I had very little exposure to death as a child. There was the rare funeral for a grandparent or great-grandparent. I heard the occasional announcement from the pulpit that some elderly church member or shut-in had passed. I said goodbye to a couple of family dogs and the occasional, underfed goldfish. But I didn’t lose friends, read obituaries, or keep up with celebrity deaths. Death was rare in my childhood world, and that was alright by me.
All that has changed. An unpleasant aspect of growing older, I’m finding, is an awareness of death. I’ve now said goodbye to my mom, four grandparents, and a great-grandparent. I’ve learned of the deaths of a dozen classmates, about 5% of my high school graduating class, some who tragically took their own lives. The deaths of some of my favorite musicians and actors continue to pile up. I’ve eulogized a few friends from pulpits and sat through a few dozen funeral services. My wife and I even cowrote a book, The Eulogy, partly based on our experience caring for my dying mom.
More recently, we learned of the passing of Michelle Ashby, a long-time family friend, after her courageous, decades-long battle with cancer. She was a marigold lover, and I’ll be planting one of those in our garden today in her honor.
Last Monday, Michael Polutta, another family friend, died from a heart attack at age 58, while out mowing the grass. Just like that, this man of God was gone, at least in the physical sense. He wasn’t “some really old guy,” although my younger readers might argue that 58 is “getting up there.” He wasn’t out of shape—Michael was a fitness nut known for his CrossFit interval training. He wasn’t doing anything reckless. Just a 58-year-old guy out mowing the lawn.
Deaths aren’t increasing, of course, only my awareness of them. Like wrinkles, heartburn, and a few extra pounds, exposure to death is a part of growing up and growing old. As humans, we all have a terminal illness. None of us are getting out of this world alive.
I was blessed to be able to live-stream Michael’s memorial service this past weekend. Heartbroken family and friends gathered. Beautiful hymns were sung. We listened as various friends and family members stood behind the podium to tell Michael’s story. He had an impact on the world—an impact on people, in ways big and small. He loved God and the church. He loved and cared for his wife and children. He was a devoted friend to many. He was a talented musician who built more than a dozen custom guitars. He loved Palmetto Bible Camp and served there for many decades. Michael took the many talents God gave him, along with a capacity to love, and did something incredible with that. He turned the 58 years God granted him into a masterpiece!
The following day, Janet and I sat at the breakfast table, relaying some of the highlights of Michael’s service to her parents. I said something along the lines of, “You know, I don’t really like the whole eulogy system. Who came up with that? People line up at a memorial service to beautifully honor and pay tribute to the deceased, but he or she is already gone. He can’t hear them. I would love for Michael (or Michelle, or anyone who has passed away) to be able to hear the words spoken at their memorials. I want them to appreciate the impact they had on so many people. Why do we wait until they are dead to lay all that out? That’s a messed-up system. I mean, it’s good for their loved ones to hear all those things, but it would be even cooler for the person who died to feel that love and know that impact before they leave this world. There’s got to be a better system.”
Papa Raymond, my 87-year-old father-in-law, sat across from me, listening to my rant while nibbling on his morning strawberry strudel. He was adorned in solid blue, long-sleeved cotton pajamas, with his cane resting against his chair. With the addition of stripes, he would have passed for an elderly prisoner, perhaps incarcerated for the crime of distributing weekly S’mores without a license.
Like Jesus giving a parable, Papa Raymond cleared his throat and dropped this John 12:43 truth bomb on me:
“It’s not about the praise of men. Our goal is to please God.”
Mic drop.
As Papa digested his last bite of strudel, I digested his words.
“The praise of men.”
Isn’t that what we often focus on? Isn’t that what my eulogy system rant was about?
In 1 John 2:16-17, the apostle John writes, “For all that is in the world-the desires of the flesh and the desires of the eyes and the pride of life-is not from the Father but is from the world. And the world is passing away along with its desires, but whoever does the will of God abides forever.”
The praise of men. The pride of life. To some extent, it affects all of us.
Look at my new big house (or car, or boat, or…)
Have I mentioned my book sales figures lately?
I wonder how many “likes” this social media post or blog will get?
With just the right bikini, in just the right pose, I bet I can go over a million Instagram followers!
Have I not posted a picture of my bulging muscles at the gym recently? Let me fix that.
Pretty sure my casserole was the crowd favorite at the potluck
We’re in Maui! If 200 photos of our adventure aren’t enough, we’ll post more!
Look at our baby/child/teenager/adult and what they accomplished! They’re an honor student! They just got a full ride to college. To help you remember that, I’m getting a bumper sticker!
I’m not knocking all of that. I like to see your vacation photos. I’m happy that your teenager was named Homecoming Queen and glad you shared that. Your green bean casserole was amazing, and you should be proud of it. Sometimes your accomplishments, especially your acts of service, inspire me to be a better person.
What I’m knocking is a tendency by some, or at least by me, to focus more on the praise of men than pleasing God.
I focus more on accomplishing things than living faithfully. As I sip my first cup of coffee in the morning, I rarely ask myself, “What is something amazing I could do for God today?” More often, the focus is on pleasing myself, impressing the boss, satisfying the spouse, or getting the day’s chores accomplished and errands run. God being pleased is too often an afterthought, if thought of at all.
I have no doubt what was most important to Michael and Michelle was not the praise of men, but pleasing God. That’s the kind of people they were. The only words they wanted to hear, and undoubtedly did hear, were, “Well done, good and faithful servant.. Enter into the joy of your lord.”
Trying to explain God is futile. Trying to interpret his providence is like repeatedly pushing the button at a crosswalk in order to make the light change faster. His thoughts are higher than our thoughts and his ways are higher than our ways. (Isaiah 55:8-9) He is God and we are not. Try as we might, we’re not going to adequately define him or put him in a box.
Still, I’m part of a group of Christians who believe that God is at work in the world. He loves us and providentially cares for us. He ensures that, ultimately, all things work together for good. (Romans 8:28) That doesn’t mean today will seem “good” or easy—mine wasn’t. You may be fighting cancer, trying to make ends meet, or fighting to save your marriage. I get that. What it does mean is that, for those who put their faith in God—who trust and obey—your story ends well…regardless of how or when it ends.
Today, our 10th day on Maui, started out with great promise. We were finally going to begin our journey on the Road to Hana—Maui’s #1 attraction. The 53-mile long, picturesque, curvy road is like a highway of undiscovered treasures waiting to be opened. Those who know me well will not be surprised that I have done extensive research and had a plan. Over a period of three non-consecutive days, Janet and I would travel the road in three sections and make 29 different stops, to include notable nature hikes, funky food huts, historic church buildings, and scenic overlooks. Getting behind the wheel this morning, I felt like a wide-eyed 8-year-old on Christmas morning.
As boxer and renowned philosopher Mike Tyson once put it, “Everyone has a plan until they get punched in the mouth.” Today I got punched in the mouth.
At mile marker 2, the first recommended stop on the Road to Hana, we pulled into a rocky parking lot at the Twin Falls trailhead. The one-mile, roundtrip hike through a rainforest is easy, accessible, and breathtaking. We stopped for photos along the way and even had the opportunity to ford a shallow stream.
Upon arriving at the Falls, Janet asked if I was going in for a dip. Of course, she already knew the answer. I have a bit of an adventurous streak in me that compels me to go on long hikes, explore the unknown, stretch my comfort zone, and extract every ounce of fun from whatever setting I’m in. When I’m in Maui for what may be my only trip here, at a waterfall I may never see again, I’m going to get wet! It’s how I’m wired.
Twin Falls, Road to Hana
About 11 a.m., I swam over to the waterfall and let the cold, refreshing water crash down upon me. So exhilarating! Along with the other tourists frolicking in the water around me, I felt so alive! This was a special place—I had opened the first of 29 Road to Hana gifts!
Photo by Paul Stamatiou
As I turned to swim back to shore, I noticed a mother and her three children off to my left. One of the boys, about 10 years old, was up on a boulder, just a couple feet above the waterline, holding on to a long vine that extended from the roof of the cavern. Clutching the vine, he jumped from the rock, swung out into the water, and dropped with a scream and a splash. How fun! The little voice in my head spoke up, “You’ve got to do that!”
I swam over toward the vine and watched as the other children took their turns on the swinging vine. I realized they are children and I am not. I understood they are little, lightweight bluegills and I am a pudgy, 55-year-old manatee. But the voice in my head persisted, “You’ve got to do this!” As Seals and Crofts once put it, “We may never pass this way again.” Carpe diem!
I stepped up on the rock, steadied myself, and reached for the vine. I looked out to ensure the landing zone was plenty deep and free of obstructions. As vine/rope swings go, this one was pretty lame. I would travel 8 or 9 feet, at most, and then plop into the water with a splash.
I gripped the vine as high as I could, jumped off the rock, and swung just a few feet before releasing my grip and splashing into the water. But right as I hit the water, something came crashing down on my head! That something turned out to be a dozen or so rocks that had dislodged in the cavern ceiling above me, although the vine remained in place.
As I staggered to my feet, the mom swimming nearby, with a look of horror on her face, said, “Oh my! You’re bleeding bad! You need to get to shore!” I looked down and my entire chest was covered in blood, along with my hands. My first thought was to put direct pressure on the wound to stop the bleeding, so I reached for the source of pain—the back of my head—and applied pressure. As Janet scrambled to make her way over from the other side of the shore, a man steadied me and helped me to the shallow rocks. I never lost consciousness but I’m pretty sure I was in shock for several minutes.
What happened next may be considered by some to be “good luck” or “random good coincidence.” But as a believer, I’m not ruling God out of the equation. Granted, I can’t calculate the spiritual equation—can’t fully explain it. But somehow, someway, I believe God was involved, providing providential care. I don’t know how else to explain it.
First, at the moment the rocks came crashing down on my head, a couple of firemen were nearby doing a safety inspection of the trail, due to the heavy rains that had recently fallen. They hurried over to me and took over, treating the gash in my head and examining the abrasions on my back and right arm. They were calm, collected, and reassuring—true professionals. God bless them! Joining them was an older woman of German descent who we assume is an employee of the farm this trail is on. She just happened to have a 4-wheeler!
So, I rode shotgun as Janet and one of the firemen got in the backseat. With blood still trickling down my head, I overheard Janet strike up a conversation with the fireman. It turns out he’s a fireman originally from Chicago, and she binge watches Chicago Fire, a show about hunky firefighters from Chicago. So the two of them had a lot in common and a lot to talk about. Don’t mind me! I’ll be up here with a gushing head wound if you need me! Just messing—but I’ll probably get her a Firemen’s calendar for Christmas!
After our half-mile journey on a way too bumpy trail, we were met at the trailhead by several other firemen. They examined my body, reapplied bandages, and asked a bunch of questions, in search of concussion symptoms. To her credit, Janet did not mention any suspected injuries of herself to them.
We declined their offer to call an ambulance. Janet felt comfortable driving the 30 or so minutes back into town and to the nearest hospital. She drove the curvy road like a champ!
Janet dropped me off at the ER check-in, a tent just outside the main building, while she went to park. I was surrounded by patients with an array of ailments. And here’s where God’s providence seemed to be working overtime again. I struck up a conversation with a patient sitting directly across from me, also in the queue to be treated. I’ll call him Andy.
I immediately hit it off with this 31-year-old of Indian descent, who spent most of his life in Georgia. We somehow connected. I explained what brought me to the ER and he reciprocated. Andy came to the island a little over a year ago on business, intending to stay a short while, and then Covid hit. He has an ongoing struggle with alcoholism and was there at the ER to get treatment—“to detox.” Our conversation turned to why we were in Maui which led to a rich conversation on our faith journeys. He has roots in Hinduism but is searching for answers and is “looking for Jesus.” What an opportunity!
By this time, Janet had parked the car and returned to join in on the conversation. We invited Andy to come worship with us and do lunch or just hang out. He intends to do so, hopefully by next Sunday, when his detox is over. I asked if I could pray for him and he said that would be great. About halfway through the prayer, I became overwhelmed with emotion and started to tear up…something that also happened two months ago while praying with my dad. More than anything, I think it dawned on me that the incident near the waterfall, bad as it was, could have been far worse. I, along with that nearby family with children, could have been killed. God spared us. I also felt the emotion of the opportunity God had given me to minister to a young man in the fight of his life. Maybe that, and not snorkeling with sea turtles, is why The Johnsons are really on Maui.
I eventually got taken to a room inside where I got 5 shots of anesthetic, 8 staples in the head, a cleansing of the head, arm and back wounds, a tetanus shot, and a prescription for antibiotic. After waiting 35 minutes for the shot, a nurse came in to check the wounds and said I needed 3 more staples. Those 3 staples felt far worse than the first 8—maybe the anesthetic had worn off some. I can only describe the pain as, well, someone shooting staples in your head.
Chicago Fire, Baby!
So now we’re back home and I’m reflecting on the day that was.
I’m so impressed with Janet, the love of my life, for her calmness, her driving an injured man along the curvy Road to Hana, and her washing around my head wounds this evening.
I’m just overflowing with thankfulness to God, perhaps more than I’ve ever been before.
He spared my life and has given me a new lease on life.
He saw fit, somehow, to have firemen nearby as blood gushed from my head…and provided a sweet, little German woman on a 4-wheeler.
And, most importantly, he gave me the opportunity to pray with a young man and talk to him about Jesus. We talked (texted) again tonight, just before he was admitted. I hope you’ll pray for Andy too—God knows his real name.
Day 10 in Maui had some pain, for sure. But it also, I believe, had some providence.
And oh, by the way, had those rocks killed me, that would have been okay, too.
I recently contacted a long-time friend and fellow author, Lynne, to ask a favor. I wanted her to take a call from another long-time friend and up-and-coming writer. This young man was looking for advice on writing Christian fiction and Lynne was uniquely qualified to give it. She said, “I would be happy to talk to him. So many people have poured into my life and writing. I love opportunities to pour into others.”
Our conversation and that phrase—poured out—have been looping in my head ever since. The way I get relief from ideas clanging around in my head at all hours of the day and night is to write about them. So here goes…
“So many people have poured into my life.”
I think Lynne speaks for all of us. I got to thinking this morning about those who have poured into my life. An incomplete list includes…
Parents who sacrificed time, money, and energy to raise me.
Teachers who taught me everything from reading and writing to algebra and business law.
Coaches who taught me how to dribble a basketball, field a grounder, and pull as lead blocker on a sweep.
Air Force leaders who taught me about leading people, managing budgets, and accomplishing the mission.
Relatives—particularly sons, siblings, and in-laws—who encourage me regularly with a reassuring phone call, text, or piping hot S’more.
Friends who know me well enough to know it’s time to take Steve for a coffee or a hike.
Preachers and Bible class teachers who have taught me to love God, obey his word, and try my best to live like his Son.
A wife who, every day, has a knack for knowing which of my “battery cells” need water and then topping them off.
A God who pours out his Spirit on me whenever I humble myself and allow him to.
I’m profoundly thankful for the people who have poured into my life and continue to do so. I haven’t thanked you enough.
But don’t miss Lynne’s second statement…
“I love opportunities to pour into others.”
My friend is on to something. At some point in our lives we have to make a conscious effort to go beyond just getting poured into. We have to do some pouring ourselves. We become the parent, coach, teacher, spouse, and friend who pours our lives into others. That’s where real joy comes in. That’s the essence of being a Christ follower. That’s why Lynne was willing to take the call.
The Apostle Paul knows something about being poured out. In Philippians 2:17, he writes, “But even if I am being poured out like a drink offering on the sacrifice and service coming from your faith, I am glad and rejoice with all of you.” Paul is referring to the Old Testament practice of pouring a drink offering in worship. A priest would sacrifice a lamb, ram, or bull, and then he would pour wine beside the altar. The wine was “poured out”—all of it.
Upon becoming a Christian, Paul picked up his spiritual pitcher, so to speak, and began pouring blessings on others. He was about as all-in on Jesus and faith as you’ll find in Scripture. When we read the powerful words that he wrote and consider his example, he continues pouring into our lives…two thousand years later. Eventually Paul would die for his faith—the ultimate act of being poured out. Of course, a sinless Christ, the Lamb of God, did the same for us.
I’ll leave you with two thoughts:
1. To be in a position to pour into someone’s life—to serve, to give, and to love—you have to have something in the pitcher. All the better if your pitcher is over-flowing to the point it can’t help but spill out on those in your vicinity. One of the best ways to keep your spiritual pitcher topped off is to be in God’s Word every day. Read it. Study it. Feast on it. Meditate on its implications for your life. When you consistently allow God’s Word to fill your heart and life, his Holy Spirit goes into over-drive. Your soul is replenished. And there’s going to be spiritual spillage. Whether they like it or not, those in your orbit are going to get wet.
2. To a young person who might stumble upon this blog… don’t wait until you’re “all grown up” to start pouring into the lives of others. Case in point: As some of you know, I’ve recently gone through a bit of a valley in my life related to some difficult family matters. In the midst of it all, I celebrated my 55th birthday. Among many thoughtful cards and gifts and comments, I received a hand-made birthday card in the mail from Megan, a 2nd grader who I occasionally have the privilege to teach. It absolutely made my day! I mean, how many 2nd graders do you know who send birthday cards to their 55-year-old substitute teacher? (I used to make faces and shoot rubber bands behind the back of my subs!) What kind of a young person goes to the trouble of making a card and locating an address? A child with a heart of gold. A child who Jesus may have had in mind when he said, “unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.” A child whose spiritual pitcher is over-flowing…and I just happened to be in her vicinity.
“So many people have poured into my life.”
How about yours?
“I love opportunities to pour into others.”
What will you do with the opportunity God gives you today?
One of the greatest aspects of hiking the Appalachian Trail is also one of the most frustrating. Over the course of about six months and five million steps, you cross paths with hundreds of people. The broke, recently graduated high student considering a career in the military. The short, middle-aged Australian lady with an owl cap who is working on her doctoral dissertation. The young man who, in an effort to lower pack weight, is on a diet of packets of pure Crisco oil. Random people trying to walk off a failed marriage or memories from a nightmarish war. A young man who, unbeknownst to anyone, would take his life after finishing the trail. Young and old people. Happy and troubled people. Skinny, smelly, and hairy people, all bound by a common goal. The AT has it all.
You may share only a passing “hello.” You may spend only a few moments together at a watering hole. If you’re lucky, you may form a “bubble” of hiking comrades and spend a few days or weeks together, bonding along the way. You listen to their life stories and learn of their goals, fears, and battles with golf ball-sized blisters and plantar fasciitis. You get to know people as you traverse mountains together, enjoy magnificent vistas, weather thunderstorms, and huddle together in the bitter cold.
And then it’s over. The vast majority of people you meet along the way—fellow hikers, trail angels, hostel owners—will never be heard from or seen again. That’s the frustrating part. So many people you wish you could live near, hang out with, and get to know better. That rarely happens.
However, there are exceptions. Every once in a while, you get an update from someone who was, at the time, just a random encounter on the AT.
That brings us to Boomerang. On June 25th, 2016, my 106th night on the Appalachian Trail, after hiking 1,220 miles, I made a steep climb out of Port Clinton, PA, and found a suitable tenting spot near a spring. I was joined by a fellow thru-hiker, a millennial blessed with an 11th toe. Naturally, his trail name was “ET” for Extra Toe. I told him I expected him to complete the trail 10% faster than everyone else.
We were joined by a friendly section hiking couple from California—Boomerang and Redwood. During supper, I shared the origins of my trail name, Fob, and the others reciprocated. Boomerang once led a church hiking group called Trailblazers. The group consisted of hikers with varying levels of experience, so a “sweep” was positioned in the back to motivate any lagging hikers who risked falling behind. Still, Boomerang felt responsible for everyone and thus would regularly hike back and forth, from the front to the end and back, to make sure everyone was okay. Her back and forth movement earned her the trail name Boomerang. I love that concept, and it became Fob Fundamental #34 from my second AT book: “Young people need parents, teachers, youth ministers, coaches, and others to serve as ‘sweeps’ and ‘boomerangs,’ helping to keep our youth on the right path and pace.”
The next morning, we said our goodbyes and got back on the trail. I did not expect to see or hear from this California couple again. I was from a different part of the country, on a different hiking pace, with a different goal in mind. Realistically, our encounter, though much appreciated, would be a one-time-only event like so many others.
Thankfully, I was wrong. Like a good boomerang, Michelle Telles, aka Boomerang, swung back into my life recently. She commented on one of my blogs, and then we exchanged emails. I was excited to hear what this woman has been up to and I thought I’d share it with you.
Boomerang volunteers with the California Southern Baptist Disaster Relief Ministries (CSBDRM). This is the third largest disaster relief organization in the country, behind the Red Cross and Salvation Army, with whom they often partner. They also work alongside federal agencies like FEMA, although they do not accept federal funding or reimbursement. In 2019 alone, SBDR clocked 670,000 volunteer hours and made 368,000 meals!
In April of 2019, Boomerang and a friend attended an SBDR training class in clean-up and recovery and earned their yellow DR shirt, along with “an official ugly yellow hat to match.” This past June, after retiring from a long teaching career, she packed her “go bag” and prepared for her first Disaster Relief deployment.
Boomerang and her friend, Jan
As you’ve probably heard, California has been ravaged by wildfires this year. More than 8,200 fires have consumed over 4 million acres, doubling the previous record. With thousands of evacuees moving into temporary shelters in late August, Boomerang saw her first action. She “marveled at God’s wicked sense of humor” when her first assignment was to work for five days in a church kitchen, a three-hour car ride away from home, preparing meals for local evacuees. She was concerned that God had forgotten that she doesn’t know how to cook and “knew very little about kitchen things.” Besides, she was badged in clean-up and recovery, not kitchen work!
Thankfully, she packed her willing spirit and learned fast. Her experience from that deployment qualified her for the next…also in the kitchen. Sometimes, rather than calling the qualified, God qualifies the called.
Boomerang shared with me that many of her lady friends find satisfaction in craft parties, missionary letter writing, and exchanging recipes. While there’s nothing wrong with that, she finds more enjoyment in sleeping in odd places and getting dirty. Imagine her delight when God used her quirky skills to His glory during her third and fourth deployments. She was tasked with doing recovery among the ashes of homes caught in rampant wildfires. With her air mattress and sleeping bag on the floor of a Sunday School room at a church building, she prepared herself to serve.
Boomerang shares her experience:
“I find it difficult to fully express the feeling of giving a family something as simple as a charred metal rooster and watching the expression of the homeowner’s face light up with joy. My team recovered coins, a plethora of various ceramic turtles and pigs, crystals, swords, pot pipes, fingernail scissors, tools, jewelry, and a host of other items, but my personal favorite was a porcelain plaque that asserted, ‘Home is where the mom is.’ Of all the valuables this woman had, all she wanted was this plaque, and I made it my special mission to find it. Like an archeologist looking for rare artifacts, I dug through rubble and gently swept away ash. Piece by piece, the plaque began to reveal itself. Each time I found a piece, I placed it on a flat surface of a charred barbeque. I made this journey to the barbeque seven times until the plaque was complete. Like the charred rooster, this one simple item brought a small beacon of hope to an otherwise hopeless situation.”
After each “ash out,” the team and the property owners gather together. The owners are presented a Bible, signed by everyone on the team, and a prayer is offered. Words of encouragement are expressed by everyone, and grateful owners typically dispense hugs.
Boomerang adds, “The satisfaction of supporting these fire victims is addicting and I get a real joy (blessing) when I’m included in their process forward. The verse that continually runs through my head (my true motivation) is: ‘And he said to him, ‘You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind. This is the great and first commandment. And a second is like it: You shall love your neighbor as yourself.’’” (Matthew 22:37-39)
As we prepare to turn the calendar on a new year, I have a hope and a suggestion for you.
My hope is that you experience a “boomerang” encounter in 2021. I hope a long lost friend, family member, hiking buddy, or someone else re-enters your life and inspires you, the way Boomerang has inspired me. If a boomerang doesn’t find you, maybe you can be the boomerang for someone else.
Out of the ashes, treasures emerge.
Let me suggest that, as a lone New Year’s Resolution, or perhaps grouped with others, you find a neighbor to love as yourself. Could be in a disaster zone. Could be at a homeless shelter or nursing home. Could be the coworker in the next cubicle or the classmate who sits behind you. Could be your next door neighbor.
Everyone outside of myself is my neighbor and I need to try to love them the way Jesus loves them. In 2021, I’m going to be a boomerang, a sweep, or a lifeline to someone.
I don’t know how long you’ve been teaching your students about God’s Word. Maybe weeks. Maybe months. Maybe decades.
I don’t know how many people—young, old, or somewhere in between—have sat at your feet and listened to you explain stories from the Bible, as best you can. Maybe a few. Maybe a few hundred. Maybe more.
I don’t know how long it takes you to prep each week. Maybe 15 minutes. Maybe several hours. Maybe additional time assembling crafts, making copies, or studying commentaries. Time you could have spent on other pursuits.
I don’t know how many adult Bible classes you’ve missed because you counted it worthy to be a teacher—a giver—rather than solely a receiver. Maybe a few. Maybe a lifetime’s worth.
I don’t know how the Coronavirus has affected your teaching ministry. Maybe you’re still teaching in person. Maybe you’re Zooming lessons remotely. Maybe the class you teach has been postponed for a season.
I don’t know how often you’ve gotten positive feedback from your students, their parents, or your church leadership. Maybe weekly. Maybe occasionally. Maybe never.
Here’s what I do know…
What you do matters. What you do makes a difference. What you do affects eternity.
Two quick stories…
Among the many fine, dedicated Bible class teachers who have taught and encouraged me through the years, Miss Edith Focht stands out. From 1974-1979, ages 8-13, I sat at the feet of Miss Edith and learned God’s Word. I’m pretty sure we hit every story in the Bible.
Our classroom was in a dark, dank, cinder block room in the basement of the Dover Church of Christ in Delaware—the first room on the right once you descend the steps. Our congregation was small, and I was often the only student in class on Sunday mornings. Regardless, Miss Edith made me feel special, like I belonged. Armed with a felt board and a big heart, she brought Bible stories to life in a powerful, compelling way. I climbed those basement steps after class each week with a little better understanding of how much God loves me.
During heavy rains, the church basement flooded, but that didn’t stop Miss Edith. We would sit around the little table with our Bibles open and our shoes resting in water. Miss Edith would present the lesson from God’s Word with the sound of sump pumps and deacons with mops in the background. If the lesson was on Noah or the parting of the Red Sea, our wet predicament would serve as a prop. Regardless of the conditions, Miss Edith was going to teach, and teach she did—with passion, energy, and most of all love. Week after week, month after month, for six years, Miss Edith changed my life.
As I sit here, in 2020, writing a book about the Bible, my mind keeps going back to Miss Edith. With the help of the internet, I learned this week that Edith M. Focht died peacefully at her Delaware home, at the age of 80, on February 10, 2010. Her obituary reads, “She was a long time member of the Dover Church of Christ and enjoyed volunteering her time with the related church activities.” Based on my experience with her and the impact she had on my life, that one sentence recap of her ministry seems so inadequate. Thus, this blog.
Edith mattered. Edith made a difference. Edith affected eternity.
I’m not sure, as an 8-13 year-old boy, it ever occurred to me to thank Miss Edith. Maybe I did. I’m not even sure, at the time, I fully understood how she was building a spiritual foundation for me. But she was. I get it now. I plan to give her a high five and a hug when my journey is over and we meet again. In the meantime, I’m thanking you, the soldiers of Christ who follow in her footsteps. You matter too! Your impact can be just as great on the Bible class student, young or old, sitting at your feet!
Second story…
A few years ago, while visiting the Lafayette Church of Christ in Ballwin, MO (where my youngest son, Kyle, ministers at), I sat in Bob Clark’s Bible class. Bob, the preaching minister for this congregation, told the class about a large bone which sits on his desk. He used the bone as an illustration for how to study Scripture. In short, (1) Dogs are passionate about bones; (2) Dogs chew on bones; (3) Dogs sometimes bury a bone but dig it up later to chew some more; and (4) A bone kept in a package and stored in a cabinet doesn’t do the dog any good.
His illustration was simple, but highly effective. He spent a few moments on it and then went on to something else, like a good Bible class teacher will do.
And now, as Paul Harvey would say, the rest of the story…
I took notes in Bob’s class that day. If a teacher or preacher uses an effective illustration, there’s a good chance I’m going to record it in my Bible.
A couple of years later, I extracted his metaphor from the margin of my Bible and included it in Faith in the Margins, my 365-day devotional book. You’ll find it on January 8th.
A year later, in 2019, Ms. Donna Kesler of Cleveland, NC, purchased Faith in the Margins and began reading the devotionals. Later, she purchased the book for her niece, Lee Jan and also for Lee Jan’s friend, Mary Kossel, of Lexington, NC. Lee Jan and Mary share a phone devotional and prayer time together every Saturday morning.
Mary worships and works with the Lexington, NC congregation. While reading Faith in the Margins, she came across Bob’s bone metaphor and was inspired by it. So inspired, in fact, that she created a bulletin board for her church that reads, “Study My Bible Like a Dog with a Bone.” A bulletin board that children and others walk by, read, and are likely inspired by.
All because a guy named Bob was led by the Spirit to teach a Bible class. Yes, his simple illustration about a dog and a bone traveled 768 miles, from Bob => Steve => Donna => Lee Jan => Mary, and ended up on a bulletin board in NC for myriad students to learn from, because that’s how God works. When Christians sow bountifully, we can expect to reap bountifully (see 2 Corinthians 9:6). When you teach passionately, expect God to bring about great results, even though you may never know about them this side of eternity.
So, to the Bible Class teachers out there, thank you. THANK YOU! You matter. You make a difference. You affect eternity. How far God will extend the seeds that you sow, and what messengers he’ll use along the way, is up to God. Let’s also trust him with the results–to bring forth the increase (see 1 Corinthians 3:7). Your job—our job—is simply to teach. To scatter seed. Even in dark, dank, flooded basement classrooms. Even with only one student.
“But the people refused to listen to Samuel. “No!” they said. “We want a king over us. Then we will be like all the other nations, with a king to lead us and to go out before us and fight our battles.” – 1 Samuel 8:19-20
Americans get pretty worked up over election results. The stakes always seem so high…
Donald Trump promised to Make America Great Again. Who wouldn’t want that?
Barack Obama offered Hope and Change. Sign me up!
George W. Bush served up Compassionate Conservatism. Give me a double order of that, please!
Dwight Eisenhower said he would bring Peace and Prosperity. How soon can we start?
Even as young student, I voted for Student Council President candidates who promised longer recesses, less homework, and field trips to Disney World. If we can just elect the right person, surely good things will happen and our lives will improve.
The Israelites were no different. Although God promised to lead them and make them prosperous as their eternal king, that wasn’t enough. They wanted an earthly king like the nations around them. With the right earthly king on the throne, they would find success in battle and economic prosperity…or so they thought.
The note from the margin reads: We still want a leader to fight our fights and fix our problems. Rather than put our trust in God, we look to earthly leaders for solutions to what ails our society and our lives. Rather than seek to become more pure and Christ-like as individuals, we focus on an earthly king who promises to make our nation greater. Rather than put our hope in a Savior who can change us, we order up hope and change from a mere mortal.
I’m not against political parties, politicians, or free and open elections. Earthly kings, from the United States President down to the 8th Grade Student Council President, can inspire people and bring about great change. Some leaders even pray to God and ask him to guide their actions and decisions.
But the biggest choice we face isn’t at the ballot box. What’s truly at stake isn’t dependent on which political party holds office for the next four or eight years. While those things matter, there is a matter of greater consequence. Will we, as a nation and as individuals, choose to follow God? Will we trust in the one who created us, loves us, and sustains us?
The warning from 1 Samuel 12:25 seems fitting: “Yet if you persist in doing evil, both you and your king will be swept away.”
“Sometimes a change of perspective is all it takes to see the light.” – Dan Brown
Every once in a while, I cross paths with someone who I believe, in retrospect, must have been placed there by God. Someone who, perhaps unintentionally, refocuses my attention and stirs me to action. Someone who, through sheer force of their example, makes a difference in my life.
In the Fall of 2017, my wife and I were doing disaster relief in Beaumont, Texas, following the devastation of Harvey, a category 4 hurricane. One day, we were assigned to work with a team from the College Church of Christ in Searcy, Arkansas. Our task was to “gut” a home that, 30 days earlier, had been under eight feet of water. Mold covered the walls and possessions. Furniture was tossed about. Total destruction. The owners, a sweet couple in their mid-80s, had been evacuated in waist-deep water in the middle of the night as Harvey moved in.
Our quickly assembled team donned protective gear, gathered wheelbarrows and crowbars, and began tearing out moldy, water-soaked drywall. We carted and carried a lifetime’s worth of now ruined possessions to the mile-long debris pile along the street. On a return trip through the house, I walked by the dining room and glanced over at a curly-headed, perspiring, middle-aged man who resembled Mark Twain. As he struggled to lift a water-logged carpet, he looked up at me and said, “Hey…uh…Doofus…come over here and help me with this.”
I sat my wheelbarrow aside, walked over to him, and firmly gripped the carpet. As we dragged it through the front door and across the lawn, I couldn’t help but laugh at this man who didn’t know my name. I found it quite humorous that of all the possible substitute names this man, our team leader, could have chosen for me… “Brother,” “Friend,” “Dude,” or even, “Hey, You”… he had instead gone with “Doofus.” (BTW, “Doofus,” according to Webster is, quite simply, “a stupid person.”) Even funnier was that I had immediately responded to that name and answered his call for help. Which begs the question: If you answer to Doofus, does that make you a Doofus? Perhaps.
So, for the rest of the week, my new friend called me Doofus and I called him Mr. Twain. We quickly realized we shared two passions: (1) disaster relief work (more specifically, slicing up trees with chainsaws); and (2) coffee (at any hour of the day or night). By the fourth or fifth night, we were hanging out at the laundromat at 11 p.m., sipping caffeinated coffee, and watching our funky clothes agitate in the washing machines before us. This is how friendships are forged.
Over the past few years, our paths have crossed a handful of times. Each time, Mr. Twain (real name: Chris Adams) has found a way to encourage me or motivate me. On one occasion, at a Starbucks in Searcy, Arkansas, we discussed and shared insights on the challenges of caring for aging (and dying) parents. I don’t remember all that he said, but I walked away feeling encouraged that another soul “got” what I was going through and had gone through, having navigated similar waters.
More recently, my iPhone rang and I glanced at the caller I.D., which read, “Mark Twain.” I smiled and answered, anticipating the next word I would hear. “Doofus! It’s Chris.” (I’m glad he identified himself because, you know, with so many people calling me Doofus I wouldn’t know who I was talking to.) He continued, “I’m taking a team to Louisiana in a few days. I know it’s short notice, but are you in?” After quickly glancing at my calendar, I asked, “Will you buy me a cup of coffee?” “Of course,” he answered. “Well, then, I’m in.”
Before I could say, “Hurricane Laura,” I was in Pineville, Louisiana, knocking down trees and drinking coffee with Mr. Twain, his team (including our mutual friend, Keith Picker), and another of my long-time friends, Chuck Leasure. Twain introduced me, appropriately, as “Doofus,” and, in turn, I reflected on his rise to literary prominence in the river novels featuring Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn.
At night, we collaborated on the size and composition of teams to send out the following day and where they would go. During the day, our teams turned downed trees into firewood and sawdust. Then again at night, we snuck off just before the stores closed to buy cartons of ice cream for the assembled workers back at the building. By Sunday morning, Doofus and Twain were preaching and leading singing, respectively, for the Pineville Church of Christ, our hosts.
Fast forward to this past Friday. After finishing an afternoon run on the most perfect Fall day here in Maryville, I received a text from Chris with a bunch of photos. He and his team were in Lake Charles, doing disaster relief with the Church of Christ Disaster Response Team. Then he called me. “Doofus! It’s Chris. I’m here in Lake Charles. We’re feeding people today…hundreds of ‘em. Somebody donated a ton of pork butt and we’ve been prepping it. Do you know what’s involved in turning a ton of pork butt into sandwiches? (I did not.) Also, I just sent you some pictures that I just took. The photos are from the same spot, but I’m looking in different directions. It’s all about perspective. Write something about that.”
My first thought: You’re Mark Twain, a renowned author. Write your own story!
Instead, I looked at the photos, and realized he was on to something…
In the first photo, you’re in Lake Charles looking down a mostly desolate Enterprise Boulevard, lined with trash and lawn debris. The blue-tarped roofs are a reminder of the back-to-back storms which have trampled this community, city, and region. No children playing. No Fall flowers being planted. Mostly dirt and debris. It’s cleaned up, at least, but still conveys kind of a hopeless feeling. That’s one perspective.
Perspective 1: Hopelessness
In the second photo, you’ve rotated your position and changed your perspective. You’re now looking at the front of the Enterprise Boulevard Church of Christ. Out front, a sign reads, “Church of Christ Disaster Response Team.” In this picture… from this perspective… hopelessness has turned into hope. Where you find the church building, you may be near the actual church—the body of Christ, and that means there’s hope.
Perspective 2: Hope
And where you find the DRT sign, you’ll find a group of volunteers who want to feed you, supply your needs, clean up your home and community and, in the name of Christ, help you get back on your feet. From this perspective, there’s still no activity… just a sign. But the sign gives hope.
In the third photo, you’ve rotated again and start to see evidence of activity. More signs, but perhaps some movement as well. An open car door. An open tool trailer. Cars beginning to queue. There appears to be some activity. Maybe what’s going on here is more than just a church building… more than just a sign. Something is happening at this place.
Perspective 3: Happenings
In the fourth and subsequent photos, cars are lined up. Cars full of hungry people. On that day, about 900 people were served. People whose lives and neighborhoods have been wrecked by back-to-back major storms. People who, for the time being at least, are among the “least of these” contemplated in Matthew 25. If they were hungry, they drove away full. If they needed clothes, they were clothed. If they needed supplies, they were supplied. If they needed a roof tarped, drywall hung, or debris hauled, those requests were taken and would be eventually honored, as well. And whether they requested it or not, they would be prayed for—daily—by people who believe in the power of prayer.
Perspective 4: Healing
Four photos. Same spot. But four different perspectives, depending on which way you’re facing. Cycling through the photos, we move from hopelessness to hope, from hope to happenings, and from happenings to healing. That’s how God uses his people to change the world. And he gets all the glory!
DRT workers doin’ work!
I don’t know exactly what perspective Chris had in mind on the different perspectives in these photos, but two applications come to mind for me:
First, two people at the very same spot may have very different perspectives on their circumstances depending on which way they are facing—what they are focused on. For example, one person looks at 2020 as a wasted year, due to COVID-19, social unrest, political division, and other negative factors. They focus on the first photo—the desolate street.
Another person, standing in the same spot, views 2020 not as a waste, but an opportunity. An opportunity to sew masks for healthcare providers. An opportunity to buy groceries for an elderly neighbor with pre-existing health conditions. An opportunity to pay a few bills for a friend who is out of work. Both people are confronted with the lemon that is 2020, but only one has chosen to make lemonade. Same spot. Different attitudes and perspectives.
“Pork butt sandwiches! Did I mention the 4 hungry kids in the trunk of my car?”
Second, as we reflect on these photos, I think individuals and churches should ask which photo best depicts how we are seen by others—by the outside world. What perspective do they see in you? When someone among “the least of these” encounters your life, do they see Christ? Do they move from a sense of hopelessness (photo 1) to a sense of hope (photos 2-4)? Or, is my “I’m a Christian!” sign merely a mirage?
Do our church buildings have impressive signs out front, but not much going on beyond that? Are we mostly in a comfortable, self-preservation, maintenance mode? Does our sign read, “Free Food Here! Come and Get It!” or merely, “We Wish You Well in Finding Food!” Are we the Good Samaritan who stopped and helped, or the priest who walked on by? Speaking for myself, too often I’ve walked on by.
But maybe… just maybe… our lives and our churches can be more than just signs. There can be activity beneath the surface and behind-the-scenes… something amazing going on beyond the signs. We can go where we need to go and do what we need to do to bring hope and relieve suffering. We can try, as difficult as the task may be, to be the eyes, ears, feet, and hands of Jesus. It doesn’t take driving to a disaster area or wielding a chainsaw to do this. There are hurting people all around us.
Friends, if I may speak from the heart for a moment. We don’t need more grandiose church buildings or fancy signs. We don’t need more cross necklaces or Christian fish bumper stickers. Instead, we need more people willing to roll up their sleeves and get to work, meeting the needs of a hurting world. A world far more likely to listen to our “saving gospel message” if they’ve already seen Jesus at work in our lives. That’s what the world needs. And it starts with me.
Chris Adams, my friend, aka Mark Twain, gets that. He’s one of those servant-hearted people. A guy all-in on disaster relief—one downed tree and pork butt sandwich at a time. A Photo #4 guy who is all-in on Jesus. A guy who appreciates a good cup of coffee and a well-oiled chainsaw.
A guy who calls me Doofus.
Chris Adams, aka Mark Twain, leads a team devotional using Spiritual Pursuit, a book by Doofus
