Major Scandal …

There is a Major Scandal in Washington.  In that dog-eat-dog town, the President’s dog, named Major, has bitten not one but two people in the White House.  He bit a Secret Service Agent.  He nipped at a Park Service employee. 

The Biden’s have two German Shepherds: Champ, who they adopted as a puppy when Joe Biden was elected Vice-President; and Major, who was fostered out of a home where he had been exposed to toxic material.  The family could not afford the Vet bills, so they put him up for adoption.  The Biden’s took Major in, then adopted him, making him the first shelter/foster dog in the White House. 

I have a soft spot for German Shepherds.  When I was a toddler, we had a German Shepherd named Mo.  Mo was my companion for adventure.  About age two, I wandered off with Mo.  Apparently, I got tired and laid down under an orange tree.  When they found me after several hours of searching, Mo was curled up around me, standing guard. 

The county rest home, called Resthaven, was half a mile up the road from our place, and the residents would occasionally try to escape.  Once again, I wandered off and found an old man who had escaped from Resthaven.  He was lost and was trying to get through one of our barbwire fences.  He was tangled up and cussing up a storm.  When they found me (and him), Mo was sitting beside me, and I was sitting crisscross, entranced by this old man.  We learned new words that day.  

Mo was run over by a car, and we got another German Shepherd.  This one did not stay long.  My Uncle Dow came by the house, and the dog attacked him.  It ripped his shirt off and tore his back up.  I can still see the blood running down Uncle Dow’s back.  I am not sure what happened to that dog, but he was gone by the end of the week. 

I can understand why a President wants a dog.  There is a saying in Washington: “If you want a friend, get a dog.”  Every President, except James Polk and Donald Trump, had dogs in the White House.  I suppose every President needs someone who loves him, even when he messes up, even when the First Lady is mad at him.  After the Monica Lewinsky affair became public, Hillary Clinton wrote their dog “Buddy” was the only member willing to hang out with Bill.  I know men who were not President who had the same experience after they cheated on their wives. 

The White House is not the easiest place to live.  Harry Truman referred to it as “The Great White Jail.”  People are coming and going all the time.  Some are there to protect; some are there to serve,and others are there to govern.  If you are a dog, it is very confusing. 

The dog behavioral experts say the problem is not with Major but with the environment.  Major, they say, has had trauma in his life and reacts badly to the unfamiliar.  I know some people like that.  Major was packed off to Delaware after the first bite to undergo further obedience training.  The experts agree this was a bad move.  The key, they say, is to make the White House a less stressful place and for the Biden’s to participate in his training.  I am not sure that is realistic.  Can you imagine the President saying to the Kim Jong-un of North Korea, “Sorry, I need to get off the phone.  My dog needs my attention.”  Kim Jong-un might take offense and launch a missile. 

Maybe having a biting dog in the White House is a good thing.  I bet more than one President wishes he had a dog he could sic on a political opponent.  They say you can train a dog to tell when someone is lying.  If that is so, I would support an effort to deploy that dog in Washington, New York, and several Baptist churches I know. 

Fun fact: Dogs are mentioned forty-one times in the Bible.  Granted, they are usually not mentioned in a positive light.  In the ancient world, dogs were scavengers, not warm, cuddly puppies.  However, cats are not mentioned in the Bible at all.  Not once.  Draw your own conclusions. 

One mention in the Bible of a dog is in Proverbs 26:17 – “Like one who grabs a stray dog by the ears is someone who rushes into a quarrel not their own.”  Here is what I know about grabbing a stray dog by the ears: Don’t.  This verse might be the guidance needed in Washington: stay out of quarrels that are not yours.  It might just be good advice for you, too.   

Maybe Major needs to wear a sign around his neck that simply says: “If you know what is good for you, do not pull my ears.”

2020 in the Rearview Mirror…

I read an article today that said 2020 has not been the most stressful year in history.  I buy that.  The years of the Black Plague were worse.  Any year of the Civil War was no picnic.  Still, this year has had it’s moments. 

It’s hard to remember the year began with President Trump being acquitted of an impeachable offense by the Senate.  It looked like the election would be the big news of 2020.   

I flew to San Diego for a conference at the beginning of March.  The plane was packed; we’d never heard of “social distance.”  Corona was just starting to be a thing.  I haven’t been on a plane since. 

A week after I got back, orders went out to shut down stores, restaurants, and gatherings.  Churches stopped meeting in person.  One meme I saw captured it perfectly: “Just like that, all preachers became TV evangelists.”  I learned to preach to a camera instead of a congregation.   

When we first went to lockdown, I remember how people wanted to get outside and walk, just to see other people.  I did meetings by ZOOM.  At my house, thankfully, we never ran out of toilet paper, but there were a couple of times we were down to our last two rolls.  We cooked at home every night for a month – it had been a long time since we did that.         

I made lots of phone calls to check on members of our church – over 300.  Other staff members called through the membership and attendees.  We prepared a “doomsday budget” in case giving dropped by 50%.  I remember the panic and uncertainty of those days.   

About the same time COVID began, my sister was diagnosed with cancer.  It was serious.  I prayed every day for her healing.  She began treatments, which sometimes seemed worse than the cancer itself.   

Our church decided to go ahead and build a permanent home for our satellite campus.  I polled friends and experts whether it was wise to try to raise money in this environment.  Five said “yes.”  Five said “no.”  So much for clarity. 

At the same time this was happening, my son and daughter-in-law told me I was going to be a grandfather.  A few weeks later, we found out the baby was a boy.  I had trouble believing I was going to be a grandfather; after all, inside, I still feel like I’m twenty-one.  

Easter 2020 was the strangest Easter I’ve had as a pastor.  I preached three services to the camera.  My family did come for the last service.  I’m not sure which was worse – preaching to an empty room or preaching to my family who were checking their phones. 

We regathered for worship in June.  About half a normal crowd came back.  Some people were not afraid at all: “I’m not afraid, Pastor, give me a hug.”  They were not afraid of me, but I was afraid of them.  A knuckle bump became the new handshake. 

The George Floyd incident, coupled with Breanna Taylor and Ahmaud Arbery being killed, prompted the pastors and police of my community to come together and plan a march for Racial Justice.  Over a thousand people showed up and peacefully marched to declare our support for Racial Justice.  Someone later told me it was the most integrated protest march they had ever seen. 

I had knee surgery in June.  Dr. Ford did a great job repairing my torn meniscus but told me I had arthritis in the knee as well.  Arthritis?  I’m not old enough to have arthritis.  

In July, my brother, my best friend, told me he had cancer.  Two of my siblings with cancer was a blow.  My prayers took on a new fervor: “Lord, I beg you, heal them both.”  Prayer is most honest when it is raw. 

My grandson was born in October.  God reminded me what unconditional love looks like:  When Shep was placed in my arms, I loved him without hesitation, to the bottom of my heart.  Every minute I get to hold my grandson is a treasure. 

The generous people of the church I serve rose up and gave sacrificially so we could build a new building.  Jesus said, “Where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.”  Their hearts are with God’s mission.  

There was a lot of tension about the election.  The Sunday after the election, I preached about “The Sky is not Falling.”  I tried to remind people no matter who won the election, God was still in control.  No one seemed really happy with the sermon.  When that happens, it means you preached poorly, or you ticked everybody off.  It’s hard to tell sometimes which is which. 

In November, it seemed like people I love started dying.  When you pastor one church for more than twenty-six years, you get the chance to love people deeply.  I’ve done funerals the last few months of this year of people I treasure.   

I was named “Large-Church Pastor of the Year” in South Carolina.  When they first called me, I thought it was a joke.  Then I wondered if “large” referred to the size of our church or the weight of the pastor. 

My sister died the first week of December.  I’m still trying to absorb that load of grief.  Just the other day, my grandson did something cute and I started to call Clemie Jo to tell her when I remembered she would not answer her phone anymore.  I miss her. 

I spent the holidays with my family and had the joy of having my grandson fall asleep in my arms.  I have a new idea of what heaven feels like. 

Through it all, God has walked with me.  I sensed his presence, his grace, and his love.  Jesus said, “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.”  In all the ups and downs of the year, the peace of God has been offered to me.  And no matter what 2021 holds, the peace of God is still offered to me and to you.  His peace comforts your troubled heart and drives out your fears.  Let 2021 be the year of God’s peace reigning in your heart.

Turning the Corner…

My sister Clemie Jo passed away last week. She fought cancer for eight months. 

Clemie Jo was eleven years older than me. Growing up, she was my protector from my brother Steve. Her motivation, I believe, was guilt. Mama used to say as mean as Steve was to me, it was nothing compared to how mean Clemie Jo was to Steve. 

There was the time she ran over Steve with the goat and the cart. My father had bought a small cart and a one-horned billy-goat. Clemie Jo and Steve were riding around in the little cart when Steve fell out. If Clemie Jo was telling the story, she turned back around to get Steve and accidentally ran over him. If Steve was telling the story, she ran over him, pulled the reins hard to the left and made a circle so she could run over him again. 

Clemie Jo and I were the wanderers. Mama said if she wanted to know where Steve was, all she had to do was look down and there he was, between her knees. But Clemie Jo would take off with one of the dogs and ramble. When she was about three, she struck out for the highway, a mile up the dirt road. She crossed the road and was spotted by a distant cousin (everyone in our community was a distant cousin either by marriage or blood). When he hollered for her, she ran and climbed up an orange tree. Nothing was going to interrupt her adventure. 

People don’t have childhoods like we had. We had no pavement on which to ride a bike, but we thought nothing about saddling up our horses after school and riding through the pastures of our relatives. We swam in the creeks, not in pools. When Clemie Jo was still a toddler, our parents lived in the old house, which was still a dog-trot in those days (if you don’t know what a dog-trot is, you don’t know your Southern history. Look it up). Daddy might catch a baby-alligator and bring it home so Clemie Jo could play with it. Once, he brought home a monkey. Mama was not a fan of animals in the house and a long discussion ensued about where the monkey would live. I don’t remember now where the monkey wound up sleeping, but it turned out he was a biter. He was either turned out or sent to monkey heaven. 

We had a little dog named Tinker Toy. When Tinker Toy was still a puppy, Mama heard Clemie Jo cry out, and then the dog yelped. Mama rushed around the corner to find out what was going on. She asked Clemie Jo what had happened. Clemie Jo replied “Tinker Toy bit me and it hurt.” Mama: “Why did Tinker Toy yelp?” Clemie Jo: “I bit him back.” 

I was not the easiest little brother to have. About four years after our father died, Clemie Jo was of the age to date. Mama was ready to date a little too. I was only five or six, so they would fight over who had to take me on their dates. I ruined a good thing for Clemie Jo the summer she was dating two boys at the same time: one in the afternoon, and one in the evening. I came in the living room one night and promptly announced the young man in the living room was not the same young man who was there earlier in the afternoon. An awkward conversation followed. 

Clemie Jo would have a lot of ups and downs in her life. She had cancer thirty years ago and beat it. She knew the pain of the divorce and the joy of two children she loved fiercely. She once told me she knew why God never made her rich: she would give most of it away. If you were her friend, she was loyal, generous, and protective. Woe betide the one who attacked those she loved. She would rise up like a mama bear protecting her cubs. 

She could do amazing things in the kitchen. Her fried corn bread was the stuff of legend. Proofs of the existence of God include the evidence of creation, the sense of a moral conscious, and Clemie Jo’s banana pudding. Every year, she would put a generous portion of her banana pudding into a Yeti cooler to be auctioned off at the Sliver Spurs Rodeo. Every year, her banana pudding in the cooler would take the top prize at the auction. Once it brought $7,400. The man who bought it said he had no use for the cooler, but he was going to enjoy every mouthful of the pudding. 

It’s hard to lose a sibling. Cancer doesn’t make sense to me. The only explanation I can give for cancer being in the world is the world is not the way it is supposed to be. I prayed for Clemie Jo’s healing. I don’t know why God heals some folks and not others. When you confront the things in life that don’t make much sense, you can either decide life really has no point, or you can trust that somehow God is at work, but you just can’t see the whole picture. It feels like something is just out of view, something is just around the corner. 

I talked to Clemie Jo two days before she died. She’d just finished another chemo treatment and said she felt better than she had in weeks. She told me, “I feel like I really turned a corner.” I remember praying that night for her healing. Two days later, she turned a corner, alright. 

Clemie Jo believed. She had deep faith and a profound trust. I’m going to miss her. But I know she is home. She turned the corner, right into Jesus’ arms.

When does Your Story Begin?

Sooner or later, every child asks, “Where did I come from?”  Some adults may blush while others calmly explain that because Mommies and Daddies love each other they want to have babies. 

The question “Where did I come from” is really a question that asks, “When did my story begin?”  We want to hear stories about how Mom and Dad met, how they fell in love.  Sometimes we thirst to hear stories about why Mom or Dad isn’t in our lives anymore. 

If you read the Bible, somewhere along the way you make the connection that the Bible’s story is really your story.  Just like Adam and Eve, you’ve made poor choices.  God calls you to an adventure like He called Abraham and Sarah.  Just when you start to protest your unworthiness, like Moses, God tells you the job is yours.  You have been blessed and you still mess up – like David; God forgives you. 

Your story is like Peter’s:  flawed, but still chosen.  You are like Paul: called to change the world wherever you go.  You are John, beloved by Jesus, and given a message to share.  Your story is the Bible’s story. 

Learn a little church history.  You are Gregory the Great, called to responsibility in the church without losing your love for Jesus.  You are St. Francis of Assisi, opening your eyes to the amazing work of God in every moment of life.  You are John Calvin, Martin Luther, John Smyth, and Thomas Helwys, who saw a church that strayed from scripture and rallied to the idea that the Bible alone was enough. 

Reading scripture and reading church history, though, only starts the conversation.  The truth is your story begins much earlier, earlier even than the words of Genesis.  Your story begins when there was no time, no stars, no gravity – when there was nothing you and I recognize as “universe.”  

There was only God.  Your story begins and my story begins when God says, “I will make a universe.”  I can only imagine there was conversation between Father, Son, and Holy Spirit before God speaks.  That conversation had to acknowledge how this creation business would turn out.  For the universe to be more than a wind-up toy (and it surely is more than a wind-up toy), space for choice and freedom would also be necessary.  And God knew what we would do with choice and freedom. 

So, the plan, from the foundation of the world, would require redemption to be built in.  From the beginning, it was clear that a sacrifice would have to be made.  The Son would have to come into that which was created, exist in this world, and pay a price to buy back the wreck creation would become when our freedom went to our heads. 

Before the light shown, God knew you.  Before the light shown, God planned Christmas. 

When did your story begin?  The same time Christmas began.  Your story is the story of Christmas – a sinner who needed a Savior, the Savior who comes at Christmas.

Black and White Westerns…

I’m in a room, waiting for my truck to get serviced.  They told me I need new front brakes and a new battery.  Funny how you go in for one thing and they find two more things that need to be fixed.  The TV is showing an old western movie, “3:10 to Yuma.”  Not the Russell Crowe version; the Glen Ford, black and white, original.   

I grew up on black and white Westerns.  We watched “Bonanza” and “The Rifleman” on a small, thirteen-inch black and white TV.  Roy Rogers always was the good guy and this actor, Ronald Regan, introduced the story of the week on “Death Valley Days.”  

We loved the gunfights.  We knew they weren’t real because guns were part of our lives.  My brother, Steve, always counted the shots of the shooters.  We knew a Colt revolver only had six shots.  The good guys and the bad guys would shoot indiscriminately, ten or twelve shots without reloading.  Hollywood was never concerned with accuracy. 

We’d also seen enough animals shot to know bullets leave holes and holes leak blood.  Not in black and white Westerns.  A man would get shot, grab his stomach, then fall.  Sometimes he would fall off his horse, or off a roof; then the camera focused on his body.  Bullets in those days must have killed without entering the body. 

In most Westerns, you knew the good guys and the bad guys.  John Wayne was always the good guy.  Good guys always wore white hats.  The bad guys were unshaven, wore black hats, and smelled bad.  We couldn’t smell through the TV, but you could tell.  Occasionally, there was a plot twist: the bad guy would turn good and stand with the other good guys.  He would shoot his former partners and then the Sheriff would give him a horse and a head-start.  We all knew the Sheriff wouldn’t chase him.  As the credits rolled, we hoped he would find a good woman, settle down, raise some cows, have some kids, and never turn to crime again.  I’m not sure it really works that way in real life. 

I do remember as a child thinking, “There sure are a lot of bad things happening on the Ponderosa.”  I lived on a ranch, just like Adam, Hoss, and Little Joe.  We never had rustlers trying to steal our cattle, or bandits who tried to break into the bank.  When we rode out to work cows, we never found a traveling snake-oil salesman or a tramp passing through.  Some of the older hands would actually carry a rifle or a pistol, but the guns were used only to kill rattlesnakes.  We never had a shootout with a gang.  Of course, our ranch was not out west; we were down south.   

About the time we got a color set, Westerns changed to color too.  Marshall Dillon was still the good guy, but we were never sure if Clint Eastwood was the good guy or the bad guy.  The shows changed: the bad guys seemed to win more often.  The good guys weren’t always good; sometimes they turned out to be the bigger crooks.  The girls seemed to like the bad guys more than the guys with white hats.  The producers and directors told us they were producing “art.”   This is real life, they said.  But pop-culture moved on.  Cop shows replaced the Westerns.  The Westerns rode off into the sunset. 

Art, they say, imitates life.  Maybe the black and white Westerns represented the way most of us saw life.  We wanted to believe people were easily divided into good guys and bad guys.  We hoped the bad guys always had to pay for their crimes and the good guys always got the girl.  Decisions are easier when everything is in black and white. 

Jesus followers know there are no “good guys” and “bad guys.”  In every one of us, there is the capacity to be very bad.  That capacity to be bad becomes reality more than any of us want to admit.  Paul wrote a great insight: “There are none that are righteous; no, not one.”  Life really is a matter of black and white, and all of us are the bad guys.   

This is the “why” of Christmas.  Jesus, fully God, fully man, came to live on this earth and die for our sins.  He opened the door for us to become one of the “good guys,” something we cannot accomplish on our own.  Unlike the sheriff, he doesn’t give us a horse and a head start.  He invites us to follow him, to learn from him, to live a Kingdom life.   

Amidst all the color of Christmas, there is still a black and white truth:  My hope is not in what I can do; it is in what Jesus has done for me.  What he has done for you?  What he has done for us all?

Giving Thanks in Stormy Times…

The week after Halloween, we noticed a Christmas tree lit up through a neighbor’s window.  Then we saw another.  And another. I started counting the number of Christmas trees I saw.  I quit when I reached a dozen.  A dozen, I figure is a trend.  My neighbor down the street has already put up his outdoor Christmas lights, putting pressure on all the rest of the neighborhood. 

Thanksgiving this year will be different for so many families.  People are afraid to travel, older folks are afraid to gather, and who wants to get together with your crazy cousin who attacks you based on who you voted for? 

Maybe that is why we have gone from the sugar rush of Halloween straight to the hope of Christmas.  Thanksgiving is a speed bump this year.  There will be no audience at the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade and no cross-conference rivalry games.  Just today, I saw an article about people buying smaller turkeys because they will not be feeding as many people this Thanksgiving.  Makes me feel kind of sorry for all the fat turkeys.   

Many of us will be glad to see 2020 go.  We endured months of quarantine, dwindling supplies of toilet paper, masks, and separation from our loved ones.  Some families lost their loved ones.  Medical personnel, pastors, and caregivers are fatigued and burned out.  On top of the pandemic, we endured riots, debates, relentless political ads, and a yo-yo economy.  It has been a stormy year.   

In the Psalms, there are songs of lament.  These are prayers made to God in stormy times.  When you read them, what strikes you is how many include words of thanks.  How can you thank God in stormy times? 

You thank God in stormy times by refocusing.  You set aside your anxieties and look at your life from God’s perspective.  This requires being “non-me-centric” for a few minutes.  This change of view will cause you to see gifts from God you might have taken for granted. 

You realize life is a gift.  God did not have to allow you to be born.  He did not have to intervene to keep you alive.  God did not even have to design your incredible body that breathes without conscience thought and processes food into energy without your concentration.  When was the last time you thanked God for a body that functions as well as it does?   

Most of us have people in our lives that love us.  Do you think those people just came into your life by accident?  One of my closest friendships happened because I was assigned to share an office in grad school.  Accident or divine gift?  When is the last time you thanked God for the people in your life who encourage you and tell you the truth?   

Keep looking at your life from God’s perspective.  Most of you reading this column have more than you need.  Our economy emphasizes what you do not have in order to sell you more.  But consider your closet.  There have been kings in history who had fewer clothes than you have.  When was the last time you thanked God not just for what you have, but for having more than you need? 

I think sometimes about the life of my great-grandfather, who took his young wife and small children and made a wagon trip from North Florida to South Central Florida.  That trip must have taken him weeks.  I can drive it in four and a half hours.  I don’t know why God allowed me to live in a time of easy transportation and indoor plumbing, but I am grateful for both.  When was the last time you thanked God for letting you live now, instead of a different era of time? 

Especially in stormy times, God holds us.  He gives us strength.  He teaches patience.  He provides hope. Our anxieties can blind us to God’s gifts of character.  Character is formed in that part of your soul that is eternal.  When was the last time you gave thanks for God’s hand forming your soul? 

If you are a Jesus follower, there is of course the greatest gift of God.  The idea of being a “sinner” is
off-putting to people, but to accept that label is to embrace the deepest truth about our lives: we are broken people.  No one has it all together, some people just hide it better than others.  A Jesus follower chooses to believe that God, who is rich in mercy, sent his Son to earth to pay the penalty for our sins and to offer us a different life, a new birth.  When you embrace Jesus, it means your failure does not define you or determine your future; your relationship with God does.  He is not merely a benevolent being; God is your Heavenly Father.  You are adopted into his family.  No matter what storms come, nothing changes how much your Heavenly Father loves you.  When was the last time you thanked God for welcoming you into his family? 

Don’t rush past Thanksgiving.  Get perspective.  Give thanks.

Mornings on Horseback…

It was a long time ago but still very clear in my memory.  We were going to work cows.  Pop, my stepfather, believed in starting before dawn.  He wanted to be riding out when the first light broke.  That meant you were up early, out to the barn to saddle up, load your horse in the trailer, and ride through the early morning fog to the front gate of the pasture. 

The sun had not yet broken over the horizon, though fingers of light were pushing against the fog.  We stopped to unload the horses and mount up.  My brother Steve and I would have the long ride this morning.  We were to go to the far corner and start pushing the cows towards the pens. 

If you have never ridden a horse, you do not know the stillness of riding.  That morning I could hear the creak of the saddle-leather, the gentle dropping of the horses’ hooves on the grass, and the “bob-white” call of quail.  The cows were still a ways off, not yet seeing us, not yet disturbed in their grazing.  There was no hint of Florida’s heavy humidity and heat, just a cool dampness that seemed to rise from the ground. 

Steve went left and I went right to circle around a bunch of cows off in the Heflin block.  We would have to move them about a mile toward the pens.  One by one, the cows lifted their heads from their morning graze, eyeing us suspiciously, but not yet moving.  My horse jumped over a full drainage ditch where I saw two baby alligators in search of their morning meal.   

I had made the circle and now started to ride up behind the cattle.  They began to move in the desired direction, mooing to each other.  Calves sought the sides of their mamas, the herd slowly gathering.  An old bull stubbornly refused to move; Steve cracked his bullwhip over the bull’s back, and he got the message.  Ponderously he moved to join the herd, grunting his displeasure. 

The sun had risen by now, bringing not warmth, but the real heat of an early summer Florida day.  The cattle were moving in the right direction, headed toward the barbed-wire gap we had opened.  This was always the tricky part: keep the cattle moving without them stampeding through the fence.  They were cooperative that morning, moving through the gap. 

We had to gather them after they made their way into the other block.  A few hard-headed cows went off in the wrong direction.  I spurred my horse to outpace them, got in front of them, and then turned them back toward the herd.  The noise level had risen; every cow, it seemed, had an uneasy feeling they needed to express. 

Uncle Earl and Uncle Barney brought a bunch of cows from the north side, while Pop and Uncle Bedford brought a bunch from the south.  Steve and I started with about 150 head; now, 300 head were in one herd, needing to get across another hundred acres before we reached another gate and the trap.   

By now we had been in the saddle for a couple of hours.  The critical moment had arrived.  Faced with a closing box, the cattle were tempted to bolt and run.  You had to keep up the pressure, keep them moving in the direction you wanted.  Several times one would break out, and Steve or I would have to run them down, turn them back, and get them moving back toward the herd.   

Trickles of sweat were snaking their way down my back; my horse was lathered up.  We had run together (though he was doing most of the work) after the strays and worked our way back to keep the herd moving.  Finally, we were at the gate that led to the trap.  Three hundred cattle were trying to squeeze through a fourteen-foot gate all at once.  Once they all got through, the youngest (me), swung off his horse and closed the gate.  I remounted and then we pushed about half to the pens.  We would get the rest of them later. 

Those mornings on horseback felt so good: the quiet, the beauty, the sense of purpose.   It was the kind of work a man could take pleasure in.  The work seemed almost holy.  Maybe it was. 

In that most beloved Psalm, we are told, “The LORD is my shepherd…”  Shepherd and cowboy are not the same thing, but close.  I can picture the Lord out in the morning, pushing all the sheep he loves to the pen, chasing the strays, keeping the flock moving.  What I know for sure is this: He wants you to be in his flock, moving in his direction. 

The Whole World in His Hands…

Outside my window there was a group of children playing football.  There was one very tall boy, one very tall girl, a half dozen mid-size kids, and three or four pint-sized munchkins.  They had organized themselves: the two tall kids were captains and quarterbacks, the little kids were running backs and receivers, and rest were lineman and defensive backs. 

Their game was compelling.  I stopped my work to watch.  The tall-boy team was moving the ball down the field in a series of runs, picking up yardage.  Then a fumble.  Ever seen twelve children pounce on one spot?  It looked like a pack of hungry dogs who had found a bone.  One of the tall-girl team-members was at the bottom of the pile, curled up around the ball.  A turnover. 

The first play of the tall-girl team was a handoff.  A speedy girl with long black hair took off.  She made the corner and was running toward the goal.  Her teammates were running after her and the tall-boy team was in hot pursuit.  Through my window I could hear laughter and shouts as they chased the black-haired blur.  She crossed some imaginary goal line and spiked the ball. Touchdown for the tall-girl team. 

I wanted to get up, leave my desk, and get in the game, but I had a deadline to meet.  People were waiting on me.  But clearly those children were having much more fun than I was having.  There was joy in their game, laughter in their running. 

Before I returned to my computer and the ever-blinking cursor, I thought about all the things those kids were not worried about: the election, COVID19, violence, the economy, and a thousand other things that filled my thoughts.  If those children knew about those things, they did not worry about them.  My hunch was they left the weightier matters to their parents.  They were being who they were made to be: children. 

I know not every child has an idyllic childhood.  But even children in horrific environments know how to play.  It seems to be hardwired into our souls.  Our souls long to laugh and run, to feel the joy of deliciously wasted energy.   

I can’t remember the last time I ran just for the fun of it.  Come to think about it, I can’t remember the last time I ran.  It seems like most of my day is about getting things done.  Even my Sabbaths can feel hurried: “I have to hurry up and rest so I can get back to work.”  I don’t think that is what God had in mind when he said, “Six days you shall labor and the seventh you shall rest.”  Though lots of energy was being expended by the kids outside my window, I felt sure those children were Sabbathing better than I do. 

Jesus once said, “Unless you become like a little child, you cannot enter the Kingdom of heaven.”  Among other things, I think Jesus meant to really live the life God wants you to live, you have to leave things in His hands.  Sure, we care about elections and COVID, justice and the economy, but ultimate solutions are in God’s hands. Jesus’ invitation to us is to be children, loved by our Heavenly Father. 

An older, wiser follower of Jesus once told me I needed to pray until I no longer felt anxious.  That would mean I truly had left the matter in God’s hands.  God’s hands are wide enough to hold whatever you place there and strong enough to work in ways you cannot understand.   

The Apostle Paul wrote, “Be anxious for nothing, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God.  And the peace of God, which passes all understanding, will guard your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus.”  Anxiety is always a prayer-cue.  When you present your requests to God, and leave them with him, a peace you cannot understand guards your soul, even if your prayer is not answered in the way you wish.  Our God is the adult in the relationship.  He’s got you.  He’s got me.  As the old song goes, “He’s got the whole world in His hands.”

Two Funeral Processions…

I drive in a lot of funeral processions.  It’s an odd part of my job.  Usually I’m placed between the funeral director’s car and the hearse.  Most of the time the processions are short: from the funeral home to the cemetery, or from the church to the cemetery.  Occasionally the cemetery is out of town and the journey is a little longer.   

Funeral processions do not move quickly, usually about thirty or forty miles an hour.  I’m not sure why.  Maybe it feels more mournful.  In most of the South, the procession is escorted by police.  If you’re driving in the South and you see a funeral procession, it’s customary to pull over.  It’s a sign of respect.  You honor a life and a family when you do. 

Last week, I was asked to officiate the funeral of a man whose family attended our church.  He did not attend, but I had met him a time or two.  The man had put in twenty-four years of active service in the Air Force and went back to work as a civilian contractor.  A motorcycle enthusiast, he was killed when his bike hit a concrete median.   

When I pulled up to the church for the service, I was amazed.  There were at least a hundred Harleys in the parking lot.  The deceased was part of a bike club that rode together and socialized together.  His biker buddies had shown up in force for the funeral.   

After the service, the bikers mounted up and a hundred Harleys roared.  The lead escort of bikes was followed by a biker with two American flags flying from the rear of the bike.  The police escorted us to the county line at the normal funeral procession speed, but once we crossed the Wateree River bridge, with the motorcycles in the lead, the pace picked up.  We were headed to the Fort Jackson National Cemetery.  As I drove behind the Harleys, I thought about the bikers.  Most of them were over forty.  You could tell some were retired, but most appeared to still be working.  They were decked out in leather and denim, and there were more tattoos than average, but they were there to honor their buddy and support his family.  They had taken off time from work or from home to be there. 

At the cemetery, the bikers dismounted, stood in quiet reverence during taps and the rifle volleys, and listened to Psalm 23.  When I said the final “Amen,” and spoke to the family, they moved forward to offer hugs, offers of help, and once again, share their own grief.   

The next day, I was headed to North Carolina to pick apples with my wife.  At Newberry, I saw an enormous fire truck, a ladder truck on an overpass.  Its ladder was extended full length and an American flag was flying from the top.  Then I remembered:  Greenville County Deputy Sherriff Conley Jumper had been killed in the line of duty.  His funeral was in Greenville, but they were burying him in Newberry.   

We drove further up the interstate and I noticed State Troopers blocking entrance ramps, so Deputy Jumper’s procession would not be interrupted.  People were standing on overpasses, waiting to salute. 

Then we saw the flashing blue lights.  Two State Troopers were in the lead.  Then some Greenville County Sheriff’s vehicles.  Then the hearse and the family limo.  Other family cars.  Then more police cars.  And more. And more.

If you’ve never been to a law enforcement funeral service, brother and sister first-responders come from all over the country to form an honor escort.  Deputy Jumper’s service was no different.  I saw cars from just about every city and county in South Carolina.  There were fire trucks and ambulances.  Not every car had a sticker, but you could tell some were from out-of-state.  The procession stretched out at least ten miles or more.   

These law enforcement officers were doing exactly what the bikers had done: they gathered to show support, to be there, to share the grief.  I think, but I’m not sure, that bikers and officers share a bond with each other.  Unless you’ve been on a bike, you can’t really understand what it’s like.  Unless you have responded to a call, siren blaring, you can’t really understand what it’s like. You have to be there.   

When God sent his son Jesus to earth, he was emphatically saying, “I do understand what it’s like.  I’ve been there. I sent my Son to earth so you would know I know what life is like.  I know grief.   I lost my Son.  But I raised him from the dead.   I do not want you to grieve as people without hope.  In the face of death, put your hope in me.” 

God has been there.  God is here.  And God will be there.

Grandfather…

Grandpa Smith died twenty-two years before I was born.  I only ever heard stories and saw a few pictures.  He was a rancher, a citrus man, and a country preacher.  He did well for a period of time.  In addition to the ranch, he owned a packing house, a house in Tampa, I believe, and traded cattle back and forth.  But he made the mistake of trusting a man he knew well in a cattle-deal, and took the man’s word for the number of cattle he was buying.  Turned out they were running the same cattle by two or three times.  Then came the Great Depression.  If you think these are hard times, they are nothing compared to the misery of no one wanting to buy your cattle or oranges and having to borrow on your son-in-law’s life insurance policy to pay taxes. 

Grandpa Smith was a diabetic before synthetic insulin.  He was supposed to watch his diet, but he didn’t.  Decades after his death, I spoke with Mrs. Anna Cowart, who nursed him when he got bad.  She told me he would empty the sugar bowl in his coffee, stir it, and then spoon up the coffee/sugar mix (Hey Starbucks, I have an idea for you).  Diabetes and heart disease killed him at sixty-one.

Grandpa Clemons, my mother’s father, was a character – and that’s putting it mildly.  Granted, his early years were hard.  He was “turned out” at age 9 and told to go make his way in the world.  He started as a cook on a dredge in the Kissimmee River.  He not only had to cook the food and clean up after meals, he had to go ashore and kill a deer or a turkey for supper. 

He took a job with Irlo Bronson and took most of his pay in cattle.  At the height of the depression, he somehow secured a thousand-dollar bill.  He’d go to a country store, buy groceries, and then try to pay with that thousand-dollar bill.  Of course, the store wouldn’t have nearly that amount of change in the drawer.  The owner would usually extend him credit.  Grandpa would start running a tab.  When the tab got close to that thousand-dollar mark, he shifted to another store, and started the process over.  Believe me, I know that’s not right, but he got a lot groceries out of that thousand-dollar bill.

Grandpa Clemons was known to disappear from home for months at a stretch.  Sometimes he was off trading cattle or horses in Texas; or organizing and promoting a rodeo; or competing in a rodeo; or just off somewhere doing who knows what. 

He bought the Okeechobee Livestock Market with a partner and set my Uncle Pete to run it.  Somehow, he got started in earthmoving and had a construction company.  With a third-grade education he did all the estimating for how much dirt would have to be moved and how long it would take.  In his own way, he was a genius.  He started with nothing and ended up a wealthy man.

I spent a few days with him growing up, but he was not the kind of grandfather who got on the floor to play with you or take you to Disney world.  He once promised me a waterfront lot in Buckhead Ridge when I got married, but apparently, like a lot of his promises, he forgot that one. 

I became a grandfather recently.  My son and his wife have a new-born son, Shephard Alexander Smith.  Because of COVID, I haven’t seen or held him yet, but I will soon.  Already I want to reach through the phone and snuggle him.

I’ve been a father for about 30 years now.  The jump to being a father-in-law wasn’t that far.  Being a grandfather is a whole new role.  I’ve tried to learn from other grandfathers in the past years about what I’m supposed to do. 

As I understand it, Grandfathers are supposed to spoil their grandchildren, delight in them, do their best to secure their future, build them playhouses, be there for ballgames and dance recitals, offer wise advice, and pinch hit so parents can get some rest.  I think I am up for the job.

It strikes me that though we think of God as our Heavenly Father, there are ways in which he is like a Grandfather.  Our Heavenly Father spoils us with grace.  He delights in us, in our joys, successes, when we get things right.  Our Father has secured our future by offering Jesus as payment for our sins.  He is building us a heavenly home.  Through the Holy Spirit, our Father is there for us, at ballgames, dance recitals, births, weddings, divorces, heartbreaks, and every up and down life brings.   He gives us wise counsel in His word.  When we are exhausted, he is there to give us rest, all of us who are weary and heavy laden. 

Maybe I have a pretty good model for being a grandfather after all.

Aunt Bill…

Most people looked surprised when I told them I about my Aunt Bill.  She was named Billie Jean, but everyone, from her mother to her friends called her Bill. 

Aunt Bill was my mother’s only sister.  She shared with my mother and two brothers a life on central Florida ranches as my grandfather moved from ranch-hand to ranch owner.  Grandpa believe his children were free labor.  If the intake pipe on the pump was clogged, he would tell them to unclog it.  Their solution: Tie a rope around the youngest brother’s waist and tie a concrete block to his feet.  Then they would throw him in, he would sink, pull out of the pipe what he could, and then yank the rope.  Sometimes, Sissie, Pete, and Bill would even remember to pull him up.  Aunt Bill always said if it wasn’t for her, Bud would never have survived to adulthood.

She married Uncle Larry, a friend of her brother.  Larry was a vet, just starting out.  Two kids came along: Terry Lynn and Bob.  This is when she came into my memory.  We would go to Aunt Bill’s house every Easter.  Being the youngest, I was at a distinct disadvantage in the egg hunt.  Aunt Bill would make sure every child got some eggs and would hide some especially for me to find.   Sometimes Mama would leave me at Aunt Bill’s for a few days (every Mom needs a break).  Being with Aunt Bill was fun.  She would let you play throughout the house, roam around the barn, even play in the boat.  I remember piloting that boat through storm after storm as it sat on its trailer under the barn on a sunny day.  Imagination is powerful thing.  When I came in from playing, she took time to enter my world and ask, “How rough was the water?”  I would spin tales of narrow escapes, sea monsters, and alligators.  Then she would give me a slice of cake to fortify me for my next adventure.

After my Father died, Aunt Bill was beyond kind to my mother and to us kids.  If she went to the beach, we were invited.  If she was staying a week at the lake, we came along.  When she wanted her kids to see the mountains, we joined the trip.  You haven’t lived until you ride in the rear-facing backseat of an Oldsmobile Vista Cruiser station-wagon through the Great Smoky Mountains.  Mama would have never taken that trip by herself.  Aunt Bill opened the doors to a bigger world.

Tragedy struck her life.  Uncle Larry was killed by a drunk driver.  She went from the comfortable life as the vet’s wife to needing to make a living for her family.  She took his seat on the school board, learned to be a realtor, and began to rebuild her life.  Her mother, my grandmother, used to say, “Life will make you bitter or better.”  Aunt Bill strove for better.

She married again and took a new family under her wing.  It was not easy.  Aunt Bill was determined (stubborn?) to make it work. 

In one of those God-ironies God likes to sprinkle on our lives, Aunt Bill decided to follow Jesus during a revival at the Methodist Church in Venus (Venus, Florida, look it up).  Granny, Mama, and Uncle Pete all made their decisions for Jesus during the same revival.  They were baptized by the Baptist preacher a few days later in one of the nearby lakes.  The irony is this: the Baptist church in Venus was founded by my father’s father.  He had already passed away, but his future daughter-in-law, and my father’s future mother, brother, and sister-in-law became members of the church he began.

Aunt Bill had the kind of faith that believed God was at work in all things.  She loved Jesus, served his church, and did good.  If more people lived their faith like Aunt Bill, there would be a lot less meanness in the world.

There was a time in my life when I needed encouragement and support.  I was a young adult, prone to mistakes (what young adult isn’t?).  There were things going on and I needed the encouragement and guidance of someone who was not my mother.  I’ll never forget her calling me.  I don’t know how she knew what was going on, but she listened, supported, and did not judge.  She did what good aunts and uncles do – she was there.

Aunt Bill died last week.  She was 91 and had lived a good, long life.  She navigated the real storms of life and her faith saw her through.  Because of COVID, timing, and distance, I was not able to go to her funeral. 

I find myself very sad.  I’m not really sad for Aunt Bill.  She is with our Heavenly Father.  The decision to follow Jesus in Venus some eighty years ago held her safe through death into eternity.  I’m sad for me.  I feel another piece of childhood has gone.  One more storehouse of memories and stories has left.  A wise friend of mine once asked, “What will I do when there is no one left who remembers my childhood?”

I was planning to go by and visit Aunt Bill this past March.  COVID came.  The trip didn’t seem wise.  I really regret not making that trip.  I would like to hear Aunt Bill tell a story and laugh one more time.