There are times in life when a story squeezes a dollop of your heart out of your chest and carries it like a freshly laid egg into God's kitchen to be fried on the griddle of Truth. You always get your heart back, but it never looks the same. Often the only decision left to make is scrambled or over-easy.
Aubrey Sampson is a friend of mine who has agreed to share such a story with us. I’m not ashamed to say that my eyes were sweating half way through this story.
Grab a Kleenex and be blessed.
(Note: This video was originally prepared for a writing and speaking course that both Aubrey and I are enrolled in.)
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Friday, July 22, 2011
Sloppy Ice Cream Offerings
The slumping, squishy remnants of my daughter’s ice cream cone perched precariously on the tips of my thumb and two fingers. A combination of summer heat, soft serve, and capacious amounts of saliva had conspired to reduce this work of culinary and engineering art into a mass of goo that could barely support its own weight.
It takes a real man to eat something like that.
I shoved that half eaten glob of lukewarm sweetness into my mouth, and some primitive synapse in the back of my head undoubtedly fired off a message to my gag reflex. I am a father though, and the highly evolved electrical superhighways that make up my paternal neural pathways steered that erroneous communication into a place from whence it shall never return.
That means I liked it.
There is something special about ice cream that was never meant to be mine, especially if it is offered to me freely by a certain charming, chubby cheeked preschooler.
Having said all that, here is the lesson for today:
You currently sit on God’s thumb and two fingers, right about at eye level. He’s big enough that if you glance sheepishly His way all that you’re going to see are His eyes. He is fully aware that your past is a half digested mess, your dreams have wilted in the heat of life, and parts inside of you that were meant to hold you up are bowing under the strain of… well…you.
In spite of all you are and are not, take a look at Him again. Do you see the lines at the corners of His eyes? They are laugh lines. They are there because He is happy just to have you. If you would only allow Him to consume you, you would finally understand why you are here.
You were made to make Him smile.
It takes a real man to eat something like that.
I shoved that half eaten glob of lukewarm sweetness into my mouth, and some primitive synapse in the back of my head undoubtedly fired off a message to my gag reflex. I am a father though, and the highly evolved electrical superhighways that make up my paternal neural pathways steered that erroneous communication into a place from whence it shall never return.
That means I liked it.
There is something special about ice cream that was never meant to be mine, especially if it is offered to me freely by a certain charming, chubby cheeked preschooler.
Having said all that, here is the lesson for today:
You currently sit on God’s thumb and two fingers, right about at eye level. He’s big enough that if you glance sheepishly His way all that you’re going to see are His eyes. He is fully aware that your past is a half digested mess, your dreams have wilted in the heat of life, and parts inside of you that were meant to hold you up are bowing under the strain of… well…you.
In spite of all you are and are not, take a look at Him again. Do you see the lines at the corners of His eyes? They are laugh lines. They are there because He is happy just to have you. If you would only allow Him to consume you, you would finally understand why you are here.
You were made to make Him smile.
Friday, July 15, 2011
Cowboys and Jesus
When I grew up I wanted to be more than a cowboy; I wanted to be a rancher. My days would begin with a bowl of steaming oatmeal and a scalding cup of coffee, black as sin. (Truth be told I probably enjoyed fruit loops and hot chocolate more, but I knew I’d have to change my ways if I was going to earn my spurs.) I made my mom shop for my clothes at the local cowboy store. I begged for her to buy me a lasso when she was paying for my Wranglers, but she was harder to move than a Baptist mule (sorry mom). My favorite shirt was baby blue. It had a horse’s head framed by a star stitched onto each breast pocket. Ooooh ya, it was hotter than a can of campfire beans.
I needed a poster for my room to complete my western motif, and found one the next time I visited the nearest Christian bookstore. Like all good boys, I picked one that had a quaint saying on it that went something like, In God’s Pasture You Can Run Free. It pictured a horse with his mane flowing, the background blurred with the effort of matching the camera to his excessive speed.
I was really happy about the way I’d spent my parent’s money. For about a day.
The next morning I lay in bed still pining for that lasso. I could have negotiated better, I thought. I could have managed without those new jeans. I would’ve gone to school in nothing but my tighty whities if only I could’ve had that rope in my hands.
It was the poster though, that really chapped my rawhide. I didn’t know what exactly was wrong with it, only that there was something about it that sat like a burr against my tender western tush.
It was only years later that I had the insight to understand what the issue was. Right behind that stallion was stationed a fence. A sturdy, white picket wall against the wilderness. The supposedly Christian side was all manicured and safe. On the other side was… evil?
Okay, I’ll buy that. On the other side was evil. Sure. What I will no longer stand for is the idea that evil gets the wild real estate, or that the powers of darkness get a monopoly on the adventure and excitement.
The Bible has the more correct picture. Adam and Eve were living in paradise. I think the guy who wrote the story was a gardener, hence the reference to a garden of some sort. Having lived in Africa I think it was more than a few rows of carrots and beets, and more likely resembled a remote tropical shoreline.
They had the world, and settled for one stinking tree.
Do you want paradise back? Are you looking for the untamed life? I think what you’re missing is the Kingdom of Grace. Let me introduce you to my friend Jesus.
I needed a poster for my room to complete my western motif, and found one the next time I visited the nearest Christian bookstore. Like all good boys, I picked one that had a quaint saying on it that went something like, In God’s Pasture You Can Run Free. It pictured a horse with his mane flowing, the background blurred with the effort of matching the camera to his excessive speed.
I was really happy about the way I’d spent my parent’s money. For about a day.
The next morning I lay in bed still pining for that lasso. I could have negotiated better, I thought. I could have managed without those new jeans. I would’ve gone to school in nothing but my tighty whities if only I could’ve had that rope in my hands.
It was the poster though, that really chapped my rawhide. I didn’t know what exactly was wrong with it, only that there was something about it that sat like a burr against my tender western tush.
It was only years later that I had the insight to understand what the issue was. Right behind that stallion was stationed a fence. A sturdy, white picket wall against the wilderness. The supposedly Christian side was all manicured and safe. On the other side was… evil?
Okay, I’ll buy that. On the other side was evil. Sure. What I will no longer stand for is the idea that evil gets the wild real estate, or that the powers of darkness get a monopoly on the adventure and excitement.
The Bible has the more correct picture. Adam and Eve were living in paradise. I think the guy who wrote the story was a gardener, hence the reference to a garden of some sort. Having lived in Africa I think it was more than a few rows of carrots and beets, and more likely resembled a remote tropical shoreline.
They had the world, and settled for one stinking tree.
Do you want paradise back? Are you looking for the untamed life? I think what you’re missing is the Kingdom of Grace. Let me introduce you to my friend Jesus.
Monday, July 11, 2011
Poker and Jesus
My stack of poker chips sat there in front of me, scowling. I had disappointed them, I think, using them like a holiday trailer full of cheap harlots- to be enjoyed, yes, then quickly disposed of. I’m under no illusions that they left for any other reason. I had behaved shamefully and treated them poorly.
Troy spoke from far away behind his own stack, his eyes just visible over the top of the largest denominations. They aren’t scowling, he said, they’re smiling. I looked at him quizzically. Because they’re coming home to daddy, he answered, and his eyes got that twinkle.
I chuckled way down deep in my heart, and wanted to punch him in the face.
Playing cards with the boys during our annual motorbike trip is cheap fun, and for entertainment purposes only. (Troy will be able to entertain his wife and son to a half dozen donuts thanks to me.) I tend to play loose and reckless, trusting a gut feeling that often has more to do with an assortment of snacks and beverages than the cards on the table.
So anyway, there I sat financing my friends’ fun, and I thought of how often I use the very same strategy in real life. The stakes are higher of course, but I tend not to dwell on that. My opponent is wiser, understands the odds, and knows when I’m bluffing. I still play loose and reckless. It’s rarely turns out well for yours truly.
Whatever lessons I’ve learned from poker, what amazes me is how long I spent thinking I was playing against God. He was there to destroy me, I thought. I felt like I was losing everything and it was all still just a game to him. Hand after hand, my debts piled up at just about the same rate as my desperation.
But it was never God I was playing against. God is the one who paid everything he owned to buy into the very game I was so proficiently losing.
Don’t forget it: Jesus sat down at your table and played your losing hand so that you could walk away. If you knew what it cost him, you wouldn’t be walking around trying to find another game.
Troy spoke from far away behind his own stack, his eyes just visible over the top of the largest denominations. They aren’t scowling, he said, they’re smiling. I looked at him quizzically. Because they’re coming home to daddy, he answered, and his eyes got that twinkle.
I chuckled way down deep in my heart, and wanted to punch him in the face.
Playing cards with the boys during our annual motorbike trip is cheap fun, and for entertainment purposes only. (Troy will be able to entertain his wife and son to a half dozen donuts thanks to me.) I tend to play loose and reckless, trusting a gut feeling that often has more to do with an assortment of snacks and beverages than the cards on the table.
So anyway, there I sat financing my friends’ fun, and I thought of how often I use the very same strategy in real life. The stakes are higher of course, but I tend not to dwell on that. My opponent is wiser, understands the odds, and knows when I’m bluffing. I still play loose and reckless. It’s rarely turns out well for yours truly.
Whatever lessons I’ve learned from poker, what amazes me is how long I spent thinking I was playing against God. He was there to destroy me, I thought. I felt like I was losing everything and it was all still just a game to him. Hand after hand, my debts piled up at just about the same rate as my desperation.
But it was never God I was playing against. God is the one who paid everything he owned to buy into the very game I was so proficiently losing.
Don’t forget it: Jesus sat down at your table and played your losing hand so that you could walk away. If you knew what it cost him, you wouldn’t be walking around trying to find another game.
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
The Fleas of a Thousand Camels
“May the fleas of a thousand camels infest your armpits.”
It was with these words of affectionate harassment texted from my uncle to my brother that our British Columbia fishing adventure began. My brother, dad and I were waiting patiently for our flight at the Calgary International Airport. My uncle being the more intrepid traveler, or perhaps a general sucker for punishment, had decided to drive with a friend the 1357 kilometers to Prince Rupert. His poetic little rant was no doubt in response to… well… I can’t recall! It certainly wouldn’t have been because of any disrespectful, unwarranted comments on my brother’s part.
We all finally made it to Prince Rupert and settled into our rooms at the Moby Dick Hotel. No, I’m not kidding- that’s what it was called. It was a nice place. Yup, nice. They had beds, televisions, and other things you might expect to find in hotels in Canada. Things such as a Tim Horton’s just a block away. I’m telling you, it’s all about location!
Our fishing guide, who was born in P.R. and had lived there all his life, said that in all his years he had never seen July weather as bad as this last weekend. The fish we baited must have agreed with him and decided to stay home instead of eating out. You might think this was discouraging for us, but it was actually to our benefit. We only had one cooler of fish to pay extra baggage fees for when we returned home to our [very supportive] wives. Some hotshot group of guys who dubbed themselves the wolf pack (ooo, aahhh, very manly!) must’ve paid a fortune for the eight coolers they had to haul around! Dang overachievers… gripe grumble grouse.
We didn’t reel in much fish, it’s true. What we did catch, however, will stay with us a little longer than a few fillets. We caught a glimpse of the histories that make us brothers, sons, and fathers.
The victories won and the losses endured.
The snoring that begs to be smothered, and the alarms set to the wrong time zones.
The honesty that exposes our vulnerabilities and the grace that guards our backsides.
I have to admit that I was a bit jealous of the wolf pack (you may not have caught on to that earlier). It is a cool name- wolf pack. I wish we could’ve had a groovy name, but when I think of the guys I spent this last long weekend with only one word comes to mind:
Men.
It was with these words of affectionate harassment texted from my uncle to my brother that our British Columbia fishing adventure began. My brother, dad and I were waiting patiently for our flight at the Calgary International Airport. My uncle being the more intrepid traveler, or perhaps a general sucker for punishment, had decided to drive with a friend the 1357 kilometers to Prince Rupert. His poetic little rant was no doubt in response to… well… I can’t recall! It certainly wouldn’t have been because of any disrespectful, unwarranted comments on my brother’s part.
We all finally made it to Prince Rupert and settled into our rooms at the Moby Dick Hotel. No, I’m not kidding- that’s what it was called. It was a nice place. Yup, nice. They had beds, televisions, and other things you might expect to find in hotels in Canada. Things such as a Tim Horton’s just a block away. I’m telling you, it’s all about location!
Our fishing guide, who was born in P.R. and had lived there all his life, said that in all his years he had never seen July weather as bad as this last weekend. The fish we baited must have agreed with him and decided to stay home instead of eating out. You might think this was discouraging for us, but it was actually to our benefit. We only had one cooler of fish to pay extra baggage fees for when we returned home to our [very supportive] wives. Some hotshot group of guys who dubbed themselves the wolf pack (ooo, aahhh, very manly!) must’ve paid a fortune for the eight coolers they had to haul around! Dang overachievers… gripe grumble grouse.
We didn’t reel in much fish, it’s true. What we did catch, however, will stay with us a little longer than a few fillets. We caught a glimpse of the histories that make us brothers, sons, and fathers.
The victories won and the losses endured.
The snoring that begs to be smothered, and the alarms set to the wrong time zones.
The honesty that exposes our vulnerabilities and the grace that guards our backsides.
I have to admit that I was a bit jealous of the wolf pack (you may not have caught on to that earlier). It is a cool name- wolf pack. I wish we could’ve had a groovy name, but when I think of the guys I spent this last long weekend with only one word comes to mind:
Men.
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