Monday Meditations

Demons on the Phone

2009-02-15T23:18:00.000-08:00

Mar 5:1-2 "They came to the other side of the sea, to the country of the Gerasenes. And when Jesus had stepped out of the boat, immediately there met him out of the tombs a man with an unclean spirit."

This describes a day at my office. My guess is that the same thing happens to you from time to time. Perhaps this isn't a literal occurrence but you've met men and women just like this. I know I have.

For the past 6+ years I've spoken to thousands of people who want to sue their doctor, their hospital, their veterinarian, their neighbor, their brother, their girlfriend, boyfriend, aunt, uncle...the list is endless. Some of these people have a real beef. They really do. They were wronged by an action. Their life will never be the same again because of someone's thoughtless deed. Some of these folks will never walk again because of a surgeon's scalpel. Some of these callers will live in pain until the day they die because the other driver ignored the red light. I understand these calls. I get their story.

But every once in a while, actually, on a daily basis, I receive a call from someone who is filled with an unclean spirit. They are filled with venom. They slither to the phone and outline a vile plan of vengeance. They whisper hateful words. They utter threats of violence. They demand justice for nothing more than a flesh wound or a hurt feeling.

These are the people who walk our streets and share our elevators. They are the neighbors who get their mail at the end of the day and wave hello from across the street. They seem normal enough but when you really take a closer look, you see the insanity in their eyes.

If you read the rest of Mark's story, Jesus, who earlier has been ordering the demons to leave this man, finally gives them permission to go their own way. And here's my point: He doesn't accuse the man. He doesn't blame him for his anti-social behavior. Jesus recognizes that the thing that controls this poor being is, in fact, beyond his control. This man is stuck with demons that control him.

Jesus does not condemn the man. He sets him free.
Jesus does not sentence him for his wild behavior. He silences the source of his pain.
The creator of the universe looks this troubled soul in the eye, releases him from his bonds, and puts him back on the road to sanity.

Like the people from the surrounding country-side, I've so often relegated these callers, neighbors or strangers to the caves of their own creating. But occasionally, compassion guides my heart and I stop to listen to their pain. I offer a word of hope. I sooth their sole with balm and in the end, I entrust their lives to God's love and care.

No Questions Asked

2009-01-26T02:35:00.000-08:00

Mark 5:24a: "So Jesus went with him."

Jairus shows up. His daughter is dying. He is distraught. He is over-come with grief. He is seeking a favor, a cure, a miracle. And, so, Jesus went with him. No questions asked. He gets up, places his hand on the man's shoulder, looks him in the eye, and says, "Lead the way".

You've had similar requests made to you. Every day people tell their stories of sorrow and fear. Every morning you hear about the struggle of another at the coffee maker. Every afternoon you drive past someone asking for food or money. Every evening you watch the nightly news and see the starvation or war.

Jesus was asked and he moved. We are asked and we provide a trivial response...I'll pray for you...I'll be thinking of you. I would love to come but we have a soccer game, Bible Study, Men's Fellowship, All-Church-Cleaning Day, Fill in the Blank _______________________.

Or perhaps our response is even more obvious: We turn our heads and shut our eyes. We tell the kids, "Don't make eye contact!" We slowly lock the doors. We whisper under our breath, "Come On Green Light!!"

We avoid the hassle. We ignore the plea. We settle into our easy-chair. But Jesus went with him.

Of course, if you read the rest of the story, you realize that Jesus worked a miracle. You and I would never presume to bring someone back from the dead, would we? We don't have that life-giving ability. We don't share that marvelous, miraculous touch.

But we do have a dollar.
We do have a listening ear.
We do have a spare bedroom.
We do have left-overs after every meal.
We do have the ability to write letters, to point out injustice, to demand action.
We do have the ability to give a ride.
We do have the power to speak our voice.
We do have....
Oh, we have so much and yet we stay. We sit. We pretend we do not hear or see.

Jesus went with him. No questions asked.

A Letter to My Friends

2009-01-19T02:42:00.000-08:00

Friends,

I was thinking about our meeting together this past Saturday. I am amazed at how so many of us are in places that are uncomfortable: New jobs, shaky jobs, travel, school, illness and death, parting from places and friends we hold dear, waiting, watching, change. It is a difficult time.

I am thankful that we were able to spend the time sharing. We needed to hear one another. We needed to know each other. But after our time together, I thought about the struggles we are all facing and how the study planned for that meeting, at its core, would provide some solace to our spirits. I would like to offer a word or two of the study for your consideration and encouragement.

This passage is from The Book of Matthew study by Max Lucado:

“Do this. Change your definition of prayers. Think of prayers less as an activity for God and more of an awareness of God. Seek to live in uninterrupted awareness. Acknowledge his presence everywhere you go. As you stand in line to register your car, think, Thank you, Lord, for being here. In the grocery as you shop. Your presence, my King, I welcome. As you wash the dishes, worship your Maker. Brother Lawrence did. This well-known saint called himself the “lord of pots and pans.” In his book, The Practice of the Presence of God, he wrote: 'The time of business does not with me differ from the time of prayer; and in the noise and clatter of my kitchen, while several persons are at the same time calling for different things, I possess God in as great tranquility as if I were upon my knees at the blessed sacrament'.”

What a challenge. What a wonderful call to living life in a different way. So much different than we live so much of the time. Worried about our jobs, worried about our bills, worried about people around us…when our attention should be on the God of the universe who has all these things in control. We live life as if our actions are the only force for change and miss the power of the Creator who is there with us every step of the way.

I know this is a big week for so many of you. I love you. You are in my prayers.

Blessings,

Curt

Life's About the Journey

2009-01-11T13:12:00.000-08:00

I heard from a long-lost friend this past week. We've know one another for more than 20 years and have shared some special times together but because of time and space, we haven't spoken for more than five years. We haven't emailed, called, chatted or written. Our individual lives have continued to move forward. The stories have been written and we took some time to catch up on the narrative.

What I learned about her life in the short time we chatted was painful for her to tell and painful for me to hear. To cut right to the chase, she and her husband have struggled. Their marriage is in trouble. Wounded egos, poor choices, and shattered dreams resulted in broken vows and broken hearts. They are hanging on by a thread and there isn't anything I can do about it: Except Pray.

I imagine you know someone in the same position. They are not evil people. They simply made decisions that hurt themselves and others. They looked for answers and followed paths that took them away from the truth. Getting back to the straight road is difficult, if not impossible.

The story isn't so difficult to understand. In fact, it might be too familiar. You may have been one of those who caused pain to others and you know exactly how this story goes. You caused the turmoil. You made an quick decision that had far reaching consequences and nothing will change until you acknowledge your decision, own your error, and seek a new direction.

Or perhaps you find yourself on the other side of the page. You are the one who was hurt. You are the one who was betrayed. You were faithful. You were truthful. You were living life the best you could, oblivious to the storm that was building just over the horizon. And one day, out of the blue, you were hit with the hurricane that now dominates your life and shreds the very foundations of your soul. You need a life jacket. You need to protect yourself. You need to find a new normal. You need to regain your balance. And as hard as it is to believe, the best thing you can do is to offer grace.

Human nature and the wounded feelings prevent repentance and forgiveness from finding their way into the story. Anger and pain override any repentance and any grace that could bring healing.

Believe me. I know. I've been on both sides of this story. Truth and Grace is the only thing that will save the marriage. They are the two things that are needed more than anything else.

I've been praying a lot for my dear friends, for their hearts, for their individual lives and their married life. God give them wisdom, honesty, and grace. AMEN.

A Prayer For A New Year

2009-01-05T00:01:00.000-08:00

Dear God,

The holidays are over and the long, dark winter begins and I need your strength. I need your grace. I need your wisdom. I need your guidance.

You know me. You know that under my own power, I will make choices that take me farther from you. I will make decisions that will move me from your light and into darkness. You know that I will take steps that will remove me from your presence.

I will eat food that weakens my body.
I will see things that darken my mind.
I will say words that hurt others.
I will have thoughts that wound my soul.
I will experience emotions that have no place in my heart.

And so, Dear Lord, as 2009 begins, I pray that I will know you more. I pray that I will be a man after your heart. Despite my failures and struggles, I pray for your grace. I seek your wisdom. I desire your guidance.

Amen.

In Search of Peace

2008-12-28T05:12:00.000-08:00

Today's headlines scream the unease.
They shout sorrow.
They proclaim unrest.

"Air Strikes on Gaza Continue as Deaths Rise"
"Zimbabwe's Children "Wasting Away"
"Sludge Spill Estimate Grows to Billions of Gallons"

And yet, God whispers another message.

When the entire world seems to be spinning out of control, the writer of Psalms takes another view. "Let me hear what God the LORD will speak, for he will speak peace to his people, to his saints..."

Dear God,

Whisper Your Peace. In the midst of all the shouting voices or turmoil and terror, I pray that your voice would calm the storm. Bring hope where there is no hope. Bring joy where this only sorrow. Bring relief to those who see no end. Comfort those who mourn and cover your people with your grace.

Amen.

Philippians 1:3

2008-04-14T00:01:00.000-07:00

"I thank my God every time I remember you."

This is a verse that touches my heart and is a reflection my life.

For instance, my friend Dave called the other day and we spoke of our children, spring break, and my upcoming trip to Europe. What was left unspoken was the deep and abiding love and respect I have for him, his wife, and their children. He may never fully know how much they all mean to me and my family. But God does.

Our small group fellowship meets every couple of weeks to share in laughter and tears. Through study and prayer we have grown closer to understanding one another. We have also come closer to experiencing the very nature of God through our time together. The group is comprised of a doctor and a nurse. An engineer and an architect. An assistant principle, a student and a teacher. We come from various backgrounds, multiple occupations, and diverse experiences but we all share one thing: Love for one another. No matter how many times I tell them, they will never completely understand what this relationship has done to restore and heal my wounded heart.

There are so many others who move and shape my life for whom I am daily giving thanks as I think of them...

My Pastor and his wife who serve their congregation with enthusiasm and love.
Our neighbors, some of whom I understand and others who I still find a mystery.
The two men who allowed us to come to Europe with them.
My wife who has patience and love that seems unending.
My children who lift my soul just with the sound of their voices.
The children living with us this week as their missionary parents continue to change the world.

Each of these dear ones and so many more fill my heart with joy and love each and every day.

Thank you, Dear Jesus, for these who move in and around my life making it richer, fuller, more like you with each passing day.

AMEN & AMEN

Ephesians 5:21

2008-03-30T12:03:00.000-07:00

"Be subject to one another out of reverence for Christ."

Think about this: I am not to be subject to you because of what you can give to me.
What I can gain...
What possession I can gather...
What position I can attain...

I serve you, I am subject to you...
Because of my love for you...
My love for Jesus...
My reverence for Christ...

I revere him.
I honor him.
I worship him.
I am in awe of him.

And because of this I honor you.
I serve others.
I love his children.
I love what he loves.
I serve what he serves.

Bottom line: What can I do for others today?

Dear God, Open my eyes. Open my ears. Open my heart. May I love others in your name.

AMEN.

Easter 2008

2008-03-23T16:35:00.001-07:00

Dear Almighty God,

As we leave another Holy Week, Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, and Easter Sunday behind, we pray that you would remind us daily of your love for us.
That there was no soldier's whip,
No guard's spear,
No crown of thorns,
No rusty spike that could pierce the flesh or wound the soul more than the sins of your creation.

Thank you for the life that directs us.
Thank you for the scars that heal us.
Thank you for the death that redeems us.
Thank you for your love that saves us.
May we never forget the amazing gift you have given to us.

AMEN & AMEN.

My New Friend

2005-11-04T05:38:00.000-08:00

I love to mow my yard. It is more than home maintenance to me. It is something I love to do. It is peaceful. It is rewarding. It is my passion. It is therapeutic. I am the Forrest Gump of South Harbor.

But this year, due to a torn labrum in my hip, I was required to reduce my mowing experience. No longer could I mow two yards in my neighborhood and my yard twice a week. Imagine walking behind a mower for 25,000 steps each week. It really gives the cardiovascular system a work out. But, I had to cut back (so to speak) to mowing my front yard, alone. This was a devastating blow to my mental and physical health.

So this summer, I have been rather depressed. I sat at my window and watch the grass grow; hoping for another ½ inch of fescue to push toward the sky so I could limp outside and knock it down!

And then, a miracle happened. Driving home one evening, I saw a sign in the neighbor’s front yard. FOR SALE. $60 Needs Work. And behind that sign stood the most beautiful object I’d ever seen: A riding mower.

I left my car running on the curb and walked into my neighbor’s yard. I approached the mower slowly. My heart was racing like a newly tuned Lawnboy on a crisp April Saturday morning. I touched the hood and traced its delicate, but rusty lines. I brushed fresh grass clippings off the 32-inch mowing deck. As I looked up to survey the instrument panel, I jumped back, noticing the key laying on the seat. I picked it up unhurriedly and delicately fondled it between my quivering fingers.

After ringing the doorbell and knocking several times, I was sure no one was home. I returned to the mower and took a seat. I inserted the key and prayed. Without a hesitation or stutter, the engine raced to life. So I drove it around the yard for a while. The wind whipped through my hair.

I spoke with the neighbor and wrote her a check and she promised to give it to the seller of this fine machine when he returned home. I left my car and drove my new riding mower home.

Since that fateful day a month ago, I have had to do nothing to this fine machine. In fact, with only gas and oil, I have mowed many a yard. My 12.5 horsepower Murray Garden Tractor and I have become good friends. I may not be clocking as many walking miles, but my spirits soar. The grass is cut, my neighbors are happy, and I can’t wait for another ½ inch of turf to sprout up.

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2005-10-18T20:01:00.000-07:00

True Story.

I have a friend named Shane. I’ve known him since junior high school. He was never a lady’s man, a great athlete, or a superstar. In fact, Shane was rather awkward. But in his defense, I will say that he was smart, soft-hearted, and sincere. He loved God and developed a deep relationship with him. He loved others and never failed to show it. Shane never pretended to be someone he was not. He was real and I always respected him for that.

After high school, we entered Ball State University and while there, this awkward boy became a confident man. Thankfully, in the midst of this transition, he never lost his soft heart or his love for God. He never lost his sincerity or his love for others and this truth has changed the world.

If you ever spent any time in a college dorm, you know the diversity of life that exists within those walls. Behind every door, in every room, there is a different person with a different story. Some stories are sweet and redeeming and the students who tell them are like flowers blooming in warm morning sunlight. Others have stories that are mysterious and painful. The scholars carrying these in their hearts live in cold, isolated closets of shame, wilting in the darkness.

Pam was one of those students loosing the battle with her past. She had been through some tough times. She had been deeply hurt and was cautious with relationships, both temporal and eternal. She lived one floor above Shane and met him in the commons areas and at breakfast. It was not long before this person who couldn’t trust anyone, learned to trust Shane.

Shane never asked anything from Pam but she was always welcome in his world. It was that way on the first day she met him. It was that way when they said good-bye at graduation. They went separate ways: Pam became a teacher. Shane joined an organization whose goal was to show love to a world who had never known love. And Pam never forgot Shane’s support, example, and prayers.

And it was this example of unselfish love that caused Pam to turn to God several years later. Because of Shane’s example, Pam gave her life to God. Because of his sincerity and love for God, Pam turned her heart toward heaven and her entire world was changed.

Fast forward several years: Pam married a man born and raised in India. She and her husband travel from village to village telling them about God’s sacrifice and love. At one village, Pam held a newborn baby, the proud parents stood close, anxious to show him off. As Pam cradled the precious gift and sing sweet lullabies, she asked the parents the baby’s name. With tears in their eyes, they told of a man who came from the other side of the world, to their small village. He loved them and told of a love they had never known. He led them into a relationship with God, through Jesus, and their lives would never be the same again. And so, because he had pointed them to God, they named their first born in his honor: they named him Shane.

Pam, shocked at first, shared her story of this same man and his witness that changed her life. Together, they held each other and wept. They released prayers of thanksgiving, praise for a servant, a witness, a friend, and a faithful follower of Jesus Christ.

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The Good Shepherd

2005-10-03T05:57:00.000-07:00

We were flipping through some old photographs of my friend. Ed McLaughlin is an old Irishman who loved to listen pan flutes, feel the soft spring grass, and smell newly turned earth. He often called me “Lad” whenever offering instruction. I was always happy to receive Ed’s instruction whenever he offered. He was wise and I enjoyed spending time with him.

On this day, we were reminiscing of his younger years and in the stack of photos on my lap, there were many pictures of woods & fields, barns and greenhouses, flowers and sheep. Lots of pictures of sheep. I asked him about the flock. He laid down the photographs in his own hand and took a deep breath. He looked up to the ceiling and said nothing for a long while. He turned his head to look out a window and began to tell me a story. As he spoke, his voice grew thick and tears formed in the corner of his eyes.

As a younger man, Ed tended the estate of a successful inventor. Ed maintained his flower gardens, manicured his lawn, developed wooded paths, and preserved flowing streambeds. He was the caretaker of the estate but also an artist. While looking over the property, Ed determined that one quiet meadow needed some grazing sheep to make the picture complete. It started with just a few sheep but over time grew to a flock of many wooly beasts. Now Ed was caretaker and shepherd.

He took them to the barn each night and led them to the pasture each morning. He was present at each lamb’s birth and comforted every ewe when a baby would die. He nurtured the flock’s growth and ministered to their injuries. Ed was their sole caregiver and he loved them deeply.

He told me about his duty to the sheep and their unending faithfulness to him. Everywhere that Ed would go, the sheep were sure to follow. In fact, most of the pictures I held in my hand illustrated this truth. So many shots contained Ed walking down a path, up a road, through a meadow; and the sheep were directly behind, single file, following their shepherd.

He paused to wipe a tear from his cheek and take a drink of tea. After a moment, he continued his story. There came a day when the estate changed hands and the new owner hired his nephew to manage the property. As Ed tells the story, it took less than a year for the nephew to loose all patience with the flock. They became stubborn and he became furious. The sheep had lost their shepherd and instead of following this new hired hand, they would wander off on their own. Instead of leading, he would drive them with sticks and blows. Instead of speaking soft words of love, he would curse them with every breath.

By the end of the first year, the flock was scattered. Some went to area farms but most went to market and were destroyed.

Ed stopped talking. The silence in the room grew. When I looked up from the pictures, the old man was crying, brokenhearted at the thought of his beloved sheep and their tragic end.

That was many years ago but I will never forget that moment. Ed’s heart still ached for those he loved. Even without his sheep, he was still a Shepherd at heart.

Jesus told the same story. He understood that kind of a love. He said, “The Shepherd calls his own sheep by name and leads them out. When he has brought out all his own, he goes on ahead of them and his sheep follow him because they know his voice. But they will never follow a stranger; in fact, they will run away from him because they do not recognize a stranger’s voice.” (John 10:3b-5)

Jesus went on, “I am the good shepherd. The good shepherd lays down his life for the sheep.” (John 10:11)

I am convinced that Jesus’ heart must break even more than the heart of the old Irishman. Jesus’ soul must long for his sheep to follow him. He calls us by name and we so often ignore his call, deny his voice, hide from his love. He is not a hired hand. He is our shepherd and he calls us to the safety of his arms.

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What Ever Happened to Ralph

2005-09-19T17:44:00.000-07:00

As he climbed into my car, I was struck by the shabbiness of his clothing, the dirt on his face, and the smell from his body.

His name was Ralph. He said he needed a ride to Muncie, where his family use to live. He didn't know if they were still there but he thought he might try to find them. I knew I could not drive all the way to Muncie; I was on my way to the little country church for a carry-in dinner and a program on missions. And then I had an idea.

I explained where I was going and invited him along. "Ralph, if you come with me, you can have all you want to eat." He slowly shook his head, looking down at his tattered jacket and thread-bare jeans.

"If you want to come eat with us, you would only have to stay for the program and then I can drive you all the way to Muncie." Ralph thought about this for a while. In a low, hoarse whisper, he said, "Alright. I guess that will be okay."

As we turned on the country road that led to the Union Chapel United Methodist Church, Ralph took off his tobogan and straightened his thin hair. He straightened his scarf. He picked the dirt from under his fingernails. He zipped his jacket and prepared himself for dinner in the house of the Lord, a place at God's Table.

As we entered the fellowship hall, several of the men poked me in the side and asked who my "friend" was. I explained that, while not in the habit of picking up hikers, I had collected Ralph on the way to church and couldn't think of a better place to take him on a cold October night. It was obvious these men didn't agreed.

I led Ralph to the tables, stacked high with fried chicken, dumplings, cakes & pies. There was lemonade and ice tea in tall cups, ice floating thick and deep. At the end of one table stood a large urn of dark, rich coffee. Its aroma filled the room and Ralph was drawn to it. With a plate filled to over-flowing, he poured a styrophome cup full and gathered several packets of sugar.

The members of the congregation stared as he made his way to a table and the senior pastor made his way to Ralph. I watched from a distance as he leaned close and spoke quietly with Ralph. A few minutes later he was leaning close to me and not speaking as quietly.

"I don't know where you found him, but he's your responsibility for the rest of the night. He's playing with about 26 of the necessary 52 cards." His words were funny but his tone was not. There was no humor in his voice and none in his glare. I nodded and looked over at Ralph sitting by himself.

As people finished their dinner, we began to gather in the sanctuary for the program on Missions. We were there to talk about reaching the lost in some far off country. Ralph and I sat together in the back row. He listened politely. He never said a word. Even as we closed with the hymn, "Amazing Grace", Ralph stood but did not sing.

At the end of the evening we made our way out the church door and into the dark parking lot. I couldn't help but notice that no one said goodbye to Ralph; not even the pastor. No one shook his hand. No one offered a prayer, a dollar, or a plate of left over food. He walked to the car with nothing in his hand but his winter hat.

We climbed into the car and made our way into Muncie. There was not a sound. We drove in complete silence. When we entered the city limits I asked where he wanted me to take him and he said that this was good enough. I found a place to pull over and before he exited, I offered him my hand. He looked at it for a moment and wiped his on his dirty pants and took my palm.

"Ralph," I said slowly and deliberately, looking him in the eye, "thanks for coming with me. I hope you had plenty to eat." He only nodded.

"Good luck finding your family." He nodded again, let go of my hand, and stepped out of the car. The door shut softly and I watched as he adjusted his jacket and scarf. He turned to town and started walking.

That was twenty years ago and to this day, whenever I see someone with a sign that reports that they will "WORK FOR FOOD," I think of Ralph. And I wonder what ever happened to my "friend". I wonder where he went when he left my car. I wonder if the food he ate warmed his empty stomach because I know the reception he received left him cold.

Click Here to Read the Rest of the Story

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What Ever Happened to Ralph - the rest of the story.

2005-09-26T23:30:00.000-07:00

More than a dozen years later, I told the story. The sermon was titled; “What Ever Happened to Ralph” and I delivered the message with passion and grace. I called the congregation to remember those less fortunate. I spoke from my own experience. I spoke from the emotion of one who had lived in pain for so many years after watching this homeless man turned away by the church. I told of a congregation and their shame in turning Ralph away. I called every one who had ears to hear. I hoped and prayed that my words and God’s love had moved them to action.

We sang a closing hymn and I made my way down the isle, my robes flowing, the candles lit bright, the colorful windows throwing a rainbow through the sanctuary. I spoke the benediction from the back of the church and awaited the flow of well-dressed people at the narthex door. As the line formed to shake the preacher’s hand, I noticed the eyes of every member looking past me to the entry door. There stood a vagrant, his hat in his hand. He was dirty and disheveled. In the midst of those who had just spent time in God’s presence, this man was a stark contrast: they were well dressed while he was hardly dressed. His clothes were tattered and thin. He had dirt on his face, hands, and clothes. He was there for only one thing: A hand out. Mothers pulled their daughters and young boys huddled together to whisper about the guest. Everyone seemed very uncomfortable; none more than me.

I excused myself from the greeting line and made my way to the drifter. I led him out the front door. His moist eyes met mine. “I just wondered if you might spare enough money for a sandwich.” He licked his chapped lips.

I whispered my response through gritted teeth, holding a smile but speaking daggers. “This really is not the right time. Why don’t you try somewhere else?”

He didn’t argue. He didn’t protest. He nodded his head and walked slowly away.

I composed myself and re-entered the narthex. I started shaking hands again, as if nothing had happened. One of the church members and her family broke into the receiving line with excitement in her voice. “Was he a plant? Was he a test? Did you bring him here to test us?” I stared blankly at this nice woman.

Her enthusiasm built. “Is that Ralph?” she exclaimed.

Only then did it dawn on me. On a Sunday when I told the story of Ralph and expected them to respond, Ralph had shown up. It had never happened before and it never happened again. But this Sunday, of all Sundays, Ralph had come into our lives.

But instead of taking him to our food pantry, I took him to the road.
Instead of leading him in love I led him on his way.
Instead of ushering him into God’s presence, I ushered him out the door.

And before I could even express my regret, several families loaded up their minivans and chased down this vagabond. They stopped him on the street and explained their desire to help. They took him to eat and stuffed him with all the hamburgers he could hold. When the meal was over, they drove him to his destination and they prayed with him before he left the van. They loved him with words and they loved him with deeds.

That afternoon, they dropped by the house and told of the mission field that started in their own church and their own town. They told of an act of kindness and their new friend, Ralph.

Writer’s note: This is a true story. Ralph really existed in my life in 1984 and again in 1997. If you keep your eyes open, you can still see him today. He stands on the corner. He walks through your neighborhoods. He lives in the home next door. He may not be shabbily dressed, but he is hungry for God’s love. He is desperate for companionship. He is in need of a friend.

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A Mother's Lesson

2005-09-10T04:28:00.000-07:00

I took my seat behind the tall pulpit as the organ played quietly. The congregation was coming and I watched and prayed.

From my protected location, I saw her kneel at the altar. Her three boys found a place next to her. She folded her hands, glanced to her left and right, and raised her eyebrow in a form of unspoken instruction. The boys followed her silent command and interlaced their small fingers.

These three small boys, notorious for their rambunctious spirits and disrespectful tongues, now tightly closed their eyes and bowed their heads in an act of silent reverence. They peeked toward their mother, awaiting her next silent order. After an appropriate period, she raised her head. The boys mimicked her every move.

And then, something wonderful happened. This dear woman, divorced from her drunken and abusive husband, raising three sons who so strongly reflected their father in appearance and personality, put her thin arms around her boys and pulled them close.

She whispered into their ears and slowly picked up a small crust of bread from the altar. She held it for each to see. While I could not hear her words, I knew their meaning. She cradled the bread in the palm of her hand, as if it were a precious stone. In awe, she showed them its miniature size and its regal importance. Then she paused and waited for them to pick out their own royal morsel. Together, as if they had practiced, they lifted the bread to their mouths and ate the dry cracker.

She did not hurry them. She did not rush. As they swallowed, she closed her eyes in soundless meditation. The boys folded their hands, closed their eyes, and bowed their heads. They waited for their mother, calm and silent.

When she opened her eyes, they were moist with tears. Her left hand reached for her oldest son and pulled him even closer, if that was possible. Her right hand extended to the small plastic cups that lined the railing.

Once in her hand, she balanced it delicately in her fingers. The expression on her face told of the depth of her feelings while her whispered words told the rest of the story. Three heads leaned close to hers, straining to capture every word. When she had finished, she waited for these, her young men, to reach for their own symbol of God’s amazing grace. The youngest fumbled his juice and some spilled on the wooden bench and his hands. His mother reached for some tissue and carefully dabbed it up, never scolding or correcting.

My eyes suddenly filled with tears as I watched four cups held gently, lifted slowly, and shared solemnly. From a distance, I joined the four heads bowed in reverent unity.

In the hush of that moment, I looked up and met the eyes of so many in the congregation. They had long ago returned to their seats, leaving this mother to teach her sons the importance of this meal. Every member had come and gone, eating and drinking without thought of this banquet and its meaning. They, too, had tears in their eyes, as this small family turned from the altar, the mother’s hands still resting on her boy’s shoulders. As she led them to their seats, I wiped the tears from my eyes, and stood to face the church. Thanks to the instruction from this mother to her sons, I was changed. We all were changed. This feast would never be the same again and I was thankful.

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Is This The Little Girl.....

2005-08-14T04:59:00.000-07:00

My daughter, God bless her, is such a joy. She is enthusiastic and full of life. She cares for others and is always ready to help. She is quick with a hug or a kiss on the cheek. She loves fully and gently but is tough as nails and can hold her own in any punching match. I cannot imagine life without my daughter and the joy she brings to our family.

But, this was not always the case for Ms. Austin. There were days when she was not very nice. There were moments when she was not very sweet. In fact, there were times when she was down right mean.

There was a time when my daughter, like a dog protecting its food, would position herself between her siblings and her toys and growl. She would curl her upper lip and emit a deep rumble from deep in her throat. When they would back off, and they always backed off, she would shake her curly red locks and walk away. She had all her shots but we were concerned. It was quite a sight to see and many people, even to this day, find the truth hard to believe. If it were not for the one picture above, no one would ever believe it.

Of course, this was behavior we did not want to encourage. In fact, we did everything in our power to put an end to this. We tried scolding and loving. We offered bribes, spoke sternly, sent her to her room, but nothing seemed to work. And so, we did what every good parent would do. We prayed.

Every morning, every evening, every meal, we prayed. “Dear God, thank you for our daughter. PLEASE make her sweet.” And one day, she was. There came a day when my daughter became sweet. She stopped growling at her brother and put her arm around his shoulder to help him up. She did not curl her lips and bare her teeth but offered a drink of her milk. She laughed at his jokes. She gave him a kiss on the cheek. She shared her toys. In a word, she was sweet.

Today, my children are fast friends. They care deeply about each other and miss one another when one is gone for any length of time. It is truly a blessing. And their relationship serves as a constant reminder of the power of prayer and God’s ability to change people. It is a lesson I will never forget.

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2005-08-14T05:28:00.000-07:00

"Evil Eye" circa 1997

2005-07-16T14:23:00.000-07:00

Fern Dennis

Saying Goodbye

2005-07-16T14:11:00.000-07:00

After 89 long years of life, Granny Fern’s heart finally gave out. The nurses came in and found her in bed, the covers pulled up to her chin. She appeared to be asleep. Her face had a peaceful expression.

Her funeral was well attended by many loving family and friends. Tears flowed freely as all said a fond farewell. Warm embraces of support and care were shared and encouraging words were whispered.

Granny was no saint but she was faithful to God and her family. She raised two children, and served as matriarch for five grandchildren, and many great-grandchildren. She lived long enough to bury two husbands and survive a dozen years of stroke rehabilitation. She was a tough old bird and no one would doubt it.

She could be sharp as a tack and just as painful. Her words were as quick as her wit and she wasted no time expressing her feelings about Christmas presents, her wardrobe, sporting events, and nursing home food.

She could also be gentle as a dove and faithful as a collie. She loved her family and was fiercely devoted to both living and dead. She came from and left a large, loving family. Her survivors are a testimony to her loyalty. Their consistent love and care for one another is a statement of her dedication to them.

I will miss Granny. I will miss seeing her take my children’s faces in her palms and smile deeply into their eyes. I will miss the touch of her thin hands and kissing her warm forehead. I will miss her humor and her tears.

Despite my personal sorrow, I’m truly happy for Granny. Today, she no longer needs a walker or wheel chair; she is walking on new legs that are strong and sure. Today, she no longer is dependant on a nursing home or family member to meet her basic needs. She is secure in the presence of God. Today, her hands no longer shake and her breathing is no longer shallow. Today, she breathes deep the grace of God.

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2005-06-11T08:51:00.000-07:00

A Long Walk & A Short Leash

2005-06-11T08:43:00.000-07:00

The dog lives in a crazy world. It begins when she comes out of her crate first thing in the morning. First, she runs in circles, and begins spinning like a top. Then the level of her craziness increases as she pants heavily and jumps straight up in the air three or four times. Once outside she bolts back and forth across the yard in a blur of golden fur. If we let her in the house, she skips and hops from one room to the next, checking every item with a quick sniff. She never sits, she never lays, she never stops. Kula has issues.

We adopted Kula from the Humane Society. Abandoned as a pup and found wandering the streets of Noblesville, Kula is part Golden Retriever, part Chow (aren’t all stray dogs part Chow?) She is beautiful and we love her despite her craziness. But we also want to help her with her issues.

We recently learned that putting Kula on a leash does more to calm her spirit than anything we have tried. No amount of scolding, cussing, or medication has made an impact and we have tried large amounts of all three. Some medications were even given to the dog. Today, when her life begins to spin out of control, we put the leash around her neck and go for a long walk. It reminds her of the order of things. She becomes calm. Her heart finds peace.

Have you ever known a person who could use a long walk and a short leash? Have you ever known someone who lives in craziness and chaos? From the moment they get up in the morning to the time they fall asleep at night, these folks are in constant motion. They jump, they spin, they pant, they run, but they never seem to get anywhere. Their mind and heart is overflowing with a chaos and craziness that eventually spins out into every other area of their life. Perhaps you are one of these people. I know I use to be.

In the book of John, chapter 14, verse 27, Jesus tells his disciples about the gift he is giving them. And it a big one. “Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid.”

Peace. Assurance. Troubled-free hearts. For Kula, Peace comes in the form of a short leash and a long walk. For me it arrives when I give God control of my life. Stillness comes when I allow God to be the Alpha, the leader, the one in charge. When I am willing to follow his direction, I find assurance. When I am willing to walk beside him, I have peace. When I let him lead, I know comfort.

Now if you will excuse me, I need to take a walk with God and my dog.

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Copyright 2005, C. Curtis Austin, A 2BlackDogs Production

The Holocaust

2005-05-24T03:24:00.000-07:00

Genocide

Merciless homocide

Millions were murdered

Horror, ashamed, livid, animosity

Death

by Emily Austin

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The Funeral - Part II

2005-04-21T06:02:00.000-07:00

The family had no church affiliation but wanted a religious service. The pastor’s phone rang a few days later. “I know it’s a tough situation, but would you be able to help?” The request of the funeral home director was desperate. The pastor was happy to help. For $50, the pastor would do anything.

The pastor met with Larry’s mother and stepfather the night before calling hours. They had little to say about Larry but were quick to talk about Julie. They explained how Larry’s death was her fault. He would never have gone to the bar but she insisted. He didn’t even drink that much, really. Oh, sure, a few beers now and then, but he was a very good boy. She must have gotten him drunk.

Besides, they went on, Larry had a girlfriend, and they were very happy together. They had been happy for three years. The minister did the math. Larry and Julie had been apart for less than six months. Larry had been happy with his girlfriend for three years. This entire event was becoming complicated. After another hour of questions without answers, the minister went home to begin writing his sermon.

The funeral was the next morning. For obvious reasons, the casket remained closed and the minister was grateful. As the mourners filed in, they approached the casket, touched it, dabbed tears from their eyes, and found a seat. In the stillness of the chapel, the organ-on-tape played quietly over the speakers. And then Julie entered. She was pushed in a wheelchair by an older gentleman. The pastor guessed him to be her father. She had bandages around her head. Her eyes were black, her face swollen. The man parked the chair at the end of the front row.

From his seat, the pastor looked at those gathered. His focus returned to Julie. Without the bruises and the gauze, she was probably a beautiful, young woman who, only a few days prior, had her entire life ahead of her. But today she was a lonely, heartbroken 23-year-old widow attending her husband’s funeral in bandages and casts, with his girlfriend sitting two rows behind. Her life had taken a terrible turn on an already lost and winding path.

When the music stopped, the pastor-for-hire stood, said a prayer, read a verse, and attempted to speak kind words about a drunken man who killed himself in a fit of rage. He spoke about Larry’s love for his mother, father, brother, and sisters. He spoke of Larry’s work and hobbies. He reminded those gathered of their tragic loss and God’s grace in the midst of this terrible time.

As he said these words, the minister looked at the dry, hollow eyes of Larry’s wife, staring at the altar flowers. He then looked over her head, two rows back, into the puffy, tear-filled eyes of Larry’s girlfriend.

At the conclusion of the service, a family member wheeled Julie to the casket. She sat without moving, her one good hand firmly placed in her lap, her eyes fixed on the flowers. They rolled her away without a sound. When the family had left, Larry’s girlfriend walked slowly, unsteadily, to the wooden box and placed her hand on the lid. She wept quietly. After a time, some older man took her arm and led her away.

The minister stood alone in the quiet of the chapel at the head of the casket, his black suit neatly pressed, his service book clutched in his right hand, the funeral home’s check in his breast pocket.

On To Part III

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The Funeral - Part III

2005-05-01T05:28:00.000-07:00

The mortician and his assistant pushed the heavy casket down the center isle of the small chapel. The pastor, his prayer book in hand and a somber expression on his face, led the way. Six of Larry’s buddies were lined up to receive the box. They wore new jeans, old suit jackets, and mullets. They lifted the casket off the dolly and slowly inserted it into the back of the car.

Larry’s family waited in the limo owned by the funeral home. Julie and her family sat in a limo rented just for the occasion.

The minister went back inside for his coat. As he placed his arm through the first sleeve, he looked up to see a large man approaching. The pastor recognized him as the gentleman who pushed the wheelchair for Julie. The minister smiled pastorally.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” The smile quickly left. The pastor’s mouth opened but nothing came out.

“Did you even know Larry had a wife? ‘Cause you sure didn’t mention her in there!” The man jerked his thumb in a violent motion over his shoulder in the direction of the chapel.

“I’m sorry, sir.” The pastor, shocked and surprised, made a quick attempt to think through his sermon.

“He was married, ya know!”

“Yes sir. I, um….”

“You talked about the grief of his mother and father. You talked about his friends and his work but you didn’t say nothin’ about Julie!” The veins on the man’s neck were bulging. His face was red with anger.

“I’m sorry but I thought…under the circumstances….”

“That’s right!” The man interrupted, “with the circumstances that her husband is dead, you’d think a preacher would want to mention that he had a wife!” And he turned and walked away.

As the underpaid-pastor-for-hire pulled on the other sleeve of his coat, he thought about his sermon, again. The man was right. In a “normal” service, he would have stated “Larry was a loving husband to his wife.” But it seemed out of place here, unless he would add, “and a wonderful lover to his girlfriend.” The pastor shook his head, smiled, and then frowned.

The mortician held the door for the preacher as he climbed into the hearse. It was a quiet ride to the graveside. Between the mortician, the pastor, and Larry, no one had much to say.

The pastor began the graveside service with a short prayer. As he said the AMEN, he looked up to see the large, older gentleman deliberately place his hand on Julie’s shoulder and glare. It was in that moment that the pastor knew what to say. He approached the wheelchair and knelt down so that he was speaking only to the widow.

“Julie,” he began slowly, allowing every head to turn to her battered face. “I realize this entire event has been very painful for you, physically as well as emotionally.” The large man kept his hand on her shoulder and held his gaze on the pastor.

“Julie, I do not believe there are any words that can be expressed at this time that will ease your pain. I can think of nothing to say to you. But I can offer the words of James to the others gathered here.”

With this, the pastor raised to his full height and looked at each person assembled, stopping at the man with his hand on Julie’s shoulder. “Religion that God our Father accepts as pure and faultless is this: to look after orphans and widows in their distress…”

The pastor spoke slowly and deliberately. “It is the duty of each person here to see you through this difficult time, Julie. The days in the past have been very hard. The days ahead will be even harder. God calls each person here today to help you through these tough times. You will need their help and the strength of God to see you through this.”

“No words from any pastor during a short funeral service will make your days any easier. Kind thoughts, sympathy cards, or floral arrangements will not take away the pain. Only time, and support from those near you, will help get you through this terrible time in your life.”

The committal, a prayer, and a moment of silence followed. As the family and friends left the graveside, the large man shot a look at the pastor then wheeled Julie away before the he could offer any more condolences.

Larry’s father and mother walked past the minister. He offered his hand and they turned their heads sharply away, without a word. Later, the pastor would learn that they were offended that the girl who killed their son had come to the funeral. The fact that the pastor spoke to her, giving her the spotlight, was the final straw. This one thoughtless act forever tainted their son’s memory.

The minister rode in the hearse back to the funeral home. The mortician thanked him for the help. He thanked the mortician for the unusual experience then got into his car, drove to the bank, and quickly cashed the check.

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The Funeral - Part I

2005-04-16T09:27:00.000-07:00

Larry and his wife, Julie, had separated. They just could not get along any longer. They fought whenever they were together and so, they decided not to be together. At least this would stop the fighting, even if it would not stop the feelings. And their passions ran deep. That is one of the reasons they were still attracted to each other.

He could be a hot head and strong-willed. She liked that about him. She stood up for herself and stood up to him. He liked that about her. But neither would bend to the other’s wishes and in the end, both would break.

They decided to meet for drinks and talk things out, one last time. Of course, the drink was also a part of their relationship. He liked beer. He liked beer a lot. She preferred the fancy drinks; cocktails with fruit and colorful names. The first glass left her head spinning. Each successive drink increased her numbness to his hurtful remarks and increased her courage to make a few cuts of her own.

After several hours of talking and drinking, the bartender told them it was time to close up. They poured into his car and started the drive home. Talk turned into accusation. Finger pointing turned into shouting and it was not long before they forgot about the interstate and the traffic and saw only their renewed hatred of each other. With each cutting remark from her drunken mouth, his foot pressed harder on the gas. Every foul word he hurled at her brought a spasm of the muscles in his strong arms.

In a flash of time, his shouts and her yells were lost in the screeching of tires, the sound of crushing metal and broken glass. Because the car was going nearly ninety miles-an-hour, the thick embankment in the median was not enough to stop it. Instead, it acted like a ramp for a movie stunt car. It launched the car into the air, causing it to spin. When the car came to earth, the impact was so severe that the entire driver’s side was instantly crushed into the center of the car. But it was not over.

The car continued its trajectory, on its side. The roof of the car caught at the edge of the median and the car began to roll. It tossed into the air and slammed back to the ground. Over and over again. It rolled nine times, flinging bumpers, hubcaps, mirrors, floor mats, doors, and glass. Each item spun off into the air and scattered itself across the highway creating a debris field 300 feet long. At some point, certainly before the first impact, Larry had been ejected from the vehicle. His drunken, dead body lay in the dewy grass of the interstate median.

The car finally came to a stop. Not a sound was heard except Julie’s moans of pain. She was unconscious, blood dripped from multiple cuts and wounds. Both legs, three ribs, her left wrist and right eye socket were broken. A truck driver coming home from Texas witnessed the entire accident. He called for help immediately. Later, the doctors told the family that Julie would not have lived if help had not arrived so soon.

The Funeral - Part II will be available next week.

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