Cousin Steve was the family champ. Any time there was a family get together, the younger members of the family would eventually congregate somewhere where we had plenty of room and were away from the older members of the family. It wasn’t that what we were doing was forbidden, just mildly disgusting to some. Unless, or course, we were gathered for a funeral. Then it was forbidden. But mostly, it was just mildly disgusting, particularly to the women of the family. Which was kind of funny. Steve was the grand champion, but it was my sister, Debbie, who was always running neck and neck with him.

          We would gather up the tools for our contest, each of us taking just one, or maybe two of the necessary tools. We would wander off, in twos or threes, calmly so as not to be suspicious, until we were behind a barn or out building of some type. (If it was at Steve’s house, it would be behind the outhouse. Their outhouse was almost as big as their house. I never understood that. And, no one really liked having the contest there. The outhouse was far more disgusting that the contest.) A board would already be laying on the ground to signify the starting point and another board would be located downrange a bit to mark the farthest effort. Usually, a small table of some type would be nearby for us all to place the tools we had wandered off with for the contest. Slices of watermelon, brimming with seeds. As many as fifteen cousins locked in combat in a round robin tournament to see who could spit a seed the farthest and straightest. Wind and humidity were always taken into consideration. This was for bragging rights. It was important.

          It also isn’t done any more. You have to have watermelon seeds to have a watermelon seed spitting contest. Now, with seedless watermelon, what do kids do at those terrible family reunions? Compare phones? It is a part of childhood that is gone. Some people, particularly adult women, would say good riddance. Seedless watermelons are easier to clean up. You don’t have the occasional vine popping up in the backyard. Or, in the case of Steve’s family’s outhouse, A vine growing through a crack in the wall. Aunt Edith didn’t like that at all. Seedless watermelon is just better all around.

          Except they don’t taste as good. I don’t know what it is, really. Just…bland. You can tell it is watermelon, it just isn’t as tasty. If you are under thirty years old, you don’t even know what I am talking about. Watermelon tastes to you like it always has tasted, because it has always been seedless. A real watermelon with real, black seeds, is sweeter, crunchier and way more fun. But, somewhere along the way, some plant scientist (either a female scientist or a male scientist who was sick and tired of hearing his wife complain) came up with a watermelon that only had those weak, sickly looking white seeds in them, the last vestige of the glory that was watermelon in the summer.

          It isn’t just watermelon. When I was a kid and we started getting oranges (usually right after Thanksgiving through Christmas) they were thin skinned, seedy balls of yum! Oh, I loved them. So did my sisters and mother. But, there were those pesky seeds. You couldn’t have contests with those seeds, either. Cold outside, you were stuck inside. That contest would actually be disgusting. My sisters would complain as they demurely put the offending seeds into their hands to throw away, or into a tissue to be quickly wadded up. It always struck me as hypocritical to watch sister Debbie do that, since I knew that at some point that coming summer she would be inhaling great gulps of air and curling her tongue just so to propel a watermelon seed to new and unheard of distances. I just swallowed the orange seeds. Why spit them into my hands? But then, some plant scientist started figuring it out. A seedless orange, with a thicker skin, would be so much better. People in the North could have oranges year round because the skin would slow rot. Without seeds little children could eat them without the fear of choking. And, the thicker skin would make it easier to peel. Seedless oranges, referred to as ‘naval’ oranges, were better in every way.

          Except they don’t taste as good. Go to the store and buy a bag of Clementines. Okay, they aren’t really oranges, but that are double first cousins. Thin skinned and seedy, they sell faster than the naval oranges, and they sell because they are better. Many more Clementines in a bag than in a bag of navals because, even though they will start to rot quicker, they are eaten much faster than the bigger orange.

          Then there are grapes. Big, juicy seedless grapes. The area where Marsha and I came from in Ohio is world famous for its grapes. Acres and acres of vineyards, planted on the rolling hills, all supporting a thriving wine industry. The soil and the weather are perfect for the grapes. When I was growing up, those vineyards supplied most of the grapes for Welches, but as time went on and the wineries moved in, the final resting place for all of those grapes changed. But the grapes are fantastic. I had two different vineyards I would go to and buy grapes at their roadside stands when the grapes were coming in. Marsha didn’t like it to much when I would come home with a peck basket full of grapes. (once a season would have been fine, but I brought them home weekly) Those grapes had seeds in them. Why would I want seeds in grapes when you could go to Walmart and get seedless? (again, a woman’s perspective) I asked a vintner one day (that is a person who oversees the growth of a vineyard, constantly testing for taste) why the locally grown grapes all had seeds. He told me that the seeds made the wine and jellies taste better and sweeter and more ‘fruity.’ That says something to me.

          There are reduced seeded tomatoes and cucumbers and probably other things, as well. I don’t really eat apples, so I don’t know if they have removed those seeds. Peaches and plums have their one seed, so that has never been a real issue. But, seeds have been genetically removed from some fruits in order to make them easier to deal with. It is so common now that it was big news when Alan Coverdale came into the office the other day with the exciting news that he had gotten hold of real watermelon, seeds and taste and all. WHERE, I wanted to know! Ninja Express in Wabash. They brought him some to his table. By the time I got there it was no more. Apparently, the seed police put a stop to such traitor like activity. It is all more convenient, but it isn’t better.

          This has put me to thinking. Stay with me here. In Christianity, we are to plant seed, the seed of the Gospel of Christ. This is what the parable of the sower and the seed is all about. This is our job as Christians. We are to love and, as an outgrowth of that love, we are to go into all the world and share the Gospel. But, that has become a chore. Just like eating a good piece of watermelon or a good orange or a good bunch of grapes. The seed gets in the way. So, we get rid of it. Sowing the seeds of Christ and the Gospel…well, it kind of gets in the way of the fun things of Christianity. The fellowship, the like mindedness, the music, the worship. There is so much about the church experience of Christianity that is really enjoyable. That sowing seed thing is like a speed bump. Maybe, well, maybe we take the seed thing out. We will still have our fellowship, be around people of like mind, we will have our music and our worship. Maybe have a preacher who preaches a mildly challenging sermon and we will get out in time to get to Bob Evans. It will all be good, even without that seed thing.

          Except it is not as good. Without the sowing of the seed, the fellowship begins to suffer. The like mindedness begins to corrode because we become caught up in earthly (churchy) things. We begin to argue about the music. We conflict on how we should worship. The only thing the people agree on is that the preacher is boring and preaches way to long.

          It is the sowing of the seed that makes the church. Without the sowing of the seed, the church dies.

          As it happens, throughout America today, churches are failing and closing everywhere. Denominations are beginning to condemn the Bible. Society mocks Christianity while lifting up Islam. Have you considered the reason for that? Society as a whole does not approve of terrorism or the way Islam men treat the women or the harm they can do world wide. But at least they stand for what they believe. Christianity, not so much. The world respects Islam. The world does not respect Christianity.

          The seed makes all the difference.

          “But, Pastor Wade, how do you really know there is a God? You can’t see Him, you can’t feel Him. Does He talk to you or something?” Fourteen years old. I had known her for eight years. Quick mind, sassy at times but capable of deep thoughts. She wasn’t challenging me, she was simply asking the question. She didn’t realize at the moment that it was the most important question she would ever ask, she was simply asking a question she had puzzled over for a while. What she was being told in school was that we are here through an evolutionary accident. A slight difference and she could have been a completely different kind of creature, or not even exist at all. So now she sat in my office, face full of innocence and concern and thought. “But, Pastor Wade, how do you really know there is a God? You can’t see Him, you can’t feel Him. Does He talk to you or something?”

          How would you answer that question? Would you quote Scripture? Using the Bible to validate God and who God is doesn’t make sense to a young teen who has been told that not only is there no God, but the Bible that supposedly proves His existence and character is a pretty good read in the same way that Shakespeare is a good read. Good stories, but just stories. Would you say that you know there is a God because he lives in your heart? A young teen can dismiss that easily; no one lives in your heart. She had been told in school that you believe only what your senses confirm, that is, only what you can see, hear, touch, taste and smell. Otherwise, it likely isn’t real. Would you say that you can feel Him leading you daily? Again, that young teen has seen you make mistakes and has seen you slip and get angry and argue and curse……..God is leading you to do those things? Teens may act stupid at times, but they have a lot more going on than most adults can imagine. So, how would you answer that question in a way that would make sense?

          “But, Pastor Wade, how do you really know there is a God? You can’t see Him, you can’t feel Him. Does He talk to you or something?”

          Jesus used parables to explain abstract ideas. A workable definition of a parable is ‘an earthly story with a heavenly meaning.’ Sometimes, in dealing with people and using an abstract idea they can not wrap their brain around, you have to use a parable. Hitting someone with Scripture doesn’t always work.

          She looked at me with her deep blue eyes from under her flaming read hair. Her life experiences had not been very pleasant to this point; broken home, uncertainty in life, struggles in school. Still, she was full of hope, she had a sweet personality and she had boundless energy. She had the ability to drive me crazy and then, just when I had reached an end of patience, she would dissolve in giggles. She was your typical tomboy. She was also one of my favorites, although I would never let her know that. I knew at that moment that I wanted to see this child in heaven and this was the best opportunity I would ever have.

“Nikki,” I said. “How do you think I feel about you?” “What do you mean?” “I mean, how do you think I feel about you?” “Well, you love me.” “OK, now stop right there. Have I ever told you that I love you? Have I ever bought you an expensive gift?” To each of these she said a quiet ‘no.’ “Have I ever gotten frustrated with you? Have I ever told you to settle down? Have I ever told you to do something you didn’t want to do?” To each of these she said a quiet ‘yes.’ “Then, why on earth, girlie girl, do you think I love you?” Again in the quiet voice, “I can feel it.” I sat back in my chair. “Doesn’t make sense, Nic. You can’t see the love, you can’t hear the love, you can’t touch the love, you can’t taste the love and you can’t smell the love. How do you know?” She looked me straight in the eye. “I just know.” Now I stood up. “You know what, Nikki? I do love you. I don’t even know how much I love you. I love all the kids in the Youth. And I really, really love you.” Tears pooled up in her eyes. “Do you trust me to always tell you the truth?” The tears slid from her eyes as she nodded. “OK, here it is. You can’t see it or hear it or touch it or taste it or smell it. But you believe anyway that I love you. And that is the way it is with God. Just because you can’t sense it doesn’t mean it is not real. Do you believe that?” “Yes, I do.” Now, I sat down on the sofa with her, which an adult male should never do with a teenager. So what? I took her hand and said to her, “Nic, God loved you so much that he did more for you than I could ever do. You know my son Adam?” Her eyes got big. She had a secret crush on Adam. “Do you think I could ever choose you over my own son, even though you know I love you?” Still with the big eyes, a shake of the head. “You are right. As much as I love you, my own son would have to come first. But sweetheart, God loved you so much that He did give His Son for you.” Bigger eyes. She had heard the story several times, but suddenly it clicked. “Why don’t you accept that sacrifice and love and take Christ as Savior now?”

 And she did.

 Our lives need to be soaked in the love of Christ. Our actions, our temperaments and our language needs to speak His grace. A professor once told us to always teach the Word, but just as important, live the Word.

 “But, Pastor Wade, how do you really know there is a God? You can’t see Him, you can’t feel Him. Does He talk to you or something?” How would you answer that question?

 A few weeks ago, Nikki contacted me. She now lives in South Carolina with her mother. Nic is 25, 26 years old. She is in church every Sunday. She is dating a young man and they are starting to talk about getting married. No date set or anything. “Whenever I have thought about getting married, I have always thought that you would be the one to do the service. Would you?” Oh, wow, South Carolina. Long ways, she has a pastor already, it is a long way….I kind of hemmed and hawed a little. “But, Pastor Wade, you love me, don’t you?” Little stinker. We are going to have to work something out. We will see.

          With Mother’s Day still very fresh in our memories, I came across something on the internet that just made me laugh. Supposedly, these are the ten most common things mothers say. I don’t know if there was a poll done or if there was any sort of scientific process followed or if the writer just recalled his/her mother and her verbal eruptions, but over the years I have heard any number of mothers say these things. Actually, my mother said all these things. A rush came over me as I recalled different moments in time and I thought I would share with you. If any of these are familiar, enjoy the memory.

Money doesn’t grow on trees. One of Mom’s favorite lines. It covered everything. You want a different sugar laden cereal? “Money doesn’t grow on trees.” The new, hot toy? “Money doesn’t grow on trees.” Your feet are growing so fast you need new shoes? “Money doesn’t grow on trees.” I hated the phrase. Just say no, for crying out loud! I know money doesn’t grow on trees! But, I found myself saying it to my own son a generation later. You would think they would do something about making leaves into legal tinder.

Because I said so. Ended every argument. ‘Because I said so’ had to be proceeded with a series of ‘whys.’ “Can I go to my buddy’s house to play?” No. “Why?” You just can’t go. “Well, why not?” I don’t want you to go. “But I don’t understand why not.” You need to stay home. “But, why?” There’s no reason for you to go. “Well, that’s kind of stupid, give me one good reason, Mom, why I cant’s go.” BECAUSE I SAID SO! Very effective because now you knew you had pushed too far. You are done. Shut up. All you had to wonder about then was why Mom didn’t want you to go. You knew one thing for sure. If you said another word, you were going to have to wonder how you were going to sit in school the next day.

If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all. Mom didn’t adhere to this herself. She just insisted her kids button it if they couldn’t say positive things. I got to use this one on my Mom, which was sweet. In later years she couldn’t stand Bill Clinton. “Oh, now Mom. What was that you used to say to me? If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all.” Mom would go off on her boss. “Oh, now Mom. What was that you used to say to me? If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all.” Whatever team beat her beloved Cleveland Browns that week was deserving of her full anger. “Oh, now Mom. What was that you used to say to me? If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all.” Of course, the more I would bring that up the angrier she would get at me. One day my sister and I were sitting in her kitchen and I was egging Mom on. Mom started calling me a smart aleck and all that. My sister said, “Mom, now listen to me.” Mom settled. Cathy was the oldest after all. Cathy said, “If you can’t say something nice about Larry, don’t say anything at all.”

Be nice to your sister. Right. Only, for me, it was always “Be nice to your sisters,” since I had two sisters. I was a fabulous brother. They were lucky to have me. Once, in a Little League game, I stayed in the batter’s box too long and got hit by a pitch on my left arm just below the shoulder. Swelled up pretty bad and really bruised. I could see in my mind Mom getting all upset if I showed her, but I couldn’t keep that bruise a secret long. That would have ended my baseball career right there. The next day Mom went to town to the store. She had an old Electrolux vacuum sweeper that had steel wands for the hose. Now they would just have been plastic, but back in the 1950s when she bought it they used steel for their wands. I took one of those wands out to the yard and slipped the wand around a tree so I could pull both ends at the same time. I managed to put a little crease in the wand. Then, I took it back to the sweeper. When Mom came home I was sitting on the back porch, crying. “What’s wrong,” she asked, voice filled with concern. I was not a crier. “Cathy got made at me and hit me with the sweeper wand so hard it bent it and I have this bruise!” Mom rushed into the house and found the weapon and saw the crease and Cathy got a pretty good whacking and I was off the hook. Of course, Cathy denied it all, but there was the bent wand and the awful bruise. Usually, I was nice to my sisters.

Wipe that smirk off your face. With my mom it was usually “Wipe that look off your face or I’ll wipe it off for you!” Which was all motherly bluster. I think my mother slapped me one time and I don’t know that she ever slapped either of my sisters. We got spanked and sometimes switched, but rarely ever slapped. As I recall, I deserved the slap. Still, the saying was effective because you never really knew. She also had a real favorite, “I am going to slap you silly!” Again, never happened, but you just never knew when the old girl would snap.

If I spoke to my mother that way…… This one carried no weight at all. Our grandmother was the sweetest, tiniest thing you could ever imagine. We would just roll our eyes. Then came the evening I, as an adult, was sitting at the table with my uncle, Mom’s brother, drinking coffee and I asked him, “Uncle Burt, how did Granny keep 11 kids in line?” He put his cup down and gave a little shudder. “You know, I don’t really want to talk about that.” So, maybe there was something there.

Look at this room! It looks like a pigsty! All I am going to say is that Mom wasn’t being truthful. No decent pig would have lived in my room. It was horrible. And it wasn’t just a mess. One day my sister Debbie walked in just as I was slipping a magazine under my mattress. She grabbed me and hauled me out to the hallway. “MOOOOOOMMMMMM! LARRY’S GOT DIRTY MAGAZINES UNDER HIS MATTRESS! (If you think I was bad to my sisters, you should have seen how they were to me.) Mom raced up the stairs and tore off my mattress. There they were. “Baseball Digest,” “Outdoor Life,” “Sports Afield” and various comic books and my library books. Mom didn’t know what to say. Debbie just got red in the face. Mom said, “Why are all these things under your mattress?” I was really confused. I didn’t even know what a ‘dirty’ magazine was, so I told Mom the truth. “If I put them somewhere else in my room I’ll lose them.” I don’t think she knew whether to laugh or cry, but Debbie did pay a price for trying to get me in trouble.

Don’t forget to brush your teeth. Not real common at home. Before church or if there was a wedding or if we were going to a funeral, but we were rarely told to brush our teeth. Mom would just say that if our teeth rotted and fell out, don’t come running to her.

Don’t make that face or it will stick that way. The best one. Not only did my mother say that all the time, but then she would tell the story of some kid she grew up with whose face did freeze all scrunched up. One time it would be a boy, the next a girl. All the time a different name. Poor little child having to go through life with a messed up face. One time my sister Debbie said, “Boy, Mom, you sure came from an ugly little town!” In truth, neither of my sisters were to bright.

Because I’m your mother, that’s why. That one ranks right up there with, “Because I said so.” It didn’t make much sense. But, after she said, “Because I’m your mother, that’s why” she would go on by telling us what she had to go through to be our mother. She might tell of her hard labor or her having to be a car hop at Earl’s to provide extra money or the worry we caused her. The goal was to make us feel guilty. It did make my sisters not want to get pregnant, so maybe that did some good. But mostly we just dismissed this last one.

However, I have to say, she maybe did something right. Before my mother’s kids came along, no one in her family (or my father’s, for that matter) had ever gone to college or had ever had a job other than the farm or factory. Mom’s kids have five college and graduate degrees between them. Mom’s kids never got in any serious trouble. (Cathy broke into an ice cream truck once and stole the ice cream, but to me that just made her a hero) Mom’s daughters didn’t get pregnant until they were married and her only son never got a girl ‘in trouble.’ Mom’s kids are not perfect, not by a long shot, but overall, we did OK.

Thanks, Mom.

          Our son was ten years old at the time, which means it was twenty seven years ago. It was the first time I had ever heard of such a thing and I really didn’t think it was true. I came to find out that it was, indeed, true. I would have to think it had been around before that, but this was just the first time it had come into our area. After much research into child development, our local little league was going to institute a new program for those children in the under ten year old leagues. From that point forward every kid on every team would get to bat every inning, even if they were not playing in the field. A child could make an out, but three outs did not end the inning. Every child got to bat. No score was kept. No one lost and no one won. Every child got to play at least three innings in the field. At the end of the year there would be no champion. Everyone was a winner. Every child would be given a participation trophy. No child would feel bad for poor performance, either by their own performance of by the team’s performance. The important thing was that each child would enjoy the games and have fun. Not only was this going to happen in the little league, but it was also going to happen in the younger soccer and basketball leagues, only with varying rules that fit those sports.

          My immediate response to that was, “Stupidest thing I have ever heard.” My next thought was, “This has to have come from a group of mommies.” (I researched it and it did come from a group of mommies.) Apparently, our little darlings are to young to have to deal with winning and losing at such an early age. I was certain that it would never catch on.

          I was wrong. Not only has it caught on, it has expanded. In many places, grades in school are pass/fail, rather than the traditional A, B, C, D and F. In many of those places, you are promoted to the next grade regardless. When I was in high school, my highest grade goal was to maintain at least a C in everything. Otherwise, I could not play sports. I goofed off. Marsha and I were extremely proud of the daughter of some friends of ours. She had done well in school and then went on to college. She told us one day she was graduating with honors. Wow, that was wonderful! Considering my poor high school showing, and my struggles in college, I was somewhat proud to tell her that in graduate school I graduated with honors with my Master’s degree. An achievement. Married, a child, pastoring full time and still graduating with honors, some twenty years earlier. “Really”, she said, “what honors?” “Cum Laude,” I replied. Cum laude is the lowest level of honors, but it is honors. “Oh,” she said with a smile. “That’s nice. I’m graduating Summa cum Laude.” Summa cum Laude is highest honors. I was impressed. I could never have managed that. We went to the graduation. The arena was packed. The graduating students were all seated in their neat rows. The school president stepped to the podium and started his speech. He asked all the students who were graduating with honors to stand. Several hundred students graduating that day. A quick count on my part showed twenty students not standing. Marsha got twenty two. We are not talking Harvard here. In was a University located in the inner city of an old and dying city. There was no way that many kids had achieved that kind of excellence. Unless the program had been dumbed down to the point that you had honors if you managed to get through without committing any major felonies. No wonder she had given me that little smile. In her world, cum Laude was what the slow learners got.

          I always wondered what kind of effect giving a trophy to everyone and pass/fail and easy honors would have on a generation. After the last presidential election, we saw the fullness of the program come to fruition. College kids became enraged. They rushed to their ‘safe places’ to rant and weep. In some places they took to the streets to express themselves with violence and destruction. They demanded recounts, they threatened the president elect, they got on the news and screamed their displeasure. This could not have happened. Their candidate had lost. HOW? They had never lost. It wasn’t in their vocabulary. They had never been let down. IT WAS WRONG! And, to make matters worse, no one in leadership of their party came out and urged calm, no one in leadership said it would be alright and we will get it next time, no one in leadership said now we need to support the new president. They just smiled and said, well, our young people are expressing themselves. Crazy stuff.

          I know a little guy named Braxton. Braxton. Loves. Baseball. Last year, to young to play yet, Braxton was the batboy on the Little League team his grandfather managed and for which his Dad was a coach. He stayed glued to the game. He hustled and got the bats after the players either got hits or outs. He loved it. One game Marsha said something to him and he grinned and said, “I’m gonna play next year!” We had a night where anyone who wanted to go could meet at the Parkview stadium in Fort Wayne and we would see our minor league team play. We got the tickets all together and it was fun. Braxton and his Mom and Dad came. After about the third inning, I got up to do something that I have been doing for years. I went to the gift shop and bought a baseball for every one of our kids younger than Youth age. I came back and started handing them out. All the kids were appreciative, especially since they were not expecting a baseball. When Braxton got his ball, his reaction was priceless. His eyes got huge. He gripped the ball in both hands. He was so excited to have that ball. I knew he had balls at home, but this one was new and white and HE GOT IT AT THE GAME! I wanted to go back and get another one for him, but Marsha told me ‘no’. That was fun!

          So, this year comes along. For the real little kids, they start with T-ball. A ball is set up on a plastic tee that comes up to about chest high on the player, and they hit the ball off that tee. They learn how to hit and which way to run and which hand to throw with and which to catch with and where to throw……..it is just a time to learn. Braxton’s first year was going to be T-ball. Except there were not enough youngsters to make up teams. The Little League, however, said that if they want, they came step up to the next older level and play. For those who were afraid of the little darlings being mentally handicapped by keeping score and poor performance, this would be appalling. The very idea would be out of the question and the one in charge of the League should be dismissed post haste! Fortunately, that is not a problem out here in farm country. Braxton was going to play in a pitch league. But there was another problem. Braxton was born with no bone below the knee in one of his legs. That leg was amputated and he was fitted with a prosthesis. It has to be changed every little while as he grows. The first time I ever saw him was at a picnic his grandparents had invited us too. He was about three years old and running around in shorts. I never noticed anything until he took his leg off to go swimming. He had always had it and had adapted and was having a ton of fun. But, again, to those afraid of hurting a child’s psyche, Braxton was too young and physically not able to play and would likely wind up being bullied. He should not play! Get the child a video game! For goodness sake, have compassion!

          In a game last week, this kid who is to young to be playing with the kids he is playing with and who only has one leg and a prosthesis, this kid who should be sitting at home playing video baseball, went four for four, which means he had four official at bats and with those at bats he had four hits. He is a little kid, so he is not an expert fielder, but he got in front of every ball hit to him and at least knocked it down with his body. For a little kid, that is rare. Most have some fear of the ball. But, once more, to those afraid of hurting a child’s psyche, they would say, “Well, what did he learn? His team won!” No, his team actually lost. And this is what Braxton learned with that loss. He learned that even though you might excel and do the best you can do, you can still lose. He learned that when you lose it hurts, but you deal with it. He learned that you can still have fun when you lose. And, at other times, he has learned that when you win, it is more fun. Braxton is not handicapped by his age or his supposed physical limitations. It is who he is and he is living his life.

          Braxton is the son and grandson and great grandson of farmers. It is in his blood. He loves horses. He loves baseball. He loves life. He will go in the direction he will go in. But I seriously doubt that Braxton will ever need a safe place to rage, I don’t think he will ever take part in a riot, I think that when he gets mouthy with his folks, he will get his butt popped a little. And, I think that somewhere twenty years or so down the road somebody who has a safe place in their parent’s basement will come to Braxton wanting a job.

          This is the important distinction between Braxton and his cousins and friends and kids in other parts of the country who are rewarded just for breathing air. Their parents are raising kids. In the end, they have thirty year old kids who cannot cope with the real world. Braxton’s Mom and Dad, Allison and Travis, are raising a man. Sure, he is a kid now, but he is on a path. He will get off the path now and again, but he has good examples of good men all around him. Braxton will be OK.

          And who knows? Maybe one day he will be playing shortstop for the Cubs. It could happen. Pete Gray in the 1940s played in the outfield for St. Louis and only had one arm and Jim Abbott, who only had one hand, pitched for the Angels, Yankees, White Sox and the Brewers throughout the 1980s and 1990s. He even pitched a no hitter against Cleveland, which was the only no hitter on the major league level I have ever seen. But neither of those guys ever went four for four in a game.

After the last election, I wondered about the fate of our country. But I have had time to reflect. There are a lot of men and women being raised right now in this country, and they will run the place one day. They will be equipped to handle loss and they will be equipped to savor victory. We are good!

          If you have heard me preach or teach much in the past 30 years or so, you know that I have a fascination for Biblical names. The Jews took their names directly from their language as a hope for what the child would be. The name ‘Isaiah,’ for instance, isn’t just a cool sounding name. It comes right from the Hebrew language and means ‘Jehovah has saved.’ A Hebrew baby was given a name at birth but then a different name was given to him later in life as his personality began to form up. Was ‘Isaiah’ the name his parents gave him or was it something he earned later? We don’t know, but the name is very descriptive of who he was in his time. One of his contemporaries was a prophet named Amos. He was an itinerant farmer, following the crops. But, one day the Lord decided He wanted to use this rough and hardened man to bring a prophecy to a people hardened against God. ‘Amos’ means ‘burden.’ Was this the name his parents saddled him with because he was a burden to them or was this what he came to be known as after his harsh prophecy? Either way, there is a story.

           And then there is your name. How was it chosen. Maybe after a favorite relative. Maybe after a famous person. Maybe just because your mother liked the way it sounded. But how many of you had your names chosen because of what they mean? I suggested our son’s name to Marsha and she liked it, but I suggested it because of its meaning. The name ‘Adam’ means ‘man’ or ‘man of the earth.’ That is what I wanted my son to be; a man. A good man. And he is.

          But, as I said earlier, a name was given to a child at birth that usually reflected what the parent wanted for their child. As time went by, they often came into another name that was descriptive of their personality. Depending on what you read, there can be up to 956 names for God in the Bible. All are descriptive. You, too, have many names.

          While in seminary a group of guys would get together and play touch football in a field at the school. Marsha had our two year old son playing on the nearby playground and she was watching us from a distance, sitting on a swing on the playground. A little girl was playing nearby and Marsha struck up a conversation with her. “Are you here alone?” “I’m with Daddy.” The little one pointed out toward the field where we were playing the game. “Marsha said, “Oh, which one is Daddy?” The little one looked up at her and said, “Right there! Daddy!” “Well, OK, what is his name?” The little girl was getting frustrated and she fixed Marsha with a blue eyed stare. “His name is Daddy!!!” “OK,” Marsha managed, trying not to laugh. “What does your Mommy call him?” Realization dawned on the little girl’s face. “Oh. Mommy calls him Stupid.” Here was a man with many names. There was his birth certificate name, then the name he probably loved (Daddy) and then the name his beloved used (Stupid). Think about it. We all have multiple names.

          I have the name I was given at birth. If I introduce myself to someone, I use that name. However, during my lifetime I have also been called Son, Brother, Dad (or Father or Pops or Male Parental Type, depending on my son’s mood), Nephew, Cousin, Grandson, Husband (or any number of names my wife uses for me, along the lines of Joy of My Life), Son in Law, Brother in Law, Protector, Provider, Pastor, Leader, Preacher, Counselor, Advisor, Irritant, Customer, Patient, Teacher, Friend, Mentor, Teammate, Employee, Comforter, Boss, Helper and so on. These are the ways we are remembered. Most of those who remember me in these various ways know my name is Larry, but I am not Larry to them. I am the Pastor who brought the word to them of the death of their daughter. I am the Provider who bought the Raiders jacket his little heart was set on. I am the Teacher who explained something difficult to grasp. Different names for different people at different times.

          What are your names? How well do you live up to the good ones? How do you deal with the ones you earned because you were less than you should be? We leave an impression everywhere we go and with everyone we meet. It speaks to who we really are. It can change from time to time. Today I am Irritant to a former Youth from years ago. She sent me a sad story of her misfortune yesterday with her car. It was a rough day. But I responded that it could have been avoided if she had just done a particular thing. Now she is put out with me. That will change because in her mind, no matter how much time passes or how far the distances are, I am Youth Pastor to her, and someone she can talk to.

          Live up to the good names, deal with the bad names. Be the best you can be.

          My grandmother died at the age of 101. I only saw her for a week or two every year growing up, when we would go to Kentucky. I was never really close to her. I had a cousin who lived right there close, so he spent time with her as a child and as an adult. At her funeral, my cousin stood looking into her casket. I walked up to him and put my arm around his shoulders. “Hey buddy, you OK?” “Yeah, Cuz. But, you know, she was the best Bible I ever knew.” My cousin was one of the pillars of the church and knew the Word better than me. But he wasn’t talking about the Book clutched in his hand. He was talking about the lessons learned from a Godly woman. Be that to people. Be a man or woman of God. Let people remember you as such.

          The name ‘Jeremiah’ means ‘whom God has appointed.’ Whether you are a man or a woman, be a Jeremiah. Right now, today. You may have a grandchild several generations down the line who will come to the Lord because you became a Jeremiah. Live up to your names.

          Blessings