Beautifully Broken

Do you ever struggle with your own self worth because of the things you’ve been through? Do you look at the clean shiny people around you with envy, and wonder what they would think if they saw you for how you really are, the damage that’s been done to you, or how you feel on the inside? I know I do. Often I feel like my value to other people is diminished when they learn my story, or see my brokenness. What I have done in this life won’t be written about in history books. I won’t be talked about when I am gone, and for every success God has given me, I can show you twice as many failures of my own making. I have dozens of fractures and scars, not to mention regrets, mistakes, and injured relationships. 

So let’s talk about broken.

Have you ever heard of an art form called Kintsugi ? 

In the middle of 15th century Japan, the eighth shogun Ashikaga Yoshimasa inherited a delicate and rare tea set. The tea set had initially been gifted to Taira no Shigemori by a Chinese Emperor of the Song dynasty. In this tea set was a beautiful Celadon bowl, renowned for its thin flawless porcelain, and its exquisite jade like color. It was also extremely difficult to produce. During the Song dynasty it was the official porcelain of the Chinese court, and for it’s duration (960-1279 AD ) bowls, cups, and all manner of utensils were expertly crafted in this fashion, both for beauty and function. Soon these dishes became highly prized, even by foreign interests.

So imagine Ashikaga’s displeasure as he opened his tea box. This rare and beautiful possession, more than 300 years old, was now useless. He could see the tabletop through the shattered bottom, its perfect exterior  tarnished by a long, ugly crack. Someone had broken it.

Me too, Bowl. Me Too.

Can you relate? I think many of us have felt broken, our usefulness and potential destroyed. More than once, I have fallen on my face before God, knowing that my life was in shambles, my ministry unrecoverable, my entire world a mixture of shame, loneliness, and defeat. I was broken, unable to serve my intended purpose, good for nothing. Sometimes, I still feel that way.

Anyways, back to our bowl.

Upset about the damage to the tea set, and it’s utter lack of usefulness, Ashikaga did what many of us would do. 

He tried to send it back.  

Since Amazon didn’t exist back then, Ashikaga gave the bowl to an emissary, and sent him to China to exchange it for a NEW bowl that would match the tea set. ( I’m assuming he had a receipt) Unfortunately,  the manner in which true Longquan Celadon was manufactured had already been lost to time. At the Longquan Kiln, the wizened master potter turned the bowl slowly over in his hands. He shook his head and looked up “It is impossible.” He said. “To make such a beautiful bowl twice.” Instead the Master potter used a mixture of gold powder and laquer to fill the spaces, and installed large bronze staples, like stitches; along the cracks.

I can only imagine that Ashikaga was furious when the bowl was returned to him. Instead of a flawless beautifully functional bowl, he held in his hands the ugly duckling of tea bowls. Irate, he gave the newly repaired bowl a name “Bakohan”, because the garish bronze staples reminded him of locusts. (Bakohan means large locust clamps)

He placed the bowl back into the tea set, and tried to hide his disappointment. The bowl’s perfection was ruined, its value diminished. 

Or was it?

Word began to spread about the bowl, it’s history a curious novelty. It had been gifted by an Emperor and used ceremonially for nearly three hundred years. It had been broken, and sent back across the sea to China. It had been repaired, and despite its hideous scars and staples, had made its way back to Japan where it had been given a name. This simple tea bowl had something that the other bowls in the Shogun’s palace did not… it had a story. 

As Japan grew, so too did the story of the bowl. The history it had witnessed became tied to the scar it bore. The broken yet skillfully restored bowl inspired something new- The repairing of broken vessels using rare metals and lacquers, in a way that made them more beautiful and exquisite than they had been when they were created. This art form became known as Kintsugi. Kintsugi in its own right became a new philosophy, that breakage and repair should be considered as part of an objects history, and carefully considered when evaluating it aesthetically. Kintsugi as a philosophy is simply this: Brokenness can become something far beyond Beautiful if it is illuminated, rather than disguised or hidden. 

What would Bakohan’s story have been if it had remained unbroken? For centuries it had already served ceremonial teas, sealing relationships and negotiations. It might have continued that existence until today, continually serving, perfect in form and function. We will never know. Its brokenness changed its identity, defining it.  

Today, the bowl known as Bakohan is on display in the Tokyo National Museum. Millions of visitors have been impacted by their visit to Bakohan, the broken bowl. It shines as a philosophical icon of true value, and artistically as an example of things which are “beautifully broken”. Its place is forever secure as one of Japan’s National Treasures. It is considered PRICELESS.

What about you and I though? Interestingly, the Bible says in psalms 51 that “The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit: A broken and contrite heart, O God, thou wilt not despise.” Sacrifices are the gifts that we give to God, but why would God want a broken anything? I have asked myself that question many times. I think it boils down to this: Grace can never invade the self sufficient heart. The perfect vessel, or the vessel that believes it is perfect, will never feel the touch of the Master’s hands. 

Think about that for a second. Does it dawn on you, as it did me, that our breaks and fractures, our own insufficiency is what creates room for God? In 2 Corinthians 12, Paul beseeches God earnestly 3 times about his brokenness. The answer from God is this: “My grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made PERFECT in weakness.” Paul goes on to say:  “Therefore I take pleasure in infirmities, in reproaches, in necessities, in persecutions, in distresses for Christ’s sake: for when I am weak, THEN AM I STRONG. 

We too should take comfort in our brokenness. Our Father knows our broken places intimately, and his grace longs to fill them.When we allow him to enter our broken hearts, we aren’t just healed… we aren’t just restored… when his grace fills the voids within us, the strength it lends us is made PERFECT, not despite our weakness, but because of our weakness. 

When we allow Christ to restore what we have shattered, our dreams, our lives, our purpose; there can be no doubt- the Master’s touch creates new life within the fragments, transcends utilitarian and makes the most humble of vessels a work of art… and even though it is still broken, and always will be, now it is… 

                                                                                                       …Beautifully Broken.

 We’re not going to Bethsaida

“And straightway he constrained his disciples to get into the ship and go to the other side before unto Bethsaida, while he sent the people away.” - Mark 6:45

Have you ever been lost? They asked Daniel Boone one time if he had ever been lost. Ol’ D.B. pondered quietly for a moment, and then replied: “No, but once I was a mite bewildered for 3 days.”

I guess lost can mean different things to different people. 

I am not Daniel Boone, and I have been lost.

I was a young man when I felt God’s call on my life for the first time. After high school, I studied for my BA in Theology at a place called Jackson College of Ministry in Jackson, Mississippi. After less than 2 years, without the money to continue to pay my tuition, and with flagging grades, I withdrew, and returned home in failure. It was the beginning of an existential crisis, one that quickly became a common theme in my life. Struggling to reach the destination God had placed within my heart… and failing over and over again. Slowly but inevitably, I began to question. “Why would you call me, and then all of this happen?” “Why put this in my heart, and then let every door be slammed in my face?” 

 Most of that time I felt like I was forgotten by God. I felt Lost. 

You don’t have to be a firefighter for long before you realize that “lost” is the worst thing a firefighter can be. Getting lost in a fire can have immediate and tragic consequences- forget Chicago fire- you can’t see your hand in front of your face, and it’s hot, and it’s dangerous. Nothing about that environment is survivable without layers of PPE, special training, and precautions. There’s no margin for error. Get lost in there, separated from your partner, and it could be the last thing you ever do.

Getting lost or turned around on the way to a call is just as bad, especially in your own “First Due”. (The term firefighters use for the territory assigned them) People are counting on you to be there- people in distress- and every second it takes you to get there belongs to THEM, not you. Get lost going to a call, and someone else may have to bear tragic consequences. That’s something no firefighter wants to live with. 

We train hard to try to prevent accidents like that. We spend hours every shift, usually right after lunch, making sure when the tones drop, we know where we are going, what we are doing when we get there, and what to do if things go from bad to worse. The answers to all three of these things are definitive and simple. I find that comforting, and it is probably one of the reasons I was so drawn to the fire service in the first place. I like simple questions with simple solutions. 

Now let me set the stage for some really complicated questions, and see how you would answer them.

The Sea of Galilee is the lowest freshwater lake in the world, right around 700 ft below sea level. It is only 33 miles in circumference, and  an observer standing almost anywhere along its edge can see the entire shoreline. It is also unusually warm, and surrounded by steep, rocky shore. Because of this, very dramatic and unique weather develops here. Cooler air will move in from the north, channeled southward down the Jordan river. It accelerates as it drops into the valley above the sea, falls through the warm air above it, and creates tremendous winds and storms when it hits the water. That is most likely what the disciples encountered in Mark 6:48
, and it’s here that our story plays out. 

Christ has just fed the 5000. (1)

 They are in a “desert place” probably near the town of Tiberias, on the west side of the sea. (At the beginning of the chapter they had left Jesus’ hometown, where the people’s unbelief had limited his ability to work miracles in their life- but that’s a whole message unto itself, isn’t it?) 

He sends the disciples, in a boat; before him, across the sea to Bethsaida (2) while he sends the crowd away. The disciples know where they are going. Most of them grew up on this sea. Andrew, James, John, and Peter… and  Peter’s mother and family still lived in Bethsaida. I would imagine they are glad to be going home. They most likely believed that Christ would follow them by walking the high road around the sea- a journey of a few days, and until he got there, they would finally get that rest he had offered them (verse 31). While Christ goes to a mountain to pray (probably Mt Arbel, highest point on the Sea of Galilee) the disciples set off an easy trip of an hour or so, since the sea is only 8 miles at it’s widest point. ( the average cross fitter rows 2000 meters, roughly 1/6 this distance in less than 10 minutes. Granted that’s on a rowing machine, and in the air conditioning… but have you ever rowed 2000 meters? Exactly. It’s horrible, but I digress) 

The Bible says that when even was come (about 6pm) the ship was “in the midst” of the sea, and they toiled in rowing, because of the wind blowing against their progress.  This is when Christ sees them. 

Finally, during “the fourth watch”, (between 3am and 6am) he begins to walk across the sea and would have PASSED THEM BY - Also, if you’re doing the math, the time between even and the fourth watch is a minimum of 9 hours. The disciples see him, walking on water and leap to the completely rational assumption that what they see is a spirit, and they “cry out” because they are troubled. No judgement here. I have never seen anyone walking across the water towards me in the middle of the night, in the middle of a storm. If I did, I’m not sure “troubled” is the word I would use.

Christ tells them: Be of good cheer. It is I, be not afraid.” He gets in the boat, and immediately the winds cease. You have probably heard that story a dozen times, but have you ever noticed this?

As dawn breaks, they draw in to the shore… only.... they aren’t in Bethsaida. They are in Genneserat. Genneserat is on the same side of the shore that they left 9-12 hours ago, and within a few hours walk. They are exhausted. And as they begin to ponder the events of the last few days you have to wonder how they felt. What was going through their minds?

I can imagine that I know exactly the way they felt. I can imagine that I know the questions they began to ask:

“Why the Storm, if you control them?” 

“Were you just going to leave us out there?”

And the most important question of all: 

“Why would the God of all creation, who knows everything, tell me to go somewhere he never wanted me to go in the first place ?” 

My heart burned to ask God that same question for years. Even today, I am definitely not where I felt I was “Called” to go. For a long time I struggled with that- I felt betrayed- not just by those I trusted and depended on, not just by my own shortcomings and failures, but by GOD. 

I failed for so long, trying to get to somewhere I KNEW he told me to go. And I spent all of that time wondering if the “Calling” was true and I was incapable of achieving it, or if I had been mistaken, and was being turned away by the very hand of God. 

Shocking isn’t it? 

The story in Mark 6 has been in my heart for a few years now. It made me feel better, and I wanted to write about it for much of that time, but could never find the words- and believe me, I tried. I talked about the story with everyone I knew, my Christian friends, my wife… trying to flesh out the lesson that seemed to settle my soul, but defied expression. What was it about this story? 

It is only this morning that God spoke to my heart.

We fixate on destination. And with good reason. If you do not have a destination(in this world) then you can never be sure of your direction. If you are unsure of your direction, then you are either stationary, or lost.. maybe both. 

This doesn’t hold true for our calling though, and we all have a calling. YOUR calling exists the second God lays it upon your heart- and it exists no matter where you go, or what you do. Who you are never depends on WHERE you are. The gifts and the calling of God are without repentance (they don’t go away, Romans 11:29). So let go of where you think you should be, and BE who you are called to be…. Wherever you are. The destination is irrelevant. 

God sees you. He sees the storm. He hasn’t forgotten you. He can’t. And he is intimately concerned with your life. (Isaiah 49:15 says that a mother may forget her infant child, but he will not forget you)

And the final and ultimate lesson is this: 

In those moments when you are unsure of everything, destination, direction, even survival… all you have to do is invite him into the boat. And once you do, you will realize- that was what was important all along. 

We’re not even going to Bethsaida, and it doesn’t matter. 

  

 

I really don't know if you have ever been in a position to pray for a miracle or not. I have. And I have seen God work in ways that most people wouldn't believe. But a week ago, our family was praying for a miracle for our little fur-baby, Briget. Were we wasting GOD's time asking for a miracle for her?  

For Backstory, Briget had an extremely rough early life. At only a few months old, her owner's vehicle caught fire with her trapped inside. She was rescued by Louisville Fire Department's Chief, James Davis, but was left severely burned, and still can't grow hair through the scar tissue that mars a large portion of her body. Her owner took this baby home, and without pain meds or sufficient treatment, left her to recover.

 Within just a few weeks, deputies with the county called my wife to say this poor baby was tied to a cinder block in a backyard. Her lead she was tied to was less than 2' long.  There was no shelter, food, or water nearby.                                                           So Briget was confiscated, and charges of neglect and animal cruelty were drafted. The charges were later dropped on the condition that the owner would allow Briget to go into foster care, and get the treatment she needed.

That is how Briget came to us to foster. One look at her though, and I knew she wasn't a foster. Her burns spoke to my heart as a firefighter, her calm, gentle demeanor belied the trauma she'd endured. How could I ever let someone else take her?  For whatever reason, as much as she needed us, I just knew we also needed her. Briget was a Weathers now.

That was 4 years ago. Yesterday, we found out our baby has endocarditis, and CHF. We left our Vet's office in the early morning, drove her to see a cardiologist, and then to an animal hospital in Athens, Ga. The prognosis was a 20% chance of recovery. We prayed for her and left her there in a tiny oxygen tent, under the watchful eye of the best care possible. 

Funny how when the time to trust God comes how difficult it can be. I wonder if he sees us, if he gets involved in situations that might seem irrelevant to ourselves and others, and sometimes if my own failures and mistrust has created too much distance for him to get involved. I sometimes wonder if across time, he reaches into our "Now" and still does miracles. 

This morning I was reading Mark chapter 1. At the very end of the chapter, Mark recounts the miracle of Jesus healing the leper. A healing from Leprosy wasn't like a healing from being lame though- Leprosy was such a serious and highly transmittable disease that your "cure" had to be proven to the priests before you could return to society. Jesus instructed the leper to "go, show yourself to the priests" and "tell no one." Apparently, being healed of leprosy is a lot like taking CrossFit though... cause dude told everybody. Out of curiosity, I looked up what he was required to do when he met the priests, and it is pretty extensive, lasting more than a week, and involving multiple acts and sacrifices. (Leviticus 14) 

The whole "show yourself to the priests" thing also got me wondering; "How many people in the bible were actually healed of leprosy?" The bible only speaks of one, and he was an Assyrian- his name was Naaman. (Luke 4:27, 2 Kings 5) He wouldn't subscribe to Judaic beliefs, so he definitely wouldn't need to do the cleansing ritual. And if NO OTHER lepers were cleansed in the entirety of the word, then who was this ritual for? 

When one ponders this, then the immensity of the miracle of the leper comes into view. There is really only one explanation: Even before there was time, GOD knew he was going to heal that man. He knew people would doubt the healing and need context from the law before they accepted it. And so, long before this leper was born, GOD detailed that ritual to Moses. And long before he detailed it to Moses, he looked through time, saw a loud mouthed leper, the vilest of the unclean, and his heart was moved with compassion. He created that ritual specifically for him.

I wonder how many times the leprous man, isolated from his family, cast out of the nation, unable to work or get medical attention wondered: "Does God even see me? Are my problems important to him?" I would wager that he felt hopeless, alone, and afraid. More often than not, he felt abandoned by God, and totally irrelevant.

How could he possibly know that GOD had seen him before he was born, and that his story would be immortalized forever, inshrined in the very story of the Messiah's ministry? How encouraging it is to know that regardless of our perspective, his perspective is unchanging, and He sees all. He loves all, He feels for us all.

Briget gettin all the pats

Do you ever feel irrelevant? Do you wonder if GOD sees you, or if your problems aren't big enough to be HIS problems? Rest assured HE sees. HE knows. and HE is intimately concerned with the things that concern YOU. 

Briget is home now. She is in good health and spirits, but will have lingering effects and take meds for the rest of her life. Her hospital stay was less than half the time they anticipated though, and her recovery has been in fact, miraculous. I look at this picture of her resting on my lap, with a smile on her face, and I know--- As assuredly as the fact that NOTHING is too big for my God, by that same token; NOTHING is too small for him either. 

The Phantoms of silent hall

His weary footsteps echo in this hallowed hall,                

It's divinity born of ten thousand calls,
Where a thousand men-
Better than him,
Scattered pieces of their souls.
Across the floor, along the walls,
His mind projects each hopeless cause,
A spectral play, the scenes of day,
The phantoms of silent hall.


The seconds count the minutes by-
Hours come and go.
Is there never now to be a time,
when in darkness he can close his eyes,
Leave images lie still behind-
Let peaceful dreams unfold ?

Not tonight.
Spectral plays this endless day,
The pounding arm of the clock betrays,
The phantoms in the hall.

Heavy burden, not of flesh,
But his to carry none the less,
Sweeps peace aside and spills regret,
As he walks the noiseless hall.


 Contemplation, born of same regret, fueled by doubt,
becomes merciless threat,
to the sleep he would recall.
What might have been, what should not be, what he could not help,
now can't unsee,
 plays spectral on the walls; taciturn, unpaused.
Then from his trembling lips slips sigh,
A Doppelgänger to the anguished "WHY" ?
still smoldering in his mind.


Why? 

There is no reason why.
The answer then, Can never lie-
In how GOD answers that cry,
But each man must find inside, 

a reason all his own.

for the phantoms of the hall.

Five Blocks and another world away-
in deepest peaceful slumber lay- tiny boy and little girl,
Tousle headed, dreams secure,

 at the end of a quiet hall.

And for these two, he'd long endure,
Sisyphus' or Atlas' chore,

shoulder the burden, stand his tour, 

preparing his way,

under the watchful gaze, 

Of the Phantoms of silent hall.

The Gift

Have you ever received a gift you will never forget? something so impressive, or so touching it never leaves your memory ? Well, I have, and that's what this post is about.
Oh, by the way; the only correlation between "firefighting" and this post is that an utter lack of firefighting may be what ultimately led to me receiving "the gift". I realize that needs more explanation, so here goes.

 The story of  "the gift" actually begins on Halloween of the previous year.
On Halloween night,  our home mysteriously burned to the ground.
The only reason suspicion did not immediately fall on either me or  my two younger brothers (my co-conspirators, as my Father referred to them.) was that we had been dragged to church several hours before by our jailers, or as we referred to them, "mom and dad". Halloween had fallen on a Wednesday that year, and the church had done it's part to ensure the safety of our small community by keeping the three us off the streets. I'm sure the citizens of our little community were very grateful.
There's very little excitement to be had at a church Halloween party, the only exception being the brief period during which Howard Schnotz, the kid with narcolepsy, was bobbing for apples. For a few brief moments the tension was so thick you could have cut it with a knife.
It was on the drive home that things really became heated( pun intended).We were stopped at the end of our road by a volunteer firefighter with a flashlight. " You can't go up there ma'am." he told my Mother, " There's a house on fire." I perked up at this.  A house on fire? I thought. well, that's exciting.
 I naively wondered which of our two neighbor's houses were on fire. I can now remember seeing in my mother's expression that she had crunched these same numbers too, and didn't like the odds. Without saying a word, she slammed on the gas, careening around the young man's pick-up truck. The next thing I knew, we were standing in our own front yard, watching everything we had go up in flames. The volunteer fire department that serviced our area had stopped at the sign which signalled the limit of their territory, and were watching the house burn... fifty feet from the end of our driveway.

Time travel not having been invented yet, I was momentarily spared from the suspicion of arson, although I do remember my father staring at me for an uncomfortable period of time with what could only be described as a cool, calculating look.
Because it was Halloween, or maybe some other factor, the cause of the fire was ruled  " suspicious". Because it was ruled suspicious, the insurance company refused to pay. Because the insurance refused to pay, we were acutely poor.

Acutely poor isn't nearly as bad as you might think, and in no time at all, we were no longer living with family, or wearing hand me downs left by a malicious band of color blind leprechauns. My Father worked his hands to the bone just to be able to buy a small, 2 bedroom construction style trailer to replace the home we lost, all while he and my mother attended nursing school full time. The trailer was haphazardly pulled-up onto our small three acre tract, my brother's shared one room, my parents the other. I slept on the couch in what we euphemistically called the " living room". we all shared the single bathroom.

Though we didn't know it at the time, my father was struggling with a tremendous amount of fatherly guilt. The meager Christmas from the year of the "Burn", the claustrophobic surroundings, and the loss of our entire stock of toys weighed heavily on his mind. And so, without saying a word, my Father scrimped and saved, pooling every extra penny. His secret agenda - A Christmas so grand as to leave an indelible print on his son's memory, and blot out their present misery with it's wondrous excess.

As the countdown to Christmas began, my father's excitement was contagious. A mysterious series of events tweaked our enthusiasm. A lock appeared on the door to the shed, and the Warden... err.. I mean Dad, could often be seen hurrying from his small S-10 pick-up to the shed, arms laden with packages. He would eventually return to the house empty handed, but jovial.
There were Advent calendars with our names in them, Christmas movies every night, Hot chocolate, ginger bread houses, nativity sets, and a tree that threatened to engulf the television, nay; the whole living room!  It's red bows accentuated the merrily twinkling lights that kept time with the hearts of three young boys.
Words don't adequately describe the level of our excitement. And even though we didn't really believe in Santa Claus, we knew this Christmas was special.

That Christmas Eve, after my Father read " 'Twas the night before Christmas" ,  I was told I would be sleeping in the top bunk of my brother's tiny room. My brothers had already nestled snugly in the bottom bunk, and were snoring soundly in no time. Shortly thereafter, hushed sounds began to emanate from the living room. The rustling of paper, assorted clinks and thumps, and  muffled chuckles, suddenly, something heavy made a muffled thud, and all was quiet for a few minutes.
The suspense was driving me crazy!!
I was only 12, and I was never going to be able to sleep!!! I wondered what my parents were doing in the other room, what gifts they were bringing in from the shed, what they could possibly be assembling and wrapping. My thoughts ran to every childish fantasy I had. In my minds eye, the living room filled with everything from dirtbikes, to electronic video games.Somehow, in the midst of the chaotic happy thoughts, the anticipation and the excitement, I finally fell asleep.
I awoke to the sounds of my brothers excited cries. As the family filtered into the living room, I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, and joined them. In the tiny living room, there was hardly anywhere to stand, much less sit down!!! Every square inch of floor, every flat surface, was covered with presents! There were tall skinny presents, short fat presents, bicycles with big bows tied to the handle bars, pellet guns with no wrapping at all.
Now before we could touch anything, we were required to open our prerequisite box of t-shirts and underwear. This was the only method mom had at her disposal for ensuring her boys had enough clean underwear. I later learned clean underwear; for whatever reason, was of prime importance to a mother of " teenagers." I can't remember the number of times she asked me on my way out-the-door, " do you have on CLEAN underwear?!" The woman was obsessed.
Anyways, the underwear unwrapped; my father, in his red, crushed velvet santa cap began the gift distribution. " This one's for Chris!" he exclaimed, and "here's one for Joe!" He moved back and forth in a flurry of activity, calling my brother's names over and over again.

As the bicycles, pellet guns, and " Gi-Joe" toys disappeared, I began to notice an alarming trend. NONE of the gifts WERE MINE!!! and then Dad picked up the last present,  " this one is.... Hmmm... " he shot me a knowing smile. I grinned back-  " loooooks like .... " My little heart lept in my chest! at last! " yep, hmmmm, There you go .... CHRIS!!"  My brother momentarlily vanished in a cloud of shredded wrapping paper and tinsel, feverishly opening the last gift.

 Beads of sweat formed along my upper lip, my eyes became misty... a thousand thoughts flashed through my mind. " Had they decided I was too OLD for Christmas?!" I had long feared something like that could be possible.  " What if my parents have never really loved me, anyways?" I thought, or  " WHAT IF THEY FOUND OUT ABOUT....?!?!  Nah, there's no way they could have known about that.
I fought back a sniffle. I couldn't believe this. No presents for me ? How could this be ?

I stared forlornly after my brothers as they tore out the door on their brand new bicycles, honking the horn on the handlebars,wildly shooting their pellet guns into the air. This wasn't fair. I clutched my t-shirts and underwear tightly, wringing them into a ball.

" Phillip." I heard my father say my name, and I turned around to see him standing there grinning. " I didn't forget you son! I saved the best for last!"
Renewed hope sprang up within me, and fueled my young imagination again. " HE said the BEST!!! " I thought.He said The BEST...What could it possibly be?!!"
"You're gonna be SO surprised!  " Dad said, striding down the hallway. " Wait right here, I'll be back in a sec!"

After a moment, Dad returned holding something rather large in both of his hands, completely covered by a white sheet. Nothing I had imagined would fit the mold of the object he held, a long skinny profile, pyramid in shape. He was beaming from ear to ear. "Ta-Da!!" he cried, snatching the sheet from the present.

He was right. I WAS ASTOUNDED.
"What the H-E- double hockey stick would a 12 year old want with a ... Is that a TELESCOPE ?!?!" I thought.

My father was already going off, talking in an excited rush of words... " And we can look at the moon, and you can even see the rings of saturn, the red eye...."
I couldn't hear him. The tears began to return.

There was no question the gift was the most expensive of all the gifts, or that it was indeed a telescope, and a really nice one. It was the biggest one I had ever seen. There were multiple tubes, and eye-pieces, an adjustable stand, and even a way to hook a camera up to it... It was shiny, complicated, and impressive. Any star gazing, ultra intelligent book worm at the local high school would have been proud to own it. But I had never even shown a remote interest in the stars...AND I WAS 12!
Somehow, his gift, no matter how I looked at it, no matter how nice; made no sense to me.
I pondered these things again as we sat outside that night, hoping to catch a brief glimpse of the moon in the freezing temperatures. The thing they don't tell you about moon viewing ( in the brochure, anyways) is that the moon's constant motion is amplified when viewed through a telescope. The average viewing window for the moon ( under magnification, without a tracking type of telescope) is about 5 seconds.The whole episode that night consisted of my very excited Father locating the "moon window", and losing it again while I stood there and shivered. He would find it, tell me to look through the eyepiece,( by which time it was gone again)  and then roar " What do you mean you don't see it ?!!"


It was years later, when I had children of my own that I finally understood " The Gift".
It is very difficult for a father to look at his children and not see himself. You watch them interact, and you imagine for them.... usually the things you wanted, and couldn't have. As a boy, my Father had always wanted a telescope. He grew up in the era of flash Gordon on the radio, H.G. Wells, and the advent of space travel.
His childhood was not a happy one, and the stars offered a hope both distant and brilliant. He had always wanted to bring them close, to dream of their possiblities. The telescope was the most meaningful gift he could give, because it was exactly what he would want if he were me.

The story of the gift has brought dad and I the occasional chuckle, and stuck in my mind through the years. I remember it more than anything else I've ever gotten.
And now, finally,  I have learned to appreciate it.

Ultimately, "The gift" , like every other gift, isn't about the person receiving it. It is an act of love by another person. Someone loves you enough to say " I want you to have this." In doing so, they open themselves to that person, not knowing if their gift will be rejected, or accepted. In fact the whole reason for this season isn't about us, or about " exchanges". It's about... giving the best you can, and not holding back. Putting it out there, loving without expectation, or thought of reimbursment. It's about loving someone else.... even as GOD himself first loved us.

" For GOD so loved the world, that he GAVE his only begotten son,.... "  -- John 3:16 

The Day after

Dear Jaiden:

I asked you last night if you knew what 9/11 was. You replied that it was the day a plane hit a building, and a lot of people died. You knew that bad people had done it, and that a lot of the people who died that day were firefighters. You knew that adults kept saying "Never Forget".
 These are the things you knew. We talked a little more, and I shared the details, as near as I could remember them; of  Tuesday, September 11, 2001.

Today I remembered our conversation, and I began to wonder; "What lessons do I WANT you to know about 9/11? Do I want you to know that evil men hijacked our security and peace for a single day, and changed our world forever?" 

No- that is not the lesson here.

Today is 9/12/16, and as I thought about today I realized what I want you to understand is what happened on the day after.

The morning after 9/11, the sun rose over America the same way it had risen the day before. The first rays of sunlight to touch New York City cut through the ash and smoke to illuminate American flags draped from every height and vantage point. The city swarmed with people who left their jobs and drove through the night volunteering to help.
On 9/12/2001, America struggled to her full height, and became the country she had always been intended to be.

Every man and woman alive on 9/11 can tell you where they were when they heard the news. Almost every one of those can also remember the HOPE we felt as a nation on the day after.  HOPE that there would be survivors, FAITH that we would make it through this, and LOVE for our country. 

In the bible There is a passage that says when everything else is gone- when all of the good stuff in life is destroyed there are still three things that cannot be destroyed. Those three things are Faith, Hope, and Love. The day after 9/11,  America had all of those things. 

That is what I want you to know... that when life has you down- When you're flat on your back in the mud and ashes- there are still three things that NOTHING can take from you. 

You can always find FAITH if you search for it- You'll always find HOPE if you can believe in it-  but neither FAITH or HOPE would exist without the greatest of these three- and that is  LOVE.
I Had read that scripture many times- but I had no idea how powerful LOVE really was. 

Let me explain- 

9/11 still troubles my soul. Every year, when it draws near, I feel apprehension about what might happen, annoyance with those selfish people who seem to have forgotten it's lessons, and sadness for what it has cost us as a nation

.
As a firefighter, I'm not sure that will ever change.

But what did change was my perspective, seven years after 9/11, to the date. On 9/11/2006, I had to leave the fire station in the middle of the night, and drive to Doctor's Hospital. 

As dawn began to glimmer outside, a tiny baby boy made his entrance into this world.

 I, still in my Fire Department uniform, looked down at his tiny face, and despite the pains of the day, felt HOPE. I looked at you Jaiden, and I saw not what was wrong with the world, but for one moment, what was right, and nothing else.
I savored that moment... Holding the incredible blessing of new life, and none of the pain of 9/11 touched me. I smiled. I looked down at my watch, careful to mark the time. It was 5 am, 9/12/2008. 

Your little face was still and peaceful, and looking at you, my heart was overwhelmed with LOVE.
And that is the lesson, son. 

There will always be days of darkness, there will always be pain and heartache. But darkness can only last through the night. The sun will rise tomorrow, and in every instance where there is LOVE, where there is FAITH, where there is HOPE, terror loses it's grip on The Day After.

I love you son.

 Happy Birthday,

Daddy

Sunday's at the station

There are very few things in life that equate to Sunday's at the fire station.

 I became a firefighter in 1997, but my father was one long before that. One of my fondest memories is being invited to the table where he and the other firefighters were having a meal. I'm not sure of the other details of this meeting, but I remember a plate being placed on the corner for me, the cook ripping a length of brown paper towel from a fat roll, insisting that I partake. 

I remember the jovial camaraderie, the delicious food.... And the feeling of warmth and family.

When I became a firefighter, the memory of that moment stuck with me. Out of hundreds of experiences, countless memories and stories, the thing that most exemplified our brotherhood was this one brief memory. I would spend the next 17 years trying to duplicate this moment, not for myself, but for my brothers and sisters- Fire, L.E., or EMS.

 EVERY Sunday that I've been at work, and able, I've prepared Sunday Breakfast for anyone who cared to stop by the station. I am not alone in this. If you were an invisible observer of almost any given fire station on a Sunday, you'd see this identical scenario playing out. 

I'm a firefighter, not a rocket surgeon. I have no idea WHERE this originated, or even why, but it's there regardless. Don't believe me ? Stop by a station on a Sunday, just after "Changeover", and see if you don't find yourself pulling up a chair to a crowded table, a steaming hot breakfast filling your plate-- whether you want to eat it or not. 

To me, it's beautiful.

I may not know why it happens, but I take great comfort in finding it's example in the New Testament, and given by none other than the Master himself. In the two greatest examples of teaching recorded, Jesus first made the crowds sit down in the grass, and before saying a single word to propagate his kingdom, he fed them. 

There is one better example though. 

After Christ has been crucified, the disciples, unsure of themselves, have followed Peter on fishing trip. 

He knows their confusion, and knows they need direction. So he shows up on the beach. In his final physical act on this Earth, He cooks them a meal. How awesome is that? (John 21)

His final moments (physically) here, are spent feeding these guys he truly loved. 

A short time later, he gives the direction they need. He asks Peter a simple question: "Simon, son of Jonas, lovest thou me?" When Peter says yes, Christ gives him this reply: "Feed my lambs." 

Christ asks this question 3 times in total. The last two times, he gives this reply: "Feed my sheep."

Some may find the lesson I take from this a little trite. I find it simple myself, but I am often amazed at how beautiful, straightforward, and right the "simple" things are. 

So why did Christ make the extraordinary effort of communicating this message ?

Could it truly be that everything he wanted us to do is as simple as the concern we display when we take from our abundance, and look after the needs of our neighbors? 

I think it just might be.

So I challenge you. 

If you don't believe me, try this experiment. Feed someone. Preferably someone that can't do anything for you. If you buy them something to eat, then sit and eat with them. 

I bet that if you're really paying attention, in those moments of sharing food, you'll feel a kinship with that person... And with their Creator. 

Who killed my Department?!?!

Today, I saw more than a few posts on social media which were brutally honest, and very troubling. 

They pointed at a current trend within our ranks, a rotten poison eating away at the camaraderie, and the values that made me want to become a firefighter in the first place. They pointed at a time long past, when the image of a firefighter was a humble servant of goodwill, self-sacrificing in all aspects of his time and talents, and beloved by all the communities he served, whether rich or poor. 

I long for those days. 

There is within me an emptiness that is only filled by doing good, by being good; not as measured by financial or social success, but by the warmth and satisfaction of knowing that someone else, caught in a moment of crisis, leaned upon me, and found my life valuable. 

Today I peered through the eyes of men I respect, standing beside the casket of an ideal fire department, viewing a place where the light has left, where men now search for meaning in a job which was once the very source of their identity. I stared into that cold and lifeless face and wondered if it had ever lived at all... and if it had, then who had killed it? 

 I stood there remembering the last time I had broken bread with a group of firefighters. Men I serve with and respect. I know they too feel the pain of the same death I had seen. 

But this was lunch, and a break from training, so we swapped war stories, laughed at the same old jokes, and did the usual sharing- snippets and tips of things we've learned... Passing on information, but also showing each other just how much we know.

Each of us is equal parts proud, and strong, and good; though that goodness may only show to those who truly know how to look for it. It isn't always polished, or politically correct, or even clean, but if it can help you, it will NEVER  leave you to face your personal fears and dangers alone. 

As the conversation turned to training, the subject of basic skills came up. One discussion led to another, and before I knew it, I was discussing the shortcomings of another firefighter. 

For the sake of this discussion, I will say that I consider the error he committed to be inexcusable for someone in his position, and something that might have cost lives on an actual fire scene.

My story finished; heads bobbed around the table in silent agreement. Casual affirmation was made for my story, my obvious knowledge of the subject discussed, and the manner in which it was handled. 

Individually, I felt validated. In the company of these men, my peers, I had displayed at the very least, verbose , technical jargon that cemented my position as a proficient and knowledgeable firefighter. 

But as the day wore on, those words from lunch plagued my thoughts. They troubled me, because I began to see then; just as I saw today, what is eating us from within. What is already destroying the fire department I have loved for most of my life.

Individually I make little difference in the outcome of anyone's emergency. No matter how strong or proficient he or she might be, a single firefighter, a single rescue technician, will seldom be capable of getting the job done alone.

It takes a team.

A team is only strong TOGETHER. 

Our Department, our station, our crew, is the team we are given, and here is the nature of a winning team.

 It doesn't decimate it's numbers by ostracizing the weakest, but it finds a way to make the weak stronger.

 

The ideal department, lifeless in it's gilded casket, was laid low not by the dangers it confronted in a thousand flaming structures, or a sea of mangled wrecks.

 It was not brought down by the simple mistake brought about by haste, or the man who failed while trying desperately to do his best. There will always be TRIUMPHS... there will always be FAILURES. 

But when the team dissolves into individuals, eager to prove themselves at the expense of another, another nail is driven into the coffin of the fire department we all believe in, and we all wish could still exist.

 Perhaps it can. Perhaps we have only to learn this lesson. 

Today I glimpsed a coffin filled with the corpse of everything I believe in, and I wondered; then and there, who had killed it.

And suddenly, in simple clarity, my answer. 

I did it. 

 The one killing my department was me. 

The Sun Ship

I met a group of guys at the gym today. It's kind of a new ritual we've started. A few firefighter's getting together to do two of the other things we're really good at: Talking, and lifting weights. Well, talking anyway. We don't do it cause we're super spiritual, or even really great guys, we actually do it because we're just plain old guys... And we need to be reminded constantly of where we stand, and why we do what we do.
Before we start each morning, we do a brief devotional, and this morning's was good enough to share here.

Thomas Stokes, a Captain with Augusta Fire, and a long time friend of mine, coined the phrase above while we were discussing our Christian roles in male relationships- brother to brother, Father to Son, Etc, and how often our perception is horribly squed when we define those roles. I must admit that when he said " Sonship", I was lost for a second.

"Wait- What? Did we just get all Sci-Fi, or something?"
No.
What we were discussing had nothing to do with that "Sun", and everything to do with THE "Son". We discussed the Father's perfect love for his son-
How in Galatians 4, we are called "Joint heirs" with Christ; Sons, and not Slaves.

What does that mean?
Do you have a son? If so, you'll relate to this story of Thomas' son. If not then maybe it will clarify "Sonship" for you.

Thomas had to leave our workout session early today. He was going to be with his young son while his wife worked, and he began to describe what that generally entailed. Thomas related something every father with small children is aware of- that "frequent interruption" thing children have mastered.

You know, where you're completely engrossed in an activity, a project, whatever- and you can't stop without risking losing your place, your work, or your time. Your brow is twisted into a furrow of deep concentration, and just as you finally manage to get to that last step....
A tiny face that is just out of view leans in close, and with it's tiny little voice, interjects the single word that brings your project to a halt- "Daddy?"

Thomas said that if he ignores his son the first time, the next thing he'll feel is two tiny hands on each side of his face, forcing his head and his attention in the direction of the little antagonist. With impunity the little human then has the nerve to demand: " Look at me, Daddy."
"What do you do?" I asked.
"I stop what I'm doing." Thomas replied, "And I say- ok, I'm looking at you, what do you want ?"
He then explained that invariably, the little interrupter will say "ummmm.... I don't know.", or "Nothing, Daddy." 
Thomas explained that his son, like sons everywhere, just wants his attention.
"Then What?" I laughed.
"I stop everything else." He said, "And give him my attention."

I think we all recognize a child's quest for attention in this little story. But do we also see a Father's willingness to stop everything, to bring a project or a day to a screeching halt.... Just so his son knows he's loved?

Do we recognize ourselves in the example of a child playing on, secure in the knowledge that one single word brings his Father's undivided attention, not because he is imperiled, or sick, or in need... But just because he desires his father's attention? 
That's what Sonship means. 

Well that is how I visualize "Sonship". The idea, that a single "Abba, Father!!" Brings the full glory of the attention of the God of All Creation. It is not reserved for someone deserving, or a special circumstance. It is simply reserved for his sons. 

The Dirtbike. ( A treatise on being a 12 year old Chicken.)

I was not your typical twelve year old. Typically, twelve year old boys are extremely daring. They venture onto high dives, and climb trees that interfere with aeronautical navigation. Not me. At twelve years old, I contented myself with the pursuit of living to the ripe old age of thirteen. None of that macho twelve year old stuff for me. I was a "chicken" and I knew it. I had a lot of trouble convincing other people of this fact though, particularly my uncle Rocky.

"Rocky" ( really his name, my family is weird enough without nicknames), is one of those people who just seems to stand out in my early childhood memories. The furthest back my mind can recall, brings to memory a wild looking, tattooed and bearded 24 year old, all gritty, shirtless, and macho, swaggering up to my five year old self. "Go ahead"!! he bellowed, mostly for the benefit of a couple of female on-lookers. " Punch me in the stomach as hard as you can!!" I guess his not being afraid of a death blow from a five year old made him feel ( and appear) very Macho. Always willing to oblige my favorite uncle, I reared back and gave him the most terrific punch my five year old will could summon.
I'm still unsure who was more surprised by ferocity of that single punch; me, him, or those on-lookers. Suffice it to say, every mouth hung open, with Rocky's making small gulping sounds as he sank to his knees. The gulping turned into coughing and gasping, with what I am now convinced were several curses thrown in for good measure. I wasn't sure they were curse words at the time, but the way they heated my ears upon impact seemed to indicate that possibility. I filed most of them away for later use. It wasn't those words that concerned me the most. Interspersed with the curses were words like " kid", and "kill", and "murder". I filed this info away as well, although I was sure he didn't mean it, and was simply astonished by the strength of my blow, something he vehemently denied. He later produced witnesses that testified to my aim being slightly low, and in fact missing his stomach altogether. Well, that's the kind of risk you take when you involve short 5 year-old in your scheme to make yourself look tough.

It was sometime later that my uncle, either possessed by a thirst for revenge, or crazed by the blow to his lower anatomy; offered to sell my father a motorcycle for me. Despite some nagging doubt as to his motives, I was estatic!!Me, the cautious twelve year old, The kid that no one on the block ever challenged to anything more dangerous than a game of checkers- I was getting a Dirt-Bike!!
A beat up piece of refuse granted, and knowing the nature of my uncle, probably stolen too.... But I was getting a Dirt-Bike !! According to him, it ran, and no other kid I knew had a motorcycle.
I envisioned myself pulling up at a party, a exclusive party mind you, with the best looking girl in the whole sixth grade on the back of my brand spanking new Dirt-Bike, ( dreams are wonderful for making run down contraptions brand spanking new) engaging in small talk with people who a scant week before had snubbed me as "The Chicken". I would be daring, cavalier. A virtual twelve year old "Evil Kenevil".
I waited outside with high hopes the day my uncle was to bring over the motorcycle, my mind flashing with vivid imagery of me and the dirt-bike jumping ramps, kicking up geysers of dust, and generally having a good time.
I still recall the sound of that old beat up truck making it's way up our dirt road. Only a lame and blinded snail could have moved any slower, But suddenly, there she was. My Uncle's truck was an older model of the one the Clampett's drove on the "Beverly Hill-Billies". And in the back of that truck was my...
 "Hey Rocky!!" I hollered, " Where's the bike?!"
" All I see is this small heap of scrap metal you brought Dad with two moped tires sticking out of it!!"
My Uncle laughed, one of those high pitched, scary laughs he had begun slipping into since the incident where i punched him in the "stomach". He clamped his hand on the back of my neck, and squeezed until tears welled up in my eyes.I know this was just his tender way of "toughening me up", but in my desire to locate the missing bike, I immediately caved, flopping on the ground and doing my best impersonation of a little boy in pain. After a few hours, my uncle released his grip, and whispered really close to my face; "That is your bike, boy." The smile on his face worried me, so I just asked him straight- " Say, are you constipated?"
After he shook his head no, I took the opportunity to draw his attention to the condition of the bike.
"Gee Uncle Rocky, if that's really the bike, couldn't someone get seriously hurt riding it?"
He unleashed another of those weird, high pitched laughs, and replied.
"Nah, it's perfectly safe! I drove it a whole quarter mile yesterday, and only wrecked three times!" He paused to swell out his chest and strike a rather macho pose. " Look at me, do you see anything wrong with me?!" I admitted that at least physically, there didn't appear to be anything wrong with him. " Of course not!" He shot back, laughing as he did. " No time to waste then! Hop on and give her a try!!"
His laughter had broken down into a series of hysterical sounding sniffs and giggles.The sound threw me a little, and it was probably this that forced me to the extreme. I looked at my uncle, and then back at the Dirt-bike. Uncle, Dirt-Bike, Uncle, Dirt-Bike. Something didn't feel right, and I knew exactly what I would have to do. For the first time in my twelve year old world, the fact that I was "chicken" tumbled from my own lips, and NOT someone else's.
My Uncle's mouth opened and closed wordlessly for minute, and then his little eyes hardened. " Nothin' to be scared of, Stupid!" Watch me take her for a spin first!"
He managed to find where the seat and handle bars were in that malignant pile of junk, and climbed aboard. He deftly unfolded the cranking lever with the toe of his boot, and kicked it for all it was worth.
I'm no scientist, but I've been told that planes travel faster than the speed of sound. So did Uncle Rocky, or at least that's what I judged by the way he left his hat and a high pitched expletive hanging uselessly in the air.My Dad had been meaning to clean off some of the backyard, and no doubt he would have been beaming from ear-to-ear to see the way uncle Rocky was doing all the work for him.I watched bug-eyed as fours shrubs, a muscadine vine, the lawn, and a section of chicken wire fencing all lost successive battles with the "Dirt-Bike". I remember thinking if it didn't turn out to be a ll that fun as a "dirt-Bike", we could always use it for a lawnmower.
As for my Uncle, I don't know whether it was fear, or the wind rushing past his face that forced it into that horrible contortion. As he raced past me for what seemed like the eighth or ninth time, I heard him swearing at the "bleeping-bleep-bleep throttle, and cursing the Dirt-Bike's ancestors as far back as the wheel.
Then, in what most have been a burst of desperate and creative thinking, my uncle found a way to stop the raging motorcycle. He jumped it off the edge of what we kids laughingly called " The Baby Grand Canyon". It was really nothing more than a very deep washout that we kids played in from time to time when our mothers weren't looking. Because of it's steepness and depth, our mothers; like sane mothers everywhere, forbade us from playing there.I don't know how uncle Rocky seized on it as a solution to his problem, or even how he found it. God had carefully arranged the tress on the other side of it's fifty foot span to give it an appearance of being "Edge-less". The ground appeared to continue seamlessly from side to side.
The washout was only fifteen to twenty feet deep, but it must have seemed like a lot more, particularly after he hit that little mound of dirt at the lip, catapulting him into the air.About half way through the jump, uncle Rocky quit fiddling with the "bleeping-bleep- throttle", and loosed another of those freakish laughs that were really starting to bother me.
It was then the miracle happened. In a feat that the greatest of Daredevils couldn't have replicated, My uncle, in a blaze of what can only be described as creative inspiration, brought the motorcycle that thought it was an airplane to a perfect landing. It was beautiful.His victory was short-lived however. In his struggle to bring the bike under control, my uncle had landed in the bottom of the washout. The throttle was still stuck, and he crashed head-long into the clay wall on the other side.
The bike still looked the same, a pile of scrap metal with two beat up tires sticking out of it. My uncle was released from the hospital a week or so later, but his nurse advised me stay away from him for at least a year. Says he mumbled in his sleep. Things like " Kill", and "Kid", and "Murder."
Oh well, at least we have a really neat lawnmower, even if it is a little beat-up and rusty. When I can talk one of the other kids into riding it, that is.