Month: January 2023

How can you tell it’s January? Just drive past any of the gyms in the Trussville area. You’ll find the parking lots are packed. It’s the busiest time of the year for them. January is the month of new beginnings, which very often involve resolutions to lose weight and get into better condition. We start out excited and motivated to work out. We set our goals and prepare to sweat it out. This time, it’s on for real. We might even splurge and buy a treadmill or a stationary bike for our home. Or map out a walking route around the neighborhood. We begin our exercise regimen with energy and intensity.

Ah, but after a few days, muscles begin to ache, joints are sore, back is throbbing, and you’re just plain tired. All the time. It gets hard. Too hard. Oh, you press on for a few weeks, but eventually you start to invent excuses to take a few days off. You have a doctor’s appointment. You have to babysit the grandkids. The dog needs a bath. Your favorite episode of Gunsmoke is on TV. Gradually, you get more and more creative with the excuses, you work out less and less, and by sometime around mid-February, the gym has become a distant memory, and that new treadmill has become handy for hanging wet clothes so they can air dry.

Our Christian walk can be like that. We experience a great spiritual renewal at church over the Christmas season. We are pumped up for Jesus. We leap headlong into the new year determined to get closer to God, to pray more, to get more deeply involved in church activities, to reconnect with folks in your life that might need a little ministry. This is the year!

But we rediscover that it takes time and effort. It usually involves coming out of your comfort zone, and it often doesn’t yield the kind of immediate, satisfying results you envisioned. You try to press on, but slowly you begin to let yourself off the hook. So many others are praying for this person, they don’t need my prayer time. I’ve done all I can to minister to that person, but it doesn’t seem to be making a difference. I can’t make time for this ministry, I’m too busy. I’m just not cut out for that kind of service. I don’t know what to say.

Did you ever decide to go on a diet, and hear people say “the first few weeks are the hardest, but eventually you’ll lose your desire for sweets and fatty foods. You won’t even want them anymore.” Well, maybe you’ve had that experience, but it never happened for me. I’ve gone on restrictive diets for six months at a time, and guess what? I still craved those french fries and that hot fudge sundae more than ever. And they still tasted every bit as glorious.

Temptation is not going away. The devil is real, and he will not relent in his effort to lure you into sin and lazy worship. He will have excuses ready for you if you want them. Here’s one thing I have tried, and it has worked. When I got hungry and was enticed to break my diet, I picked up my Bible and started reading. It doesn’t matter where you are in the Good Book, eventually you get into the Word and get your mind off eating. Even better, you will find that praying and studying the Bible is going to help you stay the course in your Christian walk as well.

So get back on that treadmill. Find your path back to the gym. Head out the door for that walk. Open your Bible. Read and pray. And every once in a while, go ahead and order the french fries. Just maybe share them with someone. That counts as ministry, right?

It is Sunday morning. Sharon and I are in church, taking our monthly turn working at the coffee bar. I have come to the conclusion that Christians drink entirely too much coffee, especially when the weather turns cold. I know this to be true because all of the many coffee pots around the general gathering areas dwindle down to empty faster than I can refill them.

I am furiously ripping open packets and pouring coffee granules into the filters, hanging them on the large brewers, pushing the “Start” button to get the hot water flowing, then turning to see if Sharon needs help with customers. As the busy morning wears on, a familiar figure leisurely strolls up to the bar. He is an older man, I’m guessing around eighty-ish, with thinning hair, a gray moustache and a kind face. He is dressed in coat and tie, as people of his generation were raised to do for Sunday church.

This is Joe. He comes by this way every week. He never orders anything. He just wants to socialize. He will ask me how I like this cold weather we’re having, or what was it like working in TV news all those years, or what do I think about that football game yesterday. Just friendly ice breakers designed to start a conversation. I don’t really know him, but I instinctively like Joe. His smile is warm and empathetic.

Unfortunately, this is not a good time for me. There are coffee pots to fill, cups of sweet and unsweet tea to be drawn, donuts and fritters to be restocked in the display case, lids, filters, napkins and straws to be replenished, money to be taken in and change to be given back. So I keep my answers short, and try to politely indicate with my body language that I can’t fully engage with him at the moment. Joe seems to be a genuinely sweet and friendly guy, but I just don’t have time to chat. Besides, it won’t take but a minute before he turns and strikes up a conversation with somebody else nearby. Everyone seems to know him. Everyone except me.

When I actually stop to think about it for a moment, it occurs to me that coffee bar work is not all that intense. As they say, it’s not brain surgery. I could easily have taken a few moments and made small talk. After all, a big part of belonging to a church family is fellowshipping with other believers of all ages and walks of life. No, the truth is, I just didn’t want to. I wanted to stay focused on the tasks at hand. There would be a time and place for developing new relationships. Surely one day I’ll bump into Joe around the coffee bar when I’m not on duty. Would be fun to talk and get to know him better then.

Except that Joe doesn’t stop by the coffee bar anymore. I went to the visitation for his funeral the other day. It was at the church. On my way into the sanctuary to offer my condolences to the family, I took the pamphlet containing his obituary and began to read it. Turns out Joe was a musician, but much more than that. He was first chair trumpet player for Alabama’s Million Dollar Band. He was a band director at several local high schools, including Hewitt-Trussville, Leeds and Elba, also serving at Gardendale and Shades Valley high schools. He built the foundation for what the Hewitt-Trussville band program is today. He played trumpet in the church orchestra until the final years of his life. I never knew. I never took the time to find out.

Wish I had, because I love the whole band culture. I was not in band in school, but I got hooked on it when my daughter spent much of her high school years on the Hewitt Trussville color guard team, and then as a High Stepper. We went to all the competitions. I learned about the intricacies of choreographing a top notch marching band, how the various sections have to work together, how all the band members have to stay disciplined and patient. I learned what the judges were looking for and enjoyed trying to evaluate the various bands on my own. It was fascinating and fun.

Joe would have known all about that stuff. He was also an educator for 33 years. I could have asked him his thoughts on the state of our schools, another area of interest for me. We had so much in common. We could have talked for hours.

There was, I knew, a lesson to be learned from this, though sadly too late. Everyone has a story. Our lives are far richer when we spend time focusing more on relationships with others, and less on our own concerns and priorities.

After the visitation, as I was leaving the church, I passed by the coffee bar, which then was closed and quiet. For a moment, I could picture Joe standing there, his quick smile inviting me to conversation. Maybe I’ll see him again one glorious day, and we’ll have that talk. The coffee will be on me.

Help me to understand something. Our culture wants to take God out of everything public. Teachers may not lead prayer in public schools, nor can they teach biblical creation. They are taking the words “under God” out of the national anthem. The term “Merry Christmas” has been replaced by the more generic “Happy Holidays”. The Ten Commandments have been removed from parks and courthouses. Announcers, news anchors and journalists of all sorts have to be careful. Any reference to God or praying in public is inappropriate because it might offend an unbeliever.

But then I am watching a Monday night NFL football game, as a young player drops to the ground after a typically violent tackle. It becomes immediately clear the injured player, Damar Hamlin, is in distress. Medical personnel are applying CPR as an ambulance quickly rolls on to the field. Players are stunned, some openly crying. Suddenly, coaches are gathering their entire team around them and very publicly lead them in prayer. Solemn announcers are saying the game is now meaningless, and their thoughts and prayers are with the young athlete. They’re urging viewers to pray as well.

One fan in the stands has written huge letters on a sign that states “Pray for Hamlin”. Does the network camera ignore the sign? Quite the contrary. There is a slow, poignant zoom into the message, followed by a dramatic fade to studio commentators, who also profess prayers for Hamlin. Suddenly, no one seems to be concerned about offending a non-believer.

What happened? What changed? How can public prayer be so inappropriate one moment, and then completely acceptable the next? Imagine the outrage if, just prior to kickoff, the play-by-play announcer would say “as we get ready for the game, I’m going to lead us all in a quick prayer”. Yet, when a player is critically injured, it’s suddenly okay to publicly solicit and endorse prayer for the victim.

The reality is God can’t, won’t, be left out. Only the will of the almighty and powerful Creator of the universe could help Damar Hamlin. Furthermore, deep down inside, every human being senses that truth. Some will try to deny it, to discredit it, but when the need is dire, we turn to prayer, to God. It’s instinctive, almost beyond our control. Those announcers weren’t trying to offend anyone. They weren’t consciously promoting Christianity. They were merely compelled to state that which has given comfort and hope to the species since the first human heart began to beat. To acknowledge that God, only God, is in control. That when we truly need help, it is not only acceptable to call upon His name, it is mandatory.

I have to believe you can’t have it both ways. You can’t claim God is offensive in one breath, then call upon Him when an emergency arises. Yes, by all means, pray for Damar Hamlin. But if it’s okay to do that publicly, and to encourage others to do the same, then it’s also okay for a teacher to lead a prayer in her classroom, for a Ten Commandments monument to adorn a courthouse, for a pledge to state that our country is “one nation, under God.”

You don’t need permission to pray. It’s already woven deeply into your DNA.

Here’s a nosey and random question for you: Do you read obituaries? If you do, what part is of the most interest to you? The answers likely tell much about your age and stage of life.

As a child and teenager, you ignore them. Obits are for old people, and the only old people you care about are Memaw and Peepaw. As a young adult, perhaps you scan them every once in a while, just to see if the list of survivors contains a name that you recognize, maybe somebody you know. As you transition to middle age, you begin to read them more thoroughly, examining the professions and accomplishments of the deceased. In a way, it helps you to put the path of your own life into some sort of perspective.

But in retirement, your attention is drawn immediately to one particular statistic. Age. The first thing I want to know about someone who has passed away is how long they lived. Was it a tragic loss of young life? Were they cut down in the prime of middle age? Or did they have a long and prosperous run? It’s more than just curiosity. It kind of gives you a running average of what you might expect for yourself.

I broach this somewhat morbid subject because I am staring another birthday in the face. I was born in early January, so every time the calendar folds over to a new year, I find myself greeting it with emotions that are mixed. I am profoundly grateful to the Good Lord for blessing me with another year in the beautiful world He has created, and the blessings He has bestowed. But as your birthday comes calling, you are also forced to acknowledge that the number has clicked up another notch, and you are left to ponder the impossibility of it all.

That number. There’s no way you can be that number. You don’t feel as though you are that number. You don’t think of yourself as that number. You look in the mirror. You try to be objective. You’re thinking by golly, honestly, I really don’t look like that number! The malaise is temporary. In a few days, you’ll forget about the number, and you won’t think about it for months. About twelve months. Until the next birthday looms.

Your spouse asks you what you want for your birthday. You think, think, think. Nothing comes to mind. Nothing! That was never a problem when you were younger. There was always something you needed, a gadget you always wanted, a guilty pleasure you coveted. Now you look around at all the stuff your life has accumulated, and you’re more concerned with how you’re going to get rid of some of the clutter, rather than receiving more of it.

There’s an old joke that goes “Retirement is great! Every morning, I get up and read the obituaries, and if my name isn’t in them, I get dressed.”

There is some truth to that. I never want to take birthdays for granted. I never want to treat a day of life as though it is something I am entitled to. All the clichés come back to me. Age is just a number. You’re only as old as you feel. You’re not getting older, you’re getting better. Seventy is the new fifty. Having a birthday is better than the alternative, and so on. They’re all designed to make you feel better about that number ticking up another notch. And I will. Just need a few days.

By the way, I figured out what I really want for the occasion. I want you to have a great new year, and my prayer is that it’s a year in which you get to have a birthday too.