“You have a role in all this,” Dave told me.
“This” is the church he now serves as pastor, the people he loves daily and weekly, the legacy of faith he is building in this eastern New Mexico town.
Dave went on (this is my paraphrase): “You were there at a time in my life when I thought ministry was over, that I had nothing left to offer, and that nobody wanted me. You helped me see the possibilities of how God could continue to use me. So every time the Lord does something good here, you have a fraction of the action.”
I was humbled and blessed by his insight. But I also know I am not alone. [click to continue…]
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Took a look at the funnies the other day. To be honest, I read them for the laughter. But I noticed something else in the process. Call me sensitive, or call me curious, but I was intrigued at the ways dads are presented. If it’s true that art imitates life, we may have some big problems. With fathers. With God. With ourselves.
He’s an old man now. His physical vision is virtually gone; his heartbeat will soon follow. His spiritual vision? That’s another story. It’s still bright and filled with fire and hope. But it’s a vision that now sees through the eyes of other men. He has no children of his own, but does have a relationship with a man who may as well be. He’s one of those blessed individuals who knows his time is up, and who faces eternity with no regrets. And now he writes the man he calls his son in the faith. His future looks bright; he can only pray the same for Tim. 
Things got a little weird that day at the Taco Bell in Fond du Lac, Wisconsin. A customer tried to pass two 1928 five-dollar bills as cash to pay for his meal. The clerks had never seen such old money before, presumed it to be counterfeit, and called the police. Here’s the sad part – as currency, the cash was legit. As collectors’ items, they had to be worth way more than a bean burrito combo or a chalupa.
It’s the ultimate test, and I’ve blown it. Often. Thank God He’s let me live to go one more round or two, maybe to get it right next time.
Doc Johns wasn’t a doctor; he was a pharmacist. But ever since Bo Brannon ripped his eyelid on a pretty mean briar while playing Capture the Flag at night on an old lake bed and proceeded to bleed like a stuck pig, Marion J. Johns became known to us as “Doc.” As Bo was howling at the invisible moon, sure that life as he knew it was over, somebody in the Boy Scout troop said, “Let’s take him to Jeff’s dad… he’s a doctor!”
Okay, take your mark. You’re about to take off on a marathon. Your coach is the Lord Jesus, the Author of your faith. Under His direction, you’ve cast aside any weights that may hinder you. At His instruction, you clear your way of any sin that might entangle you. At His signal, you’re off! And following His wise counsel, you have focused your attention on him, because he’s the Finisher of your faith as well.
I went to the Fred Flintstone School of Golf. Simple philosophy: when in doubt, hit the ball really hard. When not in doubt, hit the ball really hard.