After posting a blog entry on January 17 of last year, Making Waves went suddenly and unexpectedly silent. It was a very strange feeling since a hundred blog entries had poured out over the previous 2 1/2 years. Never knowing what the next subject might be, I had grown accustomed to a new topic being on my heart every week or so.
Then all of a sudden – nothing.
It wasn’t that I was too busy or de-motivated. Without warning, the flow of ideas stopped. Nothing came. Silence.
I longed to write and started a few failed endeavors but was grasping at something that simply wasn’t there.
Instead, a tugging at my heart led me to compile Your Loving Son, James for my dad. I gave myself over to the effort without knowing exactly what the finished product would be.
Lots of the time was spent in research. Hours were spent combing through internet sites looking for details of a 2nd Lieutenant’s all-too-brief military career. Even more time was spent reading hundreds of pages of letters written from a young man to his mother while he was going through pilot training. Finally, the actual writing took over as I decided how to tell his story to his son, my dad, who never knew him. It was hard work but more importantly, it was a ton of fun.
I tried desperately to get to know my grandfather, who was my children’s age at the time – while he enlisted in the Army during WW2, got married, had children, and was eventually deployed to the war in Europe. His letters were seldom somber or serious, mostly light news-of-the-day conversations with his mom. Convinced that I could get to know him through those correspondences, I tried to imagine what he was going through during each letter.
Emotionally, it was draining. He was full of hope for the future, love for his family, and ready to enjoy life. As he wrote those letters, he couldn’t have known what I did when I was reading them. His days in this world were growing short. He would never get the chance to realize his dreams. His life would soon be cut short in the skies above Germany. His family would mourn and never fully come to grips with the loss. His young sons would remain strangers, not learning their father’s story for over seventy years.
Compelled to finish the book, all of my free time was consumed telling a story that transcended generations of my family. I didn’t know what to expect when I was done, but felt drawn to the task. Every energy I had went into it.
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After months, it was complete. Finishing a book is difficult. There is a gap between when you have put it out there and the time later when people have had a chance to read it. The wait to you see if your efforts hit the mark is difficult.
After handing my father his copy, I drove back home from Tennessee to Texas, wondering what was next. Several more failed arrempts at blog-writing followed, but I was trying to force something that needed to flow naturally.
No voice spoke to me about Making Waves, so it continued to sit silently on the shelf for several more months.
Soon, a woodworking project caught my attention. Still focused on a family theme, I built a cutting board from 50-year-old pieces of my dad’s workbench to present to my son. It was slow, tedious work, but eventually the board with the Roman numeral 3 (honoring my son James the 3rd) was completed.
In the process, I caught woodworking fever. For reasons I cannot explain, my brain buzzed constantly with ideas. I was drawn to spend all my waking hours in the garage running tools or on-line studying techniques. It was all I talked about.
Cutting boards, coasters, wine caddies, and more began piling up. Although joy poured out of me in my work, I wondered “Why this?”
I have always tried to trust the God who created my passions. When He stirs a fire in my soul, I try to fan the flames. He has always used the effort for His purpose, but this time I wondered how He would use this for His glory. This time, was I merely indulging myself?
Throughout First Fruits, Making Waves, and even Your Loving Son, I always had some vision of what God was using them for. This was different. How could he use a guy in his garage making sawdust to advance His kingdom?
Then calls started coming in. Many asked for boards with something other than traditional last names or a favorite phrase. “Can you make a cutting board with Galatians 2:20 engraved on it? How about Romans 8:39? Romans 8:28? Matthew 28? An adaptation of a verse from 2 Timothy? Do you have coasters with the Tree of Life on them?”
I was stunned. God wasn’t. He always had a plan for my faithfulness.
Many times, God doesn’t give us clear direction of something to do. Instead, he ignites a passion inside us, hoping that as we pursue the joy of our heart, we will find closer relationship Him.
The talents we are given come from Him. The passions of our heart do too. When we give ourselves over to them fully holding on by faith that He will use it for His glory, then amazing things happen. He continues to give me brief glimpses of how he is using me as part of his master plan, even if I never see the full picture.
Just a peek is enough to refresh my spirit. It reminds me that His plan isn’t something; it is someone. We are his plan.
His plan isn’t about the outcome of the work we do. After all He is better equipped to do that himself; he just wants us to enjoy ourselves with him while we fulfill the purposes He created us for.
We often view God as the Master Chess Player, carefully coordinating the movements of all the pieces on the playing board. However, I believe He is more of the Hopeful Romantic, longing to show us how much He loves us and inspiring us with ways that we can show our love.
Obedience is found in our gleeful romps through the day more than long-faced submission to His wlll. After all, God is love.
It is rewarding to see how God uses the things that we do, but much more rewarding to discover Him in the pursuit of our passions.
I don’t know what will come next, but that’s OK. I know who I am doing it for.
2021 is already fading into the mist of remembrance, conjuring the same mixed emotions as the years that preceded it.
As the highlight reel flickers in my mind, it resurrects memories of the events of the past 365 days. There are moments that I wished would last forever. Other experiences haunted my days.
The week between Christmas and New Year is contemplative at our house. While we prepare our 2022 Goals, we also make preparations for 2021’s funeral.
Which past events do we want to use as building blocks for the coming seasons?
Equally importantly, what parts of the past year need to be properly buried and left in the past?
While I carefully untangle my emotions and try to be objective in my assessments, my hands stay busy building the vessel that will carry away the unwanted items, burning brightly as our lists are consumed by the flames.
It’s boat building time!
Every year, James laughingly tells me that my boats get bigger each year. He is right, but bigger isn’t the goal, they need to be better. If this boat is a reflection of my life, hopefully it improves as I continue to grow as well.
The first year was a plank that we ignited with a match. Then came a floating box doused in lighter fluid that we lit with a crude torch. Eventually, a Viking longboat emerged. The next bier was ignited with flaming arrows (Nerf darts). Last year, shields heralding my ancestral Scottish roots hung next to the oars as I contemplated my role in the circle of life.
The arsenal is ready for the archers to select their “weapons”.
What will this year add?
The cedar boards are in the garage ready to be cut and sanded. Blueprints for construction have been printed and were ultimately discarded in favor of “winging it”. Lastly, the pièce de résistance has been formulating in my mind.
However, 2021 wasn’t done yet. It was holding another surprise. A hand injury will prevent me from constructing my vessel.
When someone needed to rise to the occasion, James jumped at the chance. Ready or not, I have handed down my title as Chief Ship Buiilder to him.
“Generations” has been a central theme for me this past year, and it seems to be gaining speed. An event that began as an effort to raise my daughter free of anger and guilt is being passed on to the younger generation to carry forward when I cannot.
With my obligations limited and time suddenly available, I sat down to build my list of things to leave behind. The first few came pretty quickly, then took longer to formulate. It was the basics – forgiveness of offenses, angers to release, striving instead of accepting God’s path, and bad habits to abandon.
Looking back over my list, it seemed all too familiar. Although the details were different, the same types of items had been included in previous years. Laying down my pen and paper, I stopped to think about how my current situation compared to previous years.
I am trying to grow as a Christ-follower, but if I am continuing to deal with the same issues, am I really moving forward?
If I am struggling with the same things each year, am I making progress in my personal journey?
King Solomon was the wisest man of his time. For all of his insight and knowledge, he mourned the repetitive cycle of life in the first chapter of Ecclesiastes.
3 What do people gain from all their labors at which they toil under the sun? 4 Generations come and generations go, but the earth remains forever. 5 The sun rises and the sun sets, and hurries back to where it rises. 6 The wind blows to the south and turns to the north; round and round it goes, ever returning on its course. 7 All streams flow into the sea, yet the sea is never full. To the place the streams come from, there they return again. 8 All things are wearisome, more than one can say.
For all of his legendary wisdom and riches, Solomon was no more able to break his chain of events than me. So maybe we were both looking at things in the wrong way,
My list of things to bury might look shockingly similar to previous years, but it doesn’t matter how far I’ve come. All that matters is how I deal with the moment I am in today.
Right here, right now, am I doing the best I can – the best to forgive, the best to release anger, the best to serve and love my heavenly father?
Just because things look familiar, it doesn’t mean I’m not moving forward. It is merely part of the cyclical nature of this life.
Solomon built extraordinary castles, a kingdom, and a temple even though he knew they would not last. He did it to thank God for what he had been given and to provide an example to the next generation to do the same thing.
So I will smile when the sun sets on New Year’s Eve and bury again the same things I have buried before. It’s OK.
This past year I spent a lot of time getting to know my grandfather, James William McAfee. The first several months of the year were spent studying letters he wrote, details of his military missions, and particulars of his short life. After publishing both volumes of Your Loving Son, James, I felt a bond with him that never existed before.
The year is ending with insight into my other grandfather, who was also named James William. He was my mother’s father. His last name was Lewis.
A couple years ago, my dad was preparing to move and had set aside a number of items that he did not plan to carry forward. As the siblings sorted though the piles, I selected several Bibles belonging to family that had passed into the next life. They were once held by James McAfee, my mom, and by James William Lewis, who went by JW or simply “Dub”.
These treasures represent the eternal word of God that has been passed down through my family. My eyes rest on the same pages that comforted my ancestors, reminding me of our continuing purpose in this world.
Most people think of their lost relatives in terms of the circumstances that surrounded them – the years they lived, the lands they called home, or the professions that provided sustenance. While these things are relevant to me, some things are much more important.
When their spirits departed this earth, it became much harder to determine what went on inside their minds – what achievements they were most proud of, the struggles that gripped them, or dreams that guided their lives. These passions and priorities do more than establish our heritage, they bind our hearts together. Family is identified by shared purpose more than genetic markers.
Although I knew my grandfather for many years, we were never close. During the typical holidays, I don’t recall special conversations, moments, or interests that we shared. Separated across several states and half a century of age, we were never able to bridge that chasm and develop a tight bond. Educated about the details of his life, I never got the chance to embrace our connection.
This week, I got an early gift. It was a stray glimpse not only into JW’s mind, but into my mom’s too.
Picture 1992. Left to right: Jim McAfee, me, Kelly Savage, JW Lewis, Preston McAfee, Jan Lewis McAfee
In December 1987 while I was off at college, my mom bought a Bible for her dad. Bibles are a pretty common gift except to my knowledge JW had never been a very spiritual person. He undoubtedly already had various Bible’s laying around the house, many of which would have belonged to his wife before she passed away.
Mom would have chosen this New International Version because it was a modern, easy-to-read format. By now, JW was 72 years old and highly unlikely to begin reading a Bible that he had predominantly ignored for many decades. Busy with his routine, he wasn’t seeking more than a quiet life in retirement.
Mom knew this, but in her heart she hoped that somehow a Christmas miracle would light a spark in the heart of this gruff, aging man. She wished to give him time with the same Jesus whose grace guided her life.
Although she knew her father might simply ignore her gift, she selected something with the power to change destinies.
I don’t recall traveling to Louisiana that year so most probably Mom wrapped her gift and mailed it to her dad. She would have called him later to ensure it arrived and received a polite “Thank you” before he turned the conversation back to his garden or other events of the day. After she finished the call, she probably never heard more about her present.
But there was more to the story. Thirty-four years later, I found out what happened after he hung up the phone.
Against all odds, JW picked up his pen and reading glasses from the table next to his well-worn recliner. Whether or not he had ever considered it before, he was inspired to read that Bible. All of it. Starting right then.
As I thumbed through the pages, for the first time I recognized the shorthand notes that were made on occasional pages. What had seemed like random notations were his way of tracking his progress.
As days stretched into weeks and then months, he followed no formal plan. He finished as much as he was motivated to read each day. When he was done reading, he wrote the month/day at the spot then faithfully returned the next day (March 22nd in the picture above). For ninety straight days he absorbed the inspired word before smiling as he completed the final page.
Reaching over to his side table, he picked up the same pen he had used on Christmas Day to mark his commitment. With satisfaction he noted his completion.
Never considering why I was motivated to do so, I had recently chosen JW’s old Bible for my daily devotionals. After reading the New Testament letters, I moved on to Revelation.
Over the past week, that is how I happened upon the same last page that he had finished decades earlier. I had never noticed his notations on the first and final pages.
His writing is surprisingly formal. Signed with his legal signature on a page he never expected anyone else to see, this marked a contract between him and his Father.
JW was a voracious reader. Paperback novels were piled around his home, cast aside as soon as they were finished providing him a brief period of entertainment. This was different. He was proud of this accomplishment, which you can almost feel in his note -“the entire Bible”.
It is impossible to know if JW ever called my mom to tell her that he appreciated her gift in ways he could not explain. Somehow she understood the importance when retrieving this particular Bible upon his death years later and carefully storing for me to rediscover in days still to come.
JW’s simple, handwritten phrase did more to strengthen my connection to him than all the holidays as a child. Holding the same sheet of paper as he once held, I can feel the satisfaction that burned inside him. There is a part of us that is the same. I know that now.
God blessed mom’s Christmas wish by giving her not only what she asked for, but much more. He extended her blessing to grant me time with my grandfather and to understand that I am part of a powerful dynasty of Christians. We are a family of beloved sons and daughters of the King.
We never know what fire we may ignite with a simple spark, especially at Christmas. Each year, God softens hearts in the season he released his son into the world to reconcile all of mankind to himself. These are His special days.
It may be through a gift, song, or touch, but my Christmas wish this year is to release part of the flame that burns brightly inside my heart. Hopefully decades later, people will still see the impact of my simple actions that point back to a powerful and loving God.
Last week, Kim was fortunate enough to be included in the early rollout of COVID vaccinations. She got the first of two injections on a Friday and although her arm was a bit sore the next day, she had no real side effects. In theory, that got her immunity up to 50%.
The next day she and James drove to Big Bend National Park to hike and enjoy the beautiful scenery. It was a short trip that they very much enjoyed. They took a few pictures of each other standing in front of breathtaking backdrops but didn’t bring back much else…except a double case of COVID.
By Tuesday, Kim had symptoms that she chalked up to a bad cold – coughing, headache, body aches. She stayed home but generally continued her regular routine, although at a reduced capacity.
On Thursday, James drove back from our house back to Austin for spring semester. By the time he arrived, he felt bad and took his temperature only to discover a 101° fever. The next morning, he headed to Student Health to get his rapid test. Bad news. He tested positive.
He was predictably disappointed with the outcome and got back into his car to go to his apartment and consider his next steps. On the short drive, a car pulled out directly in front of him and with no time to respond, he hit it broadside. Thankfully, no one was injured except for the cars involved. He was able to drive back to his apartment, but the puddle of fluid under the radiator made it clear that it wasn’t going anywhere until it was repaired.
Kim received his call and scheduled herself and me for our rapid tests. After getting our brains tickled with the swab, our results came back. Hers was positive, my initial test result was negative.
By evening, she felt really bad and climbed into bed at 4 pm. I texted a few of her friends whose numbers were on my phone and left it to them to pass along the news. I also alerted our extended families, my boss, and a few friends that James and Kim were confirmed positive, had mild-to-moderate symptoms, and that all of us would be in quarantine for the coming days.
On Saturday, I got up early and made the eight-hour round trip to Austin to bring James back to our house. In his small apartment with a roommate and a dog, there was no way for him to isolate effectively without exposing his roommate or others. Although he had been relieved to go back to school only forty-eight hours earlier, his destiny was to return to mom and dad’s house for a while.
When I got back, the lab messaged me that they had conducted a secondary test that is more accurate, and my result was also positive. Although my symptoms are mild, the count at our COVID Camp had climbed to three.
A lot changes in a few days.
Only a week ago, my blog post (click to read The Flood) contemplated what the world would be like when the pandemic was over. I have been preparing my thoughts for my follow-up post, which I planned to title “The Abundant Life”. If the world were to become very different, I would need to determine a new set of dreams.
I am suddenly faced with counting out three separate mountains of pills each day, focusing on taking care of Kim, and learning to survive in a bubble. My considerations of a new tomorrow were very premature. For a time, my job is to take the best care possible of my family and avoid spreading this infection to a world already full of is already full of it.
It’s not exactly the abundant life I had imagined.
I sat down and prepared to settle into a COVID Sucks Pity Party. We were short on groceries. I would have to work from home for two weeks (not a fan, by the way). What I had hoped was almost over seemed to just be getting started.
The Abundant Life? Are you kidding me? An abundance of problems maybe, but not the blessings I’d hoped for.
Then my phone buzzed. I ignored it. A few seconds later, it buzzed again, then again. Then the phone rang. It didn’t stop for the next hour two hours.
One after another, someone was calling to check on me and the family. Before it was over, we had several specific offers to help – Donna brought her best-in-the-world mac and cheese, Bob recommended shows to binge-watch on Netflix, Steve dropped N95 masks in the mailbox, Mary Jo and Wendy delivered cookies, Columba sent comfort verses, Carra supplied input on vitamins to take, Erin picked up my prescriptions, and two different Pams scheduled dinner deliveries for the week.
Other people have called with general offers to help in any way they could – Hank, Kelly, my boss, my dad, and others. These offers weren’t hollow, meaningless gestures. They really mean it. I know for a truth that I could ask anything of any of them and it would be on my doorstep within moments.
It is overwhelming. I love every one of these people so much.
My immediate needs have been met. I am assured that everything else will be provided when it is needed.
These gestures are extraordinarily generous, but they are merely reflections of the extravagant God who orchestrates it all. On days that are full of darkness, his presence shines brightly in a way I never notice when everything is sunny.
I am re-thinking my definition of The Abundant Life. It isn’t an existence free of stress, troubles, injury, and pain. It is a life full of peace, love, and joy. One describes the circumstances that surround me. The other is the condition of my heart in the midst of those circumstances.
I love days that are full of promotion, victory, miracles, and rainbows. The beauty of God’s creation fills my eyes. His divine favor rests on my shoulders. His goodness is on display for everyone who will see.
I also love the days when storm clouds gather and the world warns of imminent disaster. When aches and pain run through my body and tears fill my eyes, God stops what he is doing to comfort me. He sends friends to stand by my side. He reminds me that I will have trouble in this world, but that he has overcome it. He soothes my soul.
An abundant life has days that are easy and days that are hard. It also has many uneventful ones when nothing exciting happens. It is not about the events that fill your days. An abundant life is one that is filled with faith, hope, and love.
Maybe it is too early to see what lies ahead when the pandemic’s floodwaters recede. However, in the days of trial that precede the next season, I am reminded that joy is born out of love that is shared.
It is exactly the right time to cherish the special people in my life – the ones who need my help, the ones who are offering their help to me, and the One who holds us all together. My life is blessed to be full of them.
My fantasies of finding a happy path through the new year have already taken a beating. Before the first week of 2021 came to an end, we were faced with a single-day record of 291,000 COVID cases, a more contagious strain of the virus spreading across multiple states, a violent attack against democracy that was carried out by our own citizens, and national responses to the attack that further divided our country.
My heart is heavy.
It is hard to reconcile with my feelings from only a few days ago when I was fondly listening to “Auld Lang Syne” with high hopes for the unspoiled year that had limitless potential.
I’m already rethinking what I am hopeful for.
When Noah had finished building the ark, he and his family climbed the gangplank and boarded their traveling shelter. As it began to rain, they must have bowed in thanks to God for sparing them from the nightmare that was unfolding outside.
Their physical safety was guaranteed, but most of us are growing to understand the emotional toll of their next 375 days of lockdown. The atmosphere in the ark must have been heavy at times, both emotionally and spiritually. Their diets were limited. The scenery never changed. Managing sanitation and smell inside the floating barn would have been a dirty, full-time job.
Caged in a cell where the sun never shone, you can imagine their wishlist. Watching sports. Hearing the crunch of an apple when your teeth pierce its skin. Soaking in a hot bath until your fingertips wrinkle. Smelling honeysuckle while butterflies dance around the blooms. Feasting with the community after the harvest. Rocking slowly on the porch while the neighbors’ kids played games. Humming along while the band plays your favorite song.
But they would need new dreams when the ark’s door was opened. Floodwaters were washing away their previous lives and leaving behind uncertain. They needed ambitions better suited to their pending situation. Noah must have spent many nights speaking with the family about what the coming season would require. Each of them would have different responsibilities when they emerged into a world they had never known before.
As the floodwaters of our pandemic continue to rise, I am left to wonder what will be left behind when we open the ark’s door. The defining event of our generation is changing the landscape while we are locked away. A microscopic virus and unseen, supernatural forces are altering how we will interact with each other in ways that are both great and small.
Clear goals are difficult to set before the dawn of our release. I peer out the window and imagine how the world will be different. I have faith in a bright tomorrow but am still mourning a yesterday that is disappearing into the murky depths.
I have noodled and doodled, but most of my goals will only achieve a pleasant passing of the time. None of them represent the audacious daring of past years.
I have prayed for guidance and spent time searching the scriptures for answers. My hope arrived during a quiet morning devotional. It took the form of a warning that Jesus gave to the early church in Ephesus who was enduring its own torrent of change.
“But I have this against you, that you have abandoned the love you had at first. Remember then from what you have fallen; repent, and do the works you did at first. If not, I will come to you and remove your lampstand from its place” Rev 2: 4-5
These verses could also be paraphrased to say that when we passionately embrace Jesus with the same excitement we had on the day of our salvation, He will remain with us and our lives will be blessed.
That is my theme for 2021.
To me, this is about more than attending church each week or reading the Bible in a year. It is more important than serving days or participating in a small group. In the verses before the quote above, Jesus thanked the church for their loyalty before giving them fair warning about their lack of passion.
“The love I had at first” was reckless, unbounded, heart-pounding excitement that consumed my thoughts. I remember the long walk up the church aisle. My head roared with the rush of a thousand voices singing in unison my promise to give Him my life. Everything else melted away, and He filled my eyes. No change seemed extreme, no request was insurmountable in my pursuit of Heaven itself.
The days that followed were a honeymoon of sorts. I was proudly baptized in front of my church. I read all the Gospel’s red-letter words to hear His voice. I was so excited that my name was written in His Book. My prayers were full of both the naiveté and passion of a spiritual child.
As time passed, did my excitement diminish? Did some of the shine wear off? Whether it did or not, I’m committing to maintaining the enthusiasm I had “at first”.
Passionately embracing means doing things just for him because I want to see his smile. It means writing a blog post that tells him I love him even if no one else pays attention. It means building a prayer garden to provide Him with a beautiful, quiet place to meet with people. It means standing ready to do anything else that would bring Him joy.
My objectives for the new year should be a list of ideas to bring us together. They should represent small reminders for me to get Jesus something great for his birthday, to celebrate our anniversary with more excitement than I had on that first day, and to tell everyone who will listen about my Savior.
Achieving my goals should increase the passion with which I pursue Jesus so that he will be more present in my life.
If my goals change, they will be replaced by something new that reflects the same motive – Embrace the love I had at first.
He is the great joy of my life.
Great and mighty things await on the horizon. For a time, floodwaters may rage and swirl tossing my life into unknown places. I know that He will bring me to rest on a mountaintop with a rainbow spanning the sky.
At our house, we don’t set New Year’s Resolutions. Does anyone enjoy making lists of chores you didn’t want to do last year but begrudgingly acknowledge that you ought to do in the next one? Not this guy. I don’t want a list on the fridge that tells me to eat right or exercise more. It may as well read “have less fun”.
Every year I hand out forms to everyone in the family for New Year’s Goals. At first glance, it seems like the same thing, but it is very different. When we set goals, we focus on our dreams and write down our biggest wishes for the next year. Basically, we are asking “If I can have anything next year, what would it be?”
It’s a lot more fun.
This morning, I began searching through my cloud storage for the Goals template to print for Kim and me, then to email to Erin and James. I never found it, but I did find an old version from 2013, which I opened and printed. It would be easy enough to wipe out the old entries and write down new ones.
Instead, I spent the morning reflecting on the times and my family eight years ago.
Many of my personal goals centered around my increasing interest in local missions. My heart longed to use the skills that God gave me to serve the needs of people in my community. Unfortunately the future of the fledgling First Fruits ministry was uncertain, so I hoped that my church would establish a program. The various goals included: * Work in Local Missions at VCC as it evolves * Develop leaders for other groups/events
Kim was in the midst of difficult years in raising kids. We had a 15- and a 12-year-old. They seemed intent on gaining all the liberties of being “grown-up” without sacrificing the freedoms of being a childhood. It was hard on her. Her heart yearned to grow closer to children who were pushing her away while she tried to prepare them with basic life skills. She added: * Assign kids a “cooking day” * Plan one-on-one outings with each family member monthly
At fifteen years old, Erin was in a bit all over the place. However, she found joy making things with her hands that could be enjoyed by people. She listed goals that broadened her talents while connecting with people. They included: * Learn to knit * Work with Oak Tree Apartments (Kim led an after-school ministry program there)
James has always been the audacious dreamer. His goals were seldom realistic and infrequently achieved. He yearned to find his place and be strong, but also to soothe the angst that was growing inside him. Despite his total lack of musical experience and an awkward pre-pubescent physique, he determined to: * Learn to play 10 songs on the guitar * Play Football, Cross Country, Track, and Basketball
When the following December rolled around, I checked our progress only to find that we had accomplished virtually none of our goals.
As soon as 2013 started, our lives unexpectedly had taken a different direction. Kim’s dad, who was living with us and battling cancer, passed away in March. Our own poor decisions landed us in court off-and-on throughout the year. In meetings with church staff, they advised me they were not going to focus on local ministry at that time. James joined a basketball team that went 0-11, then decided team sports were boring.
Although our goals were not met, the seeds of our dreams had been planted. We had opened our hearts to our Lord and asked him for help. Eight years later it is obvious that God was not only listening but he had put plans in place to give us more than we asked for.
In the coming years, First Fruits expanded into everything I had asked God for someone else to start. Leaders emerged that I had not even met yet, and they went on to lead the ministry that our church established years later. Our city has become a better reflection of the eternal kingdom.
The kids never cooked dinner regularly, but Kim raised a family that loves well, helps each other, and takes responsibility. They are the next generation of our country, and she has faith in them. They are growing beyond her hopes in ways she could not see as an exasperated mom.
Erin moved into the Oak Tree Apartments complex where she had bonded with children almost a decade earlier. She is the family’s “crafty one” who builds treasures out of the mundane. The work she hoped to do with her hands has literally blossomed as she adorns her balcony with beautiful plants that her neighbors rush to copy. She makes a career bringing beauty into people’s lives, centered in the same spot she served God those many years ago.
James grew from the awkward kid into a powerful man. He set aside sports to focus on wellness and will graduate this year from UT Austin with a B.S. in Kinesiology and Health Education. He is discovering his own path. His destiny is so much larger than the audacious dreams he had as a child. But when the sadness of life weighs heavily on his soul, he finds comfort by playing his guitar and softly singing along. God grants him peace in a personal way that his lips could never have found the words to request.
Although most of our goals were not realized, He had been focused on our hearts’ desires. While we were busy planning our paths, God was guiding our steps into something much better.
The new year isn’t about committing to burdensome resolutions. It’s not even about achieving arbitrary goals.
The dawn of the new year is a time to dream. In the quiet moments before regular life resumes, it is a chance to contemplate a future that will exceed any image we have conceived before. Like Christmas is a time for children to sit in Santa’s lap and tell him what they want, New Year’s is our chance to relax with the Father and weave fantasies that only He can breathe into existence.
God has given everything so that we can have an abundant life (John 10:10). He has not only promised us hope and a future (Jer 29:11), but he guarantees us anything that we ask in His name (John 16:23).
If we can have whatever we dream, why do we spend so little time imagining? Why do we tend to limit our prayers to small items that model a future after a slightly improved present?
A list from 2013 revealed to me that He has been at work in our lives. Although we didn’t always get specifically what we asked for, he nurtured the spirit that had motivated the requests. That is His way.
On this New Year’s Eve, I won’t be able to gather with friends and wonder how late I can stay awake. My hopes for the future will exceed a previous year that is five pounds lighter. Instead, I will take time with Kim to envision impossibly fantastic ambitions. We will ask for supernatural blessings that no one else could provide.
Let’s give God the chance to demonstrate how truly powerful and loving He really is. What father wouldn’t relish the opportunity to grant the wishes of his child?
When we are finished conjuring images of remarkable days to come, we will write down a single step we can take in faith, believing that He will fulfill those dreams.
That is what a New Year’s Goal is to me.
In another eight years, who knows what fruit these seeds will yield?
