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.