"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.

Remembering Old Hope Gives Strength to New Hope

In these days of uncertainty for our family. While we look for what our next turn in life will be and hope for the wisdom to see God's guidance in this trip down life's lane, I have looked to our past together as a family through some of my writings in the journals I keep that hold the jumbled mess in my head sometimes that bleeds out onto the page. I remember distinctly the morning I watched a sunrise after a morning walk, and while showering, dressing, and brewing my coffee for the morning I wrote these words about the artwork only God can create. It was my reminder today that with each day there is new hope and it is darkest before the light.


"Dawn"

The sky painted pink and purple,
blends to a gold and blue that can only be painted by the hand of God.
The sun makes way from the place where she lay,
waiting for night to be through.

The symphony of birds' song fill the air
as a chorus of praise to the Almighty.
While damp darkness surrenders to the beauty of the coming day

The haze of night has passed and gasps it's final breath,
as it bows low in praise to the light of dawn
and to the One who lights His creation.

The day is new
and as I share the joy of His masterpiece
with all of God's handiwork,
I see the smile of God.

--Clint Stephenson March 12, 2001

I was reminded by this writing with each new day, each rising of the sun, there rests boundless opportunity. May we always be diligent in finding it, and when we do, may we praise the Creator of all good things.

Blast From the Past

I was reorganizing some files, records, pictures, and my journals that I'd written in over the last 15 years. I came across one that was always one of my favorites. Written beside an early morning campfire, while the coffee was hung over the coals. I take my wind-up alarm clock with me wherever I go, and I had set it to get warm and get the coffee ready so we could eat breakfast and head out for a day of fly-fishing. I sat thinking, I'll never have this moment back again. I pulled my journal out of my pack and wrote these words:

The hand, the moving, ticking hand,
The never stopping hand that glows light green in the night
Never stops. Never.
The ceaseless tick reminds me the moment is gone.
The hand never stops or slows for anyone or anything.
Only obeyed.
The hand moves forward into uncharted time,
Yet to be experienced, while moments of grief or ehxhaltation wait
On those who have yet to see what is in store for the day in the next tick.
The hand cannot move backward, the past is relegated only to memories,
Comforting, disheartening, dissappointing, exciting, and apathetic.
Unaffected by its surroundings in the moment, that are not erasable.
The ticking hand stops for nothing, it moves us one click closer to our end.
With each clockwise movement of that hand I am brought closer to the dust,
The dust from whence I came.
The clock reminds me of the passage and gift of time,
And my only control I possess is my actions and reactions between the ticks.



Clint Stephenson, March 9th, 2001

By the way the smell of the coffee and the smell of bacon sizzling in a cast iron pot over the fire awakened the rest of the troops.

It Ain't Old... It's Got Character

There are always just a very few things on my bedside table: A lamp, one of the books I'm reading at the time, and my alarm clock. My wife doesn't understand one of those items, the alarm clock. To understand her dismay and dislike of my timekeeper that she finally accepted over the years of marriage you have to know that it is an old wind-up alarm clock with a bell that would wake the dead when it's time to get the day started. Chrissy didn't like hearing the constant tick-tick-tick-tick, I like it and it actually lulls me to sleep, it's not like I keep a siren or an airhorn blaring through the night. Those ticks are just reminders of a second gone and as I explained to her, the less ticks you hear the more sleep you're going to get. And God knows Chrissy better get sleep or else, let's just say it ain't pleasant. Chrissy mentioned that I had to wind the clock every day or it didn't work. No problem I see it right before I lay my head down to sleep praying to the Lord my soul to keep. On her bedside table is a Bose Alarm Clock with a CD player that will allow her to have her chosen song softly awaken her in the morning, gently increasing in volume until the spoiled owner of such a contraption finally decides to greet the day. She still hasn't realized that just because she has such a fancy alarm clock that silently keeps time until her favorite singer whispers a song in her ear, she can't clap her hands and have our servants bring her breakfast and a cup of tea. For one, we don't have servants, heck, our kids won't even do what we say. But also, I figure you're spoiled enough if you have an on demand DJ to awaken you in the morning. By the way, just this past Sunday night and early Monday morning a powerful storm came through our little town of Forney toppling fences, whirling shingles from rooftops, collapsing portable buildings, blowing over trucks, and unearthing power poles. While we slept, we had no idea that we were without electricity, so Chrissy's bedside boyfriend was rendered useless, but old silver clock kept the time and let us know what time it was and when it was time for feet to hit the floor and get going. Over the course of our marriage Chrissy has bought me a couple of comfortable cushy recliners. They looked nice, and were comfortable, and I was glad for any guest to sit in them when they came to our home. But my sweet wife couldn't figure out why I chose rather to sit in one of two straight back wooden rocking chairs. To her it didn't make sense, but, I don't make sense to her a lot of the time. I find them the two most comfortable chairs in the house, but there's more to why I like them. The wooden rocking chair that sits in our downstairs living room is special to me for a variety of reasons. This particular chair came from the nursery of a small east Texas town where I was serving in my first pastorate. As I walked down the hall I saw our custodian carrying out the three rocking chairs to put on the curb for trash pick-up day. "Whoahhhhhh! William, what in the world are you doing?" I asked. William, our custodian answered me with a startled look on his face, "Well, the ladies in the nursery (all older ladies who had been members of the church for many years) told me since we finally had a baby in the nursery for the first time in so long they decided they would buy some, what'd they call them... Oh yeah, glider rocker chairs or something like that. Anyway these are going to the trash." That first baby in the nursery in years was actually my infant daughter, and I don't reckon she would've minded being rocked in one of those chairs. About an hour later I went out to the heap and carefully pulled out the three chairs that had been in that nursery since Abraham was still in short pants. I looked them over and loaded each rocking chair into the back of my Ford Explorer. When I got home I unloaded them into my garage and began to assess what needed to be done to make them completely steady and began my work on them. When I ran into trouble I asked next door neighbor to the North if he could give me a hand. He was a retired gentleman, an elder at the Church of Christ, and always brougt me some crappie whenever he went fishing. We worked together on those chairs until they were like new. I offered for him to have one if he needed or wanted it, so he took his favorite. I put one on my front porch, and put my favorite in the living room. It was my favorite because that was the chair the ladies always rocked Caitlin in during church services. When we moved, I left the porch chair for an elder at the church who collected antiques, but my favorite was loaded on the moving truck and it's been my chair since. It may not be soft but it's the most comfortable chair in the house. It's helped rock babies in the middle of the night, been the companion to reading plenty of books, from that chair volumes of journals have been filled with thoughts, and in my appraisal, it looks mighty fine right where it is. The porch rocker I call the, "pondering chair." It's not nearly as old as his inside companion, but, plenty of character nonetheless. I find myself in that chair in the cool of the morning and evening, sometimes after a walk or a run, sometimes with my dog Sammie sitting beside me. I think through problems, dillemmas, and conundrums. I ruminate over ideas for ministry, sermons, lessons, special speeches. Many times it is a chair of prayer where I lift my love, adoration, thoughts, worries, praises, and life before God in the quiet that doesn't exist in the city anywhere. From that chair whether pondering, thinking, praying, writing, petting Sammie, or on a few occassions just dozing off I hear the distant train whistles I've come to love. I love quilts and afghans. Chrissy and I are blessed to have quilts and afghans made for us, or inherited from the ones who had them before us. They're warm and comfortable, but better yet they are symbols of the work of the hands of our Grandparents, Great Grandparents, a Great Great Grandmother, a Great Great Aunt, and others who are just like family to me. I'd take an old slightly tattered quilt with love so saturated in it's very fabric over the most expensive bedroom whatever-you-call-'ems any day. They're special, you'd never catch me using one of those quilts to wipe up a spill or clean grease off of my hands. My Great Grandmother sat carefully laboring meticulously with her own hands something to keep her family warm, now warms my heart and soul and I wouldn't take a million dollars for them. Alright, that's a lie. I'd take the money, but we would share custody and have visiting rites with our quilts. Coincidentally, one of those quilts that was made for Chrissy by her Great Great Aunt stays folded and hangs over the back of my rocking chair. It's a good fit. I like old pictures of family, because each picture is a split second moment in time of a bigger story. Old pictures take our minds back to the event to relive them and laugh, or cry, or miss someone with an ache that feels right because of love. I know a lady who keeps all of her pictures and negatives by the front door of her house because she said that if her house catches on fire she knows she wants those first if that's all she can save. I look at the pictures of my children and can't believe how big they are. I remember rocking a little round handful of brand new gifts from God who are smarter than their Dad, and Caitlin's almost as tall as me. I'm going to ask Caitlin to tell all of these boys that are courting her all the time I learn about through code speak between Momma and daughter to subscribe to this blog and read this statement VERY carefully: "I understand you're interested in my daughter and would like to meet her at the movies or at Chili's or wherever. I understand because like her Momma she's beautiful. You need to understand my name is Mr. Stephenson to you, and at our house we say, "Yes Sir, Yes Ma'am, No Sir, and No Ma'am." You don't wear a hat in my house, and your underwear shouldn't be visible above your pants unless you're a useful plumber. Here's a test for you...are you going to give my daughter a reason to cry or feel bad? That's where you say, "No Sir." Now I know that Caitlin and whatever your name is and Jesus are all going to have a good time tonight. And I have guns. Y'all run along and have a good time. Nice to meet you." I like the times we eat off of my Great Grandmother's Special china dishes and drink from my Grandmother's crystal glasses. That means it's a special time, and the family members I've known the longest and loved the hardest and been loved back without condition have gathered to share a meal and conversation. It took many years before I learned that this was the more special time than when presents are opened at Christmas, or eggs are hunted, or even birthday cake is served. We'd never dream of taking that china on the veranda for a cookout with burgers or dogs. That china and crystal might be valuable on the Antiques Road Show, but they're more valuable to our family because they represent hard work, farming hard land to make the money to purchase them. They represent the care they receive as they are washed, dried, and put away in the proper place. They aren't just old they represent character. My Dog Sammie hasn't only got character, she is a character. But she's a loved member of the family. She never fails to want my hand on her head when she lays by my chair...She does sometimes escaped to explore and makes me want to drop her off in that mystical land called County Road Where am I. But then, she's an old member of the family, and we've got a lot invested in her and she in us. She was hit by a car years ago and had to have a hip replacement so we have literaly invested a ton in that four legged member of the clan. We live in an age of faster, quicker, newer, better. Go buy a cel phone or computer today and tomorrow you'll see an ad that something new and "better," do we have to get? My kid's talk in a technologically advanced language that sounds more like gibberish to me than anything else. When I have a problem with my iPhone, I just hand it to Caitlin, she hands it back, problem solved. What happened to those cel phones that were about a foot tall and weighed ten pounds (which were and still are the only reason for pants to be sagging). My kid's can't believe that telephones ever had cords, and I laughed out loud years ago when Caitlin couldn't figure out how to use a rotary dial phone. Faster, quicker, newer, better...better? I like talking to people that too many folks label as, "old folks." I love hearing stories from family members and church members that have lived much more life than I have and survived tougher times than I can imagine. And to think my Great Grandfather was a successful farmer and rancher without an iPhone, computer, television, microwave, or a Laz-e-boy chair. I'll bet he sat in a straight backed wooden rocking chair and ate the meals that my Great Grandmother made from the sweat of her brow. And I have a feeling that they were just as happy as my family is today with all the gadgets and doodads. I must say that I sure hope they had their coffee, because that's the best place to drink a cup is in your chair. Well, I guess my point is that you can't make my trusty bedside companion the old wind-up silver clock a clock 2.0. I don't believe that there's such a thing as the iQuilt, and the 6G network for china and crystal doesn't exist. Sammie the dog is an improved version of the original, but if robodog hadn't gotten her butt run over by a car she'd be just same ole Sammye. If you'll look around and see so much that you might think of as old, look closer those things might be filled with love and character far beyond old trash. And look closely at those people in your life that have touched your heart in a variety of ways, especially the one's that you've thrown away because of an argument, hurt feelings, jealousy, or just because you're so wrapped up in your own life you forget to value the character, wisdom, and love that can be poured into you when you pull out those relationships, dust them off, and put them in a special place in your heart. I have one more special item that is valuable to me, and was grateful to get it. I is my Great Grandmother's butter churn. When no longer used, a family friend painted a rural scene of a field and barn on that churn. It's been relegated to my office since I received it from my Grandmother because my wife hates it. I have no idea why. But now that I don't have an office for the time being outside the house, I will be marching downstairs to the garage and bringing my prized butter churn it's new home. I'm thinking next to my rocking chair in the living room. Maybe if I tell the kid's that it's a 4GiButterChurn3.0 they'll be on my side on this one. And remember, with each tick of my bedside bell-ringing, time-keeping machine another tick means another second is gone forever. Life is fast enough, so slow down and open your eyes to the character and character's all around you and your heart will be filled beyond belief.

They're Not Always Named Goliath

One of the first, if not the first story in the Bible that captivated my attention and imagination is the story of the battle between a young shepherd named David and a fearsome whose name is Goliath. Some of you are familiar with this story, others may not be. The story in it's proper context can be found in the Old Testament of the Bible (1 Samuel 16-17). Reading and re-reading the account of David and Goliath has supplied more understanding and insight each time I encounter the text. I learn more and more from the story as I read more slowly and carefully.
As a young boy, the action in the valley and the severing of the battle savvy champion Goliath's head grabbed my attention in Sunday School and made the boys laugh as the girls all squirmed at such a heinous and disgusting act. But reading the account again and again teaches that there were many lessons learned before the epic battle ever occurred.
Goliath was a feared member of the Philistine army, and an enemy of the Israelites. The time came when both of those armies made their camps on seperate hills across a valley from one another and a battle line was drawn. Three of David's older brothers were members of the Israelite army, but David worked two jobs; he was the shepherd of his father Jesse's flock of sheep as well as a servant of King Saul acting as his armor bearer and would play his harp for the King to soothe his anxieties. This was a time of war and for forty days, each morning and evening this tall, strong, heavily armed warrior Goliath would stand and shout, taunting the Israelites to send one of their own men to fight a winner take all battle. The scriptures tell us that the Israelites and even their King, their leader were both dismayed and terrified. The Israelates lost heart and were fearful beyond belief.
Meanwhile, David continued to care for his father's flock and deliver supplies to the stagnant battle front. From the home front it appears that Jesse had the idea that David's three brothers were in a ferocious battle in the Valley of Elah. Instead, they huddled and hid in fear from the monstrous man that belittled them day by day for over a month's time. David left the flock in the care of another shepherd and loaded the supplies to deliver to the battle front. Upon his arrival the armies had gathered on their respective hills to shout war cries at their enemy across the valley. While greeting his brothers he witnessed the giant from Gath, Goliath, step out of the battle line and offer his usual defiant attempt to pick a fight. David then witnessed the unbelievable. The Israelite army turned tail and ran like scared children in the face of danger. Of course they had their reasons and justification for fleeing from a battle that was ultimately the Lords. They claimed that Goliath stood to gain great wealth from the King of the Philistines for winning the battle single-handedly. This giant would be made part of the royal family, being given the King's daughter in marriage (what a lucky gal). Even his family would be exempt from paying taxes. Again and again the claims were made as to how and why this giant was unbeatable. David's oldest brother even chastised him probably to deflect his own guilt, shame, and embarrassment for his bewilderment that nothing had been done to protect Israel. When King Saul heard what David had been saying he sent for him. Although David was willing to take up the challenge of the one who everyone else feared, Saul couldn't believe a shepherd boy had the ability to win this challenge. David recounted to King Saul that during his time as a mere shepherd he was forced to fight both a lion and a bear while defending his flock, with such ferocity that he saved the lives of his sheep, and David said, "The Lord who delivered me from the paw of the lion and the paw of the bear will deliver me from the hand of this Philistine." (1 Samuel 17:37 NIV)
Saul then dressed David for battle by clothing him with his tunic, put David in a full suit of armor, shoved a heavy bronze helmet on his head, and gave him his sword. David tried to walk around and realized this armor and sword were too heavy and cumbersome and would be a hindrance rather than help. When I picture David clunking around in Saul's royal armor it reminds me of coaching pee-wee football and seeing little boys wearing pads and helmets they have never worn before, watching them is fun as what appears to be cleats, a big helmet, and a tiny body stumble, fall, flip, and trip.
David took his staff, went to the stream and chose five smoothe stones from the stream and put them in his shepherd's pouch and with his sling in his hand he approached the Philistine. What a shock this must have been to Goliath, who no doubt laughed heartily as he watched the Israelites scamper away each day upon hearing his challenge. Goliath approached this young boy, confidently no doubt. This mammoth man had a shield bearer in front of him as he moved toward the young shepherd. "As the Philistine moved closer to attack him, David ran quickly toward the battle line to meet him. Reaching into his bag and taking out stone, he slung it and struck the Philistine on the forehead. The stone sank into his forehead, and he fell facedown on the ground. So David triumphed over the Philistine with a sling and a stone; without a sword in his hand he struck down the Philistine and killed him." (1 Samuel 17:48-50)
David teaches us all a lesson if we'll only look closely:

1. We all have the battles that we must face. We all have Goliaths in our lives even though as the title says, they're not always named Goliath. Your obstacle ridden battle may be well known among many others, or only by a few close and trusted friends, or perhaps you're battling in silence and the recesses of your emotion and soul. Who or what are you battling? Your marriage, your boss, your children, your parents, your addictions, and the list could go on forever. Maybe your battle is to just get out of bed in the morning and face another day because you know Goliath is waiting at the door to challenge you.

2. Whatever the challenge that lies ahead you have but one choice. RUN. We learn from the terrified Israelite army that they ran away from the fray and quivered in the safety of their camp. We also see a young shepherd boy who was without armor or sword run toward the battle. When your battles and challenges approach, RUN! Run toward the challenge, because the alternative is to shrink in fear day after day after day with no end in sight creating a sense of hopelessness. Hopelessness leads to excuses and the jusification of inaction. RUN toward your challenge.

3. David's training for such a battle is unorthodox for the rest of the fighting men. He simply tended his father's flock faithfully. Wrestling his sheep from the beasts of the field that sought to devour them. Notice that David tells King Saul that God delivered him from the paw of the lion and of the bear, and God would deliver him from the hand of this beast of a man. David had no reason to believe that God would not give victory for certainly the claws of the beasts were more imposing than the hands of a mere man, no matter how big they were. We must remember that no matter how big the rushing wave of battle approaches, our strength comes from living our lives day to day faithfully remembering that we can overcome that which paralyzes those whose faith is shallow, weak, or non-existent. Just do the small things to the best of your ability day by day and when the big events enter the stage of life upon which we live, our training will pay dividends beyond our wildest dreams.

4. Stooping beside a stream of water David carefully chose five stones. Why five? We can only guess. But five stones were placed in his pouch and to the battle line he marched. It must've been an absurd sight to see such a powerful warrior being approached by a man with a stick, some rocks, and a sling. If wagers were being made, David was definitely the ultimate underdog. He could've tried to slog his way to the battle line in kingly armor, but he had to fight the battle his way, the challenge must be met in the only way he knew how to fight. David had to grapple with Goliath in his way. The same is true for us all. When we try to emulate someone else, instead of being ourselves we will most definitely have difficulties. God created us individually and special in our own ways. We've spent a lifetime honing and refining the true person God made us to be, sometimes even by the people who rub us the wrong way, but like sand paper, those irritants smooth our rough edges. Don't try to fight your battles or climb your hills like someone else. Shed the armor that isn't meant for you and live the life that feels right in your own skin.

5. And always remember that the battle is the Lord's. I've wrestled with God, He always wins. I'm reminded of wrestling on the floor of our living room with my Dad when I was a small child. His strength was exponentially bigger than mine, and so was his restraint. There was no way possible that I could beat him no matter how hard I tried, how mad I got, or how much energy I expended. He was Dad, and although he pretended that sometimes I was getting the best of him, the living room wrestling match always was his. The outcome was his choice. I was weak, and he is strong. David knew that it wouldn't be armor or sword, a stone and a sling, or even his amazing aim that would conquer the Philistine hero. David knew that God would win the battle and was allowing David to be part of the story. Today in the midst of your monumental tasks and Goliath moments, the battle is the Lord's and he has a perfect record.

Identify and clarify the battles that are really worth fighting. Run toward your challenges, knowing that retreat breeds fear and self-loathing, and eventually hopelessness and defeat. Live your life doing the right things day after day, time after time, for we know that whether we're smiling or sobbing and God is smiling upon us, we're doing the right thing. Live in your own skin, being who you are as God created you and continues to shape you. And never, ever forget that ultimately the battle is the Lord's. Ask not whether God is on your side, for he is always with you. Rather ask, am I living on God's side. Get up! RUN toward the worthy battles that scare you! Keep living boldly even in the most mundane or tragic times! Be yourself, God made you, and keep letting Him shape you! And may your daily battle cry become, "THE BATTLE IS THE LORD'S" They're rarely named Goliath, but there are great tasks ahead of you that can fill you with fear or the courage and conviction that God is bigger!

Playing From the Rough

Professional golf legend Ben Hogan once said, "Golf to me is a livelihood in doing the thing that I love to do. I don't like the glamour. I just like the game." As we see the Masters Golf Tournament wrap up this weekend I am compelled to apply Mr. Hogan's words to my own philosophy by which I live my life. Living is who we are and what we do, sometimes loving it more than other times. We mustn't strive to live for glamour, but for the love of life. When Mr. Hogan published his classic, The Modern Fundamentals of Golf, he challenged the way most people looked at the game of golf explaining that, "the difference between good and great golfers is not the quality of of their good shots as much as it is the quality of their poor shots, he allowed millions of golfers to become more forgiving of their misses. In doing so, they also learned to not dwell on their bad shots, but rather to learn how to get beyond them." (Fearless Golf, by Dr. Gio Valiante, p. 149) It is a similar way to coach a little league baseball player who walks away from a strike-out or a missed ground ball head hung low and tear-filled eyes to have a short memory. In other words, what's done is done, you know better now what to do now than you did a moment ago. Like life we are able to see figure out how to move beyond the temporary failure or gaffe and fix it. It is the simple art of playing badly well. The bad shot, decision, action, or statement allows each player in the game of life to learn how to get out of the tall grass and around the obstacles so that the memory will aid the next dilemma. I've learned a few valuable lessons from the game of golf which I attempt to play badly well. One is that when you make the errant shot that rolls to a stop in a place unintended and unwelcomed, you can no longer dwell on how you arrived at the place of confusion, dismay, and frustration. It is then the time to focus anew on how you right the next move. The next shot taken that may be in the midst of a grove of trees that create a blindness as to where and how to move forward creating doubt and panic, both of which are enemies to getting on the desired track. It is helpful to listen to the partner with whom you are playing the game, be it golf or life, whom you trust. They may see more clearly from a different vantage point how to orient the next action in a way that doesn't seem obvious, perhaps at times absurd. But trust in oneself, washing away doubt and frustration while listening to wisdom beyond your current situation may be another nudge to do what must be done to finish what was started. And, most often it is not by brut strength, trikery, or heroic tactics, rather a simple tap to a new and more manageable place in the game of life that leaves us able to see and act more clearly and decisively. In life, our most trusted advisor has a vantage point that no one else surrounding us possesses, and it is He, our loving and trustworthy God who can point the way toward our destination. There are many sounds that I love to hear. Favorites songs, children's laughter, intelligent conversations, tasteful jokes, the greeting, "Hey Dad!" The list could go on for pages, but, there is one sound that may seem strange to some, but not to others. That is the sound like no other of a golf ball rolling into the hole on the green that seemed so far away just minutes before. It meant that good shot or bad, I finished what I set out to do. I long for the day when faith is sight, and the sound I hear is the voice of God saying, "Well done!" Until that day, I know that I will spend time making graceful moves that impress those around me and others in the hard places, scratching my head and looking for what the next step will be. Jesus said to his disciples a short time before his arrest, "a time is coming and has come, when you will be scattered, each to his own home. You will leave me all alone. Yet I am not alone, for my Father is with me. I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world." (John 16:32-33 NIV) My father taught me the game of golf, and unwittingly taught me how to play the game of life. As a frustrated boy, on the green grass of the course we shared for a few hours he continually reminded me of how and what I was supposed to do. He never left me alone, he was always with me, even when I couldn't hit a ball to any desired locations. He was with me and he taught me and watched me struggle even to the point of anger. One lesson he taught me that I've never forgotten to this day is that you never throw your clubs down, because you'll have another shot. "In this life you will have trouble, but take heart!" Our character is not truly revealed in how we stumble, fall, or spend our time in the roughs of life, it is shown in how we get up and take the next shot without fear or doubt. Take heart!

The Scoundrel on the Other Side of the Glass

I don't like mirrors. I don't know if I ever will either. I've always seen mirrors as a reminder of the things I don't like about myself. How my ears stick out too far, or my mouth is crooked. I've seen too much belly and not enough hair. But each day I look into one of those dastardly contraptions and try to fix the imperfections and problem spots to face the day hoping that the reflective glass is only a liar, a tool of the devil meant to start my day in his way, filled with doubt and bewilderment at the beauty around me that I feel so unable to achieve no matter how much I try. It's just a quirk of mine that I've found many others share. As I was adjusting my necktie the other day, I looked down the way and saw something so unfair. A stunning reflection of a woman whose partner on the other side of the glass shining bfore her bled glory in that same glass I shared just a few feet away. It was as if I was doubly blessed to see my wife as she readied herself for the same day coming toward us both. It was then I realized that the mirror couldn't possibly be a liar because it was telling the truth. I especially don't like the mirrors in the carnival funhouses that distort our face and figure because I think the regular everyday reflective devices are cruel enough. They don't make me laugh. Now don't get me wrong, there are some mirrors I appreciate; rear-view mirrors and side-view mirrors on my truck. I've used mirrors to reflect light when I didn't have a flashlight handy. I've even been grateful to see that I have something on my face or shirt that needs to be removed or wiped away. But just to look at myself has never been a hobby of mine. The problem is that when I peer at the image staring back at me I have the bad habit of comparing myself to the images of others physical attributes that I admire or perhaps envy. I watch television and see the handsome fellows that make women swoon, or the rippling muscles that cause others to take a second look. I just see me. I must not be alone because when you turn on the television or listen to the radio you see and hear messages of how to rid yourself of wrinkles, lose those "love handles," or look years younger with washboard abs. We're obsessed with the external, and some even spend small fortunes to dive into the fountain of youth, beauty and blessing. The other mirror is the one that shines from within our soul, this reflection is oftentimes overshadowed and perhaps squashed by the desire for the outward images that receive such attention. The Holy Spirit is the One who calls us from our guilt and shame and will wash over us with the fountain of blessing that flows from the grace of God. It is the reflection that we often ignore while brushing our hair and tying buttoning our fashionable shirts. That is the reflection that pulls us from guilt into conviction and a desire for an inner beauty that will intensify even when years and gravity take a toll on the way we feel in our own skin. Some of the most beautiful people I know would never grace the cover of Vogue Magazine or an issue of Men's Health, but they are stunning in the image that flows from within them as they stare intently and intensively into the mirror of their soul. So nowadays when I look at the ogre in the mirror and thank God I never looked like Justin Bieber, I look to the mirror of my soul shining brightly from my Father in Heaven and pray that is the image that people around me remember and seek to emulate. Regardless of what we look like on the outside, we all share one thing in common. Remind yourself when you look in the mirror, no matter how you fell about what you see, we all share one common attribute. Our true appearance of majesty and stunning beauty is because we are covered with the fingerprints of the One who creates only masterpieces, His name is God, and in made in His image we are beautiful.

What?

"It's a healthy idea, now and then to hang a question mark on things you have long taken for granted." --Voltaire I've never seen the unknown as a healthy thing before in my lifetime. I enjoy security and the visible next steps across the ripples of living as I see the stones upon which I hop to cross a rushing river. I rather prefer carrying my pack filled with what I deem necessities across while traversing the obstacles that lie in the path of my desired destinations. Life doesn't allow a stone or a bridge to cross a divide and we're called to dive into the cold realities that carry us to new, unknown, and perhaps undesired locations. I've spent some time very recently in my rocking chair positioned on my porch thinking of the words of Voltaire and his, "healthy idea." I don't want to hang a question mark on my life or the lives of the ones that are so embedded in my heart that I couldn't shake them loose with all the tiny might I have within me. With the sound of the breeze blowing through the nearly barren field a block from my house and the sound of birds singing their songs of praise to the day I wrote four hand-written pages of those emotion filled treasures upon which that question mark was not welcome in my estimation. Then a new portion of that short statement took hold of my mind. Who and what have I taken for granted? I looked back through the list and with pen still in hand I made a mark beside each thing scrolled on that pad of paper representing all that has been, is, and hopefully will be dear to me. When I finished, I noticed that each line possessed its own check mark. Only by losing my footing on that slippery stepping stone and baptizing myself into a cold reality that robs one of his the breath within did I realize the power of Voltaire's wisdom. Hanging question marks was not only warranted, but necessary. The list, those four pages that seemed to be my possessions turned instead into a list of selfish entitlement that I did not deserve. Those words were now representatives of blessings that I am not promised, they were and are gifts if only for short times, and in Gods time. The last year of my family's life has been inarguably the most difficult one for the Stephenson team to endure. My wife Chrissy's father Lynn passed from this life after a long illness and much suffering and while bittersweet for the family, we knew he was restored to the perfection God created in him. Only a few months later a telephone call to our home on a Friday evening sent shockwaves through an already grieving family as Chrissy's mother passed away suddenly and without warning at her home. It didn't make sense to us. Helen and her husband Richard had just been with us for Christmas just weeks before. She had just beaten breast cancer, she was a survivor, and in an instant she was gone. I drove Chrissy to the airport and Caitlin and Connor and I flew to Kansas City a day later. The memorial was joyful because of her strong belief in Christ, but filled with tears and the knowledge that we didn't get to say, "goodbye." Just weeks later, Chrissy's Grandma called from Colorado to say that her Grandpa had passed away after a long and healthy life spent mostly on his farm in northeastern Colorado. It just seemed as if life was coming too fast and the bridge to the next steps in life was crumbling as we stood in the middle of it. For some reason, I took for granted that I'd see each of them again, and by faith we will. We were snowed in at home one day during a particularly uncharacteristic cold spell for our area in Texas when our ceiling collapsed and flooded our house. Fortunately I was the only one downstairs at the time and when the ceiling crashed down on me I heard Connor shout downstairs, "Dad! What did you do?" I didn't answer, instead I climbed from beneath a mound of soggy sheetrock and began to quickly assess the situation. Although not tragic in any sense of the word, I remembered muttering quietly, "seriously God? Seriously?" Although I knew God wasn't playing a cosmic game with us While moving furniture, filling buckets of showering water from the sky into our living room and bedroom I felt a sense of helplessness. I had always thought that life was supposed to be filled with the conclusions that I chose. Stanford psychologist Lee Cronbach wrote, "when we give proper weight to local conditions, any generalization is a working hypothesis, not a conclusion." My conclusions were not givens they were only the hypotheses that I hoped would end desirably for me and those for whom I care, or rather took for granted. The poet Alexander Pope once wrote a well known saying, "to err is human," and through the crucible of loss and trial, new places and new faces, I was learning to recognize my errors and have my hubris squeezed from me to make room for humility that was so greatly lacking in my life. I had control over many of my poor choices and errant steps, still there were those things beyond my control to which the only choice I had was my reaction and faith. A week ago I walked into the conference room at the church in which I was serving as the Senior Pastor. I had walked through those doors many times in the past year to sit in my seat at the head of the table as we conducted executive board meetings, committee meetings, interviews, and a variety of other activities. This time as I opened the door I knew it would be different. The same attractive conference table sat in the middle of the room surrounded by the comfortable and tasteful chairs surrounded it. I took my new seat and awaited what I knew would be the short agenda to commence. A few minutes later I handed to the those gathered a signed copy of my letter of resignation. An hour later my office was packed into boxes and ready to drive away from my parking spot in the lot for the last time. I had taken for granted that my spot at the table, in my office, and in the parking lot would be there until I created my new conclusion. I only had a hypothesis, ignoring some of the conditions, and missed yet another of the stepping stones I thought I owned. A new conclusion plunged me into the frigid waters of life. Perhaps I should've hung a question mark on that year of ministry that I had taken for granted. Something strange happened as I drove home in stunned silence along the route that took me home each evening, it began to rain. It wasn't a funny time for me, but I began to laugh quietly as my wife looked at me as if she needed to check me into an asylum. "What's so funny?" Chrissy asked with a more than quizical look on her face and tears in her eyes. "Every time I have ever moved anything during our time in the last year in my pick-up truck, it's always rained. Without fail, every time. I guess one thing is consistent lately," I said with what my wife calls my crooked grin. Pulling into the driveway the kids ran out the front door and saw the boxes and immediately knew what the meeting was about. Without words each of us unloaded the boxes into our garage and went inside to sit down to a family meeting about what was next and how everything was going to be alright. After all, God was, is, and always will be in charge. The meeting ended with a family hug, a hug I didn't take for granted. I had already begun to hang a question mark on those that I took for granted. I sat alone that night in a dark and silent house after everyone had gone to bed and pondered the rain that fell on my each and every move. Only God makes rain, and I had to think that God was showering me with the waters to remind me that even when His plan isn't the same as mine He still provides always. If those showers would nourish the land that provides our needs, my needs were, are, and always will be provided. My loving and gracious God is the only One upon whom I need not hang a question mark. Rather I must always examine the faith that I often take for granted, especially in the best of times. I pray now daily for the church staff, leaders, and members that I still love and miss already, that she will find the one who will lead them in a way that I couldn't and continue to flourish for many years ahead. I pray that God will show me the way across this next chasm to His destination for me and my treasures named Chrissy, Cait-Bug, and Connor (Rufus, as he likes to be called). And I echo the words of Brennan Manning that we all become ones that behold, "The dream of Jesus Christ which is the Kingdom of God, and the committed Christian buys into his dream." I'm now saving to buy plastic sealable rain-proof boxes for the next time I move. If you know of any bargains don't hesitate to let me know. I'm hanging a question mark on dry weather for the next time I load up boxes in the back of my truck. In the love of Christ. Amen and Amen.