All families have traditions they pass down from generation to generation. Ours is running the 400m. It’s something of a strange legacy to leave. When you are running, the pain is intense and you can only think of being done. However, it becomes part of your identity. If you can triumph over that race then other things in life are a lot less scary. Because of its difficulty and unchanging nature, there is an honor shared among those who have called it their race. My father is James Sr. He ran track in the early ‘60s. He was a good runner and his memories of those days are as clear as ever. He was coming of age in a world that was quickly changing. He dealt with all the insecurities, frustrations and challenges of a normal teenager. Running soothed those feelings. There was solace in the endless laps around a track and the sprints up and down the bleachers. Life was simple while he was running full speed, heart pounding in his ears, his lungs and legs burning while he focused on finishing the race and doing his best. I am James Jr. Over two decades later, I put on the same uniform. A different world by then, I dealt with different issues but struggled with the same emotions as my father before me. It was my time to come of age. My anger and insecurities faded away when I ran. All my attention quickly focused on pushing through the same physical pain my father had felt. In seasons where mile upon mile melted into the distance, my spirit was soothed. God has always spoken to me in those quiet times when all of life’s other troubles seem insignificant. When the pain is white hot, I know that He is there. This time, James III suited up. It was his last regular season meet. The world is now radically different than the ones my father or I competed in. James deals with his own issues and insecurities and the same teen angst occasionally boils under the surface. He finds his own peace at full speed, the wind in his hair, every muscle screaming to quit. While he focuses on being the best God made him to be, his character is strengthened. On Saturday, three men stood together at the track. We share more than just a name. One is beginning his race. One is in the middle of his season. One is patiently finishing well and preparing to receive his crown. We have circled the same track, run in the same events and found the same peace. Each of us runs to honor those that came before us, the One that is always with us, and those who will come after us. This is our race. I’m thankful we had the chance to do it together one more time.
John was my friend. I didn’t know him as well as some people, but we worked together, we ate together and we talked to each other when our paths crossed. I looked forward to the times we shared and there is joy in my heart when I think of him.
Ironically, John was homeless but did more to make me feel at home than most people. When I was working outside at the Salvation Army, I knew that somehow he would be aware that I was there. Unaware of where he was, I would look over my shoulder from time to time, wondering when he would inevitably come strolling over to join in. He would watch to see what task I was working on, study how it was being done, and figure out a way that he could help. It never took long before his hands were busy at the work I had started. However difficult or long the job took, I would no longer be alone. I had a partner. John was intelligent and he worked hard. His life was full of interesting stories of victory and struggles that he was happy to tell others. My situation may be different than his, but we held many of the same things dear and shared some of the same struggles. Many times I would hope for better things for him and watch for ways I could help him the same way that he always seemed to be there helping me. John is gone now, but the world is better because he was here. He made friends. He loved people. He passed on light and joy to everyone who would accept them. I carry that light and love with me. I will use their strength to make the world around me better than I found it. Like he did. He helped teach me that. John has found the peace that escaped him before, his soul returned to the loving Father who created him. He is receiving his reward. From now on, when I see people working and stroll over to help, I hope they will see glimpses of John in me. When I work tirelessly with no expectation of reward, his spirit motivates me. When I tell my story, he is a part of it. Thank you, brother, for sharing your time with me. I look forward to seeing you again.
At the time that God formed my soul, He looked at me and said “The day of your birth has come. Ask for whatever you want me to give you.”
With no idea what lay ahead or what I would need, I replied “Lord, give me a mother who will love me like you do.”
The Father smiled and said “It will be given to you. Your mother will love you as I do. She will train you to be a man after my own heart.” “She will comfort you when you are scared or in pain. In the days when you doubt yourself, she will encourage you. When others see you fail, she will only see her beloved son. She will know the special gifts of your heart that remain hidden to others and will have faith in the person you will grow to be.” “Whenever you need her, she will be there. From the day you are born a helpless baby until you are yourself a father and every day of her life, she will show how I love you.”
“One more thing, Father, I would ask. Could she be a red-headed cajun?”
With a laugh He said “How did you know?” and set me on my path.
Mom – Thanks for being everything I asked for. I love you.
Our dreams define us. They are visions of the life God planned for us before the world began and the reality of the coming kingdom. Each heart is drawn to these unique images, guiding a lifetime of choices, large and small.
Turning our reality into dreams is exhausting work that takes years of love, work, and an enduring effort. We all require help of different types – articulating the dream, encouragement to continue through adversity or completing the hard work. We create incomplete drawings, stockpile construction materials that seem random and generally muddle through an effort to make our eyes closed world match the reality around us.
You are a dream builder. For those fortunate enough to let down their guard and ask for help, you painstakingly convert life’s messes into enduring truths. A lifetime of training – studying puzzles, practicing techniques, disciplining your body, constant study, and watching/listening for where you are needed – has readied you for your call.
You stand ready to serve at a moment’s notice, always sensing when to step in, pick up debris and turn it into a blessing. “Not today” and “not my thing” will not cross your lips; “I’ll be right there” is something we can count on from you in an uncertain world. Whatever storm has come, the dream builder patiently picks up pieces, cleans them off and builds someone’s corner of the kingdom.
Servants don’t get to choose how early they start or at what hour the task is complete. You rise early and stay until the work is done. The job is never complete until the mess is gone and an enduring beauty remains, matching the plan that God laid out before creation. There are many gifts of the Spirit, but only a few people embrace what they have been given, realizing that their gift only has value when it is shared with others.
To many people, life as a carpenter is a strange choice for the firstborn son of the High King. The dream builder understands. The smell of sawdust, the beauty of a finished piece, the joy received from another seeing part of their vision exist in their eyes open world are what drives the dream builder on.
Your identity is now, but your reward is not yet. For a time, you will live as a lowly carpenter, but know that in a kingdom where faith and action are the bloodline of royalty, you stand as a son of the king.
My son is mourning the loss of a close friend. I can see how hard it is on him. I can see the pain he is carrying. I wish somehow I could have protected him from this. I wish I could take his pain away, but I can’t. I love him and am always there for him, but I can’t fix this. I can only guess what he is feeling, but I remember my pain.
1985 was 31 years ago, but I remember it like it was yesterday. I was a high school senior and had turned 17 a couple months earlier. I had moved into a new house after moving from Nashville to Chattanooga. As the new kid in town, I only had a few friends.
It was getting dark outside when I heard Scott’s tan Subaru pull into the driveway. He came up to my room and gave me the news about Alan. I knew it must be a mistake. He had to be wrong. He asked me to ride with him to find out details. It was getting late, questions seemed inappropriate, and I told him no. Even as he left, I knew something was wrong. Alan had seemed off somehow all day. But how could this be? It was a long, lonely, sleepless night.
School the next day was worse. Confirmation came. Details began to build. How do you focus on German, Calculus, Physics, Computer Science with your mind a blur? Counselors weren’t a thing back then, so you avoided eye contact and just stared at the wall while you tried not to break down. Time crept by. I just wanted to go home. Finally, the dismissal bell rang. Just like every day, I drove past Alan’s house on my way home. His car was still there. A 1960-something Chevrolet Corvair. Such a cool car. Parked in the same spot, like nothing had happened, nothing was changed. But everything was different.
The same group of people who could talk about anything for hours suddenly had nothing to say. Talking about our daily rituals seemed wrong and we were too confused to address our feelings. Nothing made sense. How could this be happening? We had plans and so much in front of us. College. Jobs. Families. So we stared at the pain written into each other’s faces without speaking his name. How do you capture someone in a few words? Passing through our days in silence, the memories seemed to shout out loud. Everywhere I looked, I could see the swooping hair, the slightly stooped shoulders of a shy person, his smile and easy laugh. The blue jeans and button-down shirts, always rolled up. The car. Even the funny way he held a pool cue.
Every day, the same seats sat vacant in each class. Nobody was going to sit there. The empty chairs were reminders that he was gone. In contrast, the car sat parked in the same spot in the driveway as I passed it every day. I wished it would go away. Why would his parents continue to leave it there? Didn’t they know how painful the memories were every time we saw it? Why would they do that?
One day, the car wasn’t there anymore. I don’t know where it went. Maybe they sold it. Maybe they parked it inside. But it was gone. Less than a week later I missed seeing it there. But the images remained. One day, the teachers re-assigned seats, and the chairs weren’t empty anymore. It didn’t matter. I could still see him sitting there focused on his work. Slightly hunched over, flipping his hair out of his eyes. Blue jeans. Button-down shirt, always rolled up. I looked around. I knew that Scott saw him, too. So did Kevin and George. I wished I could hear him laugh. The images weren’t enough.
31 years have passed, but the images are still clear. I see the car in the driveway, especially when I’m in town. I see him when I play pool. I see him at his desk. I think about him every time someone doesn’t get the chance in life they thought they’d have. I still miss him. And I still cry a little. The world would have been better with him. I don’t ask Scott, Kevin or George if they still think about him. I know they do. They’ve all got their own images as reminders.
I’ve spent hours and hours and hours wondering why it happened, but no answers come. The pain is mostly gone, but the scars left behind still hurt when I touch them, so I don’t much.
Tragedy’s pain is not lessened by hearing that God will use it for good, but I have learned some lessons. Love extravagantly. Live every day like it is your last. Always be there for a friend. Don’t wait until someone is gone to remember why they are special. Never underestimate the impact each person has. And if they forget, remind them.
