In an age when tradition is falling out of fashion, I am learning to embrace my favorite parts of yesterday and carry their significance into tomorrow. I have a family tradition that is on my list of favorites. It started as unintentionally as a dropped acorn, but over the years it has grown along with our commitment to our family, friends, and community.
Years ago, right after my family moved to Dallas, we heard that Operation Care hosted a Christmas party for the homeless in downtown Dallas. Kim and I decided to take our seven- and ten-year-old children. It sounded like a great chance to serve the poor around the holidays and expose the kids to a part of society they would never see in the suburbs north of Dallas.
It was a wonderful event, hosted in a huge convention center. Thousands of homeless people either walked there or took special, event buses from across the metroplex. They received “gifts” of toiletry bags, blankets, shoes, haircuts, and coats. Lunch followed. Throughout the day, people prayed with them and focused on the true importance of Christmas. It was beautiful and unlike anything I had ever seen.
Halfway through our serving time my daughter, Erin, and I went to the foot washing area. The job was straightforward. We would introduce ourselves to the guests, then remove their socks and shoes, clean their feet with wet wipes and rub them with powder. Next, we fit them with new socks and shoes. It was humbling. I had never seen sights like those hiding underneath the soiled socks and shoes. My eyes were opened and my heart cried out.
The next year we went again, but the kids brought friends with them. We migrated to the foot-washing and shoe area because it offered a controlled environment to watch over our young ones. Since we were now “regulars”, we bought t-shirts and acted like veterans.
My favorite part was the small-talk with the guests of our party. We would chat about their favorite part of the holidays, what they thought about the party and other things friends share. We were so similar in spirit but so different in circumstance. Our worlds grew smaller as we connected.
On year three, we brought half a dozen pairs of work boots from WalMart to take with us. Living outside in the cold of winter is harsh, and work boots were the most common request due to their warmth and dryness. Operation Care had become a tradition larger than our family, so we began to take our family and the friends with us to celebrate afterward with the lunch of the kids’ choice. Steak n Shake – party of six, please.
As the years passed, we began setting aside more money and bringing more work boots with us. The handful of pairs became lawn-sized trash bags that were nearly too heavy to carry. Everyone in the family invited more friends. Kim’s father moved in with us and joined us in our biggest party of the year.
Others noticed the joyful faces when the work boots were received and asked about donating to increase our gift. People who were originally uncomfortable washing the feet of the poor became emboldened. The spirit of Christmas moved through us.
More than a decade has passed since our first trip to the convention center for a Christmas party honoring forgotten people. Our family car has turned into a caravan, donations now flow through a nonprofit, we are approaching 1,000 pairs of work boots given to the homeless and impoverished of our city, other groups follow our example in the “gifts” they bring with them, and our serving team is regularly featured in the event’s promotional materials.
There are years I have wanted to break tradition, to do something else with that day. Sometimes, I’ve been tempted to channel my donations to a cause that had captured my attention at the moment.
So far, we have stayed the course. We’ve been blessed that God has given us gentle reminders of the impact emerging from our perseverance.
My kids are now grown and live in other cities which makes their participation questionable. However, a few weeks ago, I was blessed to see one of them stop to give a restaurant take-home bag to a homeless person we passed on the street. Later, I saw the other chat with someone who was losing everything due to their own actions responding with love and acceptance.
The acorns planted years earlier are growing into mighty oaks.
We will go to the party again in a few days. The fruit of our labor may have taken years to grow but I am thankful that we chose to stay where we were planted. Our roots have grown deep here.
I love the people of my city and can’t wait to see their smiling faces again.
Merry Christmas.
Note: A special thank you to Gary Daniels, who faithfully photographs the event and took most of these pictures. We are blessed to know you. Also to Bill Krahulik, whose enduring leadership has encouraged us to stay the course.
If you are interested in serving at Operation Care, visit
https://operationcareinternational.org/
One of the reasons the Bible is so captivating is because it was written by people who were living out the stories they wrote. It was written by shepherds, tent makers, kings, and cupbearers. They simply told their stories.
Stories are most powerful when the author’s genuine emotions flow out of the words. If you read my last post on the 23rd Psalm, you can feel David’s struggle in the lyrics of that beautiful song. The words are inspired by the spirit but spoken from the author’s heart.
Our stories may be different than David’s. He struggled with treachery, violence, and hunger. My circumstances are much safer and tend to involve a need for belonging and love. Psalms are born out of finding freedom, so as believers, we all have a song inside us.
Easy to say, but does it work? I decided to put myself to the test.
Would the 23rd Psalm be worthwhile if I had written it?
Not knowing how to start, I decided to follow David’s format. I broke it into four elements. Place of peace, emotional struggle, God’s response and vision of hope.
I am an engineer and love to follow a formula. That may not make for great literature but its a starting point.
My place of peace
When I am under stress, my dreams drift back to my childhood home in Nashville. I find myself once again standing in the large room that formed the kitchen and dining areas or with sunshine on my shoulders walking out in the yard. I was at peace then because my family loved and accepted me. I didn’t worry and with the faith fo a child, I trusted that all my needs would be met.
My emotional struggle
I struggle with feelings that nobody cares about me because I am not worth their attention. Even when people embrace me, I fear that tomorrow will bring loneliness again.
God’s response
God marks me as his own. When I need to be reminded that I am worthy, he gives me glimpses of how he sees me. By my faith and his design, people can see him in me.
My vision of hope
I want to be used by God and leave a legacy everywhere I go.
It is difficult to admit my weakness but more amazing that God loves me anyway. When I mix David’s elements with my images, my song pours out the same way that his must have.
The Trinity has adopted me into their family, I found belonging. Pictures of us together surround me as we relax and share stories about our day. They teach me the family business and bring peace to my soul. Dark forces swirl, shining lights on my failures, hissing that I am nobody, but I know who I am. The spirit rests on me, my brother stands at my side, and my Father tells the world that he is pleased with me. He grants me the authority of his name. Our family resemblance cannot be denied and my heart overflows.
Life and love forever mark my footprints as I walk through my Father’s kingdom.
My Conclusion
Certainly, my psalm is no replacement for the 23rd Psalm. It doesn’t even look similar. That’s OK. My place of peace, struggles, and hopes are as unique as my fingerprint.
I found joy in speaking my fears out loud and praising God for lifting me above them.
I had never considered several of the images that came out. The concept of a “family resemblance” was new for me, but is encouraging.
I don’t expect everyone to love it, but I am as excited to show my Father as a child racing into the room with a crayon drawing for the refrigerator. And that pleases him.
The Bible isn’t a storybook. It is alive and intended to guide us. Psalms are awesome, but maybe they are intended as a guide to help us write our own.
When you are sad, or joyful, amazed or scared, try writing it down. Maybe a phrase or two will turn into something longer. Maybe the spirit will guide your words. You won’t know until you try.
Life is full of ups and downs. Most of these are the minor fluctuations that keep us on our toes. But occasionally a profound tragedy or triumph stops us in our tracks and causes us to reevaluate our lives.
When circumstances seem impossible, the 23rd Psalm calls out to us. It is one of the Bible’s most encouraging passages. “The Lord is my shepherd…” has comforted people for three thousand years.
It is inspired and beautiful, but if that is all you know, get ready for the rest of the story.
King David wrote this psalm. He was born the youngest of eight sons and raised in the small village of Bethlehem. As the youngest, he inherited the unenviable task
of caring for his father’s flock of sheep. He spent many hours and days alone with the animals. Roaming the countryside, leading them to sources of food and water, he made sure they were protected from nature’s threats.
It was quiet, peaceful work, but especially boring for an energetic child. I suspect he let his thoughts find freedom by singing as he played his small harp while the sheep rested in the sun.
He was a musical prodigy, and his gift was noticed by the king’s attendants. He was invited to the castle to play for the king. Instead of sheep, he was suddenly playing for royalty.
His musician’s life quickly transformed into that of a soldier. On a trip to visit his brothers in their battle camp, he volunteered to fight a death match with a man who was not just a giant, but also the champion of his nation’s army. That victory catapulted him into the spotlight – where his military and leadership genius were on full display. He rose quickly to general and the people of Israel would sing about the tens of thousands of enemies he had killed.
David’s success as a soldier transitioned smoothly into politics when Israel was in need of a new king. Under his rule, the kingdom expanded, and prosperity grew. He was fair to his subjects, even to the point that God called him a man after his own heart.
These successes came at a high cost. He spent years at a time away from home, living in harsh conditions with constant threats to his life. He was betrayed by those closest to him, and constant wars marked his lifetime.
His intense focus on kingship distracted him from his duties as a husband and father. His relationships with both his wives and sons were strained.
His sons had all the curses of children born into wealth and privilege without discipline. None of them possessed his strong character and heart for God. David was unable to control them. His son Absalom went so far as to murder his own brother and later stage a bloody coup to seize control of the kingdom from his father. David barely escaped the castle with his life and retreated into the wilderness.
In the wilderness, he faced hunger, thirst and constant danger as his life hung by a thread. He was forced to choose between relinquishing a divinely anointed crown to an unlawful usurper or to raise an army to battle his own son.
As he agonized with his decision, he had no one to share it with. The loyal people who had fled with him from the castle had risked their own lives as well as that of their families. Because they were plagued with their own concerns, David would not have burdened them with his.
Isolated and alone in his contemplation, his heart must have longed for the peaceful days of his childhood, spent roaming green, grassy fields and wading in cool creeks. How simple it must have seemed when sheep were his only responsibility.
In these dark times, he did not blame God for his struggles. Instead, through faith, he knew he would survive. Hope still filled his heart, and he could see visions of tomorrow that strengthened him.
With no one to talk to and few ways to sort out his jumbled emotions, he began to write.
If you’ve read these words during turbulent times, you have felt the pain they were born from. You have also felt the comfort of a loving Father. In about one hundred words, this passage captures the very essence of our collective hope.
If you feel overwhelmed, do what David did. Start with speaking who God is and what he has done for you. Then describe your situation and speak victory and hope into it.
The 23rd Psalm is David’s story. And now you know the rest of the story.
Sources:
1 The Story Behind The Psalms by Jack Hyles http://www.fbbc.com/messages/hyles_psalms.htm
The holidays are coming! I’m looking forward to having a full house again. Holiday traditions are probably my favorite ones.
Starting in November, our family regularly watches classic holiday movies and the new classics also. Before or after the big meals, we favor throwing frisbee instead of football. We skip Black Friday shopping in favor of Shootin’ and Pie Day and usually wear t-shirts emblazoned with a target and pie slice.
We grill steak and refer to it as our Christmas ham. We stage an annual, elaborate disagreement about whether to open presents on Christmas Eve or Day. Before opening the gifts, we remove all of them from under the tree then obsessively stack them into neat piles for each person.
We close out the year building a funeral pyre that floats in the pool and brightly burns lists of things we need to bury in the past. Then we make our list of wishes for the coming year.
When “outsiders” join us, we excitedly explain our traditions to a gallery of confused faces.
Everybody has their own, unique way of celebrating. Like the Peanuts characters in the holiday show, we hold tightly to the traditions that remind us where we come from. For a few magical days each year, we know that we belong together.
During family gatherings, we frequently revert to the roles we held in days gone by. The youngest child is treated carefully, no matter how old he or she may be. Mom and Dad still cast the deciding vote, even though generations may have multiplied. Some of these roles are healthy, others aren’t.
Whether we are sharing time with family, friends or coworkers, the results can be the same. Rivalries are too often rekindled and old hurts can feel new again. It’s hard to avoid.
This year I’m going to be different. I will pick my character.
The familiarity of the characters in holiday movies provide comfort, but their endless, unchanging loop shouldn’t apply to my life. This time I want to play a different role.
I love Buddy the Elf, but instead of conforming to the spirit of the holidays, I want to be intentional about connecting with each person.
One at a time, I want to celebrate the different people in my life by letting them know why they are special. Not just special to me, but special in all the glorious ways God created them.
Most years I relate to Cousin Eddie. I come off as awkward and don’t want people to find out how many problems I really have. Nobody should feel embarrassed about the challenges they have faced in the past year or worry about how other people will judge their responses. Instead, they should find acceptance and sympathy.
Scrooge was only consistently generous in handing out unwanted advice. My new character will be an encourager instead. My Christmas wish is that people would remember me for finding a spark within them and fanning it into a flame.
When things inevitably get crazy, I don’t want to wish everyone would disappear, like the Home Alone kid. Instead, I want to lean in. I want to be the person that you seek out when you want a spellbound audience. I want to be a friend who can see your success before it ever happens.
My favorite character is the lovably well-intentioned Clark Griswold, constantly worrying when traditions never play out quite right. Instead, I want to relax and remember that the best stories are born from the years that don’t work out as planned.
As my focus shifts to building other people up, some of our traditions probably won’t come off right either. If anyone is disappointed, I apologize in advance.
I love traditions. But more importantly, I love the people they are shared with, hope they can feel that love, and have faith in our future together.
Maybe Hollywood hasn’t created the perfect character meant just for me. That’s OK.
All of us have something that our emotions can’t deal with. For some people, it is childhood illness. For others, it may be mistreatment of animals, domestic abuse, or something else. When we are confronted with the struggles of those victims we try to deny it, then become overwhelmed by anger and sadness.
I wasn’t aware of the area where I was totally defenseless until it found me. It is a condition that cannot be fought and robs people of their very identities.
My mother-in-law was a victim of early onset dementia. We witnessed her frustration when she first couldn’t find the right words to finish a sentence, and then later when she was unable to complete tasks she had once enjoyed.
Our kids could not understand why their grandmother didn’t know who they were anymore. Eventually, when Kim told her “It’s my fortieth birthday, Mom” there was no recognition left in her eyes. Her mother wanted badly to know who people were, but her memories of them were just no longer there.
Day by day, we sat by helpless as a vicious disease slowly stole her life. Each of the little things that made her special disappeared, one at a time. It was a heartbreaking process that lasted for years and took an enormous toll on everyone. By the time she passed away, there was nothing left of who she had once been. I wouldn’t curse my worst enemy with that pain.
Less than five years later, my mother could no longer hide the same symptoms.
I don’t like to talk about my mom’s condition. It hurts me to answer questions when there is no hope of a cure. I don’t know how to help, or even how to handle my own jumbled emotions.
I have always been close to her. We talked almost daily wherever I lived, but we can’t anymore. I still visit her regularly but miss her desperately. I wish I knew a way to reclaim the sweet, loving person who touched so many lives. I am helpless.
When I recognized the same early symptoms in a friend the other day, I didn’t want to believe it, then alternated between being angry and wishing I could push it out of my mind.
The Gospel of John, chapter 11, verse 35 is the favorite verse of every lazy kid assigned to memorize a Bible verse. It reads simply
Jesus wept.
It is part of the story of Lazarus. Four days after Lazarus’ death, Jesus joined the funeral party. When he saw the overwhelming sorrow that had consumed both family and friends, he became angry at first and then began to cry. He gathered himself and raised Lazarus from the dead. Showing his power over the grave was a pivotal point in his ministry.
In my search for comfort during hard times, the simple verse “Jesus wept” troubled me.
Jesus knew his identity as the author of life. He knew with certainty that Lazarus would rise to live with him again in a glorious celebration that exceeded anything he had known before. He even knew that Lazarus would walk out of his grave in a few moments to rejoin those he loved.
But the sadness, pain, suffering, and loss of life brought the Savior himself to tears. Although he was able to do anything, the sorrow in this world was so great that he wept.
If Jesus was affected that deeply, how can I hope to find peace?
Crushing sorrow became unbearable in the knowledge that the creator himself was reduced to tears. The pain was so great and relief so far away that I simply gave up.
That was when God told me that I had it all wrong.
Jesus didn’t weep because of the situation. His tears didn’t come because of the hardship or lost hope. Even as he brought the answer to their prayers, he had paused to connect with them and to share their pain.
He cried because he had never wanted it to be this way; he never wanted to see us hurt.
There is a big difference between Jesus crying with us in our pain and crying because the pain in this world overwhelmed him. He conquered this world, but he never left us behind.
It is hard for me to fathom a savior who can breathe life into a hundred billion galaxies but patiently comforts me. He rules over everything but cares about the daily struggles of one small man who is sad because his mom is sick.
That is why I make a decision every day to give my life to him. It’s not the infinite power. It’s not a sense of obligation. It’s certainly not a fear of hellfire or endless punishment. It’s because I can always depend on his love for me being total and complete. His love is so personal that he will cry with me. He cries for you, too.
One day all the pain will be gone, and I will be reunited with those who have been taken from me. We will sing praises to the one who not only saved us from death but loves us enough to share every moment. If he is there in our sorrow, how much more in our celebration?
Jesus wept.
Hope is alive.
My prayer today: Father, help me to reflect your spirit. When I serve others, remind me to slow down and connect with them. Your light shines the brightest when others feel that I care, not merely because they receive my assistance. May I be filled with your love and compassion for each of my brothers and sisters. Amen.
I grew up in Nashville and country music is part of my DNA. It’s not the first thing you’ll hear on my radio, but if you dig into my music library you’ll find a lot of Willie, Hank Jr. and my favorite – the Man in Black. I also love Garth Brooks. When I hear the sounds of lightning strike and thunder roll, I have an uncontrollable urge to roll the windows down, turn the volume up and sing like nobody’s listening.
One of my favorite Garth songs is Unanswered Prayers (click on the song title if you want to hear it). The lyrics tell the story of a man who takes his wife to a football game at his old high school. They stop to talk to a woman he had dated back in the day. He remembers how he had prayed for things to work out for them, but his prayer wasn’t answered. Later, he understood the genuine blessing when God brought him the true woman of his dreams.
I sympathize with the high school kid in the song, wanting something so badly that he would pay any price. I can imagine him sitting alone, lost in his thoughts, begging God to save a relationship that was failing. That feeling of powerlessness and desperation is too familiar. It is the prayer of a humbled person spoken to the only one who can offer hope.
When life races out of control, we are drawn to Him. As we sink lower, our cries instinctively go higher. We know that he is powerful enough. With a thought, he can make any pain go away. Miracles happen every day.
He is a god of hope. But why does he remain silent sometimes?
Like every parent of a teenage child, I’ve laid in bed sleepless, long after the world fell asleep, praying that no harm would come to someone too naive to understand risk and too innocent to suspect the evil that roams the world. I have prayed for angels to guard my children. I asked for more than regular angels, but that he would assign the fiercest and most vigilant warriors to defend them from dark forces. “Please God, keep them safe.”
Physically, they survived unharmed. Did their hearts, though? When friends disappointed them or young love didn’t last, I would worry about the seeds that had been planted. “Please God, give them peace.”
The teen angst that marked those years seemed to stand in defiance of my prayers. All I could do was to pray for them and ask God to show them a love that changes destinies.
If success was measured by results, it didn’t seem like he was listening.
Countless mornings found me awake long before the sun rose or the kids got out of bed. I would leave brief notes taped to their doors for them to find when they woke up. I wanted them to feel that they were loved.
The messages were simple things like “I enjoyed our time together at dinner last night. You are funny. I love you.” or “You have good friends. Be thankful for them. I love you.”
They never acknowledged they had read or even seen the notes. I wondered but was afraid to ask.
Other unanswered prayers came at the request of a friend. People whose own prayers remained unanswered and asked me to join them.
I have prayed faithfully for the reconciliation of broken families and watched them fall further apart. I have prayed passionately for healing and laid hands on friends whose sicknesses progressed.
I’ve asked other friends to join me in these prayers. We have sat together with heads bowed, begging for God to reveal himself. Sometimes he did, at other times he didn’t.
As the years have passed, the number of prayers that seemed unanswered has grown larger, and so has the number of people who have joined me in crying out for God to be with us and to comfort us. We know that he is big enough. We know that he loves us. He is faithful. He is good.
Through all of the pain, we stayed together. When no answers seemed to come, we held to each other tightly.
Recently, the miracle of the unanswered prayer revealed itself.
Kim asked me to provide her with a list of names to invite to my birthday party. It took just a few seconds to rattle off the people I hoped would come. After all, these were my best friends.
Later as everyone arrived at the party, I realized something.
My living room was filled with my unanswered prayers.
People I had prayed for and others who had prayed alongside me were celebrating together. We laughed and remembered the good times we had shared and the things we loved in each other.
The pains that had once seemed unbearable were fading into the past. We remember each of them but have learned to find hope together. We have revealed our secrets to each other and shared our innermost pain. After battling hardships together, we know each other’s strengths and when to offer help. We are better together.
As music and laughter rang out, I realized that God had been answering our prayers all along. We had asked for momentary relief and in his wisdom, he had given us something much better. He provided friends. He connected us to love each other, pray together, and to give comfort when it is needed.
What an incredible answer to prayer.
As I was getting ready for bed that night, I plugged my phone into the charger and realized I had an unopened text message. It was a note from my daughter. It was digital but reminded me of all the ones I had left taped to her door, never knowing if she read them.
It was the best gift I received that birthday.
All those prayers I had made night after night to provide the kids with protection hadn’t gone unanswered. He had surrounded them with warriors who had a preternatural ability to sense danger, he made them brave enough to challenge any foe, and he gave them the ferocity to charge the gates of Hell to defend those entrusted to them.
These guardians were vigilant not only to outside threats but were charged with deflecting dangers that would harden hearts. They did all of it while remaining inconspicuously in the background. The kids never suspected a thing.
They only knew us as mom and dad.
While we prayed for defenders, he had given us the strength to meet their need.
God always hears our cries for help from the middle of the storm. He may not provide exactly what we request, but he answers our prayers. Sometimes when we ask for short-term relief, he responds with grace and gives us more than we asked for.
There are years I have wanted to break tradition, to do something else with that day. Sometimes, I’ve been tempted to channel my donations to a cause that had captured my attention at the moment.
