Blessed Assurance

Tags

faith, family, Father

Blessed assurance, Jesus is mine
O what a foretaste of glory divine
Heir of salvation, purchase of God
Born of His Spirit, washed in His blood

Perfect submission, all is at rest
I in my Savior am happy and blessed
Watching and waiting, looking above
Filled with His goodness, lost in His love

This is my story, this is my song
Praising my Savior all the day long
This is my story, this is my song
Praising my Savior all the day long

Oh what a Savior, wonderful Jesus

The first time I remember hearing this song was my father singing in the living room of our house, Mom playing the piano while Dad sang along.  My parents were young, barely in their mid twenties, young not only in age or as parents, but also young in their faith.  One of the most beautiful blessings of my life has been watching the two people who brought me into this world grow together in God’s love, their relationship flourishing in the light of the God that they put first.. together.

Blessed assurance, Jesus is mine

Through my dad, I learned what it is like for a person to truly seek God, who really wanted to live out what they believe.  Dad has never been perfect, something that I have learned to appreciate as I realize how imperfect we all are, how children first see a father who is flawed yet becomes the best person as we experience life through the same eyes, the eyes of a father.  As the years have past, as my own life becomes shared through the same experiences he has experienced, as I see how my father has become one of the best people on this planet, I love him more and more.  Dad’s example led me to believe in Jesus, to want to seek God, and to see God in a genuine way.  If you knew my dad, you would understand what I am talking about.  When he sings Jesus is mine, it’s because it is true in a way that is very, very evident.

My father is more of a friend, yet still my father, these days.

Today is his birthday.  He is 76 years old.  I walked past this photo of him this morning, one I display on my fireplace mantel, and I realize how much like him I have become.. so glad that I have.  I don’t know how old he was when this picture was taken, but it must have been early teens.. he was losing his hair before he was twenty.  A friend saw that picture and told me how much I resemble my father, something that I didn’t realize before.  As I have aged, I resemble him more than my mother.  I am glad that I do and am glad that I resemble him in more ways than one.

At least I hope so.  You see, my father has shown me and everyone who knows him a character that is to not only to be admired, it is to be coveted.  This is a man who has been faithful to the same woman nearly 60 years.  She adores him for the man that he is, praises him for his love and support.  I have seen my parents grow together, fight for their love through disagreement, fiercely defend the other and put the other first above anything or anyone else.  If I had an ounce of the character shown to me over the years, I would be a much better person.  As my mother has grown sick the past few years, Dad has patiently cared for her despite the difficulties.  Does he do it without complaint?  No.  He has vented to me a few times, yet I know that he doesn’t take it out on her.  He needs her like she needs him.  Yes, I wish I had what they have.  Sadly, when it came to a wife, I didn’t get the same blessing, wish I had learned a little more from my father what it means to nurture his wife.  Dad loves my Mom, prays with her, shares with her in a way that would make anyone jealous of what they have.

Filled with His goodness, lost in His love.

Dad is a man who loves, loyal to a fault.  Dad cries tears of pride, openly proud of my brothers and I, of friends.  He has shown me what it means to work hard — built several houses for his family while working a difficult full time job.  Yet he still had time to show my brothers and I how to play baseball (and play the game with us when we got older), take us on countless camping trips, read the Bible with us, lead and taught at church, and showed us the value of family.  He is a leader, not just in the community but in our family, something my brothers and I as well as our mother has never doubted.  The man is as strong as can be, vital yet at 76 years, his energy and enthusiasm for life still a great example.  To say that my father is a good man is an understatement.  In it all, it is real obvious where my father draws his goodness.  He has learned a lot through his journey through life, a life that has been spent looking towards heaven.

This is my story, this is my song.  Praising my savior all the day long.

That is dad.  It really is.  I am glad for the blessing of the best father a man can have, one I can look up to, a man I can only only to be some day.  He is my father, a father that celebrate today.

I Scream, You Scream, We All Scream

Tags

anger, faith, God, life, marriage, marriage issues, relationships

I need to scream.  I am emotionally spent and I have no outlet.  I need to be comforted and hugged, but the one I thought would be there for me when I need her touch took that away from me a long time ago.. and she is the source of my frustration.

Where do you go when you need to scream?  What do you do?

I want to know.

Do you moan to God like David, at times feeling like God has rejected you?  I can relate.  I pray for relief, for change, and it seems like I am praying for naught.  My prayers feel empty.  I have yet to dance naked before God and everyone, like David did in his celebration.

Maybe that’s the answer?

Naaaaaa.

Do you spill your anger out on the people around you, the poison seeping from your pores, dripping from your tongue?  My mood threatens to turn black when the screams are trapped inside me, so much that I wish I could run from myself.  Instead, I run to a mirror, witness the distressed man that stares back at me, darkness lurking in his eyes, tears pooling.  Often enough, I am able to leave him there.

A bicycle provides escape for a time, each frustration shaved away as the pedals turn beneath me.  There was a time when the bicycle was the only outlet that I needed.  There are times when that is still the case, but more and more the screams stay with me.

I am not a violent man.  I can be an angry man, a man I have learned to fight simply because I know that I don’t handle the angry man very well.  Never am I tempted to strike out in an attempt to release the screams.  I am afraid of what might happen if I did.  I want to be angry with my words, but I don’t like to do that, so I hide my words away more often than not.  So I need to scream.  I want to scream.

I can’t.

I want to scream so loud that it all goes away.  The pain.  The want.  The sacrifice.  The woman who complains and takes, who gives so little back.

In a moment, I will retreat to an empty bed.  I will wake up to a still empty bed.

And I will live my day craving the opportunity to scream.

Some day it will happen.

 

All In

Tags

church, faith, giving, God, pastors, tithes

I have always held in high regards the people I know who are willing to push their limits, take themselves to one level and continue on.  Over the years of cycling I have known a lot of riders who seem to have a genetic ability to focus in a way that sets them apart, with a superhuman constitution or at least a switch in their brain that says ‘no’ to the signals their body is sending them, a Lance Armstrong focus without the doping.  I admire the fearless way they approach the challenges any ride presents.  No obstacle stops them whether it is a steep climb, a scary descent, a jump on a trail, or simply fried legs.

No fear.  Total commitment.

Scott is one of those fearless types.  I have been riding road with him for several years, enough to see him ride brakeless descents that I almost always white knuckle so much that I melt brake pads.  When we ride an event that requires a lot of climbing, I usually pass Scott on the climbs and flat sections, but Scott zooms by me on the screaming downhill sections.  I marvel not only at his skill as Scott zooms deftly by but at the lack of fear he has.  When I ask him about it, he says that his experience as a flat track motorcycle racer cured him of any fear he had of riding two wheels at speed.  Flat track racing meant laying a heavy machine practically flat into a curve, with the rider’s knee skimming or nearly skimming the ground, at speeds exceeding 150 mph.  His attitude when describing it was so matter of fact that I had no doubt that he barely thought about the danger of it all when descending a curvy road at speeds close to fifty mph.  I am so afraid for my life that I nearly wet myself if my fingers leave the brakes.  Scott craves the rush.

John and Jeff each like riding at the front of the pack, so much that they train for the endurance it takes to be there.  Each of them has a tolerance to pain that I find difficult to understand.  On a long group ride, I find myself wincing when one or both of them takes the front.  I know I am about to have my “legs torn off”.  The pace is going to raise to excrutiating, gut wrenching torture, such that requires one to reach down deep to keep from being dropped.  One let down and I am watching the back of the pack move quickly away.  I recognize the commitment, the total disregard for pain, the discipline required to be that type of rider.  To ride like that, you have to be willing to push yourself to a place you have never been, then build on that experience until you know the pain can be overcome.  You know longer fear the pain, you welcome it.

When I look at those three friends, I see three people who know what it means to be all in.  Committed.

They are familiar with their fears enough that fear has found a place in their success.

My friend Jim negotiates a tricky section of single track.

Overcoming fear involves taking a leap into what might cause pain.  The experience teaches.  Each victory builds until what once seemed impossible is behind, new challenges taking their place.  I discovered that when my interest in mountain biking was renewed last Fall and I found myself following my friends Jim and Jon over obstacles that years ago would have stopped me.  Fear on a mountain bike is a real enemy, one that can injure and make the obstacles more difficult.  If you don’t go all in on a steep descent, you likely are going to get hurt.

All I have said up to this point seems to point to a blog about commitment, about living without fear, taking the leap of faith.  You want to know what I really think?

Bull.

Hogwash.

A line of crap.

Vaginae.  (not really, but I just learned that term and wanted to use it in a blog)

I am hear to preach the benefits of living a lukewarm life.  “All in” middle class.  There is a lot to be said about knowing where you are and being happy about it, even accepting it.

* Look at that bit of belly and smile at the tasty burritos, beer, and chocolate that made it happen.

* Ride a dirt path through the woods and take the easy way around the tough stuff, happy in the peaceful exercise you are getting.

* Take the front on a group ride, ride full out as long as you can in the hopes that the guys behind you have had a chance to hurt, then drop back the rest of the ride, happy that the guys who have been busting their butt at four A.M. each day to be top dogs are now getting their due.

* Pick up Scott from the ditch at the bottom of the descent after his over confidence caused him to overshoot the curve.

I’m not saying that one should never put out the effort to be the best one can be.  Not at all.  Go for it if that is what you want to be about.

Never ever look down your nose at me if that is not what I am about.  I am not going to buy your performance enhancing product (thank you, Lance Armstrong, for adding the exclamation point to that one), not going to buy a fancy bicycle or accessories, not going to attend your boot camps, not going to work 60 hours every week and come in every Saturday.  My family is more important to me than that.  I have had my share of success, enough to bore my grandkids for hours when I have grandkids.  Success to me does not require bragging rights.  I’m not a park district give-them-a-trophy-for-blowing-their-nose type, but I am a guy who likes to have a life.  The type of commitment that involves

ALL IN

requires a focus that I am going to leave to the professionals who have just that one thing.

That is not bad.

Unless you tell someone that unless they go ALL IN, then they are lacking true faith.

Yep.

That is what the church I go to is doing right now.  The leaders of this church have launched a campaign they call “All In”.  It’s a campaign to raise twelve million dollars so that they can accomplish the task of bringing people back to God.  I call it

BULL

SHIT

Because that is what it is.  It is flat out propaganda designed to entice people to step out of their financial comfort zone, a fine idea of sorts if it is properly motivated, but telling people to test their faith by making insane pledges they should not be making is not the way to do it.  Why do I say that?

Because really this is a staff of ministers wanting to feel successful, to puff out their chests and be recognized for doing something big.  I know the guy behind this and I do not like it.  He recognizes and kisses up to the powerful, ignores the guys who can’t give him what he needs, which is their money.

How do I know that?  I needed help a year or so ago, needed to talk to our church pastor about the struggles I was having in my marriage.  Just an hour with someone to sort out my thoughts.  The pastor would not talk to me.  After several days of my asking to meet with him, he said really I would have to pay to go to a counselor instead.  He said he would pray for me, pushed me away, never checked on me again.  A few weeks later, he boasted in a sermon about how he is there for people who need him, especially when God tells him someone is in need.  Guess God told him I’m a paycheck to paycheck guy.

Honestly, I am all in.  Just not that kind of all in.

I was.  When the church started some 25 years ago, it grew from the sweat and tears of people like me who worked hard, gave up the majority of their free time, so that church could become the success it is today.  It’s a church of many thousands, spread over 15 different locations now, started from one tiny group of all in, committed Christians.  I was one of them.

Guess that’s not enough.

I wrote a letter to that pastor today, asked him to think about one question as this campaign for millions of dollars progresses, as he asks people to step out in faith to give money they have no idea where it is going to come from — does God say no to someone who wants to be blessed to give?  I say he does.  I say that is what God has done with me and my family.  And I am perfectly OK with that.

Relaxed

Tags

faith, friends, mountain biking

Four days in a row.  In December.  Even in the snow.

It has been years since I have been outside so much for bike rides.  I still can’t believe it has been four days in a row.. and so much fun.  My thighs are burning from the exertion of the constant uphill efforts riding a mountain bike off road requires, but it is such a pleasant burn.  Cap that off with the added energy.. this morning I did not want to stop when my buddies wanted to quit after 2.5 hours, and there is nothing but benefit.  I am having a blast, so much that my three friends laughed at my enthusiasm as we rode this morning.

We rode snow covered and very technical single track this morning.  The place we rode is like a roller coaster park, a bit intimidating when slick, but so fun.  When I had to put out an effort, especially when my rear wheel began to spin in the snow near the top of a climb, I began to grunt like a maniac to push myself hard enough to keep going to the top.  My friends starting mimicking me.   Great friends, eh?  We hit the parking lot, but my friend Jim told me to try out his nice carbon frame bike with studded tires.  I took his bike out for a few minutes — I could hear them joking that Steve may never come back.  What a ride!

My friend, Jim, is someone I met several years ago while on a weekly group ride that one of the local bike shops sponsors.  I fell in with him right away, especially after I overheard him talking about church to another rider and asked him if he was a believer.  Jim is a believer, a Christ follower, and I think he was encouraged by my boldness and willingness to talk about my faith openly in public.  I am a talker, you see, and not ashamed of most anything, whether it is talking about God, family, friends, sex, sports,.. you name it.  Jim and I have been friends since.  He’s an avid mountain biker and the first person I asked about riding mountain bikes last October when I got the itch.  The rest is history and riding with Jim and our friends Jon and Eric has become a weekly event.  They like having me around, commenting this morning that they have already ridden off road more in the past two months than they did the entire last year!

And Jim gave me the ultimate comment this morning as we were transitioning between single track this morning.

“You know, Steve, I was just thinking this week how we met, how we have gotten to know each other and I can’t help how God puts friends together in the most interesting ways.  I sure am glad we crossed paths. I have always found the way you talk to people so easily an encouragement and it makes it easier for me to talk to people. That’s a gift, Steve, something I admire.”

Such a compliment from such a great encourager.  Of course, Jim also was laughing because of something I didn’t mention — we started talking on those group rides years ago because an accident that was caused when I crossed his back wheel with my front wheel on a turn.  We became friends through a bicycle crash.

And there will be chances for many more.  There were a lot this morning, all snow related however.  Jim has become a friend that I would be willing to sacrifice for.  I almost had the opportunity a year ago.  Jim needed a liver transplant.  I called his doctor and asked her to talk to him about accepting a living donation from me.  God provided for him then, too, by providing another way.

 

Wrong place, Wrong time

Tags

faith, racism

As I read through the posts from my Multiply blog and decide if there are any that I want to live on, there is one that I want to save here.  This one may not be the only one, but it’s the one blog I remember I enjoy reading due to what I felt as I wrote the blog.  The blog is not well written.  I may be a bit better writer now than I was when the blog appeared in 2007, but not that much better.  Here is the blog in its entirety:

Occasionally I make reference to David Letterman comedy bits (EXCEPT FOR MY PANTS). Letterman is one of the most consistently funny people on TV, as far as I am concerned. One bit he has had on his show is his “Brush With Greatness” segment. Letterman selects people in his audience to talk about famous people they have met. There are always chuckles as someone tells about meeting Elvis’ cousin or something similar.

Everyone has had or will have a brush with greatness. I have had a few. One I am thinking about tonight came at a moment that might qualify as one of the most uncomfortable moments in my life. It’s one I hesitate to talk about. The reason will be obvious shortly.

My daughter, Alyssa, is a cute little curly-haired redhead. She is very fair skinned, with freckled cheeks and ice blue eyes. Alyssa has had to deal with being noticed her whole life, as people stop just to comment on her hair. It is not really something she enjoys, if only because she is also a bit on the shy side. I tell her it’s a price she has to pay for being so pretty!

One of Alyssa’s best friends has always been our neighbor’s daughter, Kharis Lewis. Kharis is a boisterous girl and she also happens to be black. Don’t call me racist for saying that, yet. It’s important for this story. The girls have a lot in common, in particular our families share a common belief in Jesus. We love our churches. Kharis has been to our church many times and Alyssa has gone to youth choir at Kharis’ church. That common belief is also what gives this story a bit of a twist.

Not too long after Alyssa went to choir practice with Kharis at her church, Kharis’ mother (Ella) thought it would be nice if Mir and I would bring Alyssa to their church one Sunday morning to hear Kharis sing in the church choir. We liked that idea. Ella is a great lady to talk to, but we thought it would be a good chance to get to know her better. We accepted the invitation.

Their church was a small Baptist church in Wheaton, Illinois. As we pulled into the gravel parking lot of the church, it was nice to see all the people dressed in their Sunday best — ladies with shawls and large hats, men in suits. Our church is very casual, so it was a change for us. We were dressed nicely as Ella had told us how people would be dressed. Ella met us at the side door from the parking lot. The service was about to start and she had reserved us seats in the second row from the front. Coming in from the side entrance would get us into the auditorium a little easier.

It also meant that we would come in right in front of everyone, as the church service was starting. All eyes were on us as we entered. We were the only white people in the auditorium.

And that should have been OK. We felt a little strange, but we were OK. Having a little fair-skinned redhead with us made us stand out a little more. It was kind of fun to see the people there sneak glances at us. As the singing began, things got better. The music rocked and the people in the congregation sang with enthusiasm. I loved it. I am used to loud music at church as our church has a rock band most every weekend. The singing was what was unique to me. I am not sure I have heard anything quite as good since.

After the singing, there was a choir special. It was great to hear Kharis in the choir. She was proud to be singing for us. We were proud of her.

The regular preacher was not speaking that morning. There was a guest preacher from a large church in Chicago. Ella was excited to get a chance to hear him speak as he was very well known. As he approached the pulpit, it seemed like he was paying particular attention to the pew we were in. It was quite noticeable.

Had I known why, I would have left the auditorium as swiftly as possible.

Don’t ask me what scripture the preacher used for his text that morning. I am not sure if he even referred to the Bible. Certainly he did, but what I do know is that the message he delivered that morning was not one from the Bible. What I do know is that it was a message he had not intended to deliver in front of a congregation that contained people with white skin. It was a message that showed me that racism is alive and well, and it’s not just something reserved for rednecks. All eyes were not directed at the preacher during his sermon, for he was spewing out his hatred for the white man. The white man was the reason why the black man could not get ahead, he was the one holding them down. I had never heard hatred preached from the pulpit. I held my head high, though and listened. The sermon would have been a long one, I think, had we not been there. However, the “amens” that would have kept the preacher going were very few.

The auditorium was very silent as the preacher finished. The singing was very subdued following his words. It made me wonder if this man really knew the people he was preaching to. Perhaps God had placed my redheaded little daughter and my family there that morning for a reason.

At the end of the service, there was a time where everyone was asked to greet the people around them. I found that a little odd. Usually that is an exercise given at the beginning of a church service. A very large, strong-looking man in front of us turned around. I recognized him. He was Leon Spinks, a 1976 gold medal Olympic boxer and a heavyweight who had beat Muhammed Ali. Had I not heard a sermon about how the white man was still oppressing the black man, I think I would have been more excited about meeting Leon Spinks!

I don’t want this post to be about racism. It exists and it is something that I loathe. When I was 7 years old, a black man pulled my arm through a fence and tried to break it. He made it obvious that he did it because I was white. I still remember that very clearly. Somehow, I always thought it was my fault, even though I did nothing to provoke it. Throughout my life, I have always gotten the feeling that people expect me to be prejudiced because I am white. It’s something I have always worried about — I don’t want to be that way. But things I hear coming out of my mouth sometimes make me wonder if I am. It makes me sad. It makes me wonder if it is true.

Some day, it’s not going to matter.

That was a brush with greatness I will remember, but not because of the celebrity I met that day.