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.