“We have this hope as an anchor for the soul, firm and secure. It enters the inner sanctuary behind the curtain, where our forerunner, Jesus, has entered on our behalf.” – Hebrews 6:19-20a (NIV)

My friend and fellow Air Force Veteran, Bill Tate, tells the story of a San Salvador scuba diving trip he went on in 1979 with his son, Steve. As the dive boat headed out to the island’s point, the divers were joined by “Sandy,” a juvenile bottle-nosed dolphin who became separated from his pod and lived in these waters in the late 1970s. Sandy loved to swim alongside the dive boats as they motored out to their dive site and then swim and frolic with divers as they exited their boats. Bill suspects that Sandy swam with tourists as a substitute for swimming with his long-lost pod.

Bill captured pictures from the trip on a home movie camera in an underwater Plexiglas housing. After several minutes of filming his son and other divers playing with Sandy, he released the camera, allowing it to float above his head while still tied to his belt. With his hands free, he was able to pet and ride on the back of Sandy. They even did barrel rolls together—such fun! 

A short time later, Bill was surprised to find that he only had 200 pounds of air left in his tank. It was time to ascend to the boat. Since they were diving in 30 feet of water, a five-minute rest stop was required at a depth of five feet to offload any excess nitrogen and prevent an illness known as the bends. 

Bill calculated he had enough time for the five-minute rest stop. However, when he looked for the anchor, which would lead him to the safety of the boat, he couldn’t find it. He had lost sight of the anchor—something amateur divers are trained never to do. To make matters worse, his dive buddy—his son—was nowhere to be seen.

Bill’s training taught him to go up and look for Steve floating on the surface or for bubbles which might identify the location of his breathing apparatus. Unfortunately, at the surface, neither Steve nor the bubbles were visible. Bill eventually spotted the dive boat about 700 yards closer to shore from his current position. His heart sank. It was apparent that the outgoing tide, the current, and the wind had swept him away from the anchor and the boat while he was playing with Sandy. 

It seemed to Bill that his only hope rested in his ability to swim back to the vessel, but the surface forces continued pushing him farther out to sea. He tried swimming 10 feet below the surface with his scuba system, but five minutes of anxious, rapid breathing emptied his air tank. He then tried to use the snorkel but found that he needed much more air to swim against the current and tide than what was available through the small snorkel tube. 

Next, he tried swimming on his back with his flotation device providing support, allowing him to breathe easier. However, after swimming several minutes, he discovered he had made no progress toward the safety of the boat. His situation was dire.

Bill recalled he had a whistle attached to his flotation device. He blew on it for several minutes, hoping to call attention to his predicament. Unfortunately, the other divers, 700 yards upwind from his location, didn’t hear him. At that point, Bill was exhausted and simply gave up. He quit struggling and resigned himself to his fate—he would drift farther out to sea and die there.  

Just then, Sandy swam up beside him. Bill hooked an arm around the mammal’s dorsal fin and got a ride back toward the boat. When they were about 20 yards away, Sandy turned to swim back out, apparently not wanting to become entangled in anchor lines and other nearby dangers. Just as Sandy turned, the divemaster yelled, “Let go of the fish!” When Bill did that, the divemaster swam out to help him back to the boat, where he found his son.

Bill believes God taught him two important lessons that day. The note from my Bible’s margin reads:

1. Never lose sight of the anchor for your soul. When Bill became entangled in the fun he was having in life, he says he lost focus on his anchor, Jesus. In the process, he also lost his son. When we lose sight of our anchor—Christ—we may not only lose ourselves but those most precious to us.

2. When we quit struggling and trying to do everything by ourselves, perhaps only then can we see what God has in store for us. The psalmist writes, “Be still, and know that I am God” (Psalm 46:10a). Sandy would not have come to help Bill while he was thrashing around. But when he became still, Sandy appeared and saved the day. God is ready to do the same! 

“To the weak I became weak, that I might win the weak…”   – 1 Corinthians 9:22a

Although I’ve enjoyed every mission trip I’ve been on, they are not like being at home. I’m not in my comfort zone. The Honduran food, while outstanding, is not the same as my wife’s cooking. What’s with the gooey fried plantains crowding my flour tortillas?

The housing situation, while decent, is not the same as home. Lying on a “church camp mattress,” I see the light of a friend’s reading lamp, hear a chorus of snorers, and smell damp towels and soiled work clothes. I reach for my earplugs and eye mask, then dab menthol ointment under my nostrils. 

The work, while rewarding, is not the same as my usual tasks. The poverty in every direction evokes sadness and maybe a little guilt. The home-building stretches muscles beyond what they’re accustomed to. Carrying two 25-lb bags of food up a hill in a poor village multiple times taxes the forearms and lungs. Rewarding, but uncomfortable.

The language, while fun to learn, is not the same as speaking English. My poor pronunciation and grammar elicit puzzled looks, giggles, and the occasional wrong food order. In Mr. Gaspar’s 8^th grade Spanish class at Mascoutah Junior High School, I wish I had learned how to order the #2 meal at a Tegucigalpa KFC rather than recite the Pledge of Allegiance in Spanish. When trying to communicate anything beyond basic phrases, I’m not at my best. When in doubt, I offer “No comprendo. Lo siento. Dios te ama.”

Driving in Honduras? More terrifying than uncomfortable. Driving a pickup truck in Choluteca several years ago, I got honked at and “gestured” for stopping behind a stopped school bus dropping off children. What was I thinking? Uncomfortable, for sure. But I keep driving. Albert Einstein once said, “A ship is always safe at the shore—but that is not what it is built for.”

Experience has taught me that my uncomfortableness with the food, housing, workload, language, and driving is by design. The note from my Bible’s margin reads: Working outside my comfort zone has a three-fold purpose:

1. I learn to rely on God, rather than myself. “God, I’m weary, but give me the strength to finish the day.” “God, I don’t know the exact words to say to this poor widow standing in front of me but help me to convey that Jesus loves her and I do too.” “God, if I end up with original recipe and coleslaw rather than extra crispy and mashed potatoes, help me to be thankful to you that I’m eating today.”

2. I learn to identify with the people I’m serving. After a night of restless sleep in an unfamiliar environment, I may better appreciate the predicament of someone living in a cardboard box under a tarp. After a bout of upset stomach from drinking non-potable water, I may be more empathetic to the family whose only water comes from a nearby mud puddle.

3. I grow into a better version of myself. After a week of serving souls in uncomfortable environs on foreign soil, I may return home with increased sensitivity to the needs of hurting people in my own community. Is it possible helping others, every day, can become my new normal? I hope so. Can I become a little bolder in letting my light shine in a dark world? That’s the goal. As Brene Brown puts it, “You can choose courage, or you can choose comfort. You cannot have both.”

Granted, my uncomfortableness is on a far lesser scale than people living in poverty, unsure where their next meal will come from. I thank God for blessing me physically and spiritually. But I also thank God for the times I’m pushed outside my comfort zone. I’m old enough to know that what doesn’t challenge me, doesn’t change me. Sometimes it’s only by being uncomfortably challenged that I truly lean on God—only then that I open my eyes to the plight of those He has called me to serve.

“‘Meaningless! Meaningless!’ says the Teacher. ‘Utterly meaningless! Everything is meaningless.’”        – Ecclesiastes 1:2

The funnel cakes at the Tennessee Valley Fair are overpriced and unhealthy. The Beer Garden is not my scene. Likewise, I have no desire to peruse the horticulture competitions, featuring the “Best Pair of Okra Pods.” Still, I go to the annual fair if only to visit my all-time favorite attraction—the petting zoo. Where else can you bond with a drooling camel or watch a boa constrictor suffocate and devour third place in the commercial bred rabbit division?  

The crown jewel of the petting zoo, however, is the duckling exhibit. For 20 minutes, I watch dozens of adorable baby fowl swim in a baby pool, climb a ramp, and jostle for position to reach a food container. As they strain for the unreachable pellets, they drop onto a ramp and slide down into the water to repeat the process. All day long!

I want to shout to these naive little ducklings, “Excuse me! Can I have your attention, please? Your system isn’t working! You keep circling and climbing and reaching, but you never get full. There’s got to be a better way!”

Toward the end of his life, Solomon realized that everything in the world was empty and void of meaning. He sums up his depressing viewpoint with, “I have seen all the things that are done under the sun; all of them are meaningless, a chasing after the wind” (Ecclesiastes 1:14). 

Note the phrase “under the sun”—the key to the verse and the entire book. Solomon is sharing an earthbound, godless perspective—life “under the sun.” Throughout Ecclesiastes, he shares 10 meaningless, earthly pursuits: human wisdom (2:14–16); labor (2:18–23); amassing things (2:26); life itself (3:18–22); competition (4:4); selfish overwork (4:7–8); power and authority (4:16); greed (5:10); wealth and accolades (6:1–2); and perfunctory religion (8:10–14).

The note from my Bible’s margin reads: Apart from God’s will, earthly pursuits are meaningless—a chasing after the wind. Solomon had the resources to try it all, but when he left God out of the equation, he was unsatisfied. His life lacked purpose. He was like those ducklings—circling, climbing, jostling, and reaching—but unfulfilled. In Ecclesiastes 12:13b, he concludes, “Fear God and keep his commandments, for this is the whole duty of man.”

What are you circling and chasing? What rewards do you seek? Is the ladder you’re climbing leaned against the right wall?

On Saturday, April 24^th, 2010, we loaded a church van full of 25 or so eager young people and made the two-hour journey to Florida’s Mount Dora Christian Academy. We spent the day doing yardwork, sharing lunch, having a devotional, and hanging out with the residents of the children’s homes and their house parents. At the conclusion of our annual pilgrimage, we said farewell and loaded the bus for the journey home. As I took my place on the front right seat, across from bus driver Jim Adair, I reflected on a tiring but productive youth outing.

At approximately 4 p.m., while traveling southbound on Florida State Road 33 in Polk County, I was chatting with Jim about our favorite college football team, the Tennessee Volunteers. Suddenly, a car in the northbound lane lost control, swerved to the right, then careened counterclockwise into our lane. I yelled something and extended my arms to brace for impact. Our alert driver swerved to the right to avoid the car but hit it broadside and drove it several yards off the road, narrowly avoiding a tree. 

With adrenalin pulsing through my veins, I swung my head around to check on our young people. Though shaken and in various stages of shock, there didn’t appear to be any life-threatening injuries. I yelled, “Is everyone okay?” and they responded with head nods. Our bus driver was also intact, despite the deployed airbags and the front end of our church van being completely crushed. 

I told everyone to stay put—that I was going to go check on the other vehicle. Austin Clouse, a high school student in the back of the bus, replied, “Shouldn’t we pray?” His instinct blew me away! Still does to this day. Here we are in the middle of a horrific accident scene and a high school sophomore has the presence of mind and faith to suggest that before we do anything else, we touch base with God. I nodded and Austin led us in a brief prayer, asking for God’s help as we dealt with this terrible situation.

I exited the bus and made my way over to the passenger side of the crushed Volkswagen. The driver, 47-year-old Becky Barner of Groveland, Florida, was deceased. Her passenger and best friend, Irma Rosario, was banged up but alive. Irma asked, “Is she okay?” I patted her shoulder and replied something along the lines of, “Ambulances are on the way, ma’am. Just take a deep breath and try to remain calm. I’ll stay here with you.”

By that time, a couple of neighbors had exited their homes and our young people were departing the bus on account of the dust particles from the deployed airbags. They were separated into two groups: those that were uninjured and those that were banged up and would need medical attention. The neighbors were kind enough to let us use their restrooms and stayed on the scene until the ambulances, EMT, and various parents arrived. 

The memory from that day left an emotional scar—some scenes can’t be unseen. From that point forward, loading a church van full of young people took on added significance. Seatbelt reminders became visual seatbelt checks. The incident reinforced the notion that a youth minister’s concern for his youth group involves more than just their spiritual condition. It also served as a reminder that life comes at you fast and none of us are guaranteed a tomorrow. The time to be ready to meet God is now—at this very moment.

As with most tragedies, blessings emerged. I’m grateful for our alert bus driver, Jim, whose quick action to avoid the tree prevented an even worst catastrophe. I’m thankful Miss Irma recovered from her injuries. I’m grateful for the neighbors who comforted and attended to our shaken young people. These neighbors were so impressed with the composure of our youth that they came to worship with us the following two Sundays. That’s a blessing. And whenever I read “a little child shall lead them” from Isaiah 11:6, I’m reminded of a high school sophomore who, in the heat of the moment, taught us all a valuable lesson on prayer.

“I came that they may have life and have it abundantly.”        – John 10:10b

During my mom’s final few years of life, she began unloading her material possessions. Each time my sisters and I visited my parents’ home, we were reminded to take home an antique clock or stake a claim on one of the antique radios, vintage Hummel figurines, or Christmas village houses. 

With her earthly journey winding down, Mom understood that her possessions would not be accompanying her to Heaven. She understood Paul’s words from 2 Corinthians 4:18b: “For the things that are seen are transient, but the things that are unseen are eternal.” Though Mom couldn’t take these possessions with her, she experienced joy knowing that her beloved antique European stove and other heirlooms would continue to be enjoyed by her children. 

While these gifts were and are appreciated, they are just as transient for my sisters and me. We’ll enjoy them for a season and then pass them on to our children. Eventually, a figurine may break, an old radio may be discarded because it no longer works, or the Christmas Village may be lost in a fire. Ultimately, these things are all temporary.

When Jesus came to give us life—abundant lives—he was focused on spiritual matters. He traveled lightly and told his apostles to do the same. Our abundant, Spirit-filled lives begin the moment we become a Christian. He wants us to present our bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to God—not once we get to Heaven, but today. He wants us to be transformed by the renewing of our minds not when our earthly lives are over, but this very moment (See Romans 12:1-2). Eternal life is not something that begins once I die—it’s a journey I began when I became a follower of Christ.

While I appreciate the various family heirlooms I’ve received, they are fleeting. If the thieves don’t get them, the moths and rust will (See Matthew 6:19-21). The real gift my parents gave me was taking me to worship services every Sunday. They modeled kindness, servanthood, and other lasting spiritual attributes for me—things unseen. Mom’s beloved figurines will not last, but my memories of her caring for special needs children have shaped me and will go with me into eternity. 

What unseen, eternal things are you leaving your children? Are you helping them store up treasures in Heaven? Are you modeling the abundant life Jesus calls us to live?