A Year and a Day

new born out of old
familiar yields, becomes adventure
take flight

change occurs slowly
then avalanche
take shelter

darkness succumbs to light
squint into the glare
take notice

forgotten, only a mist
recall as a dream
take memories

time is hasty
day-night flicker on a screen
take a breath

My Name is Michael

Growing up I lived in three distinct worlds: school, church, and the neighborhood. There was no crossover between them. I had separate friends in each location and a different social standing and reputation in each.

During my years of Jr. High – grades 7 through 9 – this was before middle school, I had three school friends, Pat a red-headed Irish kid, Steve who I don’t really remember too well, and Hammie. Hammie was the brightest of the group or at least he had the best grades. He and I had a similar sense of humor and I became closer to him than the others.

None of us really fit in with any of the other groups at school. We weren’t “cool” enough for the in-crowd and not “odd” enough for any of the out-crowd groups.

Each of us was in a different section – the way our school was arranged. You took all of your classes with the same group of 30 – 35 kids. There were 17 sections. However, we were all in the same level so we had the same teachers, lessons, assignments….This had been a bit overwhelming for me coming from an elementary where there was one class of each grade and all of my friends from there were in lower expectation sections. In other words they went to shop class I was prepared for college.

We ate lunch at the same time, which is probably where we met. Lost and lonely, we found refuge at a lunch table. And after several hundred lunches and running the halls between classes we became “school” friends. Occasionally I hung out with Pat on the weekend, since we lived near each other but other than school the four of us had little interaction.

Our jr. high and high school were basically on the same property but separated by acres of athletic fields. The move to the high school buildings for 10th grade was even more traumatic then the move from elementary to jr. high. Another jr. high about the same size joined at 10th grade and the size of the high school doubled. As I stumbled through the unfamiliar halls and classes where I did not know anyone, I was on the look-out for my jr. high buddies.

On the second or perhaps the third day, I spotted my old pal Hammie leaning against some lockers among several upper classmen.
“Hey, Hammie, How ya doin!”
He looked straight ahead, above me, beyond me. “My name is Michael”, he said without emotion or expression.
At 14 I was not the always aware of social situations. “Huh, ya, ok. Hey, Michael” …: as I cheerfully began to ask about his classes….
Sternly, but now with sadness in his eyes he spoke again.
“My name is Michael!” with a strong emphasis on the first syllable, “and you don’t know me.”

I then noticed his military fatigue jacket and the upper classmen who were dressed the same, and no one was smiling.

I stammered awkwardly and backed away, very confused. I thought a lot about our encounter over that day and for several days after. I realized that there were no longer any black kids in my classes anymore. My elementary school was 60 % black, but the high school was less than 10%.

I was confronted that year by the stream of racism, a cultural barrier that I was both unaware and unprepared. I discovered the ugly hand of prejudice that year. And I learned that not all divisions are desired but the pressures to maintain those divisions are unmovable. From time to time I saw my friend Michael. We learned the subtle acknowledgement of a head nod but never had another conversation.

I would say that I came to accept and function “where I belonged” but still never really understood. Here’s to you, Hammie.

Better Days

In August of ’06 I received a CD in the mail – Better Days by the Robbie Seay Band. I am not totally sure why I had ordered it. Somehow and somewhere I had seen a recommendation and took a chance. I had it in the player of my car and it had probably played through once when I got into the car after receiving a phone call from my wife, Dottie.

She was in Miami for a routine breast examination at a clinic because her doctor was uneasy with the results of the yearly mammogram. Dottie had been told it’s probably nothing but the doctor thought it would be best to have a particular clinic in Miami examine her. Dottie’s call confirmed that the doctor at the clinic had found a lump – and I had one in my throat.
As I began to drive the title tract came on…

“First of all, thanks for listening to our song,
We hope this finds you driving in your car,…”

The words of the song flowed like a friend speaking to me as I clicked repeat time after time on the drive home.

“…Grace has found me,
Shaken up my soul,
Grace will follow,
Where ever you will go,…”

Never really said much about the song or the CD but I think Dottie thought it odd that the CD remained in the player for several weeks. I know my son did. I would let the album play through but each time Better Days came up I would replay it several times.

“…Here come better days
And here come better days,
Better days, and a better place I know.”

And through the weeks that became months, after each appointment and consultation where we were told by doctors, “I am sure that we will not need to …but let’s check just to be sure. The song became a friend and a rock to set my anchor as I believe God spoke to me through the song – Better Days – I knew it would be alright in the end.

“…Listen to me now for grace, oh grace, is calling…”

Through two operations, the learning that Chemotherapy was not an option but a requirement, as was the eight weeks of daily radiation treatments necessitating a 75 mile drive after teaching a sixth grade class all day.

“…Breathe out and breath again,
Know that life is hard,
But it's worth breathing…”

I believe that God speaks through His scriptures, in dreams and visions, from the “still small voice” but also through a song. The song was playing on the evening we learned that an operation was necessary, and after the first operation while I drove to the pharmacy to get some prescription filled.

“…Green grass, and I'm laying in the sunlight of you,
And the wind is moving through the trees ushering you,
And the better days you bring, the better places found,
Feasting at your table I am overwhelmed, …"

It was not the song but the presence of God that comforted me, but he used the song. How many times did it play, I don’t know but it spoke to me of hope and a future.

“…I lift my glass drink to love and never gave up,
Clouds pass fading into memories gone,
And all I'll show life is life, and love is.
What else could there be?”

Indeed God speaks once,
Or twice, yet no one notices it.
“In a dream, a vision of the night,
When sleep falls on men…
Job 33:14

I believe God spoke to me and I am thankful he did.

The Present of a Rubber Hose Factory

Or musings about communication:
Maybe it was a blessing, maybe a cruel joke but I was given – for a wedding present – a 3 month job in a rubber hose factory. I really needed a job for the summer as I was newly married and would not begin my career in Christian education until the fall. So it was a blessing, but as a Yankee in a small southern town I had my share of challenges which is the cruel joke.

I was to work in an area of the factory called maintenance. Most of the fellows in the department had routines and scheduled tasks to perform, but as the new guy I needed to constantly ask a foreman for an assignment.

After the first day, I had little dealings with the department manager. All of my communication took place with a foreman, George, who was a black man from the county. In 1977 this was unusual and he had difficulty with his confidence in ordering white men, and I had difficulty understanding him.

Now a southern drawl is not all that difficult to understand, but people from the rural parts of the county where I was had more of a dialect than a drawl and with the droning of rubber processing machines and the beating of boilers and that George would always turn his head away from me when he spoke caused me much difficulty in perceiving what he desired me to do. Usually I needed to ask him to repeat himself several times. I could tell that this caused him severe emotional uneasiness.

Returning from lunch break one afternoon I was motioned by George to follow him. This was unusual as he had never lead me to a task; he simply sent me. After a short walk I found myself in a boiler room. The booms of turning machinery echoed off the concrete walls and George spoke with his head in his southern-black country drawl and with his head turned for several minutes. I studied the situation’ could think of nothing I could possible do; so I followed him as he left. He did not seem concerned. For the next 30 minutes we walked around the factory, stopping several places and he spoke at each. Sometimes there was another person present and perhaps the instructions were for them or maybe for me, I just didn’t know.

I can imagine you think it strange that I didn’t stop and inquire of the foreman, “Hey, am I supposed to do something here.” But you were not part of the culture of the factory. Not that I totally understood but I did realize that I was not to ask questions. I was an outsider – my name had been changed to “Damn Yankee” or perhaps that was my title? Anyway no one really wanted to interact with me more than they had to. George, the foreman, also had culture mores that he could not break. He was unable to relate as a boss to a white man. I guess I am slow as I did not realize this was an issue until I observed him with fellow black employees. My questions, which came from the communication problems always made him nervous and he would become very self-conscious. The awkwardness that followed was enough to keep a 23 year-old quiet.

Regardless, after following him around for a while, we came to a place where I understood something to do and stayed there completing a task after he walked away. To this day I do not know if this was the one and only place he requested I work or if he just kept assigning until I accepted one.

After 53 years of church attendance in evangelistic churches with 30 plus years in some position of leadership I wonder if we communicate in a similar manner as George and the culture of the factory. How many are in our sanctuaries and simply due to cultural differences become treated like a “Damn Yankee” in a “good ‘ol boy” Southern factory.

Are we afraid to look into the face, eye to eye, because we are afraid of what we may see? Or is it that the person is different from us? So we turn away and speak a language that is almost understood, but causes confusion – our “Jesus-speak”.

I wonder how many are ready and willing to carry out the mission of Jesus and his kingdom but are following leaders and never quite understanding that through the power of the Holy Spirit we can serve right now because of the culture and language of the leadership?

I wonder if leaders that are frustrated and negative about their “people” who are not “serving” the Lord should reevaluate how they are communicating.

Anyhow, I was just wondering.

We’re Just Crazy

We’re Just Crazy

One discovery I made through 25 years of high school basketball coaching was that each team had a different and collective personality: the players blended together uniquely and distinctly. In the world of athletics this is called chemistry. As a coach, my desire and obligation was to discern the personality and then adapt to it, or so was my style.

During the early-90’s we had a very talented group lead by several strong-willed seniors. My assistant coach, Doug and I knew that we had the potential to win the conference title. Knowing that the group dynamic lent toward silliness; we were very serious and were a bit more disciplined in our approach than we had been with some other squads.

We won a few games early in the season and all seemed to be going according to plan. The players were confident in their ability, we coaches knew were properly prepared, but there was something missing.

The team struggled; we won games but did not prevail against the better teams. Something was missing that “chemistry”. Doug and I tried various schemes but nothing seemed to work.
Toward the end of the season we were scheduled to face our arch-rival Princeton Christian. The game was to on their home court; the stands were packed to overflowing. Before the game in the locker room during the obligatory “pep-talk”, I searched for a way to communicate our need to just have fun, be loose, play our game. I could see how tense the fellows were; here our season was winding down, our goals were no longer obtainable and they had “the deer in the headlight look” of a team that was playing not to lose rather than playing to win.

Several of the team leaders were really into their music. Personal CD players had recently come out and now after Christmas everyone had one. From my memory I gave this “inspired” speech about playing with a song on their heart and lips. Taking me literally, someone asked, “You mean, I can sing … while I am playing. I don’t recall the song – though surely not on the approved Christian school play list – I said, “Sure…

Several others asked and became animated and joking as I agreed to all of their songs. The clowning around continued into our warm-ups. Anyway, the fellows played loose, won the game easily, much to the crowds chagrin and our delight. Somehow victories on the other school’s court have always been special.
Leaving the parking lot in the van were nine joyful players. One player David had been singing “Achy Breaky Heart by Billy Ray Cyrus and had changed the words to reflect our win and Princeton’s broken heart. The parody cracked everyone up, I can still hear the players singing at the top of their lungs as we pulled away from the school. Doug told David and the rest of the team, “You’re just crazy!” Somehow that caught their fancy and it became the catchphrase of the night and the source of many jokes as we went to a restaurant to eat.

A few days later we were scheduled for our last home game against an undefeated Horeb Christian who had already clinched the conference title that we had claimed for ourselves many weeks earlier.

Horeb had not lost a game to anyone that season! This was their last game before the state tournament. They were a quick fast breaking Hispanic team from Dade County who played excellent defense. Earlier in the season they had blown us out by 20 points. For the Bulls of Horeb we were just a tune up match before the tournament.

Doug and I had decided that we had been wrong in our analysis of the team’s personality and need of discipline and structure from us, the coaches. During the three days of practice between the Princeton win and the Horeb match up we emphasized and cultivated the “We’re Just Crazy” persona. Additionally, we decided to use that as our strategy for the entire game.

The fellows had really enjoyed practices – believe me – they needed little encouragement to be raucous. However, they did not really believe that we would allow that to carry over into a game. I don’t recall what I said in my pre-game speech but I encouraged them to fulfill their destiny of being “just crazy”. Actually the speech became more like a celebrity roast highlighting and charactering each player’s unique brand of craziness.
Our warm-ups, to say the least, were unique. I believe that the players were testing Doug and me to see if we really meant – “Go Be Crazy”.

I really got into the role of directing the craziness as the game progressed. Horeb seemed a little bewildered early but were well coached and disciplined so they just played hardnosed basketball. It is probably is not possible to accurately describe the flow of the game and how Doug and I orchestrated the craziness.
The lead changed hands minute by minute. Much to Horeb’s surprise, and perhaps our own, we were matching them basket for basket – defense play to defensive play.

Half time, for us, was spent making jokes about the Bulls. (
Imagine a school named Horeb with the mascot of Bulls – Horebbulls, how easy it was.) If you have not been around teenage jocks then this may shock you but the name Horeb, their cheerleaders, the players themselves all become fodder for “humor”.

Midway through the third quarter Horeb went on a run and established a 7 or 8 point lead. Of course, I called a time-out. Good coaching move, basketball purists might say, break the momentum, inspire the troops … However, I called this timeout to have a towel fight between he bench player and the starters. The bench won; we had the towels.

It was about this time that I saw the “look” in the Horeb players eyes – they knew we were crazy and were baffled and beginning to have a small dose of fear.

Another “highlight” was the timeout with about three minutes left in the game. We had a 3 or 4 point lead. I used this T/O to perform a juggling demonstration with three basketballs. They had never seen me juggle – a talent I had kept hidden – and the T/O turned into a one-up-man-ship showcase of strange and unusual talents. The officials who were equally baffled at this point had to come break it up so the game could be finished.
However, the coup de grace occurred during the final minute when the Horeb squad began to foul stopping the clock hoping we would miss free-throws giving them the opportunity to save their unblemished season. Usually this is a time when high-schoolers tense up and only total concentration allowing the muscle memory of making hundreds of shots in practice wins the day.

Often, as hard as this is to believe about the fine Christian young men of our conference schools, taunts will be spoken to rattle the shooter. Horeb never got the chance; we were trash-talking to our own shooters. The expression of bewilderment on the Horeb faces was priceless.

Tony was on the line for us, and Jason was taking bets with odds that he would miss. Tony was giving as much as he took. He missed the shots. Horeb quickly took the ball down court and cut our lead by two.

We were still up by two when Jason was fouled. Tony was really into his trashing routine. The razzing continued as Tony bet $5.00 with Jason. He began his routine, two dribbles, bent knees, lifted the ball to his shoulder …and stopped, “Double or nothing, left-handed.”
Tony agreed, Jason laughed, quickly shot with is left hand and …swish, a three point lead. Horeb called, “Time out”.

We were now up three and only 20 seconds or so to a major upset. I watched as the Horeb staff attempted to focus and motivate their players. I no longer needed to encourage anymore “craziness”, they were in the “zone” as in Comedy or Twilight Zone. The bench player‘s had come up with a cheer – probably mocking the other teams cheerleaders. I know, I know, chill, take a deep breath – I’ve repented, recited John Wooden Pyramid of Success, watched Hoosiers three times, and genuflexed to the shrine of Naismith.
The bet was increased to $20.00 but with Jason’s eyes closed. I am not certain and perhaps I imagined it, but I thought I saw the Horeb captain tell his coach, “It doesn’t matter, they’re just crazy…”
We went out; Jason covered his eyes with his left forearm and sank another free-throw.

For the message of the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing, but to us who are being saved it is the power of God…. But God chose the foolish things of the world to shame the wise; God chose the weak things of the world to shame the strong….

I wonder if we sometimes have the wrong strategy for evangelism, too many rules, and structured programs, not to mention “Chic Tracks”. And in our meetings, are we so structured with our “order of service” and production notes, like the coach with perfectly designed plays. Maybe we could simply go out and meet people, pray for them, meet a physical need, laugh or grieve. Have a party or hang out were one was happening; you know like do the stuff Jesus did. Ah, but that would just be crazy.

Happy Birthday

Today is my ½ birthday day. I waited for the cards and surprise party but none came.

SIGNS THAT I AM GETTING OLDER:

• I am proud of my lawn mower.
• I burn the midnight oil until 9:00 P.M.
• I can't remember the last time I laid on the floor to watch television.
• I confuse having a clear conscience with having a bad memory.
• I feel like the morning after when I haven't been anywhere the night before.

White Shoes

white shoes
never before worn

jump higher
run faster

lace 'em up
good and tight

jump higher
run faster

no mismatched pair!
no hand me downs!

mine, they fit
custum made

jump higher
run faster

or maybe just stroll

those who hope in the lord
renew their strength
they will soar on wings like eagles
they will run and not grow weary
they will walk and not be faint