One Kind Man

In the mid 70's Charlie and Betty Brewster had an idea. Charlie owed a business in Alaska that was doing pretty well and they would vacation in Maui. There was something about the setting, the peace of it, that rejuvenated and fed them.

Despite his wealth, there was a humility to Mr. Brewster. There was an intuitive awareness that not everyone had been as blessed financially as he had been. And there was a keen understanding that people who work in vocational ministry were probably near the bottom of that financial ladder.

Charlie and Betty understood that the refreshment that island gave them would be illusive to the majority of pastors and missionaries. So they began to dream and they reached the conclusion, "We can't preach and we can't sing, but we can do this."

So they bought 65 acres of dry undeveloped scrub brush, a mile or so from the beach, up Mt. Haleakala above the town of Kihei, overlooking the ocean. They built a four wing guesthouse and a caretaker's cottage.

That's when they found out Betty had cancer. She died two years later. Then a wildfire came so close to the guesthouse it melted the light fixtures on the lanai. Then Charlie's father died. Then his brother. Then while he was driving down the mountain in Alaska, he hit a moose, fracturing his neck and putting him on bed-rest.

Requiring full-time care during his recovery, Charlie began to wonder, "Were we wrong? Should we even continue?" His nurse encouraged him not too decided to quickly. So he waited, healed and then began again.

Finally, after 10 years of loss and struggle, they began to develop the property. Irrigation, fruit trees, macadamia nut trees and all kinds of flowers and plants. Birds began to nest there, wildlife began to pass through. And weary servants began to pass through.

Nancy and I have had the good fortune to stay twice at Brewster Rest Haven. Each time allowed a two week stay of healing and restoration. We've explored, snorkeled, sometimes spent days doing nothing and have watched sunset after sunset over the ocean.

Hundreds of God's workers have experienced healing. All provided by a couple who couldn't preach or sing. I think too often we look in the mirror and only see our limitations, our faults and our weaknesses. We see all of the things we can't do and so, decide to do nothing.

I am so thankful for a man who asked, "What can I do?" I believe he paid a price for that question, a price many in ministry would understand. His willingness to ask and his determination to follow, even through adversity, has breathed life into many. It's humbled me. And it's caused me to ask, "What can I do?" 

Ambiguity

We leave Ecuador in a week and still do not have our visas to return. Our lawyer doesn’t seem too concerned. So, there's one person.

One of the most exciting/challenging/infuriating things of cross-cultural living is the level of uncertainty that is always just under the surface. 

You can just click into automatic in your home country. You know what you'll find at the grocery story, if they'll have the part when your car breaks, what your commute will be like, consistent electricity and water. Generally, things work the way you expect them to.

We have no idea what it means if we don’t receive a visa.

Can we still return in November?
Do we have to wait until January?
If we’re out of the country when it’s approved, will we still receive it?
Would we have to start the process over?
What does it mean if we’re rejected completely? Can we come back? When? For how long?

I don’t throw out those questions because we’re panicked. We’re not. The worst that could happen is we’ll have to go back to our home, to our bed, with our dog laying at the foot of it. The only thing lost would be our plans. 

I mention the questions because things would be different if, like most missionaries, we had sold everything, raised a bunch of money, then moved our family to go where we believed God had called us. It creates all kinds of practical and spiritual questions.

As strange as it may sound, a life in missions is a life of "not knowing." It puts us in a place of dependency. It's a hard place. An exhausting place. And its the place where we need to be. 

Leaving the Harvest

Jesus said, "The harvest is plentiful but the workers are few. Ask the Lord of the harvest to send out workers into his harvest field."

I wish he'd added, "And ask him to help them get along!"

I have heard the number one reason missionaries leave the field is because of other missionaries. I've never seen the study, so I don't know if it was done by MSNBC or Breitbart, but it's at least close to true.

Now they also leave for, ailing parents, needs of children, and even retirement. And those are the reasons they tell you.

But usually there's a story behind the story. We tell the cleaned up version. The one that makes people smile and nod instead of cringe. We do it to "protect Jesus" or the mission, or so we don't look like a failure. 

People think, in missions, their coworkers will be like Jesus. What they find is some are as impulsive as Peter or as power hungry as James and John. Some will doubt them, like Thomas and some are as demanding and as Paul. 

So missionaries hit the ground expecting to work with Jesus and instead they get disciples. It's awful!

You can get some toxic people, but that's usually not the case. These are all good, Jesus-loving people, who left home to change the world. And they are all living at a constant level of cross-cultural and ministerial stress that can make them act in some very un-Christlike ways.

Sometimes it's just we're all very different people, trying to get to the same place, by going in different directions.

So, if you have a missionary you pray for... when you pray for their protection, their cultural adjustment, language acquisition and success in ministry, pray too for their team. Pray for healthy relationships with teammates. For unity and friendship. For laughter and joy in the work.

Because joining the harvest is great. And we need to stay together until it's completed.

Facebook Church

A few years ago, Nancy and I were going through a rough time. Our marriage wasn't in jeopardy, but the relationship was definitely strained.  We had already purchased some tickets for a fun day out, so we had to use them.

The night before had been tense. That morning was tense. And even our time together throughout the day was awkward, as we tried to enjoy what we were doing, without resolution to our conflict.

We took the obligatory photos and posted them to Facebook. It's what you do when you're having a day of adventure with beautiful things to see. You share them with... well, everyone. People liked and commented on the pictures. And everything was fine until someone wrote, "Wow. I wish I had your life."

I was heart sick. No. Not today you don't. Beautiful pictures, of a beautiful place, with smiling faces didn't tell the whole story. I felt like I had posted a lie.

But I have to wonder, how much different is that from my Sunday morning? I show up to church, showered, smiling, handshakes and hugs. "I'm good! How are you? How's the family? Hows your week? Good weather. Great game! Wonderful worship. Great message. So good to see you. Hope you're doing well. See you next week."

I can show up, participate, but never engage. I can spend time with people, listen to people and leave without them ever really knowing who or how I am. I can get the "likes," "hearts," and "smiley faces" that feed my ego without ever sharing how much I'm struggling.

Facebook's got nothing on a church lobby. The narthex was Facebook way before Facebook. It's where I can be real, but not too real. It's where I can "post an image" that's as fake as a whitewashed tomb.

When I don't tell the truth of who or how I am I cheat myself. There is nothing more humbling, there is nothing more healing than the acceptance and outpouring of support from a loving community. If we never admit our brokenness, we can never experience the wonder of unconditional love.

And we cheat everyone around us. Who wants to share a struggle with someone who never seems to have one?  Who can see God's glory if I am always displaying mine.

I get it, it can be scary to tell the whole story. And I understand, not every place is safe to do so. I also believe it's a better way to live. It's the way Christ asks us to live. Because only then, when someone says, "Wow. I wish I had your life," they will truly understand what they are asking for.

Rocks and Dogs

If you go for a walk around an Ecuadorian city or town, you're going to run into dogs. In some towns dogs are everywhere. Some are behind a fence, some are owned, but roaming the streets and others are just out there, fending for themselves.

For the most part, when Nancy and I go for a walk, we coexist with the dogs. They really don't pay attention to us and we don't pay attention to them. Every now and then, though, we run across one or more who are quick to suggest we leave their neighborhood.

As they bark and follow us down the street, it can make you a bit nervous. But then I remember what to do... pick up a rock.

It makes me wonder if every dog in the country has been hit with a rock, because it never fails. I've never had to throw one because when I lift my arm, they back off. They continue to bark and follow, but at a much safer distance, until ultimately they go home. 

It's a great trick to know. But it's a sorry way to deal with people.

We pick up rocks when the new kid in the office needs to learn his place. We pick up rocks when the new girl tries to worm her way into our social up. We pick up rocks at church when someone doesn't adhere to the rules everyone knows, but Jesus never seemed to mention.

Most people don't pick up rocks and throw them indiscriminately. Though, some do. Some people pick up rocks when they're afraid and feel threatened. Sometimes, because of history, abuse or ways of self preservation. But I'm not really talking about them.

I'm talking about those of us who throw rocks because we're afraid of change. We're afraid we'll lose power. In our workplace. In our social group. In our home. At church. In affluence. In our politics. In our racial "superiority."

It seems to me, so much of the conflict in our nation at the moment is steeped in fear. We're afraid of the unknown. We're afraid of change. We're afraid of the other. We're afraid of the loss of control. We're afraid we're losing power.

So we act like Pharisees who brought Jesus the woman caught in adultery. They made it about her but it really wasn't. It was about them. They were afraid of Christ, the way he exposed them and the power of his message. So they grabbed some rocks.

The problem is, Christ tells us to put down our rocks. Even when it's uncomfortable. Even when it costs us.

Jesus was anti casting stones. Probably, even on Facebook. He is the only hope we have for change in this world. But if we want to follow him, we have to put down our rocks.

The Army, a Hillbilly and the Shenandoah

When I was in the army, our platoon sergeant decided we needed some team building, in the form of adventure training. I worked in a bridging unit, which meant we had lots of access to boats and rafts.

So our sergeant took the lieutenant and a two man raft, to find a place to go. They went in the Spring, after a few weeks of heavy rain. The Shenandoah River isn't really known for it's rapids, but I guess after all the rain, the two men on the little raft thought they were going to die. So, of course, when they got to the end of their ride, they looked at each other and said, "This is the spot!!"

Due to logistics, we couldn't make the trip until August. With no rain the previous months, the Shenandoah had returned to it's leisurely pace; the slow stroll of a young couple in love.

Needless to say, "adventure training" was now a life and leisure tour. Thirty, testosterone filled young men, gliding gently down the river.

We had two 15 man rafts and one two man raft with the a cooler full of food... and probably beer. We were jumping off rafts, swimming, throwing each other in the water, laughing and actually, having a good time.

At some point, I jumped off my big raft and climbed in with my two buds, and the cooler, in the little one. Because there were only three of us and because we really didn't care, the two larger rafts were constantly getting pretty far up ahead of us.

So there we were, Don in front, me in the middle and Joey in the back, paddling and drifting along. We got bored and started smacking the water with our oars. If you do it right, it can sound like the crack of a .22. It was fun.

The larger rafts had long been lost in the twists and turns of the river, when we came around a bend and saw a beautiful house, nestled in thick woods, back off the river on our left. On our right was a towering, horseshoe shaped  cliff the river bumped into, before turning and moving on.

I said, "I wonder what it sounds like here!" as I smacked my oar on the water. Sure enough, "KA-POW" bounced off the curved cliff and seemed to magnify my "gunshot." Don and Joey, of course, grabbed their oars and the three of us unloaded an arsenal of .22 rounds into the water. We finally collapsed in the raft, laughing at what great marksmen we were.

Then, out of the wood line, stepped a guy who looked like Phil Robertson, from Duck Dynasty. He pointed a long bony finger at us and yelled, "THERE THEY ARE!".

That's when I saw the rifle.

Now I can't swear to it, but it seemed like time slowed down as he lifted that rifle to his shoulder, and somewhere, in the back of my mind, I began to hear banjos playing.

Then chaos.

The rifle cracked and water flew in our faces all at the same time. Having been army trained, there was no hesitation, we immediately began screaming like little girls.

Don and I sunk our ores into the water and began paddling, like two guys from the Oxford crew team. Joey, in the back of the boat, had never even heard of Oxford. He was also as strong as a horse. All he knew how to do was paddle as hard as he could on one side of the boat.

With the Clydesdale in back, it didn't really matter where Don and I wanted to go, we were at Joey's mercy.

So there we were, the repeated crack of the rifle, water flying up everywhere, three soldiers screaming, spinning like a giant merry-go-round, drifting ever so slowly away from danger.

Now I know good and well, an old guy, from the hill's of Virginia, could have put us down in three shots or less. He just wanted to move us along. And that he did.

But here are four things I learned that day.

1.A lazy day can get frantic fast, enjoy it while it lasts. 2. When you're having fun, you might want to stop and ask yourself, "Could this get me shot?" 3. Before you give someone access to the steering wheel, make sure they know how to drive. 4. There's no better place to spin out of control than the lazy waters of the Shenandoah River.

Missions and a Pair of Ducks

Mission Training International has a great debriefing program for missionary families. In it, they try to give missionaries and their kids a common language for what they have experienced, the paradox of missions. Or, for the kiddos it's a pair of ducks. A "Yay Duck" for things that make you happy and a "Yuck Duck" for things that don't. Let me explain.

I'm sitting again in Quito. I love this city. I love the mountains that surround it. I love the people who live in it. I love the perfect weather. I love life here. Except when I don't.

They're working on it, but the city is pretty polluted. I can't stand the traffic, buses or the way they drive. I hate rainy season when it's freezing. We're working on a visa and I'm so frustrated, I'm about ready to scrap it.

But I love the food. Long walks with Nancy in the park. The warmth in the greetings that include a peck on the cheek. I love their passion for football. And I love the rich history of a city over 500 years old.

They start them young just like us, but the ball is different. 

And there are things about an old city that drive me crazy. Like when things don't work. Lights, plumbing. I can't drink water from the tap. Like a city infrastructure that was created for thousands now supporting millions.

I sat in church on Sunday, wrapped in the warm blanket of nostalgia. We had returned to a place where we worshiped for years. As I walk the streets I'm reminded of where Andrew acted in school plays and where Marcus played soccer. I can stand on the spot Andrew talked about his first kiss and where Marcus said he hoped Jesus would come back before the next sex ed. class.

At the same time I miss my friends from my passport country. I miss my family at Grandview. I miss my team in the office. I miss Andrew and Marcus and Kelsie and the gift it is they live in Colorado. I miss my dad and sister though they don't live nearby. I miss the places we play putt-putt and our favorite restaurants.

I can't even get started on the families I'd love to be with in Africa, Asia, Europe and Australia. We have people all over the world our hearts are tied to. People we've lived life with, raised kids with. People who have cared for us when we've been wrecked. People we have cared for. People we love.

Missionaries and their kids live in the tensions of the two ducks. It's a love hate relationship. You feel a bit schizophrenic at times.  Loving where you are and wanting to be somewhere else. Sometimes loathing where you are and the thought of leaving is  too heart crushing to contemplate. It's a beautiful mess. And you wonder why we're so weird when we come back to visit. :o)

Dale Crockett

When I was a Freshman in High School, I had to take Western Civ. It was one of those basic level courses everyone took their first year. Our first day of class in walked my sister's friend, Dale. He was a Senior, but I guess he had transferred in Sophomore year and never bothered to take the class.

Dale was a bright guy. He took a lot of AP courses. I didn't. But for some reason, he sat at the back of the class with me and treated me like a peer.

He and Jill ran in the same circles. He played the saxophone in the school's show choir and Jill sang in it. Somehow, when they lost a trumpet player, Jill convinced the choir director to let me in.

I was physically ill the first day we practiced together. No lie. In the bathroom stuff. I was a little Freshman, this was the school's hottest choir, the band was filled with rock stars. They were like god's to me. Dale treated me like I belonged there.

When the choir would travel, Dale would let me hang out with him and his buddies. In New York there was a harmless juvenile prank at the Statue of Liberty that may have gotten some folks, (Dale included) suspended a few days. My part in the event was never disclosed and I was spared Jeannette's wrath.

I've never been a big guy, but was pretty good in Judo and wrestling and for some reason Dale always wanted to know, just how good. So, whenever he'd be over at the house for a party or to visit Jill, he'd always grab me and try to pin me to the ground. He was three years older, bigger and stronger, but I was a lot quicker and trained.

There we were in the front yard pounding on each other. I would get the best of him sometimes and he could never quite hang onto me which his High School boy ego, just couldn't stand.

He graduated, went to college, became a doctor and joined the army. Somehow we stayed loosely connected over the years, probably because of Jill. When we went into missions, we had a year of language school in South Texas. Dale was now living in San Antonio, so we stopped in to see him on a trip up north.

By then we were in our 30's. We had two kids, he had just had his first. And before we left, he grabbed me in his front yard and threw me to the ground. This doctor, wrestling a missionary in suburbia San Antonio. I won't tell you who won, but the support checks started coming to Reach Beyond after that.

Dale died last week at 52 of a suspected heart attack.

There is a lot I could say here about the tragedy of his passing. I'll let others tell those stories, they aren't mine to tell. What I will say is, Dale was my friend. I'm not sure anything that I've written here is very coherent or honors him well. I'm just still trying to come to terms with his loss and how a guy, who I've had little connection with since High School, meant so much to me.

Since our time together in San Antonio, he and I have only connected occasionally and I've seen him only once. He, like all of us, walked through some deep water over the years. Some of it we walked together, from a distance.

So when Facebook started lighting up with news of his passing, and tributes to his life started pouring in, they only confirmed what I had learned in High School. Dale was a guy who accepted people and cared for them, just like he did with the awkward, little Freshman.

His passing reminds me again, safety and security are a myth. We have no idea who or what will be taken from us and when. Live today well. Love people well. Dale did. And I miss him.

Steve

When I was 20, we had a new 24 year old youth pastor show up at our church, Steve. He was a fresh out of seminary, wild, purposeful, driven, overachiever. I was none of those things... well, maybe wild. Other than that, I had practically flunked out of my first year of college, gotten my girlfriend pregnant and was now a private in the army, where I wasn't interested in overachieving.

The Army had kindly stationed me near home, so Nancy and I were attending the church I grew up in. Because I had grown up with all the kids in the youth group, we were still hanging out with those guys.

Strangely, when Steve showed up, he didn't make me leave. He just put me to work. He'd take me with him on "Coke dates" with students. He gave me books to read (most of which I actually read and returned). He'd have me help him with the Wednesday night programs, do skits, talks and games. He had me ride along on youth missions trips to the Dominican Republic and Philadelphia.

For four years he invested in me, encouraged me, mentored me, laughed with me, challenged me and fueled my smoldering passion for ministry. He was with me when bombs started falling in Iraq while I processed if I might have to go. He was with me at the NICU, watching my panting preemie through the window.

We both got into missions. When we were raising money, he'd take me to his supporting churches and give me time to speak. Over the past 24 years we've lived in different places, sometimes, literally, on opposite sides of the planet.

For some reason, when Steve showed up in Fairfax, he didn't see what I had done, he saw me.

Due to a situation too convoluted to describe, this year Steve has been commuting between Indiana and Colorado. He's been hanging out at my house eating up my food on and off for months. And it has been profoundly precious for me to have him and his wife, Diane, in my home, sharing life together again.

He preached at church yesterday and said, "Religious rules and human tradition never breathe life. Only Jesus can breathe life."

And I know that's true. I know because Steve was Jesus for me. At a moment when he could have judged me, he showed me who Jesus is. He showed me how he would respond to a broken and struggling young dad. He showed me that there's acceptance and hope and a future.

Jesus can breathe life in a lot of different ways. Through scripture, worship, even work. But sometimes he uses us, if we let him. Sometimes he even uses weird youth pastors named Steve.

Show me the Money!

There's a great scene in Jerry Maguire (not a movie I'm recommending... in fact the scene I'm referencing is NSFW so I'm not embedding it into the blog). Jerry (Tom Cruise) is a sports agent, who leaves his firm without any clients. He calls Rod (Cuba Gooding Jr.) and tries to convince him to stay on as a client.

Rod says to Jerry, "You've just got to do one thing for me, Jerry... Show me the money!" Rod can say that. He's a star football player. There's plenty of money to be made and he's in a position to demand it. 

I have a friend who was going through an interview process recently. The interviewer said to him, "We're looking for a strong leader." My friend said, "Good. That's good. But you need to know, strong leaders get paid." 

There's this belief we have, especially in America, that if you work hard and do your job well, you can expect a better job and better pay. That doesn't really translate into missions. In fact, a lot of people believe the opposite. They're much more likely to quote Jesus when he was sending out the 72 disciples in Luke 10, "Do not take a purse or bag or sandals..." 

And I get it. We live on the kindness of others people's generosity. I can't stand pastors who preach prosperity, fly around in jets and dupe the poor into giving them more. It's reprehensible. However, I have never seen a missionary with his own jet. 

What I struggle with is seeing someone who has worked overseas for 30 years, having a hard time raising their support, so they're forced to take a reduction in pay. And it happens all the time. 

What happens is churches move on. Pastors change. You show up and no one knows you. And they begin to wonder why they have this weird missionary on the payroll. Individual supporters age, retire and stop giving. Donations go down and you don't have connections in the U.S. anymore. You have no idea where to go to find new supporters. 

I know people who are rock stars from a mission's standpoint. Sharp, knowledgeable, hard working and effective. From a secular standpoint, they are in the prime years of their earning potential. In any other occupation they'd be in the position to say, "Show me the money!" 

I think part of the problem is people think they can't give enough to make any kind of difference. But here's the deal. We don't need a lot. Just a lot of people. It's a loaves and fishes thing. Jesus will take it, break it and bless it. But only if you give it.

If you do not currently have a missionary you support, think about it. Pray about it. Then find one. One that is involved in something you care about and believe in. Then send them $10 each month. If every believer in the U.S. found a missionary and sent them ten bucks, no one would be under supported. 

If you can't find a missionary... send me a note. I might know a couple. 

Down the Mountain

Before our family moved away from Ecuador, my boys wanted to climb Mt. Pichincha. It's not close to the tallest mountain in Ecuador and not a hard mountain to climb. It's more of a hike above 15,000 feet.

But this was the mountain we had lived under and climbed on countless times for seven years. The one with the great views of Quito and all the snow caps in the distance. The volcano that had rained ash down on us. It was our mountain.

We started off early and we're having a good time, hiking, talking and taking pictures. We reached the top of a long sandy slope and sat down to take a break, drink some water and eat a bit before we pushed on to the final stretch.

I sat on a rock, opened the backpack, handed out snacks and drank in the view. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught the sight of my backpack slowly rolling away. By the time I reached too grab it, it had already achieved terminal velocity. It was tumbling, bouncing almost gleefully away, like a happy little kid rolling down a hill.

I wasn't gleeful. I was sick. Nancy's nice SLR camera was in that bag.

I was helpless. All I could do was beg it to stop. Plead with it to stay away from rocks. And watch it roll... and roll. I had no control.

When it finally came to rest up against a bolder, way down the mountain, the three of us just stood there looking at it. I didn't know what to do. We couldn't just leave it and pick it up later, someone else might get there first. There was nothing left to do, but hike back down and get it.

Life has a way of tumbling out of control. There are moments, seasons of chaos where no matter how hard we try to reach to grab it back all control tumbles away and there's nothing we can do but watch.

Your job is gone. Your spouse is cheating on you. A parent dies. It's cancer.

Nothing is more frightening than being out of control. In those moments we can get stuck, staring blankly down the mountain wondering what the heck to do. We wish it would stop. We wish things were different. We wish we were sitting back on our rock.

But that moment is gone and it's not coming back. At some point, we have to accept the new reality. We need to mourn the loss, identify the things we can control, then start walking back down the mountain.

When we got to the backpack, the camera was fine. We finished the climb and had a great day. Sometimes where we land isn't as desperate as the fall appears it will be. Sometimes it is.

Either way, how we address it is the same. Identify it. It sucks. And this is where I am. Now how do I learn to live in the new reality. You'll be OK. You're strong enough. Ask for help. We'll walk down the mountain together.

Cats and Dogs

Abby is our Lab- Pitt Bull-Mutt mix. She's been with us over five years now. About a year and a half ago, Marcus and Kelsie adopted River, a Tawny little kitty. For the most part they tolerate each other as long as River doesn't get near Abby when she's eating or around bedtime (she's grouchy when she's sleepy).

Abby isn't tolerant enough to let River snuggle up with her on a cold day, but they can share the couch or a sunny spot on the kitchen floor. Mostly, they share the house like roommates who need someone to help cover rent, but have nothing in common.

But every now and then they try to play. Abby is a typical dog. Jump forward, head down, butt up and wagging. She wants River to chase her and she wants to chase back. She'll stomp at River with her paw if she has to, sending River to higher ground and Abby in hot pursuit. Abby looks like she just wants to play.

River on the other hand is a bit more... bloodthirsty. She'll take a run at Abby and go straight for her neck. Claws out, front legs wrapped securely around her head and fangs on Abby's throat. Abby brushes her off and she flees. When Abby pokes River with her nose, the cat goes after her eyes, and ears.

Abby has whined a couple of times, but with a 60 pound dog and a 4 pound cat, there's not a lot of chance she'll get hurt badly. But she usually looks at me in confusion like, "What the heck? Why doesn't she play right?"

We've all got cats in our lives. People who don't play right. They don't come at the world the same way as we do. What drives them is different. What they care about is different. What encourages them is different. What sets them off is different. They aren't bad people, they're just different.

We walk away from time with them thinking, "What the heck? Why don't they think right?"

It occurs to me, there wasn't anyone ever more different than Jesus. He did everything differently. I think that's why a few times in scripture he gets so frustrated with the disciples. They just didn't get it. It took three years of walking with him, his death and resurrection for them to finally clue in to his message.

The sucky thing for us is one of his core messages was basically, "You need to love the cats in your life." So I kind of understand why the disciples took so long to clue in. Loving people who scratch at your eyes, bite your ears and go for your jugular isn't really intuitive.

In the United States, there is a widening gap in cultures of those inside the church and those out. Not to mention the politics. With that in mind, we would be wise to remember Christ's teachings in Mathew 5 especially, 38-48.  They are powerful. They are convicting. And they are truth.

I should probably read them every morning. I need to love the people who do not look like, think like and act like me. I need to love my cat people.

Wahoo!

I love the movie IQ. It's probably not very manly to admit, but I don't care. Walter Matthau makes Einstein seem warm and fun loving. His interaction with his brilliant and bumbling group of peers is hilarious. It's just a fun, quirky little romantic comedy. And I love it.

In one particular scene, Ed (Tim Robbins) takes Albert for a ride on his motorcycle. Albert enjoys the ride so much, he yells, "WAHOOOOOOOO!" Shortly after the ride, Ed runs into Catherine (Meg Ryan)  Albert's niece and this conversation takes place:

When was the last time you went Wahoo? We should ask ourselves that question every day. When was the last time you said it in your journey through life? When was the last time you said it in your journey with God? Life is meant to be filled with "Wahoo!" moments.

But to have them we have to risk. We have to take off the training wheels. Ask the girl out. Jump off the high dive. Try a new food. Explore a new state. Explore a new country. Change things at church. Climb the mountain. Start our own business. Love more deeply. Ask God to use us. Then... we have to say yes.

When was the last time you dared to do something that scared the life out of you? Those are the moments when we fail. When we learn. When we grow. When we achieve. Those are the moments when our faith is rewarded and God reveals himself to us. They are the moments where we go "WAHOOOOOO!"

When was the last time you went wahoo? If you can't remember, it's time to start looking for a new adventure.

Pike's Peak

Pike's Peak is a huge mountain. It towers above Colorado Springs. It impacts weather patterns. You can see it from Denver as you head south out of town. Driving west from the plains you spot it well over an hour before you reach it's shadow.

It's a mountain so majestic it provoked Katharine Lee Bates to write "America the Beautiful."

It's so tall  Zebulon Pike never even got to the top. For some reason he thought a snowy day in November was a good time to try.

It's just so impressive.

Except, that it isn't. On the grand scheme of things, it's not really that big. Not even half the size of Everest. Not the biggest in the country. Heck not even the biggest it Colorado. In fact there are 29 mountains bigger in Colorado alone!

So what's the big deal? Why are people obsessed with it? Why did they make it a National Forest? Why do they have the Pikes Peak Hill Climb and the Accent and Marathon every year? Why do people know about this mountain but not about Mt. Elbert which is over 300 feet higher? Why do hundreds of thousands of people visit every year?

Why? Because it's out on its own.

Pikes Peak is alone in Southern Colorado's Front range. The view west from Denver is a row of mountains. It's beautiful. The view from Colorado Springs is Pikes Peak. It is not the tallest, prettiest or most impressive mountain. It just seems to be, because it's positioned at the edge of the plains, by itself.

It got me thinking about folks in the Bible. There's a lot of them who probably wouldn't be considered to be the best or the brightest. They had impact because they were willing to go where no one else had gone. Abraham, Moses, David. Peter, John, Paul. They listened to what God said to them and they followed him there.

I think it's been true in my life in ministry as well. There are some really unassuming folks with some significant Kingdom impact. It's not that they're super smart or gifted. They've just been willing to follow God wherever it was he was leading them.

And that gives me a bit of hope. The beautiful thing is, it doesn't matter if we're young like Timothy or old like Caleb. If we are willing to trust, willing to follow, there will always be new mountains to climb. God can use you. He can use me. He's just looking for a willing heart to follow him, even if it's out on your own.

Travel Log

On one of our trips to Ecuador, Nancy and I traveled with a good friend. To protect her, I won't tell you who she is, but she's our Personnel Director... and her name is DeNise. On our way, we passed a fruit stand and this Memphis native said, "Lets stop and get some watermelon. I LOVE me some watermelon."

The van was packed with food. We had so much food, the van our driver looked at us like, "You know they HAVE food there, right?" Still, we stopped and bought the watermelon.

Since we were having a team get together, DeNise bought three. We drove those three watermelons down the mountain, cut two of them up for the meeting and took the third on to the next stop on our visit. Then to the next stop. Then finally, we took it all the way back to Quito.

That watermelon was the best traveled watermelon on the planet. There are people who live their whole lives in Ecuador and never see those places. I had to carry that thing back and forth to the van, up and down flights of stairs, all over the stinking country. Just because DeNise LOVES her some watermelon. 

When we finally got home, DeNise picked up her watermelon for the first time and said, "Dang! That watermelon is heavy!" Yes. I know. 

That was years ago, but I still give her a hard time about it. We have a lot of good stories from that trip and we revisit them whenever we see each other.

There's something about traveling with someone that can really deepen a friendship. There's prolonged time together. You see each other early in the morning and late at night. You see each other at your best and not so best. And there's always a story. 

It all makes me wonder about the disciples. For three years they followed Jesus around Israel. What kind of stuff didn't make it in the book? Did Peter ever push Judas out of the boat? Did they ever try to sneak off and leave Mathew? Did James ever secretly spit on John's fish then everyone laugh when he ate it? 

After the ascension, did they ever sit around and tell stories. Can you imagine when they were alone together? "Remember that time Jesus smoked you for wanting to be first in the Kingdom? HAHAHAAH! Good times... good times." Who else could understand them? Who else could understand how profoundly they missed him? 

The disciples journeyed through life together and out of it came some pretty amazing stories. Who are you traveling with? What kind of stories are you writing?