LOVE FIRST…LOVE MOST

This is a brief description of the early years of my spiritual journey and its confrontation with cultural Christianity, mainly as a future reference for my grandchildren.

This is my story, this is my song, praising my Savior all the day long.

Biblical Signpost: Do not be led astray from the simplicity and purity of devotion to Christ (2 Corinthians 11:3).

Following Jesus is not about perfection, but consistent direction, guided by the light of God’s Word, fueled by devotion to the Lord Jesus Christ.

Christian Exposure: I grew up in a home where I learned about Jesus. My parents’ love for Jesus was genuine.

Their example was influential: (1) Get wisdom: Read God’s Word. (2) Love others: all classes, all colors.

As a young boy, I met Jesus and accepted His invitation to follow Him.

This is my story. Jesus loves me, this I know, for the Bible tells me so.

I learned about God’s gift based on a great one-time Exchange where God treated Jesus on the cross as if he had lived my self-centered sinful life in order to treat me forever as if I lived the perfect loving life of Jesus. That produced an ongoing Transformation where Jesus lives inside of me to lead me to others He intends to love through me.

Direction, not perfection. Love, not Law.

Throughout my elementary and high school years, I attended every teaching event about Jesus offered by my church—not sure it was optional.

Sunday School. Sunday morning worship. Sunday evening Church Training. Sunday night church. Wednesday evening prayer meetings. Fellowship of Christian Athletes’ rallies. Vacation Bible School. Spring Revivals. Summer youth camps. Fall Revivals. Winter Christmas programs. Royal Ambassadors. Girls’ Auxiliary (I was the only boy in the church youth group that year.)

I also served as the church janitor and mowed the church lawn.

What else did I do? I played sports. Summer. Fall. Winter. Spring.

Some families love hunting and fishing; some travel; some farm or work in various professions. Our family was either at church or on a sports field. Occasionally, we gathered to eat and watch Bonanza on TV. Holidays were for family reunions.

Christian Guidance:

Biblical Signpost: But as for you, continue in what you have learned and have firmly believed, knowing from whom you learned it and how from childhood you have been acquainted with the sacred writings, which are able to make you wise for salvation through faith in Christ Jesus. All Scripture is breathed out by God and profitable for teaching, for reproof, for correction, and for training in righteousness, that the man of God may be complete, equipped for every good work. (2 Timothy 3:14-16).

I believe the supremacy and sufficiency of God’s truthful and trustworthy Word.

Indoctrinated? No. Some might think I was, but no.

I love Jesus. I listened. I learned. Most of all I read God’s Word almost daily.

I was no Apostle Paul, William Borden, Billy Graham, or Charlie Kirk. I was far from perfect. No possibility of being mistaken for an angel.

I was just a young believer who learned how to stand alone for the cause of Christ when the crowd chose a different path.

I was not judgmental of others’ viewpoints. Not condemning others’ lifestyle choices. Not very vocal or evangelistic. I was just a Christian kid from a small town in Oklahoma. I knew who and what I believed.

I prayed about college choices. I wanted to go to OU on a football scholarship before choosing the University of Houston. When the opportunity opened to attend Harvard University, my parents were warned by a recent graduate that it would change me in many ways. Religiously. Morally. Politically.

As I headed off to the Boston area sixteen-hundred miles away and even further away culturally, my parents presented me a Bible with an encouraging inscription.

“WE PRAY THIS WILL ALWAYS BE YOUR #1 TEXTBOOK WHATEVER COURSE OF STUDY YOU PURSUE.”

Filled with His goodness lost in His love. This is my story.

College days introduced me to Cultural Christianity.

I quickly discovered that the term Christian does not make something genuine just as wearing an I Love Jesus T-shirt marks one as a true follower of Jesus.

Biblical Signpost: “Why do you call Me ‘Lord, Lord,’ but not do what I say?” (Luke 6:46).

This question reminds us that it is not enough to subscribe to socially acceptable beliefs and behaviors which align with current cultural and national preferences. I refer to this remarketing of Jesus as Cultural Christianity, which professes loyalty to Christ in name and song and occasional selective Bible verses while emphasizing a culturally acceptable lifestyle.

My first Sunday could be described as Christian Confusion.

I made an error regarding the address of my targeted church. The place I entered was very large and ornamental. Beautiful stained-glass windows. Large organ. Magnificent chandeliers.

I was one of the early attendees, which has never been a normal part of my life regardless of church location or denomination. As I observed other parishioners enter, kneel, and do the sign of the cross, I realized I had mistakenly entered a Catholic cathedral.

I panicked. From my limited religious training, I thought I might be close to hell. I tried to exit but an usher asked me to help take up the offering. Newsflash back home: Baptist kid raises money to fund Catholic causes.

(Note: I give thanks for the four years with my Catholic roommate whom I consider a true follower of our Lord Jesus Christ.)

The second Sunday featured Christian Clowning, literally. I found the right address for the church I wanted to visit. They were having a special ordination service for their incoming pastor. The guest preacher looked like a clown. No, really. He stood in the pulpit in full clown costume with big colored hair and a red nose as he ‘exhorted’ the young preacher to anticipate mockery and laughter as he served in his new position. No joke. Exit stage left.

The next Sunday found me in Christian Chaos as I attended the beautiful on campus Memorial Church of Harvard College. At the university chapel service, the campus pastor announced he was homosexual and invited everyone to join him in next week’s Gay Parade march. Toto and I were a long way from Kansas. Find the red slippers!

The following week, I was invited to a dorm meeting with other college freshmen. The spark of hope for Christian fellowship quickly dampened when the host began the gathering with prayer, speaking in tongues. Most of the other students joined in, some in Latin. For me, that was somewhere near the Catholic prayers to Mary.

Run, Forest! Run!

That next weekend was Christian Counsel. My new friend, who became another future roommate, begged me to go with him to the pay phone to make an emergency call to his parents. He needed to confess to them that he was drunk!

I strongly advised him that his intentions were unwise and unnecessary. My counsel was ignored. He insisted on seeking release from the heavy burden of his broken promise to his mother.

I could overhear his mother’s sad cries and his father’s strong rebuke. I stood there listening to him weeping over his drunken condition, begging for their forgiveness, and pledging to never touch another drop of alcohol in his life. “Yo, Adrian! I did it!” At least, Rocky shielded them from future broken promises.

My kind-hearted friend did well in college and life. The buried secrets are only for our personal entertainment purposes.

Christian Confession. I did many wrong things at college, but I never felt the need to call and confess to my parents. That is stupidity, even for a Harvard student. Parents have enough worries without having to deal with the truth.

I did not drink. I did not smoke cigarettes or weed. I probably got high a few times just walking up three flights in a stairwell filled with the fumes escaping from the adjoining rooms. It was a time when college students puffed and protested, or vice versa.

The Catholics went to Confession and said Hail Mary’s. The Baptists claimed, “Once Saved, Always Saved.” A merciful God saw it all.

My misdeeds fell somewhere between immaturity and idiocy. Thankfully, God buried the rest in the depths of the sea.

I confess to borrowing a Christmas tree for our dorm from the nearby Sleeping Pines Cemetery. None of the residents noticed, although I did have to hide behind a tombstone as the police car spotlight scanned the premises.

On another occasion, I was handcuffed by the Metropolitan Police down by the banks of the River Charles as a misidentified suspect in a child beating complaint. I am glad I did not have to call home for bail money.

I was tear-gassed by the National Guard while sitting in a tree like Zacchaeus watching a war protest turn into a riot.

I was regularly rebuked and reported by the dorm administrator for playing basketball with my kind-hearted sober friend in our dorm room. The proctor’s family lived directly beneath us. The noise was bad enough, but we crossed the line when our NBA competitive physicality caused pieces of ceiling tile to fall into his visitors’ soup.

Mr. Catholic sat at his desk hiding his disapproving smirk behind the New York Times. I imagine he thought dunking was unnecessary when one could just sprinkle shots from a safer distance. Indulgences are overrated.

I also confess that summer nights found my hometown best friend and me bombarding parked cars with ripe tomatoes. Fun, but wrong.

TO THE MANY WHO SUFFERED FROM MY SELF-CENTEREDNESS AND IMMATURITY, PLEASE FORGIVE ME.

Echoes of mercy, whispers of love. This is my story.

My Christian Challenge with Cultural Christianity was stranger and more disappointing than I expected.

Harvard was established as a school dedicated to the truth of the Lordship of Jesus Christ and the trustworthy wisdom of God’s Word.

The school motto is Veritas Christos—Latin for Truth in Christ.

The original college mandate stated: “Let every student be plainly instructed and consider well the main end of his life and studies is to know God and Jesus, which is eternal life. And therefore, to lay Christ at the bottom as the only foundation for all sound learning and knowledge, seeing that only the Lord gives wisdom.”

That university goal was long gone by the time I walked the campus.

Christian Classes. Ironically, at my first college science class, the professor announced for every student to leave his Christianity at the door because he intended to disprove its reality.

I majored in Physics but took some elective religious classes. The Systematic Theology Professor denied the inspiration and veracity of Scripture. To my surprise, his teaching placed great emphasis on the errors and misuse of the Bible. Our noted scholar confidently declared what was not true about the Book that claims to be the “sum of truth.”

I completed a class in “theology without God.” Odd-ology.

Christian Chameleons. The second semester began more hopefully. A visiting professor from the Baptist Southern Seminary in Louisville opened his home to students for Sunday dinner. The hospitality was pure southern charm. His good-looking high school daughter was a kind server of good home-cooked food.

He offered a small group Bible study through the Gospel of Mark. My excitement diminished as he began the first meeting with an analytical study of the unauthentic and uninspired sections in Mark, followed by the exhortation not to believe all you read in God’s Word. What?

Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright...But there is no joy in Mudville–mighty Casey has struck out!

Christian Confrontation. I guess the breaking point was my class in the Study of the New Testament. Each classroom setting was dominated by students’ theological opinions, absurd questions, or personal challenges to the reality of Jesus.

I was academically disillusioned. The low-water moment came when the NT Professor called me into his office to discuss his dismissal of my mid-term paper.

I chose the subject, “How to Have a Personal Relationship with Jesus according to the Four Gospels.”

Imagine my shock when the professor said that subject had no relevance to the study of the New Testament. He ordered me to redo the term paper with a more culturally acceptable subject.

I responded that the subject theme of my paper had more relevance to the New Testament than the personal opinions of the other students who dominated the class time.

I debated with the highly educated professor that a relationship with Jesus was the entire purpose of the New Testament. I even asked the NT instructor if he had ever read the third chapter of John’s account about the meeting between Jesus and Nicodemus.

How could he discount the importance of Jesus’ call to his disciples to “Follow me” or the purpose recorded in John’s prologue to see and know the glory of God in the revelation of Jesus Christ?

These are written so that you may believe that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of God, and that by believing you may have life in his name (John 20:31).

The professor restated that the theme of my term paper had no connection to his class on the New Testament. He dismissed me with an offer to take the class on a Pass or Fail basis.

I left dismayed. Aghast. Saddened. But not shaken.

Where did he get his doctorate? I passed his class without attending any more sessions. I think Jesus boycotted the class as well and joined me in reading the New Testament back in my dorm room.

Christian Courage. At the beginning of my last year, an academic/athletic eligibility issue necessitated my response to thirty-five university leaders deciding my fate. I included testimony of the importance of my relationship with the Lord Jesus Christ and its connection to how I used my platform of influence.

Somehow, my less than bold evangelistic personality infiltrated the highest level of Harvard’s culturally influenced Christianity. Some will stand before the Lord one day to be reminded that they heard the true gospel.

At my graduation ceremony the University President paused on stage to engage me in a private conversation. My parents, who had made significant financial sacrifices and offered continual prayer support, experienced apprehension rather than celebration at this pivotal moment. My mother even remarked aloud that she feared I might not receive my diploma.

Miraculously, God parted the Red C’s, and I was saved.

I returned with my university diploma and the humorous observation that the school leadership regarded the football victory over Yale as a more prominent discussion topic than academic performance.

Christian Caretaker. In God’s mercy, the Baptists started a new church a few miles away from our campus and sent a student minister to the Boston area. He was a friend and an encourager. He arrived the spring of my freshman year and died of leukemia the summer after my graduation. One last message left a strong impact, How to Face Life and Death Unafraid.

God sent Mack Taylor as an angel of mercy to me.

Christian Confidence:

“Whatever course of study you pursue, may this always be your #1 Textbook.”

That is confident advice for all first-grade students and to those who, like me, are in the last classes of life.

God’s Guide to Life begins with a self-introduction. God’s Word and world reveal Him as our Living Lord and Loving Partner. The divine directions clearly instruct us to walk side by side with God for our greatest good. They also warn if you go through life following your own instincts, the problems of chasing the wind will expand exponentially in difficulty and duration.

The Creator’s directions were never intended to be a set of rules or a list of do’s and don’ts. Instead, they describe a relationship of lordship and love which is guaranteed to stop the happiness leaks in our lives.

God authored a Relationship book, an all-time best seller and proven game-changer. Every direction is based on love, with detailed descriptions of how to love God and others as well as how not to do it. There are even directions for corrections when we did what we were not supposed to do.

From the beginning to the end of Genesis, God demonstrates the glory of His goodness. He proved He can give good to us out of nothing (creation) and orchestrate good for us out of wrong intentions and actions of bad people (story of Joseph).

God promises never to stop loving us…never to forsake us…never to give up on us. He creates and controls everything, even chaos and darkness, for our good so we can have lasting happiness.

Each of us stakes our earthly and eternal life on what we believe. Each of us lays a bottom for the foundation of sound learning and knowledge, hoping it will produce wisdom.

You do NOT need to go to Harvard to find the TRUTH. Just be sure NOT to lose it there.

This is My Story. This session is not my argument or debate with anyone. I do not condemn those who share a different opinion. I am just stating my life thesis from grade school to college to late in life.

This is my Christian Conviction.

God’s #1 Textbook declares itself to be the sole, supreme, and sufficient source of Truth. “The sum of God’s Word is Truth.” It reveals the Creator as the “God of Truth” and Jesus as the “revelation of Truth” in human expression.

Truth means nothing apart from God in Christ and Christ in you, the Hope of Glory.

Life does not work any other way, no matter how many people lecture, vote, protest, reject, or culturally adapt the name and purpose of Jesus to societal preferences, cultural appeasement, or intellectual tendencies.

A trustworthy path through life exists, regardless of one’s age, educational background, occupation, or present circumstances.

There is a Biblical Signpost: Do not be led astray from the simplicity and purity of devotion to Christ.

This is my story. Blessed assurance, Jesus is mine. Oh, what a foretaste of glory divine.

Whatever course of study you pursue or path you take in life, may God’s Word always be your #1 Textbook.

Your Life Story: Wonderful Memories and Great Endings.

“Play it again, Sam.”

That is one of the most famous lines in movie history—and one of the most famous misquotes.

The line comes from Casablanca, the classic film starring Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman. The movie gave us unforgettable phrases:

“Here’s looking at you, kid.”

“Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine.”

“We’ll always have Paris.”

“Kiss me, as if it were the last time.”

“I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

And, of course, the line everyone remembers:

Everybody knows it. Rick, Ilsa, and Sam, the piano player. A Casablanca nightclub. Lost love. Regret. Romance.

“Play it again, Sam.”

Except Sam never actually hears those exact words.

In the scene, Ilsa asks the piano player to play the song that carries the weight of her shared past with Rick: As Time Goes By. “Play it once, Sam. For old times’ sake.”

The song is beautiful, also an award-winning classic.

Over the years, our collective memory transformed the mesmerizing moment into something more dramatic: “Play it again, Sam.”

Perhaps that is how memory works. We do not necessarily remember what was said; we remember what it felt like.

There are several life lessons hidden in that innocent mistake. We are all guilty of rewriting the past a little … or a lot. We remember the good old days and conveniently edit out barely surviving the rough and tough times. We exaggerate the funny sayings of our kids. We remember the argument but give ourselves a better comeback.

Memory is not a recording device. (I will not point out any specific people who need to remember that.) Memory acts as its own screenwriter–creative, selective, and occasionally willing to change the original script if the new version sounds better.

“Play It Again, Sam” — 1 Samuel

When we ask the Old Testament to “Play it again, Sam,” most thoughts go to one greater than life story.

As Time Goes By, the historical account of David and Goliath never gets old. Samuel never tires of playing the scene one more time. The giant Goliath laughed, “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but …what? A well slung stone will kill me.” Then young David danced with his head held high. Or something like that.

But there are many other classic lines in Sam’s playbook.

• No one is holy like the Lord! There is no one besides you; there is no Rock like our God (2:2).
• Speak, LORD, for your servant is listening (3:10).
• Only fear the Lord and serve him faithfully with all your heart. For consider what great things he has done for you (12:24).
• Obedience is better than sacrifice, and submissive listening is better than religious offerings (15:22).
• People look at the outward appearance, but the LORD looks at the heart (16:7).
• You come to me with a sword, a spear, and a shield; but I come to you in the name of the LORD of hosts (17:45).

I Samuel teaches us about God’s character and sovereign plan interacting with human choices of both obedience and disobedience.

It highlights timeless lessons for trusting God in all situations. The historical narrative provides spiritual insight which reveals how God’s Word remains the ultimate answer to human choices and crises.

“God is at work behind the scenes, in the scenes, beyond the scenes, and through the scenes.’ (Alistair Begg).

What happens when we apply that truth to something far more important than a movie?

What happens when God has something to say—and we need to hear it again?

The book of 1 Samuel is filled with moments that seem worth playing again.

It is a story of listening, seeing, remembering, trusting, failing, and discovering that God remains faithful even when people do not.

Play it again, Sam.

Samuel’s story begins with Hannah, a woman who desperately wanted a child. God answered her prayer, and her son Samuel was eventually dedicated to the service of the Lord.

Then comes one of the most memorable scenes in Scripture.

Samuel is a servant in Eli’s house when, during the night, he hears his name: “Samuel!”

He gets up and runs to Eli. “Here I am. You called me.”

Eli tells him he did not call him and sends him back to bed.

Then it happens again. “Samuel!”

Samuel gets up. Again, he goes to Eli. Again, Eli tells him he did not call.

Then, one more time the voice calls out, “Samuel!”

But this time, Eli begins to understand what is happening. He tells Samuel that the next time he hears a voice calling, “Play it again, Sam,” he should respond:

“Speak, LORD, for your servant is listening.” (1 Samuel 3:10)

Samuel had to hear the call more than once before he understood who was calling. Perhaps that is one of the great lessons of 1 Samuel:

Sometimes God repeats Himself—not because His voice is unclear, but because we are not yet ready to recognize what we are hearing.

God calls. We hesitate. God calls again. We question.

God calls again. Finally, we say: “Speak, LORD. I’m listening.”

But Samuel’s education did not end with learning to hear.

He also had to learn to see.

Years later, Samuel was sent to anoint Israel’s next king. When Samuel saw Jesse’s older son, he thought, surely this must be the one.

But God corrected him:

“People look at the outward appearance, but the LORD looks at the heart.” (1 Samuel 16:7)

Samuel had to learn that seeing is not simply looking, just as listening is not simply hearing.

And then came David. Seeing God’s way requires looking beyond what is obvious. God looks at the heart.

The youngest son. The shepherd. The one nobody expected. The one who would declare our God is perfect in all his ways (2 Samuel 22:31).

Samuel teaches us life lessons.

• Learn to hear God with the willingness to obey.
• Learn to see as God sees.
• Learn to trust God at all times.

Where do we learn those things? God’s Word, the #1 Textbook.

That may be the connection to Play It Again, Sam.

God plays it again because we are still learning how to listen.

God shows it again because we are still learning how to see.

God reminds us again because we are still learning how to trust.

The Bible repeatedly calls us away from relying solely on what appears obvious and guides us toward wisdom—the ability to see, understand, and live life from God’s perspective and according to God’s playbook.

Only God’s Word gives us the original script.

It reminds us of what is true when our memories become distorted, our emotions become overwhelmed, and our circumstances tell us a different story.

Play it again, Sam. We need to hear it all again.

God is working even when the characters in the story cannot see the whole picture. He is working behind the scenes, in the scenes, beyond the scenes, and through the scenes.

And that truth is for you to know and share…again and again.

Hannah could not see the future. Samuel could not see what God was doing through his calling. Jesse’s family could not see what God saw in David. Israel could not see beyond the giant and the powerful enemies.

But God could. And He still can.

We often want God to explain the entire story before we are willing to take the next step. God often asks us to trust Him with the next step in the next scene.

That requires faith. It also requires humility. Because sometimes the version of the story we have been telling ourselves is not the version God is writing.

We may remember the past differently. We may misunderstand the present. We may fear the future.

But God’s faithfulness does not depend upon our perfect understanding.

That is why the classic line from Casablanca continues to resonate. There are moments we wish we could play again.

A childhood Christmas. A family gathering before the empty chair appeared at the table. A conversation with someone we loved. A day when life seemed simpler.

We cannot literally replay those moments. But we can remember them.

And we can make new memories.

We can call somebody. Help somebody. Forgive somebody. Encourage somebody. We can affirm our love for somebody.

Because we never know which ordinary moment will become somebody’s favorite memory.

The Christian life is not about endlessly replaying the past. There will be moments when we need to remember that our circumstances are not the final word. And there will be moments when we simply need to say:

“Speak, LORD. I’m listening.”

When the scene changes, do not spend your life wishing you could play the old one again.

Play the next scene because the most important story is not the movie playing on a screen—or even the movie playing in our heads.

It is the story God is still writing with our lives.

Maybe the best scene in your life is yet to come. I imagine few of us truly believe that. Hannah didn’t. Samuel didn’t. David didn’t. Even in their faith, they misjudged the sovereign mercy of God.

Thankfully, there is a “Play it Again, Sam” moment to our lives today as it was for them. Life is about much more than remembering some bygone moments of past joy. It is a call to hear, see, learn, and live in today’s newness of life and nearness of eternity.

Maybe your best line has not been spoken yet. Wow! What a thought! As Time Goes By!

Play it again, Sam!

You played it for Hannah. You played it for Samuel. You played it for David.

This God—his way is perfect;

the word of the Lord proves true; he is a shield for all those who take refuge in him.

(2 Samuel 22:31)

Play it again, Sam!

No. This is not homage to the culturally iconic hit song by Simon & Garfunkel nor a review of The Graduate movie.

Sixteen-year-old, Betty Robinson, became an iconic figure in athletics when she captured the inaugural women’s 100-meter gold medal at the 1928 Olympic Games.

Betty grew up near Chicago. She was just another girl student who made a daily dash to catch the commuter train. One day she was late as she ran to catch the train. A high school science teacher noticed her incredible speed as the train pulled away from the station. He took note of her valiant effort but knew she could not run down the train.

Only Superman was faster than a speeding locomotive. Suddenly the girl sat down beside him, not even breathing hard.

The next day, he timed her sprint through a school hallway and encouraged her to run track. She joined the boys’ track team since no girls’ squad existed.

THE OLYMPICS

Her first official race came on March 30, 1928, at an indoor 60-yard meet, where she placed second. Just weeks later, she equaled the 100  meter world record in her second race. Four months after starting track, Betty was on the first women’s U.S. Olympic team, headed for Amsterdam.

In her fourth competitive race, she ran faster than any woman before her. She won the Olympic 100 meter dash in 12.2 seconds, equaling the world record and becoming the first woman ever to win Olympic sprint gold. Her friends carried her off the track on their shoulders. When the American flag was raised at the medal ceremony, she cried.

Days later, she added a silver medal in the relay. She was just sixteen.

The Chicago Tribune writer wrote that the pretty, blue-eyed blonde was the darling of the Olympics as she raced down the cinder track with her golden locks flying in the wind, determined to win.

Betty Robinson was welcomed home with a ticker-tape parade.

TRAGEDY
Three years after her Olympic triumph, tragedy struck. Robinson was flying in a small biplane piloted by her cousin. The engine stalled and the plane nosedived into a field near Chicago. Mistaken for dead, the paramedics loaded her limp body into the trunk of a car and drove to the morgue.

The mortician discovered Betty was still alive, just in a coma. The injuries were devastating; her body was badly damaged. Her arm was severely broken, her hip cracked, and her leg so badly shattered that a metal rod was surgically inserted to hold it together.

She spent seven weeks in a coma, and when she woke up, the doctors told her she might never walk again. Running was history.

Her recovery was slow and painful. Betty spent months bedridden in the hospital. It was two years before she could walk a few steps.

Betty Robinson did not talk about what she had lost. She worked. One leg was an inch shorter than the other. She learned how to walk again. Then, how to jog. Incredibly, she returned to running and competing.

Her injuries had permanently changed her movement. She could no longer crouch at the starting blocks due to the fractures and surgeries on her left leg. But she never gave up on returning to the sport.

RECOVERY

Five years after being declared dead, Robinson qualified for the US Olympic relay team competing in Berlin. Hitler’s defiant salute did not slow down Mrs. Robinson as she helped her team seize the moment and win the gold.

She was an Olympic champion again.

Mrs. Robinson did not need praise. She put away the medals, hidden in a Russell Stover’s candy box. She raised a family.

Betty Robinson’s story was not about speed, but survival. She outran every limitation placed upon her. She demonstrated strength, courage, and humility. She refused to quit.

Do you ever feel like it is time to give up? Sometimes life feels too hard, but spiritual recovery is instantaneous. God always provides spiritual strength to go on. Do not quit. The challenge is part of your story.

No matter what trials and troubles you face, you are deeply loved by God and will never carry the weight of the world on your own. God’s compassion never runs dry when you feel empty. Every morning is filled with new mercies and greater grace.

Suffering and hardships are never the end of your story. You belong to God’s team. Always. Forever. The One who numbers the stars also guides your steps.

FINISH

In 1996, at 84, the young champion left for dead carried the Olympic torch through Atlanta.

That is the way to FINISH STRONG. Here’s to you, Mrs. Robinson!

We get older, our bodies weaken, bones break, knees and hips cry out to be replaced. Society underestimates us. Others discount us. The world dismisses us. We might even be dead to some people.

You and I still have a purpose in this earthly life. Love First and Love Most.

As age and circumstances change, that purpose does not vanish into thin air or hide in a storage closet. Setbacks do not determine our final destination. God uses setbacks as the setups to a brighter future we cannot see.

We do not write the story. We are the story of what God does with insignificant people, broken lives, crushed dreams, and dead hopes.

Betty Robinson almost missed a train which led to her discovery as a future world champion track star. She was later left for dead at the scene of a horrific plane crash where her story was declared to be over. She could not walk, so she developed perseverance and hope. She did not quit; she adapted. When she could no longer bend her leg to get into the starting block, she found a new way to run. She linked arms with others to stand on the championship podium together.

God can always breathe new life into your story.

Love never intended for us to be individual sprinters. We are members of a relay team. Our role is to get the baton to the next generation. We must finish our leg of the race. The obstacles are part of the story. Finish strong!

Love finds new ways to run! Keep pressing on to the goal. Speed can be overrated as we get older. But we can still carry the torch high!

This story is reserved for my most nostalgic days. Somehow, God has used it to encourage others.

The highlight of my athletic life happened when I was twelve years old. That moment sums up the Wikipedia account of sports stardom for this writer. I peaked in the first dozen years.

Why was this moment so important? That can be answered only through the perspective of a twelve-year-old boy who loved sports because his hero dad was a high school coach. I hope you will see what I saw, feel what I felt, and learn what I learned that unforgettable night.

Like many dads, mine taught me the game of baseball. He bought me my first glove and trained me to use two hands to cradle catch fly balls and to crouch for the hard-hit grounders.

Dad coached a twelve-year-old baseball team when I was seven. He gave me a uniform and inserted me into right field for the last inning of games when our team was far ahead. Of course, I thought I should be playing more. At one pre-game dinner, I asked Dad to stop treating me as though I was his son. That night, I sat on the bench for the entire game. One lesson learned.

When I was twelve, our family spent the summer in Stillwater, Oklahoma, where my dad was in the university summer school classes to earn his Masters’ Degree. Dad signed me up for Little League baseball. I played second base for a team who welcomed this outsider onto its homegrown roster.

It was a fun Sandlot type of summer. Our team had good players and coaches. We won every contest. My parents found a way to attend every game, even with Dad’s heavy load of schoolwork. They cheered loudly for the team and especially for me.

I repeat, Dad was my hero. The post-game stops for a milkshake or ice-cold root beer were memorable celebrations of victories and our relationship.

The successful season culminated with our team playing in the area championship finals. A trip to the national championship in Williamsport was the prize to the winners. It was the last inning and our team led by one run. Three outs from victory and more weeks of summer baseball.

However, we had to change pitchers. Our best pitcher had maxed out the limit of pitches allowed by the Little League rules. The change in pitchers was normally not a problem for our team, but tonight would prove differently. Why? Our second best, equally dominant pitcher, was sidelined with the mumps.

Our third pitcher was on family vacation in Colorado. Who goes on vacation on the weekend of the season’s most important game? What parent does that? This is the championship game! Get your priorities straight!

Our coach called in our first baseman to pitch. Mark was tall and lanky for twelve. He also was wild with his pitches. Eight throws, eight balls, two men walked on base. The tying run was on second base, and the potential winning run for our opponent stood on first base.

The coach walked to the pitcher’s mound, took the ball from Mark, patted him on the back, then pointed at me standing near second base. I looked around like a kid caught stealing cookies. It must be someone else! No, the coach signaled for me to come pitch.

I had never pitched, not in a real game. I sometimes pitched in batting practice because I could throw the ball over the plate in the strike zone, but slow enough for everyone to hit it. That is why it is called batting practice, not pitching practice.

The coach handed me the ball and told me not to walk anyone as Mark had just done. He said to take a deep breath and remember that the whole season is on the line.

Thank you, coach, for piling all the weight of a pressure-packed moment onto a twelve-year-old kid. “Go big or go home!” The Coach seriously underestimated my desire to go home.

I looked at the opposing team’s batter, then at the tying baserunner on second and the winning baserunner on first. I was nervous! I could not breathe!

The first pitch went right over the plate. Unfortunately, it also flew over the catcher’s head and the umpire’s head before landing against the backstop. Now, the tying run was at third base and the winning run was standing on second base.

As the catcher tossed the ball back to me, he shouted his seasoned advice, “You’re killin’ me, Smalls.”

I heard someone could be so nervous his knees would knock together. Mine shook so violently they were missing each other.

What happened next could be described as a miracle. The batter wildly swung at my next three pitches and struck out.

This was not “The Colossus of Clout” or “Mighty Casey” who struck out. This was possibly the worst Little Leaguer in the history of baseball. I cringe at the possibility he might read this account of his infamous moment. I do not understand why he swung at those pitches and neither did his coach.

One out! My teammates shouted encouragements to steady me. The opponents yelled insults to rattle me. Coaches and parents screamed at their counterparts on the other team.

The next batter popped up my first pitch to him. I caught it and now there were two outs! Maybe, I should have been pitching all summer. We were one out away from winning the championship, and I would be the star relief pitcher.

This was my iconic High Noon showdown at Tombstone, taking place at night in a ballpark. I planned for my pitch to be faster than the opposing player’s swing. I would mow down the bad guy, toss my glove in the dirt, and ride off into the night with my girl, whom I simply called Mom.

I stepped on the mound ready to end this game. I was like ice in a cool breeze. I looked at the potential tying run at third base, then glanced at the winning runner standing on second.

I glared at the opponent stepping into the batter’s box. He rearranged his batting gloves, pounded his bat on home plate, then got into his hitting stance.

Our eyes met. It was a stare-down standoff. The suspense heightened. My body tensed with every labored breath. I waited for the batter to blink first. The haunting theme music from “The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly” played over the loudspeakers in my head.

The music was suddenly halted by the umpire’s scream, asking if I were going to throw the ball or just stand there all night. I think he even called me Karen.

The next pitch would be the last one of this game. The excitement and tension were at their highest levels. These are the moments that define the Thrill of Victory and the Agony of Defeat.

I went through my wind-up and heaved the ball to home plate. The batter swung and hit a short, soft blooper in the direction of first base. It was an easy out.

Next came the leaps into the air, the shouts at the top of the lungs, and gloves thrown high into the air, followed by the traditional dog pile.

Wake up! My head turned to watch our first baseman catch the ball, but Mark stood uninvolved and unmoved, still in shock from his ill-fated pitching experience. I reacted instinctively as I ran toward the basepath with my eyes on the descending ball.

I stretched out my arm and the ball plopped softly into my glove. We were one second away from the championship when suddenly, our substitute second baseman crashed into me, knocking both of us down.

The ball fell to the ground and rolled across the white chalked line towards the dugout fence. I looked up from my prone position to see the tying run cross home plate and the winning runner racing around third base headed for home.

I scrambled to my knees and quickly crawled through the dirt to retrieve the errant baseball. I popped up on my knees and threw the runner out at home. That is exactly what happened…in my mind, but not in reality. As my arm went into its throwing motion, the baseball slipped out of my hands and softly fell to the ground behind me.

Anyone who has ever played or watched a youth baseball or softball game understands what happened next as the emotional rollercoaster turns from ecstatic happiness to total heartbreak. One team is jumping, hugging, shouting, tossing gloves and caps into the air, and celebrating the championship victory.

The other team mourns the loss. Some players slump to the ground; some angrily throw their gloves and caps. Some cry. I did all those things. Championship defeats hurt badly, whatever the sport, whatever the age.

My team lost, and I was the reason. Everyone knew whose son cost our team the championship. I was crushed beyond belief. Devastated.

I was crushed beyond belief. Devastated.

The distance between the joy of victory and the depression of defeat is one very small step. The time between dancing on the mountaintop to crying in the valley is measured in seconds. There was no joy in Mudville that day. My world had ended.

The Agony of Defeat. I can still taste the dust. Seriously, my mouth is dusty dry even now. I cringe at the thought of that baseball slipping out of my hand.

I vividly remember the sight of the opposing team’s runner joyfully jumping onto home plate. I still feel the sadness and darkness deep down in my memory bank.

The coach sat us all down in the dugout and talked about what a great season it had been. He encouraged us all to get better so we could win the championship next year. Well, I would not be back next year because I did not live in this town.

When the consolation talk finished, the distraught players slowly exited the bench area, while the coaches bagged the equipment.

I sat there in silence. Heartbroken. Tears still streaming down my cheeks. I bit my lip and pondered an exit strategy. The coach literally helped me to my feet, guided me out of the dugout, and patted me on the back as we left the ballfield.

In that moment, I decided to run away. I could not face my disappointed dad. I could not answer why I dropped the ball while acting like some showboat star player.

So, my solution was to run away. I did not know where. I did not know for how long, but anywhere would be better than my present option.

I stood there at the edge of the ballpark, head bowed, shoulders slumped, with my cap pushed down to cover my eyes. The stadium lights were turned off causing the surrounding area to darken. The gravel parking lot lay ahead and the tree-lined park behind. This was the crossroads of my twelve-year-old sporting career.

Would I run? What direction?

I raised my head slightly, just to see our family car in the parking lot. I saw two feet standing next to it, obviously belonging to my father. I did not want to hear a parental lecture on how to properly catch a pop-up fly ball. I certainly did not want to look into my dad’s disappointed eyes, but I did want to see him one last time before I ran away in the opposite direction.

What I saw in that moment brings me to tears even now. It shaped my life…forever. Not just as an athlete, but as a son, as a father, as a grandfather, and as a man seeking to influence and impact the lives of other sons and fathers.

I looked up with those moistened eyes and trembling lips to see my dad standing by the car. He was looking at me. He was waiting for me…with his arms opened wide.

This twelve-year-old boy ran across the gravel parking lot as fast as he could go, jumped into his dad’s arms, and sobbed uncontrollably. I can still feel those huge forearms wrapped around me in a big bear hug.

Finally, I mumbled how sorry I was for dropping the ball. What I saw and felt in that moment were superseded by what I heard.

“That’s OK, Son. I still love you! Let’s go home!”

Never have I heard words which impacted me more. I understood in that moment words which would carry me through the rest of my life. Words that would teach me about my relationship with my Heavenly Father. Words that would shape me as a father to my kids. 

It’s OK! I still love you! Let’s go home!

• God’s love always comforts; it never condemns.
• God’s love always continues; it never ceases.
• God’s love always takes us home; it never closes the door.

No matter how I mess up in life, intentionally or unintentionally, I am still loved. No matter how often or how far I try to run in the wrong direction, I still have a home.

I AM IN AWE OF HOW AND WHY GOD LOVES ME.                                                                

I am thankful to a dad who taught and demonstrated that love to me.

What is your biggest mistake or disappointment in life? Where did you drop the ball? What hurt, fear, worry, guilt, or loss has you weighed down under its heavy burden? What causes you to want to run away from God and others?

God is always with you. God is always for you. Whatever the mess, God never loves you less. 

GOD NEVER LOVES YOU LESS!

One of my favorite verses declares our Heavenly Father’s wonderful promise: God is over you, beside you, in you, around you, and underneath you (Isaiah 41:10).

God has you covered in His love. God’s loving arms remain wide open. You never face a game or a challenge or a crisis alone. You never go through difficulty and suffering alone. You never experience trials, troubles, and tribulations alone.

God’s infinite love is wider, longer, higher, and deeper than you can ever imagine.

Whenever I drop the ball in loving others, I run into the loving arms of my Heavenly Father. My prayer is that you will join me. It will change your life forever.

NO MATTER WHAT SEEMS TO GO WRONG IN YOUR LIFE, YOUR HEAVENLY FATHER NEVER, NEVER, NEVER LOVES YOU LESS.

“It’s OK. I still love you. Let’s go home.”