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Grace and peace and howdy. It is a Monday morning ripe with hope and erupting with joy and forgiving in Spirit for those of us who may not be “feeling it.”
That’s ok.
But this isn’t about that.
This is about drought and how delicious a drought busting rain is.
A while back there was this preacher named Elijah. He foretold of a drought that got right severe. It was so bad even the royalty came asking him if he saw rain in the forecast.
Elijah told the king he better get on home before it got too muddy to travel. (His chariot didn’t have windshield wipers or four wheel drive.)
Anyway.
Elijah looked to the west and saw a cloud coming up. It was the size of a hand and not too promising to many eyes.
Elijah got excited!
Sure enough the cloud grew, got dark and pregnant with moisture, and the rains came.
Sheets of rain.
Buckets of rain.
Drought breaking delicious tasting delightful rain.
All that to remind me (maybe you too) that sometimes we have Mondays that seem drought stricken. Maybe even Fridays that feel that way.
But don’t be surprised to see the creek rising. It is already raining upstream.
There will be a logjam somewhere in your life that will break and all the goodness that was stored up will flood in.
There will be a parched time that will fade into oblivion as you watch the tomatoes (and works of your soul) prosper in due season.
There will be a task that you thought undoable, an obstacle you thought insurmountable, that will get done and get washed away by the rain that is coming.
There will be a vision you sometimes think was a mirage that will become crystal clear when that blessed moisture softens your eyes.
It may seem odd to be seen opening the gate to the irrigation canal on a rain free day but go ahead and open the dang thing. It is raining upstream and all that grace needs somewhere to go and something to fill.
When I set out on a march through the desert, and I am called to do this with disturbing regularity (disturbing to my faithless self), it is my hope to be aware of a rain that is falling upstream, heading my way.
It is my joy to drink from the fountain that rain feeds.
And walk on.
You know what I mean?
Love you children. Peace be with you.
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Grace and peace and howdy. It has been a minute since I wrote anything in this blog. Two things prompted me to give it a turn this morning.
1. I wanted to see if I could still find my way around the keyboard.
2. A sweet and faithful friend out in Iowa shared a song with me this morning that brought home a great need, a transcendent way to address that need, and a renewed hope. I would be very selfish to keep all that to myself.
The song - the composer, Heather Houston, refers to it as a chant - has a way of calling you out of your hurt and pointing the way to some soothing help. The first verse….
Oh River, re-wild my soul
Help me let go of control
Show my heart how to flow with ease again
I am ready, take me in.
Every week, sometimes several times a week, I get tense. The ways of the culture around me are nerve wracking and heart wrenching and life shattering. All of those things - politics, pollution, religion, callousness towards others (indeed to all that is beautiful and good) harsh judgments, harsh poverty, harsh is a word that sounds like what it is - try to assure us that if we will just build a higher tower, or pave more meadow, or clutter more precious space then we will have “progress.”
It seems to me that progress sucks.
My best hours are spent under a starlit sky. I call the stars by name. That beauty that I see first and cherish most is Karen. The sparkle in the east just before sunlight arrives - that’s Marie. The no nonsense but always helpful twinkle would be Suzanne. That celestial reality that sings to me would be Cheri. The strong, steady North Star, always calmly providing direction, is Bill. If you are reading this you quite likely are remembered and rejoiced over when I look at your star. There I find an entire cosmos of friends, and friends to be. Praise be to God there are more stars than I have names, so far.
Many of my best hours are spent under a shade tree by the creek. There I can be washed from the odors of diesel and distress. There I can hear a singing river make its way around, over, under, obstacles that are really just opportunities to sharpen the song a bit. There I smell the flowers I planted and the aromas the breeze brings my way.
It’s all free.
And I no more control the path of the stars, or the shade under the trees, or the songs of the birds, or the flow of the stream, than I control the madness that makes these things so precious.
It really comes down, for me, to a chant and a choice.
I can hold on and hurt or I can let go and heal.
I can abandon all hope or I can revel in this strange thing called faith.
I can be bound by stifling obedience to the death dealing status quo or I can soar like an eagle to a freedom worthy of the name.
Whatever it is…
I am ready.
Take me in.
Love you children. Peace be with you.
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Let me tell you a tale about the difference between a corporate religious entity and flesh and blood goodness.
The tale starts 51 years ago when my parents moved to Athens, Alabama. My Dad, being my Dad, immediately began attending worship with a congregation few in numbers but part of his tradition - with the added attraction of being 1/4 mile from his house.
There he taught Sunday Classes, served on the boards and committees, wrote his first check of the month, every month, until his last month, to support the church. He seldom missed a worship service. If he did it was because he was out helping someone like me.
This continued for 51 years. In his last weeks he had to labor hard, walk slowly, and gasp for air but he got himself there.
Over the years the church had grown.
A lot.
In a way.
They have buildings and programs and ministries.
They have pastors for children and youth and growth strategies and “dynamic” worship and pastors to insure the business practices are top shelf.
I’m sure they are doing some wonderful things.
My Dad died this week. It had been five weeks since he’d attended worship.
No pastor called, visited, checked on his whereabouts, or in anyway missed him.
When asked how this had happened they quite confidently said “we didn’t know.”
I pastored churches, and still do, for over 50 years and I’ll be damned if anyone, but especially someone like my Dad, could have disappeared- and died - and I wouldn’t have known.
I am not bitter about this. I am wise and want to share my wisdom.
I recognize that everyone can’t be everywhere at every time. Some of the most tender support we received came via telephone, text, and memory.
A goodly number of friends and family, from far and near, including three couples (best I can tell) from that corporation came to a celebration of a life, and a faith, well lived.
Among them was Reverend Terry Herston. He has been a loyal friend and a loving pastor to his church for well over 30 years. He was flesh and blood goodness to our family. When your need is strong Terry is stronger. When your challenges come, he will know.
Some of you know that my mother in law was buried the same day as my Dad. In a city two hours drive from here.
Pastor Paul Hancock, and several of the members of the congregation he pastors, drove several hours, in wretched weather, to be at BOTH services. Paul had met our Mary two or three times. To my knowledge he didn’t know my Dad.
But he knows Someone who knows my Dad.
Flesh and blood love brought great sacrifice for them - and deep comfort for us. If you want a piece of that kind of love hang with them and folks like them.
All this to say that the trend is clearly toward the business, competitive, pyramid model for religious institutions. There is an old saying among pastors that “God never calls anyone to a smaller church.”
The hell with that.
Because heaven is flesh and blood presence.
My heart tells me no one will be administrative pastor there.
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I turned to my trusty, hard bound, somewhat frayed Merriam-Webster to be certain about this.
Banter: good-natured and usually witty and animated joking.
I guess some background is in order.
The world is not short on critics. From what I have read a recent advertisement form the Super Bowl broadcast brought out hoards of such.
I am a long way from a play, book, music, television, poetry, critic. I know what I like and I am cool with what you like.
I am especially unqualified as a film critic. I see a movie maybe once every five years. On average.
Even less for television.
So now I skate out on thin ice.
Not at all sure I should do this.
It is kind of scary.
Here goes….
I am not a big fan of religious media.
Not radio. Not television.
And not movies.
For one thing the critics (yes I see the irony) descend quickly and sometimes viciously.
But my real resistance is that there is a serious absence of banter.
I mean really. If you were wandering around in the wilderness for 40 years with a group of malcontents - and family - wouldn’t you need a light minute now and then? If 13 guys are hiking all over Galilee do you really believe they don’t crack a joke, or a smile, or a tease every now and then? Come to it, I have a heartfelt, if brain lacking, conviction that banter got them past a world of hard times.
That’s one of the reasons that I have watched some, not all, and frequently not even completely, episodes of The Chosen. Jesus and the boys engage in some human affection. They smile. They scoff. They question. They show irritation. They banter.
I really got to thinking about this after last night’s Gathering. We had a rich time. (I am especially gifted at understatement.)
When I watched some of the video from the time we shared - not all of it mind you - I was struck at the banter I overheard.
Folks were meeting for the first time. Old friends were renewing bonds. Greetings were flung near and far, deep and wide, and the atmosphere was getting loaded for something cool.
So. If you are reading this hoping for a deep thought or a weighty perspective.…
Lighten up you frozen chosen.
This Jesus I have come to love just told a joke on me and I want to hear it.
And laugh with him.
He only teases people he loves.
Love you children. Peace be with you.
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I want to tell you about Gloria.
And Onesimus.
And (insert your name please.)
Let me start with Onesimus. I never actually met him but he has always proven useful to me whenever I am about goodness. As a matter of fact Onesimus means “useful.” Ain’t that handy?
He was a slave and he shows up in kind of an odd way in this Book I read a fair amount. Specifically in a letter this guy Paul wrote to another guy named Philemon.
That’s enough of that. Just hold on to the idea of someone being useful when goodness comes to mind.
So. I hadn’t met Gloria until February 15. Today is February 27 so you can do the math. I’d heard of her though. And I’d experienced first hand her generosity as she responded to a deep need among a people I love much.
I was departing for Haiti February 15 and Gloria had volunteered her driveway as a safe place to leave my truck. If you’ve had the pain of paying for airport parking you know that there was more being offered than safety!
Gloria asked that I leave my keys with her in case she needed to rearrange her driveway which was quickly becoming congested. Seemed reasonable.
Then she drove me to the airport, helped get luggage in the building and checked, and gave some pointers about the laptops she was sending with me. The laptops will be a learning tool for some folks who are very hungry to learn.
Sidenote: I don’t know Gloria’s vintage but have reason to believe she is somewhat north of me which is north indeed!
When I returned well into the evening four days ago Gloria was waiting to pick my weary self up. As we drove to her house she shared with me her heart’s desire.
“I just want to be useful. I have things and I was given them to use for the Good News. I have love to share and I want to share it.”
Gloria, I name thee Onesimus!
And so, too, each of you. You’ve given your devotion to a Friend who will make amazing use of you. Your part is simply to say “Please use me without consulting me. I want to be useful.”
It will happen.
We got back to Gloria’s house. She gave me some caffeine to get me home. Then she passed over my truck keys along with sweet words of affirmation, encouragement, and challenge.
I got in my truck and glanced at the gas gauge.
Full.
When I called Gloria to thank her, you guessed it… I just wanted to be useful.
And more than one tank was filled.
Love you children. Peace be with you.
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I read this passage from a prophet called Zechariah and it keeps resonating and stimulating and calling.
“You’re interested in religion, I’m interested in people.”
Chapter 7 Verse 6 (The Message)
I have this very close friend who is a very close Friend of a Friend. This friend - young, strong, smart, very faithful and full of an extraordinary kind of love - came along when I had been praying fervently, even feverishly, for such.
They shared a desire to be with, and be full of help, toward a people we love.
Healing, saving, touching work was rising up and surging forth.
Then something disturbing (to me) came about.
Some other folks want my friend, who is a close Friend of a Friend, to show the folks in need of being seen as God’s worthy children how to follow the rules and fill out the forms.
I am not ok with that.
Every minute spent learning doctrines, following rules, and filling out forms is an age for those who need a gentle touch, an open heart, and a redeeming word.
An AGE mind you.
But this isn’t about that.
All of that, it occurred to me after a sleepless night, is beyond my control. I can either go along with it or step away from it.
And let the religious do what the religious do.
As for me, I have been asked to love the Lord my God with all I am and to love my neighbor as myself.
The rest I put to rest.
If you love me you will hold me to it.
Love you children. Peace be with you.
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Monday’s pre dawn walk was a little frosty. This first stroll - my meditation meandering - was brisk.
Then came the post breakfast walk with the dogs. It was less intense and quite productive.
I could tell you about my post nap walk and my after dinner ambulating. Maybe I will someday.
But it was my mid morning experience that was so helpful to me. By then the air had warmed to shirt sleeves comfort. I was at the park and several mothers much younger than my youngest offspring were keeping watch over their children as they scampered around the playground.
The squeals, cautionary calls, giggles, and excited exclamations were something to behold!
As I was passing the slides one mom called to her son. He was this little block of a four years old mess.
“We only have ten more minutes. You better play!”
He looked at her with alarm and said “really?”
Then he sprinted for the ladder. I watched. He landed at the bottom of the slide, barely making landfall before hurtling for the ladder.
Again. And again. And again…
By the time I came around the next pass she was telling him it was time to go. He threw himself into her arms for a celebratory hug and they walked off hand in hand.
I walked on and got to thinking about a passage in this Book I read a fair amount.
Tell me, what’s going on, God?
How long do I have?
Psalm 39:4 (The Message)
I haven’t gotten a definitive answer to the second question. Maybe 10 minutes, or hour, days, months or years.
But I hear loudly the answer to the first question .
“You better play hard. We have to go soon.”
“You better immerse yourself in the things that give peace deeper than understanding. You better wipe away tears and cast out fears and laugh outrageously and hug ferociously. You better go where I send thee.
“You better love with all your heart, soul, mind, and strength.”
Then you throw yourself into the arms of the One Coherent Mystery who watches over the playground.
And walk hand in hand to the finish line.
Time’s a wasting.
I need to get out there and play. See you at the park.
Love you children. Peace be with you.
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I am not one to split hairs and I’d rather mow grass with scissors than quibble.
But this morning I got to thinking about the difference between being sent and being called. There are surely more ways to parse this than I could address in a lifetime - or understand in an eon.
Still and all…
I was reading the strange and incredible story of Jonah this morning. The whole thing takes less than four minutes.
I digress.
Here’s what I am getting at.
Maybe.
I hope.
God sent Jonah. It was God’s prerogative to get a word of hope and reconciliation out there.
Jonah didn’t go willingly. You know the story about him being fish food.
So Jonah called to God. “Help.” “Give me another chance.” “It smells awful in here!”
God heard, delivered in a delicate twist of digestive issues, and then…
He sent Jonah.
Again.
This time Jonah went and was faithful to the opportunity. The results were exactly what God had hoped.
Jonah was furious. He didn’t get his way (judgment and vengeance) so guess what?
He called out to God, admonished God, because people had been reconciled and hope had been restored. And everyone beneath their vine and fig tree could live at peace and unafraid.
I know this will get a lot of hackles up but there is a substantial difference between being sent and being called.
When you are sent it may not be where you want to go to do what you’d rather not with folks you aren’t comfortable seeing.
When you call, and maybe when you are called, we might do well to see if it matches the sending.
That’s it.
Love you children. Peace be with you.
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I have always cherished my morning walks. For many years I have gotten up, tanked up (coffee), suited up, and headed out for a predawn stroll. I looked at the stars, listened to the birds, and talked with this Friend of mine who hung the stars and gave voice to the birds.
Then I got busy with the business that occupied my days.
Last year, long about this time, I took up a different task. It may be hard to teach an old dog but with God all things are possible.
Right?
Along with the new task came a different schedule.
I no longer had to get busy with the business that occupied my days.
For awhile my health suffered. I accumulated a lot of physical, and spiritual, flab.
I am the slowest of slow coaches but finally it occurred to me.
I was free to walk anytime I wanted - and needed.
Now, six or eight or ten times a day - when my body gets stiff and, especially, when my spirit gets burdened - I strike out for that precious walk.
In addition to the stars and birdsongs I see the flowers bloom and the creek flow. I hear the dogs bark and the children play. I see the hawk soaring above and, from time to time, mount up on wings like an eagle myself.
I have shaped up a lot - physically and spiritually.
And I talk with my Friend.
There’s a lot out there to handle. There is a lot out there to excite and comfort me.
And there is a lot of amazement in me that I can walk anytime I want - and need.
Here’s hoping you are coming to the same option.
Love you children. Peace be with you.
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A couple of Sundays ago the lections took us to Micah chapter 6:8. I don’t know how it can be any clearer.
It is perhaps the greatest testimony to our limitations that we layer things up so mightily and cloud things up so effectively and muddy things up so thoroughly that we miss it.
So perhaps it is a worthy thing to turn away from our theologies and doctrines and religious obsessions (which quite frequently are personal phobias masquerading as divine directives) and just relax into the simple idea that we have it before us, beside us, around us, within us to act right and be at peace.
Last Sunday at The Gathering my friends Eleanor and Chip brought a gift for the Cutie and me. I was touched and thrilled by their thoughtfulness and concern in a difficult hour of our lives. It is an hour when we are confronted with complex questions and difficult decisions and (potentially) agonizing outcomes.
The gift wasn’t a smarmy collection of poems or platitudes. It wasn’t a one size fits all approach to blaming God for every predicament and every outcome.
It was just a reminder to keep on with what is clear.
It is amazing how far you can see when the fog lifts and the debates dissipate and the mud settles.
And you are at peace with what you know - and with what you don’t know.
Love you children. Peace be with you.
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There is a descriptive term that has gotten a lot of traction because of social media.
Influencer.
In this context an influencer is someone who can get you to buy a certain car (or lipstick), maybe make a call to lobby a politician, or get you to show your backside in the latest TikTok challenge.
Before that, according to my trusty Merriam-Webster dictionary it is…
“a person who inspires or guides the actions of others.”
I like that “inspires” part.
In the Book I read a fair smart there are some influencers who are given directions.
“Let your gentleness be obvious to all.”
“Do not grow tired of doing good.”
And my favorite fashion advice:
“In all events be sure to wear love, your all purpose garment.”
Again in the Book there is an amazing statement of how influencers affect us…
“You paid careful attention to the way we lived among you, and determined to live that way yourselves…. do you know that in places you’ve never been believers look up to you? The word has gotten around. Your lives are echoing the Master’s Word, not only around here - but all over the place! The news of your faith in God is out. We don’t even have to say anything anymore—you’re the message!” 1 Thessalonians 1:5-ff.
(The Message and The Pat)
In this world where harshness, abuse, and hostility so easily influence folks to fear, defeat, and despair the time has come for influencers like you to be known.
It does me good to know folks say “we’ve heard about what goodness is going on down your way. We see your generosity, grace, love, and hope. We would like to get in on it.”
Beats showing your backside on TikTok.
Love you children. Peace be with you.
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An astute, and timely, observation on this fine morning...
“The impeded stream is the one that sings.”
-Wendell Berry
Let’s hit the high notes.
Sometimes we pray, very appropriately, that someone else will have the power to change. We must consider, too, that we must know when to pray for the power to ourselves change and accept others as they are.
You know, anyone can love their family and friends (Matthew 5:43) but it takes Jesus to love folks who are fearful, hate filled, and (gasp) actually disagree with you (Matthew 5:44).
Bring it on!
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We are rapidly wrapping up the liturgical season we call Epiphany. It has been a good one. I found myself getting glimpses of the Glorious Graces that I much needed.
For example…
Those who have been burdened by my leadership know that my prayers almost always include a reference to our being “cracked pots.” (One dear woman thought I was saying crack pots. That too, but not in this case.)
Much of that prayer was grounded in a long held belief that my poverty of spirit is due to the fact that I don’t/can’t/won’t hold onto the Glorious Graces that are poured into my life. I find myself sumptuously suited to a ministry or a life then, before you know it, I am wondering where the goodness went.
So I pray help for “cracked pots” who are poured full but discover that the goodness leaked out and another draught is required.
That’s all true of course (speaking for myself don’t you know?)
I have a leak that is absolutely dependent on a well of Living Water that never runs dry.
Here’s the Glorious Grace that came to me, belatedly as is my norm but oh so beautifully. Thre is a line in the Book that I quote a lot. “All things work together for good to those who love God.”
My leaks - my frailty, fear, confusion, and transgression - don’t have the final say. Indeed! They become the very conversation that won’t quit.
Those cracks let things out like goodness, graces, and gratitudes. The Water within includes love, mercy, forgiveness, compassion, and hope. These are the very things God knows we need and that God pours into me.
What a jerk I would be to want to hold onto all that while around me there are parched lives and drought stricken realities.
When I look back I see a lot of need in me. That need is always, and always abundantly met. The joy comes when I also see a well irrigated foot path - whether or not I intended to water it.
So here’s to a never ending stream of Glorious Graces flowing from an Artesian Well with limitless reserves.
And here’s to cracked pots. Maybe you are one too.
Let them leak!
Love you children. Peace be with you.
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I guess it’s my season to enjoy good words.
Today’s pleasant vocalization is convivial.
My trusty Merriam-Webster defines this as “friendly, lively, and enjoyable.”
What’s not to like?
Last night The Cutie and I had dinner and conversation with some much valued friends. The food was almost too delicious, if you know what I mean.
Our conversation ranged widely and covered subjects serious and humorous.
We talked of generations past and generations present and generations gaining on us rapidly.
Their was good natured kidding and heartfelt, sincere, appreciations and congratulations.
What’s not to like?
Altogether it was an attractive thing.
It strikes me as unfortunate that much of the activity we suggest is hosted by Jesus falls short of convivial.
Far too frequently I hear tales of harsh rhetoric, divisive ideologies, and exclusive practices.
Many of the folks who are parched and thirsting for a deep draught of conviviality find themselves invited to a place of hostility.
I trust we see the implications for those who most need, and are intimately wanted by the Host, at the Welcome Table.
In the Book I read with some regularity there is a beautiful notation:
“They gathered for meals, every meal a celebration, exuberant and joyful, as they praised God. People LIKED WHAT THEY SAW. Every day the number at the Table grew as God added those who were being saved.”
Convivial is the word, and witness, of the day.
What’s not to like?
Love you children. Peace be with you.
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Sacrosanct: immune from criticism or violation. Most sacred or holy.
Sacrilege: the violation or profanation of anything sacred or held sacred.
This is what you call a contrast.
Diametrically opposed.
Clear as can be.
Black and white.
Except when it isn’t. And for me it is fairly certain that these words need to be handled with care.
Maybe avoided altogether.
When I was a lad, and this is still true in some circles, Roman Catholicism was sacrilege and Protestantism was sacrosanct.
Guess what the Roman Catholics were teaching?
It would have been a travesty almost beyond comprehension if black people and white people drank from the same water fountain - never mind worshipping in the same building at the same time.
The immeasurable gifts of women were limited to children’s religious education and potluck dinners - and cleaning.
The idea of something besides a King James Bible, a necktie for men, or any musical instrument that wasn’t a piano or organ would have caused the gates of hell to be flung wide open at the desecration.
I was once “called on the carpet” because The Cutie wore Bermuda shorts to an evening worship service - in August!
All of this was done loudly, confidently, self righteously because those things were sacrosanct and to violate them was sacrilege.
Jesus faced this every dang time he sat with a sinner, cured a woman, celebrated the faith of a gentile, and - especially - when he was vulnerable enough and humble enough and loving enough to endure the shame of crucifixion.
So when I hear the shouts about tattoos, piercings, “biblical teachings”, and the like, I find myself mindful of what has become sacrosanct for me…
I ain’t God.
And I have become keenly aware of what is sacrilege for me…
To think or act as if I am God.
There is something very sacrosanct about trusting that it ain’t up to me.
Love you children. Peace be with you.
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“However, do not rejoice that the spirits submit to you, but rejoice that your names are written in heaven.”
This teaching from our Friend Jesus came to mind last night. Especially that part about your name being in the Hall of Fame.
Perhaps it will help to tell the back story.
Our The Gathering at SRB was sweet and that’s about as understated as anyone could make it. The music was exceptional and spot on. The prayers were honest and open. The teaching was “meh” but the Big Teacher came through anyway.
And the Gathered saints were gentle, encouraging, faithful and sincere.
The room was full but it was sort of bookended. (Is bookended a word?) Up on the front row to my left sat an All American football player who is in the sports hall of fame. In the back on the right was an accomplished musician whose gifts are renowned and who is in his respective hall of fame. We could go on a long time about their accomplishments.
But this isn’t about that. At least, not just about that.
Both of these people were noteworthy. They had those qualities that make you want to be around them. They were quietly confident, exceedingly humble, humorously good natured, openly loving, and attentive to the Good Thing.
Their gifts and the graces they shared made me look around in wonder at the room full of folks who sat with them.
They were quietly confident, exceedingly humble, humorously good natured, openly loving, and attentive to the Good Thing.
The group last night was powerful in commanding the dark spirits to be gone and putting themselves at God’s disposal so that a Light shines.
They were connected to all the rest of you Hall of Famers by the very same Truth.
As I rested my head on my pillow last night and let my heart go to the place it needs to be I told my Friend that I have many reasons to give thanks. But at that moment my heart melted as I considered the good company I am graced to keep.
Hall of Famers every one.
Love you children. Peace be with you.
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So, chosen by God for this new life of love, dress in the wardrobe God picked out for you: compassion, kindness, humility, quiet strength, discipline.
That’s from a letter this guy Paul wrote to some friends over in Colossae and Laodicea.
I think that’s near Goodsprings.
Which is not the point is it?
It got me to thinking about one of the ways folks describe people who aren’t worldly, accomplished, and sophisticated.
I hear it all the time.
“Old Joe - or Jane - was a good guy. He/She would give you the shirt off their back. But they never amounted to much.”
If there was ever a damning epitaph this is it. And Joe isn’t the one with the damn.
This passage reminds me of a hero of mine. I don’t usually make “ought to” statements but my heart tells me we “ought to” be like him.
He used to have a television program. He’d come in the front door and put on some clothing that meant a lot. At first glance you saw a sweater and some comfortable shoes.
Look deeper.
He was putting on gentleness and kindness and compassion and the all purpose garment we call love.
He died 20 years ago next month.
He was a good guy.
It is a testimony about our state that immediately folks spread word about his time as a sniper in the green berets.
He wasn’t.
Word got to spreading that he was a substance abuser.
He wasn’t.
It just couldn’t be that he was just a good guy.
Like that doesn’t matter.
A couple of months ago I was delighted to receive a gift from some folks who know my heart.
It was a compilation from a good guy.
But the reason the gift touched me, meant so much to me, is that those good folks who know my heart thought of a connection.
Love you children. Peace be with you.
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