Quality Deception

To be a high-quality liar you need to have a good memory, the ability to think on your feet and a lot of creativity. The combination of those three things enhances your lying ability. Thinking quickly, creativity and developing memory are good things. If they are used for lying, then they are three good things used for corrupt purposes. Think today of the sins that trouble you the most and try to see the good things that are being used to empower them. Maybe you and I can get a glimpse of some of our good gifts and we can redirect them to doing what is right.

To Carol, With Love From Bodie

The first book I wrote was entitled Between Fourteen and Thirty-Nine. I was fourteen when I began to follow Jesus and I wrote it in my 39th year. For today's blog I thought I would invite you for a walk down my memory lane by sharing one of the chapters from that book. This story is about one of the best friends I have ever had. Carol, this one is for you.

Childhood friendships are the most intense. To be young is to be trustful to the point of being naive. There are few cynical or jaded souls on the playground. Children believe what they are told. They trust. This is, I believe, some of what Jesus had in mind for us when he told us to “become like little children” (Matthew 18:3). Our faith in our Heavenly Father must grow to resemble a child’s resolve to believe their hearts, in spite of all outward evidence to the contrary. A child’s resolve to believe is strong and their faith is tenacious.

My best friend as a child was Carol Egan. She was a neighbor of mine. Carol was, well, Carol was a tomboy. It was Carol who taught me how to throw a football and it was Carol who played tackle football with me. She was a feisty, red-haired spitfire. So many of my childhood days centered around walking on the beach, riding bikes or fishing with Carol. Daily we would go on wondrous adventures along the Maine coastline. And we would fight—boy would we fight! Not just verbal sparring, but down-on-the-ground-knock-down-drag-around-hair-pulling conflict. The fights would end with “I hate you”s yelled back across the shoulders and promises to never speak again. And within an hour or so we would be once again back together as if nothing had happened before.

I told you that one of our favorite things to do was to walk along the beach, but I want to tell you why. You see, the beaches in Maine are real beaches. No sand. All rocks. In fact, it is called the “rock-bound coast” of Maine precisely because it is rock-bound (clever, huh?). Anyway, up from the water’s edge, just past the high tide line, there was a huge expanse of shore covered with nothing but small pebbles. It was in this area that Carol and I found our treasure. Over the many years, people have discarded thousands of bottles into the sea. Fishermen, sailors, shipwrecks and tourists have all added to the count. As these bottles break, they become scattered pieces of broken glass. The sea takes these small fragments and smoothes the rough edges of the glass and fashions them into glass pebbles. No doubt this tidal polishing takes time, but eventually the sharp edges are gone and the edges are smooth to the touch. Carol and I called them “colored glass” because we found them in a wondrous spectrum of colors: green, red, violet, yellow, clear and blue. Colors as varied as the bottles tossed into the ocean. By closely examining the stones below us, Carol and I would literally mine glass pebbles. It took time, but soon we were able to find colored glass all over the beach. We would fill our pockets with treasure.

Eventually time and family took me away from Maine to Pennsylvania. Carol and I would keep in touch by phone, letter and visits. She would sign her letters, “Love, Carol” and I would sign mine “Sincerely, Bodie.” One day the phone rang to announce that Carol had died of leukemia. There were no more letters after that. And my heart was broken and my soul was pierced with the shards. In so many ways her passing marked the death of my childhood and tears began to taint my soul. I remember thinking, “People aren’t supposed to die in 5^th grade, are they?”

That was over twenty-five years ago and as I write these words my tears still whisper her name. I still hear her laugh and I wish with all my heart I would have signed my letters, “Love, Bodie.” But the tears of an adult are different than the tears of a child. A child mourns the loss, but the years have taught me to anticipate the reunion. As a child I missed my friend, as an adult I look for the days of continued adventures. As a little boy I thought I had lost my truest friend, yet now I can see others who have walked beside me from that time until now.

I have some pieces of colored glass in my office at home. Each time I look at them and each time I hold them my mind journeys back to that simpler time. I hear the sea and I hear Carol’s laughter above the chorus of waves. I see two little children on the beach playing under an umbrella of seagulls. And I thank the Father for the tides of time that smooth the sharp points of broken glass and heal the jagged edges of broken hearts.

"And Now, For Something Completely Different...."

Today, let's lighten the mood with some humor!

#1
A visiting minister waxed eloquent during the offertory prayer. He began, with arms extended toward heaven and a rapturous look on his upturned face, "Without you we are but dust... " He would have continued but at that moment my very obedient daughter (who was listening!) leaned over to me and asked quite audibly in her shrill little girl voice, "Mom, what is butt dust?"

#2
An old preacher was dying. He sent a message for his banker and his lawyer, both church members, to come to his home. When they arrived, they were ushered up to his bedroom. As they entered the room, the preacher held out his hands and motioned for them to sit on each side of the bed. The preacher grasped their hands, sighed contentedly, smiled, and stared at the ceiling. For a time, no one said anything.

Both the banker and lawyer were touched and flattered that the preacher would ask them to be with him during his final moments. They were also puzzled; the preacher had never given them any indication that he particularly liked either of them. They both remembered his many long, uncomfortable sermons about greed, covetousness, and avaricious behavior that made them squirm in their seats.

Finally, the banker said, "Preacher, why did you ask us to come?"
The old preacher mustered up his strength and then said weakly, "Jesus died between two thieves, and that's how I want to go."

"I'm Choking to Death."

“I’m choking to death.” Gladys’s voice came lilting down the rest home hallway as carefree as a spring morning. The contradiction between what she was saying and how she was saying it was colossal – which is why I remember it 30 years later. What Gladys really wanted was someone to pay her attention. The little girl was still alive inside her now old body saying “Look at me! Watch what I can do!” Over and over, as I mopped the hallways outside her room, I could hear her pleading for someone to focus on her and her alone. And over and over I would chuckle to myself and continue making dirty swirls on the floor.

Paul writes in Philippians 2:4, “Each of you should look not only to your own interests, but also to the interests of others.” Good luck with living that in this world. Not only is it our nature to be focused on ourselves, but our culture applauds self-obsession. I’ve asked myself when was the last time I really got involved in helping someone else. Not the cursory “I’ll pray for you.” or the obligatory “How are you?” When was the last time I invested myself in someone else – where I put in time, energy and focus? When was the last time I took someone else’s success as seriously as my own? Should I tell you that I haven’t liked the answers to my questions?

Such giving – such investment in someone else’s life will only occur when we believe that we have enough, that we have nothing else to prove, that another’s life is worth as much as ours. This kind of belief is not from within ourselves. It cannot be motivated by guilt or fear; instead it must be empowered by the Father’s love and acceptance radiating through our lives to the lives of others. “We love because he first loved us.” (I John 4:19). So often I have been unwilling – unable – to undertake for someone else because I was busy making self-centered swirls on a dirty floor. I was trying to clean up my own life or at least make it sparkle more than other’s lives. I was trying to do something that could only be done for me.

“I’m choking to death.”

“You’re being silly - what are you doing in there? Let me put this mop back in the bucket so we can visit for a while.”

Not So Great Expectations

Expectations can be risky. “I thought you would….”, “I expected you to….” or “I shouldn’t have to tell you….” can all be signs of unfulfilled expectations. They are, in many ways, our attempt to control someone else’s behavior. We establish a standard for someone else. If they do not do what we believe they should do, then, in our minds, we have the right to be angry, depressed or let down. We take for granted that there is complete understanding when there is no such thing. A friend cannot agree to something they do not know.

Legitimate expectations are stated – not implied. Valid expectations are declared, not manipulated. Rightful expectations are accepted, not imposed. By communicating our needs to our friends and listening to their needs, we establish a common framework for growth in relationship. How many arguments have been caused by unspoken expectations? How many relationships have been destroyed by silence? Do you know what your friends need from you? Have you told them what you need from them?