Some Days

Some days we wake up in the morning and decide that it's probably not going to be a good day. Then usually we spend the day making sure that we make the day what we proclaimed. Those are what I like to call the, "stupid days of life." We don't need to look in the mirror in the morning so that we can tell that person the day won't work out.

Some days we wake up in the morning and realize that yesterday wasn't the best day and let it get us down. We look backward and spend a day as if we were driving through life staring at a rear view mirror. Man, why not just decide to cause a wreck.

Some days we wake up in the morning and know that there's a bigger job than we can handle ahead. Those who are smart don't look in the mirror. Instead, they look up. God's bigger than those days and that job, and He's already at the scene.

Some days we wake up feeling like a rock star. Ego out of balance. Most of those days for me end up with life knocking me back into reality. Thankfully.

But, the blessing is we wake up. We get busy. We do what we were created to do. At the end of the day, hopefully, we can look in the mirror, be thankful, look up and thank the One who made the day.

Taking Pictures

I've always made sure to take mental pictures that warm my heart when times can be cold. Mental pictures can't be burned, stolen, or lost. I take tons of mental pictures. The time I hit that curveball over the fence. The chance I had to ride an angry bull...hurt. When I slapped the angry bull, hurt more...I shouldn't have slapped him with my face.

Running marathons, hurt in the good way.

My heart tore wide open in an amazingly loving way watching my kiddos be born. Seeing them made me a better man.

Yelling at the ref, forgetting to be a better man, getting thrown out of the gym and the ballpark was a picture I took to learn and grow.

I took the picture today when I plunged my son into baptismal waters. It set my heart on fire with a spark I needed to know again.

I looked around the sanctuary today, on my last day in the WCC pulpit taking pictures. I saw you. I love you. I took those pictures. I miss you already.

'Tis Better to Give And Receive

We've all heard the phrase, "It is better to give than to receive." As a child I thought that was the dumbest phrase I had ever heard. Honestly, opening a wrapped package was better than watching my Grandmother open her gift in my opinion.

As I grew, although I fear I'll never quite be a, "grown-up," thank God, I came to understand the sentiment of the phrase more and more. I will admit that I love to watch my children and wife receive gifts from me more than anything I could receive from them. Their smiles, excitement, and joy warms my heart and soul more than anything I could receive as their gift to me. In that case, it is truly better to give than to receive.

However, there is one gift that is better to give and receive. Love.

I can't think of a deeper feeling that I have within the core of my being than true love for another. That feeling is one of the past, present, and future. The true love of another gives us hope and makes us hurt. True love can at times be as warm as a quilt over your lap, and bone-chilling as a freezing wind.

Good and bad. Love is truly better to give, and who doesn't want to receive it?

"I love you honey," is a phrase that I say, and sometimes when I hear it I'm shaken back to the reality of what love is and what love does.

"Dad," is a title fraught with love and responsibility.

So thank you to the ones who taught me what love is all about. Mostly, my Mom and Dad, who first loved me before I could comprehend what love is all about. Who showed me what it is to love one another in good times and not so good times. You showed me in the flesh what God is all about.

I love to love, in good times and bad. And, I always hope and pray to receive it back. What a gift!

Feeling Good About Sitting

I sat in the symphony hall, dress jacket across my knees, Saturday afternoon, Dallas, Texas. I had been before, but different. Seated between my son and wife on the, "Dress Circle," Level of the Mortenson Symphony Center waiting for house lights to dim and the concert to begin.

When the second choir of the afternoon arrived on stage I looked anxiously and expectantly to see my daughter. When I saw her step onto the stage, my heart sunk. That was the baby that cried in the night, the little crawler, the toddler who made messes. She was the same Kindergarten student. Lunch each Friday at school, I brought her, "Taco Bell."

That was the same girl who told her Mom in tears after school, "Trevor said he wanted to be my boyfriend, and DADDY says I can't have a boyfriend 'till I'm OLD!"

That beautiful young lady in the concert attire is the same little girl who couldn't wait to dance with her Uncle "Dido" at his wedding reception. Her chubby little cheeks were gone, and the cute kiddo was replaced with the beautiful young lady.

This one on stage rolls her eyes at me. She sometimes accidentally says to me, "Dude, what's your problem?" EXCUSE ME?!?!

She's the one who crawled into my lap when she was two years old, begging for her beloved pacifier that was taken from her for good that day. With her two little pudgy hands on my cheeks she looked into my eyes and said, "Daddy, I don't want to be a big girl. Can I have my, "baba?""

The little lady who I took to Daddy day at Cotillion.

The little toot who reintroduced me to Happy Meals, and taught me about Hello Kitty, Barbies, and tea parties. Who wore plastic high heals and floppy hats, with gaudy fake pearls.

This is the one beside whose bed I sat in the ICU, praying, hoping, wishing, wanting.

In short. My Princess.

I felt good sitting there on a Saturday afternoon because I heard an angelic sounding choir singing.

In the midst, I could hear MY little angel's voice.

Fingerprints

God is guilty. He made us. He can't deny it. His fingerprints are all over us.

God wouldn't deny our creation, nor our existence. I just sometimes wonder in His infinite wisdom why He did it? Didn't He know I was going to steal the Ronald McDonald statue on 50th Street? Didn't He know that, "John," would shoot his cousin over a game of dominoes? Didn't He know that, "Sarah," would hook up with a loser and make meth in her college apartment? Surely he knew that, "Idiot," would get in his car and drive the wrong way on the highway? Come on.

God is guilty of one thing. Creating us with the free will to make choices. He made us. He won't deny us. His fingerprints are all over us. He forgives us for the choices, when we accept His forgiveness.

Now comes our part in this conspiracy. We are to infiltrate all areas of this world. We are to make known the truth that is, "Jesus is Lord!" Those who believe that Jesus is the Christ the Son of the living God, and the one and only Savior, have a job to do today. So do it.

For those who'll be upset by this. Too bad. God is perfect in all ways, He chose to make each of us so that we're able to choose to love Him or not. Truly, God's not guilty of anything at all, except for the deepest love that can't be conceived. What do you want to bet that God's big enough to read this post and not be bothered by it.

Impressions

Impressions are important. Everyone has heard the phrase, "first impression." Our impression on others determines our legacy in their lives. Sometimes the impression is unfair, sometimes earned, but nonetheless it's an indelible mark on the consciousness of another person.

On my first day of seminary I made quite an impression. The day started as a usual day, just earlier as I made my way from Sulphur Springs to the Metroplex. I grabbed my briefcase as I left the house and looked forward to a great day. Little did I know. I sat in the driver's seat of our Ford Explorer, found a good radio station, and hit the road. It was the beginning to an exciting day.

I pulled into the parking lot across the street from the building where my classes were held. I had an evangelism class, church history, and a Hebrew class to attend. I was nervous, excited, and ready to find my classroom and take a seat. I grabbed my briefcase and headed out for new territory.

I stood at the busy intersection waiting for the pedestrian signal to tell me it was alright to walk across the crosswalk. Finally, the green light came and I headed across the street eager to get to class. Four steps into crossing the street, I twisted my ankle causing a stumble that lasted about ten steps until a final wipe-out in the turn lane. During my graceful traverse, I was also able to throw my briefcase while wildly waving my arms in a futile attempt to regain my balance and composure. I kept neither. I picked myself from the asphalt and hurriedly grabbed the books and bag that were strewn around the street while drivers patiently honked their horn at the idiot who was limping around as quickly as he could.

I finally reached the other side and took inventory. Do I have all my books? Check. Is my briefcase broken? Check. Do I have a rip in my slacks? No. Did I rip both knees in my slacks? Check. Is my shirt dirty? Check. Is my ankle swelling at a rapid pace? Check. Do I have any shred of dignity left? Absolutely not.

I made my way inside and found a restroom where I tried to clean up a bit and I noticed that even my tie was torn. How do you tear a necktie accidentally? I'd never heard of such a thing. I can make things happen that mere mortals cannot fathom. After getting in as much order as I could, I made my way to the classroom, found a seat at the back of the class, and readied myself for the initial lecture.

"Good morning," said the chipper professor who looked like a combination of Mr. Rogers and a normal person. "Welcome to my class. Let's start with introductions. Please tell us who you are, where you're serving in ministry, and when you felt called to the ministry."

What!?!? Are you kidding me? I was at a Southern Baptist seminary, I'm not Baptist, I was outnumbered. My mind started racing, "you've got to come up with something good." I was raised Episcopalian and began going to the Christian Church when I was in Jr. High School. I didn't have the cool salvation and calling stories these Baptists were telling. I was at the back of the line, and each successive student seemed to try to top the previous student's "calling" story.

Maybe if I told them I was in prison for a terrible drug habit, burglary, and murder during my day's in the Hell's Angels when a great light knocked me down on the way to Dumas and I heard the voice of God say on June 9th, 1989 at 9:10:11 PM, "Clint, I am your Father!" No. That won't work. So I did the best I could when my time came.

"I'm Clint Stephenson. I'm currently the preaching minister at First Christian Church in Sulphur Springs, Texas."

It was at that moment I felt the inaudible gasps and amazed stares of those who couldn't believe an infidel was among them. It turns out that not all felt that way, but there were some. If you ever meet Brian Wickman, he's a militant Baptist, don't make him angry, he'll condemn you. Anyway I continued with the, "calling," portion of the introduction.

"And I really can't give you a date or time of my calling. I just realized over time that we're all called to follow God in different ways, and my way is to preach." Imagine a room full of people staring at you with their mouths open and crickets chirping in the background. That's what it seemed like anyway.

"Ooooookay...ummm, thank you Mr. Stephenson." said Mr. Rogers' creepy cousin.

You're quite welcome Mr. Rogers. Now why don't you start talking a bit so I can get my money's worth out of this neat little experiment, chop chop.

The lecture started and I settled into note-taking mode, forgetting that I was an infidel wearing torn clothes that smelled like tar. I was writing in a spiral notebook while the guy next to me was typing notes on a laptop. I could almost imagine him going into Best Buy and asking, "Where would I find a laptop computer with the loudest keys ever invented?" Hey, Ham Hand, you reckon you might be able to pound those keys harder?

Finally there came a break time in the class so students could visit the restroom and get some more coffee. I tried to further clean up my impressive wardrobe, grabbed another cup of coffee, and headed back to my back row exile seat after the intermission. Picked up my pen and readied myself for some more fascinating rumination from Mr. Rogers. As the second half of class started I realized it was possible that the professor might look more like Mr. Bean...Anyway....FOCUS! After class ended it was lunch time.

That's when I noticed I had spent the time after the break with a significant portion of my shirt tail sticking out of my partially zipped fly on my pants. IMPRESSIVE! Why don't I just spend my entire time in my afternoon class sitting on the front row eating boogers? What a day. But don't ever say to yourself, "It can't get worse than this." Usually it can.

After breaking my zipper trying to pry my shirt free, eating lunch, and returning to class, there was still a lot of fun headed my way. Nothing will get you energized for an hour long commute home than a Hebrew class with a professor who never actually opens his eyes while speaking. I felt myself nodding off, head bobbing, trying not to drool and further add to my already half-day-long proud legacy.

Class ended. I chatted briefly with some new classmates who were looking at me strangely, but I figured it was due to the events earlier in the day. One admitted he was at the intersection when I performed my rendition of the pavement swan dive. I thanked him for being a spectator. I packed up my belongings and headed out. One last trip to the restroom before hitting the road. As I was washing my hands I looked into the mirror and saw that in my groggy attempt to stay with the class and the head bobbing that went with it I had written four rather long marks on my face with a blue ink pen. Nothing like putting an exclamation mark on the day! Why don't I just streak down the hall on the way to the parking lot to solidify my place in the Southwestern Baptist Theological Seminary Losers Hall of Shame.

The drive home was nice. Me, the radio, the interstate, and a time to let an impressive performance wear off before I walked into the parsonage to see my wife and baby girl. I pulled into the driveway after dark. Grabbed my bag and coffee cup and walked in the door. As soon as I was in the house, Chrissy asked, "How was your day?"

"Unbelievable," I said.

"That good huh? That's GREAT Honey. I've been praying for you all day," Chrissy said.

"Then quit it."

You're making an impression every day of your life. We stumble and fall, but the more important impression we make is how we get up. Sometimes life causes us to feel torn and tattered, but the Great Physician stitches us back together, and we can tell others about it. We've all got the marks on us of poor decisions and disobedience, but God washes them away with the waters of baptism and the blood of His son.

When I wake up in the morning, I have a routine. Part of that routine is to say to myself audibly, usually in my truck, "You're going to make impressions today, they'll last longer than you know. Make impressions you're proud to make." While you live this day many eyes, ears, minds, and hearts are soaking you up. If you're a follower of Jesus, you have the indelible mark of God on you in salvation. Make a mark today for the Kingdom of God.

Are You Kidding Me?

I took the kids to feed the ducks and geese at the park just a couple of blocks from our home feeling like one of those dads who does duck feeding duty swelling with pride at my "daddyness". I'm taking the kids to the park, again! Look at me! Little did I know.

We got out of the truck with our, "duck bread," to feed the masses. While we were walking I pictured a scene from the movie, "Dawn of the Dead." The ducks and geese were marching with quacks and honks that seemed menacing at best, frightening truly. I made a quick estimate and numbered the approaching waterfowl in the millions, and hungry.

"Get behind me kids!" I yelled as we approached with a brown paper bag filled with treasure.

"INCOMING!" We were in the midst of an assault of aviary proportions.

Then it happened. For the first time I saw my son, at the time four-years old wrestling with a goose much bigger than him, and he was winning. I've never seen such a sight. When the goose bit Connor's overalls, he decided that it was ON! Grabbing the gooses neck started a dance I've never seen. I ran toward him as he struggled with the bully bird.

Caitlin said, "Dad, be careful!" She's too sweet to fight with anything. Certainly never a goose. She was anxiously watching for police to arrive while standing by my truck, praying for the Stephenson men as ladies have done for centuries.

On the way to help I saw him take care of business. With both hands wrapped around the goose's neck, Connor bit the goose back! I'm not kidding or embellishing. My son bit that furious feathered being back! Wings and webbed feet flying, the two parted ways. I almost think I heard, "AFLAC!" as the goose escaped. I hope that the Stephenson family isn't the originator of the bird flu, but who cares. Swine are the offenders these days with their own pork flu.

You know sometimes people say, "you have to take the bull by the horns."

That's a great sentiment. Tried it. Didn't work out well. It was fun, yet still one of my many bad ideas. But, have you ever even tried to, "take a goose by the neck?" If not, Connor can tell you how to tame the situation.

Bite it!

When reality bites you, you have only one choice. Grab life with both hands, and bite back!

When I Grow Up

I

The Cool Quiet Speaks Volumes

When I arise, and it's the middle of the night as they say,

really the earliest of the morning. I just can't sleep, maybe because, who cares.

I touch the shoulder of my best gift, and head to the living room.

I lay on the floor and think of the One who gave me the one who was beside me.

I think of the two gifts called Caitlin and Connor that are in bed, whose audible breathing blesses me, and remember those children who are unwanted and unloved.

I think of the bags of fur named Sammie, Tux, and Lola. Love without strings.

I look up at a ceiling under the roof. His gift to us.

I think of the church, and those who must sneak to church a world away. I think of those who sneak in back doors, unaware, they're worth sacrifice.

I think of the dinner I ate, and the hungry baby.

I think of the shower I'll take and those who need water to drink.

I think of my coffee, and the ones who would find my morning cup a gift.

I think of the closet filled with clothes, and remember we are to clothe those without.

I think of the Pickup outside, waiting to take me where I choose, and the ones willing to walk across any border for relief.

I think of those that love me and those whom I love, and those who don't have anyone to love and don't feel loved.

I think of the Lord, and I say simply, "Thank you."

Again and again.

He knows.

Red At The Top

I was finishing a wedding rehearsal. I was out of town. I was in a prayer circle with the families of the Bride and Groom as we prepared to eat a great rehearsal dinner. I planned to head back to the hotel, turn on ESPN, turn down the A/C to 32 degrees, cover up and doze off.

But, life happens.

During the prayer circle my phone kept buzzing. I tried to be patient, but during prayer I checked out mentally, wondering why my phone was buzzing off my belt. Finally the, "Amen," was spoken and I excused myself to see what was happening. I opened my phone and saw that I had three voice mails.

Hmmm. That's odd. Everyone knows I'm out of town. I listened to the first message:

In an urgent voice I heard a close friend say, "Clint, call me. Call me. Soon."

My heart started to race. I knew the tone of the call was not a congratulatory one. It was an emergency call. Calls two and three were the same. Call me. I immediately started trying to return calls as the two families were chatting merrily in the background. Busy signals infuriate me, but never so much as that evening. I couldn't get in touch with anyone.

Finally, a call was answered. It was a very close friend and the chairman of our church board of directors.

"Hey Clint." came the unusually curt answer.

"What's wrong Marc?"

"There's been an accident, and,"

"Marc, is my family alright?" I asked, terrified to hear the answer.

"I don't know. What I know is that Chrissy and Connor are en route to the hospital, and they're trying to get Caitlin out of the car." Marc answered.

"Is everyone alive?" I asked my most desperate question ever.

"I think so."

I think so?!?! What in the world kind of answer is that? I immediately felt a rush of adrenaline. My head started to get light, I started to sweat, my legs felt like they were made of jello. I walked in somewhat of a daze to the chatting families and said that I had to go back to Lubbock. My family was in a serious car accident and things sounded bad. At that I headed to my pickup, put the key in the ignition and said one of those short prayers filled with meaning, "God help us!"

I started my truck and peeled out of a parking lot for the first time since I was in high school. I pulled onto the interstate and found out that a Ford F-150 can easily reach 120 miles per hour. My phone was buzzing over and over, but, I couldn't answer and drive a race truck at the same time. I prayed. I cried. I realized after a short time that 115 was a more responsible speed to allow someone to answer the phone.

When I reached the hospital I saw tons of church family, school teachers, friends, and family. I didn't care. I wanted to see my family. After seeing them all. Touching them all. Kissing each one on the head. I sat down in an empty ER space and said another short prayer in tears. "Thank you God."

When I got my family home I saw one of the most loving displays of all. In order for you to understand I must give a bit of back story. When my son was a baby, he used to wrestle with his baby blanket sometimes before he would settle down and we never understood why. Later, when he was a toddler we realized that just like his father he has this desire for things to always be the same. He wanted the red end of the blanket on top and the blue end of the blanket over his feet. Ahhh...finally we got it.

After Chrissy came home and was recovering from surgery I told Connor to make sure and be quiet so his Mom could rest. So I watched closely as I saw him sneak past the living room where I was working on my laptop. He was being quiet so I let him continue. I noticed something in his hand that looked like his, "blankie." He quietly opened our creaky bedroom door and tip-toed into the room. After about a minute, I saw him sneak out and tip-toe back toward his bedroom.

I stood to check on Chrissy, see if she needed more pain medicine, and find out what happened. When I walked in I saw my wife laying on our bed. Tears in her eyes, covered with Blankie. Red end at the top, blue end over her feet, tucked in just like we tucked him in bed.

For the first time in days, Chrissy's eyes weren't wet because of pain, but love. I asked what happened and I was told that Connor had come in, gently covered up his mother, and whispered, "Mom, you need blankie right now more than me, but when you're better I need him back."

Tears filled my eyes as I hugged my wife. She said, "OUCH! That hurt."

Sorry.

You need to know that just as that blanket was a gift of comfort, when we comfort one another, we receive comfort back in our time of need. So make sure you cover those who need to be covered. Red at the top reminding us of Christ who was, is , and always will be. Blue at the bottom reminding us that, "this too shall pass."

Who knew a child of mine would be so theologically brilliant? I should have. I know his Mom.

When The Cowboy Was A Lamb

From the time my son Connor could crawl, he carried a, "Woody the Cowboy," doll with him. Woody was his constant companion until he started Kindergarten and his teacher Mrs. Butler told him that no toys were allowed at school. Connor couldn't understand why his teacher didn't know that Woody was no toy, he was a friend.

In nearly every picture we have of Connor he is holding Woody by the arm in his left hand. If you saw Connor you saw Woody. We did have to separate Connor and Woody once as Woody had been used as a weapon. Other than that Woody sat with us at the dinner table, slept in Connors bed, was smuggled in backpacks, and went on every vacation with us. Let's just say, they were inseparable.

One night when Connor was three-years-old, I was tucking him into his, "big boy bed." We were in the middle of saying our nightly prayer when Connor sat straight up, eyes wide, panic stricken. "DAD! I left Woody at the church!"

"It's okay Connor, the church is a safe place. I'll get him tomorrow morning when I go in to the office" I assured him.

"NO! We have to go now."

"Connor, it's bedtime. I'm not going up to the church to get Woody. I'll get him tomorrow," I said a bit more firmly.

"Dad, you don't have to go alone. I'll go with you that way it's not scary. Woody's there alone. That's scary!" Connor shot back with such fervor I knew that this argument was not going to be won.

"ALRIGHT. Put on some shoes and I'll get our coats." It was late and I didn't want to go back to the church again to look for a toy, but I realized to Connor we were going to rescue something much more precious than a toy.

So we set out on our search and rescue mission. Dad and his little sidekick Pajama Boy with the shoes that lit up with every step. We jumped into my pickup and headed to the church building in search of our adopted family member. As I drove, Pajama Boy directed me from his car seat to, "drive faster!" Red lights annoyed him beyond belief. Our safety was not an issue, the retrieval of Woody was priority number one.

We pulled into the church parking lot and Connor immediately started to unbuckle himself from his carseat. "Come on Dad. He's in there alone. IN THE DARK," He said. I unlocked a door on the north side of the building and as soon as I did there went Pajama Boy to the rescue. I was amazed that Connor rushed into the dark building, he was afraid of the dark, but his momentum was the mission. I could only see blinking lights on his shoes as he charged forward as if he were a fireman running toward the fire. I started to turn on lights as I heard Connor running around calling, "WOODY! WHERE ARE YOU?" I couldn't help but smile.

I finally stopped his frantic search, knelt down, and asked, "Connor where did you leave him?"

With a look of more than mild annoyance he answered, "That doesn't matter Dad. He's been running around trying to find me. " If you've not seen the movie, "Toy Story," then you must know that the toys have lives of their own when people aren't around. Connor was sure that his buddy was running here, there, and everywhere in search of a way out of the building.

"Dad come on. Let's keep looking. WOODY! WHERE ARE YOU?" He yelled at the top of his lungs. Urging me to call for him too.

"Ummmmm...Woody, where are you?" I said with much less enthusiasm.

"No, you have to yell it like this. WOODY! WHERE ARE YOU?" He said with his little hands cupped around his mouth as a makeshift megaphone. And off we went SuperDad and his sidekick Pajama Boy yelling like crazy people in an empty church in search of a toy...I mean Woody.

When we reached Woody he was in a hallway by the choir room. Connor decided that he must have gotten tired of all the running and tried to take a nap. I will never forget my son running to his friend, picking him up and assuring him that he'd never leave him there again by himself. It was one of those moments you store up in your heart to play back when the other less fuzzy moments come. It's an evening I'll never forget.

We drove home and Connor was tucked into bed with Woody by his side, both covered up with Blankie, and off to sleep they went.

You learn things from a lot of different people. Some are older than you, and some younger. I learned something from my son that night. Jesus' parable of the shepherd leaving the 99 sheep to find the one lost lamb, and when found picking up the lost one and taking him back to the fold came to mind when I saw the urgency and single-minded devotion to finding his lost loved Woody.

Darkness didn't deter him, and our Shepherd, Jesus came to overcome darkness. Fear didn't matter, and Jesus said to His Father, "Not my will, but yours," when a torturous task was looming. The elation of finding Woody reminded me of the rejoicing in heaven when he who was lost is found. Connor bringing him safely home to sleep in a nice warm bed helped me understand more how our Savior continually leads us home with the warmth of his love.

I still remember the day Connor left Woody on his bed for good. He didn't need him any more. He was a bigger boy on his way to manhood faster than I can imagine with no way to slow it. We still have Woody, but now I'm his guardian. He'll be in no garage sales or donations to charity because he's Woody. He's dirty, written on, a tear on one leg. Well-loved is a better description. He's the reminder to me that at the end of life I'll be worn, torn, and well-loved, but, once upon a time, My Father ran into the darkness to find me, his lost child, and brought me back to Him.

You Don't Get To...

I think that many times we forget that there are too many people who think they have the right to, "Get to."
Some you can't tell, "you don't get to pull out in traffic dangerously in my way because I have kids in the car and you're busy with whatever." We wish we could, and hand signaling is not proper.
Some should know they shouldn't ask or tell you what you should or shouldn't do, but they forget because they're really important (in their own minds). But they don't.
Some think that it's about winning a battle. Others, it's about payback.
Some just don't get it. Some are just mad at themselves and take it out on you.
Whatever you do. Don't let the nonsensical doofus get you down. They don't get to.

You're a special, awesome, and one-of-a-kind creation. God makes the rules, not the cool kid's table, or the angry boss, the club, or the bully. You listen to the real rules that say that you're valuable, bought with a price. God looks at us and say's I want that one, and I'll pay in full.

We're born with nothing but an unknown amount of time on our hands. We'll die when that clock runs out. In between, do something awesome.

Jesus said, "greater things you will do than I have done." His Holy Spirit is in our hearts to move us to action. We limit that, and sometimes we are limited by the boat holes that try to sink us with stupid. So, I say don't let them limit you, harm your soul, break your spirit, deter your course!

They don't get to.

Dad! He Called Me a Name!!!

"Sticks and stones can break my bones, but words will never hurt me." Is quite possibly the biggest load of bull I've ever heard.

I can't tell you how many times on trips to the grocery store, the mall, Colorado, I've heard those words, "He/She called me a name!" from the back seat.

Names can hurt, they can also heal. Names eminate or erode our personality. Names bring our person into the conversation whether we're present or not. Have you ever heard gossip about someone and there they were in your present thought even though they were miles away? By the way, stop listening to gossip and do something else.

I preached a sermon series on how we're named without our permission at birth, then, we get even more names. Some make us laugh, "Ogre," and "Wildman," are two that make me chuckle at how stupid I used to be. "Bud," and, "Honey," are ones that make me swell with pride because they're from some of my favorite people. "Fatso," and, "Loser," have created some pretty big fights in days gone by. We don't choose our names, they're chosen. Well, my son, Connor chose his own nickname, "Rufus," and for some reason he likes it and it just fits!

I met a lady aout 8 years ago, her name is not important in this instance because she gave me the permission to share this:

"When I was born I was given the name, "Mary," like Jesus' mother. I bounced around throughout my growing up times getting different names. When I was 7 I learned my name was, "Stupid," because I could not read very well. I didn't know that it was dyslexia. No one cared. My mom was on husband 4 and he told me my name was, "get the hell out of the way." I understood I was in the way. In my attempt to be, "loved," I ended up getting the name, "slut," in High School. I found the way to forget about that name by choosing the name, "Drunk." It didn't work for me because it caused me to take on all sorts of different names I can't write about to my Pastor. But none were good. I wanted to say thank you for reminding me of my real name, "Beloved."

I can't tell you how much that hand written note means to me. It's in a page of my Bible that was presented to me at my ordination. I don't want to forget my job is to remind those who can't feel love that it's there and it's their's.

I know a lot of your names. I hope to meet more folks and learn more names. But I know that someone gave you a name when you were born, like the name or not, it's yours. I know life has given you names that make you feel ashamed, proud, hurt, or angry. Those aren't your name!

When God looks at you He doesn't see names like: ugly, loser, fat, dumb, skinny, poor, rich, idiot, worthless, you fill in the next blank. God sees His, "Beloved."

So when you feel like it call out to your Father in Heaven, and He'll remind you of your real name, "Beloved." It's just too bad He doesn't pull the world over and spank the name caller. They're His, " Beloved," too.

"Mary," if you read this, and I think you will. Remember when you just wanted to be loved? You, sweet soul, in your brokenness learned that your name IS, "Beloved." In so doing, you reminded me it's my name too.

That's My Kid!

I watched my daughter sing on stage yesterday. I'm biased, but still she sang like an angel. I wanted everyone to know, "Hey! That's my kid!"

When Connor gets a base hit and an RBI I want to let everyone in the stands know, "Hey! That's my kid!"

But then there are times when I hear my kids tell a lie, and I say, "Honey, they're your kids."

Connor got in trouble at school for talking too much so I said, "Honey, what's with your son?"

Caitlin the teen-aged angel glares at me across the dinner table and says, "Whatever," and I ask, "Why does your daughter act that way?"

Being a parent is filled with moments of immense pride, and occasional disappointment, and the hope that they'll grow successfully into adulthood.

God looks at us and says, "That's MY kid."

For those of us that accept his grace, we have the assurance that God sees us in our proudest and most shameful moments and sees His child. When we say what we ought not say, or do what we know we shouldn't Our Father still says, "That's MY kid."

When we're unlovable or down right adorable God looks at His creation and says, "That's MY kid."

God looks at us with love because He gave his only Son that by faith, no matter who we are or what we've done, he can say, "That's MY kid."

The Team

I've always loved being part of a team. As a player, coach, fan, parent, you name it. I will admit I enjoyed coaching my kids more than playing, as they're both better players than I ever was, and I didn't have to run as much either.

I love being part of a team because as I told our congregation today we learn so many lessons from being part of a team. I've always known that being part of a team makes you a better person than you can be alone. Don't believe me? Have you ever tried to stop a touchdown alone against a team of 11? Ever try to pitch, catch, and field the baseball by yourself? Have you once attempted a victory against the Knicks without help? Professionals don't try it alone, why should we mere mortals?

I know there are many descriptions for the church: body, family, bride. I prefer my description. The church is a team.

A team teaches you that you can't do it all by yourself. A team teaches you that you have a position that's important. A team teaches you that you're part of something bigger than yourself. A team teaches you that you can accomplish more with others than you can alone.

If you're part of a team you don't get to sit in the stands. You're vital to the success of the team. It doesn't matter if you're a quarterback, offensive lineman, pitcher, catcher, forward, or post. You're needed. You have a job to do and you better get it done. If you don't work at your position, you hurt your team.

If you're part of a team you learn that sometimes you make an error, fumble, or fall. A teammate will pick you up. A teammate will help you when you're hurt. A teammate will bring a drink of water and help restore your strength. A teammate will pat you on the back and say, "shake it off."

If you're part of a team you have a jersey with the team name on the front. The jersey is a reminder of what the team represents. The jersey represents much more than self. The jersey is an honor.

The beauty of being part of the team that is the Kingdom of God is that there isn't a try-out, just an invitation. The wonderful part of the team that is God's church is that once you accept Christ's grace and join the team you can't be cut. And the only way to be benched on this team is if you take a seat yourself and miss out on what is an awesome race that is life.

So as I told the boys I coached last season for Connor's football team, if at the end of the practice, scrimmage, or game, you find that your uniform is clean, you didn't do your job. You should finish each one dirty, tired, and sore.

The same is true for the Christian. Get dirty with the business of serving, loving, worshiping, learning, and caring. Sometimes we get tired, but God will give us strength. And sometimes loving deeply hurts, but, without the occasional hurt the love isn't real.

More importantly look at your jersey. It is the robe that God created for us that is the blood of Christ. If you're on the team, and you're on the bench or in the grandstands, you're in the wrong place. Get your tail on the field and play your position the best you can.

If you're not on the team, all you need to do is pick up your jersey.

Most importantly, listen to the Coach. Our Coach is the Christ, and He'll never call the wrong play.

Sometimes

Pulling on your favorite pair of boots makes you feel better about being you.

Telling someone to, "just hush," gives you strength.

Playing your guitar alone helps.

Pretending you could whip someone who deserves it makes you feel tougher.

Just sitting in the quiet works.

A Window Seat at the Cafe

I was seated alone, staring out the window of the small cafe when I was startled by the robust greeting, "HEY CLINT!"

I turned to the visitor atthe table, wondering at whom I was looking, somewhat annoyed since I was hoping to read a newspaper, drink coffee, have breakfast, and just be alone.

"Hi." My mind was racing. Who in the world is this person? Why do I know you? How did you find me? What do you know about me?

It was then that this man sat down across the table from me at the booth by the window.

Ummm, I didn't ask you to sit.

"You don't know who I am do you?" He asked.

"Sure. I do."

"Then how do you know me?" It's getting worse at this point.

"I don't. I'm sorry. Please forgive me." (It's my nature to seek forgiveness, even though I didn't ask this guy to sit down at my private table with a chipped corner.)

"You were the minister at my great-aunt's funeral three years ago." (Oh YEAH, how could I forget?)

"Who was your great-aunt?" I asked.

"Just so you know, I really thought your service was crap. It made me mad. Thought I'd just tell you that. I didn't think you should be talking about her, or a God who didn't care anything about her." (Well, cool. Seems like things are looking up in this conversation. And who was your great-aunt?)

"You know what..." (just calm down and don't use the big bad words) "I'm not sure who..."

"Wait a minute, calm down friend," He shot back.

"Okay FRIEND, what's up?"

"After a few months I kept hearing you talk about my Aunt Gaga, and, well, I felt good about her new home you were talking about. One with no hospitals or stuff like that where people never cry. Aunt Gaga was like my mother and grandmother."

"So you're...."

"Let me finish!" he said. "I started attending a church on Saturday night."

"Why didn't you come to Westmont or talk to me? I'm just curious."

"I didn't like your church, or you. I just realize that you were sayin' the truth. Aunt Gaga was better. I thought I'd come over here and tell you that even though I don't go to your church. The church made a difference."

"Well, thanks I guess."

With that we finished our odd conversation and I resumed my stare out the window onto the red brick downtown street. What in the heck just happened?

As my eggs and toast arrived and the waitress brought more coffee, "Ericka," the waitress said, "He's a piece of work huh?"

"Yeah, he's a piece of work."

I finished my breakfast quickly, headed out to my truck in the parking lot and saw that, "piece of work," helping an elderly man into the passenger's seat of his truck. My hateful side thought, "What are you going to do? Take him to the country and dump him in a ditch?"

Then I realized that we scatter seeds that God grows. He is the one who determines the harvest.

As I watched from afar, I saw great care and concern and knew that this man was a, "piece of God's work."

Even if he goes to the wrong church.

Your Friends

Sometimes I don't think we get to choose our friends. Especially our best friends.

Sometimes God puts people in the way, they adopt us, we adapt, and life adjusts. Tux is one of those pains in the neck that becomes a best friend. Alright, I know, Tux isn't a person, but he has a lot of personality.

Tux is a black and white cat, how could we choose the name huh? He is hilarious. He leaps at television screens, knocks over everything knockoverable. He eats laying down with one, "hand," in the food bowl. He wants to love and whip everyone! I get it.

I didn't choose Tux, my family chose him. Then, he chose me.

He puts his stupid white hand on my face when I'm sleeping. He, "talks," when I want to eat cereal and read the newspaper. He, "hides," in my briefcase and tears up the blinds on the windows.

I'm not a cat guy. But, Tux chose me. I love him. He came to us as a skinny, scared, stupid rescue can't . Now he's a kick-butt, fat, vocal, rescued cat that is ours. He is ours, we are his. I wish he wouldn't swipe his hands at the score updates on ESPN, but he does. We're family.

Kind of like a church family huh? And God says, "You're MINE."

I Can't Buy It...

I love when my wife reaches to hold my hand in the middle of the night.

I love when my kids laugh at my dumb jokes.

I love when I make my family proud.

I love when Sammie or Tux make me pet them.

I love when people fall down, don't get hurt, but still...

I love spaghetti.

I love salsa that isn't disgusting.

I love throwing baseballs at the fence really hard.

I love coaching my kids' teams.

I love seeing kids who say, "Hey Coach!" when I'm at the store.

I love, "Sanford and Son."

I love barbecue, chili, and Shiner Bock...not all together.

I love winning at whatever I'm doing.

I love coffee.

I love being forgiven for being me.

I love The One who forgave me for being unlovable.

Hotel rooms stink...literally. They smell like something else. They don't smell like home. They smell like strangers. I don't like them, they help me sleep worse. Hotel rooms make me confused about television channel choices. In the middle of the night the room makes me stump my toe, say bad words, and try to find a bathroom. THEY STINK!

BUT, I never clean the toilet or dust the desk. I never clean the windows or sweat a broken wall (Don't ask) I'm a rock star.

I always know that the room, however nice it is, is not my home.

This world is not my home, I'm just passin' through.

Seeing God

I wrote this in March 2001, in Red River, NM and thinking of the 25th chapter of the Gospel of Matthew:

Seeing God

It is easy to see God gazing at snow-capped mountains and pristine flowing streams.

God seems so evident in the beauty of a sunrise and the resigned royalty of a sunset.

I can hear God's crashing voice in the fury of a thunderstorm, and see Him in His God painted rainbow.

I always feel God's love holding a newborn baby, untouched by the world that can hurt him.

Do I see him in the man on the corner with a mangled, torn, misspelled cardboard sign? Do I see him in the dirty hair and hands and clothes that smell of a life I wouldn't choose?

Do I fail when judging the teenager being used by the drug in an inner-city somewhere, anywhere in the world?

Are my eyes clouded by the appearance of someone a world away? Do I forget to see God when someone else's eyes are clouded by how I look?

When I lash out in anger or disgust, I surely forget that I am lashing out at God. In a myriad of prejudice we spew hate at the One who is our hope and our future.

Where must I see God?

In the mountains and in the streets.

In all color of skin.

In young and old.

In the suburbs and the cities.

In a Lexus and on the bus.

In my hometown and around the globe.

In the prostitute, the thief, the homeless, the CEO.

In those who know they're in need, and those who haven't the thought that eternity was already purchased in the blood of our Lord.

In those whom I love, but those who seem unlovable.

Where is God?

Look. He's next door.

I fail often to realize that God loves me more than I love my own children. If they hurt, I hurt. When they laugh, I laugh with them. I take personally all of their successes and failures. You don't get to hurt my family without it becoming personal for me.

I think that is what God tells us in Matthew 25. He takes very personally the treatment of His children.

We have a tradition in my family that when someone says, "I love you," our response is, "I love you more!" I happen to know that when I hear that from my child it cannot possibly be true.

Father in Heaven I love you, but I know, I KNOW YOU LOVE ME MORE.