What if God is Not Mad at You?

[This is one of the posts telling a story from the life of my Dad. Click here to see the others.] When I was in middle school, I had developed quite a distaste for doing homework. I still found ways to get assignments turned in and have a good enough grade, but I really disliked the possibility of having to do any schoolwork while I was at home and tried to avoid doing so by any acceptable means. Most times, this plan worked well enough for me. Unfortunately, although the homework-avoidance plans I had were the best that my 11-year-old brain could design, occasionally something slipped through a crack in my scheme and caught up with me. And double-unfortunately, multiple examples of such slips happened in the same class.

It was 6th grade History, and after completely forgetting about two assignments, my teacher started to catch on and recognized that I needed some help with motivation, which she was gracious enough to offer to me by making me take a paper home to get signed by a parent that said something along the lines of, "Your son is not doing his homework, and I need you to sign this to make sure you know about it."

This was a different ballgame. I could deal with an occasional incomplete assignment, but my teacher knew that I wouldn't forge a parent's signature. (It complicated any hopes I had of escaping the situation that she went to our small church with us. I could look at her across the sanctuary on Sunday and be okay with not turning in an assignment, but I knew God would be on her side if I tried to do something along the lines of lying with this form.) So, the time came and I had to own up to my lack of study habits and get the paper signed by one of my parents.

I really didn't want to show the paper to my Dad, so I waited until the last possible moment one morning as we were getting ready for school and took it to my Mom. I got a very well-deserved lecture about needing to learn responsibility, but then she wanted to make sure the lesson sunk in and said, "Go show it to your Dad."

Now I was really bummed. I didn't want my Dad to know that I did stuff like not doing homework assignments. It wasn't the first time I'd gotten a responsibility speech from my Mom, so I knew that the news of my shortcomings wouldn't surprise her (which they didn't), but then she laid the double-whammy on me with the speech plus passing off the signing to Dad.

I had no choice. He was working at his desk. I walked up behind him, didn't say anything, and slid the paper in front of him.

He read it, didn't say anything, got a pen, signed it and handed it back to me. Silence.

Unsure of what to make of the gesture, I grabbed the paper and began to walk back to my room. Then he turned around in his chair and stopped me. "Hey," he said. "Keep up the good work."

I'd never laughed like that nor been so happy in all of my 11 years. Soon afterward, I began to do all of my homework assignments- for that teacher's class.

That's been one of my favorite stories to tell about my Dad for a long time. (Thankfully, my Mom puts up with me telling it... it's made its way into several sermon illustrations in her presence and she's always nice about letting me tell it again. I insist there's nothing in it that makes her look like a mean parent.) The story still makes me smile, because it's a great example of how my Dad could use a combination of being quiet, and also doing something unexpected at just the right time.

Even though I've told this story repeatedly, since he died I've begun to wonder about one part of it: Why was I scared to show him the note in the first place? Certainly I felt guilty about what it represented and wanted to hide it from him, but why? How did I expect he would respond?

For all of the years leading up to that day and in all of the years following it, I never knew him to be anything other than gentle, forgiving, and very slow to become angry. So why didn't I trust those characteristics about him when approaching his desk that morning?

I think there is a poor trick we all play on ourselves internally when we mess something up, and somehow that trick leads us to believe that maybe we aren't as loved as we really are. Even though my Dad was always a model of loving me regardless of my performance, somehow that day I thought my relation to him as his beloved son was in some degree of jeopardy. It was as if I thought this one mistake would be too much for him to bear and would use up the last drop in his uncommonly deep well of patience.

...What if God is not mad at you, about anything? What if he isn't waiting to pounce and dole out a punishment for you? What if he has no lecture stored up for you, but is actually waiting for a chance to surprise you with just how far his grace can reach- just how deeply it can touch the parts of you that have become twisted and led you to mess up in the first place? What if God holds nothing against you, but simply and more than anything else, longs to be reconciled with you- for you to smile in response to realizing that he really loves you?

Has he ever dealt with you in any other way than being slow to anger and rich in love? If not (and I'm quite sure he hasn't), why do we expect anything else?

Why I Almost Lost it Over a Spam Sandwich

[This is one of the posts telling a story from the life of my Dad. Click here to see the others.] Last week I was entrusted with the task of doing our grocery shopping. This doesn't happen often, as my wife carries way more than her share of the load with groceries and meals in our family, just as she also does in many other ways. But it worked out that I could do it one day last week when she needed to work, so I was sent with a list to the grocery store.

Whenever I'm sent with a list, I'm pretty bound by it. I get the things on the list, only the things on the list. But last week I put one additional item in our cart: a can of Spam. Little did I know at the time that this can of Spam would help wake me up to some things going on inside of me that really need to be dealt with.

The day after shopping for groceries, I knew that the can of Spam was available, so I offered to make sandwiches for us for lunch. I really like Spam, Kara will eat it with me 2-3 times a year, and our two-year old's taste for it is yet to be determined. So I was excited to make, and eat, the sandwiches.

In our house, we are trying to be intentional about using certain times of our weekends in Sabbath-like ways, and one of the things we want to do as a family is to use one of our mealtimes together to name things that we are thankful for. As we began to enjoy the rich delicacy of the sandwiches I made, Kara named something she was thankful for. I wanted to say something next so that our son would catch the idea and be able to think of something he wanted to say. So, with Spam-gratitude bubbling up in my heart and mind, this unique meat was going to be part of my statement of thanks. The words that came out were: "I'm thankful for all of the times that I got to have Spam sandwiches with my Dad."

The sentence started fine. By the end of it, I was doing all I could to keep myself from turning into a basket case at our kitchen table.

My Dad really liked eating Spam, and this was the first time that I had any since he died. Any time that it was just the two of us in the house, whether I was a kid or an adult, you could be sure that Spam sandwiches would be the meal of choice. He called it "the good stuff," hinting at our enjoyment of it even though we knew how many people couldn't stand it. He couldn't eat much of anything in the last years of his life, but Spam was the last meal that I remember him fixing, as we came in for lunch one day that I was helping him on the ranch.

I'm finding that there is a strange irony in grief: on one hand, the times that it hits me are unpredictable. I did not intend nor expect to be fighting back tears and struggling to get out choked-up words while eating such a good lunch with my family, and I definitely did not expect that the catalyst for the emotional shift would be the canned meat that I had on my bread.

But on the other hand, I'm discovering that I am consciously and subconsciously very capable of avoiding incidences like that. For me, avoiding any unwanted emotion coming out largely has to do with refraining from saying anything. One level of avoiding it is for me not to say anything in any way. Another level is for me to do what I'm doing now and write about these memories with my Dad. A third level, which I can't handle very well is to physically say the words. (I can write this, but I wouldn't be able to read it aloud to you right now.)

So I realize that I haven't written much since Dad died, and I think it's good for me to change that. But part of my difficulty in writing is that often I feel like that only thing that wants to come out is my grief, and I can come up with a lot of reasons not to write about that. But the fact that a Spam sandwich could so easily bring up emotion in me indicates to me that I'm not getting enough words out about my Dad. So I hope that some of what will come here is that I can tell stories of his life, how they have shaped my life, and how they have taught me so much about the bigger story we all live in- of God's subtle and subversive work in the world in and through normal people.

A Tribute

[This is one of the posts telling a story from the life of my Dad. Click here to see the others.] I wrote this on behalf of my two brothers to be read at my Dad's funeral service last Tuesday:

Our family would like to express our deep gratitude to each of you for being here today and for the words and acts of kindness that so many of you have shown to us during my Dad’s illness and in the days since he passed. Whether you are relatives or friends, your presence here today is of unspeakable value to us.

The experience of you all being here and the things you have said to us about my Dad have reminded me that I’ve had to admit to myself that I was sorely mistaken some years in the past. I used to fear that, when this day would come, there would be very few people who would have know my Dad well and been impacted by his life. I have always counted myself fortunate as one of the chosen few who was able to know him closely and have a lot of time with him, but my fear was that others had no way of recognizing what kind of man he was.

Yet it is truly remarkable how someone of so few words, who spent 90% of his time alone (and loved it that way) and had a deeply seeded aversion to writing letters or making telephone calls could still manage to influence such a number of people. He certainly had an effective way of communicating things that go beyond words; things that many of the rest of us are left grasping at, trying to convey with forceful words or strained actions, somehow he was able to get across making use of nothing more than who he was and how he lived.

Many of you have shared your stories of these things with us over the past days- of his kindness, his integrity, his love, and his wisdom, and these have very rarely had anything to do with words. For example, one of my wife’s favorite memories of him is of going to the ranch after he had been to the feed store to stock up on feed for the cattle in the winter. As we unloaded the feed sacks from his truck, Dad realized that the feed store had given him one more sack of feed than he had requested or paid for. Rather than writing it off as their mistake, as most of us would have done, he made the hour-long round-trip drive back into town to pay for the extra sack of feed, commenting that he hadn’t been helping them count like he should have when they loaded the feed into his truck.

As much as all of us who knew him admired things like that which we saw in my Dad, we also have admired him for the things that we did not see in him- like the fact that I have no memory of him ever being in a hurry or treating another person badly, neither with his words nor his actions. I honestly have no recollection of him ever speaking negatively to me about anyone (with the exception of politicians he disagreed with.)

Think with me for a moment how many troubles would be left in our world if these characteristics of my Dad were the norm rather than as exceptional as they are. What kinds of problems would be left to solve if, as he did, we put aside our need to be angry with others and treat them harshly in order to teach them a lesson? Or if we were always resolved to do the honest thing, by instinct doing whatever our equivalent would be to returning to pay for the sack of feed? Or, how different would we all be if we shared his commitment to leading lifestyles that we love and that are good for our souls rather than giving in to the hurry, hustle and bustle of the world around us?

I will always celebrate these things about my Dad, and in the midst of our pain it has been a joy to celebrate them together with you during these days.

Yet I want to caution us against making a mistake. It’s common for us to praise a quality that we admire in a person, or even as I am doing, to thoroughly praise a person’s character, without taking into account the things done by them that formed that kind of character in them. In my Dad’s case, it would be a mistake for us to recall his integrity, wisdom, patience, and love and not also speak of the role that his faith played in shaping those qualities in him.

Many people were surprised to see our family together in worship here at this church this past Sunday morning, after my Dad’s passing on Thursday. Although I understood their surprise, the ones who said anything to me about it simply had not known my father very long. In his house, if it was a Sunday, we were in church. Again, he never had to lay this rule out for us verbally. It was just in him, and he, in his indescribable way, simply gave it to us. Even on the last Sunday that he was alive, he was here in worship only 14 hours prior to being admitted to the hospital’s hospice unit where he would spend his last few days. His faith was nurtured by the church, and his faith led him to an extraordinary degree of commitment to the church. Being in worship each week, reading the Bible that he had sitting on his desk at the ranch, and all of the hymns that he knew by heart were simply such a large part of how he chose to shape his life that we cannot dare to separate them from his other qualities that were so admirable.

My Dad was never one for telling others what to do, and doing so is no way my desire in sharing this with each of you today. He would have simply kept going about his business, letting every one of us make our own decisions. But, as he always did, he got his point across to me and my brothers without having to say much, and that is a large part of why we will always continue to serve God, and to be faithful to the church, so that, hopefully, we will also always have what it takes to return to pay for the sack of feed.

Again, on behalf of all of our family, our sincerest thanks for being here.

Rest in Peace, Dad

Sunset last Saturday on Dad's Ranch

[This is one of the posts telling a story from the life of my Dad. 

Click here

to see the others.]

As you roll across the trestle

spanning Jordan's swelling tide,

you'll behold the union depot

into which your train will glide.

There you'll meet the Superintendent: God the Father, God the Son,

with a hearty, joyous plaudit: "Weary pilgrim, welcome home!"

Please read: 

There's a Better Solution than Telling Your Kids You Love Them

We're Not as Strong as We Think We Are

Last night, I was working late but didn't mind doing so since my wife and son were able to be with me. I was working on some final details for an experience our entire church will be going through together over the next five weeks, which I have been working on and looking forward to for the majority of the past year. What I needed to accomplish last night was to get curriculum and materials into rooms so that the groups that are studying the material will be ready to go on Sunday morning. I had a dolly (or hand truck? I'm never sure which is correct) loaded up with about 150 packets of materials and books to distribute to different classrooms, and my two year old son was following me around as a helper. He always likes it when he sees that I have the dolly out for something. He walked with me to the closet to find it, and as soon as I had it, he said, "Ride on that." So he enjoyed getting carted around for a while.

After we loaded the materials onto the dolly, I loved it that he continued walking around the church building with me, carrying my pen and pad of paper, and with some guidance was even able to stand in front of some doors to keep them open for me when I wheeled the dolly in. I really dislike working many evenings if it means not getting to see him, but we were having fun together accomplishing our task last night.

The dolly was pretty heavy with all of those materials stacked on it, and at one point he said, "push that" and reached out his hand to take over for me. (I suppose I'm so out of shape these days that my toddler thought he'd better give me a break.) I told him thanks, but that it was very heavy. I told him, "But you can help Daddy push it if you want," and I showed him where he could put his hand on the dolly's side bar. He put it there, and we kept walking to the next classroom while he carried my pen and paper in one hand and helped me push the heavy load with his other hand.

What he was doing was not insignificant in either of our minds. To him, he was helping his daddy push the heavy stuff. To me, I loved it that he wanted to be with me and be part of what I was doing rather than doing anything else.

Whenever I have the chance to pray with coworkers in ministry, I usually say something along the lines of thanking God for giving us the opportunity to be part of his work. I genuinely mean that when I say it. As frustrating as ministry can be at times, it is a privilege to be part of helping see God's kingdom come and his will be done in us and in our world. I realized two things about this as my son and I pushed that dolly last night: 1) I think God genuinely enjoys having us play a part in the process of his work in the world, and 2) in whatever kind of work we're doing, we aren't as strong as we think we are. God carries the load; we just follow alongside him with our hand on the dolly.

Even though God carries the load, it still requires some choices on our part. We have to choose to be with him rather than the myriad of other things that are constantly throwing tantrums to get our attention. Then, being with him in our work, our work can become much more his load than ours- whether we're a pastor, farmer, grocery checker, school principal, pharmacist, or nearly any other kind of work. God can accomplish good through the vast majority of professions that we have. It's just up to us to put our hand on the dolly and offer to help.

(For any of you who are fans of Rich Mullins, like I am, yes, his song of the same title came to mind and helped me realize this last night- although he was looking at our weakness and God's strength from a different angle in the song.)

P.S.: I laughed when I noticed (at the time of proofreading this) that the two Google ads at the right were for companies selling hand trucks and dollies.ind it, and as soon as I had it, he said, "Ride on that." So he enjoyed getting carted around for a while.

It Bothers You More Than It Bothers God

Several months ago, I was playing with my son in our backyard. We have a freestanding porch swing where I prefer to spend a significant percentage of my life, so I sat on the swing while he had toys that he was playing with in the grass. I love it when he wears his cowboy hat, and he really liked wearing it that day. I was enjoying watching him play, and then at times, he would put his toy down, come climb up in the swing next to me and just sit next to his daddy on the swing, wearing his cowboy hat. Then, pretty quickly, he would see something else he wanted to play with, get down and play with it for a while, then crawl back in the swing with me, and the cycle kept repeating. 

My heart felt so full that afternoon. I loved it that even though he had his toys there and enjoyed playing with them, at times he still wanted to come sit with his daddy on the swing in his cowboy hat. The fact that something else would quickly grab his attention didn’t bother me in the least. He wasn’t yet two, and I was much more capable of enjoying his company than he was mine, but it still made my heart want to burst with joy and pride over that little guy when he did turn his attention to me and wanted to be by my side.

When we pray, it is easy to become discouraged, thinking that we have not prayed "well" because our minds have gone in a hundred different directions rather than staying focused on God during the time of prayer. The best spiritual guides I've read and listened to encourage us to completely do away with the categories of praying "well" or "poorly" because of their irrelevance to how God works in us in prayer. They say that the part we play in prayer is mainly just showing up, and I'm convinced that's the part that matters most to God. Distractions will come to us when we pray, and since I expect that's been the case for the huge majority of people who have ever walked the planet, I doubt God is surprised or bothered when it happens to us, particularly in a time that we have set aside to be with him. Even with the distractions, we end up giving God more of our attention when the time is set aside than when it isn't. Surely the distractions bother us much more than they do him.

So, when we realize that the distractions have come, the best advice I've been given is just not to hang on to them with our attention. Rather, as if they were a cloud going by in the sky or a piece of wood floating on a river, we just let them pass by. Once we're aware that the distraction has come and we've made an decision to let it go, then, we crawl back up in the swing with our cowboy hats on and return our attention to our Father, and continue enjoying the chance to be together.

Pecan Orchards and Holiness

[This is one of the posts telling a story from the life of my Dad. Click here to see the others.]

My Dad has poured the majority of his adult life's work into his pecan orchard. It's a great place. 53 acres of land and about 2,600 trees in an area where we don't see much water or enjoy many trees is remarkable. More remarkable, though, is how peaceful it is there. It isn't very often in the kind of lives most of us lead that we get to be somewhere where it's quiet enough that we cannot hear the sound of any car, machine, or other person, but it's like that in the orchard. Often the only sound you'll hear is the breeze blowing in the trees. We had some friends in the orchard with us on Saturday, and we all noticed the lack of the sounds we were accustomed to and the presence of more natural ones. One of them said the breeze sounded like God was breathing on us. I'd never thought of it like that, but it's certainly a place where I've been aware of God's presence, so his description fits.

As we were there last weekend, I thought about how similar that orchard is to our lives in God, particularly in understanding God's role and our roles in our growth. There are plenty of things in nature that God has accomplished on his own, but that orchard isn't one of them; my Dad has put nearly 40 years of constant work into it. It would not have just popped up without him. Yet regardless of how much effort he put in, neither could my Dad make those trees grow. All that he has ever been able to do is to put into place the conditions in which growth will occur naturally. The planting, watering, pruning, and harvesting have all required his effort, but all of them together cannot produce a single pecan tree. My Dad has put in plenty of effort throughout the process, doing his part, in order to give nature the opportunity to do hers.

In her book, Sacred Rhythms, Ruth Haley Barton describes the same characteristic of the spiritual life: “In the end, this is the most hopeful thing any of us can say about spiritual transformation: I cannot transform myself, or anyone else for that matter. What I can do is create the conditions in which spiritual transformation can take place, by developing and maintaining a rhythm of spiritual practices that keep me open and available to God.”

That is what we do as Christians, "create the conditions... that keep us open and available to God." In fact, it is all that we do. It can, and will, take a lifetime of effort on our part, yet in what seems like a paradox, it requires much effort and yet we are utterly powerless to make ourselves grow in any measure. We cannot force any more love, joy, or peace into our lives. Thankfully, though, just as there are natural processes in place in nature that have allowed 53 acres of pecan trees to grow in this "dry and thirsty land," God's grace is dependably available to work in us when we arrange our lives accordingly. We have to put in effort throughout the process, doing our part, in order to give God the opportunity to do his.

"...work out your own salvation with fear and trembling, for it is God who is at work in you..." (Philippians 2:12-13)