Christ Animated

Many years ago, when my sons were still small children at day care and my wife was an elementary school teacher, I found myself in an amazing situation — I had a day off. As my wife left for work, she asked me to do a little yard work. “Would you cut down that ugly bush out front? I can’t stand looking at it anymore,” she said. I assured her I would, since I thought that bush was hideous, too, but assumed she liked it since she’d never mentioned it to me. So when I got to that task in the early afternoon I approached it with gusto. I was going to eradicate the bushy blight from our front yard. I gathered the necessary tools and wheelbarrow and headed out to meet the offender. There it stood, directly in front of our porch steps, just a couple of strides away — a big, malformed azalea that looked like someone had gathered up all the discarded pieces from a play date with one of those Play-Doh barbershop sets, wadded them up and tossed them aside onto some toothpicks. I was going t

I bought a pill box recently. It's small, delicate and cost me one dollar at an estate sale. I bought it because -- for some reason -- it reminded of my grandmother. I don't recall ever seeing her with a pill box. But it looks like something I might have seen in her house. I saw it ... and I immediately missed her. She died 20 years ago. Never saw more than one of my five kids. Never met two of my brother's children, or either of my sister's. I look forward to the day we are all in glory together and they meet one another. A lot of memories. A lot of love. From a $1 pill box.

This was written a few years ago ... Homecoming. Sunday, Chunky Baptist Church will celebrate its homecoming. My brother is the guest speaker. Lunch will follow. For a lot of us, the word "homecoming" has certain connotations -- food, fellowship, honoring a person or group, celebration, memories, friends and family. Whether associated with church, sports or anything else, little changes. But for those of us who don't live, worship or attend that "home" anymore, it's not a coming, it's a going. We're home-going. We plan, anticipate and travel in order tk be a part of the event. We're going back home. So the emphasis of the word lies really with those who are inviting. For them it is a homecoming because others will come home to where they are waiting ... to feast, fellowship, remember and catch up. I love going home. I love visiting with my family and friends and seeing how people have grown physically and otherwise. But I think what I l

“Whatcha know good?” That’s a question I have been asked occasionally over many years. And every time I’m asked, I try to think about it before I answer: What do I know that’s good? I know a lot that’s good. I know that my oldest niece is getting married in Alabama this coming weekend to the man she’s loved for years. He’s been a part of the family for about that long, anyway. We love them both and they are a great pair. I think this moment of Shelby and Graham becoming man-and-wife is something that’s very good. I know that on the same day, on the West Coast, my daughter-in-law Arianna will be standing with her mother Zina to support her as she marries a godly man who swept her off her feet. That’s good. I know that my children are all healthy and doing well. That’s so good. I know that puppies and animals of all sorts still make me smile. I know that I will laugh loudly at videos of cats jumping and missing their intended targets. Every time. So good. I know that the c

One high school weekend, a friend of mine and I decided to take a walk through the majestic forests of Chunky. Well, the pine trees and undergrowth. Let’s not argue over details. We threw rocks, climbed through electric fences, pretended to shoot squirrels and tried not to step in anything that might bite us or make us smell worse than we probably already did. I have no idea whose property we trespassed on, but I offer a slightly belated apology. At one point in the day, we walked in the drainage ditches alongside the interstate, yelling at each other over the roar of 18-wheelers and other traffic on the asphalt. We walked inside one of the biggest culverts I’ve ever stood in and I remember the awe and timidity at realizing we were just yards below thousands of pounds of speeding vehicles and their cargo. We were safe, but I knew the danger was there, not far away. I remembered the trek this past weekend on Veterans Day. I thought of the dangers that are out of my line of sight and oft

I used to be a youth minister. But God delivered me. I’m just joking, sort of. God led me into youth ministry — at age 17 (me, not God), I felt God telling me he was going to make me a minister to youth, but not forever, just for a time and he’d let me know when that time was up — and God led me out of youth ministry. At age 27, God told me he was shifting me to a different type of ministry — as a pastor.  I became a pastor for the first time at age 30. I’d served as an associate pastor in the interim there. I was at that church 6 years, 2.5 months. Then I became pastor of a different church in a different state, and stayed there 5 years and 3 months.  I’d been eager to pastor a church in an area I considered a “real mission field,” where I had the financial security of a full-time position but had the freedom and opportunity to reach the lost, including those who weren’t accepted by or didn’t feel comfortable in every church. I practically begged God to send me to this new

We were looking for a home we were supposed to photograph, my wife and I, and Google Maps was supposed to be helping us. It told me to take a left on the next street, but that was a one way street, going the wrong way. So I went down to the next left, joking to my wife that I was surprised Google didn't fuss at me for not following directions. Then it happened. That distinctive Google voice from my phone: "How can I help you if you won't do what I ask?" Whaaaaaaa???? I pulled over and sat with wide eyes and wider mouth as my wife convulsed with laughter. "What exactly did it say?" she asked. I repeated it and she repeated convulsing. "You just got sassed by Google!" I've had wives, children and pretty much everyone I've ever known question if I knew what I was doing. I thought the worst I'd get from a search engine would be "Did you mean 'free books online'?" when I'd accidentally typed "free vooks.&

Phwift, phwift, phwift, phwift. You could hear me coming at least a block away. Pair my considerable childhood heft — as opposed to my very considerable adulthood heft — with the popularity and ready availability of corduroy pants in the 1970s, and there was no way I could ever sneak up on anyone. I’m not sure what size pants I wore, but they were never mistaken as my older, smaller brother’s pants. Maybe mistaken for his Cub Scout tent, but never as his pants. I do know that I was a bit surprised to find out there was a breed of dog called a Husky. I thought that was just the kind of pants I owned. If you’re not familiar with corduroy pants, do three things for me: 1.     Say a prayer of thanks to God. 2.     Google them. 3.     Ask someone who’s over the age of 40 if they ever got to wear them, and watch their eyes roll and listen to the groans escape as they respond with, “Got to? You mean, had to?” Wearing corduroy presented some problems for little boys of girth. When your

Pray for her, right now. He heard the voice clearly, and knew immediately it was for his daughter. A young teenager, she was out riding her bicycle. He slipped from his seated spot on the couch older than the girl to a spot on his knees and put his head on his folded hands. Oh, God, help my daughter, he prayed earnestly. Whatever's going on, please keep her safe. While he was still praying, the carport door swung open and the girl walked in, cradling her arm. She'd ridden too close to the edge of the highway and took a spill into a concrete culvert. She thought her arm was broken, but was alright otherwise. Thank you, God, he prayed aloud.