Work, Faith, and Watermelons

Every Wednesday, every summer, I would help my dad sell watermelons at a local market in the early morning sun. We’d sling the big green fruit until the sun reached its apex and then head into the café for a burger and a Dr. Pepper. Each afternoon we’d park on an old bleacher at a cattle auction behind the café and watch dozens and dozens of livestock being sold.

The auctioneer would rattle off numbers in a kind of turbo-speak auctioneer lingo. It sounds like absolute gibberish to anyone uninformed but is more like music to those who get it. I learned to love it. One afternoon I learned to love it even more.

In walked this pitiful looking skinny little black and white calf. He was clearly incredibly sick. His hind quarters looked like they were covered in his own poop. This little guy was knocking on death’s door.

The auctioneer looked down at the calf, tilted his wore-out old cowboy hat back on his head, and leaned over to the guy next to him to whisper behind his hand. When he sat back up and spoke into the microphone the speakers kind of squawked as he told the two hundred people gathered, “Startin’ the bidding at fifteen dollars.”

We all just kind of sat there for a second. Even in my eleven-year-old mind I could remember thinking, “Who would want a sick almost-dead calf? Even for $15.” Just as I thought they were going to send the sick little calf back to his pen (and an almost certain death) my dad did something I had never seen him do before at the auction. He raised his hand.

The auctioneer looked around. He looked some more. He did some more of the secret auctioneer jabbering and finished with five words which changed our lives, “Sold to the Watermelon King.” My dad had just bought our first cow.

Over the years we would buy a lot more cows. Hundreds of cows. Thousands of cows. We would sell some. We would eat some. We would lose some to death, disease, and predators; but not that first little black and white calf.

My dad loaded him up in the back of his tiny little pickup everyone called “Jimmy.” That morning the truck had been filled with vibrant green watermelons. That afternoon it carried a calf on death’s door. Both cargoes had a lot to teach me about living a life of love. We drove the little cow home, named him Oreo, and nursed him back to health.

Oreo started a chain reaction. We would sell our watermelons, go to the auction, and dad would buy a calf. They were almost always sickly and small. Without fail every one of them needed to be fed by a bottle. In a single summer our farm became a nursery for the downtrodden bovine masses. We were like a safehouse for diseased little orphan cows.

I didn’t know enough back then to realize what was happening. Today it makes perfect sense. My dad, The Watermelon King, as I heard the auctioneer say so many times, didn’t believe in hopeless cows or hopeless anything. Dad has always believed when you mix hard work with big faith you can land right in the middle of great hope. When hope seemed like a longshot to so many my dad saw the opportunity.

I guess I must have picked it up along the way. It’s hard for me to see a hopeless situation. I embrace the challenge. I find it almost impossible to shy away from the opportunity.

I love that about my dad. Just like I love it about Jesus. In heaven’s roll book there are no hopeless cases. There are simply empty lines waiting to have your name written in them. Everyone has a spot. Everyone has an invitation. Regardless of history or hang-up.

I cannot remember a childhood summer not completely occupied by watermelons. Some kids remember band camp. Some can fondly recall team camps and travel baseball. For the occupants of the King Farm it was all about those watermelons.

There have been many summers when the conditions for growing watermelons were extremely difficult. Even in the best of conditions the work can still be brutally hard. None of those factors have ever deterred the Watermelon King. During the extra hot or the extra dry years, he pumps water to his plants from nearby ponds. If there is an abundance of pests taking the crop he sorts out countermeasures. Over the decades he’s come up against plenty of hard times. Still the watermelons come off the vine by the thousands. This year will be no different.

I don’t really know how I could even begin to quantify the amount of time I spent working those fields before life sent me elsewhere. My dad has done it his entire life.

It was sometimes backbreaking work. There was the planting season when we’d crawl on our hands and knees transplanting tiny plants. Later we would walk the same long rows of young plants again with a garden hoe in hand as we went around killing weeds. We would plow, and fertilize, and irrigate, and protect. All the things you do to protect such an undertaking.

Inevitably right around Independence Day each year dad would begin to pick some to check them. Once they were ripe the next few weeks would be a blur of picking, stacking, carrying, sweating, and selling. It was enough to make a young man start wishing for school to start.

Dad knew what his dad knew before. The Watermelon King learned it from Preacher King. Work makes winners. There is progress in the process. A watermelon doesn’t spring up overnight. A man doesn’t either.

It can be a hard way to live. It can also be a holy way to live. There is a simple joy found in it. A unique perspective. Years of toting all the ripe green fruit shaped me in so many ways. It strengthened my arms as well as my heart. It set the stage for what God has been teaching me now for more than twenty-five years—living things grow. There is beauty in the progress. Jesus knows no hopeless cases or empty fields. No conditions are too hard or intimidating. He works in us and on us and calls it good.

It starts with a seed in the soil. It sprouts, blossoms, and yields life. You can’t have a field without the work, and the field is fruitless without the process.

The faith life for those following Jesus is not so different. It starts with a small seed in good soil. Your soul sprouts, blossoms, and gives fruit. It gives life. You can’t have the faith without the work, and the faith is fruitless without the process.

Loving Your Neighbor Starts At The Front Door

Jamie and I bought our first home a few years back. It was a crazy process. One night, after working more than fourteen hours remodeling, we were all trying to get some shuteye when someone started banging on my door at four o’clock in the morning. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.

I was wiped out from the crazy day of hard work, so I woke up in a daze. You may know what I’m talking about. It's as if you’re actually only half awake. If you’re anything like me, you probably slobber a little bit and are extra grumpy. I didn’t have time to think about how my eyelids were hanging heavy. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. The person at the door was still banging away.

I was still asleep, but I was getting mad. After all, I had guests in my house—people who had worked hard helping us prepare our new home—and some crazy person was still knocking on my door. I stumbled to my closet in some kind of sleep deprived stupor and got my shotgun. I’m not kidding. Suddenly there it was again. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. The front door still rocking on the hinges.

By then I was both awake and livid. I don’t even know how I had time to get so mad. It all happened so fast I didn’t have a chance to not get mad. Instinct just took over.

In a rapid blur of quick succession, I grabbed the door knob and threw the door open with a BOOM louder than the knocking had probably been. As the door swung open I stuck my shotgun right into the gap—right into the face of this tiny little pregnant woman. She screamed “Lawd Jesus!” and almost fell off my porch. I would probably scream too if someone stuck a shotgun in my face.

Actually, there was a lot more to this situation—even though this lady was pregnant, she was also not in her right mind. She was very clearly high on something and had come looking for gas money. She was very ambiguous, totally unwilling to go into any detail about her situation. I had put down my gun and was trying to ask her questions. To be honest, unless she would have been obviously wounded or injured in some way it wouldn’t have mattered. I couldn’t see her. I couldn’t hear her. I couldn’t help her. There were just too many cobwebs in my head from the fatigue of the day.

You see, this woman needed help, but all I wanted was sleep. I’d like to tell you I helped her, but I was so mad I sent her away. Any help I might have given wouldn’t have lasted long. By the time I was closing my door cops were coming up the street to take her away. Apparently, I wasn’t her first stop.

The truth is we can’t become too sleepy to care. Caring moves you forward. We must care about what happens around us. We desperately need to love the people God puts in our path because they may be desperately in need of love.

There is no doubt here at all on my part. I handled this situation very poorly in the story I just told you. I didn’t see. I didn’t care. I only reacted. Were there some valid reasons for my actions? Probably. Would I respond the same way if it happened again tonight? Perhaps. But I’m learning to have more compassion for the situations coming my way. I’m trying to see needs and meet them if I can. A lot like this guy named Ezra in the Bible.

Ezra was tired too. He had a whole country full of tired people he was helping after one hundred and twenty-eight years of struggles on their part. Ezra showed up right in the middle of a terrible situation because he was paying attention and looking for an opportunity to help.

We must observe! We must look around! I have gotten this wrong so often. I’m not the only one. I think it’s common anymore to hear people who are not followers of Jesus respond with an air of cynicism when it comes to those of us who do follow Jesus. In my experience this perspective has a lot more to do with the actions, and inaction, of Christians than it does with their simple lack of belief. Look, we have to care about what’s going on right in front of us before we can faithfully take the next step forward.

Ezra walked (literally) into a lost kingdom. He cared about the Kingdom. He was not apathetic and indifferent to the situation. He was not antagonistic or against the situation. He was compassionately aware of the situation. 

When Jesus talked about his friends and those who followed him he talked about another kingdom. He called it the Kingdom of God. How do we feel about those missing from the Kingdom of God? Through some painful self-reflection, it dawned on me we might learn our true feelings about the missing ones if they happened to find our front door at four o’clock in the morning.

Becoming apathetic toward those who haven’t embraced their invitation to follow Jesus is far too easy.  If we believe in the value of a soul, we must consider vital the opportunities to connect with those souls. We talk a lot in the Church about people finding Jesus, but what if Jesus sent them to you first? If that feels weighty, good. I think people ought to matter to us enough to make us uncomfortable with how we’ve messed this up.

I read recently how over two billion people call themselves Christians out of the more than seven billion people on the planet. Honestly, that’s a number so large I had to have my math teaching wife explain it to me. Any time you use numbers involving billions of anything you’re dealing with a staggering computation. So, let’s put this in a frame of reference that will help us understand.

What if we lined up all the people who gather in your church, at your local hangout spot, or maybe your gym on a Monday afternoon? If we lined everyone up how far would the line, go? Perhaps it would go a few dozen feet. Maybe it would stretch the length of a football field. Maybe it would even go a mile or two.

However, if you lined up all the people in this world who are not following Jesus, the number we collectively call “lost”. If we lined them all up and headed east from where I sit at my desk right now the line would go all the way across America. It would reach the Atlantic Ocean, travel through Great Britain, and across Europe, through the Middle East, and India, and Asia, and it wouldn’t stop there. The line would fly right back across the Pacific Ocean, fly by Hawaii, through California, across the Rockies, and the American Midwest all the way right back here to my seat.

The person in the front of the line could turn around and high-five the person in the back of the line. Then it would just keep going and going. The line would go around the whole planet two times, five, ten, fifteen, twenty, forty times. It would just keep going. The line would wrap around the entire world more than fifty times. That's how many lost people are in this world. We must see them.

Right here in my hometown. In this lovely part of the world we locals call the River Valley most people do not profess to follow Jesus. They haven’t followed their invitation. We need to acknowledge that. I need to acknowledge them. I need to put down my pet issues and stop brandishing them like a shotgun at midnight. I must stave off fatigue, fear, and financial worry. I must see them.

 That guy Ezra I mentioned earlier had a small part in a big story. He wasn’t afraid to dream big about his role. He wanted to do more because he cared. He was looking out at the world around him, and he saw a kingdom needing help. He did it. He never stopped moving forward. He led a four-month excursion across a thousand miles of bandit-filled desert. Ezra was like Mad Max with a camel instead of a Camaro. When his neighbors showed up in the middle of the night looking for help he didn’t pull out his shotgun. No, Ezra was devoted to helping his neighbors, his friends, his family, and even the strangers down the block learn who this great God of his was. He was devoted to helping them move forward. He was devoted to helping a lost kingdom become a whole kingdom, where no one was missing, no one was disqualified, and no one was shunned.

Ezra did it. It’s a cool story, but he didn’t do it alone. There were some guys with crazy names on board. These two fellas called Haggai and Zachariah helped a lot. They were prophets, which means they talked quite a bit about what God was trying to tell his friends. This guy Nehemiah was also there leading the workers and government officials.

You can read all these guys’ stories and it paints one big cool story. It’s the story of a group of people who had experienced generations of calamity and were trying to bounce back. None of them could do it alone. Thank God they didn’t have to.

Once all their work was done they partied. After their ruined city was rebuilt, and the walls fixed, and the place where they went to worship called the Temple was all patched up, they had a big to-do. It was like a barbeque, book reading, and concert all rolled into one. People cried, and people danced. They listened and loved. Neighbors rejoiced in the finished work and high-fived each other for the first time in decades. But what if Ezra and his friends had shown up in the middle of the night and someone had stuck a gun in their face?

 There is much work to be done and workers to do it. There are needs to meet and people to meet them. We must acknowledge. We have to wake up.

The Nathan I used to be couldn’t most of the time. I just didn’t have it in me. The Nathan I’m trying to be now can’t afford not to.

People are still beating down my door. Everyday my phone buzzes at least fifty times with people on the other end who need help. Guess what? I don’t hang up or ignore them. Maybe your phone is ringing way more often. Perhaps your door has already fell off the hinges from all the knocking. Do something about it. You’ve got it in you, and even when you run out of that God will help you find some more.

There are no closed doors, no shotguns, and no screaming pregnant ladies falling off my porch anymore. I am awake. Hopefully for good. You go be awake too. Find someone needing you to do better than you’ve done before and do it.

Just Say “Thank You”

Several years ago, I went to a small concert with a couple of friends. I had been to many concerts in my life but never one like this. It was called a house show. Maybe you’ve heard of those or have even been to a few yourself, but I hadn’t.

Apparently, what makes a concert a house show is when it takes place in a small setting with a very limited number of people. That was definitely the case here. There were maybe eighty people at this show.

Another interesting thing about this concert was where it happened. It was in a bar on a street well known for its reputation of hosting very raucous parties. It was the first time I’d ever set foot in a bar, but I didn’t mind so much. In fact, I thought it seemed like a pretty good idea. Why not get together and listen to a guy sing songs about God’s incredible love in a place where that kind of thing probably wasn’t happening all too often?

Occasionally throughout the show someone would shout the name of one of the artist’s songs. While not unusual at a concert, fans offering up requests I mean, this guy’s reply was different.

Each time someone made their request the singer would stop singing or halt the song he was about to begin. He would find the person in the small crowd, his gaze quickly searching out the one making the request. He would look them in the eye and without fail say, “Thank you.”

Wait a second? “That’s not how that’s supposed to work.” I thought the first time this happened. I was used to two reactions to this scenario. Artists kind of ignoring requests completely or the request becoming lost in the noise of the moment. Occasionally, they make vague suggestions about why they won’t be doing the song. I mean I get it. They probably have a well-rehearsed plan.

Not this guy. He stopped what he was doing. He acknowledged the moment and the person. And he offered his sincere thanks. It was his way of showing appreciation to the person who was a big enough fan of his life’s work to request specific pieces of that work. Every time someone asked him to play this song or that song, instead of playing the song he made it a personal moment between two friends.

This artist wasn’t doing it business as usual. He wasn’t hiding behind the big smoke and lights, even though those things can be incredibly fun for someone in his position. He was there. He was present. He was with all of us. And when a request was made it wasn’t an interruption, an annoyance, or a detour. It was an opportunity. It was a chance to show the true nature of his art. It was a moment for intentional beautiful human connection.

I’m no artist, but I know how I usually respond to interruptions. They drive me nuts. There’s a lot of opportunity for interruptions at the King Casa.

I have four little kids in my house. They are awesome kids. So, I guess in some small way I am an artist because they are certainly masterpieces. But let’s be honest, my wife gets most of the credit for that. Still, I live a life full of wonder, miracles, and joy. Not because every moment is some kind of story book wonder, but because the rhythm and cadence of my days are filled with the joy of fatherhood’s many adventures.

What I’m trying to get better at is stopping to acknowledge each request. To look my kids in the eye. To say thank you. And to mean it.

There are three little boys and a baby girl in Arkansas who think I rock. They think life is my stage. Every day the spotlight shines bright on my life. How I respond makes the loudest of proclamations.

When I don’t stop to say thanks it's usually because I don’t think I have time to dabble in whatever they have concocted. But like one guy said and a million more have repeated “The days are long, but the years are short.” In other words, the truth is I don’t have time not to respond.

These early years are magic. They are wondrous. They are opportunities for intentional miracles. If I will only stop to say, “Thank you.”

I need Ethan, Jon, Matty, and Anna to know how thankful Daddy really is for them. For their interest and joy. I need them to know their interruption is the most artful part of my day.

Do you see the pattern? I. NEED. THEM.

We need some holy interruptions to snap us out of our plan. Wake us up to the moment. And point us toward the opportunity of a lifetime. The request may only come once. Or may only come for a season.

My house is my show. I don’t want to be the most important. I don’t want to be the boss. I don’t want to be the “lord.” I don’t even want to be the king no matter what my birth certificate says. I want to be famous. But I want to be famous for the way I love my family. I want to be known for the full-throttled way I lean into interruptions that matter. I want to be famous for thank you.

Tomorrow I will blink and then suddenly it will seem like many years have passed. My last little one will be walking out my front door to step into her own adventure. She’ll do it in the way she chooses.

I want all of them to choose well. I want them to know their value, their strength, and just how much Daddy loves them. I want them all to know I am and always will be thankful. It’s on me to help them learn to live their best life smack dab in the middle of outrageous love.

I have always liked using the language of fatherhood to talk about God. It’s an easy concept for me to gravitate toward because my dad is amazing. I know that’s not the case for everyone. These days it’s not even the case for most kids being born. I am one of the lucky, no—not lucky—BLESSED, ones. I want my kids to be one of the blessed ones. But I’m the one ultimately deciding that.

Another singer named Chris I really admire has a popular song talking about the good, good father we have in God. I really like that. He is good. He is our father.

I’ve known a lot of folks over the years who made talking to God a big chore. They peppered it with big words and theatrical stuff. But Jesus talked about prayer with his friends once. He said we just need to show up and be open and honest. We can just talk plainly to God.

Our prayers don’t need a stage. They don’t need lights and smoke. They don’t need the big show or the grand gestures. They just need a son or a daughter and a dad. They just need an expression of thanks.

There are probably a lot of reasons why we are intimidated when it comes to prayer. For some of you just the thought of speaking out your inner stuff to a great big God is too lofty to get your head around. Some don’t even believe in God at all. For others, God doesn’t seem like a very good dad—because yours was such a lousy example.

Real prayer isn’t complicated. Leave the complicated stuff to the fakers. Ignore their show. It’s smoke and mirrors. They love the spotlight.

Instead, learn how to open your heart to a good good father. He is your biggest fan. He is good.

That can be a hard truth to accept. Often it might seem like God would have too much on his plate for my request. But, what I see as an interruption, God sees as the most artful part of his day. Why? Because he’s still working on me.

I am learning to let my needs have their moment. This happens when I just say it out loud. It’s not fancy. “God, I need you to help me with …” or “God, I am feeling bummed about …” and also a good dose of “God, thank you so much for …”

God leans forward when we make our request known. He’s not annoyed at the interruption. Why? Because he can literally do all the things—at the same time. We just have to say them.

God’s not annoyed at you. He welcomes the interaction. As I student of God’s love I am learning how to say them more. I’m covering them all in a big dose of “Thank you.” These days I know the words are echoed in the love of a good father and the life he is helping me learn to live.

The Miracle of the Moment: When Faith Flexes

Late one night in March my son Ethan was born. It was an incredible day. The culmination of months of prayer, joy, nervousness, faith, and preparation. Jamie and I didn’t know how to be parents. Four kids and nine years later I often wonder if we still don’t. But it didn’t really matter at Saint Mary’s hospital in the infant delivery ward the day our Ethan arrived.

Like many first-time parents we were waiting expectantly for the day to come when we would be able to hold our little prince in our arms. Our friends and family celebrated the onset of our parenthood with gifts and parties. It was a season of incredible joy as everyone in our lives gathered around us. A heightened sense of anticipation descended on our circle of friends, close loved ones, and faith family. Ethan’s due date came and went with no small amount of nervousness on our part.

Jamie’s doctor departed for a family cruise and we were introduced to some new guy. He was not the kind lady we had spent the last nine months learning to trust. He seemed capable, sure, and kind, and all the kinds of things you hope for if the situation arises when you need another doctor to perform the baby-delivering equivalent of pinch-hitting.

A week passed. Jamie and Baby Ethan were perfectly fine according to all tests, but I was getting super nervous. Still, this was nothing compared to my dad. Finally, the substitute baby doctor guy announced early the next week he would need to step in and help the process along. Allowing nature to delay much longer would begin to cause opportunities for major complications. We trusted this guy because we trusted who invited him into our lives.

So, on a Monday morning we showed up at the hospital with all our bags packed to begin the process. Boy was it a process. All day tests were running, conversations were had, and doctors seen. It was a day of waiting, praying, and trusting. Like never before, and rarely since, Jamie and I both felt the muscles of our faith flex as if to say, “don’t be afraid.”

We shared the news of what was happening, first with our loved ones, and then the world at large across social media. The love poured in. It was as if dozens and maybe even hundreds of people were lending us their faith because each one knew this was new territory for us. With every passing moment we drew closer to the miracle we had prayed and waited for. As all those moments crept by, we could feel the reassurance of love.

It was like this incredible substance was propping us up. It was a palpable gathering of the unseen activated on our behalf. What one writer in the Bible described as faith via the evidence of things not seen. We couldn’t see it, but we could feel it. The ramifications were evident as our souls were encouraged.

The long day stretched longer. Someone, I think my mother, brought my favorite hamburger and a chocolate shake. I wasn’t hungry. How could I be hungry awaiting such a monumental miracle? But I ate the entire thing and remained not hungry as I drank down all forty liquid ounces of the superb chocolate shakey goodness.

The long day stretched, and yawned, and winked into night as a sliver of the moon rose above our small town as if to say it was almost time. Just like another man in the Bible described the arrival of a baby in a barn—it was the fullness of time, our time, and my son took his first beautiful breath on this earth.

I cried. My wife cried. It was faith made manifest. It was trust personified. It was the full range of the miraculous in motion and thrust upon our family with all the majesty of the moment. Faith was flexing big right before my eyes with the full force of the love God has for all of us.

Ethan was a promise given. A promise born. It wasn’t just a baby born that day, but it was a mother and father, a grandmother and grandfather, an uncle and cousins. A ripple of life echoed across everyone meaning anything to us and we were all changed. We were all made to mean a little more. We were all together in this and it was lovely beyond imagination.

Faith is a muscle we flex across a myriad of moments, but it is also a miracle that resounds with the finality of lightning. It is both ethereal and ever present. It is surmounting and inescapable in its subjugation of the right now and its dance across our unknown.

We can know, and we can hope, and we can see, and we can trust. Even when we don’t feel it, especially when we don’t feel it. Even when it seems elusive and illusive. When our faith seems deeply inadequate, we can borrow some from a friend.

There have been plenty of times when my faith was not enough. I had to look beyond my own hiccups and draw deeply from the reservoirs of a friend. My mentor, pastor, and close friend Mark is a continuing source of this for me.

Mark likes to joke that he is Iron Man because he has a mechanical heart valve. I’ve never done it, because I don’t make a habit of putting my ear to grown men’s chests, but his wife says she can hear it ticking away at home in the silence of the night. Every flicker of Mark’s heart is a faith moment as he trusts in what he can’t see. He’s lived a full life of putting Jesus at the center, loving people well, and leading and serving with great integrity. He is without a doubt one of the greatest men I have ever had the pleasure of knowing.

Mark had been my family’s pastor for a while. He loved us through some big changes in our life. He led us through even more changes. And he helped launch us into our dream of becoming pastors of our own new, growing, and healthy church family. All of it came with a lot of bumps, talks, prayers, conversations, and confidence. His faith muscle is even bigger than his biceps (which are gigantic). I know when my faith is flickering I can borrow some from him.

There was a guy like this in the Bible who met Jesus one day. He needed help. He needed a miracle. Jesus asked him if he believed and he said, “Yes! But help me with my unbelief.”

This guy’s story demonstrates what way too many people are being silent about in their own faith journey. We’ve spent years communicating (intentionally or otherwise) you can’t experience both faith and doubt at the same time. I’m not buying it. The faith in our life flexes so much more when there’s uncertainty to face down first.

Ethan’s first breaths weren’t the normal baby breaths doctors expect to be greeted by. There was something much different about them. Something alarming to the people who know what to look for.

So, after a moment of celebration and wonder the well-meaning doctor pulled our son from my wife’s arms and whisked him away to another room. Suddenly, here at the end of an already long and emotional day we found the depth of raw emotions butting up against our years of working faith. We prayed. People we love prayed. Friends, family, and our church prayed. Heaven was on the receiving end of a barrage of people flexing together. The culminating trust of so many echoed big along those hallowed corridors.

Part of me wonders if those who went home before us jumped in to lend their faith as they heard the echoes pass them by. It might sound like wonky theology, but I can just imagine Grandma and Grandpa King picking up the clarion call as they mustered their faith from their remarkable perspective. Jamie said it best from the midst of her confused and longing heart, “I want my Ethan.” Love wants what love wants. It wasn’t just a cry of desperation. It was a statement of faith echoing across eternity as it was repeated in the mouths of praying loved ones.

Ethan’s birth was the culmination of something hard to articulate in a few paragraphs. The sudden alarm for his well-being was something altogether different. As the combined prayers of the many continued in petition of our Heavenly Father the strange breathing normalized. Ethan was returned to mommy’s embrace.

Just like that God showed me how good the experience of our faith at work can be. He didn’t show it to me once. He didn’t even show it to me twice. He showed me twice in the same day.

Faith flexed the moment Ethan was born. It was the bright miracle of a new life entering this world for all to see. It was the holy awe of what it feels like to love a living creation of your own soul. Faith also made itself known as the alarming moments of misunderstanding fell away before complete trust in our amazing Father.

Faith is practiced. It is work. It is art. It is a muscle we hone, and it is also a miracle. The miracle of faith isn’t only a progression of movement between moments, it is also a sublime experience of the miraculous in the moment.

There will be plenty of moments throughout our lives when we must lean deeply into faith in the private spaces of our day-to-day decisions. There will also be those penultimate circumstances when a loved one, friend, neighbor, or son needs us and our faith.

Our faith is a beautiful thing when it stands on its own—trusting Jesus like the guy in the story I mentioned. Our faith is a glorious thing when it stands together as it did for us the night Ethan was born. Those are amazing moments of holding, helping, and hoping within a community of people all believing and trusting for the same thing. Such a myriad of personalities coming together and bombarding heaven with a joining of faith catches the attention of heaven in an entirely different way.

Faith is the substance of our hope. It is the evidence of what we don’t see. It is the everyday stuff, the working it out stuff, and it is the miracle happening just when we need it most.

Hug A Skunk

Have you ever hugged a skunk? Not those rare and elusive tamed pet skunks you sometimes hear stories about. I’m talking about wild, untamed, actual skunks. The stinky kind. No? Well neither have I, but I came close once.

When I was about eleven years old my cousin Justin and I were travelling down a country road deep in the mountains of Arkansas one summer night. It was sticky and humid, like most summer nights in our home state. Despite the humidity, dust danced up from the dirt road as the pickup truck bounced along the familiar way, dodging holes and the odd rabbit.

Justin’s cousin Jason was driving, and he tapped the brakes when something caught his eye in the ditch. Sweaty and happy, we all spilled out of the pickup like good little country boys to discover a litter of baby skunks on the side of the road. There were five or six of the little stinkers and they all just stood there looking at us.

We messed around with them for what must have seemed like an hour. We playfully attempted to catch them but in all actuality were just poking them with sticks and watching them turn to point their little butts in our direction. I don’t know the technical term for it, but the part of their physiology that makes the stinky stuff must not have worked yet. Instead of spraying us with their telltale scent they just looked like confused cats fending off our thin sticks with their fluffy tails.

It went on like this for a while before we all gave up and realized we needed to get back to the house or we would be in trouble. So, we loaded back into the truck and went home for the night—dust, skunks, and our hopes of making pets of them left behind.

We were laughing and having a great time wondering out loud what having a pet skunk would be like. It’s not like we really had any idea, but it was fun. It was the stuff of boyhood whimsy and fantasy, albeit an admittedly strange one.

It wasn’t until we got out of the truck that my Uncle Roy met us outside his house and marveled in his direct fashion just how bad we smelled. Had we hit a skunk? We hadn’t even thought about the smell. Because we couldn’t smell it.

But boy—oh—boy could everyone else at the house. Everyone was gagging. Their eyes watered with the weight of their mirth and the pungent stench of country skunk. Jason was laughing hysterically at a punchline unfamiliar to me. We were banished from the house for the evening.

Someone turned on the water hose and we stripped butt naked outside. Scrubbing with dish soap, vinegar, and the cold flow from the hose made the summer night seem not so hot or humid anymore. It was only when we began to be clean that I started to smell the stench.

Somehow the adventure of the moment had masked the associated odor. It seems unbelievable to imagine doesn’t it? Skunks may not be common in your part of the world, but there is an almost universal reaction amongst those I know who come across them. The reaction is not unlike my Uncle Roy’s, “That stinks!”

It makes me wonder what else I’ve let into my life that stinks. Maybe not literally, I’m pretty sure my wife would speak up about an actual physical smell. But what else stinks?

How do I treat my neighbors and friends? What’s my attitude like? How’s my work ethic? Do the people I don’t know very well think I stink?

I’m not sure how much I should worry about all those things, or even if I should worry about those things where most people are concerned. But I do want to worry about them where the most important people are concerned. I don’t want the good times, even the ones which might seem playful or innocent to cause a stink for my family.

I don’t want my neighbors to avoid me because I repulse them either. This can be a tricky thing these days. Especially in a contrarian culture.

Let’s be honest here for a moment. We’ve all met those Christians. The ones who are always causing a stink.

They get mad because a company celebrates Christmas in a way they don’t like. They are touchy about something a movie might poke fun at. Or they just want to kind of police the world with their specific brand of what’s right or wrong.

These Christians can be loud about it. They may even be right about what they have to say. But how you show up determines the reception.

I used to enjoy wielding my faith like a filter for acceptance. But the more I became a student of God’s love for me the more he trashed my filter.

I don’t want my faith to stink. I don’t want to pollute it. I don’t want to water it down. But I don’t want to beat people up with it either.

I think faith is at its best when it’s challenging me to embrace the work Jesus is still trying to do in me. When I get it right it’s winsome and it is inviting. It’s not repulsive or repellant. It’s compelling and endearing.

Often, well-intentioned followers of Jesus wield love like a test; but when you make love a test everyone fails.

There was a lady in the Bible having dinner with Jesus and his friends. Suddenly she took out a jar of extremely expensive perfume and just poured it on Jesus’ feet. It was her way of saying she knew her life was smelly. So, she gave up something dear to the only One who could really do anything about it.

Do you know what happened next in the story? While this lady Mary was crying and cleaning Jesus’ feet with her hair in a beautiful act of love; all the cranky religious people were busy being upset. They were surrounded by the literal smell of an unparalleled act of love. And were too busy making a stink to even catch the significance.

I don’t ever want to try to catch a skunk again. It did not go well. I don’t want to let anything stinky into my life. Instead I want to offer what I can to Jesus. I want to love as many people as possible. I want to let his work in me shape me into someone who is helping people find him.

I’m convinced all of us can stop being offended. We’re only offended because of our pride, and our pride stinks. Jesus didn’t die for our pride. He paid a high price for our invitation into a better way to live. Our every breath is another opportunity to learn it.

Your Story Would Be Boring Alone

Thirty years ago, one skinny little eight-year-old walked up to a skinny little seven-year-old—and with a single matter of fact statement began an unimaginable friendship.

“Hi, you must be Brad.” I said as I walked up to the place where he sat, sticking out my hand. A sandy-haired youth with blue eyes looked back into my green eyes before sticking out his own paw with a “Yep.” That’s all it took. We were best friends by day’s end.

These days we have the kind of friendship that guys like Morgan Freeman make movies about and rake in the millions. It’s a friendship measured in decades not moments because it is chock full of moment after moment stretching across decades.

Recently someone on social media said, “describe your best friend in one word.” I wrote “Brad.” It’s that simple. I love him. He really is my brother from another mother. But we’re not perfect.

We’ve fought like brothers at times. One time we actually fought, like with punches and headlocks and stuff, over fifty cents and a Slush Puppy—at church camp. One time he cussed me out pretty good because I skipped our college radio show to smooch with a girl.

It’s the kind of friendship where I can tell him if he’s being an idiot and I expect the same. And when one of us does it we stop to pay attention. Because it’s impossible for Brad to offend me. Love between brothers is supposed to be too big, and too strong, and too powerful for something as wimpy as offense to affect.

Our love for one another is a lot like these guys in the Bible named David and Jonathan. David was a shepherd kid God had put on the royal fast track. Literally he went from being a shepherd to being declared as the future king of Israel. Jonathan was the current prince of Israel. His dad was the king and not much of a fan of David. But that didn’t stop David and Jonathan from being friends.

They were such good friends that at one-point Jonathan put his life on the line for his pal David. In a fit of jealousy-fueled-rage concerning David, his own father hurled a spear at Jonathan. Jonathan grieved for his pal David. He protected his friend. Years later when Jonathan and his mean old dad died in battle David became the king and took care of what was left of Jonathan’s family.

I’ll admit most of my life I’ve felt a lot more like a shepherd than a king. It’s probably because of all my time around cows. But I am a King. It’s literally my name. Brad has never treated me like a shepherd. He’s always saw the king in me. He helps me to see it in myself.

Good friends do that. They see what’s there inside us that is unseen. They speak life. They encourage. Sometimes it's with a word. Sometimes it's with a good cussing when we step out of line (or skip a radio show). Brad is my friend. He’s my brother.

Another cool thing that happened once was when Jonathan took off all his armor and his sword and gave them to David. He gave him a fancy ring too. All of this was Jonathan’s way of saying he wasn’t David’s enemy. He was willing to be vulnerable to him.

Friends do that. They open up. They lay down their secret armor. They give the one they are choosing the power to hurt them. They trust.

I would trust Brad with anything. I do trust him with everything. And doing so I know gives him the power to kill me. Maybe literally. Maybe just emotionally. But what I know about Brad is that he’s the guy willing to catch a spear for me, and vice versa.

Once when we were kids we were playing summer baseball like so many boys in our part of the world do. They were late hot evening games. They took place at our local ballpark to the fanfare of raucous parents, friends, and peers.

There was another Brad at these games. Not my Brad, a different one. He was bigger, older, and I guess for a pubescent nearly teenage boy he was also meaner. Big Bully Brad decided he was going to throw my Brad in the creek intersecting our ballpark. I saw the whole thing about to go down.

All wrestledom would have erupted in applause, and Hulk Hogan himself would have-fived me at the ensuing drop kick that resulted from the sight of my friend’s pending submersion at the hands of Bully Brad. I don’t even remember thinking anything. Just my little feet pounding across the gravel lot into the grass before leaving the ground to deliver sweet chin music Shawn Michaels’ style. At least that’s how I remember it.

I remember a friendly intervention. The stuff of legend. The kinds of things that friends do. Like when Han Solo returned in the Millennium Falcon to fight off the Empire in Star Wars. Like when Forrest Gump ran into the Vietnam Jungle to save Bubba. I also remember Bully Brad getting mad, picking me up off the ground, and tossing me through the air into the creek like Andre the Giant flinging a featherweight.

That’s ok. I was always bad at baseball anyways. However, while I was terrible at baseball Brad was amazing.

I struck out a lot, but I had this great metal bat someone had gotten me as a gift. It even had its own name painted on the side. “BIG STICK” was etched in bold white letters on its black body. I loved that bat even though I never was great at using it. Brad though, he excelled with it. It was a weapon shared between us.

Shortly after college when some redneck jerk stole my first car I wept. Not for the car. The car was worth less than $500. I choked up because I thought the Big Stick was still in the trunk where I kept it in case of the zombie apocalypse.

Turns out I was wrong. Big Stick was safe at home in my room on the family farm and the thief instead made off with the Rambo-sized bowie knife I liked to call “Pig Sticker.” The one I probably could have gone to jail for keeping under my driver’s seat in case of a Nazi invasion. I decided I could live with that.

I still have the Big Stick. It rests right where it has for the last thirty years. It sits propped against the wall right next to my bed every night. It’s my first line of defense in case any zombie sized baseballs break into my house.

The Big Stick still bears the marks of action. Marks put there thirty years ago by a boy who excelled at something using the prized possession of his best friend. Every time I pick up Big Stick, I’m reminded of nearly a decade of summers shared with my closest friend. I’m reminded of summer games and late-night talks. I’m reminded of Super Mario Bros., BB guns, and countless sleepovers. I’m reminded of this amazing man that is a permanent fixture in my heart. He’s just as vital to me as my own flesh and blood, and in many ways even more so.

A few years ago, Brad and I started our own families. When my second son was born, we decided to name him Jonathan. Several months later Brad and his wife had their second child, and first son, and do you know what they named him? You guessed it, David. Now every time I pick up that bat, I anxiously await the day my Jonathan can share it with David.

You might not have a friend like that. But you could. Sometimes all it takes is enough bravery to start a conversation. What if instead of staring at our phones while waiting in line in the grocery store, we engaged the people around us? What if we risked the possibility of embarrassment in face of the opportunity of a lifetime?

Thirty years ago, I could have gone to church like I did practically every Sunday. It would have been completely normal for me to just go and be there and then go to Pizza Hut for lunch like we always did. I can’t really begin to describe how glad I am it wasn’t that kind of normal Sunday. I have a lifetime of memories that are shaped by four words, “you must be Brad.”

What are your four words? Where will you be? Who will you say them to?

Risk it.

Let’s be honest here please. If we choose to do it, we will crash and burn. There’s another four words I had the courage to ask a lot of girls in my life, “Do you like me?” and this isn’t a book or a story about any of those answers. Thank God!

No, I mean seriously. Thank God I asked, but I also must be thankful for the answers I didn’t like along the way.

Ask. Risk. Try. Do.

If you’re fourteen or forty. Life wasn’t made so you could suffer through it alone. If you don’t risk finding a friendship that is measured in decades you will wind up missing some of the best parts of yourself.

Do you know what an eight-year-old boy learned from a seven-year-old boy? The power of the word “friend.”

The joy and memory. The companionship and camaraderie. The countless moments that compelled me to find more friends.

The joy Brad brought into my life was a diving board sending me sailing into an ocean of possibilities. An ocean called friendship. I’m convinced that one fortuitous relationship instilled in me a consideration for people I may have never known otherwise.

This world around us can be nuts. People seem so mad at each other all the time. They say hurtful things, do hurtful things, and think hurtful things. I’m so convinced what the people who are hurting others need is to find their Brad. Because friendship can be the setup for so much goodness.

About fifteen years ago I was standing in a hotel room in Missouri when my phone rang at about 10:00 PM. It was Brad. He was facing a crisis of the soul.

Two weeks ago, I got some unexpectedly devastating news. I picked up my phone and texted Brad. Because friendship can bear the weight of one another’s struggles, difficulties, and mistakes. Real God-given friendship is strong enough to take it.

Brad and I don’t have the market cornered on friendship. But we do own our brotherly bond. There’s nothing perfect about us, but our friendship is perfect.

Each of us are still busy becoming who God made us. We are students of what God is teaching us about ourselves and the ones we love.

We know we’re works in progress. We are each finding our way through the epic journey of faith, family, and friends. We’re getting there together because of four words, “you must be Brad.”

Find your Brad. You can do it.

Smuggling Neighbors: Love Gets People Where They Belong

Once on a Friday afternoon a man and his wife had a blow out on their pickup truck on the highway right in front of the old farm house. Upon discovering the man was on his way to watch his son play football Grandpa handed over the keys to his truck without so much as a word—to a stranger. Because in his world there were no strangers. Just neighbors trying to get somewhere.

My grandpa grew up as a poor country farm boy in a place called Yell County. He became a hobo jumping trains in his younger days leading up to the Great Depression. He travelled the country finding work and sending money home to his struggling family. On one of those trips in Denver, Colorado he listened to a wheelchair-bound preacher talk about this guy named Jesus of Nazareth. That’s the day Grandpa and Jesus became friends. Later he became a logger, cotton picker, coal miner, custodian, farmer, and preacher.

It was the last two he would become known for. Preacher King as they called him carried a gentle, but firm, demeanor. He loved jokes. He loved fun. He loved Jesus. He loved his neighbors. He loved his family. He loved his farm.

My dad (the youngest of four brothers) grew up on that farm. The same farm that would later usher me from boyhood to manhood across its wooded acres and rolling fields. But as the farm of my father’s youth it was existing in a vastly different world. It was a world of extreme racism. As history has shown us, Arkansas was a deeply racist environment in the 20th century.

One of Preacher King’s principle forms of income for many years was the harvest and processing of sorghum molasses. Sorghum molasses is a thick sweet honey like substance gathered from a stalk not unlike a corn stalk. Grandpa King (with help from my dad and an old mule) would gather in his crop, process it, bottle it, and then haul it to a nearby town to sell. Pretty standard stuff.

But those trips into town weren’t only about carrying his cash crop. You see, there was a nearby community full of people on the opposite side of Jim Crow and the utterly broken laws of our land. A place full of folks long on good standing with Preacher King. He had worked the cotton fields of rural Franklin and Logan counties right alongside them—my young father in tow. He sold them his products when other men lived out segregation like it was a truer gospel. He also smuggled them into “whites only” parts of town during the peak of the segregation era—the season of the South when tensions were near to breaking and polarization of opinion was violent in response.

Preacher King never saw the distinctions in men others held as the status quo. He refused to believe there were black places and white places. He knew what God wants us all to know. There are only places. This world is beautiful and the variety of the people exists to add flavor.

Grandpa wasn’t afraid to break the law, because it was an evil law. He refuted what most accepted. He treated everyone like neighbors. Because they were. Even if he had never met them before.

Grandpa knew intuitively what Jesus had tried so hard to teach so many. Love doesn’t end at your address. It crosses the street. It crosses zip codes and county lines. It breaks down ethnic barriers, ignoring them altogether, as it boldly stomps across racial divides. It thwarts the evils of injustice. It doesn’t back down. It doesn’t give up. And it doesn’t give in.

Love knows there’s a neighbor trying to get somewhere, and we all have a chance to help. Love doesn’t look for an opportunity to get more it looks for an opportunity to give more. Love refuses to accept the stigmas and stereotypes. Love refuses the either or thinking of the day and finds a third way forward. Love makes its own way. Love doesn’t accept the status quo. Love works toward the big dream, and lots of little individual dreams too, seeing all men with the kindness of a father’s affection.

I never got to meet Preacher King in this life. He went to be with Jesus shortly before I was born. Cancer had claimed his life, but it never stole his joy. He loved fiercely right up until the end.

When I was a kid I would get very sad at not having ever held my grandpa’s hand or hugged his neck. I never heard him laugh. He never took me fishing, let me ride in his truck, or taught me how to fix a car. Thinking about it used to bring tears to my eyes.

Today I know the love Preacher King had for his neighbors didn’t end when he seemingly lost his battle with cancer. His love just changed addresses. A lifetime of love, faith, and working out the two in the coal mines and cotton fields landed him somewhere better—with Jesus.

Now his love lives on in the faith that nourished his family. It’s the kind of love that makes me a better version of me. It’s the kind of love that compels me to invite all my neighbors to an eternal neighborhood. One where they can meet Preacher King and this Jesus he loved so well. A love which doesn’t distinguish, doesn’t condemn, doesn’t condone, and doesn’t hold back. A love like that works for the way forward, for everyone, and doesn’t quit.

We all get one chance to love well. Like Preacher King I want to love my neighbors. I even want to smuggle a few into the places they belong someone is trying to keep them from. I want my handshake and morning greeting to be more than tokens of salutation. I want them to be invitations into a life that’s waiting for everyone.

My dad learned it from his dad. I have tried to learn it from him. Sometimes I’ve aced it—sometimes not so much. There were times it came easy, and there were moments when it was like pulling teeth from a tiger.

When Jesus was talking to some of his friends he challenged them. He invited them to walk and work with him. To see how he did it. To discover the rhythm of love which always blossoms amidst the music of grace. He also promised them to carry this kind of love around wouldn’t be heavy. It’s the kind of love which fits everyone who accepts their invitation to carry it around this world. Jesus’ love brings with it a freedom and a light different than anything else we can find.

Preacher King lived this love. The stories of my youth are filled with the evidence of a man who learned this firsthand from his dad. A man not afraid to defy the law of the land when it crossed paths with the law of love.

What God is teaching me about love doesn’t start with my city. He is teaching me it must first start with my neighbors. He is teaching me I don’t have to do all the same things they do. I don’t even have to like the things they do, but it shouldn’t stop me from loving them just the same.

We don’t have to participate in the stuff we disagree about in order to be agreeable. Because Jesus demonstrated incredible love, we have an opportunity to learn how to live out incredible love. One way we can do it is by being willing to help someone get where they belong.

How To Mail A Watermelon

One summer I was scrolling through Facebook between spoonfuls of Lucky Charms. I was uncharacteristically addicted to Facebook that day. In between the countless gifs, political rants, and fruitless arguments I saw a post from my cousin Deb that caught my eye. Deb lives in Washington along with a large chunk of my father’s family, and she was having a hard day. She made a comment about wishing she could have one of her uncle’s watermelons for breakfast and that was all it took.

My dad has grown watermelons for decades just like his dad did many decades before. It’s a family legacy. I happened to have some of Dad’s watermelons in the back of my car because my kids love them, and I like to give them to my friends during the summer.

With my cousin Deb’s comment fresh on my mind I opened Google on my phone and typed “how to mail a watermelon”. And for the first time in the history of ever Google failed me. There was nothing definitive. Seemingly no one had attempted this and thought it was important enough to document for all the other interstate watermelon dealers. Game on.

I could accept the idea that no one had ever really mailed a watermelon. I could give up. I could wish the situation were different. I could drive a watermelon all the way to Washington. Or I could find a third way forward.

I don’t have a complicated answer for why I was even thinking this way. I have a simple one. I love my cousin Deb and it seemed like a family watermelon, not just the “normal” grocery store variety, would do the trick. So, I looked at my wife and said, “I’m going to send Deb a watermelon.” Jamie looked at me a lot like you are right now.

I put my brain to work. I had a project, a goal, and I was committed to it. My cousin wanted a family watermelon, and I had one. How could I get it from me to her?

I found a box just barely big enough for the chosen fruit; I wrapped it in plastic wrap (the kind you use to wrap up a sandwich or something); and I filled the empty space with spray in foam like you would use to repair a leaky window seal. I wrapped the whole box up tight with super-duper packing tape and wrote “FRAGILE: PRICELESS FAMILY HEIRLOOM” on the side.

I wish you could have seen the look on the face of the sweet girl working behind the counter when I walked into the local UPS store and declared, “Hi, I need to mail a watermelon to Washington as fast as possible.” That declaration alone almost sent my whole plan off the rails.

I’m not sure why, but I had to reassure her it really was a watermelon in the box. Finally, she just chuckled and helped sort out the details. Surely, she has helped people mail stranger things. Well, maybe not, but we figured it out together.

Do you know the next day air rate for love? No, me neither. I had always wondered what it would cost to mail someone a box of love. Turns out it was a little more than a hundred bucks. That might have stung a little bit if the money was important, but it wasn’t. Loving my cousin was.

Deb got her watermelon the next day and was ecstatic. She sent me a ton of pictures of her, her husband Greg, my Uncle Loyd, and Aunt Beverly all working to open the little puzzle I sent them. With care and enthusiasm, they slowly cut away at the packaging. After all, there was a priceless fragile family heirloom inside.

I was excited for them to get it and I couldn’t wait to see what happened. I think I spent more time refreshing the tracking data for the package than I normally would for an item I am waiting to receive.

Gifts are funny like that. Doing things that are special for someone just because you love them and want to brighten their life a little can be a lot of fun. Doing it for no other reason than you want to, and you can, is enough. In moments like that love is the only motivator. Turns out it is more than enough.

This story was a great moment for me. Not because it’s the first time I’ve ever loved anyone—but because it’s the first time I’ve ever loved anyone like that. I found a new way to do something I’m not sure had ever been done before. I learned a little more about God’s love for me, by loving someone else a little more.

Watermelons might fit in a box if you find the right box. But your life doesn’t have to. Don’t accept the box others will try to put you in. Don’t believe it. The box is almost certainly a lie. Get the beautiful stuff you’re made of to the people in this world who need it most.

You’ll know who they are if you look hard enough and listen well. They are close. They are family and neighbors. You see them at the market, on the corner, across the street, and across the hall. They are literally everywhere.

And when you hear them say, “I could really use _______” be the one who finds a way to make it happen. That is how you mail a watermelon. That is how you send your love. That is how you share what you’re made of with the world.

Don’t wait for someone to tell you how. Don’t ask for permission. Just go for it. Yeah, it will cost you something. Sometimes it will cost a lot. But the high price for sending love is not that high in the grand scheme of things. It may only be about a hundred bucks.

We all have watermelons to send. We all have cousins who need them. We all have a choice to live with the options presented or throw off “normal” and forge our own.

I don’t think the way we love God is defined by a checklist of well-intentioned rules. It’s not a standard of religious practices. It is the everyday activity that showers those around us in the joy residing deep within. We can’t keep it. We can’t contain it. Not when you possess something like that. No, we must do something with it. We must share it. Please, you can’t afford not to. We need you. Don’t worry about getting it perfect, just get it started. Along the way you’ll learn a lot about living a life of love.

Clouds and Cages

Photo by Venezuelan Tourism.

After college I had the incredible opportunity to serve a parachurch organization called Chi Alpha for a little over a decade. That time was foundational and monumental for me. It is permanently fixed in my soul as a vital season I will always treasure for the special memories made, the friendships developed, and the growing taking place within my own heart and mind.

One of my fondest memories came at the very end of my time with the organization. For months we had planned a trip to Venezuela to work at an orphanage in the remote countryside. It was an exhilarating adventure full of many special moments with dear friends.

On the last day of our adventure we took a gondola up into the mountains near Caracas. A gondola is basically a small cage for people suspended on a cable that is then carried slowly up the side of a mountain. Just think of a big aquarium dangling from a wire going up the side of a mountain and you have the right idea.

We waited at least an hour for our turn to step into a cage. As we waited I listened to a group of local girls argue about whether my friend Rob was Justin Bieber. I don’t think Rob knew he was the topic of conversation at all, but it didn’t stop the boys accompanying the young ladies from shooting him ugly looks.

I had ridden a ski lift many times, dozens of times, but I wasn’t altogether prepared for the adventure about to ensue as my friends Jake, Ellen, and Rashad stepped into the gondola ahead of me. We all settled in for what was supposed to be an almost twenty-minute ride to the top of the mountain. Rashad was clearly very nervous about the experience while the rest of us were good to go.

As our tiny cage crept up the side of the hill some things began to change. Visibility plummeted even as our altitude rose. The temperature within the small suspended glass box decreased as well. And then, as a white wall loomed ahead of us, my friend’s nervousness escalated into full-blown panic.

We passed out of visibility and into an alien world of white fog, the gondola ascending into the clouds themselves on the side of a remote Venezuelan mountain. It was eerie to be sure. Rashad was scared, but what happened next was both beautiful and hilarious. At the top of his lungs my large friend began to not just sing, but bellow in a deep baritone, the lyrics to the timeless hymnal Amazing Grace.

Remember that picture of an aquarium from earlier? Yeah. Bring that back and add a large man singing boisterously enough for cages on either side to hear. It was awesome! It didn’t take long for him to calm down after that. Which I think all of us in the car appreciated since we were maybe halfway up the mountain.

I don’t think the beauty of the moment was lost on any of us that afternoon. We had spent a week working with kids in an impoverished place. We had helped clean up a school and made playgrounds playable again. The evenings were spent serving a faraway church that shared a common faith. So, Rashad’s instincts weren’t to allow his panic and anxiety to carry him into a dangerous reaction suspended high above the mountain valley. His reaction was to lean into grace, and his demonstration was to literally voice his feelings in song.

 There have been many times when my life has found me suspended above the valleys of failure and dangling within the fog of uncertainty. Sometimes nerves get the best of me. It’s not a thing I think anyone has perfected. I am continuing to learn just how little I should fear what lies within the fog, because I have great faith in the one who makes the fog.

I’ve known about Jesus all my life. I am after all a church kid. But I started living my faith on my own—as real as I knew how, in my teenage years. I’ve lived a life wrapped in stories of my forefathers and grandparents, my uncles, and friends—many of them also followers of faith in Jesus.

Perhaps what I see the most about those who follow authentic faith is their lives are not free of hard things. They don’t get out unscarred or without having to face down fear. They don’t make it out at all. None of us really do. I know, that doesn’t sound like the most encouraging thing a guy could say when he is trying to make a point about faith. But here’s the bottom line: those of us who don’t just dabble in faith, but go all in, will consistently find ourselves in places and situations that feel like a group of friends dangling on the side of a mountain.

The thing about this life is no one gets out alive. We all have choices to make. We can fear the fog. We can let doubt keep us from stepping into the gondola when it’s our turn and forever miss the journey ahead. We can wait at the bottom and never see the beauty waiting just above. Or we can step into a journey of mystery and uncertainty.

I want to keep stepping on the gondola. I want to keep letting life carry me up and into the fog. I might not know exactly where I’m going, but I do know exactly where I’m heading.

 After several more minutes of a grinding pace that s-l-o-w-l-y carried us up the precipice we broke through the clouds. There, on the other side we were met with a festival you could not have seen or even imagined from the ground below. We stepped out of our cage into a party.

There were jugglers and vendors, markets and handmade things. There were singers, dancers, performers, and artisans. Delectable treats and sweet things hung from stalls lining the cobblestone paved walkways. Happy people walked shoulder-to-shoulder stranger with stranger and no one stopped to argue about politics, sports, or other trite things.

The sights of people in celebration were spectacular, but when you looked past the wondrous scene of joy unbridled there was something even more spectacular to behold—the view.

Stunning vistas the like of which I had never witnessed met my gaze. No small feat for nature to throw the way of a kid raised in mountains who spent most of his free time around mountains and on mountains doing mountain things. I watched what must have been kids playing on a nearby range. I saw an airplane fly by—below us. I saw miles of mountains, farms, roads, and villages. It was spectacular.

It was, to say the least, monumental in scale and beauty. I could see for miles. The horizon seems further away so far up. As if ascending to such a majestic place somehow offered a perspective not to be found elsewhere.

And really that’s the way of it. Faith does lend perspective. Before and behind. Below and beside. Faith gives you a glimpse into what you can’t see. Faith doesn’t even help you see it all the time either. It just helps you come to terms with what can’t be seen.

The trouble is we sometimes forget our own faith. We forget what happened yesterday that gave us the boldness to believe in the first place. We forget the wins we’ve seen and the losses we’ve been carried through.

Forgetfulness can do a real number on faith. It can make the fog seem thicker and the cage seem smaller. No one forgets on purpose. We just displace the memories of all the spectacular things we’ve seen with new stuff. Often boring stuff. We fill our minds with spreadsheets and P&L statements, with PTO meetings, soccer practices, and deadlines. We jam it full of Facebook, Snapchat, and cable news. We keep on cramming until we don’t even remember we have forgotten something sacred to us. In our scramble to fill our lives with meaning we move some of our most meaningful moments toward the fringe—losing them to the fog of forgetfulness in the process.

All of this leaves us with the appearance of meaning, and belonging, and purpose—but at the cost of our souls. We raise up a wondrous facade. Like a shrine built to our own importance and interests. But that can never last.

When the fog looms and the cage squeezes I am the last guy I can depend on. I’m probably too busy freaking out. Especially if I am too busy being important to remember what’s important. The cure or fix or just plain better way of doing life is to remember. Remember what amazing thing God has done in your life and remember how it changed you forever.

There Is A Place Only Love Can Go

Photo by Brandyn Morrow

When I first met Jamie, she was dating someone else, so at first, she was just another girl to me. I don’t mean that to sound ugly, nasty, or misogynistic in any way whatsoever. What I really mean is she was a young woman in a world full of them at a time when I was interested in none of them.

I had been through nothing short of relational disaster two years before. The entire thing had unceremoniously short-circuited most of my future in a way best described as a train wreck. That’s exactly what happened as a result. It left me an emotional wreck.

God had done a big work in me over the preceding months. During that time, I had begun serving college students through an organization that had helped me so much during my early college years. I had learned a lot about giving back and was excited about new adventures taking shape.

One day we took a big group of people to a nearby mountain. It is a great spot where people go to watch the sunrise and sunset. We gathered on the side of the mountain in the light of a setting sun and I played some songs on my guitar for a while. We sang together and shared laughter and stories. It was a lot of fun.

As we got ready to leave, I tripped, and as I pitched forward the full force of my guitar case smashed Jamie right in the top of the head. I felt awful. I had just gone full on caveman on this poor girl I didn’t even know yet. As I walked back to my car feeling forlorn and jerkish this inexplicable thought popped into my head. I will never forget it. “If you ever married her that would make for a really funny story.”

I don’t know what made the thought pop up. Being totally honest here. There were still no romantic feelings between us, but the thought came just the same. And well, we did get married. I’m not sure how funny the story from the mountain actually is. But the strange random thought turned out to be quasi-prophetic musing.

Jamie and I started spending a lot of time together. Not alone or anything. There still wasn’t any romantic interest anywhere on the canvas. But something beautiful happened. We got to know each other in the company of each of our best friends. We would all go out and hangout as one big group. We would run together. We hiked together. We watched movies, went swimming, and did all kinds of things.

This was all happening at a time when a bunch of religious people were making a big deal out of the idea of “group dating”. It was supposed to be this big thing where people who thought they might like each other would go hang out in groups and do things exactly like Jamie and I had been doing. We weren’t trying to do this at all, but over the course of time we got to know each other.

Eventually Jamie and her boyfriend broke up. A while later we were hosting a large group of young college students at the family farm for a weekend getaway. Something clicked in me that weekend. Something I hadn’t paid attention to in a long time. I realized I had feelings for this girl. Maybe the time at my home in the company of so many good friends had emboldened me. Perhaps it was something else entirely, but I decided to invite her to the movies, and she said yes.

The next week or so was kind of a blur. Those moments opened a part of my heart I had written off as unwelcome territory. Places that were a No Man’s Land of emotions I didn’t want to acknowledge or address. Somehow, someway, Jamie gave me the courage to walk into them, and she still does.

When I realized there were legitimate feelings for her I did two things I will never regret. I talked to my friends Heath and Christie, who were also my pastors, about it. Heath high-fived me and said, “go for it.” That night I did maybe one of the most difficult things I have ever done. I sat Jamie down on my front porch and told her every bad thing I had ever done in my life. All of it. I held nothing back. I finished, and she was still sitting there. Just the fact she hadn’t ran away screaming at some of the finer details of my story was a good indicator of just how special she is.

Jamie did, and still does, for me what all amazing women do in the hearts of the men who love them. The potential of her affection drew me into new places. It helped me go to God and find forgiveness and grace for a lot of the old places too. She came into my life during a time when so much of it felt like it was a recovering disaster. Large swathes of the land of my heart were still full of the wreckage and devastation of the previous two years.

It didn’t take me long to love Jamie. In fact, we had only been a real couple for just a few months. One Saturday night we were at a church we had travelled to with some friends of ours. We all enjoyed going to these small churches to share songs and stories to encourage the people. I was just about to walk on stage to lead the small gathering in some singing when I looked over at her and said the three words that always elevate every relationship to new places when they are sincere. I said, “I love you.” I’m pretty sure she was speechless. Or maybe I only remember it that way because about thirty seconds later I was playing my guitar and singing songs in front a few hundred people.

That was the weekend I knew I wanted to spend the rest of my life with this wondrous woman God had put in my path. This amazing person who makes me better on every level. Isn’t it just like God to do that? To take two imperfect people and help them find each other.

There’s a cool story in the Bible about a guy named Boaz and his bride to be Ruth. Like Jamie and I, Boaz was much older than Ruth. Ruth entered his life by means of circumstance and surprise—at a time when Boaz was not really looking for anything romantic. Ruth invited Boaz into the places he almost forgot were inside him. Boaz took care of her. They grew together, and God used their family to fulfill a host of promises.

I often hear religious folks talk about putting God first in our lives, and I understand what they are trying to say. Or at least I think do. They are really saying God should be a priority.

I have never liked or identified with this idea that God is first in that sense. It probably sounds like terrible theology. I don’t know. Maybe it is. None of my degrees are in theology.

I think what God really wants has nothing to do with us segmenting our lives into schizophrenic religious weirdness. He doesn’t want a bunch of people stumbling through their days with a heart beset by a segmented organizational chart, quick to give God top billing, yet not access to any of the rest of them.

I’ve met a lot of people who live this way, and they are almost always incredibly weird. If you think about this for a moment you might realize you’ve known some of these weird people too. If you can’t think of any weird people like that, chances are you’re the weird one.

No, the older I get the more convinced I am God never intended for us to chop our lives into pieces and serve him the first chunk. Because usually what happens is we give him some small insignificant part that helps us sooth our conscience but rarely does much to change the rest. Instead, I am absolutely convinced we find the full goodness of God at work in our lives when he is invited to work in every area of our life.

I don’t know if God makes just one right person for everyone. It sounds romantic and wonderful, but also scary. What if you were supposed to marry Susan, but she chose Bob instead? You would be in trouble. I don’t think it really works like that.

I do however know I’ve gotten it right by God’s grace. I have found his grace in my misgivings and mistakes. Somewhere along the way I happened upon a different kind of grace in the form of a five-foot nine brunette I affectionately call Wonder Woman. I’m reminded of this every time we hear a song from our favorite band Needtobreathe:

 In my heart you'll always know
There is a place only love can go
There is a place only you can go

 There is a place only love can go. God goes there first if you invite him in. This place, the place where love goes, it isn’t solitary confinement. It is the rich part of our soul waiting to be shared with another soul out there somewhere who’s also had the courage to extend God the same invitation.

What 2020 Gave You

Maybe you thought 2020 was a wash. If you did no one would blame you. The complexity of adversity seemed to reach a new level. So if you’re one of the many rushing toward Christmas with a sigh of exasperated finality—I totally get it. We too decorated for Christmas while still finishing off our Halloween candy.

It’s been weird this year. My family started the year off with a litany of scary surprises. My mom collapsed at dinner from an apparent seizure and had a concerning stay in the hospital. As we sat by her bed we watched international news as an unknown virus crept across the Earth on an inevitable path toward our shores.

As the world dashed behind locked doors; schools, churches, and businesses closed. My family felt the affects of all of this as we tried to find new footing. Just like you did. The whole planet called a timeout but the problems persisted—undaunted by—and perhaps even enflamed by the social and societal unrest of scared people. It was right in the midst of this we learned my brother had cancer and I was diagnosed with compassion fatigue. I didn’t even know that was a thing.

What’s scary is scary. What’s unknown is scary. Hard things mixed with uncertain things can be downright frightening. And even as the new normal slowly peeked out from behind our bubbles it seemed to get worse.

Our family circle was hit by a string of four deaths in one week. My wife’s cousin died on a Friday. My dad’s cousin died two days later. My dad’s friend died the next day. My dad’s brother passed three days later. The affects of the year had piled up in a big way that had seemed to topple with indiscriminate verocity.

But did life get worse? For some the answer is a resounding yes. Life did get worse. Did it get worse for me? No. It didn’t.

Did hard things happen this year? Yes. But hard things happen every year. Hard things happen every day. Because life is hard. And the greatest injustice of our day is often the lie we collectively accept that says life is supposed to be easy.

Here is what I know about you. Even though I don’t know you. You’re still here. You survived whatever level of difficulty loomed over your life for the last nine months. The shadows of which no doubt seemed hard beyond reckoning at times. But you’re still here. So am I.

I think in the midst of such uncertain difficulty each of us have been given a phenomenal gift. We have been given an opportunity for extreme clarity. Even as darkness seemed to win. As all things dastardly tried to close in; you and I have been given the chance to see what we love all the more.

Today, I feel closer to my wife than ever before. I love my kids more. I have more appreciation for the university where I teach. I love my church and the people who trust me to be their pastor. I am deeply grateful for the incredible friends I have. None of those are new things.

I have more to be thankful for than ever before. Maybe you do too. What if this year we have been given the gift of clarity? They say hindsight is twenty twenty. That in retrospection we see perfectly. For all of its bumps and bruises don’t miss the God-given gift of vision this year could represent.

Don’t pretend hard things didn’t happen. People who live with their head in the clouds are hard to stomach when the rubber meets the road. Instead, lean into the opportunity to see clearly. Don’t look at this year through rose-colored glasses. See it through your bumps and bruises. And be thankful for the good things you’re still surrounded by.

If one of those is someone you love, take them by their own bruised and busted knuckles. Speak with words of thankfulness. And walk into this season of thanksgiving with the renewed solidarity of extreme gratefulness.

Teachers, It Can Still Be Amazing

Photo by Georgette Sandoval

Today in my area public schools are reopening. Kids are headed back into the classroom by the thousands. I’ve had so many conversations with educators and parents about what the next several months will look like. The truth is, no one really knows. Everyone has a big opinion, me included, but no one knows.

The prevailing sentiment in my conversations has been a bit of cautious optimism smothered in generous doses of uncertainty. Some are excited. Some are afraid. Some are clueless. And some are just ready for something normal.

I’m confident of this. It can still be an amazing school year. I would dare say this has the potential to be the most incredible year you’ve yet experienced. Why do I think this?

We’ve all experienced what the world looks like when it calls a collective timeout. You lived through it—although many around the world did not.

We’ve all faced what it feels like to be more or less stuck at home for a few months. It messes with your head.

Both are major issues. And you’ve beat them already. Wouldn’t it be a shame to waste the big opportunity this year presents?

Photo by Georgette Sandoval

I’m not a conventional educator. I don’t sit in a classroom all day everyday like the real teachers who are reading this. I teach for two universities. I am doing it all online this term. For a wide variety of reasons. But I am trying my best with what’s been handed me, to embrace the opportunity the best way I know how.

I have 74 students in my care. I am responsible for part of their eduction. It is a responsibility I take incredibly serious. This semester I decided to do something I have never done before. I gave them all my cell phone number.

It seemed like such a simple thing, but when I stopped to think about it—I could only remember one professor ever giving me their personal phone number. ONE. And until March of this year I had rarely done so either. But that’s all changed now. Why?

Because maybe teaching is about more than facts and quizzes. Perhaps learning is too. Maybe it’s about one human transferring a piece of something they’ve been given stewardship of to someone else who needs it. I’ve spent many semesters focused on the theories of dialogic communication, but maybe not enough focused on an actual dialogue—you know—real communication with these brilliant and beautiful young men and women entrusted to me.

They are still going to get their money’s worth, and then some, when it comes to Comms Theories and practicing the mechanics of good public speaking. But I decided to give them something more valuable this semester. My availability.

Guess what? It’s working. I’m four weeks back into my classroom (thanks Google Classroom) and everyday I get a handful of texts from students. I don’t see them as a distraction. I see them for what they are. Another opportunity to make this the best school year ever.

I have no idea what you teach. If you teach. Or where you teach. But I do know this. You’ve been given stewardship of something amazing. You have been entrusted with knowledge, experience, and the opportunity of a lifetime. You have a chance to make this year about more than standardized tests and all the other crap politicians like to brag about. You have the opportunity to do what only you can do in your classroom—you have the opportunity to make it the best school year ever.

Try it. Shift your mind. See the opportunity. Embrace it. Maybe you can’t high five everyone in the hall, but I bet you can out smile everyone. Maybe the setup is a little different. The masks make it seem weird and impersonal. Call the elephant in the room out for what it is.

You only get a short season of influence with your kids. Don’t lose it to complaining, pessimism, and a victim-mindset. Disagree with administrators and leaders about big decisions? Great. You are 100% entitled to disagree. But don’t let it affect the way you embrace the opportunity to help your kids.

The truth is. You won’t. I know that. If you are in education and you stuck around long enough to read this much of my rambling you’re not one of the ones we should be worried about. You’re a Rockstar teacher. So thanks for reading this far. Before you go I have two promises for you.

First, I think we both know this is likely going to be the hardest year in education you have ever faced.

Second, I just want to promise you that there is incredible value and worth on the other side of this hard thing you’re starting today. It’s going to be worth it. It’s going to be the best school year it can be. It’s sure to be hard. It will also be beautiful—as beautiful as hard can be.

Go get ‘em. Thank you for what you do. I can’t imagine where we’d all be without you.

Moms, I Know Sundays Are Harder Now Than Ever

Photo by Quinn Vo

My wife shared her heart with me while we were on vacation a few weeks ago. And I wanted to share it with you. If this encourages you will you share it with someone who could use some encouragement? Thanks! - Nate

I raised my goldfish to the Lord. It wasn’t intentional. I lowered my hand immediately.  Though I thought about putting it back up again. 

You see that’s what my hands are like these days: they are full. And me? Well I’m usually distracted.

I used to think I was alone in my distractions. And then I looked around. Distraction fatigue is everywhere.

But for a moment I forgot the distractions. I forgot the fatigue. I forgot I was shushing a three-year-old. For a moment I wasn’t worried about the trash the five-year-old put on the church floor. Or the fact that the eight-year-old sat down one song earlier than I told him he could. 

I forgot about the toddler strapped to my chest, which hopefully makes the bag of goldfish make sense now. Because for one line of the song. For one short refrain. For five heavenly seconds. I felt the Lord move. I felt blessed. I was thankful to be in the church. So I raised both hands because, in a rare moment, they didn’t have kids in them. 

The toddler in my carrier noticed my inadvertent cheese-dust covered offering, and squealed. And the moment came to an end. You see this season of life doesn’t afford me long talks with Jesus. I don’t get to worship free of worrying over what my kids are doing.

I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but some people come into a church empty. While others come with their hands full. God says to the empty and the full, “Bring what you have and come.” 

If your heart feels empty because life has gone wonky…come. If you’re empty because relationships have fallen away...bring your emptiness. If you’re bursting at the seams with apprehensions, regret, or indifference … bring all of it and just come.

So, during this season I’m toting hands full of goldfish. Why? Because by the time I walk through the front doors I’m already tired. Just to get there I’ve spent the morning finding everyone’s masks and reminding them to pack a snack. 

By the time we pull into the parking lot I’ve been explaining to my three-year-old that kid church is not open. And, no, we can’t go to Chick-fil-A after service. “How often do I have to repeat this?” I think for the seventh time in a minute. Or maybe that was seven times seven. Either way, it’s a good reminder to forgive myself.

I don’t have to lean on the expectations of a “normal” or “calm” service. The pastor gets it too. These are his kids making a mess on the front row. Literally. 

More importantly God understands my season. God meets me where I am—goldfish and all. Amidst the minutes of mania. Blissfully stalled in the seconds of serenity. Or somewhere in between. He is still God. And He says, “Bring what you have and come.”

If you’re empty, show up and leave with something you need. If you’re full—leave a few things at the threshold. Heaven’s here for you. Our stuff isn’t about to surprise anyone on the other side of eternity. 

When God says, “Bring me wat’cha got.” Do it. Every time. Any time. Do it at the baseball park, and the grocery store. Do it when you’re second hand shopping and pushing a stroller. Do it any day you can. Especially days that end in y. And if you find yourself close to a church on a Sunday, please do it there. Hear it when heaven extends this simple invitation, “Bring what you have and come.”

So I do. I did. And I will again. And when the song hits a lull and you hear a baby crying just look over. You’ll probably see me raise my goldfish to the Lord.

When You Are Frustrated Do This

It wasn’t a typical Monday morning. Not after twenty weeks at home in lock-down mode. School was here. Time to face the music.

We’d already made the decision to homeschool our oldest two. You might have read about that previously. But what about the little ones? What were we to do with our toddlers?

How would we navigate all four kids at home, fulfill all of our professional educational responsibilities, lead our congregation, and not lose our minds. Depends on who you ask. More than a few would say we lost our minds a long time ago. Which brings us back to this atypical Monday morning. 

All of us know what it’s like to be frustrated. There have been whole weeks (recently) when I hung out in frustration for so long I fully expected it to start charging rent.

I was frustrated this particular Monday. Why? Because we had made the choice to send our youngest two back to preschool. Not the source of my frustration. But I couldn’t actually walk them into their rooms. That was the source of my frustration.

I’m not knocking the staff or the school. We love our little preschool. King kids have been dancing down those halls for going on eight years—and before that Jamie taught there. It’s the best preschool in town.

I was frustrated because it was time to let go of something I was hoping I could hold on to for just a little longer. See it was my daughter’s first day.  She is seventeen months old. She has never spent an entire day away from Mommy with a stranger. And I didn’t get to be the one to take her to the stranger.

Did I mention I was frustrated? I was frustrated at the options in front of me. I was frustrated at handing that little pink sippy cup over before I was good and ready. Circumstances had wrenched reality right out of my hand. You’d be frustrated to.

You probably have been. These last few months have been repeatedly frustrating for so many of us. What’s ticking you off lately? It’s probably not hard to figure out. What’s that thing just under the surface that seems to make you simmer inside? Loss? Confusion? Missed-expectations? Your frustrations might come from something else entirely. I get it. We all have them.

We all know what it’s like to be frustrated. Frustration often happens where expectations hit a wall.

There we were standing in the preschool lobby. They checked our temps. I signed the paperwork. Everyone was masked up. And then it was time to hand over my children.

Matty took it like a champ. He was so excited to be back at school with his little friends. He was good to go with his Paw Patrol backpack and Ninjago lunchbox. 

Anna didn’t know what to make of it. She is seventeen months old. Do you know how many of those months she has spent at home with Mommy? Seventeen.

But it was time. Time to let her go where I couldn’t go. Seventeen months just seemed too young for that kind of milestone moment. Hence the frustration.

I handed her backpack, some diapers, a lunchbox, and sippy cup over to the director of the school. And then it was time to hand over Anna. She was stoic. She obviously didn’t understand what was going on. She didn’t react emotionally. Not like I wanted to. But she didn’t want me to hand her over either. She held on to Dad. She held on to the familiar. Familiar is comfortable.

Our frustrations will often stymie the next step forward. Even when we know one simple step could take us from comfortable to something better. It’s usually just one step. For you, and for the one needing you to make a move. I didn’t know what to do.

And then sweet little Matty stepped in. My rowdy, hyper, rough-and-tumble three year old said, “I take you, Sissy.” As he grabbed her by the hand and bravely walked her through the front door.

The moment wasn’t lost on me. My decisive nature is quick to lean hard toward the solutions I like, and bow up at the ones that irritate me. Sometimes reality yanks the choice away.

When frustration hits big and you don’t know how to handle what’s important you need help. You need a hand. I know I did. But you don’t just need a hand. You need a hand-off.

You might need a friend to meet you halfway and help you carry some stuff. Maybe you need a loved one to just pick up the phone. Or, perhaps you need the innocence of a three year old to take his sister by the hand.

Whatever your frustration, don’t let the circumstances make you overlook the opportunity. Take a hand when you need one. Give a hand as often as possible. Handing off what’s got your goat will help you take your next step forward. Probably the one that will untangle your agitations. Do it.

You might not even know what the hand you need looks like. For me, it’s my faith. The providence of a friend with good timing. Or, the certainty of something more than imagination can muster. Faith is good at steadying me in the midst of frustration.

Handing off frustration to faith doesn’t make me weak to reality. It makes me better at trusting God.

I’m thankful for big faith. And I’m equally thankful for the small hands that remind me. Not everything has to be epic. Sometimes God will simply show up and say, “I’ll take you.” He’ll even do it through a three year old.

Hand off your frustrations. You don’t need them anymore. Emptying your hands of frustrations will free them up for whatever help God sends your direction. I don’t know what it will look like for you. I only know he’ll do it. When he does—just go. Take the hand that’s offered. Let faith in something better lead all of the important stuff in your life. It will take you somewhere you’d never go on your own.

Would you let us know what’s been frustrating you lately? Maybe we can help? And if you think someone in your circle could use some help handing off their own frustrations please consider sharing this with them.

How We Chose Homeschool Curriculum

Photo by Giuseppe Lombardo

Parents, you are trying to make a hard choice right now. Life has been full of hard choices for the last few months. And now this one involves the most important people in the world—your kids. 

Last week Jamie and I shared our reasons for why we decided to homeschool our oldest two this year. That blog was everywhere. People all over the U.S. and in many other countries checked it out. Many reached out in some way.

We’re here to help. Because, even though we are teachers, when it comes to our kids we are students too. So we’ve been learning. We’ve been figuring out what will work for our family. And by we I really mean my amazing wife. I’m convinced Jamie is the smartest woman on earth. You guys can argue about the #2 spot all you want. #1 is taken.

We promised we’d be back with more to say via this platform that makes saying it and sharing it so easy. So here we go.

This is the curriculum we chose. And why we chose it. Our boys will be in third grade and kindergarten this year. So, our choices might not be much help to you. But I hope something here will help move you a little further down the trail as you sort this out for your own family.

We tried to keep this short. We’ll answer as many questions as possible. If you find this helpful please consider sharing it with someone who might need some help right now. And give yourself grace. We’re all students here.

We wanted a curriculum that satisfied four simple criteria.

1. It had to mostly align with Arkansas educational standards. Why? We believe in the public school system. We intend to return our boys to a public classroom in the future. So, we want to keep them “on track”. 

2. It had to be inexpensive because Daddy is a tightwad, and isn’t made out of Benjamins

3. The material had to be flexible. Have you ever tried to teach a five year old to read while changing a diaper, doing marriage counseling via text, answering an email about communication theory, and helping a distraught Boomer solve their problems in the middle of another Zoom Conference? We haven’t either, but we’re pretty sure we’re about to.

4. There was no compromise here for us. The bulk of the material had to be facilitated without a computer. We don’t want our children staring at a device all day. Period.

Here is the curriculum we landed on based on our four requirements. (Links to each are embedded in the subject title.)

1. SCIENCE: “Mystery Doug”
We paid $69 for one year of access. This curriculum also has free lessons to try. We tried it out with the boys and they loved it. Mystery Doug’s content aligns wonderfully with the recommended national science standards and schedule for each grade. As a bonus, it does have a computer based lesson component—so we are able to use it as an incentive for screen time that also doubles as school work.

2. SOCIAL STUDIES: Teachers Pay Teacher
We purchased a 3rd grade level download for $18.50. We will need to supplement some to meet Kindergarten standards. 

3. LANGUAGE ARTS: The Good and The Beautiful
Levels 1-5 are available to download for free. The “K Primer” is less than $35. Level K and Level 3 physical copies around $60 each. This curriculum is integrated to include multiple subjects. An added bonus for our family is the inclusion of Biblical references. We like the Bible. We are also using the Handwriting books from The Good and the Beautiful.

CAUTION: “Levels” aren’t really aligned to “Grades”. There are assessments to determine the correct level for your child. An advanced student might be on the same level as a grade. Whereas a traditional student might be one level below. Don’t let this psyche you out. It’s just a different metric for describing the desired development.

4. MATH: Math Mammoth and Jamie King
At the King Casa Academy Mrs. Principal Teacher Mom’s got this one covered. We are using Math Mammoth for most of Ethan’s 3rd grade material. Jamie is piecing together her own curriculum for Kindergarten. Why? Because she has approximately thirteen (I might be exaggerating) math and education degrees. There are plenty of good options available for someone feeling they need extra support in this area.

Now you know exactly what we chose and why we chose it. One the whole, there is a lot of good curriculum out there. Find the one that will help you accomplish what you’re aiming for with your kid.

We hope this helps you. As long as you have questions we’ll keep trying to lend a helpful voice. In the meantime share what you’re learning in the comments. How are you teaching your kids during this unique time?

When the Adventure You Want Is not the One You Get

At 6:34 am I rolled over to get out of bed. Not my bed though. A rented bed. We were on vacation.

I usually ignored my phone in the morning. The world doesnʼt deserve tolerating me before at least two cups of coffee. Tuesday was different. Maybe I was just out of my routine. Vacationed.

We picked the cabin we stayed in for many reasons. One of our favorite things about it is a total lack of cellular phone reception. AT&T hasnʼt discovered our little cabin by the creek, deep in the Ozarks. Paradise. But then I checked my phone.

Apparently iMessage can go where even Big Comm isnʼt welcomed as long as there is WiFi. Yes, our mountain escape paradise has WiFi.

Who would text me at five oʼclock in the morning? Mom. “Brian is at the hospital. They are admitting him.” My brother was fighting cancer and things had taken a turn for the worse. I spent the next two hours contacting people asking them to pray.

The kids had woken up. They were excited about the hike Jamie had planned for the first day of our illustrious hillbilly getaway. We were out on the porch picking at our pop tarts when I remembered something inside we needed for our adventure.

I went to get it—only to discover the door was locked. The glass door. The one without a keypad. All the doors with keypads were still dead bolted because we hadnʼt used them yet. *insert facepalm emoji*

What did we do? We loaded up the van with children and adventurous expectations. What could go wrong?

We travelled miles down the kind of road my dad used to take me down as a kid. The kind Burt Reynolds and Elisa Dushku would have been terrified to discover in their hillbilly horror movies. Why? We were looking for the trailhead to an obscure waterfall Jamie had found online. It was the kind of adventure where the only living things you expect hope to see are trees and squirrels.

At 10:30 am we piled out of the van and had a picnic on the ground. As we concluded our meal we readied ourselves to head into the bush. Then I heard something that changed everything. It sounded like a roar.

In rolled a thunderous biker gang like the Hillbilly Sons of Hell.

Just kidding.

The roar was more of a whisper. And the news being whispered was our impending flat tire. Yikes. The air was steadily leaking out. I suddenly regretted taking my really nice floor jack out of the van to make more room for Ethanʼs Pokémon Cards.

Did we even have a jack? Did we have a spare tire? Holy Goodyear, Batman. We did.

We jacked up the car. We replaced the faulty rubber with our pristine donut. Sure we had to convince Matty he couldnʼt take a bite out of it, but we got it on. It looked better suited for a lawnmower than a Dodge Caravan, but what did I know about tires? Covering our tiny wheel in prayer and absurd expectations we drove back at half the speed of smell.

Several careful miles, and what felt like hours, later we were at a tire shop. While awaiting our turn, Uncle Brian called from the hospital. Had our tire not deflated weʼd have missed the call. Jon prayed for him over the phone. It was one of the most tinder serene moments Iʼve ever experienced.

The people at the shop were colorful and friendly. The Salt of the Earth kind of people I am more comfortable around than almost anyone else in this world. The proprietor reminded me so much of my late father-in-law I was instantly at ease. Except for the dog.

There was a beautifully obese brown lab lying six inches from where they had jacked up our van. I was pretty sure it was dead. I wanted to check for a pulse but didnʼt know where to find one on such a fat dog. I looked to see if it was breathing. Nothing. Stuff was leaking out of its head. Nevermind. It was just an abundance of drool mixing with abandoned motor oil. Then the metallic squeal of a torqued lug nut seemed to resurrect the dead dog with a twitch.

Jamie and I rested in the shade of an old oak tree surrounded by older tires and our four playing children. Thunder boomed. For real this time. But the promised storm played out like presidential campaign promises and fizzled fast.

Soon the mechanic walked over to announce our car was finished, “I donʼt know where yʼall went, but I wouldnʼt go back ifʼn I were you.”

“Wouldnʼt go back...” I started, which he took as a question.

“Yeah, man. Ya had eight staples in one tire and a nailʼn tha other one. But we patched ‘em both up for ya. Thatʼll be ten bucks.”

As in ten dollars? I couldnʼt believe it. I handed him a twenty and we drove away. That feeling Iʼd had since 11 am, the one promising impending nervous vomiting, finally went away.

What did we do to celebrate? Ice cream of course.

We found a local ice cream shack. Walked to a nearby park. And stuffed ourselves until frozen dairy comas felt imminent.

We drove back to our cabin. The realtor helped us get back inside. And, after hot dogs, and a giant glass of Gatorade we played in the creek until sunset. And we did it all together.

Bumps in the road arenʼt a lot of fun. Flat tires, disappointments, and certainly cancer are enough to ruin anyoneʼs day. Iʼve let a lot less ruin my share of the calendar.

Missed expectations, like missed turns, take us where we didnʼt plan to go. Sometimes going forward feels like a slow drive on a tiny misfit tire. Often it feels like nervous hurl trying to climb the back of your throat. Itʼs a sure sign something went sideways. Youʼll know youʼre there when life starts to feel upside down.

When I get upside down over something itʼs almost always because I tried tackling it solo. Solo is rarely the best adventure. Together is always a better adventure.

Whatever surprising adventure smacks your agenda embrace it with both arms. And then invite all the arms at your address to lean in and get some of the action. Life is gonna toss you a lemon more often than youʼd like. When it happens, donʼt just make lemonade. Make enough for two. Adventures are sweeter that way.

Why We Decided to Homeschool This Year

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EDIT: So many of you have texted or messaged us about this. Thank you for the encouragement. I hope our words have been helpful. We have so much more to say about how we are going to approach homeschool. We will share what we’re learning as we learn it. This includes resources and application. If you’re curious and need help leave a comment with your email address. We’ll follow up with you or you can wait for the next post. God bless all of you.

Update: We wrote up how we chose our curriculum and what it is. You can now find that here.
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This was hard to write. This was also a hard decision to make. Jamie and I almost didn’t make it.  After finally reaching the decision we talked about not writing this. Then I wrote it anyway.

It was hard because we are teachers too. We don’t want to sound like we think we‘re better than those specifically trained to teach our kids. It‘s hard because we grew up with teachers, administrators, and coaches. We have so much admiration, respect, and, yes—love—for them. Educators are the most hardworking and underpaid people in America. If you disagree with that last sentence you’re just flat wrong.

Yet, we still decided to homeschool this year.

To be completely honest, I have never liked the idea of homeschool. Maybe it’s because my dad is a retired teacher. I've been getting up and going to school since 1985. Maybe I haven’t liked it because I’ve known some pretty weird homeschool people. Sure, I’ve known some awesome ones too. But I almost always judged homeschoolers. It’s sad but true.

I know you’re going to think I’m an absolute jerk here, but in the past I thought homeschool was equal parts being bad at algebra and making your own butter. I thought it was what scared ultra-conservatives did to protect their children from the scary indoctrination of woke left wing common core zombies. I had this mental picture of homeschool as a place where everyone had homemade haircuts, shirts, and learning impediments. I thought homeschool was a social and academic bubble for those who can’t handle reality. I know. I know. I’m a jerk.

So, why did we decide to homeschool this year? The reasons are as simple as they are complicated, but I’ll try to explain.

Photo by Agatha Tailor

This is not going to be a typical school year. Before you spout your favorite version of the momentary national bias, stop. I’ve read it. I’ve heard the arguments. I’m not here to argue. I’m presenting our decision making process for how to educate our children. That’s it. 

Jamie and I believe the upcoming school year is going to be a mess. Like an actual train wreck. You remember how you felt halfway through April when you were ready to pull the last hair out of your head. AMI had you so stressed out you developed an involuntary twitch. No? Just me huh.

As parents it’s our sacred obligation to spare our children from situations when we deem it appropriate. Our two school-aged boys will be spared the mess this trip around the sun.

I know our local school district is going to work extremely hard to do their absolute best. They are amazing people. Every one of them. We adore the faculty at our elementary school. The principal is an educational rockstar of the highest order. The mess I think is coming won’t be their fault. I know they would work themselves to the bone to do right by the kids. They love them.

Still, I don’t believe the nature of our educational support systems will be enough. Financially they’ll be stretched like never before. Emotionally and psychologically the load will be more than many, or maybe any, of them have ever endured. And that’s before a kid even gets Covid-19.  

We didn’t make this choice out of fear. We aren’t homeschooling because we don’t trust the teachers. In fact, we are worried about them more than ever before. 

It’s hard to explain to someone who has never been blessed with the burden of a classroom, but we’ve been demanding the impossible from teachers for years. This year is already going off the rails. We are asking educators to now deal with the increased emotional and psychological stress of trying to keep kids safe and healthy. They will be forced to adhere to new guidelines every 72 hours. They may be required to teach full time in the classroom, full time online, and take care of students who are in and out of the classroom. Teachers, we are praying for you. I hope this isn’t the year you walk away from the profession.

We don’t trust the system is capable of carrying out the primary function for which it exists under the present conditions. The education of our children in an emotionally, psychologically and physiologically consistent manner is its primary function.

I don’t see it happening this year. But, man, I hope I’m wrong. I hope it for your kids. Mine will be learning in their PJs around the kitchen table. The morning is for math. Afternoons are for writing, PE, and making butter.

I know homeschool isn’t an option for many people. I’m not here to cast a bad light on anyone sending their kids back in a few weeks. In fact, I’m a giant hypocrite because I’ll be right back in my own classroom teaching university students how not to suck at giving speeches. 

I wish I felt differently about the whole thing. I want my third grader to play basketball with his buddies on the playground and make jokes with his pal Charlie about Dog Man. I also want my kindergartener to get the absolute best start possible in an emotionally stable and consistently healthy environment. 

So this year the King Casa Academy is open for business. In fact, we started about three weeks ago and have the haircuts to prove it. We might be crazy but we aren’t crazy. Yet.

The Boy on the Bike

“Daddy, I don’t like bicycles,” Ethan declared. 

Photo by Rebecca Chalmers

“Why?” I asked.

“Because bicycles are hard,” he fumed, laying in the grass from another failed attempt.

“That’s true. Bicycles are hard.” I had to admit.

Everything is hard when we have never done it. We don’t learn by getting it right. We learn by getting it wrong. We fall a lot. Sometimes we fall in the grass. Sometimes we fall on the hard hot asphalt. Falling is never fun. Falling is almost always worse when you fall alone.

“But you’re not doing it by yourself, Buddy.” He didn’t like what I had to say. Not from where he lay plopped in the grass. We rarely do. But he had to admit I was right. Dad is always right. Right? No of course not. If I get anything right, it’s most likely because I’ve screwed it up enough to lose count.

As he sat in the grass frustrated I could tell we were on the verge of something. My son was close to quitting. He was close to letting himself forever be the boy in the grass instead of the boy on the bike. Sure, this was after a few failed attempts, but who hasn’t crashed and burned trying to learn to ride?

You didn’t learn anything by nailing it on your first attempt either. Who does? I’m sure there are exceptions; but that’s not the point.

I had to try something. I knelt down in the grass next to him, bad knees screaming.

“Hey buddy, do you see where you are?” I asked.

He gave me one of those exasperated kid looks. You know—the kind dripping with equal parts concern for my sanity and confusion. “We—are—in the YARD!” He yelled. 

“Of course we are,” I said, “but that’s not what I meant. Do you see how far you’ve come?”

He looked up for the first time at the tracks he’d made through the short grass. It was a clear trail. The first ten yards toward a lifetime of riding a bike on his own.

“Do you see it?” I prodded. He looked for a moment and then nodded, but I could tell he wasn’t convinced. “You’re not where you started. You did it. You rode a bike on your own.”

I didn’t give him a trophy and declare him a world champion. I didn’t scold him for not going all the way. I praised his success. And it was a success. One he would never have realized without a sudden fall in the grass.

He got back up. He got back on the bike. It wasn’t the only time he fell. But it was the last time he almost quit. And he rode further with every attempt. 

Plenty of people spend their lives in the bleachers celebrating when someone falls. Don’t stay in the stands. Get down in the grass with someone who needs you. Be the one telling them how far they’ve come.

Maybe your friend needs a reminder. Tell him he isn’t his struggling business. Call your brother and let him know how great you think it was he tried something incredible. Show him how far he has come. Hold your wife’s hand for an hour and talk about a brave thing she did. Aim the ones you love at the tracks they’ve made rather than the place they might have landed. Your words like a firm grip will help them get back up.

Don’t act like you have it all together either. Instead of posting your highlight reel snap a pic of your glaring failure. Put that on Instagram.

It’s easy to be loud about someone else’s failure. The louder we are the harder it is to remember what it was like laying in the grass. But when we’re all loud, we’re all just lying in the grass.

Stand up. Brush yourself off. And offer words that pick up a friend. Tell someone how far they’ve come.

Until We All Believe and More

Yesterday I had to acknowledge that I didn’t have the words. I don’t know how to speak into the chaos of violence and death before us with any measure of helpfulness. Likely I cannot.

Tuesday night I began to see the reactions of my friends.

Mad. Furious. Distraught. Distrusting. Apathetic. Vengeful. Frightened. Anxious. Detached.

All of them were true. And all of them were me too. 

“I’m sorry” seems trite. It seems empty. It is hollow. Perhaps because it’s heard so often and nothing has changed. And yet we keep saying it. I keep saying it.

In an already crazy moment in history the unthinkable just seems to pile on the suffering. Life matters. You know it. I know it. Life matters. “I’m sorry” is such a frail sentiment.

The fragility of our apparent sorrow is matched only by the louder outcry of inaction, indifference, and apathy. Love requires action. It requires response. Instead, we keep living like some lives matter more. Hear me please. Life matters. Every. Single. One.

Last week I sat in a waiting room as my car was being fixed. There were two other people in the small room. One was an elderly lady. The other a young woman. Out of the blue, the older lady said something. What she said probably seemed perfectly normal to her. I am convinced nothing about her life taught her to consider the weight of the statement.

“They sure are making a big deal about that little colored boy.”

Wait. What?

Before I even had a chance to gather any thoughts at all the young woman in the room burst forth in a torrent of emotion. Her tirade was one born of collective pain, generational outrage, and the plied truths of multifaceted racial injustice. It blew in hot and haggard. It erupted. It scorched and raged. Until her anger played out and she ran from the room an emotional wreck.

I sat there speechless. I’m supposed to have the answers. I’m supposed to interject kindness and help people who need help. It’s the focus of my life to try and make everyday a little better for everyone I meet. I failed. 

My how I failed. But we are all failing. We will continue to fail. Until we each believe and act. Act as though every life matters. Life matters!

The innocent matter. The guilty matter. All life matters. 

Growing up we used to sing “Red, yellow, black, and white. They are precious in His sight.” I believed it then. I believe it still, but belief needs more than acknowledgement.

We just spent two full months locking ourselves in our homes. Why? Because we believe old folks matter. We believe sick people matter.

Theaters are closed. Your health club may only now be reopening. Why? Because that’s what’s we collectively agreed needed to be done for a group of lives we all decided matter.

But all lives matter. Every life matters.

The old matter. The sick matter. 

You didn’t go to your friends wedding two weeks ago. Why? Because you believe their new life together is worth protecting. 

Married lives matter. All life matters.

You canceled your dream vacation. You didn’t see your parents for weeks. Why? Their life matters.

Your neighbor had a baby and you stayed home instead of taking them a meal. Why? That precious life matters.

You prayed in the parking lot at the local hospital. You showed your support to the diner down the street. You had a parade for the graduates, the teachers, and the first responders. Why? Their lives matter.

You’ve been screaming about the President’s wall for four years. Why? Because American lives matter.

You’ve been screaming about the suffering people at the border. Why? Because displaced lives matter.

You were outraged by what you saw on TV. Why? Because you know life matters. They ALL matter.

You don’t get to decide which life matters more. They all matter. Born and unborn. Black and white. American and immigrant. Red. Blue. Left. Right. Christian. Muslim. 

You don’t get to cherry pick the sanctity of human life and claim superiority. All lives matter.

Until life is seen as sacred we will continue to defile it under the weight of our selfish prejudices. And it will buckle. It will reel. It will suffocate. It will end.

How to Read Your Bible and Understand It

The Bible was never meant to be only a source of information. But most of us treat it like a history book rather than our soul’s guide through life’s mountains. What if you could read it and understand how to apply it to your life? The number one question I have been asked is “what devo do you use?” My answer is almost always the same, “The Bible”. It’s the constant even when I may be reading other things as well. This video will walk you through how I do my morning devo time every day. It’s not complicated. It actually doesn’t take very long at all. But man, it makes ALL the difference for me. I think it will for you too.