Thanksgiving Eve 2019

Six years ago, this evening, 3 of us were at home, not 4. Just 3 of us. Sarah, Grey and I were facing a travel-less, incomplete family holiday. Julian was hospitalized that week, actually being admitted the weekend before  after a total breakdown. 

He was in a psychiatric hospital. 

Now that I think back, I don’t think we even had any traditional Thanksgiving meal items in the house. We were so gut punched by the reason for and reality of his absence.

If you’ve never had the opportunity to deal with psyche wards, the patients live with regimented schedules and family is only allowed in 1 hour per day, and that only after the patient has been determined to be stabilized. 

We went every time we could to see him, including that Thanksgiving Eve.

At some point it turned into a new adventure for him and he seemed to acclimate. My heart and mind never acclimated to him being there. It was a dark, unsettling place. Broken souls and minds were there for care after various traumatic events. I’m still unsettled and teary eyed thinking about that place. It was top flight care, no doubt. It’s simply not a place anyone would choose to hang around. It’s just not the way it should be. 

But then Julian’s challenges are not the way things should be; not the way anyone would want it. The developmental delays layered with epilepsy make clear, rational thinking impossible for him. Mix in fear, chemical imbalances, new circumstances and/or the possibility of any physical ache, pain, sickness or fever and any kind of “shoulds” get shifted right out the door.

Six years ago we didn’t know to expect his breakdown. No doctor or caregiver ever mentioned that he’d face that possibility. After the fact, a couple of psychiatrists commented how common his scenario was.

I was angry that no one had ever told us that. I was also, equally embarrassed to not know that. And I was seized by the fear that it would always be that rough.

Today, Thanksgiving Eve 2019, Julian’s already in bed resting rather early. He’s been fighting the head cold congestion thing that mom, brother and cousins have all been sharing. He doesn’t feel great. That lends itself to edginess and quick trigger agitation. It wasn’t a bad day, nothing like six years ago. It just wasn’t a smooth day for him. His level of clear thinking gets hijacked by emotions; outbursts and zoning out can occur. Well, did occur, is the appropriate verb structure. 

But it’s past tense; it happened, a little today and a lot back six years ago. He’s happier, stronger and other than the current head cold sniffle fest, he’s so much healthier than that dreadful Thanksgiving.

It was that week six years ago that became the initial nudge toward a greater life change for our whole family. After a return trip to that same hospital under similar circumstances 15 weeks later, Sarah and I felt led to move closer to family. And by the providence of a loving God, we sold one house, bought another and transported ourselves nearer to Grandma and Popa by the summer that year. 

Incredible. 

God on the move for us.

God in the details for Julian.

 

Tomorrow Grandma and Popa (my folks) come over for a Thanksgiving feast. Sarah has a fridge full of options and delicacies. It will be a bountiful, yet simple meal. I’m sure there will be stories of prior holidays. We’ll talk about Christmas plans and next semester school plans. We’ll all eat a bit too much. Grandma and Popa will then do what they’ve done nearly every other weekend for 5 plus years now: they’ll take Julian to their house to give him a respite from the routine here and so he can get doted on by Grandma. The flip side of that respite will bless me and Sarah with a weekend to clock out from the 24/7 constant care. 

I am truly grateful this Thanksgiving Eve. I’m even grateful for that season six years, for where it has led us to today. I can testify to “the working together all things for good for those who love God”. I couldn’t see it then; we live it now.

Goodness.

Thankfulness.

Rhythms of the Tides-October 2019

The Tide was coming in this morning. There were not ferocious waves crashing on the beach. The waves may have been all of 1 foot. They just kept lapping up further in on the shore. One came in too high, too quick and soaked my sandaled feet. No worries; they’ll dry.

It was about 8:30am and the Tide was coming in. I can honestly say I’ve spent maybe 3 total minutes of my entire life contemplating Tides. I guess I always assumed it’s a 12 hour cycle, you know: a sunrise to sunset kind of thing.

It’s not. 

Maybe you already know this, and I’m sure I studied it in “Earth Sciences” in like 4th grade, but the Tides are an all day repetitive, rhythmic thing.

There is High Tide and Low Tide twice a day, basically every 6 hours. 

But not precisely. 

There’s ebb and flow.

There’s Rhythm, not Balance.

Today my sandaled feet were soaked by the Atlantic Ocean for the umpteenth time. I spent a large part of my childhood in the Mid-Atlantic and New England states so the ocean wasn’t completely foreign. We visited repeatedly growing up. I’ve been able to continue that tradition; my children have been to the Atlantic repeatedly. Early next year the Mrs and I will be blessed to join work friends for a few days in Cabo San Lucas, Mexico and touch the Pacific Ocean there for the second time. And last April, while musically serving some missionary friends through the World Music Mission, my toes, feet and ankles waded into the Indian Ocean off the Kenyan coastline for the very first time. That was pretty cool (or more accurately, rather warm)!

It was at that event that Steve and Gwen Smith of Potter’s Inn Ministries spoke. Steve made one comment in particular that struck and stuck: “The concept of BALANCE in life is not in the Scriptures; instead the Bible exemplifies and teaches RHYTHM.” 

Balance-A lifetime struggle of failed reality. 

Rhythm-A new old concept. 

Steve is right: the concept of Balance is non-existent in Scripture. Webster’s 4th definition of Balance says it’s “the state of being in equipoise; equilibrium; even adjustment; steadiness.” This is what the Bible does not commend. Feel free to search the word “Balance” in a Bible concordance app. It is used in the Holy Writ to refer to weights and measures, but not the modern concept of equilibrium in life. In our mad-paced, Western way of living and working, everybody talks about Balancing the demands of life. Yet we ignore the very clear, like original 10 Commandments clear, concept of Sabbath. 

Sabbath is rhythm. 

Sabbath is recurring. 

Sabbath is God-ordained, expected, again commanded. 

Yet I’ve lived much of my life in a frenzy. (I’m sure the communal “WE” fits here, but let me stay in first person confessional mode.) That frenzy lets me worry about everything and anything. I squeeze out a little-bit more _______. Then I’m all knotted up requiring a visit to my Chiropractor. I’m weary, bloated, unfocused and unbalanced. I need supplements or dietary adjustments. I need a day off or...wait...a day off. 

Maybe just 1 day. 

Like a weekly Sabbath.

“Well no duh, genius. You’re out of Rhythm. You run, figuratively and literally, until you’re wiped out. Your bones ache. Your head aches. Your heart aches. Yet you didn’t and don’t stop.”

The internal monologue is honest.

I KNOW better.

I simply haven’t lived it.

The Tides are front and center today because me and the Mrs are taking a few 

days away, a short vacation. I know we’re blessed with both means and opportunity to do this. Thank you, Lord. In the same praise-filled moment comes the realization that for many years, I’ve seemingly lived as if it’s constantly High Tide, always the moment to strike, move, do and charge the enemy as Shakespeare implied. There’s been a conscious, repentant change in that regard over the past 2 years.

It’s Tuesday. Tomorrow the live Tide watching for 2019 will conclude and we return to home life reality away from the condo. The Tides will continue to come in and go out. 

Never Balanced. 

Just in Rhythm.

The Hospital Billboard October 2019

While driving into the heart of downtown Dallas last night for a concert, I saw this message on a billboard: “In the past year 17 rural hospitals in Texas have closed. Mr President, stop tweeting and start leading.” I was driving so I couldn’t snap a pic of that specific billboard but I instantly remembered the message (but here's a pictoral reminder of what creeping traffic in Big D is like at rush hour).

•Hospitals-mostly private or state run entities (there really isn’t a federal hospital complex beyond the VA).

•Texas-a financially self-sufficient state.

•Rural America-experiencing population decline across the board.

I’m scratching my head as to why anyone would pay for that billboard. Why would anyone blame the current resident of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue for this particular problem? Especially a problem that’s been decades in the making. Rural decline isn’t 

anything new. States and private entities running (and at times mismanaging) hospitals has been the norm. What exactly do the billboard creators expect this President or any President to do?

Before you roll your eyes and blow past this read, understand I’m not here to defend the current top seat occupier. Those who’ve taken the time to get to know me know I lean decidedly conservative but I’m not a blind lemming of any President (or any elected official, actor, preacher or rock star). This President is his own best advocate and simultaneously his own worst enemy.

Like him or hate him, he’s the one sitting at the Resolute desk. 

Not you.

Not me.

And obviously not Hillary.

Instead, the hospital billboard brought back up a recurring thought. I’ve been mulling a lot lately on this fresh and epic and toxic liberal/conservative divide in the nation, the kind of divide that has some group of folks create a billboard blaming the wrong person and imputing the solution on an institution to which it has never belonged. I’ve also been mulling on the role of government both as envisioned by the Founding Fathers as well as the way we’ve progressively turned in recent years. On a related note and tone, I’ve been mystified by the calls for tolerance aimed at someone like me by the very people intolerant of me and my viewpoint. Add in the calls for the federal government to solve everything while one-sided-only-personal-liberty is demanded: “I have the right to do x-y-and-z with my body, children, money, etc and you have no right to speak about my choices” and you hopefully can see my curiosity.

This swirling partisan dilemma is engulfing many good Americans. It’s not even a discussion at this point; it’s just rancorous, nasty and derogatory. It centers on “personal feelings and perspectives” but not on the Constitution nor the purposeful structure of our government. And if we’re all not careful, it could suck both sides into a hopelessness vortex from which there is no return. On the left there’s the notion that if Trump isn’t removed (by impeachment if not by the next election) then all of humanity is doomed. Friends on the right are digging in, literally digging in, and burying guns, gold and spam just in case “those crazy lefty libs” get more influence.

Stop, friends.

Just STOP.

Breathe.

We, the People of these United States of America, have encountered and endured much.
And we’re still here.
It would be wise to look to history as a guide more than “personal feelings and perspectives”. Your particular 18, 28 or 68 years of life, feelings and perspectives are just a blip in the life cycle of this great nation. We’ve had wars that truly threatened the very survival of humanity. We’ve had Presidents who couldn’t get out of their own way. We’ve been frontally assaulted by ideological enemies looking to obliterate our way of free living by flying planes into our people and landmarks. We’ve had strong Congressional leadership on both sides of the aisle; we’ve had laughably inept Representatives and Senators. In some current specifics, we still have much of that.

And we’re still here.

We're still America.

We’re still THE place people dream of running to; they build flotillas to get here, not to get away. 

Blue passports with the US emblem emblazoned on it are coveted around the world.

We’re still here.

Here’s my point: the moment you think your point of view must be imposed on everyone, say by posting a misguided billboard in downtown Dallas or passing a sweeping law restricting liberties or muzzling those who disagree with you, you’ve missed it! Not everyone agrees with you, nor should they. The Constitution is clear: I am a free man. I can think, say and do what I want. There are obviously limits, as in not causing actual physical harm to others, but my Thoughts, Beliefs, Convictions, Values...the way I am, is none of your business. I am a free man. The way I vote is my choice alone. And the same goes for you. Thoughts, even words, are NOT the enemy to anyone. They’re proof of free thinking.

A prime example of this partisan outrage was clearly evidenced recently when talk show host Ellen DeGeneres was seated next to President George W Bush at Cowboys Stadium for a game (Jerry Jones—get your team together, man 🙄). https://youtu.be/lSZtjol7mJA

People around the world went nutzoid on social media, the left especially, condemning Ellen. Her response was gracious, comical and correct: we don’t all have to agree to 1) get along and 2) make this nation work. 

Reasoned discussions by civil people will solve it all. That’s how we got here, folks. Reasoned men argued for weeks on end in Philadelphia in the late 1700’s after their fathers and grandfathers escaped tyranny in Europe. Reasonable people passionately looking to persuade others of different beliefs—THAT is America! What is un-American, for example, is the criminal behavior we've seen of physically attacking someone of a different persuasion because they show up at a political rally for their candidate. 

And so we come into the election cycle of 2020 with all the same “if So-and-So wins, ALL IS LOST” tripe. It is certainly true that unqualified or skillfully deficient people can hurt us in the near term; but what’s more true is that We, the People, at home, say in rural Texas, can solve most of our own problems, including healthcare delivery systems, without relying on anyone in Washington, DC. THAT is American through and through!!

But it’s incumbent on us to handle it and not rely on the incumbent or challenger to fix it all. Here’s a thought: maybe we should stop spending money on billboards on I-30 and instead gather local friends to create a workable small scale healthcare safety net for our neighbors. 

(Here’s a related opinion piece from the Dallas Morning News by Dan McCoy of BCBS of TX highlighting the rural hospital problem)

https://www.dallasnews.com/opinion/commentary/2018/12/31/texas-rural-health-care-is-in-trouble/

Margaret W, the Liberal VS Joal D, the Conservative

Margaret W (anonymously last-name-initialed here) recently wrote me a letter, the kind that requires a postage stamp and envelope and a few days to traverse from the north-central part of the nation to my humble abode in the republic north of the Rio Grande.

Interestingly, I don’t know Margaret.
That didn’t stop her.
No, sir!
Margaret wrote to tell me off!!
Not a little, but more like a royal-just-short-of-cussing kind of tell off.

So you’re probably wondering what I did to the elderly Ms W to cause, deserve or precipitate the letter.


As best I can tell (not knowing her) it was just one thing: I publicly spoke up on a matter of government regulation.
I exercised my rights as a Citizen.
More precisely, I exercised my Constitutionally constructed and protected rights.

The rub?
I’m a conservative in most matters (believing in extremely limited government and excessive personal liberty) and Margaret is not. She, therefore, felt it her duty as a self-proclaimed-zealous-liberal to straighten me out.

Me, a complete stranger.

How this confluence of events transpired is fluke-ish beyond the pale, but insightful into the dissolution of Civility in the U.S. and the uselessness of certain styles of “news reporting”.

First, I feel it necessary to give a bit of a lesson in HOW our governmental processes work. Before some of you get all knotted on “I don’t need no stinking lesson from a blankin’ conservative”, take a breath; I’m only going to explain the procedures of government available to all sides.

When there is a regulatory policy change proposed by the President, Congress or bureaucracy, that U.S. federal agency opens a 30 day public comment period. Literally anyone can leave a comment For or Against the proposed change. Those comments are now, in 2019, posted on an online page at that given agency’s website (think EPA, OSHA and so on).

I knew of a proposed change I wanted to comment on (and No, I won’t tell you the specifics—this is about the principles in play here with ol’ Ms W and me). I went to the appropriate site, left my 2 sentence, 17 word comment and that-was-that.

Some 3 weeks later Margaret’s letter arrives in my mailbox. I read it, annoyed to get "fanmail" like that, and I literally ripped it up and tossed it in the recycle box (because yes, this Conservative believes in recycling). As the day progressed, I continued to mull on: HOW exactly did total-stranger-Margaret know MY views? I had forgotten about posting the comment on the agency website. I knew I didn’t post anything on the socials, I’d never spoken my opinion in public where someone’s cell phone could capture me, just nothing. I told my lovely wife about the letter. I even pulled the torn letter out of the recycle box and taped it together for her to read. She, my lovely that is, was just as mystified by it and began an online search for Ms W, my comment and all things even remotely related.

Here’s the detail-to-process-turn: a lazy NPR reporter apparently saw my comment on the government agency website, my comment being the first conservative-leaning comment among nearly 38,000 logged and decided to quote me to the world. More precisely the reporter decided to quote my 2 sentences and fill in “obvious-to-him-alone” details (full-throated-sarcasm) attributing my opinion to support of the President and his position. Said reporter never tried to find me for further comment. I’m not really that hard to find based on the spelling with which Dick and Bonnie labeled me. Lazy Reporter Guy just did the least amount of “research” for his piece to get published and for him to get paid.

Get this: he wouldn’t try to find me, but ol’ Margaret W sure did! From her rest home in Michigan she tracked me down, even looking up my educational history online. She was clear to tell me many things like:
1) I should be ashamed of myself for my views and
2) because of my opinion, I obviously can’t be a Christian and the ending volley
3) “Seriously, if you were my son, I’d disown you.”
(Yes, that was the closing line.)

So turn with me back to this concept of Civility in Public Discourse.
I exercised my rights.
In doing so, no one was harmed.
I used my freedom of speech in the appropriate context.
Yet an unskilled reporter and an enraged liberal pounced into the limelight showing their utter lack of Civic Understanding and even Human Civility.

These times we find ourselves in, with the rancid, acrid tone of excessive one-sided, on both sides, partisanship and do-it-our-way-or-else-ness, usually just makes me roll my eyes with a frowning smirk. That ain’t how America works, folks.

But the letter from MW crossed a line, leaving me smirk-free. Instead of letters to strangers, we need more Citizens engaging in the appropriate forums; we must reduce the attacks on individuals and segments. Instead, we need an informed and freedom loving people engaging each other and their elcted representatives for the best in all areas. Less social media, more face to face discussions.

Momentary diversion: I secretly enjoy the “man on the street” interview videos where an uninformed (ok, I’ll say it) ignorant protester tries to sound profound yet only confirms their ignorance on camera. Said ignorance nearly always stems from a complete misunderstanding of the Constitution.
They make demands that can’t be met by a politician’s finger snap.
They self-righteously condemn anyone who disagrees with them.
They vaporously pontificate on what’s wrong with the world but offer no solution that THEY themselves would agree to live under.
And their comments always smack of US vs THEM; it is never WE.

And THAT is the problem today, highlighted by Margaret's letter to me, a complete stranger.
Disagreements on policies and positions are actually good and healthy. The way we get to the best decisions is by pulling and pushing on each other’s ideas. Absolute refusal to move and instead take a do-it-my-way-or-else-I’ll-get-you approach will not help anyone. You can throw the temper tantrum and even write a total stranger a letter, but that won’t move the needle nationwide. Instead, the Margarets of America would be better to get a history book and study Adams vs Jefferson. They didn’t walk in lock step, but they made America amazing; they started the making of what it is today. The incredible wonder of America is the vastness and diversity while remaining One Nation Under God Indivisible with LIBERTY and Justice for ALL (including me and you and Margaret and NPR boy).

Sadly, I have the feeling that the NPR reporter isn’t going to change. I doubt Margaret W will either; she seems a little set in her ways. I can only hope the rest of the American "WE" will change. Bring back Civility in our discourse. Bring in ideas that align with the very documents that brought us here...”We hold these truths to be self-evident that ALL men are created equal (including me and you and Margaret and NPR boy). You should constantly write to, speak to and engage with those who are elected and positioned to bring the change. That’s how we make a more perfect Union.

Grief--August 2019

Grief.

No words.

My beautiful bride was the one who sent me a quick text and snapshot of J covering his tear filled eyes, holding his head, as a wave of grief ran over him at lunch. He was missing a friend who passed away.

J loves YouTube.

For all the dilemmas and pitfalls of the internet, YouTube “How-To” videos have been a developmental aid to J with his unique challenges. Every night as he’s winding down, an “Ask This Old House” kind of video helps him leave the activities of the day behind and center into quietness. He’ll then put the tablet or phone down and talk (out loud) through his day often reiterating some technical tidbit he just learned. He’s not speaking to anyone in particular but to everyone simultaneously, including Sophia, the 15lb feline fur-ball that resides with us.

We regularly listen to the radio. J loves the local Christian pop station and often, hysterically, thinks the DJs are talking directly and only to him. He’ll come in sometimes to tell us about a community event we need to donate to or help with as, again, he thinks they were telling him for his sake alone. So it goes with YouTube videos.

One of J’s favorite YouTube friends has been Grant Thompson, known for his show “The King of Random”. Last week Grant was in an accident and passed away. My lovely Sarah, J’s momma, explained to J that Grant died but it didn’t seem to sink in at the moment. Then a couple of days later, while out for lunch, just the two of them, J was sad, he reached for his momma’s hand and tears streamed down his face. Suddenly, it hit him. As Sarah put it: “It was a hard day. When words don’t come easily to you and grief is a new feeling to you, it makes for some hard days. #nosmilestoday #restinpeacegrantthompson #thefriendwenevermet”

While caring for J these 20+ years there have certainly been some sad moments.

J has experienced physical pain from injuries and sickness.

He’s definitely been scared and disoriented at times.

But Grief...Grief is new in his experience.

Honestly, it’s something I never considered he’d experience because I’ve never thought he had the emotional bandwidth nor depth. And then a friend he’d never met in person, but someone he’d speak of as if he’d stopped by and just left the house, that kind of friend, leaves this side and it knocks J hard. 

We are still learning.

Still loving.

Still realizing new things about J.

I’m a thankful Daddy for Grant Thompson’s work and legacy 

and how important it is, has been and yet will be for J. 

Rest in peace, Grant.

Memorizing the Book of Eli--July 2019

The Book of Eli.

Eli and the story of his book turned into an unexpected life shift for me. I won’t give the plot twist away beyond saying that his book is the Bible, the LAST Bible on earth. 

In the flow of the story we learn that Eli has traveled for “30 winters since the flash” reading his book everyday.

Then the perfect-movie-British-bad-guy (who pulls off a convincing American tonality) Gary Oldman encounters Eli and the book and spends himself out to possess the book.

It’s a violent, dark themed film centered around the preciousness of the one, surviving Bible.

It’s really quite Un-Hollywood. 

The believer is the hero.

He’s unique, but not crazy.

Again, it’s REALLY Un-Hollywood-like.

But no more on that so as to protect the storyline for those yet to see the film.

Netflix it.

It was this specific movie that triggered something in me over a decade ago. Throughout the film Denzel as Eli regularly quotes Scripture. The triggered insight was this: if I had 30 years to 1) read the Word everyday and 2) protect it, how much of it would I retain in my memory? Then my thought process continued to: “wait! I do have time to 1) read the Word everyday and 2) protect it. I should start actively memorizing Scripture!”

I had a well worn New International Version (NIV) Bible as my regular-use Bible. I had no memory technique instructor other than the Spirit to lead. It just felt right to start with maybe the most beloved portion of the Psalter: Psalm 23. It’s 6 short verses were familiar and in a week’s time, I had it locked in my hippocampus.

Another iconic section of the Holy Writ is nicknamed the “Love chapter”. Though I was familiar with I Corinthians 13,  its list structure (and twists of those lists) made perfect memory retention a bit more difficult. But after a couple of weeks of 10 minute daily work, I had it nailed down. By repeating one verse out loud over and over and over, I eventually retained it.

Another Psalm, the 46th, drew me in next. I need to remind myself daily that “God is our refuge and strength, an ever present help in trouble. Therefore, we will not fear...” Because I’ve committed that Psalm to memory, I both regularly remind myself of the truth and use it when I’m asked to lead a devotional moment. When delivered with passion, inflection and good rate-pace-tone, it comes alive to the listeners.

So then a decade ago, post-Eli-realization, I decided to embark on a much bigger mountain of a project—memorizing a whole book of the Bible. 

Hebrews had always fascinated me. 

I wasn’t sure what would come of it, but I decided to memorize verse 1 of chapter 1. Then after about 2 months I had all of chapter 1 retained. So naturally I went to chapter 2. And on and on for a decade. There were some moments of setting it down weeks at a time, to then dust it off and restart the work. Ten years later, all 13 chapters are memorized.

I still review it all at least once a week to retain it. 

But it’s done.

Now let me stop the “atta-boys” some might be inclined to slide my way; I didn’t do this for recognition but for my soul’s betterment. I am, indeed, better for having invested the time and mental exhaustion in to infusing words of Life into me.

There’s a section in chapter 11, the well-known “Hall of Faith” chapter, that chokes me up nearly every-time I recite it. After listing specific Old Testament luminaries and their stories, it goes into a generalized list of what many saints did by faith. Verse 35 starts off with “Women received back their dead raised to life again. Others were tortured and refused to be released so that they might gain a better resurrection.”

Lord, help my unbelief...Refusing to be released from torture for the sake of Christ and resurrection quality?!

Really?!

That is a whole deeper level of faith than I seem to live with daily.

You, too?

To these saints it was all about THAT DAY, the day of Christ’s return and our ultimate, eternal union with Him. The regular, recurring planting of this verse before my consciousness every week is good, right and true. 

Back to the cinematic impetus: Eli was walking, carrying, reading, defending all because he heard a voice...as the storyline goes. He kept the Word before him at all times and let it defend and guide him. The Psalmist called it a “lamp for my feet” and told us “to hide it in our hearts”. Even Eli’s antagonist, Oldman’s character Carnegie, knew the words in the book had power, supernatural, inexplicable power.

What if we, who say we believe it all, invested ourselves in memorizing it. Today printed copies abound in the Western world with umpteen apps to read it to us, translate it for us, even pictorialize it to social media. The sober truth for Eastern believers already that may find us in the West one day is this: we may find ourselves needing to draw the words up from memory as our only option.

Start memorizing for your own spiritual health. 

Start with some portion that soothes your soul and reminds you of the goodness of God. 

You have the time now. 

Use it.

My Ego in 17B and 20F

As I begin to type this, I’m seated in seat number...wait, that’s not quite descriptive enough. I’m actually wedged into seat number 17B, the middle seat on a 4 hour domestic flight from Fort Lauderdale to Dallas. My flight companions in 17A and C are seemingly nice guys, an average sized Asian man to my right and a generously proportioned white guy to my left. We’re doing the armrest elbow dance. 

Intuitively. 

An hour into the flight, I think we have our rhythm down.

I’m not really a middle seat guy.

I’m always an aisle seat guy.

At 6’ 3” it’s a bit beyond preference.

Heck, my profile with my travel agent clearly lists that “preference”. 

But this flight is slap full so snug 17B it is.

But here’s the twist: I know I’m blessed to have it. Today is a situation where my mid-level “frequent flyer status” let me jump on an earlier flight than I was ticketed to be on. My later flight included my coveted, preferred aisle seat, but I was able to jump on the earlier bird. 17B is a good ego check for me, a blessing that requires pride and comfort to be crammed away beyond the overhead bin.

Lately, I’ve been mulling on this idea of “I deserve” and “Ego” and “Of course, I know what I’m doing” and just the very worst ways that attitude can rear up and out. It's front of mind here in 17B because my ego tends to creep up at the airport when I have wait for group 4. Then, the rare instances when I’m bumped to first class, it has the chance to turn into a pride wrestling opportunity for growth. Hey Joal, reminder: it’s all the same plane. 

Stop with the high brow thinking.

Just Stop.

When I’m bumped up I simply lucked out that the first class seats weren’t sold out. 

And today I lucked out that a handful of seats were still open.

I didn’t DO anything.

I don’t DESERVE anything.

It was a happy blessing.

Whether it’s a teenager thinking they know it all or a newly elected Member of Congress thinking they’re God’s gift to America or the Pastor that thinks he can save people or counselors who believe they can fix marriages or a-hem...a particular sales rep who thinks he’s the greatest salesman his company has ever seen, all of them share the same bitter root. The "Me, Myself and I" gene is embedded in all of us from conception and is in full burn from breath number one.

Scripture is full of warnings and observations about pride. 

Here’s a thought: what if “life to the full”, a full personhood, restored, redeemed and reclaimed, was mostly defined as LESS of me? Actually, going further, how about none of the ME gene. I’m thinking more and more that’s precisely the case.

Josh Wilson, a favorite singer/songwriter around our family (and one of those guitarists that just makes you shake your head with what his fingers produce live) has a new tune called “Self Less”. The space between the words is intentional. The lyrical turn is: “It ain’t about thinking less of myself just thinking of my Self Less.”

A week or so later, it’s now a return trip from Corpus Christi and I’m “last standby list guy” blessed with the back row window seat 20F on another completely occupied flight. Again, a gift. 

The flip side of the Self coin has to be humble-gratitude. I should count some blessings: 

I’m blessed I was able to work today and this week. 

I’m blessed to do work that not only provides for my family but is something I actually enjoy a lot and it matters to the world!

I have a beautiful wife I’m so in love with that I’m racing home today to see her and she’s geeked about it. 

I have children who are growing up strong, healthy and independent in good, noticeable  ways. 

And those are just a few of the significant ones. I won’t list the countless ways art, music, conversation, coffee and avocados rate as minor blessings in life; they all do.

My prayer needs to be for more 17B and 20F Self Less moments and the grateful heart to pair with it. “I, me and my” needn’t rear up. Amen, Lord Jesus.

Coffee with Ethiopians May 2019

I just spent a week in East Africa. 
I went to serve but my last day there I was served by the sweetest Ethiopian couple; they’re people I’ve known for years but never really spent time engaging. 
True servant’s hearts displayed in simple hospitality. 
That kind of hospitality is strikingly inviting.

Upon arrival in Nairobi on the first night and also for my last night before returning home I stayed with an American missionary couple at a guesthouse—think sparsely furnished Airbnb apartment.

As I had one free day before the travel home I wanted to get some good, morning coffee and swing in to an authentic Ethiopian restaurant for lunch. Lunch like that, my friends, is a cultural experience. It’s communal. It’s ALL finger food. There are no utensils as you use Injera, a rice based sponge-y bread—think light pancake or crepe—as a means of scooping up the meat, vegetables and lentils. There’s a huge tray, lazy-Susan-like; each person gets a roll of Injera and you tear a piece big enough to dip up a bite. And no one rushes. And any ya-hoo who leaves an Ethiopian meal hungry is...a ya-hoo, because there’s always more than enough.

Tradition comes in to the meal with both pre- and post-meal hand washing and after-meal coffee. My friends and I went restauranting for the meal but an Ethiopian missionary couple wanted to host us for coffee that afternoon in their home.

The British do tea; Ethiopians do coffee. Ethiopians are my kind of people.

As we entered, the wife (we’ll just go with the initial T) was roasting her own coffee beans! A tradition (I did not know and westernly-flubbed) was observed once the coffee beans were sufficiently roasted and still steaming: T brought the pan into the living room to allow each person a moment to waft the aroma towards themselves with their hands. I managed to just stick my face near the pan of beans and wispiness as I had no clue what she was doing.
There was a gracious chuckle and she moved on to bean grinding.

But while grinding and boiling the water, I heard something popping...like popcorn?
Do Africans do buttery popcorn with black coffee?

That would be a NO, Starbucks. No marketing angle there. Whether it’s an always-kinda-thing or just generous hosting us that day, I tasted a bit of the Ethiopian flavor—they do lightly sweetened popcorn. Not-buttered, simply sugared, enjoyable. 

Then as G (initialed husband) chatted with us, his guests, T set up her real deal sit-on-stool-next-to-it, proper tea set in a box. As there were 7 adults present, 7 tea cups, 7 saucers and 7 spoons were carefully laid out. Each cup was sugared, raw sugared, and the pouring began. T let a few drops go into one cup then abruptly stopped as the mixture was not as steeped as she wished. Three minutes later, as she knew I wanted a picture, she told me to get my phone ready. The pouring of the blackest coffee re-commenced from her wooden pot and the most powerful sweet coffee was served. A single cup would be poured then she’d get up from her stool and deliver it to the oldest guests first. I was third in line and G and T as hosts were the last.
Very traditional.

Then in a wink, T was out of the room only to return 3 minutes later with a basket full of sweet bread (visually similar to cornbread) uniquely and secretly spiced.

So, if your keeping score of my afternoon calorie consumption, I ate my fill at the restaurant (because I’m no ya-hoo) to then be handed a full bowl of sweet popcorn to then be served a cup of SWEET, rich, thick coffee, to then be expectantly handed-and-watched-to-eat a wedge of sweet bread. Yep, it was getting hard to breathe. The belt needed a notch loosened, but the traditional ceremonial nature of it demanded I accept and enjoy each element.

At that point, from the moment we entered G and T’s home it had probably been one and a half hours and the conversation continued with zero rush. Then there was a brief lull as everyone reclined on the couch they were on, which then sent T into round two of coffee prep and pouring. Of course, we all obliged.

Ethiopian hospitality.

So attentive to their guests. 

So relaxed with 5 adults and 2 children as their guests, filling their space. 

There was no “gotta get other things done”. 

There was just caring for guests in their home.

The twist of the service moment came as we finished our time at about the two hour mark. One of the guests suggested G, our husband host, “pray for Joal as he travels home”.
He was momentarily reluctant then willing.

He sensed the reluctance caught us all off guard so he went on to explain that in their culture the Guest prays for the Host; I was to pray for G and T. 

What a tradition! 

You come to be served and you return it with prayers of blessing over the hosts!! 

I gladly bowed and prayed.

I don’t know all their story, but I know some of the backdrop. T was widowed very, very young. I met her first husband one time before he feel ill on the mission field and quickly stepped into glory. She went home to her family and people in Ethiopia and years later God brought G into her life. These years later yet they are in missions service again now with 2 beautiful children. They trust God to be their all in all.

I prayed for that family. 

I prayed God’s favor, blessing, protection and provision for them. 

I then was blessed to hear G pray over me in that beautiful African English.

Good food.

Good coffee.

Good people.

A Good, Good Father, who is perfect in all of His ways.

In the Flow of Ordinary May 2019

When you’re IN the flow, you know it.

You just know it.

Athletes talk about being “in the zone”.

Musicians, when playing well together, speak about how “tight” the sound was.

There is a true and good spiritual life corollary, but often a false humility hinders the honest voicing of being in THAT flow.

What’s worth noting with the three examples above is that there is no guarantee IT will happen, ever. The IT, the moment when you know, you just KNOW that it’s all clicking, that IT—there’s no way to perfectly reproduce it. But again you know when it’s there. You know when you’re in that moment. You know exactly what to do. It’s intuitive.

And all three examples require two things of the participant, actor, experiencer, athlete, musician and believer: first Practice and then Doing. Athletes wouldn’t be able to have that transcendent game if they hadn’t run the drills, caught a thousand passes or shot 50 three pointers everyday. Musicians wouldn’t have that perfect show, the “Eric Clapton Unplugged” kind of perfect show, without countless hours of personal scale running, years of

collaborative songwriting and full band rehearsals, plural, all before any single fan arrives with their one-night-only ticket anticipating something, a something a fan can’t even name.

And so with the spiritual life (more specifically so it doesn’t get watered down by any PC police appeasers), so it is with the life hid with Christ in God that the Holy Scriptures promise is applied to believers by faith in the blood of Jesus through the sealing work of the Holy Ghost. The New Testament epistle of Hebrews speaks specifically to our need to be active participants, regular practicers and doers, “holding on to our courage and the hope of which we boast” and “making every effort to enter the rest of God”. 

There will be little-to-no opportunity to experience the IN the flow moments of God-on-the-move without first experiencing quiet, study, prayer, worship, reflection and meditation to, on, of and with the Lord God. Friends, if you’ve read this far and you claim no personal dynamic belief and faith in Jesus, this must all sound preposterous.

What?...Kobe draining 81 pts in a single game or the aforementioned Yardbird, Domino, bit of Cream and blues guitar master Clapton AND Jesus all find a common connection with Joal?

They do in this sense: Kobe and Eric were studied, prepared and expectant when their IT moment arrived. It wasn’t surprising. So it is with the Christian life. It is not one of religious duty that drags on to no tangible advantage. Instead it’s a dynamic personal relationship that steadies in the normal and explodes in supernaturally natural ways.

Lately I’ve  been mulling on a quote from Pastor Matt Chandler of The Village Church. In a sermon a while back, referencing spiritual growth and development,  Matt said “By the grace of God, almost all of the really beautiful, profound things God is going to do in your life He is going to accomplish over a long period of time through a lot of ordinary.” 

That spoke to me because I regularly feel uninspired, drab, rote. 

Pondering and memorizing Scripture can be hum-drum. Ordinary. 

Prayer for the same people, relatives, friends, colleagues and life circumstances can be repetitive. Ordinary. 

Going to work consistently, loving the same woman and children better every day, attending the weekly worship of Jesus with the same posse of believers, can seem good and right while simultaneously circular and never “accomplishing” anything. And that feeling is ordinary.

The mystery of the life hid with Christ is that it is in precisely those ordinary functions and habits that muscles and

reflexes are being formed awaiting the IT moment of a missional serving opportunity or a sharing situation that calls out of the believer the extraordinary Holy Ghost fueled capabilities. And “suddenly” you’re IN the flow using your gifting AND developed preparations. Not for your stardom on the court, diamond or pitch and not for your wealth and fame of a multi-platinum recording but rather for the glory and renown of the only One worthy of that attention. It’s just that the glory and renown was being discovered and understood in those ordinary, quiet and endless moments.

God’s work in us, by the blood of Jesus, through the guidance of the Holy Ghost takes time and moments. And the resulting life-long change is far from ordinary.

Holding Hands April 2019

Our nearly nightly ritual is to wait out Julian’s garage working time, the seemingly endless breadth of hours that keep him fascinated and engrossed in some project of importance. To him. That’s one aspect of his challenges.

For example, it’s 10:39pm. 

We’re waiting. 

He always resolves his own pursuit to a satisfactory stopping point and comes in for dinner with a 50% possibility of a shower. He always feels like he’s accomplished something when he comes in at 8:45pm or 9:57pm or 11:23pm or, once in a while, 2:30am. Emotionally he’s released from whatever it was that constrained him to finish a task. 

He’s content. 

We’re exhausted. 

But, again, he’s content and pleased with himself.

Every so often he’ll come in, when his workday is done, and complain of an ache, pain or physical botherment. He told me the other day of a sore toe and when the boot came off, the offending reason was obvious: an in-grown toe nail and the associated gore. We, the Devendorf-parental-council, are no strangers to Julian’s toe issues and podiatrist visits. Treatment begins with an epsom salt soak, you then scrounge up the prescribed antibiotic ointment left from the last round of foot concerns and call the doc for an appointment. 

Which I did; all the above.

It was Friday afternoon, still early enough to set an appointment for Monday. The aforementioned parental council didn’t need to draw straws or arm wrestle; this was all my turn—Daddy was up for this doctor visit.

It turned out to be a heart melting event because of how we left Dr Phelps’ office. 

Dr Rob Phelps has helped Julian before, caring for him well. Though we trust him, we were still concerned because the last time, after a similar, necessary toe procedure, Julian had a seizure. If you’re not accustomed to epileptic realities, seizures can occur with pain, fever, bleeding, or because it’s overcast on Tuesday. With Julian, pain and bleeding are triggers and he can even tell when a seizure is imminently creeping up on him. 

Julian was on edge.

I was aware.

The doc and staff were reminded and focused.

And thankfully friends like Kevin O’Connor and Kenny Cheney came through.

I was smart enough, this time, to bring Julian’s tablet with him; the one that he uses to consume all 27 seasons of Ask This Old House and his ever-expanding playlist of tunes. While Dr Phelps did the needed work, even finding it to be a bit more extensive than first believed, Julian focused in on Kevin and Kenny and Luke Bryan and TobyMac and whoever else is on that device.

No seizure.

Nothing.

Thankfully.

Just a smooth procedure.

Then it was time to be socked up by the cute nurse (Julian always notices them) and walk to the car so we could drive through Whataburger on the way home. It was then, on the walk to the car, the heart melting moment hit: my 6’ 3” dude ferociously held my hand all the way to the car. He needed to hold on to Daddy and he was undeterred the whole way through the office. I walked with him, holding on to his hand just as ferociously, difference being I was choked up.

I probably gave up holding my dad’s hand some 43 years ago when I was around 4 years old.

Julian, at 23, still chooses to reach out for my hand or momma’s hand whenever he can.

Or when he feels unsteady.

Or when he’s scared.

Or when it’s overcast on Tuesday.

I’ll hold your hand, son.

Gladly.

(And the Post-Script: Julian can’t help but toss on a smile if there’s a picture being taken even moments before minor surgery.)