Baseball and Better Days

The ball rolls slowly to the left of the mound.

 

The pitcher lunges toward it, gracefully scooping it off of the ground. He stands up and throws it perfectly in my direction as I wait for it at first base. I focus on the ball and nothing else, knowing that if I catch it we will beat the unbeatable team. All I have to do is catch it and the game will be over. That’s all.

Just catch the ball, Matt, just catch the stupid ball.

To be honest, I never derived a great deal of joy from playing little league baseball.  I loved t-ball, though.  It was an easy sport to love.  The ball was placed upon the tee by the umpire and just sat there, waiting patiently for the next pummeling from some kid who barely knew how to tie his own shoes.  Talent was not necessary and, in most cases, not present even in the smallest of quantities.

There were also very few expectations in t-ball.  The first year, my coaches were ecstatic when all of us  on the “Livewires” team learned that third base was not the first base we should run toward after hitting the ball. And if any of us actually caught a ball in the air they behaved as though they just found out their children could poop gold. 

We weren’t very good and we didn’t care at all.  The outfielders just wanted to catch the next butterfly and most of the infielders were pre-occupied with trying to spell their names in the dirt.  After each game, we got a free drink from the concession stand.  Most of us chose the “suicide”–an unholy concoction created by combining all available soda types into one indescribably horrendous drink.  I am still baffled by the popularity of it to this very day.

That second year of t-ball went much better.  The coaches found out I could catch just about any ball thrown in my direction, so they placed me at first base.  It also helped that I was about a half-a-foot taller than the next tallest kid.  Freakishly big may have been the best way to describe how I looked compared to most of my teammates. 

I enjoyed playing first base and because I was so tall, very few balls got past me.  If the ball was thrown  outside, I could reach out and catch it.  If it was thrown too high, I could reach up and catch it.  If it was thrown too short, I could reach down and scoop it up.

The Livewires improvement was dramatic.  We improved so much that we were the Holston-Chilhowee T-ball Champions that year.  It was great to be a part of a championship team, even if it was just t-ball.

And then it got quite a bit more difficult.

Back then, there was no such thing as “coach-pitch.”  Once you graduated from t-ball, you moved up into a league where kids who were just a couple of years removed from learning to control their bladders were learning how to control a baseball that they threw as hard as they possibly could. 

My rear-end seemed to be a baseball magnet that first year.  Every time I got hit, my coaches would run out to check on me.  They acted like they really cared whether I was hurt or not, but I secretly suspected they were just glad that I got a free ticket to first base.

While hitting a ball in motion was not a strength, catching still came easy for me.  First base was my home when my team was in the field.  Defensively, I rarely ever let my teammates down. 

I don’t remember the name of the team that I was on, but I do remember that we weren’t very good.   But being on a sub-par team in little league baseball was different than being on a sub-par team in t-ball.  The coaches seemed to care a lot more, the parents seemed to fuss a lot more, and the players wanted to win.  Catching butterflies and drinking suicides didn’t diminish the aggravation of losing on a regular basis. 

We were hopeful, though, of better things to come.  Especially those of us who played t-ball together.  If the Livewires could go from worst to first in one season, surely our baseball team could do the same.

Unfortunately, it didn’t work out that way.

Sure, we improved some.  Just not enough.  It seemed like we all became better fielders, but very few of us became better hitters.  We won a few and lost more, often by the slightest of margins.  At least I got to stay involved in the action by keeping my job at first base. 

My misery in losing was compounded by the fact that Chad, my best elementary school friend and seat-mate on the school bus, was on the best team in our league.  The day after the games were played were the worst.  He would tell me how many hits he had and how badly they had beaten the other team and I would tell him that we had lost and then try to change the subject to how Inspector Gadget managed to fit all of those awesome gadgets into such a little hat.  And how did a moron like him make it to the level of Inspector even with the help of Penny and Brain, anyway? 

When we won, it was easier to talk about the games.  Of course, he still out-did me even on those days since his team always won more handily than ours did. 

After trudging through another less than fun losing season, we finally made it to the last game.  It was against Chad’s team.  They had already beaten us badly once that year.  In fact, they had not lost a game and were assured of winning the championship whether they beat us or not.  School was already out for the year, so I didn’t have to talk to Chad about it.  Even though Chad was a good friend, I wanted to ruin his team’s perfect season.

As I arrived at the ballfield and saw my teammates, I was pretty sure that we were going to get slaughtered.  I don’t think that I have ever seen a group of 9 & 10 year-olds look so downtrodden.  Then our coaches got to us.  I guess they saw the same dejected look in our eyes that I did.  Suddenly they all became little league versions of Vince Lombardi, motivating us boys with passion never before seen on the hallowed fields of Holston-Chilhowee.

OK, so I may be overstating it a bit.  But they did speak to us with purpose, reminding us that any team can beat any other team on any given day.  Sure, we had lost to them badly earlier in the year and hadn’t won many games, but this was a brand-new ballgame with a brand-new chance to do something special.  We could beat the team that no one else could beat.

I don’t remember the specifics of most of the game, but I do remember a lot of shouting.  The coaches were really into the game and the parents acted like blood-thirsty zombies.  My teammates and I played with more emotion than I had seen in all of the other games combine.  Chad’s team didn’t start out as focused as we did and got behind early before fighting back.

Miraculously, we made it to the bottom half of the last inning clinging to a one-run lead.  We were three outs away from victory and I could taste it.  All of the parents were standing and cheering and the coaches of both teams had bulging veins in their necks.

We manage to get two outs and they manage to get runners on second and third base.  A hit would mean that one and possibly two runs would score which would either mean a tie or victory for Chad’s team.  I figure that anywhere the ball is hit, the players on base will be running.

It is Chad’s turn to bat.  He isn’t normally a power-hitter, but he usually makes it on base.  My body becomes tense as I stand near first base.  If he hits it in the infield, I have to get to the base and make the catch in order to preserve our unforeseen victory.

The pitcher hurls the ball toward home-plate.  Chad swings his bat with all of his might and makes contact with the ball.  I quickly head toward first base.

 

 

 The ball rolls slowly to the left of the mound. 

 

The pitcher lunges toward it, gracefully scooping it off of the ground as the runners on second and third take off at full speed.  He stands up and throws it perfectly in my direction as I wait for it at first base. I focus on the ball and nothing else, knowing that if I catch it we will beat the unbeatable team. All I have to do is catch it and the game will be over. That’s all.

Just catch the ball, Matt, just catch the stupid ball. 

The ball speeds toward me and I have my glove in the correct position to make a clean catch.  Chad is fast and I can hear him approaching, but the ball will get to me before he does. 

Everything seems to slow down at the ball makes it to my glove.  But before I can close my glove and make the catch, the ball pops out and drops to the ground.

Chad makes it safely to first base and the lead runner has already crossed the plate.  I look and see that the runner that started at second base has rounded third and is heading toward home.  I pick up the ball and throw it toward home, only it’s a bad throw.

The runner slides safely into home plate and their team erupts with joy. 

Chad’s team has won and our team has lost.

And it was all my fault.  If only I had caught the stupid ball.  It was a play that I had made over and over again all season long and I had failed to execute it on the last play of the last game of the year against the team that I wanted to beat more than any other.

Tears started to well up in my eyes as I walked toward the dug-out.  No one said a word to me; not the coaches, not the players, not any of the parents.  I was in my own personal solitary confinement.  The coaches said a few things to the team about a tournament that we were going to play the next week, but I wasn’t listening.  It didn’t matter.  I had screwed up.  I was a failure. 

My dad tried to make it over to me to console me, to tell me that it was going to be all right.  But I didn’t let him.  I walked ahead of him and my mom up the hill to the car.  I opened the door of his old Ford Grenada and flooped onto the old, red vinyl seat.

And I sobbed.  Uncontrollably and unashamedly. 

My parents tried to encourage me.  They told me it was just one play and that I would get more chances in the future if I just kept my head up and kept trying.  They said that games aren’t lost on just one play.  They said that my team would need me and support me in the upcoming tournament. 

I believed them a little until I arrived at our first game of the tournament.  My coach told me that I would be playing left field instead of first base. 

I was devastated.  My parents had told me that my coaches wouldn’t blame me for losing the game, but with that one decision I found out that they did blame me.

We lost both of the games that we played in the tournament. 

I never played organized baseball again. 

My dad tried to encourage me to try again next year.  He said that I would get better and enjoy it more.  He said that every athlete has setbacks, but that I should look at it as an opportunity to improve and  prove people wrong.  I told him that I had made my decision and that I never wanted to talk about it again. 

So we didn’t. 

But there have been times when I look back on it and think that he was probably right.  If I had stuck with it, maybe I would have improved greatly.  Maybe I would have proven my coaches wrong and enjoyed the ongoing camraderie of being on a team. 

I really regret not trying again the next year.  If only I had listened to my father.

I try to do a better job now of listening to my Heavenly Father.

There have been times I have failed and felt like a failure.  There have been times that I wanted to quit.  There have been times when the mistakes have piled up and I have felt like Iwas to blame for all of my families problems.

When God felt so far away, I could still hear His voice. 

 He encouraged me not to quit.  He reminded me of better days to come.  He spoke light into my darkness.

He gave me the ability to hear His voice above all of the others. 

He can do the same for you.

Maybe a mistake on your part has caused a loss for you and your family.  It’s possible that at this very moment you consider giving up to be an option.  It could be that your boss is blaming you or your spouse is blaming you or your kids are blaming you.  Maybe you deserve some of the blame.

Take a deep breath and listen.  Do you hear it? 

The voice of the One who holds all things in His hands is calling out to you.  Telling you to trust Him, to try again, to never give up.

The mistakes that we make in life are more serious than the one that I made on the baseball field that night so many nights ago.  But the results are often the same.  Maybe you are  sobbing on the inside.  Maybe you are sobbing on the outside.

Either way, your Father wants you to hear his voice.  You need to hear his voice. 

We are not alone in our manifold miseries.  God is with us.  If we listen to His voice above all of the others, there are days filled with sunshine ahead.

Be still and know that He is God.  Be calm and focus on His voice.

We may have lost badly during parts of our lives, but there are victories ahead if we only listen to the encouraging words of our Father.

Wobbly Grace

My wife loves almost all animals, but she has a special affinity for creatures who look markedly more pathetic than all of the others.  While this trait of hers has caused me some aggravation over the years, I’m not too upset about it.  Without it she would never have agreed to marry me.

But it’s also the reason why we wound up with a three-legged hound dog.

Kristy was one of the first employees of the Knoxville-Knox County Animal Shelter (also known as the Young-Williams Animal Center).  Even though she did not work there for a lengthy period of time, she was still able to do a few interesting things.  She was able to have a little input in how the shelter operated.  She voiced her opinion over how adoptions should be handled.  And she became a licensed euthanasiast.

This basically means that she was trained on how to properly administer medications to animals in order to euthanize them.  It also means that she got an up-close and personal look at dogs and cats as they were about to die.

She did not like this part of her job.  It was heart-wrenching for her.  Especially since, in most cases, it could have been prevented by pet-owners being more responsible. 

Because of a lack of space, many of the animals that were picked up by animal control officers or dropped off by their owners were marked for euthanasia after the prescribed waiting period.

The hound dog with the missing left-front leg was one such animal. 

No one at the shelter knew exactly how old she was, but she was old.  Mostly black with a tan “mask,” she had noticeable patches of gray.  She wasn’t particularly friendly and she had an awful hard time getting up on all-threes after lying down a while.  She was half-blind.  Because of her age and temperament, she was doomed to be put down.

Until my tender-hearted wife got a look at her.

Kristy asked and received permission from her boss to bring the disabled dog home.  Shockingly, she completely neglected to ask my permission.

We already had four dogs living with us.  George and Gracie were Great Danes who fancied themselves lap-dogs.  Smidgen was a Dalmation-mix who liked to chew up the covers of my Bibles.  Amos was a bow-legged, overweight Beagle who never did anything wrong (did I mention that he was my favorite?). 

I did not want another dog.  We did not need another dog.  We became the owners of another dog.  I was a tad upset.  Kristy tried to soften my mood by agreeing to let me name the handicapped hound.  So, I began pondering.

The first name that crossed my mind was “Tripod.”  I walked outside and yelled it out loud as I would if I were calling her to discern how I liked it.  I didn’t.  It sounded mean.  Plus, I vaguely remember a dog in some movie being called that and my mother didn’t raise a copycat.

A friend of mine suggested the name “Ilene” (I-lean).  Since I am a nerd, that one made me chuckle.  But she didn’t look like an Ilene. 

After thinking of several other names and discarding them for one weird reason or another, Kristy and I decided to watch her a little to see if anything caught our attention.  At first, I did not notice anything in particular.  And then we saw her standing next to the other dogs.

Compared to them, she was a little wobbly.

We named her “Wobbles.”

Even though I had a hard time accepting the fact that I now had another dog to take care of, my relationship with Wobbles soon blossomed.  As it did, I noticed something interesting. 

I didn’t treat her the same as I did the other dogs.

If the other dogs had growled at me as Wobbles did on occasion, I would have severely scolded them.  If the other dogs had refused to come when I called them as Wobbles was known to do, I would have grabbed them by the collar and forcefully reminded them that I was the “master.”  If the other dogs had been as temperamental as Wobbles was, I would have responded with more corrective action.

In dealing with Wobbles, I showed a greater degree of compassion.  I was gentle, patient, and kind.  I showed her grace on a daily basis.

I guess I did this because I was fairly certain that she had suffered her share of hardships throughout the years.  Of course, I had no idea how she lost her leg or exactly how she had been treated throughout her life.  All I knew was what I saw and what I saw was a three-legged, half-blind dog who didn’t have much life left in her.  I was determined not to make it any worse by treating her poorly.

A year and a half after Wobbles came to live with us, we had her put her to sleep.  Her health deteriorated rapidly and her will to fight came to an end.

As I ponder life with Wobbles, I can know see that I was able to look past her poor behavior by realizing that there were reasons that she behaved the way that she did. 

She had scars.  She had been hurt.  She was weary.  It was easy to graciously overlook her temperament because she had suffered so much.

If only it were that easy when dealing with difficult people.

When we are harshly criticized by someone, we seldom consider that the reason that the person criticized us may be due to a lack of self-esteem brought on by some form of abuse that they endured as a child.

When the cashier is overly-rude, we only think how it affects us instead of wondering why she behaved so boorishly.  It’s possible that she has just been told that her mother has cancer, but we’re to busy typing out a condemning e-mail to worry about that.

When someone in your family doesn’t express undying gratitude for the help that you gave them, it may cause you to decide never to help them again.  Of course, they may have swallowed so much of their pride just to ask for help that they are emotionally incapable of saying much of anything.

With Wobbles, it was easy to overlook her behavior because her frailty was so evident and her scars were so visible.

With people, often the scars are hidden.  But we can be sure that everyone has them. 

Maybe we should all do better in remembering that fact before reacting harshly to what someone else does to us. Maybe if we did that, we would react with greater kindness, compassion, and love.

There are plenty of people out there who are simply trying to do the best they can with what they have.  You’re probably one of them.  I know that I am. 

Let’s show each other more grace.  After all, we’re all a little bit wobbly.

A Cavalier Lesson

I used to drive a 1996 Chevrolet Cavalier convertible. 

It never was supposed to be “my” car.  Kristy wanted it.  Badly.  We were looking for a car for her to drive and could not afford anything new.  Our credit at the time was on the bad side of horrendous, so we could not be terribly picky.  Her eyes lit up when she saw the Cavalier; it was like Ralphie Parker looking at an official Red Ryder carbine-action 200-shot range model air rifle with a compass in the stock in A Chrismas Story.  She just had to have it.

So, we bought the stinkin’ thing.

At first I rarely drove it.  I had my vehicle and Kristy had the Cavalier.  Technically, the Cavalier was better than the car that I drove.  I’ll admit that much.  But I didn’t like it.

The main problem was a size issue.  I am big–6′7” and over 300 lbs.  The Cavalier was a tiny, two-door car that could fit into my pants pocket.  Basically, I had to fold myself up and put it on in order to drive it.  

We purchased this car before we had many children.  When we started accumulating our brood, we knew that a bigger vehicle was needed.  We became the not-so-proud owners of a Dodge Grand Caravan.  Kristy took possession of the van.  Sadly, I got the Cavalier.

I suppose I could have kept the Corsica that I had been driving, but it had seen better days.  It had a ton of miles on it and the driver’s seat had become a rocking chair.  Seriously.  It wasn’t fixable, so I ended up putting cinder blocks behind the seat to hold it in place.  My neck became a little redder because of this.

Of the two, the Cavalier was in better shape.  So I suppressed my disdain and began driving the stinkin’ thing.

At the time we lived in Oakdale, TN.  If you are a normal person, you have no idea where Oakdale is located.  It is in Morgan County, about 50 miles east of Knoxville and 45 miles north-east of Maryville.  At the time, I worked at the corporate office of Clayton Homes located in Maryville.

This meant that I had a one-hour drive to work each morning and a one-hour drive home each evening, Monday-Friday.  That’s 10 hours per week in the car, by myself.  Each day I drove in 5 counties. 

At the end of every work day, as I got home and crawled out of the Cavalier, I dreaded getting back in it the next morning.

But it got worse.

A few months after becoming the main driver of the Cavalier, the radio was stolen out of it.  We didn’t have the money to replace it.

So instead of just driving 10 hours per week by myself in a car that was much too small for me, I began driving 10 hours per week by myself in a car that was much too small for me….in silence.

At first, I spent a lot of time on the phone while driving in the car.  But that soon became a nuisance.  So most of the time I drove in silence, wondering how in the world I was staying awake.

You might not think it was all that bad; you are wrong.  Go ahead and try it for a few weeks.  You’ll see.

It was bad.  Real bad.

Until I started talking. 

Don’t worry; I didn’t go crazy or anything.  I didn’t talk to myself.

I began talking to God. 

Now, I had prayed off and on for a good portion of my life.  Of course, I prayed more earnestly as I became more committed to the important disciplines of the Faith.  But what I was doing in the silence of the Cavalier was different.

Instead of my prayers being formulaic, they became personal.  Instead of it being something that I should do, praying became something I wanted to do.  Instead of thinking of it as a duty, it became a time to express my love for God and a time to feel Him loving me back.

I shared my burdens with Him without thinking about how I sounded.  I shared my joys with Him in whatever manner I felt appropriate; by singing, shouting, crying, or smiling.  I talked as one who has been showered with love to the One who loves perfectly.

And I listened.

Carefully. 

I listened as He encouraged me.  I listened as He chastised me.  I listened as He told me things about myself that I had not previously known.

My relationship with Him, which had far too often been sporadic at best, blossomed.  My faith in Him increased.  My worship of Him exploded.

About a year later, the Cavalier started giving me problems and the roof began leaking.  I sold it to a neighbor after buying a truck.

Sometimes I think about that car and am amazed that I ever fit into it.  Sometimes I think about all the times I was made fun of by my friends for driving a vehicle that probably weighed less than I do. 

But mostly when I think about that time of my life, I am glad.

It’s a wonderful thing to learn such a valuable lesson; even if the lesson was learned while I was folded up inside of a Cavalier.

Fishbowl Living

Living in a fishbowl means having no privacy.  None.  Zilch.  Nada.  Every discussion dissected, every movement noticed, every heartache shared with whoever is watching at the time. 

Being under a microscope means having your emotions laid bare for all to see.  People with no business knowing your business passing judgement upon you just because they can. 

Living in a glass house means that what could have stayed hidden from view is bathed in light and everyone can see all the dirt and debris. 

Many people say that they don’t want to live in a fishbowl, to be under a microscope, to live in a glass house.

Some of them are lying.

Some of them say they want privacy, yet put intimate details of their lives on blogs.  Some of them say they want to be left alone, yet where they are going, what they are doing, and how they feel gets spread all over Facebook or Myspace or Twitter.

Some say that they want anonymity, yet they allow their lives to be filmed and displayed on national television. 

A little bit of attention is fine.  A little bit of notoriety.  A little bit of fame. 

Until it gets out of hand.  Until the dirt gets messier and the debris gets more personal.

When we live in a fishbowl  most of the time it is our own choice.  The consequences are sometimes good. 

But sometimes it comes crashing down.

I do not follow Jon & Kate Plus Eight, the reality show about the family of Jon and Kate Gosselin.  I have seen it in passing a few times.  But I know what is going on with their lives.

Because fishbowl living has caused them problems.

However, even though we know a lot about them, we don’t know everything.

We don’t know what they think about right before they drift off to sleep.  We don’t know what they’ve been praying for or if they’ve been praying at all.  We don’t know their deepest, darkest emotions.  We don’t truly know all of their thoughts.

You see, even when we are in a fishbowl or under a microscope or in a glass house, there are still things that we keep hidden; things that are stuffed deep down. 

No one sees these things.

Except God.

The Creator knows His creation.  The ups and downs are known in detail by the Master before they ever occur. 

Our thoughts are known before we think them.  Our words are heard before they are spoken. 

The Sovereign One knows why you are the way the you are.  The scars left on your psyche are not foreign to Him; He was there when the wounds were being made.

He was also there when your actions caused the wounds of another.  He knows how you have hurt those closest to you.

Our lives are not merely being lived in a fishbowl that He can peer into; He has intimate knowledge of every detail. 

Even the details that we have forgotten or repressed are fresh in His memory.

And He loves us anyway.

Passionately, deeply, amazingly.

Like a cool breeze flowing by us on a scorching, summer day.

His love can bring great peace into our lives if we have a relationship with Him through Christ.

We can sit back and relax.

We can rest easy with the knowledge that the scars we inflicted on others are forgiven by the scars inflicted upon Jesus.

We can rest comfortably in the arms of the Savior knowing that the One who knows us best loves us the most.

We can have peace because of the Prince of Peace. 

With God, with ourselves, with everyone.

Lay back upon the green pastures and look over at the still waters and be glad.

Why I Did Not Kill My Dogs

A few years ago I almost murdered two dogs. 

Actually, that may not be completely accurate.  It wasn’t like I had a gun to their heads or a knife to their throats or anything else like that.  I did, however, express my dislike of them in a vociferous manner. 

I yelled.  Loudly.  I told them that I hated them and wished that they would just die.  They didn’t deserve this type of treatment and I am not proud of what I did.  I’m just reporting what happened.

Smidgen was a dalmation mixed with some kind of hound dog.  She was white with black spots and had the kindest eyes I have ever seen.  Blessed with a sweet disposition, she would often sit next to me on the couch with her head in my lap.

Amos was supposedly a full-blooded beagle, but with his bowed legs and sizeable midsection he probably had a little bit of basset hound in him.  He was a good friend; one of the best I’ve ever had. 

I’m not quite sure what set me off that day.  We had loaded the kids along with Smidgen and Amos in the little Dodge Grand Caravan that we had then and traveled to Knoxville from our then-home in Oakdale.  On the way to my mother-in-law’s house, Kristy had to make a stop at a clothing store to look for a dress.

I sat in the van with the kids and the dogs.  That is when the incident happened.

It gets kind of hazy from  this point.  I know that one or both of the dogs did something that I did not like; I’m just not sure what.  Whatever it was, I did not handle it well.

My blood pressure shot up as my voice increased in volume.  I could feel myself sweating and my heart beating.  Then I realized that the people sitting in their cars near me might be able to see my little outburst.  I needed to calm down.

So I picked up my Bible.

What I am about to tell you normally doesn’t happen to me.  In fact this may be the only time that it has ever happened to me.  But it is the absolute truth.

My Bible fell open to the book of Proverbs chapter twelve.  I looked down right at verse number ten.  That is where I (the one who just moments before went berserk screaming at 2 helpless dogs) read these words:

“A righteous man regardeth the life of his beast: but the tender mercies of the wicked are cruel.”

That’s when I prayed the most unique prayer of my life:  “Crap, God!  I’m sorry.” 

Then I looked over at Smidgen and Amos.  I apologized profusely while patting their heads.  They wagged their tails profusely and tried to lick me.

I explained to my children that Daddy shouldn’t have yelled like that and that they should never do what they had just witnessed me do.  I don’t think they fully comprehended it because they were too young.  

Then I looked out the window, amazed at how God reveals Himself to a moron like me.

I smiled knowing that God loves me in spite of my foolishness. 

And He loves you the same way.

Me, You, and Shia

Shia LaBeuf is not a name that everyone knows, but his face is one that most have seen.  Maybe you (or your child) used to watch the Disney Channel’s Even Stevens or maybe you have see the movies Holes.  It’s possible that you saw him in Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull playing the title character’s son or being protected by Bumblebee in Transformers. 

Some of his characters have been shy and awkward.  Others have been cocky and opinionated.  Either way, he has gained fame and fortune doing something that millions of people can only dream about.

But in real life he struggles with doubts and questions that seem to give him little rest.

I read an article the other day in Parade Magazine about Shia by Dotson Rader.  It made me sad.

In it he is quoted as saying, “Sometimes I feel I’m living a meaningless life and I get frightened.” 

About feeling unworthy, he says “I have no idea where this insecurity comes from, but it’s a God-sized hole.  If I knew, I’d fill it, and I’d be on my way.” 

About why things have happened in his life, he says, “I have no answers to anything.  None.  Why am I an alcoholic? I haven’t a d— clue!  What is life about?  I don’t know.”

In many ways, I have been where he is.  So have you. 

Struggling, wondering, searching.  Never grasping what it is that you know is missing.  Others around you have the answers to questions that you are not asking. 

The sadness I feel for Shia could be described as empathy–knowing how he feels.  But it also comes from knowing that he is not looking in the right places for the answers that he is seeking. 

He is worried about living a meaningless life when the One who gave him life is eager for a relationship with him.

He calls it a “God-sized hole,” yet he is trying to fill it with anything but God. 

Relationships.  Fame.  Money.  Alcohol.  But not God.

He wonders what life is about.

It is about what it has always been about. 

God and His glory.

Extolling the worth of the One who gives worth to all other things.

Resting in the sovereignty of the Almighty.

I’ll be praying for Shia, for me, and for you.  That we will all realize that what we have been looking for is very close to each one of us. 

God and God alone.

Ramblings of Praise

When I am weak the adversary strikes with vengeance, but the hand of the Lord keeps my soul from danger.

His strength is greater than the weaknesses of man.  He ever stands as guardian of the righteous;

For the righteous do know that apart from Him they have only deeds deserving of death.

Because they trust in the righteousness of the Eternal King, He will do good to them for the sake of His name.

Let those who trust in weapons see the folly of their ways; let those who are enamored with empty words spoken by lying lips gain understanding.

The ways of the wicked are continually before the eyes of man; vile actions of the unrighteous are viewed day and night.

Counsel is given by those who lack understanding, by those who do not fear the Mighty One.

Only those who trust in the Lord will be forever satisfied; only those who are satisfied in the Lord shall be able to stand firm in days of distress.

Open our eyes, O Lord; let us not be led astray from your truth by the multitudes.

You alone are sovereign; you alone deserve all glory.  Let all creation exalt your name, let us praise your greatness forever.

Be Christlike

Two words of instruction.  Over and over and over.  Two words that followed me all throughout childhood.  Over and over and over.  Two words that are still said to me by people who are well-meaning and who love me.  Over and over and over.

I suppose that I will never be completely free from these 2 words:

Be careful.

On my way to school; be careful.  Going to basketball practice; be careful.  Heading to an event with the youth group from church; be careful.  Walking across the field to my grandmother’s house; be careful.  Using scissors or a hammer or fingernail clippers; be careful.  Doing anything at all and for no reason at all; be careful.

Frankly, I have long since grown tired of hearing those 2 words.  And I have my reasons.

For some people saying these 2 words has grown to be a habit.  They just say them at the end of every conversation.  Kind of like ”bye” or “talk to you later” or “take it easy.”  These people do not seem to realize how silly it is to tell normal, somewhat sane people to be careful.  Do they think that I plan on being careless as I use sharp objects or go swimming?  Do they think that if they do not tell me to be careful that I will come unglued and begin behaving as though I have no sense at all? 

Them:  Be Careful.

Me:  Oh my goodness!  Thanks for telling me that.  Without you here to instruct me to be careful I probably would have walked headlong off of a cliff.  But since you said “be careful,” I will be sure not to do such an ignorant thing. 

Sorry for such sarcasm.  I’m hoping you see and commiserate with my aggravation. 

Those words that entered my brain over and over served to make me afraid.  As a child, I often experienced anxiety over all of the things out there that could potentially harm me (even though very few of those things ever happened).  Being constantly reminded to “Be careful,” served as an accomplice to my worries and caused me great distress.  There was not a problem around every corner, but it felt like there would be around the next. 

Those who kept saying the 2 words I now abhor had my best interest at heart.  They cared about me; about what could happen.  They wanted me to keep my eyes open; to be aware.  But those words combined with my alreay shy and skittish personality dampened my ability to take risks regardless of the possible rewards.

I was paralyzed by being careful.

But now, I have overcome this.

There are 2 new words that are at the forefront of my mind.  Two words that help me to take risks when appropriate, yet at the same time help me keep my guard up against real threats.  I do not repeat these words over and over to myself and no one else ever says them to me, but I strive to live my life by them anyway.

Be Christlike.

Be Christlike.

Be Christlike.

Being Christlike covers being careful without taking it too far.  When I am being Christlike I am aware of the real dangers out there without worrying about the imaginary ones.  It also means that while I am aware of the real dangers, I am not controlled by them.  They do not make me afraid for I know that my Savior is leading me.

Being Christlike allows for greats risks because truly following Jesus implies that there will be plenty of risks involved.  I know that while I following the Master by living life on the edge, the great net of His grace is there to catch me when I fall.

It’s a good feeling, trust me.

People still tell me to “be careful” from time to time.  When they do I usually give them an inward cringe and whisper to myself–”Be Christlike.” 

It’s better that way.

It Can Be Messy

Christianity is more than just theory.  It is more than just propositions about truth and what is the best way to do things.  If this is all it was, it would not really help us in the real world.  And it would be a whole lot less messy.

Take the whole “fogiveness” thing.  In theory, it sounds good.  We have been forgiven much, so we should forgive much.  No matter what others do to us or how often it is done–we forgive.  Just like that.

Then you get hurt deeply.  Or your spouse gets hurt deeply.  Or your children get hurt deeply.  Or a bunch of people that you love get hurt deeply all at the same time.  It’s not just a little bit of hurting that is going on–it’s a lot. 

Other people get angry at the offender and use Scripture to support why they feel the way that they do.  And they want you to be angry with them.  If you are not angry with them, they become angry with you.

You know that you need to forgive, but to some people forgiving the offender makes you somewhat equal to the offender even though you are merely acting in the same manner that Christ acted toward you.

In fact, you know that forgiving the offender is the right thing to do.  More than that, you know that the offender has been ostracized and rejected by so many others who claim to follow Jesus even though Jesus would not have done the same.

It can be messy following Christ.  We were never promised anything different, really. 

Only that we would never walk alone.

(I am not dealing with any of this type of thing right now.  But I have been pondering it as I have seen it happen far too frequently.  Christians not following the example of Christ.  It gets tiresome, doesn’t it?)

Website for Stoney Point Baptist Church

If you haven’t done this in a while, I encourage you to check out the website of Stoney Point Baptist Church:  www.spbcfamily.com.  While it is not “finished” yet, there are new features on it that I think may be helpful to some of you.

A big thanks to Kelly for getting the ball rolling and for Jennifer for her help, as well.  The largest portion of the “credit,” has to go to Daniel.  He is a whiz at all things computer-related and has done a tremendous job of giving the website more of what it really needed.

And thank you in advance for taking a look at it.  Go back from time to time to see the new things that will be added.