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After what seemed like a week of traveling, and feeling as though we should’ve been in Canada, we finally made it to Steamboat Springs, Colorado.  All in all, it wasn’t a bad trip, but it was eventful.  Within two hours, while in Colorado, we experienced sunshine and hot temperatures; rain; hail; tornadoes; and snow.  I had to check the map twice to make sure we were in Colorado and not Oz.  It was amazing.

We decided to stop for lunch in Denver and ended up at the Texas Roadhouse in Aurora.  The food was good, our waitress was from Massachusetts, and the weather, unbeknownst to us, was changing outside.  It had just starting raining as we left the restaurant, and the wind had picked up.

After getting in the van, and continuing our trek through Denver, the rain started coming down in drops the size of water balloons it seemed.  And then, it hailed.  I’m not talking pea-size hail . . . golf ball sized hail.  It literally sounded like the hail was going to come through the roof of the van.  The hail was coming down so much that we, along with ever car in front of us on I-225, stopped for cover under an overpass.  It looked like a parking lot on the freeway.  No one was observing the lanes; I thought I was in Zambia again.

I saw a break in the clouds toward the direction we were traveling, and after weaving my way through the logjam on the freeway, drove as quickly (and almost legally) as I could away from the storm.  Kristen, who was sitting directly behind me yelled, “Oh my gosh, there’s a tornado!”  And sure enough, in the area where we had just eaten lunch, we could see a well-defined tornado coming down out of the clouds and moving quickly towards the ground.  We found out later on the news that there had been 5 tornadoes, one of which had hit in the area where we had eaten lunch.   So . . . that was the hail and tornado part of the trip.

Same day, just about an hour or so later, it snowed on us as we made our way over Berthoud Pass (elevation about 9,000 ft.).  We stopped and took photos along the way of a raging creek of runoff snow coming down from the mountains, and took in the scenery.  How anyone can believe there is no God is beyond belief to me.

More to come as we vacation.

This morning I have been chewing on a passage of Scripture, and a thought brought to light by John Piper.  In the poetic work that Job pens, Eliphaz says of God, “As for me, I would seek God, and to God would commit my cause, who does great things and unsearchable, marvelous things without number:he gives rain on the earth and sends water on the fields . . .”  (Job 5:8-10)  

I can understand what Piper means when, at first glance, it seems that something more significant, or majestic, or even mysterious than rain could have been given as an illustration of “great things” . . . or “unsearchable, marvelous.”  But isn’t that just it for us many times?  Don’t we just carelessly glance at all that God has done and is doing?  We take for granted things like rain, and fail to see the wonder behind it.  We expect the sun to come up; the moon to shine; the stars to shimmer; leaves to change colors.  I could go on, but I think you get the point.  When’s the last time you saw the sun set while driving home, or as you sat on the front porch, or gazed out your window, and instead of thinking that it was a beautiful sight thought to yourself, “Wow, God, how do you do it?  That is amazing!”?  It’s a tragic thing when God’s ways and wonders become all too familiar to us.  

Here’s what I’ve learned this morning from my time of listening to God’s voice:  our understanding of His majesty and splendor is magnified as we meditate on, chew on, think on, struggle with Him and His ways.  It’s not that He is magnified–He’s already magnified in that He cannot be anymore majestic, splendid, and glorious than He already is.  But we ascribe glory to Him as our understanding of who He is deepens through meditating on His Word and His wonders.  So, let it rain, and may we meditate deeply.  Let it rain, and let us proclaim that there is no God like our God.  He is incomparable and matchless.  No one is His equal.  His ways are unsearchable and marvelous.  Today I pray we are left breathless and in awe of His wonder.

Sometimes I call him “K-Man.”  At other times, “Smiley”–he’s got the best smile, which makes it hard when I’m getting on to him about something.  He’s one of the coolest kids I know, and he just happens to be my oldest son.  For those of you who know Kevin, you understand what I’m talking about; for those of you who don’t, let me explain, and hopefully one day you’ll have the pleasure of meeting him.

Kevin has a way of challenging me without him even being aware of it.  Not too long ago Kevin and I went golfing.  Let me rephrase that . . . I went golfing; he just wanted to drive the golf cart.  For some reason, he must have thought we were in a 4×4 because we went places golf carts aren’t intended to go.  After about 6 holes, he asked, “How am I doing, dad?”  The only answer I could get out of my mouth was, “We’re still breathing.”  I thought about saying, “Stop driving like your mother,” but I knew he would talk.  Seriously though, we had a great time jumping curbs and forging through water hazards.  And the sand traps . . . I won’t even go there. 

But it was on the 10th hole that God spoke to me through Kevin, and I’ll never forget it.  I had just hit an awesome, Tiger-Woodsesque drive . . .(it’s my blog and I can embellish if I want to) . . . so I’m in the rough.  After finally getting on the green, Kevin hands me the putter.  As I begin to line up the putt, I say to Kevin, “Hey, why don’t you come over here and putt this thing in.”  And this was his response:  ”Dad, that wouldn’t be right because we didn’t pay for me to play.  That’d be like stealing, wouldn’t it?”  

“Ummm . . .yeah, Kev, I was just testing your level of integrity, son.  You passed.”  Are you kidding me?  Now I know that there might be some of you who would say, “It’s just a putt, no big deal.  Isn’t that a little unrealistic, unreasonable, legalistic?”  Not to Kevin.  And in that moment of being slammed with a challenge, inside I was overwhelmed at what my son had just displayed.  Integrity.  Maybe he wouldn’t have called it that, but he verbalized, in the truest sense, what the essence of integrity is.  

Often times you wonder, as a parent, if your kids are getting it.  Here’s what I’ve learned:  if you’re speaking it, and modeling it, they’re going to catch it.  And that is true whether what you are speaking and doing is right or wrong.  They’re going to catch whatever it is that you are giving your life fully to.  Sobering thought, but true nonetheless.  

I have pledged my life to fully follow Jesus, even though I feel at times that I’ve trumped the apostle Paul at being the chief of sinners.  As well, as  I follow Christ, my prayer and aim is that I will continue to become an authentic man worthy of both my sons emulating–a man who rejects passivity, accepts responsibility, leads courageously, and expects God’s greater reward.  

On the golf course I saw a glimpse of Kevin’s journey to authentic manhood.  And even though he never took a putt, he by far had the best shot of the day.

Although I was hoping to blog each day while in Zambia, it just wasn’t going to happen.  Needless to say, it’s Africa.  There was an “internet connection,” but it was like riding a slug when you’re use to a Ferrari.  The first day I tried to load a page, it took 10 minutes . . . just for the text.  As a friend of mine says, “Africa wins again.”

So . . .

There is much to be said in the upcoming posts simply because it cannot all be said now.  For those of you who have had the privilege of engaging in missions, especially in 3rd world countries, there is always much to be processed.  One thing that I’ve learned, after my sixth trip to Africa, is that no trip is ever routine.  It is never mundane, or typical.  It is always unique.  If you listen, and go with eyes-wide-open, and your heart equally receptive, there is much you will learn; and question; and chew on; and cry over; and be changed by it all.

People often ask me, “How was it?  Tell me all about it.”  And I try.  But there are no words that could ever adequately describe the experience.  You just have to go . . . and quite honestly, you should.  Maybe not to Africa, but somewhere.  Whether it’s in a third-world country or across the street visiting with a neighbor, the location of your mission engagement is not what makes the experience indescribable.  It’s the activity of God in that place that makes the experience impossible to put into words.  Wherever it is, you should go.  And the reason you should go is because, as Christ-followers, we are called to do so.  It really isn’t an option if obedience is the desire of your heart.

For the past five years, I have had the privilege of spending time in Zambia, Africa.  My heart, it seems, is drawn there.  As a matter of fact, I often tell people that my second home is Zambia . . . and I mean it.  I can’t put my finger on why, but my heart is wrapped around the people; and what God is doing there resonates deeply within me.  Perhaps it’s working with orphans at the Chande Orphanage in Ndeke township.  I’m not certain of all the details of Heaven, but it seems that God gives me a glimpse and a taste of what it might be like when I walk into a room of 260 children who are singing “Here I Am to Worship,” and they are smiling and singing with angelic voices like they truly mean it.

Or, it could be that I am so drawn there because the taste of death is palatable, both phyisically and spiritually.  These people, not unlike the other 1.6 billion unreached people in the world, are in need of the life that is only found in Jesus Christ.  I am humbled that God allowed me to see 313 people give their lives to Christ while we were there.  And I have been changed by one in particular, whose surrender will be forever etched in my memory.  The story goes like this . . . I was asked to preach a three night crusade at a “soccer field” in a township called Wusakile, just outside of Kitwe–a city of close to 1.2 million people.  On the second night of the crusade, the crowd gathered as two choirs from local churches began to sing on the make-shift stage that was constructed by men from local churches in a matter of just a day and a half.  If you had seen what they had to work with, and what they built, you would be amazed.  By the time the music had finished, and just before I got up to speak, there was a moment where I caught just a glimpse, perhaps, of what it must have been like for Jesus when the crowds would gather to hear Him speak.  From the stage I could see those who had gathered in front of the platform, but on the fringes people were sitting on logs; leaning against trees; standing outside bars; even across the highway people were standing and listening.  It was an amazing thing.  As I finished the message, and desperately tried hard not to worry about the bugs that were flying in my mouth and the grasshopper that had taken up residence on the back of my neck during the sermon, the invitation was given to anyone who wanted to come and talk with a counselor about giving their life to Christ.  And this is what I’ll never forget:  an middle-aged man, from the back of the crowd, began to walk forward.  But as he was coming to the stage, both of his hands were held high in the air.  His head was somewhat bowed down.  Out of all the people that were coming down, he caught my attention.  This man understood what it meant to completely surrender.  As a matter of fact, as he approached the stage to talk with a counselor, he was led to a grassy area just to the left of the stage, and even then he still had his hands up.  The counselor was the one who lowered this man’s hands.  Talk about fighting back the tears.  In all honesty, the song that kept coming to my mind was, “All to Jesus, I surrender.  All to Him I freely give.  I will ever love and trust Him, in His daily presence live.  I surrender all.  I surrender all.  All to Jesus, I surrender.  I surrender all.”

For me, the take-away is this:  Everyday should be lived with such surrender.  It’s impossible to cling to that which steals our affections when we come to Jesus with both hands open, and lifted high.  So, here’s to living today with open hands, lifted high, so that we might embrace the one who is worthy of our surrender.

(more to come and with photos)

So . . today the journey begins.  As of now, I am sitting in terminal “D” at D/FW, wating to board the long flight to Zambia, Africa,  via London.  There are 14 of us who are traveling, many of whom have never walked on African soil.  We are anticipating God to move in a way that would completely overwhelm us, and praying that He would use us for His fame and renown.

I pray that God would unleash His glory in the midst of a people who are in desperate need; that He, as Isaiah said, would rend the heavens and come down.  Some, to be sure, are dying from AIDS . . . a disease that is ravaging a nation.  But even more prevalent is the spiritual longing of a people in need of Jesus Christ.

My hope is that each day I’ll have the opportunity to update you on what God is doing here in Zambia.  I invite you to pray for those to whom we will be ministering . . . that they might come to know the love, hope, forgiveness and life that is only found in Jesus.

More to come on the journey.

It’s never easy describing what you experience on a mission trip.  There aren’t enough words in the English language, and even if there were I’m not sure that you could find the right ones that would accurately describe the experience.  It’s like the apostle John trying to record what he saw when he wrote down the Revelation given to him.  He described the best he knew how with the limited words he was familiar with at the time.  

As of now, I’m in Ecuador, South America (Otavalo, Ecuador to be exact) with a team from Compassion International.  In short, Compassion’s purpose is releasing children from poverty in Jesus’ name; and for the past three days I have witnessed that purpose vividly expressed in a way that has left an indelible mark on my life.  

I have heard story after story from children whose lives have been changed by Compassion’s ministry, and whose eyes beam with a sense of hope and purpose for the future.  Without a doubt, God is changing the lives of people here, Compassion is just a tool.  

More to come as I process this.  When you experience God’s Spirit moving in the lives of people, and you are right in the middle of it all, it’s like trying to drink from a fire hydrant.  It takes time to take it all in.

Mondays are my Sabbath. Needless to say, I look forward to Mondays while most others look for reasons to avoid them.  But today’s Sabbath was especially special.  It just so happens that this day of Sabbath intersected with the day my wife was born 39 years ago.  She doesn’t mind me telling you her age because she’s younger than me (barely), and that’s all that matters to her.

So, because it was Jenn’s birthday, we celebrated.  I had every intention to serve her breakfast in bed, but she always gets up before me.  Go figure.  Knowing that, I left her birthday card in front of the coffee pot the night before so she would be assured that she was on my mind even before I got up.  She was sung to by the kids and me, with not so perfect harmony; she and I ate lunch together, went to the mall (including Kirkland’s and Bath and Body Works–it was her birthday, you know); Kristen baked her first cake for her mom; we celebrated at P.F. Chang’s in both Chinese and English . . .ok, maybe not Chinese.  And finally we came home, ate cake, drank coffee and finished in style with watching 24.  Today was a celebration . . .and it was restful.

Now that the day is drawing to a close, here’s what I’ve learned:  Sabbath is about rest, and I found that significant rest is found in celebrating life, especially the life of someone you deeply love.

It’s not uncommon for me to hear my daughter tell me, “Dad, you’re weird.”  And she may be right.  I have my quirks that probably are weird to her, and to others I’m sure.  But the other day, while taking Kris to school, I glanced over to see her with her mouth wide open (and not saying a word . . . which really is weird), and putting on mascara.  All I could do was laugh.

“Kris, why do you open your mouth to put on mascara?”  It was her reply that dumbfounded me:  ”That’s how you put on mascara.”  Really?  Is there a course you take to learn how to hold you mouth correctly, or is it just instinctual?  So, it made me wonder:  when she’s tying her shoes, does she close her eyes?  When she’s putting on lipstick, does she pinch her nose? And what about when she brushes her teeth, does she rub her tummy?  Seriously.  And I’m weird?

I’ve been a student pastor, and am a parent of a teenager. Now that all has been heard (and seen), here is the conclusion of the matter:  whenever a teenager tells you that you’re weird, take heart, you are normal.

I’m not a fan of opossums.  They are overgrown rats with a bad toupee.

They’re habitual liars.  They have no sense of time.  They love the night life . . . they like to boogie . . . in my backyard at night . . .yeah (adapted from a cheesy 70’s song).

It was 2:30 in the morning when the opossum showed up in my backyard, and apparently he had an attitude to go along with his bad toupee.  To my knowledge, I was sleeping soundly when my dogs began barking and growling as if they were entangled in a death match with an intruder.  It was one of those moments when you are in deep sleep, and something so loud breaks the silence that you sit up with eyes wide open, but not really awake.  I reached for my glasses, but decided not to get my gun and one bullet (Barney Fife is my mentor), until I assessed the situation.

After slowly walking through the kitchen, I turned on our porchlight and peered out the window of our backdoor.  And there was the opossum, surrounded by my two dogs–Coco and Smokey.  Vicious sounding, I know (come to think of it, I think Captain and Tennille’s original stage names were Coco and Smokey). Nonetheless, the dogs wouldn’t relent, and neither would the opossum.  He was obviously beyond the point of playing dead.

I did what any dog-owner would do at 2:30 in the morning–yelled at the dogs with my inside voice.  I don’t know if you’ve ever tried that in a similiar situation, but it doesn’t work.  So, I took drastic measures.  I found a grapefruit.  You see, my thought process was that if I could throw it at the opossum, it would scare him enough to cause him to run, and my dogs to think that playtime was over.  That was, of course, if the opossum didn’t like grapefruit.  If he had been a grapefruit lover, I would have had to break out the grapes; and you just can’t scare a opossum with grapes (according to Wikipedia).

So, picked up the grapefruit, and it was oily . . . because it was rotten.  After opening the door, I stepped out onto the back porch, rared back, and let the grapefruit . . . slip right out of my grip.  The next thing I knew it hit the fence, far from the opossum; but the sound was so loud that it scared the opossum, the dogs, and even me.  Porch lights suddenly came on at every house that surrounded ours, and I wasn’t appropriately dressed for the occasion.

But, the opossum left, and I got rid of a rotten grapefruit–two things that desperately needed to go.

You may be wondering what the point of the story is, and honestly there isnt’ one.  I’m just not a fan of opossums . . . or rotten grapefruit.

Earlier this week, my time of extended “renewal,” or as I like to call it, sabbatical, came to an end.  Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying that I’ve ceased resting or observing Sabbath rest, but the time for me to be away has come to a close.  And guess who was waiting for me when I returned?  Satan.  The weird thing is that he had a smirk on his face, as if he was up to something.  And he was.  And he is.

Apparently he’s looking for a fight, and he’s been working non-stop preparing, planning, scheming, how he will attack.  He never rests.  It reminds me of a cliche that I’ve heard many church-going, yet clueless, people use (God love them) throughout my ministry years in reference to resting:  “The devil doesn’t take a vacation, why should you?” I’ve thought about that over the years, and have come up with some decent one-line responses, such as: “Because I don’t want to end up like YOU.” Or, “Because my aim in life is to NOT be like the devil.” Or, just a simple thought of, “Idiot.” The last one, I’m almost sure, isn’t Christ-like, but I’m just being honest.  “You brood of vipers” just didn’t seem to fit.

But probably the best answer, the Scriptural answer, is that I choose to rest because God commands it, and at the same time, invites me into it.  I’ve found that to keep that command, even on the Sabbath, is a fight.  There isn’t a doubt in my mind that Satan cringes when we observe Sabbath rest, simply because he detests obedient followers of Jesus.  I’m sure he’s aware that a Christ-follower who experiences the true rest of Jesus is one who develops a new way of thinking; which creates a new perspective regardless of his or her circumstances; who is much more refreshed, and therefore much more aware of God’s activity and Satan’s tactics.  Satan hates the Sabbath.

Think about it this way:  if the enemy can convince you that your busyness is more important, more necessary, more profitable than Sabbath rest, you open yourself up to the fallible thought that your way of living life is better than God’s way.  To ignore Sabbath rest is the catalyst of forgetting God.  And forgetting God is a dangerous thing.

That’s why you must fight for rest.  You must guard diligently against letting others, as well-intended as they may be, from stealing your time of rest with God; guard your schedule; guard your family time; guard your time in His Word; guard your play time.  There’s always going to be one more item on your list.  There’s always going to be one more load of laundry to wash.  There’s always going to be one more visit you need to make.  You do what you can, when you can, but guard Sabbath rest.  Even Jesus left those who were in need of healing, desiring His presence at their dinner party, wanting counseling, so that He might rest.

I wonder . . .what if Jesus had not taken time to rest?  In His humanity, surely it would’ve affected Him.  The truth is we’re not sure what would have happened.  So, I’ll not assume much more.  But what we do know is this:  He left the many to rest in the presence of the ONE He called “Abba.” Although there is fighting for the rest, there is no fighting in His rest.

So, crawl up in His lap.  I’ve found that His lap is big enough for you to take a nap; take a walk; read His Word; read a wholesome book; talk to Him; be playful; worship Him.  But in all things, rest.