On Soldiers and Cemeteries

Last year I visited the World War I battlefield in Gallipoli, Turkey. Here on this rugged coast, young troops from Australia and New Zealand were sent into a bloody, confused battle. Having been landed on the wrong beach, without cover or support, and exposed to withering fire from the Turkish defenders, the green Anzacs showed their mettle and proved to be brave and determined soldiers.

Across the battlefield are several cemeteries where the fallen from both sides now rest. I noticed this grave marker among the many there. Young G. R. Seager, just 17 years old, lies here thousands of miles from his home, his native land. My first thought was, "What a waste, what a terrible waste of a young man's life. How sad."

But on this Memorial Day I have a different perspective. Now I say, "What a sacrifice, what a stirring sacrifice from this young man, from his family, for his country." You see, no matter how senseless the war or how incompetent the command or how suicidal the mission, the sanctity of a soldier's sacrifice is undimmed, undiminished.

So today we honor their sacrifice wherever they have fallen, every mother's son who lies far from home. And we pray and plead for peace, for an end to senseless bloodshed and the tragic waste of war.

Sam's Summer in the City

Our son, Sam, is spending this summer in Washington, D. C. doing a ministry internship at a church there. You can follow Sam's summer on his blog, Musings of a Young Traveler. He'll be posting his thoughts and some pictures along the way.

We appreciate your thoughts and prayers for Sam during his big summer adventure.

What About Bob?

"A faithful friend is a strong defense: and he that hath found such a one hath found a treasure." - Ecclesiasticus 6:14

"The glory of friendship is not the outstretched hand, nor the kindly smile, nor the joy of companionship; it is the spiritual inspiration that comes to one when you discover that someone else believes in you and is willing to trust you with a friendship." - Ralph Waldo Emerson

My close friend and ministry partner of fifteen years is moving away this month, headed to Texas to be near his kids and grandkids. We all understand Bob's decision, his sense of God's timing, and his family priorities. And, I have no doubt that Bob will find as many wonderful ways to bless and serve in his retirement as he found during his long, fruitful ministry.

And yet I grieve his going. I dread this good-bye as much as any I have said before. But I'm not going to pout or mope about it. Bob and I have agreed not to cry or whine or blubber about our parting ways. In fact, I am trying to the lighten the moment by compiling the following list:

Top Ten Things I Will Miss About Bob:

10. Listening to Bob practice his trombone scales and drills early in the morning.

9. All the times Bob talked Susan into coming back from vacation a day or two early so he could get back to work.

8. Bob and I wolfing down big steaks and blizzards while our wives just shook their heads.

7. Watching Bob squirm and twist and discreetly check his watch when some service or meeting ran way too long.

6. All the times Bob found someone else's food in the office and helped himself to a huge anonymous bite.

5. Watching Bob trying to communicate with people overseas, not quite convincing a Belarussian pastor that the food would make him "strong like bear."

4. That pained expression Bob can't help but get when he hears really bad music.

3. Memorable office pranks like when we turned Bob's office into a 1960's coffeehouse or when he came back from Alaska to find his office had been hit by a blizzard of white packing peanuts. Or, when Bob got even by replacing my prized rhino collection with McDonald's 101 plastic dalmatians.

2. That tacky Florida State Seminole ornament on the staff Christmas tree.

1. All of Bob's trombone spit on the platform carpet.

Truthfully, I will sorely miss my friend and partner. For fifteen years we have planned and prepared, dreamed and debated, laughed and learned, trying to bring out the best in each other week by week, year by year. We have prayed and played and stayed, and now, by God's design, we must move on. New opportunities, new partners, new chapters in our lives, and I truly am excited about the days and years ahead.

But for today, I am feeling somber, just a little melancholy. My friend is moving away.

A Lesson Learned Under the Bridge

Connie buzzed me at my desk, "There's a homeless man here who says he needs to speak with you." I was trying to finish my sermon and having a frustrating time of it. Glancing at my watch and a little annoyed at the interruption, I walked out to the main office. He was sitting in a chair in the reception area and the smell hit me well before I was close enough to shake his hand. His name was Tom. He was wearing layers of ratty old t-shirts, a filthy green sweatshirt, dingy canvas pants, and worn out hiking boots. His hair was a sandy grey tied in a long pony tail. Tom had obviously not had a shower or a shave in weeks, maybe months. He was carrying a couple of plastic bags with some food that he had been given at a nearby restaurant.

We call them transients - people not from around here, passing through, down on their luck, and each with a story to tell. I don't know how many are telling me the whole truth, maybe three in ten. Who knows. I have heard so many stories, obviously well-rehearsed but untrue, that I am pretty much deaf to the details. But I hear them out and then Cara and I figure out what we can do. We try to help everyone a little bit so that we don't miss the ones who are genuinely in need. But Tom was different.

Nobody would make up the story this guy told me. He looked me in the eye and gave me the full lowdown on his life. "I been in prison 27 years. I'm an alcoholic and so is my girlfriend. They had warrants for me in this county, so they brought me down here but that's all clear now. I'm just trying to get home to St. Joe. I need to get home. I got people there."

"Where are you living now?" I asked.
"Under the bridge."
"Under the bridge? What bridge?"
"That bridge at the end of Main Street that goes over the tracks. We been living there since I got out. We got no place to go."

Tom showed me a copy of his birth certificate and his Social Security card. I told him we would need some time to make some calls and see if we could help him. He was anxious to get the food he was carrying over to his girlfriend. Tom said, "If you can't help me, that's okay, just tell me now, so I won't walk clear back over here." I said we'd just have to check and let him know.

"Well, I'm gonna take this food to my girlfriend. If you come over to the bridge, just pull up and honk. I'll come running." Tom went on his way while Cara figured out how we could put these two on a bus to St. Joseph.

About thirty minutes later I drove over to the bridge, parking where I could see under the bridge down to the tracks. There they were, a couple of blankets strung on a line and a little camp set up. No fire now but there was a rusty old barrel that looked like their night time fire place. It looked to me like people had been living under this bridge for a long time. I honked and got out of my car as Tom came trotting up the embankment. He seemed surprised to see me. I gave him the bus ticket information and all the details. He gave me a handshake and then a hug, grateful and excited to be going home. That part I know was sincere.

Believe it not, Tom invited me to stay, to come sit down with them for awhile in their place under the bridge, but I declined. I had stretched my comfort zone about as far as I could for one day. Looking back now, I wish I had accepted his hospitality.

Instead, I went back to my office to ponder the sermon that God and Tom had been preaching to me all afternoon. And, I thought about the words on a little wooden plaque my dad always kept in his center desk drawer. "Dare I treat with less than the greatest respect one soul for whom Christ died."

Looking Forward to the Day After

I grew up in the middle of a nuclear missile field. The small town where we lived was surrounded by more than 300 Minuteman missile silos. All the farm kids I knew had at least one or two underground missile silos on their farm. I remember the sirens of the heavily armed escort convoys roaring through town when missiles were transported to the various silos. Maybe you remember the 1983 television movie, "The Day After," that tried to capture the horrors of nuclear war for those living around these missile fields. It was a terrifying prospect.

Times have changed since then. The missiles have all been removed and the silos have long since been abandoned. Most of them are still fenced in, overgrown with tall grass, and used by farmers to store large bales of hay. No more soldiers or sirens or convoys. Nothing grave or sinister or frightening. No first strike threat or promise of retaliation. Just a peaceful, pastoral scene, just cows and crops.

Note the picture. Standing in a cornfield near Holden, Missouri, on October 28,1995, U.S. Secretary of Defense William Perry, left, and Russian Minister of Defense Pavel Grachev watch a cloud of smoke rise after they pushed a detonation button setting off an implosion that destroyed an underground Minuteman II missile silo. The event symbolized the ending of the Cold War. (Cliff Schiappa, AP Wide World Photos)

I take it as a good omen, a faint glimpse of a coming day. Every time I drive by an abandoned missile silo, I smile and breathe a prayer of gratitude to God. Now, I'm not naive, and I know we have new weapons today to replace the old. And I still grow weary of the daily body count from all the war and violence around the world, numbed by the enormity of the evil and bloodshed. But I refuse to give in to despair or disillusionment. Better days are coming.

Every warrior's boot used in battle and every garment rolled in blood will be destined for burning, will be fuel for the fire.

For to us a child is born,
And he will be called . . . Prince of Peace.

Of the increase of his government and peace there will be no end. (Isaiah 9:5-7 NIV)

He will judge between many peoples and will settle disputes for strong nations far and wide. They will beat their swords into plowshares and their spears into pruning hooks. Nation will not take up sword against nation, nor will they train for war anymore. (Micah 4:3 NIV)

A Good Walk Spoiled

"They call it golf because all the other four letter words were taken." - Raymond Floyd

"Golf is played by twenty million mature American men whose wives think they are out having fun." - Jim Bishop

Yes, it's time once again for my annual golf outing with my four big brothers and one brother in law. It used to be just the six of us, but now all the sons and nephews jump in too. We used to run all over the country for a full week of golf at places like Myrtle Beach. Now we just play a couple of rounds down at the lake. And that's enough. I have not touched my clubs since last year's get together, and I haven't missed them a bit.

Don't get me wrong. I love golf. I am fairly knowledgeable about golf. I can talk golf, on or off the course. I just can't play golf. (That's really not strong enough. I suck at golf.)

When I was in seminary, there was a big golf tournament for students and faculty, 135 golfers played and the scores were posted in the classroom building for all to see. I came in 135th. No lie. And when I play golf, no place is safe. I have hit tee markers, sprinkler heads, clubhouses, cars, stop signs, a fire hydrant, countless trees, at least two weed-eater guys, and a very startled cow. Three times I have taken friends out for their very first round of golf. All three beat me the first time they ever played.

Suzanne summed it up well one day when she said, "I guess it's commendable that you keep doing something you do so badly. . . I guess it's commendable." I think she was trying to convince herself. So, why do I still play golf? Three reasons.

1) I love my brothers and they love to play golf.

2) When I'm playing golf I'm not working, answering the phone, or stressing out about anything except finding my ball.

3) Every now and then, when the stars are properly aligned and the planets are positioned just so and God is on His throne and the law of averages is bending in my favor, I will hit a decent shot, maybe even a good shot, a putt will roll in the cup.

Once at Jekyll Island, Georgia, I chipped in from 108 yards out! My brother Pete, standing on the green stuck his fist in the air and said, "Nice shot, Andy! Is that a birdie?" I shook my head. "Is that for par?" "No." "Well, nice bogey anyway." I guess that's good enough for me.

God in the Dump

Imagine yourself in the middle of a huge landfill on a scorching day in late July in Texas. Sounds like Hell, doesn't it? It was the hottest, grossest, smelliest place I have ever been. Not a likely place for an epiphany, a surprising encounter with God. I was leading a group of adults on a mission trip to Arlington. The mission leaders tried to use each one of us according to our spiritual gifts and natural talents, so Scott and I were sent to the dump with a 28 foot panel truck filled to the door with worthless household junk, stuff so bad we could not even give it away.

We raised the door, trying not to breathe in the stench too deeply and, already swatting at the flies, we began to chuck the junk into the dump. We threw off a broken kitchen table and the wreckage of an old water bed. Bent up, broken storm windows and kitchen cannisters for flour and sugar and whatever. Pieces of drawers and cabinets, a nasty, moldy old couch with bugs in it. Lots of broken furniture, cracked mirrors, and boxes of clothes and magazines ruined and rotted out from water damage. Nasty stuff. Two or three times I nearly gagged from the horrid smell of that place.

We were about half done when it hit me. Out of nowhere came a flash of insight that I know now must have come from the Spirit of God. "Everything I have is coming out here. Every single possession of mine is eventually going to end up in a place just like this. Even the stuff I am still making payments on is sooner or later headed for the dump." The gravity of that thought penetrated deeper than the rancid odor. Me and my stuff - a dump, a junkyard, and a six foot hole in the ground. When all is said and done, that's the physical reality facing me, facing us all.

Scott and I talked about it on the way back. There better be more to our lives than just the stuff we accumulate, something more to leave behind besides just food for worms.

Since that hot day in Texas my world looks a little different. My appetite for acquiring has been spoiled. My taste for the trappings of wealth is not nearly so ravenous. You see, I know where it's going. I've seen the end of the line. Maybe we should all take a ride to the dump.

Life's Strangest Secret

"As a man thinketh in his heart, so is he." (Prov. 23:7) This is perhaps life's strangest secret. We tend to become what we think about. Our dreams define us, shape us, and mold us. Our dreams become the steering currents of our lives. Dreams lead us to claim our future.

Novelist Tom Clancy gave the 1991 commencement address at Johns Hopkins University. Here are some abstracts from those remarks:

"I will now give you your last lesson in metaphysics. Nothing is as real as a dream. The world can change around you, but your dream will not. Your life may change, but your dream doesn't have to. Responsibilities need not erase it. Duties need not obscure it. Your spouse and children need not get in its way, because the dream is within you. No one can take your dream away . . . The only way that your dream can die is if you kill it yourself."

Never turn loose of your God-given dreams. Hang on with the tenacity of a bulldog. Several years ago, there was a study done of concentration camp survivors. What were the common characteristics of those who did not succumb to disease and starvation in the camps? Victor Frankl was a living answer to that question. He was a successful Austrian psychiatrist before the Nazis threw him into such a camp.

"There is only one reason," he said in a speech, "why I am here today. What kept me alive was you. Others gave up hope. I dreamed. I dreamed that someday I would be here, telling you how I, Victor Frankl, had survived the Nazi concentration camps. I've never been here before, I've never seen any of you before, I've never given this speech before. But in my dreams, in my dreams, I have stood before you and said these words a thousand times."