“Be fearless in the pursuit of what sets your soul on fire.” – Jennifer Lee
Reach One, Teach One (R1T1) and Mi Esperanza—two missions we support in Honduras—are, on the surface, very different. They have different missions and address different underlying problems in Honduran society. However, in addition to being faith-based, they have another thing in common. Dalton Hines and Lori Connell, the respective founders and leaders, are dealers in hope. In myriad ways, they help the men and women of Honduras develop marketable skills, a sense of purpose, and hope for the future. Hold that thought.
Dalton and his R1T1 Crew
Lori and friends
Forty-one years ago, Jennifer Lee was a miserable middle-schooler with divorced parents. She was, by her own account, “Always a mess. Stains on my clothes… knots in my hair… chubby. I was born into a very modest life. I was a kid with ADHD, terrible in school. I don’t think people ever thought I could amount to anything.”
Jennifer’s life raft was a VHS tape of Cinderella, rewatched daily for its pep talk in perseverance. “Cinderella was bullied severely and I was bullied. But she stayed true to herself, even when it was really hard. Something about the concept of fighting through it helped me. I think a lot of us get knocked down often, over and over again, in our lives.”
According to Catherine Shoard in The Guardian, “After a few stumbles, Lee ended up in New York with a job in publishing, a postgraduate degree in film, and a young daughter. When Agatha was seven, they decamped to Hollywood so that Lee could do rewrite work on the script for Disney’s Wreck-It Ralph. Two months turned into 12 years; today, Lee is chief creative officer at the company where she once temped. She won an Oscar for Frozen in 2014, which also made her the first woman ever to direct a film (which she also scripted) that made more than $1 billion.”
How do you go from a young, bullied Cinderella fan to a billion-dollar boss at Disney? You work hard and you never lose hope. Jennifer lived her famous quote, which undergirds our theme for this year’s mission trip: “Be fearless in the pursuit of what sets your soul on fire.”
The Apostle Paul had that fearlessness. In Ephesians 6:19-20, he writes, “that words may be given to me in opening my mouth boldly to proclaim the mystery of the gospel, for which I am an ambassador in chains, that I may declare it boldly, as I ought to speak.” Paul could have asked for many things, including release from prison and creature comforts. Instead, his heart and mind were focused on his responsibility to be an ambassador of the gospel. He wanted to share the Good News boldly and clearly. Through words and deeds, Paul’s fearlessness and hopefulness were on full display. Throughout his ministry, Paul’s soul was on fire.
Our goal on these mission trips is not to turn the people of Honduras into billionaires. No, we’re striving for something far more ambitious and significant. We’d like to see more Hondurans become self-supporting, productive members of society and, ultimately, Christ followers. That same goal has Dalton and Lori in a lifelong pursuit of what sets their souls on fire. They are fearless dealers in hope.
My friend Tee Bolen is no stranger to poverty. His mom passed away when he was two, at which point his dad moved away to Columbia, SC, and his three siblings and a half-sister were farmed out to various families. Three ended up in orphanages. His grandmother insisted young Tee live with her, and for the next 17 years, they moved at least 17 times.
“We had no income. We would be evicted from one place and move to another, sometimes back into an earlier place. We were destitute. Everything was a struggle. I remember waking up in the morning and seeing exposed ground through the gaps in the floorboards. We didn’t have anything—only each other. We survived by picking cotton in the cotton fields. I couldn’t provide for us until I turned 12 and got a job in a shoe repair shop. Steve, I know what being dirt poor is like. I’ve been there.”
Now grown and in the final quarter of his life, Tee’s been blessed with a Christian family, Christian friends, and a comfortable standard of living. Driven by his childhood memories, a love for God, and compassion for his fellow man, he is determined to “pay it forward.” He wants to lessen the burden of others in need. For the second consecutive year, Tee and his wife Mary paid for a home to be built for a poverty-stricken person or family in Honduras. When I start to shower praise on Tee for his generosity, he cuts me off.
“Listen, this isn’t about me. This isn’t even my money. This is God’s money. He’s entrusted it to me for a short while, and I think He’s curious what I’m going to do with it. Well, let me tell you what I’m not going to do—keep it all to myself and build bigger barns. Not when there are people around me in need.”
A desire to “pay it forward” isn’t Tee’s only motivation for donating a home. His friend, Jewel Clifton, is nearing the end of a long battle with cancer.
Two months ago, Tee told me, “Jewel is a dear Sister in Christ. She’s frail and will be getting her heavenly reward soon. I want this house to be built in her honor. As she prepares to move into the room Jesus has prepared for her, someone she’ll never meet will move into an earthly home in Honduras. I doubt Jewel will live long enough to see the home built this summer in her honor, but she’ll know it is coming. I hope that brings her comfort.”
When I informed Dalton Hines, our full-time missionary on the ground in Honduras, of Tee’s donation and Jewel’s situation, his response was immediate. Rather than wait for the summer rotation of mission teams to build the house, Dalton and his local construction crew would complete the project within two weeks. Even better, they would use the project to create a house-building instructional video for future TORCH mission teams to use.
Dalton wasn’t done yet—his brain never rests. He’s as attuned to the needs of others as anyone I’ve ever met. He’s also extremely capable and resourceful—Central America’s MacGyver. On any given day, you’ll find him vetting future homeowners, stocking a tilapia farm, installing a water filtration system for a poor community, or mentoring his young students to build like carpenters and live like Christ.
Dalton suggested his team build the Tee Bolen-donated home for Israel, a 29-year-old Honduran. Although TORCH Missions typically builds homes for families, not older single guys, Israel’s situation is unique. His parents abandoned him as a boy and he is, for the most part, uneducated and borderline special needs. For many years, he bounced around, seemingly unloved. He was homeless—a classic poor beggar, struggling to survive.
When Israel was 8 years old, he became friends with Christian, whose family agreed to take him in. That was his first big break. Later, as an adult, Israel was allowed to stay in a room on the family compound. Still struggling on many levels, he paid a modest amount for rent but was unable to fully provide for himself or get ahead. Christian’s family continued attending to Israel’s physical and emotional needs with love and acceptance. They are, to him, the eyes, hands, and feet of Jesus. They are the only real family he’s ever had. Their son Christian eventually went to work for Dalton, which would turn out to be Israel’s second big break.
While Dalton and his expert construction crew can build a home for someone in about four hours (three if they’ve had coffee), they took their time on Israel’s new house. The construction lasted several days, with Dalton narrating each phase of construction to the camera for the benefit of future TORCH teams. Over the course of several nights, Israel slept on the building materials to prevent theft. Having been homeless for so many years, he was comfortable being alone, staring into the night sky. I can only imagine what went through his head as the prospect of becoming a homeowner began to take shape.
Dalton and Israel
That brings me back to Tee Bolen, who has never met Israel, Dalton, or Christian and his family. He probably never will, this side of Heaven. He may never make it to Honduras to see Israel’s now-completed home in person. Pictures will have to suffice. But Tee trusts God. He knows that God can do more with his money than he could ever think or imagine. And that makes Tee more than just a friend to me—he’s a role model and a hero.
Friends, we serve an awesome God!
God heard the cries of a homeless, hungry 8-year-old Honduran boy and led him to a loving family.
God touched the heart of an older American man, once poor himself, and led him to make a generous donation.
God gave an American missionary the wisdom and heart to join the various pieces of this puzzle together into a beautiful masterpiece.
As a result, tonight Israel will fall asleep in his very own home. As he looks down on the wooden floor, there will be no gaps or exposed ground. I picture him smiling.
And sometime soon, Tee’s friend Jewel will get a new body and a new, permanent home—with Jesus by her side. I suspect she’ll be smiling too.
On this, our 36th Anniversary, a small sampling of the reasons I love you, Janet Johnson…
When something is crooked, out of sorts, or otherwise amiss, you call it “whomperjawed.”
Your adorable “young Kristy McNichol look/vibe” took my breath away on September 15, 1984, when I first laid eyes on you, as you sat on my knee at the freshman mixer… and still takes my breath away today!
You occasionally turn the ceiling fan above our bed on at 11 p.m., pull the covers off me by midnight, then graciously dole out a tiny patch of sheet at 2 a.m. to treat my frostbite.
You read and take notes from God’s Word everysingleday. No wonder your Bibles “fill up” and only last a few years. No wonder I see Jesus in you.
Our long, deep, intimate conversations, about any and everything, especially on long road trips.
After all these years, you still try out new recipes on me. The recent roast beef sliders au jus were the bomb! I also like how, at restaurants, you’ll stare at the hushpuppies on my plate until I offer you one.
Yellow dresses, yellow… (well, you know). My kryptonite!
You love your parents, in words but even more so in deeds. Few have honored their parents these past 5 years the way that you have honored yours. (You honored my mom similarly, especially in her final few weeks, doing the most difficult of tasks, and I’ll never forget that.)
Your “career ambition” was never about money, titles, or promotions. You’ve always just wanted to be a loving, nurturing, present, wife and mother. That was enough. You are enough.
Your spandex pants once inadvertently drew the attention of onlooking family and our youngest son, even as he was about to propose to his girlfriend.
You once dropped an egg roll at Maryville’s Asian Buffet, then handed it to a nearby Asian woman who doesn’t work there.
Our shared nightly “happy place”—snuggling on the couch with a tub of popcorn, watching Survivor,The Crown, or a movie. Also, the way you recently tried to get me to watch the series Tracker because the (oft-shirtless) Josh Hartley “is a fine actor.” I’m sure he is.
All the inside jokes and references that only the two of us understand. We have our own little language!
Our basement couples’ YouTube aerobics sessions. “Come on, hon! Get those legs up!”
Your nightly bubble bath featuring Wordle, Quordle, iPad puzzles, and occasionally your spouse.
When ministry becomes frustrating, you pull me back from the ledge and help me to not grow weary—to not give up on people.
I experience everything—the slightest touch, hug, kiss, gesture, glance, or comment—much more strongly with/around you. It’s magnetic, magical, and inexplicable… or maybe it’s just love.
The way we recently looked at each other in the theater, crying, when that critically ill little girl finally got the break she needed.
You model Jesus by serving so many people in so many ways at so many times. It’s just a natural part of who you are. When He returns, and we meet Him in the air, I hope you get the first high-five. You inspire me, lady!
The adorable way you can’t pronounce “rural”, “vulnerable,” “Massachusetts,” or “Worcestershire.”
How our “falling apart” while engaged made us realize how much we needed to fall back together, one final time.
Your willingness to teach Bible classes and share God’s love at Ladies Days across the country (including Pennsylvania this fall… road trip!) You also help me, in countless ways, lead mission trips to Honduras.
Your selfless diligence in editing my books, down to the last comma, because you want the world to get the best I have to offer. I look forward to returning the favor on your upcoming book!
How we (Nonni and Papa Fob) get this regular, insatiable desire to squeeze our precious Baby Bradford, then concoct a plan to convince our kids to invite us to Ballwin, MO for a long weekend. Also, how you care as much about our adult sons now as you did when they were children.
You know my love language—scalp massages, eye rubs, ear pulls, deep conversation, getting coffee, perusing bookstores, and long walks in nature. Truth be told, doing life with you is my love language.
You used to get on top of our RV on sunny days with a bucket of suds, wearing shorts and a T-shirt, spraying it down with a hose. Based solely on safety considerations, I stood by and watched. Confession: I couldn’t wait to drive through the mud again!
You look at me, smile, and say, “This says it all!” whenever Shania Twain’s “From This Moment On” comes on the radio. I say the same to you whenever Vince Gill’s “Look at Us” comes on. We’re both right.
Almost all your Facebook posts are about elevating God and your family, not yourself. Without a doubt, you help me stay on the “straight and narrow” path toward God and Heaven.
You let me hike the Appalachian Trail and, over six months, cheered my every step and planned a couple of unforgettable, soul-reviving reunions. The journey changed my life and reinvigorated my passion for writing. I will always be grateful to you for that.
Your willingness to call me out, in love, when I need to be called out. You know my every flaw but value and emphasize my strengths.
On back-to-back Christmases, you got me an anti-snoring nose plug, followed by mouth-sealing “hostage tape.” If you ever find out I can breathe through my ears, I’m in big trouble!
Your “spaghetti”? Amazing, but the menu is diverse. You keep me guessing!
On our Alaska land/sea cruise, you were a finalist in the onboard American Idol singing competition, rocking the house with “Dancing Queen” as you fulfilled a childhood dream. I was so proud of you and excited to have married a rock star!
In addition to cooking and doing the laundry for our family, you often do the same for a former prisoner… showing him a love and concern that has too often been missing in his troubled life. You make him, the children of Didasko orphanage in Honduras, Anastasia, and so many others—“the least of these”—feel worthy.
The way you always loudly blow your nose right before going to bed. It’s only a matter of time before the neighbors complain.
I wake up every morning, not entirely sure how the day will go. But I always know that whatever happens, you will be in my corner. My battles will be your battles, and your battles will be mine.
My darling Janet, our journey across 48 states, 27 foreign countries, and 36 (really 40) years… by car, plane, boat, RV, and sometimes foot… has been incredible! You are God’s second-greatest gift to me, and I wouldn’t trade you for anyone in the world!
As Vince Gill put it…
“Chances are we’ll go down in history When they wanna see How true love should be They’ll just look at us.”
“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.
“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!
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.
“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.”
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.”
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
“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.
