Where is God in the wildfires of Colorado?

What is with God, allowing the fires in Colorado to destroy some homes, and not others?

Fair question, right?

No, he didn’t cause the fires, but he could have stopped them. Why didn’t he? Did some people say better prayers than others, as the fires got closer to their homes? Did he choose east winds instead of west?

Why are some always spared and others not?

If you’re looking for answers to those questions, look elsewhere. I don’t have them. (Though I’m as certain as I can be that the answer to “better prayers” assertion is, no.)

I do know this much. This is not Eden; this is not the world for which we were created. Of course, it didn’t take the destruction in Colorado to convince us of that. Too much divorce, molestation, cancer, paralysis, car crashes, broken hearts, shattered dreams, fatherless children, etc., etc., etc. to ever confuse this place as Eden.

How can I trust in God amidst all this?

How can I not?

If I’m not believing that God’s heart toward me is good, that he’s got this, that he means it when he says he’ll take the really crappy things that happen all around us, and bring good from it, then I’d be without hope.

So I make the conscious decision to trust. At least right now.

It'll be tested. 

But it's not the efficacy of my faith that I'm counting on. It's the object of my faith.

Lord, do what you do best, in Colorado, in Atlanta, and in me. Amen.

Wiffle Ball Chronicles, Part II

Each of us should please our neighbors for their good, to build them up – Romans 15:2

 I wrote a piece on the death of our cul-de-sac wiffle ball games a couple of weeks ago, and it seemed to resonate with quite a few people. Now I want to introduce you to the family that lives behind home plate.

In the first blog I wrote, I mentioned John, referring to him as the elder statesmen of our group. He’s patriarch of the house behind home plate, and the owner of the couch where I now watch games instead of play in them.

He and his wife, Jana, and their house, have become home base for me. It's no more than 100 yards from my driveway, but it has been my favorite mini-vacation escape spot for a decade or so.

Sometimes, it offered 30 minutes of peace that I wasn't experiencing that moment at my own home. Sometimes, it offered a reminder that the crazy at my house wasn't that different from the crazy at everyone else's place.

Truth is, sometimes being a spectator to the daily ups and downs, spats and tiffs, and screaming and eye rolling in someone else's real life offers something that you can't get in any other way. It says: "I'm OK; You're OK."

It says: "We're OK."

The flairups in John and Jana's home are short-lived, but often very funny, at least to me. They are usually high-decibeled and colorful in language. The participants are evenly matched in their wit and verbal sparring ability. The beauty of it is that neither one possess a glass jaw. Or a knockout punch. To have either one of those would mean someone would get hurt.

I'm sure, at some point over the years, someone has gotten hurt there. I've not seen it though. In fact, I don't know of any house where there is less deliberately hurting of others than in this house.

John never met a kid he didn't like, or a kid he didn't want to coach. He's the youngest 61-year-old man any of us know. It helps that he had kids relatively late in life. His youngest, Ben, is 14. I'll tell you about him in a future blog, but John's active involvement with Ben is one of the reasons he's young in spirit.

He's coached Ben in lacrosse for many years now. But every kid who has played wiffle ball, or basketball in his driveway, or run a pass route in the street, has gotten coached on how to do it a little better.

John will tell you that its not his most endearing quality -- the need to constantly be instructing kids on how to play smarter or more fundamentally sound. He might be right. Ben reminds him from time to time to turn off the coaching while the other kids politely listen and nod their head.

But there's usually little evidence that any of it has sunk in.

But if the worst thing you can say about a grown man is that he offers a tad bit more instruction than necessary, that's pretty doggone good. It means, if nothing else, he's in the kids' arena, a part of their lives, a reliable and steady presence, whose instruction -- though not always welcomed at the time -- never belittled, and never made a kid not want to come back.

Jana, the cul-de-sac mom, is a decade younger than John. She's equal parts June Cleaver and Roseanne. The woman lives for opening her home and serving others. Somehow, she turns a chicken fajita meal into a Mexican moment to die for. She's the mom who wants the kids in her house in her yard, rather than at someone else's house or yard. That's the Leave it to Beaver part.

The summer-gown-wearing, irreverent, loud, boisterous, spirited woman who never met a challenge she'd back down from -- that's the Roseanne part.

And who wouldn't love a woman who could pull off all that?

For sure, John and Jana are the glue in our dysfunctional little community. And having lived in a few other neighborhoods, I know this much: Not every community has a John and Jana. And those who don’t? Well, they might live in a great house with neighbors who smile and wave, mow their grass, and never play the stereo too loud.

But they don’t have what we have.

Pitcher's perfection is a reflection of the Gift Giver

Pitcher Matt Cain was perfect last night for the San Francisco Giants. Twenty-seven men came to bat against him; 27 men were retired. First time that’s ever happened for a Giants pitcher.

Every good and perfect gift comes from above.

Cain might or might not know this. I do.

And because of that, I celebrate with all of my heart when I see someone shimmering and shining and thus reflecting the Light of the World.

Few things move me more than seeing someone in his or her element; doing what he or she loves most, and have a moment like Matt Cain’s.

Bubba Watson did it this spring at the Masters. (He’s really, really not shining so far at the U.S. Open.)

But his Masters performance was a virtuoso. The golf shot that guy hit on the second hole of the playoffs is still being talked about in golf circles.

Eventually, Bubba putted it in from about 12 inches.

And he falls apart.

The weight of what he’s just done, the culmination of years of practicing and playing, brings him to tears.

A few minutes later, he’s talking about Jesus, on this Easter Sunday, to a national TV audience.

That was simply icing on the cake to me. I knew what I was seeing, and I knew where it came from.

What is about Beethoven, Handel, or Bach that so many find deeply moving, even “a religious experience?”

When Usain Bolt runs 100 meters in 9.6 seconds in the Olympics, it’s majestic.

When Rafael Nadal and Novak Djokovic play five hours on the biggest tennis stage in the world, and spend every ounce of energy they have, it’s glorious.

I am not a huge golf fan. But I expect to be drawn closer to God on every Masters’ Sunday. Because even if the winning golfer doesn’t know it – and Bubba did – and even if they won’t acknowledge it, the gifts of God are going to be on display on Masters Sunday.

Matthew 3:15, in the Message version, states: “If I make you light-bearers, you don't think I'm going to hide you under a bucket, do you? I'm putting you on a light stand. Now that I've put you there on a hilltop, on a light stand—shine!

My unspoken prayer that day, and again this morning, was something like this: “Restore unto me, the joy of my salvation."

We need that joy to be restored on a daily basis, because it is under assault by an enemy who seeks to kill, steal and destroy. Find the restoration of your joy of the Lord wherever you can.

A perfect game is as good a place as any.

Am I willing to give up my rights to be right?

Standing up for myself or laying myself down for others.

One sounds rewarding, one sounds, well, hard.

And here’s the rub: I can't do them both, at least not at the same time.

I must make a decision, right then and there, in that split second of a confrontation and conflict.

Rights or love?

Law or grace?

Self or others?

But I'm right!!!

Rarely am I right, and this time, I am! 

I know my heart on this dispute or disagreement. And yes, I'm right!

"Let it go," I hear in a still, small voice. "Let love win out over your right to claim your rights."

The confrontation ended. Throughout it, I displayed nothing but grace, kindness and sincerity.

Honestly.

So how, now, am I convinced that I totally whiffed on it?

For one, I stewed about it for a while. A long while.

Secondly, I did what comes so naturally to me. I shared my encounter with a few friends. At least subconsciously, I'm sure I was looking for affirmation that I was indeed right and that I had taken the higher road. I was playing it out for self and for others, over and over again.

I was lining up my defense, one by one, and building my case for rightness.

The still, small voice whispers again: "Let it go. Let go of it."

Sigh.

Yes. Let it go.

But the call is not just to let it go because it's no big deal, not worth thinking more about. Those are easy, or easier, to let go.

Instead, this time it is a plea for me to surrender what I want most out of this particular situation, and that's the assurance that I was right.

And indeed, I was right.

Now, am I willing to surrender that declaration, in the name of love?

Because if I have all the rightness in the world, but don’t have love, then I have nothing.

To the C Students Everywhere: This One's For You

It's graduation time all over the country, and because most won't say it, I will: Here’s to all the C students!

To the ones who tried their best and still got Cs, to the ones who know they could have tried harder, and got Cs.

What’s there to say about those who could have done more homework but didn’t, who could have studied an extra couple of hours a week, but for whatever reason, chose not to?

These are the kids, and the parents, we refuse to celebrate or honor. Instead, we label them as lazy – both the kid and the parents. 

Evidence seems to be on society’s side on this too. How else do you explain how a smart child, from a stable home, would put forth so little (outward) effort in making good grades? Or how would a parent allow their child to waste their evenings on Facebook or playing videos instead of preparing for that test?

How can we possibly catch up with China if we allow this to go on.

We can’t figure out how this could happen – from the student or the parent – except to call it pure laziness.

Hmmm. Now who’s being lazy?

To not be able to find a better explanation, and thus settle for the easy explanation of laziness, requires no imagination, no inquisitive thought, no introspective examination. Still, we go with that.

That deserves an F.

Because what else might be true about this child?

In fact, what might be the truest thing of all about him or her?

What if her heart hurt so badly, so often, that she escaped into a cocoon of safety every afternoon that didn’t include a math book? Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted.

What if his private world looked nothing like the public one? Or what if -- even only in his adolescent head -- the world just looked too weird and troublesome to understand? Blessed are the poor in spirit, for they shall inherit the kingdom.

What if there is a war raging at home? Or even if the war was just inside the kid’s mind and emotions? Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of God.

What if they are eaten up with insecurities and are not assertive or bold enough to stand up for himself, and campaign for a better grade? Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.

What if their best friend is hurting and they pay too much attention to that and not enough attention to physics? Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy.

What about the kids who have no excuses, live in a good little world, and their only hope lies in the mercy and goodness and grace of God? Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.

To all the teachers out there who see these kids and offer a merciful heart (not an "A") you too shall obtain mercy. And for showing it to a kid, probably an extra helping of it.

Those teachers who didn’t, well, you guys can do the math, right?

Truth is, sometimes the answer is as simple as laziness. I don't think it's usually that clear cut though.

Regardless, this is what I know to be true of every C student in the world:

-- They are loved by the Lover of our Souls as much as any A student.

  

--They are often uniquely able to see the hurt in others rather than the shortcomings.

--They are positioned to be keenly aware that God’s love for them is not based on their performance. They will need to be guided in this, but they are likely to cling to this truth quicker than those who are convinced they can perform their way into acceptance.

 

-- They will not be recognized for any of these things, at least not on a stage, or on a bumper sticker, or on Facebook, by their mom who is “blessed” because Susie once again made honor roll.

So here’s to all those kids who have so much good in them, so much hurt around them or so much confusion in their world. 

Because good or bad grades? They are both temporary. 

What is not temporary: The infinite value of knowing Christ Jesus. Compared to that, it’s all rubbish.

Nothing Lasts Forever -- not even Wiffle Ball

The days seem to last forever in summertime, particularly when you are kid, or at least a kid at heart. Seemingly endless daylight brings with it endless opportunities to experience community, usually without even thinking about it.

It’s crazy how long the summer day is, but how short the summer season is. No matter what, it seemed school was always right around the corner. Nothing lasts forever. For everything, there is a season, for every activity under heaven. A time to be born and a time to die.

         The Boys of Summer died for me a couple of years ago. The individual players, the people that cluttered the cul-de-sac night after night, they are all alive and well. Many of them are still relevant in my life.

But the fellowship born of sweat, sinkerballs and yellow plastic bats that had become such a centerpiece in this 40-something’s summer nightscape, evaporated so suddenly and definitively, that it only could be called a death.

         For five years or so, this group of gangly adolescents and over-the-hill men would play Wiffle Ball in the cul-de-sac almost every night of the summer. The size would range from six people to 14 or so; the ages ranged from about 8 to 55. Mostly, it was boys and their dads. Sometimes girls would play. I don’t think moms ever did, for whatever reason. Maybe it was their 90 minutes of having the home to themselves.

         I’m not sure the asphalt and chalk-marked bases ever really felt like a field of dreams for anyone. No one, no adults and certainly none of the kids, ever walked back to their house on any given night with even a trace of nostalgia.

I don’t think the boys consciously knew that this was a place where they could test their masculinity against that of their dad. The question every little boy wants their dad to answer affirmatively for them – “Do I have what it takes?” – was being addressed nightly.

Could they muscle up on a ball and put one over the head of the left fielder, all the way into Mr. Brown’s perfectly manicured garden? Because if they could, they’d be the toast of their team -- at least for a moment or two. Or perhaps they’d make a diving catch into a front yard – even on a ball that didn’t really require diving to catch. Those were equally awe-inspiring to the other kids.

         Occasionally one of us adults would screw it up and the question would be answered with belittlement or embarrassment. Mostly, though, I think, we got it right.

         The magic of what was happening night after night wasn’t just lost on the kids. I don’t think the dads thought there was anything particularly meaningful about what had just taken place.

         We’d sweated a lot; we knew that much.  And at least half of us had played in flip-flops and swore to never do that again.

         About as deep as it ever got was that occasionally, we’d mention how good it was of us to be spending time with our kids this way. (I wonder if the kids were secretly telling each other how good it was of them to spend time with the old man.)

         There never seemed to be a reason to analyze these nights any further, or deposit anything into the memory bank.

Because there would always be tomorrow night.

         The weekend before the first day of school was the unofficial end of our season. Maybe if we’d labeled it The Official End of the Season, we’d have given it at least a second’s worth of thought about how this was it for nine months.

Maybe we’d have given some ceremonial nod to the fact that carefree nights were giving way to the angst of homework and peer pressure and rules. Maybe we’d have played an extra inning, even though it was be dark. And maybe we’d chest bump after the last out and hug our kids and tell them how much better they had gotten and how much older we had gotten.

But probably not. Because there was never a feeling that this was temporary. Because even when there was no tomorrow, there was always next summer.

Two summers ago, we played probably 50 games.

Last summer, we played none.

The end was that sudden.

One boy had moved away, but the rest had done something far worse. They had gotten six inches taller and a decade older in a span of 12 months.

In my second year of Wiffle Ball retirement, I see a couple of the boys throwing lacrosse balls or running their lawn-care service. And almost every night, I walk down to the cul-de-sac, to the house behind home plate, and watch an inning or two of the Braves with John, the elder statesmen of the crew that once was.

I miss our version of the Boys of Summer. But with it clearly in the rear view mirror, I can now see it for what it was – pure goodness. It was community. And I find tremendous refuge in knowing that my community, even my summertime, is still strong. Neighbors still act like neighbors. There’s love, there’s fellowship and there’s always the cup of sugar when you are a little short.

I just wish there was still Wiffle Ball.