The Bible is like butter for your soul. Have you noticed everything gets better when you add butter? Butter in your scrambled eggs, butter in your oatmeal, butter in your cake mix, in your cookies, on your toast, around your muffin, across your corn-on-the-cob. Butter adds substance, wholesomeness and a pleasant taste to your food.
Reading the Bible every day can be the butter for your soul. Spread it on thick.
You’re sitting peacefully in a car. The car is travelling down the freeway at a speed of 70 miles per hour. Are you in motion, or are you at rest?
There is no absolute answer to this question. The answer is relative to the position of the observer. To the driver of the car sitting next to you, you are at rest. To a pedestrian on the side of the road you are in motion.
Many of our observations about life are relative. God’s word is not. It is absolute. Always right. Never changing.
You can hate cancer. Hate racism. Hate ignorance. Hate poverty. Hate cruelty. Hate injustice. Hate earthquakes, hurricanes, tornados, and wild fires. Hate random violence. Hate loneliness and depression.
But don’t hate people. People are the tools God has to work with to overcome and survive all of the above.
Waking up this morning is the most wonderful blessing of your day. 150,000 people passed away yesterday. 150,000 more will do so today. You are not one of them. You get this day to live, to enjoy, to laugh, to inspire, to dream, to encourage, to share.
And to love. Love somebody today. God allowed you to open your eyes and get out of bed. There must be a reason for it.
God is like gravity. If you take a pencil, hold it in the air, and then release it, which direction will it travel? Of course, you know it will drop straight down to the floor. But how do you know that? You know it because you know about gravity.
You’ve never seen it. You can’t accurately describe it. You probably don’t really understand it. But without a doubt you trust it is there. Because it’s always there. It never goes away.
God is like gravity.
Did you happen to notice the TV ratings for the recently concluded Summer Olympics in Paris? They were through the roof. NBC reported the two weeks of games averaged more than thirty million viewers every day. That was an 82 percent increase over the 2021 summer games in Tokyo. I don’t do much streaming of TV programs, but apparently tons of others do, because the network says the games attracted 23.5 billion minutes of streaming time on its Peacock service and other platforms.
Unless you are totally uninterested in sports of any kind, it was hard not to be drawn in to the drama of these games. There was star power everywhere you looked. Mega-names such as Lebron James, Steph Curry, Simone Biles, and Sophia Smith were magnetic in their appeal. There were stirring finishes, tears of joy, desperate heartbreak, emotional parents, and irresistible melodrama, all spiced with audience shots of famous celebrities like Tom Cruise, Charlize Theron, Martha Stewart, Mariska Hargitay (Law & Order SVU) and Seth Rogan.
Yep, all the elements for a compelling display of entertainment were there. Yet, I don’t believe that’s the whole story behind the massive ratings. There’s a far deeper reason. It was a rare opportunity for Americans to be united in their passion. And we reveled in it.
You don’t need me to tell you we are living in an era of intense division in our country. Political differences have become weaponized to foster fear and hate. Outlets such as Fox News and CNN reel in viewers by playing to these emotions, fanning them into wildfires of intensity, sometimes resulting in extreme, even tragic overreaction. We have witnessed a storming of the United States Capitol building, an assassination attempt, and all manner of deception, misdirection and manipulation on both sides of the aisle.
And we are tired of it. It’s exhausting. We are sick of being made to feel scared. Fearful of walking out our front doors. Terrified that moral values are disappearing. Worn out from being made to feel that some of our fellow Americans have to be enemies because of how they feel about issues. Weary from worrying the deterioration of our nation is washing over us like a tidal wave, and there’s nothing we can do about it.
In the midst of all this psychological fatigue arrives the Olympics. Suddenly, it’s no longer Republicans against Democrats, conservatives against liberals, race against race, young against old. It’s our country, our whole country, defending its place as the greatest and most accomplished nation on this earth, against the rest of the world seeking to take that distinction away from us.
The United States basketball teams, men and women, used to win gold medals barely having to break a sweat. But foreign teams have gotten better. Much better. Good enough to threaten us. So we watched, all of us, with joyful pride as both teams fought off mighty challenges to remain the elite. We still got it, baby.
We watched entranced as distance swimmer Katie Ledecky become the most decorated woman of all time in her sport. We saw Simone Biles reclaim her mastery of gymnastics. We got shivers when a nerdy and somewhat frail looking young man with a pony tail came out of nowhere with a finishing kick to defeat two overwhelming favorites in the 1,500 meter run. As Cole Hocker’s crying parents draped him in an American flag, it was hard for any of us to hold back the tears of joy. We didn’t care if he was a conservative or a liberal, gay or straight, pro-life or pro-choice. We were just happy for him. All of us were.
We had to wait breathlessly as sprinter Noah Lyles leaned into a photo finish in the men’s 100 meters with a Jamaican competitor, then rejoice seconds later as he is declared the winner. A few days later, the same Lyles finishes a disappointing third in the 200 meters, but we watched in alarm as he lay on the track afterward, struggling mightily to breathe. In obvious distress, he is taken off the track in a wheelchair. We later learn he competed despite being diagnosed with Covid. It didn’t matter how he felt about border crossings or runaway inflation. We just wanted him to be okay. All of us did.
In those dramatic moments, we were all together. It made no difference if you lived in Trussville, Pinson, New York City, Los Angeles, or Possum Trot. For at least that fortnight, we could take a break from fighting the cultural battles. We rediscovered we are all still Americans, and at least when it comes to sports, we are still the best in the world when we compete as one. It made us feel good. Dare I say it may even have given us some hope.
It will serve us well to remember those feelings over the course of the next two and a half months, because those months are going to be brutal. We are electing a president and a large portion of Congress, and the campaigns are going to be ruthless. Both sides will try to secure your vote by scaring you and making you feel insecure and uncomfortable. No doubt we will again be in need of some sort of break from the political pounding.
Thank goodness for football season.
It was a typical sweltering July day in Alabama. The clock had barely surpassed nine am and already you could feel the humidity pushing down on your skin like a hot blanket fresh out of the dryer. It’s the kind of weather that drives you indoors for exercise. Too hot for walking or jogging or pretty much anything.
I had driven to the gym, gotten out of the car and begun to walk through the parking lot. Let’s get this workout out of the way, I thought. This kind of weather seems to make exercise an unpleasant chore, even indoors. As I approached the double doors at the entrance to the facility, I heard a voice calling “Ken! Hey Ken!” I turned back toward the parking lot and saw a tall man with graying hair and Manchu moustache flowing into a full graying beard. He approached me and thrust his hand out in greeting, flashing a broad smile. “Do you remember me?” he inquired.
As with so many other encounters of this kind, I knew the face was familiar. I knew him from somewhere. But my mind raced for context, and came up blank. It must have shown on my face. “It’s Mike,” he revealed, clearly sensing my struggle. “Remember? We used to be in Sunday School together.” Yes, that was all it took. It came to me now. When we moved to this town back in 1989 we joined the local Baptist church and quickly got involved in Sunday School. We visited a rather large class and felt a bit estranged because we didn’t know anybody. Mike and his sweet wife were among those who befriended us and made us feel welcome.
Every time you move to a new city you start a new life in a way. And that life is not usually a positive one unless you get connected with the community, which almost always starts with making new friends. Mike was one of the first. We had a lot of great times with that group.
But a productive church membership is usually dynamic and fluid. Eventually I left that group to teach my own class. There followed a thirty-five year path spanning several different church ministries and groups, meeting new people, taking on new challenges, reworking Sunday morning schedules and tasks. Along the way I saw Mike and his wife less and less as they followed their own trail in our large congregation. Our church is of a size that couples can be mutual members forever and yet never see each other. We can debate whether that’s good or bad, but let’s leave that for another day.
At some point, I didn’t see Mike at all anymore, nor almost anybody else from that original Bible study group. Many years had passed. Ten, fifteen, maybe twenty years? I have no idea. Suffice it to say it was long enough that I could no longer place the name with the face until he helped me. Yet here we were, in the parking lot of the local civic center, trying desperately to catch up.
The timing was not great for either of us. He had spotted me as he was getting into his car, and clearly had somewhere he needed to go. I was kind of anxious to get on with my workout. But we tried to make the most of the moment we had. He told me his wife was doing great, filled me in on the career success of his son, and updated me on a couple of old acquaintances. I gave him a quick summary of my family and what I was doing to stay out of trouble in retirement. After this brief exchange, we shook hands again and wished each other well as he got into his car and I turned into the gym.
This chance meeting happened just short of two weeks ago. Yesterday I opened up a church prayer list email. I gasped as I read that Mike had taken what was described as “a freak fall” at work and was on life support at the downtown hospital. The email asked for prayer for Mike and his wife. It ended with this ominous sentence: “Mike will be taken off life support on Thursday”.
I was stunned. It was like a psychological punch in the gut. How could I have known that my brief conversation with him a few days ago would be the last time we would meet on this earth? If I had known, how might it have changed my priorities? It’s a hard way to be reminded of the fragility of our existence, of how grateful we need to be for each morning we open our eyes to greet a new day.
My friend’s name is not really Mike. I wanted to protect the privacy of his family. But God knows about him, and now you do too. Hopefully we can all learn something instructive from this story.
Mike would have liked that.
I admit it. When it comes to my age, I am in complete denial. My birth certificate states that I was born in 1951. That would make me 73. That has to be a mistake. There’s no way I can be that old.
In my head I see myself as a much younger man. After all, I listen to music by folks like Lady Gaga, Ed Sheeran and Adele. I dress up by wearing a sport coat over a tee-shirt. I use acronyms in my text messages. I know what a meme is. I actually understand all the rules of soccer. I hang out with minimalists. I’m considering buying a pair of jeans that have rips in the knees. I can name at least three of the Backstreet Boys. Yep, I picture myself as a pretty hip guy.
Yet, every once in a while, I see something that shocks me out of my delusion, and forces me to acknowledge how much time has passed. The latest reality check came the other day as I was scrolling through my local newspaper Facebook page. I came to the article about the teachers who were honored upon their retirement from our school system. There were nineteen employees in all. I began scanning through the names, some of which I knew, and some not. Eventually I came upon a name that stunned me. Just stunned me.
The name was Gina Gamble. Wow. No way, I thought. Is that possible? My mind immediately flashed back to a hot and humid August morning in 1990. My son Brett was so excited to start the first grade. He is our oldest child and we were equally excited for him. It was Meet The Teacher Day. We brought him to the elementary School. There was only one then. Hard to believe, considering there are now three, with plans to build a fourth.
The old grade school was at the top of a hill. I think the city fire department uses the building now. We anxiously found Brett’s classroom and walked inside. We were greeted by this pretty, youthful, blonde-haired lady with a warm smile. She introduced herself as Gina Whitson. Miss Whitson seemed excited, but a little nervous and apprehensive. Upon talking to her, we learned why. Turns out this was Gina’s first year as a teacher. This was to be her first class. She was going to be in charge of twenty rambunctious six-year-olds, and she wasn’t quite sure what to expect.
She needn’t have worried. Brett and all of his classmates had a terrific year in the first grade. Gina did a great job, and our son loved having her as his first “big school” teacher.
How can it be that was 34 years ago? Brett (who is now 40) would go on to work his way through twelve years in the school system, while Gina would go on to become one of its best teachers. Along the way she got married, raised three beautiful daughters, and put in 34 hard years at three different schools..
Now she is retiring. Where did the time go? She says she still loves to teach, but she just recently was blessed with the birth of her first grandchild, and she wants to spend more time with family. I saw her picture in the internet article, standing with the other retirees, holding the certificates they received from the Board of Education. She looked exactly the same as she did the day we met her in that classroom.
Gina, if you read this, I just want to express our appreciation for everything that you, and all the other retirees, have done for the kids of our town. Teachers are one of our most precious resources, and we are blessed to have some of the best. It’s one of the main reasons why everybody wants to move here. It’s one of the main reasons we have to keep building more schools.
I hope you have a wonderful retirement. Oh, and one more thing. I hope you will forgive me if I just can’t get used to calling you Gamble. To me, you will always be Miss Whitson. I guess remembering you that way helps me to keep feeling young.
These days, I need all the help I can get.
I’ve been keeping my daughter’s dog while she and her family are off on vacation. He is a cute little Boston terrier with that classic black and white color pattern. Black ears and eyes, with the white stripe running down the center of his forehead through his snout, black body with white paws.
And he is old. Really old. Age has taken its toll on this loyal family member. He can’t see out of one eye, can barely hear, and has trouble walking due to arthritis. He struggles to chew his food because his teeth are wearing out. Worst of all, he snores. I mean, really snores, like a drunken sailor on a park bench. All night, and most of the day, he rattles the window shutters and vibrates the dishes with his buzzsaw breathing. I lie in bed listening to the roar, and wonder how such a little animal can emit such a thunderous noise.
When I’ve had enough, I get up and approach him, thinking maybe I can jostle him, wake him up, or turn him over in such a way so as to stop the snoring. Do they make a CPAP for dogs? But just as I get ready to give him a gentle poke, I can’t help but notice he looks so peaceful and content when he is zonked out. It’s probably the only time, I think, when he is not aching and feeling the afflictions of his many years. I can’t bring myself to disturb him.
Maybe, deep down inside, I feel as though one day that will be me, elderly and infirmed, longing just to sleep for relief from pain and the erosion of my body. Psalm 71:9 says “Do not cast me off in the time of old age; forsake me not when my strength is spent.”
We really need to love and respect the oldest among us. They have run a long and hard race, and are just trying to cross the finish line the best they can. It’s easy to become impatient and frustrated with them, but we’re all headed there, and we’re going to need all the grace we can get.
So I’ve decided to just put up with the dog’s snoring. Besides, my daughter will be back in a few days to take him back in. One day, she may have to do the same for me.
When I was a young boy I would excitedly await the delivery of the afternoon newspaper. I would immediately rifle through it to find the comics, and my very favorite strip was Dick Tracy. Clad in his bright yellow trench coat, Dick was the master sleuth and police detective who always identified the bad guy and always brought him to justice. Part of me always wondered why someone who wanted to operate in secret, lurking behind the shadows, would want to wear a bright yellow trench coat. But I figured Dick had his reasons.
By far, the coolest thing about Dick Tracy was his wristwatch. It was actually a two way radio through which he could talk to headquarters and fellow policemen on the beat. I fantasized about having such an incredible gadget. I would pretend I was Dick Tracy, and I would speak into my bare wrist and make believe I was wearing the magic watch.
A few years ago, when I heard that Apple had come out with a watch that you can take phone calls on, I splurged and ordered one for myself and one for Sharon. As soon as they arrived, I ripped open the box, set it up and slapped it on my wrist, immediately asking Sharon to call me. I think I squealed with glee when my watch ring tone sounded off and I pushed the little green button.
“Hello?” she said.
“HELLO!” I screamed ecstatically into the watch. “Who is this?”
“This is Sharon. I’m standing right next to you.”
“Hello Sharon! How are you?”
She rolled her eyes and hung up. No matter. After seventy years, I had made it. I was Dick Tracy. I could call people on my watch. Now if only I could find a bright yellow trench coat…..
Actually, I found it quite amazing what my Apple watch could do. I could watch TV on it, take a picture with it, monitor my heartbeat, send a text, order a sub sandwich, use a compass, check my email, and much more. It’s basically a smartphone on your arm. Dick would be jealous of me!
But now I’m beginning to wonder how much of a blessing it really is. Last Sunday at 7:45 in the morning, we were in the car pulling out of the garage, whereupon my watch buzzed and informed me “You are six minutes away from First Baptist Church Trussville”. The next day, as Sharon was heading out, her watch correctly anticipated she was “ten minutes from Trussville Target.” Our watches not only know where we are, but where we’re going. In other words, our watches are watching us. Taking note of where we go and what we do. Letting us know if we are doing it correctly and on time.
In fact, mine has gotten a little bossy. It tells me how much exercise I still need to do that day, when I should stand up, and when I should relax and be “mindful”, whatever the heck that means. It tells me to go get a package at my front door, that I should be on the lookout for my neighbor’s lost dog, and that it’s my last chance to buy speakers at the electronics store before they are no longer on sale. It even scolds me when I plug in my earphones to listen to music, telling me the volume is too loud. Dick Tracy would never put up with this.
I guess all of this is supposed to make my life easier, but it seems a little creepy. Is it going to start telling me not to order that banana pudding for dessert because it’s got too much sugar? Is it going to report me to the police when I gently roll through that stop sign? (Not that I ever do that) Is it going to change the channel on my TV when I decide to watch trash? (I might do that) Will it inform me that I need to change my little grandson’s diaper because he’s had another accident? (I’ll let Sharon do that)
Maybe I’m just overreacting. You have to use the technology, not let it use you. That’s what one of my tech-savvy friends told me. I spoke to him through my watch you know. So from now on I’m going to be more careful with the settings, and cut back on what the time piece has access to.
That is, if my watch will let me.
