I Was Fine Until…

I Turned a Molehill into a Mountain—and Then Complained About the Climb

I was having a good day—UNTIL. It took only a few minutes to go from enjoying life to feeling sorry for myself. Apparently, my emotional elevator has an express button to the basement.

Self-pity might be the most underappreciated emotional exercise.

Think of all the ways one can spend a perfectly good evening. Take a walk. Read a book. Watch a movie. Help somebody. But why bother with any of that when you can sit in your favorite chair, stare into the distance, and contemplate the terrible injustice of your existence?

Welcome to the wonderful world of self-pity where the skies are always gloomy, the cup is always half-empty, and absolutely nobody appreciates you.

Self-pity allows us to transform a minor inconvenience into a full-scale tragedy without spending a dime on special effects. Use a little imagination, throw in some painful memories, add a few minutes of uninterrupted thought, and you can produce an award-winning drama starring YOU as the world’s most disheartened victim.

Something goes haywire. Someone says something unkind. Or, perhaps even worse, someone else does something better than you. Suddenly, your peaceful evening becomes another episode in the ongoing saga of My Miserable Life as you continue your descent into the darkness of despair.

So, what great calamity struck my life this week?

Nothing happened. That might be the saddest part.

I ended up Comparison Shopping on social media. I was not looking for it. I was not interested in it. It simply appeared on my screen. It was a picture and comment by someone I had not seen in many years. They do not think about me, and I do not think about them.

And there I was, suddenly feeling as though I had drawn the short straw in life’s great lottery. I think I must have enrolled in a monthly subscription.

The experience reminded me of reading one of those annual Christmas family letters. You know the kind. Every child is thriving, every marriage is flourishing, every career is soaring, and every vacation looks as though it belongs in a travel magazine. The family dog is probably winning awards, too.

By the time you finish reading, you wonder whether your own family lives on the same planet as those people.

Their happiness seemed almost offensive. Their prosperity and position in life left me feeling sick to my core.

My reaction was particularly embarrassing because it contradicted something I preach from the #1 Textbook —and genuinely desire to practice:

God’s blessings on someone else never mean fewer blessings for you.

God does not run out of goodness when He blesses somebody else. His generosity is not a pie that gets smaller every time another person receives a slice.

In fact, the #1 Textbook tells us that it will take everlasting ages for God to display the immeasurable riches of His grace and kindness toward me in Christ Jesus (Ephesians 2:7). Apparently, eternity will not be long enough to exhaust the subject of God’s goodness!

Whenever I forget the trustworthy promises in the #1 Textbook, spiritual disorientation is inevitable. If I take my eyes off God’s faithfulness, I start looking sideways at everyone else and promptly lose my footing and slip into a blue mood.

Suddenly, I feel worthless. A failure. Shortchanged by life.

Any true expert in self-pity has mastered the art of comparison shopping.

Other people always seem to have better health, more money, happier marriages, nicer homes, better family pictures, and fewer problems. They vacation in exotic places, eat in beautiful restaurants, and post photographs that suggest they have never once argued over an in-law problem or worried over unpaid bills.

Meanwhile, I am over here wondering whether my household appliances have declared personal war on me. Out of work and out of warranty show up in the same notification.

Social media is particularly effective at this sort of emotional mischief. People post their highlights, and I compare them with my entire life—including the outtakes, bloopers, deleted scenes, and footage that should never be released to the public.

Their pictures look like a Hallmark movie. My real-life video looks like a documentary about surviving a natural disaster.

And, of course, their carefully chosen captions are always positive. Nobody posts a video of a family argument or sleepless night.

I suppose I could start a trend.

But here is the danger: those pictures can resurrect old grievances and remind me of unkind words people said years ago.

Resentment is heavy luggage. We all have a key to that museum tucked away somewhere in our minds.

We know exactly where all the past events are located. We remember who said what, when they said it, how they said it, and what we should have said in response.

I can revisit those exhibits anytime I wish. Admission is free, but the emotional cost is enormous.

It might help to remember that I am comparing my behind-the-scenes footage with someone else’s carefully edited highlights. Their lives may be genuinely wonderful in many ways, but a photograph cannot tell their whole story.

And neither can mine. Some people think faith is easier for me because of … whatever. In reqlity, faith comes in the darkness and difficulties of life.

That is why I try to use Winsday Wisdom to laugh at some of the things I would rather hide from the world. These are not intended as sermon breakdowns of the words and context of the #1 Textbook. These are real-life illustrations of ‘learning how to live by faith.’

Perhaps this little episode might help someone else recognize the same trap of comparison shopping and learn how to navigate through it.

So, what happened to me?

Nothing.

I was fine UNTIL…

I built a mountain out of a molehill. Then I complained about the climb.

Comparison shopping has always been a thief of joy because someone else got a better deal.

Naturally, I responded by throwing a pity party. I sent out the invitations, prepared the refreshments, and set the mood.

Unfortunately, no one else showed up or cared to listen to all my complaints.

So, I ate all the cake, which was probably the only productive thing I accomplished all evening. I felt sorry for myself, not because of my appetite for sweetness but for my sour disposition regarding the unfairness of life.

Then an unexpected guest arrived.

He was carrying something far more valuable than sympathy. His name was Asaph.

This psalmist had gone comparison shopping centuries before Facebook, He knew what it was like to look at the prosperity of others and wonder whether living faithfully was worth the trouble.

He had experienced his own crisis of perspective. But he also knew how to find his way out.

His journey from envy and self-pity to gratitude is recorded in Psalm 73, and his testimony changed the atmosphere of my pity party.

Asaph began with a wonderful affirmation: God is good to His people. But then he admitted that he had nearly lost his footing.

Why?

His view turned sideways to other people. He saw the prosperity of the proud and the wicked. They appeared healthy, comfortable, wealthy, and free from the troubles that seemed to plague everyone else. Their lives looked easy. Their circumstances seemed enviable.

“I was truly thankful for God’s goodness to me UNTIL I lost my footing; I slipped and was almost gone. I envied the prosperity of the proud, despite their wickedness. Their beautiful pictures show healthy pain-free lives absent of any troubles. They have no problems. They have everything anyone could wish for. They enjoy a life of luxury and ease as their wealth accumulates” (Psalm 73:1-16).

Asaph began to wonder whether his own faithfulness had been worth it.

Sound familiar?

He had fallen into the same comparison trap. He looked at what others possessed and began questioning what God had given him.

His spiritual struggle became exhausting as he saw the prosperity of the wicked and wrestled with the apparent unfairness of life.

In other words, Asaph was having a very bad day—and his version of social media was simply looking around at the people who seemed to be doing better than he was.

But then something changed.

Asaph turned his EYES UP and recovered his perspective.

“My heart was bitter and my stress was high because of my foolish and ignorant worldly comparison shopping. Then I came to my senses. The Lord is always with me. Whom do I have in heaven but You? There is nothing on earth I desire besides You. My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my everlasting inheritance. How good it is to be near God, more wonderful than anyone can express” (Psalm 73:21-28).

Asaph stopped measuring life by what other people possessed and began considering what he possessed in God.

He stopped looking sideways and turned his EYES UP!

His heart had been bitter. His thinking had been clouded. He had foolishly compared his circumstances with those people who seemed to have everything.

Then he came to his senses.

He remembered that God was holding him by the hand and guiding him. He rediscovered a truth that no amount of worldly prosperity could replace:

“Whom have I in heaven but you? And there is nothing on earth that I desire besides you. My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion (inheritance) forever.“

And he concluded:

“But for me it is good to be near God.”

What a change!

Asaph had not received a new house, a healthier body, a larger bank account, or a more impressive social media profile. His circumstances had not suddenly become perfect.

His perspective changed because he rediscovered the goodness of God.

That was exactly what I needed.

I had not been shortchanged. I was not missing out on the most important things in life. I had something better—and infinitely more lasting—than anything comparison shopping could offer.

No accomplishment, possession, or accolade could add to the sufficiency of Christ. And no person’s success could take away what I already possessed in Him.

I have a position, a place, possessions, and pleasures in Christ that stretch beyond my imagination. My standing before God is not determined by my performance, my popularity, my prosperity, or my position on somebody else’s imaginary scoreboard.

Jesus Christ is enough. Always and forever!

The greatest gift God gives us is God Himself.

What about you? You are fine UNTIL or you feel good UNTIL…”  Your UNTIL might hurt, disappoint, or change your mood … but THINK.

Is that UNTIL person or incident or circumstance bigger or longer lasting than God’s goodness to you? Of course not!

Contentment is learned, not purchased. It is also an antidote for Comparison Shopping.

Paul wrote, “For I have learned in whatever situation I am to be content.” (Philippians 4:11)

Notice that word learned. Contentment did not arrive automatically when Paul finally got everything he wanted. He learned it through the changing circumstances of life by trusting the unchanging sufficiency of Christ.

So why do I keep going comparison shopping on social media—or anywhere else?

What am I hoping to find? Another accomplishment? Another accolade? A picture that I am doing better than somebody else?

Pride gets no pleasure out of having something, only out of having more of it than the next man. It is the comparison of having more that makes you proud; the pleasure of being above the rest, the element of competition.

Pride is spiritual cancer; it eats up the very possibility of love or contentment or even common sense. (C.S. Lewis)

What happens if I discover that I am falling behind? Do I really want to spend another evening feeling as though life has shortchanged me?

I do not need to prove that I have enough by showing that someone else has less. Nor do I need to prove that I am enough by measuring myself against someone else’s achievements.

My worth is not a competition. God’s grace is not a limited supply. My inheritance in Christ is not diminished by someone else’s blessings.

The next time I am tempted to go comparison shopping, I need to stop staring at what others have and start remembering who God is.

I need to stop looking sideways for evidence of whether I have enough and look upward to the Sufficient One who has promised never to leave me.

The #1 Textbook reminds me:

“The lines have fallen for me in pleasant places; indeed, I have a beautiful inheritance.” (Psalm 16:6)

What a faithful Guide! What a wonderful inheritance!

Like Abraham, we are blessed by the Lord in every way (Genesis 24:1).

God has blessed us with every spiritual blessing in Christ (Ephesians 1:3).

These promises do not mean that life will always be easy, that our bodies will never hurt, or that our earthly circumstances will always be favorable. We will still have difficult days. We will still face disappointments, losses, and unanswered questions.

But our circumstances do not determine the value of our inheritance.

Our earthly Helper is always more than enough for our temporary problems.

Our heavenly inheritance is infinitely more than enough for our endless future.

So, when another person’s highlight reel tempts you to feel sorry for myself, remember the goodness of God rather than rehearse the unfairness of life.

Trade resentment for gratitude, envy for contentment, and comparison for worship.

Whenever I forget—as I apparently do from time to time—I need to return to the #1 Textbook and let God’s truth correct my perspective. I pray you will join me.

“Bless the Lord, O my soul, and forget not all his benefits” (Psalm 103:2).

EYES UP! LOVE YOU!

Side by Side Forever

Another football season is in full swing. That means thrills for many and groans from others. This is a rewind account of my first college football experience which includes a spiritual application for all of us.

A capacity crowd filled the football stadium as my university team battled a Top Twenty opponent. The game was not going well, at least not for our offense. While that unit struggled, the defense competed valiantly to keep our team within fourteen points, aided by a blocked punt for our only score.

Four minutes remained in the game when our team received possession of the football, eighty yards from paydirt. Surprisingly, our offensive coordinator told me to go into the game as the new quarterback.

Why would I be described as the new quarterback and why might that be surprising? Glad you asked.

I was a new quarterback for the team because this was my first year on the varsity squad and new because I was the fifth string quarterback, behind the starter who quit the team three weeks earlier, behind the second stringer who broke his ankle the prior week, and behind the third and fourth quarterbacks who had been embarrassingly ineffective throughout this game.

This was a new quarterback experience for me as well. Not because of the game pressure, but because of my lack of a tightknit relationship with my head coach. We barely knew one another. His job demanded greater involvement with alumni public relations than player development. Dressed in his fedora and overcoat, his demeanor always appeared aloof and authoritative. I was a fifth string newcomer raised to respect authority, even from a distance. To my own detriment, I kept my distance.

I grew up a coach’s kid. My dad was my high school coach. Of course, we were close on and off the field. He was my hero, a future Hall of Fame coach. Our hearts competed with the same fervor; our minds thought of the same strategy and play calls.

We were side by side in the locker room, on the sidelines, at church, at home. Every night, he told me he loved me. He always believed in me while my college coach had no confidence in his new quarterback.

I used the word surprised because when the offensive coordinator relayed the call for me to go into the game. it was totally unexpected, by me and everyone else who knew anything about college football. Suddenly, I had to take off my headset, find my helmet, then quickly add some eye black so I would not look like a scared fifteen-year-old.

Surprised would also describe my head coach. Actually, he appeared shocked that I was standing beside him waiting for instructions. He glanced at me, then looked away and quickly returned to staring at me as if I were waiting for his postgame food order. Stunned, maybe even traumatized, that I asked what play to call, he reached for his hat and thought about throwing it to the ground. Have we come to this?

My surprised coach offered these fiery words of encouragement as he pushed me onto the playing surface for my first college gridiron experience, “Oh (expletive)! Go on in. You can’t possibly do any worse.”

Surprised would also describe the players huddled on the field who barely knew me. I had never taken a snap with the first team offense in a game or practice. I was known as the scout team quarterback who practiced on a different field against our first team defense. The senior starters had never shared the same dining table or the same huddle with me.

As I entered the huddle for my first collegiate participation, the captain of the team raised up, backed out of the huddle, stretched both arms out wide, and greeted my arrival with a screamed expletive. “Who the (blank) is this?”

I simply shrugged my shoulders and blurted out, “Surprise!” 

Excited? Yes! Was I nervous? Of course not! I stepped into the huddle, called out the formation, the play, and the snap count. As our team moved into position, I surveyed the defense, seemingly scattered all over the field. Some were growling like dogs after new meat. Some were bent over in laughter.

I did not see my first pass launched on the big stage because I was quickly buried under an avalanche of big, mean, defensive linemen. The wide receiver came back to the huddle and muttered that the pass was too high. He went on to say the football landed in the second row of the stadium. I thought that was excessive commentary.

I had clear view of the second pass hitting a player right in the numbers on his chest, but he dropped it. The fans of both teams cheered, gasped, and moaned, all in one breath. It turned out to be a blessing. “Bad Hands Greene,” who could not hold onto the ball, was wearing a different colored jersey than my team. It should have been an interception, the pick six variety. Instead, my mother’s favorite quarterback lived to try again on third down.

Is uncontrollable shaking of one’s body any indication of nervousness? What about stammering so badly the captain had to translate the next play-call to the rest of the players? Yes, my confidence had been somewhat rattled by seeing our team managers packing up the equipment and our coaches throwing their headsets on the ground in disgust. The home fans began a mass exit from the stadium with thoughts of a lobster roll and brewski dancing in their heads.

As the legendary Yogi Berra so poignantly stated, “It ain’t over ‘til it’s over!”   

Our football game was still in progress. My third pass was a completion to our tight end along the right sidelines for a first down. The next pass found the halfback in the flat. He evaded a defender and advanced the ball to midfield.

Cheers, some genuine and some sarcastic, erupted from the remaining fans. Players were excited. Our captain shouted expletive-laced encouragement. Coaches repositioned their headsets. This was what I was created to do.

The subsequent play was a pass completion to our wide receiver running deep across the middle of the field until he was tackled at the twenty-yard line. There was still time to score, maybe even tie the game.

Suddenly, everything stopped. The opposing team called timeout. I imagine our brief success shocked their coaches. Who was this new guy hurling spirals down the field, marching his team toward the endzone? They definitely did not have a scouting report on this new quarterback.

If they paused to read info on this new quarterback in the game program, they would be surprised. They were chasing the wind. There was nothing about me in the publication. No picture. No bio. Nada. My name and number were buried somewhere in the team roster.

The next few minutes would become surreal and memorable, even more so than the previous ones. As the opponent sought to regain composure and reestablish their dominance, I did what every quarterback should do in any and every situation.

Look cool. I think the current generation of players call it #swag, baller, or dripped out. It is all about style. Look cool.

Look cool jogging onto the field for pregame warmups. Look cool in the huddle calling the play. Look cool standing in the pocket to throw a pass while the defense swarms around you. Look cool in success or adversity. Look cool especially during time-outs like this one, because the television camera might be on you.

I knew how to do “cool.” I was definitely dripped out. I practiced this since I was a kid. I had studied the great ones and imitated their movements until I perfected the look. I might not read directions for how to use Great Stuff, but I had quarterback cool stuck all over me.

I slowly unbuckled my chinstrap. I did the walk, the quarterback walk. All the great ones walk the same way. Brady. Namath. Montana. Aikman. Manning. Rodgers. Mahomes.

The cool quarterback walk. Head down, but eyes up. Helmet slightly lifted so the facemask is above the eyes. Shoulders slightly slouched forward. Shuffle toward the sidelines to talk with the coach. It should resemble more of a stroll than a walk. Not too fast, not too slow. Just chill, as if there are no concerns in the world.

With many hours in front of a mirror, I had it all down perfectly. Except, there was a concern. As I turned and looked at the sidelines, I could not find the coach. The whole scene was reminiscent of a Where’s Waldo puzzle.

Where was the coach? I could see a hundred excited crimson-clad teammates moving around. I saw hundreds of special guests with their sideline passes crowding the areas on both sides of the bench. I saw trainers, doctors, cheerleaders, and security personnel. No coach.

I immediately went into “cool protection” so I would not look like some spooked dog searching for his owner. That would not look cool.

I made a quick decision. I decided I would stroll directly down the twenty-yard line until I arrived at the sidelines and then turn right towards midfield. Surely, I would encounter the head coach somewhere along that path.

My head was steady, but my eyes kept moving as they scanned the masses along the way. It crossed my mind I might not recognize the coach since we were not extremely familiar with one another in this type of setting.

As I crossed the forty-yard marker, an arm reached out and grabbed me from behind. It happened! I walked right past the coach! Video replays captured his stunned look as the new quarterback passed by oblivious to his presence and instructions.

Wow! Just a little embarrassing. And he thought I could not do any worse? I proved him wrong. I remember listening to the coach and wishing I was with my dad.

Later that night, I recounted the events of the game with my friends as I described the emotions of my first experience as a collegiate quarterback.

Suddenly, the irony and sadness hit me like a ton of bricks. The difference between the casual relationship with my college coach and the side-by-side one with my high school coaching dad mirrored my present spiritual condition.

In my prep years, I made the decision to stay side by side with God. No more running in circles chasing the wind. No more failures of searching for fleeting happiness in the imaginary world of not. No more free-falling. However, in college, I had become extremely casual toward God and my #1 Textbook.

I had not run a wheel off…yet; but I had drifted into the imaginary world of not, where I was NOT HAPPY with the coach and NOT HAPPY with my life and NOT HAPPY with my school and NOT HAPPY with others around me.

The sideline search turned out to be a much-needed spiritual wake-up call.

I played in the game and the newspapers learned my name, but I forgot to love God and love others, first and most.

That is the most important thing in life whether you are the star player in your world or the fifth-string flunky in someone else’s universe.

WHERE ARE YOU? SPIRITUALLY AND EMOTIONALLY?

ARE YOU SIDE BY SIDE WITH GOD? OR ON A CASUAL SPIRITUAL JOG THROUGH LIFE?

Do you need a spiritual wake-up alarm to check your direction, alignment, and progress?

This is no time to be casual about loving God and loving others. The #1 Textbook is the only reliable spiritual compass. It is relevant to every circumstance in your life. It is wisdom for every decision and every relationship. You can even look cool while reading it.

Stay side by side with God so you can Love others First and Most.

EYES UP! SIDE BY SIDE! TAKE SOMEONE ALONG WITH YOU!

Play It Again, Sam

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!

HERE’S TO YOU MRS. ROBINSON!

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!

FAST TRACK TO GETTING OLDER

News Flash! I am getting older.

I think we all are. My aging father often told us, “Getting older is not for sissies.”

There comes a moment when you realize you are no longer coasting down the road of middle-age, singing the classic tunes of your youthful days. Suddenly, the time of your life seems to pick up speed like an over-the-top rollercoaster, and every loop-de-loop adds another ache to your joint pain.

Getting out of a chair now sounds like a Rice Krispies’ orchestra–lots of snaps. crackles, and mysterious pops.

Learning new technology designed to make my life easier has become an exercise of total frustration. Canceled plans that result in me staying home are now moments of sheer celebration. I go to the gym just to compare pharmacy discount cards.

I have a long way to go to qualify for Methuselah’s super-senior discounts. Methuselah was the oldest person ever.

Since college days, I have often researched Methuselah’s timeline before the instant information age of Google and AI. Could he have known Adam? Did he know about Noah’s ark preparation? Here is a recap of Methuselah’s history recently posted by a friend.

  • Methuselah is the poster child for human longevity. He lived the longest of any man in the Bible: 969 years (Genesis 5:27).
  • He lived for two hundred years during Adam’s lifetime. That means he knew and conversed with Adam, the first man in God’s creation. Methuselah had firsthand knowledge of the Garden of Eden and mankind’s earliest history.

Adam did not stop walking with God after the Fall and exit from Paradise. He learned God is always with us and for us. He learned to walk with God as a broken man in a broken world with broken people. He learned how to wait in faith on the Promise.

Would you love to sit at the feet of Grandfather Adam to listen to his stories and wisdom? Methuselah was well instructed with a lifetime of knowledge and wisdom accumulated in a timespan that surpassed seven centuries.

Can you imagine the questions, especially if they might be anything like the questions my grandchildren ask of me? What was the first thing you remember? Was the world just black and white? What did you think when you saw Eve for the first time? When did you kiss her?

What was your home in Paradise like? Do you miss it? Do you really believe you will live there again? What is God like? How can we walk with God now?

  • Methuselah was raised in a God-loving home by a dad who walked with God every day. He was the son of Enoch, who “walked with God” and was taken to heaven without dying. That is a description of what it means to “follow Jesus.”
  • He was Noah’s grandfather, the man God chose to preserve humanity through the Flood. Noah’s family tree included Adam, Enoch, and Methuselah who all walked with God in this world. Noah learned how to listen to and obey the Lord of Creation.
  • Abraham knew and possibly lived with Noah. Historical and biblical accounts suggest that Noah, Shem, and Abraham lived contemporaneously for a period of about thirty-nine years. This proximity would have allowed Abraham to receive firsthand accounts of early creation, Enoch’s walks with God, and the flood (Adam to Methuselah to Noah to Abraham).
  • Scripture implies Methuselah died just before or in the year of the Flood, making his death a marker in biblical history. Can you imagine his interest in the Ark? Do you think he checked the boat building progress?

Methuselah had lived over nine hundred years without ever seeing a big boat on dry land. So much for people saying there is nothing new to see and do as you get older.

Can you imagine the importance of his encouragement to Noah to remain steadfast in faith and courage amidst the mockery and hatred of a rebellious self-centered culture?

“The Creator God has a purpose for your life. Faith in God is the ark that will keep your heart afloat in the storms of life. Be humble and walk with your God. As you age, take kindness into your new world. Love God and love others.”

Can you imagine the emotions of this oldest man as he wrestled with the thoughts of Paradise Lost as God walked disobedient but forgiven Adam into a new land? His mind also shared the thoughts of God taking one disobedient but forgiven man out into a new world on an ark?

Can you imagine his prayers of hope for Noah? Can you imagine his anticipation of reuniting with his dad and greatest grandfather Adam in the New Paradise?

  • Methuselah lived a life that summarizes how the #1 Textbook teaches each of us to live each day of this earthly life no matter how young we are or how old we become: TRUST GOD.

If Methuselah were to duplicate that lifespan today, it would cover over nine centuries. Can you even get a grasp of the amount of history of which he would have firsthand experience? What about the wisdom he could share?

His pre-flood history can be summarized in two words: TRUST GOD.

If he had lived post-flood or even now, his old-age wisdom would be TRUST GOD.

Trust God. God is enough. God is enough security and riches for those who survived the loss of Paradise. God is enough security and riches for those who floated into a new world on an Ark. God is enough security and riches for anyone who follows Jesus, even if they lose the whole world.

In any time of great uncertainty, the counsel of an older person who has proven God’s faithfulness is of immense value to those facing new challenges in life. TRUST GOD. God is enough.

That is my getting older message for any and all Winsday Wisdoms. TRUST GOD.

No one really told me how to prepare for getting older. Well, if they did, I ignored them because they were so old.

Aging is weird. My memory must be improving because I now remember things that never happened; but the other day, my memory foam mattress forgot who I was.

Things change as you get older. My doctor advises me to slow down. That warning used to come from the highway patrol.

I have come to the age where my family just puts one candle on the cake and hopes that I can blow it out. My cell phone is becoming useless. The facial ID no longer recognizes my face, and I cannot remember the password.

Even my doctor talks to me like my body is an old high-mileage car. He suggests it is not worth putting any more money into it.

My memory storehouse is starting to look like our attic. It is all important, but I do not remember all that is in there.

The key to remembering the precious things as you get older is…..

What was I saying? Can you turn up the TV remote?

Getting older comes with less baggage. Lots of the toys, trivia, and trash are gone. Most of the fading treasure has lost its glitter. There is only so much room–and only so much time–for what truly matters in these last earthly days and into the everlasting tomorrows.

Getting old is not for sissies. It gets harder. It hurts. Sometimes it takes away health and things we took for granted; but old age cannot ever take away true happiness.

Do not miss this gem. Whatever age you are, life is short. It flies by too fast. If anything, the years speed up.

As cancer victim Coach Jim Valvano declared, “There are three things to do every day. Number one is LAUGH. Number two is to THINK…give some time to thought. Number three, you should have your emotions move you to tears. If you laugh, you think, and you CRY, that is a full day.”

I believe Methuselah had a lot of full days.

Here is the “getting older” quote that rattled my cage. “You are never too old to set another goal or to dream a new dream.” – C.S. Lewis

I do dream! Where hope surges, happiness is not far behind.

I hope you catch a new dream this week that will cause you to smile.

Lord, teach us to number our days, that we may apply our hearts unto wisdom.

Live life TODAY, not Tomorrow, not Yesterday. TODAY.

Say the words, “I love you” to those you love TODAY. That never gets old!

There is a Dead Body in the Yard

“Dad, there is a dead body in the yard!”

There are certain sentences a father never expects to hear. That is one of them.

How can fear turn a dark backyard into a crime scene—and one bad choice into a life lesson?

I was standing at the kitchen sink when my son called. Moments earlier, I had seen his car turn into our cul-de-sac. Almost immediately, it raced back out.

My phone rang.

“Dad, there is a dead body in the yard! I am scared for my life. I’m going back to my friend’s house!”

Nothing says good evening, Dad quite like your son reporting a corpse in your backyard and then announcing that he has wisely removed himself from the situation.

I was not sure what happened to my blood pressure, but my curiosity immediately went through the roof.

A dead body? In my yard?

Some people enjoy Horror movies. I am NOT one of them. To me, seeing someone point a gun at Bambi makes it a horror flick.

I went to the window.

The side yard was completely dark. The large streetlight at the end of the cul-de-sac had been broken for some time, apparently waiting for the city to replace it.

I turned off the lights in the house. Now I stood in the darkness, staring into the darkness. And then I saw it.

A body. Motionless. In my yard.

My son’s dramatic announcement suddenly seemed much more dramatic.

I called 911.

The operator was calm, professional and reassuring. “Help has been dispatched. Have you noticed anything unusual?”

I contemplated the question. Unusual? Yes. There was a dead person in my yard!

Other than that, everything seemed perfectly normal.

I explained I had heard a car pull into the cul-de-sac. A door slammed. The car immediately sped away. Then my son called and made his emergency exit.

The operator asked, “What else can you see?”

I looked again. It appeared to be a woman. She was lying slightly curled up. Beside her was a suitcase.

A suitcase? Now my imagination really got to work.

This was not just a body. This was a mystery and I was apparently standing in the middle of it.

I hung up the emergency call. What do I do now? What would you do?

FEAR MAKES UP STORIES

Fear is an interesting thing. It does not simply tell you that something is wrong. It starts writing the entire story for you. Usually, it does not write a happy ending.

My mind began producing possibilities at an alarming rate. Do I wait for the police? Or check out the situation? I believe I would have been more courageous if the body was trapped in a burning car. Just not a fan of touching dead bodies even though that is one of my dwindling occupational opportunities for retirement income. I prefer Walmart greeter.

The dead body in the yard presented a precarious situation. What if she had been murdered? What if the killer was still in the yard? What if this was a gang shooting?

I stared at the body. Then came the hardest question:

What if she was still alive?

That changed everything. If she was alive, she might need help. But if she was alive, she could also be dangerous.

What if I walked over there and she suddenly jumped up? What if she attacked me? What if she screamed? What if she accused me of attacking her?

How would I explain that to the police? I could already see the newspaper headline:

Local Pastor Arrested after Altercation with Woman in his Own Yard.

I considered my options. Should I take a flashlight? Should I take a baseball bat? Maybe. Then I wondered what I planned to do with the baseball bat. I am not Batman.

I was a middle-aged man in his backyard at night trying to determine whether the person lying on the ground was dead, alive, dangerous, or simply having the worst night of her life.

This was beginning to feel less like a rescue and more like the opening scene of a very bad horror movie.

THE CHOICE

The police were coming. I could stay inside. That was the safest choice.

But what if she was alive? What if she needed immediate help? What if the police arrived too late?

My brain said: Stay inside.

My fear said: Absolutely stay inside.

My heart said: Go check on her.

My heart won.

I stepped into the darkness. Every bush suddenly looked suspicious. Every noise sounded like footsteps. Every shadow looked like an axe-murderer.

I began wondering if perhaps staying inside had been an exceptionally good idea. I kept walking.

The young woman lay twisted into an awkward position—certainly not the kind of position anyone voluntarily chooses for a nap. The suitcase beside her was partly open.

She looked like someone had tossed her into the yard like an unwanted rag doll.

I saw no blood. That was good.

I could not detect any breathing. That was not good.

Her long hair covered her face. I knelt and gently brushed it away. And then—

She was alive!

The shock nearly knocked the oxygen out of my lungs. Apparently, she was having the same problem. In that moment, we were both struggling to breathe.

I touched her cheek. She slowly turned her face toward me. She tried to open her eyes. Her lips moved.

At first, I could not understand what she was saying. She tried to turn over. I helped her sit up. I strained to hear what she was mumbling. She wanted to go home.

That is the moment she began to cry. Not crying a little. Not delicate teardrops rolling down the cheek. She was shaking. Sobbing.

This was an all-out, uncontrollable, emotionally overloaded cry.

At that moment, I made an important discovery:

Caring for a dead body might be easier than trying to console a sobbing woman.

At least the dead body does not ask you what it is supposed to do next.

THE NEIGHBORHOOD AWAKENS

Then the police arrived. Lights flashing. Cars speeding into the cul-de-sac. And, almost magically, neighborhood windows began lighting up.

Within minutes, our neighbors were watching from behind curtains and window blinds. It reminded me of Mrs. Kravitz from Bewitched. Only this time there was no sitcom laugh track.

The officers began investigating as the mystery slowly unraveled.

Which brings us to what Paul Harvey used to call: “The rest of the story.”

The young woman was not dead. She had not been murdered.

There was no killer hiding behind the bushes. There was no killer gang. And, thankfully, nobody needed my baseball bat.

She was…drunk. Very drunk.

In fact, before she passed out, she had stumbled through several of the descriptive categories of intoxication: Inebriated. Impaired. Wasted. Smashed. Hammered. Lit.

Drunk as a skunk. She had been at a friend’s party. But here’s the part that matters.

She knew enough not to drink and drive. So she did not drive. She took a taxi. The taxi dropped her off at the corner.

She started walking. Somewhere along the way, she wandered into our yard, stumbled, and passed out. Her suitcase landed on her leg and there she remained.

A young woman made one very good decision—not to drive—followed by several very unfortunate decisions involving alcohol, navigation, and gravity.

She was embarrassed. We were embarrassed for her. She was remorseful. Thankfully, I was non-judgmental.

She was alive. And that was what mattered.

THE LESSON HIDING IN THE DARK

Looking back, I realized that the real story was not about a dead body.

It was about fear and choices.

It was a lesson about the way God uses unexpected moments to teach us vital and valuable life lessons.

Fear had taken a dark yard and turned it into a murder scene.

My son saw a dead body and chose to report it and flee. I saw a dead body and had to choose whether to investigate.

The young lady had chosen not to drive. She knew she was too impaired to get behind the wheel, so she called a taxi. That decision may have saved her life.

She made a terrible series of choices that night, but one good choice mattered. Maybe that was part of God’s grace. God even directed her into the yard where the life lesson was most needed.

Thankfully, God is sovereign even over our choices. We do not always know where our choices will take us. God does.

We sometimes imagine grace as God rescuing us from every consequence of our mistakes. But perhaps grace is also God meeting us in the middle of our mistakes—protecting us from consequences we never knew were coming and giving us another opportunity to make better choices.

That young woman could have been killed on the highway. She could have hurt someone else. She could have been seriously injured. Instead, she ended up unconscious in my backyard. She was found alive.

Somehow, in the strange providence of God, she ended up in a place where someone was willing to walk into the darkness and check on her.

I did not know any of that when I stepped outside. I was afraid.

Sometimes one decision protects us. Another puts us in danger. Sometimes we make a good decision for the right reason and still end up in a ridiculous situation. And sometimes fear makes the situation look far worse than it really is.

That night, I learned that fear is powerful. It can make bushes look like assassins. It can turn shadows into monsters. It can convince a man that a woman lying motionless in his backyard is the victim of a murder.

Fear tells us to run. Fear tells us to hide. Fear tells us to protect ourselves. Sometimes that is exactly what we should do.

But sometimes, after the first wave of fear passes, we need to stop and ask:

What is actually happening?

That question can change everything.

Over twenty years have passed since that night. The police left. The neighbors eventually went back to bed. The young woman went home. Eventually, we became waving with a smile neighbors.

My son survived the traumatic experience of seeing a supposedly dead body without having to personally investigate it. I admire his survival instincts.

As for me, I learned something I will never forget.

When we are afraid, we often make decisions based on what we think is happening rather than what we know is happening.

That night, I thought I was walking toward a dead body. Instead, I found a living person who needed help. I thought I was entering a crime scene. I was learning a life lesson.

I did not need a baseball bat; I needed compassion. I was always better at baseball. I need to become more like the Good Samaritan.

Fear wanted me to stay inside. God’s quiet voice reminded me that there was a person out there.

Faith is not about knowing exactly what is waiting for us in the darkness.

Faith is simply trusting God enough to take the next right step.

Courage is not the absence of fear. Courage is simply being afraid…and taking the next right step anyway.

God knew what was really happening. I saw a threat. God saw a person who needed help.

How often do we see the wrong thing because of our fear?

We look at someone’s mistake and see a failure. God sees a person who needs grace.

We look at difficult circumstances and see disaster. God sees an opportunity for faith and blessing.

We look at the darkness and assume something terrible is hiding there. God reminds us that He is still there in the darkness.

The #1 Textbook reminds me of truth. “The Lord is my shepherd and sometimes I will walk through the valley of the shadow of death, but I will not fear; God is always with me.”

We will walk through dark nights of uncertain circumstances. God’s promise is that we will not walk through them alone.

Things are not always what they appear to be in the darkness.

Fear sees the worst. Faith looks for God.

When I am afraid, I will put my trust in God (Psalm 56:3).

Those are very different perspectives of the same situation in life.

I still remember that night. God sees what we cannot see.

God can take the moments that frighten us, the mistakes that embarrass us, and the circumstances we never expected—and use them to teach us about grace.

Fear never means death to our dreams. It is a signal to trust God.

MY GREATEST SPORTS MOMENT

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.”

WHERE ARE YOU?

“Where are you?” I answered my wife’s frantic call with the first thing that went through a man’s mind when asked that question. “When I heard your call, I was afraid, because I was naked, so I am hiding.”

Preseason football practice had run late.

As the team’s Player Development Coach, my job description is fairly simple. I don’t call plays, diagram defenses, or blow whistles. Mostly I watch, pray, encourage players, and keep everyone hydrated. I like to think of myself as the team’s chief cheerleader and part-time water boy.

After practice I hurried home to check on my wife, who was sick.

Then I noticed flashing blue lights in my rearview mirror. The police officer informed me I had been speeding.

Trying to be helpful, I explained that I had just left a meeting where the speaker confidently assured us that police officers rarely stop anyone driving less than ten miles over the speed limit.

That was mistake number two.

While searching for my driver’s license and insurance card, I knocked over my Gatorade, bumped my head on the dashboard, and managed to look exactly like someone trying to hide something.

I hit the trifecta mistake. There would be a handful more.

I refused the breathalyzer to hide my recent consumption of onion rings.

When my phone suddenly chimed, Siri cheerfully announced, “I’m sorry. I could not understand that. You are mumbling your words.”

The officer, kind but understandably suspicious, asked me to step out of the vehicle and walk to the back of the patrol car for a sobriety test.

When I told him I had never taken a drink in my life, he responded by shining his flashlight directly into my strained eyes.

At that precise moment, my cell phone began ringing. My blinded eyes squinted to see the screen. It was my wife.

“Don’t answer it,” the officer instructed.

I explained that my wife was home sick and worried because I was late. Ignoring the call would only increase her concern—and probably diminish my chances of successfully walking a straight line.

The officer nodded permission.

I answered. Without so much as a greeting, my wife asked the question every husband dreads to hear:

“Where are you?”

I felt as guilty as Adam did when he heard that question for the first time. Fortunately, I answered better than Adam whose reply was essentially, “I was afraid, so I hid because I was buck-naked.”

That answer has been getting men into trouble ever since.

When God asked Adam, “Where are you?” He wasn’t looking for directions. He was inviting Adam—and every one of us—to stop hiding and come home.

“Where are you?” — Genesis 3:9

I believe this is the most personal question and, perhaps, the most important question ever asked.

Three simple words. God’s first question was never about geography. It was always about relationship.

“Where are you?”

God was not lost. God was not confused. God was not searching for information.

The Creator who spoke galaxies into existence did not suddenly become uncertain about Adam’s location. He knew exactly where Adam and Eve were hiding.

The question was never for God’s information. It was for Adam’s contemplation.

It remains the same for us. Every generation hears this question. Every heart must answer it. Not because God cannot find us, but because we have lost ourselves.

It may be one of the most loving questions ever asked. It is certainly the first question God asks humanity, and it reveals far more about God’s heart than Adam’s location.

Every generation eventually hears this same question. It echoes through every conscience, every failure, every disappointment, every attempt to hide behind excuses or appearances. Long before we ask where God is, God lovingly asks us, “Where are you?”

Let’s review the context of this question.

This was not a game of hide-and-seek. The setting is humanity’s first act of self-centered disobedience. This was a small step for man, one giant fall for all mankind.

For the first time, Adam and Eve needed a hiding place and a cover-up. The man who had walked with God every day now blazed a trail in the opposite direction.

Everything changed.

Adam believed a lie that life would be better without God’s guidance. His self-centered experiment proved foolish, futile, and fatal. The path led to a dead-end.

That same road remains crowded today.

God has made Himself known. People rush away from God, bumping into one another in their desperate pursuit of independence. The #1 Textbook describes humanity as people who “suppress the truth” (Romans 1). The tragedy is not merely a misunderstanding or ignorance of truth. People bury it, bend it, break it; they convince themselves they no longer need God or anyone else.

Then they run. Running from God always produces consequences.

Dislocation. Disorientation. Destruction (Proverbs 14:12).

Genesis records heartbreaking regression.

  • Perfection to Destruction.
  • Paradise to Purgatory
  • Treasure to Trash.
  • Beauty to Ugliness.
  • Truth to Lies.
  • Reality to Fake.
  • Freedom to Bondage.
  • Pleasure to Pain.
  • Life to Death.

That is the setting. That is the sorrow. That is the backdrop for God’s astonishing question:

“Where are you?”

Ironically, we are hiding while God is seeking. No one naturally searches for God. We search for substitutes.

It is not because God ignores our calls. It is not because He lives somewhere beyond our reach. It is not because He has disappeared.

God is near. God is present. God is in pursuit of us.

So why did God ask the question?

God needed no information. He desired transformation. He could have pronounced judgment. Instead, He extended mercy. He could have announced punishment. Instead, He invited confession.

The question was not harshness. It was kindness. Not wrath first. Grace first.

That is who God is. That is what God gives.

Ironically Adam never answered God’s question. Instead, he answered with an excuse.

“I heard You in the garden, and I was afraid because I was naked; so, I hid.”

Adam inaugurated the response used by every future human being. He explained his fear. And then he shifted the blame.

Humanity has been playing the blame game ever since.

The real question was never, “Where are you standing? Or hiding?”

It was, “Where are you in relationship to Me?”

That question still reaches every human heart. Our response?

We offer excuses. We blame others. We omit truth. We disobey. We wander. We hide.

But while we hide…God seeks.

People do not discover God because they finally become clever enough to find Him. God has always been revealing Himself—in creation, in conscience, in His Word, and perfectly in His Son.

God wants us to know Him. He wants us to be where He is.

He wants a loving relationship that grows immeasurably, infinitely, ever-increasingly, and everlastingly.

In the #1 Textbook, Jesus likens us to sheep, prone to wander. Sheep stumble. Sheep stray.

Worst of all, sheep do not realize they are lost until danger surrounds them. The wolf patiently waits.

How does Jesus respond when one sheep wanders? Not with a sigh of good riddance. Never. He leaves the ninety-nine to pursue the one.

Jesus said, “My sheep hear My voice, and I know them, and they follow Me.” He “restores my soul.” He rescues the lost. He “leads into the right path.”

Where are you? The sheep recognize their shepherd’s voice and follow him. In most cases, he has to carry the wayward sheep back to the fold, close to the shepherd.

The voice returns, “Where are you?” Again, the question is not for the shepherd’s information, but for the sheep’s contemplation.  Any sheep close to the shepherd enjoys greater protection.

You are loved. Near the shepherd, you are guarded and guided. Fed and led.

We need to hear the loving question not only when we have strayed out of Paradise, but also when we get spiritually disoriented by our unwanted circumstances.

Self-centeredness leads to spiritual disorientation. We lose our way in a relationship, make incorrect adjustments, and fail to realize we are in a graveyard spiral. Unaware of the danger to our soul, we hide our spiritual struggles from others who could help. Instead, we make life-changing corrections based on our perception.

When faced with spiritual disorientation, the psalmist declared, I will lift my eyes to the hills. My help comes from the LORD (#1 Textbook).

Every time God asks, “Where are you?” it is compassion not condemnation. Recue not rejection.

We forget the Shepherd’s love for us. Yet the safest place for a wayward wounded sheep is beside the Shepherd. Not farther away. Closer.

When you fear…Listen. When you fall…Run toward Him. When you fail…Trust Him.

Rescue. Recovery. Restoration. They are only one breath away.

Do not hide. You cannot. You can only pretend.

“Where are you?” is not a threat. It is an invitation to come home.

It is hope. It is not wishful thinking. Not imaginary fantasy. Not spiritual illusion. Not a bait-and-switch. Not a lie. It is hope.

It is the loving voice of the God who refuses to stop pursuing those He loves.

The old writers called the searching God, The Hound of Heaven.

What beautiful imagery. Relentless. Patient. Persistent.

The hound of heaven keeps nipping at our heels—not to destroy us, but to deliver us.

He never tires. He never quits. He never gives up. He seeks the lost. He finds the frightened. He restores the ruined. He beings home the wanderer. He welcomes the prodigal.

He shepherds His sheep. He draws us to Himself. If necessary, He drives us to Himself. He delights to bring His children home.

Perhaps the greatest miracle is not that we finally found God. It is that God never stopped looking for us.

Listen carefully. Beneath your guilt. Beneath your grief. Beneath your excuses. Beneath your fear. You can still hear God’s voice.

“Where are you?”

Not because He doesn’t know. Because He wants you to know.

God wants you to know”

  • Where you are
  • Who He is
  • How much He loves you.

“The Lord is my Shepherd… Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.” (Psalm 23:1,6)

The first question God ever asked humanity is still His question today. It is not asked in anger but in love, not to expose us but to restore us. Every hiding place eventually fails, but God’s grace never does.

The One who walked through Eden still walks toward sinners with mercy in His voice. Wherever you are, no matter how far you have wandered, His invitation remains unchanged:

“Where are you?”

The answer that changes everything is not where you have been—but whether you will step out of hiding and walk back into the presence of the Shepherd who has been pursuing you all along.

The Lord is still your Shepherd. His goodness and mercy still follow. His grace still pursues. His love still prevails. His house still stands with a welcome mat…forever.

Three simple words. One eternal invitation.

“Where are you?”

Get your EYES UP! Run into the loving arms of the One who asks that question.

Pretty Boy Floyd & Me

Yes, I am related to the infamous local Robin Hood bank robber, Charles Arthur “Pretty Boy” Floyd.

Dad always reminded us that Mom was the Floyd Family connection and he was the Pretty Boy side.

I should clarify that my relationship to one of America’s most celebrated outlaws comes with several healthy degrees of separation.

I am what you might call the discount version—the bargain-bin relative. We did not rob banks together. We did not hide from lawmen in the Cookson Hills of eastern Oklahoma. We did not share a getaway car, a secret hideout, or even a secluded boat dock on Tenkiller Lake.

My grandfather, King Philip Floyd Sr., publicly denied any family connection. But every family has someone who serves as the unofficial historian, and ours was snuff-sniffin’ Aunt Savannah.

From her rocking chair on the front porch, she happily ignored Granddad’s denials. Out came the faded newspaper clippings, old photographs, mug shots, and stories that grew more colorful with every retelling. Somewhere between family history and folklore, she even managed to include a family moonshine recipe.

People who know me understand I am not exactly an overflowing fountain of information. I would have made a fine CIA operative. My conversations generally consist of name, rank, and serial number. Less has always seemed more.

This subject was brought back to life in a recent discussion with my youngest son. Pretty Boy was not brought back to life, only the story attached to our family tree.

Shakespeare asked in Romeo and Juliet, “What’s in a name?” That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.”  Juliet believed the names Montague and Capulet meant nothing compared to love.

I appreciate the sentiment.

Still, if my distant cousin had been a more common name than Pretty Boy Floyd, this article probably would not exist.

Every family tree contains beautiful branches and broken ones.

Ours certainly does.

One ancestor fought in the Civil War—for both sides. Captain Morrison somehow managed to become a prisoner of war…on both sides. Apparently neither the Union nor the Confederacy wanted to keep him for very long. (Most families have someone like that.) After the war he was ambushed and killed scarcely a mile from home, perhaps before he even had time to change uniform color.

Then came Charles Arthur Floyd.

A criminal by every legal definition, he showed the competitive nature that runs throughout our family. Pretty Boy eventually climbed to Number One on J. Edgar Hoover’s FBI Top Ten Most Wanted list: Dead or Alive.

[Spoiler alert: They shot us both down.]

History rarely settles for simple labels.

Pretty Boy became something of a Robin Hood figure. Stories spread that he robbed banks and burned mortgage notes which threatened foreclosure on struggling farmers crushed by the Depression.

He robbed from the rich and fed the poor while dressed like a fashion icon. He moved like a shadow, committed legendary heists, and treated the tax collectors like stuffed piñatas.

The word on the street and throughout the hills was that Pretty Boy gave desperate families another chance. Whether every tale was true mattered less than the hope people found in believing them.

Others remembered something entirely different—a violent outlaw whose robberies and murders left grieving families behind.

The truth, as it often does, lives somewhere between legend and fact.

History has a way of polishing rough edges. Time adds distance, stories become legends, and legends become folklore. Somewhere along the way, the person disappears behind the image.

In eastern Oklahoma, poverty was not a statistic printed in a newspaper. It was a daily reality. Families worked hard, struggled to survive, and often wondered whether tomorrow would bring relief or another disappointment.

I do not think anyone grows up wanting to become America’s most wanted bank robber.

Life is a succession of small decisions. One compromise makes the next compromise easier. One wrong turn becomes another until the road behind disappears.

Pretty Boy navigated life without a moral compass.

Somewhere along that journey, a young man became an outlaw and a murderer. Eventually, the outlaw became a legend.

The newspapers loved the legend. They followed the robberies, the escapes, the manhunts, and the final confrontation.

News flash! A person can become famous without becoming honorable.

That may be the greatest lesson hidden inside Pretty Boy Floyd’s story. His life lesson is on daily replay on thousands of social media sites.

Talent is not character. Intelligence is not integrity. Cleverness is not wisdom. Popularity is not greatness.

Every family has a branch that grows in an unexpected direction.

Some produce teachers and coaches. Others grow preachers, soldiers, farmers, lawyers, or doctors. Some branch into space, glass, gas, and oil. We even have a branch that is the head of the state’s banking system. I doubt his professional biography begins with: “Related to Pretty Boy Floyd.”

Grandfather Floyd was a coal miner. Like many people of his generation, he understood the value of hard work, loyalty, and family.

Our Floyd family branches have remained tightly connected. I guess that love is attributed to our shared heritage. It helped that no one ever hit the lottery or uncovered Pretty Boy’s buried bank notes.

Being distantly connected to Pretty Boy has never made me feel pride or shame as much as curiosity. I am more suspiciously concerned about similar personality traits that pop up in my non-criminal activities.

I went through a brief Pretty Boy phase in college.

I dressed like Robert Redford’s Sundance Kid, with just enough attitude to convey a cool, mysterious persona. My roommates looked like the cast from The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly. I rode the subway with two friends named Bonnie and Clydesdale.

I worked at the South Boston Boys’ Club. I was a big brother to a mob family. Every kid cursed like an Irish sailor, fought like Rocky Balboa, and stole like a thief in the night. I could have been mistaken for Pretty Boy except for the blood, bruises, and empty pockets.

Time edits memories into true and fictional stories.

I was handcuffed down by the River Charles (mistaken identity). I assisted in the displacement of topping a tree from the Tall Pines Cemetery during the Christmas season (statute of limitations).

Then there was the afternoon I climbed a tree in Harvard Square, content to watch a demonstration unfolding from a perch worthy of Zaccheus. Curiosity soon gave way to consequences when the National Guard responded with tear gas after war protesters began hurling objects at passing cars. My elevated vantage point offered no protection from the drifting cloud (stupidity).

After my college days, I tried to become a politician. That is probably a little higher on the most wanted criminal list than bank robber.

What was I thinking? Nothing. Politicians do not have to think. They just hold out their hand and follow the seeing-eye dog.

Competition has always been part of our family DNA. Every fruit on our family tree is ripe with a competitive spirit.

Like Pretty Boy, I always want to be listed as Number One on the family’s Most Wanted Christmas cards. I enjoy winning. Apparently, I show ‘hookeye’ sarcasm in victory. Losers can be so petty.

I was especially good at Lie, Cheat, and Steal. That is a board game, not a confession.

I wrote a booklet for my sister-in-law with the title, Games that are Impossible to Lose. She has hidden that masterpiece from her children but has been rumored to play the solitary version late at night. Volume 2 is scheduled for a December release.

I continue to ‘steal’ snacks in late night raids in the kitchen. I rob Babe’s cookie jar and burn candles to hide my cooking faux pas. I have mastered the art of selective disappearance during household chores. I have an unusual ability to become extremely difficult to locate.

I shoot water guns at the grandchildren. Their imitation gives me hope of a continued legacy.

I hope time will be as kind to me as it was to Pretty Boy.

To quote President Nixon, “I am not a crook.”

To quote Augustine, “I am not a saint, either.”

Every family is dysfunctional. The only difference is the degree of dysfunction.

The truth about family history is that every family tree contains broken branches.

Some are obvious. Some are hidden.

Some are remembered with embarrassment. Others become stories we tell with a smile.

But broken branches do not mean the tree has no value.

In fact, some of the most meaningful stories come from imperfect people who were transformed by something greater than themselves.

That is one reason the family tree of Jesus is so powerful.

If we expected the earthly family line of the Son of God to be filled only with perfect people, we would be surprised. Instead, the #1 Textbook reveals a family history filled with complicated characters, questionable decisions, unlikely heroes, and people who needed grace.

Jesus did not arrive through a flawless human family. He entered ours.

His family tree included kings and commoners, faithful followers and people who wandered far away, those who trusted God and those who struggled in their faith.

There were people carrying painful histories. There were individuals whose choices would never make a modern family newsletter.

Yet God did not erase their stories. He redeemed them.

That gives hope to every family, including mine. Because the message of the gospel is not that God works only through perfect people.

God works through broken people and fractured families.

The Bible does not hide human weakness. It displays it. The heavenly newspaper is filled with people who failed, doubted, questioned, and stumbled.

And still, God loved them. God used them. God claimed them as His own.

Even Jesus experienced the pain of being misunderstood by those closest to Him.

His own brothers struggled to believe who He was. John records that “even his own brothers did not believe in him” (John 7:5). Those who lived in the same home, shared meals at the same table, and knew Him personally still failed to recognize His true identity.

In another moment, some family members questioned His actions so strongly that they said He was “out of his mind” (Mark 3:21).

Imagine that.

The people closest to Jesus—the One who came to save the world—wondered if He had lost His mind.

Have you ever experienced something similar? Have people misunderstood your intentions?

Have you been caught in the middle of a family civil war? Shot at by both sides?

Have they questioned your choices, your faith, or your heart?

Words can leave deep wounds.

Crazy. Irrational. Hypocritical. Judgmental. Unloving.

Those labels have been placed on many people who were simply trying to follow a different path.

Jesus understands.

He knows what it feels like to be misunderstood. He knows what it feels like when people judge without seeing the whole story.

That is why His family tree gives us such hope.

Because Jesus did not come from a perfect family to save perfect people. He came from a broken world to save broken people.

Being connected to Jesus changes everything. Not because we suddenly become perfect. Not because our past disappears from history.

But because we learn He writes the final chapter.

The broken parts are restored. The questionable chapters are redeemed.

The painful memories are used for a greater purpose. The worst moments no longer leave a permanent stain, now covered by something greater—the love and forgiveness offered through Jesus.

Grace writes a better story.

The family portrait changes when Christ becomes the center.

The most important family connection we can ever have is not determined by the name we inherit. It is determined by the Lord we follow.

Every life leaves something behind. Not always something that can be measured. Not always something that can be placed in a bank account, displayed on a wall, or engraved on a monument.

The most important things we leave behind are invisible.

A word spoken at the right moment. A kindness offered when no one expected it. Integrity when no one was watching.

A lesson learned through hardship. A faith passed from one generation to another.

That is the difference between reputation and legacy.

Philippians gives us one of the most beautiful descriptions of His character:

You must have the same attitude that Christ Jesus had.

Though He was God, Jesus did not cling to His privileges. Instead, He humbled Himself, became a servant, and willingly accepted suffering—even death on a cross.

Then came the great reversal.

The One who humbled Himself was exalted. The One who appeared powerless was revealed as Lord. The One who carried a criminal’s cross received the name above every name.

At the name of Jesus every knee should bow, in heaven and on earth and under the earth, and every tongue declare that Jesus Christ is Lord.

That is the name that changes everything.

I am not Jesus, but I am a relative with that same love flowing through my life.

Jesus lives in me to lead me to others he intends to love through me.

I want Jesus to be seen in the way I treat people.

I want His compassion to shape my words.

I want His humility to influence my decisions.

I want His forgiveness to become my response.

So, what’s in a name?

A lot of history, memories, stories.

But only one name carries the power to transform a life.

Jesus.

One thing I ask from the Lord, this only do I seek: that I may dwell in the house of the Lord all the days of my life, to gaze on the beauty of the Lord…
—(Psalm 27:4).

We inherit names. We choose legacies.

Some leave headlines. Some leave heartache. The wisest leave faith, hope, and love.

Character matters. That is not folklore or myth.

A reputation is what people say about us. A legacy is what continues because of us.

That is where my parents taught me a different lesson.

They simply lived with a quiet faithfulness that influenced everyone around them.

Their legacy was found in how they loved people.

They showed me that character always matters. Love is always the most important thing.

Love acts. Love sacrifices. Love chooses others even when there is a cost.

Loving first and most creates lasting influence. Kindness and faithfulness build families. Integrity earns trust.

Godly character can bless generations.

My mom and dad are testimonies to that truth.

Write Myself a Letter

Listen to the sweet longing of Nat King Cole.

I’m gonna sit right down
And write myself a letter
And make believe it came from you
I’m gonna write words oh, so sweet
They’re gonna knock me off my feet

I’m gonna smile and say
“I hope you’re feeling better,”
And close with love, the way that you do
I’m gonna sit right down and write myself a letter
And make believe it came from you

I’m gonna sit right down and write myself a letter
And make all my dreams come true.

It’s a wonderful song. There is just one big problem.

We already have trouble right here in River City…lots and lots of trouble.

Nobody writes letters anymore.

I don’t. You probably don’t.

We wave at the postman as we stroll to the mailbox. The postal system delivers utility bills, political flyers, hearing aid promotions, and credit card offers that begin with, “Congratulations! You’ve been specially selected to pay 29.99% interest.”

We slide back inside the house and wonder why no one writes anymore.

Real letters? Those have become as rare as a Bobby Flay steak.

When was the last time you received a letter?

When was the last time you wrote a letter?

Letter writing has quietly become a lost art—a disappearing skill hidden in a drawer somewhere between balancing a checkbook and knowing how to fold a road map.

Instead, we text.

We email.

We send emojis…GIFs.

We communicate entire emotional conversations with one yellow face ball wearing sunglasses.

I still maintain there is a fortune waiting for the first genius who invents an official Sarcasm Emoji.

Actually…never mind. That sentence was sarcastic.

See the problem?

Nat King Cole sang, I’m gonna sit right down and write myself a letter.

Today’s updated lyrics: “I’m gonna sit right down…and text myself a thumbs-up emoji.”

At that point, you might as well just stand in front of the bathroom mirror and make faces at yourself.

So what happened?

Simple.

Writing a letter requires three things modern life tries very hard to eliminate:

  • Time.
  • Effort.
  • Thought.

Time

We now live in the glorious Age of Instant Everything.

Why wait three days for a handwritten note when you can send a text in three seconds…

…that you will regret in four?

The internet has convinced us that everything should happen immediately.

Need groceries? Delivered.

Need dinner? Delivered.

Need dating advice? Ask AI…or call Jeff.

Need sympathy? Someone on Facebook will post a praying-hands emoji before you have finished explaining what happened.

Speed has become the Time Man of the Year. Reflection has become optional.
You can send a message across the world in seconds. Unfortunately, your angry message also circles the globe before you’ve had time to realize autocorrect changed “God bless you” into “Go blast you.”

Effort

Writing a letter requires effort, while digital communication is as easy as a few taps on a keyboard.

Cost. No envelopes. No stationery. No stamps.

Of course, you will need to pay for a smartphone, unlimited data, fiber internet, cloud storage, wireless earbuds, a smartwatch, three charging cables, and a monthly subscription or two. You can order all those things on your Amazon App.

Other than those costs and an occasional technological shutdown of services, it is practically free.

Multitasking. That is another advantage causing the extinction of letter writing.
You can text someone “You have my full attention” while watching television, scrolling social media, eating nachos, and pretending to listen to your spouse.

Humanity has never been so productive…. and so distracted.

Spell-check fixes our spelling. Autocorrect creates entirely new problems.

Siri occasionally sends messages in a language neither of you speaks.

Technology is amazing.

Somewhere Jane Austen is quietly rolling her eyes. Think about Persuasion.

Captain Wentworth doesn’t send Anne Elliot:

“Hey.”

“U up?”

“Miss u.”

“❤️”

Instead, he writes one of the greatest love letters ever penned:

You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope…

Now that is a sentence for the ages.

Can you imagine receiving that in today’s world?

Probably not. It is not worth the effort it would require.

The modern-day communication of Persuasion travels through cyberspace to arrive looking something like this:

Anne and Captain Wentworth text after nearly decade long silence.

Screenshot

Stndng Q4 Apple drop LOL

Next comes the text version of the iconic line, “You pierce my heart. Half agony. Half hope.”

Wentworth:

(Delivered. No reply.)

Wentworth waits impatiently as he wonders. Is she texting that other guy? Is she married? Is she ghosting me?

Wentworth texts: how R U

Anne replies: phone at 3%. TTYL

Somehow the romance gets lost.

Maybe that is why letters mattered. A letter could not be dashed off while waiting for coffee. It required ink and paper. Time, Effort, and …

Thought

Now, that is a lost art in today’s world of short attention spans…for both the sender and the reader.

Before digital communication, you had time to think and rethink your words before they became permanent.

There was Deliberation. There were Revisions …and Trash Cans.

You could not accidentally hit “Send.”

The shift to shorter attention span is either the cause or the effect of non-letter writing. Probably both would pop up as answers on an internet search.

Now, we can use AI partners so we do not even have to think.

Speleling corrextions and Siri intrepidations are a bone-us.

We have lost our train of thoughts. The loss is not paper or stamps or cursive handwriting.

We lost the habit of slowing down long enough to say what really matters.

“Ever thine, ever mine, ever ours.” (Beethoven)

I think I’m gonna sit right down and write myself a letter.

It is very possible that many in the younger generations have no clue what it means to write a letter. Does that mean write a letter of the alphabet?

I can write my ABC’s. Have you ever played Mr. Postman? Three letters and you’re out.

Long gone are the days of history when carefully crafted correspondence carried communication of conflicts or celebrations across communities and continents.

Letters strong enough to carry the weight of the world. Letters large enough to capture the hopes of generations. Letters tender enough to melt hardened hearts.

Letters expressing timeless sentiments of lasting love and life-altering longing. Articulated feelings to bridge physical distances and preserve relationship connections. Letters to declare life-sustaining breath, unquenchable desire, and unwavering commitment.

The love language of letters can deliver sunlight to a soul in darkness, hope to a heart in agony, peace to a mind in torment, nearness to a body in a distant place.

And that is why the greatest letter ever written still matters today.

The God of Glory sent you a personal letter of love.

It will pierce your soul. Agony and Hope. One eclipsed by the latter.

Here are a few highlights penned with purpose and passion which far exceed that of Captain Wentworth. These letters overshadow all the greatest, most noble, most endearing lines penned by scribes, poets, and novelists of all generations.

The Love of God. No song can convey its width. No poem can reach its length. No music can soar its height. No novel can plunge its depth.

In his kindness God called you to share in his eternal glory by means of Christ Jesus. After you have suffered a little while, he will restore, support, and strengthen you, and he will place you on a firm foundation (1 Peter 5:10).

For I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory that is to be revealed to us (Romans 8:18).

Written words powerful enough to change your heart. Salvation for your soul. Wisdom to guide and guard your thoughts and actions. Light for your steps. Strength for your convictions. Endurance, Character, Hope for every challenge.

I loved you before the foundation of the world (Ephesians 1:4).

I loved you when I knit you together in your mother’s womb (Psalm 139:13).

I love you with a great love that is new every morning (Lamentations 3:22-23).

I love you with an everlasting love (Jeremiah 31:3).

I love you with a love whose width, length, height, and depth are beyond your understanding (Ephesians 3:18-19).

Immense Love (John 3:16). Great (Romans 5:8). Life-giving (Ephesians 2:4-5). Sacrificial (Ephesians 5: 2). Giving (Galatians 2:20). Merciful and Abounding (Psalm 86:5). Precious (Isaiah 43:4). Priceless (Psalm 36:7). Enduring Love (Psalm 136:26). Calming (Zephaniah 3:17). Unfailing (Psalm 48:9). Unconditional (1 John 4:9-10). Limitless Love (Psalm 103:11-12). Endless Love (Lamentations 3:22).

See how great a love the Father has lavished on us, that we would be called the children of God (1 John 3:1).

Unshakeable and Inseparable Love.

For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor any other created thing, will be able to separate us from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord (Romans 8:38-39).

Read the letter God sent you. God loves you first. God loves you most. God loves you always. God loves you forever. Then God illustrates the greatness of His love with real emojis of mountains, oceans, forests, rivers, sparrows, flowers.

Immeasurable Love. Infinite Love with real emoji illustrations of the sun, moon, and countless stars.

If we with ink the oceans fill
And were the skies of parchment made
If every stalk on earth a quill
And every man a scribe by trade

To write the love of God above
Would drain the oceans dry
Nor could the scroll contain the whole
Though stretched from sky to sky.

O Love of God, how rich and pure
How marvelous and strong
It shall forevermore endure
The saints and angels’ song

The greatest love letter. It is not a text. Not an email. It is an everlasting collection of unquenchable love.

Read it. Memorize it. Write it. Share it. Live it.

I dare not ask anyone to stop texting. Just think before you text. Please do not text while driving. Correct your texts before sending.

Rid the mess agin B 4 U hot da spend butt N.

I’m gonna sit right down and write you a letter
Just pretend it came from me
I’m gonna smile and say
“I hope you’re feeling better,”
And close with love, the way that I do.

EYES UP! I LOVE YOU ALWAYS & FOREVER!