The Price Was Already Paid

Kenny played third base. He was a big kid at 14 . Probably about 5’ 10” and 160 lbs. He was growing a slight trace of hair on his upper lip, but he was still just a kid. 

His Dad was an alcoholic. Mostly when he showed up for the little league games, Kenny wished he could crawl under third base and hide. His dad would get louder the more he drank, which I guess really isn’t all that much of a surprise. As the coach, I mostly prayed that his dad wouldn’t show up very often...that prayer was answered.

I remember my years in little league, high school, American Legion and even on into college. My dad tried to be at every game he could. I was as proud to have him there as he was to watch me play. Kenny would get increasingly agitated and angry whenever his dad came to a game. It was hard to know what to do as his coach. It’s one thing to tell a kid to ignore a loudmouth in the stands or on the other team, but what do you say when the loudmouth is the kid’s dad?

Kenny would get embarrassed. So would I.

Still, as I said, he only came to a couple of the games that year, so for the most part it wasn’t as big a deal as it could have been. 

The “big deal” came later. It was about half way through the season when Chris, our Boy’s Club director asked me into her office. She had a report on the kids who had paid their team dues. Kenny hadn’t paid yet.

“He has to pay sometime soon,” she said. I knew Chris well enough to know that if there was any other way to handle this, she would have already checked it out.

“He’s the only one left. You better talk with him.”

“Oh joy!” I thought to myself.

I asked Kenny to stay after practice the next day so I could talk to him about our “situation”.

He was kinda fidgety while we talked, but said that it shouldn’t be a problem. His dad got their monthly welfare check in a week. If the club could just wait until then, everything would be alright. So I went to Chris and explained the plan. She was fine with it. Things went on as normal. The day before the end of the month, I reminded Kenny about the arrangement and he nodded in understanding. At the end of practice the next day, I caught him as he was leaving.

“Hey Kenny, do you have that money for me?”

He looked to the ground and kicked the infield dirt a little, “No. Dad left the house as soon as he got his check, I haven’t seen him since.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “Just tell him you really need it when you see him, or the district office says you can’t finish out the season. A couple more days is nothing. O.K.?”

He nodded his head, but didn’t lift his eyes to mine. I had a real uneasy feeling about things. I went into Chris’ office when I got back to the club to talk to her.

“Is there any type of scholarship program for situations like this?” I asked

“Not really. You can take it out of your athletic budget if you want. If his parent will come in and talk about it we can work out a payment plan, but I know Kenny’s dad, I doubt he’ll come in.”

I knew she was right.

“What if someone pays it on his behalf. Is that alright?”

“Sure,” said Chris, “But if you happen to know that someone who would pay, tell them not to make a habit of such things, because in the long run it really isn’t always the best answer.”

She looked me square in the eyes with a small smile on her lips. 

I understood.

The next morning, the sun was bright and I was thinking ahead to the game in the afternoon. The bicycle I rode to work sped me down the alleyways and sidewalks past the Diversey and Clybourne intersection and on to the front doors of the club. I had come early, hoping to have some time to plan for some of the open gym activities for the next day. As I was fiddling with the keys to the door I saw Kenny coming down the sidewalk carrying a brown grocery bag in his hand. He had a very forced look on his face.

“Here, this is for you,” he said sternly.

“What is it?” I opened the sack and looked inside. It was his uniform, clean and neatly folded. He spun away from me, but I caught his arm and pulled him back. There were big tears in his eyes that he began to angrily brush away with clenched fists. His once firm jaw, started tremble.

He fought to pull way from me, but I held him tight.

“What happened Kenny? What happened to the money?”

“My Dad spent it already. He went out and spent all of it on booze last night. It was his birthday. I hate him.”

His whole body was shaking now as he began to cry openly. I pulled him inside the doorway because I knew that it would worsen the moment if any of his friends saw him like this. I wanted to say, “I hate your dad too.” The honest truth is, that was what I felt, but I knew those words wouldn’t help. Kenny’s dad was still his dad and whatever I felt about him wasn’t going to change that. He would still go home to the same house tonight. For a moment I stumbled around not knowing what to say, (I seem to have that trouble a lot in life) but finally I managed these words,

“I’m upset with your dad too Kenny. You have to remember though, there are some things in life that we don’t understand. I don’t get why your dad has this problem, but my sense is that the only thing that will ever change him is God. We need to pray for him don’t you think?”

His eyes looked up to mine, a mix of anger, hurt and embarrassment. It reminded of a little child who had just fallen on the sidewalk and skinned their knees running to their mother for comfort.

“The other thing I wanted to tell you was this,” I said, handing him back his uniform, “Someone came into Chris’ office yesterday and donated some money to the baseball team for scholarships. She said we could use it for your team dues.”

It is truly something to see when a very measurable weight is lifted off of another person’s shoulders. Kenny’s face changed completely. I really can’t describe it.

Looking back on that moment. I guess what I was watching was the literal effect of grace in another’s life. No, it wasn’t necessarily a spiritual experience for Kenny. Yet, you could say that very definitely his spirit was lifted. In some way his sense that someone cared for him was heightened. 

He dried his eyes.

He lifted his shoulders up and stood straight with deep relief evident in his whole body. 

A solemn, but hopeful smile spread across his entire face.

Like I said, maybe it wasn’t a spiritual experience for Kenny, but in hindsight it has been for me.

That moment will be a visual image all my days of what “grace” looks like on a person’s face. 

A gift of undeserved favor. 

The difference it can make in your outlook; in your appearance. 

I wonder if we realize the spiritual implications of this concept. I think sometimes that we in the church have taken away grace as our bridge to heaven and somehow replaced it with a badge that we all can earn in some way. Grace isn’t grace if you have to earn it. I am not a great theologian, and don’t pretend to be, but earning any aspect of our salvation just doesn’t jive with my best understanding of what Jesus was saying when he taught us about grace. When we truly understand that there isn’t, wasn’t and never will be a way to earn God’s love for us, most of us will be a lot better off than we were beforehand. 

Somebody loves me. 

Somebody cares so much for me that He gave His life  for me...as undeserving as I may be. 

There was no bargaining involved. He didn’t try to sneak out of it. 

He saw my face that day in Gethsemane. 

He looked past my eyes and into my heart. 

Then He looked Death in the eye and didn’t blink. It was Death that looked away first....

...and because of that I am the beneficiary of something I really have a hard time trying to explain sometimes, and have been recipient of, more times than I can number.  

I do know this...it sure feels good!  In fact it has changed my life, and I would count it a privilege to share that gift with you.  :)

Almost 55

I awoke at 3am a couple weeks ago.
Sleep felt claustrophobic and heavy.
There was lighter air that came with a thought; an embraced truth.
It drifted to my heart and was unveiled in my mind like unfurled ribbon.

       Lay hold of that for which Christ Jesus laid hold of you.

The words began to bang around inside me like a tin can kicked down an alley.
They clanged against shadowed corners of my thinking and brought new light and life to my mind.
They stretched me out and noted my weakness.
They identified my strengths and hopeful thoughts, but also the worn and weary edges of my commitment...to that voice; to the One who called me in the long ago.
I was just a teenager.
A dreamer.
Not as much a leader as a follower.

I'm 54 years old now.
I am tired sometimes.
I don't like to admit it, but I get there; both in strength and in spirit.

Still, I carry a banner.
I carry a cross.
The one that's mine.

In the grayer days I have laid it down and picked up other things that seemed lighter and less obtrusive and stepped to the side.

I don't know if others have noticed me in those moments.
I don't know if it matters.


I just found a rest stop and sat there awhile, with indefinite plans, before walking again.

And He sat beside me,  observing what I was holding and what I had laid down.  Today I realize that He has always let me go where I wished and walked with me even on those days; patient and silent..until that 3am wake up from His Spirit.

And I discovered the gray that seemed easier to carry was no longer so.  It had become cumbersome, so I let it go.

I have found that clarity is feather-weight.
It is sunrise.
It is freedom from the mundane, it is to....

       Lay hold of that for which Christ Jesus laid hold of you.

Tuan's Story Of Crumbs

                He had been attending for a few weeks when I caught his arm as he was heading out the  
           front door, following the conclusion of our Sunday morning service and introduced myself.
           Later, we made an appointment to get together and get to know each other better.  It was
           during that meeting that I asked him what drew him to our church.  There were several ideas
           that he shared with me as to why he stayed at our church once he arrived, but the story of
           why he came that very first time was rather unique, and he has given me permission to
           share it.  So, this is Tuan's "story of crumbs"... :)

      The most difficult decisions you will ever make are the ones God has already made for you... 

     But how do we know that we are on the right path? For me, that means "following crumbs". God leaves all of us many crumbs so that we can stay the course.  But unlike the story of Hansel and Gretel, these crumbs do not get eaten by birds; they do come and go but it takes recognition, discernment and obedience to lead us back home, to Him.

     Several years back while “strolling” through life, I found myself lost. I had a good paying job, the bills were always paid on time, I took vacations often, and had strong relationships with a small group of friends that I could always count on. But I was empty inside.  I couldn’t really explain why I felt that way, but the void grew and quickly overwhelmed my life. I was falling apart. As it is when you lose control of something valuable, anxiety sets in.  I became desperate as the downward spiral dictated my emotions and also hindered me physically. 

     It finally dawned on me that while I spent a lot of time praying to God to help me get through what I could see was an impending onslaught of depression, I failed to listen or see. Simply put, I did not do my part.  That’s when I started to pick up the crumbs. 

     I was living in Seattle at the time and my commute to work was by way of bike on the Burke Gilman Trail.  On a commute home one day there was an older man riding in front me.  I don’t know what the circumstances were, but it appeared something he ran over had caused him to crash on the pavement.  A few of us stopped alongside him and quickly realized that 911 was in order as he was not responsive.  After that incident, whenever I saw debris on the trail that I felt was a potential hazard, I would stop and remove it. A simple crumb at the time.  I once found a wallet on the trail. I got to work, Googled the person using his driver’s license, and wallet and owner were quickly reunited, just another crumb that I had picked up.  I started to befriend a homeless man on the trail. I would see Duane regularly on my way to and from work pushing his shopping cart full of his belongings. And over time I finally decided to stop and say “hi”. I would offer him what I had in my backpack as far as food but soon offered more.  Shoes and clothing would eventually follow. Yet more crumbs on the trail.  My best friend was going through a bitter divorce.  I did my best to help by being there as a friend but it was obvious that he needed more.  I saw that as a crumb and followed it, and told him my story about crumbs.  He’s now a Christian and finding his own crumbs.   

     I even found crumbs at work.  Superficial conversations with my coworkers were mundane, but upon closer inspection, were really crumbs. The crumbs were telling me that stronger relationships could be built through what once was only water cooler jibber-jabber. So as the crumbs emerged, I availed of what was given and threw in a few crumbs of my own and the conversations soon took on new life, with greater meaning; allowing me to even talk about God, at work of all places!     

     Following the crumbs even led me to Budapest, Hungary.  This past summer while traveling through Europe, the crumbs gave me the opportunity to feed the onslaught of refugees fleeing from Syria and overwhelming the Hungarian city. 

     And most recently, a golden crumb as I like to call it.  After 3 years of looking for a church (yes, it was that hard for me to find one), the crumbs led me to Hillside!

     Now it seems I have an imaginary basket full of crumbs, and no matter where I look I will not be steered wrong as long as I follow the crumbs. It has become clear to me that the more crumbs I pick up, the better I feel about myself and the more hope I have each day.  More importantly by seeing and recognizing these crumbs I started to hear more and more from God.  What He told me was threefold:

      1)    Pick up the crumbs; stay on the path.

      2)    The crumbs will make you feel better, you in turn will talk about crumbs, making others feel better. They will look for their own crumbs.

      3)    The crumbs are from me and they are all around you, always.  We now have a relationship, consume at will and you will never be lost, hungry or full, but you will be satisfied.

     To sum this up, I believe that God provides the means and the opportunities to help us from veering astray, but we still have to help ourselves to completely stay on course.  We must take action to fully be receptive to what has been given in order to grow and have an unbreakable bond with God.

           

       
         

The Frightened Church

     A few weeks ago I told a story that was part of my life-education while living in Chicago in the mid-80's.  I used it as an introduction to the message I shared about what happens to the church when we look at our world through fear-tinted glasses. The story goes like this...

     I was a tad behind schedule that morning, riding the bicycle I had borrowed from the pastor’s daughter (a girl's bike, complete with a white-woven basket in front, ornamented with flowers around the upper rim) down Damen Avenue on my way to work at the Boy’s club. Switching over to a side street to avoid traffic I was finally making some good time, but after hopping the bike over a curb, I felt the back end hit the pavement with a thud, braked the bike and looked down at the hind wheel. The tire was quickly going flat. I bent down and got a closer look. There was a roofing tack stuck in the tire.

     I pushed the bike over to the curb and began looking for a pay phone. I couldn’t see one anywhere. Then, kitty-corner from where I was, my eyes were drawn upward to a beautiful cross that was attached to the top of an ornately decorated church facility surrounded by a black, wrought-iron fence. A beautiful cross, shining in the morning light, above stained glass and spired window settings. I rolled the bicycle toward the front steps and set the kickstand.

    Walking around the bike, I reached to open the front door, but both sides of the double-entry were locked. I rapped my knuckle against the hand-carved wood, backed away a step and waited. Nothing. I tried again. Same result. I peered through the small inset window in the upper half of the door. I couldn’t see any activity in the hallway that stretched out several yards behind the door. Yet there was a light on in the corridor that intersected the entryway hall. I backed up again and noticed an intercom box to the right of the door and stepped over to it. I pushed the button marked “talk” and said,

“Hello!?” then released the button.

A voice crackled over the speaker, “May I help you?”

A sense of relief swept over me.

“You sure can help me,” I said.

“You see, my bike tire went flat just around the corner, if you can come and open the door, I’ll just make a quick phone call...let the Boy’s Club know that I will be a little late and get a friend of mine to come pick up the bike on his way to work...”

There was no response.

“Hello...Is there anyone there!?”

“I’m sorry sir, I’ll have to check and see if it’s O.K. to open the door.”

“What?”

“I have to check with one of the sisters to find out if I can open the door.”

“You’re kidding...right!?”

“I’ll be right back.”

“Wait a minute. I just want to use the phone. You can call the church where I live, they’ll vouch for me. It will only take a minute.”

“I’ll be right back sir.”

    I stepped away from the speaker, shaking my head in disbelief. I waited. I waited some more. I watched the traffic run past the well- manicured front lawn of the church. I squinted a look into that little window one more time. Nothing. I felt like I was waiting on the wizard of OZ to give me some gift from behind the curtain. Finally the voice came back to the speaker.

“Sir...Are you still there?”

“Yes.”

“I talked with a sister.”

“Yes.”

“She said that we couldn’t really help you.”

“You can’t help me?”

“I’m sorry sir.”

I wanted to tell her just how “sorry” she was. 

My throat was suddenly dry, but I still tried to speak, “There’s nothing...I mean...can I leave the bike here and walk to the club?...pick it up later? I’ll back away from the door and leave it on the stoop.”

“I’ll have to check with the sister. Just a moment.”

“No wait...just forget it. I can’t believe this...I just need to use the phone.”

“I’m sorry sir.”

“Yeah.”

“Sister said that there is probably a pay phone in the tavern across the street.”

“Thanks...I’m sure there is.” I turned away from the doors and started down the steps, then stopped and walked back to the speaker and pushed the talk button one more time.

“Are you still there.”

“Yes,” she said.

“Do me a favor please. Tell your sister to take down the cross from the top of the building, it’s false advertising.”

    When I re-live this story in my mind, it's hard for me to believe I delivered the last line.  It doesn't really sound like me; at least the 54-year-old me.  Maybe it was more like the 21 year-old me than I recall. 
    Thirty-plus years later...
    The church we worship in is located in a very diverse area.  
    We have regular challenges with theft and vandalism on and around our property.  
   Part of our parking area is away from view of the church; hidden by a hillside.  We are aware of fairly continual drug sales and other activities that take place there.  
   The police have used our kid's playground as a stake-out location in attempt to catch some of the local suppliers.  
   Transients often sleep in our entryways.  Occasionally, they will find an unlocked door in one of our vehicles and fend off the cold there.  
    There is a weariness that creeps in when trying to be compassionate in this kind of environment.  That's just the truth.  
     That being said, I can understand some of the sheltered-ness that key characters in the story above were creating for "the sisters".  To me, this is not a story about a denominational stance.  It's easy to point at another faith group and expose their shortcomings. What's harder is to take the opportunity for me to address my own fear-based responses to what's happening in the world around me.  
    My worries.  My stereotypes.  My fears.  My church.  Where am I in all of this?  
    Faith only breathes in the realm of risk. 
  I can't retreat from view of what's outside my door; only address the completely comfortable situations that come my way and truly stay in step with Jesus.  That's a place too safe for faith to grow.  
    So, what is the line between faith and recklessness?  I don't always know.  I'm not sure that the line is so certain that policy statements can always define it.  Though I am generally in favor of policy statements, God seems to operate outside church policies with great effectiveness.
    I guess that in the immediate sense, the only thing I know for sure is that pointing across the street to the bar when someone with a need appears before me, is not the response of faith.



      
  

Joy To The World

I don't know if I am good at simplifying things because I am....well, a rather simple person, or if it is some kind of gift from Christ.

Either way, it doesn't matter to me.  I like it a lot when something becomes less complicated.  It's easier for me to share that way.

When I think of the Christmases that have meant the most to me; the ones which store the most memory-driven smiles, they were de-cluttered Christmases.  They can be summarized in one sentence and my family will know exactly what year I am speaking of.  For instance:

The year there were four-foot snow drifts and the power went out for a week.
The year we drove to and from Phoenix in the LeBaron.
Just my wife and I, (plus a kitten) in frozen, snowy Chicago.
All the presents stolen from the back of a VW squareback, after a foggy drive to Medford.
Two cats for Christmas, (That was nuts!) in a parsonage in Idaho.
Nairobi...our youngest asked for pencils for Christmas...our oldest directed the children's program.
The year of the Charlie Brown tree in Varna.
Three months of snow in Poznan; and the perfect view of fireworks above the city on New Year's Eve.
Completely lost; driving through 6 inches of snow in the little Opel Astra somewhere between Wroclaw and Krakow...

The list above is not complete.  In fact, the more I think about it, pretty much each year has been special, but the best part of each holiday was not the emphasis on the bigger, brighter, louder things, but rather the point where everything slowed down a bit and got smaller; quieter.  We enjoyed the presence of God, (whether we knew that was what was happening at the time or not) and consequently our family also enjoyed each other, in a better, simpler kind of way.

The link below is a testimonial to this thought.  My daughter and son-in-law created the video several years ago.  It was their first Christmas as a family.

A click on the link should get you to the site.  Enjoy.  :)

(This was the brief summary that leads into the video)

The first year we celebrated Christmas as a family was the close to a rough year.  We had $30 to our name.  In spite of what could have been, It remains one of my fondest memories.  We made a home video that year that I re-watch every Christmas.  It helps me to refocus on the things in this world that mean the absolute most.  Take a deep breath in.  Love each other.  Hold each other.  Repeat.

http://www.whiskeyandhoney.us/journal/2013/12/22/the-thirty-dollar-christmas

Walking in Dad's Shoes

     He's been gone for five years now.
Feels so odd to write that.
One day, I will say, "Dad passed away 20 years ago."
I will be nearly 70 then.

     This past Sunday morning I laced on a pair of his shoes that a few months back came into my possession.
    We wear the same size shoe.  I don't think I really knew that.  Ten and a half.
    I have two pair of his shoes.  Wingtips; a brown pair and a black pair.
    Not sure if that is one or two words; wingtips.  I have never owned a pair before.  They were expensive shoes.
   That's how Dad did things.  He saved until he could get something well-made; something solid, something that would last.  Then he wore it, or drove it, or used it until it was done; completely.

   Both pairs of shoes have these little "risers" tacked to the heel where it had been wore down.  Cobblers did that.  I have never taken a pair of shoes to a cobbler.
     I have some other things that were Dad's.
A few ties.
         A shirt.
              His wallet.
   But for some reason, it is when I put on his shoes, internally,  a "pause" button is pushed, and I will sit on the edge of the bed, chair, or stool...and remember.
     And I remember odd things...
    The way he shifted gears while driving the pickup.
    The songs he used to like to sing.
    The stiff way he shot a basketball or swung a baseball bat.
    The precision of his technical drawings.
    The look in his eyes and the way his mouth curled when he smiled.
    But what I remember most is not an image; it is a feeling.  It is the feeling that mostly, Dad always seemed prepared for what was coming next.
    There was a plan in place.
    He was working the plan that he designed;
                that he had thought out to its logical end in advance.
So, in the current moment, he was just following through with his plan.
     I would look at him, and say,
    "How did you know that would happen?" or
    "How did you learn how to do that?" 
     and he would return that smile and tussle my hair and say,                                  
                                                  "Your Grampa taught me."
    I wish that I had paid more attention to the things Dad tried to teach me, 
    but there were times when I thought he didn't know anything about anything that really mattered.
I don't like thinking about that now, but it's true.
 
   We were fortunate enough to enjoy an incredible friendship for the last 25 years or so of his life.  It was a gift from God.  We both found a place in our lives where Christ's Spirit wrangled away our differences and left us with less edginess toward each other.
     In the past decade, as I have aged, people have said more and more that I remind them of him.  I used think how terrible that would be.  Now, it is a comfort.
     As I walk in these old wingtips, I feel a squeeze in the arch.  The form of them is not contoured to my foot yet, but the size is a fit.
    These shoes,
                they speak to me of he and I, and our journey together
                                                                                 and separately now.
    They are a reminder to me that we have been very different men.  That at times those differences seemed so pronounced that there was little to find in common.
   Yet now, I believe we are more the same than I ever conceived we would be,
                                                                                         and I am contented with that thought.
 

Flower Girl vs. Spider Man

    There was a joy in the air.   Our youngest daughter had just received and accepted a marriage proposal.  My wife and her spent the next several days trying to put together the myriad of plans that were necessary to pull off a ceremony.
    We were excited to share the news with all of our friends and family.  Our grand-daughters were over to our house one evening soon after the announcement, and we asked the youngest one,
   "Do you want to be the Flower Girl for your Auntie's wedding?"

   The four-year-old furrowed her brow, looked annoyed, and emphatically said, "No."
    "What?" I said, thinking that I had just offered the opportunity that all young girls ache for,
    "You don't want to be Flower Girl?"
    She shook her head again and said with staunch determination, "No, I want to be Spider Man!"

     We all laughed...except for a certain four-year-old who failed to understand the humor in the moment.  She was serious as a thunder storm.  She knew who she wanted to be and our pre-conceived notions were not going to dissuade her.  You could see it all over her.
    Flower Girl? (insert image of wrinkled nose and sour expression here) What kind of special powers does Flower Girl have?  Certainly she could not compete with Spider Man.  Spider Man crushes Flower Girl - case closed.  

     There was a certainty.  There was a commitment to reject the mundane.  There was adventure ahead and it all lay before a three-foot tall, female version of Spider Man.

    While living in Nairobi, Kenya about a decade and a half ago, I read a beautifully written book entitled, West With the Night, by Beryl Markham.  It's an incredible autobiography about the first woman to fly solo across the Atlantic.  She was a hunter of lions.  She was a racehorse trainer.  She wrenched all the life she could from East Africa in the 30's and 40's like she was wringing water out of a damp wash rag.  But I noticed something else in her writing.  It seemed that there were people who came along at just the right time to spill light across her path in such a way as to inspire and encourage "next steps" that otherwise may not have been taken.  She describes such a moment in time, just before she determined to learn to fly airplanes.  Her trail was intersected one day by a young man who was attempting to nurse life back into a broken-down automobile.  The two were discussing progress.  Remember, this was a time when horses were the main form of transportation in East Africa.  There were few motorcars and fewer planes.  At one point in their dialogue the young man described for Beryl his growing affinity for flying,
     "When you fly, you get a feeling of possession that you couldn't have if you owned all of Africa.  You feel that everything you see belongs to you-all the pieces are put together, the whole is yours not that you want it, but because when you're alone in a plane, there's no one to share it.  It's there and it's yours.  It makes you feel bigger than you are -closer to being something you've sensed you might be capable of, but never had the courage to seriously imagine."
      This is an invitation.  It speaks to my heart about something I have never done, but am suddenly wishing I had.  It is amazing.  It makes me want to fly.  The descriptive phrases draw us out of our easy chair.  The author, Ms. Markham was equally touched.  Here was her response:
     "He had been lavish with a stranger.  He had left me a word, tossed me a key to a door I never knew was there, and had still to find.  'All the pieces are put together, and the whole is yours...'  A word  grows to a thought - a thought to an idea - an idea to an act.  The change is slow, and the Present is a sluggish traveller loafing in the path Tomorrow wants to take."
      As is often said, "The rest is history."
     In Matthew, chapter 4, we read this: "Walking along the beach of Lake Galilee, Jesus saw two brothers: Simon (later called Peter) and Andrew. They were fishing, throwing their nets into the lake. It was their regular work. Jesus said to them, “Come with me. I’ll make a new kind of fisherman out of you. I’ll show you how to catch men and women instead of perch and bass.” They didn’t ask questions, but simply dropped their nets and followed." (Message)  
     All three of the story lines shared above speak to moments in time where folks turn their focus toward something larger than themselves.  I am going to be Spider Man!   I am going to become a pilot!  I am going to become a fisher of men!  

     Granted, the second and third seem more realistic; more possible, but they all involve risk, determination and commitment.  I guess that what I am realizing today is that the adventure in life truly begins when we are willing to step into a place of uncertainty.  Our Christian experience is so like that.  The conversations of our lives take on fresh and dramatic plot twists when we are willing to lay down our nets and follow Him.   The invitation stands waiting.  There is more to each of us than we right now can imagine.  We must be willing to wonder, willing to move, even willing to fly whether we own a cape or not.  He said....Come... and I will make...!  Only the first step is up to us, it is letting go the familiar for the sake of the unknown....the "making" part is up to Him.  :)