Toasts.

"Don't Stop Believing" - Journey

"The woman said to him, “I know that Messiah is coming (he who is called Christ). When he comes, he will tell us all things.” Jesus said to her, “I who speak to you am he.”
(John 4:25-26 ESV)

   
   Rehearsal dinners are one of the greatest inventions in the history of the world. Celebrating with friends over a tasty steak dinner is a small slice of heaven, that happens to be cooked medium well. My favorite part, after the server takes the ridiculous salad plate away, is when things transition into the "toasting" phase. It's my personal favorite for so many reasons, one being the fact that I love storytelling, and hearing all the silly and fun things about the bride and groom will warm your heart quicker than kittens playing with a ball of yarn. The inside jokes portion is always a little weird, but for the most part laughter and tears are shared, spilt and spent over folks who are quite near and dear to the hearts of everyone in the room. (excluding the "plus ones" who are there for a free cheesecake) The sad thing about toasts is that they really don't happen enough. The great thing about them is that hope is shared, and the source of that hope is always Christ. Hope always leads us to the throne of Grace.
     My friend Clay is getting married today. For the last 5 years I have known him he has never stopped praying that the Lord would turn Jessica's heart, and today the hope comes to fruition as she will say yes to the man that has loved her more deeply than any other she has known. Hope can cause us to do some pretty strange things. Lots of times we had told Clay that maybe he should give up, especially during those times where she had literally said "do not talk to me". He honored her wishes, he was a gentleman, and he took his requests to the Father, just like scripture instructs us to do. I'm proud of him for so many reasons, He loves Jessica deeply. He loves his Lord deeper still. Friendship and timing are crucial, and the Lord works on a schedule all his own, and we are called to hope in Christ, who is the hope of Glory.
    Some two thousand plus years ago an angel appeared to a bunch of redneck shepherds and told them of the hope which lie in a manger just over the hill in Bethlehem. Since that moment in the garden when Adam and Eve chose to live life their own way, all of creation had been hoping for a Messiah, someone to come and make things right. All that our hearts hope for can only be found in Jesus. As I sit here and look at the Biltmore, where the wedding is taking place, all I can think about is that one day the Lord will return to make everything right again, and he has prepared mansions for us in Heaven, they might look like the Biltmore, but my guess is that once we are there, we probably won't care that much.  We live in a world where its often easy to give up on hoping for anything. Girls can break our hearts, and Guys can be kinda dumb, Job offers pass us by, cars break down, kids misbehave, forgiveness becomes harder and harder, friendships change, and even sometimes we tell folks we dearly love to leave us alone. Life has a way of kicking us in the soul, but take heart dear friends. In the throneroom of Heaven, as seen in Revelation Ch. 5, the Lamb has opened the scroll, and the Lamb hears our prayers. Momentary light afflictions will never take away the truth of the Gospel. His love and smile rests upon his Children and we can go to him with prayer and supplication. He may not give us what we want, but He has already given us more than we will ever need. Toast your friends, tell them you love them, pray for them often, and wait with blessed hope for Eternity.
   

Southern Gospel from a Southern Grandma

“A Yankee can become an honorary Southerner, but a Southerner cannot become a Yankee, assuming any Southerner would want to.”

"you have fed me, you have saved me, Billy Graham and Martha White" - Brad Paisley

               

  I was born into one of those wild families. The ones that are the subjects of Toby Keith songs, the ones that love America, guns, wrestling, and sweet tea. The kind that has a reputation and rap sheet as long as the dusty roads that wind through the Southwest Virginia Mountains. They were the Clines of Hogback Road. And boy they are a proud bunch. A family of practical jokers. 8 kids raised on hard work and Martha White flour. Going to maw-maw’s was a Sunday tradition. When I was “knee high to a grasshopper” we’d go out to the ole farm where we’d chase geese and memories. The ladies were inside, yapping about what was goin’ on in the holler. Me and my bro were outside. Because that’s where the men were. The air was thick with the smell of cows and tobacco smoke. Between smokes we’d play football. Long enough for the boys to fight and the men to get tired, then it was back to Levi-Garrett for them and Mountain Dew for us. We knew no other way. Commanding it all was Dorothy Jean Cline. She was a small older lady with a voice as soft and smooth as the creek that ran through the backside of the property.  Every now and again, when the humidity was as thick as her sawmill gravy; we’d load up in dad’s truck, and drive through a creek to a little swimming hole. At my uncle Teddy’s wedding, 2 other uncles threw me in…. It was here that I learned to swim, cuss, and whittle. Every now and then we’d wet our lines, hoping to rope in a huge fish, but typically I just skipped rocks and tried to hit beavers building dams on the other side. As I sit in this busy coffee shop, avoiding eye contact with a pretty redhead a few tables over, I begin to realize just how lucky I was to grow up where I did, and how my heart longs to return there. As my friend Bradford says, “Nostalgia is a dangerous thing.”

                What I remember the most about my Grandma is that she loved the Lord. You could see it all over her weathered face. On Saturday nights, all the men would head off to the dirt track to suck down Bud Lights and reminisce about the wild high school days. When we were too young to go, we’d stay with Maw Maw, and she would watch the Gaithers. Confession: I still have a soft spot in my heart for the Gaither Vocal Band. Their music is goofy and silly, about as theologically deep as a tissue box. But boy she loved them. She’d sing “The Old Rugged Cross” or “I wanna stroll over Heaven with you” or my personal favorite “The Baptism of Jesse Taylor”. I never knew it at the time, but she was planting gospel truths in the hearts of her grandkids, watering them with every off pitch Gospel soundtrack and Sunday dinner. You didn’t cuss in Dorothy’s kitchen. And everyone knew it. I remember being at our trailer when I heard our Grandpa had died. Mom was in the laundry room with Venita my aunt, it was the first time I’d ever see either of them cry.

                Maw Maw moved to town after this. 613 Goolsby Ave now became a place where sinners in screen print t-shirts would gather for Sunday dinner. Mom and the kids went to church. Dad and my uncles always just met us over there. Church wasn’t their thing unless it was Christmas or Easter. Some things never change.  That tiny white house could barely contain the huge family. The floors were soft and about to fall through. Trooper, the boxer dog, was tied up outside. My uncle was usually asleep in the back room. The soundtrack stayed the same, though Paw Paw was gone. Mark Lowry was playing on the radio, singing “Mary did you know” or telling a goofy joke. While the arrest records now extended to some of the grandkids, Maw Maw never treated us like outcasts. She’d still talk about Jesus, and tell us to straighten up.

                She got sick and had to move in with my Aunt Misty and Uncle James. Life and burned bridges separated most of us from one another. My parents divorced, I moved to Tennessee, my bro to Texas, and left Virginia in the rear view. It was about a year ago when I got a call that things had gotten pretty bad. I hadn’t seen her in 6 years, but found out that she was only living about 35 minutes from where I lived in Charlotte. A rush of emotions came over me as I drove to the hospital. Would I recognize her? Would she recognize me? What do you say to someone whose about to die? Will the other family members be there?

                I walked into the hospital and called my sister. She told me where to go and when I walked into the room, it was as if I were a clumsy little boy walking into the kitchen for more turkey and Mac and cheese. The whole family was standing around, and everyone was laughing. The stories flowed like the budget rate coffee being poured into Styrofoam cups. I walked in and hugged her. She was lying down, and she still had that beautiful silver hair and bright smile I’d always remembered. My mom came in with her own grandson. This was the first time Maw Maw had seen her great grandson. There aren’t words in the English language that could capture the joy on her face when she held that little one. The moment was sweeter than pumpkin pie, the kind of thing Norman Rockwell would have painted. As I looked around the room, at this saintly woman who was heading home to be with her Lord, I couldn’t help but thank the Lord for his covenant of grace that envelopes all his children.

                Things went from bad to worse fairly quickly. Her breathing was labored and we knew it wouldn’t be long. She began to utter some words that could barely be understood. When asked if she was sad, her reply rang deeper than any Gaither hymn ever could. “I’m ready to be with Jesus, and I sure do miss y’alls daddy”. She knew that when she crossed Jordan’s banks that she would be with her Lord. The lover of her soul. As life left her body, we all just kind of looked around. We began making the phone calls and funeral arrangements. Her final rest had been achieved.

                The funeral was a joyful occasion. A Heavy set, sweaty preacher talked of the most saintly woman any of us had known. He sang a few of those Gaither hymns. My brother, a cowboy, who was as mean as a rattlesnake had tears in his eyes. My uncles, the rough and tumble men, with crooked smiles and crooked fingers, whom life had taken a pretty hefty toll on stood crying. The earth lost a pretty special woman, and heaven gained a faithful servant. 

Baptism of Jesse Taylor:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LjACGrWgMeU

Mattresses.

"What grieved them most was the statement that he would never see them again. Then they accompanied him to the ship"- Acts 20:38 ( Paul leaving Ephesus)

..... "Instead I have called you friends" - Jesus as recorded by John 

 Friendship is a strange thing. The idea that our souls would connect with other human beings in such a way is mind boggling. Its something I may never understand, much like why folks think Leno is funny, or how a text message works. I have learned a few things in my thirty wild years of walking the earth. One is that friendship, if one is lucky enough to find it, is worth its weight in gold. Another thing I've learned is that all of us are looking for a soft place to land. 

 A friend of mine took some Latino kids to a Young Life camp recently. As he filled me in on how the trip went he said " A couple of the guys slept a lot in the room and I couldn't figure it out, then it occurred to me that they were sleeping on a mattress, in a bed by themselves, for the first time". I laughed in amazement. Then my friend said "we sell camp a million different ways, but I've never considered selling it with mattresses".  Those guys will look back at Crooked Creek as a place where they slept in a bed, a welcomed respite from the uncomfortable hardness of ordinary life.

 We live in a world more connected than ever. Social media makes "keeping tabs" on someone almost effortless. However, what we find often in a sin soaked world is that community takes hard work, and often times we are not up for the challenge. The vicious irony is that this leaves us longing, hurting, aching for something to be real. It is only in these moments that we can abandon the uncomfortable hardness of a disconnected spiritual life, and fall freely in the mattress of God's grace. We can call ourselves by a lot of names, Sinner. Saint. Screw up. Moron. Ugly. Awesome. Weird. or Goofy. But Jesus calls us friend. The one Being in the universe that had every right to pass over you, has chosen to take you in as his own. 

 While we live in the tension of the "already and not yet" we will see, much like Paul in Ephesus, that sometimes we have to say goodbye. Our hearts shatter as relationships suffer in a broken world. Sometimes the bitter reality of death takes them away, and other times time simply moves them on, but thanks be to God that there is a friendship that is solid. The hand holding you is a nail scarred one, and because He has called us friend we are free to befriend others, with all our warts and scars. We can join the harmony of laughter that takes place every moment amongst the Trinity. We can shed our prickly exteriors, and become for others a soft place to land. 

Sandwiches.

"Come and have breakfast"  - Jesus (as recorded in John 21:12a)

"Wasting time with a choice friend or two on a regular basis might be the best investment of time you ever make" 

- Carl Trueman

I love the television series "Friday Night Lights". As a man who is highly involved in the lives of high schoolers, I have yet to find a television show that more accurately depicts both high school drama, and life in a small town. Football is an idol for the town of Dillon, and every friday worshipers flock to the Cathedral known as Herrman Field to pin their hopes (and salvation) on a group of boys who are loved if they do well, and hated in they perform poorly. While it accurately depicts small town life, I'd venture to say that it is a good barometer of life in general. If you take the time to watch the show ( and I highly recommend you do) you will instantly fall in love with Tim Riggins. As my friend Bradford said once " He's the beautiful but doomed character, a real James Dean kinda guy". Recently I was watching an episode where everything in Tim's life was falling apart. He had slept with his recently crippled best friends girlfriend. He then was punched in the face by said best friend, slapped again by his current girlfriend, ditched by Lyla, (the crippled guys girlfriend) and his truck is vandalized by the Offensive Linemen on the team. He has no parents, no friends, and no one who believes in him. He goes home to his brother Billy ( another down and out kinda guy) and they begin to argue over Tim wasting his life, and a fight breaks out, a vicious one, in which words were said and actions took place that brought tears to my eyes. You can't help but love Tim, yet as his coach says " He always gets in his own way". And as I sat there with tears in my eyes, I was reminded of the gospel of Grace.............

    It was Jesus who came to the down and out.  It is easy to flee what we know to be true of us, those things that God says are true about us. When the gospel is abandoned we spend a lot of time believing what the Devil, our Flesh and others say about us. My buddy D-Lo once said " if people tell you you are a horse long enough you begin to go shopping for saddles". The beautiful hope is that it doesn't stop there. Oh no! We have a Jesus who pursues our wandering hearts, even to, and through, death. 

 After Tim and Billy have the fight, some time passes and Tim comes home. No words are exchanged, the two simply sit at a kitchen island. Billy picks up a butter knife and cuts his sandwich in half. Such a beautiful scene as Tim reaches over, picks up the other half, and eats it.

 After Jesus raised himself up from the dead, He went looking for his friends. He clearly knew where they were. They had gone back to what they knew.....fishing. But Christ wouldn't settle for that. He was looking for Peter, because Peter needed forgiveness. In the account in John 21, when Christ orchestrates this miraculous catch of fish, and John says " It is the Lord", Peter pulls the same move Forrest Gump does when he sees Lt. Dan. He jumps out of the boat and swims to shore. They all come in to find breakfast laid out for them. They eat a meal. How important it is for believers to be in the homes of one another. Our feet need to be found continually under one another's tables,  For when good friends eat together we not only sink our teeth into sandwiches, we feast on the Son of God, the source of true fellowship. Call a friend, forgive one another, pick up the butter knife and split the sandwich.  Finally brothers, rejoice, Aim for restoration, comfort one another, agree with one another, live in peace, and the God of love and peace will be with you. - 2 Cor. 13:11

   

Scars.

Scars. They can be a pretty interesting thing. I have one on my face. When I was a kid, I lived for summertime (not much has changed in 30 years). There aren't any teachers pinning notes to my shirt, assuring me of quite the spanking when I get home. It was always baseball season. I never had to do homework or worry about being  "good".I could play. All the time. My brother and I would dip outside as soon as the grass dried up.I'd pretend I was Sting, and climb up the split rail fence that separated us from the neighbors cows and I'd jump off onto the "Widowmaker" Barry Windham (being played by my brother).
     One day my good friend Chad came over and we rode our bikes up to Holly's house. Chad had a big crush on her, and we thought that by showing her we could ride without using our hands, she'd be impressed with Chad and come and give him that smooch he so desperately desired.He was pedaling and I was right behind him, flying down the road feeling as if I was going 80 miles an hour. The road bent into a curve, and I didn't account for the turns. I crashed headfirst into a wood pile, cut my face open, and I knew I was in trouble. This wreck wasn't like the others.It hurt a lot more. My mom fainted. The ambulance came. I got some stitches and a pretty good story to tell my friends.See that night we were supposed to have a baseball game. And the Doc told me I couldn't play. The great thing though was getting to sit and watch my friends play. I couldn't really participate, but I could cheer them on. I could crack jokes in the dugout and try to steal the other teams signals. I remember walking a little taller because my dad said the cut made me look "bad" and that girls like scars.
      Fast forward 30 years.My favorite thing about my station in life is still watching my friends play. There is just something wonderful about adults laughing. We've seen the looks on each others faces at weddings when the doors open and the beloved walks the aisle. We've seen them hold newborn babies that had their noses, as well as their hearts. We've seen God answer prayers that seemed impossible. We've seen dear high school friends look to and put their trust in Jesus. And sadly, life has dealt some scars.
 Sometimes the newborn baby doesn't make it. The marriage goes under. Grandparents pass away, the bills come overdue. The job doesn't work, the girls we chase sometimes don't feel the same.These times aren't like the others. They hurt a lot more.The heartbreak shatters so loud you'd swear roof came off. The scars tell us a different story, that something isn't right. They're stories we don't want to share with others. We retreat to a calloused place where nothing can touch us. What we fail to realize (what I fail to realize) is that grace is lurking in every nook and crevice of our sin-shattered hearts. Jesus shows us his scars, and tells us that everything, at long last is going to be ok. Life will kick us in the soul. It's a sad side effect of this world. We are bound to not take into account the curves, and we will crash into the woodpile of disappointment, and shame, and regret. And when we do we find a loving savior who encountered a wooden cross, for the sake of his children. And the grace that brought safe thus far,will still be holding us when we're done.

Hardball, Heartbreak, and Hope.

""You see, you spend a good piece of your life gripping a baseball, and in the end it turns out that it was the other way around all the time. "

" Its the kid inside that keeps us all from going crazy" - Zach Braff as Dr. John Dorian on 'Scrubs'

I was 10 years old. The whole day had been spent in conversation with my friends in class. Could the boys pull it off?  We couldn't sit still. All I knew is that I couldn't rest until it was over. My brother and I could barely contain ourselves.  We had acted out the scenario all spring and summer, and the time has arrived. The Braves were on the brink of winning the NLCS, against Bonds and the evil Pirates. The only team I hated more than the Yankees.  Francisco Cabrera was up to bat with 2 outs and we needed a miracle. Sid Bream was on 2nd, representing the winning run. The problem was that Bream was as slow as molasses. Cabrera smacked a hard hit line drive to left field, and Bream rounded third, beat out the close throw and slid into home! Our little house erupted. I couldn't believe it. I just remember how fun it was watching that moment. I saw again on TV earlier today, and the strangest thing happened. I had little butterflies watching it, as if I had forgotten what the outcome would be. And as I listened to Skip Carey announcing what was happening, my eyes welled up with tears, and I was smiling (see link below). Baseball always has that effect on me. I love it. I believe the one reason I love it the most is because you can always look back and remember how great it was when you were a kid. I loved lacing up my cleats. Breaking in a new glove. Looking at the Eastbay catalog at all the gear you wanted to buy but could never mow enough grass to afford. It serves as a reminder of a time when life was good, and even now when I go to the ballpark, the same reaction is evoked. 

As a follower of Christ, I believe it is deeply engrained in our souls to remember the times when we felt most alive. Life has a way of kicking us in the soul. Friends pass away. Jobs are lost. Money is scarce. Parents hurt us. Girls reject us. Our pants don't seem to fit as well. We begin to believe that God is holding out on us. Like the Israelites in Exodus 14, we long for God to just leave us alone. Our hearts can't take another break. 

God however knows better. He constantly reminds us of our identity. He gives us scripture. He blesses us with things like baseball, kids, spouses, art, music, and friends to remind us that something is more true. The truth is that Hope is always lurking. Much like baseball allows me to look back and remember a time when life was good, there is a river of forgiveness that leads me back to a cross. A nasty bloody reminder that God stopped at nothing to redeem his elect. Christ bought back our joy. Spend time with kids and you will see it. The wonder with which they live there lives is available to us as well. It is not lost, we have only lost sight of it. We have covered it up with sports coats and ties. Our joy has been buried deeply underneath the rubble of broken dreams, and it will only be uncovered by the bulldozer of grace that is offered to us in the Person of Jesus. 

Bream slides home!

Gladness, Sadness, and Tiny Pretzels

 Recently I was able to attend a wedding. It's kind of my thing. I'm not completely sure why the Lord has chosen to bless me with the opportunity to participate in so many, but I am surely glad he does. I had a friend tell me that I was the male equivalent of that chick from 27 dresses. While that may or may not be true, I think the difference in me and that Katherine lady's character is that I truly enjoy it. (and I wear tuxes not dresses). This wedding was in Cali, which meant I got to fly there. This married (pun absolutely intended) two of my favorite things. Weddings and Airports.
    There is something mystical about the airport. It's a place full of emotion. Gladness and sadness meet headlong and the fallout reeks of Gospel truth. Upstairs in the airport you find what seems to be a city within itself. Harried travelers are rushing from Terminal to Terminal. You must pay your toll to enter by taking off your shoes, or subjecting yourself to a sketchy pat down. The police force drive tiny golf carts, people yell, kids cry, students study, and names called over the muffled speakers. You get to see where everyone is heading, but more often than not, everyone is wanting to get home. Herein we find the gospel. Life in the world for believers is quite similar. At the end of the night, we just want to go home. We have grown tired of broken hearts, changed plans, overdue bills, lackluster jobs, busted up cars, strained friendships, waiting, longing, dates, dubstep, gluten, Rex Ryan, and rom-coms. We'd trade all these things for the chance to go home. For this we need a Redeemer. We need someone to change our hearts, not just our perspective
     My friend Mikey dated his bride long distance. The night before the wedding, all their closest friends were gathered in the Hotel lobby, raising our glasses in admiration at their resolve to not quit or compromise how they felt for one another, but instead face the hard things, do the hard work of dating and trust that God was leading them into trials for their sanctification, to make them more like Jesus.
     My favorite part of this story is how he proposed. Their relationship revolved around the airport. The glorious anticipation of picking one another up was coupled with the painful anxiety of having to say goodbye a few days later, in the very same place. Gladness meeting sadness. Mikey stepped up however, and redeemed the airport, for the love of Marisa. He chose to forever equate the building with the joy of asking her to be his bride. He went into a place he did not like to radically renew the perspective of one he loved more than life itself.  He chose to forever change Marisa's heart toward airports, and now she never has to wonder if Mikey will be there to greet her. See downstairs in the airport can be just as dramatic. In the post 9/11 era, the baggage claim has become the place of grand receptions. Husbands greet their wives, families embrace, and friends high five. However, for some there is still the reminder that home isn't waiting outside of the doors.
     I've always been a little bit of a hopeless romantic. I don't paint or play the violin, so often times I'm left with my thoughts. On every flight, after grabbing my carry-ons I wish for there being someone at baggage claim to greet me. There never is. Typically I'm greeted by a cold 98 ranger, chilling in the parking garage, reminding me again, that Home isn't here yet, and that this desire isn't wrong, but is instead hardwired into who we are as Children of God. We all want to be home, and we all want someone there waiting on us when we turn the doorknob.
     The beauty of the christian life is that we have a Savior who suffered through all of these things. He was the guest at a wedding, changed water into wine, and taught that we the church are His bride, and he the true Bridegroom.  If the Son of God waits in humble submission to his Father then we too must realize that as his image bearers, it is ok to wait on the Lord's proactive change in our hearts, for when we do, we will receive the greatest of receptions. A true Reception. At last we will see the face of our Savior Jesus welcoming us home. This time there will be no goodbyes. We shall rest, for the Lord has dealt bountifully with our souls. Even so, Come Lord Jesus.