Blessings: Scrambled or Over-Easy?

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.)

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.

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.

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.

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.

Tortoises and Tire Trouble- the Tale of Herbert the Unswift

Herbert the Tortoise died a gruesome death under the wheels of a truck, on a hot African afternoon.

When I first met Herbert (or Herb for short) his untimely demise was not a part of my plan for him. Nor, I think, was it in his plans for himself. I don’t suspect he had grandiose visions of a dramatic martyrdom. Like many tortoises of his age and disposition, I believe he wanted to live out his life frustrating the appetites of weak-jawed carnivores and making slow, slow, slow love to a Mrs. Herb, if he had been so lucky as to woo one.

Alas, Herb the Tort was never given the chance.

As tortoises go Herb was fairly average, which is to say, Herb was slow in word and deed. This accounts for his being captured by a poor African farmer, his inability to talk himself out of slavery, and his subsequent sale to yours truly, the passing missionary.

Yes, and Herb mourned his loss of freedom. I know this because in spite of an unending supply of food and water, Herb was always trying to make his way out of the safe haven I had provided for him. Adventurous little bugger that he was, he tired quickly of city life and longed for the wilds of the West African bush. His stout heart was ready to brave the snakes and general African nastiness for a chance to find a young reptile of like species with a sexy little mini-shell.

It came as no surprise then, when one day Herb was seen slowly making his way to the gate of the compound we called home. He had placed himself in the perfect position for a hasty escape.

And “hasty” is exactly where his strategy fell short of genius. He was a tortoise after all. As those gates swung open the first thought that entered into his tiny little head might have been “Freedom!”, but the last thing he saw was rubber.

Oh Herb, you were such a good friend, and even now in your death you give us a nugget of eternal wisdom.

Friends, we too are often slow. Slow to forgive. Slow to sacrifice. Slow to love. We want our freedom, and if it isn’t delivered just how and when we want it, we’ll go take it. It doesn’t matter that life will lead us into trouble by default- we feel the need to add our poor choices and selfishness to the mix.

But pause now, and watch Herb in his last few moments of life. Gaze into his eyes as he turns his knobby little head towards you, the realization of imminent doom looming large in his pleading expression. I made a mistake, he says. I was brought here so that I wouldn’t be made into soup, and now it’s too late for me. Go back. Trust Someone bigger. Put your life in the hands of Someone swifter. Go back.

I Call You Lord, But...

guest post by Mike Cala

I call you Lord and I dedicated my life to you . . .
I call you my Lord and I told You that all I have and all I am are Yours . . .
I call you Lord, pray that Your will be done and sing “I surrender all . . .”

BUT . . .

When you ask me to sponsor a foster child I say, “But Lord, I’m just making it paycheque to paycheque” – then go have a $4 latte or ice cap . . .

When You ask me to spend time with my neighbour who’s marriage is crumbling and teenage children are drifting away I say, “But Lord, I’m so busy with my family and church obligations already” – then go spend hours in front of the TV, checking emails or surfing on Facebook . . .

When You ask me to give $100 so that a family of 8 can have clean, safe water in the third world I say, “But Lord, I don’t have that much money at hand to give away on short notice” – then go fill up the tanks on my RV, quads, motorcycle or second car . . .

When You ask me to give back a tithe of all I earn in thanks and obedience I say, “Yes Lord” – but grudgingly make sure it’s a tenth and not a cent more . . .

When You ask me to spend time with You in Word and prayer I say, “But Lord, it’s so late and I’m tired. Tomorrow is a big day” – then go pop in a DVD or play a little Xbox until bedtime . . .

When You ask me to give up my desires and dreams for Your plans I say, “But Lord, You promised me the desires of my heart if I followed you!” – forgetting that You gave up everything for me before I even knew You.

So how can I call You Lord?

Matthew 7:21-23
“Not everyone who says to me, ‘Lord, Lord,’ will enter the kingdom of heaven, but only the one who does the will of my Father who is in heaven. Many will say to me on that day, ‘Lord, Lord, did we not prophesy in your name and in your name drive out demons and in your name perform many miracles?’ Then I will tell them plainly, ‘I never knew you. Away from me, you evildoers!’”

today she's for rent, but NOT TOMORROW

When I was six years old I was collecting an allowance, simply because my parents were gracious. In Sierra Leone nine year old boys are fortunate to go to work breaking rocks in a quarry, because then they may be able to eat.

When I was nine years old I would lay in bed pretending to fly in outer space, saving the galaxy. In Sierra Leone nine year old girls are in danger of being rented out by their family members.

You may remember Sierra Leone as the country whose civil war inspired such films as Blood Diamond and Tears of the Sun. There is a scene in Blood Diamond where prisoners are wallowing in a swamp, churning and turning the mud with feet and hands under the glare of their rebel masters. Death is a breath away. In those days evil had descended upon that small nation like a horde of West African mosquitoes.

I remember Sierra Leone as the place where I almost lost my life to malaria and typhoid. For me, it is where the romance of travel and missionary life soured like milk under the scorching heat of human waste and wasted humanity.

Eight years later Sierra Leone remains to me a shining star of hope for the world, for exactly the reasons I mentioned above. If I’ve confused you please read my previous post Where Hope and Mushrooms Grow. You have to understand that if Jesus brings hope anywhere, He must bring it to Sierra Leone.

Regular readers of this blog will know by now that I support an organization called The Raining Season. The purpose of my writing is not to endorse them (though I do). I just get so excited when I see someone doing what God asks them to!

That little boy breaking rocks? His story is a Raining Season story, and you can watch it here.

The little girl being rented out by her uncle? They are praying and working to rescue her this week.

The Raining Season is in the business of mining for children. They are rescuing these diamonds of life out of the mud of poverty and abuse, but it isn’t under the stares of a malevolent taskmaster. They strive alongside the tear-streaked face of Jesus, who said, “Let the little children come…”

The Dark Side of Father's Day

Happy Father’s Day?

Each year around this time I see grown up children at the local drugstore. They stoop over the rows of Father’s Day cards trying not to dry-heave, their backs and spirits bending under the pressure of finding that one card that is just pleasant enough to be believable.

Abuse.
Neglect.
Abandonment.

When childhood is marked by these demons, where is Hallmark then? What kind of emotional Heimlich maneuver are you going to offer to someone choking on a past that refuses to be dislodged?

God help us.

Help us remember we are not alone.

Help us remember that you have not forgotten us.

Help me remember that You know my real name.

Today remember that when God calls you, He’s going to call you something good.

“Whoever has ears, let them hear what the Spirit says to the churches. To the one who is victorious, I will give… a white stone with a new name written on it, known only to the one who receives it.” -God, quoted in the Bible, New International Version (NIV), Revelation 2:17

Father's Day Video

Happy Father's Day to all the dads out there. Enjoy this video by Church on the Move.