Moments

Intentional living. Our discussion on Sunday was about this complex set of words. The dawn of this discussion rose out of a study of the sixth chapter of Matthew’s Gospel. Our discussion was led by my teacher, my friend, John Park.

The red letter words of Christ led to open discussion about what we worry about or what we place value upon. The list was filled with obvious and some not so obvious examples. Most would fall under the broader headings of money, family and pleasures. Everything from shopping to the cost of college education was written on the white board. Practical needs to guilty pleasures.

The teacher guided us along the path that Jesus tread so many years ago. We create the worries or inflate the values with intent. So why, did the teacher inquire, can we not instead live with the intentions that Christ commanded?

As I listened to John’s words and the responses and contributions of the class participants my thoughts focused on one word, moments. I considered the moments in my life when the decisions I made leaned away from God’s teachings. Yes there were moments that leaning would be a grossly inadequate description, running and hiding would more satisfactorily describe many of the choices I have made. But regardless of the degree of rebellion there was always a moment when my decision to do right or wrong was made.  

 I recalled the moments when Christ told me to take His hand, to trust Him. But I couldn’t because of what I held in my own hand; worries, money, family or pleasures. Our hands are full of what we want, what we love. The more it means to us the tighter our grip. 

If I took His hand it would mean first letting go.

I glanced at the words written on the white board, how many of those pseudo-tenets had prevented me from understanding the red letter words of Jesus Christ? Then I realized that valuing life had been left off this list of Self. An internal debate began in my own mind. Is it possible to cherish life more than the Giver of Life? 

Would I die for Him?

Suddenly on Sunday morning, sitting in Trinity Baptist Church, I had a moment. Not a moment of choice but a moment of learning, learning about how we should value life.

I sat in my chair watching and listening to our teacher, John Park.  Those of you who do not know John also wouldn’t know that he is facing cancer. The doctor’s prognosis is not good. The time they have given him is too short. I sat and watched as he taught in the same manner he has for many years. No pleas for sympathy, no insipid heroic prose. The thing that I witnessed in John is the very thing that I have been searching for…contentment. It was not his contentment for living or dying, it is John's contentment for God’s decision, whatever it may be, that led to this moment.

When the time comes, surely too soon, John's hands will be empty, his life will be full and he will hear the red letter words come to life.

Moments.

You Can Let Go

Recently Sara, my youngest daughter, told me that she had found “our song”. The song is “You can let go” by Crystal Shawanda.  If you’re not familiar with it be sure to check it out, it is a wonderful song caroled by a heavenly voice. I had heard the song before but never really paid attention to the lyrics. The refrain goes-

              

             

                 “You can let go now, daddy, you can let go.

                  Oh, I think I am ready to do this on my own.

                  It’s still a little bit scary but I want you to know

                   I’ll be okay now, daddy, you can let go”

The story of the song follows the life of a little girl and her daddy.  Sadly it ends with the father dying. I am sure Sara was not including this little bit of information when she deemed this “our song”.

Sara tapped her music player and the song filled the cab of the truck.

Memories are often difficult for my mind to generate with accuracy. Age and brain damage usually cast a mist around the memories.  But this day God blessed me with clarity of thought. As I listened to Crystal Shawanda sing her words a flood of memories came forth.

I remembered Sara Rose lying in an incubator, just a few hours old, with I.V.’s taped to her little body. A small mask placed over her eyes. Wires that led to numerous alarms extended from her small chest. I remembered the nurses telling me that I could not touch her. Stimulation was to be held to absolute minimums, her brain needed rest.

I remembered her first birthday, and thanking God because 364 days earlier I didn’t know if she would ever celebrate a birthday.

I remembered teaching her to ride a bicycle and the cries that first accompanied  scraped knees, then the cries of triumph as she mastered the road.

I remember when she came home one Sunday from church and told me that she was saved. I might have cried a little.

I remembered when she first shared with me that she “liked a boy”. I might have cried a lot.

I remembered her words written on my birthday card a year and a half ago-together we can handle anything.

Memories turned into thoughts of the future. I pictured her walking across the stage at her graduation ceremony. I pictured her walking down the aisle of our church….

The memories came in a flood and rapidly. My thoughts were interrupted by Sara only about fifteen seconds into the song. The mind is an amazing instrument, a lifetime had passed in but a few seconds.

Sara said, “But you can never let go Daddy”.

My daughter is amazing. God is amazing, that He would know to gift such a wonderful child to a person like me. What makes it even more amazing is that He has done so six times.

Don’t worry Bam Bam, I will never let go.

Beef Jerky, Chips and a Reminder

There is a feeling, or perhaps better said, an emotion I want to explore with you. I am not sure if it has a one word description like “sorrow”, “joy”, “hope” or “fear”.  It comes quickly, but its stay is oh so brief.  I can only believe that everyone has experienced it at one time or another, at least I hope so. The triggering mechanism may differ for each person or even for each occurrence; I know I have experienced on more than one occasion.  To provide a narrative in lieu of a single word description;

A sudden rush of pure love grips you without warning, love that is reserved for those we adore the most.

Forgive me for the sappiness; it is contrary to the typical image I have worked so hard to develop. But I can’t find a single word, much less a masculine one, to describe this event.  Let me tell you what happened.

Wednesday evening I was driving to San Antonio with my two youngest (and last) children with me. Rush hour had not quite vanished. My day at work had left me in a not-so-great mood.  A slight pressure was cultivating in the base of my neck; a sure sign that a full blown headache was soon to blossom. Much needed sleep was still hours away. 

I pulled into the parking lot of the local grab and bag to get a snack and drink to tide the kids over until dinner. Sara selected beef jerky and a Coca Cola; Joseph grabbed his favorite Sour Skittles and a bag of chips. (Don’t judge my parenting skills, it was just a snack!)

We jumped back on I35 and resumed the forty minute trek into S.A.

My kids are great. Grant it I am somewhat biased, what parent isn’t. Now of course my children are not immune to bouts of sibling rivalry on occasion. Competition for coveted time on the computer is a semi-regular debate. Whether the toilet lid should be left up or down and discussions on bad toilet aim have more than once crept into our little household. I am fortunate that the rivalry has never elevated to the hair pulling, face slapping or bra snapping levels. At their age I am quite certain that I was either the deliverer or recipient of these tactics and many others.  As for my two youngest (and last) children I believe they may survive cohabitation by mostly ignoring each other.

The traffic was clearing so I increased my speed and tried to erase the problems of the day by tuning into the music playing in the truck; Adele singing about setting fire to the rain. The volume was high but I didn’t complain, it acted as a melodic white-out over the memories of the day. Minutes passed without much notice when I realized that my two youngest (and last) children were in conversation. I couldn’t make out what they were saying, their words no competition for the blaring radio. But out of the corner of my eye I saw Joseph offer Sara his open bag of chips then Sara reciprocate with her open bag of jerky.

The trigger.

In that brief moment, from those insignificant gestures, this sudden rush of fatherly love filled my heart, my mind and my soul. I love my children all the time, every minute of every day, but this incredible rush of love was…incredible. For that moment nothing else existed or mattered.

God is everywhere.

I wondered if God ever has this unnamed feeling. Does He look down upon His creation, His rivaling children and see just one small gesture that causes His heart to swell? Does it remind Him of why He created us in the first place?

A reminder. That is the one word description of this feeling that rushes in unannounced. With that feeling God reminded me of what is important, what is precious. The problems of the day will go away only to be replaced by others. Bills, taxes, and headaches will come and go. But the love for my children; my reasons for living, my reasons for facing life over and over, will never fade.

Thanks for the reminder God.

Jesus Juice

You may recognize the post title if you happen to be one of the few readers of my other blog, Addicted to Faith. I wrote this entry in 2010 after an unusual experience on a Sunday morning. I like it so much that I thought I would reprint here so that my rapidly growing audience (single digit growth!!)(sarcasm implied)(wow double, no triple parenthetic thoughts) can enjoy it also. Well I hope you do...

So I stopped at the gas station on the way into church for a quick cup of hot coffee. Gas station coffee is never very good but caffeine was on this mornings Must Do List.
 The girl behind the counter had an unusual hair color and style, perhaps Purple Peaks would be descriptive enough. She also was the proud owner of an abundant amount of sterling silver, I know this because she wore it proudly in her eyebrows, her nose, her lips and of course her ears.

This young I-Generation clerk  asked of my purchase, "Is that all this morning?". I mumbled yes and laid two dollars on the counter.
She inquired, "You on the way to church?"
"Yes I am", I replied, surprised a little by her question.
"Gotta get your tank filled with the Jesus Juice!", she proclaimed as she handed me my change.
Jesus Juice? I don't believe I had ever heard this unusual phrase, much less ever considered that I was filling my tank with it.
 

This oh-so brief conversation stayed with me on the long drive into San Antonio. In fact, it would stay with me all morning. The sibylline clerk's words rang in my ears all through an inspired Bible study on moral issues. As church service began with a guest chorale from Atlanta, Georgia beautifully singing praises I continued to consider "Jesus Juice".
When the preaching began I thought surely that moment in time, spent in a small Texas gas station on I35 would begin to fade. But it didn't.
 

When the Mercer University youth closed us in song sung so perfectly that I believe the angels in heaven stopped to listen, the mental picture of a tank filled with Jesus Juice, after taking all morning to develop, was finally clear in my mind's eye.
 

Suddenly clear was the memory from last  Sunday's worship service. Last Sunday, (and many more past Sundays.)The bible study had been just as inspirational. The music just as uplifting and the preaching was powerfully God's word. I had left after each service "filled with the spirit". So why did my tank need to be re-filled? Where had the Jesus Juice gone in just seven days? 

Why did I feel empty going in and full coming out?
What happens to our tanks between Sundays?
 

It is easy to blame some of this evaporation on the world outside the church. Sadly our world is not prone to seeing God Monday through Saturday, neither do many church-goers. Or maybe some of the juice is burnt up by an emotional train that speeds through our week, requiring us to expend more of the fuel than normal. Perhaps like a thief in the night, people we know and even love siphon off our tanks for their own use.
 

Pretty easy to place blame.Pretty easy to justify the need for a refill each Sunday morning by proclaiming a "Bad week."
 

I always try to be honest to the person in the mirror and just as honest to those I call my readers. So honestly...

I lose most of that Jesus Juice by poking holes in my own tank. Each time I make the wrong decision, self centered instead of Christ centered, I drive a nail through the lining of the tank, allowing the juice seep out. As the tank level lessens it becomes easier to jab and jab again, making more holes, releasing more of Christ. Sometimes by Saturday night, only faint fumes remain. Just enough to get me back to church, where I sputter in, anticipating, needing, praying for the Jesus Juice.
 

God will let me go on in the wasteful pattern as long as I am stupid enough to do so. He loves me that much. He also loves me enough to remind me that although I may think that my tank is empty, it never really is. He said-
"Never will I leave you; never will I forsake you."
Unconditional.
 

"No one can snatch them out of my hand."            
Unending.

"It is finished"                                                   
Love.

Resolutions

The last time I made a resolution that lasted beyond the 15^th of January was in 2002. I had resolved that year to watch less of the X-Files. Now of course fans of that show know that it was cancelled in May of 2002. Coincidence? I carried the guilt of my resolution for a short while; had the lack of my viewing eyes resulted in the ultimate demise of Fox Mulder and Dana Scully?

For a decade I have avoided the centuries old tradition of resolution making, scarred by the X-File curse. But this year, with the influence of my over-caring daughter, I once again looked inward for areas in need of improvement (turns out there were more than I care to admit) and resolved to strive for improvement in 2012.

After careful consideration I landed on improving my overall fitness. As I said earlier there are many areas that I could improve on, I will save those for future years, why be greedy. Now it just so happen that Sara has been telling me for a number of months now that we should join a gym. A superb procrastinator when I need to be I delayed granting her wish, using finances as the reason. Last week when Planet Fitness offered a great deal it exterminated my only viable excuse. So we joined.

Sara told me that I had to go now that we were members, no making excuses about being too tired or too busy. So I reminded her that I am, by design, the most prolific cheapskate she may ever know, and now that I am spending money on this activity I will surely squeeze every dime’s worth of value out of it. I unfolded the long tucked away workout clothes, dusted off my running shoes and headed to the gym.

I had researched the best workout routines to accomplish the goals I have set for myself.  Chiseled biceps and six pack abs are long term, make that very long term goals. Realistically the lack of activity for a number of years pointed me first to cardio rehabilitation. The experts recommended the treadmill and the elliptical equipment. It would be boring, I would rather have worked out on the weights, but I remembered recently getting winded when walking up some stairs, so I headed to the treadmill.

This is not your father’s treadmill. The dashboard has more lights and buttons on it than Marty McFly’s De Lorean.  After a few minutes I was able to figure out which buttons to push to make the tread move at what I hoped would be a novice’s speed. I had selected the program called “Cardio”, after all that is what I was there for.

The initial pace was almost leisurely.  The readout on the dashboard recorded distance, calories burnt, pace and something called MEM.  After a few minutes the pace increased slightly as well as the incline. The latter was a bit of a surprise. I continued to walk and look at the lights on the dashboard. The pace again increased after the allotted time and was now noticeably requiring more of an effort. The sweat began to drop from every pore. The pace again increased. My eyes caught a heart symbol on the right lower corner of the dash, it was flashing red. It was then I realized the handles I held worked as a pulse meter. Red heart! That couldn’t be good. I scanned the dashboard for the digital read out that would tell me the BPM. It turns out that I had misread the MEM, (glasses on forehead instead of on nose bridge) it actually read BPM. Below it, also in red, 127. Now I didn’t know what it was supposed to be, but 127 didn’t seem too bad. The read out that let me know how much time was left in this cardio workout showed 16 minutes. I can do this, I encouraged myself, what’s another 16 minutes.

The BPM increased to 133. The amount of sweat was alarming.

Seven minutes to go. The BPM had increased again to 146, only now there was an audible alarm that seemed to sing in time with the red pulsing heart. I looked around; no one seemed to hear this alarm. Either that or no one was concerned by it. I thought what if this is like the car alarms we hear in the mall shopping lot and just ignore, never knowing if it is really a car thief or an idiot with a new key fob.

Four minutes to go. The BPM indicator read 168. I noticed another sound. It took a moment to realize that it was me wheezing. I am not a quitter, but I am not stupid either, so I pressed the large red (red seems to be the predominate color on the deathmill) button that had STOP embossed on it.

I glanced around again to see if anyone noticed my failed attempt on the cardio treadmill. No one did, they were all in their own world, perhaps honoring their own resolutions. I cooled down by enjoying a slow walk around the facility. I decided that was enough for this first trip to the Planet Fitness.

God is everywhere.

I believe that He was with me on the treadmill. 168 is not fatal, but probably not very good either. But I didn’t pass out and nothing exploded or imploded, I owe that to His grace.

On my out God showed me something else… me. The floor to ceiling mirror that is so common in a fitness center reflected the truth. I saw the red (red again!) in my face. My normally well groomed hair was a mess. I looked defeated. In less than thirty minutes I had gone from a poor picture of health to a pitiful picture of health. My pounding heart had quietened down enough to allow me to hear God say, “Your children are young, they need you for many more years.”

I stopped short of leaving and walked back in. I sought out an instructor’s advice to help an out of shape, aging father with a better and safer approach.

That was day one. I returned each day since except today, after all it is Sunday, and the playoffs are on. Some habits are hard to break.