LOVE FIRST…LOVE MOST

WINSDAY WISDOM Session 33

It was so unexpected. I did not see it coming. I was not prepared for it. My reaction was one of shock, not pleasure.

Uncle Fester kissed me. Right on the lips!

Well, it was not really Uncle Fester from the Addams Family TV show. It was his doppelganger. His twin from another time and country.

There are kisses that rock your world. That electrifying unforeseen first kiss. The forever sweetness of that marriage kiss. That fantastic baby-breath kiss of your child. This kiss was unlike any of those.

Let me set the stage for becoming the kissing booth for Uncle Fester and his twenty lookalikes.

I am not a world traveler. My trips east to Boston and west to Honolulu are vast excursions for a kid who grew up in the rural Midwest under the shadow of Cavanaugh Hill, the highest hill in the world.

I moved my family to Louisiana. We ventured south among the Cajuns. Their food is outstanding. Their language and accents are incomprehensible. I once stopped to ask four individuals for directions to the local basketball gym. The only thing I understood was “go back to the road.”

I was called a “couyan.” Someone translated that as a “fool or crazy person.” I think it might actually be more of a vulgar expletive. I adapted with the times to learn ick-cri-vis refers to crawfish and shaud means hot. It might have been a better experience if I understood that before the meal.

I met the Uncle Fester clone in Moldova, the poorest country in eastern Europe. The country is sandwiched between Ukraine and Romania. The nation was a former part of the Soviet Union. It still had the presence of Russian police and the evidence of Communism in all its buildings and impoverished people.

The church I pastored became involved with some special people from Moldova. We supported future Kazakhstan missionary, Kairat, as he studied in a Moldovan college. Annie was an accomplished pianist who became part of our church family in Shreveport. Nicolae and Svetlana Sili are two of the most precious people on the planet. They carry God’s love to orphans and women’s prisons, as well as organize camps for youth and senior citizens throughout Moldova.

Our concern for the homeland of these world-changers led to an invitation for our staff to visit Moldova to conduct a conference for church leaders from around the country. Steve, Derek, and Gabe would depart two days prior to allow them some additional stopover time in Rome.

I repeat. I am not a world traveler. It is kind of like cooking. I do not mind doing it; I am just not very good at it. It seems to end up in a mess.

The travel highlight for me occurred because of a travel snafu. The airline mistake allowed me to engage in a one-day solo walking tour of Rome, the City of Seven Hills. Maybe all roads do lead to Rome. The Eternal City was described by the Italian painter Bondone as “the city of echoes, the city of illusions, and the city of yearning.” American novelist Hawthorne called Rome “the city of all time, of all the world.” I would love to return.

Somehow, I covered most of the three-day and five-day tour features in a fast-paced jaunt from morning into the night. The City of Fountains did not disappoint. I saw St. Peter’s Square, the Vatican, and the Sistine Chapel with Michelangelo’s’ ceiling masterpiece. I experienced the Roman Colosseum, the Pantheon, the Roman Forum, the downtown shops, and outdoor cafes. I was captivated by the Trevi Fountain, the Spanish Steps, and the site of Paul’s imprisonment.

Those were the highlights. The lowlights would include travel problems. My flight from America found me seated next to a sick, crying two-year-old. She never stopped whining and sniffling. The green stuff from her nose was running down her chin. Her tired and unresponsive mother remained conked out for most of the transatlantic journey. Occasionally, a stewardess would stop by to offer a sucker. I told the stewardess I preferred the cherry ones.

I was stranded in the Rome airport, unable to get to Romania or Moldova. Apparently, the airline agent considered my ticket as unacceptable. Invalid. Counterfeit.

Travel advisory: Be cautious about suggestions to use Gorilla International Discount Tickets. It looked as if the Leonardo da Vinci terminal might be the location of my Last Supper. No wonder Mona Lisa was not smiling. She missed her flight waiting on the airport gate attendant to return from a cappuccino break.

The airline was unhelpful. Western Union was shut down. Language problems dominated every attempt to resolve the situation. My only alternative was to get a hotel room in the city.

On the twenty-five-minute trip from the terminal to the city hotel, the taxi was intercepted by motorcyclists who hammered their fists on the car windows and hood. It was similar to a scene from The Lincoln Lawyer, starring Matthew McConaughey. These biker gang members rode mopeds instead of big Harley-Davidson hogs and the passenger carried no resemblance to the movie star.

Apparently, the taxi driver owed some money he lost on some soccer match bets. He ended up outside the car in a stereotypical Italian argument. Loud language. Passionate differences. Demonstrative hand gestures which included verbiage that needed no translation. Maybe this was why Rome was not built in a day. The Italian police arrived with sirens and lights to disperse the fight scene and free the flow of blocked traffic. Welcome to the Homeland of Pizza.

I encountered another police intervention in Moldova, a nation filled with political unrest. Russian police interrupted the hotel meeting. They suspected the clandestine meeting involved some criminal activity. They insisted on checking our passports with threats of imprisonment. They lined our group up against the hallway wall. I was a little nervous since my passport was still at the airport under review. I avoided being carted down to the police station when the Gestapo-like enforcer stopped his passport check at the person standing in line next to me.

There were food challenges. The Sili family went to great efforts to provide fruit and muffins for breakfast. The rest of the time, every meal involved POTATOES…in every form imaginable and in some ways unimaginable. Everything was boiled, so we were never served French fries or a baked potato.

There was one major exception to the Potato-fest. Kairat’s family made a huge sacrifice to feed us a delicacy…HORSE MEAT. Originally a nomadic people, the Kazakhs considered the horse as a proud feature of the Kazakh culture. Horse meat is served at special occasions to honor the guests. The mother was so proud and so happy to host us. I insisted that we were not honorable guests, but the horse was already on the table.

I could not understand any of their language except for Kairat. I eventually learned zhylky minezdi referred to “horse” and  blctblk tamak meant “hot food.” As the platter was passed to me, the hostess said, “Beshbarmak.” That is the name for boiled horse meat served on a bed of noodles.

Have you ever eaten hot horse meat?  

Anthony Bourdain, the celebrity chef and travel documentarian, advised to “eat without fear, whether it was an indigenous stew, grilled fish head, or mystery meat.” How do you eat mystery meat without some measure of fear?

The Kazakh delicacy smelled like…well, like boiled horse meat wafting into my nostrils. It looked slippery. I picked up a small piece to show my appreciation. As the horse meat neared my mouth, my gag reflex kicked in.

I paid Gabe to eat from my plate. He was discreet. I just smiled and expressed my appreciation for such a delicious old nag.

The hosts insisted on a second serving of the steaming steed. The Kazakhs credit the heavy protein source with making one faster, stronger, wiser, and more virile. You will need to ask Gabe. I am indebted to him. He took one for the team. Thankfully, Gabe took two for my team.

When we sought to leave the country the next week, my passport was flagged again as the rest of the staff departed for home. I appreciated Steve’s concern. (That is a little sacrcastic.) He asked me to let them get on the plane and leave for home before I tried to straighten out the problem.

My three amigos departed for home. Security interrogated me for hours in the Chisinau airport dungeon. The loud woman and mean man looked as if they were members of Spectre who stepped right out of a James Bond movie. Their heavy Russian accented English only added to their villain imagery. They kept me in a tiny room and threatened imprisonment for espionage. Really?

Did they really suspect I was smuggling out the recipe for beshbarmak? They demanded a lot of money to bribe the officials. Later that night, finally convinced I had no money and was worth no ransom to anyone else, they deported me to Romania.

My most memorable day in Moldova was a road trip to the country’s southern rural area. The President of the Baptist church association invited me on a day long trip to visit several churches. He hired a chauffeur and a sports car. We were cramped in a small, fast car with a wild kid who envisioned himself as a Formula One Grand Prix driver. Maybe he was.

Our race car driver drove fast. Extremely fast. We were not on interstate highways. These two-lane rural roads without any shoulders were barely paved. Mario took every curve at breakneck speed with total commitment that there was not another car coming toward us. He swerved to dodge potholes at the rate of one every two seconds. He would occasionally squeal to a head jerking stop to avoid plowing into the back of a mule driven cart.

I stared at the wasteland and thought about how long it would take for the news of the wreck to get to my family. God promised to be with us even to the ends of the earth. This desolate area must be near there. My nerves were on edge from the blind curves and innumerable potholes. It did not help to be told the president’s travel credentials had expired just as we came to an armed security roadblock. At the moment, imprisonment seemed preferable to car crash.

We visited a church involved in a business meeting that needed no translation. Hearts are the same in any language. The heated arguments sounded like some American church disagreements and covered some of the same subjects. Without any translation, I completely understood the divisive decision requiring the oversight of the neutral leader.

At another stop in a muddy rural area, the entire village came out to see the sports car and surprise visitors. I was the first American ever seen by any of the younger generations. I was a curious celebrity. They stared at me, touched me to see if I were real, and asked for my autograph. I smiled and obliged, signing anything placed in my hands. I might have given away the rights to the Louisiana Territory.

One teenager asked if I were an astronaut who landed in the wrong country? One small step for man, one giant leap for American graffiti.

The coup de gras of the one-day trip was next, following another harrowing drive as our car raced around sharp curves and deep potholes. We occasionally bounced through some of them which realigned my spine.

The church building was fairly large. The outdoor restrooms were …what one might expect. I am old enough to have used an outdoor restroom. My grandparents had one during my childhood before plumbing was installed in their house. The early years of our church camp offered similar facilities. This one was different. It was larger. Multiple holes. No stalls or dividing partitions. It was just cheek to cheek.

The horrendous odor set off my gag reflex. I was gasping for fresh air. As Roberto Duran, the welterweight boxing champion known as the Tasmanian devil with hands of stone, cried out in his defeat to Sugar Ray Leonard in the Louisiana Superdome, “No mas.”

The president presided over the ordination of a young preacher being installed as the new church pastor. The men sat on one side of the church and all the ladies on the other side. I sat on the platform with the president who asked me to speak and pray. Next came the confirmation ceremony. The young pastor knelt on the platform while the church leader, the president, and I stood beside him.

The older men lined up against the wall in preparation to kneel in prayer next to the young man. I thought the first man looked like Uncle Fester. He was friendly, fat, bald, and mostly toothless. I noticed that the next twenty men resembled the first. What were the chances they were all related?

Uncle Fester #1 prayed for the young man. Then he embraced the president and the church leader. As he approached me, I stuck out my hand to greet him. He did not notice. He placed his hands on my cheeks. He held my face in a death grip, stared into my eyes, and flashed his toothless smile.

I had no clue what would happen next. He kissed me…on the lips…for a long time. When the slobber-fest ended, he pulled back, patted my cheek, and smiled. It looked as though there was one less tooth. Apparently, he enjoyed the moment.

I was in shock. And, no, I did not enjoy the PDA. I began to shake. I needed to wipe away the dribble. I have never been able to read the Textbook’s admonition to “greet one another with a holy kiss’’ without this flashback.

Then, I realized that Uncle Fester #2 through #20 were headed my way. We were on the verge of an international crisis. Do I shove the next guys away? Do I run? Or just scream?

I offered a cheek to the next two uncles. It was not easy to free my face from their vise-like grip. But where there is a will, there is a way. They puckered and aimed for the lips, only to graze the side of my face. As the platform became more crowded, I declared, “No mas.”

I quietly stepped back from the greeting party. I was imperceptibly out of the line of fire. Maybe I could slide back in place if the other side of the church came to express their gratitude for my visit.

The meeting was followed by a Potato-fest dinner with some drink that must have been fermented Orange Crush. I shivered as each man approached to offer me more potatoes. Was this one Uncle Fester #1 or a relative wanting to finish the kiss? Was the kiss a custom or a joke on the foreigner?

Uncle Fester’s kiss made the “horse meat” the second worst part of the trip.

This was not my best moment in my Love First and Love Most crusade.

I do not travel much anymore. I love kissing my wife. I cherish the kisses from my daughter and grandkids. I hug my sons. I embrace all the football players on our team. I am very free and prevalent with expressing, “I love you.”

I will respond better the next time I greet Uncle Fester in heaven.

Pray that I do better at loving first and most.

The currency of love and gratitude never runs out and is recognized in all countries and ethnic groups. We just have to learn not to gag on the opportunities to share the precious commodity.

Practice gratitude until it overflows in every encounter. Be thankful for kind people, as well as those very different from you. Be thankful for our American freedoms and blessings. Be thankful for your family.

Be less critical of potholes. Give thanks for the minimal indentions in the road. It could be much worse. Be grateful for the “potholes” in your life which make you more dependent upon God.

There are people in impoverished countries who appear to be much happier than most Americans. They have far fewer “things” but show far more gratitude. Learn from them to count your blessings and not your complaints.

Be more loving to the less fortunate. Greet them with loving actions. Be more understanding that every person has a need to be loved. Smile more. Embrace when appropriate. Say, “I love you” often.

The #1 Textbook encourages us to be mindful that whatever we eat or drink, do it all for the glory of God.

I once ate Sunday dinner in the rural home of a large family. They served seven dish variations of turnip greens. It was the best they had. I am not a fan of turnip greens. I smiled and gave thanks it was not horse meat.

Appreciate the sustenance God provides with your daily bread. Be grateful for a potato or Happy Meal. Be thankful when you see a horse still standing on four legs.

Whether you are homebound or a world-traveler, find a way to love first and love most.

One kiss can rock the world.

WINSDAY WISDOM Session 32

Sometimes things happen in our lives that could be very humorous if they did not cause so much pain. It will be a long time before this incident is funny. If only you had been there. You would have seen the humor. You would have felt the pain.

It felt as if I had been run over by a truck. In reality, it was a football player running full speed into my chest.

There is an old saying, “What does not kill you, will only make you stronger.”

Another saying could be, “What does not kill you, can really make you feel bad.”

I hurt all over. Granted, I am not as young as I used to be, Who is?

I had just been bulldozed on the gridiron sidelines. I played football in another life several centuries ago. I now help our high school football team as a voluntary coach. That gives me close access to the game action. My goal is to example and teach the young men how to stand for God in this crazy world, not how to take down a rumbling running back.

The last time I took on a direct hit that had this much force was many moons ago. I was a sophomore quarterback in high school. I rolled out to the left where a huge Notre Dame-bound defensive lineman had an unobstructed and uncontested run at me. He launched his helmet and shoulder pads directly into my chest. My little body went airborne backwards for over five yards before crash landing on the turf. I was shocked and shaken.

I have been tackled many times since. Sometimes very hard. I have even had at least one concussion from a head-pounding impact with the football turf. Since working with college and high school football teams as a coach, I have been knocked over several times.

The sideline collisions can become unpredictable as to collateral damage. I am pretty adamant about aligning myself many yards behind the direction of activity. It prevents random tests of my declining agility to avoid hurtful impacts.

This past week, I was stupid. STUPID! As the game was grinding to its conclusion, I began to mingle with the players along the midfield sidelines. Then it happened. In seconds, I would be lying on the ground, surrounded by dozens of players and coaches asking if I were okay.

In retrospect, the entire incident would be a primetime candidate clip to show on America’s Funniest Videos. Except for the personal pain, it was hilarious. The greatest damage was to my pride.

Our running back broke a tackle and headed downfield. An opposing player chased him towards the sideline. He was still a good fifteen yards away from where I was standing. I knew enough to pay attention and be ready to reposition myself in case his running direction got rerouted.

There were more than ten players standing on the sideline between us. I felt protected but instinctively stayed alert. Then it happened. The running back was forced to the sideline. He took additional steps down the boundary which brought him closer to my proximity.

Suddenly, the running back was pushed from behind which accelerated his momentum. It also hastened my demise.

The players on the sideline parted like the Red Sea. They acted like matadors waving their arms as the charging bull aimed its horns at my red cape shirt.

The runaway train was full steam ahead. I had nowhere to go. I was hemmed in.

One word described the impending impact. Unavoidable.

One word described the post smash-up. Painful.

The collision was straight on. His helmet and shoulder pads crashed into my chest. My aging years and added weight prevented me from going completely airborne. Instead, I just got plowed over. It was a trainwreck. My body was violently knocked backwards. My cap went flying.

It was one of those moments described in car accidents where everything appears to go into slooooow motion. At the moment of collision, I stared into the eyes of my attacker. As my body collapsed, I knew I had no control of what would happen next.

My silence shouted, “This is bad.”

My mind radioed the distress signal: Mayday! Mayday! Houston, we have a problem!

I had time to think this might be a career ending injury. Thankfully, my teeth were still intact and there was no indication of concussion. Concussion protocol questions would be difficult to evaluate since I was already maxed out on the stupidity test.

In the famous words of TV sports announcer Howard Cosell during the George Foreman championship fight, “Down goes Frazier! Down goes Frazier! Down goes Frazier!”

My name is not Frazier, but I went down hard. Very hard. I landed first on my rear end and lower back. At least there was some padding there. At some point, my head bounced off the hard ground. I never lost consciousness …except for that period my spirit was floating somewhere above the stadium.

The young players showed great compassion as they quickly reacted to my prone position. If they had only been as quick to react to protect me from the impact. Take one for Uncle Rex. At least you have on football pads.

I heard many voices asking if I were ok. One voice in my head whispered, “It is not your time, you stupid man.”

Several players reached out to pull me up. Some tried to lift me. I told all the concerned players that I was ok. I asked them just to let me lie there a moment. I repeated that at least five times. I needed some time for my body to do an emergency inventory evaluation of which body parts actually planned to get up with me. Surely, some appendages had separated or permanently retired from active duty.

Sometimes, it feels as if life has thrown you under the bus. This felt more like being the bug splattered on the bus window.

• I was violently knocked down, BUT I STILL HAD BOTH SHOES ON.
• I DID NOT LOSE MY SOLE.

Eventually, Coach Cherry reached out to help me up after the referee had finished the ten-count. I was surrounded by well-wishers. It’s comforting to know that some people will love and miss you when that time comes.

I slowly limped away from the remaining action on the gridiron. I did my best to do the macho thing. I acted like it was no big deal. I asked if I had hurt the running back. Afterall, he ran into my brick wall body. A brick wall made of Playdough!

I acted as though I would fully recover while, inwardly, I wondered if I could get my body back to my car. I hoped to get home in time to take some Aleve before the crescendo of pain arrived.

Here is another quote from the one and only sports commentator, Howard Cosell, who described himself as arrogant, pompous, obnoxious, vain, cruel, verbose, and a showoff. “There is still a higher type of courage—the courage to brave pain, to live with it, to never let others know of it, and to still find joy in life; to wake up in the morning with an enthusiasm for the day ahead.”

I ignored Cosell’s caricature of bravery. I did let others know about the pain. I informed the head coach, my brother, that I would be on the injured reserve list for a few days. I told my wife that I expected to be sore all over the next day. I underestimated.

Yes, I underestimated the amount of soreness and the number of recovery days. I did not wake up the next morning with enthusiasm for the day ahead. I hurt all over. Where did I hurt? Do you have time for an organ recital? The only place I did not hurt was when I had that out of body experience where everything gets dark. The trainer told me it was just the stadium lights being turned off.

God always uses suffering to expand our usefulness. Subsequent days revealed an even stronger bond with the young athletes. Our love has reached a higher level.

What is the spiritual lesson regarding this strange smashup?

Show compassion and feel sorry for stupid people like me. Stupidity can be very embarrassing when it goes public. Forgive us, Lord, for we do not know what we are doing.

Seriously, sometimes life can feel like a trainwreck. That happens in relationships and workplace activities. It occurs in career or health changes. It may or may not be caused by stupidity. Sometimes, it is unavoidable. Always painful.

You are not alone. Difficult life circumstances happen to all of us. Sometimes, like a rushing locomotive, life goes careening off-course. It might rumble over you or carry you over a cliff.

Your life might have collided with unforeseen circumstances. You might have been run over by unconcerned people. That can leave you flat on your back weighing your insecurities, low self-esteem, or self-worth.

A life crisis or calamity can knock you off your feet. You might even lose your spiritual bearings. Maybe you are trying to get back on your feet. Or you might still be assessing the damage, whether you even want to get back up and take another go at life. You might not be ready for others’ help.

Life has its ups and downs. We rarely see the crash coming. This world does not provide safety barriers and flashing signals to block us from hurt. Do not blame this world. Do not curse God in the day of your calamity. This world does not possess the answers to the great questions in life. God does.

Embrace grace. God loves you. He knows where you are and how you feel. He knows how to use the trainwreck to make your life better.

There might be times when your body cannot get up, but your heart can still rise to new heights of love. When knocked down in life, press in closer to the Lord and press on stronger in the race.

How? Start with a change of perspective. Focus on your blessings, not your circumstances. As heartbroken Job declared in the #1 Textbook when faced with the series of calamities that rocked his world and faith, “Shall we welcome the good things from God and not the hard knocks?“

When his world was falling apart, the lamenting, distressed Jeremiah considered a different perspective. God has a purpose for the circumstances and plans for your good. He wants you to see your future with hope (#1 Textbook).

Comfort and calamity come from God. He even uses “stupidity” to advance His kingdom. My witness and love to these young men have been enhanced by the trainwreck.

You do not have to be flat on your back to count your blessings. But it might help you get a better perspective of life. Every moment matters. Every person matters. Every additional morning is precious.

If you are flat on your back and wondering what happened or what comes next, do a quick inventory. You and I are not the only people getting knocked down in life. If you need to cry, then cry. That is not a lack of faith. But focus on God through your tears.

Life is not just about you. It’s about loving those around you. Let us all weep with those who weep (#1 Textbook). Pain is pain, no matter who or what causes it.

What about you? Are you loving? Are you lovable? Are you looking upward? Are you encouraging? Are you lifting others up?

When others have been knocked down in life, they need a caring heart and a helping hand. They do not need criticism or condemnation. They need hope. If they are void of hope, then hope for them. God restores trainwrecks.

Where do you learn that? Flat on your back, run over by life’s undesirable but unavoidable circumstances.

The classic movie, Casablanca, climaxes when Rick (Humphrey Bogart) heroically persuades a tearful Ilsa (Ingrid Bergman) to leave him behind and get on the plane with Victor, because the work Victor was doing to defeat the Nazis was too important.

“Ilsa, I’m no good at being noble. But it doesn’t take much to see that the problems of three little people don’t amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world. Someday you’ll understand that.”

In the big scheme of things, getting run over at a football game does not amount to a hill of beans. It hurt and I confess I got a little teary-eyed. But our mission is to love others first and most. That work is too important for us just to give up. So, get up!

It’s still the same old story
A fight for love and glory
A case of do or die.
…As Time Goes By (Herman Hupfeld)

Here’s looking at you, kid!

WINSDAY WISDOM Session 31

Oh, the thrill of trout fishing! This session is for all of you. Those who know and love the thrill of Field and Stream and those of you who fail to see the point, much less the fun of the hunt or cast. I can identify with both parties, mainly the latter.

I am not an outdoor sports kind of guy unless you’re referencing football or baseball. Occasionally golf or some tennis. I am just not good with a gun (which makes me a dangerous participant on hunting trips) and not skilled with the rod and reel (which makes me a very frustrating partner on fishing expeditions).

My wife comes from a family of expert sportsmen in the world of hunting and fishing. They are extraordinary in their exploits. I admire them. My wife grew up riding, hiking, and fishing the Colorado territory. I grew up playing ball in an Oklahoma gym and athletic fields of competition.

I watched friends hunt pheasant in the wheat fields of the Oklahoma panhandle. When a pheasant flew up in front of us, I sensed the excitement. I thought I could never shoot that beautiful bird, but I am confident I could knock it out of the air with a football throw.

My greatest love about fishing is the enjoyment of the flavorful fish fry by friends like Tommy and Charlie. They know what they are doing both in the catching and cooking of the fish. Mark and Big John can fill their boat to overflowing like Peter and the gang in the Bible. Mike and Tarre take fly fishing to another level of success, unless she trips on the rocks. If only there were a doctor somewhere around!

My dad taught me how to fish. We started at his uncle’s pond. The long hike through weeds and the pond’s prevalence of water moccasins probably diminished some of my enjoyment. Dad loved fishing. I loved going with him when the sand bass were running at Kerr or Tenkiller Lake. (I was a novice, but I was pretty sure the sand bass were swimming, not running.)

On those trips, you just put your line in the water and pulled up a fish, as many and as fast as you wanted. It was all action. I loved it. However, I lacked the patience and endurance of the big bass anglers. I spent most of the time unraveling my fishing line from the tree branches, weeds, or fellow fisherman. I would sit there thinking about how many free throws in a row I could have made during this time.

My water experiences were more of a nightmare than adventure. I flipped a small sailboat on the lake, dumping the contents (lunch basket, tennis shoes, and girl) into the water. I recovered the girl. That happened twice, next time with a different girl. You would think I would learn. The girls did. Sayonara.

My floating the Illinois River in a canoe was even more treacherous. I bravely sponsored a youth group for some summertime fun. The rushing river was beautiful.

Our Eagle Scout took off in the lead canoe with most of the group lunch items. He arrived quickly and safely at the intended destination nearly two hours before I showed up in the last canoe. He was Native American. I do not mention this as a stereotype or racial slur. I am just pointing out that, unlike me, his ancestors had been navigating this river for centuries. In hindsight, it might have been better for him to escort the struggling squaws and little chieftains down the river than to do the scout thing from the old western movies.

I did not enjoy the trip. I just wanted to return everyone home safely. Most of our youth group had embarked on the rapid river journey. I arranged for two of the youngest girls to paddle their canoe right before I brought up the rear with another novice. I wanted to safeguard them. They quickly flipped twice. We recovered everyone and continued down the river.

As we turned the bend, another canoe had flipped, and the youth were standing on the banks of the river. As the empty canoe continued down the rushing stream, it impaled itself on a large branch from a partially submerged tree. The branch went over the bow and then under the first seat. The wood was too big to break. The canoe was stuck.

Superman flies to the rescue of the damsels in distress. I took a deep breath and submerged into the river. I used all my strength and breath trying to dislodge the canoe. Obviously, I lacked the superhero’s abilities. When I let go, the strong river current swept me down and away. I was no Aquaman either. I bounced along the rocky bottom until I surfaced at the next corner of the river. I emerged from the water a bruised and beaten young man.

My repeated attempts proved I also lacked any Solomon-like qualities. That rocky riverbed punishment happened four times before a park ranger showed up with a chain saw. My clothes were torn. My body bruised. My heart and mind wearied from exhaustion. My ego had been swept downstream by the strong river current. I never scheduled another canoe trip.

I am definitely not belittling those who love these things. I bemoan that I am just not particularly good at them and, thus, lack the same enjoyment. I only share these examples of my Fishing World shortcomings to set up the thrill of my trout fishing experience.

When our family vacationed along the Rio Grande in Creede, Colorado, it was no surprise that my attempts at fly fishing were futile. I tried for two days without any success. I looked the part. I had the hat and the waders and the fly rod. I became skilled at whipping that line through the air and sending the fly across the flowing waters. My style exhibited the rhythmic grace and beauty of the fly fisherman’s cast. Poetry in motion. I just never caught anything. Not even a bite.

As I made my way back to the cabin in the late evening, I stopped to look at the river from a crossing bridge. I saw a fairly large trout swimming in an area near the bank. Apparently, some larger trout will stay in a pooled spot that provides plenty of food. Their size allows them to withstand the flow of the river stream.

I went down near the sighting and began to toss my line into the water. Several times. I was not fly fishing; I was just dropping my fly and hook into the water and reeling them back in. The sun set and the skies began to darken.

Suddenly, the line moved, and the rod bent. The fish was hooked. I wrestled him to the shoreline. It was a large rainbow trout. Beautiful and big. I was thrilled. Mostly in shock. I looked around for someone or anyone. Every fisherman needs an audience for moments like this.

This trout was much bigger than all the brown trout I had witnessed others catch. It was the largest fish I had ever seen…of course. Isn’t that what a real fisherman always says?

Then I remembered seeing a posted sign warning about some kind of fish that had to be catch and release only. Was it this one? I was clueless. I knew my relatives and the game warden would frown on me breaking the law. I was too far from the cabin to carry the fish home to ask my wife. The rainbow trout would not survive. I needed a picture of the fish, but there was no camera.

Was this a keeper or a throwback? I panicked. I waited. I looked for someone to ask. The fish was in jeopardy. I reluctantly threw the large rainbow trout back into the water.

Catch and Release. Real fishermen go for the thrill, not the food. Someone told me that.

I returned to the area the next evening after going hitless for another day of fly fishing. I could not see the fun in this sport. A thunderstorm broke overhead, and I was getting drenched. I started the long trek to the cabin. A voice called out to me to get shelter under his roof. It was Wallace Johnson, the father of my wife’s best friend in school.

Mr. Johnson welcomed me into his cabin to dry out by the fire as I waited for the storm to pass. He said he had seen me out by the bridge. He told me there was a big rainbow trout swimming around in one of the side areas. People had been trying to land it for two months. It would look great mounted on his cabin wall. What??? Do I dare tell him???

What I learned in those next thirty minutes changed my life. Well, my fly-fishing life. When I confessed my ineptitude at catching trout, the expert kindly taught me the basics.

You whip the line through the air to keep the fly dry. The rhythmic beauty of a skilled fly-fisherman’s cast was not about the length of the throw but the dryness of the bait so it could float on top of the water. Then you wait for the silver streak. What? I had no idea what he was talking about.

My guru told me to watch for the silver streak, a flash of silver in the water. The silver flash signals the trout is moving toward the surface, going for the fly. That is when you set the hook. I could hardly wait for daylight.

I was out in the water along the edge of the river. Suddenly, I saw the silver streak. I set the hook and pulled. I missed it. But now I was hooked. I knew what I was doing. The next sighting of the silver flash landed my first brown trout. By noon, I had a bag full. Fresh trout was on the dinner menu.

Trout fishing was thrilling. I had become…an Angler, the future cover of Outdoors magazine. I made lasting memories fishing with my daughter and sons along the Rio Grande. I understand why this can be so enjoyable, almost addictive.

Learning to love first and love most is also enjoyable and addictive. It also has to be learned because it does not come naturally. Have you ever experienced that thrill? Yes, it is a thrill when done correctly with an unbiased and unharnessed enthusiasm.

Maybe, you have tried and failed. Perhaps you think you are just not very good at it. You might have had some poor experiences trying to learn what others describe as a joy-filled endeavor. I understand the frustrations and the fears. And the failures. I’ve been there.

I just did not know about the “silver flash” in loving others first and most. Loving others is not about going through the proper motions or using the right techniques. It is not about needing to be fully equipped or sufficiently trained.

For me, the “silver flash” is associated with the eyes of the other person. Do I really see them? Do I notice their needs? Or do I just try to “love” because they are in the vicinity. Maybe I can just do the long cast and keep them at a distance. Too many of us just go through the motions.

I am not an expert on this matter, but I have heard and seen the Master of Love at His best. I have witnessed how He loves me. I have experienced how He loves me when I am down and out amidst the darkness of despair. I felt His love when my mind was imprisoned by stress and anxiety. I remember how He loved me through grief.

I have watched the Master take his disciples and us to that outcast Legion, alone and ostracized in a scary world. We saw He loved that loveless and hopeless man. We listened in as he talked to the woman at the well, the whore of Sychar. We watched him welcome Zacchaeus, the corrupt and hated government official.

We observed how he took note of the importance of children and how he gave hope to the suffering. We watched him walk through life as the friend of sinners. We viewed him as a breakfast cook for the working men, thrilled with their latest fish story. He did not just talk a good game; He lived it.

He looked into the eyes of Jairus, the distraught dad of a dying daughter and into the weeping eyes of two sisters mourning the loss of their brother. He noticed the blind beggar and the sick elderly woman. He calmed the storm raging fear in the eyes of the men in the boat. He paid attention to the misguided pride of friends arguing about levels of importance. He saw the little boy with his sack lunch. The multitudes were countless. He saw the “silver flash” in each of them.

Jesus lives in you and me to lead us to others He intends to love through us. He will love them first and love them most. Where are they? Look into their eyes! “The eyes are an entrance to the heart” (#1 Textbook).

Their eyes show signs of suffering, sickness, sorrow, stress. They expose confusion, concern, loneliness, and despair. They weep; they laugh; they worry. They just need someone to care enough to listen, to comfort, to help, to pray.

Jesus told the first disciples what He says to us today. “Come, follow Me. I will make you fishers of men. Love them the way I have loved you” (#1 Textbook).

Imitate God’s love. Your home is the practice field. Get better. Take your love out into this world. Every person you see is fighting some hard, and often hidden, battle.

Look for the “silver flash” in their eyes. Be kind. Be caring. Love them first and love them most. Little by little, love them a lot.

Loving one person first and most reveals a thrill beyond description. The heart pounds. The clouds rumble. The skies flash. The wind roars. The trees sway. The mountains shake. The stars dance. The angels set all heaven ablaze with shouts of praise…when one set of eyes has been loved first and most.

Oh the thrill!

WINSDAY WISDOM Session 30

Ah ha, ha ha, Stayin’ Alive, Stayin’ Alive… Ah ha, ha ha, Stayin’ Aliiiiiive…

This past week was my annual heart stress test. I was not looking forward to it. I felt uncertain whether I was up to the challenge and a little concerned about my health condition.

The recent record heatwave added an excuse to my reasons for limited physical activity. The latest weekend travels increased my desire for doughnuts and chocolate cupcakes. I also experienced a mild reaction to a change in my medications during the previous week. So, I went into the stress test carrying lots of baggage marked regret, fear, anxiety, and finality.

The dye, pictures, and EKG went quickly. No problems. Now, back to the stress test on the treadmill. The nurse hooked me up to the electrode monitors and the blood pressure cup. It was time to start walking.

I was doing fine. At least I was still moving. Another nurse came to stand by me as the treadmill speed and steeper incline increased for the third time. I am not a quitter. I stared straight ahead as my feet picked up the pace. I was in my zone.

The nurse asked me if I was looking at the picture on the wall and pretending I was walking down the tree-lined path through the woods. I replied, “No, I am singing a hymn.” She asked which one.

I said it was actually an old gospel song titled, Going Up Yonder. Nurse Two said she was not familiar with the hymn. So, I quoted the lines to both nurses as I continued treading my way to nowhere.

If you want to know, where I’m going? Where I’m going, soon… If anybody asks you, where I’m going, I want you to tell them for me…

I’m going up yonder…                                                                                                                I’m going up yonder…                                                                                                            to be with my Lord.

Nurse One smiled and asked why I would choose to sing that song. I told her it was because I only knew the chorus and first lines of the classic Bee Gees’ song, Stayin’ Alive.

Ah ha, ha ha, Stayin’ Alive, Stayin’ Alive… Ah ha, ha ha, Stayin’ Aliiiiiive…

Well, you can tell by the way I use my walk,                                                                            I’m a woman’s man, no time to talk…                                                                                      Ah ha, ha ha, Stayin’ Alive, Stayin’ Alive…

Nurse Two tried to remember the lyrics as she hummed the tune and did the John Travolta’ hand movements. I breathlessly interrupted her with,

Life goin’ nowhere, somebody help me…I’m Stayin’ alive…

Nurse 1 shouted out, “That’s it. You remembered the chorus.” I replied that I was not quoting the lyrics…I was asking for help.

I recalled my best friend and doctor extraordinaire texting me not to break the machine. That was not my intent, but I do remember when my good friend, Big John, actually broke the cardiology treadmill in Amarillo.

John asked me to go with him for his stress test. The nurses hooked him up to all the stuff and off he went on his treadmill journey. It was a walk through the park.

As John began the incline portion, his blood pressure cuff unloosened from his arm. The nurse told him to keep walking as she replaced it. In seconds, it popped off again. She returned to tighten it. Then one of the electrode wires snapped off. Both nurses were working to rewire John as he continued panting his way to freedom.

Suddenly, two wires were hanging from his chest and the pressure cup from his arm. The nurses panicked and called for help. Big John is not a quitter. He kept up the pace as three nurses scrambled to salvage the electronic readings.

More wires came loose. Then two wires connected, and sparks flew just as the doctor came into the room. He yelled to stop the machine. It would have been a classic comedy skit. No one laughs at this account more than John. There is no way my description of this event can do justice to the scene of destruction.

A half dozen wires dangled in the air. The blood pressure cup dragged the ground. Undeterred, Big John kept huffing and puffing on his way to nowhere. Three nurses were exhausted and in need of oxygen for their panic attacks. The physician was about to flatline from the heart stress aggravation. The entire medical staff stood and stared as if in some drug-induced trance. No one spoke.

As the machine ground to a halt, John slowly finished the steps, and I helped him to the bed where he labored to catch his breath.

The treadmill began to smoke. Then it made this weird, sighing sound. The physician pronounced the treadmill’s demise. “It’s gone.” Two nurses bowed their heads and did the sign of the cross.

It was a record-breaking, treadmill-killing experience. I had never seen anything like it. The medical staff had never seen anything like it. Big John became an instant legend.

I tell this story with Big John’s permission. There is no intent to belittle anyone with a weight issue. That group includes me. This different stress test ended up with one of the greatest physician’s opinions of all time.

As the cardiologist explained his medical diagnosis, John spoke what both of us were thinking. John asked the doctor if he could simplify his explanation. John said, “I am not sure I understand. I guess you’re saying I’m overweight.”

The heart specialist pointed at John’s stomach and offered this classic comment. “Sir, if I could somehow melt that down, I would have enough fuel to drive my car to San Francisco and back.”

I will never forget John’s bemused expression and puppy dog eyes as he looked at me for some response. There is something about a cardiologist’s treadmill test that makes me want to sing. I shrugged and said,

If you’re going to San Francisco, be sure to wear some flowers in your hair.

John has survived and so have I. My stress test was over. The treadmill account reminded me of a competitive encounter during my recovery from heart surgery years earlier. As I walked on the treadmill in my physical therapy, an older woman started her exercise on the adjacent equipment. She immediately increased her speed to exceed mine.

I am a competitive person and a little too proud for my own good. There was no way this lady was going to out walk or out run me. I picked up the pace. She upped the ante. I matched and raised the level. She responded in kind. Neither of us looked at the other runner, but the race was on.

As time and energy wasted away, we both slowed down for the cool down session. I was feeling exhausted, but in a macho kind of way. As the elderly woman exited her treadmill, she grabbed her towel and muttered, “There is no way I was going to let some old man beat me.” Ouch! That hurt.

Oh, if we could only see ourselves as others see us. That phrase from a 1786 poem by Robert Burns has been quoted by many a philosopher and mother. “Oh would some Power the gift give us, to see ourselves as others see us. It would from many a blunder free us.”

That thought might be helpful, but that is not the point of this week’s wisdom thoughts. Stress is part of life and how we handle the stress matters immensely.

The definition of stress is a state of mental, emotional, physical, or spiritual strain caused by pressure or adverse circumstances.

We all engage with stress. Some of it is mental or physical stress. Some involves emotional or spiritual stress. Stress comes in all shapes, sizes, and formats. It comes in all seasons of life, at all times of the day.

Financial stress is real and ties a heavy weight on one’s heart and relationships. Stress from trauma or tragedy can feel unbearable. Uncertainty about one’s future takes the spiritual treadmill to a steeper incline. Worry and anxiety are byproducts of stress which can take a toll on the whole self.

A heart stress test is designed to measure the level of blood flow when under pressure.

A SPIRITUAL STRESS TEST MEASURES THE FLOW OF OUR FAITH IN GOD WHEN UNDER THE PRESSURE OF UNDESIRED CIRCUMSTANCES.

God does not measure our outward appearance; He looks at the heart. God allows circumstances, adversity, and situations in life to put pressure on us in order for us to assess the progress in our spiritual growth.

I realize you are under stress, probably much more than anyone might guess. Too often, we do not give people enough understanding as it comes to factors of which we are uninformed. I might not be able to lessen your stress, but I can care and pray to the One who can help.

Love First and Love Most are only nice sounding phrases until there is a spiritual heart test.

A muscle must experience stress in order to grow stronger. It needs exercised. The absence of stress leads muscles to atrophy and uselessness. God uses stress to strengthen our faith muscle which enlarges our usefulness in loving others.

There are pressures in life which place constant demands on our emotions and energy. We cannot escape them. There are pressure-people who make loving first and loving most much more challenging. We cannot avoid them.

Stress factors remind us that we are finite and fallible. We cannot arrange every person to fit our agenda. We are not in control of every event and circumstance. Stress is a reminder to ask for help from the One who does control all things for our good.

Consider this the next time you feel stressed. God is testing you so that you know what is truly inside your heart. He is strengthening your faith muscle. That increases your ability to love first and most.

1. Read the #1 Textbook. Job stated confidently, “When God has tested me, I will come forth as pure as gold” (#1 Textbook). There is always a higher hidden purpose in stress. “Stress tests your faith to prove (to you and others) it is genuine and worth more than pure gold. When your heart is tested, the results will highlight the praise, glory, and honor of the One who lives inside you” (#1 Textbook).
2. Pray: I call on the Lord in my stress and He answers me (#1 Textbook). God is with you. God is for you. Talk to Him. Listen to Him. Give Him your stress.
3. Sing. Find a song and when the lyrics fade, just hum along.

Great is Thy faithfulness! Great is Thy faithfulness! Morning by morning new mercies I see. All I have needed Thy hand has provided; Great is Thy faithfulness, Lord, UNTO ME!

Find yourself a song to sing when under stress.

Let me close with this thought which connects stress to seeing ourselves the way others see us. You are not the center of the universe, and you are not the most important person in the world. Right. Neither am I.

So, may I encourage both of us to take our stress and lay it in the same place reserved for our arrogance…at the feet of Jesus.

“It is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me; and the life I now live, I live by faith in the Son of God who loved me and gave Himself up for me” (#1 Textbook).

Come on stress test! This is a No-Quit Day!

WINSDAY WISDOM Session 29

My friend, Gary, sent me a picture of himself standing beside the John Harvard Statue. He was in Boston on business and took a side trip to the Harvard campus in Cambridge. He stood in the most photographed place of the university I attended many years ago.

The bronze statue erected in the center of the bricked walled Harvard Yard was created by Daniel Chester French. He is best known for his design of the monumental Lincoln Statue in the Lincoln Memorial in Washington, D.C.

The Harvard Yard statue’s inscription states: John Harvard, Founder, 1638.

You might not care about Gary’s trip, my recollection of bygone college years, or historical New England landmarks. That is not the point of the statue’s illustrative story for this Winsday session.

The iconic John Harvard Statue has come to be known as the “Statue of Three Lies.” The centerpiece of Harvard Yard is inscribed with inaccuracies.

1. It is NOT an image of John Harvard, even though his name is written in stone at the statue’s base. The artist used a student model.

There were no “likenesses” of the real John Harvard. Several portraits were destroyed in a fire. The artist used a descendant relative of one of the school’s presidents, Leonard Hoar. It is a Harvard tradition to name its Houses (upper classmen dorms) after former university presidents (i.e. Eliot House, Lowell House, Adams House). For obvious reasons, there was a reluctance to name a House after President Hoar. (You might need a moment to consider that.) His nephew was used as the stand-in model for commemorative purposes.

2. John Harvard was NOT the Founder of the school.

The engraving of John Harvard as “Founder” is also not true. The college was started by a declaration of a Court of the Massachusetts Bay Colony. Harvard was the first generous benefactor to the college. He endowed the school with a large monetary gift and a donation of over 400 books for the college library.

3. Harvard was NOT founded in 1638.

The College began two years earlier in 1636, which establishes it as the oldest institute of higher learning in the United States. John Harvard’s large donation was given in 1638. The New College was renamed the following year after its renowned benefactor.

Now you know. You can be ready to answer the Jeopardy clue with “What is the Statue of Three Lies?” The statue is NOT an image of John Harvard. He was NOT the founder of the school, and the college did NOT begin in 1638.

Ironically, the Harvard University motto is “Veritas,” which is Latin for “TRUTH.”

The original adopted shield and motto for Harvard College was “Veritas Christo et Ecclesiae,” meaning ‘Truth for Christ and the Church.’ The original shield symbolized the vital importance of God’s revealed wisdom from the #1 Textbook. The leadership of Harvard College considered God’s Word as necessary for the proper understanding and application of educational reasoning.

Sadly, Harvard dropped the Christ reference from its University shield and motto. His relevance was diminished many years before that. Some Harvard people got so smart that they no longer needed wisdom. The LIE has continued. The school’s research has become very short-sighted in its scope and thesis.

The wisest man who ever lived (other than Jesus) presented his conclusive thesis from the most extensive educational research ever undertaken. Solomon had the position, power, understanding, skills, resources, and time to engage in the most thorough study of humanity’s search for ultimate purpose and lasting happiness.

Solomon explored every possible advantage in life. He worked the hardest and partied the wildest. He built the biggest, possessed the largest, invented the newest, enjoyed the finest, and became the greatest. He explored the farthest, lasted the longest, climbed the highest, and sunk the lowest.

He went to the limits of amusement, alcohol, achievements, agriculture, architecture, abundance, adoration, affairs, and ambition. They all came up empty. After he exhausted all the A’s, he moved right on through the alphabet of activities until he had finished the Z’s. He had more and did more than anyone else before him or since.

Solomon’s study determined lasting satisfaction cannot be found in things, money, pleasures, treasures, fame, or fortunes of this world. That pursuit is like chasing the wind. His conclusion stated that apart from God’s revealed wisdom, every human endeavor will ultimately be doomed futile. Any other educational or philosophical method is built on a foundation of sinking sand.

I am most likely the least educationally distinguished and least worldly successful graduate of Harvard…ever. I was blessed by the opportunity and fortunate to survive the challenge. I cherish the friendships.

The favorite part of my give-back to the university occurs when I receive the annual fundraising solicitation from a current student. I ask the volunteer if he is aware of the reason Harvard was founded as an institute of higher learning. Following his response, I always have the opportunity to quote the university’s original purpose:

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

There is no Veritas without Christ. That is the Truth since before the beginning of time. It mattered in the time of Adam’s pursuit of knowledge. It mattered in Solomon’s educational explorations for true purpose and happiness in life. It mattered to the original founders and instructors of Harvard University. Any other foundation for learning and knowledge will NOT be “sound.”

One either builds his/her house of learning on the rock or on sinking sand. When the storms of life come, the Truth is revealed.

Truth or Lies? What is your personal house of learning built upon? Have you ever had your foundation inspected?

The truth of God’s Word matters today in an enlightened culture of humanistic education. No wonder minds are darkened and understanding is lost in a world where people are lovers of self and lovers of money (things) rather than lovers of God.

Our education is advanced and high tech. High-capacity computers cannot hold all the knowledge data. We can exhaust the depths of literature and explore the science of the stars. Yet, our educational philosophies set aside the greatest textbook ever written…Our space age scientists declare our total ignorance of what makes up most of our enormous universe.

We cannot count the galaxies much less the stars and yet, God knows each star by name. We cannot number the grains of sand and yet, God knows the exact count and weight. We do not know the future and yet, God declares it from the beginning.

What are we doing? Where are we going? Why are we here? What will we leave behind for our families and beloved friends? Apart from God’s truth for our lives, nothing!

Truth? What is truth? It depends on whom you ask. Our culture reshapes truth to fit its latest whims. Historical truth is rewritten by social agendas. Scientific truth fluctuates with new discoveries. Philosophical truth varies with each new viral TikTok sage. Laws are changed to accommodate current morality trends.  Love is redefined by personal convenience.

We live in our own man-centered world of “relative truth” and “situational ethics.” University professors and students scoff at the concept of truth. Truth is now clothed in preferences and opinions and lifestyle choices. Our normality has become filled with fake news, edited selfies, and padded resumes.

Does it matter? Yes! Our self-made versions of reality are flawed from inception.

1. We post our best selfie-image as the center and controller of our world. We have substituted a man/woman-made model. That is NOT the likeness of the one created in the image of the Creator God.
2. We are NOT the Founder of humanity. We did NOT begin our own lives. This is NOT our universe. The reality of all truth is connected to its Creator.
3. Our lives did NOT begin at our birth date or with any calendar whether Solar, Lunar, Sumerian, Egyptian, Roman, Chinese, Jewish, Muslim, Hindu, Buddhist, Gregorian, or Harvard. Life did NOT start with the ever-changing dates for the Big-Bang Theory. We were known by God BEFORE the creation of this world.

TRUTH OR LIES? Each of us stakes our earthly and eternal life on what we believe. Each of us lays a bottom for the foundation of sound learning and knowledge, hoping it will produce wisdom. You do NOT need to go to Harvard to find the TRUTH. Just be sure NOT to lose it there.

TRUTH OR LIES? My Harvard professor for a class on the New Testament refused to accept my paper on the subject, A Personal Relationship with Jesus. He argued that had nothing to do with the New Testament material. I wondered if he had ever read the New Testament. Ironically, my highest university grade was earned in a history class for my “fake” Civil War Diary.

This session is not my argument or debate with anyone. I do not condemn those who share a different opinion. I am just stating my college thesis. The question is whether this #1 Textbook affirmed by the early Harvard leadership is the sole foundation for wisdom. Or is it to be rejected as irrelevant and unnecessary to learning as subsequent university educators propose? I believe it is what it claims to be.

God’s #1 Textbook declares itself to be the sole, supreme, and sufficient source of Truth. “The sum of God’s Word is Truth.” It reveals the Creator as the “God of Truth.” Jesus proclaimed that he came into this world as the “revelation of Truth” in human expression. He is the showcase of the true life and love of God. God loves first and God loves most. Everyone who is connected to Him is part of that universal reality.

Truth means nothing apart from God. That is an unchanging reality whether one comes from Adam or from Harvard. When any person refuses to honor or thank God, his/her thoughts become futile; his/her foolish heart remains darkened. Professing to be wise, they reveal themselves to be fools (#1 Textbook).

One cannot disassociate truth from the knowledge of God revealed in His #1 Textbook. Life does not work that way, no matter how many people lecture, vote, or protest.

The skeptical Roman ruler, Pilate, responded with the rhetorical question, “What is truth?”

Well, for all the Pilates out there past, present, and future, I do not claim to be the expert. But there is One who is proven qualified. No search or soliloquy regarding truth will be successful apart from Him.

Truth is not subjective. There has to be a starting point. Any other starting point than the Creator God revealed in His self-revelatory #1 Textbook will be a person-based philosophy full of hidden flaws and ultimate futility.

Good and evil, right and wrong, honor or dishonor, love or self-centeredness, beautiful or ugly do not exist in the eye of the beholder. They are not subject to personal feelings and cultural winds. They cannot be redefined by social media editorials, political arguments, or mass protests. They come from the unchanging truth of the wise God who has our best interests at stake.

The most important thing in life remains true: Love God and love others. Love first and love most. That is not only what makes this beautiful world go ‘round; it’s also the only way to make sense out of it. You cannot know who you are or why you are here on this earth apart from God. There is no Veritas without Christo.

Do not let your earthly existence be remembered by “three lies.”  Do your diligent research.

TRUTH OR LIES? Jesus Christ is an historical man, not a myth. He cannot be dismissed as just a good man or wise teacher. He claimed, “I AM the TRUTH.”

Jesus is either a LIAR, a LUNATIC, or the LORD.

Grab the #1 Textbook today and be plainly instructed and consider well the main end of your life and studies is to know God and Jesus, which is eternal life.

Lay Christ at the bottom of the only foundation for all sound learning and knowledge, seeing that only the Lord gives wisdom.

Love First. Love Most.

Let this week be defined by loving wider, longer, higher, and deeper than ever before.

WINSDAY WISDOM SESSION 28

My dad holds a very unusual educational record. He was suspended from school…assigned school detention before he was old enough to be a student. 

That is correct. My dad was suspended from school at the age of five, when he was not even a preschooler. That little boy in detention would grow up to become a lifelong educator. He made a mark of influence on students as a Hall of Fame Coach, math teacher, high school principal, and superintendent. That is quite a record for someone who had every reason to hate school.

The shocking incident in school for which only few knew about was his unexpected detention at the school he did not attend. This was no suspension from preschool or kindergarten. The public school suspended a five-year-old non-student.

School suspension is not unique. The Breakfast Club became a hit movie describing the story of five high-school teenagers from different social cliques sharing Saturday detention. The John Hughes movie voiceover describes them as “a brain, an athlete, a basket case, a princess, and a criminal.”

Their suspension in the school library is overseen by the no-nonsense vice-principal. They are commanded not to talk, move from their seats, or sleep until their late afternoon release time. The detention supervisor assigns the unlikely group a thousand-word essay, in which each must describe “who you think you are.”

“Who do you think you are?” These were not the words for an assigned essay nor the choral lyrics for the Spice Girls’ classic. This was the stern admonition from a very disappointed principal to a five-year-old boy visiting his brothers at school.

“Who do you think you are? Aren’t you Golsie’s boy? She is going to hear about this.”

What was “this”? Let me set the stage for “this” suspension-worthy caper.

When my dad was five years old, the highlight of his day was a visit to his older brothers’ school playground. Every school day, dad would walk alone two miles to school to play with his brothers and their friends during recess. After recess, he would take a short-cut back home through the corn field and the cotton patch. He returned for the lunch break in the schoolyard. That trip was repeated for the afternoon recess. Every day.

Dad’s older six-year-old brother, Derwin, was his best buddy throughout life. Derwin always had a twinkle in his eyes. He had a keen sense for observing life and people. He could always see the humor or irony in any event. He could also get his younger brother to accept any challenge. This particular circumstance tested the little brother’s loyalty.

One day at lunch, Derwin and his school friend “traded” lunch sacks with a classmate. They forgot to ask first. As they peeked into the brown paper sack, they found a ham sandwich and a banana. This looked like a good time to exchange their egg and carrots for the lunch upgrade.

They enjoyed the sandwich and fruit but were busted by the short-changed student who went straight to the principal’s office to file his complaint. Derwin was “aghast” but not speechless. He quickly devised a plan.

It should be noted that Derwin would also grow up to be a high school coach and principal. He devoted his life to education. His stories of crying confessions made in his principal’s office were legendary. He knew all the tricks. This early experience was brilliant in its strategy.

Derwin convinced his five-year-old brother to take the fall for the lunch sack switch. His reasoning was sound. If Derwin confessed, he would get paddled and suspended, not to mention what mom would do to him back home.

However, the school could not punish his little brother with a spanking or suspension. He was not a student and, therefore, not under their jurisdiction. He might get lectured, but he would take one for the team. Little brother reluctantly agreed. He admitted he took the sandwich. He was very sorry and would never do that again.  The principal scolded him and let him go.

Derwin missed school the next day to stay with his brother. One could hope that the young delinquents could skip school in similar fashion to another John Hughes classic, Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. Instead of a day trip through Chicago, they could enjoy the sights and sounds of Fairview. They could fish, play hide and seek in the corn field, or play basketball with the rooster back home.

Things did not work out the way they planned. In a true Ferris Bueller-like ending, the principal decided to go check on the two brothers who “skipped” school. He waited outside for their mother to get home.

Both boys feigned sickness and hid in the same bed. Their mother was not happy to learn about the lunch theft by her five-year-old son. She promised judgment would be swift and sure.

The principal suggested that she ground her son from coming to the school for two weeks. That should teach him a lesson. The single-parent mom had a better idea for a more painful learning experience.

Mother Golsie suggested a two-week suspension from school recess. No, they did not make the kid stay home. Neither did they forbid him to enter the school property.

My dad’s punishment would be to walk to school, sit inside the classroom during recess, and watch the other kids play outside. This would be repeated for the lunch playtime and the afternoon school break.

That is correct. For two weeks. my five-year-old future father would walk two miles to school, three times a day. For what purpose? To sit in the classroom of a school he was not old enough to attend. He was confined to a desk during recess. The desk was placed near a window so he could watch his brothers and their friends enjoying the playground.

Cruel and unusual punishment. The eighth of ten 1791 Bill of Rights amendments to the American Constitution cites that there shall be “no cruel and unusual punishment.” Everyone must be treated equally under the law.  If a person has not committed a crime, he should not be punished for it.  

Why would this little boy grow up to be an educator? At the age of five, he was commanded to sit alone at a school desk at a school he did not attend during the time of school he loved the most. Why?

I know that little boy. He is inside of me. I have seen him inside my children and grandchildren. It crushed his heart to be banished to the sidelines while others played the sport he loved. It was punishment alright, maybe cruel and unusual punishment. It left a deep impression, not just about school. It taught a lesson about life and loyalty.

Loyalty—the unswerving allegiance of devotion to another person. Loyalty is the mark of love, even in a five-year-old boy.

Loyalty is a diminishing trait in our society and culture. Self-centeredness is on the other end of the spectrum from the loyalty of love.

Some people are loyal to a sports team, brand name, political party, religious denomination,

Loyalty involves a test of love. It is expressed in actions, not just words. Just like in marriage, verbal assurances set the union; visual actions confirm the relationship.

Loyalty is a willing action, not a forced reaction. It eventually requires sacrifice, giving up one’s desire for the welfare of the other person(s).

From the movie, Saving Private Ryan, comes this dramatic exchange between the private and the captain who came to the battlefield to take him home.

Private Ryan: “These guys deserve to go home as much as I do. They’ve fought just as hard.”
Captain Miller: “Is that what I’m supposed to tell your mother when she gets another folded American flag?”
Private Ryan: “You can tell her that when you found me, I was with the only brothers I had left. And that there was no way I was deserting them. I think she’d understand that.”

It was a school playground, not a battlefield, that tested the loyalty of this five-year-old brother. There was no way one of them would desert the other. They remained best friends all the way to the earthly finish line.

Loyalty led Joseph to restore the relationship with his self-centered brothers. Loyalty moved Joshua across the Canaan River to the walls of Jericho. Loyalty motivated David to fight the giant Goliath. Loyalty to his Heavenly Father and to us marked every step Jesus took on his way to the cross.

Jesus is always a loyal brother. He showed us how to love first and love most. He was willing to die to display undying loyalty. He was not even in the school of sinners. But He came to be with us. He stepped into our classroom to become our substitute. He willingly accepted our punishment while we enjoyed His playground. Have you thanked Him recently? Ever?

He is the faithful God of steadfast love who keeps His promises to love no matter what (#1 Textbook).

There is no greater love than when one lays down his/her life for another (#1 Textbook).

For I am convinced that nothing can separate me from God’s love (#1 Textbook).

We have this hope as an anchor for the soul (#1 Textbook).

I have hope. I am convinced that nothing can tear me away from God’s embrace. Not life or death. Not space or time. Not anyone or anything. Not the supernatural, not even my own wrong decisions and actions.

I am absolutely convinced I will experience all the goodness God has promised me in this life and the endless ages to come. I will live and love in that hope, suffer in that hope, and die in that hope.

When I awake in the eternal reality of that hope, I will run into the arms of the God who caused all things to work together for my good. I will shout with joy and be lost in wonder at the wisdom of His steadfast, unending, loyal love.

I am convinced. Are you?

Remember the most important thing in life: Love God and love others. Those are just words until they are tested with loyalty in action.

Never lose your grip on love and loyalty. Tie them around your neck and write them on your heart (#1 Textbook).

WINSDAY WISDOM SESSION 27

I’m gonna tell you a story about my town…
Yeah, down by the river
Down by the banks of the river Charles
That’s where you’ll find me
Along with lovers, muggers, and thieves
Aw, but they’re cool people

Well, I love that dirty water
Oh, Boston, you’re my home
–Dirty Water by the Standells

The flashing blue lights and siren startled us as the Boston Metropolitan Police car came flying off the interstate racing down the banks toward the River Charles. That’s where they found us. We were not lovers, muggers, or thieves. I did think we were pretty cool people.

We were just a bunch of first-year college students enjoying a springtime bonfire down by the river. The fun event entailed tossing the frisbee, roasting marshmallows, and lots of laughter with friends. It was a nice break from the studies routine.

Our frolicking festivities were temporarily interrupted by a couple of young adolescent boys running through the campfire group. They were just kids, but they might have been part of the “thieves” hanging out near the dirty water. They would grab the frisbee or the football. We would chase them and retrieve our stolen item. This snatch and grab followed by our catch and grab was executed several times. It became very annoying.

As time passed, my frustrated friend Joel established his own no-trespassing rule. He picked up one of the small branches to be used for the bonfire and issued a threat to the next intruder. They came and he chased. His stick was more for defensive purposes, but he did look like Thor wielding a mighty sword to protect the ladies in distress.

The delinquent villains ran away, and we all returned to the party. However, Joel was spent. The anger and energy had spoiled his social game. He retreated to the dorm for a shower. This time, we did not hide all his clothes. Going to Widener Library wearing only a towel was frowned upon, even in our liberal arts school.

The fun and games down by the river continued. The skies darkened and the bonfire blazed. Stories and laughter dominated the conversations. No one was spouting political jargon or printing banners for the next social protest. This was college…the way it was meant to be. Faces of friends shining amidst the fire’s glow.

Then we heard the sirens from an emergency vehicle. That was not unusual since the interstate was located near the river. We saw the flashing blue lights approaching. Suddenly, the police car swerved off the road and down the highway embankment toward our campfire alongside the river.

The speeding car squealed to a stop about fifty feet from where our group gathered. Two policemen jumped from the car. One approached us and ordered us all to stand still. The other police officer opened the back door of his car to let out a passenger. It was the little rag runt who had spoiled our party.

As the officer and the little kid closed in on our party of ten, the boy pointed at me and yelled out, “That’s him! That’s him!”

The lawman asked if the squealer was sure. You had to love his reply. “Yes, I’m sure. I remember that smirk on his face.”

My quirky smirk has been a trademark and nemesis throughout my life. It’s not a smile and it’s not a frown. I think it is usually a response of muffled amusement. Or that my mind is engaged in some planned retort that should never see the light of day. Some might call it a sheepish grin. Others would say it is distracting or judgmental in tone. It is just a defining funny look.

This kid stooge certainly pointed it out. The officer grabbed my arm and declared I was under arrest. He forcibly marched me to the patrol car. I was ordered to lean face first against the car and place my hands behind my back.

He handcuffed me. I was told I was being charged with Assault and Battery. Then the law enforcement officer read me my legal rights, especially the right to be silent.

This was Boston, not my little Midwestern hometown. No one had heard of Miranda Rights or the River Charles. If you wanted action, you went to the Fireworks stand or Tenkiller Lake. You could catch an occasional weekend fight at Sunset Corner.

Our town had only one Barney Fife deputy. Most of the time, he slept in the police car as the drag racers sped down the main highway. If anyone was guilty of anything in our small town, the police called your momma.

My major crimes in that hole-in-the-wall place never led to arrest, court sentencing, and hard prison time in the state penitentiary. Now that the statute of limitations has passed, I confess to a few misdemeanors. My best friend and I would throw eggs and tomatoes at parked cars in the nearby city. Why? It seemed like fun. If anyone had done that to his bright red Gran Torino, we would be chasing them with a big stick. We once placed a tomato on the front seat of officer Barney’s car as he slept. The red-hot Gran Torino sped off in a clean getaway.

Our enjoyment of fireworks and destruction included blowing up my little brother’s toy soldiers and beautifully detailed model airplanes with well-placed cherry bomb explosions. It was a fun way to teach the young man a life lesson. Sometimes, hard work and dreams just go up in smoke. Sorry, kid. Don’t cry.

“Plastics. There’s a great future in plastics.“

I also organized the devious plot to loosen the screws on the wall pencil sharpener at school. The younger generation has no idea what that was. In the old days, people would write, not text. We used pencils, not a stylus.

Our first-year English teacher had a Napoleonic complex. He would pace the front of the room during his lecture time, glaring at the uninterested students. He would routinely lean his weight upon the sharpener as he reclined against the wall. This was his go-to position right before he went off on some rant reprimanding his inattentive class.

I suggested loosening the screws. My classmate performed the action. The setup awaited our teacher’s movement. He began his habitual pacing. As our instructor approached the place of his demise, I would start smiling. The anticipation was too funny. I was choking back the laughter. I tried to cover my face.

Suddenly, the teacher stopped and pointedly asked me why there was this big smirk on my face. Did I think he was funny? He suggested I wipe off that smirk and listen to the lecture.

Smirk—a smug, conceited, or silly smile. I’m busted. Guilty as charged.

Eventually, the planned accident occurred. It brought down the house. It also took Professor Percy down the side of the wall. He picked up his glasses and called for the high school principal. When asked about his emergency, he boldly declared he was investigating a case involving destruction of school property. I don’t think the teacher’s ego could be properly classified as school property.

The feared principal stormed into the room. He examined the loosened pencil sharpener and declared that he would get the custodian to fix it. That was it. Case dismissed. Class dismissed.

The point of these storied diversions is that I did not have the crime profile of a hard-edged criminal. I had been a reasonably good kid growing up. My Uncle Derwin did jokingly, but shamefully, accuse me of taking money out of the church offering plate. I packed my bags that afternoon and started walking my six-year-old body to the bus station.

Now here I was as a college student in the big city of Boston and under arrest. Oh, the shame and embarrassment. The officer turned me around and yelled in my frightened face, “Why did you hurt this young boy?”

I pleaded my innocence. The little lad kept crying and pointing at me. “That’s him, officer. That’s the guy who hit me.”

The two police officers were not in any mood for questions or explanations. It was just time to put away the hardened criminals, especially this one. He might be one of those student protesters.

When Jesus was questioned with false accusations, He did not answer. I lacked the spiritual fortitude to withstand the attack. I was scared. I stuttered, “What did I do?”

The officer raised the shirt of the juvenile accuser to expose a large bruise on his side and back. The kid screamed, “That’s where he hit me with the big stick.”

Everyone was yelling and no one was communicating. The devilish delinquent was yelling. The policeman was yelling. My friends were yelling. I would have been yelling but my throat locked up from fright. At least, I don’t think I was smirking.

This is the point where the Prison Captain in the movie Cool Hand Luke speaks the infamous line to the prisoner played by Paul Newman, “What we have here is a failure to communicate.”

Thankfully, the girls in our group came to my defense. The guys remained silent for the most part. No gladiator stood up to defend my honor. They found the whole dilemma quite amusing. Andy would eventually reason with the officers about the mistaken identity of the accused.

The police were just doing their job. Abuse is an extremely serious issue. Every abused spouse or child needs protection. Every accused man declares his blamelessness. There was nothing different about this situation…except for the cluster of pretty women pleading my innocence.

Never underestimate the powerful pleas of a pretty girl. They convinced the officers that I was not the guy who had a run in with the terrible tyke. That person had left the banks of the River Charles and returned to his dorm. He was not guilty, and neither was the smirker. No one had touched the accuser who had infiltrated the bonfire party.

I wrestled with thoughts about jail time and how to tell my parents. After much discussion, the officers were convinced that I did not belong in handcuffs. Under strong questioning, the juvenile admitted that his dad had beaten him the night before. That is so sad and far too prevalent in this world.

The law enforcement car left the premises headed for the kid’s home. We returned to the bonfire down by the banks of the River Charles. We just chilled along with the other lovers, muggers, and thieves. The cool crowd had a story to tell.

Let’s all do better at loving first and most. You never know whom you meet along life’s highway or what they are facing in life. Some are guilty of self-centeredness, and some are victims of abuse. Some are falsely accused or socially banished. Others are struggling to survive.

The men and women in blue are much needed and should be much appreciated. They have their own family issues to deal with as well. A few might be black sheep, but that does not discount the mass of self-sacrificial guardians of our freedom and safety.

Let us all be thankful for those precious moments with our families and friends. Let us all be mindful of those struggling in their family or involved with the wrong kind of friends.

And let us all be grateful for the merciful forgiveness of the Supreme Judge who does know all the wrong things we have said and done. We belong in an eternal prison of darkness reserved for the guilty, yet He treats us to the highest place of heavenly honor. Why? Our innocence was secured by the great love of Another willing to be bound and punished for our wrongdoing. It was not a case of mistaken identity. It was substitutionary love.

I want my soul to sing and dance with the thoughts expressed in one of the greatest hymns written by those of us who stand accused by the adversary:

The love of God is greater far
Than tongue or pen can ever tell;
It goes beyond the highest star,
And reaches to the lowest hell;
The guilty pair, bowed down with care,
God gave His Son to win;
His erring child He reconciled,
And pardoned from his sin.

Could we with ink the ocean fill,
And were the skies of parchment made,
Were every stalk on earth a quill,
And every man a scribe by trade;
To write the love of God above
Would drain the ocean dry;
Nor could the scroll contain the whole,
Though stretched from sky to sky.

Oh, love of God, how rich and pure!
How measureless and strong!
It shall forevermore endure—
The saints’ and angels’ song.

                          —The Love of God by Frederick Lehman

Jesus LIVES inside of you to LEAD you to others He intends to LOVE through you. You never know what that person is going through in this moment of time.

Be more grateful. Be less judgmental. Never condemn. Never love less.

Love First. Love Most.

WINSDAY WISDOM SESSION 26

We had an incident early in the first weeks of our marriage where I made a bad decision involving a yellow Volkswagen. I acted more in fear than faith. I made a vow to quote Proverbs 3:5-6 every time I saw a yellow Volkswagen. This week, one pulled up next to our car at a stoplight. I proudly told my wife that I was still saying my memory verse.

She replied. “Which one? Thou screweth up?”

My wife is a very funny comedienne with great timing. Apparently, she still uses the original King James version.

My thoughts this week have been two-fold. One, I have really been craving creamed corn. Two, I have been contemplating last week’s session about the Creamed Corn Catastrophe from the view of the one I spilled it on, my wife. (See session 25 if you missed the reference. Short version, I dropped a large cup of creamed corn on my wife. I confess I had fantasized about that during some of our discussions. This time, it was accidental.)

Have you ever been dumped on? Not just the accidental or humorous incident. Someone intentionally hurt you or mistreated you. How did you react?

Dumped On—The Dictionary of Idioms defines the phrase as:

• maligned (to make harmful or untrue statements about someone).
• disparaged (to speak disrespectfully of someone with the intent of lowering their value in the eyes of others).
• mistreated (to treat wrongly).
• to criticize someone unfairly or excessively.

Usage examples:

“I feel dumped on at work because I get yelled at for every little thing that goes wrong.”

 “My friend dumped all her problems on me.”                                                                    

“My spouse dumped his/her frustrations on me.”

“My coworker dumped on me because he/she was in a bad mood.” 

“My husband dumped the big container of creamed corn on my head.”

Dumped On: You don’t need a definition or explanatory sentences. You have been there. You saw it. You heard it. You felt it. You might have even smelled it. I think you know what I mean.

You probably wanted to yell at them. Throw something at them. Criticize, curse, cuss, and dump on them a thousand-fold in return. You might have even prepared a return package.

At college, some upperclassmen dumped a bowl of spaghetti on my head. It was not accidental. They thought it was funny. Throughout my adult life, I have known the sting of being maligned, disparaged, mistreated, and criticized. Most of it was unnecessary and excessive. It still hurt.

I yelled, stomped off, let it boil over inside of me, became full of anger and bitterness. Sometimes I acted like Jesus. I just did not answer a word. I just stared a holy hole right through them. That is where the imitation of Christ ended.

I wish I had done better. I wish I had paid closer attention to Jesus’ example and instructions. I would have progressed in learning how to love first and most. Others would have benefitted.

How do you Love First and Love Most when you are the one dumped on?

I will pause here for you to consider your response.

Being dumped on creates a dilemma. It’s as messy of a situation as finding creamed corn on your face and in your hair. Do you react in kind? Do you ignore it as if it never happened?

What is the proper Love First, Love Most response? If that is not important to you, then whatever comes next does not matter.

What is the right Love First, Love Most response to someone who has just dumped on you? Or dumped on you, again? Or in the past?

I honestly do not know. I have accidentally dumped creamed corn on my precious wife. I know to say I am sorry. That I am a klutz. That I deserve torture or banishment to the doghouse. That I can write a humorous article about it someday.

But what does the person do who got the creamed corn dumped on them?

Here is the advice written into the cover leaflet of the Bible my parents gave to me as I headed off to college.

“Whatever course of study you pursue, our prayer is that this will always be your #1 Textbook.”

The #1 Textbook has an answer to our question,

Blessed are you when others dump on you…Rejoice and be glad. Your heavenly reward will be great.

When dumped on, we bless. When put down, we endure. When slandered, we encourage.

When Jesus was reviled and dumped on, he did not retaliate. When He suffered, He did not threaten, but continued entrusting Himself to the One who judges fairly. Jesus bore our self-centered sinfulness on the cross so that we might live as instruments of his love.

Jesus LIVES inside you to LEAD you to others He intends to LOVE through you.

Getting dumped on is hard. Not retaliating in words or actions is even harder.

I am not declaring it to be easy to be dumped on emotionally and not let it ruin your day or your life. I am announcing it is worth it to love and not retaliate. Do you want to be bitter or be a blessing? The key is in your focus.

We become like the one we gaze upon (#1 Textbook).

I love how Martha Snell Nicholson phrased an important lesson in her poem, The Thorn. She found a way to see love while living a life of chronic illness, much of it as an invalid.

I stood a mendicant of God before His royal throne
And begged him for one priceless gift, which I could call my own.

I took the gift from out His hand, but as I would depart
I cried, “But Lord this is a thorn and it has pierced my heart.”

This is a strange, a hurtful gift, which Thou hast given me.
He said, “My child, I give good gifts, and gave My best to thee.”

I took it home and though at first the cruel thorn hurt sore,
As long years passed I learned at last to love it more and more.

I learned He never gives a thorn without this added grace,
He takes the thorn to pin aside the veil which hides His face.

When you get dumped on, it’s an opportunity to see the face of the One who loves you first and most. It’s a far better view for your life than focusing on the face of the one who dumped on you.

There is Someone who loves you with a steadfast, everlasting love. It comes without malignment, disparagement, mistreatment, or criticism. God accepts you the way you are. He never loves you less. Focus on Him.

I am praying we all get better at Love First and Love Most.

“BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!” I gotta run. I hear a dump truck headed this way!

SESSION 25

Catastrophe–an event causing great and sudden damage or suffering. A disaster.

This was a catastrophe. The explosive surprise got everyone’s attention. The creamed corn looked as if it had been shot out of a cannon. It splattered everywhere…at least, everywhere it was not supposed to end up.

My wife and I took our grandkids to Rudy’s, one of their favorite barbeque restaurants. You wait in line to order and then eat family style at one of the long wooden picnic tables. Everyone was having an enjoyable time. The food was delicious. The youngest granddaughter declared this to be where she would like to eat every day.

Another granddaughter asked if she could have some more creamed corn. Our entire family loves Rudy’s creamed corn. It’s the perfect accent dish to the BBQ sandwiches. I passed her the creamed corn. That was the plan!

The creamed corn is served in a large Styrofoam cup, about the size of a Quik Trip Big Slurpee cup. I picked up the big serving and stood up. As I was handing the large cup to my wife, it slipped out of my hand.

The full container of creamed corn fell about a distance of two feet, from the height of my shoulder to the hard tabletop. It erupted like a volcano. It spewed into the air like a windblown dust storm. It was like the Star Trek starship Enterprise boldly going where no one has gone before.

The science of Physics has confirmed Newton’s three laws of motion. My Dummies version goes like this.

First Law: An object stays motionless until an external force is applied. The cup of creamed corn will stay where it is in my hand until I drop it, thus, setting it in motion.

Second Law: Force is created that is directly proportional to the weight of the object multiplied by its acceleration. The weight of the creamed corn cup times its acceleration due to gravity creates force. In this case, the force is about three times the impact of the full cup as it hits the table.

Newton’s Third Law of Motion: For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. The cup goes downward and the triple force of the creamed corn’s impact has a reverse reaction in the direction from which it came. Any Dummy will be able to see that. The creamed corn went down and now it goes up at roughly three times the speed. One second of drop time and nanoseconds of flying creamed corn time.

Here is the kicker. The cup has only a slight bounce on the tabletop. Its contents have a reverse reaction, but no cup to hold it in place. The creamed corn boldly explores new frontiers of space.

The creamed corn ended up mostly on my wife. In her hair. On her face. On her clothes. On her arm. In her lap. I said it was an excessively big cup of creamed corn.

It was funny. Very funny if it happened in a movie. Our grandkids laughed. I chuckled, but only for less than a nanosecond. It would have been a classic comedy skit. But this was not I Love Lucy; this was real life. The hilarity did not land on my wife with the same force as the creamed corn.

My wife finally looked at me. That was after she used a napkin to wipe creamed corn out of her eyes. She did not see the humor. I thought her beautiful blue eyes matched well with the yellow corn. And it was creamy, so it probably did not hurt much.

I wondered if this is how World War III might start. I guess I should be thankful that Colorado has a No Gun restriction for eating establishments. My wife was dismayed. She made a funny face at the grandkids, but I considered crying. Begging for mercy would have been more appropriate. If there had been more creamed corn, I would have poured it over my head. I did ask if she thought I should go order another cup of creamed corn.

This was not one of my finest moments in marriage. Why didn’t I just pass the cup across the table instead of standing up and doing a fly by over our heads? Well, I never thought of that, dear. I also never expected the creamed corn to go kamikaze on us.

I still love Rudy’s creamed corn. I rarely get to order it anymore. The cost is too high. The memory carries too much baggage.

The whole ordeal made quite an impression on our grandkids. They bring it up at the oddest times. At Thanksgiving, a grandchild asked for someone to please pass the creamed corn. It was not even on the menu that day. Apparently, dry humor runs in the family.

The indelible image of my wife covered in creamed corn is seared into my memory bank. Honestly, I had no idea creamed corn could fly. That defies physics.

Circumstance: Webster’s Dictionary describes it as a fact or condition connected with or relevant to an event or action. Neither my wife nor I had prepared for the condition connected to this random action which set off some very unforeseen circumstances.

Circumstances never make us what we are. They should never define us. They might reveal what is inside us. A face and hair covered in creamed corn could be described as an unexpected circumstance. It did not happen because of a choice made by my wife. That is assuming we eliminate her choice of me as her husband which is the real source of most of her problems. Babe is not to blame for this fiasco. Things like this just happen to her when I am involved.

Each one of us is caught somewhere in the mid-story of messy circumstances we did not choose. We are left wondering how this situation in life might turn out. Where is the good God promised us? We don’t see it. It’s buried somewhere under the creamed corn of our circumstances.

When our circumstances are plummeting from bad to worse, we are often haunted by feelings that we should have been able to avoid or stop this from happening. Or our minds are bombarded by questions of why God did not stop this.

We wrestle with thoughts that we failed God or, worse, that God has failed us. We cannot fix every problem. Sometimes, we can only clean up the mess and learn from the experience.

What happens when some parts of your life do not turn out as you hoped? What happens when someone blows up your plans with a circumstantial creamed corn catastrophe?

Life can be interrupted by some mishap or mayhem. Hurt or heartache can blow in with some storm. Disappointment can make a sudden appearance to interrupt one of your carefree moments.

I like how K.J. Ramsay wrote her thoughts in her book on suffering, This Too Shall Last.

“I imagine we have all bought into the lie at some point that we could avoid suffering. Just be healthier or wealthier. Work harder. Live smarter. Control your diet, your exercise, your environment, your relationships. Guard your heart and save your planet…We march to the cadence of the culture…

You are part of a story much bigger than just yourself. You are an important part of that story. The purpose of faith was never about sustaining yourself. It is dependence on Another who is wiser, stronger, and better than you.”

God really does have everything under control. Even every drop of creamed corn lands precisely as He choregraphed it. God will clean up all your messy circumstances. He always writes the last chapter. The story will be beautiful.

Your true identity is defined by your character, not your circumstances. Those who walk in love imitate their Heavenly Father (#1 Textbook). Lowliness, kindness, longsuffering, enduring in love, and striving to do whatever it takes to preserve unity are traits of Christlike character.

Love First becomes our attitude. Circumstances might slow the process, but they are also used by God to refine our progress. Love Most translates into actions. God-orchestrated circumstances provide the greater opportunity to display character.

Legendary Basketball Coach and cancer victim, Jim Valvano declared, “If you laugh, and you think, and you cry, then you’ve had a really good day. If you can do that seven times a week, then you have something very special.”

Spilling creamed corn on your beautiful wife can make one laugh, think, and cry. What a day! I am praying your days will be filled with laughter, thoughts, and tears of love.

My wife laughed as well. I might have won her over when I sang my little twist on The Carpenters’ Close to You. I admit it would have sounded better with the sweet voice of Karen Carpenter.

On the day that you were born the angels got together and decided to create a dream come true. So they sprinkled creamed corn in your hair of gold and starlight in your eyes of blue.

Just like me, they long to be Close to You.

Oh! One last thing. Would you take part in a brief survey?

Don’t you think adding a few specks of yellow to blonde hair and blue eyes can be a very attractive look? Thank you!

SESSION 24

It’s baseball season!

America’s favorite pastime evokes images of The Boys of Summer, hot dogs, fireworks, and the Mystery of the Missing Nachos.

The major league baseball park was electric as we watched my kids’ favorite team. The summer vacation was punctuated with this big finale. A pro player tossed a baseball to my daughter. She was thrilled. My sons got pictures of the star players.

They all learned some new language not normally heard on our Sunday ventures. Two highly intoxicated fans had a shout-off contest. “Ken Caminiti is a weenie.” (The third baseman made a couple of errors.) “Mike Bielecki is a weasel.” (The pitcher had a rough outing.) Back and forth. The raucous duo found unity in an extended rant, “The umpire rocks,” or something like that.

In one of the middle innings, I took the kids to the concession stand for some mid-game snacks. I returned with my arms full and my wallet empty. I carried drinks and hotdogs and popcorn and some cheese nachos. As we repositioned our seating alignment, we passed out the refreshments. Lots of happy faces.

After all the food was distributed, I could not find the cheese nachos. I thought I had placed them at my feet below the seat. I asked each member of the family. I searched everywhere. I racked my brain. Did I leave them at the concession counter? Did this guy next to me take them? His buddy was eating cheese nachos. They were both laughing. It looked very suspicious.

I whispered to my wife that the fans on our aisle had stolen my cheese nachos. She told me to let it go. I couldn’t. It was the principle of the thing. My fixation was halted as my favorite player was in the on-deck circle. A home run would change my mood.

Suddenly, my younger son needed to go to the restroom. He said he could not wait. Seriously. Wait until this next guy bats. That was cruel enough, but then the opposing team decided to change pitchers. Apparently, the opposing manager could not wait either. My son was hopping up and down. It was time to go.

I had flashbacks of a similar incident years ago when I was a kid. My parents took me on a dream trip to see my first pro baseball game. My little brothers and two cousins completed the travel squad.

We went to Kansas City to see the Royals play the world champion New York Yankees. This was the Bronx Bombers, one of the legendary dream teams. We sat in the right field area, close to the outfielders. The homerun sluggers, Roger Maris and Mickey Mantle were almost close enough to touch. Future Hall of Fame pitcher, Whitey Ford, was on the mound and my older cousin Jimmy’s favorite player, Yogi Berra, was the catcher.

The game went into extra innings, The score remained tied as the tenth inning ended. My younger brother, Bill, needed to go to the bathroom. Jimmy offered to take him. I am not exactly sure about the details of their delay. Dad always thought Bill moved kinda slow. Mom said he was just not ever in a hurry to get anywhere, thus the nickname, “Cool Breeze.”

I do vividly recall what happened during their absence. Yogi Berra hit a home run over the right field fence which landed very close to us. I still remember Jimmy’s face when they returned and he asked, “What happened? I was helping Bill buckle his belt. (Did I mention “slow”?) I heard the crack of the bat and the loud cheers.”

Oh, no big deal. Your favorite player blasted a game-winning home run. The ball landed right near where you had been sitting. You would have caught the Yogi moon shot. Jimmy took the news like a major leaguer. It was Big League Heartbreak.

Sorry, Jimmy. I imagine this major disappointment contributed to Jimmy eventually switching his loyalty to the San Francisco Giants. A once in a lifetime experience was missed because a younger relative had bad timing.

The restroom trip with my son was not the best timing. However, it did not include a missed home run by my favorite player. He struck out while we were away.

The important event was the surprise discovery of the missing cheese nachos. We finally found them, uneaten by the rude fan to my left. The cheese nachos magically appeared when I got up from my seat to take my son to the restroom.

My wife tried to quietly get my attention. She kept pointing at me. Then shouting my name. Now that we have everyone’s attention, “What?”

Miss Marple had solved the mystery. This feline detective had unraveled the case. The super sleuth could not control her laughter as she continued to point in my direction.

My blue shorts were covered in cheese nachos. Yep, I sat down on the missing cheese nachos. They were stuck to the backside of my blue shorts!

Oh, it was quite the comical sight for all the spectators as I walked up the stadium steps. I dripped nachos and cheese sauce all the way. It was a real crowd pleaser. It brought new meaning to the seventh inning stretch. I am surprised the incident was not caught on the video Jumbotron.  

The crowd entertainment was not over. I spent the next inning standing in the restroom area in my underwear as I washed out my shorts in the sink. Yes, several people wish they could erase that image from their memory bank. Primarily, me. The blow dryer was helpful for this occasion. My son was extremely embarrassed. He acted as if he did not know me.

I tried to ignore the looks and the laughter from the exiting crowd of onlookers. Somehow, Mr. I Don’t Like to Talk to Anyone felt the need to explain to people what I was doing. “Sat on some cheese nachos. Just washing them off.”  

Guys started handing me their mustard-stained T-shirts as if I were the men’s room attendant. The jeers echoed through the place, “Caminiti is a weenie.”

I guess each of you has misplaced something at one time or another. It can be frustrating not to find the object where you are sure you placed it. You always put it there. Somebody moved it. Someone hid it from you. Hey, it could be worse! At least, you can keep your pants on!

Have you ever misplaced your Love First button? Maybe, you were engaged in some favorite activity when the interruption came. Perhaps, you were in the last stages of finishing a project or solving a problem when the other person insisted on your attention. Or maybe you just wanted to finish the movie.

In some moments, our well-intentioned love first and love most plans suddenly disappear from view. Our frustration grows as no one helps us. The other persons are more interested in getting their way or having their say. So, you give up the plan to love first and begin to blame others for the missing link. That usually ends up in a messy situation.

Egg on the face has a similar result to sitting on cheese nachos. Everyone notices. Embarrassment and hurt are not good buddies. Negative attitudes and angry words are never the best way to start the parade.

We live in a culture of chronic complainers. There is always something to grumble and gripe about. The line is too long. The traffic is so congested. The gas prices are too high. The fast food is so bad. The ice cream serving size is too small. The day is too hot; Walmart is too crowded. The concert fan in front of us thinks we bought tickets to watch her dance and sing. And would someone please tell that poor sucker that he has cheese nachos dripping from his blue shorts?

Here is a Love First classic for all of us looking for the cheese nachos. It comes right out of the #1 Textbook. Do all things without grumbling or complaining. Do not have a negative attitude and do not use negative words. In ALL things.

Love expresses gratitude and grace. Gratitude is thankfulness for all the many God-given cheese nachos blessings we tend to forget about. Grace is the God-given desire and power to love first and love most in ALL things…even missing cheese nachos.

I wish I spent as much time in life counting my blessings as I have searching for my missing cheese nachos. I am making progress. I truly desire to make a positive impact in this life. If that is my goal in ALL things, then I need to lose the negative attitude and words.

I want to expand my Love First and Love Most vocabulary. I am praying that gratitude and grace replace my grumbling and complaints.

“Play Ball!” Our family has heard that shout many times throughout the years. I can assure you that each season, someone remembers to shout, “Where are my cheese nachos?”

I confess I remain a little sensitive to the subject. I have nightmares about trips to the ballpark concession stand. The server looks at me and asks, “Would you like some cheese on your blue shorts? With chili or jalapenos?”