When The Cowboy Was A Lamb

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

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

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

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

"NO! We have to go now."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You Don't Get To...

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

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

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

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

They don't get to.

Dad! He Called Me a Name!!!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That's My Kid!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Team

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sometimes

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

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

Playing your guitar alone helps.

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

Just sitting in the quiet works.

A Window Seat at the Cafe

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

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

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

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

Ummm, I didn't ask you to sit.

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

"Sure. I do."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Okay FRIEND, what's up?"

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

"So you're...."

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

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

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

"Well, thanks I guess."

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

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

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

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

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

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

Even if he goes to the wrong church.