Missing Letters

I'm spoiled. I know it. I like my modern conveniences like electricity, air conditioning, spell chek and remote controls. But with all the ubiquitous gadgets and devices that exist to keep us networked, I've discovered something I miss. I can't remember the last time I received a personal letter. You remember letters don't you? Before the invention of email, Facebook, Twitter, smartphones and three-cents-minute rate plans people had to write letters, especially if the person you needed to communicate with was "long distance." Miss Geneva and Miss Kornegey even taught letter writing as part of the lesson plans for third through sixth graders at Milford elementary. For many, letter writing was just a way of life. Kids wrote letters from camp and signed up for "pen-pals." Parents wrote letters to children who lived more that twenty miles away. College students wrote home to parents and grandparents. I can't remember the last hand-written letter of any length I received or that I've written to someone else. There are cheaper, easier, faster ways to communicate. But are they better? I don't know. Can you imagine what the apostle Paul could have done with Yahoo and Facebook? I've tried to analyze why I'm missing letters and I think the main thing was the personal connection. I receive and write cards occasionally and my wife, Pam, is great about card-sending. But cards are usually event or problem specific. Good letters are personal, informative, humorous, ofttimes intimate, and assume a level of knowledge which makes reading between the lines both possible and fun. I've a friend I dearly love whom I have blocked from my inboxes. All he ever sends are "forwards" of mind-dumbing trivia or political party bashing. I'd love to hear how his days are spend in retirement. How are his wife and those kids that I baptized and later performed their weddings doing? Tell me about your grand kids so I'll have an opening to tell you about my better one. What has the Lord shown them through the years and how is that foot with the nerve damage? Instead I get a forward message that began the rounds sometime back in the Clinton administration about the benefits and uses of vinegar. I'll cherish the letter my mom sent to me somewhere around my twenty-fifth or thirtieth birthday when she described the circumstances, the weather, and the feelings she had at my birth. It gave me the sense of actually being there. My dad wrote me a letter once. I've kept that letter buried deeply in my papers somewhere. Maybe my kids will find it when I die and they will see a glimpse of my dad that I didn't even know was there before "the letter." I'll always be amazed at the letters Dr. Shields, my theology prof. at Howard Payne wrote years and years after I'd graduated. Full page letters with tiny script, full of information but more encouraging that anything else. I was only one of hundreds of former students he wrote. I might make myself feel guilty enough that I'll write letters again. At nearly fifty cents postage for a letter and taking the better part of an hour to write, it would be quite an investment. Possibly that is really one of the problems in our world, we are very well connected but not very well invested in the hearts, minds, and lives of others. Letter writing is something of a lost art, to be sure. I hope it can be recaptured. If you ever doubt its worth I'd suggest you go to the computer and google "famous letters" or better still,recall those you received yourself (if you are old enough to have actually ever gotten a letter). Better yet, maybe just open the Bible and see the love letter God wrote to humanity. Dear Humanity, In the beginning........ Cos

Anybody here, seen my old friend ___________

"...i looked around and they were gone..........." Well, maybe not gone but who would have ever thought they would be where they are now, my old preacher friends, I mean. They shouldn't be where they are. Take Bob, for instance. He is in Beaumont. He is from Big Spring. There is enough cultural difference alone to see Bob in a place other than in Beaumont. But there he is, chaplain at the hospital and doing great job I hear, especially from Bob (just kidding). When first I met Bob at a Howard Payne University freshman gathering you could tell he was smart, funny, and had a bit of a rebel streak in him. He wouldn't view the world like everyone else, especially preachers, although he was one. With his quick wit, compassion for the little guy, ability to see quickly through masks of hypocrisy and with a view toward justice for the disenfranchised he should have been in a university town with a large church filled with professors. He'd challenge, inform, love, tic-off, push, prod, and show mercy to movers and shakers and future shap-ers of the world and the Kingdom would thank him for it. He spent most of his ministry in a dusty oil field service town with a little farming around it. He fought health issues, battled fundamentalist in the denomination, got a new liver, married country boys to country girls, baptized freckled-faced boys and curly haired girls. He finally moved to town with a college, a two-year college any way. He helped the church clean up some lingering staff problems and they thanked him by firing him and anyone else left around just to give the church a complete clean slate. So Bob became a chaplain and you wonder about all that energy, wit, freshness, and rebellious spirit that kept church from being too worldly or too stuffy going to waste. I wouldn't have put Bob there, but God did. Then there's Larry. Larry doesn't really know how to pastor. After all, he's only had two churches. The first one he stayed at for about eight years and the second one for nearly thirty now. What can he possibly know about pastoring after only two pastorates? His church is in a suburb of Dallas. It is "landlocked" with streets, and parks, and businesses around it so they can't expand the buildings much. The area has gone from middle class white to black to Asian to Hispanic and back and forth. He never stood a chance. I'd have gotten him to a rich church with a huge missions budget because he dearly loves missions. He could have preached and taught and gone on mission trips and encouraged young men and women to become missionaries. He should have been named the head of the denominational mission board but he and God left him at the same place for thirty years. Oh, sure, his church has started or funded a dozen or so new mission churches, kept a crisis pregnancy center going, has blacks, whites, Asian, and Hispanics worshipping together and they love like no other church you've ever seen. Yeah, his sons are all in ministry from music to youth to pastoring and they touch people with the gospel in three states but just think what he could have been with a little push out of the nest he's made. Instead they just keep loving, proclaiming, funding, and finding ways to love Jesus and share him with a neighborhood that probably has no idea how good Larry could have been somewhere else. Poor suckers only know how good Jesus is to them there. In the list I'd have to include Bobby, too. Bobby had ADhD before they invented it. He does a lot , if not most of his pastoring from the car. You having a hangnail extracted,? If you're part of his church he'll probably hold your other hand during the procedure. If your having a real operation, he'll probably move in with you to serve you. He loves his family. He loves the Bible. It shows up in his preaching. He loves to go on mission trips. He loves his denomination. He loves his church. He's got enthusiasm and passion. He is loyal to a fault. His greatest trait may be that he can tell you to your face with bold honesty what "the problem is" and he will be right and you will hug him for it. If I told you the same thing, you would hit me. Bobby should have been in a church with lots of young couples getting married and struggling to stay married. He can help folks fix their marriages. So God puts him in churches in west Texas with bunches of old folks with very stable marriages, well, at least a much as you can have these days. He goes around loving and helping people in trouble. I've been to a half dozen leadership training conferences, have two theological degrees and read hundreds of books on Christianity and pastoring, hardly any of them mention those qualities. Oh well, if all your going to do with your life is love God, love people, and serve them 24-7, I guess it doesn't matter where He sticks you. Now consider poor Rick. Rick was one of the brightest. Rick was one of the quickest. Rick could preach up a storm, argue Satan to hell, and turn the lights of glory on in the hearts of sinners. He was the one. We'd all go to vacation in the big city where he would eventually pastor, attend his gigantic church, and lean over and tell our children in the pew beside us , "your dad went to school with that man." After church, he'd even remember your name right in front of your kids. He was the one. Bachelor's degree--waste of time. Master's degree---child's play. Doctorate--hard logistically but merely stimulating. Humble, sure. He'd pay his dues. He'd pastor little churches for a while we thought but "the call'' would come soon enough. The big one never seemed to fit. He take a church and next month the "big" pulpit would open up but now it was too soon to move again and unfair to the church he had just taken. That happened a couple of times. What was God up to? So he goes to one and stays a while and just grows it into a pretty big church. The denomination calls him to lead one of their divisions. He goes and within a few years the denomination is struggling so it lets hundred of workers go. How, God, could you let that happen? So Rick twists in the wind and the Wind blows him to a small community with a small church. Funny thing, in all the churches he leads people to repentance and faith in Christ. That guy on the couch in his living room has no idea the guy telling him about Jesus has the pedigree he has. Neither one of them seem to care at that moment. What happened? Is this how God works with the brightest and most promising? Rick, Bobby, Bob and Larry are not where I would have expected them to be when I considered our futures 37 years ago this month entering Howard Payne University. Maybe you never expected to be where you are either. Why? Who Knows? I guess He knows. He has His reasons. For the foolishness of God is wiser than man's wisdom, and the weakness of God is stronger than man's strength. He has used the foolish things of the world to confound the wise. He chose the lowly things of this world and the despised things to nullify the things that are so that no one may boast before Him (I Cor. 1:25-29). We have this treasure in jars of clay to show that the all-surpassing power is from God and not from us (II Cor. 4:7). Guys, I, along with many of your peers would have said 37 years ago, "these men will do a great work for God." I believe you have on so many levels but more importantly I see God has done a great work in you (Phil. 1:6) and through you. The score is not kept in Nashville or Dallas or Los Angeles or New York. No, if I had been in charge I'd have not put you where you are. I certainly would not have left you there. Turns out, God hasn't either. Cos

Caption Contest

This little feller had too much Mt. Dew, I guess. This was alongside the road north of Blum. Got a good caption for this pic? I'll buy lunch for the winner. Cos "...gonna love me some high fructose corn syrup with a jolt of caffeine..." "...it's a 103 degrees out here, the asphalt was killin' my feet..." "...when its this hot, i'll do anything for a dew..." "...i'm gonna get this bottle cap off if its the last thing i do..." (contest is still open............)

Death at the Doorstep

Ok, maybe the title is a bit strong, let me explain. While in Waco on Wednesday, Pam moved a cooler with synthetic ice blocks in it from one side of the car to the other to get the cooler out of the sun. Your rightfully ask, "So what?" Let me explain. At about 9:30 or 10 on Wednesday night I remembered I had left the garage door up about 10 inches to allow more air to circulate and cool the garage off. I poked my head out of the back door into the garage and pushed the button and closed the garage door. Still don't get it? Let me further explain. At approximately 10:50 on Wednesday evening, I went to bed. In about five minutes Pam remembered that she had not retrieved the blue ice blocks out of the cooler to put back into the freezer that stands in the corner of the garage. (Now its making sense isn't it?) Pam hollers back into the bedroom and asks me to put the blue ice in the freezer. I lovingly answered back, "No, I'll do it in the morning. I'll put them in when I go the walk the dogs about 6:30." "Never mind," she said. "I'll do it myself." I think to myself, "cool." I heard the back door to the garage open, in about ten seconds I hear the worst scream I've ever heard Pam scream and she comes running into the house yelling "there's a rattlesnake in the garage." She has definitely seen and\or heard something. At the scream I had jumped up and ran toward her but now with the news I'm hearing I run back to the bedroom. No, not to hide under the covers, although the idea had crossed my mind. I had to put on my glasses and some clothes. The glasses were to see whatever it was I had to do battle with and the clothes in case whatever I do battle with wins. I didn't want the paramedics to get grossed out or laugh so hard at a nearly naked preacher that they drop him off the stretcher going to the ambulance. As soon as I walk into the garage it is obvious that it is a rattlesnake, the rattle is unmistakable and I see it's tail rattling out from behind a bag of mulch. Pam has shut and locked the door leading back inside. It's me and the snake now. I am running on adrenaline. I went across the garage and grabbed my hoe. I now regret getting the fifteen dollar hoe made in China instead of the twenty-nine dollar hoe made in Pennsylvania. It has no sharp edge. Should I opt for my driver or another golf club. I'm a twenty-two handicapper. I stick with the edgeless, Chinese hoe. (OK, guys, enough about me going out with a Chinese hoe) I reach out with the hoe and pull the bag of mulch over and reveal the snake. It's bigger than I thought it would be from just looking at the rattlers earlier. It's fat, too, and I'm guessing a little over two feet. It doesn't "stand-up" but it cocks it's agitated neck as I position my hoe over its head. Whack! In the neck about six inches off. Whack, whack! and its over. I finish severing the head and see a lot more blood than I expected. I knock on the door. "Who is it?" "Who do you think it is?....." In taking the thirty inch snake out to the ditch, a recently eaten rat falls out of the snake. That explains the blood and how fat the now disposed of snake appeared. I throw rat and snake out and go clean up the blood in the garage. Pam lets me in and believe it or not, neither of us is sleepy. We access the night's happenings with some of these conclusions. I will not leave the garage door up again no matter how hot it is. I will invest in a twenty-nine dollar hoe. I will sharpen both hoes. I will probably, for a while anyway, go into the garage and get anything Pam wants. I hate snakes. I almost hesitate to to mention this in light of the horrendous things happening in our world, even to true Christ-followers who are endangered for their faith because of where they live. But I truly believe God watched over us last night. Pam stepped within about two feet of the snake when she went to the freezer. Had the cooler with the blue ice been on the driver's side instead of where she moved it to the passenger side, she would have walked right upon the demon. Had I gone out to the car myself to put the blue ice in the freezer, I would probably have not turned on the light at all and walked right up with a quicker, and to a snake, more threatening pace to the place where it was digesting its prey. The fact that it had just eaten probably slowed it down some, too. Bad things happen to both good and bad people and I know Christians that have been bitten by rattlesnakes, but not by that three foot monster last night and I am truly thankful. So, remember, life does come at you fast, even beyond insurance commercials, so be ready. Life is fragile, so handle with prayer. I believe less and less in coincidence but in a God who protects and when He doesn't it is for a greater purpose and glory. When the films of our lives are rewound and shown in glory I suspect we will be amazed at how many times, unknown to us, God protected us, even by simple moves like a cooler moved the other side of the car. Now let me say this, if a rattlesnake makes it way into your life, don't call me, one five footer is enough! Cos

Playing Catch

Do kids these days ever play catch with their dads? Obviously, they still do but you don't seem to see it much. The boys and girls play a lot more games than we did when I was growing up. I think our little league team played twelve, maybe fourteen games during the summer. Now days they have leagues organized from tee-ball to regular season to select leagues. With so many leagues and so many games do the kids get much time with just playing catch with their dads? One of the most poignant scenes from the 1989 movie "Field of Dreams" was when Ray Kinsella's dad shows up on the magical field. There are some obvious hurts from the past that were never resolved before Ray's dad died. Ray asks his dad, John, "do you want to have a catch?" For a few minutes they play catch. I understood that moment. There is something about occupying the same turf, and concentrating on the same sphere with the intent to snatch it from the air like an escaping dream, and then voluntarily sending that sphere back that brings connection like few things in life can. With each throw coming at you, you get to prove you're good enough, big enough, skilled enough to handle it. With each throw you fling away you are proving to yourself and your dad that you can be on target. And the idea renews itself every few seconds. With a game of catch two generations are brought together in the same moment. The old man gets to impart some wisdom of "how to" to the younger generation. In time, if the pair keeps playing catch year after year the young one can show the old one "what he's got" and the old one can show the young one "he's still got it" himself. But mostly its about the connection, the connection that grows with each silent throw and catch as if the ball were a needle pulling some invisible thread between the two players. The simple act of playing catch draws each one to the other as they participate in a game that is bigger than both of them but can be enjoyed on even a small patch of dirt in the backyard. The best times of catch are mostly silent with just the rhythmic "pop" of each one's glove. "Pop"...silence... "pop." "Pop"....silence...."pop."Some throws are hard, some are easy. Some throws are on target and some way off. Most are caught but some are missed. Sometimes an easy throw is dropped and at times a great catch is made of one that should have been missed. Life itself is like that, too. Occasionally, right in the middle of catch, the son or daughter may even ask a question about life, its' whys and wherefore's. It's a good time to talk a little and learn a lot. At some point the younger will eventually surpass the elders skill whether it is from athletic ability or simply age and strength ebbing in one and rising in the other. The wise ones will absorb the change and keep on pitching and catching. One day the younger will find himself gearing down quite a lot so as not to hurt the elder, much like the elder did when the younger was a toddler. Hopefully, by then the connections are so strong that they can find a different way to catch each other's hopes, dreams, and fears that once flew back and forth into each other's glove. But do dads play catch with their kids much anymore? Probably not enough, the kids have too many games and Dad works too many hours. There's a sadness to that which once was but now is lost but the saddest part is that some were too busy or too blind to ever have it in the first place. With so many games, so many leagues, so many practices do kids ever connect with their dads by simply playing catch? Perhaps God wonders the same about all of us to whom He has been pitching truth for years only to see us too busy to grasp it, handle it, and throw it back just in order to connect with Him. One day He may bring the high heat, will we know how to handle it? Cos

Connie, Did You Have a Good Life?

I literally hadn't thought of Connie Stubblefield in probably forty years. But Mom sent some old yearbooks home by son Clay when he was here visiting recently. She said to keep them but not throw them away as she would take them back if I didn't want them. I kept them. I looked up ancient pictures of my classmates but oddly, remembered the ones who weren't there. I remembered David my good friend from early grades, actually only two. But we remained good friends through high school and kept up with each other through college. But he wasn't in those year books. I remembered Daryl Wayne. Daryl had a playground accident when we were in the fifth grade. He hit his head on some concrete during some rough play. The blow caused a clot, the clot swelled the brain and he remained in comatose state for three years until his death. Daryl wasn't in the yearbook either. Philip Becker wasn't there. His family moved to Ennis so they could attend St. John's Catholic school after about the sixth grade. We kept in touch through sports until I lost track of Philip after high school. He was probably the nicest and smartest of the bunch. Well, maybe David, too. Then there was Connie. Connie started the first grade with all of us. She was different in some ways but all of us were in our own ways I guess. Connie had skin that was different than the rest of us. She wasn't black, she wasn't Hispanic, but her skin was darker. I heard later someone say she had an "olive" complexion. I thought olive was green and Connie wasn't green so that didn't make sense to me then. Connie was also poorer, I think. She lived with her grandmother. That also made her different back then. I seem to recall she had a little brother, but I'm not sure. Her mother would show up on occasion for some big event at school. I never knew nor was it my place to know what was going on with her family. If I ever knew the particulars of Connie's family situation I couldn't really say for sure but they would have been wasted on a six or eight or ten year old like me anyway. Her grandmother didn't speak much English if my memory serves me correctly. She looked like Mother Teresa, covered head and all. She was old and slow and I remember thinking Connie may be taking care of her grandmother more than grandmother is taking care of her. Connie may have been pretty, I just don't know. She didn't have anyone to work with her on those sorts of things. I think she was thin, had pointed features and something called high cheek bones. I never thought of Connie as pretty-never thought she was ugly. She was kind of a tom-boy and liked baseball. When you know someone at age 6 until just before puberty awakens new realms of reality, well, Connie was just Connie. I'd see her for nine months of the year for five days a week, only once or twice during the summer at a baseball game or the store, and no where else. Then after our eighth grade year, I think, it could have been seventh, something happened. I can't recall if her grandmother got too old and sick to keep them or if circumstances changed with her mother, but Connie left Milford and I never saw or heard from her again. When those old yearbooks showed up I saw old classmates' pictures and I remembered the ones not there. So, did you have a good life Connie Stubblefield? Did your mother show you how to put on make-up and dress like a lady? Did you finish high school and maybe college and get a good job? Did you have a career, a family, a divorce? Did you come to know Christ? Did you get to have little money and maybe travel some? Did you ever go back to Milford and did you look in your old yearbooks and wonder whatever happened to those people not in yours that you left in Milford? I lost track of Connie. No, that implies I tried to keep track. School ended. Connie left like every summer only when it started up again in August, she wasn't there and I never thought too much about it. That is a bit sad, maybe a lot sad. People drop in and drop out of our lives. They can be there for a long time and then gone. That's the way it is and we don't think much about it but if we stop long enough to think about it, we find something gnawing away at our souls leaving the impression that the way it is is not necessarily the way it should be. I suppose this gnawing is really a fear that maybe we are the ones who have been lost in life's shuffle. God, do you know where I am? Do you know what I've been doing? Do you remember my name? But God's word assures: O Lord, you have searched me and you know me. You know when I sit and when I rise; you perceive my thoughts from afar. You discern my going out and my lying down; you are familiar with all my ways. Psalm 139: 1-3 Connie, I hope you lived and laughed and loved. Mostly I hope you know this God who knows you. He never lost you for a moment. Cos

A Cry From the Gulf

What Do The Tall Trees Say? What do the tall trees say To the havoc in the sky. They sigh. The air moves, and they sway When the breeze on the hill Is still, then they stand still. They wait. They have no fear. Their fate Is faith. Birdsong Is all they've wanted , all along. Wendell Berry I find myself writing about events for which I have no adequate words. Last week, wildflowers, this week folly. The gulf oil spill could be described with every negative adjective in the dictionary and none of them would be strong enough to convey the loss, betrayal, pain, and suffering inflicted from the ocean depths to the kitchen tables of ordinary folks who happened to make their living from the gulf waters. A new "verb" is even emerging from the disaster, "BPed." This is used when the negligence and irresponsibility of others cost you dearly. Those eleven workers who lost their lives after the blowout and subsequent fire on the oil rig were really "BPed." Humans tend to look to lay blame when disasters fall and trouble rings our doorbell. There is plenty to go around in this one as well. There were supervisors who ignored engineers warnings. There were managers who preached safety but kept pushing to keep drilling and moving forward. There were executives who said all the right things publicly but fostered an industry culture of turning a blind eye if delays would translate into costly overruns on projects. There was arrogance from top to bottom in thinking that when all was said and done, everything would turn out okay and no one would know a few corners were cut. Now everyone knows and everyone will pay, but not as much as the eleven and their families, followed by the lives lost in the marine and animal kingdoms and the humans who live and work in the gulf. We will all pay for this one. Does the gulf not cry out to us begging us to listen? Does the spewing well vomiting its dark poison not paint a metaphor of the natural consequences and the human heart's condition when arrogance and greed are the driving forces of our lives? So what are we to hear? What does the gulf say to us in her fear, in her frustration, in her death struggle? She reminds what God has already taught us: We live in a broken world. Sin has broken this world. We discount this truth to our own peril. Romans 8:20-22 informs us the "the creation was subjected to frustration, not by its own choice, but by the will of the one who subjected it, in hope that the creation itself will be liberated from its bondage to decay and brought into the glorious freedom of the children of God." Look at the words, frustration, bondage, decay. We see this in every earthquake, every flood, tornado or hurricane. From the introduction of sin by man into this good earth that God created there has been pain, frustration, bondage, and decay that leads to death. Our world is broken. But there is another cry from the gulf of a related brokenness. The gulf and every other clod of dirt, breath of air or drop of water that has been touched by man knows also that it is inhabited by broken people. We too are fallen and if we can't see it in the world around us maybe we can sense it in our hearts. Made in the image of God we can imagine, conquer, dream, and create many new and wonderful things. But even the best advances are, or can be tainted with the stain of sin. God told Adam in Genesis 2 to take care of the Garden, rule over the earth and subdue it. Yet, despite all the good wrought in our rule and subjugation there is the pain it causes. Electricity yields light, heat, cool, progress and the occasional electrocution. Automobiles opened the country, joined sections, opened markets, provided jobs and united families. And yes, they kill thousands in accidents every year. Medicine saves lives by the millions but occasionally a mistake is made or a bad reaction is introduced. Oil production in the gulf has been safe, produced thousands of jobs and elevated a way of life. Yet, when broken people ignore protocols, circumvent safety procedures and dismiss chunks of rubber coming up from the blowout preventor on the wellhead, then unparalleled disaster follows. And it has been the history of mankind that there are always people ignoring God's calls, circumventing His will, and dismissing His Son as Savior that leads to personal and corporate disaster. In arrogance men try to rule other men, enslaving not only the body the ideas and ideals of those more noble. War then breaks out, pestilence, famine, and disease follow. We often have received more than we needed but developed a thirst for even more: more cars, more clothes, more entertainment, more food. This lust for more produced a greater dependence on oil, that fetches a grand price that other men are willing to do anything to produce and we all with sin-broken hearts and minds, now have oil on our hands and the gulf of Mexico on our conscience. Then we start the whole blame game anew and "they" and "them" become the culprit as we try to hide again our own brokenness. If I could cry back to the gulf with words she could understand I'd somehow convey that I'm sorry. I'm sorry my appetites fed others appetites that fed greed and produced more arrogance. I'd tell her that there is hope. There is hope because God remains. He remains faithful and sovereign. He lets us face our consequences but is ever near to help if we but repent and are willing to listen and follow. I'd tell her also that God redeems. He redeems the repentant heart that turns to His Son for salvation and will one day even redeem His creation that we broke. The picture of the new heaven and new earth is a picture of redemption. In Revelation 22: 1-6 there is the word picture of joy-filled streams and healing trees. Those streams that make glad the city of God surely are filled with His whole and healthy sea creatures. And those trees that produce the healing for all nations in their monthly bearing of fruit must surely be nourished by the wholeness of the earth made new and right again. God help us to hear the cry of the gulf and hear Your cry to our hearts to seek Your healing for both. Cos