New Video from Minnesota Cowboy Ministries

Minnesota Cowboy Ministries has produced our first new video. The photos and video portions were taken on a trip back to my hometown of Bay City, Texas in December, 2008.

One day mom and I decided to do a bit of sightseeing. Neither of us had been to the beach in several years so we decided that would be a great place to start. After crossing the Intercoastal Canal, we followed the Colorado River as it made its way to Matagorda Beach and the Gulf of Mexico. When we were within a couple of miles of the mouth, we came across a cattle drive.

Each year a local rancher moves his cattle to winter grazing on Matagorda Island. It takes up to a week to move the cattle into position before he swims the herd across the river. This is something the ranchers never advertise. If they did, the road would be lined with folks and the whole thing would end up in a mess.

What an event as Mom and I watched something I've wanted to experience since a boy. We watched the cattle swim the Colorado, barely a quarter of a mile from the Gulf of Mexico.

This event has happened each year in some form or another since the middle 1800s, and probably longer than that. For several years my dad, Alfred Schaal, accompanied the cowboys for several days to make sure the windmills that powered the watering tanks were working.

As the video starts you will see the cowboys gather the cattle and prepare to push for the river. (Of course, real Texans say "fixin' to push, but you get the picture.) At his signal, the trail boss ordered the cowboys to rally the herd and put them in a fast walk, if not a trot.

As they got to the river's edge, the cattle turned back and started to mill. The cowboys cut the herd into three pots and pushed the first into the river. The other two groups went across with little to no argument.

In one of the last photos, you can see a single cow along side a "john boat." She decided this was not fun and just short of the other side, she turned around and started back. Had the cowboys not turned her again and pulled her to the shore, she would have drowned. There's a word from the Father in that, isn't there?

The music that accompanies the video was written and recorded by a supporter of Minnesota Cowboy Ministries. The chorus captures what we stand for. I am pleased that we will be able to use this as a theme for our ministry.

We remember the Father wants each of us to be "Riding For The Brand."

Blessings for a New Year. Blessed by a Promised Ministry

Viki and I are letting our friends in on some exciting news. For nearly ten years we waited for the Father to tell us what He had in store for us. We explored ministry to minorities, ethnic groups and fellowship groups in our church family to name a few. We explored restarting our music ministry through The Sounds of Praise.

Often we saw the Lord do great things. Opportunities to fill the pulpit in a local Chinese-speaking Baptist Church and as well as a Salvation Army Church kept the thought returning that I might again pastor a church family.

Each time, however, as I sat to mull the thought of leading a church again, I realized the things I enjoyed doing and believed I did best were the very things I spent less time doing when I pastored. What is worse, the activities I found tedious and often frustrating, and certainly areas I was less effective, were the very ones that absorbed most of my time.

I enjoy being with people. I am a people junky. I want to hear their stories. I want to know what is happening in their life. I need to know if their life is clicking, ticking and kicking right along.

The past three years found Viki and I immersed in the Minnesota horse culture. Sometimes it was western, rather like home (south Texas). Sometimes it was English Hunter/Jumper. The Minnesota equine world is often a mix of both.

One common issue we observed was that many in that world are not able to attend worship services or seek a fellowship of believers due to their “passion.” Often the passion became a business that ruled the day like an uncompromising task master.

We found many hungry for what Viki and I take for granted. We know that not only is our Father ready and willing to uphold us in times of great trial, in addition there are believers who will lift us to the Father with great patience and love.

We believe the Father has opened our eyes to a ministry need that fits who we are and what we stand for.

Minnesota Cowboy Ministries ( mncowboyministries.org ) is committed to “being the body of Christ in a disembodied world.” It is a ministry of presence and relationship-building. Success is measured in seeing what the Father is doing. Great websites (which we don’t have) and outstanding logos (which we do have) will not make a difference in someone’s life.

We will see a life change because the Father will open our eyes and give us the opportunity to participate with Him.

We know there are many things we will do this year. The doing will not be celebrated. The being is the goal. Psalms 2: 11-12 tells us serve Him, rejoice in Him, bless Him and ultimately trust Him.

Lift us in prayer.

When All Is Said and Done, Occasionaly More Is Said Than Done

It has happened to all of us. Someone made a commitment. We depended on them to come through.

It was probably unavoidable. An emergency interrupted their plans. Traffic patterns, changed by construction, caused them to miss a deadline.

They didn’t break the promise. They were just unable to fulfill it. Better planning could have helped, but all things considered, they were trying to keep their end of the bargain.

Caught up in the moment, a parent promised to teach a class, bake some cookies, or accompany a group of children on a day trip. Of course, they forgot they couldn’t actually bake, aren’t skilled in teaching, and don’t really like museums.

There are times people commit to a timeline no one can fulfill. Promises for all time, made at sixteen, have a way of fading into the mists of later days.

Few people are confirmed liars. It’s not likely someone said, “Today I will mislead my employer and promise to complete this project.” While their actions betray them, it never enters their mind to say, “The goal of my afternoon is to lead my mate to think I will do what they want, when all the time I have my own agenda.”

Looking back, we knew our vision was in danger of a ragged and ugly death. We sensed our colleague was in trouble. Reminding them of the opportunity for success, we warned them they could get overwhelmed and sidetracked. Even with our efforts the co-worker failed to produce the help we desperately needed.

Whenever or however it happened, someone goofed. Because our friend promised what they could not do, a deadline now threatens our sleep, sanity, and social status. Much to our dread, the truth hovers like a fog over Matagorda Bay. Our vision is in peril of the sand bars and oyster shoals.

To each of us, our project is the most important event on the horizon. However, we’re not the only hungry people at the table when pleas for time, resources and skills converge. We should not be surprised at our free-fall on the co-worker’s list of priorities.

It may be time to step back. It may be time to reassess. It is definitely time for a dose of realism.

There are competing calls for the lives and times of friends and colleagues. We must learn to wait our turn. When it comes to depending on people, patience becomes a virtue highly valued. Remembering this now prepares us for the ugly reality that lunch will be a bit late.

Showing restraint and understanding has additional value. It makes it easier for them to “fess up”, first to themselves and then to us, when an eminent collapse is probable. This opening proves our worth. This opportunity shows we have the right to be in the kitchen.

After all, what is more important; the disappointment that only 100 attended the annual banquet or that we reached out to our publicity chairperson as their life fell apart and someone needed to say, “I understand” when the invitations didn’t go out on time?

Life is bumpy enough. We ought to look for ways that smooth the road and help others miss a few potholes that dog their path.

Such Unusual Bedfellows

Mom was aghast. “One day they will start advertising Christmas before Thanksgiving.” Dad responded, “They will have trees up by Halloween.” Someone laughed at the ludicrous prophesy Alfred Schaal uttered in our church one fall morning in 1960.

In the early 1960s, stores made the most out of Christmas. The mercantile machine roared from its Indy-style start each Friday after Thanksgiving. Macy’s Parade declared, “Gentleman, start your engines” and for five heady weeks the push was on for “Chatty Kathy” and anything “Milton Bradley.” TV discovered “Mattel” and “Mattel” understood advertising.

Each week, sandwiched between commercials advertising “Lincoln Building Blocks” and “Easy-Bake Ovens,” one sage after another decried the commercialization of Christmas. White flocked trees reminded us of a Bing Crosby Christmas we never knew in South Texas. Solid blue lights shining from artificial silver trees garishly hawked a change in the gentle, Frank Capra Christmas quickly receding from our grasp.

This year, one week before Halloween, shelves of closeout sales on hideous masks and grotesque decorations struggled to empty their spaces as Christmas lights and spangled balls magically appeared.

With only the slimmest of nods to Thanksgiving, five weeks became ten and Mr. Macy found himself an antiquated relic of commercial days long past. The “Shell Game from Arkansas” replaced the “Miracle on 34th Street.” Sam Walton leaned against his rusty truck, watching the parade balloons, and said, “Who needs to pay for helium? I have enough hot air to keep my balloons in the air as long as I want.”

Yes, the commercialization of Christmas is well refined and highly polished.

The first participants of that Christmas morning came looking for a sign. Ever since that day, signs have pointed the way. What better sign that Christmas is fully commercialized than to hear a televised defender of the faith castigate modern marketers for taking Christ out of the holiday season.

What? Did I hear him right? We want to hear more about Christ in advertising? No more do we hear calls to protect the sanctity of the Birth of Christ from the Sears Wishbook. There is no need to guard our modesty and order Victoria to keep her secrets to herself.

Now we know the quickest way to evangelize our society. Let Sam do it… and Best Buy, Target, and Cabellas. Now we say, “If you sell with an eye to rest it under our Christmas tree, keep your "Happy Holiday" wishes to yourself and plaster "Merry Christmas" across your front door.”

All through the years, I feared being bought, bullied and bamboozled into Christmas gifting and celebratory debting. Now I understand it all. The liberals were right.

Our whole capitalist society is a cleaver plot by the fundamental, premillennial, dispensational, evangelical right-of-center Christian church to take over every bit of fabric in our pluralistic society. The gaily decorated and present-laden Christmas Tree is the gateway we will use to rescue the lost and save a nation.

How wrong I have been. Not only did I not understand the vast evangelistic plan, I focused on the wrong event as the turning point of our world. All this time I thought the Christmas Tree was the blood-stained one in the center on Calvary.

Tell me a story

This last election taught me one thing. We don't need more politicians. We need more story-tellers.

Story-tellers have a long history. Since the first person sat with another at the end of a long day and recounted what happened at the watering hole or during the hunt, stories have worked their stuff.

They reconnect people. "You weren't there, but...", "I wish you could have seen..." and "It was amazing..." are just a few of the calls to community.

They give perspective. "Do you remember back when...", "S/he understood what happened when..." and "Kids just don't get the way it was when..." (Which was the very same thing that was said by the previous generations!)

They give permission for healing. "I hear what you are saying...", "I want to be your friend..." and "I know how you feel. I used to feel the same way when..."

The best story-tellers are honored teachers, leaders and visionaries.

But most of all, "Story-Tellers-R-Us." The explosion of publishing opportunities and the unlimited horizon of internet communities betray the hunger we have to tell and hear stories.

Go ahead, grandparents. Tell your stories of "back in the day." Parents, tell your stories of a childhood mixed with hopes and dreams. Children, tell your stories and begin learning the difference between virtual reality and reachable, attainable reality.

Let's pull up a log, "cop a squat" and warm our hands around the community firepit. Let's tell our stories so we can laugh, "ooh" and "aah", and shed copious tears all the while warming our hands and our hearts.

Dear friend,tell me a story.

Covenants are Opportunities

When God reveals Himself, we are compelled to change the way we see Him and respond to Him. No one can look at God and remain the same. We either welcome Him or we reject Him. There is no middle ground.

In Jeremiah chapter 31: 33, God says, "I will make a covenant with Israel." He revealed Himself to Israel in the covenant. Israel could not remain the same. When God made a promise to his people, they changed or lost the blessing of this new covenant.

God spoke to my heart as I struggled to write. He called out a covenant written in His word. "I will instruct you and teach you in the way you go. I will counsel you to watch over you." (Ps 32:8)

Because of His covenant promise to me, I found I must either be obedient and submissive, allowing Him to fulfill his promise in me. If not, I would be disobedient, rejecting the promise. It was clear if I rejected the promise, I would lose the blessings He had in store for me as well as damage the opportunity to empower a dynamic relationship with Him.

I rejoice when I openly declare I choose to live in the blessings and covenant promises of the Lord.

A Writer's Distasteful Marinade

The past couple of years I marinated in the thick goo of self-indulgence. The sauce of convenient indecision gradually displaced my passion for writing and its creative juices in my spirit with the sap of laziness, expediency and task-based tunnel vision.


Maybe all writers have to muddle through that at one time or another. Some may do it periodically. I do not know about them and how they handled it. I do know that it filled my life with a void.


After the last 24 months, I can say this for wading through a writer's funk - its easier to go to school when you know what you are supposed to be learning. The murky writer's noir hid my empty cup of creativity and half-baked bread of industry.


I have two projects that my spirit wanted to develop. The first project centers on prayer support for mission groups. That is a noble goal and it received good marks from various individuals who were close to the process. The main problem was that I was willing to write about it, but not do it.


Can you spell hypocrite? (Well, ... I guess you can now.)


It never seemed to be a problem in my little self-serving world to have a character do something in my imagination that was too time consuming for me to do.


The difference between a vision and a dream is the vision is something you will see happen. A dream is good. You can even gather all the materials for it, but you will never see it realized.


David had a vision that Goliath would fall. He had a dream for the construction of the temple.


My writing has lived as a dream. I created several decent pieces that should be submitted to someone. However, since I wrote out of self-fulfilment, I couldn't bring myself to let another say "Yep" or "Nope."


I am completing the Bible study "Write His Answer" by Marlene Bagnull. Before I completed five paragraphs I knew the marinade that wrapped my slumber would never flavor my work. What I looked for to encourage and spark creativity was nothing more than the sludge of life. It smothered any undernourished life managing to survive.


A believer's creativity comes from our source of life. Our words flow from The Word. We are flavored by the salt of His tears.


I am relieved to know that writing has not abandoned me, even if I neglected to properly nourish it.

My projects are slowly coming to life as I engage them from His perspective. I know that whether I build the castle or ride with the saddle tramp, my Lord has promised he will instruct, teach, counsel and watch over me. (Ps 32:8)

A writer can't ask more from a mentor than that.

Lessons From A Schooling Show

Martini and I have grown as a team since he became apart of our family. Recently he and our grandaughter completed a week of intro to jumping at our barn, Turncrest Stables ( http://www.turncreststable.com/ ). Last Sunday both were in their first "off the farm" show. They did well for a 5-year-old horse with a 10-year-old rider.

Martini and I spent much of the day together. He was handled, groomed, tied, watered, fed, ignored, fawned over, tacked up, untacked - you name it, he and I did it more than once through out the day.

He showed me patience and cooperation. He stood in line and waited for his turns to enter the arena. He carried the granddaughter over barriers, low as they were, she never approached before. He gave her confidence and a real sense of accomplishment.

He reminded me of his non-negotiables. When you tie him adjacent to a food supply, don't be surprized if it becomes the most important item in his life.

Finally, after a long day of cooperating, when a biting fly gets after him, do not be surprised that his patience has drained. He justs wants to be free of the pesky thing.

If he believes the tasks are safe, he will complete what I ask. If I respect his "Heirarchy of Needs," I am welcome to be a part of his life. Sometimes his life has pesky issues that have to be solved before we can proceed.

When we interact with people, it is easy to forget that their life is full of pesky issues, "heirarchy of needs" priorities, and ultimate safety questions.

Its good to be on a team that keeps me in touch with the real game - making a difference in the lives of people.

I enjoy working with our horse. Martini, a registered paint gelding (http://www.apha.com/), makes me appreciate that there are various ways to deal with the challenges in life.

There are two basic approaches to life's challenges. Depending on the situation, I suppose that neither of these are wrong. One approach says, "Destiny determines. Enjoy the ride." This proponent may be a dried up old pessimist or a pie in the sky optimist, but both believe you can't change what is going to happen so you might as well not fight it.

The other says all of life is the product of our decisions. This teacher says, "The harder you work, the luckier you get."

There is another way to deal with life, and Martini has decided it is the best way to develop a relationship with him. I must have a clear goal for training each time I come to the paddock (Second approach). I must be aware that since he is involved, some days he will cooperate and other days he will require more encouragement. In other words, be flexible and prepared to just enjoy the ride (First approach).

I am trying my hand at training my horse to become a relaxed and responsive animal. That is probably not a very accurate statement. I am not really teaching Martini anything. I am learning how to cue him to do what he already does.

He knows how to walk, trot and canter. I am learning how to get him to do it when I want him to.

My boy has no problem trotting. His problem is knowing when I want him to trot and reading my cues from the miriad of camoflaged cues coming as I flop back and forth, left and right, on the saddle.

To be honest, he is a pretty patient animal. He is more patient than I am at times.

Herein is "the rub." Patience is a biblical virtue. It is a virtue borne of experience and thoughtful discipline. It is said the horse has the mental powers of a three-year-old. You know why a three-year-old is so dangerous. They are naturally without guile. What you see is what you get. "The king has no clothes."

Martini is honest. He may not express it verbally, but he says it in so many other ways. "I don't understand." "Last time you did that you wanted me to trot fast." "I am not through eating so come back later." "I am not really into the riding thing today."

He says it with his ears, eyes, head, tail, feet, lips, tongue and so many other ways that at times he must think he is screaming at me.

I am a better person because of my horse. Patience, never my strong suit, must be present when I am working with him. Flexibility, less a part of my life since my heart surgery, is making a resurgence. Learning to enjoy the moment, as the comerical says, is becoming "priceless."

The Lofty Heights Of Disappointment

I am a child born on the cusp of the Boomer Generation. Birthed in the final year of the '40s, my decade saw the sacrifice of the Depression, unselfish commitment of WWII and the birthing of suburbia. Though eclipsed in later years by moon landings, supersonic flight and the fulfillment of Dick Tracy's wrist watch telephone, my generation has been all about success, productivity and achievement.

My generation spawned "Second place is first loser," Winning isn't the best thing, it's the only thing" and "He who dies with the most toys wins." I wonder if I am the only Boomer who is depressed because he is always exploring the lofty heights and rare air of the furtherist edges of mediocrity. When measuring my progress in life, I usually find myself heaped in the pile with the other "Might-Have-Beens."

While I have never taken inventory of my cohorts, I suspect there are more than many care to admit. In fact, I think there are more of us who were so far back at the beginning of the race that we were in danger of being declared out of the competition before the gun sounded.

Companies want leaders, producers and visionaries. Those that do the hiring look for people who look like the rest of the company. The companies believe they have already created a culture of leadership. They know a team that produces the best product with R&D departments perched on the brink of breakthroughs will cement their position for economic generations to come.

I doubt their culture assesment is accurate. I doubt it because the people who really fit those molds don't often fit company profiles. The current hires, from the people who occupy shipping and sales to I.T. cubicles and Executive Wash Room, are pretty much like me.

What is worse, I suspect they are afraid someone will find out their dirty little secret. They are fearful they will be outed and their paper mache world will disolve into a mushy heap - formless, worthless and useless.

I want to give hope to the rest of us. Mediocrity isn't the curse that the Zig Ziglars and Tony Robbinses of the world want us to think it is. Mediocrity is more about being functional, dependable and trouble-free. Mediocrity isn't about failure to excel. It is about being average. It is also about the failure to quit, even when the end results would seem less than satisfying.

It is rather like the boy who sits on the bench for four years of high school football and finally gets to play in the last 30 seconds of Senior Night while his parents spent those years sitting in the stands warming their hands with a hot styrofoam cup of steaming instant coffee.

There are times that it simply makes sense to do the job, pressing to the end, because we own the job, not because we are better at it than anyone else.

My employer requires daily progress from me in completing my tasks. If I excel triumphantly on one file but fail to complete my tasks on 10 others, I am not a hero. I have failed. If, on the other hand, I complete the eleven files on time and the customers reasonably satisfied they were heard, I am successful.

So self-help books not withstanding, modern-day Davy Crocketts exploring the motivational world of the cerebral traveler simply can not replace the person willing to tackle a job that appears to be do-able, but just barely. The John Glenns and Scott Carpenters of excellence don't really fit in to our world of "I did my best."

Sometimes "my best" is not good enough. I guess I am saying to the rare few that always seem to get elected, promoted or designated "Salesman of the Week," you are going to have to move over and let the rest of us do our job.

You see, you aren't an example of excellence. You are more a freak of productivity planning.

I accept my mediocrity. It may not be pretty, but it is vital. It may not swell the breast with pride, but it doesn't confuse a parade marshall who lines up the floats with a drum major who happens to be marching in front of the band.

I not only accept it, I embrace it as a neccesary step in the evolution of the man who beat on a hollow log and called it a drum. It may not have much of a melody, but it still has a beat and Dick Clark's kids think you can dance to it.

Horse Poor - Experience Rich

We recently experienced the joys of being "horse poor." For thirty days we assumed the care, custody and control of a horse that was intended to move us into the equine-enabled community.

We learned some things. Others we relearned. Still other lessons we transfered from former pets.

On the internet I identified a horse that appeared to possess our needed qualities. After a trip with our stable owner to check him out, we brought him home on a thirty day trial lease. If it didn't work out, the owner would pick him up at the end of the thirty days - no questions asked.

In thirty days he transformed from a shy, insecure, almost fearful horse into a headstrong, belligerent animal that walked through any fence except the metal round pen. He became more difficult to handle as the time went on. During the last five days of our tryout time he exhibited aggressive behaviors toward the people that run the stable so I made the decision (which wasn't hard) that he had to go back.

When I contacted the owner to tell her of our decision, I became aware this was not the first time he had gone through this. She asked me what the problem was because "no one will ever tell me what he does that is wrong." (Did you hear the bell go off?)

I explained my observations and experiences. The stable owner shared what she saw and endured. We then watched as a calm, under-control horse was loaded into a trailer and hauled 200 miles to another person who was convinced that this was the horse for her.

Maybe we ought to change his name to "The Professor" because the thirty days were not lost time. Here are some of the lessons he taught me.

Lesson 1) You may buy an animal, but all you have done is assumed the responsibility for their care. They decide whether they become yours and how they will relate to you (horse whisperers not withstanding). If you have ever had a cat for a pet, that is always lesson number one.

Lesson 2) Before you arrive at the stable barn have a clear plan in mind for your time together. He was not very tolerant of the person who failed to have a firm agenda for the day. You don't want a horse that stands 16.2 and weighs over one-half ton to be picking you and your indecision apart.

Lesson 3) Even if you are not a horse trainer, you are a horse trainer. You will train them with your attention to detail or you will train them by being lazy, foggy-headed and overwhelmed by the job at hand.

Lesson 4) Even with good leadership, buying a horse is a "crap-shoot" at best. There are some good rules and measuring tools that can help. Having an experienced and objective advisor is critical. But in the end it boils down to "He'll do or he won't." As I was advised, decide what holes you can live with and make a decision. In this case we decided we couldn't live with additional holes in our body.

Lesson 5) The cheapest part of getting a horse is buying it. 'Nuff said.

Lesson 6) If you are not a rodeo cowboy or an active rancher, expect to enter the world of female equinologists when you buy a horse. Estrogen runs rampant at the stables I have visited. That isn't bad. It is simply a truth that if a testosterone-enriched individual has problems taking instruction from a female, the first lesson you will have to learn is not how to halter the horse. It will be how to halter your attitude.

I'll stop here so as to not recreate "The Ten Commandments."

We are not out of the horse business. We are just a bit wiser. And somewhere out there is the animal we are looking for. We also learned a lot about patience.

I can imagine that on the evening of January 29, 2007, a dapple-white horse, 16.2 hands, was led into a new stall. He looked around the barn and thought, "OK, bring on the next student. Graduation is only thirty days away."

How does it feel?

In the Biblical record of Ephesians 4: 17 - 19, Paul states the world has lost its sensitivity and is given over to sensuality. What a timeless observation. The juxtaposition of these words calls attention to their differing approach to life.

The world is given to sensuality. How does it feel? This is a critical question, regardless of the overwhelming issue at hand. How do you feel about your job? How do you feel about your mate, your friend, your car, glass eye or golden retriever? It is all about feelings.

Often sensuality is packaged with sexuality. I suppose there is a strong family bond between the two. But even if sexuality flies out the window (or sags around your middle), there are still feelings to contend with. Feelings of loss, discouragement and fear ransack our brains looking for a welcome home.

Being overly sensual makes us dependant on chemicals - whether natural or artificially introduced. The jogger strivings for the natural high or the drunk, crackhead, and meth addict chasing their addiction share one affinity. They are looking for a feeling.

Paul points us to a different way to think and talk. He states, by being sensitive, we become "others" oriented. Later in the letter to the Ephesians he tells them they need to be "submissive."

DUCK - INCOMING!!

I figured that would trigger a grenade or two. Submission is not what is required of a wife for a husband. It is what is required of a believer for another person. Read the rest of his words after what he says about wives.

He addresses the submissive attitiude of a husband to his wife. (I won't restate - you read it!) He talks about submision of children to parents and parents to children and of employers to employees as well as employees to employers.

These are sensitive positions. They require a sensitive approach to others, a willingness to put oneself in another's position, and an authentic desire to look at them through the heart of Their Creator.

He calls the sensitive lifestyle an enlightened view of life. The current sensual lifestyle is called a dark approach to life.

How interesting that Paul would use such a visual approach. The humanist world called the Age of Reason, which rejected Biblical Authority, a time of emerging from the "Dark Ages" and entering the "Age of Enlightenment." So the world says that a reasoned approach to life is enlightening even if it leads to sensuality, selfishness, striving for entitlement and debauching consumption.

Sounds like the world view that has melted the ice pack, depleated the ozone, promulgated STDs, murdered babies and stripped whole nations of ethnic dignity is bound for a no more successful conclusion than an out-of-control freight train shunted to a dead-end line and slated for eventual destruction.

Boy, I wonder how that will feel?

The Critical Question

There are many questions a person must answer in the course of their three score and ten. A first grader is asked, "What do you want to be when you grow up?" Whether firefighter or ballerina, professional athlete or nurse, our children are primed to make life-defining decisions from those earliest of days.

The need for relationship and significance in the eyes of another drive us to search for companionship and collegial cohorts. The need for community asks us to choose between conformity and nonconformity, whether we will be a leader or a follower, whether we will choose excellence or mediocrity.

One can say, after looking back on their life, their days are filled with one question followed by another. But is there a question so significant, so critical and so life defining that it is found in the history of each person who has, does or will walk the face of this earth?

The Bible records a discussion between Jesus and Peter in the Gospel of Mark 8. After asking Peter what people were saying about Jesus's identity, Jesus asked Peter the most important question ever be presented to a man. "But who do you say that I am?"

This question requires a person to evaluate the relevance of Christ to their life. In this question they must deal with their sinfulness and need for forgiveness. They must acknowledge their brokenness from the Father and their need for restoration. They must deal with their need for restoration in the form of a new birth that creates a new man, rather than simply a reformative process of the old man.

From birth to death this question must be answered by every human being.

The desire of the pagan who refuses to see the object of nature as simply the handiwork of God but chooses to call it god himself is not spared the need for forgiveness and restoration. Though desiring to be united with the Father, they have not answered the question posed to Peter. Though there is a sincere desire to be united with the Father, being unable to answer the question forces an eternal separation from the Father. It is the ultimate realization of the failure of humankind to create their own answer.

But what of the one who desires to bring all humankind under the banner of loving Christ that does not include the saving event of the cross? This Universalist approached the crucifiction, even if motivated by an inclusive view desiring all to experience the love of God, nonetheless subjects the spiritual needy to an eternity no different from the one who rejects the specific message of Jesus Christ.

In other words, whether Gospel hardened or denied by circumstance the opportunity to hear the message of Christ, that one who does not properly answer the question posed to Peter by our Lord is not to be afforded a place as a part of the Bride of Christ.

It is critical to note that regardless of all the acts of piety and holiness, conformity to religious rights and procedures, if the answer to Peter's question is not "You are the Christ, the Son of the living God," there is no salvation, there is no forgiveness and there is no restoration.

This position is not one of exclusivity held by the body of Christ. It is a position mandated by God's sovereign will, His right understanding of justice and His loving provision of grace.

Football may be war, but War isn't football.

(Big disclaimer: I am a citizen of the United States of America. I support my government. I would normally wear the moniker of conservative without shame. I have to say this to the people who would not agree with what is to follow.)

There is some discussion about the original quote being correctly recorded that says, "War is hell." Having never carried a weapon into battle nor spending even one night "in harm's way" (except for the several weeks I served as boy's camp counselor for our church group), I am sure I am not qualified to comment on that.

I was raised in a portion of Texas that venerates Friday Night High School Football (notice the caps - as if they are all proper nouns forming a title). Our team during the years I attended Bay City High was never the powerhouse we wanted it to be. Our freshman year was the only time that I remember we went past Bi-district play-offs.

Our school would hold pep-rallies for the team. Coach Haley would come to the mic after our cheerleaders led us in a few "Rah-Rahs." He would give us a quick report on how our boys would dismantle Wharton, West Columbia or El Campo. We would cheer and send the guys, who sat slumped in their seats, too cool to be bothered by anything so mundane as our cheering, out the door to do the last minutes of preparation.

I guess the cheering was for us and not for the guys. The band got pumped. The cheering squad got pumped. The cheerleaders were so pumped up they could hardly contain themselves. And we sent our men out to do battle for school pride. We did that because, as our coaches would tell us, football is war.

It is a cool way to have a war. You have a clock, referees, cheerleaders, and fans in the stands. When the game is over there is a winner and a loser. You can have injuries and some could end an athlete's career. Coaches who do well leave for bigger schools. Coaches who do poorly leave for smaller schools or stay and teach driver's ed and social studies. (Some end up as PE teachers for the elementary schools.) It is a neat war. It has a season and rules, letter jackets, medals, state champions and glory. There is even glory for the loosing teams because they are our boys.

Football is war. But, the war we are fighting in Iraq isn't football. There doesn't seem to be clear winners anymore. There was a beginning, but what does the end look like? There are no referees and our boys come home with wounds that you can't see, much less effectively treat.

Our opponent doesn't play the same game that we play. (I am sure this was much the same complaint the British made during our war for independence.) We play on the field, but the opponent is playing all over the stadium, including the parking lot.

We forget what war is about. It is about killing, maiming, and/or beating into submission an enemy that wants to do the same to you. It is obscene and pornographic. There is no Pattonesque glory in filling an enemy bunker with explosives to rid your life of a threat.

There is one consistent quality. The winning coach gets to leave for greener pastures. Colin Powell, Norman Schwarzkopf, Dwight Eisenhower, and U.S. Grant all enjoyed, or are enjoying, the fruits of victory. How many generals did Lincoln sack before he found a winner in Grant? Pearl Harbor signaled the end of Naval careers. They paid the price, or reaped the benefits, of leadership. The warriors, however, suffered. Some died. Others wished they did.

I honor the memory of our warriors who shouldered weapons to fight for freedom. I am free to write what I do because of those who served. Among those warriors are my uncles and my father. I lost an uncle during WWII, as did many.

That being the case, I look at our current conflict and wonder not whether we should be there or whether our goals are lofty. I wonder if we should be playing the game we are playing. I wonder if we shouldn't embrace a different world view and say, "Waging peace is hell and darn worth the price."

I know that some reader will say that is what we are doing in Iraq. I know that to clean up a room you have to mess it up, also. But if we spent as much time in studying how our opponent thinks with the view of defeating them on the battle ground of public opinion or the stadium of international cooperation, would waging peace in this manner be any more difficult? It can't be more bloody. It certainly can't be more detrimental to our national position of leadership.

Next time we decide to liberate a country, let's make sure we will play the same game our enemy will play. I am not saying we should capture passenger planes and crash them into tall buildings. Capturing the planes and killing the people was not the purpose of the act. The road-side bombs that kill and maim are not intended to show military strength. The enemy wants to be recognized as a determining voice in the international conversation. They want to be seen as a vital, powerful lobby capable of making decisive moves whenever and wherever they want.

We have not proved our ability to match their will and capacity to win simply because we can "bomb them into the stone age."

Let's play a new game. Let's look for the Anwar Sadats and Jimmy Carters. Let's look for generals who can redefine the game. Let's find men and women with courage to lead army's of warriors for peace, willing to join a new battle for the hearts of a people and not their political identity.

BTW, in case you are letting your mind wander, 9/11 was not the opening kick-off. That happened during the Crusades to "free" Jerusalem from the hoard of barbarians.

Scratching The Itch

I am not, it appears, a committed blogger. I don't live and die by the words I spout on this site. I suppose I am afraid I will be discovered to be like the boyfriend on "Designing Women" who was rejected because, "After all, you can only go so shallow before you hit rock bottom." Another way to discribe it is to be found to be "a mile wide and a foot deep."

So how important are these blog site people work so hard to assemble?

For one person it chronicles the progress in preparing and selling a house. http://wigleyhouse4sale.wordpress.com/

Others launch blogs to present a political perspective or advance a niche cause (I'll let you search the world of blogs for those. It won't be hard.)

There are some lonely hearts (or leacherous ones) who use them like an old fashioned fishing line thrown into the river. They return every so often to check for nibbles. I think some are simply lonely and find this a way to reach out from their cloistered world into the travels of others.

There are one or two, like me, who just get an itch to write and need to scratch it. I find my itch usually starts with an off-hand comment or a well-turned phrase. They get the juices flowing. My mind reaches out to explore verbs, nouns, prepositional phrases as well as local and regional word pictures to describe what I am wading through.

Unfortunately for me (but probably a fortunate event for the reading public), I am usually bound the steering wheel of my pick-up, enduring another hour of windshield time. By the time I get in front of a keyboard and am able to organize my thoughts, the muse has flown to another heart and I am left with the empty feeling of an unfilled writer's larder.

My "itch" has been very quiet lately. The flighty muse must be off visiting poets, painters, and purveyors of various prose. I wondered lately why my western, begun in a blaze of glory, has bogged down in a muddy river of apathy and stunted vision. As I tooled along country roads this week, I checked off the list of reasons many writers have given (some are excuses, I am sure) for leaving a story for other more interesting vistas.

The reality is, unlike many efforts buried in the genre of blogging, creative writing, whether fiction or non-fiction, fluff or techno-jargon, life-changing or simply entertaining, is hard work. Some follow a stream of consciouness in writing that meanders like a rural creek or thunders like a untamed river pouring out a torrent of verbal energy. Others adopt a disciplined approach outlining in such detail that the final creation is as meticulous as their well-ordered sock and underwear drawer.

In the end, however, creativity is an investment of a person with an abundance. They are willing to take a chance on another who is desires to draw on the writer's available resources and touch a part of life denied them.

It is the reason Tom Clancy took the reading public to the bottom of the oceans in "Hunt for Red October." Generations have solved mysteries with Nancy Drew and the Hardy Boys. Stephen King scares the bejeebers out of folks who are relieved to know the dog isn't real.

Writing is good. It is, for me, somewhat theraputic. I hope, however, it gives you time to think, to measure, and to enjoy this day.

It’s not babysitting. It’s grand-parenting.

Eyes flashed as her tongue snapped a response worthy of the steamy August Missouri evening.

I asked a male acquaintance to accompany me to the local golf course. He said he was to be with his children while his wife completed certain tasks and activities. In a moment of dubious humor, I responded, “Oh, are you baby-sitting today?”

She answered for him. Quickly. “It’s not baby-sitting. It’s called parenting.”

Oh.

Feeling the sting of rebuke and with no effort on her part to lesson the discomfort, I extricated myself from that situation, backing out of the room lest I provide an undefended target. The prompt and efficient response was not merely a shot across the bow. It had the appearance of an ongoing conversation that, doubtless, would continue unabated long after my departure.

I have no illusion of being a great parent. I earned the requisite hours to bear the title “Absent Parent.” Employment and personal education schedules were significant symptoms of the common parental disease “familius interuptus.”

In my defense, I encouraged my daughters’ academic challenges and athletic opportunities. I once verbally duked it out with a fourth grade teacher I believed “done us wrong.” When one of our offspring began to wander from the road society encouraged her to travel, along with my wife, I spent multiple hours with school administration and professional services to understand and protect her.

Most of the time, however (I’ll say for the people who are afraid to), I was clueless.

Some expert may point out if I spent more time with them when they were wearing diapers instead of waiting for them to don their jeans, I would be awash in clues. I doubt it, actually.

However, I am prepared for their children. I am a grandparent reaping the windfall profits and mega-dividends of the meager investment I made in their parents.

My grandchildren are very patient. They allow me to indulge in whimsy’s and digressions, writing it off, I suppose, to the old guy’s senility catching up with him. They are welcoming. I have standing invitations to watch them at athletic practices, school events and take them to an ice cream stand. The two second generation offspring who live near me and the three separated by 6 hours drive time express affection verbally, quickly affirmed by their hugs and tugs.

I think I disagree with my she-bear acquaintance. She made parenting sound so task-oriented. (I guess baby-sitting isn’t much better.) Watching and sharing a young person’s life is more than making sure they don’t do something stupid. It is making memories and creating a bond that has the strength to endure life – a bond that ties not just people to each other but generations together.

A Chameleon in Disguise

A chameleon can’t help itself. It changes colors. Unlike the horse pulling the carriage in Oz, it can’t celebrate glorious colors and flattering hues. It must adapt or die. In the life of the scampering changeling, there is little room for celebrating colors. They are for managing, using, manipulating and life saving.

Adaptation to survive is a handy skill, I would think. I doubt the chameleon school system puts off educating their charges on the values of picking the right background to match their skill level. It is likely that during the first week of the first grade, Mrs. Hue, looking over her charges, will discuss the wisdom of one shade of green over another.

These are important skills for a defenseless chameleon. How sad to find a person willing to live as a chameleon; always shifting, disguising, and hiding; never confident of potential, prospects, or presence; fearing every threat as mortal, every opportunity as hopeless and all plans as futile fantasy.

The ability to adapt to challenges is a cause to celebrate. The dinosaur lacked the power to adapt. Today he powers our society from his vast pools of oil reserves.

Companies that made the best buggy whips adapted to a changing market or risked their trademarks becoming a footnote in a niche world of elite two wheel carts pulled by a matched pair of flashy black percherons.

Morphing is not bad. It celebrates a new vision, new possibilities and a hope in the future. However, becoming a lie just to survive what appears to be an overwhelming enemy is not morphing or adapting. It is certainly not a cause to celebrate even if it does show a measure of street smarts or even some stealthy combat skills.

Our society celebrates a winner. We agree. What we do not agree on is what makes up a winner. Those with perspective say a winner is one who is genuine, interacts with the truth and willing to embrace the outcome, regardless of it penalty.

Ultimately, the ones who will win in this thing we call life will take stock of their “three score and ten” and say, “When it was important, I was there. I counted among those taking a stand. I lived a life, even if for a brief time, of value in a transparent fashion.”

Easter is all about transparency, reality, and the willingness to grasp at obedience as it faced the threat of failure.

The cross was no chameleonesque opportunity or solution. It was love without reserve, lived - and died - in transparency. I can celebrate what appeared at the time to be a total loss, but only if I am willing to be just as transparent as The One who took me to Calvary.

You see, there are no chameleons on Golgotha.

In A Moment Of Pristine Clarity

In a moment of pristine clarity, my wife of 35 years observed I was a “high maintenance person.” I knew exactly what she meant owing to the atmosphere of our conversation.

We were discussing the ebb and flow of my obsessions, projects and life goals. As a part of the discussion, we reflected on whether communities understood, or even cared for that matter, what another individual valued as a life goal.

It is safe to say in the midst of our discussion I endured a reoccurring bout with the “poor little me.” There is no one so depressingly fulfilled as a neurotic who discovers he is right. My wife, tiring of my self-analysis, stopped the exercise by going to the bottom line. I tend to spend too much time “maintaining me.”

I guess there comes a time we “stop cutting bait and go fishing.”

For a Christian, there can be no greater purpose than to live in the will of God. Other non-Christian faith groups are oriented around self-actualization, personal growth and supernatural appeasement. The Christian, on the other hand, sees life through a different perspective.

Our goal is simply to develop our personal relationship with Jehovah God made possible through the death, burial and resurrection of His Son, Jesus of Nazareth, the Christ. The simplicity of the statement is betrayed by a spiritual landscape littered with stumblings, bumblings, and complete catastrophic failures.

My wife’s clarity and her willingness to share with me brought back the truth resting fallow in my subconscious. If my focus is not “on Him” then it is on me. Anytime I focus on me rather than on Him, I am out of line, out of touch and soon out of options.

The best callings, sometimes described as “an internal sense of oughtness,” are rendered mute and powerless when the prime motivator becomes self-oriented.

A physician, once moved by the plight of the helpless, becomes shallow and crass when the needs to pay medical school loans dictate treatment. A teacher, previously overwhelmed by the burden of another’s inability to read, becomes jaded, harsh, and even cynical when they no longer see a student on a journey but rather a barrier to the successful completion of a lesson plan. Even those in vocational religious employment are in danger of losing their life focus and slipping into other visions easier measured and more concretely described.

A Christian believer is to be forgiven for losing their way in a world focused on self. In fact, it is the central message of God’s restorative work. He does forgive. It is through forgiveness that we are brought to Him. It is by forgiveness that we are held to Him.

The power of forgiveness orients us properly. It keeps us before The One forgiving. It instructs us on the proper perspective for our projects, plans and campaigns.

If I am high maintenance, and I have no reason to doubt my wife of over 35 years, I find it is not held against me. Rather, it is used by The Almighty to draw me closer to the only one who can truly maintain my heart, hope and health.

I suppose I will continue to explore new tactics and strategies for life. I am confident, wherever they fall within the explicit or permissive will of God, He will use them to bring into focus His will for my life. He desires me to know and develop a love for Him in response to His love for me.

If it doesn't make sense, it makes a mess.

"What's good for the goose is good for the gander."

"What goes around comes around."

"You get what you pay for."

Life is all about balance. One of the first things a child learns is you have to balance front to back and left to right or you will surely fall every time you try to stand. The very act of walking employs controlling your balance. You can't go forward if your vertical baseline is overbalanced to the rear.

Gravity demands you take notice of her.

Reciprocity is another form of balance. That is the act of receiving "your just deserts." Paychecks are a form of reciprocity. At least they should be.

Modern purveyors of slavery, the owners and knowing customers of sweatshops and as well as industries that depend on underpaid illegal immigrant labor, trust that a whole segment of society is helpless and without a viable voice of defense.

We find the slavers as repugnant. We often do not seem to find their products as reprehensible.

When balance and reciprocity are knocked akimbo, the fabric of our society begins to shake like a ’68 Chevy II with the left front wheel out of balance.

You don’t really notice it at first. Twenty-five miles an hour and she rolls as smooth as the day you drove her off the lot. Even thirty-five is a nice ride, though the balance problem is quietly rubbing the tread from tire. At forty-five there is a bit of a vibration but nothing to worry about. Fifty-five and the steering wheel shakes visibly.

By the time you are rolling down the road at seventy your mind says, “Houston, we have a problem. We gotta take care of this or it will shake the whole car apart.”

It seems to me our society has a problem.

California just cancelled a scheduled execution because they can’t find a licensed medical professional who will administer a lethal dose of sedatives to the condemned person.

It shouldn’t be hard to find a professional with the necessary ethical and moral underpinnings to do that. All you need to do is find the individual willing to discount the value of a life. The process involves determining a life is parasitic in nature, without any redeeming value and most important, not have the ability to vote in the next election.

I find one other segment of our society falls in to that uncomfortable, zombie-world of the as-yet undead. Regularly ripped apart by medical staff, it looses in the desire of a primary client base to return to normality.

California cannot find medical professionals who will intentionally sedate a person to the point of death under judicial orders but seems to find no trouble in financing a whole industry that condones the horrendous practice of partial-birth abortions.

At the same time the California judicial system wrestles with an ethical means to take the life of the condemned, they are at the center of a Supreme Court case that seeks to protect the right to drag a late term child from the womb of the mother, crush its skull and suck the brains out with a vacuum cleaner.

A word to the prison system of “The left coast,” I know where to go to find your medical professional. Check out the nearest abortuary. They have no trouble in determining which life is valueless, champion-less and without a viable voice to protest. Their condemned can’t vote either.

Balance and reciprocity seem to be such a basic core value of life that I am shocked when I see one part of our society deliberately seek a position severely “out of kilter.”

Maybe they are trying to run.

I wonder where.

Vision With Depth and Perspective

Is there a time you deeply desired to complete a task or shoulder a challenge? Has the call weighed so heavy that you spent each spare moment resetting priorities and adjusting schedules so as to insure no hindrance to your engagement? Has a vision so focused your sight that everything else dissolves into a mist?

How is it that one person looks a vacant lot and sees an office building? Another walks by and sees a garden. A third strolls by and is impressed by the possible home of a ballfield.

Vision draws not from the need. Neither does it draw from available resources. A burning vision and a life-consuming call wells up from the issues that make us unique individuals.

For some in this world, there is no greater calling than to preserve all living things. For others the greatest need is to provide resources for shelter and food the masses so dearly clamor.

These two visions put whalers in high seas in conflict with Greenpeace. The Sierra Club continually opposes the logging industry. (Note: I include these links simply for reference. No stance is taken on either position)

Only the most myopic is unable to see that conservationists and commercialists have a vested interest in making sure the other side wins a few small battles.

They need each other for the competition. It focuses outside attention and raises money for both sides. They each give the other a reason for emotions to run hot and opportunities to cry foul and claim the moral high ground. And, ultimately, they need what the other produces - food, shelter and preserved resources for harvesting another day.

It is when visions, complementary and not totally dissimular, meet that the greatest good rises.

A community had a great health care need. A group of women bore a great calling to serve. A man with great talent and skill in medicine agreed to cooperate. Several generations later Rochester, MN, has the Mayo Clinic.

A vision works best when piggybacked on the calling of another. Each uses their strengths to bolster the other's weakness. One recognizes a single size does not fit all and gender-neutral clothing, though stark and functional, offers little hope for the pizzaz that is needed to call others to join the battle.

There are several things I want to do in the next few years. I'll not bore you with listing them. But if any of them have a hope of making a difference, it will be because I, along with several others, forged a chain strong enough to bind all of us to a common sign post.