Since turning 50, I am more aware than ever of discount Tuesdays, free coffee day and the stack of AARP junk mail that clogs my mail box. I am not even 55 and they have me in their cross-hairs. Alex Trebek is even pitching insurance to me on mid-day TV. I have officially pole-vaulted into a new demographic and I am constantly reminded of it daily.
When the president of the United States is younger than you, you know the second half of life's ballgame is well underway. When people in their 30's reach out to steady you when you walk up the stairs, you know you have stumbled into, as Sinatra sang, the September of your years. I want to deny it but, as I reflect on the time passed, I will have to say that Ol' Blue Eyes is right: it's autumn, the air is crisp, shadows are long and leaves are changing colors...so to speak.
My response is to adapt to my ever-changing life. Gray hair has taken over; the back is a bit tight; my arm isn't long enough to adequately read the writing on a cereal box without wearing granny glasses; it seems that the sleepies come a little earlier than before--no more all-night pillow fights for this cowboy.
I have made great attempts to slow the aging process by eating better, exercising more, trimming my ear and nose hairs more often (twice a week now) and getting the proper amount of rest. The first thing aging folks do is try to hold on to the clothes styles that were cool at the peak of their sexiness...in my case that would be baby clothes, but I digress. Mullets, high-top white tennis shoes, too-tight t-shirts: they all look so pitiful on a 52 year-old. Same for the ladies--please, for the sake of the kids and the public in general, stay out of those halter tops and short-shorts! We need to dress age-appropriate, thank you. I don't mean wear your pants up to your neck with suspenders or orthopedic shoes. I just mean don't try to cover up the fact that you are a beautiful, mature, and graceful 50 something.
I have found that no mater how I dress, I am still 50 under the disguise. My best shot at coolness is in the shoe department. I love shoes that jump out and smack the onlooker. So, if you are thinking I'm gonna roll over and call it quits because I'm blind, tired, sore or a little shaky, you've got another thing coming. I'm still pretty quick in my green Tiger tennis shoes. You wanna race me?
Friday, July 30, 2010
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Summer Vacation
I feel sorry for school-aged kids these days. Summer vacation used to be three solid months long. Now, you blink your eyes and it's over. In the days of old, pop songs kept track of when summer break started and ended. Alice Cooper kicked off the freedom fest with School's Out For Summer. The group The First Class sang, "Beach baby, Beach baby there on the sand from July 'till the end of September; surfin' was fun, we'd be out in the sun every day." The Happenings sang, "See you in September; see you when the summer's through." There you have it, right there in song lore; it's etched in vinyl--it has to be true! In my case it was approximately June 15th till September 15th. That, my friends, was summer vacation.
They used to have these clever marketing tie-ins signaling the beginning of summer like the familiar June sale called, Dad & Grad. See--the authorities originally designed summer to begin in June! These days here in Tennessee, many schools get out in May and reconvene in late-July, early-August. I am offended. No, the child in me is offended! The "suits" that make the plans in our middle Tennessee area have created a year-round school calendar that many schools follow these days. They say the year-round configuration delivers the same number of total days of classroom education and vacation as traditional calendars, distributed differently throughout the year. Proponents say that students fare some 19% better academically with the year-round configuration. I still say it ain't right!
I get it. The origin of summer vacation started as a ploy to pry the kids free to pitch in with the spring planting and fall harvest seasons. Isn't that why our ancestors had kids--to work their crops? Still, the annual rite of childhood freedom was established, even though kids today lay around playing Guitar Hero and are prone to develop health problems like smart-mouth disease and obesity. Since my day in the sun, moms have taken to the work force and having a kid hanging around the house all day unsupervised is dangerous for the child and irresponsible for the parent. So, we all comply and change the beloved traditional summer vacation schedule to suit an "evolving" society.
Go ahead, set up your back to school sales. Even though "the man" makes a scheduling change on paper, in my heart, summer vacation is still from mid-June through mid-September.
They used to have these clever marketing tie-ins signaling the beginning of summer like the familiar June sale called, Dad & Grad. See--the authorities originally designed summer to begin in June! These days here in Tennessee, many schools get out in May and reconvene in late-July, early-August. I am offended. No, the child in me is offended! The "suits" that make the plans in our middle Tennessee area have created a year-round school calendar that many schools follow these days. They say the year-round configuration delivers the same number of total days of classroom education and vacation as traditional calendars, distributed differently throughout the year. Proponents say that students fare some 19% better academically with the year-round configuration. I still say it ain't right!
I get it. The origin of summer vacation started as a ploy to pry the kids free to pitch in with the spring planting and fall harvest seasons. Isn't that why our ancestors had kids--to work their crops? Still, the annual rite of childhood freedom was established, even though kids today lay around playing Guitar Hero and are prone to develop health problems like smart-mouth disease and obesity. Since my day in the sun, moms have taken to the work force and having a kid hanging around the house all day unsupervised is dangerous for the child and irresponsible for the parent. So, we all comply and change the beloved traditional summer vacation schedule to suit an "evolving" society.
Go ahead, set up your back to school sales. Even though "the man" makes a scheduling change on paper, in my heart, summer vacation is still from mid-June through mid-September.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Bob's Big Boy
Sitting on my desk at church and in my studio is a statue of Bob. He is only about 6 inches in height, but in my memory he is still 10 feet tall. Standing guard outside of my family's favorite restaurant, the big plastic Bob held a hamburger high above his head with his right arm, leaving his bulging tummy, wrapped in checkered overalls, proudly casting a shadow over his black boots. He always quietly greeted us as we walked into our local Bob's Big Boy and I always hugged him on the way out.
Last year my bother Jon and I made a pilgrimage back to southern California. We rented a car and drove through Hollywood, then to Warner Brothers Studio, where we decided to take a lunch break in Burbank at possibly the only one of the early Big Boy restaurants still standing today. Built in 1949, this particular Bob's, as well as the long-gone 1936 original in Glendale, was a popular place to grab a burger, fries and a shake by young and old alike. My dad visited the shop in Glendale as a teen when it was a little place. The company expanded over the years and Bob made his way to Orange County where we would visit as a family.
The burger had a sweet relish that distinguished it amongst the growing burger market of the 50s and 60s. They supplied a shaker of special seasoning on each table that the waitresses encouraged patrons to sprinkle on the fries. There was always a salad on their hamburger combo, covered with Thousand Island dressing. The cherry coke was heavenly, especially when you got that last concentrated grenadine slurp at the bottom of the empty glass. When we left the restaurant there was a Big Boy comic book waiting for the kids, next to the check out. It was only once a month or so that my folks would spring for this treat and Bob's was a favorite with all of us.
Back in the early 80s, a friend of mine stole Bob from outside a Big Boy restaurant. I know it was wrong, but it cracks me up! He had him, along with a huge Ronald McDonald, in his living room until they were reluctantly returned.
These days Bob has gone through many owners and even went through bankruptcy in 2000. Thanks to a new owner, calling the franchise Big Boy Restaurants International, the name of it's star is still out front and center, and the image of the chubby young man with the burger still greets customers all over the world. Since I will never have that life-sized Bob, still the little statue on my desk winks at me every day and reminds me that everything is gonna be OK.
Last year my bother Jon and I made a pilgrimage back to southern California. We rented a car and drove through Hollywood, then to Warner Brothers Studio, where we decided to take a lunch break in Burbank at possibly the only one of the early Big Boy restaurants still standing today. Built in 1949, this particular Bob's, as well as the long-gone 1936 original in Glendale, was a popular place to grab a burger, fries and a shake by young and old alike. My dad visited the shop in Glendale as a teen when it was a little place. The company expanded over the years and Bob made his way to Orange County where we would visit as a family.
The burger had a sweet relish that distinguished it amongst the growing burger market of the 50s and 60s. They supplied a shaker of special seasoning on each table that the waitresses encouraged patrons to sprinkle on the fries. There was always a salad on their hamburger combo, covered with Thousand Island dressing. The cherry coke was heavenly, especially when you got that last concentrated grenadine slurp at the bottom of the empty glass. When we left the restaurant there was a Big Boy comic book waiting for the kids, next to the check out. It was only once a month or so that my folks would spring for this treat and Bob's was a favorite with all of us.
Back in the early 80s, a friend of mine stole Bob from outside a Big Boy restaurant. I know it was wrong, but it cracks me up! He had him, along with a huge Ronald McDonald, in his living room until they were reluctantly returned.
These days Bob has gone through many owners and even went through bankruptcy in 2000. Thanks to a new owner, calling the franchise Big Boy Restaurants International, the name of it's star is still out front and center, and the image of the chubby young man with the burger still greets customers all over the world. Since I will never have that life-sized Bob, still the little statue on my desk winks at me every day and reminds me that everything is gonna be OK.
Monday, July 26, 2010
The Dump Nazi
It's the time of year when all of the extra clutter in the house and garage gets tossed into the trash heap. Two weddings in one year also gives impetus to cleaning out the kids rooms that are filled with stuff they decided wasn't important enough to take with them. I forced the issue when both Betsy and Josh were over this weekend. Thus, the trip to the dump and the inevitable run-in with the dump Nazi.
Going to the landfill with my dad as a kid was fun and interesting to the mind of a child. It greeted our noses as we drew near with the pungent stench resembling orange peels, coffee grounds, dirt and soiled diapers. The seagulls did circles above the trash mounds, scavenging pieces of spoiled food before the tractors rolled them into their dark, musty grave. We climbed the dusty road leading to the final destination of our trash, backed the trailer and started the brisk unloading process.
We were men, and the dump wasn't a place for girls. Back in the 60s there was never a person looking over our shoulders, quizzing us as to what we were doing or what was the content of our refuse. We could have been dumping bodies for all they knew. Now-a-days the process of unloading undesirables is comparable to the yearly tax preparation process: everything must be separated, grouped and re-examined before presenting. Since the dumping ground in our neck of the woods is really only a dropping point on the way to it's final destination far, far away, the county sets up guards at local convenience centers to make sure the residents aren't disposing toxic waste.
Arriving at the guard hut, the dump Nazi approaches us like John Wayne, leaning to one side, moving toward us in a cocky gait with a hand over his hip as if concealing a pistol. He notices the license tag on the truck is from another county (I borrowed it from Josh's new bride, registered in Cleveland, TN) and looks at me with a squinty-eyed suspicion, like I am an illegal alien trying to escape across the border. He then asks for proof of residence in Williamson County. I comply with a quick-draw of confirmation from my wallet. Apparently that was not good enough. He then asks for the coordinates of my neighborhood as Spring Hill is divided between two counties. My defense seemed to be weakening by the second. Finally I came up with the correct answer and was then flagged through the entrance to unload the burgeoning trash bags into the the giant trash compactor. The Nazi and his deputy kept a cautious eye on us until we kicked up a dust cloud on our way out of the compound. I survived and lived to tell about it here. I would almost rather the junk pile up at home than run the gauntlet again with the dump Nazi.
I believe in maintaining a clean, orderly society. I also believe that we must do all we can to recycle the undesirable leftovers of our lives. But please, assign the dump Nazi to patrol our nation's borders where his efforts are in much greater need.
Going to the landfill with my dad as a kid was fun and interesting to the mind of a child. It greeted our noses as we drew near with the pungent stench resembling orange peels, coffee grounds, dirt and soiled diapers. The seagulls did circles above the trash mounds, scavenging pieces of spoiled food before the tractors rolled them into their dark, musty grave. We climbed the dusty road leading to the final destination of our trash, backed the trailer and started the brisk unloading process.
We were men, and the dump wasn't a place for girls. Back in the 60s there was never a person looking over our shoulders, quizzing us as to what we were doing or what was the content of our refuse. We could have been dumping bodies for all they knew. Now-a-days the process of unloading undesirables is comparable to the yearly tax preparation process: everything must be separated, grouped and re-examined before presenting. Since the dumping ground in our neck of the woods is really only a dropping point on the way to it's final destination far, far away, the county sets up guards at local convenience centers to make sure the residents aren't disposing toxic waste.
Arriving at the guard hut, the dump Nazi approaches us like John Wayne, leaning to one side, moving toward us in a cocky gait with a hand over his hip as if concealing a pistol. He notices the license tag on the truck is from another county (I borrowed it from Josh's new bride, registered in Cleveland, TN) and looks at me with a squinty-eyed suspicion, like I am an illegal alien trying to escape across the border. He then asks for proof of residence in Williamson County. I comply with a quick-draw of confirmation from my wallet. Apparently that was not good enough. He then asks for the coordinates of my neighborhood as Spring Hill is divided between two counties. My defense seemed to be weakening by the second. Finally I came up with the correct answer and was then flagged through the entrance to unload the burgeoning trash bags into the the giant trash compactor. The Nazi and his deputy kept a cautious eye on us until we kicked up a dust cloud on our way out of the compound. I survived and lived to tell about it here. I would almost rather the junk pile up at home than run the gauntlet again with the dump Nazi.
I believe in maintaining a clean, orderly society. I also believe that we must do all we can to recycle the undesirable leftovers of our lives. But please, assign the dump Nazi to patrol our nation's borders where his efforts are in much greater need.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Picnics at Pearson Park
Last night Brenda and I went to a picnic. It was a fellowship for our worship ministry team which consists of about 100 people. Middle Tennessee in late July is hot. Nevertheless, we have annually planned this opportunity to show our appreciation to the many volunteers who comprise the engine that drives the worship at World Outreach Church in Murfreesboro. We had a giant water slide, a petting zoo, home-made ice cream and barbecue. It reminds me of the sweet summers of my childhood.
Corn on the cob, sweet iced tea with lemon--again, food is central to my memory. Many times mom and dad would go to KFC and grab a few buckets of chicken and then meet our extended family at Pearson Park in Anaheim. I remember, as a child, seeing a barbershop quartet at the amphitheater there. The park also had this great-big ball field grandstand that we would run through and hide amongst the wooden seats. I distinctly recall feeling a connection with the stadium's age (built in 1927), almost visualizing ghostly patrons of a different era gazing at a ball game long forgotten (pretty heavy for an elementary-aged kid...). We also played tag around the water gardens (created by the founder of the 'boysenberry,' Mr. Rudy Boyson in 1921). The park also had a "plunge" that was filled daily with fresh water. We would all pay an entrance fee of a quarter (or something close to that) and spend the rest of the afternoon playing in the water and sun until our skin was burned or our parents ran out of conversation--whichever came first-- then piled in the car and headed home.
These times with family all created a sense of belonging in my soul. I looked forward to Christmas, the 4th of July, my birthday, and days at Disneyland for the same reason. I always felt cared-for, looked after and safe. In the years to come, when I would leave home and travel to distant places, far from family and friends, I would ponder these special days with family and remember that I belonged somewhere. I know when we have picnics with friends and family today, we are creating a warm memory for all of us, especially the children who will build their secure foundation on our love.
The Pearson Park lagoon has long been a favorite spot in the city. The name of the park changed from City Park to Pearson Park in 1960 to honor Anaheim's longtime mayor.
(Courtesy of Anaheim Public Information.)
Corn on the cob, sweet iced tea with lemon--again, food is central to my memory. Many times mom and dad would go to KFC and grab a few buckets of chicken and then meet our extended family at Pearson Park in Anaheim. I remember, as a child, seeing a barbershop quartet at the amphitheater there. The park also had this great-big ball field grandstand that we would run through and hide amongst the wooden seats. I distinctly recall feeling a connection with the stadium's age (built in 1927), almost visualizing ghostly patrons of a different era gazing at a ball game long forgotten (pretty heavy for an elementary-aged kid...). We also played tag around the water gardens (created by the founder of the 'boysenberry,' Mr. Rudy Boyson in 1921). The park also had a "plunge" that was filled daily with fresh water. We would all pay an entrance fee of a quarter (or something close to that) and spend the rest of the afternoon playing in the water and sun until our skin was burned or our parents ran out of conversation--whichever came first-- then piled in the car and headed home.
These times with family all created a sense of belonging in my soul. I looked forward to Christmas, the 4th of July, my birthday, and days at Disneyland for the same reason. I always felt cared-for, looked after and safe. In the years to come, when I would leave home and travel to distant places, far from family and friends, I would ponder these special days with family and remember that I belonged somewhere. I know when we have picnics with friends and family today, we are creating a warm memory for all of us, especially the children who will build their secure foundation on our love.
The Pearson Park lagoon has long been a favorite spot in the city. The name of the park changed from City Park to Pearson Park in 1960 to honor Anaheim's longtime mayor.
(Courtesy of Anaheim Public Information.)
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Fullerton, California
You know how it is: you need to find a place to live. There are so many factors to consider--school for the kids; proximity to work and necessary transportation; affordability; security...the list goes on. In 1954/55 my parents made the fateful decision to buy a little house, nestled in a neighborhood of what was once an orange grove, in the sleepy town of Fullerton, California. I was born just 5 years later into my forever, "hometown".
My mother's father was a painter and was working on a tract of homes in west Fullerton, just a hop from Anaheim where Disneyland was being constructed. Granddad told my parents of these affordable homes he was working on. My dad, fresh from his stint in the Korean War (also a WWII vet), had the GI Bill benefit waiting to be used in the purchase of a home. $13,000 was the price tag. The salesperson was impressed with my dad's salary as a draftsman with the Los Angeles County Sanitation Districts. Dad would have to make a commute to work everyday. But many new home buyers were willing to make the drive into LA from Orange County and the San Fernando Valley just to have an affordable home of their own.
Why my folks picked Fullerton was probably an arbitrary decision. Little did they consider it's past or the famous people who hailed from there. It has an historic connection to the railroad, Father Junipero Serra's historic Mission Trail, and the citrus industry. But other than a few distinctions, Fullerton is very much like the other small towns built in the wake of the 1880s California land boom. For whatever reason they chose it, it must have been a perfect fit for the future they would build together.
Many famous people did hail from Fullerton like singers Jackson Browne and John Raitt (Bonnie's dad). Fender guitars were born in Fullerton. In fact, a revolution in guitar and amp manufacturing (Buddy Holly, Eric Clapton, The Beatles, Jimi Hendrix) happened just off of Harbor Blvd. Richard Nixon went to school in Fullerton. The world-record setting construction of a 2 bedroom tract home was completed in 57 hours and 57 minutes in 1970...Fullerton.
Every time I travel to the west coast I take a special jaunt to my old place on Southgate Ave. It doesn't look at all the same. The big tree out front is gone, along with the ivy that covered the area between the sidewalk and the curb. I'm sure when my parents sold it in the early 80s, and the new owners tore that out, they found a lot of missing treasure.
For many, Fullerton is just another green sign along the 91 or 5 Freeway, on the way to San Diego or LA. But for me, it is where I come from. I took my first steps there; I learned to speak there; I went to school there. My heart has a tender spot for my old home town. Even though I had to leave there in 1980 to play music, I am proud to say I hail from Fullerton, CA.
My mother's father was a painter and was working on a tract of homes in west Fullerton, just a hop from Anaheim where Disneyland was being constructed. Granddad told my parents of these affordable homes he was working on. My dad, fresh from his stint in the Korean War (also a WWII vet), had the GI Bill benefit waiting to be used in the purchase of a home. $13,000 was the price tag. The salesperson was impressed with my dad's salary as a draftsman with the Los Angeles County Sanitation Districts. Dad would have to make a commute to work everyday. But many new home buyers were willing to make the drive into LA from Orange County and the San Fernando Valley just to have an affordable home of their own.
Why my folks picked Fullerton was probably an arbitrary decision. Little did they consider it's past or the famous people who hailed from there. It has an historic connection to the railroad, Father Junipero Serra's historic Mission Trail, and the citrus industry. But other than a few distinctions, Fullerton is very much like the other small towns built in the wake of the 1880s California land boom. For whatever reason they chose it, it must have been a perfect fit for the future they would build together.
Many famous people did hail from Fullerton like singers Jackson Browne and John Raitt (Bonnie's dad). Fender guitars were born in Fullerton. In fact, a revolution in guitar and amp manufacturing (Buddy Holly, Eric Clapton, The Beatles, Jimi Hendrix) happened just off of Harbor Blvd. Richard Nixon went to school in Fullerton. The world-record setting construction of a 2 bedroom tract home was completed in 57 hours and 57 minutes in 1970...Fullerton.
Every time I travel to the west coast I take a special jaunt to my old place on Southgate Ave. It doesn't look at all the same. The big tree out front is gone, along with the ivy that covered the area between the sidewalk and the curb. I'm sure when my parents sold it in the early 80s, and the new owners tore that out, they found a lot of missing treasure.
For many, Fullerton is just another green sign along the 91 or 5 Freeway, on the way to San Diego or LA. But for me, it is where I come from. I took my first steps there; I learned to speak there; I went to school there. My heart has a tender spot for my old home town. Even though I had to leave there in 1980 to play music, I am proud to say I hail from Fullerton, CA.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
On Purpose
Most of my communication these days involving the outside world is usually generated on a computer. I credit Facebook and Twitter for reconnecting me to the outer-reaches of my concentric circle of friends and acquaintances. Emails are still in vogue, though an old-school method of communication (progress is now measured on a nano-second growth continuum). I do subscribe to a few email lists and have Twitter/Facebook friend updates that I look forward to reading when a post comes down the wireless. I received a Tweet last week that I want to mention here regarding my purpose on earth.
The quote that hit me right between the eyes was from Rick Warren, pastor of Saddleback Church in Orange County, California. It read, "Do what God CALLS you to do with your life and you'll succeed. Do what you think will prove your worth & you'll fail miserably." How many hours, days, weeks and years have I spent trying to prove my worth? Embarrassingly way too many. I have tried to run out ahead of God when I should have just stayed back and waited for his promotion. I thank God for redemption because it doesn't only include a life of sin, bought back, to then be used for God's purposes. It also includes believers like me who have made bad choices and need to be reunited with God's purposes for their lives. I have learned that I can't trust my own radar when it comes to sticking to the road that God has me on--if I base my worth on happiness, or the lack of it in an endeavor. Sometimes I feel bored and want to jump on another road so I can get that exhilarating feeling of a new challenge.
I believe that I am on the right track these days but I have a question of doubt sometimes when I don't see God working fast enough on my behalf (ask Brenda, my impatience is awful!). My best guide to knowing I'm living in the purpose God created for me is to see the work of my hands bring fruition in His Kingdom through the skills He gave me. I also sense a Godly wind at my back, pushing me on.
My friend, John Stanko, wrote a book about finding purpose called Life Is A Gold Mine: Can You Dig It? In it he includes several "nuggets" to determine if you are on the correct path. Some of the ones that hit me are in the form of Scripture:
I pray your purpose is fulfilled this week.
The quote that hit me right between the eyes was from Rick Warren, pastor of Saddleback Church in Orange County, California. It read, "Do what God CALLS you to do with your life and you'll succeed. Do what you think will prove your worth & you'll fail miserably." How many hours, days, weeks and years have I spent trying to prove my worth? Embarrassingly way too many. I have tried to run out ahead of God when I should have just stayed back and waited for his promotion. I thank God for redemption because it doesn't only include a life of sin, bought back, to then be used for God's purposes. It also includes believers like me who have made bad choices and need to be reunited with God's purposes for their lives. I have learned that I can't trust my own radar when it comes to sticking to the road that God has me on--if I base my worth on happiness, or the lack of it in an endeavor. Sometimes I feel bored and want to jump on another road so I can get that exhilarating feeling of a new challenge.
I believe that I am on the right track these days but I have a question of doubt sometimes when I don't see God working fast enough on my behalf (ask Brenda, my impatience is awful!). My best guide to knowing I'm living in the purpose God created for me is to see the work of my hands bring fruition in His Kingdom through the skills He gave me. I also sense a Godly wind at my back, pushing me on.
My friend, John Stanko, wrote a book about finding purpose called Life Is A Gold Mine: Can You Dig It? In it he includes several "nuggets" to determine if you are on the correct path. Some of the ones that hit me are in the form of Scripture:
Nugget Six: Do you see a man skilled in his work? He will serve before kings; he will not serve before obscure men (Proverbs 22:29). God does not promote potential, but skill and excellence.
Nugget Ten: He who gathers crops in summer is a wise son, but he who sleeps during harvest is a disgraceful son (Proverbs 10:5). You must know where to invest your time.
Nugget Twelve: By wisdom the Lord laid the earth's foundations, by understanding he set the heavens in place (Proverbs 3:19). God will help you get things done.
Nugget Seventeen: A faithful man will be richly blessed, but one eager to get rich will not go unpunished (Proverbs 28:20). There are no shortcuts to success.
I pray your purpose is fulfilled this week.
Monday, July 19, 2010
Cream of Wheat
I've always had a veracious appetite. My mother said that as a baby I would eat until absolutely full, throw up, and then eat again. I wasn't a purger, I just had a serious Roman-like dietary ethic: eat till you drop! I have paid the price throughout my life with the fact that I love food for the taste. I wish my motto had been, "Eat to live, not live to eat." Food just has way too much fun and comfort attached for it to be simply a mechanical exercise of survival.
I usually wake up able and ready to eat breakfast. Some people, like my wife, can't even think about eating till after mid-morning. My favorite choice has always been Cream of Wheat. I can make it sweet, buttery and creamy--so I get a meal and dessert in one fell swoop. It's warm when it goes down and sticks to the ribs (the only way I was able to find them until a few months ago!).
My mother made Cream of Wheat or oatmeal often for her three boys back in the 60s. We would all line up across the open oven door, dipping out of our bowls, while we warmed our PJ-clad rears (I don't think it got down below 40 degrees in Fullerton, CA very often but it seemed like 30 below zero some mornings). Missing breakfast was a missed opportunity for joy, warmth and togetherness.
I guess food still strikes me in that same way today. I got out of the healthy-habit of eating breakfast for a few decades but now make it a part of my middle-age fitness routine. I never leave the house without Cream of Wheat or oatmeal in my gut. Summer, fall, winter or spring, hot cereal always trumps the cold stuff for me. I replace the sugar with Splenda and the butter with a substitute containing less fat and I'm good to go. There's nothing like starting the day with a warm bowl of Cream of Wheat and good memories of days gone by--filling my stomach, heart and soul.
I usually wake up able and ready to eat breakfast. Some people, like my wife, can't even think about eating till after mid-morning. My favorite choice has always been Cream of Wheat. I can make it sweet, buttery and creamy--so I get a meal and dessert in one fell swoop. It's warm when it goes down and sticks to the ribs (the only way I was able to find them until a few months ago!).
My mother made Cream of Wheat or oatmeal often for her three boys back in the 60s. We would all line up across the open oven door, dipping out of our bowls, while we warmed our PJ-clad rears (I don't think it got down below 40 degrees in Fullerton, CA very often but it seemed like 30 below zero some mornings). Missing breakfast was a missed opportunity for joy, warmth and togetherness.
I guess food still strikes me in that same way today. I got out of the healthy-habit of eating breakfast for a few decades but now make it a part of my middle-age fitness routine. I never leave the house without Cream of Wheat or oatmeal in my gut. Summer, fall, winter or spring, hot cereal always trumps the cold stuff for me. I replace the sugar with Splenda and the butter with a substitute containing less fat and I'm good to go. There's nothing like starting the day with a warm bowl of Cream of Wheat and good memories of days gone by--filling my stomach, heart and soul.
Friday, July 16, 2010
Godly Instinct
I have always heard, "Trust your instincts." Malcolm Gladwell, in his book Blink, tells the story of a firefighter in Cleveland who answered a routine call with his men. It was in a kitchen in the back of a one-story house in a residential neighborhood. The lieutenant looked around and thought, "There's something wrong here," and he immediately ordered his men out. Moments after they fled, the floor they had been standing on collapsed. The fire had been in the basement, not the kitchen as it appeared. Gladwell was intrigued by the gut-instinct with which the firefighters reacted to the immediate evidence. In fact, if the lieutenant had dilly-dallied on the facts, he and his men would have perished.
When it comes to people, I have had this same strange feeling encountering certain individuals--the kind of warning that shoots through your brain and screams, "Something's wrong here!" The Bible clearly speaks of fruit when it talks about evidence of Christ's presence in people. The Apostle Paul writes in Galatians 5:22-23, "But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control. Against such things there is no law."(NIV)
In 2 Timothy 3, Paul warns his young protege about impostors of the faith: "6They are the kind who worm their way into homes and gain control over weak-willed women, who are loaded down with sins and are swayed by all kinds of evil desires, 7always learning but never able to acknowledge the truth. ... 9But they will not get very far because, as in the case of those men, their folly will be clear to everyone."(NIV)
It is hard to explain, but God gives us a degree of discernment through His Spirit. His desire is to make folly clear to everyone who desires Truth. This discernment is based on His Word and in this particular scripture, the basic list of spiritual fruit listed above. God also helps us discern in deeper ways when He puts a check in our hearts as to a person's motives or intentions. In this life, we must be as Jesus said in Matthew 10:16, "I am sending you out like sheep among wolves. Therefore be as shrewd as snakes and as innocent as doves."(NIV) We must always act in love but never let our guard down.
Today I received some startling news that a former band-mate of 30 years ago was arrested for fraud in an ever-expanding FBI investigation. Brenda and I knew there was something not quite on the up-and-up when we visited he and his wife in Orlando 12 years ago. Now we know. Beware the Greek who offers a large, wooden horse as a gift!
When it comes to people, I have had this same strange feeling encountering certain individuals--the kind of warning that shoots through your brain and screams, "Something's wrong here!" The Bible clearly speaks of fruit when it talks about evidence of Christ's presence in people. The Apostle Paul writes in Galatians 5:22-23, "But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control. Against such things there is no law."(NIV)
In 2 Timothy 3, Paul warns his young protege about impostors of the faith: "6They are the kind who worm their way into homes and gain control over weak-willed women, who are loaded down with sins and are swayed by all kinds of evil desires, 7always learning but never able to acknowledge the truth. ... 9But they will not get very far because, as in the case of those men, their folly will be clear to everyone."(NIV)
It is hard to explain, but God gives us a degree of discernment through His Spirit. His desire is to make folly clear to everyone who desires Truth. This discernment is based on His Word and in this particular scripture, the basic list of spiritual fruit listed above. God also helps us discern in deeper ways when He puts a check in our hearts as to a person's motives or intentions. In this life, we must be as Jesus said in Matthew 10:16, "I am sending you out like sheep among wolves. Therefore be as shrewd as snakes and as innocent as doves."(NIV) We must always act in love but never let our guard down.
Today I received some startling news that a former band-mate of 30 years ago was arrested for fraud in an ever-expanding FBI investigation. Brenda and I knew there was something not quite on the up-and-up when we visited he and his wife in Orlando 12 years ago. Now we know. Beware the Greek who offers a large, wooden horse as a gift!
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Youth Is Overrated
Most of my favorite musical artists are at least 10 years older than me. When I became aware of music at the age of 10, my favorites were 20 or 21 years old. Some of my contemporaries like U2 and Crowded House are right up there in the pantheon of my faves, too. The Beatles and the Stones don't count because they made a subliminal impression on me way back in the mid-60s when I was in kindergarten. My true musical a-ha moments began around the time the Beatles were breaking up in 1970. That was about the same time I discovered the guitar.
It is common that our musical heroes are young. The fortunate artists hit big with their first record because they have been writing and playing it all their lives up until then. But with most artists, when the second record is in the queue, they have a year instead of a lifetime to prepare. This is where the screeching-halt of a career can be heard. If you have seen the movie about a one-hit-wonder band from the 60s, That Thing You Do, you know just what I'm talking about.
I have been waiting months looking for the new Crowded House record, Intriguer, to release. It came out Tuesday and, again, they have proven that 50-year-olds can still write, sing, play and rock! Just a month or so ago Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers came out with a stunning set of blues-oriented songs on their new Mojo CD. They give the young guns a run for their money. I say youth is way overrated.
By the time musicians, songwriters and performers arrive at middle-age, we are just getting started. Our chops are better (if we stay active on our instrument), our musical tool box is burgeoning, the songs we write come from a more mature place, and our skill and ability to entertain a crowd only ripens with age.
I love a greatest hits record just like anybody else...especially ones that are remastered versions of the old songs. But I'll still be looking forward to my favorite artist's release of new material. As for me, I will be playing, singing and writing for as long as I am alive.
It is common that our musical heroes are young. The fortunate artists hit big with their first record because they have been writing and playing it all their lives up until then. But with most artists, when the second record is in the queue, they have a year instead of a lifetime to prepare. This is where the screeching-halt of a career can be heard. If you have seen the movie about a one-hit-wonder band from the 60s, That Thing You Do, you know just what I'm talking about.
I have been waiting months looking for the new Crowded House record, Intriguer, to release. It came out Tuesday and, again, they have proven that 50-year-olds can still write, sing, play and rock! Just a month or so ago Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers came out with a stunning set of blues-oriented songs on their new Mojo CD. They give the young guns a run for their money. I say youth is way overrated.
By the time musicians, songwriters and performers arrive at middle-age, we are just getting started. Our chops are better (if we stay active on our instrument), our musical tool box is burgeoning, the songs we write come from a more mature place, and our skill and ability to entertain a crowd only ripens with age.
I love a greatest hits record just like anybody else...especially ones that are remastered versions of the old songs. But I'll still be looking forward to my favorite artist's release of new material. As for me, I will be playing, singing and writing for as long as I am alive.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
A Protective Hand
Brenda and I returned last evening from a marathon, 12-hour drive to and from western North Carolina to deliver my dad back to his Forest City home. We only spent 10 minutes at his house before we climbed back into the car and headed west. Arriving in Murfreesboro with 2 hours to spare before worship rehearsal, Brenda and I spent time over a Chinese dinner reflecting on Josh and Amber's wedding. What a sweet couple they are. The wedding was simply beautiful. At one point at our home this past week we were hosting a pretty large brood. We thoroughly enjoy the time spent with our parents, ever knowing that these opportunities are precious. The Latin phrase,"Carpe diem quam minime credula postero," (Seize the day, trusting as little as possible in the future) comes to mind.
As we watch the passage of time leaving it's evidence on our faces and bodies, we are reminded of our parent's towering presence, holding a protective hand over our lives. Their care and influence still casts a shadow today. Pop is slower and takes his time climbing down stairs but still has a sharp wit and a youthful view to life. My role, and that of my brother Jon, has reversed over the years. I feel very protective of Pop's safety, health and over-all welfare. I never want any harm to come to him.
Brenda and I recently learned of a close elderly family member who has been the target of a subtle yet malicious attempt to take over her finances. She has been a widow for several years now and is enamored by any attention showered upon her. When family learned of the situation, and made her aware, the widow was shocked at how easily her ill-intentioned neighbor attempted to swoop in under the cover of concern and began to make moves toward changing her will to become the executor. Family halted any further progress and are beginning to unravel the mess. Another neighbor, a wheel chair bound widow didn't fare so well. She allowed the predator to make changes to her will to have full ownership of her home upon death.
I was quickly drawn to a passage in Micah, chapter 2 last night before collapsing into bed with exhaustion. It plainly spells out God's perspective on taking advantage of the weak and vulnerable.
As we watch the passage of time leaving it's evidence on our faces and bodies, we are reminded of our parent's towering presence, holding a protective hand over our lives. Their care and influence still casts a shadow today. Pop is slower and takes his time climbing down stairs but still has a sharp wit and a youthful view to life. My role, and that of my brother Jon, has reversed over the years. I feel very protective of Pop's safety, health and over-all welfare. I never want any harm to come to him.
Brenda and I recently learned of a close elderly family member who has been the target of a subtle yet malicious attempt to take over her finances. She has been a widow for several years now and is enamored by any attention showered upon her. When family learned of the situation, and made her aware, the widow was shocked at how easily her ill-intentioned neighbor attempted to swoop in under the cover of concern and began to make moves toward changing her will to become the executor. Family halted any further progress and are beginning to unravel the mess. Another neighbor, a wheel chair bound widow didn't fare so well. She allowed the predator to make changes to her will to have full ownership of her home upon death.
I was quickly drawn to a passage in Micah, chapter 2 last night before collapsing into bed with exhaustion. It plainly spells out God's perspective on taking advantage of the weak and vulnerable.
1 Woe to those who plan iniquity,
to those who plot evil on their beds!
At morning's light they carry it out
because it is in their power to do it.
2 They covet fields and seize them,
and houses, and take them.
They defraud a man of his home,
a fellowman of his inheritance.
3 Therefore, the LORD says:
"I am planning disaster against this people,
from which you cannot save yourselves.
You will no longer walk proudly,
for it will be a time of calamity. (NIV)
Monday, July 12, 2010
Indelible Images
My dad, who served in both WWII and the Korean War, has always kept my interest in these wars high. I guess it's every son's quest to discover his father's journey. My dad is filled with stories from his life of almost 84 years. Some of those include meeting Frank Sinatra and Gary Cooper, as well as being under-aged and kicked out of a bar by Nat "King" Cole. The written recollection entitled, It Occurs To Me, is a monument to Pop's days on the earth. His story is still being written and it will be published one day.
Since the 50th anniversary of D-Day, the movie Saving Private Ryan, and HBO's Band of Brothers, there is a resurgence of interest in WWII. Numerous first-hand recollections of the young men and women who survived these terrible battles have been written into memoirs, video taped and kept for posterity. As the "Greatest Generation" fades away into history, I am thankful for all the information I can gather about these brave souls.
Two DVDs I purchased lately are a harrowing, intense collection of stories by men who fought in the Pacific, European and N. African campaigns of the war. One is called Peleliu, 1944: Horror In the Pacific. Produced in 1991, it contains interviews rarely seen of the late Eugene Sledge, one of the central characters in HBO's Pacific mini-series.The second is WWII In HD from the History Channel (2009). This DVD, a linear account of the entire breadth of the war, is available in Blu-ray and contains over 7 hours of color footage, much of it recently discovered and mastered in high definition.
It is amazing that after almost 70 years these aging veterans recall the frightful images with an emotional immediacy--just as if they were still there in the midst of battle. I will continue to study the Greatest Generation, once described by a news correspondent at the beginning of the war as being a generation unable to rise to the occasion that invaded their young lives. However, as subsequent history has proven, my dad's generation did indeed rise admirably to the responsibility forced upon them. I am forever grateful.
Since the 50th anniversary of D-Day, the movie Saving Private Ryan, and HBO's Band of Brothers, there is a resurgence of interest in WWII. Numerous first-hand recollections of the young men and women who survived these terrible battles have been written into memoirs, video taped and kept for posterity. As the "Greatest Generation" fades away into history, I am thankful for all the information I can gather about these brave souls.
Two DVDs I purchased lately are a harrowing, intense collection of stories by men who fought in the Pacific, European and N. African campaigns of the war. One is called Peleliu, 1944: Horror In the Pacific. Produced in 1991, it contains interviews rarely seen of the late Eugene Sledge, one of the central characters in HBO's Pacific mini-series.The second is WWII In HD from the History Channel (2009). This DVD, a linear account of the entire breadth of the war, is available in Blu-ray and contains over 7 hours of color footage, much of it recently discovered and mastered in high definition.
It is amazing that after almost 70 years these aging veterans recall the frightful images with an emotional immediacy--just as if they were still there in the midst of battle. I will continue to study the Greatest Generation, once described by a news correspondent at the beginning of the war as being a generation unable to rise to the occasion that invaded their young lives. However, as subsequent history has proven, my dad's generation did indeed rise admirably to the responsibility forced upon them. I am forever grateful.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Friends In Faraway Places
Let's face it, if you haven't dealt with Facebook or Twitter yet, you've either been trapped on a deserted island with Gilligan or you just refuse to break down and sign-up. You probably wouldn't be reading this right now, either. It's obvious that social websites, including blog tools like Blogspot and WordPress, have revolutionized our way of communicating. No wonder the US Postal Service is failing. People aren't writing letters...they are writing updates on every move they make, minute by minute, multiple times a day. I am totally on board for the long-haul!
Thanks to all who came to the wedding yesterday as well as all of the well wishes and words of blessing we've received through email and Facebook. We made it through pretty much unscathed. The bride and groom have boarded their big boat headed for the Caribbean, and Brenda and I are still enjoying the ridiculously killer leftover ribs from Friday's rehearsal dinner. I guess the reality of both kids married will sneak up on me when I least expect it.
I have been blown away by all of the birthday greetings received through Facebook, too. I's amazing how many friends I have in faraway places. Thank you so much! Brenda took the opportunity during the rehearsal dinner to serve cake and sing Happy Birthday. I couldn't have been more blessed. 50 feels good so far!
Thanks to all who came to the wedding yesterday as well as all of the well wishes and words of blessing we've received through email and Facebook. We made it through pretty much unscathed. The bride and groom have boarded their big boat headed for the Caribbean, and Brenda and I are still enjoying the ridiculously killer leftover ribs from Friday's rehearsal dinner. I guess the reality of both kids married will sneak up on me when I least expect it.
I have been blown away by all of the birthday greetings received through Facebook, too. I's amazing how many friends I have in faraway places. Thank you so much! Brenda took the opportunity during the rehearsal dinner to serve cake and sing Happy Birthday. I couldn't have been more blessed. 50 feels good so far!
Friday, July 9, 2010
Bone Tone
Guitar players, and instrumentalists in general, have one thing in common: bone tone. When I put together the gear page for my website, I included my personal definition of this term that Norm Stockton (bass player I knew from my days with Maranatha! Music and Worship Leader Workshops) introduced me to almost 15 years ago.
I listen to my favorite guitar players like Billy Gibbons, Larry Carlton, Mark Goldenberg, Mike Campbell, Steve Lukather, Michael Landau, etc., and try hard to emulate their tone. I know that every aspect of their set-up, how they pick the strings, the energy of any given audience, all contribute to the unique signature of each player. Even if I were to copy the rig of my favorite players, my tone always seems to jump out. I want their tone to jump out! I know that I will always play with my own unique voice.
In the current edition of Vintage Guitar magazine (Sept. 2010) there is a generous tribute to guitarist and former handyman from Mr. Rogers Neighborhood, Joe Negri, now in his early 80's. Bob Benedetto, the man who built Joe's current guitar, says of the accomplished guitarist,
The most important aspect of a guitarist in a band is not how great a certain tone is by itself, but how that tone contributes to the song in conjunction with the other players and their parts. Any seasoned picker will tell you that less is more. A great player knows to stop playing if the moment requires it. He is also ready, when necessary, to jump out over the band and make a statement by playing a solo or a cool rhythmic pattern.
My goal is to always be ready. I try to bring all the tools I might need to a gig--even extras in case something breaks down. The accumulation of gear isn't always the entree into good tone. It's amazing how simply playing in tune, in time and with taste can move you closer to your guitar playing fantasy. Refining your unique voice is the impetus for your musical journey.
BONE-TONE: definition- The unique musical tone that emanates from an individual's hands and fingers. It is equal parts heart, soul, touch, experience, pain, joy, passion, inspiration, expertise and God's anointing. Bone-tone comes through even when the player is using someone else's rig.
I listen to my favorite guitar players like Billy Gibbons, Larry Carlton, Mark Goldenberg, Mike Campbell, Steve Lukather, Michael Landau, etc., and try hard to emulate their tone. I know that every aspect of their set-up, how they pick the strings, the energy of any given audience, all contribute to the unique signature of each player. Even if I were to copy the rig of my favorite players, my tone always seems to jump out. I want their tone to jump out! I know that I will always play with my own unique voice.
In the current edition of Vintage Guitar magazine (Sept. 2010) there is a generous tribute to guitarist and former handyman from Mr. Rogers Neighborhood, Joe Negri, now in his early 80's. Bob Benedetto, the man who built Joe's current guitar, says of the accomplished guitarist,
"When you listen to Joe play, you're hearing refinement, complete professionalism. I can't even describe it. It's beyond just saying he's a great player, or this and that--just a refined, tasteful first-class player."I think this is the goal of every serious musician--to be refined and tasteful.
The most important aspect of a guitarist in a band is not how great a certain tone is by itself, but how that tone contributes to the song in conjunction with the other players and their parts. Any seasoned picker will tell you that less is more. A great player knows to stop playing if the moment requires it. He is also ready, when necessary, to jump out over the band and make a statement by playing a solo or a cool rhythmic pattern.
My goal is to always be ready. I try to bring all the tools I might need to a gig--even extras in case something breaks down. The accumulation of gear isn't always the entree into good tone. It's amazing how simply playing in tune, in time and with taste can move you closer to your guitar playing fantasy. Refining your unique voice is the impetus for your musical journey.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Turning 50
Sally O'Malley, Molly Shannon's character from Saturday Night Live, breaks onto the stage and announces, "Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Sally O'Malley. I'm proud to say I'm fifty years old, I'm not one of those gals who likes to hide her age. And I like to kick! Stretch! And kick! I'm fifty! Fifty years old, ladies and gentlemen, fifty years old! Fifty years old!"
I'm turning 50 this week. It doesn't seem like 10 years since I gathered with friends at a party decorated in black--receiving gifts relating to old-age and being the blunt of over-the-hill gags. 40 was kid's stuff. It's funny how I seem to have caught a second wind since then. A serious health warning from your physician helps you to realize it's time to quit playing games and stop giving into failing eyesight, bad eating habits and general slothfulness.
50 ain't so bad, especially when you have a great looking wife, the kids are married, and you have a few more bucks in your pocket than when you were still raising kids and trying to figure out what you were gonna do when you grew up. I guess it's the age when you finally come to terms with your dreams and reality. I can truly say that I am living way beyond my dreams.
The great thing about our journey-- marrying young, having kids right away, and often times choosing the difficult route--is that we made a conscious decision to travel down a unique, yet rewarding road. We could never have dreamed of the places we would go and the sweet life that we have lived so far. A lot of it has been very challenging but it lead us to where we are today. We are humbled at the generosity of God--great kids, health, and plenty of youthful spirit to keep people guessing our age.
So, on Saturday I can shout, "...fifty years old, ladies and gentlemen, fifty years old! Fifty years old...and I'm just getting started!"
I'm turning 50 this week. It doesn't seem like 10 years since I gathered with friends at a party decorated in black--receiving gifts relating to old-age and being the blunt of over-the-hill gags. 40 was kid's stuff. It's funny how I seem to have caught a second wind since then. A serious health warning from your physician helps you to realize it's time to quit playing games and stop giving into failing eyesight, bad eating habits and general slothfulness.
50 ain't so bad, especially when you have a great looking wife, the kids are married, and you have a few more bucks in your pocket than when you were still raising kids and trying to figure out what you were gonna do when you grew up. I guess it's the age when you finally come to terms with your dreams and reality. I can truly say that I am living way beyond my dreams.
The great thing about our journey-- marrying young, having kids right away, and often times choosing the difficult route--is that we made a conscious decision to travel down a unique, yet rewarding road. We could never have dreamed of the places we would go and the sweet life that we have lived so far. A lot of it has been very challenging but it lead us to where we are today. We are humbled at the generosity of God--great kids, health, and plenty of youthful spirit to keep people guessing our age.
So, on Saturday I can shout, "...fifty years old, ladies and gentlemen, fifty years old! Fifty years old...and I'm just getting started!"
Monday, July 5, 2010
Walking Into Danger
Recently I read a passage from 2 Kings 7 that brought hope to my world. The courage to continue walking into battle, or simply through life's daily challenges, may be daunting, frightening and can bring rapid fatigue. When embarking on a God-assignment, He doesn't always provide pathways that are familiar to us. God always brings opportunities for growth--He is a proponent of resistance training! I will have to say that as Brenda and I embark on new vistas, and as we grow older, it's tempting to retire the pioneer spirit and settle-down into what has worked for us in the past. The problem with that notion is Brenda and I are suckers for adventure.
In 2 Kings 7, three lepers were hanging out at the city's main gate pondering whether to sit around and eventually die or, even worse, go the enemy camp of the Arameans and be killed or, in a long-shot, be spared. Their hope had diminished to a suicidal low. They decided that action (some critics may say stupidity) was better than passivity. The story continues...
As I study the behavior of these poor lepers I am impressed by their ultimate fearlessness. I am more impressed that God kicked out the enemy and provided the lepers with an opportunity they didn't deserve and could never have earned in a million years. Because those three men took a chance, they came away with much more than survival...they were blessed beyond their wildest dreams! My prayer today is to have the courage to walk into danger, if need be--to follow the voice of the Holy Spirit as He calls my name-- to move forward into the unknown, toward the high calling in Christ.
In 2 Kings 7, three lepers were hanging out at the city's main gate pondering whether to sit around and eventually die or, even worse, go the enemy camp of the Arameans and be killed or, in a long-shot, be spared. Their hope had diminished to a suicidal low. They decided that action (some critics may say stupidity) was better than passivity. The story continues...
5 At dusk they got up and went to the camp of the Arameans. When they reached the edge of the camp, not a man was there, 6 for the Lord had caused the Arameans to hear the sound of chariots and horses and a great army, so that they said to one another, "Look, the king of Israel has hired the Hittite and Egyptian kings to attack us!" 7 So they got up and fled in the dusk and abandoned their tents and their horses and donkeys. They left the camp as it was and ran for their lives.
8 The men who had leprosy reached the edge of the camp and entered one of the tents. They ate and drank, and carried away silver, gold and clothes, and went off and hid them.
As I study the behavior of these poor lepers I am impressed by their ultimate fearlessness. I am more impressed that God kicked out the enemy and provided the lepers with an opportunity they didn't deserve and could never have earned in a million years. Because those three men took a chance, they came away with much more than survival...they were blessed beyond their wildest dreams! My prayer today is to have the courage to walk into danger, if need be--to follow the voice of the Holy Spirit as He calls my name-- to move forward into the unknown, toward the high calling in Christ.
Sunday, July 4, 2010
The Remedy for "Praise Block"
Today is a day where we are not only reminded of our freedoms as Americans but, more importantly, as Christians. July 4th is one of my favorite days of the year--lots of food to eat (usually barbecue!) and friends and family are hanging out together waiting for the fireworks to light up the night sky. As we stop and celebrate this holiday, which happens to land on a Sunday this year, it's also a good opportunity to express our thankfulness for the freedoms we enjoy as Christ-followers.
The cool thing about Christians is that we get to assemble every week to celebrate our spiritual liberation in Christ (the Bible encourages us to make meeting together a holy habit- Hebrews 10:25). The worship service is an opportunity to thank God for our salvation--for Christ's relentless pursuit of His beloved and for the sacrifice He made on the cross--all so that we might have fellowship with the Father.
As we join this weekend for worship services, we have every reason to be thankful. For those of us who get "praise block" from time to time, just to remember the simple yet profound fact that He died for us and that we have new life in Christ is enough to get our hands in the air and our hearts lifted toward heaven with a song of thanksgiving. Thank you, Jesus, for the freedom that you bring to us! And...happy Independence Day, America!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)