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September 15, 2022

Mindful Of Means

Exercising trust little by little that Christ is alongside to help, the Jesus-follower grows resolved. He has gotten serious about seeing a turnaround in his life. But the parade of things needing turned around is long. He feels at times like a mechanic lacking tools.

A friend of mine traversing a long stretch of Uganda’s backcountry heard a loud and sudden ‘Pop’ toward the rear of his Peugeot. His heart sank as the tell-tale quivering of the steering wheel vibrated in his hands. “Oh boy,” he moaned, “a flat”. A troubled whisper then followed, “and here I am with no jack”.

Standing on the dusty roadway he surveyed the landscape. No sign of help.

A seeker after God offers an appeal, “Lord, change needs to happen here”. He names a vice or a struggle or perhaps a habit of negligence. “And so”, he prays further, “would you heal this or remove that or deliver me from the other thing there.”

Such an approach in prayer is admirable as far as it goes. The determined believer is getting specific. He aims to partner with the most helpful being in all the cosmos.

But the parade of obstacles is long, the struggles many. In time, weariness sets in. Discouragement follows and the sincere but beleaguered faith-pilgrim begins asking why? He concludes that life transformation that the scriptures promise may forever remain out of reach. A flourishing life of rest and joy in God to which he had once aspired has now taken on the look of a lifeless mirage hovering at the desert’s surface.

The struggling believer’s musings are not entirely off. Seeing marked change and growth in one’s life for the good does not typically come, for instance, by voicing bold claims through gritted teeth. Enduring transformation can’t come by merely working on habits or struggles as they pop up, only to see them pop up again, then yet again. Not apart from some useful means. A few tools of the trade kept within easy reach can prove game-changers.

A distinct stirring sounded from a grove of bushes lining the remote Uganda road. Smiling a greeting to the young African males approaching, he was soon directing them to a strategic spot along the car’s edge. A few “heave-ho’s” followed by a sustained rumble of soft gruntings from the sturdy youth, soon yielded a freshly-mounted spare tire. Hard candies conveniently kept in the missionary’s console got dispensed. Laughter ensued, and with an arm-wave of thanks my friend drove off.

September 8, 2022September 8, 2022

Help

Seeing all things about us put right over time. . .

Who wouldn’t opt for such a prospect? Frankly, though, many of us in our quest for quick solutions might be less than euphoric over the ending couple of words there – over time.

Ralph Waldo Emerson offered a thoughtful if somewhat annoying perspective, “People wish to be settled; only as far as they are unsettled is there any hope for them”.

I once got left alone in a forsaken dry riverbed in the heart of Africa’s wild game country. Night had set in. I was on foot and fighting distressing questions about whether I would get out in one piece or be eaten by a leopard or some other carnivorous beast. Being unarmed and at the mercy it seemed of whatever may come my way, I called up by a pure act of will and perhaps a trace of faith, a string of verses from the Old Testament.

Assured from earlier times that the passage (Psalm 91) bore reliable truths and had come ‘God-breathed for his people in times of crisis, I began quoting them as best as I was able. After some moments as I trekked through sand hoping somehow for a safe exit, voicing scripture as I went, a great, unexpected quiet settled down over me. My mind no longer raced. Nor, it seemed, did my pulse.

Throughout my years in various kinds of settings – few of which competed with the riverbed episode for high drama – a conviction has grown within me. A priceless gift comes our way from the hand of a gracious God – the gift of growing disillusioned with ourselves.

Centuries-old histories from inside and outside the church offer up loads of evidence that people simply cannot tackle and conquer every vice or resistance that comes their way. Even religious people.

Someone from outside ourselves must make himself present as rescuer, as advocate.

Thankfully (yes, we keep returning to it) someone has come.

September 1, 2022September 1, 2022

Ticket Home

As Albert Einstein was anxiously searching underneath and around his passenger seat during a train journey, a conductor took in the scene. Stopping then, he assured the physicist, “Dr. Einsten, don’t worry, I know who you are. We all know who you are. There’s no problem. You don’t need a ticket. I am sure you bought one.” The famed but flustered scientist replied, “Young man, I too know who I am. What I don’t know, is where I am going!”

The amusing account strikes a chord in many who hope for deeper clarity about life and where it is meant to lead. Indeed, some feel uncertain whether they have yet boarded the train.

Followers of Jesus – people who have made an on-purpose decision to know him and be transformed by him – are often found appealing to God for help.

“Please grant to me the courage to change things about myself which you know need changing”. This is a raw, gutsy prayer. The appeal suggests that the disciple is taking seriously his call to apprentice under Jesus.

The honest Christ-follower who sees something within himself needing serious renovation moves to action. Praying has proven a good and much-traveled entryway into God, his word, his presence and help.

When, as a high school senior I defied my parent’s wise but firm counsel, my stubborn behavior resulted in a radical change of address. Moving to another town in another state more than 700 miles from home. No small matter.

In prayer we pause. We shift our attention, sometimes quite awkwardly, away from our own dysfunctional selves. The Holy Spirit is given space to work. He brings us (as we listen) toward a change of mind. And often signals to our hearts an avenue by which some troubling thing may get resolved. My “road back home” began when life started unraveling. Desperate, I called to God in prayer. A blubbering phone visit to my parents followed and soon I (and they) tasted the good fruit of my repentance and our reconciliation.

Wrongdoings that arise from our foolish or sinful choices do not make for pleasant travel companions. Then an old adage percolates in our mind, “Prayer changes things”.

Life Transformation Onramps offered us through Holy Scripture and by way of the Spirit’s guidance take us to a place that is bigger and fuller and grander than we might have dreamed. Here we find ourselves merging straight onto the thoroughfare of wholeness. It is a place where our entire being gets put right over time. The missing ticket is found. We are coming to know who we are and where we are going.

August 25, 2022August 25, 2022

Changing Times

Changing Inside-Out.

We see it at every turn, especially where knick-knacks and touristy things are found. Its eye-catching phrase shows up carved on a plaque here, a chunk of driftwood there. The Serenity Prayer invites us to pause and ponder.

“Lord, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change. . .

“the courage to change the things I can. . .

“and the wisdom to know the difference. . .”

These much-read phrases only mark the prayer’s first words.

When I saw that the earlier (Accounting) track was not for me I revisited Oklahoma State Tech – moving a different direction this time (call it ‘course correction’).

I soon found myself perched on a chair in front of a teletype machine. That move (direct result of a changed mind) influenced my future in ways I could have never guessed. Special details of one’s future (God knows why) seem often left hidden a while.

Teletypesetter Perforator Operator. Yes, that was once the actual job title for some of us laboring in the world of print media.

Unforeseen changes were soon underway.

How often has the course of history itself been altered by the changing of some plan – a military strategy, a legislative vote? One person’s words penned long ago speak to the reality of mystery as we aim our squinting eyes toward future horizons, “we see through a glass dimly”*.

What is true of grand historical events is equally true on the personal front. A pretty Montana girl I met during my stint in Cody, Wyoming would later become my wife and the mother of our three children. By God’s grace, she’s sticking with me these many decades later.

Change happens and we are, all of us, creatures made for change. Another way of saying it, we are people in formation. All of us are getting formed. Yet, it goes deeper than this. Ask a follower of Jesus. As image-bearers of God, all people are designed by him and are therein meant to grow to be like him. That is, meant to not be merely formed, but transformed. This is what our designer is after. It really is what we were made for.

Here is another prayer, my prayer. Yours too, maybe?

And so Lord, would you grant to me the serenity (calm readiness) to accept the things I cannot change, and please grant to me the courage to change things about me which you know need changing. You are present to help me. Let it be, Lord. Thank you

August 17, 2022August 17, 2022

Changing. Inside-Out

Hi and welcome back friends (old and new alike)!

Excited to introduced our freshly-resumed blog, offering up discourse on a stimulating topic. Change, Inside-Out.

If you’ve visited my website in earlier times you know of my published memoirs, Living With A Limp and Giants In The Rough. See links at this website to view and order resources.

You’re invited to trek with me now as we together explore the what and why (and a bit of the how) of this theme. Life transformation.

Most of us would like to catch some hope of change for the better in our own lives or those dear ones we most care about. I welcome you to ‘draw up a chair’ and savor a few samples of this cuisine. Maybe you’ll choose to linger at the table an extra moment, pondering a new flavor. Regardless, make yourself at home!

Serving #1

“I guess I’ll go with Accounting.”

What was I thinking. . . A better question, Was I thinking?

This little book is about changing. The accounting story is the first in a small parade of narratives with reflections sprinkled along the way. The thread linking them all together points to one common theme. Change.

Changing a vocation, an education stream, or a new place to live, all these mark common redirections for many. But, probably the most radical kind of shift, and weightiest, in our lives comes when we purpose to change our very selves. And undertaking the change from the inside-out.

The year (1963) had already been for me a stretch of transition, high school graduation included.

Thumbing through pages of a vocational school catalog I spotted the Accounting Program. “Sure, why not?”, I thought. (My friend Dan – father of eight adult children – is known for pithy statements, “the foolishness of youth that only age cures.”)

My romance with spread sheets, ledgers and calculations died two days into the course.

When a travel route starts leading to pointless destinations, revisiting a trusted roadmap is wise.

But neither Rand McNally nor GPS offer any real help when trying to navigate the larger highways of life. What we are offered in the midst of our broodings over multiple scenarios is something far richer and better than we might dream. The offers come through an ancient book bursting with story and counsel. The ‘book of books’ (the Bible) points us in a direction like no other.

Who among us desires transformative change, changing leading one to wholeness and to goodness, the real kind of goodness? Bringing that question home to me personally I had to reflect a bit, Do I want such a thing? The bible, lying open before me, leads the way I have found to just such a life. A life increasingly marked by flourishing.

Accounting 101 was not the smartest choice. It was, however, a wakeup call. Best I make a course correction, a correction leading to change. A refreshing word. Change.

“Lord, give me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change. . . the courage to change the things I can. . .”*

March 16, 2022

A Hungering ‘Revisited’

Jesus of Nazareth invited two apprentices to walk and work with him. Then came a third. . . then another and another. Since those early days, the increase of his trainees-in-Christlikeness has carried forward until their number now spans the globe.

Jesus knew well the need of passing along insights and wisdom. But also, of modelling his rare kind of power – the power of love – brought here to earth by him from another world. He did this kind of thing at every step, this modelling and training.

As for insights and wisdom, what this master-trainer brought into view went deeper. It went past the understanding and good sense already found among people through centuries of human experience. Further, the compassion he showed left other forms of human caring shallow by comparison.

Many historians measure this Middle-eastern figure, whose name is more commonly spoken than any other in history, as the most gifted, the most brilliant human ever to live. Yet he didn’t hold his understanding to himself, wasn’t stingy with his gems. Rather, Jesus offered up to any who would take him seriously, his own qualities – wisdom and truth – which any sensible person might eagerly receive.

So, this carpenter-turned-rabbi – as a feature of his mission – recruited to himself a company of students, of learners who might grow to live as he lived. Might even, to a surprising measure, become as he was. Many of Jesus’ apprentices arrived on the scene from ordinary backgrounds. Some were well-educated, others not, some well to do, others not so much.

They would travel with him in climates both calm or stormy. They tasted samplings of popularity and favor and weathered seasons of scorn and rejection.

These disciple-apprentices dined in community. They wrapped up countless action-filled days reflecting together before an open flame at a makeshift fire pit, often at places a good way from their homes. Their minds and hearts took in what they were able of their coach’s actions and sayings. Time in each another’s presence stretched them. They quibbled. They fussed. They were in training.

When one or two of the group asked him for advice on how to pray, Jesus answered in sensible language, “Pray this way. . .”

He also modeled praying. His apprenticing meant that he would (in a manner unlike others of his day) shift readily into a conversation with the invisible God whom he knew to be among them. This would occur easily, naturally when a time or circumstance called for it, which tended to be often.

When their food supply got small, Jesus talked to them about carefree living, then, on occasion would completely surprise them, bringing forth a meal. Such actions would leave them in wonder and deeply curious as to this man’s other-worldly nature.

Never one who seemed rushed or fidgety, he chuckled easily with his apprentice-friends. And, like any skillful mentor, he corrected them without timidity, apology or fanfare.

On a given day Jesus’ corrective counsel might be directed to one or two of the apprentices or he may address a thing meant for the wider community. Regardless, corrective action was each time offered in the interest of serving both his highest good and theirs. The trainees grew to own this.

The longer they walked with him, the less they wished for the former life, their old ways of being. It began to feel as though the rabbi was growing them, little by little, to become very much like himself. This seemed a good thing. They hungered for more.

September 11, 2015August 28, 2017

Faces

I see black faces.

Reverend Alta, our lady minister, signaled me with a compassionate but direct look. It was Sunday evening worship time in Okmulgee. I had entered my last semester of high school.

Jerry, there are many of them gathered, she continued. A sea of black faces. You are standing before them. Speaking to them. I’m not sure what it may mean. But I see this.

Her eyes and voice conveyed certainty. Rev. Alta was confident of what had met her vision.

Vision. Rev. Alta saw a vision – at least a mental impression – with me in it?

I thought of the picture’s content – tried imagining the scene. My response was respectful silence. No goose-bumps or chills. Still I knew from my heritage that these kinds of things can carry meaning. Maybe there is a scent of something here that I’ll connect with further ahead. Maybe not. I shelved the message of the vision, asking the Lord to do his will.

Weeks later green buds started showing on trees. Leaves emerged, flowers revived. With them, spring colors. Senior commencement drew nearer. I fell into a reflective mood – calling to mind people and events intersecting my life up to the present.

A leg brace – pear-tree climbing with Tim – Opaline and VBS – mischief – a polio ward – hayfields, heartbreak, home. . . And. Youth rallies with friends – Billy, Marilyn, James, Pat. . .

Musings continued.

From age five I sang lustily on Lord’s Day. Up front in the sanctuary with my peers. A happy routine each week – us all in a line across the front. Just before dispersing to our Sunday School classes. . .

This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine. . . Deep and wide, deep and wide; there’s a fountain flowing deep and wide. . . Zacchaeus was a wee little man, a wee little man was he. . .

I drew a handkerchief from my back left pocket and tooted my nose, telling myself it was seasonal Sinus.

The reflective mood carried me deeper. To feelings beyond simple nostalgia. Shortly, another tune surfaced. I had learned it at youth rally. And we sang it at Robbers Cave Park Camps. Humming it again, the lyrics came easily. I smiled, remembering it’s first try among us. Led by wavy-haired Pastor John.

It may not be on the mountain’s height,
Or over the stormy sea;
It may not be at the battle’s front,
My Lord will have need of me;
But if by a still, small voice He calls,
To paths that I do not know,
I’ll answer, dear Lord, with my hand in Thine,
I’ll go where You want me to go.

I’ll go where You want me to go, dear Lord,
O’er mountain, or plain, or sea;
I’ll say what You want me to say, dear Lord,
I’ll be what You want me to be.

The song stirred memories. Feelings. Of gathered teens at the front of campground chapels or church auditoriums. Singing the prayer and praying the song. Church ministers sometimes label things with short phrases. Our teenage faces were often moistened by the last stanza. . . Tears of Consecration.

Sensing the tender presence I again fished out my handkerchief. I grew thoughtful. An image of some months ago visited my mind.

Of distant lands. Of black faces.

September 15, 2015August 28, 2017

Musings

Did you hear the president’s been shot?

During several high school summers – when not bailing hay with him – I helped Dad as senior gopher in his small business. At City Plumbing my duties featured grunts, grime and unmentionable substances. Dodging spiders in under-house crawl-spaces I soaped fitting joints of gas lines. Bubbling up of liquid detergent applied by paintbrush around the galvanized joints revealed any leaks. I, otherwise, threaded galvanized pipe and maneuvered flat steel rods (snakes) along clogged-up restaurant sewer lines. My before-dinner hand scrubbing redefined the term, ferocity.

My Preston High years behind me, a construction firm hired both my father and me in late Summer. As plumber’s apprentice I shadowed my journeyman dad, gaining experience in the trade. We were on a team renovating Okmulgee’s Post Office building. I sniffed the bunker-like quarters. Blended smells of concrete, sawdust and dankness indicated our basement environment. Carpenters, electricians, plumbers, playing their roles in a tradesmen’s symphony.

November 22, 1963

The basement elevator door opened to my dad and me. It was midday. We would surface to first floor and take to our charcoal-black lunch pails. The kind with contoured lids harboring a thermos drinks canister. Dad responded to the terse question about the president.

No, what about it?

I dusted my work cap. Dad waited for a punch line to the man’s unsavory joke. It didn’t come.

It’s not a joke, Clyde.

That Friday our lunch pails lost their appeal as our transport hauled us upward. The elevator scene found permanent residence in a newly-fashioned file in my brain.

Years later the writings of a gifted Oxford professor captured my imagination. I would rate the Irishman – who died the same day as President Kennedy – among my favorite authors. C. S. Lewis.

I believe we all have a limp, perhaps more than one. What manner of crippling could so wreck a person’s mind to make of him a murderer. Of America’s thirty-fifth president?

I worked with dad throughout the post office project. Over time I knew. The plumbing trade isn’t for me. I just wasn’t suited for it. Dad’s work was an honorable vocation. For me, the sensation of typewriter keys clicking under my fingertips felt more at home than the imprint of a pipe wrench on my palm.

Preston High had provided me time in the company of names like Royal and Underwood. I loved the forming of words. . . of thoughts transmitted to paper – loved the clicking beneath my fingertips.

I wondered. What if words, sentences, communication could lead to something? Excitement stirred – if only mildly.

My simple musings proved momentous. Leading me to broader worlds. Toward adventure.

Even romance.

September 22, 2015August 28, 2017

Bronco Country

Accounting. What am I doing in accounting?

My course choice made no sense. Like a Wall Street trader striding up to mount an unhappy bull at our rodeo.

I had registered at Okmulgee Tech without the benefit of academic counselling – or common sense. I knew nothing of bookkeeping, had no aptitude for it. Better judgment won out before my second class ended. The vocational school – an arm of Oklahoma State University – did offer other tracks. I returned to the catalog.

The printed word interested me and teletype included the word ‘type’. Working for a newspaper means no shortage of words. Nor did the name of my new chosen direction, Teletypesetter Perforator Operator.

The high school from which I recently graduated lacked size and, therefore, course options. I very much wanted to gain two skills – Spanish and typing. But administration said I could only choose one. Learn a second language or learn to type – but not both. My plight was bothersome but promptly resolved. I never learned Spanish.

My instructor sat at the glorified typewriter and introduced its features. A machine that yielded a stream of punctured tape as the typist pecked the keys. Combinations of the circled holes translated into letters, words and symbols. The coded tape fed into a big linotype machine. Molten lead formed imprints, cooled, took on ink, released the creation to the press room. . . Steps in a process ensuring paper boys had a product to deliver – the daily or weekly newspaper.

OK Jerry, give it a try.

Adjusting my chair I rested eight fingertips in their sequence atop familiar symbols. A S D F . . J K L ; (the right pinky paired itself up, as always, with the semi-colon). A good feeling settled in. Eight drifters returning to their common home. In pecking order.

Jerry, would you consider taking a job far from here?

The question was my first introduction to the notion my typing fling may spirit me to sights and places beyond. Both geographical and figurative – to kindred-spirits. To surprises. One of them wrecking me – for life. in a very good kind of way.

My training supervisor studied my face for a response. Obviously knowing something I didn’t.

Yes, I’d be happy to consider it, sir.

Well, a weekly newspaper called the Cody Enterprise – it’s in Wyoming – contacted us. I’m prepared to recommend you for the Operator position if you’re interested.

I would be glad for the opportunity. Yes. Thank you.

So, twenty months removed from an earlier Oklahoma departure, I again boarded a Denver-bound bus. Though in a much healthier frame of mind.

A new passenger with a telling weakness for drink stepped aboard in Pueblo, Colorado and seated himself next to me. Noting the Bible resting open on my lap he slurred an observation.

Oh! You’re readin’ the Bible. Good! His interest rose another level – as did his voice.

Are you a Christian? More direct.

Yes, sir, I am. I was a kid – sure of my faith but not sure of myself.

Wonderful! I am too. Then he announced it. I’m Pentecostal!

Electing not to fuel the visit by confirming our common faith tradition I offered, That’s nice. He sank contented into his seat and slept. In a moment I glanced his way. I wonder what’s led him to seek comfort, or joy, or escape through a substance in a bottle? A nudge of compassion stirred. I silently prayed God’s care over the random stranger next to me – my fellow-pentecostal.

North of Denver I squinted through a bus window. A passing car sported a red Wyoming license plate. On it I glimpsed a compelling image. A bucking bronco giving his all to dislodge from the saddle an equally-determined cowboy. Cheyenne boasted her Frontier Days. Laramie, her Jubilee Days – rodeos taking center stage at each.

Indeed, Wyomingites dubbed themselves the Cowboy State. Stretching myself out, I slid my feet beneath the seat ahead and let my chest pillow my chin. I was soon dreaming of my brother Tim and me. Of Bill, our horse clippity-clopping under us – to Okmulgee’s Rodeo Grounds. To the annual PowWow and Rodeo action.

By the time I stirred the bus had entered a land of breezy landscapes. The vehicle jostled under wind gusts as it navigated high desert near Casper. Wind River Canyon enthralled us – its rich blue waters snaking along canyon walls. Past Thermopolis the bus climbed to flatter plains, and finally our destination.

Soon we met with a sign along a city street. I chuckled to myself. Why should I be surprised?

Cody, Wyoming – Rodeo Capital of the World.

September 25, 2015August 28, 2017

Tug

Excuse me, sir . . . uh, Pardon me.

The raised yet hesitant voice came from the gravel entry into our farm driveway. The black gentleman’s call turned me to his direction. He was on foot and I looked beyond him to the road. The four-lane highway passing our place linked Tulsa to Dallas and bore the weight of unnumbered vehicles each day.

A long Buick sedan rested on the northbound shoulder, it’s trunk lid open.

On my Tulsa-to-Cody bus ride my mind revisited that day of a year ago. How did I rally the courage to share my faith with that stranger? And how did I then draw back from another stranger – who asked me of my spiritual life – just hours ago?

I’m sorry sir, the Buick-driver offered, but would you have a tire jack I could use? I got a flat just now and my jack is busted.

Drawing a jack from dad’s Oldsmobile I joined the visitor. We moved toward his car.

Where are you headed? I asked. Eyeing the flat tire, we exchanged general comments – about travel. About weather. As if the elements were listening in, a chilly gust delivered a shiver along my spine.

As we loosed lug nuts and cranked the jack I felt a tug from inside. A sense that I needed to share something of Jesus with the traveller. My pulse picked up as I considered what to say and, as importantly, how to say it. He topped my age by fifteen years at least. And he was – in the language of the day – a negro, a man of another race. My mind went to our town’s Five and Dime Store of only a short while back. Displaying a pair of drinking fountains side-by-side. Twin porcelain fixtures – except for the defining labels above them. One marked COLORED, the other, WHITE.

Could I ask you, sir (my turn to employ the polite term), do you know Jesus Christ?

He studied my face a moment – mining it’s features for sincerity perhaps? Or anything.

Returning to his work, he secured the last lug nut with the tire iron.

I mean, sir. . . do you know God In a personal way, as your Savior? Jesus gave his life to save you – make you right with God. He did that for me, too.

The lines of his forehead snugged together. He was thoughtful, not resistant or offended as far as I could tell. My relative calm in the moment surprised me. We deposited the wounded tire into the trunk, shut the lid and dusted our hands. I felt the inner tug again.

Have you trusted in him? Are your sins forgiven?

A short pause and his reply.

No, I haven’t, really. Though I know I do need to.

That’s all any of us really need to know. He loves us and just waits for us to turn to him.

Well, He displayed a stirring. I think I’m ready to do that turning.

We waited together. The busy highway seemed miles away.

Would you be O.K. kneeling with me here? We can ask God together.

Without hesitation he knelt to the pavement. I joined him. I felt elated, but tenderly so. Like in a holy place. Of joy. God’s presence meeting us on Highway 75 – and Tulsa-bound traffic breezing by.

Our prayer together was simple – uncluttered. An offering of confession, birthing of new faith.

In Jesus’ name. Amen.

We stayed kneeling a few seconds longer. The car’s bumper served us well – an altar of chrome. We rose from our knees and smiled at one another and embraced. A union of common son-ship conferred by a shared Father. Brothers.

He entered the car and resumed his journey – with an added destination and travelling companion.

Lord, up here in the Northwest now, would you bring my heart close? Near to you. Like on that day? Lead me to a family of believers. A church family in Cody – I’d like to feel at home.

A familiar accent lay in wait, for just the right time.