No Greater Gift

I’ve been thinking about my friend Al often these days. Mostly because it’s football season and one of the sport’s more fervent fans isn’t here to talk to. It’s also Abominable Snowman time—a character that ranked right up there with the Tasmanian Devil in Al’s book. When he passed away last summer, I wrote that I cannot imagine a world without Al in it. I pictured a colder, less friendly place. And I was right. Sometimes I allow the memory of the horrible day I carried my friend’s casket to fog the reflection of his kind heart and our fun times. Today, on what would have been Al’s 38th birthday, I received a gift that helps lift that fog if only for a time.

A box arrived in the mail last night—a box containing some of Al’s things; reminders of a big kid. A Barry Sanders action figure, a pair of Tasmanian Devil Christmas ornaments, random stuffed animals for my daughters whom he adored, and even a couple of CDs for me to listen to him doing the radio show that he loved so much. It’s Big Al’s revenge since he knows I hate that kind of music. The package was sent by Al’s sister Tammi and I’m overwhelmed with gratitude. Not only did I smile at the random things in Al’s house, but the fact that I got this gift on his birthday is fitting. If you ever had the pleasure of meeting him, you’d understand why. Al gave more than he ever received.

The world is a colder, less friendly place without Alan Schafer in it, but when these gifts arrived in the mail, it was a warm reminder that the memories we leave behind help us to live on. My kids will hang their Al-ornaments on our tree, they’ll take their new stuffed friends to bed tonight, and Al will ride to work with me in the morning—he and his beautifully strange music. No greater gift.

Cherish those closest to you.

Happy birthday Al. Thank you for your friendship. Tammi, thank you for your kindness, it must run in the family.

Mere Grinchianity

Now that December is here it is now legal to dig out the best Christmas cartoon ever, The Grinch Who Stole Christmas. Seriously, how much of a genius was Dr. Seuss? Time and time again when he transported his strange thoughts onto paper, something magical happened. 52 years later the story remains as charming as ever.

Like most of Dr. Seuss’s writing there is a clear moral to the Grinch story, but if you dig a little deeper you’ll find there is so much more; Let’s call it Mere Grinchianity.

From the very beginning we see that the Grinch isn’t very nice to be around. He’s a miserable loner living high atop Mt. Crumpet. Not even his dog Max brings him the least bit of joy. He cares for no one, and he assumes no one cares for him. The story says that his heart was two sizes too small. I get the feeling that this was no genetic defect. Isolation can shrink anyone’s heart. We’re created for relationships and we’re required to love one another.
Love one another, even as I have loved you – John 13:34

The longer the Grinch remained alone in his cave, the more his heart shrunk, creating envy, jealousy and hate for the Whos. Did you notice what ticked off the Grinch most of all? It wasn’t the who-pudding, the roast beast, or all the noise NOISE, NOISE NOISE! Those things clearly annoyed him, but the thing he liked least of all was a simple display of love—love he sadly wasn’t a part of.

Every Who down in Who-ville, the tall and the small,
would stand close together, with Christmas bells ringing.
They’d stand hand-in-hand. And the Whos would start singing!
They’d sing! And they’d sing! AND they’d SING! SING! SING! SING!

After the Grinch stole all of the Whos’ decorations, presents, and food he couldn’t wait to hear their misery. He put a hand to his ear to relish the sounds of sorrow. But of course there were no tears because the Whos know that Christmas is about love—the birth of a Savior, a spiritual blessing in Christ.

No, the Grinch could not stop Christmas from coming, it came! Somehow or other, it came just the same! That is when the Grinch thought of something he hadn’t before. “Maybe Christmas…perhaps…means a little bit more!”

I love when he comes to this realization; the stress on his face is replaced with a smile, his darkened heart sees a luminous light, and the weight of his hate lifts off of him. His heart, as the story goes, grew three sizes that day. That kind of transformation can only take place when we realize that we are loved unconditionally.

Christmas is a magical time of year. It is a time for giving and for receiving the ultimate gift of grace. When we accept this gift and allow God to grow our hearts, we’ll have the strength of ten Grinches, plus two.

Christmas Day will always be just as long as we have we. Welcome Christmas while we stand, heart to heart and hand in hand.

Smudges

One of the most powerful things I’ve ever read is a true statement written in a fiction book. In The Five People You Meet in Heaven, Mitch Albom writes: All parents damage their children. It cannot be helped.

Five words that absolutely stunned me; all parents damage their children.

As a father, my first reaction was to pound the table and confidently declare, “Never! Never would I damage my daughters!” But then I read on:

Youth, like pristine glass, absorbs the prints of its handlers. Some parents smudge, others crack, a few shatter childhoods completely into jagged little pieces, beyond repair.

Wow. If that doesn’t challenge parents I don’t know what will. It’s not fair, but the situation we’re born into goes a long way to determining how hard our road will be. We all know adults still dealing with their smudges, maybe you’re one of them. This time of year I often hear people talk about their parents and how they hope to escape the holidays without new smudges or having old wounds re-opened—the first cut is the deepest.

I never want that for my family.


I think of my daughters as delicate blank canvasses; pure potential thirsting to take colorful shape. Polly and I are providing all the supplies they need—a strong foundation on which to build. We’re helping them hold their brushes. Eventually we will let go and allow them to flourish. Along the way we will listen, love and laugh. Parents need to realize that when they hurt their children with their words or their actions, they’re standing in the way of exquisite works of art. Smudges on the canvas.

Tennis-great Andre Agassi was badly smudged by his father. He writes about it in his autobiography, Open. It is, at times, difficult to read. He writes: I never doubted my father’s love for me, but I wish he would have been softer, listened more, and had less rage. I sometimes wish my father loved me less. Maybe then he’d back off, let me make my own choices.

Smudges.

Agassi has forgiven his dad and vows to do better with his own children. I admire him more for that than for his incredible tennis.

You don’t even have to be a parent. If you have any contact with a child; aunts, uncles, teachers, mentors. Listen, love, laugh; be softer. Youth, like pristine glass, absorbs the prints of its handlers.

Laughter-soaked Walls

Steve Johnson, one of the truly great people in my life, once wrote on his Facebook that years of laughter have soaked the walls of his home. What a beautiful sentiment. This Thanksgiving season I’m thinking about all the fun and the love that goes on at our house and I’m thanking God for it.

I imagine what it must sound like from just outside our front door. The priceless girly-giggles when the tickle monster rears his goofy head. The ear-piercing screams and the stomping of little feet as Emily and Megan dance to the blaring sounds of Hannah Montana; two precious girls enjoying their innocent childhoods. Their worlds are filled with fairy tales, butterflies, and dollhouses — just as it should be. Walls soaked in laughter.

Last spring my wife and I decided to brighten up the cathedral-style entry way of our house. Appropriately we chose a color called “Fools Gold.” Out came the rollers. Out went the bland, beige walls. In came a spectacular splash of brilliance.

In the hallway leading to the girl’s room, Polly entertained the kids by painting a big yellow smiley face over the beige as they looked on, busting out in high-pitch laughter. Everyone knew that in just a matter of minutes a fresh coat of gold would cover the entire wall and Smiley would be no more. Oh well, it was fun while it lasted.

When the hallway was completely covered and the paint had dried, I took a step back and admired our work. Then I noticed it; if you look real closely you can still see the outline of that huge smiley face. Two coats of paint didn’t completely cover it! At first I was upset because the job is not perfectly finished. “I’ll have to sand that whole area and start over,” I said, clearly annoyed. But after reading Steve’s Facebook, I have a new perspective. Maybe the job is actually quite perfectly done. Perhaps a smiley face is exactly what should be there. Maybe it’s a perfect symbol of walls soaked in laughter.

What’s going on inside your walls? Remember that trouble is always lurking just outside the door. Fear and uncertainty are constantly banging to get inside. But the welcome mat doesn’t have to be out for the world’s nonsense. It’s up to you whether or not to let it in. I choose to let it wait. I’ll deal with the outside when I have to.

No matter what I fall short on in life, no matter how many times I try and fail, there’s one thing I know for sure; my home is filled with peace, love, and fun…and the walls are never thirsty.

Strong Be-leaf

I’m hanging out with my 9-year old daughters at the river near our home. This place is a kid’s dream. There are all kinds of things to discover; cool looking rocks, strange-colored algae, lots of bugs, and the coolest thing of all…a real waterfall!

I show off by skipping stones on the water. I’m not very good at it but to the girls, I’m the skipping-stones champion of the world and they beg me not to stop. Eventually they make up their own games. I watch as they place leaves one-by-one into the slow current then giggle with delight as the leaves take the plunge over the falls.

This looked like fun. I picked up a leaf of my own and placed it into the murky water. My leaf is delicate, sun-baked, and brittle. It’s fiery-red in color with splashes of yellow; its edges curled up just enough to resemble a boat. My imagination begins to run wild. I picture myself as a tiny person riding inside it. I’m the captain of my own leaf-vessel. There’s almost no current, but I’m inching along all the same. I can’t really tell you where I’m heading but I have faith that it’s somewhere good—I just believe.

I can’t help but think about how much this is like our lives.

Every day creepy bugs land on my leaf or hover above me—unwelcome visitors that keep telling me I’m crazy. “You’re heading toward a waterfall and you’ll surely die,” they say. This scares me and I begin to second-guess myself. I begin to question my faith…but I press on.

Each day obstacles are thrown into my path; rocks, branches, even other leafs with other tiny people on them just like me. They’re traveling a similar path, but they’ve decided to pass the time discouraging me. “You’re heading for a fall,” they warn. “Soon you’ll go over the edge.” But my belief is strong and I press on.

Do you ever feel this way? Like you’re on a fragile leaf floating down an uncertain river? Ever feel small, inadequate, even inconsequential as you float along—uneasy and unsure of your destination while outside forces discourage you and block your way?

Here’s what I discovered watching this play out: The leaves did go over the falls. It was a huge spiral downward and a violent crash at the bottom. And when it was over, the leaves were okay. After the great fall, after being submerged under water unable to come up for air, they re-emerged quickly and pressed on only this time in much calmer waters.

Just like our lives.

Here’s the truth: If we continually find the courage and strength to stay on our leaves; if we maintain the faith that we’re going somewhere good and ignore those who would discourage us, we can survive our falls.

All we need is our strong be-leaf.

Have a Little Faith

Henry Covington sat in the darkness behind a row of trash cans just outside his home. Shotgun in hand, he had reached the lowest point of his life. Earlier that day Henry, a thief, a drug dealer and an addict, robbed his own dealers and they knew where to find him. Trembling in fear, he ordered his wife and young daughter to stay inside and he waited to die. So what did he do? The same thing most of us do when we’re in trouble; he asked God to save him. “Will you save me Jesus?” Henry whispered. “Will you save me tonight?”

I won’t give away what happens in Mitch Albom’s latest book, Have a Little Faith but I highly recommend picking it up. Having grown up in Michigan I have been a longtime fan of Mitch’s writing. I’ve also been fascinated by his personal journey. In only 247 pages he pulls off an interesting thing; he tells several stories that appeal to both the seeker and the full-fledged believer at the same time.

Have a Little Faith and Henry’s story reminds us of what trusting God can do and let’s face it, that’s not always apparent. We get dressed up on Sundays and fill the churches acting like it’s apparent, but if we’re being honest we often trust God only to a point. We question everything and we long for proof—evidence of our own beliefs.

In the end, a man who had never considered himself very religious or spiritual, concludes that God sings and we hum along…that there are many melodies, but it’s all one song—one same, wonderful, human song.

Two very big thumbs up.

I know that there is nothing better for men than to be happy and do good while they live… (Ecclesiastes 3:12)

The Peace Pursuit

Oh road of freedom’s peace, how can we find your way?
Look to yourselves’ the road will say

I live in a quiet Tennessee neighborhood. No matter what time of day, save for the occasional low-hum of a lawnmower or barking dog in the distance, it’s exceptionally…almost eerily quiet. Today on a warm, breezy fall afternoon, I’m sitting on my deck listening more closely, inching the volume up on the sounds of silence. Along with the birds’ playful symphony, I can almost hear the leaves relenting, giving up their weakened grip and breaking away from the limbs they’ve called home. They float harmlessly down finding rest among their colorful friends.

If peace has a sound, this is it.

As Thanksgiving approaches, I’ve been tuning in more closely to the things I am thankful for; this peaceful sound is high on the list. It is not this way in many parts of our country or our world. We are perpetually at war; brother versus brother, religion versus religion, people versus people. Think about this, some children have no idea what quiet is—what peace sounds like. Right now, someplace in the world, where people haven’t figured out that peace is the only battle worth waging; fear is the only sound a child knows.

Depart from evil, and do good; seek peace, and pursue it.
(Psalm 34:14)

Along with the usual New Year’s resolutions; getting in better shape, reading more books, tackling the finances, consider seeking more peace in your life. Imagine how the world could change if everyone made this their goal. If we pursue peace at home, peace within, it can only spread peace throughout.

Let peace settle into one place and let it carry us away.

Keep Breathing

“The Lord was grieved that He had made man on the earth, and His heart was filled with pain.” (Gen 6:6)

I was thinking about the shooting rampage at Fort Hood, Texas. 14 people, including an unborn baby senselessly murdered, 30 others wounded, families forever damaged, forever changed. As I pray for the victims something mind-boggling occurs to me. Every single day we get news of violence and tragedy in our world. The stories run at the bottom of our screens like sports scores and celebrity news. It’s everywhere and we’re growing numb to it. Honestly, does anything truly shock you anymore? But here’s the thing: Even with all of our news sources; 24-hour cable, newspapers, radio, and the web, we only hear about a fraction of the evil that goes on each day in the world.

Think of it from God’s perspective. He is keenly aware of every atrocity taking place at every moment on Earth—each life taken, each child abused, each young girl sold into slavery, every woman beaten and raped; every single injustice there is. If we felt the full weight of all of this knowledge, the grief would be so overwhelming that our hearts would ache beyond what can be described by words, the anguish too much for us to take.

And so we hang on to faith and faith says that God knows what He’s doing; that whatever plan He has for us must be so abundant, so flawless that He is willing to take this burden on for us—the burden of watching his children choose evil time and time again. The journey of belief is not straight, easy, or even logical. That is why in times of great sadness, when planes are flown into buildings and suicidal gunmen enter our schools, we hold onto an assurance that this is temporary. We stay in the faith, look for the beautiful colors and keep going.

One day after the Fort Hood shootings, hundreds gathered for a candlelight prayer vigil on the base. Chaplain Douglas Carver chose some interesting words. What do you say at that moment? How do you cut through the grief? What hope can you possibly provide? As Fort Hood’s families embraced, babies cried and old men in wheelchairs bowed their heads, Carver told them to remember to keep breathing….keep going
…and they sang Amazing Grace.

The Lord has promised good to me.
His word my hope secures.
He will my shield and portion be,
As long as life endures.

This is the promise. This is the faith. Keep on breathing.

The Blueprint

Love is a promise; love is a souvenir, once given never forgotten, never let it disappear.
- John Lennon

It’s 1961. President Kennedy utters the famous words “Ask not what your country can do for you—ask what you can do for your country.” A gallon of gas costs .27 cents. If you aren’t somewhere doing “the twist” you’re probably watching “Mr. Ed” on TV or perhaps you’re catching “Breakfast At Tiffany’s” at the movies. Oh, and on November 4, these two kids tie the knot.

April, 1961 my mom, a teenager at the time, hopped in the family’s baby blue convertible Chevy and headed to McDonald’s with her parents for dinner. My dad was a fresh-faced McDonald’s employee. It didn’t take long before he caught the eye of both my mom and my grandma. As he made milkshakes, he flashed a few smiles their way and that’s all it took. My grandma said to her daughter, “That’s the kind of guy I would like you to marry.” A month later, in that same McDonald’s parking lot Dad asked for her hand.

48 years later my parents celebrate their love and I celebrate their devotion. You learn a great deal from your parents; how they relate to one another; how they handle the inevitable difficulties; how they take care of one another. I have been watching.

Today I’m unrolling God’s blueprint, closely inspecting Mom and Dad’s “chance meeting” at a McDonald’s; how it resulted in my life and the lives of my daughters, my sister and my brother’s lives, and the lives of his children. I stand in awe over the breathing blueprint from the Master Designer; a plan with a purpose.

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. (1 Corinthians 13:4)

What happens to love’s flame 48 years after being ignited? Mom says it has never burned brighter. This doesn’t happen by accident; it’s patience rewarded, kindness practiced and repeated; promises fulfilled.

Happy anniversary Mom and Dad. Your love for each other is surpassed only by the love God has for you both.

How’s Your Dash?

I’m walking through a cemetery looking closely at the gravestones. I notice familiar names and wonder if I’m related. I take note of the dates and wonder how they died. As I continue walking several emotions run through me. I feel warmth at the sight of husbands buried next to wives and sadness at the occasional child’s grave. I get a feeling of pride and gratitude as I pass by military graves lovingly marked with American flags. But most of all I notice the dash.

Linda Ellis wrote:

I read of a man who stood to speak
at the funeral of a friend.
He referred to the dates on her tombstone
from the beginning…to the end.

He noted that first came the date of her birth
and spoke of the following date with tears,
but he said what mattered most of all
was the dash between those years.

For that dash represents all the time
that she spent alive on earth…
and now only those who loved her
know what that little line is worth.
Since we overcomplicate so many things, what if this is the very key to a happier, more fullfilling life? What if, during seasons of feeling unimportant and insignificant all we need to do is doctor our dash?

In this season of my life I have decided to think less about the date and more about the dash.

I developed an eight-part dash diagnosis.

1. Am I the best husband and father I can be?
2. Am I growing in my faith?
3. Am I quick to anger?
4. Am I fun to be around?
5. Am I doing what’s safe or taking some risks?
6. Do I do enough to help others?
7. Am I taking good care of myself; sleep, exercise, diet?
8. Am I using my God-given talents?

What are your eight? Are you living your best dash?

The second part of Linda’s poem is most important of all.

For it matters not, how much we own;
the cars…the house…the cash.
What matters is how we live and love
and how we spend our dash.
Have a great week and take time out to doctor your dash.