When I was a small child, my parents taught me to say my prayers each night before bed. I can see myself kneeling on the floor with my hands folded together, leaning onto the bed my brother and I shared. The prayer was always the same, it only varied by who I asked God to bless at the end. Sometimes it was just Mom, Dad, Kelly, and Preston. At other times, it included the dog, my grandparents, or anyone else who crossed my mind.
“Now I lay me down to sleep. I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.Amen.”
Later, my prayer life expanded beyond the 31-word recitation at bedtime into saying grace at dinner. Over time, I eventually began to seek God out for different things throughout the day. I would pray to win my Little League game, pass a spelling test, play well at my piano recital, and have fun at a new summer camp. When I was afraid, I would seek him out.
My wish lists did not always come to pass. My Little League all-star team never advanced very far. My spelling improved, but mostly because I started to study harder. My piano recital became a disaster when I forgot where I was in the middle of my song and sat in absolute silence for 15 seconds before suddenly remembering what notes came next. Summer camp was a weird, scary place and I totally freaked out.
Those prayers may not have delivered everything I asked for, but I found comfort asking God for help. When things got scary, I remembered who was in control. My prayers rose to Heaven.
As an adult, my prayers grew to include other people who were scared or hurting, like my men’s group. I love the mighty men that meet at my house each Tuesday night to seek out God’s will. Most weeks we close by listing prayer requests. One-by-one, each person shares an area where they would appreciate prayer.
You can probably guess the usual items on the list. Most requests are for someone who has lost their job, was injured, became sick, is dealing with a strained relationship, or faces some other difficult challenge.
For my friends and in my own life, my prayers have often become requests for hard things to become easy. It seems innocent, but is it a healthy ambition?
The human appetite cannot be satisfied. Whatever you desire, you will always want more. If I am broke, I want enough money to pay my bills. Once I am stable, I crave the freedom of the wealthy.
If I am sick, I want to be healthy. Once I am healthy, I want fountains of energy. If that is granted, I will want to look younger.
It’s the same for my job. If I lose my job, I want a new one. If I get a new one, I don’t want to be worried about losing it again. If it becomes stable, I will pray for God to eliminate my bad days.
If God were to continue to grant all of my requests, my tolerance for discomfort would diminish until the slightest imperfection would be a call for alarm. I would become weak.
Is the answer to embrace the suck and become happy with adversity?
Last year was difficult for me. Instead of raging against the emotional pain, I focused on it, poking myself to see where it hurt the most. When I found a sensitive spot, I probed around until I understood its limits and then posted about the insights gained.
I am learning that pain is not the answer, but wisdom often lies on its other side.
My energy level was so low that I couldn’t do most of the things I normally do. While I prayed to get my mojo back, the downtime forced me to slow down where I could write these posts and then publish them into book form. God gave me quiet time to spend with him, discussing my fears, dreams, and his truth.
People that I love have passed from this earth. By asking myself why I miss them, I remember what I love about them. I am also more attuned that life is short and our time here uncertain. I want to make my life count.
God is using my difficult circumstances to transform my thinking and bring me into closer relationship with him, but along the way, I have been resistant. I continue to pray for easy.
Jesus gave an example of how to pray. He basically said to honor God while we ask for his will to be done, for our basic needs to be met, and for him to hold us safely in his embrace. Jesus didn’t mention removing all unpleasantness.
In my prayers and in my life, I need to ask myself “Do I crave comfort or connection?”
Whichever I choose, I will always want more. I would rather pursue an ever-expanding love instead of constantly-declining pain level.
My prayer life has become confusing. I don’t want to suffer, and I don’t want people I love to suffer either. James 5:16 tells us that “the prayer of a righteous person is powerful and effective.” I need to be thoughtful about what I ask for. Easy may come at the expense of breakthrough, both for me and my friends.
At times, it leaves me wondering what to pray for. As with most things, the answer was always there.
I was on the right track as a small child, kneeling beside my bed, saying, “I pray the Lord my soul to keep.” Come good or come bad, I pray for a stronger faith that he is in control and loves me as much as life itself.
I went to visit my Tennessee family last weekend. It has been about three months since my mom passed away, so Kim and I flew over for a brief visit to check on dad and hoped that a family gathering would serve us all well. My sister, Kelly, made the two-hour drive from Nashville with one of her daughters and they stayed in the back guest room. I got the front room and two nights in my high-school bed.
Dad is hanging in there as he mourns the loss of his wife. After promising to love her through all of life’s surprises, he joyfully threw himself into his vows for fifty-six years, savoring every moment they spent together. He knows that they will eventually be reunited but still feels alone in the meantime. A very great love was torn from him, and the wound is raw. God and time will bring him healing. He is keeping his eyes looking forward and doing his best. As always, we are proud of how he is handling it.
Over the course of the weekend, one of Kelly’s other daughters joined us from Knoxville and Preston’s clan drove across town, comprised of him, his wife, two daughters, and his granddaughter. It was great to have the eleven of us together.
The kitchen table is our favorite gathering spot. It starts first thing in the morning when Dad sits down to work his Sudoku puzzle and I drink a cup of coffee out of the McHottie cup I have claimed as my birthright. Ultimately, he reads the newspaper while I favor online news feeds. As others wake up, they join us there, some to eat breakfast while the teenagers merely rub their bleary eyes. Preston always drives over around 9:30am with his younger daughter, Cameron. Everyone else joins as their schedules allow.
Dad has a big house with lots of places to assemble. He has a nice living room, a cozy sitting room, a deck that overlooks the golf course, and a front porch with a picturesque yard. None of that matters though. We always crowd around a four-person table that leaves some folks standing.
The odd gathering spot was Mom’s doing. She spent hours in the kitchen each weekend preparing meals for a growing family but never wanted to miss out on anything. She insisted that everyone who wasn’t helping stay out of her way but within earshot. So we gravitated to the kitchen table. It has been years since she mashed potatoes, but we have held onto the custom.
I suppose that every family has a place that they are drawn to when they come together. Tradition triumphs over convenience as we embrace rituals that represent the best of the times we have shared. Each family is unique in their interactions, and that is part of the reason that there is no replacement for family.
It has been seventeen years since I moved away from Tennessee while everyone else stayed relatively local. Phone calls and text messages are no substitute for a lazy conversation and I miss out on a lot. I don’t know how to be an active part of my niece’s lives and that makes me sad sometimes. I wish I could stop by to help with a small chore or have ice cream with everyone else at Clumpy’s. There are times when I feel the burden of my choices, but while I am at the kitchen table, I am accepted without question.
Everybody needs a place where they are accepted and embraced. We all need a gathering place that reminds us we have more in common than the differences between us. We should guard the sanctuary that makes all of us equals regardless of age, income, community standing, or yesterday’s choices.
Every three months for the past year I could be found circled around a table where no one’s seat is sacred because everyone’s place is assured. It’s not as often as I would like, and I am thankful for the people who love me enough to come together. I will always have a soft spot for that corner of the kitchen, but my heart belongs to the family I share it with.
I can’t wait to see each of these smiling faces again, along with the others who avoided Kelly’s selfie cam. I also hope to build a place deep in the heart of Texas where my own expanding family finds the same comfort.
In my new season, I am searching for what God has planned for me. I have done everything I can to get ready for this next chapter. I have burned the things that should not be carried forward, prayed for direction, and been vigilant for what is going on around me. So far, no inspiration.
I have a friend who is going through some crazy times at work. He is uncertain about the future of his position, his career, and what God has planned for him. He is also praying for direction but has gotten the same response as me. We have been processing through the confusion together, and God laid a strange little mini-story from the Bible on my heart as an answer for us both.
In 2 Kings 13:14-19, Jehoash was the king of Israel. He was losing a war with the Syrians and his military had been reduced to shambles. The army of Israel that had controlled the entire region under King Solomon was down to 50 horsemen and 10 chariots. The situation was desperate, so the king sought out the mighty prophet Elisha and asked him what he should do.
Elisha told him to open the east window and shoot an arrow through it. He said that was the Lord’s arrow of victory. Then he told Jehoash to take his arrows and strike the ground with them.
King Jehoash must have been confused by this cryptic answer to his question, but he obediently struck the ground with his arrows. He probably looked back at Elisha afterward, who raised his eyebrows as if waiting for more. So Jehoash struck the ground again, and I expect he looked at Elisha again, who sat there expressionless. Jehoash lifted his arrows a third time and struck the ground. When Elisha said nothing, he set them down.
Elisha asked the king why he had stopped. He explained that each time Jehoash struck the ground the Lord would grant him a victory in battle. Since he had stopped at three, he would only win three times. He told him that if he had remained faithful to his instruction, the enemy would have been completely destroyed.
Over and over, the Bible says that God set each of us apart before we were born to achieve specific things. These aren’t references to generic stuff like “follow the Ten Commandments”, or “love your neighbor”. They are tasks that we were uniquely created to perform. When the time is right, he reveals those things to us.
Achieving these goals requires us to understand exactly what they are, so I have spent a lot of time putting the calling on my life into words, If I am to stay focused on what he has anointed me to do, it must be carefully defined.
My blog has always had my calling shared on it as a reminder to me what I have been called to do. You’ve probably seen it, even if you didn’t notice it.
While I am in my new season, searching for what God has planned for me next, I am reminded that he has already given me a job to do. The task in my calling has not been finished yet, so why am I asking what he wants me to do?
I will keep beating my arrows on the floor until He tells me to stop.
Like King Jehoash, after I write a post (or strike the ground in his case), I look at God as if to ask “Now what?”. Just like Jehoash, no answer comes, because I haven’t finished yet. I don’t need a new direction, I need to remain faithful to my instruction.
That is the same advice I gave to my friend whose job is in a period of uncertainty. He is confident in the calling that God has placed on him, so I encouraged him to put it into specific words and speak those words out loud every time he asks “Now what?”
God has a special calling for you too. If you don’t believe he is personally involved in your life, that is OK. Focus on seeing his blessings that surround you, each one a special gift from a Father who loves his child. A relationship with him is more important than the work anyway.
If you have a calling, but it is fuzzy, then I encourage you to spend time prayerfully defining it. Knowing that you are authorized by the King of kings is powerful. Identify the boundaries of that authority so that you can faithfully follow him.
I know that posting intimate details is hard. It is also powerful. By speaking it out loud, you will be strengthened. As your friend, I want to offer my support to you in your task. By sharing it with others, you will encourage them.
Goodness arises from obedience, and greatness is born from continuing faithfulness.
As soon as it gets dark on New Year’s Eve, the McAfees head out to the pool in the backyard. Anyone is welcome to join. This year, we had almost twenty family members, friends, and neighbors.
All of us had written down the things we wanted to leave behind in 2019, then folded the pages carefully for privacy, and placed them into the miniature Viking boat that I had built days earlier.
The atmosphere was somewhat funereal. Some of us were burying betrayal by a loved one. Others were burying destructive habits. Many of mine were painful losses.
We gathered outside in the dark. The guests lined the edge of the pool, armed with Nerf guns and darts tipped with flammable cotton balls. I spoke a few words and they fired their flaming “arrows” across the water, igniting the boat that had been saturated with lighter fluid.
As the flames consumed the tiny craft, my thoughts drifted to my handwritten list that was quickly burning. In the last part of the year, I lost my mom and my grandmother. Neither of their passings was peaceful. My mom fell victim to dementia and my grandmother had a lung condition that claimed her life. The images of my sweet grandmother struggling to breathe are painful. I want those to stay in 2019.
I silently prayed that God would set me free from the pain of her death and allow me to live in the blessings from her life. Images of her smile filled my mind as the flames slowly died down. One at a time, we returned inside to begin our celebration of the new year.
When I stepped back into the kitchen to help get food ready for our guests, my eyes landed on a plate full of chocolate chip cookies. They looked exactly like the ones my grandmother had made for me countless times as a child. It was her way of showing she loved me (if you don’t know that story, please follow this link to “Granny’s Cookies“).
I tried one and it was perfect. When I asked who had brought them, someone told me that Pat had. I thanked her for bringing them and told her they were great.
She laughed and said “Oh, thanks. I got the recipe off the back of a bag of chocolate chips.”
Most of the people in the room laughed when she said it. They all knew the story about how my grandmother had made that same recipe for me. Pat had unknowingly delivered one of the blessings I had prayed for moments earlier.
It was a perfect gift from the Father, reminding me that He loves me dearly.
I’m not a very good gift-picker, but I think I’m a pretty good gift-giver. I can seldom think of just the right thing to get. I am the king of duplicate gifts, wrong sizes, misinterpreted ideas, and poor choices. However, when I get someone in my family a gift, I am usually more excited than they are. I accidentally spill the beans before they open the present, or blabber on about why I thought they would like it, or just smile from ear to ear while they try it on. I want them to be happy.
Hopefully, they focus on the spirit of the gift more than its suitability. I think God does.
In Matthew 22, a group of Pharisees gathered together to test Jesus. One of them was a lawyer, and he presented Jesus with a question intended to trick him.
“Teacher, which is the greatest commandment in the Law?”
Jesus must have smiled, knowing that in their attempts to entrap him, they had asked the simplest of questions.
He replied, “Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind.” (Deut 6:5)
If the Pharisee hadn’t been a lawyer, but maybe was a shopper in the midst of Christmas season, he could have asked, “What is the greatest gift I could give God this year?”
Jesus would have smiled and given the same answer.
For all of my focus on the obedience of a faithful servant and for all my time pondering exactly what He has spoken to me, Jesus reminds me that those things are good, but they aren’t greatest. At the top of God’s list every year is for us to love him with everything inside us. His favorite gift is the one presented from the very best we have to give, with no other goal than to make Him happy.
I am working on a gift for Him. Like most of my surprises, I’ve already spilled the beans to Him, so you don’t have to keep it secret either.
When I started this blog, my dream was that people would read my stories and share their own. I envisioned them posting comments at first, and then sharing entire stories. In my vision, the flame spread throughout our community as people opened up about the realities of pursuing God in their own lives.
One obstacle has been the Blogger platform I was using. It is free, but not very powerful. People consistently complained that they tried to “join in” and leave comments, but had technical problems. Another constraint has been that some people don’t like using their phones to read on the go. They prefer a hard copy and a soft chair.
Here is my gift for God. I want all of his children to feel welcome to join a conversation about him. I want everyone to hear the stories about what he is doing, in whatever way they prefer to receive it.
I contracted Valley Creek Church’s own Jason Rutel of Creative Nomads to build this web site and convert all of my posts over here. He did a wonderful job and I am very excited. The “Comments” boxes work perfectly and a door is now opened for others to respond. (If you are considering web work, he’s your guy. Call him.)
I am also publishing the first two years of posts in a book titled Getting My Feet Wet. It will be available on Amazon by the first of February.
I think God is gonna love it, and I’m so exciting to give these gifts to him. I don’t care about the cost or how much time it has involved. As soon as these ideas came into my mind, I wanted him to have them. They are the best of what I have had to offer the past two years, and I think he will be as excited as me.
I love him with all of my heart, mind, soul, and strength. May God accept my passion, even if my gifts are imperfect.
When I was two years old, my dad bought a dachshund from a neighbor whose dog had a litter. We welcomed him into the family and named him Baron.
Baron was a fat weiner dog with a red coat and a crooked tail. With tiny legs and a long body, he had only managed to squeeze his sausage body and half his tail through a closing door. The unfortunate event left a knot on his tail, which jutted off to the side about halfway down. It made a funny-looking dog even funnier, but he never seemed to mind.
Dad says Baron was the best watchdog we ever had. Baron took his job protecting us seriously. He courageously barked and growled whenever he perceived a menacing threat. Dad loved that about him. I was too young to care about such things.
I did know that Baron was my buddy. Our neighborhood didn’t have a lot of kids in it, but he was always by my side whenever I went outside to play. He would bound joyfully through the tall grass chasing after me, and we would sit down together and catch our breath while we watched clouds blow across the sky.
I was six years old when he began to have back problems. He was clearly in pain, and I worried about my partner. Ultimately, he required surgery on a damaged spinal disk, but it didn’t go well.
Baron was scared and confused after his procedure. Instead of regaining mobility, his rear legs became paralyzed. Mom set aside our rule against having animals in the house so that he could recover in a comfortable place. He sat on his mat looking at us with his big, mournful, hound-dog eyes, hoping we would somehow help him.
I was young, but old enough to understand that Baron was very sick. That night, I slept on the floor so that I could be with him. I unzipped my sleeping bag all the way to the bottom and helped him get cozy by my feet. Then I flipped the top half over both of us. He liked to be covered up by blankets.
I wanted so badly for God to make him better, but morning found him whimpering with no improvement. Dad watched him hopefully for a few days, thinking maybe some swelling would go down or a miracle would occur.
I continued to sleep on the floor with him, stroking his back and rubbing our noses together. He would lick my face while I told him that he was a good dog. He was thankful that I watched over him, just like he had done for me the past four years.
Eventually, the greatest mercy required us to release him from his misery. Dad returned from the vet alone and sad. For the first of many times to come, my heart was broken. I missed my loyal friend for a long time and still have a soft spot for weiner dogs.
That memory had faded into the distant past until it unexpectedly resurfaced when my mom passed away. It is now keeping company with other memories of those torn unwillingly from my life. Losing loved ones is not like most hardships, which get easier through repetition. Each new loss sends us back through the same recovery process.
I miss my mom but know that I will see her again one day. I am thankful for that. However, one day isn’t the same as today.
I remember how she used to tell me, “You should write a book.” She loved to hear me tell stories to her. However, by the time I had written early drafts of a few chapters of Build Neighbors, her dementia had progressed significantly.
I took her to the lake one sunny morning to read to her from what I had written so far. She listened quietly and smiled as she watched the waves lapping the shore in front of us. After reading three or four short chapters to her, I set my notes down and asked her if she wanted to go home. She said, “I think so.” I could tell that the part of her that had longed for me to become a storyteller wasn’t with us anymore.
We will be together again, but I would give anything to be able to call her after each new blog post and ask what she thought. Knowing we can talk about them one day isn’t the same as experiencing it together now, and I miss her every time I publish something.
I loved listening to her laugh and hearing her appreciation of God’s voice in our lives. We can’t share those moments as they happen now. I feel the sadness of a young child realizing his dog wasn’t going to come home again.
People ask if the various members of our family are doing OK. Their implied hope is that we can put mom’s death behind us and move on. Too often, I fear that we try to skip past important parts of our lives because they are unpleasant.
My hope isn’t to get past these feelings, but that I can find peace in them. I need tranquility during hard times because they will keep coming.
In Ecclesiastes, Solomon bemoans the repetition of life. Whatever we do, the cycle continues. Just like the cold of winter will come again, so will hardships. I am encouraged by his advice on finding contentment in each season, not merely extending the easy times.
In his sermon this past Sunday, our pastor said that Jesus is our savior every day. On my hardest days when I am beat down, I am thankful that he will lift me up and walk with me. Adversity disciplines us while serenity provides rest – both are needed to transform our souls.
Loss creates an appreciation for what I have been given. Loneliness causes me to reach out in fellowship. Remembering what was special in someone who is gone allows me to carry their flame forward. Allowing Jesus to soothe my pain encourages me to share his love with the world.
The hardest part of losing someone you love is knowing that it will happen again. There is no need to hide from the pain though. Time after time, He will be there.
In his sermon this past Sunday, our pastor said that Jesus is our savior every day. On my hardest days when I am beat down, I am thankful that he will lift me up and walk with me. Adversity disciplines us while serenity provides rest – both are needed to transform our souls.