?

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

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

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

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

Whatever our steady diet is determines our flavor.

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

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

What’s your flavor?

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

Todd A. Thompson – www.ASliceOfLifeToGo.com

When the sun began to slip behind the trees lining the west side of the lake, we pulled in the ropes and turned the boat toward the dock. As we headed across the water I looked over at Clair and Steve and saw them putting their life jackets back on.

“Are we going to ski some more?”, I asked.

Clair threw me a life jacket and said, “Put this on.” Clair was two years older and bigger than I was, so I did. He then pointed at Kristi, “You drive the boat.”

As Kristi took her place behind the wheel, Clair tightened the belt on his vest and said, “Here’s what we’re gonna do. When Kristi gets this boat up to full speed, the three of us are going to jump out. It’ll be fun.”

I believed him.

Kristi spun the boat around and jammed the accelerator forward. We were really flying. With a scream, Clair jumped over the edge. Then Steve jumped. Just like Navy commandos in a war film.

Then I jumped.

I hit the water, but I didn’t go in the water. I just bounced and rolled across the top like dice on a card table. When I stopped rolling, I swooshed into the lake. After getting my bearings I looked around and saw Clair and Steve bobbing in the water like a couple of brainless buoys.

Somebody yelled, “Is anybody dead?”

Nobody was dead.

So we got back in the boat and did it again.

When I think about that day on the lake, I can’t help but admit it’s a fitting illustration of how I sometimes handle the fast and frantic pace of life. The quiet waters were there. The calm and the still. But I wasn’t resting beside them. I was bouncing and rolling across the top.

If I’m honest, too often that’s my pattern. I bounce and roll over the top of the quiet waters God leads me to. Those moments of reflection I need for renewal and godly refreshment. Instead of resting beside the still waters, I race past desperately needed solitude with Him.

And even knowing that I’ve bounced and rolled past the quietness God offers me, I get back in my busy boat and do it again.

This is the time of year when we begin to evaluate where we’ve been and where we’d like to go. What we’ve accomplished and what remains to be achieved. Hopefully there are goals fulfilled we can check off our 2008 list. Even if we achieved greatly, it’s likely we have unfinished business to carry into 2009.

As we evaluate and plan, I wonder… 

…if we spent less time spent bouncing and rolling out of the busy boat and more time reflecting by the still waters, is it possible we could accomplish more? Better, would more time spent with God beside the still waters help us to accomplish the right things? Would He help us not to confuse activity with productivity? If we spent more time with God, to hear Him and know His heart; is it possible our efforts to achieve would begin to flow from our relationship with Him?

Here’s to less time spent bouncing and rolling. More time spent with God beside the still waters. In spending time with God, we learn who we are in Him. When we know who we are in Him, we understand better what He would have us do for Him.

“…He leads me beside still waters, He restores my soul.” – Psalm 23

Todd A. Thompson – www.ASliceOfLifeToGo.com

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

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

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

At 45 miles per hour the solemnity passed quickly.

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

Such a short drive.

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

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

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

Take them home.

Hug them.

Hose them off.

Hug them.

Eat lunch.

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

It’s such a short drive.

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

Todd A. Thompson - www.ASliceOfLifeToGo.com

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I did keep them.

For a whole year I kept them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And speaking from experience…

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

- Todd A. Thompson

www.ASliceOfLifeToGo.com

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

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

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

“In the end, I will die.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

1 out of 1…dies.

It’s just a matter of when.

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

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

And He grants us one day at a time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now go make friends with your recycling bin.

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

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

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

The crowd goes wild.

The crowd standing around the TV, that is.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Carpe diem.

Sometimes we get so involved and over-committed that we forget things. Forgetting to pick up your shirts from the cleaners isn’t that big a deal. Forgetting your spouse’s birthday would be a big deal. Now, I’ve never forgotten my wife’s birthday. It’s inconceivable to me. Forgetting Valentine’s Day in 1992 was lesson enough for me. Ever heard the phrase “Gone But Not Forgotten”? It’s not just for tombstones.

Recently I looked at my Palm Pilot and considered everything in my schedule. Family stuff, work stuff, church stuff, time with friends, taking Annie and Emma to preschool and to dance class, doctor and dentist appointments, taking Palmer the Eskimo Dog to the groomer, and on and on it goes.

I wondered out loud, “How does God do it? How does He keep track of everything in the universe?” I just have my tiny postage stamp corner of the world to take care of. God rides herd on the whole planet. Not to mention 6 billion busy people just like me.”

Obviously, God is God and because He is the Ultimate Everything He doesn’t need a Palm Pilot to organize His week. God’s omniscience and omnipresence are too big for me to get my brain around. Just for a minute, let’s break it down to something less mind blowing.

Are you wearing a watch today? If you are, chances are it has a quartz crystal inside. Were we able to see it, we would find that the quartz crystal in our watch vibrates at a speed of approximately 8 billion times per second. That’s 8 billion with a capital “beyond our absolutely”, as my Grandmother would say.

There are approximately 6 billion people on planet earth. If God were only able to think as fast as the quartz crystal in your watch, He would be able to think about you and every other person on earth at the same time, every second of every minute of every hour of every day.

With time to spare.

Psalm 121 says that our God “does not sleep nor does He slumber”. He is literally thinking about you every second of every minute of every day. This week while you’re using your Timex and your Palm Pilot to keep track of your schedule, remember that God is thinking about you every second of every minute. Everyday. Thoughts of love, grace, encouragement, forgiveness, kindness, hope and peace. God cares about the details of your life.

You might forget something this week. It happens. For your sake I hope it’s the shirts at the cleaners and not a birthday. Whatever you might forget, no worries. God will never forget about you.

“How precious are your thoughts toward me, O God! How vast is the sum of them!” – Psalm 139:17

The New Year. Our good intentions are at their peak in January. Yet there’s no magic in the turning of a calendar page. The challenge of a New Year is that we bring our old self into it. So how do we make a fresh start?

God is a gracious God. A God of “do overs”. His unconditional love means we are free to put the past behind us and run forward into the new adventures He has for us. In the process, He kindly shows us the difference between “living” and “existing”.

(Presented to Hope Covenant Church – Chandler, AZ – 1/2/2005)

The lesson of a Picasso print and priorities.

(Presented to Hope Covenant Church – Chandler, AZ – 11/7/2004)

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

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

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

Ever try to hold a tornado by the collar?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Even ordinary moments only come around once.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It begins with them in their high chairs. Goldfish crackers in the crease of their shirts and peaches in their hair. Sweet, sticky faces with baby tooth grins. They signal dinner is over by backhanding their mostly empty sippy cups onto the floor. Palmer the Eskimo Dog sits at anxious attention waiting for his chance to clean up any leftover chicken nuggets they might throw his direction.

I run the water. Not too hot. Not too cold. Make sure their bath chairs are securely suctioned to the bottom of the tub. Get the supplies. Towels, soap and pear scented baby shampoo, a gift from their friend Andra. Wash cloths, one green and one pink. And from the bag o’ tub toys toss some of their favorites into the water. The blue octopus and the red crab. A yellow rubber duck and some blue foam stars.

Returning to the holding pen that is the family room, the stripping process begins. Pants and one sock. Who knows where the other one is. A turtle neck that was white when the day started. Annie helps. All she needs is a one sleeve start and she does the rest. Her sister is wiggly. Take off the pants, catch Emma and bring her back. Take off the shirt, catch Emma and bring her back. Finally we’re down to diapers. Two 13-month old squealing babies circling the coffee table like chairs at a cakewalk, waiting for the water games to begin.

Annie and Emma know the routine. They find their way to the gate. I pull it out of the doorway and give the command, “Release the hounds!” With happy shrieks they head toward the bathroom, Emma running and Annie doing her best Frankenstein walk. A minute and a fall or two later, they’re leaned up against the tub. Annie was born a minute later than her sister but thinks “first” is her birthright. She bends my eardrum but good when I put Emma in before her. Emma grabs the green wash cloth, lets out a belly laugh and drapes it over her head. Annie takes a quick breath when she feels the water, latches on to the pink washcloth and promptly splashes water all over my glasses. Daddy wanted to stay dry. Twins win.

Twin babies in the tub. Two silly baby sisters. Emma is fascinated with the wash cloth. Wraps it behind her neck and stretches like a self-administered chiropractic treatment. Annie just wants to splash. Both hands flat slapping the water like a beaver’s tail. Suck the water out of the pink washcloth. Pull the green washcloth away from Emma and suck the water out of it. Emma looks at me with her big eyes and lets loose her unique “it sounds like I’m coughing but I’m laughing” laugh and splashes water up her nose. Coughing, not laughing.

The red hook on the yellow plastic fishing pole in Emma’s grip catches Annie’s attention. Tug of war in the tub. Grunting. Pulling. They both look at me, yelling something in baby talk that loosely translated means, “Mine!” Soap and shampoo break up the dispute. The rinse off, a Rubio’s plastic tumbler of water over the head, gets their attention. Annie sneezes. Emma laughs. Annie points at Emma’s hair, overhead rinsed straight down over her nose, and giggles.

Towel time. Wrapped up like a couple of terrycloth burritos, we carry them down the hall, their little popcorn toes dripping water all the way into the family room. Preferring to run naked if given the chance, they are confined under protest to the couch. Dried off and Lubriderm lotioned, it’s diaper time. Emma executes a reverse kick escape that would make Dan Gable proud. Annie practices her drama queen routine, this night’s scene on the injustice of being stuffed and snapped into a cotton sleeper. Emma follows Mom around the house as she picks up the wet towels before nuzzling in on Mom’s lap with her bottle. Ears cleaned, hair brushed, and dressed for dreaming, Annie kicks back on her Daddy’s chest at a Lazy-Boy angle and grabs her bottle.

At the 4 ounce level, she pauses to talk to me. I can only guess what she said. Whatever it was, it sounded pretty well thought out. Reflective even. She punctuated her point by one-handing her bottle, tilting her head back and patting my face with her free hand. Then it was back to the bottle and watching ESPN Classic. Game 7 of the 1987 World Series. St. Louis and Minnesota. Annie falls asleep just before Kent Hrbek makes the last out. Twins win.

Tonight was bath night for the girls. Just like every other bath night. Except it used to begin at the kitchen sink with water in a tray no bigger than a Tupperware bowl. Tonight was just like every other bath night. Except that just three months ago their little diaper butts crawled down the hall to the bathtub. Tonight was just like every other bath night. Except that by the next one they’ll be two days removed from splashing water on Daddy’s glasses and two days closer to growing up.

Tonight was bath night for the girls. Just like every other bath night. Just like every other bath night on December 10, 2001 at 8:12 PM Mountain Standard Time in Chandler, Arizona, USA.

“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