There was another blog article ready to go today. Always a good thing to have it ready. Things sometimes come up and short circuit my time, so it is good to get a jump on it. But something happened and I wanted to share with you an interesting happening, at least interesting to me.

          On Thursday I was in Huntington. I needed to grab something at the grocery store and since I was in Huntington anyway, I ran into Owens. When you are in Owens you turn left upon entering and you are in the produce section. As I did so, I saw the display of flowers. For 43 years I really enjoyed surprising Marsha with flowers. I might buy them from a sidewalk vender, as in Florida. Sometimes in a store. Sometimes in a flower shop. Just to surprise her and make her smile. She was especially pleased if the flowers were in the colors of our wedding. When I spied the flowers I saw a grouping of flowers in our wedding colors. I had taken two steps toward them when it came to me that there was no reason anymore to get her flowers. She has left, gotten divorced as soon as the law allowed and remarried two weeks after that. A 43 year habit might die hard, but it has died.

          I laughed at myself. Not the sour laugh of someone who remembered something that hurt deeply. No, a laugh that was actually amusement. Does that mean I am happy about her affair and then our divorce? Not at all. It just struck me that recalling it there in Owens didn’t faze me and was actually humorous. I thought about it as I went on to find what I had gone into the store to find. I ran the time over in my mind and decided that yes, it must be about a year. I decided I would check when I got home.

          One year ago, to the day, I wrote these words in a blog; It is, as I write this, six AM on Wednesday morning, November 14, 2018. This is, altogether, the hardest morning of my life. I had thought that the morning in the hospital following my by-pass could never be eclipsed. I thought my hospital room was in an airplane and the airplane was streaking straight into the ground. But this morning is far worse. It is real, not drug induced. And, even if that other dream had been real and we would have crashed, at least it would have been over. This morning, and all the mornings too follow, will be met with the same crushing realization. This morning, at 5:30, Marsha drove out of our driveway. She has left me. No yelling, no screaming, no accusations. That is not the way we have ever done things. This was not done suddenly, but over a period of three months. Marsha’s desire, not mine, but no fussing or arguing.

          It has been a year. Wow. And I wouldn’t even have thought about it except for those flowers. It has been a year of hardship, but also of discovery. It has been a year of pain, but also small victories. Mostly, though, it has been a year of confusion as to why such a thing happened to understanding about her motivation. There is another realization here, too. I actually want everything to work out for Marsha. I don’t want God to exact retribution, I don’t want this new marriage to fall apart, I don’t want anything to go wrong with it at all. I cannot believe that God will allow her actions to go unpunished, but my prayer is that all will be fine. As for me, I have to live my life.

          Looking back over 2019, I can see the hand of God working in my life. Folks in the church have prayed for me and offered support. Friends from all phases of my life have reached out to me. Every single day I have been contacted by special friends, sometimes by several. Honestly, it is almost as though you could go to the ATM and take out money every day and it wouldn’t diminish, but rather would grow. One friend from my childhood made a joke one day about an aspect of Marsha leaving and, for the first time, I saw humor in it. It still makes me laugh. Another dear friend met me in Ohio when I went on vacation and we spent two days just talking.

          This year we have seen good things, exciting things, in the church and we have experienced the sadness some of those things have brought. But my vision has been clouded by personal and health issues. As the year of 2019 dawned I really didn’t expect to be alive at this point. My personal life was a wreck in every way. But now, a year later, I rarely think of it. I have a son and daughter in law who love me, a congregation that has been lovingly patient with me and friends I can never repay for their goodness and compassion. As I look forward, I see good things. Everything around me and all the people in my life are in God’s hands because that is where I put you all every day in prayer.

          On November 14, 2018 I stood in my driveway and wept, wondering why God had let this happen. On November 14, 2019 I have spent considerable time in prayer for various folks, I have laughed with people and I have been filled with wonder at how God has taken the darkness and turned it to day. Psalm 30:11-12--- You have turned for me my mourning into dancing; You have loosed my sackcloth and clothed me with gladness, that my glory may sing Your praise and not be silent. O Lord my God, I will give thanks to You forever!

          Blessings. And thank you all.

         I have a fascination with cemeteries. No, that isn’t really normal. I like to wander around and read the headstones. Here will be a little grouping of a husband, his wife and their child. Maybe 100 years old. The child might have died on the same day of birth and the mother three days later. The father twenty-five years later. That tells a story. Youngish couple, she is pregnant and has a child. The child is either stillborn or dies quickly. The mother was apparently having problems with the pregnancy and, in three days, it takes her. Because there is no second wife or other children in the grouping, I would assume the husband never remarries. Since he dies in his forties, I envision him carrying his grief for the rest of his life and dying, in his time, of a broken heart. Of course, I am probably wrong on several counts, but I like to wonder as I wander.

          Many, many hours have been spent in different cemeteries in a number of different states. Walking in the day is a joy, but walking in the night is more interesting. In Florida I encountered an armadillo. I think it is fair to say that we both screamed in our own language. On another night in the same cemetery I came across two young men standing and talking. Since the armadillo thing I had taken to carrying a flashlight. I didn’t have it on as I walked and nearly bumped into the two teens. “Who are you,” one of the young men snapped. “I pastor this church! Who are you and what are you doing in my cemetery at one in the morning?” Hey, humans I can deal with. Armadillos can scare the daylights out of me, but humans in the dark in my cemetery at one in the morning better have an excuse. “Uh, well, sir, were visiting Granny’s grave.” “Uh, yeah. Granny’s grave.” They both took off their hats folded their hands in front of their ragged jeans and looked down, as if they were in prayer. “You boys must miss her a great deal, to be out here so late.” “Oh, yes sir. It is just killing us.” I played my light over the headstone and said, “Well, I would have thought that after 75 years it would be getting a little better. Why don’t you fellas leave.” “Uh, yes sir!”

          I was at McKinley Community Church in Warren, Ohio for ten years. There were a number of small cemeteries scattered around the area. The community had originally been settled by pioneers from Connecticut. When they came to the area, they brought their own pastor, a Presbyterian minister. Many of those first settlers are buried together in a small cemetery just outside of the current city. On the pastor’s headstone, in worn letters, are the words, “Still serving my Savior.” Probably more than any headstone ever, that one really got to me.

          Working at a funeral home gave me ample time to explore cemeteries. Some of those wanderings were not good. Once a lady and I were looking for her husband’s grave, who had just been buried the day before. There was no headstone yet and his was the first grave in the new section and it was winter and a lot of snow had fallen overnight, so finding the grave was a problem. I found it by the unlucky happenstance of stepping into it. The dirt was very loose and very soaked and I sank like I had stepped into a swimming pool. I went down until my foot hit the top of the vault that the casket was in. I was seriously in some deep trouble (pun intended). Another time, with the cemetery full of people and about a foot and a half of fresh snow, I disappeared from sight because I stepped into a hole where the cemetery workers had dug out a tree a couple of days before and had not filled the hole in. I walked into the hole on one side and walked out of the hole on the other. Now that I think of it, the armadillo wasn’t so bad.

          But it is the story on the headstones that captures my imagination. I had read about the Presbyterian minister in Warren, so I knew something of him. And I have visited the graves of several presidents and other notables, but the regular folks in the regular graves……

          I didn’t realize it until I was an adult, but my mother shared the same fascination as I. She and Marsha’s mother came to Florida for my ordination. This was at the church with the cemetery with the armadillo. Mom wanted me to walk her around the cemetery and we spent several hours reading headstones. She did the same thing I had done, working up a story of the lives based on the little information on the headstone. It was surprising how close our stories were. One section was given over to a family with the somewhat unfortunate name of Butts. In this section there were the older stones from the time of burial but also a much newer stone detailing that particular family. The father, Mr. Butts, was born in the 1700s. He married a native American named Lehey. For some reason, Mom saw the Lehey and thought it was Leathery. She said Leathery Butts just wasn’t a good name. My mother didn’t have a real refined sense of humor, but when she saw it was Lehey, she got tickled at herself. Anyway, the stone said they had 18 children. Then it listed their names in their birth order. The first child and the last child had the same name. When Mom saw all the names on that stone, she said, “Well, I don’t think I have ever seen so many Butts in one place.” So, there we were, two adults standing in a cemetery laughing like a couple of loons. When we had settled down, I pointed out the same name for the first and the last. “Do you suppose they just ran out of names and started over?” She sobered quickly and explained to me that the first one probably died shortly after birth. Lehey had many more, but probably always missed the first born. So, she gave the same name to the last as a way of remembering the first. She had a whole scenario created and she was probably pretty close to the truth.

          Our time here is limited. In a hundred years someone will wander through your cemetery and observe your grave. They will not know who you were or how you lived your life. But maybe, if we are faithful, it might be that their life was affected for the Lord by someone who was affected for the Lord by someone who was affected for the Lord by someone and going back until it gets to you. Or me. We have no other more important job.

          Our pastorate at Park Street Christian Church in Geneva, Ohio was an example of all the right puzzle pieces coming together and making an awesome ministry. I pray all of you will experience that someday. But I knew that within a few years of my departure I would be mostly forgotten. I never cared about that, but I wanted to leave my stamp on the Spiritual aspect of that church so that for generations to come the Word would be preached. I asked the choir to sing a song by Steve Green, “Find Us Faithful”.

We're pilgrims on the journey
Of the narrow road
And those who've gone before us line the way
Cheering on the faithful, encouraging the weary
Their lives a stirring testament to God's sustaining grace!

CHORUS

Oh may all who come behind us find us faithful
May the fire of our devotion light their way
May the footprints that we leave
Lead them to believe
And the lives we live inspire them to obey
Oh may all who come behind us find us faithful

Surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses
Let us run the race not only for the prize
But as those who've gone before us
Let us leave to those behind us
The heritage of faithfulness passed on through godly lives
CHORUS
Oh may all who come behind us find us faithful
May the fire of our devotion light their way
May the footprints that we leave
Lead them to believe
And the lives we live inspire them to obey
Oh may all who come behind us find us faithful

          The only footprint we leave behind that really has importance is the footprint that blazes the trail that leads to Christ. Just like that Presbyterian minister, “Still serving my Savior.”

         There is a pattern in society now that is disturbing. We seemingly have more compassion for dogs and cats in an Animal Protective League shelter than we do for humans. Oh, we might rally for high profile causes, even if we do not have the whole story, but compassion and concern for people is in short supply. In San Francisco people are making a big deal about helping the homeless, but in Ashtabula, Ohio there are hundreds of people living under highway bridges in valleys and only the local churches help them. It isn’t high profile enough for the do gooders of the world to reach out. Wouldn’t it be a wonderful thing if people acted and reacted out of love instead of seeking personal gain?

         Back in my school days in a psychology class we were given a test to give to couples who were going to be married. I saw it online this past week written into a story and I had to stop and think of how long it has been since I had used it. It is good to use as a test to see if you really want to marry an individual, but for me, it is more beneficial to use it in evaluating ourselves.

         1 Corinthians 13 is often called the ‘love chapter.’ In chapter 13, Paul gives us the ideal definition of love. It is read at weddings, it is preached and it is read in devotions. Really good stuff. But it is also a very good test.

         The entire chapter is only thirteen verses. It is as follows;

1.)  If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal. 2.) And if I have prophetic powers, and understand all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have all faith, so as to remove mountains, but have not love, I am nothing. 3.) If I give away all I have, and if I deliver up my body to be burned, but have not love, I gain nothing.

4.)  Love is patient and kind; love does not envy or boast; it is not arrogant 5.) or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; 6.)  it does not rejoice at wrongdoing, but rejoices with the truth. 7.)  Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.

8.)  Love never ends. As for prophecies, they will pass away; as for tongues, they will cease; as for knowledge, it will pass away. 9.) For we know in part and we prophesy in part, 10.)  but when the perfect comes, the partial will pass away. 11.)  When I was a child, I spoke like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I gave up childish ways. 12.)  For now we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I have been fully known.

13.)  So now faith, hope, and love abide, these three; but the greatest of these is love.

         In a wedding setting these words are beautiful. But how much do they impact us daily?

         The test for couples who are contemplating marriage goes like this; We know that this, in just a few verses, is the perfect explanation of love. To see if your partner is going to be a loving partner, take verses 4-7 and everywhere the word ‘love’ appears, put the name of the one you want to marry. For instance, Bob and Emily wish to get married. Emily does the test with Bob: 4.)  Bob is patient and kind; Bob does not envy or boast; he is not arrogant  5.)  or rude. He does not insist on his own way; he is not irritable or resentful; 6.)  he does not rejoice at wrongdoing, but rejoices with the truth. 7.) Bob bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.

That puts it in a different light and gives Emily something to consider as she looks to the future other than looking at Bob with the blindness that passion often clouds our minds with. When Bob puts Emily to the test, he also has something more to consider.

         But there is another application here and it requires personal honesty. It is, I believe, more important than the marriage application. Put your own name in place of ‘love.’ This causes you to evaluate yourself. For instance; 4.) Larry is patient and kind; Larry does not envy or boast; I am not arrogant  5.)  or rude. I do not insist on my own way; I am not irritable or resentful; 6.)  I do not rejoice at wrongdoing, but rejoice with the truth. 7.) Larry bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.

         That makes it a bit more sobering. It is always hard to judge yourself. I have to do it often. Am I always patient and kind? It can be a struggle, especially being kind. It seems some people deserve being unkind to, but they need Christ and treating them harshly can drive them away. Do I envy what others have or boast of myself? That takes some work. Am I arrogant or rude to others? It is so easy to be rude to some! But when you are rude, aren’t you then being arrogant? Do I have to have my own way? I am a confident person and therefore I believe my thinking to be right. Right? Another battle. Am I irritable or resentful? I seem to be able to get past being resentful, but being irritable is so easy! Do I rejoice at wrong doing? I mean, if the cashier gives me to much money, am I proud of myself? Or, do I hold truth dear, even if it hurts me or others? Do I bear the problems of others? Do I see the good, even when it is surrounded by the bad? Do I hope for the best for others even if it diminishes me? Do I endure the bad that comes my way, knowing God is in charge?

         I am going to ask you to do this for yourself. Replace your name for ‘love’ and see if you are a loving person. And, if you are considering marriage, put the other person’s name in place of ‘love’ and see how they stack up. Do not expect perfection from you or anyone else. But, if you are striving for those things, or if your potential spouse is striving, that is good.

Be honest.

1 Corinthians 13:13--- So now faith, hope, and love abide, these three; but the greatest of these is love.

         If things are moving in God’s direction in a church there will be some hard times. Satan will do whatever he can do to derail the train. But the Lord is also present at such times and will make His presence known to us if we will just listen. The church I pastored for 11 years in Ohio was a church in flux; leaving its denomination, breaking decades of tradition and dealing with all the myriad of things that can plague a church. A pastor is often a lightening rod for those who are angry at change and the pastor can feel the brunt of attacks even if he has not instigated the changes. In the case of Ohio, the denomination labeled me a cult leader and that got to the people in the church and community who were disaffected and there was a lot of nasty things said. The active members knew what the real story was and they just laughed it off and went on their ways, but it put pressure on me. Meeting with the Lord every morning was the only way to weather the storm.

         For me, that meant getting up every morning at 4 AM, getting dressed and usually driving to Lake Erie to a spot on top of a bluff over looking the Lake. There I would lay my head back against the seat and pray. Not with my eyes closed, but more in the way of chatting with a friend. Any time of the year; freezing, raining, hot and muggy. It didn’t matter. Window down and talking. We would visit for two or three hours with the background noise of surf or storm or high winds or, if the Lake was completely frozen, silence. We had some interesting conversations. When I went to work at the funeral home, I would often do the same thing. And, really, there didn’t need to be a conflict or problem rearing its ugly head. There were many times that it was a time of laughing and having fun.

         Once we came to Indiana, that ended. It is way to far to drive to Lake Michigan in the morning and normally the rivers here don’t make much noise as they slowly meander on their way. I miss it a great deal, but God is anywhere you want to meet up. Still, I have always lived near big water, either Lake Erie or the Atlantic Ocean or the Gulf of Mexico. There is just something about the unwavering strength of big water.

         Last week I was on vacation in Ohio. I wanted to see my son and his wife, connect with a dear friend and see the changing leaves. I knew Marsha was getting married, but I thought it was to be on Saturday and I figured to be headed out of the state by then and leaving that behind. But then my son told me that the reception was on Saturday. She was getting married at the Cuyahoga County courthouse on Wednesday. It didn’t really bother me. I knew it was going to happen. This last year has been the hardest of my life and I am mostly out of the darkness. I am OK with it, I suppose, but as Wednesday dawned, I was out of sorts. That and a few other things on my mind were pulling me down. I had the day free and I wanted to go sightseeing. My son and his wife live in the same town they grew up in, which is also the town I pastored in for so long. I love the area and I set out in the morning to see what I could see.

         There are hills and valleys and fast moving rivers and parks everywhere. It was almost like every creek I drove over and every rock and every tree along the way held a memory. But I was troubled still. Without thinking about it, I was gradually heading north. Almost without realizing it, I was soon going down the road that led to my special spot. When I realized it, I thought to myself, I wonder if it has changed. It wasn’t really a parking place. Just a little pull off next to the guard rail. Maybe it wasn’t even there anymore or, because of its place many feet above the Lake, maybe they had a no parking sign up now. Things change.

         At one time I had an ugly yellow car. One winter morning I started sliding on the ice and bumped the guard rail, leaving a little of the paint on the rail. As I pulled up, I saw that little spot of yellow paint. It made me smile. I snugged in next to the rail, slid my window down and turned off the car. A storm was brewing out on the Lake. You could see the clouds forming. As the storm formed it pushed the water ahead of it and the waves slammed against the rocks below. The wind was building. Rain was starting and there was no one around, not even cars. Here it was complete daylight, unlike my other trips in the dark, but it seemed like those other times.

         As I sat there listening, it almost seemed like I heard a voice. “Finally. I wondered when you would get here! Welcome home, my son. You are troubled, aren’t you? I’ve always been able to tell, you know. I can read you like a book. So, what do you want to talk about today?”

         And we sat there for a while, in our regular place. That voice I seemed to be hearing seemed to be reminding me of other times when we worked through problems together. All the struggles. And the voice I seemed to be hearing reminded me of funny things, too. Successes, joys, victories over the evil one. The voice I seemed to be hearing had always been with me here in Indiana, too, but that day I needed to be at home again in the spot by the Lake, feeling the Comforter and being comforted.

            After awhile I started the car up and backed away, being careful not to leave any gray paint this time. I got on the road and saw a couple walking toward my spot to look over at the Lake. I met a couple of cars and the road became busy again. Did we really sit there all that time uninterrupted? How did that happen? I shook my head and smiled. I bet He arranged that one for sure! As I pulled away, the things that had been troubling me were gone. Oh, they were still in existence. They just were not pulling at me.

         I had been home, you see, and my Friend and I had a talk. He knows me so well he can read me like a book. But I know Him, as well, because I read His Book. It was really good to sit in that one tiny place which is, more than any place on this earth, home to me. Just me and my Friend.

         Blessings.

2 Kings 6:13-17 (ESV)

¹³ And he (this being the king of Syria, the enemy of the Jews) said, “Go and see where he (this being the prophet Elisha, the Man of God) is, that I may send and seize him.” It was told him, “Behold, he is in Dothan.” ¹⁴ So he sent there horses and chariots and a great army, and they came by night and surrounded the city.

¹⁵ When the servant of the man of God rose early in the morning and went out, behold, an army with horses and chariots were all around the city. And the servant said, “Alas, my master! What shall we do?” ¹⁶ He said, “Do not be afraid, for those who are with us are more than those who are with them.” ¹⁷ Then Elisha prayed and said, “O Lord, please open his eyes that he may see.” So the Lord opened the eyes of the young man, and he saw, and behold, the mountain was full of horses and chariots of fire all around Elisha.

          1981. Marsha and I lived in Hialeah, Florida with our baby son. I was the associate pastor at a church and Marsha was the church secretary. I had just had surgery on my right wrist for a complicated break. (You will occasionally see me wearing a wrist and hand brace on that hand. The surgery was a failure and I still suffer with it.) Life was pretty good. Good friends, good church folks. Hialeah is just northwest of Miami. You can pass from one city into the next without knowing it unless you see the signs. Some people would consider it paradise, but that would just be an opinion. It was, however, a great place to be living when you were 25.

          Our church needed some legal work done over an issue, so on one really hot September day I met our five Trustees at the church, got them loaded in the church’s van and set out for Miami where the lawyer we were using had an office. Arriving in the city, I drove to his building and pulled up to the front door. I let our people out and then I started to look for a place to park. As luck had it, there was a spot open across the road on the curb. I did a hard U-turn and slid in behind a tall cargo type truck. Immediately the places behind me started filling up, so I rejoiced that I had gotten such a prime spot. Rather than sit in the sweltering heat for an hour, I hopped out crossed the street back to the attorney’s office. I got a cup of coffee and got comfortable in the waiting room so I could be ready when the Trustees concluded their business.

          I should note that 1981 was a different time than now. Clergy were expected to wear a three piece suit when conducting church business. Suit jacket, slacks, vest, tie and shirt. Oh, and shiny shoes. I was in the proper uniform, except for the suit coat. Because of the surgery the week before my right arm was encased in a huge cast from the tips of my fingers to my shoulder. Really, I shouldn’t have been driving, but no one else wanted to drive downtown. Because of the cast, I could not wear the suit coat. The shoes, pants, shirt, tie and vest were all in place, so I still maintained proper uniform dress.

          I was struggling to figure out how to hold a magazine and drink coffee when someone came in and said, “Hey, if anybody here parked on the other side of the street, the police just towed them all away.” It took a second or two to register that I had parked on the other side of the street. I jumped up and rushed outside just in time to see a VW bug being towed off. No one was parked there any more. From where I stood I could clearly see the NO PARKING THIS SIDE OF STREET sign right where that tall cargo type truck had been parked. I hadn’t seen the sign because he had been blocking it. The church van was gone.

          This was not good.

          I ran inside and asked the receptionist where they would have taken the van. She told me the police impound lot and she told me where it was located. About twenty blocks away. Quick mental calculations ( I am a mental giant, you know) told me I could get there, get the van and get back before our people were done conducting business. I ran out of the building just as the receptionist started to say something. I ignored her, being a mental giant and all. I was in a hurry.

          That time of the year it is really hot and muggy in Miami. It is hurricane season and it can become so muggy damp that your clothes become sodden in just a few steps. I am in the clergy uniform, minus the suit jacket and wearing the shiny shoes as I ran down the street. In Miami, ten blocks roughly equals a mile, so I am running in high heat and in a suit and shiny shoes. As I say, mental giant.

          After ten blocks I was huffing it. But I had also run into a pretty bad part of town. I slowed to a walk, trying to suck the overheated air into my lungs. Everything I had on was soaked through and my hair (yes, back then I had a full head of hair) was plastered on my head and face. My head was pounding and my arm was just killing me. My feet were screaming at me for trying to run in dress shoes on steaming concrete.

          And it was then that I realized I was being followed.

          Two young men, a little younger than me, were behind me walking along. They, too, were wearing uniforms, although quite different from mine. Ratty jeans and ratty running shoes. Skin tight tank type shirts and do rags on their heads. The uniform of a Miami street thug in 1981. I was walking in the normal manner (normal for someone who had just run a mile in shiny shoes), but they were all swagger. I had turned my head and saw them behind me. When I looked forward there was another young man on the sidewalk ahead of me a half block, also wearing the uniform. I looked to either side down the alley next to me and the one across the street and saw a young man, in uniform, standing in each alley. Larry was trapped.

          Any time I have ever been in a situation, there is something in my brain that clicks. I absolutely hate to fight. Will avoid it. Can’t imagine fighting anything bigger than a puppy now. But my father had taught me to fight. His lessons had been harsh and he wailed on me pretty good, but I learned to fight. Not the Marquis of Queensbury rules, either, but fighting to win. In a one on one with any of those guys, no weapons and me not in a cast, I probably win. But here, I was going to get hurt. I slowly turned and faced the two behind me. Smirks were plastered on their faces. They had something in their hands. Almost like they had practiced it, they each pushed a button and a bladed snicked out. I heard the same sound all around me. I had heard about switch blades, of course, but I had never seen one. My first thought was, ‘Hey, those are illegal!’ Just the thought made me laugh. I looked at the two and said, “OK, let’s do this.” Real brave stuff. The mental giant speaking. But, like I say, something just clicks in my mind and I get stupid.

          The two guys moved forward. I remember thinking I was going to swing my cast and nail someone. After that I would be in real pain from my wrist breaking and the first knife sinking in. What could these guys possibly want? Probably just doing it for the fun.

          Then, they stopped. Their eyes were fixed on a point just above my head. Their eyes widened. The guy behind me gave a gasp and I heard the sound of ratty running shoes hitting concrete as he ran away. The two to either side turned and ran down their alleys. The two in front of me let their mouths fall open, then they turned and ran off, too. They had been looking just above my head, so I looked up to see what had scared them off. And there……

          Was nothing. A heat-hazy sky. Nothing else. I turned all the way around and still saw nothing. No one stood there, there was no great eagle circling just above my head and looking mean. There was nothing except for a quiet that seemed to descend.

          I had to get the van.

          I got to the impound lot and went into the office. A really tall and muscular Hispanic man was sitting there reading a magazine. He didn’t even look up. “¿Qué pasa?” I barely heard him. I was reading the sign that said the tow was $100 and then said $100 for each day and then it said that the day started when the vehicle entered the lot. The mental giant thing kicked in and I calculated that I needed $200 dollars.

          “Ah, yeah, I need to talk to you about the church van that just came in.” He put down his magazine. “The church van is yours?” “Well, no, it is the church’s, but I am driving it today.” “Get out and take it with you!” “Ah, well, OK, but….” “Go, Chico! Now!”

          I went. I got in the van and said, “Geez, what did you do to light his candle?” Mental giants talk to their vehicles.

          I got back just in time to pick up the folks. I never really knew why those guys ran off.

          Unless, of course, they all saw a fiery angel in the sky just above me. Could be. I know most will not believe the tale, but whether you believe it or not does not affect whether or not it is true. And it is true.

         Blessings.

          Back in the earlier days of baseball, big leaguers rarely made enough money to live on for the whole year. Roger Maris, one of the biggest names in the sport in the early 1960s (he broke Babe Ruth’s single season home run record), had to drive a beer truck in Kansas City during the off season to make ends meet. Some of the biggest stars, like Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig and Joe DiMaggio and Micky Mantle and a few others made enough to live on, but mostly the players played for the love of the game. They farmed or worked in factories or sold insurance or cars, whatever they could do to provide for their families. In the 1910s and 20s and 30s a lot of the players would form teams with other players as soon as the season ended and they would barnstorm the country, particularly the south. What that meant was they would crisscross the south and play local town and country ball teams. Admission would be charged and the pros would take some of that and the local teams would take some. The big league clubs would usually pick up the travel costs because it was great public relations for the sport. Since there were no big league teams in the south, it was the only opportunity for Southerners to see the stars. For five years or so a special team was organized during the 1930s that traveled to Japan to play their teams because the Japanese were baseball crazy.

          In the 1920s the big stars, like Ruth and Gehrig, also went barnstorming. They really didn’t need the money and their shares of the gate mostly went to the other players, but having the super stars was a good advertisement for big league baseball. Because the biggest stars were with the New York Yankees and because those big stars were barnstorming and playing up to the fans, people all over the south fell in love with the Yankees. Very good public relations.

          In 1927 the Yankees had an incredible year, winning the American League pennant by 19 games (This was decades before the division set up that exists now. You played the season and the best record went to the World Series.) In the World Series they swept the Pittsburgh Pirates. Even today, they are considered the best team to ever take the field. On that team there was the famous Murderers Row, a group of hitters no pitcher anywhere could get through without serious damage being done. Earle Combs, Mark Koenig, Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig, Bob Meusel, and Tony Lazzeri. Just an awesome line-up. When barnstorming season came along, Ruth and Gehrig and Meusel went out together on the tour.

          They played their way across the south, ending up just before Christmas. The regular season ended in September and, because there was no playoff format, the World Series was usually over by the first week in October. That made the barnstorming season a good two months long and the various teams of big leaguers managed to play in just about every ball field in the south. In late November of 1927, the bus carrying the team with Ruth, Gehrig and Meusel pulled into a small town in Alabama. It was cold with a light snow and some wind, but the small stands were filled to overflowing with fans wanting to see the heart of the fabled Murderers Row bat against their boys.

          By 1971 our family farm had failed. For the first time in my life I was working away from the fields. My sister got me a summer job at the nursing home she worked at. The floors were not carpeted and so needed swept and mopped daily. I happened to be pretty good at that chore. On the second day of work I entered a room with my dust pan and broom. The occupant was a tall man with a full head of red hair, almost as red as mine. The day before he had been asleep when I was there, but on this day he was laying in bed reading a book. I said good morning and began to sweep.

          “Hey, Red.” A reference to my bright red hair. I didn’t like being called Red. It had only happened a couple of times in school and my reaction to it made certain it would never happen again. But he was as red haired as I, so I turned to him and said, “Yeah, Big Red?” He got a chuckle out of that and then he said, “You like baseball?” His southern accent made it sound like ‘basebawl’, so I grinned back and said, “Love it.” “Yeah? Ever hear of Murderers Row?” Big Red was talking to a baseball nut. It might have been 44 years since that group had come together, but I knew all about them. “Sure. Combs, Koenig, Ruth, Gehrig, Meusel and Lazzeri.” Big Red’s eyes lit up. “Red, if you got a few minutes I got me a story to tell you!” So I took a few minutes and pulled up a chair.

          The bus pulled up to the ball field in that small town in Alabama and the big league players piled out. They were already wearing their uniforms and most of the men were hungover from a night of drinking on the bus. Meusel and Ruth and Gehrig were the last ones off because they were the ones everyone really wanted to see. Gehrig wasn’t a drinker and was stone cold sober, but Meusel and Ruth had seen better days. Gehrig said a few words to the gathered crowd and then he followed the team to the field, leaving Meusel and Ruth to fend for their selves. On the field waiting for the pros was the local American League baseball team. A pretty sharp group of young guys, but obviously no match for the pros. Still, most of the pros were hungover. It might be a pretty good game. They had their ace on the mound, a tall, red headed kid of 20 who just the day before had bagged two deer. He felt like he could do anything. Young, strong, pitching against the pros. Maybe he could get into the minors based on this game. He had not thought at all that in four decades he would be bed bound in a nursing home in Madison, Ohio, dying of cancer. No, on that cold November day in Alabama, he aimed to be a hero.

          The first time through the line-up the tall red haired kid got roughed up a little. Even hungover, they were big leaguers. The pros had scored a couple of runs by the third inning and the American Legion boys had punched over a run. Now, for the second time in the game, Big Red was going to face Meusel and Ruth and Gehrig, in that order. Runners on first and second, no outs. Looked like a big inning for the pros.

          Meusel fouled off two pitches and then watched strike three smoke by. He argued with the umpire and got thrown out of the game. Babe Ruth strode to the plate. He pulled two mammoth foul balls to right and then struck out swinging. Both Meusel and Ruth had been trying to drive the ball out of the park, but Gehrig was a contact hitter with great power. He rarely tried to kill the ball, but he still got his share of home runs. All he needed here was a single and a run would score. Three pitches later he walked back to the dugout, having swung and missed on all three. The crowd went crazy! Their American Legion red head had struck out Murderers Row! What a moment in that small Alabama town! It didn’t even matter that the pros eventually won the game. All anyone could talk about was the third inning strike outs.

          He told me the story with great detail. It was all burned into his mind. He grew tired with the telling and fell asleep when he was done. I sat and looked at the older man. I didn’t know the rest of his story. What was it that brought him to Northeast Ohio, if he had ever made the minors, did he marry and have children? At that point I didn’t know he would die in a week from cancer. But I just sat there and watched him sleep. The barnstorming days had always fascinated me and I had read a lot about that time. There were lots and lots of stories of local teams pulling off victories and even a few of a local pitcher who had struck out the three mightiest hitters on the pro teams, always in the third or fourth inning. Although never stated, it almost seemed that such things were planned to excite the local folks. Perhaps this gentleman had just done that, struck out the side because they let him do it. I don’t know, but I do know it was a happy memory.

          A few years later, in college, I was sharing the story with my roommate. Instead of the inspiring tale I was shooting for, my roommate seemed adversely affected by the story. “What, you don’t think it’s a great story?” My roomie looked at me and shrugged. “Yeah, its pretty cool. But just think about it, Larry. You don’t know anything about him except that story. That is what he wanted to tell you. Probably the greatest moment of his life. And he was twenty years old. To find something great in his life, he had to look back a long way. Don’t you think that is sad?”

          I had never thought about it like that. Doing something great at an early age then never anything to top it. Living on a memory. I was at the nursing home a week later when he died. He had no family there. He died alone. Was that really his one shining moment?

          That bugged me. As my roommate said, it was sad. I thought about it and thought about it and I decided that regardless what happened in my life, I would keep looking for bigger challenges and higher mountains regardless of what happened. No greatest moments for me, just greater things to come.

          All this came to mind this week. Sitting in a chair at home (not my recliner because I didn’t want to fall asleep) one evening with the lights out, I was letting my mind run through events of my life. Recent events have been sad, but mostly this life has been very fulfilling. As of Saturday, October 5 I will have been in the ministry for 44 years. It occurred to me that Big Red told me the story of that shining moment 44 years after it had happened. I sat there in the dark and thought, ‘Do I have a shining moment?’

          As I thought about it, there have been many, many shining moments. Moments in time that stand out, faces that become clear in the memory, babies that smile when they see you. Sometimes seeing someone come to the Lord against all odds. Watching a dear saint pass from this life to glory. The unbridled joy of a child at VBS and the gentle pleasure of an older person upon hearing a favorite song. My great moments might not sound so great to some, but at the moment of their happening they were great. For 44 years it has been awesome. Which is not to say there have been no down times, but sitting there thinking about it, the shining moments blow the bad moments away.

          Please don’t live your life in the past. Your personal life, your family life, your church life should all be focused on the next shining moment. If you keep seeking great things, when that time comes to sit in the dark and ponder on your very best moments it will be like a parade of joys and laughter and smiles. Even the heartbreaks will pale.

          Big Red gripped the ball, then fired that third strike past the great Lou Gehrig and the crowd went wild. But then…….nothing else of note. A wonderful memory, yes. It seems so sad, though.

          A year ago, I was ready to stop and end my ministry. The Lord would not let me and, almost as important to me, neither would you folks. So, thank you and keep looking forward. Blessings!