Today we celebrated the 4th of July.  It is actually the 5th, but the 4th was on Sunday.  Sunday seems to be a pretty intense work day for me for some reason.  Maybe it is the three sermons.  After a late night of fireworks and getting in bed a full hour later than usual, we started the day later than usual.  But it soon resembled most other off days.

I am a simple man.  I don’t need a great deal of “fluff” to make my life the way I like.  Give me simple food, simple clothes, simple transportation, and i am a happy dude.  Off days usually reflect a simple plan.  Rise when you like, leave the house as soon as you can, get back in time to unwind and get in bed by ten.  Most off days include a road trip.  Sometimes we go to the farm and drive through the field to have a picnic under a couple of pines on the back side.  Other days are like today.  We leave the house with no destination in mind and mostly we tour the north Georgia mountains. 

Today we went to a hidden treasure called Boggs Creek.  Though it is the weekend of the 4th, we had the place to ourselves.  The mountain air was wonderful.  The creek was as clear as crystal and as cool as meleted snow.  We picked out a spot and spead a picnic lunch fit for a king.  You know the menu, ham sandwich, chips, good ole pork n’ beans, and a diet Dew.  Now who can even think to want more than that? 

Those of you who know me know that i have a sickness for old trucks.  I never met a truck that i didn’t love.  Most people invest in things like gold, the stock market, real estate, and marketable securities.  These are all good.  But you just can’t DRIVE any of them.  From childhood, i have loved trucks, especially those that are four wheel drive.

A few months ago i made a man an offer on a 1985 jeep cj7.  He was not interested in my offer then and i just couldn’t pay any more.  After weeks of visits, he finally accepted my offer.  I became the proud owner of another vehicle older  than most people are willing to drive.  She is a beauty.  She is a black Laredo.  I call her Larry.  I know, but it is my jeep and i will name her as i please.  Maybe i should spell it Lare.

We took her for the off day ride today.  Jeep drivers waved proudly to me and i returned the wave.  I am a son of the south.  I wave to most drivers i meet and now no longer expect a response, but i wave whether i know you or not.  That will probably get me in trouble one day.  The purpose of the purchase was to sell her, but after today, i just don’t know.  How do you sell a family member? 

She takes her place alongside my 1972 one owner Bronco, my 1961 Chevy short-bed in which i dated and drove to both my prom and graduation, and my 1996 Bronco that is my daily driver.  Most of you see this as silly.  I see it as an investment in art, American steel and technology, as well as the antique market.  The best part is that i can actually drive her!  We went through a creek today and she didn’t even complain.  Try that with your 401k.

Two hundren miles or so later, we returned home.  Right now she sits in the drive waiting on my next nod.  One day she will let me down.  One day she won’t start, or she will need a major repair.  Even a truck won’t last forever.  When she does let me down, i will be expecting it.  When she doesn’t start, i understand that it is just a part of owning a vehicle.  When the tires wear out, i know it is the price of having her.  So, without complaint i will understand her failure and do my best to geter’ up and runnin’ again.

I am a lot like my old trucks.  I am prone to breakdowns, and failure.  I am learning to expect the same from other people as well.  What is bothering me right now is my level of expectation.  The truth is that we might be more understaing of our vehicles than we are other people.  When my truck fails, i just get it fixed and pat her on the hood.  When people fail, we aren’t as understanding.  You just can’t find a good ”people mechanic” these days. 

It is all simple.  Simple is good for a simple man like me.  The Bible teaches that we are all sinners, every last one of us.  As sinners we are in need of a Savior.  My King’s mission was to seek and save that which was lost.  That was me.  That was you.  I am humbled to serve a King who loves me though He knows i am going to let Him down.   We all need to learn that discipline.  Let people be people.  Let God be God.  When i get it out of order things won’t work out.   

The best part is that we have a simple Savior too.  For some reason the song Victory in Jesus comes to mind.

The Beggar

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A few days ago Denise and I had lunch at O’Charlies.  Back in the good old days when i could eat all the salad i wanted, we ate there frequently.  These days we almost never go there.  However, we were on the road and needed to stop for some nourishment.  O’Charlies was close and we turned in out of convience.

I do as i always do, strike up a conversation with the waiter, hostess, manager, and anybody else who isn’t moving too fast for a quick visit.  We ordered and waited on the arrival of our meal.  As we waited a family of three entered and took their place just across and down from our booth.  They were positioned behind Denise and in front of me. 

My eyes were transfixed upon the family.  A husband in his late twenties, a wife of about the same age, and a son who looked to be about nine.  Both parents were busy making attempts to make the child comfortable and make sure he had whatever he wanted.  My tears forced Denise to turn and look before I ever spoke a word.  After her turn and gaze, she turned back to me with eyes as mosit as mine.

Our divine appointment was in a randomly selected restaurant on the south side of I-40 in Memphis.  It sits directly across the interstate from St. Jude’s Children’s Hospital.  Danny Thomas founded the research hospital for children suffering from life threatening illnesses.  They make a policy to never reject someone on their inability to pay.  Through the workers at St. Jude’s God does great things for those who deserve it the most.  St. Jude is the Catholic Saint for lost causes.

The child was in a wheel chair.  He had two hospital bands on his left wrist and a single “silly band” on his left.  His hair was as short as mine, far too short to hide the obvious scars that crossed his young scalp.  Manners would not let me look long enough to count the scars.  My scarce glances let me count three different scars from what i supposed to be three unique surgeries.  He sat in complete discomfort, the kind that can be known only by those who have been so sick that death seems to be a friend and not an enemy. 

I asked him about his silly band.  He said it was a dog.  Then I referenced the other bands, the ones the hospital straps on to make sure they know who you are.  I said, “Now those are the real silly bands.”  With eyes half closed with exhaustion, he smiled and nodded his head.  All i could pray was, “Oh, Lord, please don’t let me break down right now.”

I reflected about my own children.  They have frustrated me to no end, but i know they love me.  I have been angry and hurt at both of them.  But I love them in turn.  My two children are healthy and we visit daily.  I am so blessed.

I reflected about my own sickness.  Chemo reduced me from a German Shepherd, to a Chiwawa.  Six months into the chemo I was trembling just like the little rat some call a dog.  Emotions caught up with me one day.  I was home alone sitting in my recliner in my bedroom watching some mindless show on TV.  My daughter was playing soccer and it was her senior year.  Denise didn’t want to leave me but i demanded aso she went to represent me while my athletic daughter did her part to win one for Athens High. 

Alone, in a continual nervous shake, pouting for being laid asside by such an illness, deeply saddened because I was too weak to watch my baby play, i did what i had not previously done.  In prayer I complained.  I told God that i just couldn’t keep this up.  I was too sick for anything but death.  “Just take my worthless life and give me peace!” i exclaimed. 

When the reverberations of my voice died away, the voice on the televison came into audible focus.  The program was interrupted by an advertisement for St. Jude’s Children’s Hospital.  The first image my eyes focused upon was the sight of a child with no hair, the next was a beautiful little girl who was on her way to surgery.  At that second the conviction of the ages fell on me.  With every ounce of strength I had, I pulled myself out of the recliner and collapsed onto the floor.  There, with face down i asked my Heavenly Father to forgive me when I whine!  Oh, how many times will i have to learn the same lesson?  Father forgive me when I whine!

So i did the only thing i knew to do.  I had my server ring up a sizeable gift card and put it on my bill.  Then asked him to give it to the family after we were out of the store.  We ate quickly.  Tears were held in check by sheer power of will.   Soon the father took the son to the men’s room.  With only the young mother sitting at the table, we made our exit.  As we passed her table i stopped, smiled, and said, “you ARE blessed.”  She returned the smile and said, “Yes, we certainly are.”

St. Jude is the patron Saint of lost causes.  Without Christ we are all lost causes.  In Christ we are all Saints.

The Lord bless and keep you…………..and forgive you when you whine.

The Beggar

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Well, it finally happened.  It took 21 years, but it finally happened.  I didn’t see it coming, but it was a certainty that it would happen.  I wasn’t prepared for it when it took place.  There is almost no way to prepare for something like this.  You wake up one day and it takes place before you know it.  Let me explain.

Recently i had a contractor in my home to evaluate our remodel project.  We are not remodeling because we are tired of the old decor.  Last fall we were flooded to 34″ in our first floor.  We lost a couple of bedrooms, a den, a bathroom, and a whole host of “stuff.”  We are still working on the restoration.

As we surveyed the damage and the progress we walked into my son’s lair.  He has a perfectly delightful bedroom on the top floor complete with a private bathroom.  He chooses to sleep in the basement on a matress supported by nothing but the concrete floor.  I don’t blame him.  I would do the same thing.

Sifting through the debris, also known as my son’s “stuff” we unearthed my curl bar.  A curl bar is a bar with several bends in it.  When hands are placed properly and weight is attached, the user can get a significant work out on selected muscle groups.  The bar was loaded with weights.  I carefully added the plates and totaled the weight.  Then i did it again.  And once more to be sure.  The total was the same no matter which way i added it.

Then i did the most unthinkable.  I placed my hands perfectly and slowly lifted the bar.  Assuming a perfect position, with perfect posture, perfect hand placement, back straight, elbows tucked, legs slightly bent, i did five perfect curls.  Gently i returned the weights to the concrete floor and smiled at my accomplishment.

The next day Jordan, my 21 year old son, came into the den to watch television with Denise and me.  For several minutes i pondered my next move.  “I saw the curl bar yesterday” i said, hoping he would tell me he was using it to store unused weights.  No luck.  He didn’t say a word.  So, softly, almost to low to be heard, i asked, “so are you using it?”  He kept is gaze on the TV and said, “curls.”  Jordan is not a man to overcommunicate.  My tactics had failed.  There was nothing left but for me to ask.  “Well, are you doing them correctly?”  “Yes sir” he assured me.  “So, how many times do you curl?”  Never moving his eyes from some mindless televison show he said, “three sets of ten.” 

Three sets of ten!  My station in life changed with the speach of those few words. “Three sets of ten.”  Just like that my world and my place in it changed and would never be the same again.  My son is stronger than me.  For the first time my son can curl more weight than me.  I haven’t lifted a weight in ages and he lifts almost daily.  But it still hurts!  “Three sets of ten.”  The words just hang in the room.  The words mean, “I am stronger than you dad.”  And he never looked away from the TV.

Now before you judge me you need to know that the bar had 110 pounds on it.  Before you make fun of this old man, rack up a curl bar with 110 pounds, place your hands in the proper place, tuck your elbows, straighten your back, and do five the right way.  Or knock yourself out and to ”three sets of ten.”  Jordan stand a full three inches taller than me and our weight is about the same.  His is a perfect physique, while mine has more than the 50 years worth of miles showing. 

This son of mine who towers over me and now out curls me, will one day help me to the bathroom when my legs are too week to support my weight.  The first time he does I will remember “three sets of ten.”  One day he will help me rise from a bed because my strength has been taken by the years.  One day, he will follow this body on the last ride.

Our children are our greatest legacy.  Our children carry our DNA for genetics as well as coping skills, problem solving, and resiliance in adversity.  How we react to life teaches our children far more than all our words. 

Our children also know us better than anybody else too.  They see us at our best and unfortunately at our worst.  And for some reason they love us anyway.  I am certainly not the world’s best father.  The truth is i am just under average.  I have decided that whatever our children become is a combinaton of our parenting and God’s grace.  I am grateful for His grace more every day.

As the years pass i grow more dependent upon His grace.  Maybe i just recognize it more clearly.  Reminds me of a song; Amazing grace, how sweet the sound….   Oh, what a Savior.

Walking in grace,

The beggar

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My Grandfather was a big man.  He stood a bit over 6′4″ and at his death was an emaciated 240 pounds.  When the all new spidel watch band was introduced he was first to get one from Stenson’s jewelers.  I didn’t understand his excitement over a watch band.  He had always carried a pocket watch which was just part of his attire.  When we arrived at Stinson’s he asked for the largest band they had.  They installed it and handed it to Grandaddy.  It would not stretch enough to go over his hand.  They added a dozen more links and it finally fit.  He never wore a wrist watch because he had never found one large enough for his wrist.  My father’s size 14 ring fit my grandfather’s little finger to the second knuckle.  He was my picture of a man.

Grandaddy never finished high school.  However, his intellect was not bound to books.  The older i get and reflect on some of Grandaddy’s saying, the more profound they become.  He was wise beyond is education.  As my station in life changes, so does my appreciation for what Grandaddy said.

He once told me, “Son, you don’t have to be afraid of a man who is not afraid of you.  But the man that is afraid of you is the man to fear.”  That made absolutely no sense to me.  i questioned him.  “You see,” he said, “if a man is not afraid of you, he will just whip you and go about his business.  But if a man is afraid of you and he can’t whip you, he will just kill you.”  Humm.  School yard wisdom from the 19 teens.

The quote that i remember most clearly is, “A coward dies a thousand deaths but a brave man only one.”  That burned into my pre-teen mind.  Of all the poems and quotes that have drifted through my swiss cheese brain, that one sticks.  Early on in my life i made a conscious decesion to fear not.

Years later i read “Julius Ceaser” by William Shakespeare.  There i found the accurate rendering of the original quote.  “Cowards die many times before their deaths. The valiant never taste of death but once.”  My Grandfather had merely improved upon it.  That is rich wisdom worthy of application.

This philosophy was part of my fabric before i ever read the book of Romans.  In Romans 8 it teaches us that if God is for us nothing can stand against us.  It goes on to say that nothing can separate us from the love of God.  There in Romans you have it.  A brave man dies but once.

Paul corrected my understanding of death when he asked death a question.  “Death where is your sting?”  For the believer death is but the final enemy to be overcome.   One day all our victories and losses will be swallowed in the mighty gulp of death.  Victory at last! 

If i miss a few words here please forgive me.  I am typing from memory with no reference material at hand.  “So live that when thy summons come to join that innumerable caravan which moves to that mysterious place where each must take his place in the silent halls of death, you may approach your grave, not as a quary slave, beaten and scourged, but as one who wraps the drapery of his couch about him and lies down to peaceful dreams.”  Thanatopsis.

So dear reader, live as a free man.  We have been freed to walk in simple victory until the day that death finally falls victim to victory.  Until then, fear not!

the beggar

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Well, the time has come to see if I can live up to the name of the website.  Can there really be joy for the journey regardless?   As I type this my bride of almost 28 years lies curled on an oversized chair weeping the tears that I have only seen at the funerals of children.  Today Denise received her own personal copy of “the letter.”  If you are a member at Summit then you too received the letter.

I have never uderstood mean people.  Who can comprehend people who send innocent people to death camps or torture others for gain?  I can’t comprehend the mind of a bully; never was one, have no tollerance for those who are.  So deep are my convictions on this subject that i once took an oath to defend the defenseless, to liberate the oppressed.  And now I are one.  Poor grammar intended.

Ministry has a way of making shoulders broad and skin thick.  Most things I handle pretty well with a smile and a long count to ten.  For the first time in my life my character has been questioned.  I’d like to say that it doesn’t hurt, but that would be far less than the truth.  I am broken and left with few avenues of vindication.  None of those avenues are pleasant, though i can make a powerful case that they are biblical. 

But I am a big boy.  I am trusting our Elders completely.  What they choose to do, i will completely support.  Their desire will become my burning passion.  It is really hard to remain in neutral while someone else makes determinations about you and your life.  Though hard, it is also quiet liberating.  I have no will.  Kinda like a dead person.  That might be a bit of an oxymoron.

Galatians 2:20 says (in my paraphrase) “I am crucified with Christ, nevertheless, I live!  yet it is not the person Aaron who lives, but the Holy Spirit of a resurrected Savior that gives life to me.”  This must be what Paul was writing about.  The life in the Spirit requires death to self.  Death to self requires the death of our will.  When our will has been sufficiently murdered, then the onslaught from the evil one is not as hard to sustain.  You can beat a lifeless body and it never complains.

Maybe the dead never complain because they can’t hear.  What touches my ears right now would bring a tear to the dead.  My bride, weeping.  And still, she is the most beautiful of all creations.  Maybe, just maybe, there is a rainbow in the shower somewhere. 

And even in this storm the love of Christ sustains us.  The folks who loved us two months ago, will still love us two months from now.  Yes, there is joy for the journey.  Sometimes it just costs us more than we want to pay.

So tonight I will hold the only mate of my life, have dinner with my adult son, phone my loving daughter.  Yea, there is joy for the journey.

the beggar

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I have a few scars.  Four knee surgeries on the same knee, two rounds with cancer, football, a tumble off the hood of a car at 40 miles per hour, a sickness for agressive biking,  and a stubborn horse have all left marks in my flesh.  Each scar is personal to me.  After all, i was there when i earned each one.  My son has a tee shirt which boldly proclaims, “Scars are tatoos with better stories.”  I like that.

It is a good thing that scars heal from side to side and not end to end.  For some reason we worry about the scar left from a surgery.  Each of mine remind me of what caused the trauma to start with.  Football caused the first two knee surgeries.  Today when my knee aches i can still smell the grass on a football field on Brindley mountain where i first destroyed it.  Each time I look at my abdomen i am reminded of what cancer can do.    Don’t misunderstand me, I don’t love the things, i am just grateful for the reminders.

Scars in the flesh heal but leave a definate mark for others to see.  From time to time someone will see my stomach and ask what happened.  Sometimes i tell them cancer.  Almost always that makes them uneasy, so sometimes i just tell them it was a shark attack.  They are usually impressed with the perfection of the vertical line.

I have a few scars that are not as visible too.  You don’t live half a century and over half of that in ministry without collecting some scars on the inside.  Though they are not visible or obvious, they still hurt.  Inside scars hurt more deeply and time won’t make it well.  Inside scars neither heal end to end, nor side to side.  I think maybe they heal from the outside in.

When deeply wounded on the inside we are forced to make conscious decesions as to our actions on the outside.  The natural instinct when hurt is to inflict hurt on someone else.  That never works out well.  After wounding the other person you still have your own inside scar that is no closer to healing and the other person is scared as well.

Funny thing is that words can’t harm the outside, yet they can destroy the inside.  I often wonder how many people I meet each day who show no signs of a battle on the outside, yet on the inside they are devistated.  If we could somehow view other people through the filters of their inside scars, we might just be more compassionate and loving. 

The next time someone hurts you or offends you, remember, they have some scars that you can’t see.

Only one thing will heal an inside scar.  Forgiveness heals all wounds.  Forgiveness is one of the most precious comodoties on the relationship market.  It is in scarce supply these days.  Some people associate forgivenss with weakness.  Nothing could be more incorrect.  The truth is that forgiveness requires guts.  To stand silently and let someone else field dress you while taking no actions of retaliation takes GUTS.  The flesh, the spirit, the world, all scream to be vindicated!  I don’t want to get even, or to get ahead.  I want to react with all the energy of an atomic bomb.   Now don’t think ill of me.  You are just like me.

Here the discipline of the grace of forgiveness comes into play.  When we learn to be hurt, yet not deal hurt for hurt, we have made significant progress in becoming like Christ.  Isn’t that our goal anyway?

The next time we are insulted, hurt, or scared on the inside, make it a point to see how Christ can use this to make us more like Him.  Romans 8:28 (loosely yet effectively paraphrased) says, “All things that come into the life of a believer gives us an opportunity to become more or less like Christ.”

By His stripes we are all healed.

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The other night i took Denise camping.  It might be important to qualify the event.  We went to the back of the farm (Jezreel) about which I have previously posted.  I pulled our pop up camper to a perfect spot beneath two large pines with hundreds of acres of woods on one side and the gentle rise of the field on the other.  This spot puts the camper in a universe all alone with nothing but God’s creation in sight. 

We settled into the camper late with only the flicker of an open flame for light.  Once the light was out and we settled in, the cool of the darkness and the sounds of the outdoors surrounded us.  Just beyond the fence line flows Whipperwill creek.  That night the creek was silent.  The Whipperwill was not.  For some reason a lone Whipperwill called all night for a love he could not find.  His pointless calls of desperation made me sad for him, but his call was also soothing for this camper.  He sang me to sleep.

I woke before the sun as is my custom.  But i woke sometime after the first Rooster.  As the Whipperwill sang me to sleep, a cocaphany of Roosters warned me of the coming sunrise.

My eyes focused on the haze rising from the field as darkness disappeared.  There it was!  A view from my childhood again!  Oh how I remember mornings on my grandfather’s farm and watching this same sight countless times from a bedroom window where my own father had slept as a boy.  Now, all these years later the memories and emotions were reconnected.  I smiled a comfortable smile.  Patiently the sun rose and I watched from a prone position.   

I like sunrise more than sunset.  Sunsets get all the press for their beauty.  The truth is that the reason people like them best is that they aren’t up in time to watch the sun rise.  Sunset is the end of an opportunity.  Sunrise is the beginning of another day of opportunity.  Sunset reminds me of how i have invested, or squandered, 24 hours of my life.  Sunrise challenges me to consider how i will either invest or squander the potential next 24 hours of my life.

What is a day worth to you?  Oh, at my age and health, I’d trade a day for a lot of things on an open market barter.  But what would a day with my Grandfather be worth?  He died in 1976.  I didn’t even have a driver’s license yet.  I never took him for a ride in my truck.  He never met Denise.  What would a day with Grandaddy be worth?  What is one more day of life worth?  If you were fighting for your last breath, what would you give for one day more of the health you now enjoy?

We fool ourselves into believing that there is no expiration date on life.  We live like these 24 hour segments of heart beats and breaths are never going to end.  They will.  Life, has a shelf life. 

From time to time God allows me to have the sweetest of dreams.  Each one is the same in content, yet different in detail.  I am about 30 or so and my children are small.  In the dream i see the child, which ever one is in the dream, and rush to hold him or her.  My baby holds me back and then kisses me.  Then, in that hated second, when the dreamer realizes he is dreaming, I clutch my baby knowing it is almost over.  Then the pain of waking.  Weeping.  Always weeping.  What would a day with my four year old son and eight year old daughter be worth? 

In the morning the sun will rise.  I will be awake to greet it.  And in that dawning hour, I will make Him Lord of what ever is left of my life.

You just spent 24 hours of your life.  I do hope it was a good exchange for you.

The Beggar

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Last night I spent two hours watching a man from Louisiana “Whisper” a horse.  While i had seen this done on television, i had never actually seen it myself.  I saw some magician make the statue of liberty vanish on television once too.  Seeing something in person means more to me than via electronic means.

Two young studs were delivered to the event.  Both were two years old and had never been broken.  For the non-equestrians that means they had neither been ridden, nor even saddled.  They were a hand full just to walk into the arena. 

The first was a black beauty.  He pranced and pawed and bucked before he even entered the circle.  He was a man and he was proud of it.  He wanted no part of this little guy with a funny accent.  Before the Whisperer said a word to the crowd or the horse, he had to get dirt out of his shirt that the horse had kick up and at the man.  ”He don’t like me too much does he?” asked Paul the Whisperer.

With that he began to control the horse with his voice.  He used a long “string” as he called it.  It was almost like a ribon and he called it an extension of his hand.  Without touching the young stud, he allowed him to run and buck until he indicated that he was tired of running and bucking.  Then the show started.

Time doesn’t permit me to paint the whole picture, but it was wonderful.  Before we left the arena, that black stud was riden by a young man with only marginal experience on a horse.  Paul actually trained two horses within two hours.  He rode one and the other young man rode the other.  They transitioned from bucking near wild horses, to useful, powerful, and valuable horses.  All it took was a trainer and a moldable spirit.

As i watched the horses, i was gripped with the truth that in each of them i saw myself.  God, the trainer, wants to whisper His truth into my ear.  He wants to make me valuable, powerful, and yes…beautiful.  The problem comes when i am too proud to take his Words to heart and act on them.  I find myself acting like the young stud too often and getting myself tangled in the strings of life.  I can never become truly valuable for the Kingdom, until I am completely broken.  When pride leaves the body, it feels just like humiliation.

In short, the quicker I learn to submit, the easier the training session!  May we all learn to listen more, to be completely moldable in the hands of God, and egar for the next lesson.

Aren’t you tired of bucking?

The Beggar

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After much thought and consideraton i have decided that Popeye is a pretty good philosopher.  He coined the phrase, “I yam what I yam and thats all that I yam…”  The stone cold wisdom of the phrase is lost on a child and forgotten by adults.  In simple terms Popeye captured the heart of every person.

I am what I am and I am not apt to be changing.  I have DNA from both my parents and countless ancestors who were before me.  My taste in music (classic rock, country, a hint of classical) my favorite color (yellow), my passions, my hobbies, my attraction to old trucks and horses, all are uniquely mine.  That is how God put me together!

I’d rather look like a Hollywood hunk, but I kinda like being me.  I am comfortable in my skin.  That is a good thing since I don’t fit into anybody elses.  Just like I can’t fit into another’s skin, I can’t fit into someone elses mold for me.  Paul said, “I have become all things to all people that I might win some…”  That was Paul the Apostle.  This is just plain ole Aaron.  So much of me has already been bartered away that sometimes i forget who I am.

I’d like to have someone else’s voice.  You know, one of those deep, calm, soothing voices that inspire the ear.  Instead i have a southern drawl and sound like someone I don’t even know.  But it is mine.  This must be the one God wanted me to have and the one He wants me to use to teach and preach about Him. 

Chemo, genetics, and stress have all worked together to rid me of my hair.  I don’t miss it.  The fact is that I wouldn’t want it back.  Haircuts cost me only five bucks and it seems to be the new style.  My father like to say, “God only made a few perfect heads, He covered the rest with hair.”  Who am I to argue with my father?  Denise says she likes me better this way.  Funny, she never said that when I had hair.  But that is fine with me.  This is who i am.  I am what I am and that is all that I am.

Ultimately I am a work in progress.  I am not that man that I once was, and i am not the man i will one day become.  Being a great husband takes time.  Great dads aren’t born, they grow into the job.  Inspiring preachers become so after years of work at the art.  Great men rise to great tasks where they are scared and abused.  Character requires a few scars.

You are a unique creation.  Be who you are.  Don’t try to be like someone else.  Take the raw material that God gave you, embrace the call that He has in your life, and aim at Christlikeness.  In the end you become the you that you were created to be and in the process grow into spiritual maturity.

I am what i am and that is all that i am and that is ok with me.

The Beggar

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I have beautiful feet.  No, seriously, I really have pretty feet.  They are my only good part.  The rest of my parts are well worn, kinda like an old linebacker who has been in a few too many games.  But my feet, now they are a different story.

I hear about guys getting pedicures and i suppose that is fine.  Please don’t be offended if you are a guy who actually needs a pedicure for some reason.  If a pedicurist looked at my feet, they probably couldn’t improve on them.  I can even wear socks for days at a time and they never even smell.  Honest.

Those of you who know me know that there just isn’t much for me to brag about, so when I realized my feet were so darn cute, I just had to write about them.  If you don’t believe me, just take a look the next time you see with bare feet, or in sandals.  You might just become jealous.

My secret?  it is biblical.  My Bible tells me that “Beautiful are the feet of those who bring the good news…”  God has such an awesome sense of humor!  The only body part that I have that is only slightly above average is the same part He gives beauty to for all who carry the good news! 

So, how are your feet looking?

The Beggar

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Well, another day without pain has come and is now in the history book.  For this I am both humbled and grateful.  The gratitude is welling up inside like a volcano.  Please let me explain as best I can.

We just returned from the Cobb Relay for Life.  It is the largest one day cancer fund raiser of the like in the world.  It is held each year at this time at the Cobb County Equine Center.  Each year the Henderson family sponsors me as a survivor of cancer.   Each year I get a free dinner and a shirt that boldly proclaims “SURVIVOR.”  Clubs, churches, individuals, and groups of every kind rally to raise money for cancer research.  They walk all night raising money in some way that I don’t truly understand.

The groups set up tents around a paved path and rally thier walkers all night long.  Before the walk actually begins they have the traditional “Survivor Walk.”  All those who have survived cancer walk the first lap wearing purple shirts like merit badges.  The walk is no more than a quarter of a mile.  The walk is not the struggle, it is the luminaries.  Little white paper bags with sand in the bottom and a flickering candle inside.  On the outside of each bag is written the name of someone who didn’t make the survivor’s walk.  Each time i read a name i wonder who really survived.

Usually i make the walk and wipe some tears.  This year was different.  I had made it no more than fifty yards into the walking area when i read the slogan on this year’s survivor shirt.  This year the shirt is white, not bold and purple.  The caption simply says, “Happy Birthday is a Victory Song.”  Tears erupted from somewhere.  I don’t know where they were.  I didn’t even know they were there!  But they kept coming.  Wave after wave of emotion and nothing would calm the emotion or stem the tears.  Dear church members stopped me to visit and i couldn’t stop the sobbing.  Where did this come from?  I am wearing the survivor shirt!  I won!!!  Why am i a basket case?

This year i left a trail of tears from the point where i saw the first shirt to the back building where i registered and they gave me my own shirt, complete with the slogan that was twisting my heart.  I used it to dry tears. 

On our way back to the Bronco, they released the baloons.  The crowd was filled with people who had managed to escape the icy fingers of a cancerous death.  Each held a helium filled baloon.  When the announcer called the year since you had cancer you were to release your baloon.  At thirty years the baloons were all gone.  Baloons now floated into heaven, a precurser to what will one day happen with each of us.

One day death will come calling for me.  When he does, i shall not flinch.  My destiny is as certain as my name.  My salvation is sealed with the blood of Christ and in this earthen vessel i house the Holy Spirit, that part of the Trinity held bodily.  Heaven is mine!  Hell has been defeated.  Satan has been cast down.  My past will one day make sense and my future will one day make perfect sense as well.

Dear friend, members of my church hear me ask often, “Are you ready to meet King Jesus?”  Well, are you?  With that said, now let me ask you, “Where are your disciples?”  Where are the souls you have touched with your hands of ministry or your testimony of my Jesus.  Please, don’t waste your sorrows.  Someone is walking the same path you just completed.  They need to know they can make it.  Along those dark paths souls are open to help, encouragement, and Christ.  Don’t waste your sorrows.  Use them to bless someone right behind you.

And so, I survived yet another day.  And this day was lived for Him.  I only wonder, am I worthy of the gift of surviving?

The Beggar

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If you are new to the blog, you haven’t a clue as to what this Beggar has experienced in the past two years.  You can catch up with the oldest posts on the site if you like.  What follows might make no sense without the history. 

I am a cancer survivor.  At least I am working on it.  We are all terminal, so it is just a matter of having your mortality introduced to you at 42 instead of 75 or so.  Eight years ago I was told that I might have as little as 6 weeks to live.  I was expecting the diagnosis of a silent ulcer, but God had more exotic plans for my system.  Colon cancer is lethal.  It is the number one cancer killer of non smokers and frequently tops lung cancer as the leading cancer killer of smokers as well.

Two years ago i had a radical surgery that left me with a completely new and unusual system.  I am grateful every day for the gift God provided me with the surgery.  However, the surgery was so devistating that it left my bladder in a state of a stupor.  It works well as an interal collection system.  It just never knows when it is time to empty.  That is not a handy thing.  So, for almost two years now, i have been forced to use a catheter each time my bladder is emptied.  TMI I know, but it is relevant.

On December 7, 2009 I had TWO electronic stimulators installed in my, well, kinda, almost, let me say my “hips.”  And that will have to do.  One side healed nicely.  One side had a hedge hog sewn inside.  Since December, my right hip has fought to reject the stimulator and the wires that are inserted into the intervention of my nerves that control my bladder.  Since the surgery I have ridden a roller coaster of pain.  It is hard to sit when you have a rear end that is seriously out of alignment! 

In additon to the continual pain, I have been blessed with an open wound that would not heal.  Today, believe it or not, it appears to be healing and it too is free of pain.  Let me say it again, today is the first day since December 7, 2009 that I am pain free.  long pause here……………………………  Free at last.

I am not only pain free, I feel better than James Brown!  I have felt pretty good, except for the continual electrical zapps, swolen tush, open wound, and all that goes with trying to do things like sit, sleep, get in and out of a car, drive, or run.  Forget a horse, a harley, or a ride in a boat.  Tomorrow i will run and do so with no pain.

Thank you for your prayers and love.  Did I tell you that I am pain free?

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I am a hopeless romantic. 

The romantic is characterized by a constant struggle between the “real” man and the “ideal” man.  The real man acts in the moment and acts just as he pleases.  He responds to others and situations with recless abandon with little thought to what the aftermath is going to look like.  He is raw boned real.

The ideal man is calculating.  He takes the time to measure his reactions to situations and people.  He acts, however, within a prescribed framework of acceptable actions.  He is socially acceptable and politely correct in his manners and deportment.

The romantic lives with one foot on a land mine while dressed in a three piece suit.  While sitting in refined company he is dreaming of hiking the Appalachian Trail, or building  a boat and sailing it to Europe by way of Tahiti.  The romantic is keenly aware of his responsibility and the standards of conduct expected of him.  At the very same time he wants to be a kid again.  At what point in life do we exchange the thrill of a dirt playground with the boredom of a board room?

In the midst of the tension between real and ideal I live.  Beneath the three piece suit and bow tie is a kid.  I am wild at heart.  I still want to ride my horse into the sunset with THE beautiful girl.  I want to go where noboday has stepped and catch the last ray of every sunset.  A cabin is good with me.  No bricks, no brass, no electricity, just a cabin built with the stuff that God provides.  That is the real man.  The ideal is at home in worsted wool, Allen Edmonds, and a button down.  Now where did that come from?!?!

So here I sit, a kid at heart in a world that is all grown up around him.  It is spring and school is almost out.  And the kid inside wants to get to the lake.

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A take off from “Invictus”

Out of the night that covers me, Dark as the pit from pole to pole,

    I thank the living God of love for my unconquerable soul.

Under the steady blows of circumstance, I have both winced and cried aloud.

    Beneath the blows and scourging, my head is bloody, scared, and bowed.

It matters not how straight the path, how charged with blame the scroll.

    I shall trust my Christ to seal my fate, He is the captain of my soul.

And a direct qote of Tennyson’s “Crossing of the Bar”

Sunset and evening star, and one clear call for me!

And may there be no moaning of the bar, when I put out to sea.

But such a tide as moving seems asleep, too full for sound and foam,

When that which drew from out the boundless deep turns again home.

Twilight and evening bell, and after that the dark!

And may there be no sadness of farewell, when I embark;

For through from out our bourne of Time and Place the flood may bear me far,

I hope to see my Pilot face to face when I have crossed the bar.

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    I love barns.  Of all building, barns must be the most noble.  Have you noticed that when a barn passes its prime, it even dies in dignity?  The tin can be rusted, the wood rotten, and the foundation gone, but it still bows in death with class.  In life it serves the most basic of services; housing animals with all their varied aromas.  In death it simply returns to the earth.

Barns remind me of home.  While I currently live in metro Atlanta, my home will always be the country.  When I drive back to north Alabama, and the sky line of Atlanta and sprawling suburbs give way to rolling hills and open fields, my heart always grows more peaceful.  Where ever home is, there must be a barn.

I miss the smell of a barn.  There is nothing like a warm autumnal morning and the smell of fresha hay.  The smell of sweet feed for the cattle does the same for me.  I can’t escape the smell of a barn loft that you just filled with fresh hay stacked and stored by your own hands fresh from the field.  Surely, few things in life rival the feeling of finishing a hard day’s work, sitting on that last bale of hay.  You know, the one you were looking for all day long.

A barn reminds me of Heaven.  Most of my growing up years I had a horse.  Her name was Dolly.  She was a small Paint, a mare with the flattest back you have ever seen.  She was perfect for riding bare-back.  She had a stubborn streak and when she grew weary, she would just lay down.  I don’t mean when you took off the saddle.  I mean when she got tired, she would just lay down on me in mid stride.  Have you ever had a horse roll over on you?  I have.  She stepped on my left thigh once when she grew weary of rolling on me.

Though she was stubborn, she had a sense of direction that would rival a modern day GPS.  Any time I headed in the direction of the barn, she was off in a gallop.  Many times we were not yet finished with the ride.  Something in her knew when she was headed home.

Maybe the barn called her like Heaven calls me.  This place isn’t my home.  The hills and lakes of north Alabama, though I love them, are not my home.  The frost on the hay, the spirits that flee the lakes when the seasons change, the fields with a morning fog, all are beautiful, but they are not my home.  I am a stranger here.  I just don’t belong.

Years ago I noticed a strange void in my heart.  Nothing this earth had to offer would fill it.  It walked with me like hunger.  The only thing that would fill a divinely given hole in the heart of a person is a divine person.  In Christ, and only in Christ, we are complete.

It won’t be long until my Master heads me towards the barn.  And when He does, I hope I head out in a gallop!  I don’t know exactly where Heaven is, but I’ll bet they have a barn.

The Beggar

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