On this particular day life was pouring in more than usual. Like the way I used to feel shoveling through a giant drift after an Iowa blizzard. I’d finally see sidewalk when a big chunk would bust loose from the top and I’d be up to my boots again in snow.

Some days you just can’t shovel fast enough.

I was telling God about my plight and wondering out loud why it seemed to me that He wasn’t as aware of my situation as I thought He should be. I mean, God, if you’re not going to help me shovel can you at least keep the stuff from pouring in so fast?

A little help here, maybe?

It was time to go pick up my kids from school. I opened the door about half way and that’s when it caught my eye. The mirror. I closed the door and looked again. Nothing there.

Ok, I know I only have one eye but thanks to a contact lens, it works reasonably well. I know I saw something in that mirror.

I opened the door and glanced again at the mirror, this time the way I used to look at the old 3-D baseball cards that came in the cereal boxes when I was a kid. Up, down, sideways. And there it was. There were words on the mirror. Almost invisible, and because of the light in the room I couldn’t see it unless I looked from an angle and even then the letters only faintly showed themselves against the reflection of my black t-shirt.

“Serve the Lord with all your heart and consider the great things He has done for you.” – 1 Samuel 12:24

Whoever stayed here before had scrawled this verse on the mirror with lipstick or some other oil based marker. The mirror had since been cleaned, yet at the right angle in the right light, the message remained.

This verse, in context, is the prophet Samuel exhorting the people of Israel during the coronation of King Saul. In his speech he reminds Israel of God’s faithfulness to them through every generation. From Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Moses and Aaron, God had remained faithful to them in spite of their sins and disobedience. Even their asking for a king was a sin against God, preferring a human leader instead of God as their King.

Samuel makes the point that even in their short-sighted and often stubborn disobedience, God’s love for them continues. Because God is faithful to Himself, He is faithful to them. Through it all, God did great things for them.

Back in 2008, I was starting life over from scratch in a new place and with a new sales job. I do dinner shows for people and sell high-end cookware. In following up on a contact, the girl on the other end of the phone asked me if I traveled to Snyder, Texas. I said, “I sure do.” Now, I’d never heard of Snyder let alone have a clue how far away it was. But when you’re starting over, you do whatever you have to do. That dinner generated my first customer in that area and led to more dinners which led to many more customers in Snyder, TX. And with each dinner God put me in front of some of the kindest, good-hearted, hospitable and encouraging people I’ve ever met.

When last year I was unsuccessful in my efforts to prevent my daughters’ mom from moving them away from me, I was incredibly discouraged. Instead of being 5 minutes across town, they would now be attending school 85 miles from me. I have equal time with my daughters, but how would it work? Where would I stay when I came to be with them? How would we have a place to be together?

Back in 2008 I thought Snyder was just the place God had me working for a season. I thought I was just meeting new people in the course of my job. I had no idea that He was preparing for what would happen to me two years later. God was preparing future relationships that He would use to encourage us in ways we could not imagine.

The mirror with the ghost writing is in a guest house in Snyder, Texas, the town in which my daughters attend school. It belongs to dear friends who started out as customers back in 2008. When I confided my situation to them last year, they said, “We have a place in our backyard. You and the girls can stay here anytime you want.”

“…and consider the great things He (God) has done for you.”

Is God aware of my plight? The ghost writer left behind the obvious answer to that question. “Consider the great things God has done for you.” God is more than aware. He is involved. His faithfulness toward us never ceases. His love toward us is constant. His attention to detail is complete. God, forgive me when I fail to consider the great things You have done for me. Give me eyes to see You and the works of Your hands in my life.

As much as I like things squeaky clean, I’m only going to Windex the bottom half of that mirror.

Some messages should never be erased.

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

I’ve learned something about me and grocery store check out lanes. On the regular ones, the cart ahead of me can have 2 items or 22 items or 222 items. It can be so sparsely filled that you can see through the wire mesh to the tiled floor. Or it can be piled to the ceiling with coffee and condiments and draped with six packs of Cokes and Coors hanging off the sides like a wagon headed down the Oregon Trail. Either way, I’m abounding with patience and grace.

It’s the Express Lane that turns me into a number crunching legalist.

“Express Lane…Ten Items Or Less. Please be courteous to other customers.” That’s what the sign says. And you can be sure I’m looking to see how much courtesy the shoppers in front of me are extending.

The man reaching for his wallet three people ahead of me has two cans of tuna and a loaf of bread. He must be a kind man since he obviously respects the rules of the Express Lane. God bless him. Though he’d be extending a little more courtesy if he’d use a speedy debit card instead of taking us all back in time to 1978 by reminding us how long it takes to write a check.

The married couple two spots ahead of me are here with two little boys using the cart for a jungle gym and are grabbing for every candy bar and pack of gum they can see. With these distractions to contend with, they could be forgiven for miscounting and having eleven items. But the blond-haired pony-tailed checkout girl slides seven items across the scanner as the Dad tosses Thing 1 over his shoulder while Mom grabs the groceries in one hand and the arm of Thing 2 with the other.

The line is moving. I’m now within range. With only a club sandwich and an iced green tea to purchase, I am extending enormous amounts of generous and beneficent courtesy to those behind me. Just one small item in each hand. They should all be grateful to me. For them to bow a little as I glance over my shoulder, holding up my two items for everyone to see would be a bit too much. After all, I could be in line to buy a single box of Tic Tac’s. Then they would really owe me. Still, with a mere two bar codes I’m blessing their day by not taking their time.

The lady ahead of me has a blue basket. To my trained eye, it looks a little too full. Maybe there’s one really big bag of potatoes in there making it seem more loaded than it really is.

A box of frozen mini pizzas. Hot Pockets, two boxes. Five cans of tuna.

Tuna must be on sale today.

I start Express Lane profiling. She’s wearing scrubs. A nurse or an X-ray tech, perhaps. Maybe a dental hygienist. If so, I know she can count at least to 32. No wild offspring with her like the couple that was ahead of her, who are now in the parking lot trying to bungee cord their boys into car seats. So we can’t grant any grace for grocery store grabbiness.

A can of Rotel. The mild kind. Not the habenero kind that makes your hair bleed. That’s nine items.

Corn tortillas. That’s ten. Ten items allowed. Ten items scanned.

That’s it. Ten up, ten down. Thanks for visiting the United Express Lane.

But the basket….

The blue basket that should be empty is not empty. Blonde-haired pony-tailed checkout girl reaches into the bottom and pulls out a package of pork chops. Six of them.

Nefarious enough to exceed the ten item limit of the express lane, but to scan six pork chops cleverly shrink wrapped into one item takes passive aggressive to a new level. Technically, we are now at 16 items. If we could give tickets for speeding in this lane, she would be going straight before the judge.

I’m now looking at this blatant offender. Is she fumbling with her purse? Kneeling down pretending to tie her shoe? Is she doing anything at all to make it appear that she was ignorant of the fact that she has exceeded the Express Lane limit?

No. She is standing there like she meant to do it. Imagine! The gall!

Certainly blond-haired pony-tailed checkout girl will at least shoot me a sympathetic look. A “Hey, don’t think I didn’t notice that she just slipped a package of chops in here at number 11.” But she doesn’t. She just scans it and stuffs it in the plastic bag like it was item number 3 or number 5.

If the keepers of the Express Lane fail to uphold the rules of said Express Lane, what is left for us to do?

I look behind me to see if anyone else notices that the level ten ceiling has been broken, but no one is paying attention. They are reading magazines or talking to each other about inane things like what they’re going to cook for dinner tonight.

All that needs happen for anarchy to reign in the Express Lane is for good shoppers to do nothing.

With the injustice pouring over me, blond-haired pony-tailed checkout girl reaches again into the basket and pulls out another package of pork chops. Six of them. Drat you evil shrink wrap! You’ve conspired to allow this woman to flaunt the rules of the Express Lane by technically allowing her 22 items.

The transaction is made. The receipt stuffed in her pocket. At the very least, two items two many.

I pay for my sandwich and my tea. With a debit card and room for eight potential items to spare. Yes. I am the king of the Express Lane. I do it the right way. Everyone should be like me.

That’s what I was telling myself when I looked up and saw I was walking through the wrong automatic door. The one with the big red “Stop – Wrong Way” sign on the glass that said “Entrance” with an arrow pointing to the other door with a big green “Go” sign on the glass that said “Exit”.

I don’t think I have to tell you that the irony, and the lesson, was completely lost on me until I got into my car and drove away.

“God, you know so well all of my sins and you know how stupid I am.” – Psalm 69:5 (The Living Bible)

“Everyone wants to see justice done….to somebody else.” – Bruce Cockburn

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

I go in hopes that Bob will be on duty.

It’s supposed to be a three hour drive from Lubbock to Roswell but it’s funny how the wide open spaces make 65 miles per hour appear so very slow and 75-80 miles per hour appear so very reasonable. On my first trip to Roswell last year I pulled into Sam’s Club to refuel. When I look up, the attendant is standing there. I’ve never seen an attendant at a Sam’s Club gas pump. Usually they are holed up in the little cinder block building watching TV. Yet here he stands. Baseball cap, mustache and the blue Sam’s Club vest with an I.D. badge pinned to it.

“I see by those Texas plates that you’re traveling somewhere. Is there anything you need prayer for?”

My first reaction is to look around. Isn’t that curious? Am I on camera? I’ve been to Wal-Mart and Sam’s Club more times than I can count. I expect low prices. I don’t expect their employees to pray for me.

I give Bob a closer look. He doesn’t look like a nut job. He looks normal. More importantly, he seems sincere. And with his question, definitely a cut to the chase kind of guy. I like that.

“Now that you ask, I sure do. It’s been a tough day and I could use all the prayer I can get.”

With no more small talk, Bob launched into a prayer. He prayed for me. For safe travel. For God’s intercession in the problems of my life. He asked God to bless me. Then he said, “Amen” and told me to drive safely before turning his attention to the next car.

As I opened my driver’s door I couldn’t see him but I heard him ask someone, “Is there anything you need prayer for?”

From that initial visit God has blessed me with a growing number of customers in Roswell. Wonderful, encouraging people and more reasons to return. Without fail, I always go to Sam’s to fill up my tank because I want Bob to pray for me. He prays for so many people that I’m not sure he even remembers that he’s prayed for me multiple times before. But it doesn’t matter. While the digits on the pump keep track of  the gallons and dollars and cents, Bob prays. He’s prayed for me, my kids, my safety in traveling, that God would intercede in circumstances beyond my control, and that God would bind the enemy from doing evil in those same circumstances. And every time I drive away blessed that someone cares. That someone has lifted me and my concerns up to God.

Though I can’t imagine why, not everyone wants prayer. I’ve seen people smile awkwardly and respond to Bob’s offer to pray for them with a, “Nope, I’m fine” or “I’m good, thanks.” But it doesn’t stop Bob from asking. And I bet it doesn’t stop Bob from praying. He will pray for the self-assured guy in the Chevy Avalanche anyway. Prayer doesn’t have to be loud to be effective. Who knows how many of these same people chalk up their good fortune or near misses to dumb luck, when in reality it was Bob’s silent prayers for them as they drove away that made the difference?

Roswell has plenty of good churches. We expect ministry to happen in church. That is as it should be. Yet I wonder if people realize that the gas pumps at Sam’s Club are a place where earth touches heaven? A place where problems and hurts and worries and fears are lifted up to God? A place where kind words and encouragement are spoken? A place where strangers are welcomed and cared for?

Who wouldn’t shop at a place like that?

Come to think of it, who wouldn’t go to a church like that?

And if our churches aren’t like that, why aren’t they like that?

We expect ministry to happen in church. That is as it should be.

Wherever we are and whatever we do, we can pray for others.

That is as it should be, too.

Be a Bob.

“Continue earnestly in prayer, being vigilant in it with thanksgiving…” – Colossians 4:2

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

Just inside the door was a guest book inviting those who entered to sign and leave a note if they wished. Flipping through the pages I remembered why DFW is one of the world’s busiest airports. There were signatures from all over the globe.

Abu Dhabi. France. South Africa. Japan. Guatemala. China. And exotic places like Indiana, Iowa and South Dakota. Beside the name and address line was a space for people to leave a message. The notes inked on the page reminded me that wherever we live on the planet, life happens. Sometimes good and sometimes painful, but life happens everywhere.

Someone in Arkansas asked prayer for their Dad’s health. A passenger from Texas wanted prayer for success in their new job. A man from Cleveland, Ohio asked people to pray for wisdom and guidance. A Mom in Michigan asked people to pray for her son’s safety as a police officer. A woman from Wisconsin wrote joyfully with an exclamation point that she was off to a mission trip in China. “Christ Is King!”, she said.

A wife in Michigan wrote, “Please pray for my husband and father-in-law as they both deploy to Iraq on September 2nd. Oh, and for fertility issues.”

Sometimes life doesn’t just happen. Sometimes it piles on.

A mom from Texas used a black ball point pen to write, “My son drowned in a river in New Hampshire. I’ve just come back from seeing the river.” Peeking out from underneath the 3-ring binder was a copy of the eulogy handed out at her son’s funeral. His picture on the front and his life summed up on a single page. A twenty-something kid who made his living designing and making costumes for Shakespearean theaters around the country. 

Airlines take us places and airlines bring us home again. I wish it were as easy to lose our grief as it is for them to lose our luggage.

The last person to sign was a man from Israel. He said simply, “Thanks for providing a place of prayer.” I flipped back through the pages one more time, glancing at the names and addresses and requests. Men and women, a sampling of humanity across the globe, intersecting here in this international airport. Each stopping in this chapel long enough to pray and jot a brief request in hopes that someone might talk to God for them about the life that’s happening in their corner of the world.

I said a prayer for each and added my name to the list. Turning to leave, I thought about the people who might find their way to this room after my plane was gone. Is there a message I’d like to leave them?

Life’s a real head banger no matter where we live. What keeps any of us going? Only the thought that there has to be a purpose behind the pain. That somehow God, in spite of what we see, knows what He’s doing. On my worst days, that can be a stretch to believe. On my better days, my faith sees dimly. Thankfully, God’s faithfulness isn’t dependent on how my day is going.

I wrote to encourage myself as much as anyone else.

“Hold tight to your faith…God can be trusted.”

“Let us hold fast to the confession of our hope without wavering, for He (God) who promised is faithful.” - Hebrews 10:23

- Todd Thompson    www.ASliceOfLifeToGo.com

One day I commented on this. “I’ve noticed how friendly you are to everyone. Even the people who aren’t very nice.”

His answer was insightful. With a big smile and a delightful British-Caribbean accent he said, “When you live on an island, you quickly learn that everyone “recycles”. Sooner or later, you’ll see them all again. So it makes sense to be kind.”

How would we treat people if we knew we would see them all again? If we knew that everyone would eventually “recycle”?”

Sometimes the best way to think about a question is to flip it upside down. What if we knew no one would recycle? How would we treat people if we knew we’d never see them again? 

Would we use our “once and done” point of contact as an opportunity for selfish expression? Would we allow our tongue to lash? Would we step on them to elevate ourselves?

Or would we consider it a once in a lifetime chance to impress a kindness? To build up a stranger? To deliver a single act of goodness?  

Would we take the moment for ourselves?

Or would we give the moment to others?

Certainly the presumption of future anonymity has been a catalyst to human behavior ranging from harmless practical jokes to great evil. To be sure, acts of generosity have been extended to strangers one never expects to see again. Yet ever since Adam and Eve’s failure in the Garden of Eden, our human nature is weighted toward the dark side. Our desire for recognition craves the spotlight and left to itself, our sin nature thrives in anonymity. If to the general population we put the question, “what if you knew you’d never see that person again?”, it’s a sad but safe bet the answers would be more selfish than sacrificial.

How do we treat people when we think we’ll never see them again?

Then again, I wonder…how would our attitudes toward others change if we knew that, as my island friend assumed, we’d see them all again sometime?

What if we knew the 20-something kid behind the counter at the convenience store, the one with the rivets in her ears and angry tattoos on her arms, would recycle back into our life at some point? Would we look past the body art and into her eyes?

What if we knew the hyperactive kid, the one who acts like a bouncy ball loose at Wal-Mart, was guaranteed to fly across our path again? Would we make an effort to grab his shirt tail long enough to let him know we care about more than just trying to slow him down?

What if we knew the invisible street person sitting on the downtown city sidewalk would someday enter our field of vision again? Would we stop to see them, and treat them, as one created in the image of God?

All things considered, it makes sense to live as though everyone we meet will eventually “recycle”. Even if they won’t. Acts of kindness are not forgotten. They may never know your name and even forget your face. But they will not forget the good you did. Should that person recycle back into your life, what better starting point for relationship than a kindness remembered?

Starting now, live as though everyone will “recycle”. With every person you encounter, assume you will see them again someday.

Then ask yourself this question:

“When they see me again, how do I want them to remember me?”

It just makes sense to be kind.

“I expect to pass through life but once. If therefore, there be any kindness I can show, or any good thing I can do to any fellow human being, let me do it now, and not defer or neglect it, as I shall not pass this way again.” – William Penn

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

Crack a joke.

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

Hold the door for someone.

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

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

Hold someone’s hand.

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

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

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

Own your mistakes. Say “I’m sorry.”

Forgive.

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

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

Then pray.

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

Leave a big tip.

Be patient with your kids.

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

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

Stop being prideful. Apologize.

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

Play a practical joke. Make a memory.

Be thankful.

Be grateful.

Live your life as a gift to God.

Point people to Jesus.

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

A guy in a faded, forest green golf shirt walked up to the window. He looked a little frazzled.

Paul slid the window open. “Hi. How can I help you?”

“Do you take donations here?”

Donations? Maybe he has the wrong place. There’s a Salvation Army Thrift Store next door.

“Excuse me?”

More insistently this time, the same question. “Do you guys take donations here?” He was holding something in his fist.

Paul and I looked at each other and Ron looked over his shoulder.

“We’re a swim school. Why, uh…”

His question was so strange we didn’t know what to ask back.

“It’s just been a really bad day. Do you guys take donations?”

“Well, we teach swim lessons to kids…”

He cut in. “It’s just been a really bad day. Here.” He stuck out his hand, dropped some money on the desk and walked out.

The three of us sat there for about five seconds with “what the?” looks on our faces. Then Ron said, “Paulie, you need to go after him.” I said, “Yep. Go after him. This is too weird. Maybe it’s a God moment.” 

Paul went out the door. I straightened out the wad of cash. Three $20 bills.

Paul came back a couple minutes later. He said the guy told him that he had been gone for a few days and asked someone to take care of his Labrador puppy while he was away. Returning home from his trip he learned that someone had left a gate open and the dog got out.

Puppies are no match for the traffic on Southern Avenue.

Life is hard. Gates get left open and puppies get run over. Even worse, pool gates get left open and toddlers drown. People get cancer. Businesses fail. Relationships dissolve. Marriages are torn asunder. Dreams die. That’s life this side of heaven. At the Broken World Cafe, each day’s menu offers a fresh sampler platter of pain. New and different varieties of the same old hurts, arranged in different ways.

Pain, in all its forms, is the constant. The variable is how we respond. Our natural response when we are hurt is to turn inward. To focus on ourselves and on our pain. While this is natural, it makes our pain the object of our attention. Focus on our pain too long and the object of our attention becomes the object of our affection. We become attached to it. If we’re not careful, our pain becomes our identity. Our excuse for not taking responsibility, moving on and growing up. 

When Paul asked the man why the donation, he said, “I’m having a really bad day and I wanted to do something to feel better.”

His dog gets run over and his response is to give $60 to a swim school.

How bizarre.

How healthy.

We have options in dealing with our pain. This guy could have taken his anger out on someone. He could have stuffed the sadness in his pocket and tried to ignore it. He could have climbed up on bar stool mountain. But he didn’t.

Strange as it was to witness, the guy whose dog got run over responded to his pain in a positive way. He chose to do something peculiar to be sure. But positively peculiar. He chose to do something good for someone else. A $60 donation to a swim school doesn’t bring his puppy back. And it sure doesn’t fix a broken world. But it was good medicine for his broken heart.

If doing something good for others makes him feel better today, then maybe it keeps him going to do something good for others tomorrow. God knows we need more people doing good for others. 

We’re thankful for the donation. Some kid will get swim lessons courtesy of a stranger. And whoever gets the lesson, we’ll be sure to tell the story as to how that $60 came to be.

That’s another benefit about doing good for others. It makes for a story that makes you want to go do something good yourself.

Here’s hoping Mr. $60 Donation Guy inspires you to do just that.

If it wasn’t for the person who threw the beer bottle on the street Monday night, I wouldn’t have gotten a flat tire.

And if it weren’t for the person who designed the impossible to remove wheel covers on my car I would have been able to change the tire myself. I say “person who designed” but significant end-product stupidity is usually by committee. This one asked every possible wheel cover question except “what if it ever needs to come off?” A little more American ingenuity like that and the owner’s manual for my next car will be in Japanese.

A broken beer bottle leads to a flat tire leads to some sweating and swearing with a tire iron that I’d like to introduce to some wheel cover engineers in Detroit. Which led to a call to my roadside assist service, which led to them dispatching a tow truck to haul my car and me to Discount Tire.

Which led to meeting Bill.

It’s never wise to stereotype, but somehow I usually feel better when the person responding to my need for help looks the part. Bill’s face is weathered brown, like an old football that’s been kicked around year after year and never brought inside. He wore a new pair of jeans. But the faded blue company T-shirt and the scuffs on his work boots suggested the only reason for new jeans was the last pair plain wore out. A reddish blonde bushy mustache matched the color of the ponytail sticking out the back of his trucker cap. I’ve never seen a tow truck driver with a diamond earring before, but like I said, it’s never wise to stereotype.

“Thanks for coming. How’s it going?”

“As good as it’s gonna go. Back that thing out here so I can get at it.”

In less than five minutes Bill had my car on the flat bed of his truck. ”You gettin’ a ride there or are you goin’ with me?”

“Goin’ with you.” 

It’s three miles to Discount Tire. A bit less if he takes the side street I mention to him. He ignores me and turns the truck around. “I always go out the same way I came in.”

“You been busy today?”

“Not really. But I was out on calls till 2 in the morning. I’m tired.”

“You like your job?”

“Job’s ok. Money’s ok. Just a lot of time. 70 hours a week most of the time.”

“Wow. You ever get a day off?”

“Wednesdays.”

“What do you like to do when you’re not working?”

“Sleep.” 

Great question, Todd. He puts in 70 plus hours a week and you ask him what he likes to do when he’s not working. Brilliant. There may be a future for you in wheel cover design.   

“So are you native to Arizona?”

“Born and raised. Grew up in Tucson.”

“Have family around then?”

“Nah. I got nobody. They’re all either dead or they disowned me.” Bill gripped the steering wheel with both hands and stared straight ahead.

“You got any friends?” I was hoping for a “yes”. A co-worker. A girlfriend. A drinking buddy. A dog. Something.

“Nope. Don’t need any friends.” Of course, I don’t believe this. But he sounds like he believes it. His tone is steady and cold, like the air coming out of the dashboard air conditioning vents.

The engine groaned a little as he braked for the red light on McQueen. Maybe it’s because I can’t imagine my life without friends or because I didn’t believe him, I asked the same question a different way. “You got anyone to hang with when you’re not working?”

“Nope. I see people all day long. Why would I need friends?” What he really wanted to say was, “I have to play nice with customers like you 70 hours a week. Why would I want more of that on my day off?”

A few seconds of silence. I look around. The clipboard with the paperwork. The dirty gray upholstery of the seat. The smell of diesel and the open pack of Camel cigarettes in the cup holder. This is a tow truck, all right.

Except for the music. Vivaldi. Very un-tow truck like.

Wanting to jump start the conversation I said, “Nice music. You like the classical stuff?”

“Yep. Played it for years. Junior high, high school. In college.” 

Moments like this always shame me. Because it’s never wise to stereotype and yet somehow I always do.

“Really? What instrument?”

“Bass. Played it since I was twelve.”

“I play the drums a little. I love the bass but I could never figure out how to get my fingers where they needed to be.”

“Practice. Lots of practice.” I looked at Bill’s hands. Thick, strong fingers black with grease and brake dust. Fingers that toss log chains and cast iron hooks 70 hours a week. Without asking, who would know these same fingers can run off a string of flying arpeggios and syncopated bass lines? Fingers that know the delicate feel of a horsehair bow?

“Where did you go to college?”

“In St. Louis.”

And in naming the city it’s as if Bill realized this conversation was looking a little too much like friendship. “Where is this fucking Discount Tire place anyway?”

A quarter mile later and we were there. He dropped the car off, I signed the obligatory paperwork and he drove away.

One thing leads to another. And sometimes it feels like the thing it leads to is a dead end. Or a waste of time. Or the temptation to think that it’s all in our head, this idea of connectedness. That in the middle of random events there is a bigger purpose, a grander plan that transcends the broken bottles and flat tires of our life.

There is a bigger purpose. I have to believe that because I believe in God. Logic says if we believe in God with a big “G”, then He is all-everything. Including all sovereign. Which is to say if we believe in a big “G”, there’s no such thing as chance encounters or random events. Or as Albert Einstein put it, “Coincidence is God’s way of remaining anonymous.”

I couldn’t begin to guess what God’s purpose is for Bill and I to have a five minute conversation in a tow truck. But one thing leads to another. Who knows what it led to for Bill.

It led me to think about God. And what one thing might be coming next.

“For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways”, declares the Lord. “As the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts.” – Isaiah 55:8-9 

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

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

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

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

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

It’s now or never.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you still go there?”

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

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

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

Memories.

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

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

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

Memory made.

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

When our server left to go get our beverages Annie asked, “Daddy, what’s her name?”

“I don’t know. Why don’t you ask her?”

When she came back delivering our iced tea and lemonade Annie did just that.

“What’s your name?”

“Joanna. What’s your name?”

“Annie.” Annie stuck a straw in her mouth and Joanna went back to the kitchen to bring our food.

When she returned to our table Annie looked at her and said, “Joanna. That’s a pretty name.”

For a brief second Joanna looked disoriented. As though the unexpected compliment was an item she wasn’t used to finding on her daily menu. She smiled. A real smile. Not a Sweet N Low substitute smile, but a 100% real sugar smile that takes over your face when someone has genuinely made your day.

“Thank you, Annie.”

“You’re welcome.”

Joanna went back to the counter with a tiny tear in her eye and a spring in her step. Annie went back to her chicken strips and fries. I sat staring, blessed by a lesson in the power of a kind word as taught by my 6-year old daughter.

A truth about relationships is that when we meet people we either leave them a little bit better or a little bit worse, but we never leave them the same. There is no neutral. People are either a little bit better or a little bit worse for having spent any amount of time with us.

When we live by this truth, it changes the way we view the so called “random encounters” in our day. We have opportunity to significantly bless the lives of others in the briefest of interactions. She may be the person behind the counter of the convenience store who takes your money as you say “$20 on Pump #2″. But what would happen if you linger just a few seconds to ask how she is really doing and really listen? That simple act alone sets you apart from every other person she will ring up that day.

In the past few weeks I’ve tried to be mindful of Annie’s lesson in kindness and take time to do more than the blow and go greetings that are my habit. I’ve tried to stop and ask questions. How are you? How are your kids? What’s happening in your life? How’s work? Once people realize you really care, their life, full to the brim, comes spilling out.

“My daughter keeps having ear infections.”

“My Grandma died.”

“They moved me to a different department at work and I hate it.”

“I’m going through a divorce and I’m at the end of my rope. I can’t do this anymore.”

“My kids are driving me crazy!”

“The doctor says it’s cancer. He thinks he got it all but I’m waiting for the biopsy. Am I scared? You have no idea.”

“There’s nothing for me here anymore. I’m so lonely. I don’t know what to do.” 

Life is hard. For all of us. When we communicate kindness we’re saying, “You’re not alone.” When we communicate kindness we are following God’s example. God is infinitely kind to us. What is mercy and grace but the ultimate kindness? Sparing us the punishment we deserve and in it’s place showering us with favor we don’t deserve?

Kindness is a catalyst. It encourages us to risk being more of who we really are. We relax a bit. We open up a little more. We’re more comfortable and less threatened. Timely words that touch our heart leave us better than before. Because kindness shown to us respects our inherent value as people created in the image of God.

Take time to be kind. Sincere compliments. A listening heart. A helpful hand. We know how good it feels to be on the receiving end of such blessings. Even better to be a giver of kindness.

Go make someone’s day.

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

“Kind looks, kind words, kind acts, and warm handshakes – these are secondary means of grace when men are in trouble and are fighting their unseen battles.” – John Hall

When we were finished I went up to the counter to pay the check. After the cashier handed me my receipt, I turned around. Standing in front of me was a huge man. At least 6’5″ tall and every bit of 280 pounds. He was scary big. He looked mean, like a bulldog in a bad mood. His hair was brown and long, pulled back and held in place by a red bandana. He had a mustache goatee combination that made Fu Manchu look like a pre-pubescent school boy. Over his black sleeveless t-shirt he wore a black leather vest with Harley Davidson patches on it. His arms were tattooed. Some guys have muscles like guns. This guy had missiles with elbows.

I started to step around him when he held up his hand like a stop sign. I’m thinking, oh no, did I sit in his favorite booth? Did I take his parking spot?

In a brass knuckle voice he said, “My little girl said she saw you prayin’ before you ate.”

Great. Big Bad Biker Dude’s little girl saw me praying.

Looking at this guy who could snap me in half like a fortune cookie, I’m wondering how his little girl feels about prayer?

I’m hoping she’s in favor of it.

“Uh…yeah…that was me.”

“Well, I have to tell you that I think…that’s great. We pray, too. Hey, do you have a church home? Because if you don’t we’ve got a good one and you’re welcome to come visit anytime.”

He gave me the cross streets of his church, shook my hand and said, “God bless. Good to meet you.” Watching him drive away I couldn’t help but think he was the perfect man for the church outreach committee. Who could say no to his invitations?

I do it. You do it. We all do it. We judge people. We judge people by their appearance or their behavior. They say you can’t judge a book by its cover, but the truth is most of us are very shallow readers. It’s easier to size people up by what we see or what we hear or what we think we know than it is to take the time to get know people for who they really are.

We do the same thing to God. We size Him up by what we see or what we hear or what we think we know. Because it’s easier than taking the time to get to know Him for who He really is.

For some of us, God is a perfectionist drill sergeant. For others He is an impossible to please task master. For some of us He is a divine policeman, waiting for us to make a mistake so He can bust us down and make us pay. To some of us He is an indifferent, uncaring being; distant and even detached from everything that concerns us.

We also tend to judge God by our experiences. Some of us grew up in homes where our parents shoved God down our throats and when we got old enough to shove back, we pushed God out. Some of us don’t want anything to do with God because we feel like He abandoned us by not answering our prayers the way we hoped.

Some of us judge God by our church experiences. Maybe we’ve been in places where they cared more about getting in our wallet than caring about our soul. Maybe we’ve been hurt physically or emotionally by someone professing to be a Christian.

There’s no denying the damage done by fallen people in a fallen world. We do some pretty fair damage ourselves at times. But sooner or later we need to extend God the same courtesy we desire for ourselves; the chance to define who we are by our own terms.

While the opinions of others can be valuable, no one can describe you better than you. No one can communicate your heart, your convictions, your passions and your dreams better than you. And in the end, whether people like you or not, agree with you or not, or believe you or not, isn’t there a deep gratification that comes from having been given a full hearing?

Sometime soon give a thought to giving God the opportunity to be fully heard. Set aside what your mother thinks. Turn off the slick televangelist with the slicker hair. Put your bad memories and your bias in time-out. Clear the stage of everything you’ve been tripping over or have been using as a prop to support your arguments and your excuses.

Then grab a Bible and read the words of Jesus.

And as you do, just keep this question in front of you:

How does Jesus describe Jesus?

In the end, whether you agree with Him or not, whether you believe Him or not, you will have extended Jesus the same courtesy you desire for yourself; the right to define Himself by His own terms. That’s being intellectually and relationally fair.

In the same way that people would be surprised to learn new things about you when they give you a full hearing, you might be surprised to learn a few new things about Jesus. That He came to seek and save you. That He’s with you for the long haul. That He loves and forgives you no matter what you’ve done. That He was making incredible plans for you before the foundations of the world. That He came to give you life. And an abundant life at that. And that’s just the short list.

Oh, and there’s that one about Jesus being “a friend of sinners.”

That’s my favorite.

“And the Pharisees and their scribes began grumbling at His disciples, saying, “Why do you eat and drink with the tax-collectors and the sinners?” And Jesus answered and said to them, “It is not those who are well who need a physician, but those who are sick. I have not come to call the righteous but sinners to repentance.” – Luke 5:30-32

Still focused on the shirts he answered, “Do you have this in a Small?”

That voice. I’ve heard it before. But not in a very long time. And where? My brain started flipping through the mental file cabinet, trying to match the voice with a name. In less than 15 seconds it came up with the answer. I happened to have a small toy hockey stick in my hand and before I could check myself, I lightly whacked him on the shoulder.

“Ron!”

He spun around, surprised by my aggressive approach to customer service. He looked confused and stared at my name badge until he made the connection.

“Todd!”

We had gone to high school together. I hadn’t seen or spoken with him in 25 years.

We exchanged the customary “what have you been up to?” questions, trying to quickly sum up two decades in less than five minutes. Turns out he had a great job as general manager of a large business in the valley. We talked for a bit, then he went back to watch the game and I went back to work.

This brief meeting got me thinking about a couple things. First, how amazing it is that my brain was able to make a positive ID on a voice I hadn’t heard in 25 years. Second, and more importantly, how much we as human beings can change over time. Were I to ask him, I think Ron would agree that no one would have ever accused him of taking high school too seriously. I remember him as one quick to laugh and always joking around. He liked to drive his cars fast and hard and somewhere there’s a couple transmissions in a junkyard that will attest to that. I don’t remember ever seeing Ron study, though I’m sure he did. At least once in awhile.

25 years later the guy who shook my hand had worked his way up and earned the title of the guy in charge, responsible for many employees. I sure wouldn’t have expected that. But that would be my shortsightedness, not Ron’s.

If asked the question, “What’s happened to you in the last 25 years?” we would each be able to relate a series of decisions and circumstances, events both anticipated and unexpected. Surprises that run the gamut. We could talk about how we aren’t where we expected to be. Maybe we chose the road on purpose or maybe life ran us into the ditch and we ended up on the other side; shaken up and scratched up and on a different path that, good or bad, is what it is. We’d talk of stepping forward and falling backward. At the end of our story would stand a truth so obvious it wouldn’t need mentioning.

The truth that we aren’t the same person we were 25 years ago.

We all have a tendency to freeze people in our mind. We remember them the way they were, like faces in a school yearbook, not allowing them the same grace we extend to ourselves. That being the grace of growth and change. Class clowns sometimes grow into responsible adults with a great sense of humor. Wallflowers sometimes bloom into effervescent, winsome personalities. Reckless risk takers sometimes become conservative, measured businessmen who trade their RPM gauges and double pumper carburetors for Morningstar reports and stock charts.

All of us are frozen in time in someone’s mind. They may remember us as a nice person. They may remember us as a mean person. They may remember us as a good friend. Or as one who hurt them.

We can’t do anything to melt the memory they have of us. All we can do is be the best person we can be going forward. If it’s inevitable that we’ll be frozen in someone’s memory, much better to be remembered as a kind person who cared.

We’ve all grown. We’ve all changed. Bumping into Ron reminded me that I need to extend the grace of growth and change to those I remember. Even if I never see them again. Because God is at work in all of us, whether we realize it or acknowledge it.

Next time you think about someone from long ago and ask, “I wonder how so and so is doing?”, add one more question.

“I wonder if they’ve changed as much as I have?”

Extend grace.

Even in your memories.

The ease with which one can conduct their business tends to make one less disciplined in their schedule. There’s really nothing here you can do at 10 o’clock in the morning that you can’t do at 10 o’clock at night. We even have a do it yourself all-night Post Office. There’s no line at midnight. And if the box you’re mailing is too big to fit in the bin, FedEx-Kinko’s is right up the road, open 24/7.

The common denominator of our increasing conveniences is the absence of human interaction. Technology has made it possible to take care of business without having to talk to anyone. In my little world I can utilize the walk up machine and be my own postmaster. I can scan and check out my own groceries, do my banking at the ATM, and pump my own gas. And we haven’t even mentioned online bill pay and shopping via the Internet. We “talk” with machines and computers every day. A person could go a long time without talking to another human being if they had to. Or wanted to.

That thought is unsettling to me.

When we’re able to do most everything on our own, we stop needing one another. If I can be self-sufficient, why bother getting to know my neighbors? Instead of seeing people in stores as human beings created in the image of God with all the hopes and fears and frustrations that we have, they become a blurry moving mosaic that occasionally bumps our cart as we push through the frozen food aisle to pay and leave. It’s appropriate. Because we really have “checked out”. We’ve stopped hearing the people around us.

I was thinking about this the other day as I walked into Fry’s Food and Drug. Most every grocery store here has a bank inside. The one I frequent is no exception. I’m the next person in line to speak with a teller. It was the start of what I overheard in ten minutes at the store.

The woman at the counter is stuffing a receipt into her checkbook as the Wells Fargo rep asks, “Do you have family coming home for Christmas?”

“I wish I had family coming home. My son’s dead. This will be my second Christmas without him.” The teller looked awkward and surprised. “I’m…sorry. I hope your holiday is… as good as it can be.” Sometimes a kind wish for a sad person is the best we can offer.

“Hey! Excuse me, lady! Wait up!” A rumpled, needs a shave and a haircut 50-something man with eyeglasses sliding off the end of his nose is nearly out of breath. He’s chasing down a harried looking lady in blue sweat pants and faded t-shirt. She turns, eyebrows raised in suspicion.

“Hey! Wait up. You dropped this. Back there at the SRP counter. It was on the floor. I grabbed it for you.” He held out a fistful of crumpled cash. She looked confused. And preoccupied. As though whatever was happening in her day was so suffocating that even the act of a Good Samaritan returning lost money didn’t phase her. She mumbled a “thanks” and took the money back without bothering to count or examine it.

Back by the orange juice section a young mom was weighing her options while her three year old sat in the cart, head bobbing to “Jingle Bell Rock”. Mom noticed and said, “Are you dancing? You’re a good dancer.” She reached for the moving target and tried to pat her daughter on the noggin. I smiled and the little one smiled back, head still bobbing, her ponytail bouncing on the off beat.

At the checkout line two cashiers were having a conversation about people they knew with holiday names. “I once worked with a girl whose name was Mary. Guess what her last name was? Christmas. Imagine. What parents would do that to their kid?”

“Mary Christmas? At the last store I worked at there was a lady in the bakery named Candy. Her last name was Kane. She got teased a lot this time of year.”

On the way out of the store I walked by another conversation. A woman on a cell phone was giving what for to some person on the other end. At least that’s what it seemed like to me. But I can’t be sure. I don’t speak Japanese.

When we take time to listen, we hear more than words. We hear life. We hear people’s fears. We hear their joys. Their frustrations. We hear their pain. Their hopes and expectations. We hear the emotions that are common to all who live on earth. And that’s the key. As much as we think we can do life on our own, we’re all in this together. God created us to live in community. The snippets of conversation I overheard in ten minutes at the grocery store reminded me that I’m not the only person in the world. You’d think that fact would be obvious. But then you don’t know how completely self-absorbed I can be. Listening, among its other benefits, reminds us that life isn’t all about us.

Somewhere within five minutes of my house on Christmas day there will be a lady grieving and a little girl dancing. I know that because I listened. I said a prayer for both. It seemed like something I’d want someone to do for me.

Next time you go to the grocery store, listen. And say a prayer.

Because we’re all in this together.

The setting was a facility owned by a large church in the Phoenix valley. The scene was a music concert. A local band was celebrating the release of their latest CD and they had kindly asked me to join them to play percussion. The members of the band are Christian, but they play at many different venues. They enjoy performing their music and talking about their faith to people on the fringe who, for whatever reason, aren’t comfortable in a church.

After the concert everyone gathered for food at the back of the auditorium. I was working my way past the croissant sandwiches when I noticed that one of the band members seemed to be cornered by a couple whose body language indicated a two against one situation. Not a fair fight.

After loading some meatballs on the paper plate I stepped in and interrupted with a “Hi. I’m Todd. Whatcha’ talkin’ about?” The lady stepped back just far enough to face me. I thought it curious that she and her male friend didn’t offer their names in response to my introduction. They just continued on with what I quickly learned was a not so nice critique of the evening.

The lady was short, sharply dressed with bleach blond hair and a ring on one of her fingers. Dangerous though it is to speculate, I’m guessing she was pushing 50. The gentleman accompanying her was all of that and also nicely attired. Since they didn’t offer their names I don’t know if they were married. Let’s just call them Mr. Tweed (for his jacket) and Ms. Sparkle (for her ring).

Mr. Tweed said, “I just couldn’t find the message in the music. The message wasn’t clear at all.”

“Do you know anything about the band?”, I asked. “About where they play and the audience they try to reach?”

Ms. Sparkle adjusted her ecru wool jacket. “It doesn’t matter. One shouldn’t have to hunt for the message. If you’re Christians then you need to play Christian music.”

“The band members are Christians. However, many times the audience they play to…”

Ms. Sparkle interrupts me. It was the first of several times she stomped on the tail of my sentences. “Those people just come for the music. They probably don’t even listen to the words. They might dance to it, but they don’t listen to the words.”

I can’t believe what I’m hearing. How could people who look so intelligent utter such nonsense?

“Are you telling me that non-Christians don’t think? Have you listened to any popular music lately? Many of the lyrics are loaded with spirituality. That’s the mark of our current generation. People are seeking meaning and they’re looking down every imaginable path to find truth.”

Ms. Sparkle didn’t bat either of her fake eyelashes. She responded with attitude. “You know, we have the money to back this band if we want to. But this concert should have been held at the Legion Hall. Because that’s where this music belongs.”

Everyone has their personal taste in music. That’s no big deal. What astounded me was her arrogant rudeness. And that somehow her money made her opinion superior. It made me angry. I had to remind myself these people claimed to be Christians. It took considerable restraint for me to stay in adult mode and not go off on them. So I asked a question.

“What specifically bothers you about the music you heard tonight?”

“There’s nothing about Jesus in your music.”

“Really? So the arrangement of “For A Thousand Tongues To Sing” wasn’t clear to you? That part about “if we keep silent the rocks will cry out in praise to God” was too subtle?”

Ms. Sparkle ignored the question. “I was at the “Just Give Me Jesus” conference last week and Fernando Ortega was there. He was wonderful! His message was so clear. I understood exactly what he meant in every song.” She sighed like a little school girl as she remembered it. Like she had a little Fernando Ortega statue mounted on her dashboard.

“I’m familiar with his music. It’s good. But you need to remember something. You went to a Christian conference with Christian friends and heard Christian music through your Christian grid of church background. Of course the music made sense to you. How could it not? You know the lingo.”

Ms. Sparkle started to stomp on my sentence again but I jumped ahead just in time.

“My question to you is if a person had attended the same conference and heard the same music only they had no church background, no Christian friends and no Christian world view, would the message of Jesus in the music been equally clear to them?”

Ms. Sparkle stared at me. She looked me straight in the eye. With stone expression and chilling level tone, she answered my question with two simple words.

“Who cares?”

When we focus only on ourselves, our view of God becomes myopic. When our view of God becomes myopic, our faith becomes ingrown. An ingrown faith that concerns itself only with fulfilling personal desires is no faith at all. When we no longer care about the spiritual condition of other human beings created in the image of God, we are pitifully blind and pathetically self-absorbed.

To pick one truth of God as most wonderful is to pick the most beautiful flower in a glorious field of lilies. Yet if I were to choose the most beautiful truth of the Bible, it would be that “Jesus is a friend of sinners.” Which is to say He is a friend of mine. And a friend of yours.

Whatever music they’re playing down at the Legion Hall, I think Jesus would be down there. He loves us sinners. He’d be there and anywhere there are people who need to know they are loved, forgiven, and accepted.

Maybe someday Ms. Sparkle will hear the music and drop in.

“For the Son of Man (Jesus) has come to seek and save the lost.” – Luke 19:10

Panhandlers are fairly common around America West Arena, especially late at night after events. Usually at least one of them will hit you up for money as you’re leaving work and headed for your car. Some ask for food. Most ask for money that they say is for food. Most of them are lying.

But wheelchair guy is across the street. Not someone I’ll have to talk to tonight. He made the green light, though, and headed straight for me. With one leg stretched out stiff and straight on the foot step, he pushed himself with his other leg. He steered with his hands while looking over his shoulder, like driving everywhere in reverse.

The car was on the third level of the garage so, short of running up the stairs, there wasn’t any way to avoid him. Was I trying to avoid him? Honestly? Yes.

He spun his chair around and launched into a well-rehearsed spiel. You know, the overly friendly and enthusiastic greeting that attempts to overwhelm you and get you off balance.

“Excuse me, how ya doin’ tonight?” Verbally he plunged ahead while fumbling with his left hand for a tattered cardboard sign. “All I’ve gots is 75 cents to get something to eat. Can you spare anything?” With his right hand he held up a cheap clear plastic glass and jiggled the three quarters at the bottom. With his left hand he pulled out the sign wedged in the arm rest of his wheelchair. “Homeless and hungry. Please help. In Christ’s love…”  A nice variation on the typical “God Bless”. You can never really know if they mean it or if it just helps with the donations.

Even though I’ve been in this situation many times, I’d be lying to say I’m comfortable with it. Sometimes it’s easy to say no. I could say no. I could walk away. But my eye was stuck on his sign and the last three words scrawled in black. “In Christ’s love…”

I reached in my pocket and pulled out my wallet. All I had was a $10 bill. I gave it to him and said, “This is all I’ve got.” He looked twice and surprised. “That’ll do! Thank you!” Kicking his worn out Nike against the asphalt he pushed away and down the sidewalk.

Our most honest conversations are the ones we have in our mind. Conversations no one else hears.

“A $10 bill. Am I crazy? Why did I use my $1′s buying dinner tonight? Great. I just let a panhandler talk me out of $10 when my finances are tight. He’s probably on his way to a six-pack of beer or worse. And I gave him the money. And that sign. “In Christ’s love”. Right. Every panhandler puts “God Bless” or something like it on their sign. For all I know the guy was faking it and he’s parking his wheel chair in the alley while I’m out $10 bucks. Was I just so stupid to hand that money over? Then again, maybe he will use it for food. Who knows? That’s what’s maddening about this. Who knows?”

The next day I still felt conflicted. And the conflict produced some questions.

Why am I so concerned about the stewardship of a ten dollar bill when giving it to a homeless person? And why don’t I apply the same level of scrutiny to myself when I spend ten dollars on something I don’t need? Why am I so high and mighty in trying to discern whether or not the money I give to a panhandler will be spent judiciously?

Ten bucks. That’s a cheap pizza. So why am I wondering about the stewardship of the ten dollar bill I handed to the guy in a wheelchair when I don’t give it a thought if I’m chewing on a slice of Canadian bacon and mushroom from Hungry Howie’s? (With sesame crust, of course.) I don’t always spend money wisely. So where do I get off deciding whether or not the recipient of my pocket change is worthy to receive it?

What if God used my thought process when deciding whether or not to give me something? What conversation would God have with Himself? “How do I know Todd won’t waste it? How do I know he won’t go spend it on something foolish?Something that’s harmful to him? And is he working hard to be responsible for himself? Is he asking for this because he’s lazy? Or does he genuinely need it?”

Any way you look at it, God is generous with us. All of us. Or as the Bible puts it, “He sends His rain on the righteous and the unrighteous.” (Matthew 5:45) Jesus also said, “If you, being evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Heavenly Father give what is good to those who ask Him?” (Matthew 7:11) Say what you will about God. He is a Giver.

“In Christ’s Love”. We can never know if they mean it or it just helps with the donations. Yet given a choice, it’s better to be generous and wrong than stingy and right. A CPA could argue that from a purely financial standpoint, God is crazy to keep giving to us. We don’t always manage the money well. But God keeps giving to us in abundance.

If God’s ok with being crazy in His giving, maybe we can risk being a little crazy ourselves.

Swea City’s a small place. About 700 people, provided everyone’s home. “I’ve been there. In fact, my aunt used to live there.” I ask her aunt’s name. “Gladys Hanson.” I tell the lady that Gladys was a member of my church for as long as I can remember and one of my Grandparents’ closest friends.

I’m at an outdoor art festival in Scottsdale, Arizona. I strike up a conversation with a young couple who say they are from Seattle. It rains a lot there but it doesn’t snow like it does in the place they grew up. “Where is that?”, I ask.

“Iowa. The Sioux City area. Actually, a small town called LeMars.” LeMars.

“Did you go to LeMars Central High School?” They did.

“Do you know Glendon Peterson?” They said he was their favorite teacher.

“Glendon is my uncle.”

I’m at my day job in Phoenix, Arizona, on the phone with a lady in Bismark, North Dakota. Reviewing paperwork she has faxed me, I notice that she’s written for a couple magazines that I’m familiar with. “I go to a writer’s conference every year in Glorieta, New Mexico”, she says. I ask if she attended this past fall. She was there. “Then you’ve seen me. Remember the band who did the music for the conference? I was the guy playing percussion.”

Of everything I learned in my undergraduate major of psychology, one study has always intrigued me. A group of researchers got together to test the “small world” theory. They gathered phone books from all over the country. Opening one at random they would blindly point to a name. “John Jones in Tampa, Florida.” Then they would open another phone book and randomly select another person. “Marie Morrison in Holbrook, Arizona”. They would send a letter to Marie Morrison with John Jones’ name and address and these instructions: “Don’t send this letter directly to John Jones. Just send it to any person you know and have them send it to any person they know until someone says, “Hey, I know John Jones!” They repeated this experiment hundreds of times.

Guess how many times, on average, the letter had to be mailed before someone knew “John Jones”?

Five times.

Only five times before someone said, “Hey, I know that person!” It really is a small world.

When we go beyond the immediate fascination that only five or six degrees separate us from every person on the planet, we see the incredible impact we can have on our world. Even if we live our entire life in one place. As far as I know, Gladys Hanson never left our small town. Yet years later and 1,500 miles removed I was able to tell her niece of her godly example and treasured friendship to my Grandparents. My Uncle Glendon spent his entire teaching career at one school. His passion for excellence in the classroom is an unforgettable example to his students who now live all over the country. I doubt he would ever have thought he’d be the topic of discussion between two strangers at an art festival in Scottsdale.

In Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount, He talks about the positive influence we can have on those around us. He likens us to a lamp that is put on a stand so it gives light to everyone in the house. Jesus goes on to say, “In the same way, let your light shine before men, that they may see your good deeds and praise your Father in heaven.” (Matthew 5:16) A lamp doesn’t run about trying to illuminate the entire world. It stays in one place and lights up the room it’s in.

What you do makes a difference. Your influence extends far beyond your awareness. You may live and die within 100 miles of your birthplace, yet you’re still only five people removed from everyone else on the planet. In that light, there’s really no need to be famous. We need only be faithful.

When we’re faithful to be kind, when we’re faithful to do our best with the talents and abilities God has given us, when we’re faithful to be who we are where we live; the ripples of our life well-lived will roll across the ocean of humanity. Guaranteed.

Because it only takes five postage stamps before someone says, “Hey, I know you!”

It really is a small world. In your corner of it, be faithful to make a difference. You just might be the topic of conversation for two strangers waiting for their Jamba Juice.

Several months ago I worked the Phil Collins concert. I was at my stand selling T-shirts and other merchandise when in the crush of people a little girl appeared in front of me on the other side of the table. There with her mother, the little one looked to be about 9 or 10 years old. Way too young to be at a concert, let alone know who Phil Collins is. But she seemed like a true fan. She was giggly excited. All bouncy and wiggly and grinning and trying to decide which T-shirt to buy.

In the middle of her decision she spun toward her Mom and blurted, “Isn’t this just incredible?!!!”

“Yes, this is incredible!”

I said to the little one, “You seem really glad to be here.”

“I so am!”

Not five minutes earlier they had been upstairs headed for their seats in the nose bleed section of the arena. You know, the “Section 223 – Row 50″ seats where the band on stage looks like a musical flea circus.

A man stopped to talk with them as they were finding their way up the steep stairs to the upper row.

“Are those your seats up there?”

“Yes.”

“They don’t look like very good seats.”

“Yeah, well…it was the best we could do”, said the Mom.

Looking down at the little girl, the man asked, “Do you like Phil Collins?”

“Are you kidding?!!! I LOVE Phil Collins!”

Looking up toward the top row, the man said, “Those seats aren’t very good. I think you need better ones.”

He reached in his pocket and pulled out an envelope.

Two tickets.

Floor seats.

Front row.

Dead center.

The man was with the band.

It was the little girl’s front row smile that said “Thank you!” when I handed her the T-shirt. She pulled her Mother into the portico and down the stairs to the arena floor.

That would have been enough, wouldn’t it? To tell your friends at school that you were going to the Phil Collins concert only to come back the next day and say you went from last row to front row? And what street smart fourth grader on the playground would believe that? You’d have to show your ticket stub to prove it and how much fun would that be? To flash the evidence and say, “See? I told you!”

That would have been enough, right?

In the middle of the last song of the set, right before the encore, Phil Collins came off the stage down to the front row. He gave the little girl a big hug, a kiss on the cheek and held up the microphone so she could sing the chorus with him. There was her front row smile, big as life up on the JumboTron, for 10,000 people to see. Excited? She was absolutely out of her mind.

The kids on the playground will never believe this.

Sometimes, just when you think it couldn’t possibly get any better, it does.

We live in a broken world. Because we do, our view of the good stuff on the stage is often from Row 50 in Section 223. The irony is when we do get front row seats on this fallen planet, it’s usually to an ugly or painful event we’d rather not be close to. Chronic health problems, financial stress, strained relationships, or the loss of someone we love. Those seats are always front row, dead center.

We live in a broken world, but we’re loved by a gracious God. A God who promised a long time ago that He would never leave us or forsake us in this broken world. Which is to say that wherever our seats happen to be at any given life event, He promises to be right there with us.

That would be enough, right? To have the promise of God that we will never do life alone? That He will always be here to guide and encourage? To love and strengthen and comfort?

That would be enough, right?

But God goes one better. He promises that all His lavish, gracious love will never end. Not in this broken world, nor in His perfect world that’s yet to come. Someday, when the show’s over down here, we’ll be front row, dead center up there. An unobstructed, up close view of our Savior. The One who came down off His stage so we could sing along.

Sometimes, just when you think it couldn’t possibly get any better…

It does.

“But because of His great love for us, God, who is rich in mercy, made us alive with Christ even when we were dead in transgressions – it is by grace you have been saved. And God raised us up with Christ and seated us with Him in the heavenly realms in Christ Jesus, in order that in the coming ages He might show the incomparable riches of His grace, expressed in His kindness to us in Christ Jesus.” – Ephesians 2:4-7

Unlocking the door on my Mazda and getting in the way I’ve done thousands of times, I stopped half way. The feeling didn’t hit me at first. Then it did. Like a size-16 Tony Lama boot kick in the gut.

Shattered glass covered the seat and floorboard. Someone had, in broad daylight, smashed out the back windshield of my truck and stolen my stereo. The console had been cracked open with a pry bar, the wires clipped. They took the loose change in the ashtray and, for some curious reason, stole the bottle of hand sanitizer that was sitting on the seat.

I’d like to say I uttered something spiritual at that moment. Something that reflected a Christian maturity beyond my years. But I didn’t.

I cussed.

Then I began to process my thoughts.

Why did this happen? Why did it happen to me? I feel violated. My personal space has been invaded. Someone vandalized my truck and stole my stereo. Now my hand is bleeding because I cut it on the broken glass from my window that they smashed in my truck. Why would anyone do this? I’m really, really angry.

Maybe the next stereo I put in could have some kind of device that would blow up in their face if they tried to steal it. Nothing fatal. Just something that would leave them stunned and staggering blindly around the parking lot until the police came to take them away. Hey, they would deserve it, right?

Whoever did it was a small-timer, says Obed, my police officer friend. “Big-timers wouldn’t have stopped at the stereo. They would have stolen your truck.” Somehow that doesn’t make me feel better. The police didn’t help, either. “I know you won’t want to hear this, but it happens all the time here. We’ll take your information and give you a case number, but honestly, there’s nothing we can do.”

The insurance company said there was something they could do. After, of course, I paid my $250 deductible. Now I was wishing for some of that sub-zero Iowa weather. Grandpa used to tell me cold winters kept out the snakes and the riffraff, both of which abound in Phoenix.

With no radio to listen to, there was plenty of time to think on the way home. I’d processed some thoughts. Now it was time to process my theology. Did God understand me cussing first and thinking after? Did He understand my anger? And we’re supposed to give thanks in all situations. What was there to give thanks for? However mad I was, I’m sure other people in the valley had worse things happen to them today. And Obed was right. They didn’t steal my truck. I had to admit that was a good reason to be thankful.

Somewhere between Rural and McClintock on the eastbound 60 it occurred to me that I was using the word “my” a lot. My window. My stereo. My loose change in the ash tray. My truck.

My, my, my.

I stopped at Fry’s on the way home to pick up something for dinner. The checkout clerk asked if I found everything ok and was there anything else he could do for me. “Not unless you can find the person who smashed out my window and stole the stereo out of my truck.”

The guy behind me in line looked like a lost surfer in search of a beach. He set his groceries on the conveyor and said, “Dude! That really sucks. But ya gotta remember, it’s only stuff, man. It’s only material stuff.”

The only thing missing was a voice from heaven saying, “Thus ends God’s lesson for today.” God used faded sweatshirt flip-flop guy to school me in theology. It’s only stuff. What’s more, it’s not my stuff. It’s God’s stuff. In the end, stuff either wears out, gets stolen, or burns up. It’s only stuff. What matters is what we store up in heaven. That’s what lasts.

On the last mile home I thought about the person or persons who damaged my, uh, God’s truck. How could anything good come from this? Maybe they steal the stereo but don’t sell it. Maybe they keep it and put it in their own car. And maybe sometime when they’re listening to it the tuner breaks and sticks on one station. A Christian station. And maybe after they cuss and get mad about the stereo not working they turn it off.

But they get tired of not having any tunes so they turn it on and they hear something that sparks in their heart and reminds them of their need for God and maybe, just maybe, they get saved.

Ok, probably not. It’s just a fantasy to soothe my anger. But stranger things have happened. Like God loving a broken person like me enough to send His only Son to die that I might have life.

In everyone’s book but God’s, that was a real long shot.

Anyway, it was something to think about again last Saturday when I cussed again. This time a bullet hole in the driver’s window on my truck. Shattered.

Surfer dude wasn’t around this time, but his words linger. “Dude, ya gotta remember, it’s only stuff, man. It’s only material stuff.”

True.

And comprehensive glass coverage is definitely something to be thankful for.

“Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy and thieves break in and steal. But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where moth and rust do not destroy and thieves do not break in and steal. For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.”
 - Matthew 6:19-21

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.

To my right, a guy in a chair is trying to keep hold of a squirming, screaming pre-schooler. To my left, a young mother bounces a yelling toddler on one knee while rocking a baby in a car seat with her foot. In front of me, a long zig-zag of people with weary, exasperated expressions. They face the same direction like cattle in a storm, all focusing on the service window. Sitting there in the seat that we all want to be in, is a lady…leisurely reading a book.

When I ask the security officer if this is normal, he looks at his watch and yawns. I guess it’s a good thing I’m here at the Social Security office. By the time I get waited on, I’ll look old enough to collect.

When waiting in a line, one looks for any encouraging sign of forward movement. If it’s the grocery store you peek over the shoulder of the customer in front of you and say to yourself, “What’s he got? Milk, Doritos, green beans, bananas, yogurt, pork chops…great! Only six items. I might get home before my Rocky Road melts to slush.” If it’s the line at the bank, you look for the ratio of “teller windows” to “occupied teller windows”. Eight windows with only two “closed” signs means you have a good chance of being back in your car before your savings bond matures.

If it’s the line at the Department of Motor Vehicles, there is no encouragement to be found. You just pray your dog will still remember you by the time you get home.

I’m looking for something, anything that will encourage me while standing in this line of frustrated taxpayers. There are several signs prominently displayed on the walls. None offer hope. “No Smoking”. “No Firearms Allowed In This Building”. And “Abusive Language May Be Cause For The Refusal Of Service.” If you see a sign forbidding something, you can be sure it’s not to prevent a hypothetical scenario. I wonder who’d be foolish enough to stand in a line that stretches all the way to Tucson only to mouth off to a customer service rep behind the counter.

I didn’t have to wonder long.

“I’m not leaving here until I get an answer to my question!” The book lady put aside her novel, yelling at the man behind the counter. “Tell me what I have to do!”

“I’ve told you already several times. You need to find out if the hospital has already filed for a Social Security number. If not, the parents have to provide identification and file for the child’s number. It’s right here in the instructions.” The manager, wearing a button-down shirt and tie that matched his gray hair, was quickly losing patience.

“The person I spoke to on your 800 number told me to come here. Now I’m here and you’re telling me I can’t get what I came for. I’ve been here for two hours and I’m not leaving until I get what I came for.” A sit-in at the Social Security office? Could you please move over one chair and continue your protest while the rest of us get on with our lives?

“I’ve told you what you need to do. Multiple times. We have other customers that we need to take care of, so please take your information and go.”

“You’ll have to get a cop to throw me out because I’m not leaving.”

If there’s going to be a floor show, I can stand here a little longer.

The manager nodded to someone in the back and the security officer made his way to the front. Regretting her threat but too stubborn to admit it, she hissed at the manager, “Anyone touches me and I’ll sue!”

As the security guard stood next to her chair, she filibustered for another ten minutes. Alternating between rude and ridiculous, her behavior was embarrassing. Even the screaming pre-schooler stopped to watch. He seemed surprised that his tantrum was one-upped by a grown-up.

When she finally left, escorted by the now wide awake security officer, everyone in line breathed deep and smiled at each other. We were all thinking the same thing and I waited for someone to say it out loud. For someone to say how much of our time this woman had wasted with her stubborn attitude and refusal to listen to the person trying to help her. To say how rude she was to the manager. But no one did.

The retired man behind me felt the need to break the tension by changing the subject. “Ya know, It wasn’t so hard to get my first Social Security card. Back then it was against the rules to laminate it. But I did anyway. Wanna see?” He pulled out his original Social Security card issued in 1948 and held it out for us to look at. We gathered around, strangers all, and looked at his card as if it were an ancient artifact.

Standing in line at the Social Security office I was reminded of four truths:

Few sights are more pathetic than adults behaving like children.

When we don’t hold our tongue and choose to be rude, we hurt people.

When we do hold our tongue and choose to be silently kind, we bring dignity to awkward moments.

When we offer a kind word in the wake of an awkward moment, we draw people together.

“A gentle answer turns away wrath, but a harsh word stirs up anger. The tongue of the wise commends knowledge, but the mouth of the fool gushes folly.” – Proverbs 15:1-2

She must have asked the question at least three times but I didn’t hear her over the spray of the garden hose. It was a Saturday afternoon during my last year of seminary. I was washing my truck in the driveway and a couple of stubborn tar spots on the bottom of the driver’s door were receiving my undivided attention. When it finally registered that someone was talking to me I looked up to find a girl standing on the sidewalk, a polite distance away.

“Excuse me”, she said again, “Could I possibly get something to drink? I’m walking to a friend’s house over on the other side of Mesa Drive and I forgot to grab a water bottle before I left.”

“Sure. No problem. Wait here. I’ll be right back.”, is what I said. “Thanks”, she said and smiled a very pretty smile as she unshouldered her bag and set it down beside her. It was a big bag. One of those oversized canvas duffle bags that causes certain husbands to wade into the perennially fruitless marital argument over luggage and how he could live out of a bag that large for a year so why can’t his wife survive out of it for a short weekend?

The bag looked heavy. Too heavy for a girl to be carrying down the street on a long walk. The black canvas matched the color of her duster coat and leather lace up ropers that peeked out from the legs of her boot cut jeans. Tossing the hose off into the grass and turning toward the house to get her something to drink, I knew this girl had a story. I wondered if I’d have a chance to hear it.

“I’m Todd”, I said, handing her a bottle of water and a phone. “I thought you could call your friend and see if they can come pick you up. That way you wouldn’t have to walk.” She touch-toned a number, got an answering machine and left a message. She handed the phone back to me with a thank you.

“I’m Annie”, she said, extending her hand. I shook it and tried to find the doorway into a conversation.

“So you’re headed to your friend’s house?”

“Yeah, it’s a couple miles from here.” Standing there in front of me she didn’t look any older than 17. I was thinking of my next question but didn’t need to ask it.

“My friend said I could stay at her house for awhile. I just need some time to think. My boyfriend and I broke up ten days ago and I’m not getting along very well with my parents, so this is probably the best. At least for now.” Well, I thought to myself, that explains the bag.

“I know you’re not supposed to ask a lady how old they are”, I said, apologizing in advance,”but will you forgive me if I ask you anyway?” She laughed at that. Like a sudden breeze it momentarily diffused the heavy cloud of reality she had just admitted to living under.

“I’m 19. Almost 20.”

Annie ran a hand through her shoulder length brown hair and pushed it off her face. Almost 20. The time in life when your convictions run faster than your life experience. Still, knowing how old she was made me feel somewhat relieved. When you’re almost 20 you can’t be considered a runaway. At least not technically. But she was running away. She knew that. And she seemed to know that I suspected it, too.

Her eyes caught my eyes looking down at the black canvas duffle resting against her leg. “That’s a nice bag. I’ve thought about getting one of those. You can put lots of stuff in it.”

“Thanks. I like it, too. I’ve got just about everything in here right now. My clothes. My boots. Some books. Even the things my boyfriend gave me.” She tugged on the button hole of her coat. “This duster is…or was, my boyfriend Larry’s. I bought it for him as a birthday present. But that was before…” Her voice trailed off as she remembered she was talking to a total stranger.

“Before you broke up?”, I offered. “Yeah. Before we broke up.” Her matter-of-factness wasn’t enough to mask the sadness in her voice.

“So what caused the break up?”

“I’m not sure, really. I thought we were happy together. His friends didn’t like me spending time with him. They don’t have girlfriends. I think they talked him into breaking up with me.” Annie tried hard to make her assessment sound convincing. Whether it was true or not, it sounded flimsy and she knew it.

Stuffing her hands into her coat pockets she looked down and ran the toe of her boot along a crack in the sidewalk. Then Annie took a deep breath. The kind of deep, serious breath you take right before you shoot straight with the person you’re talking to. The kind of breath you take right before you’re honest with yourself.

“To tell you the truth, up until ten days ago I was living with Larry. I thought for sure we would get married soon. I did everything for him. I put everything I had into our relationship. Because I wanted to. When we broke up, I moved back home with my parents. It’s been awful, being apart from Larry. I really love him.”

She bit down on her lower lip and looked across the street. “And, honestly, I’m really scared right now because I think I might be pregnant and Larry doesn’t know.”

It was an awkward moment. I wanted to let her know I cared but I didn’t know what to say. I reached in to the pile of phrases tumbling around in my mind like shirts in a dryer and grabbed one.

“I’m really sorry to hear that. I don’t know anything about your situation except what you’ve told me. But I’ve listened to lots of people’s problems. I’d be happy to listen to you.”

She gave me a hopeful look. “What do you do?”

“I’m a seminary student.” As soon as I said it, I questioned the wisdom of it. Saying you’re a pastor causes people to either open up like a book or close up like a clam. Occupational hazard, I suppose. I prayed that she would tell me more about this chapter of her life.

When she heard my answer she took a literal step back and swallowed hard on her water. “Wow. Really. That’s, uh,…that’s nice.”

She said “that’s nice” as if it were the main ingredient in her recipe for clam chowder. This conversation was over.

She reached down and snapped together the leather handles on her bag, paused, then stood up again.

“I used to go to church. In fact, I used to go a lot. All the time. You’d probably never believe it but I was one of the main leaders in our youth group. I was even one of the counselors at a Christian camp for high school kids.” And for a moment after she said it, she was quiet. I could almost see her memories of those days flash across her brown eyes. With a tear, Annie looked up and said, “I guess I should have taken my own advice.”

We talked for a while longer. We talked about God and I told Annie what she already knew. That God loved her and that there was nothing she could ever do to cause God to stop loving her. We talked honestly about choices and consequences. Mostly we talked about the grace of God. It was 20 minutes of real life conversation.

Just then her friend pulled up in a white Chevy 4×4. I picked up Annie’s bag for her and set it in the back of the truck. It was every bit as heavy as it looked. We shook hands again and she thanked me for the water. I thanked her for the talk and promised that I would pray for her. They pulled away from the curb, did a U-turn in the middle of the street and waved as they drove off.

I still pray for Annie. And when I do I can’t help but wonder if she’s still carrying that heavy bag.

“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from Me, For I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.” – Matthew 11:28-30