Becoming Like a Child

“Truly, I say to you, unless you turn and become like children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.”    – Matthew 18:3

I had a play date with my friend, Ham, recently. Every few months, we hang out to watch dinosaur videos on YouTube, launch ping pong balls at each other in the basement, and debate how long Godzilla would last against T-Rex. Our outings give his home-schooling mom a respite and sharpen me in my new grandfather role. I’m told Ham approaches his “Tio Steve” time with great anticipation.

His mom, Erika, dropped him off at Mr. Gatti’s Pizza, handed me his car seat, and wished me luck. Our itinerary included a pizza buffet, a one-hour journey to Gatlinburg (listening to dinosaur noises on YouTube along the way), and a couple of hours at a 30,000-square-foot arcade! At 1:00 p.m., though, my immediate need was food, and a plate with seven pieces of pizza atop a bed of salad awaited me.

I’ve prayed before most of the few dozen meals I’ve eaten at Mr. Gatti’s through the years. With a ravenous appetite and the scent of pizza engulfing my bowed head, my “Mr. Gatti’s prayers” are succinct—usually under seven seconds. But on this day, Ham offered to bless our food.

My buddy Ham’s prayers are neither succinct nor trite. This one lasted three minutes. He thanked God for the food which, frankly, met the minimum requirement for a Mr. Gatti’s prayer. He then asked God to “help all the people in this restaurant to come to know Jesus.” As I contemplated that utterance, he added, “And God, please be with that man sitting over there who is having trouble breathing. He’s on a machine.” As Ham continued, I opened my right eye. Sure enough, across from us near the salad bar, an elderly man ate pizza and breathed machine-supplied oxygen through his nose.

I hadn’t noticed the elderly man or any of Mr. Gatti’s patrons. They were just a generic conglomeration of humanity—a mass of strangers having lunch. So focused on the feast awaiting me, I didn’t contemplate their relationship with Jesus or the condition of their souls. I paid them no mind. 

Ham, a 7-year-old, not only noticed the diners collectively and individually but prayed for them. The note from the margin reads: Watch the children around you. You might just learn from them.

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Fleas and Potential

“Whatever you do, work heartily, as for the Lord and not for men.”   – Colossians 3:23

Steve Harvey shares an oversized truth using the minuscule flea. According to Mr. Harvey, fleas have a 36-inch vertical leap, which is higher than the average human’s leap. 

If you capture a flea, put him in a mayonnaise jar, and put a lid on it, the flea will attempt his usual 3-foot jump. Over and over, he’ll keep jumping and keep hitting his head on the lid. But after a while, after getting knocked down repeatedly, the flea adjusts. He begins to only jump to where he won’t get knocked down. His lid—his environment—now has him jumping not nearly as high as he could.

The flea sires a flea family, who join him in jumping just shy of the jar’s roof. That’s all they know—they’ve been born into the conditions of their environment. Despite having 36-inch vertical leaps, they duplicate Dad’s behavior. The fleas never reach their potential.

Some of you may have been born into mediocre environments. Perhaps your family’s church attendance was a sometimes occurrence, so long as other higher priorities didn’t get in the way. Maybe “punching the clock” was the goal, rather than being actively involved in ministry. Perhaps your teenage siblings and closest friends were all sexually active. That low standard of behavior was the norm in the environment you grew up in. You assumed that’s what all teens do.

Perhaps you came of age in a mediocre church environment. The worship felt routine and passionless. If the Spirit was present, He was confined to the pantry. The Christians around you seemed to approach faith like a country club membership. You showed up, followed a lifeless routine, returned home, and then repeated the process. There was no sense of urgency in reaching and impacting the community, much less the world. Your Christian “role models” were content to jump only to the top of the spiritual jar, so you followed suit.

Steve Harvey concludes, “Until you take the top off your mayonnaise jar, you’re going to duplicate your surroundings.” The note from the margin reads: We mustn’t allow ourselves to be limited by the mediocre spiritual environments we grew up in. We must work heartily for the Lord.

It’s time to overcome our imperfect pasts and blow the lid off our faith! It’s time to let God help us reach our full potential!

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Every Scar, A Story

Every Scar, a Story… what can you tell us about your new book?

It’s Act I of my planned three-act life story, which I hope to eventually cover in three roughly 25-year increments. 

So, it’s a memoir?

More of a memoir/autobiography hybrid. It’s not as comprehensive as a full-life autobiography, but it’s wider in scope than a traditional memoir. I tell my story (and, to a degree, my family’s story) through nearly 140 bite-sized scenes or vignettes. The “scar” theme runs throughout and ties them together.

So, it’s a tell-all?

It’s a tell-some. I put my life under a microscope and try to make sense of it. I turned over as many stones as I could find.

With all due respect, you’re not famous. Who’s going to read this?

Fair point. My sister Ellen asked the same question! (I love the raw honesty of a sibling.) I’m confident my sisters and sons will read it… and Dave Esslinger and Jeff Battreall, my buddies since high school. They have starring roles. As co-editor, my wife has to read it. Beyond that, I don’t know. If you want famous, you can read Madonna’s story or, better yet, the Book of Job. 

My goal has never been big sales. That’s a fleeting pursuit. That’s not why I write. In this book, I set out to tell my story in a truthful, hopefully captivating way, and draw some lessons from my life. I grew up in a military family and traveled all over the world. I’ve lived through some amazing, wonderful, and difficult experiences. My hope is that readers will see themselves in some of my stories and be encouraged, inspired, or at least feel something. I like the way author Anne Lamott puts it: “If something inside you is real, we will probably find it interesting, and it will probably be universal… Write straight into the emotional center of things.” That was my target. The reader gets to decide if I succeeded. 

What inspired you to tell your story?

A couple of years ago, it dawned on me how little I know about my ancestors. You may know your grandparents but what about your great-grandparents? How about your great-great-grandparents? Not much, right? Most of my ancestors were content to live and die, leaving behind little to no documentation of their allotted time in history. These people—their lives, voices, and knowledge—are lost to us. I would love to know more about a family member from two hundred or five hundred years ago. How cool would that be? So, in a sense, this book is a gift—a love letter—to my family and especially my descendants, most of whom I will never meet. My new grandson, Bradford, will eventually get to read this book and learn a fair amount about his great-great-great grandparents.

How did your title come about?

While working on the project, I was perusing the Facebook page of a young man who hadn’t been to church services in a while. Sometimes social media posts give an indication of someone’s well-being. I came across the phrase “Every Scar, a Story” and instantly knew I had found my title. It works on a couple of levels. The book tells a single story—my story—yet it’s shaped, in part, by scars—physical, emotional, or spiritual. And each of these scars has a story.

How did you research and organize the stories?

I have two things going for me. First, I have an exceptional memory, fed by exhaustive family archives. I have an extensive collection of scrapbooks, yearbooks, photos, and family mementos. I still have gifts from elementary school girlfriends, a collection of old, nasty football mouthguards, and letters my grandfather sent home during World War II. I tapped into those resources—well, not the mouthguards. 

Second, I’m a nerd. I created an Excel spreadsheet, with the first 25 years of my life down the left hand side and, across the top, various categories of things I was looking for—decision points, lessons learned, the funny, the embarrassing, and the scars. Over the past 18 months, as memories randomly popped into my head, I noted them on the spreadsheet, then wrote about them. I also reached out to my wife, sisters, and other family and friends for their perspectives. 

Were the perspectives different?

In a sense, always. No two memories of an event are identical. We each remember things differently, based on our perspective, age, and baggage. Some memories form or evolve based on oft-repeated stories. We block out other memories. There’s a whole area of psychology dealing with our brains and how memories form. My friends and family corrected me in some places, and I was reminded of a few scenes long forgotten. The goal was to tell my story accurately and fairly, not to reach consensus. Keep in mind: this is my story. If someone has a different memory or perspective, that’s okay. They can write their story, and I’ll read it.

“Every Scar” sounds heavy?

There are some heavy moments, for sure. I had to go to some dark places, and I will have to dig up more skeletons in Act II. For a book like this to work, you must be vulnerable and transparent. You have to rip off some scabs. No reader wants you to drone on about how wonderful your life has been. Still, there are some sweet, touching moments, too. Plenty of humor. Self-discovery. Even some pop culture. I pack a lot into this book. I can’t wait for my family and friends to read it. 

How did you handle privacy concerns for those you talk about in your book?

That was tricky. I mostly went with first names. I also changed the names of my middle and high school girlfriends, along with a few people who did embarrassing things. To my knowledge, nothing is mean-spirited or unfair. In a few instances, where family members’ shortcomings are discussed, I either got their permission or used material that was already widely known. I don’t think anyone will be offended, but if so, I apologize in advance. I did my best. This has been the most difficult and personal of all the books I’ve written. I should also mention that I have many friends and family who I love, and who positively impacted my first 25 years, who are not mentioned in the book. Not every relationship or memory fit the construct I used. Please don’t be offended. You may even be thankful!

Did you learn anything about yourself?

You can’t take on a project like this without learning a ton about yourself. The process is self-discovery on steroids. I’m proud of some aspects of my life but I also rediscovered plenty of regrets. We all have them, don’t we? Most people put up a wall. We sanitize our past or take our mistakes with us to the grave. We put on our Sunday clothes and project an image of how we want people to see us. Not this time. I knocked down the wall. I talk about many (though not all) of my missteps with the hope others can learn from them. If you find yourself thinking “TMI” while reading, just move to the next story! The experience has also given me a deeper appreciation for my family—I’m so blessed. This project was an opportunity to forgive myself in some areas, put the past behind me, and move forward. It’s a healthy, cathartic, therapeutic exercise. Everyone should write their story, regardless of whether you publish it.

Any other projects in the works?

There are always projects in the works. My brain never rests! Just ask my wife! I try to write a monthly blog. I’m ¼ of the way through Faith in the Margins, Vol. 2. I’ll also keep nibbling away at Act II of my life story. I’m considering a leadership book based on my military, church, and other experiences. There may be another book, already partially written in my head, on prison ministry. I plan to keep writing, even though Maryville’s Vienna Coffee House, without asking, got rid of my favorite, weathered, wrinkly writing chair that sat in the corner. How am I supposed to write on shiny new leather?

What about fiction?

Aside from aspects of The Eulogy, which I co-wrote with Janet, I haven’t done much fiction writing. I admire authors who create imaginary people and worlds and take us there. We all need an escape from time to time. But I’m drawn to the real world. My calling as a writer—my niche if you will—is to point people directly or indirectly to Jesus. That’s non-fleeting—an endeavor that can pay off in ways that endure. I’ve found I’m best able to do that through non-fiction. In my latest book, as well as the previous six, I’ve tried—through board games, my Appalachian Trail hike, a dying man, the Genesis story, etc.—to illuminate a loving God. As long as He keeps me around, I’ll keep doing that. 

Anything else you’d like to add?

A few weeks ago, I spent a week looking after my dad at his Florida condo. He has dementia, is frail, and sleeps about 16-18 hours per day. But in those waking moments, we had some great conversations. He’s not able to read much anymore, but he can still speak, listen and understand. Each next day, though, his previous day is almost always erased from his memory. It’s sad but we’re doing the best we can to support him and his wife. At Janet’s suggestion, I started reading a late draft of Every Scar, A Story to him. He laughed out loud at points and shook his head at others. I helped him recall some family history he had forgotten. He even corrected a few details, as his distant memories are still partially intact. What a gift to be able to share my book with the man who was largely responsible for my existence—my story. The significance of the moment was not lost on me. It’s something I will always remember… until my mind starts to slip. Perhaps then my sons can read to me from Every Scar and revive old memories.

So, who will read the life story of just an ordinary guy? I don’t know. But I got to share a good portion of the tale with my old man in the twilight of his life. He smiled. He said it was good. That was enough.   

Every Scar, A Story is available on Amazon at:

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0CVNJPYP6/ref=sr_1_1?crid=1M3WW6A2VBVTO&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.9BdImdk7-sx9al5nRAir_Q.NRD-ZCrp6MHcTNYUV_ywEJjj4kIWi7WYGZHFx4X2Qo4&dib_tag=se&keywords=every+scar%2C+a+story+steve+johnson&qid=1707927705&sprefix=every+scar%2C+a+story+steve+johnson%2Caps%2C98&sr=8-1

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Presence

“Now when Job’s three friends heard of all this evil that had come upon him, they came each from his own place, Eliphaz the Temanite, Bildad the Shuhite, and Zophar the Naamathite. They made an appointment together to come to show him sympathy and comfort him. And when they saw him from a distance, they did not recognize him. And they raised their voices and wept, and they tore their robes and sprinkled dust on their heads toward heaven. And they sat with him on the ground seven days and seven nights, and no one spoke a word to him, for they saw that his suffering was very great.”  – Job 2:11-13                                                                             

Job’s friends should have stopped there. They rightly traveled to him to show sympathy and comfort in his time of need. For seven days and nights, they were content to be present with him in silence. What they didn’t realize was that their presence was enough. In subsequent chapters, we find them talking foolishly—misadvising, misunderstanding the meaning behind his suffering, and not being all that helpful. They should have kept quiet.

Mere presence is underrated. When it comes to the suffering of a friend, family member, or even a stranger, we want to do something about it. I like the way author Debbie Hall puts it: “Presence is a noun, not a verb; it is a state of being, not doing. States of being are not highly valued in a culture that places a high priority on doing. Yet, true presence or ‘being with’ another person carries with it a silent power—to bear witness to a passage, to help carry an emotional burden, or to begin a healing process. In it, there is an intimate connection with another that is perhaps too seldom felt in a society that strives for ever-faster ‘connectivity.’” 

The silent power of just being with someone—have you felt that? You don’t try to explain the meaning behind their tragedy. You don’t offer a 5-point plan for them to move beyond their grief. You don’t tell them how their miscarriage, divorce, or illness is just like something you experienced years ago. You just sit there. You listen. You let them grieve. Maybe you offer a hug or a shoulder to cry on. You’re present.

Allow me to apply the principle to funerals. Write this down: Always go to the funeral. Always. I say that as someone who dislikes funerals to my core. In my ideal world, the only funeral I would attend would be my own. I don’t like community mourning—I’d prefer to grieve alone in the corner of my closet. I don’t know what to say to the next-of-kin, especially when the deceased was not a person of faith. It’s awkward at best… and sad. The two hours of sobbing remembrances for someone I hardly knew are tedious. I don’t even like putting on a coat and tie. Still, whenever possible, I go to the funeral.

Why? Because it’s not about me! To become more like Jesus, I need to act more like Him and less like myself. I need to follow His Word rather than my instincts. Regardless of inconvenience, I need to carry the burdens of others (See Galatians 6:2).

As writer and poet Deirdre Sullivan puts it, “Do the right thing even when you don’t feel like it. Make the small gesture, even if you don’t have to and definitely don’t want to. I’m talking about things that represent only inconvenience to me, but the world to the other guy. You know, the painfully underattended birthday party, etc. In my humdrum life, the daily battle hasn’t been good versus evil. It’s hardly so epic. Most days, my real battle is doing good versus doing nothing.” 

I think she’s on to something. It’s unlikely I will wake up tomorrow with an insatiable desire to rob a bank, lie to my spouse, or murder someone. Oh, I’ll be tempted by things, for sure. And I’ll sin, but you probably won’t hear about it. It won’t make the news. Most of the time, my evil ways are discreet. But, like Sullivan, my greater battle—my bigger temptation—is apathy. I see a need and don’t meet it. I have an opportunity to serve or encourage or get involved and I don’t take it. Too often, I’m unwilling to even be… present.

When a friend is in crisis, should you go? Should you intrude on a loved one’s personal phase of grief? Unless specifically told otherwise (and maybe even then), go! Just go. Just be there. Go to the funeral. Go to the bedside. Go to the disaster zone. Whenever possible—wherever there are hurting, grieving people—be there. If torn on whether to go, go. Don’t hesitate to be with someone in need, even if there’s nothing you can “do” for them. Err on the side of being there. 

John 3:30 states, “He must increase, but I must decrease.”                      

For Jesus to increase, I must decrease. 

I must also be present.

So, I’ll say it again: Go to the funeral. 

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Merry Christmas 2023!

In the tradition of Michael Scott’s Dundees and Lord Alfred’s Nobels, we present We Da Johnson’s 2023 superlatives. Hope you enjoy our 36th annual Christmas missive…

Best Event – The Birth of Bradford Genry Johnson! Our first grandchild, who happens to be the most adorable, precious little guy in the universe, entered the world on Nov. 9th, 2023, at 7:32 a.m., carrying 8.25 lbs. and 21.5” in length. So many things in this world—electric cars, elaborate weddings, parades, and pomegranates—are overrated. Becoming a grandparent, we have learned, is not. We highly recommend it! Laci was a champ through 27 hours of painful labor (even more painful than the wooden furniture in the waiting room), and Kyle did a great job supporting her and not vomiting. We are thankful to Laci, Kyle, and God for blessing our family in such an amazing way. Bradford (aka Ford, Fjord, Little B, et al) likes to eat, sleep, poop, repeat (don’t we all?), and raise his long fingers into the air like a conductor. He’ll carry Papa Fob’s, Uncle Jason’s, and Great Grandpa Brad’s middle name—Bradford—through life, along with his mom’s maiden name. He’ll also carry our hearts forever.

Baby Bradford!
Baby Bradford on a Shelf!

Best Road Trip – Belleville Marathon! Jason surprised Steve at our front door one night, and the next afternoon the two of them surprised Kyle at his front door. We made the journey to STL in September to cheer Kyle on (and hand out a tub of popsicles) as he completed his first marathon. He now joins Jason and Steve with a bucket list marathon under his belt.

Kyle Runs a Marathon

Best Party – Papa Raymond’s 90th Birthday Bash! We celebrated this milestone in July with a large gathering of friends and family. We hoped Papa would receive 90 birthday cards, and he ended up with 189! Thanks to those who sent one—he has spent countless hours reading them over and over. Papa’s faithfulness and humility are a shining example for all who know him.

Papa Raymond Turns 90!

Best Hike – Mount LeConte! We joined friends Brook and Janna in July for an 8-mile, 3K-foot elevation gain hike to the top of Mount Le Conte, then spent the night at the highest guest lodge in the eastern United States. Only two awkward moments: Brook’s phone alarm—Julie Andrew’s “The Hills Are Alive”—blared near Steve’s head at a far too early 6:30 a.m. … and Steve asked some puzzled Japanese tourists near the summit, “How far to Dorrywood?”

Mt LeConte w/ Brook & Janna

Best Win – Chili Cook-Off! In October, Steve won the annual church chili cook-off with the first bowl of chili he’d ever made! He thanked his family, friends, and 8th grade Home Economics teacher for their support. He has no plans to compete again as he wants to go to his grave undefeated in cooking competitions.

Worst Injury – Shirley’s Broken Hip! Mamaw fell and broke her hip in January, raising our household replacement hip total to three. (We scatter the broken hips and other discontinued body parts across the lawn at Halloween to scare the trick-or-treaters.) A week later, Steve took Papa to visit her in rehab and went to the wrong room on the wrong floor. Thinking she was at PT, they rearranged her belongings to create places to sit, hung out for 30 minutes, and wondered why her new roommate said she was at dialysis.  

Best Reunion – Nashville Baby Showers! In July, we gathered with Steve’s large extended family for fun baby showers for Laci and our niece, Ellie. At one point, Steve’s dad looked at him and asked, “Now, who are all these people?” With a little prompting, he can still make the connections. (Runner-Up: A trip to Tucson in April to hang out, hike, and consume local cuisine with Steve’s sisters and their hubbies. 2nd Runner-Up: Multiple visits to see Steve’s dad and his wife Gail in Cincinnati. On one trip, 86-year-old Brad beat his son at bowling!)

Grandpa with most of the Grands

Best New Skill Learned – Beekeeping! On a disaster relief trip to Valdosta in September, Steve was twice asked to don a beekeeping suit and cut open a fallen tree trunk with a chainsaw to help extract a queen and hive with about 70K fired-up bees. As a result of the experience, Steve now shakes his bum in a “waggle dance” to get Janet’s attention. (More on that trip at https://www.bigsteveandliljan.com/bee-student/)

Fob W. Pot, Bee Extractor

Best Speaking Gig, Janet (aka Nonni) – (tie) – Ladies Days in Lufkin, TX (Feb.), Carolina Bible Camp, NC (May), and Fairview Heights, IL (Sep.). Janet loves talking to groups of ladies about God and the opportunity that affords her to buy new outfits.

Tucson Reunion

Best Speaking Gig, Steve (aka Papa Fob) – (tie) – Lufkin, TX; Athens, AL; & Greenback, TN. Like Janet, Steve is willing to travel anywhere at any time to share pics of Baby Bradford and talk about faith, mission work, and hiking the Appalachian Trail. 

Best Mission Trip – Honduras! In May, we led a team of 17 missionaries to build houses, hand out food, provide medical care, and share the Gospel in Honduras. We hope to return this coming May. (Runner up: A disaster relief trip to Wynne, AR, in April, which resulted in this blog:  https://www.bigsteveandliljan.com/wynne-arkansas-disaster-relief-amys-swing/)

Didasko Children’s Home, Honduras

We hope you have a very Merry Christmas and a wonderful 2024! Our greatest blessing this year, and every year, is our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. We are thankful for His life, death, and resurrection, which give us purpose in this life and hope for the future. We’ll close this annual letter by giving Jesus—the Word—the last word, from John 14:6… “I am the way, and the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.” 

Merry Christmas!

Steve & Janet

Our Precious Grandson!

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Autumn Blessing

Nurses mustered, monitoring
Mom reclined, suffering
Dad present, attending
Mothers involved, advising
Fathers nearby, praying
Bloodline assembled, hoping

Autumn blessing, imminent

9 months, anticipating
27 hours, excruciating
Pushing, contracting, maneuvering
Visible crown, wooly
Immense pain, selfless sacrifice
“Push, Lace! You got this!”

Autumn blessing, emerged

Blue tint, massaging
Heartbeat? needs oxygen
Mothers unsure, weeping
Nurses purposeful, scrambling
Mom depleted, thankful
Baby swollen, acclimating, brand new world

Autumn blessing, alive

8 pounds, 4 ounces, pure joy
Reddish hue, dimpled chin, long fingers
Nurse, sleep, cry, endless cycle
Precious in every way
Answered prayer
God’s special gift

Autumn blessing, Baby Bradford

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Rediscovering Joy: Ana’s Eyes

“Is that a real airplane?” Ana shrieked, as she plastered her face against the backseat window.

“It is,” I replied. “That’s a fighter jet—an F-86 Sabre. It used to fly but now they have it on display.”

“Can I get a picture with it? Is that allowed? Please!”

“Sure, we’ll stop after lunch.”

“Awesome! Hey, look, Derek! There’s another plane! Can we get a picture with that one too?”

“I suppose so. Sure. After lunch.”

Moments later, Ana rose from her enchilada plate at the McGee Tyson ANG Base Dining Hall and walked over to a young, uniformed Airman. He smiled, nodded graciously, and posed for a picture with her.

We’re going to get kicked out of here, I thought. 

She returned to the table with a grin from ear to ear.

“He was so nice! And cute! I got a picture with him.”

“We saw that,” I replied. “Now, help yourself to seconds if you want. It’s all-you-can-eat, even the dessert bar.”

“Really? Wow! This place is amazing!” 

Ana’s head remained on a swivel, overwhelmed with the sights and sounds. As we exited the Dining Hall, she spotted the Missing Man Table.

“What’s the deal with that?”

“That’s the POW/MIA Table. It helps us to remember prisoners of war and troops who are missing in action. Each item on the table is symbolic. They put the table here to help us remember those who aren’t with us.”

“That is so cool! Look at this table, Derek! It’s for the missing troops. Can I get a picture with it?”

“Sure, Ana.”

We said farewell to the rest of our lunch companions and drove to the field with aircraft on static display. Ana hustled from the car to the F-86 Sabre, with Derek (cancer survivor, multiple sclerosis, stage 2 kidney failure) struggling to keep up.

“This plane is amazing! Look how shiny it is! Where should I stand?”

“Perhaps over by the wing.”

“Okay, can I get two pictures? One with my hair up and one with my hair down?”

“Sure, Ana.”

I’d never been asked that before.

After more pictures—hair up and hair down—with a nearby F-104 Starfighter, Ana wanted more.

“Can we drive around the base? I saw some fire trucks earlier. And some helicopters.”

“Sure, Ana, that will be fine. We’ll find them.”

I realized my 1:00 p.m. NFL game-watching plan was now in jeopardy.

Ana and Derek are friends, fellow Christians, and special needs adults. I’ve had the pleasure of getting to know them this year, of studying the Bible together, and of giving them rides to church from their group home. Two weeks ago, Ana asked me to assist her with getting baptized. She now regularly texts me with questions like, “How do I know if I’m gossiping?” “Is it okay to go to a haunted house?” And “Are there any available young men at church?” I may give her Janet’s number. 

Ana’s joyfulness and curiosity were on full display during our Sunday afternoon at the Air National Guard base. She was a 20-year-old in a candy shop with an appetite for everything in the store. I’ll admit that her enthusiasm was contagious.

You see, I grew up and spent most of my life living and working on military bases. The sound of jets flying overhead, and the smell of flight line fuel are familiar. I’ve landed and taken off in a war zone and accompanied my dad on countless tours of the massive C-5 cargo plane he used to pilot. I’ve eaten in enough all-you-can-eat military dining halls to no longer be impressed by them. While I appreciate our troops in uniform, I don’t need to pose for pictures with them. I’m also not compelled to take selfies with military jets, retired or otherwise. 

I’m afraid my familiarity with all things military has cost me joy and curiosity. It’s just another plane, just another meal, just another troop in uniform. I’m finding a benefit of growing older is you gain wisdom and experience. A downside is that extraordinary things can become, well, just ordinary. You’ve seen it all. You’ve done it all. Like Solomon contemplating the monotony of life, you conclude, “There’s nothing new under the sun.” (Ecclesiastes 1:9)

And then on a beautiful fall day in East Tennessee, God sends an Ana into your life to help you rediscover joy. You see the familiar—a military base—through a new lens. You re-experience life’s sights and sounds not through old, tired eyes, but a new set of eyes. Ana’s eyes. You contemplate the impressive design of the F-104 and imagine traveling at 1,688 miles per hour! You thank God for a $6 all-you-can-eat buffet—a rarity these days! Rather than pass by a familiar POW/MIA Table, you pause and remember the sacrifices made by others so that we can be free. You say a prayer for the families of those who never came home from war. You take a moment to thank our troops in uniform and pick up their tab at a restaurant. 

What extraordinary things in your life have become routine? Your spouse? Your children? This morning’s sunrise? The mountains in the distance? Your observance of the Lord’s Supper? How about your ability to travel, to love, to digest food, or even to breathe? Folks, those are extraordinary things! They are gifts from God!

For the rest of 2023, at least, I’m challenging myself to rediscover joy. To see common things for the gifts they truly are. To see the world the way Ana saw that military base. To find “everything new under the sun.” To appreciate the familiar—friends and family, the upcoming holidays, and life’s other blessings—like never before. 

I’m going hunting for fire trucks and helicopters.

And when I find them, I’m taking selfies—hair up and hair down.

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Bee Student

During our Saturday morning devotional, I told our assembled disaster response team, “Do not elevate projects over people. We’re here to serve and connect with human beings—to show them the love of Christ, to offer encouragement and hope. Although we’re cutting up a lot of trees this week, we’re not in the tree business. We’re in the people business. Downed trees are the means to the end. So, let’s focus on people.”

For once, I took my own advice. The person I would try to encourage today and, as it turns out, be encouraged by, was Stephanie Peterson of Valdosta’s Blossom Bee Removal. This amazing elementary school Ag teacher, mother, and bee expert agreed to extract a beehive from the hollow of a downed tree that our team had pulled from a roof at Georgia Christian School. Her willingness to help came with a caveat: “I’ll need someone to cut open the tree with a chainsaw… but I have an extra XL bee suit.” Yikes!

Carving up an active beehive with a chainsaw in 90-degree heat seemed high-risk and ill-advised. Sort of like climbing into the cockpit of an F-16 with a fighter pilot named “Bubba”—something I had done at nearby Moody Air Force Base 30 years earlier. Or swinging from a waterfall vine in Maui. Or walking from Georgia to Maine. Unfortunately, leaving a downed tree full of 60,000 or so bees in a schoolyard also involves risk. So, Stephanie and I agreed to meet at 11 a.m. to try to save the hive and not die in the process.

As she helped me don a suit last worn by Buzz Aldrin during the Gemini 12 mission, I worried about the gaps around my ankles. “Yeah, you might feel a few stings down there,” she said. “But it’s not too painful.” I heard those exact words from a Tucson gastroenterologist in 2017 before my first colonoscopy… I didn’t believe him either. But I otherwise trusted Stephanie—she was licensed, certified, experienced, and as sweet as… wait for it… honey. She was also gracious in fielding the scores of questions Fob W. Honeypot would throw at her throughout the day. 

As we cut open the hive, sucked bees with a vacuum, and hunted for the queen, I learned or was reminded of some things:

1. Every honeybee has a job to do, and each role is important to sustain the hive. Stephanie pointed out workers who nurse the brood and janitors who clean the hive. They serve the queen, who lays lots of eggs and produces chemical scents to regulate the unity of the colony. The drones, bless their hearts, exist for the opportunity to mate with the queen, continue eating, watch sports on TV, and then die. The queen gets most of the attention, of course, but each bee is vital to the survival of the hive. The same is true in disaster relief operations—we need leaders who provide vision and make decisions, but also our cooks, administrators, tool guys, and volunteer laborers. Together, we form a cohesive team that accomplishes the mission. The same is true for the church. In God’s eyes, the preacher is valued no more or less than the church janitor, the communion preparer, or the A/V person. In 1 Corinthians 12, Paul writes about how the various parts of the body (the church) make up a complete whole. Each has a valuable role. We don’t need the knee to be an elbow. We don’t need five ears. We don’t need the ankle to feel unappreciated, or the nose to look down on the armpit. In the church and in a honeybee colony, we just need everyone to pitch in and do their part.

2. Elderly “forager” bees are also vital to the hive’s survival. Stephanie said that near the end of a worker bee’s life, her role switches to foraging. When they are three to six weeks old, depending on the season, workers will leave the colony during daylight hours to forage for food. They’ll travel up to five miles from the hive, guided by the sun, gathering pollen and nectar. By doing so, they are not just sustaining the hive, but sustaining our ecosystem and food supply. Once foraging begins, these selfless bees are nearing the end of their life. All the flying will quickly wear out their wings and they are unable to repair damaged wing tips. In a final act of selfless service, the foragers die serving the colony. Elderly Christians, listen to me: we need you to serve your church and your community, as best you can, until the very end! While your specific roles will vary based on health and other factors, you don’t need to sit around bemoaning the fact you can’t do what you once did. Instead, do what you can. Finish strong because your colony—the church—needs you. Forage until your wings fall off and God calls you home!

3. Solutions are sometimes only revealed in our stillness. After 45 minutes of carving up the tree trunk, examining honeycomb, and siphoning bees, the hive was irate and swarming. Worse still, we hadn’t located the queen, putting our goal to relocate her and the colony in jeopardy. “Let’s take a break and sit in my air-conditioned truck,” Stephanie suggested. Dripping with sweat from every pore, I nodded and shed my protective suit. Inside the truck, she said, “They’re confused right now. We’ve turned their lives upside down. We need to give them time to reconstitute. You see, it’s all about the queen. Once they settle down and pick up her scent, they’re going to rally around her. When we return and find the crowd, we should find the queen.” Not surprisingly, Stephanie was right. Once we returned, refreshed, we located a crowd of bees on a piece of honeycomb nestled inside a cut of wood off to the side. After a few minutes of moving the pile around with her index finger, Stephanie shouted, “I found her! Yes!” Sure enough, the oversized queen with her yellow abdomen came into view, and Stephanie quickly captured her in a little bee box. Based on Stephanie’s excitement, I knew this was the most critical step. But we achieved that goal not through activity but rather momentary inactivity. We sat passively in the truck and let the colony settle. Solutions to our most pressing problems may sometimes be revealed not by working harder but rather when we take time to “Be still, and know that I am God” (Psalm 46:10).

4. Invasive species will kill a hive. After removing a section of honeycomb, Stephanie pointed at a tiny dark object and commented, “Look, a small hive beetle. Not good.” She explained that since the bees’ stingers can’t penetrate the beetle’s shell, the best they can do is push the intruder to the outer edge of the honeycomb and hope for the best. A moment later, Stephanie examined the next layer of honeycomb and said, “Look here, this is even worse… small hive beetle larvae. They’re burrowing into the comb, eating brood, honey, and pollen. An infestation like this is going to cause the hive to “slime out” and die or at least force the bees to find a new home. We got here just in time!” Once again, I saw a spiritual application. We may be tempted to allow Satan, the intruder, to occupy a small space on the outskirts of our homes and lives. With that foothold established, he’s positioned to tempt us into more and more sin—the larvae. Our unchecked desires “give birth to sin, and sin when it is fully grown brings forth death” (James 1:15). Friends, we can’t allow Satan—the small hive beetle—to take occupancy in our lives and destroy our families and ourselves.

5. We serve an eternal King and are headed to an eternal home. Despite the best efforts of tens of thousands of worker bees and caring bee enthusiasts like Stephanie, the queen’s days are numbered. She will eventually die and be replaced. The beehive that she and her colony worked so hard to establish and maintain is also temporary. One day, some storm, disease, exterminator, bear, or beetle will kill it. The beehive, like everything else we can see, is temporary (2 Cor. 4:18). I’m thankful that Jesus is our eternal King, seated at the right hand of God (Col. 3:1). I’m also grateful that He has prepared an eternal heavenly home for Christians, and that one day He’s returning to take us there (John 14:2-3).

After another hour of vacuuming bees, Stephanie loaded her equipment along with the queen, her entourage, and several pieces of honeycomb. Two hours later, at her third bee extraction of the day, she called to ask if I could stop by with the chainsaw to assist her in saving another bee colony. I agreed because Stephanie is the kind of person you want to go the extra mile for. I so appreciate her enthusiasm, her love of nature, and her willingness to take me on as a chain-sawing, bee-whispering apprentice, if only for a day.

The more I learn about honeybees—their teamwork, communication, purpose, and design—the more impressed I am with their Creator. Wherever there is design in the universe, there must be a Designer. When I witness honeybees and all the other amazing creatures roaming our planet, I’m reminded that we serve an awesome, creative, wonderful God.

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Little Things

“Little children, let us not love in word or talk but in deed and in truth.” – John 3:18

In a new study published in the Journal of Experimental Psychology, researchers demonstrate the power of small acts of kindness. They conducted experiments involving different acts of kindness, such as offering someone a ride home or covering the cost of someone’s cup of coffee. In one experiment, study participants at a Chicago ice skating rink gave other skaters hot chocolate for free. Later, both parties were asked to rate how much the gesture was worth. The givers consistently undervalued how much the hot cocoa meant to the recipients. The small acts of kindness—the little things—turned out to be huge.

In a 2022 paper published in the Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, researchers reached a similar conclusion. They found that we tend to underestimate the power of reaching out to friends, family, and colleagues. According to the authors, a quick call or text can make a big difference in the life of the recipient. Once again, the research suggests that little things are big.

My experience over the past 24 hours bears that out. Three friends of mine have done some seemingly small things. They aren’t seeking recognition, but you need to know about them. And we need to “go and do likewise” (Luke 10:37).

First up is Miss Anna, a disabled, wheelchair-bound widow from our congregation. Although I don’t know Miss Anna’s financial situation, I’m confident her heart is far larger than her bank account. Last night in the church lobby, she motioned for me. That sometimes means she’s about to get onto me for not being loud enough during a sermon or Bible class. “Use your outside voice,” Miss Anna often implores. “You know I can’t hear.” But last night, she had nothing to say. She simply handed me an envelope with cash inside and patted my hand. Miss Anna heard about our upcoming disaster relief trip to Valdosta and felt compelled to give. A big heart will do that to a person. And big, giving hearts are noticed by Jesus, as we learn from the story of “a certain widow” with two small coins in Luke 21. Little gestures—little things—are big.

This morning, another dear friend, who happens to be my oldest son, was called in to help a hospital-bound child who needed to be measured and fitted for a tricky, custom brace. The interesting part of this story is that Jason, due to an awful bout with Lyme disease, hasn’t done prosthetics or orthotics in nearly two years. He was brought “out of retirement” to advise the official provider who lacked experience to handle the intricate case. Jason interrupted day trading—his new career—to help a child in need. If you think that small act of kindness isn’t a big deal, you’ve never been a hospital-bound child needing a brace to walk. Little things are big.

Later this morning, while covering Science at a local Christian school, I wandered to the front office in search of a cup of coffee. You must understand that I love coffee. Like good books, high-end running shoes, and Jesus, coffee is essential. Without the soothing, caffeinated beverage, I operate at 40%. To survive Anatomy and Physiology this morning, I desperately needed a cup. I asked Miss Sheila, the high school secretary, if there was any chance there was a drop or two of leftovers from this morning.

“I’m so sorry, Steve, we didn’t make a pot this morning,”

“No worries,” I lied. “No big deal. I’ll be fine.” 

Truth be told, without coffee, I planned to stab my temple with an Erlenmeyer flask and crawl into a fetal position inside the biosafety cabinet. But Miss Sheila didn’t know that. I hid my desperation. Forty-five minutes later, while clutching the flask, I heard a knock on the door. I opened it to find a smiling Miss Sheila with a large Dunkin’ Donuts coffee in her outstretched arms! For me! I mean, who does that? Who goes to the trouble to have coffee delivered to a lowly sub? That’s absurd! Her “small gesture” was also the highlight of my day! Little things are big.

Amit Kumar, a psychology professor at UT Austin and one of the authors of the Journal of Experimental Psychology study, says we limit our actions because we routinely misjudge their impact on others. He writes, “Not knowing one’s positive impact can stand in the way of people engaging in these sorts of acts of kindness in daily life.”

Why do little things have such a big impact? For that answer, we turn to Mymento, a seller of unique gifts. The company suggests four reasons why a small gesture feels like something big:

1. It reminds us that we’re being thought of. Whether the gift we receive is material or immaterial (e.g., time, conversation, etc.), it makes us feel important and reminds us that we mean something to someone else. Miss Anna’s financial gift will be small as a percentage of the total needs of the disaster victim who receives it. But it will come in a card with an encouraging Bible verse. The person who receives it will know that a Christian from Tennessee—someone they’ll probably never meet—is aware of and doing something about their dire situation. They are being thought of, and that realization generates hope. As prisoner Andy Dufresne put it in The Shawshank Redemption, “Hope is a good thing. Maybe even the best of things. And good things never die.”

2. It shows us that people care. The young man who received the custom brace this morning may or may not be old enough to appreciate that people care. But I bet his parents do! After this morning, they know the hospital cares. They know the orthotist cares. And if you know anything about Jason, you know he cares for people to a fault. God gave that man an XL heart.

3. It demonstrates that people are paying attention. This morning, I appreciated that Miss Sheila was paying attention. (In fact, few things inspire me to write a blog during the first NFL game of the year!) Something as simple as a cup of coffee put a smile on my face. As I blissfully sipped the warm beverage, I couldn’t help but wonder how many “small things” this big-hearted school secretary notices and addresses throughout the day. 

4. It gives us something to hold on to. I have a large collection of family Bibles. In fact, the word is out in our family that “when you die, your Bible—at least one of them—goes to Steve.” These gifts mean little to anyone outside our family. I wouldn’t get much for them on eBay. But they mean the world to me. My mom has left this world, but I have her memory and her Bible. Both are gifts I hold on to.

So, what do we make of little things? I’m beginning to think they don’t exist. What if, in God’s eyes, our little acts of kindness are huge—epic actually? What if the better measure is not the size of the giver’s act but the impact on the recipient? That changes everything.

Here’s the challenge: When in doubt, send the encouraging text. Make the phone call. Mow the neighbor’s yard. Offer the donation. Make the brace. Let the stressed-out single mom cut in line. Offer the last chocolate chip cookie to your sibling. And, if you see an old guy wandering the halls with a dazed look, clutching an Erlenmeyer flask, get that man some coffee stat! 

Little things? They’re huge!

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More Than an Eggplant

An introduction is in order… in fact, it’s long overdue
Papa Fob will work, as will any bassinet coo
For so long, this my prayer, “God, let a little one sprout”
With pop’s medical history, your odds? … always in doubt

But the call finally came, JannyBoo and I on the bed
Your dad broke the news, and many tears were shed
Real tears, little one, my face in my palms
Overwhelmed with emotion, like the writers of the Psalms

We asked, “How far along?” … so much info to glean
“Just 8 weeks,” your mom said, “the size of a kidney bean”
Just a bean? I thought, but the promise of something more
At least no longer a poppyseed, like you were in Week 4

At Week 9, grape status, eyes fully formed, though shut
About an inch and an ounce, enough for Papa Fob to strut
Week 10, organs formed, you’re now officially a fetus
They say you’re a kumquat, but at least you’re not a Cletus

Week 11, level up, our grand is getting big
Rocking fingers and toes now, pay no mind that you’re just a fig
Week 12, vitals finished, is this lime more than a dream?
Your mom’s feeling nauseous, seems she’s taking one for the team

Just a peapod at Week 13, but there’s hope, no room for gloom
Your friend, the God of Heaven, He said, “I knew you in the womb”
A lemon at Week 14, but Lemon Laws don’t apply
You can squint, frown, and pee, and suck your thumb if you really try

Week 15, just an apple, but your skeleton’s now in view
You’re curling toes and kicking, in utero aerobics… who knew?
Week 16 brings avocado status, and I let this thought slip
If we squeezed Mom’s belly now, would she pass guacamole dip?

Week 17, now a turnip, 5+ inches from crown to rump
Your momma? Not fat, but the lady is showing a bump
Have I mentioned my plans? Lots of hopes, lots of wishin’
Long hikes and long talks, playing catch, going fishin’

At Week 18, the big news, the scans show a stem
Wake your neighbors, phone your friends, we’re having a him!
Bradford Genry, to be precise, yes, it seems you’ve got a name
And the Johnson name lives on, an announcement to proclaim!

Genry from your mom’s side, a reason to be glad
Bradford, from me, your Uncle Jas, and your great granddad
You’ve got unique prints now, on each fingertip and toe
You’re up to a bell pepper, our little man continues to grow!

Week 19, level up, you’re now an heirloom tomato,
Better hide you from Papa Raymond, he gorges maters, oh no!
A banana at Week 20, the anticipation never ending
You’re about 10 ounces now, with testicles descending

Week 21 arrived, today’s ultrasound made us glad
Though just a carrot in length, you look like great-grandpa Brad!
Your arms and legs in proportion, they say you can really move
You get that from your parents, their intern dance moves full of groove

I see you!

Week 22, spaghetti squash, and notable traits to espouse
Distinct lips, unmistakable eyes, and Lil Bradford has some brows!
A large mango, Week 23, and we’re grateful for the last check
The ultrasound shows you’re healthy, no signs of dad’s giraffe neck!

Week 24, an ear of corn, that’s just so sweet… aw shucks
1.5 pounds and over a foot, we must have ordered the deluxe
Premature, perhaps, I know you’re still a tad bit frail
But when you’re older, say middle school, they’ll be no pooping on the trail!

Anticipating a shower, JannyBoo buys stuff left and right
Enough “cute clothes” I said, let’s get our grand a kite!
Or maybe a bike or a puppy? Let’s be creative, I said
I’d have given you our beagle, but I’m afraid that Mandy’s dead

Week 25, something special, in Nashville we got to meet
I spoke to lil rutabaga through a belly button, a portal by Mom’s knees
I asked how you were doing, and you heard me, I was sure
But then I heard a rumbling… was it gas, or maybe a snore?

Week 26, just a scallion, and a family text debate
Should we call you Brad or Bradford, or maybe Ford or Fjord would rate?
A Week 27 advance, you’re now a head of cauliflower,
I pray for you and Mom daily, because in prayer there’s lots of power

Your eyes are now open, Bradford, there’s so much for you to view!
Sunsets and waterfalls, and maybe a National Park or two
You’ll be raised in a Christian home, of that I am quite sure
But you’ll need to make faith your own, one day, so that your future is secure

That brings us to today, little man, can’t wait to hold you in my palms
Still overwhelmed with emotion, like the writers of the Psalms
I already love you, Bradford, one day I’ll bounce you on my knee
Just Week 28, but listen up… you’re more than an eggplant to me!

I’m a Boy!
Bradford Genry Johnson

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