I'm pleased to announce that my first book, Shiny Spots In The Rust, is once again available in paperback. I just approved the proof copy of the second edition and it should be showing up on Amazon.com in a couple of days. I will eventually add a Kindle ebook version of Shiny Spots, though most of my audience have not yet ventured into the ebook field.
In addition, in Spring 2011, I'm planning to publish a sequel to Shiny Spots. This one will be called Pearls In The Pigpen and will contain many columns written after the publication of the first collection. In addition, there will be some longer pieces taken from speeches, sermons, and classes which I've written.
Thanks to the amazing technology of today, all three of my books will be available in perpetuity on Amazon.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Special Christmas Edition
Over the years, I've written several columns which had something to do with Christmas. Some were printed in my book and others were written after the book was published. Here they all are, collected for your Yuletide enjoyment. Thanks for reading and Merry Christmas to you!
Christmas giving…
I love Christmas, even the shopping part. It brings a thrill to any parent’s heart to see your child hanging up a stocking… because it’s probably the only thing she’s hung up all year long. But I have noticed in the past few years that I’ve begun to suffer from post-Christmas depression. You know, that let-down feeling you get when all the gifts have been opened, all the needles have fallen off the tree, and you’re able to list more ways to use leftover turkey than H.R. Block has reasons to let them do your taxes.
In song and sermon and greeting card slogan, we hear the question: Why can’t every day be like Christmas? True, I wish I could give my family wonderful gifts every day, but reality — and the credit limit on my Visa — makes that impossible.
This is where God has a big advantage: He continues, day after day to shower us with glorious gifts that even Nieman-Marcus can’t put a pricetag on, things like the beauty of creation, the precious gift of life and health, the love and forgiveness that give us hope, and the gift of His Son, who actually picked up the tab for all my sins and all yours, too. For God, every day is Christmas day! The great Energizer keeps giving and giving and giving…
It’s enough to make me wonder if I can’t try to be a little more like God this season by concentrating less on store-bought presents and more on gifts of my time, my concern, my love and my heart. These are expensive gifts, costly to let go of. But unlike most other luxury gifts, these are likely to be returned… and, in this case, that’s a good thing.
Passing the gift along…
This year, for the first Christmas in a long time, I won’t be buying any Barbies. I don’t have to venture down that vibrant pink aisle at Toys ‘R’ Us, hunting for this year’s pick. My daughter has reached the age where her Christmas list doesn’t mention Beanie Babies or dolls. Instead it’s makeup, clothes, jewelry, CDs. While I was concentrating on something else, my little girl grew up. You know what? Part of me is going to miss strolling down the Barbie aisle.
Having a child is the best way to recapture your own childhood, although I have never gotten very far away from being a child anyhow; just ask my wife. But Christmas brings out the child in all of us, a season of mystery, joy, secrets and promises, colorful lights and family traditions. When I was 12, my five-year-old sister gave me a bottle of Aqua Velva after-shave, a product I would not need for a good six or seven more years. It became a family in-joke and for several years a mysterious present under the tree would turn out to be Aqua Velva; eventually everyone in the family received a bottle, although it was actually probably the same bottle which just got passed around like a dreaded fruitcake. 35 years later, whenever a grandchild gets married or someone new joins the family, there’s a good chance that they’ll receive a bottle of odorous blue liquid and they’ll look around quizzically to see the whole family grinning like idiots.
My point, which I seem to have wandered away from, is that some gifts are given before we perceive a need for them. Take the gift that God gave us — his Son, Jesus. Some people accept that gift when they’re six; others can’t take it until they‘re much, much older. But the Giver is patient and loving…and I’m sure He smiles when we finally do accept it.
If you’ve never accepted that gift, I pray that this is your year to get the greatest gift of all. And if you have already received it…pass it on.
I Was A Teenage Santa Claus…
When I was a sophomore in high school, I had my first long-distance romance; the girl was from Houston and we had met when her church came to do a mission Vacation Bible School with my church. We corresponded through the fall and then she invited me to come visit her during the Christmas holidays. My parents said okay, but I would have to earn the money to take the trip by bus. After some brainstorming, I borrowed a Santa Claus suit and placed a small ad in the local paper which said something like: “Have Santa visit your child in the comfort of your own home!” My mother agreed to take phone calls for me during the day. When I got home from school, I’d eat supper and then don the red suit and drive off to make my appointments.
I learned immediately that people loved to see Santa outside the mall or department store. When I stopped at traffic lights, they would honk, wave and smile. And the look on the face of one little boy when he opened his front door on Christmas Eve was something I’ve never forgotten.
That’s why I dress up for the Hallelujah Hoedown each year in a costume which completely covers me; I’ve been the Genie from Aladdin, a happy dragon, SpongeBob Squarepants. Children are fascinated by “non-human” characters and many of them run to throw their arms around me. Some lead me around by the hand like I’m their own special pal. And they gaze at my character with such wonder and joy that it makes my heart hurt.
That’s a look that Jesus must have seen often…that look of recognition and love. That look of happiness and excitement just to be in the presence of the Savior.
But here’s the really good part: that’s the same kind of look that Jesus has when he looks at you. You’re the most wonderful thing he’s ever seen.
What a gift!
Who gets the drumstick?
The day after Thanksgiving, our tree goes up and the Christmas music starts playing…and we have a lot of Christmas music. We’ll listen to everything from Ella Fitzgerald singing Jingle Bells to Augie Rios asking ¿Donde Está Santa Claus? Inevitably, several versions of The Little Drummer Boy will pop up. That’s one song that has never appealed to me. And if you’ve ever had a newborn baby in the house, probably the worst thing you could bring in would be a kid with a drum.
But sometimes the right arrangement of a song can make the difference between just hearing it and really listening to it. The jazz vocal group Take 6 did the first version of Little Drummer Boy that I could listen to without wanting to hit the “skip” button. And this year I heard a version by Kenny Rankin that actually made me listen to the lyrics and appreciate the story.
It’s a story about giving back, of offering whatever special gift you have to the One who gave it to you in the first place. The little boy who had nothing except for a drum felt the need to play it for the baby Jesus. According to the lyric, Mary nodded in time to the rhythm…and even the animals were getting down with the beat!
A spiritual gift needn’t be as showy as prophecy or speaking in other languages or healing. It can be a well-timed hug, a word of encouragement. It can be playing music that comes from deep within. Whatever your gift is, when you use it to help another person, you get the same result as that little drummer:
“Then He smiled at me…me and my drum.”
You know…I’m starting to like that song.
Just your size…
Did you see me at the mall or at Walmart last Friday? No, you did not. Unlike much of the population, I don’t feel that my Christmas shopping has to be finished the day after Thanksgiving. Besides, there was leftover pie and other goodies which needed attention.
Now, however, I’m starting to get into gift mode. My daughter has thoughtfully provided me with a wish list; should a Christmas list be long enough to require a bookmark? My wife and my parents, though, usually give me no ideas. That means my imagination must come into play…and sometimes that’s a dangerous thing. One of the hardest things about knowing someone for many years is that it becomes increasingly hard to find gifts for them. I’ve given some winners and I’ve given some losers. There’s at least one item at our house that has never been taken out of the box since it was unwrapped ten years ago.
I keep trying to give more personal things—no, I don’t mean underwear. I mean things that I make or write or assemble. That way, I can at least be sure that nobody else will give the same thing.
I guess that’s why I’ve never been too worried about the dual nature of Christmas. While the Santa part is fun, the real gift part is an expression and reflection of God’s love. When I give something of myself to someone I love, I’m showing some God-like behavior. I don’t give presents because the recipient has been nice or naughty…but because they have been important to me and I want to let them know I love them.
What’s the best kind of gift to give? God knows.
Past presents for the future
So the Christmas tree comes down, the ornaments go back into their protective containers, the trashbags full of wrapping paper, bows, boxes and instructions for some gadget you’ll probably need next week are placed out with the garbage. How much of this Christmas will last in your memory? Here are some things I’ll remember:
1. Watching children in the audience inside the Home for Hope as “snow” began to fall during the Symphony sing-along and the Christmas Eve services.
2. The two little girls selling lemonade and cookies by the side of Ranch Road 12 two days before Christmas. When I bought some goodies, they even threw in a bonus grab bag with a Hershey’s Kiss in it and a hand-scribbled “Thank you.”
3. The Haney/Dillard Family Christmas service in the Chapel on Christmas Day. It was homey, intimate, moving…and Christmasey.
4. The Trans-Siberian Orchestra concert at the Erwin Center, a spectacle that I saw for the first time this year…and can’t wait to see again.
5. Walking down 37th Street, home of Austin’s weirdest Christmas lights, with my wife and daughter and two other teenage girls and getting hot chocolate afterward.
6. The young woman who approached us in a store parking lot with a sad story of her husband in jail and a new baby at home. Was it true? No idea. Did I give her some money? You bet.
Those are things I know I’ll remember five years from now. None of them involve shopping…but they all involve giving. The most precious gifts cannot be contained in bright paper and bows; they’re much, much too big.
Who’s an angel?
About eleven years ago, I was trying to get my own graphic design business off the ground. As a small design business, I didn’t exactly get Fortune 500 companies clamoring for my services; instead I was designing logos for start-up businesses and optimistic-though-underfinanced entrepreneurs. I did package designs for a guy who was starting his own line of detergents; that business proved to be a wash-out (sorry). I did cassette covers for bands that only wanted a hundred tapes — and ended up with plenty of them left over. Occasionally, though, I would get a client who had some longevity. There’s a restaurant in town which still uses a logo I designed, and the daycare my daughter attended continues to display my work.
I was also doing some freelance design for Riverbend and I was asked to work on a Christmas project. Riverbend had been participating in a program called AngelTree, which provided presents for children who had a parent in prison. Other churches had joined in the AngelTree push, and it was decided that Riverbend would do something different: we would provide Christmas for children in protective custody. My job was to come up with a name and a logo for this program. After a couple weeks and quite a few ideas, I decided to call it Angels Afoot.
Over the years, the interpretation of Angels Afoot has changed somewhat. I never intended for the name to pertain to the children we were going to help; “Angels Afoot” referred instead to the people who provided the gifts, messengers from God who weren’t flying around in heaven, but walking around on earth…on foot.
That first year, Angels Afoot provided about 300 gifts. Now, the requests each year number in the thousands. As the need has (sadly) grown, the number of earth-bound Angels has (happily) kept pace. Sometimes I can look out across the congregation and almost see the haloes glowing. May we all continue to be God’s messengers…all year long.
From your mild-mannered reporter…
We must have received 50 catalogs in the mail this holiday season, selling everything from clothes to jigsaw puzzles. We even got a catalog of popcorn.
A catalog.
Of popcorn.
When I was a kid, we only got two catalogs: Montgomery Wards and Sears. I would page through the toy section, circling the items I was wishing for. One of them was the Superman suit. From age five or six until the time I was way too big for such a costume, I asked for the Superman suit every year. I never got it. I’m not sure why. Perhaps my parents were afraid I would try to actually do something superhero-ish; I had already jumped off the garage roof on a dare from my brother.
I thought about the Superman suit recently while teaching my new class. We were discussing spiritual gifts and I mentioned a common tendency to ask God for the big, splashy gifts like speaking in tongues, healing, or prophecy. But the list of spiritual gifts in 1 Corinthians 12 includes things like teaching, helping, and organizing. I’ve discovered that many people who have one of these gifts don’t even realize it is a divinely-bestowed talent.
So maybe I wasn’t supposed to be Superman. Maybe my secret identity turned out to be the Chubby Correspondent or Balding Pastorman. Perhaps you have not yet realized who you are: the Encourager Kid … Captain Camaraderie … the Masked Prayer Warrior … Doctor Dependable … the Purple Planner.
It turns out that you don’t need the costume after all; you’re still super.
All spruced up
There’s a soft spot in my heart for those people who make anonymous gestures that the rest of us can see and appreciate. You know, like the person who puts a little red dot on the “deer crossing” signs, converting an average buck into Rudolph the Red-Nosed You-Know-What. I’m also fond of the people who are responsible for the guerilla Christmas trees. I’ve seen them along Loop 360 and down on Redbud Trail near Tom Miller Dam and they’re probably in some other spots around Austin, too. They’re ordinary cedar trees, growing wild by the road. But someone has decorated them with tinsel and ornaments. Sometimes it looks like a “drive-by” decorating job, as if the tinsel was thrown from a slow-moving car. But others have been carefully draped, with each ornament hung in just the right spot. There might be a dozen or more in one spot, forming their own holiday parade.
And it makes me happy. Seeing a Christmas tree with no agenda—no corporate sponsorship, no donor recognition plaque, not even a donation box—well, that just warms my heart. It’s a true example of doing something unselfishly, with no thought of reward...and it benefits many others.
I don’t want to get all Barbara Walters here, but if I were a tree, that’s the kind of tree I’d want to be: a tree that someone took time to dress up and beautify. Wouldn’t it be great if you were just another member of the crowd and someone stopped and gave you a beautiful gift, made you feel like royalty?
It would be great. It is great. Because, just as a lowly cedar tree—usually considered a parasitic scourge by landowners—can be transformed into a celebration symbol of the most important event in history, so can you. All it takes is the touch of a loving hand to change us into something poignant and inspirational. I’ve been touched like that; have you? I bear markings from the very first Christmas.
If we can do this for trees, I wonder if we could do it for people, too? Not for recognition, not for glory...but just to celebrate the birth of a King.
May all your elephants be white…
This year I’ve been to three of them and I’ve been invited to two others. I refer, of course, to the “white elephant” Christmas party, an activity that was once rare but is now becoming as ubiquitous as that nagging recording of Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer. The white elephant party—when done properly—is a bonanza of bad gifts, a panoply of cheesy merchandise “as-seen-on-TV” or found in the garage. I love a good white elephant because I’m a big fan of the odd and the inexplicable. Years ago, I acquired a parmesan cheese shaker which is shaped like the leaning Tower of Pisa. I have a deck of cards featuring mugshots of famous people. Just this week I became the proud owner of a red trucker cap with real deer antlers hot-glued onto it.
I know some people fret about what to take to a white elephant party. They don’t realize the beauty of the pale pachyderm: picking out a tasteless item for a random person is much easier than deciding on a desirable gift for any actual person on your gift list. I don’t know what to get my mother this year, but I’ve had no problem coming up with multiple ideas for white elephants—gifts that NObody would ever buy for themselves.
Giving people stuff they don’t want and can’t use is as close as I’m likely to get to doing government work. If God had asked my advice two thousand years ago, I would probably have recommended that He send an angel to follow each person, 24 hours a day…with a taser. You commit a sin — ZAP! Instead, He made sure the first Christmas gift was perfect…perfect in every way.
Elephants are supposed to have excellent memories. God, on the other hand, tends to forget. He forgets my sins, my past indiscretions, my failures. Forgetting the past? What a present!
Christmas giving…
I love Christmas, even the shopping part. It brings a thrill to any parent’s heart to see your child hanging up a stocking… because it’s probably the only thing she’s hung up all year long. But I have noticed in the past few years that I’ve begun to suffer from post-Christmas depression. You know, that let-down feeling you get when all the gifts have been opened, all the needles have fallen off the tree, and you’re able to list more ways to use leftover turkey than H.R. Block has reasons to let them do your taxes.In song and sermon and greeting card slogan, we hear the question: Why can’t every day be like Christmas? True, I wish I could give my family wonderful gifts every day, but reality — and the credit limit on my Visa — makes that impossible.
This is where God has a big advantage: He continues, day after day to shower us with glorious gifts that even Nieman-Marcus can’t put a pricetag on, things like the beauty of creation, the precious gift of life and health, the love and forgiveness that give us hope, and the gift of His Son, who actually picked up the tab for all my sins and all yours, too. For God, every day is Christmas day! The great Energizer keeps giving and giving and giving…
It’s enough to make me wonder if I can’t try to be a little more like God this season by concentrating less on store-bought presents and more on gifts of my time, my concern, my love and my heart. These are expensive gifts, costly to let go of. But unlike most other luxury gifts, these are likely to be returned… and, in this case, that’s a good thing.
Passing the gift along…
This year, for the first Christmas in a long time, I won’t be buying any Barbies. I don’t have to venture down that vibrant pink aisle at Toys ‘R’ Us, hunting for this year’s pick. My daughter has reached the age where her Christmas list doesn’t mention Beanie Babies or dolls. Instead it’s makeup, clothes, jewelry, CDs. While I was concentrating on something else, my little girl grew up. You know what? Part of me is going to miss strolling down the Barbie aisle.
Having a child is the best way to recapture your own childhood, although I have never gotten very far away from being a child anyhow; just ask my wife. But Christmas brings out the child in all of us, a season of mystery, joy, secrets and promises, colorful lights and family traditions. When I was 12, my five-year-old sister gave me a bottle of Aqua Velva after-shave, a product I would not need for a good six or seven more years. It became a family in-joke and for several years a mysterious present under the tree would turn out to be Aqua Velva; eventually everyone in the family received a bottle, although it was actually probably the same bottle which just got passed around like a dreaded fruitcake. 35 years later, whenever a grandchild gets married or someone new joins the family, there’s a good chance that they’ll receive a bottle of odorous blue liquid and they’ll look around quizzically to see the whole family grinning like idiots.
My point, which I seem to have wandered away from, is that some gifts are given before we perceive a need for them. Take the gift that God gave us — his Son, Jesus. Some people accept that gift when they’re six; others can’t take it until they‘re much, much older. But the Giver is patient and loving…and I’m sure He smiles when we finally do accept it.
If you’ve never accepted that gift, I pray that this is your year to get the greatest gift of all. And if you have already received it…pass it on.
I Was A Teenage Santa Claus…
When I was a sophomore in high school, I had my first long-distance romance; the girl was from Houston and we had met when her church came to do a mission Vacation Bible School with my church. We corresponded through the fall and then she invited me to come visit her during the Christmas holidays. My parents said okay, but I would have to earn the money to take the trip by bus. After some brainstorming, I borrowed a Santa Claus suit and placed a small ad in the local paper which said something like: “Have Santa visit your child in the comfort of your own home!” My mother agreed to take phone calls for me during the day. When I got home from school, I’d eat supper and then don the red suit and drive off to make my appointments.
I learned immediately that people loved to see Santa outside the mall or department store. When I stopped at traffic lights, they would honk, wave and smile. And the look on the face of one little boy when he opened his front door on Christmas Eve was something I’ve never forgotten.That’s why I dress up for the Hallelujah Hoedown each year in a costume which completely covers me; I’ve been the Genie from Aladdin, a happy dragon, SpongeBob Squarepants. Children are fascinated by “non-human” characters and many of them run to throw their arms around me. Some lead me around by the hand like I’m their own special pal. And they gaze at my character with such wonder and joy that it makes my heart hurt.
That’s a look that Jesus must have seen often…that look of recognition and love. That look of happiness and excitement just to be in the presence of the Savior.
But here’s the really good part: that’s the same kind of look that Jesus has when he looks at you. You’re the most wonderful thing he’s ever seen.
What a gift!
Who gets the drumstick?
The day after Thanksgiving, our tree goes up and the Christmas music starts playing…and we have a lot of Christmas music. We’ll listen to everything from Ella Fitzgerald singing Jingle Bells to Augie Rios asking ¿Donde Está Santa Claus? Inevitably, several versions of The Little Drummer Boy will pop up. That’s one song that has never appealed to me. And if you’ve ever had a newborn baby in the house, probably the worst thing you could bring in would be a kid with a drum.
But sometimes the right arrangement of a song can make the difference between just hearing it and really listening to it. The jazz vocal group Take 6 did the first version of Little Drummer Boy that I could listen to without wanting to hit the “skip” button. And this year I heard a version by Kenny Rankin that actually made me listen to the lyrics and appreciate the story.
It’s a story about giving back, of offering whatever special gift you have to the One who gave it to you in the first place. The little boy who had nothing except for a drum felt the need to play it for the baby Jesus. According to the lyric, Mary nodded in time to the rhythm…and even the animals were getting down with the beat!
A spiritual gift needn’t be as showy as prophecy or speaking in other languages or healing. It can be a well-timed hug, a word of encouragement. It can be playing music that comes from deep within. Whatever your gift is, when you use it to help another person, you get the same result as that little drummer:
“Then He smiled at me…me and my drum.”
You know…I’m starting to like that song.
Just your size…
Did you see me at the mall or at Walmart last Friday? No, you did not. Unlike much of the population, I don’t feel that my Christmas shopping has to be finished the day after Thanksgiving. Besides, there was leftover pie and other goodies which needed attention.
Now, however, I’m starting to get into gift mode. My daughter has thoughtfully provided me with a wish list; should a Christmas list be long enough to require a bookmark? My wife and my parents, though, usually give me no ideas. That means my imagination must come into play…and sometimes that’s a dangerous thing. One of the hardest things about knowing someone for many years is that it becomes increasingly hard to find gifts for them. I’ve given some winners and I’ve given some losers. There’s at least one item at our house that has never been taken out of the box since it was unwrapped ten years ago.
I keep trying to give more personal things—no, I don’t mean underwear. I mean things that I make or write or assemble. That way, I can at least be sure that nobody else will give the same thing.
I guess that’s why I’ve never been too worried about the dual nature of Christmas. While the Santa part is fun, the real gift part is an expression and reflection of God’s love. When I give something of myself to someone I love, I’m showing some God-like behavior. I don’t give presents because the recipient has been nice or naughty…but because they have been important to me and I want to let them know I love them.
What’s the best kind of gift to give? God knows.
Past presents for the future
So the Christmas tree comes down, the ornaments go back into their protective containers, the trashbags full of wrapping paper, bows, boxes and instructions for some gadget you’ll probably need next week are placed out with the garbage. How much of this Christmas will last in your memory? Here are some things I’ll remember:
1. Watching children in the audience inside the Home for Hope as “snow” began to fall during the Symphony sing-along and the Christmas Eve services.
2. The two little girls selling lemonade and cookies by the side of Ranch Road 12 two days before Christmas. When I bought some goodies, they even threw in a bonus grab bag with a Hershey’s Kiss in it and a hand-scribbled “Thank you.”
3. The Haney/Dillard Family Christmas service in the Chapel on Christmas Day. It was homey, intimate, moving…and Christmasey.
4. The Trans-Siberian Orchestra concert at the Erwin Center, a spectacle that I saw for the first time this year…and can’t wait to see again.
5. Walking down 37th Street, home of Austin’s weirdest Christmas lights, with my wife and daughter and two other teenage girls and getting hot chocolate afterward.
6. The young woman who approached us in a store parking lot with a sad story of her husband in jail and a new baby at home. Was it true? No idea. Did I give her some money? You bet.
Those are things I know I’ll remember five years from now. None of them involve shopping…but they all involve giving. The most precious gifts cannot be contained in bright paper and bows; they’re much, much too big.
Who’s an angel?
About eleven years ago, I was trying to get my own graphic design business off the ground. As a small design business, I didn’t exactly get Fortune 500 companies clamoring for my services; instead I was designing logos for start-up businesses and optimistic-though-underfinanced entrepreneurs. I did package designs for a guy who was starting his own line of detergents; that business proved to be a wash-out (sorry). I did cassette covers for bands that only wanted a hundred tapes — and ended up with plenty of them left over. Occasionally, though, I would get a client who had some longevity. There’s a restaurant in town which still uses a logo I designed, and the daycare my daughter attended continues to display my work.
I was also doing some freelance design for Riverbend and I was asked to work on a Christmas project. Riverbend had been participating in a program called AngelTree, which provided presents for children who had a parent in prison. Other churches had joined in the AngelTree push, and it was decided that Riverbend would do something different: we would provide Christmas for children in protective custody. My job was to come up with a name and a logo for this program. After a couple weeks and quite a few ideas, I decided to call it Angels Afoot.
Over the years, the interpretation of Angels Afoot has changed somewhat. I never intended for the name to pertain to the children we were going to help; “Angels Afoot” referred instead to the people who provided the gifts, messengers from God who weren’t flying around in heaven, but walking around on earth…on foot.
That first year, Angels Afoot provided about 300 gifts. Now, the requests each year number in the thousands. As the need has (sadly) grown, the number of earth-bound Angels has (happily) kept pace. Sometimes I can look out across the congregation and almost see the haloes glowing. May we all continue to be God’s messengers…all year long.
From your mild-mannered reporter…
We must have received 50 catalogs in the mail this holiday season, selling everything from clothes to jigsaw puzzles. We even got a catalog of popcorn.
A catalog.
Of popcorn.
When I was a kid, we only got two catalogs: Montgomery Wards and Sears. I would page through the toy section, circling the items I was wishing for. One of them was the Superman suit. From age five or six until the time I was way too big for such a costume, I asked for the Superman suit every year. I never got it. I’m not sure why. Perhaps my parents were afraid I would try to actually do something superhero-ish; I had already jumped off the garage roof on a dare from my brother.
I thought about the Superman suit recently while teaching my new class. We were discussing spiritual gifts and I mentioned a common tendency to ask God for the big, splashy gifts like speaking in tongues, healing, or prophecy. But the list of spiritual gifts in 1 Corinthians 12 includes things like teaching, helping, and organizing. I’ve discovered that many people who have one of these gifts don’t even realize it is a divinely-bestowed talent.
So maybe I wasn’t supposed to be Superman. Maybe my secret identity turned out to be the Chubby Correspondent or Balding Pastorman. Perhaps you have not yet realized who you are: the Encourager Kid … Captain Camaraderie … the Masked Prayer Warrior … Doctor Dependable … the Purple Planner.
It turns out that you don’t need the costume after all; you’re still super.
All spruced up
There’s a soft spot in my heart for those people who make anonymous gestures that the rest of us can see and appreciate. You know, like the person who puts a little red dot on the “deer crossing” signs, converting an average buck into Rudolph the Red-Nosed You-Know-What. I’m also fond of the people who are responsible for the guerilla Christmas trees. I’ve seen them along Loop 360 and down on Redbud Trail near Tom Miller Dam and they’re probably in some other spots around Austin, too. They’re ordinary cedar trees, growing wild by the road. But someone has decorated them with tinsel and ornaments. Sometimes it looks like a “drive-by” decorating job, as if the tinsel was thrown from a slow-moving car. But others have been carefully draped, with each ornament hung in just the right spot. There might be a dozen or more in one spot, forming their own holiday parade.
And it makes me happy. Seeing a Christmas tree with no agenda—no corporate sponsorship, no donor recognition plaque, not even a donation box—well, that just warms my heart. It’s a true example of doing something unselfishly, with no thought of reward...and it benefits many others.
I don’t want to get all Barbara Walters here, but if I were a tree, that’s the kind of tree I’d want to be: a tree that someone took time to dress up and beautify. Wouldn’t it be great if you were just another member of the crowd and someone stopped and gave you a beautiful gift, made you feel like royalty?
It would be great. It is great. Because, just as a lowly cedar tree—usually considered a parasitic scourge by landowners—can be transformed into a celebration symbol of the most important event in history, so can you. All it takes is the touch of a loving hand to change us into something poignant and inspirational. I’ve been touched like that; have you? I bear markings from the very first Christmas.
If we can do this for trees, I wonder if we could do it for people, too? Not for recognition, not for glory...but just to celebrate the birth of a King.
May all your elephants be white…
This year I’ve been to three of them and I’ve been invited to two others. I refer, of course, to the “white elephant” Christmas party, an activity that was once rare but is now becoming as ubiquitous as that nagging recording of Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer. The white elephant party—when done properly—is a bonanza of bad gifts, a panoply of cheesy merchandise “as-seen-on-TV” or found in the garage. I love a good white elephant because I’m a big fan of the odd and the inexplicable. Years ago, I acquired a parmesan cheese shaker which is shaped like the leaning Tower of Pisa. I have a deck of cards featuring mugshots of famous people. Just this week I became the proud owner of a red trucker cap with real deer antlers hot-glued onto it.
I know some people fret about what to take to a white elephant party. They don’t realize the beauty of the pale pachyderm: picking out a tasteless item for a random person is much easier than deciding on a desirable gift for any actual person on your gift list. I don’t know what to get my mother this year, but I’ve had no problem coming up with multiple ideas for white elephants—gifts that NObody would ever buy for themselves.
Giving people stuff they don’t want and can’t use is as close as I’m likely to get to doing government work. If God had asked my advice two thousand years ago, I would probably have recommended that He send an angel to follow each person, 24 hours a day…with a taser. You commit a sin — ZAP! Instead, He made sure the first Christmas gift was perfect…perfect in every way.
Elephants are supposed to have excellent memories. God, on the other hand, tends to forget. He forgets my sins, my past indiscretions, my failures. Forgetting the past? What a present!
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Take it personal…
I was on my way to Men's Breakfast the other day. Since breakfast starts at 7:00 and I live many miles away, my day started awfully early. I pulled into a convenience store at 6:05 to get my first daily dose of Diet Coke. As I got out of the car and walked to the door, I noticed a man inside, standing by the dustiest rack of merchandise in any convenience store.
The greeting card rack.
It's one spinner rack with a couple dozen forlorn cards on it. They feature bad artwork, cheesy sentiments, and usually begin with something like:
Howdy! We're thinkin' 'bout you here in
At a glance, I'm pretty sure I perceived the whole story. Here's a businessman in a starched white shirt, in a convenience store which has just opened five minutes before, and he's searching for a card. Somebody forgot the wife's birthday, right?
My heart went out to the guy. He'd completely forgotten this big day and now his options were exceedingly limited. Unless his wife really, REALLY loved beef jerky and energy drinks, there weren't many gifts he could purchase for her in this particular retail establishment that would earn him high marks for his thoughtfulness. When I'd purchased my soda and returned to my car, I could see he was still there, turning that rack, hoping that something beautiful and romantic and endearing would miraculously appear, instead of yet another card with a hillbilly and an outhouse on the front.
My advice to the guy would have been to buy a pack of index cards and a Sharpie and write on each card a reason he loved his wife. Or tie a ribbon around his waist and slap a bow on his head. Or leave a trail of Junior Mints around the house, leading to a paper that says, "I MINT it when I said I loved you."
But some of us aren't comfortable with our own words. We think someone else can say it better than we can; that's why the greeting card industry is so huge.
It's like when we pray. When you go home, you probably don't say, "My dear earthly wife, hallowed be this, the day of thy birth." Why, then, do we trot out the King James-ian lingo when we talk to God? Flowering up our speech is merely an indication that we don't know what to say. But all God wants is to hear from our hearts, complete with stuttering and stumbling and long pauses and moans of frustration and pain.
If you want 'em to be personal, to be saved, to be cherished, prayers—like greeting cards—should be homemade.
The greeting card rack.
It's one spinner rack with a couple dozen forlorn cards on it. They feature bad artwork, cheesy sentiments, and usually begin with something like:
Howdy! We're thinkin' 'bout you here in
DRIPPING SPRINGS, TX
where the town name is in a different font from the rest of the card.At a glance, I'm pretty sure I perceived the whole story. Here's a businessman in a starched white shirt, in a convenience store which has just opened five minutes before, and he's searching for a card. Somebody forgot the wife's birthday, right?
My heart went out to the guy. He'd completely forgotten this big day and now his options were exceedingly limited. Unless his wife really, REALLY loved beef jerky and energy drinks, there weren't many gifts he could purchase for her in this particular retail establishment that would earn him high marks for his thoughtfulness. When I'd purchased my soda and returned to my car, I could see he was still there, turning that rack, hoping that something beautiful and romantic and endearing would miraculously appear, instead of yet another card with a hillbilly and an outhouse on the front.
My advice to the guy would have been to buy a pack of index cards and a Sharpie and write on each card a reason he loved his wife. Or tie a ribbon around his waist and slap a bow on his head. Or leave a trail of Junior Mints around the house, leading to a paper that says, "I MINT it when I said I loved you."
But some of us aren't comfortable with our own words. We think someone else can say it better than we can; that's why the greeting card industry is so huge.
It's like when we pray. When you go home, you probably don't say, "My dear earthly wife, hallowed be this, the day of thy birth." Why, then, do we trot out the King James-ian lingo when we talk to God? Flowering up our speech is merely an indication that we don't know what to say. But all God wants is to hear from our hearts, complete with stuttering and stumbling and long pauses and moans of frustration and pain.
If you want 'em to be personal, to be saved, to be cherished, prayers—like greeting cards—should be homemade.
Friday, June 19, 2009
What, this old thing?
One night last week, I sat in the beautiful Paramount Theater, waiting for a movie to begin. It wasn't the premiere of some new Hollywood blockbuster; it was a showing of the 1940 comedy The Philadephia Story. I've seen the movie a few times, but it's always great to see classic films in a classic theater, on a giant screen, the way they were meant to be seen. I was pleasantly surprised that several hundred people were in the audience, eating popcorn, chatting, waiting. I overheard a conversation behind me: A man said, "If you don't mind me asking, how old are you?" A woman replied, "I'm 90 years old."
"Wow," said the man, "did you see The Philadelphia Story when it first came out?" She said yes.
The lights dimmed, we saw a couple of previews for upcoming shows and then the familiar Looney Tunes/Merrie Melody music began. A Pepe LePew cartoon!
As the MGM lion roared, The Philadelphia Story began, in glorious black and white. It stars Cary Grant, Katharine Hepburn and Jimmy Stewart; they don't make 'em like that anymore. I was struck repeatedly by how much the audience was enjoying the movie. The roars of the lion were overshadowed by huge roars of laughter which burst out so many times that some of the film's funniest lines were completely lost. And the laughs sounded so comfortable, so free. It was not the sort of laughs you hear at the new breed of comedies, where the laughter is mixed with uneasy cringes over what shocking image or taboo event has been exploited. These were joyful laughs, totally free of guilt.
It was the best time I've had at a movie in a long time. And yet, I know many people who say, "I don't watch those old black and white movies." I can sort of understand why a teenager might say that. But for an adult to believe that any movie without Technicolor has nothing to say is simply wrongheaded.
We live in a culture which frequently contends that anything older than yesterday is worthless. I feel sorry for anyone who skips the music of the Beatles or Bob Wills or Benny Goodman or the Boswell Sisters because it's not current. I want everyone to see the movies of Preston Sturges and Jean Arthur and Buster Keaton. There are treasures buried, none too deeply, for those who care to scratch the surface a bit.
It's much the same at church. There's always an "emergent" movement or a new trend in "praise music" that causes us to toss out beautiful hymns, timeless traditions and meaningful messages. Lest I sound like an old fogey, let me assure you that I love new music, new books, new movies. But we don't have to choose between "all-new" and "all vintage" when we can appreciate both.
Good stories are timeless, particularly the "Old, Old Story" mentioned in one hymn. Stories are just like songs, movies, books…and people. There's something to be learned from the newest, and great rewards for those who don't forget the oldest.
There couldn't be a New Testament unless there was an Old one.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
A-one-and-a-two-and-a-three…
I always wanted to be in a rock group. I simply didn’t have very many chances. I began playing the guitar as a young teenager, sitting on my bed for endless hours, singing to an empty room. When the chance arose to play with a group for an assembly at my high school, I was excited. The group consisted of a drummer, a guitarist (who was actually named John Paul Jones), a guy who played maracas and tambourine, and me, playing bass and singing. The name of the group was…uh…Keep On Truckin’, named after the ubiquitous R. Crumb poster which I shamelessly ripped off in some handmade flyers advertising our debut.
Our twenty-minute set included songs by Grand Funk Railroad, Santana and a couple of others. On our final number, though, we cranked our amps up to maximum, despite the principal’s warning (hey, The Man can’t keep us down!) and launched into Jimi Hendrix’s Foxy Lady. It wasn’t good, but it was loud. This gig led to…absolutely nothing.
My next band was in college. My friend Tom and I were asked to join us with a couple of other guys to play at a fraternity party. You know, one of those quiet, contemplative gigs. This group, I’m embarassed to say, was called Isengard, from Lord of the Rings. I had no say in the song selection and we ended up playing some songs I hadn’t listened to, songs by Blue Oyster Cult and other bands of that ilk. We managed to finish our single gig and picked up a few dollars, but never played again.
My final group was born out of my job at a music store. There was a guy who gave guitar lessons and a girl who gave piano lessons. The guitar guy came in one day and asked if I knew any country songs. “Only really old country,” I answered. I had learned some Hank Williams and Bob Wills songs, but I was certainly not current. He said that anything would help; he’d accepted a gig at a country bar and the piano teacher and I would join him. We would play anything remotely “country” that any of us could think of. That would turn out to include Linda Ronstadt, the Eagles and even ZZ Top. At the club, we looked out into the darkest space I’d ever seen, except once when I was deep in San Marcos' Wonder Cave when they turned out the lights. We had one small nightlight on a music stand so the guitarist could see our song list. Even that tiny light bothered the owner of the bar, who kept telling us it was too bright. During a break, I asked her why it needed to be so dark in the place. “Well, lotsa people come in here with somebody besides who they’re married to.” Ohhhh.
These three gigs illustrate the glamorous nature of showbiz, at least on the local scale where most musicians function. But let’s face it, few things turn out to be as glamorous as we initially believe they’ll be.
But a few things live up to the hype. Love. A lifetime commitment that grows deeper and richer through the years. And I gotta say, my belief and understanding of God has never ceased to amaze. Oh, it sounded good, all those years ago, when I heard I could be forgiven for everything I'd done, that I could go to Heaven instead of the other place. But learning that my life here could be so much sweeter, feeling that God could help me learn to care about other people...this has been heady stuff. If my early understanding of Jesus was like playing in my first band, this is like being a Beatle. He loves me.
Yeah, yeah, yeah.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Leave no turn unstoned...
My mother died in a place called Christopher House. It’s part of Hospice Austin and I was impressed with the care and attention and compassion with which she was treated in her final days. Outside the Christopher House is a beautiful garden with a fountain, shady tree, leafy plants and flowers. But what most grabbed my attention were the cobblestones. The whole courtyard is paved with stones, but hundreds of them bear messages from friends and families of former patients at this unique place.
I walked around the grounds, skimming the messages. Most were straightforward: “We miss you,” or “God bless you Memaw.” Others, however, made me want to hear the stories behind them. One bore a name and the cryptic equation: “Infinity X Love.” Another made me smile: “Randy you got a brick!”
Some had musical references: “SWEET AS TUPELO HONEY.” “BRANDIE YOU’RE A FINE GIRL.” (Remember that song?) Underneath one woman’s name: “SWEETHEART OF HARMONY.” One was for George, “WHO LOVED MOVIES.”
Perhaps my favorite was a sentiment that required two bricks to complete it: “NEVER HAD A SHORT STORY” followed by “& SHE’S PROBABLY STILL TALKING”
It’s hard to know what we leave behind, hard to foresee how someone is going to sum up our lives in a handful of words. As I write this, I’m working on a message to deliver at my mom’s funeral. I’m not going to be able to limit myself to half a dozen words, I’m afraid. I can’t yet boil down my feelings to something that short, that poignant. But I’ve already decided that I’m going to buy one of those stones…or two or three…once I figure out what to say.
Some of those things were already said, in the days before Mom died. We told her we loved her, that she’d been a great mother, that she would soon be in a better place, free from pain, that we appreciated all she had done for us. Maybe I'll go with something like “TELL DADDY HELLO” or “CAN YOU SEE MY HOUSE FROM THERE?” Or maybe I'll cop out and just say "THANK YOU."
When I really think about it…there just aren't enough stones to say it all.
"SEE YOU LATER, MOM."
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Welcome!
Hi to all who are making their first visit to this site. Since the recent downsizing of Riverbend's bulletin, I've missed the chance to write my column each week. So I've decided to post a new column online every week, right here. In addition, you'll find just about every column I've ever written, all archived here for your perusal. Since my book, Shiny Spots in the Rust, is currently out of print, this is the only place you can see all this stuff...and it's free! I hope you find something that inspires, amuses or soothes you. Feel free to share the link with others and feel free to leave your comments. See you same time next week?
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