Despondency and Blessing

Side 1 Despondency

What happens when someone uses you to get boots, only to resell them for money? What happens when someone mocks you? What happens when someone verbally encourages others to use you for all your worth? What happens when you realize someone wants to be on the streets because it is the only life they know and there is nothing you can do about it? What happens when you realize family members, after years of trying, finally deserted someone because of an addiction and once again, there is nothing you can do about it because this person is unable to overcome the throes of addiction? What happens when many nights you are the only one from the church you attend who goes? What happens when the food you bring is scoffed at by those you are serving? What happens when someone fights their way for handouts and you realize they are not in need? What happens when someone who is in need is left standing with nothing?

Side 2 Blessing

What happens when Miss Dorothy is glad to see you? What happens when someone who has nothing interrupts you to say they will pray for you instead of you them? What happens when someone is glad to see you? What happens when someone who has nothing, sincerely says thanks with tears in their eyes when given something? What happens when someone who has nothing suddenly breaks out quoting more scripture in 5 minutes than you have learned in a lifetime? What happens when someone you cared for dies? What happens when you notice a spark in someone’s eye and a curiosity about why we are there? What happens when denominations no longer matter and brothers and sisters serve next to each other? What happens when we do not see the color of each other’s skin? What happens when worship occurs in the darkest part of a city, and not in the comfort of a pew?

Returning to the Streets of Jackson

12/30/10…As always, when I lay down my expectations and submit to God’s will, I am rarely let down by the results or even lack of because God does not seem to measure my results as much as my growth. Today as I wake up, I feel a little more energized, a little more encouraged, and a little more connected.

 

Last night, I saw each of them. A smile came across my face. They reached out to shake my hand, every one of them. No my brothers and sisters, our reunion deserves more in this journey we are on. I bear hugged each one of them and held on a little longer than normal protocol dictates and squeezed a little more than normal protocol dictates. With my hug, I wanted each of them to know how much I love them and their heart. I wanted to encourage.

Bridgett

Bob

Kristi

Bob F.

Michael

Malcolm

Gerry P.

 

These are the brothers and sisters God blessed me with in Jackson, Mississippi. They serve consistently and beyond the normal Wednesday outreach. Oh Father, thank you for them. Unknowingly, the impact they have had on me has taken me by surprise. Our friendships are on a different level and they are not in the classic sense. There was as much joy in my eyes in seeing them as I sensed in their eyes in seeing me. Our time was not as much measured in amount as it was in a common bond, somehow knowing we will play catch up in the life beyond this one. There was peace in knowing this.

 

As the night progresses, darkness covers the inner city of Jackson. In the parking lot of the Opportunity Center, a name in irony, I see my brothers and sisters do what they do. Each is in their own little group engaged in conversations with those who are addicted, mentally unstable, scamming, lonely, searching and a myriad of other reasons which none of us may know. The fire within me is stoked a little more. The joy makes me give a little smile. I am not so much proud of my brothers and sisters as I am honored to be in their presence. Against a lot of odds and against a lot of naysayers, my friends are serving God in a place most would not go. To love without expecting anything in return is the purest form of love. It is rarely reached.

Returning to the Streets of Jackson

12/29/10…She had the same look I had when I first went down, and when my son Avery first went down. Her night started with a hug from Miss Dorothy, an encounter she readily admits was one of the highlights of the evening. At the end of the night, there was a glow. I think she said it best when she said,

“I felt a sparkle inside me that made me want to do so much more, for those people who have needs. I guess I did not know that desire was there, or maybe it still was and it just had not come out in a while.”

Her memory takes her back; in High School, she went on two separate mission trips to Sonoyta, Mexico. Their purpose was to help build an addition to an orphanage. The experience was eye opening because she had never been around people who had absolutely nothing. Even though she grew up poor, her family was rich compared to those in Mexico she came across. Those in this part of Mexico did not know where their next meal was coming from. Although there was a language barrier, they were able to connect through volleyball and nightly revival that went on for hours into the night. Remembrance of a family that smelled so bad and were covered in flies in the revival service is burned in her memory. At that time, her sheltered life suddenly became unsheltered.

 

And then life continued…And now after all those years, she hops out of a van at the Opportunity Center. Hours before she did not know what to expect. She readily admits her nervousness before coming and even says she was a little afraid. After all, the inner city of Jackson after nightfall has a dark reputation. Murders are not optional, just expected, and the question is not if murders will happen but how many by the end of the year. Drugs are prevalent. Even street prostitutes at times are seen emerging from the shadows.

 

After the night ended, she said she felt like she had been reintroduced to something that she experienced on her mission trips to Mexico, and it had been a long time. And yet the streets we visited tonight were only two hours from Sumrall, Mississippi, her home town. Seeing what she saw in Jackson tonight made her realize there are people with needs and they are everywhere, not just in Mexico. Her silence speaks volumes as we drive back to the delta. A distant look out the side of the window, somehow trying to process emotions, somehow feeling a glow once again…

 

“What I marvel at were the people who were willing to visit with us and tell us what was going on in their lives, telling us a little bit about their life, their art, and just sharing of themselves. Even though we came from different socio-economic backgrounds, it felt like we were all the same for a little while.”

Returning to the Streets of Jackson

12/29/10…Last night, Melody and I drove up from Sumrall, Mississippi to Jackson, Mississippi to meet our brothers and sisters in Christ who serve in the cold desolate streets. For me, I placed no expectations on this visit, other than realizing sometimes losing sleep is a good thing. For Melody, she wanted to experience the street ministry first hand. She had heard and read stories of my experiences and wanted to better understand what her husband was going through in his journey with Christ.

 

However, the one hope I had was meeting Terry. I wrote about him in a previous Christmas blog entry (link). After Bob texted me that Terry wanted to see me when I came down to Mississippi, I felt compelled to go. After all, serving God is easy when it is comfortable and convenient, but I think He wants me stepping out of my comfort and convenience more and more. It seems the times I can feel Him more are the times I am stepping out in faith and serving, letting Him know I am going for His glory, and if He desires to use me, then I am present. There is something transcending when I am going for God to use me versus me going in my own power. When I lay it all down before Him, I am giving in to expectations. I realize there are no guarantees in the outcome. Therefore something great and wonderful may happen, but equally something great and wonderful may happen because nothing happens. Once again, a spiritual paradox presents itself when I strive to do good to glorify my Father.

 

Such is the case with meeting Terry tonight.

 

But…Terry did not show.

My son experiences the streets...

12/09/10…The clock nears 10:30 pm. My son and I sit opposite from each other. The kitchen light brings a trace of lumination in my darkened living room. Still we sit in silence. Both of us are trying to process a night on the streets. For Avery, it was his first time. For me, I lost count but every time feels like a first time. Finally after much silence, I ask Avery what he is thinking about? His response, “Dad, we don’t have it so bad.” The tone of his voice reflects an awakening.

 

At fourteen years old, my son is in the middle of his teenage years. As all of us know, this is not always an easy time in life. In fact, life in our teenage years generally centers on us. Our world is colored more by the here and now and unless exposed to the world, we become insulated in our thinking. Our hormones are racing and God has wired us to break away from the nest. This need to hold on to the security of our parents and yet become independent causes a lot of conflict in our lives. We easily get caught up in our own drama as well as our friend’s drama. This spills over into gossip about others. High school can be a tough place as we seek to fit in. Cliques are developed. Outcasts dot the periphery. Everyone is trying to find their place in this world and figure out how they really fit in.

 

Against this backdrop, Avery over the course of his life has been involved in helping others probably more than a lot of kids. For this, I am proud of him. But tonight, something happened to him; an event possibly shifting him towards a new kind of awakening. Around 8:30 pm we meet up with Bob and Kristi, and their daughters Ally and Kayla, at their church. As normal, we go to a room where we collect some donated clothing, bath supplies, and food. We climb into the van and Bob F. proceeds to drive us towards the city of Jackson. In our van there are eight of us this particular night. As usual there is friendly banter as we drive about 20 minutes to the Eudora Welty library. The friendly banter is always tainted with a deeper meaning as we spiritually prepare ourselves for the unknown. We never know what will happen. And since Avery is with me tonight, I also can’t help but as a parent, feel protective of him. I have come across prostitutes, crack addicts, mentally unstable people, violence in words, and people who are high or drunk. Before hand, I caution him that although nothing has ever happened in the street ministry, we must still be cautious.

 

We arrive at the Eudora Welty library. Downtown Jackson is quiet. Only an occasional car passes by. Soon, at least three other church vans arrive. People gather in the parking lot. Malcolm, who is one of the defacto leaders of the ministry, gathers everyone in a circle. As usual he asks if there are any first timers. Avery raises his hand. Malcolm reminds the first timers although nothing harmful has ever happened in the dark streets, we must still be cautious and not wonder off. He also advised them not to give money because generally it will go towards buying drugs or alcohol. With that said he lets us know we are here for our friends on the streets, to help them with nourishment and with comfort.

 

We bow our heads and Malcolm leads us in a quick prayer. A unison of amen’s occur at the end. We raise our heads. The regal outline of the First Baptist Church of Jackson towers over us. Strangely there is no one from their church represented.

 

Hours later we are back home sitting in a half dark living room. Avery’s face reflects the standard look all first timers have at the end of the night. I experienced the same look my first night. Processing is occurring. Paradigms are facing rejection. There is an inability at first to speak words. Soon though, a few choice words do come out. There is humility in my son’s voice. The depth is striking. 

Ecclesiastes and the Book of John

12/07/10…Father, what I write now, I write to You. My hopes are one day my son reads this. For in my life, I so much want to be there for him to give advice, and yet my life has mostly been spent apart from him. Now at age 16, he is becoming a man. There is no magic threshold when a boy becomes a man. There is no magic light switch that suddenly turns on and your consciousness goes from a boy to a man. Instead, becoming a man is something that defines itself over time, mostly by one decision at a time, collectively adding up over years.

 

When I really think about what I am pondering, I realize my decisions over time indeed have created the man I am today, for better or for worse. Every day I have decisions to make. When I see someone who is an outcast, do I make them feel like an incast? When I see someone who is in dire need, do I pass by or do I stop? When my wife needs me to talk about my day, do I or do I retreat where intimacy is not required? When I need to give of myself to my parents as much as they have given to me, do I? When I have a choice to open Your Word and study, do I? When I have a chance to say something about someone, do I say something positive or negative? These types of questions are just the tip of the iceberg of questions I face every day. Each day I answer them, sometimes in ways glorifying You Father, but sometimes in ways only glorifying me, and even worse sometimes in ways pointing people towards anything but You. And so at middle age, I find myself defined by how I answer these daily questions facing me every day I exist.

 

How do I face the bombardment of these decisions every day? Maybe by starting each day in Your Word. Maybe by praying Your will for that day is done in my life. Maybe by trying to listen to those quiet thoughts when You speak to me in the still silence of morning before the days distractions take hold. Maybe by asking Your Spirit within to intercede on my behalf. Indeed, maybe some of all this. Otherwise how do I stand a chance against the principalities of darkness, or the illusion of the world, or my own selfish tendencies?

 

Crossing the threshold in becoming a man is a clear realization that as a man, we are nothing apart from You. Instead we are only a shell, and a shell that may or may not be good at presenting a front to others. Is this not what the Preacher came to realize at the end of Ecclesiastes? There is no front before God. Yes, man’s all is in God, because every decision I make will come before my Maker in the end, including as the Preacher said…”every secret thing, whether good or evil.” I pause to reflect on this.

 

And then I go straight into reading the Book of John. I am amazed at how close Ecclesiastes and the Book of John relate to one another. When reading Ecclesiastes and then immediately reading John, I find an almost seamless flow from the Old to New Testament. And I also find hope.

 

Jesus washed all my stains.    

 

A Family Lore Story

My uncle Don was a pastor, quite a boisterous one too. When he walked in a room, his voice reverberated everywhere and commanded my attention in a good way. There was something about the way he carried himself that oozed self-assurance. He loved to be the center of attention, and I remember him as fun to be around. He was also a city boy and not wise to the country way of life.

 

My aunt Rachel, married to Uncle Don, was part of the cackling hens, a term of endearment given by my uncle Charlie to my mom’s sisters. They talked a lot. They laughed a lot. The four of them could go on for hours telling stories about each other and their loved ones. Although there are hundreds of stories, there are certain ones elevated to “family lore” status. These stories are so hilarious they never seem to lose their edge. In fact I compare the endurance of these stories to a comedian’s material. Over time the comedians work on volumes of material, trying it out on audiences and whittling their humor down until the gems remain. Such are the stories told by my mom and my aunts. We, the family, are the unsuspecting audience. And as there are new stories brought up every year around Thanksgiving, there are certain ones which make the cut year after year. No matter how often they are told, they always get a laugh.

One of the stories making the cut was told by my aunt Rachel. When she and my uncle Don were first married, they traveled from Charlotte to visit the parents in Loris, South Carolina. Now keep in mind Don is a city boy. Back then, he had no idea people still used outhouses. But alas, my Grandpa and Grandma were poor and indoor plumbing was still considered a luxury. Also since they lived in the country, there were no streetlights or even house lights to illuminate the night. Therefore darkness was indeed dark.

As my aunt Rachel tells the story, she can barely stop laughing. One night, uncle Don has the urge to go to the bathroom and cannot wait until morning. So in an induced slumber he awakes. He slips on his white-buck shoes. Uncle Don with only a t-shirt, boxers and white-buck shoes makes his way quietly through the house to the back door. Half asleep, he finds the door knob and slowly turns it, trying to keep the creaking noise to a minimum. Out he steps into the night, but the country night is so dark he cannot see anything. At this point, he makes a poor decision to opt out of going to the outhouse and instead heads over to the ditch surrounding the backside of the house. The ditch is wide and deep because my Grandpa ensures a proper ditch is dug to carry away turbulent rains.

Now this is about the time my Aunt Rachel is laughing so hard she can barely finish the story. I am sure she is picturing her husband in his t-shirt, boxers and white-buck shoes. Well, Don finds the ditch and almost falls into the black Pee Dee dirt. After he steadies himself, he prepares to relieve the urge pushing on his kidneys. As he looks up at the night sky and takes a moment to relax before the relief…all I can do is join in the erupting laughter as everyone knows the punch line about to be delivered.

You see, uncle Don did not realize there was an electric fence on the other side of the ditch.

A Green Ford Pickup Truck

12/02/10…There are many warm memories of my Grandma. I wish there were a few more of my Grandpa. He passed away when I was a senior in high school. For years he was bedridden by a stroke leaving him unable to speak or walk. My Grandma refused to place him in a nursing home and instead lovingly took care of him for six or seven years. I was only eleven or twelve when his initial stroke happened. Before the stroke, I do remember my Grandpa as a laid back personality. In contrast, my Grandma was the driving force in the family and a task master. Although my Grandpa was laid back, he was hardworking and strong as an ox, even though his small frame would suggest otherwise. Grandpa was a serious person but very tenderhearted and a God fearing man. I suppose my Grandma’s mischievous streak may have attracted him to her. Her humor and lighthearted look at life complemented his serious side.

 

Since the family business was raising tobacco, this meant life was not very easy, especially back in the 1940’s. The house they built together still stands today, although the landscape has changed. I remember when there were two barns near the house, a pig pen down a dirt road a ways, and a chicken coop. Later in life, they leased the land and I remember tobacco leaves still being grown. There were many drainage ditches around the property and my dad says Grandpa dug every one of them by hand. Now mind you, these ditches were not your normal size ditches. They were at least four foot wide by two foot deep. Every winter this was one of my Grandpa’s projects. My dad remembers the meticulous way these ditches were dug, almost as if Grandpa was a perfectionist in digging a proper ditch.

 

As far as memories, there are few. I faintly recall riding on his John Deere tractor in the fields. Although the roar of the tractor was loud, it was a great thrill to ride. I also recall him being a quiet man around family, although my mom says when he went to church just down the road, he was anything but quiet. After the church service ended around noon time, he would sometimes stand and chat with the fellows until 2:00 or so. She remembers Grandma being annoyed with this. Why? Because the rest of the family was ready to get back and eat, but they could not leave until he was ready. I suppose for a man with six kids and a wife, and working from sunup to sundown six days a week, this moment with his peers was probably much looked forward to.

 

The other thing I remember about Grandpa was his snow-white hair. Styled in a crew cut, his bristles stood at military attention. Sometimes he covered his bristles with a gray derby hat. During our visits, Grandpa usually took time to drive us in his old green Ford truck to the country store down the road. This was a cherished experience. As little kids, the ole country store seemed miles away, but in reality, the store was less than a quarter mile down the road. It’s funny as a kid how everything seemed so big and distant more so than what it really was. Corn stalks blocked the view of the store from their house which I am sure added to the misperception. Regardless, there was an adventure to be had. Usually Grandpa would make us wait for what seemed forever before he took us. In eager anticipation, we waited and waited. When the time came, Grandpa in his southern drawl made the formal invitation. We jumped up and down for joy. Our feet pattered across the tile floors and our little hands flung open the front screen door. Before Grandpa could even put on his hat, we were already camped out in the back of his pickup truck.

 

As my Grandpa started the engine, all of us joyfully anticipated the ride. As if he knew how much this meant to us, Grandpa only drive 10-15 miles an hour letting us milk the experience. As the old truck made the way down the road, we snubbed our faces directly into the wind. What a thrill! With each jerk of the stick shift, laughter erupted as we hung onto the sides of the Ford for our dear lives. What an adventure! As kid’s imaginations are prone to do, I always believed we were on some great quest. Yes, getting candy was fun, but the experience of Grandpa driving us down the road is the memory I cherish to this day.

The Pedestal Runs aFowl

12/02/10…I admit I have been blessed with a loving family so I write from this perspective. Some of you may relate. I find it interesting how as kids we put our parents and grandparents on pedestals. From a child’s eyes, they can do no wrong and if they did do some wrong, surely it was justified in some way and we are quick to forgive them. It is a rude awakening though when one day we realize they are not perfect. That day usually comes in the early pre-teen years. We realize maybe they don’t know everything and just maybe they could be wrong about some things. As we reach our teenage years, it seems we swing too much on the other side of the pendulum. Maybe this is God’s way of helping us break from the nest, I am not sure. All I know is a day comes when we realize our parents are not perfect. Yet I think we hold onto our grandparents being perfect for a longer time, probably because they may not be around us as often, so the illusion remains intact longer. However, sometimes there comes a day of reckoning.

 

For me, I realized my Grandma was no longer perfect when she cut the head off a live chicken. That’s right. It was a traumatic event in my life. Please do not laugh. The story goes like this: at age 10 or so, I remember walking with my Grandma out towards the chicken coop. She said she was going to start dinner. Me, being a city boy, meant I did not quite understand why we were going to the chicken coop when we should be going to the grocery store. My Grandma was probably 67 or so at the time. Her gait due to her age was a little slow as she and I made our way from the house to the chicken coop. She made some small talk with me as we enjoyed a wonderful moment together.

 

I remember seeing a tree stump by a ditch on the way to the coop but really thought nothing of the tree stump. Such naiveté. I can still smell the black Pee Dee dirt and hear the cackles from the hens. In fact, the cackles of the hens sounded much like the slow southern drawl my Grandma spoke. As I stood outside the coop, my Grandma proceeds to go inside the pen and as the chickens rush around, she corners one and grabs it by the neck. Oh my I think to myself. She comes back out and closes the gate. Then she makes her way over to the tree stump where I am standing. The next moment happened so quickly I am still stunned to this day.

 

Actually, I think I am trying to repress the memory. As I stand looking at Grandma, Grandma produces an axe. The chickens head is laid against the stump. Suddenly, in a stupefied manner, I begin to connect the dots. As if on cue my mouth drops in disbelief. My Grandma raises the axe and in one fell swoop, she cuts the chicken’s head off. The chicken’s body goes into convulsions and bounces around the yard doing the chicken dance (sorry couldn’t help myself). Bits of blood are flying into the air and I receive a little splatter on my face and arm. In disbelief I just stand there in shock watching this chicken body dance across the yard. Then I look over and see my sweet Grandma. I see her holding the head of the chicken.

The Kitchen Expansion

12/02/10…I suppose I am in the grieving stage of grief. My grief is because my Grandma passed away after 97 years. She was the root of our family. Every Thanksgiving family members from Oklahoma to Florida traveled to her tiny little farm in Loris, South Carolina. There is some poetic irony she passed away three days before Thanksgiving.

Dessie Caines birthed 4 daughters and 2 sons, which later in life turned into an extended family of 61 current family members. In my thoughts, I can only remember my Grandma as Grandma. My earliest memories of her are around age 10 or 12 and at the time she would have been around 67 years old. Therefore I only remember her as an old woman. I write old because she was. I only remember her with gray hair which became whiter and whiter with age. And indeed, at 67 one is usually showing one’s age. However my Grandma, in spirit, was anything but old. She had a mischievous streak about her, even into her nineties. She loved nothing more than telling a good story of mischief. However, there was a problem with her stories. She hardly ever finished them because she got so tickled. She knew the ending and was already laughing at what she knew was coming. Of course everyone around her started laughing because she was laughing. Sometimes we had no clue regarding the ending, but surely it was funny so we all erupted in laughing along with her. This is why she was a great story teller. Although I always heard the same ones over and over like a television repeat, the stories never got stale.

My Grandma was born in 1913. She died in 2010. She never got her driver’s license. She never drove a car. When she married my Grandpa, Parlett (PT) Caines, she moved into a house and lived in this same house until her death. My mom and some of her siblings were born in the front room of this house. Today the house still stands, albeit with some renovations over the years, some lovingly done by her offspring, and then there were some done by her own choosing. One funny story she told was the time she wanted to expand the kitchen. PT, my Grandpa, told her she could not take down a wall. She asked why. He said because the wall is load bearing, and if she did knock it down, the whole house might cave in. However, my Grandma did not take no for an answer. She was adamant about taking out the wall. My Grandpa argued and argued with her, but to no avail. So what does my Grandma do? Her attitude was, well I’ll show you. Once PT left the room, she proceeded to take a sledgehammer and starts demolition. However about halfway into the demo, the ceiling starts sagging under its own weight and my Grandpa, whom by now is furious, rushes back in to shore up the ceiling before the whole house caves in. At some point I am sure he said to her, I told you so. And I imagine my Grandma’s response was shrugging her shoulders and reveling in the fact there was no more wall. She had her expanded kitchen.

Grandma Caines 1913 - 2010

11/30/10…Her skin became old and her hair gray…hunched over she became. Her eyesight failed and her flexibility became taut. I wonder to myself…isn’t this a picture of a root? Because a root is not very pretty nor is it very flexible. But a root is strong and the sinews of a root are deeply embedded in the ground. In fact, out of this old root sprang forth a marvelous myrtle tree, one which many of us climbed on.

And the root stayed put all those years never learning how to drive. From it sprang forth a family with its members spreading everywhere. Year after year went by and still the root stayed put. When the myrtle branches became broke or damaged by the storms, sometimes by our own doing, the root patiently waited as our branches grew back. Every year we were reminded where home truly is. Every year we were reminded of the importance of family and the joy in living life simply.

            For there is hope for a tree,

            If it is cut down, that it will sprout again,

            And that its tender shoots will not cease.

            Though its roots may grow old in the earth;

            And its stump may die in the ground,

            Yet at the scent of water it will bud

            And bring forth branches like a plant. Job 14: 7-8

This is the prayer for our family. As our root is now in heaven, the danger of the myrtle tree being cut down is possible. However, for now our family puts this thought to the side. What we rejoice in and look forward to is the day when we see our root in all the full radiant beauty of her youth. In fact, no longer we will see her as a root…as our Mom, Grandma, or Great Grandma. Instead we will see her as a breathtaking woman reveling in the glory, and the splendor, of the marvelous light…
 

Is Marriage Compromise?

11/12/10…Part of my definition of marriage is this; Marriage is two selfish people coming together trying to learn how to be unselfish. It is not about compromise as so many people have told me over the years. In compromise, neither party wins, therefore both parties lose. And in the process of losing, both parties begin losing part of their souls because neither one is really living life. Each is giving something up they did not want to give up to begin with, but instead settled.

 

Indeed, is compromise what Christ wants of me? I do not think so. Christ wants all of me with nothing held back. After all, the greatest commandment is to love Him with all my heart, mind and soul. This equates to passion. To speak of compromise means to speak of the lukewarm. Neither hot nor cold. In Revelation, did Christ not say he would rather spit us out then embrace lukewarmness?

 

So why have so many people over the years told me marriage is about compromise. It is not. It cannot be. For anyone to tell me that, I would raise this question. Are they living life or just putting on a façade that compromise is what makes them happy because they cannot face the reality of what has become. I write of what I know. My soul died in my first marriage in part because of what I write about and the fact God was nowhere in my life. In the end she spit me out because as a husband I was lukewarm.

 

Back then, I compromised but even in the compromise, I was focused on the wrong things. What do I mean? Well, back then compromise meant not buying something I wanted, not going somewhere I wanted to go, not cultivating hobbies, not doing something I wanted to do, etc. Notice a common theme here. I do, as in no mention of God. Indeed, there was something missing.

 

Fast forward fifteen years. What does compromise mean to me now? Not spending alone time with God, not in community with others, not finding a way to glorify God as He leads me, not going on retreats to refresh me, etc. Notice a common theme here. I do and God is the center. The theme now is so different than the one fifteen years prior. I can only learn to be unselfish when my relationship with God is loving Him with nothing held back. God has to be first. It is the only way I will be living with passion in my life. Passion with my God results in passion with my wife. Together, we are then one. Indeed God may steer me away from what I think compromise is right now, but I will only learn this through my intimate relationship with Him.

 

After writing my reflections on this topic, the most profound realization to me is this. Nowhere in passion do I sense the word compromise because in passion compromise does not exist. It cannot. Passion dies when we begin compromising.

Should all men wear suit and ties to church?

11/12/10…One of the churches my wife and I visited recently was interesting. Not from the aspect of whether or not people who went there were being spiritually fed, because I think some % were, just like in most churches. The % is probably different in every church and I would be curious if it follows the bell shaped curve, but that is another blog. The interesting aspect was hearing the pastor talk about his struggles regarding religion, some may say legalism. In this particular case, the struggle centered on wearing a suit and tie to church. Growing up, he said it was embedded in his mind going to church meant honoring God by wearing a suit and tie (by the way, there is no passage in the Bible saying all men must wear suit and ties). This was just one of those unwritten rules everyone followed, more so culturally than anything else. Unstated peer pressure probably had something to do with it too (adults experience this just as much as kids, except when you get beyond 70 I think).

As this pastor finished seminary and subsequently began pastoring churches, he wore a suit and tie in the pulpit. It was not until God started working on his paradigms about who He really was, that this area came into question. Seems like such a trivial thing, but if you have ever grown up in an environment where this sort of thing is almost ingrained in your DNA, it becomes a huge thing. As this pastor began looking to start up a church for this generation, one of the legalistic rules God wrestled with him on was this idea of dress. To him, any church he led meant he had to be in the pulpit with a suit and tie. God impressed upon him it was not the dress that mattered but the heart.

The pastor told us humorlessly how he wrestled with this seemingly trivial item. One week he would come to church with a tie, the next week he would not. The following week a tie, the next week not. At one point he laughed about this and said he thought people in his congregation probably thought he had lost his mind or was schizophrenic.

The end of this story is the pastor now wears blue jeans with an untucked long sleeve shirt and casual shoes, and seemed to be quite proud of being able to overcome this legalistic hurdle in his mind. The pastor wanted to impress upon people the legalistic rule of dress, i.e. suit and tie, really does not matter to God, and if we get caught up in this, we miss the point. It is about a relationship with God, not what we wear. I agree. After this encounter I thought nothing more about it until my wife and I visited a satellite location of this same church. The satellite location was a lot smaller and had a site pastor there. The worship was live but the message was broadcast from a central campus. What was interesting was the site pastor wore the same thing as the senior pastor, blue jeans and an untucked long sleeve shirt.

What I thought of was this. What if the site pastor showed up wearing a suit and tie every week?

Visiting Churches

11/12/10…My wife and I have been visiting churches in the area. Can’t say this has been the most enjoyable experience. The reason is because of the awkwardness of it all. It’s kinda like visiting someone’s extended family for dinner when you know no one there. All the right things are said like “nice to see you,” “glad you could make it,” and such but you are still not part of the family. Becoming part of a church family takes time, especially to get beyond the surface conversation. Indeed, sometimes I feel like a weatherman.

One of the intriguing observations for me has been this. No two churches are alike, even if they are of the same denomination. Each can serve the spiritual needs of those who attend, but not every church community nourishes a believer in the same way. Therefore one has to find the fit. That is the difficult part. We may pray to God for guidance, but we must still do our due diligence, or at least that seems to be what my wife and I are going through. Sometimes it feels like we are left on our own and therefore I try not to bother God by asking ad nausea. However, I must admit it sure would be nice if He just told us out loud where to go and what to do, but alas maybe I am missing a lesson in all this, right?

A Divine Appointment at Home Depot

9/25/10…This I write as a fond memory. Does God set divine appointments? Sometimes I wonder. I worked with Desmond at McNeely Plastics for about 6 months before he left for another job in town. I did not see him again for a year and a half. I remember Desmond because when I moved to Clinton, I did not know anyone. Desmond was a spiritual brother who really lifted me up in my musings and reflections of how I ended up in Mississippi. We had some meaningful conversations at times about our spiritual journey.

And then he was gone.

A year and a half later I have now accepted a job in Chilhowie Virginia and I am one week away from moving. And lo and behold, there outside a Home Depot I run into my brother Desmond. To this day a fond memory. Not sure why. There is no recollection of our words. And yet somehow, there is comfort in knowing we will see each other in heaven one day and catch up. That will be a good day.

Please don’t ask what church I go to…

11/11/10…What was one of the best pieces of advice I ever received regarding meeting someone new? Instead of asking in small talk what church they go to, ask them, how is your soul?

Why? The word church is a loaded word with much potential baggage. Who knows what experiences have shaped what someone hears in the word church. With the word soul, there exists no baggage. A person’s soul is their most intimate part of them, something to be treasured, guarded and so fragile. To ask someone how their soul is opens potential relationship in a way the word church may not be able to.

So I wonder…how is your soul?

Reminder

11/10/10…Sometimes I find piecing together verses speaks to me in a different way. Caution must be heeded as context is so important to the words in the Bible. And yet…for some reason, the following verses somehow beckoned me.

 

 

Christ speaks,

The Father who dwells in Me does the works and every branch that bears fruit my Father prunes, that it may bear more fruit.

Without Me (Jesus Christ your Savior) you can do nothing and how wonderful it is to know that I (Jesus Christ) chose you out of the world.

John 14:10, John 15:2, John 15:5, John 15:18

To Seek

11/9/10…Father, how quickly You sometimes speak to me. I confess to You how my motives are not as pure these days as they once were not so long ago. I confess I have not loved You with all my heart, soul, and mind. How quickly the days of China and Jackson fade. And yet…I remember. You created me to remember. Somehow You knew I needed to remember because Your love has never stopped, not once. No matter how frail I am in the realm of spiritual war, You let me remember quickly who You are. All it took was a moment on my knees in a hotel room and being honest before You. My prayer was no more than a drop of water in a lake…but I meant it.

Writing to glorify You means nothing apart from You. In my own power, my words are hollow. I could not face writing anything else apart from You. Have You not shown me who You are in these last three years. Every time I asked, You revealed in Your time. You blessed in Your time. You taught in Your time. When I began taking the reins is when Your glory began to cease within me because I was relying more on my own power. Oh, how many times will it take for me to learn. How faithful You are to still love me and endure my own selfishness. I love You.

Father, I have recently wondered whether publishing these incredibly bare blog entries was the right thing to do or not. I even wondered if my motives were as pure as they should be. But You pointed me to your son Jesus and his words in John say “the Father who dwells in me does the works.” On a night in a hotel room by myself, these were the words I needed to read. I have seen those who have accessed my blog and where they are from. I am humbled to realize people as far away as Japan, Russia, India, and many other countries have accessed this blog. And I also realize there is no power in this unless You are front and center. It is You who will point people toward You, not me. So I humbly offer all of me to You for glory only You can see come to fruition.

For those who may be reading this blog whom I may never meet, please realize if there is a hole in your heart, or an ache, our Father in heaven may be the one who pointed You in this direction to speak to You in only a way He knows. The only hope in my world is Christ, because all other avenues I have ever tried always ended up in a hollowed out dead end. I encourage you to seek and I hope you will find life.

Beware of Photographer

10/24/10…Sometimes it pays to notice what someone with an impish nature is doing. In this photograph is my wife. We are enjoying a nice walk around the lake at Hungry Mother Park. Unbeknownst to her I have walked by this sign hundreds of times on hikes. Every time I passed by this sign I always thought how funny it would be to take a picture of someone like my friend David without them knowing it. And then the opportunity presents itself, not with my friend David, but my wife. She never sees the sign. I make a casual remark to walk by the lake and enjoy a moment. Then I say, well let me take your picture. In her naiveté she gets excited. I say well why don’t you wail your arms or something. Still she has no idea of the sign and where I am positioning myself. So she wails. I snap the photo.

Later I laugh, a lot.

Pain and Faith

10/17/10…Father, I called and heard her pain. The tears were still fresh, this much I could sense over the phone. What do you offer someone who is reeling from hurt? I could offer nothing, and really did not offer many words other than letting her know Melody and I hurt for her.

When I first met her, she was in the cold streets of Jackson. Her reputation preceded her through the circles of the street ministry. Each Wednesday night I saw her around the Opportunity Center with the trunk of her car wide open, ready to serve hot meals to the homeless and down and out. As I sought to comfort others, I would notice her and her daughters out of the corner of my eye. Bridgett always had a smile on her face and there was radiance in her demeanor, much like Guitar-man. Bridgett got it. Her joy in Christ overtook her life. Her husband however, did not quite get it. This troubled Bridgett but in no way did it quench her joy to be a beacon of light to those who had little hope. She just kept her eyes above.

As I began serving in the street ministry, soon there was a tinge of pride knowing I was serving You. As my service continued, I began to learn more about my sister in Christ. And Father, you always have a way of humbling me. Where I was serving once on Wednesdays, I found out Bridgett was literally in the streets every day and night. She had no hobby because her hobby was You. In the summer months, she would drive around and ensure those who had a need were provided water and an encouraging word. In the winter months, she would ensure a hot meal was provided to those not in shelters. The amazing thing to me is not only would she serve those in view, she would find the areas of the city covered by forest and debris, and trek into these encampments. She went where most men would not go. She would go where You would go Father.

And I was humbled to know this and I was humbled to know how far I still had to go.

I learned Bridgett had a degree in business from Jackson State University, but she did not readily offer this information. Instead of seeking work in the world, her work was in the kingdom. An opportunity arose after years in the street for her to oversee a homeless transition shelter for women and children. I might add for no pay. Her husband earned a meager salary delivering uniforms around the area. At one point, I even learn her family had no place to live and were evicted from their home. And yet Father, their eviction did not seem to weigh on her joy in serving. She rested in You, placed all trust in You and gave You her entire life. She loved You with all her heart, soul and mind. She expected nothing in return.

As I got to know her, it became clear that her husband’s soul troubled her greatly. He would attend church with her, but beyond this would not actively participate with Bridgett in serving others. Father, I am not sure, but it sounds like he had not yet surrendered to You. Bridgett was at a loss regarding what to do. Clearly she loved him and wanted to see him come to you Father. We had some conversations regarding her husband but all I could do was offer a listening ear. I will say her husband provided for the family the best he could while Bridgett served others. In this way Father, You blessed Bridgett with a husband who stayed with her and provided for her three daughters.

And now her husband is dead.

What do I say to someone who faithfully has given You all her life and asked for nothing in return? What is the reason for allowing this? I know leaning on my own understanding is fruitless, but Kerry is gone. What do I say? As my lament subsides, I realize I say nothing. Starting late last year, I have been in a valley, almost despondent beyond repair. And yet my valley pales in comparison to hers. And how either one of us responds in this valley is now the true reflection of our faith.

Allison Moorer

8/11/10…Goodbye, so long, fair-weather.

Flicking Ants

8/10/10…Has anyone ever experienced a nightmare move? This is ours; a chronicle of our trip as newlyweds from Clinton, Mississippi en route to Marion, Virginia.

Our UHaul reservation was canceled. The other UHaul place messed up our order and we had no furniture pads. The gas tank was only ¼ full knowing we had a 7 hour ride ahead of us. The UHaul transport insurance on your car was null and void, please do not ask why. Our movers were running late by an hour. It meant we would not leave Jackson until 2 hours later than we desired. The weather, let’s not talk about the Mississippi weather; hot and humid with a forecast of hot and humid. Sweat dripped off me and the heat drained you. On a brighter note, we ourselves were running late due to our love for one another just the day before. In a frenzy, we packed as fast as we could. Finally, our movers were done and we were done. Already the beginnings of our exhaustion were setting in.

Down the highway we went. After hours on the road we spot a sign to stop for gas. Driving a 26 foot truck with an auto transport is no easy task because if we get stuck, there is no way out. The most stressful part is stopping somewhere for gas where we know we can pull in and out easy. The billboard said a stop for Love’s, a perfect place to fit a 26 foot truck and transport. We pull off the highway and make the turn. Then we see the place is still under construction and there is nowhere to turn this massive vehicle around. We may be struck. Making a quick decision, we pull into a bank parking lot to the right of the road. We soon realize there may not be a way out. The truck clearance to get through the ATM area and around the bank to the road is too low. However, there is about a foot clearance in the roofline to maneuver the truck around. Slowly I inch around the overhang with you directing me. We barely make it and with a sigh of relief we exit.

Our gas tank is almost on empty so we have to stop before we get back on the highway. There is another gas station and we decide to stop. After $99 worth of gas, I pull the UHaul around and we go grab a quick 15 minute bite to eat. 1 hour later, we exit. We never knew it took that long to make a hamburger. We pay, exit the restaurant, and head over to the UHaul. I open the cab door and discover an ant infestation; there are literally thousands of ants crawling all around the door frame. I mean they are everywhere, thousands and thousands of these little nuisances. There is nothing we can do other than try and swipe them off with my Clemson hat, which by the way, does absolutely no good because there are so many of them. We have never seen anything like this. With no other option, we decide to bear it and climb back in the UHaul cab. As we depart, ants crawl on us and we flick them off one by one with our fingers. Nothing like driving 70 mph down the highway while trying to swiping ants off our bodies; looking back it is a sort of funny mental picture to imagine. No so much then. We still have 3-4 hours of drive time.

Dusk begins settling in. The Alabama roads are bumpy making us feel like we are in an unbalanced washing machine. Making our way towards Gadsen, all of a sudden a sign tells us “Trucks longer than 12 feet must exit”. It requires a split decision even though we have no idea what the sign means. We exit and make the turn where the detour signs show us go. Slowly we make our way down the 2 lane road until we approach an intersection with 2 detour signs telling us to go in different directions. We have no idea which way to go. Stuck, we turn on the emergency signal lights and sit trying to make a decision. Not knowing what to do we pull into a convenience store and ask for help. After some tentative advice, we take a sigh and head back to the interstate. As we make our way back onto the interstate, we notice there is construction and the lanes do indeed narrow. However, we are able to make our way through the entrance zone so we have no idea why the sign was there in the first place telling us to exit. Anyways, the construction zone is indeed narrow with the concrete barriers barely inches away from our trailer hitch. I slow down to 45 mph, grip the steering wheel tight and begin checking my mirrors constantly. Somehow after 12 miles, we make it through.

Now, night has settled in and still we have almost 2 hours to our destination. A rain storm suddenly hits and we struggle to see the white lines on the highway as rain pelts our windshield on the lonely stretch of highway. Making it through Chattanooga, you are exhausted and fall asleep as midnight approaches. Finally after another 30 minutes of driving we make it to our hotel for the night. Now we have to find a way to turn our massive vehicle around a dead end road where the hotel sits. We figure that out. Last of all, we had to figure out a way to park our massive 26 foot UHaul with the car transport so we can exit out the next morning. We figure that out. What a day. We flick a few more remaining ants off us.

At the end of the night, I lay in bed, and wrap my arms around you…

The Beginning

8/7/10…My love. It is just one hour before our exchange of vows. I have never been more in love with you. I am giving you all my heart because you are worth giving all my heart to. I feel I am the luckiest guy in this world and I thank God for bringing you into my life. My vow to you is to always love you, and cherish you, and let you know how beautiful you are. I feel as if my life has never been without you even though it took years before both of us crossed paths.

Last night I have never slept better because my sleep was at peace knowing we were going to be married. I am excited, I am anticipatory, I am eager, I am all these things because of my love for you.

Dishwashing and Chopin

6/28/10…All of her life she has waited for a man to love her. Someone who will hold her when she needs to be held. Someone to listen to her when she wants to share. Someone who will not turn and run when her sickness overcomes her. There were times when she wondered if there was something wrong with her. There were times when she may have wondered if God would be enough. And so she waited. As year after year went by, and man after man turn and ran, she continued to wait. Sometimes the wait would turn to tears. Sometimes the wait would turn to an ache. But she waited.

And now her wait is almost over…only to be replaced by a journey. She is getting ready to marry a man who is flawed. He is torn by the pursuit of knowing God, only to know it is a futile effort. There is an ache in his heart wanting the passion to return, but fearful that he is not capable of living up to the man God desires him to be. And so he waits. But in his waiting, he thanks God.

His memory goes back to dishwashing and Chopin.

Criticize

5/30/10…Donald Miller, a writer, made an interesting comment on his blog. As he opened himself up to others as a writer, critics would freely offer their opinions, sometimes in a very negative way. His intentions were pure, or at least as pure as a human can make them. After all, Jeremiah reminds us how wicked our heart is and we cannot know its ways. Nevertheless we are supposed to give of ourselves as best we can.

Miller decided to offer his talents through writing. However, as he became more famous, the critics came out of the woodworks. The criticism leveled by these people who did not know him troubled him quite a bit on occasion. Finally, he came to a realization that sharing his faith and his thoughts on the imperfect journey he was on is going to lead to criticism. Sometimes the criticism will be good, sometimes bad, and sometimes criticism is a front for a hidden agenda.

In his mind Miller reconciled himself to the following; if he is trying to do God’s work to God’s glory, and indeed God is using him, then the appearance of critics is a good thing because it affirms he is doing the right thing.