Generational Blessing

There are moments when God draws back the curtain of day-to-day life and allows us to see the bigger picture of what He's about. Sunday morning, August 19, was just that. As Ethan and I headed toward the baptistry and we had a few minutes to talk, he smiled. "My dad says you baptized him, too." We stood together as the seven year old gave a clear testimony of his faith in Christ, now a little over a month old. Later in the service, I was holding Ethan's baby sister as Shane and Ruth dedicated her to the Lord. Ethan, Norah, and Esther come from sturdy stock. Lots of godly folks from both sides of the family going back for generations--my own life has been blessed by four! Ethan, Norah, and Esther have footprints, deep and distinct, to follow.

The Malibu and the Motorcycle

While a freshman at the University of Missouri, I was always flat broke.  When my friends in the dorm ordered out for pizza, I regularly pretended to be “not hungry.”  They would end up getting me to eat a slice or two “just to be sociable,” then playfully accuse me of gaming them out of paying for my share.

It soon became apparent that I could not afford to care for and feed my 1964 Chevelle, first car I ever owned.  Five hundred hard-earned dollars on wheels.  Nicknamed “The Magnet,” it managed to get hit seven times in six months—never while I was in it.  As a high school senior, my pride and joy was stolen one day in March 1971.  Appropriately enough, it was recovered and hauled to the impound lot on April Fool’s Day, three weeks after its disappearance.  The thieves wrecked and abandoned her in the middle of an intersection, those boys fleeing the scene while my front bumper waved goodbye.  As a final insult, I had to scrape money together to redeem it from the city.  Hammers, Bondo, and spray paint made it the source of cruel humor.  But it ran.  Sort of.

Sometime early in my first semester, between gallons of gas, cases of oil, exorbitant insurance, and multiple repairs, I knew it was time to say goodbye.  When I told my grandparents, they suggested my dad needed a vehicle.  He was back “on the wagon,” and he had a job lined up.  I would have given it to him.  In 18 years, I had never had the opportunity to give him anything, but they insisted on paying me $600 for it.  And it seemed right and good that the old vehicle would stay in the family.  A curious link to a man I barely knew.  We were all painfully aware by now that jobs and sobriety never lasted long, though we would not say so out loud.  Maybe this time would be different.

And so I did my 125-mile trips between Kansas City and Columbia for the rest of the year using the campus rideshare bulletin board or hitchhiking.  My handcrafted “Home and Mom!” sign proved to be an effective, tug-at-the-heartstrings-of-passing-motorists ticket for free trips down I-70.  But I would need transportation for work in the summer.  That’s when inspiration struck.  I would buy a motorcycle!  Mom was not pleased with the idea.  The grandparents were horrified.  And so they approached me with an offer.  Dad had been living down in Louisiana somewhere.  The Malibu had been his mobile home.  But he was back, and the car was only slightly worse for wear.  He wasn’t using it.  It was out of place in their suburban neighborhood.  They gifted it back to me on the condition that I promise to give up my dream of a motorcycle.  To this day, I have never owned one.

And the connection to my Dad grew a bit stronger.  There was an old single-burner Coleman stove in the trunk and a sleeping bag that had outlived its usefulness and a few other vestiges of his last big adventure.  I proudly drove that prodigal vehicle until it would barely go, dating the young and beautiful Peggy McGovney in it.  We still joke that she only married me for my car.  Sold it for $500.  A good investment.  Many times over.  As my senior year at Mizzou began, Dad passed away.  Of all the vehicles I have owned, the midnight blue Chevy Malibu (my first, Dad’s last) remains my favorite.

Lessons from Charlottesville

When 9/11 happened, I wished more peaceable Muslims had stated clearly that the actions were evil. Seems obvious enough to me that white separatists are evil. If my stance on this is news to anyone, they really don't know me. But it needs to be said. White supremacy, indeed! Such people reject the idea that every human bears the divine image. They pretend they are better than others. God is moving His plan toward a grand crescendo of praise when people from every tribe, tongue, and nation will gather to praise the Lamb who was slain for all people. Those who insist themselves to be even somewhat good--never mind "supreme"--by virtue of their pigmentation (or anything else) will not be a part of that celebration. Is there guilt enough to go around? Are there planks in the eyes of those who only care to see the unrighteousness of others? Hating haters is problematic for those who adhere to grace. The BLM website will demonstrate they are no friend to biblical truth. Lawlessness and violence in the name of self-righteousness will not produce lasting fruit worth having. God resists the proud. He gives grace to the humble. Claiming moral superiority is sheer folly, turning me into my own brand of "holier than thou" counter protestor.

LEW

The unlikeliest of friends, we met along a property line I was never allowed to cross. Eventually our talks occurred through an eight-foot chain link fence topped with swirls of concertina wire. He was born in the shadow of Monteagle,    TN; I’m a city boy. He was former military; I never made it past Tenderfoot in Boy Scouts. He sported a big, bushy beard; I struggle to do respectable sideburns. Lew shared photos of his show dogs, spoke of his service in Vietnam, kept me up to date on his progress rebuilding an old pickup truck. Sometimes, we spoke of eternal things. We were often interrupted when I headed off to talk with people approaching the abortion clinic where he worked security. In the earlier days, he was married to the clinic director. Even after their divorce, he continued to protect the place from crazy prolifers. Like me.

These sidewalk conversations spanned 25 years. Our ministry was committed to the proposition that the workers at the abortion clinic were not the enemy. Everybody bears the divine image; everyone needs Jesus. And deserves respect.

Eventually, the clinic was taken over by others. Lew was fired. He stopped one day in that pickup and joked he might come over to our side of the fence and help out. Sounded good to me! The clinic closed after a time, and that sad old house at Bellevue and Monroe was demolished. And then my phone rang. It was Lew. I had given him my card years earlier and suggested he call if he ever wanted to talk.

To this day, he’s the only person ever to vape in my office. More expletives flew through the room during his visits than you will hear on Nixon’s Watergate tapes. But we talked about life. About important things. He welcomed my offers to pray for and with him. Lew showed up for church once on Easter. And more than a few times for our community cookouts. Yesterday, I received a call from his ex-wife Jo Ann. He was failing quickly, succumbing to a fast-moving pancreatic cancer. She was providing him care. William Green and I visited Lew yesterday afternoon. William spoke of his own journey to faith in Christ and made sure Lew understood the need for trusting Jesus as Savior. This morning, Jo Ann called to tell me he had passed away in his sleep.  I am confident we will see each other again.

A Bundle of Answered Prayers

Sometimes God allows us to see very direct and wonderful answers to prayer. Sometimes we get to hold them. Two decades of a whole range of prayers—for a nine-year-old kid to come to Christ, to grow in faith, to choose the right college, to make great friends there, to marry the very best of the bunch, to be a loving husband, to survive cancer, to be a godly dad (I could go on, but you get the idea)—came to Memphis this weekend. What an honor to dedicate little Rebekah Joy yesterday morning! Thankful for Seth and Ashley…and Rebekah.

A GIFT FROM CHRIS

The past couple of days have awakened a remarkable pile of memories as we said goodbye to our friend, neighbor, extra son. The gift he left behind was this--a reminder of the very unique community God formed over the past couple of decades. Like fish unaware they live in the ocean, it's possible some of us just figured everyone enjoys such an ecosystem of camaraderie. The epicenter may have been Maria Street, but today it reaches to Senatobia, MS and Baltimore and East Africa, Louisville, Chattanooga, Philadelphia, and beyond. This Band of Brothers (which also includes a bunch of sisters!) is inextricably bound together forever. Their commitment to Christ is unmistakable, but they always stood ready to admit others into their ranks. To belong required a willingness to endure heavy doses of craziness, teasing, and practical jokes. This bunch includes some of the funniest people on the planet. We've sorted through countless photographs in the past week--the Starbuck Family Christmas Pic with big ol' Chris right there with us, the boys camping out on our trampoline, baptism photos, wedding pix, and more. The funeral home visitation was dominated by stories of Chris and the gang. When they kicked us out, we just moved over to Firehouse Subs. Somebody said he almost felt guilty for having so much fun at Chris's viewing. At the service the next day, we heard from just some of the guys--all 30-somethings now--who loved Chris like a brother. Christ was honored. The gospel of salvation was declared. Tears and laughter were abundant. We hugged each other, tried to comfort Chris's wife Amy and his parents, Denisce and Gordon, and told more stories. I left emotionally drained but spiritually filled. If Chris got to watch, I know he was pleased. I am so blessed by and proud of and thankful for all who populate this special group.

The Greatest of These

Helen was born in 1921 and lived out her life in a house just a half mile from Open Door. She had no blood relatives. Jimmy Carter was just leaving the White House the last time she attended our fellowship. But over the past more than a few years, I have watched the church be the church. There were untold numbers of meals and check ins and hours of yard work and various home repairs, and at least one break in for a medical emergency. This pastor didn't do much for Helen. Didn't have to. Others were busy doing the work of the ministry, and Helen neither demanded much nor put up with too much fuss. Yesterday afternoon at Historic Elmwood Cemetery with the rain coming down, I stood under a tent by her graveside and spoke to a group of people--the funeral director, a handful of long-time neighbors, and a cluster of saints from a little Midtown church. We were surrounded by 80 acres of graves dating back to 1852 where reside the bodies of mayors and slaves and a slave trader and 2,500 victims of the Yellow Fever Epidemic and veterans of American wars all the way back to our Revolution. We were viewing life from God's timeline, a look we seldom take time to consider. And that moment was for Helen. Only a few things comprise what is truly important. And I caught a rare glimpse of it.