Strength

Strength is a word that has more sides than a domino. Like all words, the understanding comes from interpretation. Strength means different things to different people. What does it mean to be strong? I've read the bible over and over and I find so many different shows of strength.

Strength is saying, "NO," to the voice in your own head that says, "Go ahead. It won't hurt."

Strength is lifting a weight that everyone says you couldn't.

Strength is saying to someone, "you are that man!" Even if the hearer is a king.

Strength is wrestling, getting beat, and dealing with the limp.

Strength is calling wrongs what they are.

Strength is telling someone, "wherever you go I will go."

Strength is feeling compassion so much it makes your gut hurt.

Strength is realizing everybody's got something to deal with, and nobody's normal.

Strength is running to a prodigal son.

Strength is looking at a giant and coming at him with the only five rocks you've got.

Strength is building a boat in a desert because God said so.

Strength is a soldier who knows each day is gift.

Strength is praying so hard that you sweat blood and tears over something you do not want to do, but do it anyway

Strength is forgiving. It's confronting. It's loving.

The greatest strength is one who would stretch out his arms so wide, bleed, thirst, and hurt. But those arms were stretched out so wide that Jesus could not only hang on a cross, but wrap those arms around even those of us who spit at him.

True strength can be summed up in one name, "Jesus."

You Can't Unboil an Egg

A baby's born.

His name is chosen and put on a bracelet, then on a birth certificate.

That name means the hope of the parents, and the last name is the one that makes that unknown little person theirs. Thank God for parents like mine who gave tons of sleepless nights, prayers, cares, and hopes to that little one.

It takes a while, like boiling an egg, but then the baby becomes a toddler and a personality starts to take shape. By the time the egg takes shape he has an identity and we call him a kid.

That kid breaks bones, talks back, and learns he doesn't have to give a damn about anything that doesn't matter to him, and grabs on to things that matter the most to him. The kid starts to make the ones who care proud and breaks their hearts all at the same time. He just doesn't realize what he's doing yet. He just keeps jumping his bike off ramps, playing ball, and going to school.

Pretty soon, he's a teenager before you can imagine that he could get that many years on him. The teenager starts to jump bigger ramps, breaking more bones and hearts caring more and less about those and that which matters, yet he still doesn't get the grip on what and why but at least thank God he's still around scars and all. The hope is that he'll know enough about what he's seen and heard to stay true to what makes the difference. That's a parent's hope still printed on that birth certificate.

Before anyone notices the teenager turns into a hard-boiled egg, hell bent on being his own person with no way to stop him. You can't unboil an egg. He makes decisions that can't be unmade, says words that can't be unsaid, and does stuff. Some are proud moments like graduations, Military pinning ceremonies, weddings, reconciliations, you name it. But still there are ramps to be jumped, scars to be made, and ball to be played. It doesn't matter that the one who was named in a nursery isn't owned by the arms that once held him, the arms still welcome him. Good or bad.

Then that thing turns into a full-blown adult. Whatever, "adult," means. Grown up is a term so relative you can't quantify it by any means no matter how hard you try. But there's still hope your grown up will grow up. There's still hope for that little baby grown to be a bigger baby in the eyes of the one who first saw him.

I looked at my birth certificate for a long time yesterday wondering what my Mom and Dad thought and hoped when they chose that name of mine and attached their name to it. I can't imagine. I just know they loved me through scars, jumps, and missed shots. I wish every little one born could have my experiences, as much as I hope my own little ones don't have many of the experiences I chose in my life. Yet still, they'll jump their own ramps, receive their own scars, and choose their own ways. They'll learn, relearn, and relearn. I guess that's called life. Hopefully, I've given them at least a third of the lessons I got, because you can't unboil the water.

When they're grown-up, whatever that means, I hope they'll be able to say what I can say today. Whatever they've done, and wherever they've been. Whatever road they've chosen and whenever dead ends derailed them.

Thanks Mom and Dad, I sure do love you.

I don't write sermons anymore, but this would've been one I should've.

Eggs, Sliced Tomatoes, Cantaloupe, Bacon, and Coffee

The best breakfast is made out of eggs, sliced tomatoes, cantaloupe, bacon, and coffee. There should always be a rode hard, put up wet waitress who's working hard because she has to and needs a big tip, a smile, and a retort to all her barbs.

I've always loved and hated food. I've run thousands of miles to get rid of the calories until I read a Gatorade bottle that said calories were, "energy." Counselors have told me that food fills the hole in the soul, I just figured it filled the whole of the belly. I think I'm more right than they were.

But the best breakfasts are the ones filled with eggs, sliced tomatoes, cantaloupe, bacon, and a gallon of coffee with friends. The friends are the ones who made the rest worth it. Breakfast is the time of day when the world is new again, the day before got wiped out by the night, and friends will talk about anything, everything, and nothing. They'll tell bad jokes, argue about politics and religion, and forget it all before the plates are cleared.

Menudo is a terrible breakfast unless Sandra Chavarrhia makes it, because she'll just smile and listen to boys be boys slurping up horrific cow guts. But what makes it a good breakfast is the time laughter breaks up the air, and the day's still new. Nobody eats breakfast feeling sorry for themselves unless they got it through a window in a greasy paper sack filled with ketchup packets.

Breakfast always starts with a prayer and ends with handshakes. Eggs, sliced tomatoes, cantaloupe, bacon, and coffee fill the belly, but it's the talks that fill the heart.

Sometimes

When you've said all you have to say. Seen all you thought you needed to see. Heard all you needed to hear. I call it, "Sometimes," time.

Because, sometimes you have something more to say, the better two choices are, "I love you," and, "I'm sorry." But you still have somebody who wants to hear from you. They love the sound of your voice, and what you might have to offer. They even might need your wisdom, and contrary to popular opinion, wisdom's the greatest gift, just ask ol' King Solomon.

Sometimes, we haven't seen the best yet. I figure there's bigger and better things to see since my baby girl already sang at the Meyerson Symphony Center, and my little man already played football at Cowboys Stadium. I think they'll see big things, and I hope to see them with them. Sometimes we wish we could go back and make things different about what we saw. We can't. We just have to see what's in front of us, and look up and thank The One who let's us see.

Sometimes, we haven't been all the places we need to go. Not like on a to-do list, but like on a, "TO GO!," list. The places we need to go aren't the fanciest cities in the biggest places. Sometimes the, "to go," places are Waffle House with somebody you don't particularly want to talk to, but, you're all they got. Sometimes the to go line is at the store with somebody who needs you to buy them a loaf of bread and not lecture them. Sometimes, all the time, there's somewhere to go. It's not the buildings, or the mountains, or the seas, that make them places to go. It's the people, they're the best.

I think there's a reason Jesus always said, "let him who has ears to hear." I'd translate it this way, "just listen you hard-headed thing you Clint." We need to listen to the loud, quiet, and in-between voices that continue to shape us on the anvil of life. The Master is not finished with us until he put's us up. That banging sound is Him, hammering us into shape, knocking off our rough edges, and polishing us up.

Sometimes...

Nerfherding

Friends are funny things. We learned that in a game I named, "Nerfherding." I didn't know why I named it such, but I reckon it was because of the concept of the game.

We would take a red Nerf ball and throw it in the air and the one who could hold on to it for at least, "Ten Mississipp," would win. We'd give grace to the one who couldn't count to Mississippi without getting tackled, hit, or otherwise knocked sideways. He'd get to win that round. Dumbest dadgummed game I could've ever made up. But we thought it was fun.

We made up some simple rules:
1. No eye gouging.
2. No crotch punching.
3. No crying.
4. Always start each match with a prayer... just in case.

I can't count the number of times we ended up in a full fledged fight over the ball ignoring every rule we instituted, but there were no referees, just us.

So why in the world do I write about the dumbest game ever? it taught me grown up rules.

1. If you're going to grab the ball, you better know what you're going to do next.
2. When someone knocks the hell out of you, it was at your invitation.
3. No crying.
4. Always start the match with a prayer, not in case, but because God still listens to fools.
5. The best friends sit around after whipping each other and laugh.

I write this because we all grew up, sort of, and still we're the best, "Nerfherding," friends there ever were. A lawyer, a Navy, "SEAL," turned Deputy, a restaurant running phenomenon, and, well, me.

Thank you boys.

Things My Father Never Told Me

I am glad to say that I am not among the group of men and women who still suffer from the trauma of never hearing, "I love you," from my father and mother. Both of my parents have always been loving in word and action. Amidst the many that wanted affirmation or acknowledgement from a parent and never received a hint of it, I stand not in that company. I know the pain is intense and widespread as over many years of listening to individuals sitting with me, tears staining their cheeks, recounted the bruises left by silence or worse, violent arrows shot at their hearts, paralyzing their own ability to love others fully. I have always known my parents love me, but as Father's Day approaches I think of those things my father never told me.

Dad taught me many things in life. How to hunt, fish, and tie a necktie. He showed me how to shine my shoes and check the oil in the car. He told me of words and actions that were right and wrong. As I grew older he told me stories of his own life's poor decisions and misdirections mixed with the humor that only time can make stories upon which one will say, "someday we'll look back on this with a laugh."

Riding in my Dad's pickup we talked. I still have the vivid memory of sitting with Dad in his boat on White River Lake talking while we fished on the day before my first experience with kindergarten. The time he talked to me about sex, I'm not sure which one of us was more uncomfortable. When he would come into my bedroom I knew that times I was in for a stern, "talking to." Many times my attitude and replies were insolent and obviously infuriating. I was born with a hard head and suspect I'll die with one as well.

I learned many things from Dad's words, but I learned at least as much from the things my father never told me.

My father never told me how to work hard, she showed me. He was a brick mason by trade. A work that was physically demanding. Laying brick and stone, using mortar and a trowel as the tool of his art, layering row upon row on so many buildings in and around the town where I grew up. He did it very well and without his labor in blazing heat and blustery cold wind the beauty of many a building would be not be both beautiful and a testament to his true mastery of art. I remember seeing a bottle of aspirin on the dashboard of his truck, and watching him come home from a day on the job, dirty and tired, a witness of how hard he worked. He built the fireplace in our home on 48th Street, and I've never seen one like it before. He let me lay the last brick, it was the only one to fall off over the years.
I worked for my father as a teenager before I was old enough to get a job at a grocery store sacking groceries. It was not easy to work for him, never a moment to sit still, especially for the boss' son. He owned his own contracting company and with my Mom by his side managed to do well due to their diligence in what they were doing. My father didn't tell me how to work hard, he showed me. He still probably doesn't know to this day that there were a few times when I was a child that I was awakened slightly as he very quietly walked into my bedroom, dark as night still outside my windows and kissed me on the head before heading out the door for another day at work. Once looking at the clock beside my bed I saw that it was 4 AM. I fell back to sleep, he went to work.

My father didn't tell me how to treat ladies. I learned from my Dad that it was important to open doors for ladies, to offer a seat to a lady in a crowded room where not seats were left, and to always answer with, "yes ma'am," or, "no, ma'am." It was an unspoken, but clear understanding that there are ways and words that boys may use among the boys, but never in the company of ladies. That said, I must also admit I never learned to use foul language or tell bawdy jokes from my Dad. I can hardly recount a time when I heard my Dad use some of the words that have flown from my own mouth too freely in frustration or anger. I recall on the early morning ride to work for my Dad the first time when I was thirteen he said, "You're going to hear a lot of things on this job site, I don't want to see you standing and listening to any of it, and I certainly don't want to hear you repeat any of it around your mother or anyone else for that matter." He was right. I heard a lot of crude talk and nasty jokes. I learned to cuss in Spanish. None of it was from my father. I know that he was not the Saint on the job, but I wouldn't have known it.

My father didn't tell me how to be a husband, he showed me. Before my own wedding there were no speeches on the virtues of a good husband or the ways to treat a wife. I like to think that he knew I had seen it enough to recognize the right and wrong way to conduct myself. It was obvious to me that he has taken to this day his vow to love and honor my Mom, "for better, for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health." As with any couple there were arguments, some more heated than others but always resolved. Of many classmates I was becoming a rarer breed that had both parents living together under the same roof, a blessing I didn't realize until much later in life. We never worried or wondered where Dad was when he wasn't working or at home, never chasing him to bars or spending time with the wrong company. He is a family man.

My father never told me how to be a father, he showed me. I learn more and more as years roll along that to have raised me as a son must've been quite a challenge at times. I've already mentioned the thickness of my head but not it's connection to my mouth. More than once we butted heads and I said things that I wish I could take back, but we know that once words are uttered they have their own life and are no longer retrievable. Still his words to me in those times may have been harsh, but not unloving in any way. I was fortunate enough to look and see my parents at all of my school programs and sports events, affirming me with their presence. Knowing they were there at my college graduation was probably more exciting for them than it was for me, a sort of breath of relief. Isn't college the best seven years of everyone's life? I was shown how to be a father by the simple art of, "being there." In times both good and bad, triumphant and trying, Dad was there.

Yes, he taught me many things. Riding a bike, how to fish, how to shoot a shotgun, how to catch and throw, the way to hustle on a ball field. Many words we shared and still do. It was also things that he didn't tell me, rather he showed me that have lasted as well. In times of worry and disappointment, still my parents were there.

Reading in Henri J.M. Nouwen's book The Return of the Prodigal Son I see the loving hands of the father and remember my parents hands:

"I felt drawn to those hands. I did not fully understand why. But gradually over the years I have come to know those hands. They have held me from the hour of my conception, they welcomed me at my birth, held me close to my mother's breast, fed me, and kept me warm. They have protected me in times of danger and consoled in times of grief. They have waved my good-bye and always welcomed me back. Those hands are God's hands. They are also the hands of my parents...those whom God has given me to remind me how safely I am held."

My father is a man, and no man is perfect. But I proudly carry his name and pass it to a new generation. I am not half the man I see in my Dad. What he has taught me with his words I still have hidden in my heart and even in the dusty cobwebbed recesses of my mind. What he showed me I can still picture often. In many falls from grace wandering the rambling way of my existence in this life, I pray often that I can see at the end of my life that I somehow, someway, became half the man my Dad showed me I could be.

The Bum

He walked with a slight limp, dragging his feet largely unnoticed until he stopped. It isn't that he stopped his walking, it was where he stopped. Wearing a pair of dirty pants and work boots without shoe strings, sweat soaked his undershirt and open shirt flapped open in the light breeze. His look was of a man who had neither showered or shaved in days. Carrying a worn canvas bag, he stopped in front of a bench on the sidewalk just outside the gated courtyard of a beer garden where the early evening crowd gathered for drinks before going home, maybe waiting for a reservation at the restaurant inside. Dropping his bag on the bench the once invisible man became the focus of the well dressed crowd gathered inside the waist high iron fence, at once he became the focus of a few.

"Oh my God, what in the world?" I heard a young attractive lady say to her companions at the table behind me.

The unknown man stood unsteadily, swayed on weak knees while staring with an unfocused look into the group on the other side of the fence. The barrier between the welcome and unwelcome.

"What's he doing?"

Two young men, suit jackets hanging on the backs of their chairs sat, ties loosened, relaxed with legs outstretched, stopped conversation for a moment as they glanced at the new show outside of the arena of the acceptable. Only for a moment were they distracted as they both looked back quickly to their phones and iPads, slowly sipping their cold bottles, beads of water slipped from their drinks.

The sound of two patio chairs made the harsh sound of scraping against concrete as a couple turned their chairs so that they couldn't see the invisible man, still staring at the gathered crowd. Most went back to the casual conversation that was in play before the dirty stranger made his appearance making only casual glances toward him as his eyes were fixed beyond the crowd.

"What's he looking at?"

"What in the hell is his problem?"

"Is he drunk?"

The chatter continued, casual glances were exchanged. The iron fence was the one object that separated the clean and the unclean. He pulled off his hat as his matted gray hair fell past his shoulders, first sitting on the bench before lying down and putting his brimmed hat over his face. He lay still and silent, arms crossed across his body, legs curled up on the bench turned to makeshift bed. Amazement continued as if some heinous act had just occurred in the brick street a few yards away. The invisible man gained recognition, he was a bum... a nothing. A no one, interrupting the enjoyment of those drinking ten dollar drinks at umbrella covered tables.

"Oh God, I think I can smell him!" said a painfully thin tanned young lady with her Daddy's credit card a look of disgust on her face.

A few minutes later a tall thick man clad in black pants and a fashionably untucked shirt walked outside the restaurant to the nothingman asleep on the bench. He first spoke without trying to alert any patrons inside the garden.

"Sir. Sir. Mr. You can't stay here," the large man said in most quiet voice that his booming frame would allow.

Stillness. Not a move. Not even a flinch.

"Hey. Mr! You can't stay here," the man said more forcefully.

Finally, shaking him from slumber, the man slowly reached with one hand and pulled the sweat stained hat from his face to his chest and glared the same dead stare at the man towering over him, eyes squinted, expressionless. He mumbled something to the man in black and pulled his hat back over his face.

Trying once more, with no success to wake the unwanted visitor the man walked back indoors.

"He's calling the cops," a man said to another at a group gathered that looked as if they had finished an afternoon of golf. "Let's help him out."

"What the hell are we supposed to do? Let a sleeping dog lie," shot back another at the table between gulps from a large mug.

"C'mon, Jeff," he replied as two of the men stood from the table and strolled toward the gate, obviously wondering what they were going to do. Approaching the man one reached out hesitantly and shook the man again firmly.

"Dude, get up. The cops are going to be here soon. Get up."

Without moving the hat from his face, refusing to give up his only shade came another mumbling response. The two looked at one another and then at the intruder. The barbarian who stole the space of a four foot wooden bench. After more discussion out of ear-shot the one wearing a visor with, "Titleist," emblazoned across the front grabbed the mans arm and forced him into a sitting position.

"Get the _____ off! You not shelf at... off my ________!" The silent man speaks, slowly and almost incoherently. Invoking the Lord's name in ways no way resembling a prayerful tone.

As one of the guys reached for his filthy bag that may have contained everything he called his own, the man stumbled to grab what had been his pillow. The men caught him before he fell and each put one of his arms over a shoulder and walked, often dragging the feet of the man across the brick street while their buddies peppered them with insults disguised as jokes.

"Hey! Wonder Woman and Bat Girl! Where are you taking your side-kick?"

"Good job guys! Your place or his?" shouted one of the men at the table probably nearly as drunk as the formerly quiet and strange neighbor to the host of the courtyard.

"Hurry up! We ain't got all night!" called another, as if anything productive was going to happen for the remainder of the groups day.

By the time the threesome crossed the street, the attention of the entire crowd gathered in the sun and evening breeze was rapt in the banal drama being performed before their very eyes. At the corner the three turned north and crossed the street to a store front with an awning once occupied by a sports bar, now vacant. The Samaritans helped the man sit down next to his bag on the shaded concrete sidewalk. They were talking, but no one knew what was being said.

"He's probably asking for money."

"Jason owes me fifty bucks after missing that putt on sixteen. He better not give 'im my money!" another of the burly goatee wearing golf buddies said to the table. With lips lubricated enough that his volume control was turned off so all could hear his boisterous talk.

"Is he drunk or stoned? How do homeless people buy stuff anyway?"

"Are you stupid? Of course he's drunk. He buys, 'his stuff,' from guys like those two morons helping him."

The prattle continued as many turned their attention back to gossip, business talk, laments of the sliced tee shot on the eighteenth green, and the Rangers' three game losing streak. Some continued to monitor the situation from afar. The golf buddies decided to wager which one would give the man money, gambling, money on the table about which sucker would buy the man his next, "hit."

"It'll be Jason. He's always been a ________. That worthless piece blah blah blah blah."

Finally, there came a loud cheer from the table as the winners gathered the pot when one of the crosswalkers reached into his pocket and put some money in the man's bag. Walking slowly away to arrive back to their drinks, feeling good about themselves for removing a nuisance from the presence of the scrubbed, washed, and shaven crew while doing a good deed to make up for their poor behaviors of the day.

"He better have my __________ fifty when he gets back to this table!"

All attention was diverted by most as the man lay sleeping on the sidewalk, out of sight, out of mind. With his hat over his face, deep in the slumber of one unconscious to the world around him in so many ways. Only looking over once again as two police cars pulled to the curb and arrested the man, putting his bag in the trunk of the car, they drove away. All distractions were gone.

"How can someone live that way? What a waste of space."

"He lives off us. His bed and dinner are compliments of our taxes ladies," said one of the men who had accompanied the group of co-eds most appalled at the bums unappreciated intrusion to the beginning of the weekend.

"How could you be happy? If y'all are all truly my friends you'd shoot me if you ever saw me like that."

"I will!"

Laughter. Another round. The night is young.

I wondered about that man from the moment he walked to the bench. What was he seeing as he stared beyond the crowd? Where did he come from? Where was he going, did he even know? Was he drunk, stoned, crazy, all of it? Did it matter? Was anyone looking for him? Did he care? When would he get his bag back and sleep on the ground?

He could've been anyone. He was surely someone's son, maybe a father. What was hidden beneath that matted hair and ragged clothing? Was he a genius? Was his childhood filled with joy or sorrow? Was he running away from someone, something, or himself? How could he be happy? Was he more at peace than some who sat on the patio drowning in a sea of debt, depression, and deception?

He looked to be my father's age, although his weathered look could've been intensified by years of living the life he lived now. Was he a veteran? Did he go to Vietnam as my Father-In-Law had. What broke him to the point of finding solace only confined to a locked cell? What would he do with the twenty poked into his duffel bag when he was free to find his way?

What was his name?

I couldn't answer that question, nor could anyone else around me for that matter. Could I even answer all of those questions about myself? For most his name was, "Nobody." Most wouldn't remember him tomorrow, others would spin the tale of how two fella's dragged the violent crazy across the street for the police to apprehend. What was his name?

I had been thinking for days on a very familiar Psalm written by David. The Twenty-Third Psalm. Word by word, phrase by phrase, forward and backward, I recited the verses to myself as a meditation for the last two weeks.

"The Lord is my Shepherd."
"He makes me lie down in green pastures. He leads me beside quiet waters. He restores my soul."
"I will fear no evil for You are with me."
"I will live in the house of the Lord forever."

There is definitely a difference between resting in the comfort and safety of a lush green pasture and passing out on a hot side-walk. His parched lips could not mask his physical and emotional thirst, he was not near quiet waters that refresh and cool him. Was he afraid or oblivious? I didn't know. Where was he going? Who or what was he following?

What was his name?

I'll never know his name. I'll never know where he is or where he came from. I'll never know what he saw looking through the group tucked away on that warm early evening.

I did know one thing. Although it wasn't clear what name he was given at his birth, or the name he answered to now. But one thing was crystal clear to me. His God-given name was, "Beloved." He may not have been following the Shepherd, but next to him on that hot sidewalk, in the back of the police car, at the jail house, the Shepherd was with him. His name was the same as mine.

My clothes were clean, his were not. I wasn't drunk on a bench waiting for a night in jail, but neither of us were without blemish or stain. None of us were. Some of our sins and faults are more easily hidden inside our homes and hearts. The silent secrets that invade our minds slashing like daggers through the heart. Although I may have turned my back and forged my own path through the treacherous valley time and time again, always ending in peril, the Shepherd was, is, and always be with me. Relentlessly, lovingly, following.

Both of us were creations of God. Both of us grew weary and tired. Both were filled with heart and soul. He wasn't a bum. His name wasn't, "No Body." He and I had the same name, "Beloved."

I am the bum, the bum is me. Wherever we are, green pastures, still waters, valleys of death and fear, so is the Shepherd. Searching and calling the name, "Beloved!"

Follow. Stumble. Stagger. Fall. Repeat.

Reaching...

One of the things that I like to do as part of our family tasks is going to the grocery store. I don't know why, but it works. I don't mind pushing the buggy down the aisles in search of the things we need, and on occasion, things we don't. My wife doesn't seem to mind that it's a part of enjoy, like mowing the lawn, keeping the garage organized, and a few other things. The system works, and if it ain't broke, don't mess with it.

On a recent trip to the market I was on my usual path strolling through each aisle finding the necessary items that I was there to obtain when I noticed a woman trying to reach a jar of tomato sauce that was on the top shelf. We were the only two people in the same section at the moment and as I watched her strain to reach the jar, I did what came naturally to me. I walked to the lady and asked, "May I get that for you Ma'am?"

It was a polite gesture, so I thought. Something I was brought up to do, just like holding the door open for others and waiting for people to depart an elevator before charging in to claim my spot. But I apparently was wrong in my assumption at this particular junction.

Without looking at me the woman said simply and gruffly, "No!"

I must admit I was shocked. A simple offer for a simple problem with a simple solution in my opinion was obviously going to help this lady unknown to me at the time. I paused for a moment, somewhat in disbelief. I watched as she continued her quest for the jar with the thought that she may be at this for a while. She was riding one of the motorized shopping carts that are in so many stores these days and had precariously and cautiously stepped from her cart and was reaching as high as she could, and she was nowhere close to getting what she wanted.

I walked back to my grocery shopping still watching out of the corner of my eye, hoping she wouldn't fall. She turned, holding on to one of the handlebars of the scooter and turned to get a cane that she had stashed in the basket with her other items and slowly turned around with her new implement for jar procurement. She tried to stand tall, as if on her tip-toes, but it would've been impossible as I noticed her thick ankles and short stooped heavy body wave her cane precariously at her object of desire. In her attempt she pushed the jar further back on the shelf.

Once again I approached this woman and said, "Ma'am, please let me get that for you."

This time she looked at me. Silently. It was a look sharper than a warriors sword that was a combination of, "Go to hell," and, "Didn't you hear me the first time?" I knew it was fueled by knowing that there was a day, a time in her life when that jar would have been easily retrieved. Once upon a time no struggle would've been necessary to do a simple task. To her this was a quest, to me it was a jar out of reach.

With my final request denied I started on my way further down the aisle when I heard what I thought would be the inevitable. A crash behind me was the sound of several jars hitting the tile floor and shattering, splashing their contents. I was then that I realized there was only one way to help the situation. I noticed an employee was on the way to clean up the mess that splattered in all directions. At that moment I knew she was distracted by embarrassment as she attempted to clean the mess from her own pants. I walked quietly behind her, grabbed the single jar from the top shelf and put it on a lower shelf and hurried to the next aisle to finish my trip.

Our paths crossed only once more during my trip to the store, we passed silently as if we had never seen one another, but I looked carefully, and there in her basket was the jar that she could reach even while sitting in her cart. My job was done. I may have annoyed or perhaps even angered this woman I didn't know. I had no complete or partial understanding of her unwillingness to accept help for something simple. I only knew that I could help solve her dilemma quietly and go on my merry way.

Perhaps it's the years of preaching and writing that cause me to look at ordinary events and see them in different contexts. I tend to dwell on useless experiences and trivial events, but often in the contemplation I learn something about myself, about others, and about God. Such was the case with this unknown gruff and unpleasant woman. In my observation of her reaching for the elusive jar, without receiving help for to get an object set too high, she made a mess.

Such is the case in life. Many set the bar too high and lofty to obtain creating frustration, despair, and for some failure. In our American ideal of determination and pulling ourselves up by our own bootstraps this self-sufficiency often becomes a wall between ourselves and God. We live in a culture that celebrates achievers who surpass the idea of what is above average or excellent while feeling pity or disdain for those who reach for nothing. It is such an idea that fuels business professionals, outstanding athletes, celebrated scholars, and the elite band of the, "successful," that bleeds into every corner of our psyche. Some of these bars set high requiring a stretch to achieve are admirable, others normal or benign, and still others heinous. However, everyone has the idea of reaching his goal, the prize. From the wealthiest executive on Wall Street to the unkempt, foul smelling man trying to get enough money for his next hit or a 40 ounce bottle wrapped in a paper bag.

We all reach, sometimes with great frustration. Think of the infant reaching for her mother, arms outstretched wanting to be held, and the detrimental effects of that baby who has no one to reach back and hold her to a loving chest. We learn to stretch while learning reading, writing, and arithmatic. For far too many the idea of sink or swim has crept into the deepest recesses of being.

In our relationship with God we often reach. C.S. Lewis wrote of his early life before renouncing his faith in the dark times of atheism, that he would write lists on scraps of paper of his behavior to be the Christian boy he thought was required. Many feel so far from God because they see themselves as the one who can't reach the standard needed to be Godly. while others still renounce any desire to follow the risen Christ as fallacy, but still in my experience each of those too are reaching for something, anything, like the crying infant in the night, arms outstretched hoping for that which gives fulfillment, contentment, and ultimately love.

We can learn much about the love of our God by reading the end of the gospel of John. Following his resurrection, Jesus had a sea side conversation with a wounded and shame filled Peter. Peter, his follower, who promised he would never abandon his teacher and leader Jesus, had denied knowing him three times during the most excruciating hours of his earthly life. Peter, to save his own neck, emphatically publicly declared while warming himself by a fire that he did not even know Jesus. His denial was repeated three times. When telling Jesus that he would even die for him, Peter set the bar high, and like all of us fell short, far short of keeping his word. He failed like an athlete tripping at the starting line of the race. Like many falls, pain follows. A broken warrior for the cause of Jesus retreated to resume his fishing career.

After a fruitless night of fishing, Peter and six of his fellow disciples, probably frustrated and tired caught sight of an unrecognizable man on the shore in the early morning asking them:

"Friends, haven't you any fish?" called the onlooker (John 21:5)

Their answer was a simple, "No."

After receiving their instruction to throw their nets on the others side of the boat the failed fishing trip turned into a catch of 153 fish. After reaching the shore realizing the man was Jesus (during his third appearance to his disciples after he was raised from the dead) the disciples saw that he had a fire and there were fish cooking on the burning coals along with some bread. Jesus invited the men to bring some of the fish from their amazing harvest to add to those already cooking reminding us that Jesus didn't need their fish, he allowed them to add their efforts, that were guided by Jesus' call to them. Their obedience to Jesus' word allowed them to the miraculous catch. When we combine our efforts with obedience to Jesus' following he allows us to help in the work of our Father's Kingdom.

The group sat down to breakfast. Surely eager to see their rabbi, the resurrected Savior, one can only imagine the conversation during the meal. When everyone had finished eating Jesus asked Peter a direct question:

"Simon, son of John, do you truly love me more than these?"

Simon Peter answered affirmatively and was given the command to feed his lambs. Letting others know of this Risen Christ and his amazing love that fills the soul to the full.

Jesus then asked the same question. Peter gave the same answer, that of course he loved Jesus. Again Jesus told him to take care of his sheep. Peter had twice been asked the question of love, and twice been given the command to continue the work of letting all know about his unfailing, never-ending, and unconditional love.

It was the third question that Jesus asks that hurts Peter when once more from the Lord's mouth he hears, "Do you love me?" Three times Peter had pretended that he did not know Jesus in the moments he needed the most support. Three times he emphatically said, "No," when he was recognized as one of the men who had been a follower of the condemned yet guiltless man. And now, three times Jesus allows Peter to tell him he loves him. Not once, nor twice, but three times Jesus asked the question. But it is the third question that tells us of yet another time that God stooped low to allow the fallen humankind to reach his loving arms.

You see, the first two times Jesus asked Peter if he loved him, Jesus used the word translated from Greek as, "love." But this type of love, "agape," is the perfect love. Unconditional, freely given, covenant love that can only be demonstrated perfectly by God Himself. Perhaps in human terms, the love of a parent to a child can become the closest type of this love that can be demonstrated on this side of Glory.

The third and last time Jesus asked Peter about his love, he used a different word for love, translated from the Greek word "phileo," that is a brotherly love. This is a more attainable type of love in our human condition in which we struggle, stumble, and often fall attempting to love others as ourselves. In essence, Jesus lowered the bar for Peter. Jesus knew Peter would still struggle, stumble, and err in his attempts to care for the flock of Jesus' followers. Jesus put love within Peter's reach.

In the same way, Jesus has given us perfect, free, unconditional, unfailing, and never-ending love knowing we cannot love him nearly as much as He loves us. Calling us to love others with our best efforts, knowing that even when we stumble, struggle, and fall in our attempts, Jesus is there to help us know what it is for which we reach. When we attempt to fill our needs alone, we often cause the inevitable crash causing the messy splatters of life to drag us through the darkest of darkness.

So when we reach, we who profess Jesus as our loving Lord and Savior must not be like the woman relentlessly trying to do for herself what someone else was willing to do. God put his love low enough for us to reach out and take hold wherever we are. God showed his love on the blood splattered and splintered cross of His one and only Son.

As his children, when we reach out and cry to him in our deepest of valleys, and the torments of waves of dread. Our ever loving God reaches back and holds us close to his chest just as a loving Father would.

From Pain to Passion

April 25th, 2002.

The day that date represents is one like I've never experienced before or since. A day that would change many lives due to unbelievable and unforeseen circumstances.

This day began like any ordinary day. I took my usual morning run, drank my usual morning coffee, showered, dressed, and took my usual route to my office at our church building. I did my usual study, returned calls, and performed my usual functions. For my family it was simply a Thursday.

I left my office before noon for a usual lunch with whom I cannot recall, but I am sure that it was filled with the usual conversation. After lunch I called my secretary and told her I was going to make the rounds to the hospitals to visit any of our members who were in the hospital at the time, one of the usual duties of a pastor. I parked my truck in the parking lot and began my visits with members and friends who were hospitalized. Then a usual thing happened. My cellular phone rang. I looked and saw that it was the church office and knowing it was probably my secretary relaying a message to me while I was out of the office I ignored the call and continued my conversation in the hospital room on the seventh floor of the hospital. Why I remember it was the seventh floor, I'll never know.

Then the unusual began. My cellular phone immediately rang again. It was once again from the church office. I knew that unless there was an emergency, my secretary Kay would simply leave me a message. An immediate call back meant the call was urgent. I excused myself from the room and returned the call in the hallway. The conversation is still crystal clear in my memory.

Ring...Ring...Ring.

"Good afternoon, Westmont Christian Church," came the answer from Kay on the other end of the line.

"Kay, it's Clint. What's going on?"

"Your Mother called and said she needed you to call her immediately. It is an emergency," Kay replied.

"What kind of emergency?" I asked as I felt my heart began to race a bit.

"She just said to call her right away. Let me know what you need after you call her."

I sensed Kay knew something, but such news should come from my Mom. I stuck my head back in the door of the hospital room and said goodbye to those gathered and began my quick walk to the elevator. I pushed the button and waited for what seemed an eternity. The elevator door opened and I entered while dialing my Mom's number to find out what was wrong. Names, faces, situations, tragedies, all things bad were flooding my mind, and as luck would have it there was terrible reception on the elevator. I could hear my Mom answer the phone, but she couldn't hear me.

I decided to wait until I reached the lobby to call her back, and along with the theme of the day it was the slowest ride to the lobby I had ever remembered. We stopped at each floor.

Sixth floor...ding. People departed while others waited their turn to get into the elevator. Fifth floor...ding. Same as the sixth floor. Doors opened, doors closed. Fourth floor...ding. Third Floor...ding. Second floor...ding.

It was at the second floor I was so anxious, confused, and already in a panic I thought to myself, "This is the second floor!!! You can't walk down one damned flight of stairs?!?!"

Finally the doors opened and I exited quickly, walking through the lobby I called my Mom's number again. This time she answered and we could hear each other.

"Clint, where are you?" I could hear the distress in her voice.

"I'm at the hospital walking to my truck. What's wrong. What's going on?" I asked, already feeling beads of sweat welling up within me.

"You need to start praying. Your brother called a few minutes ago and said they have taken Jon to the hospital. He was at the baby-sitter's house and when she went to check on him, he wasn't breathing. Your brother and Melissa are on their way to the hospital."

I could hear that my Mom was crying. Jon was my three month old nephew. I was his uncle and Godparent. I began to pray aloud as I jogged to my truck. I started the truck and began to make a few calls while I drove. The first was to my wife Chrissy. She didn't answer her phone, so I left a message for her to call me as soon as possible.

I then called my brother's cellular phone number to find out what was happening. Again, there was no answer. I was sure he was already at the hospital and probably unable to answer his phone for a variety of reasons. I left another message for him to call me as soon as he could and let me know what was going on with Jon.

I finally pulled into the driveway of my home, no one was home because Chrissy had gone to pick up our Connor from pre-school and Caitlin from Kindergarten. Paced back and forth in our drive way and up and down our sidewalk, calling Chrissy over and over with the same results. I kept getting her voice mail. For a moment I stopped dialing, loosened my tie, and began praying again.

"Father, you can do ANYTHING. Whatever is happening give strength to Jon's little body. You can do ANYTHING. Please Father, You can do all things!"

It was then that my phone finally rang. I looked and saw that it was my brother. I answered hopefully, bracing myself for whatever he might say to me.

"Hey Dave, what's happening."

There was a short pause and my brother's voice, breaking with emotion uttered two words in my ear. "He died." I didn't have words like I usually did as a pastor, this was my brother, calling about my nephew, our newest member of the family. I was speechless. Tears came and I literally fell to my knees in the driveway in front of my house. Then David had one request.

"Will you go to Mom and Dad's house and let them know. I don't think they need to hear this on the phone. Please just go there and let them know we don't know now what happened, they worked on Jon for an hour and they just couldn't revive him," Dave said. "And please call me after you let them know."

"I'll go right now. I'll call you as soon as possible. I love you I said as I ended the call.

It was at that moment Chrissy pulled into the driveway with both kids in the backseat in their car seats. She could tell something was wrong immediately and opened her car door asking me what was going on. I told her the news and shock and sadness shrouded her face. I told her that I was heading to my parents house where they were waiting to hear something, and I knew praying for good news. I was the bearer of the news they didn't want to hear. I was the bearer of a message I didn't want to deliver. I pulled into their driveway and sat silently for a minute asking God to give me the strength to be a comforter. God did give me that strength.

I walked into their house and looked at my parents and my aunt as they looked back at me with painfully expectant faces. They didn't know if I knew anything, but probably sensed by my expression I had news they didn't want to hear.

"Dave called me a few minutes ago. The doctor's did everything they could, but they could not revive Jon. He died." Message delivered. I then saw a sight I had never seen, my parents and aunt melted into tears and grief beyond belief. I knew immediately that I would have to take control for the rest of the day, and even the days ahead.

I got on the phone and booked flights that evening for our entire family to fly to San Antonio. We packed quickly and met at the airport. We boarded the flight, a flight none of us knew we would be making that day. The usual day was now tragic. The flight attendant came by and I ordered a Heineken and stared out the window of the plane wondering what was waiting for us when we landed in San Antonio.

While we were still in flight my little princess of a daughter, seated in the center seat between Chrissy and me, said in her angelic voice, "How did baby Jon die? He couldn't die. He was brand new."

Brand new, yes he was. Three months old, smiling and laughing that morning while his mother drove him to the baby-sitter, was now gone. Although he was brand new.

We arrived at my brother and sister-in-law's home already filled with friends and family of both David and Melissa. Others were on their way. Arrangements were made. Graveside services were held. A funeral was held at Jon's church, where he was brand new to his church family as well. Their Lutheran pastor delivered a comforting message, a few family members spoke. Then we left the church where I had been a short time before standing at the front during his baptism as his Godfather.

In the days following, most everyone returned home. David asked me to stay for a few extra days, and Melissa asked her sister to stay as well. We spent time together to share grief. David and I emptied the nursery and took all of it to a storage facility. We went for a couple of mountain bike rides. We talked, we cried, we went out for dinner. Then it was time for me to go home.

I was reluctant as I boarded the flight. What was next? How would Dave and Melissa continue living what some would call a normal life, and we all know that a, "normal life," is a relative term. How would they do this. My biggest frustration is that I couldn't do anything more. I packed my own pain in my bag and flew to Lubbock to see my own family. I received the best, sweetest, and most coveted hugs from my family that I could remember up to that point in my life.

What was next?

My Brother and Sister-In-Law then did something amazing. The only answer they ever received about Jon's death is that it was SIDS (Sudden Infant Death Syndrome). They turned immense pain into passion. They became involved with a support group through the Center for Infant and Child Loss. In their grief they leaned on one another and their families and their faith. In the midst of all of this pain, passion developed. An idea came to Melissa to honor the memory of their first-born son. The one who left us even though he was, "brand new." The idea was a benefit run in the name of Jon Carl Stephenson, to benefit the Center for Infant and Child Loss.

Plans were made. A team was organized to figure out all of the logistics. So much hard work went into the first of what has become an annual event named, "Jon's 5K Run/Walk/and Stroll." It was decided that the event would be held each year on the Saturday before Mother's Day. It would be a day that all of those same family and friends would gather again for a different event. No less emotional, but certainly more victorious.

I was honored to voice the first invocation prayer that was followed by a moment of silence. Following the moment of silence was a balloon launch. Attached to each balloon was a message or a prayer to the child that left their families too soon. Brand new babies, infants and toddlers, and children alike. We looked into the sky as the balloons floated heavenward with messages attached. Mine said simply, "I love you Jon, I'm going to run this race as fast as I can for you! Love, Uncle Clint." I watched my balloon until I could no longer distinguish it from the rest.

The event was a success with a few hundred runners participating and raising money for the center. From the tragic came triumph. Something amazing was named for a three-month-old, and was in the honor of all babies and children whose parent's endured the grief of living without their irreplaceable treasures. The passion of an idea was as powerful as a keg of dynamite, moving grief toward healing.

I couldn't believe it, but this weekend I participated in the 9th Annual Jon's 5K Run/Walk/and Stroll. When we arrived at the event at seven o'clock in Saturday morning I was amazed to see how many people had come to participate. Families, friends, and supporters had come together to run or walk 3.1 miles to raise funds for the center while honoring their loved ones. The National Anthem started the event, followed by the kid's fun run, which Jon's little brother Sam won. Jon had two little brothers there for him, along with his grandparents, uncles, and cousins. My prayer that I wrote to Jon was different this time, "Jon, I'll probably be a little slower this time, but I still miss you. You left us when you were brand new, but you're forever in hearts. Love, Uncle Clint. P.S. Your little brothers are faster than me now."

When the event was over we learned that a new record was set with over one thousand runners participating in this year's event. It was the combination of pain and passion that put together something beautiful in what had been ugly. And I have to believe that many eyes from heaven looked down at the parade of Moms and Dads, younger and older siblings, grandparents, families and friends lined up to run or walk. There were seasoned runners, couch potatoes, strollers being pushed, families wearing shirts in honor of their loved one stretched along the route of the course.

I'm so proud of my Sister-in_Law and my brother for the strength boiling from their faith that made so much happen. In those eyes, watching from heaven, there were no tears. Because of pain that fueled passion that planted the seed to honor our little one who was brand new when we said good bye. There were no tears, but, along with their Father in heaven, there were smiles.

A Game of Darts

I once read a story about a seminary professor who began his class in a most unconventional way. Standing at the door of the lecture hall, he greeted each student with a greeting and offered each one a dart. The kind of dart that one uses when playing a game of darts, as if he or she was at a pub, throwing the sharp darts at the circular target on the wall. With quizzical looks upon their faces at the unconventional greeting of the day, each student took their dart and walked to their familiar seat.

The room was buzzing with conversation, some about the meaning of the strange greeting and the possible use of the darts, while others sat silently reading once more the notes they had prepared for the lecture of the day, knowing that their teacher would grill them with difficult questions as he did during each hour spent in the room this cavernous auditorium of learning and instruction. The aging professor was not one to use unconventional forms of teaching, usually lecturing during the entire hour, stopping only to ask a question of a student he suspected was sleeping, or in another world entirely devoid of his his address to the gathered mass.

When the clock reached the exact time for the class to begin, the professor closed and locked the door as was his custom to ensure that those who didn't value the virtue of promptness, always saying, "When you are late, you waste your time and mine. You also show the one to whom you are meeting that he or she is of less importance than yourself." This Doctor of Theology was a no-nonsense type of instructor, making this yet to be understood dart experiment all the more befuddling to those awaiting further instruction.

As the class began the professor stood in front of his desk and looked at the class silently. The hush had already shrouded the room as the professor attempted to quietly make eye-contact with each student. Those confused scholars sat, pen in hand, books opened, ready for the usual class time, and began to glance around at one another wondering if the respected man had lost his mind.

After about five minutes of silence, during which the professor ignored the occasional daring soul who dared raise a hand to ask what was happening. The five minutes seemed to be an eternity, an abyss of silence that these young minds weren't used to experiencing, after all their lives were filled with noise, not only sound, but noise. Sound can be pleasant, but noise is distracting. The students wanted either one to break the discomfort many of them felt. It was at five minutes past the hour that the learned man, adorned in his dark suit and usual bow tie opened his mouth to give one single instruction.

"Please take out one sheet of blank paper, if you don't have one, please borrow a sheet of paper from someone around you." The professor broke the silence and a flurry of activity began as the students scurried to tear pages from ringed binders and spiral notebooks. But again, there was a moment of silence, not as long, yet still as frustrating as the first five minutes of the silent education.

"If I'd known that the old man was going to lose his mind today, I would've stayed at the Student Union Building and gotten another cup of coffee. This is crazy," one particularly serious and at the same time boring student muttered under his cowardly breath. The room was quiet enough that more than his intended audience of one heard the comment.

Next came the beginning of the day's assignment.

"We've been reading, writing, discussing, and thinking together in our class on many different theological topics, but today I want to address a topic in a completely different way. Each one of us in our human condition have been hurt, some deeply by another person. Actions, words, situations, life... happen every day and some cut us more deeply than the sharpest of swords, and we carry these open wounds around affecting us in many ways. For some of you a wound was thrust upon you by another person or group. Perhaps family, or even a stranger. You each have your satchel's filled with those you would even say you hate. For the next ten minutes, I want you to reflect upon your life and write the names of the people and groups who you could say you cannot forgive, or wish ill will upon, or even would say that you hate deeply. Make them real names representing real people or groups, no one will see this list but you so be honest. Reach deeply within yourselves and dig for those who have wounded your soul, upon whom you hope only for redemption. Begin."

With that the professor walked to a bookshelf taking a volume from his collection and sat at his desk. while he labored over his own study, he looked away from his notes and reading to glance at his watch to know exactly when the ten minute window of written hatred would be finished. Some students sat looking heavenward in thought, while others were furiously scribbling the names known only to them. Maybe some of the students were writing the names of others in the room, maybe even the professor who may have locked them out of the classroom one time to often in his or her opinion.

The only sounds in the room were of pen to paper, pages turning, and the tick of the clock on the wall at the back of the lecture hall that in the teacher's estimation was exactly two minutes slow. Some students finished their list quickly, laying their pens upon their sheet of paper, some had moments of clarity and picked up their pen again and wrote another name, while others continued their scratchings furiously until the time of reflection and inner research had reached it's end.

"Stop. Pen's down," came the words of Dr. Whatintheworldishappening. These were the same words uttered at the end of each examination period. This examination was both easier and more difficult than all of the other tests the class had experienced in this hall of learning.

"Look at your paper. Read each word you wrote silently and remember why you wrote those words. Remember. Feel. Breathe. And when you are ready you will note that I have affixed to the wall a large image of a target. By the quality of some of your work in my class I'm well aware that you are more familiar with such targets and darts at the pub across the street than the assignments that I prepare for you, but that is a lesson for the end of the semester. Today is different. When you are ready, please fold your paper in half and tack it to the target as if you were throwing a dart at each one of these offenders, as if you were gouging them with a fury of hurt that you want to exact in a way that is exponentially more heinous than what was done or said to you and return to your seat. Please do this silently." The professor had to prompt the beginning of the rest of the lesson as the bewildered students sat still by saying, "Go. Go ahead and do what I've instructed."

Finally student after student formed a line in front of the target waiting his or her turn at stabbing, "the list." It was a procession much like those walking to the altar of the church for communion. Some simply tacked their list to the target, while others used the force that seemed to shake the wall. One student even moved a list so she could shove the dart into the bull's eye with anger apparent in her repeated stabs.

When all of the class was once again seated in the appointed places the wise professor stood and walked once again in front of his desk. With his arms crossed, he gazed across the classroom and again tried to look into the eyes of each of his pupils before he opened his mouth and said, "That felt good didn't it? For some of you, I noticed you were hesitant to put your list on my wall, others exacted strong revenge on the list. Some of you felt guilty even writing the list, filled with relatives and strangers, old and new, I'm well aware that my own name may be on your list. I frankly don't care. Now each of you come down and remove your list and your dart and return to your seats please."

Again perplexed the students marveling at what they were deeming a waste of time walked to the front in a similar procession to the former walk, each one took the list from the target and returned, some scratching their heads in confusion, others shared rolling eyes.

When all the darts and lists were removed the teacher walked from his desk and removed the image of the target, beneath the target was a picture of Jesus. One of those pictures that many have seen adorning the walls of countless churches and homes. It was a more anglicized version of how Jesus may have truly appeared, but the lesson would be the same. The picture of Jesus was filled with holes, tears, and the pocked marks left from the darts plunged into the target. The once pristine picture was now ready to be crumpled and thrown into the waste basket.

"Today our lesson is forgiveness. This being a Monday, many of you no doubt attended worship services yesterday during which you uttered the words, 'Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.'"

"Forgiveness is one of the inarguable tenets of our Christian faith that cannot be learned from a simple lecture or a book, regardless of how weighty and wordy it is that can be communicated only by understanding one thing. Jesus takes the treatment of his children, His creation, made in his image personally."

It was then that the professor opened his weathered and well-worn bible and read the following words:

"From the 25th chapter of the Gospel of St. Matthew, listen for God's word."

31 “When the Son of Man comes in his glory, and all the angels with him, he will sit on his glorious throne. 32 All the nations will be gathered before him, and he will separate the people one from another as a shepherd separates the sheep from the goats. 33 He will put the sheep on his right and the goats on his left.

34 “Then the King will say to those on his right, ‘Come, you who are blessed by my Father; take your inheritance, the kingdom prepared for you since the creation of the world. 35 For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, 36 I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me.’

37 “Then the righteous will answer him, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink? 38 When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you? 39 When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you?’

40 “The King will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.’

41 “Then he will say to those on his left, ‘Depart from me, you who are cursed, into the eternal fire prepared for the devil and his angels. 42 For I was hungry and you gave me nothing to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me nothing to drink, 43 I was a stranger and you did not invite me in, I needed clothes and you did not clothe me, I was sick and in prison and you did not look after me.’

44 “They also will answer, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry or thirsty or a stranger or needing clothes or sick or in prison, and did not help you?’

45 “He will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did not do for one of the least of these, you did not do for me.’

46 “Then they will go away to eternal punishment, but the righteous to eternal life.”

"You see the darts of forgiveness withheld and of hatred pierce not only the one for whom you disdain, but more so they pierce your own heart, and much more so the heart of our Lord and Savior who said in his own words that whatever we do or fail to do for even those who seem the least worthy receive our charity, love, and forgiveness," the professor said as he stood by the picture filled with holes and rips and tears.

Forgiveness is an often mistaken concept in my mind. One explained and expressed in a variety of ways and forms. All difficult, some more so than others. In ministry I've listened as so many people recounted horrific things and words that have been hurled at them during their life that have molded, twisted, and scorched them. Some of the hurt that seems unforgivable happened so far in one's past that he or she can't seem to even remember the specifics, only the pit in the stomach that is the symptom of festering ire at the past hurt. Carrying with them an injured spirit many times unbeknownst to the offender who carries his own bag of hurt.

I dislike greatly the sentiment of well meaning people who say that the phrase, "You can't forgive if you can't forget." We are not robots that can reboot our minds and feelings to rid ourselves of memories and feelings when we are let down, kicked, or endure what feels like the endless torture of hurtful darts thrown our way.

I equally dislike the saying, "I'll forgive, but I'll never forget." Although it is more honest than the aforementioned statement it still rings hollow. It indicates that there is really no movement toward forgiveness. The statement shouts to the inner places of ones' psyche that the pain will be relived again and again so that hatred boils over like the simmering pot that is not attended.

Forgiveness is not an event, it is a process. It is the intentional practice of prayer and asking for God to take our disdain and help us to want the best for the other person or persons. Forgiveness never means we have to like someone again, or spend any time with them which could even result in more hurt and further injury to ourselves

At the bottom line of forgiveness is to enter the process of a search for the best for one another to follow closely in the steps of Jesus more closely every day. To treat one another with the charity poured lavishly and without limit by the Savior who wipes away our sordid slate of wrongdoing and sin.

At the end of the lecture the professor walked purposefully from the room to allow the class to gaze upon the picture of Jesus and know that it was they who had adorned the representation with their own hatred and hurt, that tears at the heart of the one who owns our sin taking it upon himself, so that we may be free.

So as we begin the process of forgiveness, that may take a lifetime, we set someone free. And that person us ourselves.

"but those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength.
they will soar on wings like eagles;
they will run and not grow weary,
they will walk and not be faint."
~Isaiah 40:31 (NIV)

Too many times we think that a life of faith is one that is meant to make us happy, saturated with worry free lives and a new blessing is just around the corner. If we pray the right prayer, use the right words, go to the church house and worship with all our might. But I see life as less like a road, and more like the sea, the middle of the ocean when all that can be seen is the water surrounding us and no markers or objects at which to aim at times. It is in those times that we understand there is only one way to make such a trip through this temporary voyage. Some find diversion to forget the mindless floating, others panic, still others abandon the journey and delve deeply into an abyss seemingly impenetrable by anyone or anything.

I took a run/walk along a strange trail not too long ago. I was in unfamiliar territory, well away from any beaten paths that provide the normal, already experienced, comfortable, and flat trip that leads me home each time. This time I was lost, perhaps a run/walk/ramble that was preparing me for a time in life where my life raft was bobbing on the waters of life in which there were no recognizable markers for which to aim. The time spent was longer than I had anticipated, but the arrival back to my truck that would lead me home was sweeter than the usual ending. In the mystery of being lost, finding my home was ever sweeter. Reminding me of the words that I have sung many times, "I once was lost, but now I am found, was blind but now I see."

Later that evening in the quiet moment upstairs in my study I wrote these words about the exhausting travel I had endured that day, and how it resembles living day to day to day.



In the bliss of knowing God, and better yet being known by Him,
we sometimes soar in the ecstatic experience of undeserved God given grace.
As the sun makes way higher above from the place where he once laid low,
the darkness is gone, the space filled with cool air becomes filled with
exhausting heat.
Morning is over, the rays of the day embolden the song of birds and the
sound of my ever slowing steps and sounds of the unseen.
The steps slow to a walk and the confusion of where I am creates confusion,
but the sky is still blue and each tree looks the same as the last.
No longer soaring as at the beginning, and the run has caused my weariness.
It is the cadence of continual motion that gives energy for life,
Knowing that with God we may soar, or run, but in the uphill traverse,
we slow to a walk as our strength is renewed and our hearts are filled.
The gait matters not, only our direction.
We are never lost when we orient ourselves as we travel toward the Son.
The Son of God, who soared, ran, and walked with us in every footprint
left on even the strangest of paths.

Do You Hear What I Hear?

"The invitation to a religious discourse is quite simply as follows: 'Come hither all ye who labor and are heavy laden' --and the discourse presupposes that all are sufferers, aye, that all ought to be. The speaker is not to go down among his audience and pick out one, if there be such a one, and say to him: 'No, you are altogether too fortunate to need my address,' for when such a thing is heard from the mouth of a religious speaker it ought to be made to sound like the most biting irony. The distinction between fortunate and unfortunate human beings is merely a jest, and therefore the speaker should say: 'We are all sufferers, but what we strive for is to be glad in the midst of our suffering; there sits the fortunate man for whom everything, literally everything, succeeds as in a fairy tale, but woe unto him if he is not a sufferer."

~Soren Kierkegaard (1813-1855)

Kierkegaard was no stranger to true suffering. Born to a devout Lutheran farmer and lived the life of a poor farmers son. He later succeeded in business, but suffered the death of his wife and five of his children. He knew about that which he wrote.

As I read this passage I imagined how many of us sit in the pew listening to the proclaimer in the pulpit spin his message as if on a loom and think of the many people who needed to hear the sermon being spoken. Time after time, I've heard a congregant say, "I wish my brother/sister/husband/wife/mother/father/friend/and on and on could've heard what you said this morning," while politely shaking hands and simultaneously shaking off any meaning pertaining to him or herself about what was spoken.
Sitting in a pew or a folding chair, on the floor or upon a rock around a crackling fire, hearing the word of God we often measure ourselves with the other souls surrounding us and see those who, "need," to hear what is being said, while disallowing the words to soak into our own souls knowing fully that in our human condition we all possess the same predicament, life.
While others may with arms crossed bemoan that they suffer and are more heavy laden than any other beings surrounding them. Often envying or even cursing, sometimes aloud, the fortune of others that seems to be the antithesis of their own miserable existence on this big ball we call earth.
In the realization that we all are sufferers of the same condition. Sin that leads to death. Our suit may be clean and pressed, or our worn jeans dirty and in need of a bathing, that matters not. We suffer from the condition that leads us to pray as Jesus taught us how to pray that we be led not into temptation but delivered from evil and our own proclivities to fulfill the gaps of our lives with the stuff of earth that doesn't satisfy the hunger within us.
When we gather as believers and know that the neighbor beside us, behind us, or the back of the head we see three rows ahead of us is suffering differently from us, but suffering just as we are. And the gathering is to commune with others who know that the only answer is our Savior. From the one wearing the best clothes she could find who knows that she is being whispered about over the coffee urn to the most revered saint conservatively clad in the congregation, each one is a needy sufferer who must reach for his or her Savior with the knowledge, not only intellectually, but the faith within his or her heart that the Savior already reached and suffered first.

Words

"Words have no power to impress the mind without the exquisite horror of their reality." ~Edgar Allan Poe

A few years ago I found an interesting short piece on the internet titled, "10 Things You Should Never Say to a Guy." The title intrigued me, and the writing was brief so I looked through it and saw an amusing glimpse of quips meant to steer ladies away from conversations that could potentially become disastrous. Among my favorite were:
- "We need to talk,"
- "It's only a game for goodness' sake."
- and my personal favorite, "Do you think she's pretty?" That one can be sticky.

As I navigated away from that page, wasting time no doubt, I found another related article that spoke to me in a more direct way. This article was titled, "10 Things You Should Never Say to a Woman." I knew that I needed to read this page, perhaps print it and add it to my daily morning devotional time as I am the master of ill-timed comments and my flexibility has increased over the years of putting my foot in my mouth. Here are a few:
- "What did you do to your hair?!?!"
- "When are you due?" (I actually asked this of a woman on an elevator, and although I was going to the eleventh floor I exited on the fourth floor, quickly.)
- "You're acting just like your mother/my mother/my ex-girlfriend/wife."

You get the picture. Words have the power to create powerful emotions, set words to music and you can amplify the feelings double or triple-fold. Words are powerful. Once said, they live their own lives beyond our control. They can be twisted, misunderstood, ignored, or even destructive. The illustration of trying to return toothpaste to it's tube is a visual demonstration of the power of words and the life they live on their own when spoken or written, or perhaps even simply thinking some words has a great impact on the psyche of the one who is ecstatic or fuming.

In the April 11th, 2010 edition of the New York Times Book Review section, author Richard Howard asked an important question while reviewing a book titled, Why Translation Matters, by Edith Grossman. The question was simply, does translation matter, digging to the heart of the power of words. Let's face it, much conflict both internal and external begin with words being spoken and subsequently being misunderstood. "Where literature words exists, translation exists. Joined at the hip, they are absolutely inseparable." (New York Times Book Review 4/1/2010 p. 13) emphasis mine.

Words have the power to bring back memories, create feelings, or wound others. Words have the power to bring individuals or places to the present when the person or place is nowhere close. Think of someone you love, and say their name aloud right now. While they may not be within sight, perhaps even miles away, or no longer living on this earth, you've spoken a powerful name that brings that specific being of who that person is or was to you into the present time. The same is true of speaking of someone for whom you owe forgiveness, speaking their name may cause your face to get red, or worse other less gentle words to follow.

We rarely figuratively reach to retrieve words that are pleasant to the hearer: "You look nice tonight," or, "I'm so proud of you," or even three powerful words, "I love you." But, who wouldn't give the most priceless of possessions to have a single, "I hate you!" shouted from shear blinded anger disappear as if it were never said. If such a thing were possible, I wouldn't have a single priceless possession left, and probably none of my arms or legs either.

I remember distinctly the evening that my best friend with whom I grew up, Trey and I were sitting in his backyard. His parents had just gotten a hot tub and we stole a couple of beers from his Dad's refrigerator. We lounged in the warm bubbling water weaving stories of our manly exploits with the colorful language that we thought went with acting older than we were, misunderstanding that true men don't need to talk like sailors, rather, they should watch their tongues as we heard in church. Most of the yarns we spun were filled with complete fabrications of how handy we were with the ladies, if that were true, wouldn't we have had some girls join us that night?

It was then we heard the voice that changed the evening. At the end of a particularly good story of which I have no recollection, we heard from behind a rather large tree in the back yard, "Oh really? Y'all sure are a couple of ladies' men aren't you? And uh, where'd you get the beer?" The voice was familiar and at this moment terrifying. It was the voice of Trey's father who had come home late from work that evening, his mother was out of town on business. We sunk as low as we could in the water to hide from what might be coming.

Trey's father was a Christian man, but not a religious man. He rarely attended church, but Trey and I had begun attending a church in our neighborhood that changed our lives, each in different ways, but that's another story for another time. The last thing his Dad said before he walked into the house was, "As much as you boys go to church, I can't believe I just heard what I'd been listening to for the last ten minutes." And with that he walked inside, and we stayed hidden in the hot tub until we had to crawl out from mere exhaustion. The only solace I found was that he only heard ten minutes of our rambling idiocy.

Words are powerful. They speak truth, and they spew lies. They shape ideas we have of one another, socially, politically, and theologically.

God by His words spoke into existence all that we behold as His creation. The first chapter of Genesis is filled with the phrase, "And God said." By his word God separated light and dark naming them night and day, He separated the water from the sky, He made dry ground, and the sun, and moon, and stars, and creatures of all kinds. Lastly God said, "Let us make human beings in our image, in our likeness," Genesis 1:26a TNIV.

We humans, made in God's likeness have the ability to speak as God creatively and lovingly, He gave us that choice. We can use our words as building blocks or bullets. "For out of the overflow of the mouth the heart speaks." Matthew 12:34 TNIV. What is your heart condition, in plenty and in want, in stressful times and rest.

I've mentioned before a time when I saw words wrap around someone like a warm blanket on a frigid day. They came from the mouth of my wife, one of the most loving, accepting, and loyal people I know. If that was not true, my body would still be missing. As Chrissy, then my fiancee, was working with a group of underprivileged youth from the projects in inner-city Dallas I noticed that some of her favorite children were the ones that were treated the worst by their peers. Where they lived was a cruel place, filled with drugs, prostitutes, violence. Very few fathers lived at home, many of the children lived with grandparents and aunts. I noticed that Chrissy often would say to them, "I love you." Three simple words. Words I was fortunate enough to hear throughout my life. I didn't understand, that even when the boys acted tough or responded inappropriately or the girls got embarrassed many were hearing three simply said, but dynamically powerful words, "I love you."

Most every time we had what we called, "Fun Days," we would load up the children in a school bus owned by the college and take trips to different places, the zoo, the Dallas Aquarium, the lake, a lot of times we would simply take them to the college campus and let them play in the gym all morning before we fed them lunch and took them back home. For some of the kids that lunch of bologna and cheese sandwiches and cheetos would be the best and favorite meal of the week. I still get teased when about the time one of my favorite kids, "Pooh," was his nickname came back through the food line with two pieces of bread on his plate. We asked what was wrong and he pointed at me and said, "They wasn't no meat on my sammich! Fat Man ate the meat off my sammich! I ain't eatin' no bread sammich!" From then on, I had a new name thanks to, "Pooh," and he got a double sammich that day.

Ultimately, each time we met altercations, arguments and fights would happen. We usually knew who would be the ones who would be the instigators and we broke up more fights than we cared to count. Physical violence was one of the ways of communication that was seen daily to these young men and women. One chief instigator was a boy named Cory, we always knew he would start a fight with someone, and for some reason Cory decided I was his favorite adult. The same day that I ate the meat from Pooh's sammich was the same day Cory started a fight with two other boys over a game of basketball. I went to handle the situation and found that I was no match for what was happening, when a short, beautiful angel, who later became my wife, marched over to the boys, grabbed Cory in a loving but firm way, while he wiggled and squirmed and tried to get away from her she calmed him down and said, "We love you, but you can't act this way and come back. We love you. We love you." I wonder how many times Cory heard those words and how deeply they sunk into a young but already hardened heart.

I'm a user and sometimes an abuser of words. They are the overflow of my heart. Today, open your eyes wide, listen closely, feel deeply and you will see a chance to say the words to someone that may just be what they needed to hear at just the right time. A kind word is like a pebble thrown into a pond, we never really know how far the ripples travel.

Off The Rack

One of my least favorite activities in all of the world is trying on new clothes. When I have something new to add to my wardrobe I'm fine, but it is the routine of trying on new clothes that has always driven me crazy. I remember as a young boy the day that we would hop in the car and head to Anthony's Department Store where we would spend what seemed like hours trying on pair after pair of pants and jeans and shirts of all colors. I always hated those toughskin pants that were meant to endure an entire school year's worth of abuse because they were made of some sort of dark denim colored steel-laced burlap, and I especially disliked that my particular pairs of toughskin britches were in the cleverly named, "Husky," section of the store. Husky being the marketing genius' way of saying, "The fat kids clothes are over here!!!!" I did however manage to be born soon enough to miss the grrranimal underwear that I tortured my little brother about at the breakfast table making sure he didn't mismatch his lion underwear with a monkey t-shirt.

We played hard in those days. We were outside as soon as the school bell rang. Playing football, basketball, baseball, and anything else we could figure would pass the time. We once had the brilliant idea to take a long length of bungee cord and attach it to a bicycle frame so that it could swing from a tree. We would climb the eighteen rungs made of 2"by4" scraps of wood to launch ourselves from my friends clubhouse. It was a great idea, in fact I do believe that my small band of friends on 48th Street are the true inventors of bungee jumping, but didn't realize there were people dumb enough to pay us to do what we were doing. We would begin by getting on the saddle of the bicycle frame and over the edge we would go. We would pretend we were the BMX bicycle racers and practice our tricks as we flew through the air. That practice stopped the time the cord broke and sent Shane on a free trip into the wild blue yonder and through the fence of his back yard. But all of those activities were pretty hard on the invincible toughskin pants, which always meant another trip to the, "Husky," section of the store once the patches wore off the holes in the knees of the jeans. Toughskin my butt...those things were no match for Captain Holes-In-The_Knees-Of-His-Pants.

I guess the marketing think tanks came up with another term for husky, when there became the, "Big and Tall," section. It was just the grown-up version of the husky section filled with clothes that were meant for those who didn't find it easy to buy clothes straight from the rack. The brand names that graced the pants and shirts of those who were the popular good looking types were in the other section. Funny, I never saw a, "Short and Spindly," section.

One of the funnier times I ever recall being asked about shopping in a big and tall store came when a friend and I were watching television late one night in the lounge of our dorm in college and a commercial came on for, "Rochester Big and Tall Store." It was a high-end store that sold expensive suits to those who could afford them.

When the commercial ended my friend, Mike looked over to me and asked, "Does it cost more money to buy clothes from those stores than from regular people stores?"

"Yeah, a little bit more I guess," I said with a kind of smile on my face at his innocently asked question as I saw an embarrassing look creep upon his face.

"That sucks. It's just wrong that you have to pay more for clothes just because you're so......uh......uh.....tall."

"Yeah, we TALL people ought to get special parking places or something, huh?" I answered. Mike just kept staring at the television, I kept smiling.

Trying on new clothes is something that has always posed a challenge for me. Time after time I wanted to look like someone else, dress like someone else, be someone else. But I've rarely been what I call an off the rack kind of person. The kind of person who knows exactly what they want to wear, can pull the item from the shelf or the rack, and fit perfectly in the new clothes that cover them and project an image of who they are or who they think they are or aspire to be.

Perhaps you've heard the comment, "just because they made it in your size, doesn't mean they made it for you." It is a cruel comment, spewed unfortunately mostly toward females. But there is some truth in the comment. Trying on clothes is a metaphor for life, none of us are off the rack people. We're unique creations, special in our own God-made way, with a precision that surpasses the greatest human artists of any era in history.

When we were children it was perfectly acceptable to dress up as someone or something else. I wanted more than anything to be a football player or a cowboy, and there are pictures to prove it. I remember the Christmas spent with family in Ruidoso, New Mexico when I opened a box with a Dallas Cowboys uniform complete with pants, jersey, and a helmet. I didn't take off that uniform including the helmet for anything, including bed time. It was normal to want to emulate our heroes. My son wore a Halloween batman costume for several years every day until it was worn to shreds and no longer had any life in it. That was normal, except for the neighbors only knew him as Batman.

But as we grow older we begin to want to look like the images we see in glamor magazines or on television. Maybe we want to dress or look like our friends, or the crowd in which we were included. Maybe you have no idea what I'm writing about because you were the object that served as the model for someone else. We begin to think about projecting images of who or what we hope to be when we grow up. Believe me, there are no grown ups in this world until their lives are over, because we're all in the process of growing.

Too many of us spend time trying to be someone we're not, afraid of what we'll find when we see our true selves as God made us. We cope with that fear of being seen for who we really are with a variety of disguises. And when we wear those clothes that are not ours, life can be a very uncomfortable undertaking.

Imagine a time when you wore something that didn't fit YOU. It was too small or too big, too long or too short. It could be that no one noticed but you and the discomfort stayed with you the entire time you were robed in the cloak of another, and it felt good to be remove the borrowed covering. So it is with life.

As a preacher for the last sixteen years I've projected a number of images that weren't mine, I tried to be different people that I thought exuded success as I defined it at the moment. As a husband and a father I have modeled both wonderful and despicable wardrobes of attitude and reaction and action. As a friend I have been both a tight-lipped confidant and a selfish jerk. But as I look at all the roles I have to play in life there is one constant that must remain the same. I have to wear the same, "me," or I find life to be as miserable as an ill-fitting sports coat or a pair of slacks that are two sizes too small.

That's where the tricky part comes. Finding out who we really are in God's eyes. We are for sure loved and adored, we know that. Too many people project their relationship with their earthly parents or lack thereof onto God which isn't a true projection of the One who knows the very number of hairs on our head (for some of us it's getting easier for Him to count). God knows the secret you have that no one else knows, that tortures you day in and day out. God knows where you've been, what you've done, what you've said, he knows who you are!

God knows us for who we are. He knows that I am a man of excess. He knows I've had times when I worked too much and times when sloth held me close. He's seen me be a glutton and He's watched me fast. He knows I've drunk too much and times I've abhorred the drunkard. He's heard me ridicule someone else to remove the attention from myself, and to that end He's heard me be self-deprecating to beat someone to the punch in making jokes or hateful comments about me. Me, His creation. He knows I've been filled with hate and times I showed kindness when it wasn't merited in my eyes. He knows I've left everything on the field and when I coasted along in life and didn't reach for my potential. He knows I've seen, heard, said, and done things that I wish I could erase, but, praise God, He erased them for me on the cross, and by faith they're gone, and when we take hold of that it is as if an ever tightening belt around our heart and being is released and destroyed. Our remembrances of such things can move us in two directions. We can be destroyed further by guilt, which is a tool of Satan to remind us of how ugly we might think we are. Or, our memories of such times can move us forward, guilt free, but with the conviction that we are God's beautiful creation dressed in the robe that is the blood of Christ.

As I write I'm reminded of a young boy I can only remember as Nathan. Nathan and I attended the same elementary school in Lubbock, Texas. Nathan had very few, if any friends. Nathan was the youngest in his family of brothers and sisters and lived just a couple of blocks from my house. Nathan was quite a bit taller than the rest of his classmates. His hair was always too long and messy. His t-shirts were plain white and looked liked they'd been washed a million times. His pants were too short and too big in the waist providing with one of his many nicknames, "highwater." Nathan sat at the, "yellow bird," table with three other students in our class. The class was divided into four tables, each with a different colored bird hanging from a piece of yarn from the ceiling. We didn't know it then, but we suspected that each table represented the level of learning and aptitude for success a student possessed based on his or her seat at a table. I was a, "red bird," I hope it was the top table, but Mrs. White would never tell us. One thing we knew is that the, "yellow birds," often had to miss recess to finish work or get extra help, and I've wondered if that was alright with Nathan to miss thirty minutes of teasing as he would usually sit against the building when he did get to go to recess.

Nathan wore three time hand-me-down clothes, wasn't suspected of being too bright, rode his sister's old bicycle, and didn't have many friends, he was an outcast. His parents were rarely home, I supposed they worked a lot to care for their family. And one day my mother did the worst thing she could do to me. In front of everyone, she offered Nathan a ride home from school. What was she thinking? My friends saw "highwater," and me in the same car pull away from the school yard, and my mother had the audacity to stay in front of his house to make sure he made it inside since it was raining. That wasn't the only time she gave Nathan a ride home. I remember he always thanked my Mom and called her, "Ma'am." I wonder today where and who Nathan is. I wish I could go back and tell him I'm sorry that I wouldn't talk to him in the back seat of my Mom's car during that ride to his house and that I'm sorry that I was ashamed to be seen with someone who wasn't one of those, "off the rack," kind of people that I so wanted to be. I can't, but I can look for the Nathans in my life today and see them as the same creation that I am.

It doesn't matter what section or store we buy our clothes from, or what we drive, or where we live. What matters is that we all realize that in some way, shape, or form, we're all that kid wearing the husky toughskins with patches on the knees ashamed to ride with the Nathans in our world finding our pecking order in society, and remind ourselves daily that Jesus' words flowing from his mouth said this:

"But many who are first will be last, and the last first." Mark 10:31

Jesus was talking to his disciples who were amazed that Jesus' words to a man of great wealth that in order to follow him, the young man of great means must sell all that he possessed and give his proceeds to the poor, because Jesus knew that as long as the man owned much of earthly value, but truly his riches owned him. He had to be willing to be stripped of the things that labeled him as valuable. He had to realize that his earthly possessions and the status he held was not eternal, but fleeting. The man went away sad, because he was unwilling to give up his status to become an outcast disciple of this rabbi Jesus.

When we are clothed with Christ, there are no sections for the sizes of body or ego. From the woman in the richly decorated office to the man sitting quietly in his prison cell, when we profess our faith in the one who came for us and allowed his tough skin to be pierced with spikes on a splintered cross made sure for us to understand this truth; that while the earthly ways may have an order for who matters and who doesn't, the, "Huskies," and the ,"Highwaters," the model and the wealthy, all have the same standing in the eyes of Christ.

So dress for success by donning the robe of Christ, bought with his blood. The way I see Jesus' words is that when this life is over when the first are last and the last are first, that means it's a tie.