Grace and the Waves of Life

Over the last few years, I’ve written a good many blog posts.  Many of those posts were spiritually oriented, and several of them focused on the subject of Grace.  So, when I got copied on a group email from a man who had attended the same Bible College as I did, and he was struggling with a very real feeling of inadequacy before God…a feeling that he had not lived up to what he believed a Christian was supposed to be,… and was subsequently feeling that his salvation was in jeopardy, I directed him to my writings on Grace.  He read them.  He said they were good, but they were directed toward those just coming to faith… and not to him.  He had come to faith and then failed… ”Is there really any Grace for me?” he was in essence asking.

That’s when I realized that within the various bodies of faith organizations, there are those who have so focused on “doing the right things” that they have convinced themselves that unless they achieve perfection, they will be lost.  And, it’s not just “doing” the right things…it’s also “believing” the right things.  “Thinking” the right things.  “Teaching” the right things.  On and on. 

So many opportunities to fall short.

So many opportunities to feel guilty.

This man asked me to write something for the person who is already a believer and who needs the Grace of God.  Sure.  No problem, I thought.  I can knock that out.  No so fast, big boy!  I started thinking about it, and I realized that I needed to dig into this a bit.  I needed a deeper understanding.  A week turned into a month.  A month turned into a quarter.  Soon, I had drifted off onto other projects, and never completed the response to this man.  Eventually, it became a situation of “out of sight, out of mind.”  I forgot about it.

Fast forward to New Year’s Day 2013.  I opened my email and I had a message from the same guy.  He was thanking me for helping him last year, and he was still hoping I could write something more on Grace.  Suddenly, I was the one feeling just a bit inadequate.  I had let the man down.  Geesh.  Some help I was.  So, I renewed my promise, and I have been digging around this subject ever since…and what you are about to read in this and the upcoming posts in this new series is the progress I’ve made so far.  It is still developing; a work in progress.

I don’t think that I will ever say that I fully understand this subject.  In fact, I don’t think any of us fully understand Grace.  It is a God thing and just a bit above our pay grade.  But, I think I have gained a more full understanding than I had before, and I only hope to share what I’ve been able to glean.  I will start today with one thought and one scriptural message:

THOUGHT:  GRACE is experienced in our lives to the extent that we TRUST in God.

MESSAGE:

Immediately Jesus made the disciples get into the boat and go on ahead of him to the other side, while he dismissed the crowd.  After he had dismissed them, he went up on a mountainside by himself to pray.  Later that night, he was there alone, and the boat was already a considerable distance from land, buffeted by the waves because the wind was against it.

Shortly before dawn Jesus went out to them, walking on the lake.  When the disciples saw him walking on the lake, they were terrified.  “It’s a ghost,” they said, and cried out in fear.

But Jesus immediately said to them:  “Take courage!  It is I.  Don’t be afraid.”

“Lord, if it’s you,” Peter replied, “tell me to come to you on the water.”

“Come,” he said.

Then Peter got down out of the boat, walked on the water and came toward Jesus.  But when he saw the wind, he was afraid and, beginning to sink, cried out, “Lord, save me!”

Immediately Jesus reached out his hand and caught him.  “You of little faith,” he said, “why did you doubt?”

And when they climbed into the boat, the wind died down.  Then those who were in the boat worshipped him, saying, “Truly you are the Son of God.”  Matthew 14: 22-33

I think that this story is revealing a message about Grace.  It is showing us a quality of Grace.

I asked another man recently about Grace, and among some of the things he said, he described the church’s view of Grace as being like a pendulum.  Some swing way over to works and Grace isn’t really much more than a nice concept to them.  Others swing way over to Grace, and what you do (if you do anything) doesn’t matter.

The problem with pendulums is that they are constantly swinging.  As long as they are working, they never find their middle and stay there.  As Christians, we need to jump off the pendulum.

Several years ago, I was giving a devotional talk, and I was raising the concept of Grace.  One woman said that we should be careful about talking about Grace too much because when people focus too much on Grace, nothing ever gets done….people stop working.  (This was in an organization that is very much performance-based.)  I think that perspective misses the whole point.  Grace doesn't drown motivation.  Grace is the float of motivation in our lives.

Grace is the power of God that gives us the spiritual float in this wicked sea of life.  It gives us the lift that allows us to work.  It moves us along despite the wind and the waves.

So, here’s the thing.  Jesus was God cloaked in a man’s body…a human body.  Human bodies CANNOT walk on water.  It is an impossibility…short of the power of God.  But, in fact, the power of God gave Jesus the lift to stay on top of the waves.  It gave him the ability to function and move and advance.  Jesus perfectly trusted in the power that was provided to keep him above the water line.  His trust led him to act despite the impossibility of the action.

Peter had a different experience.

Peter saw the example of Christ.  He wanted to reflect that example.  He wanted to get out there and be that man.  Jesus invited him to join him, so Peter got out of the boat with his initial enthusiastic trust in the possibilities of God.  He walked on water.

Then, reality set in.

The sea spray was hitting him the face.  The wind was blowing him around.  The waves were lapping at his legs.  He was doing the impossible…until he realized that he was doing the impossible.

Suddenly, his mind shifted from what GOD was doing in his life to the fact that it was impossible for him to do what he was doing.  And, you know, he was right.  It was impossible for PETER to do what he was doing.  Only God could do it through him.  So, when he shifted from what God was doing through him to what was impossible for himself to do, he began to sink.

When he trusted in the power of God, he could walk in safety.

When he lost that trust, he began to sink.

But even in his lack of trust…his battle with his “little faith,”…Jesus was there to pull him out of the waves and get him safely into the boat.

Every day, men and women make the decision to reflect the life of Christ by becoming a Christian.  They accept his invitation, and get out of the boat.  But, living the Christian life is impossible.  The winds of sin buffet us constantly.  The spray of the world hits us in the face every minute of every day.  The waves of temptation lap against our stride as we try to make some headway.  As long as we trust in the power of God…and not in our own ability…we can stand, we can move, and we can accomplish the impossible.  But when we begin to trust only in what we can do within our own ability, we will struggle…we will doubt… and we will sink.  Our failure breeds more failure.

However, we aren’t in this thing alone.  Jesus is right there in the water with us.  Either way.

He will either walk along side us, or he will grab our arms and pull us safely back into the boat until our faith is strong enough to again face the waves of life.

A Muncie Boyhood-Racism and Innocence

In honor of Black History Month, here is my Muncie Boyhood discussion of the racism around me in my youth in that “Model of Middle America" known as Muncie.

I am finding that this particular article is difficult for me to begin.  I suppose because it remains such a delicate subject in so many ways, and even though I am strongly opposed to any sort of racism, I could easily be taken out of context.  Therefore, I feel compelled to be so very careful in how I write this, that I am slow to get going.

I was born in 1961.  So, by the time the Civil Rights Movement was gathering steam in the mid-60’s, I was still a small boy.  A small white boy. 

I was watching a History Channel story today about African-American history and to my surprise…well, maybe not surprise…perhaps chagrin…Muncie was mentioned in the context of the early 20^th Century rise of the Ku Klux Klan.  I am grateful to say that my family was never a party to that hatefulness and I never was aware of any active members, but I’d be willing to bet that some members lived in my neighborhood… nearby.

As a young white boy in Muncie in the 1960’s, life was simple to me.  I had no understanding of the long and intense history of prejudice, racism, and bigotry that had plagued our society.  My family didn’t promote racism, but they weren’t particularly outspoken about it either.  And while there were many cuss words that were heard around our house, “Nigger” was never one of them.  I might have heard it from a neighbor or an extended relative from time to time, but it just wasn’t in my family's regular vocabulary.  Without any training that I recall, I just disliked the word from the earliest memory I have of it, and I could not understand why anyone would call someone else a hateful name simply because their skin was darker in color.

I have to admit, though, that as a young boy, I lived a life that was very isolated from other races.  My entire neighborhood around the intersection of Hackley Street and 21^st Street was completely made up of industrially supported, lower middle class families and were without exception white.  All of the black families lived on the other side of Heekin Park.  Even my school, Roosevelt Elementary was all white.  I don’t recall ever seeing anyone there…teacher or student…who wasn’t white.  Basically, the only time I saw African American folks was when they drove their cars down Hackley Street and passed by our house.  So, my entire early cultural education on black folks was based on the TV and what the other people in my life said.

That provided a conflict in my mind.  Most of the adults that spoke about race relations in my early life in Muncie were bigoted, but the TV news depicted a grand struggle for equal rights as well as the obvious mistreatment of innocent people for no good reason and that seemed unreasonable to my sensitive mind.  I had no personal knowledge from which to build an opinion, however it seemed to me that it was inherently wrong to pre-judge someone based on what they looked like.  It seemed to me that the hateful words that I heard spoken by folks around me were just that...hateful.

So, I rejected racism very early.

That doesn’t mean that my mind wasn’t tainted by it.  Fear was imbedded.  I saw the news on TV of the race riots in other cities.  I can remember hearing the kids at Roosevelt talk about “another riot at Southside.”  In the early days of Muncie South…the home of the Rebels…their mascot was a Confederate Rebel and I think they did make some use of the Confederate Battle Flag as well.  When you consider that a large part of the student body was black, that didn’t sit too well.

It was also during this time that there was a good deal of unrest down the road near where Hackley Street intersected with Willard Street and the surrounding blocks.  I can remember riding in the back seat of my dad’s new Chevy Nova as we went to pick him up from work at the Chevrolet plant late one night, when as we stopped at a stop sign to turn west on 8^th Street, a large rock landed on our rear window.  My mom sped off and I can remember the talk being that it was a race thing.  The window didn’t break and everyone was okay, but it fed my fear.

That scary event was offset to a degree at Tuhey Pool.  My dad used to take me swimming at the pool, and it was one of the few places (Heekin Park being the other) where I would have the opportunity to interact with black kids prior to middle school.  I don’t remember much, but I do remember this one smiling black boy that was so friendly…I liked him a great deal and had fun playing in the water with him.  It helped with the fear to a degree, but it couldn’t completely offset the feeling of anxiety that was developed inside me both by the news media and the gossip of the prejudiced people around me.

It was with this brew of fear swirling in the pit of my stomach that I approached the prospect of moving on from the entirely white Roosevelt Elementary to the fully integrated Wilson Middle School.  Not helping the matter was a little tour our sixth grade class took the spring before I was to attend there.  Here I am, with the irrational fear of other races testing my tentative courage as I walked down the strange hall in the strange school, when a large black boy…probably one of those huge 8^th graders (All 8^th graders looked huge to me back then.)…well, this boy menacingly lunged at me as he passed our group.

He scared the ‘stuff’ out of me.

So much for what little courage I had.  After that, I had nothing but that encounter to think about as the summer before my 7^th grade year whizzed by.

Fear led to anxiety.  Anxiety led to worry.  But there was no way out.  I had to go.

Maybe it wouldn’t be as bad as I had heard.  Maybe I wouldn’t get beat up by someone just because I was white.  I’d never hurt them, and I couldn’t understand why they would want to hurt me for no reason.  Today, I understand that the same fear was residing in the hearts of many of the black kids as they prepared for that same first day of school on the other side of Heekin Park, but back then I had not yet learned the full history of the way that black folks had so bitterly been mistreated.  My innocence blinded me to the deeper plight held by my classmates.

When the start of school came, I entered in the morning with fear in my heart, but left in the afternoon with the joy of new friends!  In the days that followed, that irrational fear subsided as I playfully bantered and goofed off with new friends like Marvin and James.  They were funny.  They were fun.  I forgot they were black because in my inner being, I never really cared what color anyone was on the skin-side of their soul.  I no longer feared the black kids because they were black.  From then on, I was just afraid of mean kids… because they were mean…white or black.

But, there was another fear that hid itself in my heart…and one that I am still ashamed that I allowed it to control me.  You see, I liked James and Marvin a lot.  We had fun at school.  So much so, that I often thought about having them come over after school.  But, I was afraid to ask them.  It seems weird to me now because my folks weren’t outwardly bigoted.  I think it was more the influence of the neighbors.  I was worried about how they would react if I had my black friends running around the neighborhood with me. 

As I type this, shame is resting on me.  Marvin or James, if you are reading this, I am sorry.  Please accept my apology for ever letting that fear prevent me from being fully a friend to you.  I don't know if you would have wanted to come over...I don't know if your folks would have allowed you to either...but, it sure would have been fun if you had.

After Wilson Middle School I headed on to the dreaded Muncie Southside High School…the home of the race confrontations of the late 60’s and early 70’s.  By the time I had arrived there, the Confederate (and the flag) had been replaced by a cannon (Ole Reb), and the outward racial animosity between most of the kids was gone.  In my four years there, I developed more friendships with guys like Donnell S., Dante S., Tyrone H. and Tyrone P.  I wasn’t close with them, but I liked them a lot and I have many fond memories.  Donnell has passed away, but I am pleased to say that I’m connected to Dante and Tyrone H. on Facebook.  Another friendship that I started in high school was with a guy named John Benford.  Great guy.  Basketball star.  He was cool and I was sort of nerdy, but we always talked some at school and had a class or two together.  The last time I saw him was after he graduated, and we ran into each other in a parking lot near the old A&P Grocery on south Madison Street.  He was in his car and I was in mine.  We stopped, driver’s-side to driver’s-side, and talked for a few minutes.  It is funny how sometimes you speak to someone and you don’t realize that you may never see them again.  I think I heard he was in California now…I sure hope he’s doing well.

I suppose that if we couldn’t see the color of one another’s skin, we’d find some other reason to be hateful toward each other, but I must say that my idealistic nature wishes that we could put this one issue aside.  I wish we could just stop considering it at all.  I wish we didn’t have “White” Americans and “Black” Americans….or “Native” Americans…or “Latino” Americans.  Maybe if we stopped with all the labels, we could just see each other for who we are…and start assessing people by the “content of their character” instead of the color of their skin.  That is a dream that I share with a rather famous man…Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.

So, I suppose this Muncie Boyhood story is simply one that describes the fact that even though a white boy is surrounded by racism as a child, he doesn’t have to grow up to be a racist.  And, even though I may have been too innocent as a child to understand the full historical plight of my African American friends, simple compassion was enough to tell me that bigotry was wrong. 

And, hopefully one day I can watch the History Channel and see some story of how racism was replaced by friendships in a small city in middle America called Muncie, Indiana.

Anonymous?

One of my best and worst personal characteristics is my curiosity.  Sometimes it leads me into trouble, but more often it leads me to new knowledge and new understandings.  It can be my undoing and it can be my drive toward self-development. 

It can also be like a piece of fried chicken when you’re on a diet…or a like that last piece of pizza that your date picked up before you could get it.  If you ask my wife how to drive me crazy, she’ll tell you to play on my curiosity.  Start to tell me something and then stop.  Hint that you know something I’d be interested in but don’t reveal it.  Give me a glimpse of something and then pull it back.

Or….

Comment on my blog without identifying yourself!

Mr. or Ms. Anonymous…you are driving me crazy!  You are finger nails on the chalkboard to me.

Some of you log in.  Some of you sign your name.  THANK YOU!

But some of you…and you know who you are (I don’t, but you do.)...make comments on my stories and hint that you are someone I know, but you don’t reveal yourself.  Maybe you don’t mean to be, but you’re being mean to me!  You are pulling my curiosity cord with a vengeance.

Help a guy out, will ya?  Tell me who you are!

So, if I ask nicely…say “pretty please”…will you do me a favor and sign your name to your comments?  Or, at least send me a note to tell me that you commented?

Pretty please.

Fried Bologna and a Good Book

Today, I visited the Gerst Haus in Evansville, Indiana to enjoy one of their wonderfully delicious fried Bologna sandwiches.  It is a great German restaurant and the bologna sandwiches are one of their loyal customers’ favorite menu items.  Thick cut.  Fried.  Pepper Jack cheese.  Grilled onions.  German mustard.  And, a side of German fries.  Great stuff!

Check it out at this link:

http://www.gersthaus.com/

Often when I eat lunch alone, I am accompanied by a book.  It could be anything from the Bible to a Dean Koontz adventure; from Baldacci’s intrigue to something on Civil War history.  Today, it was Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein.  When the waitress arrived to take my order, she excitedly told me how fantastic it was that I was reading that book!  Later, after I’d completed my sandwich and was paying the bill, she told me to enjoy the book, and that she was glad it was a real book and not “one of those Kindles.”

I really enjoy a good book.  I especially enjoy fiction.  Even more, I enjoy it with a hint of horror, fantasy, or science fiction.  Thus, I am especially fond of Dean Koontz…he is my guilty pleasure/vacation writer…the guy I turn to when I want to escape on an adventure that will both carry me someplace exciting, and make me laugh while scaring me to death.  That said, I often push myself to indulge in other genres as well, and try to mix it up with spiritually enriching works, classic literature, and various studies of history.  In an average year, I’ll read 12 to 15 books of various types.  I don’t set any reading records, but I think that is pretty good.

So, what about those Kindles?

My wife got me one for Christmas.  So far, I’ve read two books on it: Norma Jean’s Sun by Kris Courtney and Running Blind (Jack Reacher #4) by Lee Child.  (You can find them both on Amazon, and while they are very different, they are good reading.)  I like that Kindle thing.  It is light.  It is convenient.  The books are generally less expensive than buying paper versions.  It is easy to carry from place to place.  And, it is easy to use.  I will continue to use it, no doubt.

But, I have to say…there is just something about the real thing!

I like books.  Real books.  Books with paper and ink.  Books with pages that you have to turn.  Pages you can dog-ear.  Pages you have to mark.  Lines you can highlight.  Words you can underline.  I like the feel of them in my hands.  I like the smell of them as I strum the pages.  I like the look of them as they collect on my shelves.

If my wife and I are out and about, one of the most financially dangerous places for us to go is Barnes and Noble.  Books stores to us are like candy stores for kids or crack houses for addicts.  Well, that last example might be a bit over the top, but you get the point.

While my wife reads nearly as much as I do…or maybe sometimes more…, she doesn’t seem to feel an attachment to the actual tangible book after the story is over.  She reads it and she’s done with it.  The Kindle is her ideal tool.  For me, I’m also a collector.  If I particularly liked a book, I want to keep it.  If it is a classic, I want to keep it.  If it is in a series that I’m enjoying, it stays around.  If it is by Dean Koontz, it goes into the collection.  I may never read any of them twice, but I like to see what I’ve accomplished.  I guess it makes me feel smart.

I think my ideal house would have a huge library like you see in the old movies with volumes and volumes of books of all types and sizes; some that you can only reach by climbing on one of those wheeled ladders.

So despite how good that little Kindle is, I will never completely part with my paper versions.  I will have to feed my book addiction, and the Kindle placebo just will not cut the yearning for the real thing.  My drug of choice is a good story contained in a paper container.

So…if you happen to wander into El Rodeo on Franklin Road, or any other restaurant that I might frequent, and you see me perusing a book as I nibble on tortilla chips and salsa…well, you might want to consider the following video before you interrupt me:

 Julian Smith: I'm Reading a Book

Good readings to you…and see you at the book store.

Mike 

A Muncie Boyhood-Cannons in the Street

Growing up in Muncie, my friends and I shifted from one favorite activity to another about as quick as the weather changed…and, in Indiana that was pretty quick.  One summer, we might all be into baseball for a few days, then it would be neighborhood-wide games of army or hide-n-seek.  Another summer, we’d be into jumping ramps with our bikes or building a fort on someone’s seemingly abandoned piece of property.

One particularly dangerous period involved the creation of “Tennis Ball Cannons.”  I think it was my friend Jerry who introduced it to me.  Now, before I explain it, you, the reader, need to understand that you cannot build these “safely” with today’s materials.  The materials just aren’t as robust as they were back in the 70’s.  And, I put “safely” in quotation marks because even then, we really couldn’t do it safely.

A tennis ball cannon was made from three soda cans and duct tape.  In those days, pop cans were more cylindrical than they are now.  They didn’t taper down on the top and bottom and they had nice heavy rims.  Anyway, without giving enough detail for some ridiculous kid to duplicate it, you duct-taped the three cans together, removing some specific layers (I’m not telling you which layers and how much) in the middle, and completely removing the top of the top can inside the heavy rim.  Then, by putting a hole in the side of the bottom can, you could introduce an accelerant…lighter fluid.  By pushing a tennis ball into the top (and it fit very nicely…quite snugly), and by squirting some fluid in the bottom, you got a very potent cannon.

I can recall standing in the middle of 21^st street and shooting a tennis ball into the sky so high that you couldn’t see it anymore.

Phlummpp!

Then, a few seconds later it would reach its pinnacle and start to fall back to earth.  After it bounced a few times, you’d go collect ball with all the fuzz singed off and reinsert it for the next shot.  Cool stuff.

That’s what my teenage mind thought.

I am pleased to say that this particular activity got nipped in the bud before anything tragic happened.  There was very little that I did that I didn’t introduce to my nephew, David.  He was four years my younger and we were really more like brothers than uncle/nephew.  (In fact, that is still the case.)  So, eventually I carried my cannon to Monroe Street to show him how it worked.

With him in tow, I sat it up in the middle of the street.  Loaded it up.  Squirted in the fluid.  Lit it.

Phlummpp!

It was a beautiful shot.  You could see the flames of the fireball as it rose out of sight!  So cool!

My sister, his mother, stepped out on the porch.  “What are you doing?” she asked.

I was just innocent enough to not realize that I needed to hide this wonderful, little homemade disaster-waiting-to-happen from the wandering eyes of the adults in my life.  “I’m shooting off my tennis ball cannon!  Come on out and watch.  It is soooo cool!”

So, I shot it off for her a few times.  Phlummpp!  Phlummpp!  Phlummpp!

She watched.  She seemed to think it was pretty neat.  She didn’t say much.

She tattled on me to mom.

And before the night was over my cool cannon was history.  Mine was gone and so were the ones that my friends had made.  Our foray into the firearms business was brought to an abrupt conclusion.  We didn't even get to join the NRA.

Now I do realize that it was for the best that she brought that segment of creative play to an end.  However, at the time, I thought she was worse than the offspring from the union of a Klingon/Romulan marriage.  I decided to shun her.  Shut her out of my life.  I vowed to never speak to her again, and I was true to my word for about a month.  She would come over…I’d leave the room.  She’d follow me…I’d ignore her.  Not a word.  Anything I needed her to know went through an emmisary. 

It was about the worst punishment my fourteen-year old mind could come up with, and in her case, it was quite effective.  Pretty soon, she was nearly begging me to give in…so much so that I began to feel sort of sorry for her, and ultimately I decided to forgive her...well, maybe not forgive.  I decided to "let it go."  To her relief, I relented and allowed life to return to its normal, dysfunctional self.  And, we moved on to other, safer activities…like hurling steel darts as hard as we could across the basement…perhaps, that’s the next story.

So, to all you grudge-carrying folks out there…let this be a lesson to you…whenever your older sibling decides to treacherously save you from your own sorry self-destructive actions…

You should forgive them.  And, hopefully before you’ve reached age 51.

Smoker's Rights? Nope.

Out on the grass in my front yard, near the road, is an empty cigarette package.  I keep hoping it will dry up enough so that the wind will blow it somewhere else.  I ought to pick it up and put it in the trash, but I have an aversion to all things “cigarette.”  I can’t stand the smell.  I can’t stand the smoke.  I can’t stand the mess.  I can’t stand what they do to people.  And, I can’t stand the litter.  I don’t even like to touch anything related to it.

A little extreme…I know.

It started when I was a kid.  Almost every adult in my life smoked, but I saw the news stories and the anti-smoking TV ads, and I believed them.  While my mother believed all the Surgeon General’s edicts about smoking causing cancer and emphysema were lies, I was convinced that it was as terrible as they said it was…plus, I just couldn’t breathe around it.

I can’t recall a time in my life when I haven’t HATED cigarettes.  From my earliest days, I worked hard at avoiding the smoke.  I’d recline on the living room floor instead of sitting on a chair or the sofa so as to be under the floating vapors of death.  I spent countless hours isolated in my bedroom.  I escaped outside or down in the basement.  As a child, I would rather suck in the mustiness of that old basement than the odorous fumes from the cancer sticks.

Car rides were the worst…especially in the winter.  The summers weren’t as bad in the old ’68 Chevy Nova with no power nuthin’ because we had the window and vents open, but winter was a killer…some would say “literally.”  It really bothers me today to see parents driving around with their kids in the back, windows sealed up tight, and the smoke just rolling around inside.  If that isn’t child abuse, then we need to redefine it.

When I turned sixteen and got my license, I suddenly took control of the car.  Whenever mom and I drove somewhere, I was behind the wheel.  Combine the natural lack of respect present in most every teenager with my obsessive hatred of tobacco products and you have someone who is going to go over and beyond to ensure that he doesn’t have to deal with smoke in the car.  One of two things would happen if mom insisted in lighting up while I was driving: 1. I’d turn up the radio as loud as I could take it, or 2. I’d stop the car, then get out and sit on the hood until she was done.  Soon, she pretty much refrained from smoking in the car when I was driving.  I’m not recommending those steps, but it’s what I did.  Call it a confession.

It’s funny how time changes things.  As a child, all the adults smoked and all the kids went outside or to the basement to avoid it.  Now, many fewer people smoke and generally they have to go outside to partake.  In this one way, I like how society has shifted.

Back to that empty cigarette packet on my front lawn…

What is it with smokers?  Why do they feel so free to leave their mess everywhere?  I took a walk today too, and in the one-mile I trotted I saw a number of other empty cigarette packages and many more old, nasty cigarette butts.  Here’s an exercise for you…the next time you’re sitting at a traffic light with the motor idling and you’re waiting for your turn to go…take a look out your window and along the median curb…see if you can count ALL of the butts lying there in the dirt.

Further, I wonder if that empty cigarette pack was left there by the same goofball that has been leaving his or her cigarette butts on the end of my driveway for the last ten years.

I remember as a kid going to Ross Supermarket in Muncie, Indiana with my mom.  She would smoke all through the store, and when she was done with one, she’d drop it on the floor and step on it.  That was common practice “back in the day.”  Being a slob with smoking materials seems to be built into the DNA of our addicted society.  But, dear smoker, the next time you are lamenting how your rights are been so severely restricted in today’s anti-smoking culture, you might want to consider all the ways that you have cut off your own nose.

·         Contaminating other people’s air

·         Locking up your kids in smoke-filled cars

·         Causing health problems in others through your second-hand smoke

·         Dropping your used butts in every conceivable location

·         Burning down your families' homes

·         Causing economic and emotion devastation for you family as they cope with your cancer and death

·         And, dropping your trash in my front yard!

My mom did eventually quit smoking.  In 2002, after she was diagnosed with throat cancer, she gave them up.  And, in mid-2004, when the Smoker’s Rights representative called to ask for her help in petitioning the state to prevent smoking bans, I had to tell her that she had died.  Because, you see, she died in 2003 from the side-effects of fighting the cancer.  That woman from Smoker’s Rights suddenly apologized for calling, and then said:  “It’s just my job.”

I sure hope she found a better one.

In memory of:

Uncle-- Keith Terrell (Lung Cancer)

Mom-- Marge DeCamp (Throat Cancer)

Brother-- Bob Nicholas (Throat Cancer)

And others…

Meaningful Words and a Hurtful Tongue

I wish I could invent a way to tie a string to the words I say so that if I say sometime stupid, hurtful, or offensive, I could just pull them back in before anyone hears.

Have you ever felt that way?  If I could invent it, I bet you'd buy it.  I bet I’d become so rich that I could buy out Warren Buffet.

The other day, I was sitting in a class on Sunday morning at church when one of those moments came around.  A friend of mine was sharing a lengthy comment on the subject we were discussing when all at once a horn began to sound outside.  It kept going off and my friend continued to share for several more seconds before some of the guys jumped up to see what the noise was all about.  It didn’t seem to be much of anything important, so everyone came back to their seats.  Someone was commenting on how it was under control, but I said:

“I thought it was just someone trying to get (my friend) to stop talking.”

Folks laughed.  My friend seemed to not be overly bothered.  But, immediately I wished I had not spoken.  I wished that I had the ability to reel the words right back in.

Words are powerful things.  Words have consequences.  Words can change things…for good or ill.  Think Lincoln and the Gettysburg Address.  Think Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. and his “I Have a Dream” speech.  Think Hitler in pre-WWII Germany.  Good or ill.

Words matter.

That event from Sunday reminded me of a story from my days in the youth group as a teen in Muncie.  I can’t remember if I was a junior or senior at the time, but I was regarded as a leader among the teens.  I knew that, but often my insecurities took control and I tried to be funny to win the other teens’ approval through their laughter.  Usually, those attempts at humor were harmless…although I suspect they were likely quite obnoxious too.  However, there was one time when I said something so horrible that I still cringe when I think about it today.

I’m going to share it with you now.

It was “Monday Night Fellowship.”  That was our youth group’s weekly teen event.  It was held at a different family’s home each time we met, but I don’t recall where we were that particular week.  We all loved those nights together!  We had so much fun playing games, singing songs, and learning from our youth minister’s devotionals.  I have so many memories from those days!  Wow.

Monday Night Fellowship was also the one event where we could bring friends and be assured that they would have a good time.  It was an outreach event for our group.  It was not uncommon for new kids to show up on any given Monday.

On the night of my big mouth, Kristi had brought a friend, a girl from her school.  In general, I remember that she was very friendly, and out-going, and sort of cute.  However, she had one rather prominent feature that was overtly apparent to everyone in the room.  Fortunately almost everyone had the good sense to keep their mouths shut and their thoughts to themselves.  Almost everyone. 

Everyone but me.

During the devotional, our youth minister, Neil was sharing a message…I don’t recall the overall gist, but in the message we were asked to say something encouraging about someone else in the room.

“Look around the room,” he said.  “Share something encouraging about someone.”

Enter me…and my personal insecurities blanketed in a need to be funny.

I looked around.  I spotted the cute, out-going, visiting girl with the prominent feature, and with impeccable timing, I said:  “She has a big nose!”

Looking back, I just don’t understand how I could say something like that.  Why would I put the need to be funny so far ahead of any sense of common decency?  Was it some twisted, adolescent attempt at flirting?  I am still ashamed to this very moment.

The room went dead silent for what seemed like eons, but was probably only about long enough for Neil to connect his brain to his mouth and say:  “THAT WAS UNCALLED FOR!  I DON’T WANT TO HEAR ANYTHING LIKE THAT FROM YOU EVER AGAIN!”

My shame was immediate and deserved and I withdrew into myself for the rest of the evening out of humiliation.  I can’t recall if I ever apologized.  I sure hope I did, but that wouldn’t have made the girl’s pain and embarrassment any less.

But, here’s the thing.  I never saw that girl again.  That, maybe is the worst thing about this.  My words severed the potential of relationships between that girl and our group and our church.  Perhaps we could have been great friends, but my words spoiled it all.  Who knows what lasting effects that event has had?  Who knows what the downstream consequences have been?

Words are powerful things.  Words matter.

In the Bible, in the book of James, the writer says:  “Those who consider themselves religious and yet do not keep a tight rein on their tongues deceive themselves, and their religion is worthless.”  James 1:26

I wonder how often our religious words have a similar effect on folks as my thoughtless words had on that girl so many years ago?

Obviously, from the story I told at the outset of this article, I have not yet mastered my mouth.  Unfortunately, I still have a tendency to want the approval of others that can be found in their laughter, and that need comes out occasionally in a rather sharp, sarcastic manner.  I am a work in progress, but my highest goal these days is to use my words in meaningful ways.  To help and not to harm.  To build up and not to tear down.

I like to think that I follow that positive course much more than I used to.

“Do not let any unwholesome talk come out of your mouths, but only what is helpful for building others up according to their needs, that it may benefit those who listen.”  Ephesians 4:29

I was thinking about the story of my hurtful words tonight while perusing the vast amount of words bantered around on Facebook.  This person hates that public figure.  That person is standing up against that terrible social wrong.  There’s another vulgar joke.  Again, there is another hateful rant against this group or that group.  Many of the words are strong, but how many are truly meaningful and meant to build up rather than to tear down?  How many are meant to show love to one another?  You be the judge.

If I had the chance today to stand in humility before that girl from so many years ago, I would tell her how sorry I truly am.  May I NEVER again have the need to apologize like that to anyone.

Words have power.  Your words matter.  Be meaningful, helpful, and encouraging to someone WITH YOUR WORDS every chance you get.  You can make a positive difference in someone’s life.

The world can be moved with strong, loving, meaningful words; yours and mine.  Be mindful of your power.

Your humbled blogger,

Mike

A Muncie Boyhood-Mom's Lost Years & Potato Soup

In one of my earliest “Muncie Boyhood” posts, I shared the story of my brother’s suicide.  He was twenty-six at the time.  I was seven.  My mom was forty-seven…four years younger than I am right now.  While my memories of him are somewhat sketchy, my recollections of the years in the aftermath of his death are more clearly defined.  I often say that my mom went to bed in 1969 and got up again in 1980.

Of course, I exaggerate a bit…but, really only a bit.  The emotional toll of her loss was devastating, and I was left in the wake to pretty much do as I wanted.  Depression settled over her life and she took advantage of the medical profession’s use of anti-depressants to dull the edge of the pain.  With only minor exceptions, she became a recluse to her bedroom, spending day after day reclining in her nightgown; listening to the odd mix of WMDH Country Music and her police scanner, and smoking.  Later, she added a phone extension and a television.  It was not unusual to walk into a cacophony of those sources of noise all blaring at one time.

Dad couldn’t take it and moved to another room to sleep.

She did find the inner strength to get up long enough to take a few trips: California, South Dakota, and an occasional trip “up to the Lakes” near Wolcottville.  Christmas was big enough to get her going…making her ham, macaroni & cheese, and Jello salad.  Otherwise, most of her days and nights were spent on the full-size bed that occupied the northeast corner of our little two-bedroom house.

When I got big enough to fend for myself, Swanson TV Dinners became a regular evening meal for me.  Later, I became very fond of Campbell’s Chunky Sirloin Burger Soup.  One can + four slices of Roman Meal Bread was a fine supper.  Other times, I heated up the skillet with a quarter inch of Crisco in the bottom to fry myself some Pete’s Pride Pork Fritters.  Slather on some mustard and you have another of my meals.  I was even known to chow down on a large can of Freshlike Whole Kernel Corn for dinner; heated up with about a quarter stick of butter, salt, and pepper.  Mm Mmmmm.

Not to be too hard on Mom.  I loved her, and she had so much pain to work through.  During those years, she did have three distinct meals that came in a big pot.  They were prepared at least once per year, and each provided at least a week’s worth of leftovers:  Vegetable Soup, Chili, and Potato Soup.  They were all excellent!  But…  Ahhhhhh, the Potato Soup!

The Potato Soup has become a staple of our family.  Mom did it from memory and taste.  No recipe.  And, we all loved it!  The ingredients were basic:  milk, potatoes, onions, “ripplies” plus butter, salt, and pepper.  But, the magic is in the right balance and the careful cooking.  You have to watch it close or the milk will scorch in the bottom.  Thankfully, Mom taught my wife the magic of the mix and she now does it just as well as Mom did! 

(In case you are wondering, “ripplies” are little dough chunks that are cooked into the soup.  Mom always called them riplets, but Dad renamed them ripplies, and that’s what we all called them from then on to this day.)

Mom told me that the potato soup had its roots in more humble circumstances.  When she was a small girl, she had six siblings and they lived on a farm.  Money was often very tight, and grandma sometimes didn’t have much food on hand to feed those hungry mouths.  She said that the potato soup that we all loved so much started out as a pot of water with a couple of potatoes.  I’m sure glad it evolved from there.

The good news is that my mother did eventually pick herself up out of that decade-long depression and resume her life.  Some of the habits from those lost years carried over, but for the most part she got up and around again.  She got out and about, started hanging with old friends, and regained a spark that had seemed to be gone for so long.  As I write this, I’m wondering what was the real difference? and it is hard to nail down.  Perhaps, it is just something as simple as she began to clean herself up and dress in daytime clothes again.  Or, maybe she got that sharpness back in her tongue.

Nope.  She never lost that.

I think maybe it was a combination of things.  How she dressed.  Her getting out of that bedroom and going places.  Her interest in her friends again.  At any rate, I’m glad to report that she emerged from the devastation of my brother’s death a strong woman on the other side, and I enjoyed another twenty-three years with her in my life...sharp tongue and all.

This month, she would have turned ninety-one.  She passed away in December 2003.  I wrote the following poem a few months later to express my heart in missing her:

Visions of Mom

By Mike DeCamp

2004

Visions of Mom flow through my mind

Memories of home, all mixed and combined 

If I entered her kitchen by the open back door,

I’d often be fed and come back for more 

Big bubbling pots of potato soup

Big wacky cakes with an ice cream scoop 

Then, out in back we’d go for a rest

Sippin’ tea in the shade with mom at her best 

We’d laugh, we’d joke, we’d argue and fuss

In the end, we’d smile, ‘cause that’s just us 

Now, she’s moved on, and these memories I love

I can take comfort from knowing she’s happy above

A Welcome to a Heart of Song

The following is a message and prayer that I shared with my church this morning.  While this message was specifically for this congregation, I think the deeper message is important for anyone who claims Christ as Lord.

January 6, 2013

1.        Good morning everyone!  It is great to be together on this fine morning to worship our Lord.

2.       Please fill out an attendance card.  If you are visiting with us, we welcome you wholeheartedly, and there is a special card for you in the slots on the pews or chairs in front of you.  Also, if you are here for the first time, please stop by the Welcome Center for more information and a tasty gift.

3.       Brothers and sisters, I have some special thoughts to share with you this morning as we begin our worship.  It has been so encouraging and inspiring to witness the young people who have been baptized of late.  Three out of the last four weeks, we have been able to enjoy the reunion of young souls with their creator.  Isn’t that a marvelous thing?  Isn’t it both inspiring and encouraging to us?  Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we could witness those reunions every week?  Perhaps even every day?  It can be done, you know.  I have been in churches where that has happened.  But, for us to do it, it will take some intentional changes on each of our parts.  We will have to do some things differently, and we will each have to make some personal decisions to change.  I want to share now about one of those steps or changes that we can make…a change we could even make this morning…that will put us on that road.

4.       A few weeks ago, Ray Carter shared with me that his girlfriend, Melissa had been brought to tears by Craig Hill and I.  It was in a good way.  She was inspired.  The thing was, all Craig and I had done was to briefly look at one another, smile, and sing to one another during our worship time.  She was sitting way up top and we were way down there, but she saw it and it inspired her.  YOU SEE, THE WAY WE SING CAN HAVE AN IMPACT ON THOSE AROUND US!  You can make a difference in someone else’s life by how you give your heart to your praise!

5.       Last year, my daughter brought me a book home from Harding University called Pilgrim Heart by Darryl Tippens.  There is a passage in the chapter on singing that I want to share. Chapter 12, Singing: The Way to Heaven’s Door.

In her highly original autobiography, Traveling Mercies, Anne Lamott tells the story of how she came to faith.  In a period of despair, when she spent long, lonely days in a fog of alcohol, speed, and cocaine, spiraling towards destruction, something utterly unexpected occurred.  During this dark time she visited a flea market in Marin City, California; and there she passed by a small, sad, ramshackle church from which she heard the most remarkable music.  She called it “glorious noise.”  At the time, Lamott was hostile to Christianity.  She could not bear to hear a sermon, but the music drew her in, and she returned for more in the following weeks. The singing, she said,

was furry and resonant, coming from everyone’s very heart.  There was no sense of performance or judgment, only that the music was breath and food.  Something inside me that was stiff and rotting would feel soft and tender.  Somehow the singing wore down all the boundaries and distinctions that kept me so isolated.  Sitting there, standing with them to sing, sometimes so shaky and sick that I felt like I might tip over, I felt bigger than myself, like I was being taken care of, tricked into coming back to life.

One Sunday in April, 1984, Lamott attended the church again.  She stayed for the sermon that day, which she found unimpressive, but the music was mesmerizing:

The last song was so deep and raw and pure that I could not escape.  It was as if the people were singing in between the notes, weeping and joyful at the same time, and I felt like their voices or something was rocking me in its bosom, holding me like a scared kid, and I opened up to that feeling—and it washed over me.

According to Lamott, “it was the music that pulled me in and split me wide open.”  That day she decided she would become a Christian.

·         Primary passage taken from:  Pilgrim Heart—The Way of Jesus in Everyday Life by Darryl Tippens.  Leafwood Publishers.  Copyright 2006

·         Anne Lamott passages used by Pilgrim Heart taken from:  Traveling Mercies: Some Thoughts on Faith by Anne Lamott.  (New York: Pantheon, 1999)

You see, by singing from the INSIDE out, we can touch people’s hearts.  We can help them be inspired to make changes that otherwise they would ignore.  The heartfelt joining of our voices in praise to God can break through the hardened casings of a troubled person’s soul.

6.       I have some challenges for you to consider.  When was the last time YOUR singing was of such heart-level intensity that it could make a difference in someone’s life?

a.       Young people—Teens—Young Adults:  Lead us with your enthusiasm!  Sing out!  Sing strong!

b.      Older folks—Folks who have been here 30, 40, 50 years or more—You are our anchors in the faith.  Show us how a lifetime of faithful service can overflow into a joyful heart of praise!

c.       Those of you in between—Throw off the inhibitions, those fears that are keeping your mouth quiet!  Throw off the distractions!  Throw off the lukewarm blanket of comfortable religion!  And give your heart to God in song!  If nothing else, make a joyful noise!

A Congregational Prayer—Adapted from Psalm 51

Please consider and pray along with these words.  At the end, I will say “and the church said.”  If at that point you are moved to commit to the sentiments of this prayer, then I want you to say a resounding “AMEN” out loud, together, as a congregation.

Have mercy on us, oh God, according to your unfailing love; according to your great compassion, blot out our transgressions.  Wash away all our failings and cleanse us from our sin.

For we know our transgressions, and our sins are always in front of us.  Against you we have sinned and done evil in your sight; so you would be right and justified in a calling us guilty.

It seems like we have been sinful all of our lives, from the time we were very little, but still you have desired our faithfulness from our earliest days.  You have taught us spiritual wisdom from our birth.

Cleanse us and we will be clean; wash us and we will be whiter than snow.

Father, let us hear joy and gladness; let our crushed hopes be turned to joyful expectations.

Hide your face from our sins, and blot out our failures.

Create in us a pure heart, oh God, and renew a steadfast spirit within us.  Do not give up on us, but infuse your Spirit within us.

Restore to us the joy of your salvation!  Grant us a willing spirit to keep us going!

Then, we will teach the world of your ways, so that sinners…your prodigal children…will turn back to you.

Do not let us be responsible for anyone’s spiritual death, oh God, dear God our Savior, but let our tongues sing of your righteousness. 

Open our lips, Lord, and our mouths will declare your praise!  You do not delight in mere money, or we would be satisfied with weekly giving.  You do not take pleasure in our outward, physical gifts.  But our true gift to you is our broken pride, Lord.  It is our broken and humble heart, dear God, that you truly love.

May it please you to prosper Southeastern, to build up the spiritual walls of this congregation.

Then, you will delight in our true sacrifices, our acts of spiritual righteousness, in our offerings given from the heart, and ultimately the souls that we will present at your altar.

In Jesus name,

And the church said:  AMEN!

And now, let us SING!  Let us sing to make a difference!