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.