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.

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.