So Seldom Pure

Life is so seldom purely good. It seems that evil most always finds a way to taint our moments. But sometimes not. Sometimes there are those priceless moments when life is purely good. The following is part of my personal list ...

Life was always purely good at my grandmother's breakfast table when I was young. When I stayed overnight at her house, I would awaken in her front bedroom to the smell of coffee; and from there on, it was always the same. Down the hallway to that bright kitchen and her big ole' loving hug. Paw was already at the table; and he would pour a little of the coffee that I was not supposed to have (too young) in his saucer, blow on it to cool it, and then slide it over to me with a grin.

By now, you could cut the smell of bacon with a knife as it fried in the skillet with the eggs. And the biscuits, baked from scratch, were the highlight of the menu. 

Paw and I would cut 'em in two, butter 'em heavy, and sprinkle sugar on 'em 'till you couldn't see the butter anymore. I always did mine exactly like Paw did his. I always did most everything like Paw did his.

The brightness of that happy kitchen, filled with morning sunlight, is as vivid in my memory as if it were yesterday. Every time I ever sat at that breakfast table, I knew only pure goodness expressed as laughter and love.

As time moved along, and I grew older, I came to understand that such moments and places are rare. But I did manage to discover another. It was my neighborhood of a simpler time. It was called Rose Hill. And it was straight out of "To Kill A Mockingbird" even down to my "Boo Radley" neighbor.

It was about a 20's model neighborhood, so it was 40 or so years old by the time I came along.  And some parts were a good bit older than that. It was laid out in neat city blocks with old growth shade trees and cracking sidewalks. It was filled with responsible working people who all knew each other, or at least knew of each other, and were very respectful as neighbors.

My school was two blocks from my house. And on the way, I would stop, going and coming, at Ms. Gray's small store in the middle of the trip for one brand or another of pure sugar. That store was the happy event of every school day, and most days that weren't, for that matter (like report card day).

This part of town was made out of old charm. Most all of the yards were neat, and there was constant tension between deep shade and bright sunshine. And everywhere there were big lush shrubs, and overgrown alleys and all of it screamed, "I've been here a while."

I was a kid in that neighborhood, the way a kid is supposed to be a kid. Between Indian attacks and cavalry charges, my cousin, Frank, and I played a thousand games of baseball there. I had countless bike races and wrecks. Fun came easy, and in a wide variety of forms there.

The summers on Rose Hill were hot, humid, and magical with smells of honeysuckle, and roses, and gardenias, and the frying and baking smells which escaped through open kitchen windows. And amid those aromas, I spent long summer days doing the most important nothings that ever were done - all with my two best friends, Jack Jackson and Johnny Camp. (Now an engineer and a judge, respectively, and also reeking, these days, of "I've been here a while.")

Rose Hill died with the people who lived there in my childhood. Oh, the streets are still there, and most of the houses. But they aren't so neat or respectable any more. And the yards are no longer so well kept.  But I remember my neighborhood, back in the day. And it was purely good to my childish eyes.

But, as I have gotten older, as with most people I think, the barnacles of cynicism have attached. And it seems they make it even harder to ferret out those pure moments and places. 

But still, I find that it is not impossible. I have discovered two more wonderfully distilled realities in my mature adulthood. The first is the joy of sitting across the table from my wife in a favored restaurant and talking - just talking - while the problems are made to wait in the parking lot.

We go to a restaurant to eat, of course, but what we truly relish the seclusion in the crowd. I love the stolen afternoon over strawberry milkshakes, or the Friday evening end of week catch up conversation at the Mexican place. 

 On my off day, I love a bright mornings at "Big Mac" (McDonalds) with a biscuit and coffee and her.  I also love talking with her over lunch on a rainy day. I guess I love her - and the food and the talk just let it come out. And those moments are purely good.

And, the last purely good thing that I will mention on my list (like you couldn't see this coming) is my friendship with the unseen Jesus. He is the living ideal of pure goodness.

His daily presence brings an unassailable hope to me every single day of my life. I think His presence is so reassuring because I need to know that our ideals can not only survive, but prevail even in this tainted world. And Jesus is the living confirmation of that. 

 He is the one purely good reality in life that is never touched by this world's smudges, and who never goes away. By my estimate, the only thing better than purely good, is purely good - all the time.

It's true, life is seldom purely good. But sometimes - it absolutely is. So, maybe you might be tempted to start your own list of the purely good in your life. 

 Go ahead. Those things are worth keeping up with. (I know, prepositions on the end of sentences are not purely good. They are not even "kinda' good.")

I Want That

When you’re young, the world is at your feet.  And there is enthusiasm for every possibility, every challenge that life can suggest.  And so it was with me when I was twenty six years old.

I was only recently converted to Christ; and life had become so much different.  There was this new awareness of God’s presence.  And, under the leadership of the Holy Spirit, I was reexamining everything:  my values, my habits, my speech, etc.  And, in the process of all of that, I also decided to try my hand at gardening.

So, in mid- February of my twenty sixth year, the decision was made.  I would put a vegetable garden up on the low hill behind my house.  Never mind that I had no real equipment or know how.  I had enthusiasm – and a shovel.  It seemed like enough to me.  Why do young people always over play their hand?

At any rate, I set out.  I began to turn over the ground with my shovel.  I originally envisioned about a 50’ x 50’ plot that would be grass free, and have perfectly straight rows of beautiful, growing, green things that I would eventually harvest. 

I had my plot ready for planting by early march – or so I thought.  After turning the sod over, I had carefully removed all of the field grasses, with their roots from the plot.  Oh, and by the way, the shovel and I had a conference about midway through the plot preparation process; and we decide to slightly reduce the size of the plot by about 50%.  I was all for sticking to the original plan, but the shovel insisted.  So, I acquiesced. 

Anyway, by early March everything was ready.  But then, I looked again.  And, I saw several blades of bright green grass sticking up here and there in my manicured garden plot.  So, I pulled them out.  And the next afternoon there were twice as many.  So, I pulled them out.   And the next afternoon, twice as many more, so I desperately pulled them out.

Now, I am both frustrated and worried.  So, I consult my resident expert on gardening – my granddad.  He informs me that I have “nut grass,” dread scourge of every good gardener.  He further informed me that nut grass is named for the small, well, nuts that grow underground and provide it with its Superman like vitality. 

He also informed me that I had two options.  One, I could build a chicken pen on top of the garden plot.  The idea being that within a year or two the chickens would scratch up and eat all of the nuts.  Thus the grass would eventually die out – eventually.  Or two, I could enlist the help of my trusty shovel – again – and turn over the entire garden spot – again; the intent being, this time, to remove all of the little nuts. 

Hummm, what to do?  You guessed it.  There was no way the enthusiasm of youth is going to stand by and wait for two years for a bunch of aimless chickens to solve the problem.  So, hello Mr. Shovel.  Yep, we went at it all over again. 

About midway through this nut grass ordeal, my wife took pity on me, and began to help.  So, for several afternoons and a couple of Saturdays, we invested ourselves in nut grass removal.  By the time it was all over, the nut grass was gone, and, pretty much, so were we.  Our backs hurt.  Our hands were blistered and shore.  And our enthusiasm went on a water break, and never came back. 

But, did I mention – the nut grass was gone.  Several days went by, and no little green shoots.  We had, indeed, won the nut grass war.  There was celebrating in the land.  And then, wouldn’t you know it, our old friend, Enthusiasm, come back from his water break, ready to plant a garden. 

After another few days, all of the little seeds had been planted with care.  All that remained was the waiting, and the waiting, and the waiting some more.  Gardening is really hard on young nerves.

But eventually, as the weather warmed a bit, the small green sprouts began to poke their heads up.  And there was more celebrating throughout the land.

Then the daily cultivation began.  There was the gentle hoeing and checking and transplanting and thinning.  There was the doting on this plant and that.  And there was more waiting and watching and anticipating the grand harvest to come.

And then it happened.  The potatoes were twelve, or so, inches high.  The okra was several healthy inches tall, as were also the tomatoes, squash, radishes, cucumber plants, and peppers plants of various kinds.  They were all beautiful, green and healthy.  Then came the thunder.

And with the thunder, came the hail.  I had never seen hail so large.  It was the size of golf balls.  And I had never seen so much of it.  It literally covered the ground in our front yard. 

By the time the thunderstorm had pass over that late afternoon, it was completely dark outside.  So, I had a thought, “Maybe I will just wait for morning to survey the damage.”  Yeah, right.

Armed with my flashlight and my wife, up the hill I went to know how my beloved, first garden had fared under this barrage of ice, heavy rain and wind.  What I saw was amazing.  With the exception of one potato plant, the garden was completely undamaged.  Everything had been spared.  And eventually, even the potato plant recovered, with a little creative propping.  Ah!  More dancing in the land, and this time with wild flashlight gyrations slicing through the night sky.

And so, the little garden on the hill grew.  And every afternoon it became the ritual for my wife, my little girl, and me to walk up the hill to look at it, and to make our astute observations about the changes from the day before.  It was, indeed, a beautiful, and innocent, and beloved thing in our back yard.

And then, one afternoon as the garden matured, God spoke to me about it.  It was a resonating statement, deep in my heart.  Long story short, He said, “I want that.”

At first, I was puzzled.  So, I started figuring out how to tithe on a garden.  But the statement continued, day after day.  Until eventually, I realized, “He’s not taking about a tithe.  He’s talking about the garden, itself, the whole thing.”

At that point, I started to do a little “resonating” of my own.  I said something to the effect.  “Lord, this garden is an innocent thing.  There is no evil involved in this work or ownership.  And, I must be hearing you wrongly.”

But He persisted.  And, I became more and more distressed each day about the whole matter.  I decided that I was going “religiously nuts.”  It happens you know.  Wait! That’s it!  It must be the “nut” grass – not.

Eventually, I realized that this was really God, and I was hearing Him correctly.  I did not understand it then; but now I know that this whole episode was one of those confirming things which serious Christians encounter as they are learning to choose sensitivity and obedience over their own logic.  At any rate, I finally realized what I had to do. 

By now, I had purchased a hoe so my shovel would have somebody to play with.  So, I walked by the tree where the hoe was propped and took hold of it.   I walked straight up the hill; and I chopped down every plant in the garden.

Just as I was completing this horrible emotional ordeal, I looked up to see my wife coming (more like, charging) up the hill.  Looking into her eyes, that day, seemed an awful lot like looking into the business end of a double barrel shotgun. This was, after all, the same wife who had also risked her life, or at least her delicate hands, in the nut grass wars, so that this garden could live.

I knew I better explain myself quickly.   By now, I was weeping as was she.  I threw down the hoe and walked over to her.  I looked her in the eyes and said, “I know this seems insane.  And you do not have to trust me in this.  But I do have to trust Him.  And this is something I had to do.”

And, for a minute or so, we just stood there and stared at each other.  And then I saw my wife relax.  And, as her kind words of forgiveness and understanding (vague, though it must have been) came from her sweet heart, it became obvious that God had brought some wordless explanation to her, which was far superior to mine. 

In fact, there really was no explaining this.  My actions defied normal reason and logic.  They were, indeed, inexplicable – but not in Heaven.  I have come to see since, if not in that moment, that, in Heaven, my actions were perfectly understood and approved. 

I am very well aware that sick and twisted minds can use the idea of blind devotion to do sick and twisted and much more dire and sinister things.  But that is what sick and twisted minds do anyway, and with everything.

Nevertheless, it remains.  God does occasionally ask real and sometimes blind devotion of those who follow him.  And sometimes, he asks us to demonstrate that devotion in very material ways.  And, in fact, these moments of decision are a real part of the growth process which Christ initiates.

I also know that these ideas make the faint of heart uncomfortable.  That is because they are not for the faint of heart.  They are for those who truly hunger after an intimacy with God.  The faint of heart are always a little uncomfortable with a God that may ask more than they want to give.  That is just the nature of their reluctance to invest.

Indeed, our times are filled with a shallowness which simply cannot deal with an “I want that” God.  Rather, the prevailing ethos is “God – only on my terms.”  But all of that is “Bologna Religion.” 

The redemptive transformation is, in fact, costly.  And you absolutely will have to face a few of these “I want that” moments.  These are those moments when God puts his finger on something, an old habit, a bad attitude, a hobby, a bad value, a dream or a possession which really matters to you. 

And you will have to make the right decision at that point.  You will have to offer, and even give to Him, that thing for which He asks.  You will have to actually demonstrate your devotion to Him in real terms.

In the time that has intervened since that twenty sixth summer, I have never, one time, not for one minute, missed that silly garden.  But, I am now convinced that, if I had refused Him that garden, that small sacrifice, and the other offerings and actions of devotion which He has occasionally required of me along the way, I would now be living far beneath my privilege and my opportunity.

The wayward minds of our shallow times have fashioned a god who makes only the most manageable demands regarding love and devotion, and never seriously challenges us to live out, in real ways, a process of personal elevation.   And these times have widely advertised and touted this more convenient “designer god” as the one to follow after.  But be advised, the true and living God is not him.

The God of Heaven will always bring you to those moments of the hard decision.  And He will require that you make those decisions correctly – or try again, until you do.  But, be assured, the more of yourself you give to Him, the more of Himself, He will reveal to you.  Seems like a good trade to me: real access for a simple vegetable garden – or the like. 

You may also want to try this link to, "The Rubber Reality," an article which gives additional insights along these same lines.

The Magic Wires

It was a brilliantly beautiful morning. The sun was shinning in a cloudless sky and the air was crisp. And I knew there would be fun today.

A few years ago I was working in a district position for our denomination as director of maintenance for the District Camp and Conference Center near Marshall, Texas. The facility was an old campground with a rich spiritual history. Some of the best evangelists of the 20th century preached there. Countless souls, young and old, have been won to Christ there. And it was a great place to wake up in the morning as a staff member.

A part of my job was working with volunteers that gave their time and hearts to help maintain the 35 acre campus with its more than 30 structures including a beautiful 20 room lodge. Each month I had between 3 and 12 couples who stayed on the campground and worked for 3 weeks at a time. And then there was Jerry and Cindy.

Jerry and Cindy were not actually family members, but it sure felt like it.  Nevertheless, they were also volunteers, but they signed on for more like 6 or 8 months solid. 

So, the other volunteers would come and go in their cycles, but not Jerry and Cindy. It seemed they were always there.  And, we became fast friends.  And, even though we are separated by a significant geographic distance now, yet we all still fondly cherish the memory that follows... 

When we were in the off week between the cycles of the other volunteers, Jerry and I would meet in the Dinning Hall to have some of the best coffee in the world and lay out our maintenance strategy for the day. This day was one of those days. I could hardly wait for Jerry to arrive because today I had a plan to introduce him to the magic wires.

You had to know Jerry. He was a thoughtful, loving, gentle guy. But, his default setting was Intense. Yet, even though that was true, you could easily push his Fun button about any time. It was a real hoot to watch Mr. Serious shifting gears between those two settings all day long. 

At any rate, on this bright morning, I knew the fun would start early. Finally, the boy arrived and we sat down in the sun drenched dinning hall for our coffee and prayer time together. 

Eventually, I said, "Jerry, we've got a leak in that 2" inch water line that runs across the ball field to the director's home. How about if we start with that today? We have about a ½ acre wet spot out there, and somewhere within that is the line and the leak."

Jerry immediately asked the obvious question that I knew his searing intellect (and my funny bone) would require. He said, "Brother Larry, how are we going to locate the line?" I said, "Well, I think we'll use the magic wires."

I wish you could have seen the fast moving flood of expressions on the face of Mr. Intense. It was like his emotional transmission was bumping back and forth between two gears without being able to fully engage either one. He didn't know whether to do the fun gear or stay in the serious gear.

He tried a smile, but then he obviously thought, "Is he serious?" So, the smile abruptly faded. Then he knew I couldn't possibly be, so it came back again.  And, all the while he was search my stone face looking for a clue.  

All of this happened very fast.  And, it quickly became one of those priceless moments which can't be bought, even with American Express.

Finally it was just too rich; and my own face cracked into a big smile. I had to "fess up"  to a trick that another friend had shown me years before. You can take two wires (as in metal coat hangers etc.) and bend them into an "L". Then, holding one lightly in each hand, when you cross directly over a water line the wires will cross and then align themselves with each other, thus pinpointing the waterline directly beneath them.

Now, you really just had to be there to see the boy's face. When I finished that explanation, we couldn't mount up fast enough for him to see if that "nonsense" would really work. So we piled into the maintenance Kubota ATV (the "Campground Cadillac") and off we went to the ball field.

When we arrived at the large wet spot in the grass, I popped out and somewhat ceremoniously removed (cradling them carefully in my hands) the magic wires (the a'fore mentioned bent coat hangers) from our rusty tool box. Safe to say, I was Mr. Confidence and Jerry was Mr. Skeptical.

Just as I predicted, the long leg of the 'L' shaped wires gradually moved toward each other as I move across the nondescript wet spot. And finally, with that last slow step, they crossed and lay parallel to each other in my hands giving a perfect indication of where the line was.

But, Mr. Skeptical said, with wide eyes, a disbelieving smile, and a wagging head, "Oh, no way! You did that, Brother Larry."

I said, "Well the proof is in the shovel." So, we got the shovel to dig. As soon as it penetrated the grass (sadly, the line was only about 3" deep) we heard this little, "clink."

Now, amazement and disbelief were flowing together like a flood tide. As I remember, and I do fondly remember, Jerry accused me at this point of knowing where the line was all along.

To dispel that notion, he made me go out into the field, close my eyes, turn around backward and repeat the discovery process.  You guessed it. They crossed right over the water line.

Nope! Still not enough.  Jerry's next insistence: "Let me try it!" 

So, with a few words of instructions from me on how to hold the wires loosely and balanced (and the pronouncement of the magic word under my breath) Jerry boy ran his own, certified clinical test on the process - and got exactly the same result.

At that point Jerry looked at me, smiled, and said, "Brother Larry, you have entangled me in witchcraft!" And then we both fell out laughing.

We ran the test about a hundred more times (I think the boy is from Missouri).  Finally, though, he was satisfied. 

And we did, eventually, get around to actually fixing the water line. When we were finished, Jerry carefully picked up the magic wires, walked out a few paces from our ATV and pushed the long end of each into the ground a couple of inches.

I said, "What are you doing Brother?" 

He said, "I'm charging the magic wires. You don't want them to run down do you?" Then the laughter was on again - and it pretty well hung around for the rest of the day (and somewhat for the rest of the week) concerning the magic wires. I'll never forget that morning. It is a cherished personal memory.

I must admit, I don't actually know the science behind "the magic wires," though obviously there is some. I have ask several knowledgeable people over the years if they could explain. As yet, no one that I have talked to has been able to do so.

But, the process works, so I just enjoy the benefit and take it at face value. And, in that way, the process is not so unlike redemptive faith, really. 

Many in our world reject the faith aspect of life simply because they cannot explain the "science" behind it.  So, absent that intricate explanation of God's processes up front, they choose to reject the efficacy of faith altogether.  And, because they can't immediately grasp the "science" behind faith, they assume there is none.

So, to the intellectually arrogant, the life changing faith which operates through Christ remains only "the delusional crutch of the unenlightened."   But again, because we cannot immediately grasp the intricate dynamics behind faith, does not mean that such does not exist.

Indeed, faith involves what might be called a "more sophisticated science."   And, not unlike the natural sciences, this science also requires very specialized equipment to unlock its mysteries - namely, a humble heart. 

That is why only those who are willing to respond to God, through Christ, without demanding that He reveal all of His secrets to them upfront, are successful in eventually understanding  faith's workings.  Faith, by nature, is about accepting the benefits at face value, and leaving the later revelations of its workings to God's discretion - again, pretty much like the magic wires

 "I am the light of the world: he that follows me shall not walk in darkness, but shall have the light of life." - Jesus 

Yeah!

As usual, I couldn’t figure it out at first - what God was doing, I mean. I had planned a work schedule that would allow me to be off Good Friday through Easter. I did this very deliberately because I was determined that, this year, I would not, in my "busy-ness," charge past the significance of Easter. This year, I wanted to get it, to feel it deeply in my bones.

Oh, I know what Easter is all about, intellectually. But I really wanted to get beyond mere intellect this time. But, how do you actually get to the depth of something so huge and wonderful as the Resurrection. 

In truth, I was not quite sure. But, I felt I could come closer to doing that if I was not distracted by work. So, I set the schedule accordingly and ask the Lord to help me work my plan.

I was to begin a light construction job on Wednesday before Easter which should be no problem to finish by Thursday afternoon. But things didn’t go quite according to that plan. It rained on Thursday - hard. So, scratch Thursday.

The sweet couple that I was working for were very easy going, but they were hoping to use their new screened in patio (the job) when their family came for Easter. And, I really hate to disappoint people. So, the job spilled into Friday - Good Friday. But, what’s a boy to do.

I worked very hard on Friday to finish up. But there were delays and owner changes. So, the job got a little bigger, and impossible to complete on Friday. Thus, it now slipped over into Saturday.

Saturday was the "Middle Day." It was the one full day that the Savior lay in that dark tomb. As I worked, I pondered from time to time on Saturday, in the precious little time I had to think about it, what was the Savior going through on that Middle Day? 

What was the Heavenly Father feeling? Surely there was some vast wave of divine fury reverberating through the universe as the Son of God lay dead at the hands of God’s most ungrateful creature.

Or, perhaps not. Maybe I was just feeling the fury of my own frustration, as my job dragged on and the deeper experience of Easter slipped farther away. 

I prayed all day for "God speed." I wanted to do a good job and serve the interest of the couple for whom I was working. But, I also wanted desperately to just be finished. And the more I wanted it, the less it happened.

Finally, after eleven long, emotionally wrenching hours on Saturday, I threw in the towel on my "deeper experience" plan. The patio was enclosed and very usable by the family, but the final touch-up painting would have to be completed on Monday. 

At that point, I had neither the physical energy, nor the daylight to finish the job that evening. So, I picked up my tools and left, exhausted, and frustrated, and thinking "the Devil sure won this one."

As I drove home, a deep sense of sadness settled over me, partly because I really, really, really don’t like it when the Devil wins. But mostly, it was because I felt cheated out of something precious.

And then, there were the questions.  Why God didn’t do something? Why didn’t he help me? My cause seemed a good cause. 

But, whatever was the answer to all of that, for the present, I was just too bone tired to pursue it. So, that was my state of body and mind as I went to bed on Saturday night.

And still, on Easter Sunday morning, I felt disappointed about what I was feeling - as opposed to what I wanted to be feeling. Safe to say, the week had beaten me up pretty good, emotionally and physically. And it was obvious on Sunday morning that I had not so quickly shaken it off. 

So - I guess I really wasn’t, at this late hour in the Holy Week, expecting much of myself or for myself. And then I got to church...

The Pastor opened our service with a beautiful and moving song; and something began to happen. Then, our worship staff led us through the most beautiful Easter worship that I think I have ever been in. It was as though the music was fashioned in Heaven itself. Every song became so much more than just music.

And, it was not just the music. God came to my soul. And in those moments, it was like every thing became new again.  There was no more exhausting Friday and Saturday. There was no more frustration. There was now no thought of failure. There was no defeat. There was only this wonderful soaring release and the perfect refreshment of Easter morning.

It was not until later in the day on Sunday, as I pondered it all, that what God had done finally hit me.  I finally realized that He was simply adding in that indispensable element which made that first Resurrection Morning so completely spectacular.  And that ingredient is "Contrast."   To deeply experience the wondrous release of the Resurrection requires that it be juxtaposed against something of the exhaustion of human struggle - just as it was with Jesus on that first Easter Morning.

So, in His wisdom, God simply answered my prayers by making my work problems a small, but very fresh, taste of that bitterness which is so mingled into the human experience  And, He even aligned the calendar correctly, allowing my struggle to occur across Good  Friday, Saturday, and a bit of Sunday, just as in that first Easter. 

So, God did exactly what I had asked Him to do,  just not in the way that I expected - wow, even better.  I was also elated to suddenly realize something else on Sunday afternoon. I realized that the Devil didn’t win, after all! YEAH!   So, again, just like the original Holy Week, it only seemed so at the first. YEAH! and DOUBLE YEAH!  PRAISE THE LORD!  HE IS RISEN, INDEED.

Deep Rhythms

His name is Calvin.  He's my friend. A few days ago, I visited him once again. 

Calvin, who is 81, is an "ole" retired Navy guy. He enlisted in 1949 and retired in 1969. Each time I visit Calvin, we eventually get around to the point where he tells me the same story of an event that occurred near the middle of those years.

The story goes like this. Calvin was assigned along with several other men to the engine room of his ship. On one fateful day, when he was on duty, a fire broke out in that engine room. 

There were eight men in that compartment at the time. Immediately, four of the men were sent out for their own safety, not being necessary to fight the fire. Calvin was among those who were told to leave, but he refused to go. So, he stayed behind with his shipmates to fight the fire.

It was a horrendous fire that eventually engulfed the entire compartment. There were later indications that the temp reached almost 1000 degrees in some places. 

Eventually, as a last option to contain the fire and save the ship, the engine room was ordered sealed with the firefighters still inside. Calvin said he eventually just slipped into unconsciousness, relating that the last thing he remembered was the thick black smoke descending down on him.

When the fire was finally out, only Calvin and one other shipmate were left alive in the engine compartment. His shipmate died of his burns 4 days later.  So, ultimately Calvin came to be the only survivor.

Every time Calvin tells the story, tears come to his eyes. I know that the majority of those tears are for the perfect sacrifice that his shipmates made that day. Even across all of these years, that sacrifice speaks deeply to Calvin, as it does to us all. 

And, how could we not cry for the loss of those heroic lives. But, I think some of Calvin’s tears stem from something else.

Each time I watch Calvin telling the story, it is so very easy to sense those fallen comrades calling to him. But, they call to him, not just to appreciate their sacrifice, but they also call to him to discover his own best self, to rise to their level of nobility. 

And, Calvin's poignant tears are the way he acknowledges that high challenge.  They are his humble affirmation that he sees the nobility of what they did and feels obligated by their example.

But, what is it, precisely, which draws these very deep emotions from most all of us when we observe or remember such heroism? I think it is the sheer beauty of selflessness.  

So, when we see a defender of the defenseless, we're moved by that selfless intervention.  When we observe someone step between an irate boss and a brow beaten employee their action calls to our highest ideals.  When we see our soldiers, law enforcement, or firefighters step up to form the outer ring of our defense - some part of us aspires to know that selflessness within ourselves. 

Thus, in the final analysis, the tears we cry over our heroes are not just tears of appreciation. They are also tears of aspiration.

And, they are also evidence.  They confirm that, still lingering deeply in the psyche of humanity, there remains that noble motive instilled so long ago by our Creator when He said, "Be ye holy, for I am holy. 

Thus, when our heroes inspire us, those Godly rhythms come irresistibly to the surface of our consciousness. And, for a time, they insist that we search for some answering nobility within ourselves.

Fishing Heaven

When I was a little boy (about 10) I was livin' large. My grandparents had a mom and pop type grocery store just at the edge of the neighborhood in which I lived. It was about a 15 minute trip on my bicycle (if you pedaled hard, and I always did) to be pulling up to the front of that wonderful old building. 

That store was a place of pure joy for me. It was full of candy, and cokes, and ice cream, and two of the people I loved most in the world. Needless to say, I spent a lot of time there.

And one of the best things about that store was that it stood right at the edge of "Fishing Utopia." Just 300 yards behind the store, in a wooded area, was a beautiful little 2 acre lake that held endless possibilities for an 11 year old boy. 

You could, on that lake, on any given day, be a pirate, build a log "boat" (or at least make a good start and dream the rest), find turtles, check on duck eggs, catch 100 sun perch, or do endless other adventurous things. It was truly a place of wonder, of a thousand wonders.

But, it was very difficult to get to. Oh, it was easy enough geographically. If I ran full speed from the store (and I always did) I could be there in mere seconds. That part was easy. The hard part was convincing my grandmother that I could be trusted to go there.

The process usually involved begging, and more begging, and then begging some more. And eventually, on most days I would finally gain her permission.

But even then, it was only after she read me an interminable list of dangerous things that I absolutely could not do. And only after I listened to an equally long list of things she would do to me, if I did. 

Obviously, she had me "over a barrel." So, I would agree to all of her terms; and finally, I would be off. You can't imagine the joy of that short journey.

There was one feature of the lake that completely fascinated me. The lake had an island! There was a long finger of land that jutted out into the lake and at the end of that finger (I'd say about 10 feet or so beyond its end) there it was - THE ISLAND - the absolute center of the fishing universe. 

The island was also a long finger of land.  But, alas, there was this vast stretch of water (about 10 feet you remember) between me and that "Fishing Heaven."

Week after week, that stretch of water kept me from my dream. Every fisherman knew that you had to fish from the island to catch the really good fish. And so I eyed that island jealously, until one day I knew - I had to try...

I walked out to the end of that long peninsula that was to be my runway.  I turned the big end of my fishing pole around and launched it like a spear toward the island. It landed well safe on the other side.

Now once a guy's fishing pole is on the other side, what else can he do. He is pretty much committed at that point. Then, for good measure, I flung my cricket holder over, as well.

Then, I walked back up the trail in the center of the peninsula to a point that I thought would allow me to achieve "terminal velocity." I paused for a moment to focus. I gritted my teeth together (always good for an extra few inches of distance). I picked out my landing spot. And I took off!

I did my best to run a hole in the wind.  And, when I got to the end of the peninsula I jumped. I jumped as hard as I ever had, as hard as I possibly could. 

I don't think my legs ever stopped running for the entire flight. And what a flight it was. It was high and thrilling; and the last part of it seemed to be in slow motion.

"Did I make it?" you ask. You better believe I did. I landed square on the dry shores of a dream come true. The island was mine!!! And now, the fish were bigger, the world was smaller, and I was about 10 feet tall. I will never forget the day when I decided to make that leap.

I'm sure you understand why I never saw the need to burden my grandmother with the tedious details of that day. Discretion just seemed the better course. But boy, it was a red letter day for sure. I tested myself against the unknown - and I won.

I still occasionally recount that day in my mind with some joy.  And once, when I was doing so, the Holy Spirit whispered this idea in connection with that memory. "You make the leap and let Me take care of the landing." And so, as an additional benefit of that fond memory, I was challenged to explore the idea of godly risk.

Faith is the enabling currency of the spiritual life. But certainly, faith expresses itself very validly in different ways. And I would be the first to say that faith is not always blind. Nor is it always risky. 

But - sometimes faith is, indeed, risky. And, in fact, those are the times, the risky times, that really define us spiritually.

And so, the truly defining questions becomes: "What will we risk?" What will we risk to Christ? What will we risk for Christ? What will we risk in Christ?

The prevalent "easy believism" of our times would teach us to live comfortably within our own self-defined limitations. It would teach us to minimize the risk of God's will by mostly ignoring the seductive song of His inner challenges to us. But, in reality, that approach won't even get you to "Fishing Heaven," much less to the real one.

As It Was Meant To Be

One morning recently, I was repairing a 1930’s model home for an older lady in town. This day, I had to do some electrical rewiring in the attic. 

I was dreading the work because it was going to be hot. And, that old insulation, and the dust that went with it, had been there for many decades. 

As I started up the ladder into the attic, I prayed silently, "Lord, would you help me with this." I had in my mind that He would simply help me to work efficiently and get out of that attic as quickly as possible. But, it eventually became apparent that He had a different level of help in mind.

Anyway, I headed up the ladder and through a small hole in the ceiling into the mostly dark attic. As I started carefully across the beams, I aimed for the dim light that was struggling to get through a vent in a gable of the attic. It was really just barely enough to guide me to the spot where I was to work in front of that vent. So, I had brought a small flash light along for that reason.

As I arrived at the spot where the wiring job was located, I realized that I needed one more hand. So, I stuck the flashlight in my mouth and started to do the work with my "other" two hands. 

Somewhere about the middle of the process, however, my "mouth hand" dropped the flash (I was probably trying to talk to myself). The flashlight then headed straight down, at terminal velocity, into that old insulation and the dust that coated it. 

I winced in anticipation of the cloud that was about to envelope my face. I know, I should have had a dust mask. But they don’t do a lot of good if you have a beard. And yep - I have a beard. And besides, how could you possibly hold a flashlight in your 3rd hand if you're wearing a dust mask.

In any case, just as I thought it would, the flashlight hit the insulation and up toward me came this toxic cloud. I closed my eyes and prepared to hold my breath to stave off this "dust plague" that was heading right for me. 

But just at that instant, a quick breeze came barreling through the small vent. As a result, the dust cloud was pushed away from me; and it merely dissipated over a much wider area. It was as if the breath of God had simply blown it away.

As I thought about what had happened, tears filled my eyes. I realized that God had, indeed, heard my prayer on the ladder, had accompanied me into that attic, and had done exactly what I asked Him to do - He helped me. It was all but emotionally overwhelming to think that the Ruler of the universe would be willing to "breath" on my circumstance in such a simple, and intimate, and protective way.

I know that there are those who would quickly say, "Oh, that was coincidence," to whom I would confidently answer, "No - that was God." He was just, one more time, faithfully fulfilling the promise that Christ brings to humanity.

It's the promise that is implicit to the resurrection. It is the promise of the restoration of a daily intimacy with God that was lost in Adam and Eve. It is the promise of a deep and intimate friendship with God that not only impacts our destiny, but our days. It is the promise of once again being able to truly know and deeply experience our Creator in our everyday reality.

There is a word used in the New Testament that perfectly describes this wonderful access that Christ brings. In the Greek, it is "ginosco." It means "a deep and intimate knowing."  And, that is exactly the joy and privilege that has been restored to humanity through Christ.

Certainly, it has become widely acceptable among modern believers to compartmentalize God . The idea is to maintain some distance so that God becomes merely one part of the larger composite that is our daily life. But, the reality which Christ empowers is a God presence which becomes the organizing energy throughout the whole of our life. 

What an inestimable blessing to be in perfect and constant league with Almighty God, to have a beautifully integrated existence with Him that plays out as a fulfilling daily impact. Who could conceive of anything more wonderful, more securing.

And, indeed, it is a wonderful thing to have a God who goes to work with you, and who chooses to be a helpful part of all that you do there. It is wonderful to have a God who is willing to take you through life’s storms in His graceful arms. It is really pretty amazing to have a God who brings healing to your "brokenness" in a thousand ways through His loving daily input.

Most any right thinking person would have to declare such a thing, "absolutely spectacular!" How could we not on those days when we see His brightness disperse the dark clouds of our emotions and even our reality. 

And certainly, it is so meaningful to share private moments of perfect peace with Him as His restoring daily gift to us. Such are the ways of "ginosco." Such are the blessings of walking in harmony with a God who numbers the very hairs of our head.

It is true that some in this wayward world arrogantly insist on seeing God as an intruder to their right of self determination. How sad. 

And how tragically deluded and misinformed they are. In fact, He is the perfect expression of perfect love. And, being so, He always brings the willing to their highest good by the best method of all: shared days of deeply meaningful companionship.

That divine companionship was the promise that I was given, and that all are given, in Christ. And every single day of my life, I experience the verity of that promise in His presence. 

I hear his voice of direction, and comfort, and correction, and encouragement. I sense His constant care. And sometimes I even feel his loving breath as it blows the "harmful dust" out of my life.

Oh no, it's not a coincidence - it’s God. And He is no intruder to my life. He is my God and my Friend. And such is redemption - as it was always meant to be.