One of the lessons—maybe the most important discipline—I’ve learned from being part of Celebrate Recovery (CR) for more than twenty years is the discipline of listening. I think it’s a habit of our culture to have a pithy phrase at the tip of our tongue for every situation and every problematic occasion. We do it for basically one reason: the comfort factor. We don’t like to feel uncomfortable. In effect, we have learned not to listen.

I remember realizing for the first time that as soon as someone began talking to me, I started the process of formulating a response. Providing a response, any response, would make me feel better and more comfortable. I believed if I felt better, then the person in crisis would feel better. 

James 1:19 (MSG) gives a perfect picture of the inverse of this deadly habit we, as a culture, have cultivated: “Post this at all the intersections, dear friends: Lead with your ears, follow up with your tongue, and let anger straggle along in the rear.” James says it’s so important we should post this life-giving advice at every intersection: Yield, Stop, Caution, Lane Ends Ahead, and Listen. He tells us to lead with our ears and then follow up with our words. 

I learned through the guidelines of CR that I don’t have to have a response. As a matter of fact, allowing other fallen humans the respect of hearing their pain, really listening, makes them feel valued and important. Some, for the first time in their lives, feel heard and not interrupted. 

So I listen. And most times, I learn. 

A residual blessing from this discipline of active listening—and I believe all blessings have residual blessings—is that I’ve learned to give this same respect to God. When he told us to lead with our ears, maybe he wasn’t just talking about listening to each other. It’s part of his “Be still and know that I am God” philosophy. 

The madness of living life tends to drown out our ability to hear him. Along with trying to formulate a correct and life-altering response to a person’s appeal to be heard, we think that catchphrases are a healing tonic. But now I believe God is seen, felt, and heard most clearly in the silence. After all, it wasn’t in the hurricane winds, the massive earthquake, or the mighty fire that Elijah heard him. It was in his still, small voice. And that still, small voice moved Elijah to action.

I often pray the Lord will place me in strategic places on any particular day where his presence is undeniable and where I can make a difference. Not for me but for him—for his glory. I don’t believe I hear them every time, but sometimes they are pronounced, and he always shows himself in unexpected, unusual, spontaneous, surprising, and sometimes challenging ways.

Heading to Fort Smith for a business meeting once, driving down a relatively deserted road, I happened to look to the shoulder and notice a large bird in a ditch, writhing, obviously in pain. I was running a little late, so I just hoped it would be okay. 

About a tenth of a mile later, I realized I would be miserable if I didn’t take care of it. So I turned around and went back. I saw the bird trying to walk. It must have been hit by a car and left to die. 

Sidebar: I won’t go into how furious this makes me. Just imagine torture and perhaps a small amount of permanent maiming. 

I got out of my car and walked to the bird. Recognizing a young turkey, I reached for her, but she crawled away. Wearing slacks and a dress shirt, I chased behind her through briar patches into the woods.

After a bit of chasing, I caught up with her, picked her up, and carried her to the car. I drove her to Doubletree Veterinary Clinic, where I worked, and took her inside. The good Dr. Peck made a quick exam and shook his head sadly. 

I said, “Look, I was in the right place at the right time. Now fix ’er!” 

Jenny, the vet tech, said, “You mean like with dressing?” 

I left the critter there and yelled back over my shoulder, “Fix ’er!” as I walked out. I thanked the Lord for letting me pass by that spot at just the right time. I went on to Fort Smith, did my business presentation, and headed back. 

I was traveling down the interstate and got stuck in rush-hour traffic and a major amount of road work. I was tired, annoyed, and frustrated that it was taking forty-five minutes longer to get home than I wanted.

But as I got into town, I passed Walgreens, when I saw a couple of men in the grass, bending down and looking at a sweet little dog lying in the grass. I immediately knew the sweet pooch had been hit. I thought I might be able to take it to the clinic to have Dr. Peck look at it. But I pulled into the Walgreens parking lot and saw them covering the little pup up. The little animal was gone. 

Just then, I saw a lady sitting behind them in the grass with her head in her hands, sobbing. Perhaps she’d hit the dog. I couldn’t tell. But I did notice a couple of other women approach her and try to comfort her. 

I walked to the men and asked what had happened. They said it was her dog, and it had jumped out the car window while she was parked. It had run into the street during rush-hour traffic. 

I walked over to the grieving woman and sat in the grass near her. By then, a small crowd had gathered, including a child, all wanting to comfort her. I spoke first. “What’s your name?”

“Suzie.” She continued sobbing.

I let a couple of minutes pass. I felt the Lord prompting me to say or do something; I just wasn’t sure what. So I waited. I listened. 

The little girl looked up at me and said, “Her puppy is with Jesus.” 

I got all misty-eyed and said, “You are one hundred percent right. I have absolutely no doubt.” Just then, I knew what the Lord was asking me to do. “Suzie, do you believe in God?”

She looked up at me with her eyes filled with tears and nodded.

I said, “Would it be okay if I prayed for you?”

She suddenly looked relieved. At the same time, everyone else said, “Yes!” 

Suzie reached out and put her hand on mine. Everyone there threw his or her hand in, and I prayed. I prayed for Suzie’s peace and that she would feel God’s strong arms wrapped around her while she grieved. I prayed he would send his angels to protect her, and I said even though we didn’t understand why these things happened, God was still on his throne and grieving right along with all of us there.

In that unlikely but holy place, five strangers held hands. We prayed while, fifteen feet away, rush-hour traffic flew past us on Highway 10. How many of those drivers wondered at all the people praying?

Suzie was still shaking and overwhelmed, having just lost her precious little friend. 

Someone got a box from Walgreens, and I put the little one inside, wrapped in a plastic red-and-white-checkered tablecloth Walgreens donated. I put her in the back of my car and then drove Suzie home in her car.

There was another dog in the car, a big boxer. Suzie wasn’t sure Roxie would be okay with someone else in the car. I told her I felt safe. I got in, and Roxie came right up to me and started licking my face. Suzie smiled through her grief and said, “Wow, she never does that.” 

I told her to just call me the dog whisperer. She laughed a little but cried most of the way home. I listened. She was upset that the woman who’d hit her little pup hadn’t even stopped. Even though I again had fleeting thoughts of torture and a little maiming, I told her she mustn’t dwell on that. Seven people had stopped, total strangers who cared. I reminded her that she’d loved her sweet little one better than anyone else could have. The pup had loved her unconditionally, and she had to remember all the happiness they had brought to each other. 

One of the other ladies followed us to Suzie’s apartment. When we got out of our cars, Suzie spoke through tears. “I’m overwhelmed by your goodness.” 

I told her, “Oh, Suzie, don’t thank me. I’m not good. It’s all about the Lord. He even made sure I was held up by road work so I’d pass you at just that time.” 

She asked, “You really think so?” 

I smiled. “It worked, didn’t it?” 

She hugged us both. The other lady drove me back to my car. I drove to the clinic and left Suzie’s precious little companion there. 

I love days like that, even when they’re hard. 

Once again, God surprised me with his goodness. I know this to be true: I will never lead as well with my words as I do with my ears. I will never have the wisdom to give affirmation, hope, mercy, and grace if I speak before I hear. 

And I mean really hear. Not just the parts for which I have a canned, ready response but everything.

Butterball the turkey (yes, that’s what they named her at the clinic, which scares me just a little) went to a rehab clinic for wild birds. Dr. Beach gave her some meds for a few days and then set her at the edge of the woods. He watched as she took flight and soared over the trees and into the woods. 

Hey, God!

As I’ve said, I live way out in the country on two and a half acres of woods with a winding creek and a small wood house I call home—The Blair Witch Project. It’s a perfect setting for dogs, and normally, I take them outside and watch them run around and perform their regular constitutionals before coming inside.

Years ago, I decided to stand inside the door rather than venture out into the misty weather. One day my Jack Russell terrier, Gitli (Cherokee for “Dog”), a tornado of teeth and toenails, seemed to be taking a lot more time than usual to come back to the house. I went out looking for him. 

I finally located him behind my house. He must have wandered there and encountered my neighbor’s two dogs. Because I wasn’t there to stop them, they brutally attacked and killed my precious pet. I’ve never gotten over that experience. Now I never, under any circumstances, let my pooches go out, rain, shine, sleet, snow, or ice, unless I’m there with them. 

A while ago, I took two of my six out. My little blind one, the tiny rat terrier, Gawasi (Cherokee for “Grace”), was barking at me to pick her up, so I did. I carried her into the house. 

Falkor wasn’t out of my sight for more than one minute. He is what my veterinarian calls a Labasset: a Labrador head and a basset hound body. Completely black. Weirdest-looking dog ever!

I went outside to bring him back in, and he had apparently, and ill-advisedly, decided to go on an exploration adventure. 

He never wanders far, never out of my line of vision. I calmly checked all the usual places he went, including the burn pile and the creek. I called and called. I walked around my next-door neighbor’s house and to the street behind, where I’d found Gitli in a field years ago. I immediately began to tense up. I could feel anxiety and fear rising up my shoulders and into my throat. My mouth went dry, and my heart raced as the minutes turned into hours. I got in my car and drove around the neighborhood, looking for any sign of him. I stopped to ask neighbors if they had seen him: a black Labasset with a red collar. 

Kids were playing in the front yard of the house where the dogs had killed Gitli. The owners of those dogs had moved out, and the youngsters were new to the neighborhood. I stopped my car, stuck my head out the window, and asked if they had seen a black dog with a red collar. They were sweet. They walked to my car and said no dog had come by with that description, but they would be on the lookout for him and bring him home if he came over. 

I glanced up to see their father standing on the front porch. I yelled, “I promise I’m not a predator! I’m really looking for my dog. I live right behind you. I love Jesus, and I’m in the choir.” 

He smiled and gave me the thumbs-up sign. I thanked the kids for helping me search. 

Then I hollered up at their father, “By the way, they probably still shouldn’t walk up to the car of someone they don’t know!”

He laughed and said, “You’re absolutely right.” 

I drove on down the road a bit, turned around, and headed back. As I passed, I saw the father on his knees with his kids, obviously having a pertinent and timely discussion. They all smiled and waved. 

I was beginning to panic. I walked through the woods all around my house, screaming Falkor’s name, the whole time praying, Please let him come home. Please let him be okay. 

My brain reeled with unsubstantiated, unhealthy thoughts. What if those neighbors with the pit bull tied in front of their house down the way are actually dogfighters? What if they caught Falkor for bait? Possible but totally irrational. I couldn’t stop praying. The what-ifs were not impossible. Not probable but possible. 

I came home, sat on the front porch, and drank Dr. Pepper and prayed. More than two hours passed. He never had been gone so long. My whole body trembled. I couldn’t get past the awful thoughts and pictures in my head. 

I finally realized the experience was entirely out of my control. I knew the only place I could go was to the Lord. And I didn’t need to be alone with my fear and anxiety, so being the junkie that I am, I went to social media and posted Falkor’s picture. I asked my friends to pray with me. 

Immediately, posts began to pop up from my precious friends and family: “Praying for a safe return,” “Praying,” “What a horrible feeling. Praying,” “Oh, Tim, I’m so heartbroken,” and “Praying for Falkor’s safe return and peace for you.” They went on and on.

At that point, I realized my entire body had reacted to fear. I realized my brain, which is supposed to be used for problem-solving, was being bombarded by the what-ifs, which are never good in a situation like that. 

I thought of 2 Corinthians 10:5 (ESV): “We destroy arguments and every lofty opinion raised against the knowledge of God, and take every thought captive to obey Christ.” 

I always believed that verse was just for evil thoughts concerning unforgiveness, lust, or any number of ungodly mental failures. It never occurred to me that it could refer to fear. Fear and anxiety are as faithless as any other feelings and are equally capable of pulling me out of obedience to Jesus. 

I realized I had many faithful believers who loved me and were petitioning our Father and going to him on my behalf. They were all praying over something that would seem a trivial matter to most people. I felt my heart slow down, my chest untighten, my breathing go back to some semblance of normal, and the sweating stop. I closed my eyes. Lord, I can’t control this. I have to let it go. I just ask that you hear the prayers of your people.

It seemed everything slowed down for a while. It wasn’t that I was okay with my sweet little pooch being lost. I just knew the One who’d created Falkor was in control no matter what. 

About four hours later, as l watched the sunset, I still needed God’s presence. Every time I felt the fear begin to bubble up, I would pray, Give me your peace.

Then, about eight o’clock, up sauntered Falkor, soaked. Obviously, he had been swimming in the creek. He looked obnoxiously sheepish. 

When he saw me sitting on the deck, he stopped short. He knew he was in trouble. I just let him stand there, dripping, staring at me, while I calmly went to social media on my phone and let everyone know he was home safe. Then I hugged him while people all over the world typed, “Yay,” “Hallelujah,” and “I’m so glad. Praise God!”

The next day, there were still consequences from my letting fear take the place of faith no matter the outcome. My body literally ached. I was sore all day long. 

Once again, obedience to Christ is proven through my weakness. 

My memory verse this week is Isaiah 41:10 (MSG): “You’re my servant, serving on my side. I’ve picked you. I haven’t dropped you. Don’t panic. I’m with you. There’s no need to fear for I’m your God. I’ll give you strength. I’ll help you. I’ll hold you steady. I’ll keep a firm grip on you.”

A few weeks ago, between services at church, I listened to a message on my phone from the correctional unit where I do volunteer work. It was my weekend to be on call. An inmate’s cousin had died at a correctional unit where she was incarcerated in Missouri, and I was to inform him of her death. It’s never easy. But I’ve done so many of these interviews over the years that it’s not as devastating as it once was. I have the conversation down, and I can pretty much do it by rote. I fight not to become so callous that it ever becomes just a nuisance or even an inconvenience. 

My plan for the evening included teaching at the women’s unit just down the road from the men’s. That gave me a convenient opportunity to meet with the gentleman who’d lost his cousin. Although it was hard, he handled the news reasonably well. His cousin’s death was not expected. I gave him a few minutes on the phone with his family to grieve together. Those few moments are genuinely touching. 

Then, before the evening service, I settled down to put final touches on my notes for the service. I called a couple of inmates, my cofacilitators who lead Celebrate Recovery with me, down to the office so we could start planning our upcoming step-study. About the time we got into the planning, I got a call from the women’s unit. One of the ladies there had lost a family member, and I needed to come talk to her before she could read the obituary in the newspaper the following day. 

I sent the guys back to their barracks and sat back in the chair. My stomach churned. This one seemed impossible. Reporting the death of a cousin couldn’t hold a candle to what I needed to tell Traci. 

I drove the quarter mile to the women’s unit, and as I walked through the chain-link gate, all I could do was pray. I told God this one was too hard. I didn’t want to do this one. I wasn’t angry; I just felt an overwhelming fear, leading to almost immediate weariness. I recognized the pattern. 

I walked into the barracks area and told the officers the purpose of my visit. I usually take the inmates into the chaplain’s office alone, break the news, give them a few minutes to process, let them call a loved one, pray with them, and send them back to their barracks. This was different. 

I asked the officers if one or two of them could stand outside the door in case Traci became too inconsolable. The captain walked to the barracks door and called her name: “Mason, to the chaplain’s office.” 

There are a few things I can count on when I have to deliver devastating news to inmates. First, if they’re called to the chaplain’s office, there’s a 99 percent chance it’s not going to be good news. I’ve done so many of these interviews that I know the thought process as they approach me. They are running through a litany of people in their lives, wondering who it could be. Who’s been sick? Who’s oldest? Was there some kind of accident? An overdose? Murder? 

As they approach, I see the excruciating anxiety and fear in their faces. They search my eyes for any sign or clue as to whom they are about to begin grieving. 

I also know they are lining themselves up internally. No matter what the news, the inmates can’t show their grief. They can’t show weakness or fear of any kind. They can’t allow anyone in to walk with them, for fear of owing.

My heart broke as Traci walked toward me. I introduced myself. “Hi, Traci. I’m Chaplain Tim. How are you today?”

Traci, already no bigger than my index finger, seemed to fall in on herself and became even smaller. She smiled weakly. “I’m okay. But I think I’m about to not be.” 

I closed the door behind us and motioned to an empty seat for her. I sat with the desk between us, which, at that moment, seemed to separate us by miles. “No, I’m afraid not. Traci, there’s no way for me to make this easy for you. We got a call today. Your son, Benjamin, chose to end his life.”

There is always a moment of silence. One thing I’ve learned in life is that silence is usually better than trying to fill a space with well-meaning but nonetheless empty platitudes that, more often than not, go unheard. 

So we sat, with those few moments as distant and distinct as the space between us. Traci locked her eyes on mine, and I watched as tears pooled in her eyes. She finally whispered, “Thank you for telling me.”

She started to get up, and I said, “No, sit here with me for a while.” 

I waited for the tears to momentarily subside. Then I asked Traci questions about her boy. All the good things she could remember. I asked about his favorite things in life. He’d loved the Razorbacks and pretty much anything with a motor. I choked back tears at several of her memories. 

I prayed with her and told her how important it was going to be for her to find ways to lean into God for hope and strength. I prayed God would place angels in strategic places around her to whisper peace that only he could give her hurting heart. I prayed that as impossible as it seemed, she would find peace instead of fear.

The last thing I told her was that I would continue to pray for her. I would pray that she find a way to show the glory of her Father in the midst of this devastating situation. That she would press into him and give him the chance to be her safe place, the only One she could truly trust with this pain. Traci gave a half-hearted nod, unconvinced. It was, after all, prison. She wiped her face with her government-issued white sleeve and walked back to her barrack. 

I watched as she made her way down the cinder-block hallway. I heard every step of grief echo through the building. I listened to the heaviness of her barrack door as it closed behind her. Her lowered shoulders, bearing more weight than one lonely woman should ever have to carry, spoke volumes. One more defeat in her life.

I looked toward the officer at her door as she watched Traci plod slowly to her rack. The officer turned toward me and said, “Traci went straight to her bed and started brushing her hair.” 

I went back to the office. “Lord, you’ve called me to this ministry. I do love it. But I don’t ever want to do that again.” 

A couple of hours later, at the evening service, I stood at the door, welcoming all the ladies to the visitation center. Mentally, I was only halfway there, trying to realign my troubled heart for the teaching I was about to do. 

As the welcome line progressed, I looked up to see a tiny lady walk in. Her eyes were red and wet with tears. My throat closed, and my eyes stung as I struggled with the words.

“Hi, Traci. I’m so glad you’re here.” 

This is my nephew, Tad. When Tad was eight years old, we decided to work on a project together. We went out in search of a way to build a dream catcher and found a kit to put one together. Tad was fascinated by the Native American legend: if a dream catcher was placed in the window of your bedroom, bad dreams would be caught in the web before they drifted into your sleep. 

To be honest, I have few memories of the event. I do remember the joy of hanging out with my buddy Tad and spending a few moments investing in our relationship. Those moments are never wasted.

Every moment is a matter of perspective. If I keep an eternal mindset, every experience becomes essential and impactful. We have no idea how the Lord will use even the most inconsequential words or actions to permeate and permanently change a person’s life. Something said or done, even off the cuff, at a moment’s notice, can alter a person’s day. 

We hear about emotional and verbal abuse all the time, aimed not just at children but at adults as well. How often do we forget that as believers in Jesus, every footstep we take is drawing us closer to our eternal home? How often do we recognize that every breath we breathe is laced with opportunity to show that reality to others? 

Even when we don’t mention the name of Jesus, we are still representing him. What if I’m the only chance a restaurant server will have to see Jesus today? Will I leave just a little bit more on the gratuity, or will I fret over whether I should tip on the tax or not? Will I intentionally look at the person and take a moment to know him or her?

I have a great friend who is a pastor in Las Vegas. When Jimmy, Marna, and family go to supper at a restaurant, they always pray over their meal. Jimmy makes it a point to tell their servers they are about to pray, and he asks if there is anything he can lift up for them as they pray. It’s usually a shock to the servers. But there’s almost always a need offered up. 

One day I was getting gas for my car. As I walked to the window to hand my cash to the young lady I’d seen in that same window many times before, I was suddenly struck with the realization that I never saw her smile. She was mechanical—not rude or unkind, but she pushed the same gas buttons every day and slid the cash drawer back and forth the same way day in and day out. No smile. Monotony. 

When she slid the drawer back and asked if I wanted the full ten-cent discount per gallon the same way she probably had said it thirty times that day, I paused. She looked up for my response. I said, “Please don’t think I’m creepy, but the Lord has blessed you with the most beautiful eyes.” 

It was an eternal moment. The young lady’s countenance completely changed. She beamed as she broke into a big, heartfelt smile and said, “Thank you.” 

She might never remember it again; I don’t know. But in that moment, I felt the presence of the Lord. 

Sometimes we have to be bolder. Sometimes those eternal moments present an opportunity to stand up for the bullied or disenfranchised. Though I wish I were better at handling those situations, I almost always lean toward the underdog. The problem lies in my knee-jerk tendency to demean the perpetrator. What I should do instead is verbally accost the bully with love.

I remember one example vividly. With an empty, gnawing stomach, I saw a sign at my favorite chicken place that said, “Nine pieces for $9.99.” For me, those pieces of chicken would cover three or maybe three and a half meals. (When I was younger, that much poultry would have been one meal, tops.)

Let me say, before you read the rest of this tale, I did say, “Ma’am,” at one point. That will be important later and maybe show I did try to retain a semblance of integrity. My feeble attempt at accosting with love.

The drive-through was insane, so I figured it would be much quicker to go inside. In theory, that would have been correct. When I got inside, there was only one customer in front of me, obviously waiting for her nine pieces of chicken. 

I placed my order. The two girls bravely operating the cash registers, clearly exhausted, tried their best to be sweet and professional. The girl taking my order said it would be a few minutes. I told her it was no problem. I saw cooks and servers dashing around behind the counter. Yep, they were busy that day.

The lady in front of me, obviously feeling a little more entitled than she should have, yelled, “Could you please find out how long it will be for the rest of my order? It’s just two pieces!” 

One of the counter girls, exasperated and deflated, sluggishly apologized. “It’ll be just a few more minutes. They’re trying to cook more.”

The lady heavy-sighed, crossed her arms, shook her head, and leaned against the counter.

I was, at that point, mildly amused, and to be honest, throughout the rest of our encounter, that amused interest never left me. The lady huffed, “Well, I guess I’ll just have to come earlier next time if I’m going to have to wait!” 

The poor employee shrugged and almost whispered, “It wouldn’t matter. It’s been like this all night.” I almost laughed out loud.

The lady turned to me and, with the most exasperated voice she could muster, said, “Can you believe this?” 

The girls behind the counter looked at me, weakly waiting for me to agree with her. I furrowed my brow, focused on her, and said, “Ma’am, followers of Christ are being beheaded by horrible pure evil. People are dying excruciatingly painful deaths all over the world by the thousands from a grisly virus that no one should have to experience, only because they don’t have access to a vaccine that can save them. Women and children in Sudan are abused and are dying from thirst or starvation because they refuse to deny their belief in Jesus. Dogs and cats are living together. And you, on the other hand, are all up in your feelings journal over a chicken leg. Seriously? It’s a chicken leg!” 

For the next few seconds, I’m fairly sure I heard a nightingale sing in Berkeley Square. 

I glanced over to see both the workers resembling baby sparrows with their mouths agape, apparently waiting for the momma bird to toss chicken nuggets into them. 

Fortunately, the awkward silence was broken by one of the girls sliding a bag with two final pieces of chicken across the counter to the lady, who was still staring at me as if my head had spun around and I’d ralphed up green pea soup. She sheepishly picked up her bag and skulked away.

One of the girls, with mouth still ajar, slid my box to me. I shrugged and said, “Sorry. Someone had to do it.” She raised her fist in solidarity so I could give her knucks.

In the car, I did a HEART check: Was I hungry? Exhausted? Angry? Resentful? Tense? Apparently, I was starving. 

I hope the lady who needed to hear words that might have been tough will think long and hard before she faults and berates others for petty circumstances out of their control. And maybe I will think long and hard before opening my mouth, even if it is the perfect rebuff. Or maybe not. 

When I spent those few hours with my nephew, Tad—who, by the way, has grown into one of the best men I know—it never crossed my mind that it would be any more than a good time. Tad owned every Lego known to mankind. He would disappear for hours. None of us would worry about him, because he was never a rebellious kid. He never used drugs or abused alcohol. He was a really good guy. We would find him hours later, sitting in his room, surrounded by Legos, building an airplane or the Millennium Falcon or creating a labyrinthine safe house, totally content.

During Tad’s kindergarten year, my sister made the tough decision to hold him back in school. He didn’t do well that year, and she decided he needed a do-over. Because of that impossible decision, Tad made one B his entire school career. All the rest were As. He went on to study at West Point and became a Black Hawk pilot.

When Jacqui sent the above picture of Tad holding that silly dream catcher, she told me it had hung in Tad’s bedroom his entire life, even on the wall in his room at West Point. When Tad was in the army, it traveled with him to Afghanistan and every other post where he lived. 

I never knew about it. That’s the important thing here. We have no idea about the ripple-on-the-pond effect. We never know how many of those tiny waves continue expanding until they reach the shores of heaven. 

I’m convinced we will spend eons upon eons of time in heaven, if we have done the simple work of investing in moments here on earth, hearing people say, “Hey, I became a follower of Christ. I’m here because you invested time in our mutual friend.” Or “Do you remember the day you silently asked the Lord to bless that small child walking down the sidewalk? My life wasn’t always easy, but you listened to the Holy Spirit that day, and the Lord blessed your prayer, and he blessed me. And I’m here now. Thank you.” 

Hebrews 10:24–25 (MSG) says, “Let’s see how inventive we can be in encouraging love and helping out, not avoiding worshiping together as some do but spurring each other on, especially as we see the big Day approaching.” 

So what will be the opportunity look like for you today? 

The answer is this: don’t look. Don’t wait for the Lord to say, “Here’s your chance to make an eternal difference in this person’s life.” You see, every moment is an opportunity. Every encounter you leave behind will be a chance for someone to say, “Wow, whatever they have, I want it.” 

When Tad and his precious wife, Abby, were expecting their first child at any minute, Jacqui was there, waiting to do what she was made to do: be a grandmother. She sent me the following picture.

On the wall is a drawing of an elephant being held aloft by balloons with this precious little boy’s name, Thomas Allen Lefler, and under the picture, hanging just above Thomas’s bassinet is a twenty-five-year-old dream catcher filled with a lifetime of dreams. 

I pray Thomas’s dreams will always be filled with visions of his eternal home in heaven and a Savior who knows him by name. 

This morning, I carried Juju Mommadawg to the car and loaded her in the passenger seat. I’ve done it a thousand times over the past fifteen years. Driving with her beside me to Doubletree Animal Clinic, I passed the bend in the road where Mommadawg and three of her siblings were dropped off and abandoned a decade and a half ago. I’m not sure what became of two of them. I hope someone rescued them and gave them good homes. 

I passed the bridge where I stopped one clear autumn night when I heard Mommadawg and Willie running through the hills under a dazzling harvest moon with their bays echoing at who-knew-what. I remember that specific moment; I prayed the Lord would help us catch those two pooches. I thought, Remember this moment. Take a heart picture.

A few months later, I was able, with the help of a sedative-filled pill pocket, to chase her drunk brother Willie through Fern Cliff Presbyterian Camp and catch him. He became a lifelong companion to friends from church. He died four years ago from cancer. I was able to take Mommadawg to the Herndons’ home. She and Willie spent a couple of hours loving on each other before Willie made his journey home. 

I passed the same Presbyterian camp where, a few months later, I found Mommadawg’s first litter of five-week-old puppies curled up together in the roots of a downed tree. Those ten pups stayed at the clinic until they were old enough to find forever homes. Except for the last one. I brought him home. His name is Chester. 

I passed a few places while driving down Ferndale Cutoff where we tried unsuccessfully to catch Mommadawg during her first two years. She was a wily, slippery foe. The same sedative-filled pill pockets that worked so well on Willie never worked on her. She easily slipped through our hands and ran into the woods. Every time. We knew she was watching. We just never knew where from. 

Finally, during her third pregnancy (our small community referred to her as the Ferndale floozy) someone called the clinic and said they had trapped her inside a fenced-in area where a huge propane gas tank lived next to a local convenience store. Dr. Peck and Jenny immediately jumped into Dr. P.’s truck, raced to the store with a retractable rabies pole, and gathered her up.

They called me. I raced to the clinic, where we spent hours bathing Juju and picking ticks and fleas off her. There wasn’t a square inch of her little body that didn’t have a tick or flea. Dr. Peck sedated her for the procedure because she wasn’t used to being touched. No human had petted that precious girl for two and a half years. We spayed her and gave her every med she needed to become healthy. We treated her for heartworms, which took more than a year to eradicate. 

We made a comfortable home for Mommadawg in one of the outside runs. We turned a spacious cleaned-out trash barrel onto its side and filled it with blankets to keep her warm. 

She became my project. Every day, I would open the gate of her run, and she’d scurry out to potty in the fenced-in area behind the clinic. She’d race to the grass and do her business, keeping a sharp eye on me in case I tried to get too close to her. 

Then the chase would begin. The little storage building in the center of the potty area became her barricade. No matter which side I tried to surprise her on, she would dart away and run to the other side. I could not catch her. I’d grab stuff and try to build a fence made of boxes and old lumber on one side, hopefully trapping her so I could grab her. It never worked. She broke through or jumped over every time. She’d eventually tire of the game, jog around the back side of the kennels, and spring into her run. After closing all gates, I, gasping for breath and furious, would drag myself into her run. 

Once again, vainly attempting to avoid me, she would jump on top of her barrel. I’d grab her and sit in the run with her across my lap. At first, she tried to wriggle away. But I held tight. I held her, hugged her, whispered to her, petted her, and loved on her until she finally stopped resisting and relaxed, settling quietly in my lap. 

We shimmied through that dance for about an hour every day for months. All the friends I worked with at the clinic kept saying, “You’re gonna keep that dog.” I adamantly told them I wasn’t. 

About three months later, when I got her home, a whole new set of challenges began. 

Mommadawg was a flight risk. I had to take her out on her leash, or she’d run. Late at night, no matter the weather, if she slipped out on her own, I was forced to leave the sliding door open a crack and turn off all the lights. After she romped through the woods for a couple of hours, baying at the moon and waking all the neighbors, she’d sneak back into the house. Then she’d jump up onto the couch, thinking she’d really gotten away with something. 

Early on, I learned she liked potato chips, so trying to persuade her, I routinely made a Hansel and Gretel trail from the sidewalk all the way up the deck, where I’d end the snacks just inside the house. Mommadawg would cautiously eat the chips, chewing suspiciously, trying to ascertain which bush I might be hiding behind, until she stepped inside the house. I, with more agility than I’d known I possessed, jumped out of a corner and slammed the sliding glass door behind her. 

But one winter night, she chose not to play fair. She wouldn’t follow the trail of chips. 

It was about midnight. The temperature was about 40 degrees. I was about freezing. 

I had my bag of chips in hand. Mommadawg was just out of reach. I could see the cast of her silhouette in the safety light outside. I stood in the frosty grass and called her name as sweetly as my chattering teeth allowed: “Momma! Mommadawg!” She just sat there. 

I got up and tried to mosey toward her, and she ran to the edge of the woods. I put a few chips on the ground. She smugly scowled at them. 

I thought maybe she felt threatened by my being taller than she was. Maybe if I got down level with her, I thought, she’d feel less intimidated and come over to get the tasty chips. 

So I lay down in the damp grass, put some chips on the ground at arm’s length, and, because it was cold, sort of curled up into a ball. I started calling for her. “Momma! Momma! Mommadawg!” 

Somewhere in the middle of that lesson in futility, I thought, If the neighbors are looking outside right now, they’re watching me lie in my front yard on frost-covered grass in the fetal position at midnight, calling out pathetically for my mother, cradling a bag of potato chips.

I gathered the one molecule of dignity left in me, stood up, and slinked back inside. 

I left the sliding glass door open a bit, giving all the heat in the house permission to leave. I lay down on the couch. Eventually, I heard Mommadawg jump up and perch herself on the sofa and gawk at me. She was cocky, as if she’d proven some kind of alpha-dog point. 

Believe it or not, there was a lesson to be learned there. 

Mommadawg could run for a while. She could try to be on her own and self-sufficient. But in the final analysis, she knew where she was loved and safe, and that was where she returned. Every time. Eventually. 

It’s good to know where we are safe. It’s good to sense whom we can be safe with. It’s vital that we have a network of forever family we know are walking this journey with us, the ones who call us to honesty and give us the freedom to not be okay. It’s crucial that we know who will wait for us through the cold night. 

When I first brought her home, Mommadawg basically lived under the bed until I put food out for her. She would crawl out, eat, and crawl right back under, unless I grabbed her and sat on the couch, continuing the petting and hugging process, which she hated. At night, I’d pick her up and set her at the foot of my bed. She would immediately jump down and under the bed, where she stayed all night. 

One night, though, after several months of moving from fear to obvious obstinacy, she stayed on the bed all night. It was a miracle. I was happy.

That was our routine for a few months. 

Then, one night, I woke up, looked at the foot of the bed, and noticed Mommadawg concentrating intently on me. We lay there for a long while, just peering at each other. I eventually cautiously held my hands out toward her. She considered the gesture for a bit. Then she stood up and walked toward me. She lay down next to me and gently rolled over onto her back. I rubbed her belly. All her fear and loneliness were gone. She discovered that being by my side brought her peace and contentment. From that moment on, she knew she was safe. All I had to do was hold out my arms, and she’d throw her head back, and those floppy ears would come running.

I drove Mommadawg to the clinic this morning. Her congestive heart failure betrayed her hard-earned skills of survival. I held her close to my chest for most of the night. A few times, through labored breathing, she gazed at me with so much love and acceptance that my heart broke. She knew it was time. She knew she was ready.

I wasn’t.

I texted Dr. Peck at two thirty in the morning and told him I thought Mommadawg was telling me she wanted to go home. I asked him to text me when he got to the clinic. 

He texted me when he arrived at the office this morning.

I drove Mommadawg to the clinic. I passed a bunch of memories on the way, and for the first time ever, I thought of something essential. In all the years I’ve fed, loved, hugged, and cared for her, Mommadawg never once growled. Never. She only bayed when she was running through the woods. The only time I ever heard her bark was at five o’clock every morning, almost to the second, to go outside. I never once heard her growl, bark, or snarl or saw her bare her teeth at the other pooches or anyone. Never. She never complained or reacted. She only responded with love, intelligence, and, I’m positive, thankfulness. 

Even this morning, as I held her close to my chest at the clinic, she looked up at me and, in her precious, understanding way, let me know I was even then taking care of her and keeping her safe.

I held her gaze and said, “Juju, I love you. I love you. You have been my treasure. You’re about to go on your greatest, most joyful adventure. Don’t be afraid. You’re about to see beautiful things and colors and people and animals. They will take care of you till I get there. You’re going to see Jesus before I do. Tell him I love him and can’t wait till we’re all together. Lick his face. Jump around, and be happy. You’ve loved me so well. You did your job.” 

Dr. Peck prayed. 

And now I hold on to this solid truth, this strong hope:

That’s why I don’t think there’s any comparison between the present hard times and the coming good times. The created world itself can hardly wait for what’s coming next. Everything in creation is being more or less held back. God reins it in until both creation and all the creatures are ready and can be released at the same moment into the glorious times ahead. Meanwhile, the joyful anticipation deepens. (Romans 8:18–21 MSG)

Albert Schweitzer once said, “The purpose of human life is to serve, and to show compassion and the will to help others.” I believe he’s right. In fact, if we are to follow the example of Jesus, serving was his edict from heaven. Matthew 20:28 (MSG) says, “That is what the Son of Man has done. He came to serve, not be served—and then to give away his life in exchange for the many who are held hostage.” 

I’ve found in my life, and in our culture, that it’s much more challenging to ask for help than it is to give help. Most of us jump at the chance, if we are able, to lend helping hands to those in need. But we tend to wear a fake badge of toughness if we are the ones in need of help. A judgment error I, like many others, have made is not asking for help when it’s desperately needed. 

A few years back, my water heater went out. Several days of rain had flooded under my house and blown the water heater up. Don’t even ask why the water heater is under the house. That’s a different story for a different day. 

Anyway, I prayed and asked the Lord to help me out. I told only a handful of people. A couple of them offered to help get a new one. But I resisted, knowing the Lord would take care of the problem. A full year went by. I took cold showers in the dead of winter, feeling every bit the role of a modern martyr “for the Lord.” The good news is that I never left the house not feeling totally, excruciatingly awake. 

Life carried on like that for a year. Seriously, a solid year of taking many cold showers, washing dishes and clothes in cold water, and waiting for the Lord to come through. I didn’t accept the help offered, because I didn’t want to inconvenience others, and I didn’t want to appear needy. How stupid is that? 

Finally, my brother-in-law, Jim, called and said, “Go buy a water heater. I’ll give you my card number. Your sister can’t stand that you’ve been taking cold showers for a year. That’s ridiculous. This is your Christmas present from us. And have someone else put it in. Do not, under any circumstance, attempt to install it yourself.” 

I went to the local home-improvement store and bought a heater. However, I did not have them put it in. The heater cost only $300. Having them put it in would have added another $1,000. So I finally broke down and called my buddy Cliff Peck and asked him for suggestions on whom to call. He knows pretty much everyone with a specific skill in our little corner of the world. It was Christmas Eve. Within an hour, Cliff and his son Beaux were at my house, rolling out the old heater and putting in the new one. 

But something happened with my electrical system after they left. All the power to my whole house got knocked out. I called Cliff back, and he gave me the number of an electrician friend of his. I called Larry Ward, admitting I needed help, and he said he would come out the day after Christmas. 

So I was out of commission for a couple of days. Since my whole house is electric, I was out of water as well. But I knew help was on the way. Larry came out and worked all morning the day after Christmas to get my electricity going again. The whole time, I was nervous about the cost. When Larry was done, I grabbed my checkbook and asked him how much. He grabbed my hand and said, “Merry Christmas.”

He jumped into his truck, and as he drove out of sight, all I could think was And to all a good night.

I wasn’t sure which to do first: cry or go jump into the hot shower. So I combined the two. Best shower ever! 

This year, the week before Christmas, the water heater again started acting up. The belt on my dryer broke, and on Christmas morning, I began making desserts for Christmas dinner and found the bottom element of my oven had burned out. 

I called Larry and told him I needed help. He came to the house and crawled under. After removing the heater cover, Larry informed me that the bottom element in the water heater was burned out and told me exactly what I needed to repair it. Again, he wouldn’t accept any payment. 

I went under the house to repair the heater, and when I pulled out the old element, I could see a lot of something white. I realized that my well water must’ve dumped a massive amount of calcium into the heater, burning out the element. I phoned Larry back, and he gave me the number of a plumber. I called him and told him I needed help. He told me he would leave a piece of rubber pipe out by the gate of his business. I could tape the red rubber pipe to a dry vac and vacuum out the deposits. He didn’t charge me for the tube. 

It took me a couple of hours, but I was able to vacuum out most of the sediment and replace the element. I went to a parts store about twenty minutes away and told the guy I needed help, and I got a belt for the dryer. I replaced it, and it broke in the first cycle, possibly because I put it on backward. Maybe. I went and got another one and a couple of other parts. The guy said, “I want to help you. I’m only charging you wholesale for these.” I replaced the belt and, at the same time, got a new element for the oven.

So all is well right now. I’m learning that asking for help isn’t a weakness; it’s wisdom. Seeking help is the best way I can take care of myself. And there are obvious consequences in not seeking help. 

As I’ve said, back in the 1980s, I worked at a restaurant in Nashville called Dalt’s. It was the place to be back in the day. Everyone hung out there—country stars and contemporary Christian artists. The restaurant is still there, and when I visit Nashville, I always stop by to see how it’s changed. Great memories. I could fill a book with the stories of our escapades, and fortunately, thanks to social media, I stay in touch with many of the folks I worked with. 

One of my favorite memories is tied to the idea that it’s always a good idea to accept help when it’s offered. 

We usually started the night shift with a ten-person waitstaff. As the evening progressed past the supper rush, we would OTLE (option to leave early). The manager used this option to have servers leave, beginning with station ten and working down toward station one, who was always the shift leader. It was the shift leader’s duty to make sure every person leaving did OTLE duties, which included stocking, cleaning, and getting everything ready for the next shift. 

One particular night, we OTLEed down to two servers. I was in section three and had just finished my shift. It was about ten thirty at night. We closed at midnight. That left only two servers on the floor. That was fine because on a weeknight, having a rush was a rarity. 

I, having just clocked out, sat down to order my late-night meal at our customary booth, table number ten. It was directly across the aisle from the expediter counter, where we usually made salads. Steve Ford and Cindy Johnson were the only two servers left on the floor; Steve was the shift leader. He knew everything was stocked and cleaned, so the last hour and a half would be smooth sailing. 

It was one of Cindy’s first nights back after being gone for a few months. Several weeks earlier, late one night, Cindy had been on her way home from work and been involved in a horrible car accident near the restaurant. She’d broken her jaw and two bones in her arm and crushed a kneecap. Now, weeks after the ordeal, she came to work basically pinned together and proceeded with great caution. 

When my food arrived, I sat back to enjoy it. I noticed a party of seven come in. Steve greeted them, grabbed some menus, and seated them at booth fourteen. He decided to take the table. Usually, when people came in that late, they just wanted appetizers and drinks or maybe a burger and fries. But no, these people wanted full dinners, all of which included dinner salads. 

Steve came to the front and turned in the order. He then pivoted around to the salad station and proceeded to make seven dinner salads. I can’t remember what Cindy was doing at the time, but I told Steve I could help carry the salads to the table. Because we at Dalt’s all took pride in how many plates we could carry and because Steve was tall, with long arms, he said he could handle it. 

I watched him prepare seven bowls of salad, stack four of them all the way up his arm, even above his elbow; perch one on his other wrist; and balance the final two between his fingers. I was impressed. 

Carrying them with great aplomb, Steve walked around the counter; passed me at booth ten; whisked between booths eleven and thirty; and, for some unexplainable reason, fell flat on his back. I was excruciatingly proud of myself for not guffawing. 

Those were salads one through seven.

Steve picked himself up and walked back to the counter. His face was beet red, so I chose to remain silent for a second or two. A busboy magically appeared, sweeping up the garden of salad between booths eleven and thirty. 

Once again, Steve made seven salads, and once again, I asked if he wanted my help. It was now a point of pride for Steve, who said, “No! I’ve got it.” 

Steve gathered up what was left of his composure and the salads in the same arrangement as before. Cindy, sensing impending disaster, grabbed a couple of them from him, and they walked around the counter, passed me at booth ten, and attempted to whisk between booths eleven and thirty.

From my perch at booth ten, I saw the whole ugly thing unfold as if in slow motion. Maybe Steve thought if he bent his knees and went into a knee-dip position, he would be saved. He even planted one elbow over the booth thirty railing, but to no avail. Unfortunately, gravity eventually won out, and he sat squarely and, I’m sure, less gracefully than he imagined on his rear end. Cindy, continuing at a full gait, promptly sat right on top of him. She managed to stand up reasonably quickly, and Steve jumped up with salad hanging precariously from his apron pocket and stormed back to the counter. 

Those were salads eight through fourteen. 

Steve acquiesced to yell, “Help on a run!” which really didn’t matter. Cindy was standing directly behind him. She stood sweetly by as Steve prepared yet another seven salads. Obviously, he was getting help this time, whether he wanted it or not. 

As soon as the salads were made, Cindy grabbed three of them, Steve balanced the other four, and off they went. 

They rounded the counter, with Steve in the lead and Cindy safely behind him. They passed me at booth ten and whisked around the corner between booths eleven and thirty. 

There must have been residual salad dressing oil swimming on the floor. To me, Steve appeared to be trotting as if on a treadmill before he fell face-first. As he staggered, his leg hit Cindy, who fell directly on top of him. It was performance art, culminating in a dazzling firework explosion of salad greens, bright red tomatoes, crumbled bacon and egg, shredded cheddar, and croutons in every possible direction. 

My first feeling was horror because of Cindy’s injuries. I jumped up and helped her to her feet as Steve, who had somehow miraculously ended up on his back with arms and legs flailing, conjured a startlingly good impression of an upside-down turtle trying desperately to right itself. 

Those were salads fifteen through twenty-one. 

As soon as I knew Cindy wasn’t hurt, I saw Steve once again at the counter. His face no longer wore a look of determination or even embarrassment; it was more resignation. Caught in a Groundhog Day time loop, he would spend all of eternity making the same seven salads. 

After yet another trip to the salad station, he changed direction. He asked Cindy for help. Together they carried all seven salads through the bar and around the host stand to arrive at booth fourteen, safely delivering what, in Dalt’s folklore, became known as the Night of the Twenty-Eight Salads.

When the bedeviled greenery, cheese, and croutons were set in front of the now starving patrons at booth fourteen, booth thirteen was set by the host with four new customers. Steve, being as gracious as possible under the circumstances, took their order. Unbelievably, they all wanted dinners with dinner salads. 

Because someone asked, Steve reluctantly rattled off the dressings: “French, Italian, blue cheese, ranch, Caesar, Thousand Island, and vinegar and oil.”

One of the patrons innocently asked, “How’s the Italian?”

Without hesitation, Steve, with chin quivering, muttered, “Slippery.”

The following was written by a friend who currently resides in a correctional unit. He has been through eight Celebrate Recovery step-studies and cofacilitates these studies alongside me. In eight years, he has never missed a single class. Never. He just keeps growing and coming back for more. I love his raw honesty and seeking heart. Does he have all the answers? I doubt it. But neither do I. What human does? What he does have is a hunger for truth and a continually growing, maturing relationship with Jesus. Read on.

The Bible tells us that we can’t even begin to fathom the ways of God. I agree entirely, 100 percent. However, I believe that from time to time, he gives us little still-frame images that display shimmers of his glory. Heaven forbid he expose too much of himself to us. The finite cannot contain the infinite. That’s general physics and somewhat common sense.

What blows my mind is how humans are conditioned to seek answers to everything, not realizing (or just ignoring the fact) that some questions have no answers. We never grow out of that childlike state where we always seem to ask, “Why, why, why?” If you’re a parent, you know the stage I’m talking about. 

As I said, I don’t believe we ever grow out of that stage. We only progress in the type of questions we ask. We go from questions like “Why do I have to eat all my vegetables?” to “If God is a God of love, then why do such terrible things happen in a world he created?” Two questions, very valid ones, light-years apart.

Life is unfair. It is a very cliché but intrinsic truth. We were not born into a world where the playing field is equal, and fairness is a constitutional promise. We live in a world where one child is born with a silver spoon, trust-fund life, and another child is born in a welfare line with a block of government cheese (which is delicious and one of the few perks of poverty). I’ll speak more on this in a moment, though.

First, a quick shakedown on me. I’m a thirty-one-year-old man who is five years into a thirty-year sentence for first-degree murder. I work as a substance abuse and behavioral modification counselor in the therapeutic community at the correctional unit. I wasn’t always like this. Possibly, you will have an opportunity to learn more about me and my whole story someday; only time will tell. I’m an ex-junkie, failed father, husband, son, brother, grandson, and friend. 

I failed. I am the dregs of society, and the great State of Arkansas has a place for those types of people. Do I deserve to be here? Absolutely. Even though the incident that brought me to prison was an accident, I deserve to be here a hundred times over. 

Today I am in recovery for a multitude of sinful behaviors and character defects. But I also work with men who are in the same position in life. We were (some still are) on our way to rock bottom. Chances are, a vast majority of you have never been incarcerated. But you likely know one or two who have seen the inside of a cell.

I am here today as a story of redemption. God has a calling for each of us, a vocation in mind. Some miss it altogether. I was one who, if not for chance and circumstance, would have been another one of those statistics. Life truly is beautiful how it works. Life has its own code of correcting what is wrong. Prison has humbled me very much. 

But here is where I define my earlier point. The questions and their answers I often find myself asking are why it cost so much for such a simple lesson. Why did someone have to lose their life so I would get mine on track? 

These seem like questions that have no answer or have multiple-angled answers. But one simple answer will not suffice. 

I think Romans 8:28 (NIV) fits: “And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.” But it’s also so much deeper than displaying glory, because God need not show off to anyone. Seriously, what does he have to prove? 

My cost? My freedom, my daughter, the passing of my grandmother, and my father. All are devastating to me. But they became less of a loss and more like victims when I chose my path. Wait—it gets heavier. 

The conscious weight of knowing I am responsible for another human life and an innumerable amount of broken hearts dog-piles my guilt and shame. 

Before I get overwhelmed by looking back, let me explain how cool God has been to me. He gave his Son on a tree so my and your soul could be redeemed. But he has afforded me a rare shot to redeem myself on a temporal level. Right here, right now. 

So many people get lost in the chaos of life and never get that second shot. Others only need one shot. I am one of the chosen elite. A living, breathing testimony to his glory and graciousness. 

That doesn’t mean I will get back every relationship I ever broke and destroyed. Probably would be a safe bet to say most people will never forgive me. I did an excellent job of making myself a pariah. Some days are harder than others. Some days I feel insatiable. I have so many questions myself and no answers in sight. 

But then God sends these sweet little nuggets. If we got our wish to know the answer to every question, what’s the point of living? Without the mystery, there is no reason to stay driven. I tend to lose interest in books and movies I already know the ending to. It’s when I think I know what’s going to happen and then get a surprise ending no one, including me, expected. That keeps me coming back for more.

All these idle questions and philosophies, like “What’s the meaning of life?” C’mon, man. Seriously? It’s to live! You, me, us—we only get one shot at it. So rather than getting sidetracked and defocused by open-ended, rhetorical questions or questions that have no answer at all, why not focus on loving the here and now? Why not try to answer a question like “What’s God trying to tell me here?” For five long years, I have been burdened by the heavyweight question “Why did it have to cost so much for me to wake up?”

Then God’s answer hit me like a freight train.

He loved me so much that not only did he give his only Son for my sins, but he allowed an innocent life to be sacrificed, along with an entire host of family and friends who loved her. 

This person who lost her life has been redeemed in his presence. There is not a single doubt in my heart. And I believe her family will be rewarded for their faith. 

And you know, maybe that’s not a good answer. Matter o’ fact, maybe it’s a terrible answer, and it’s my logic and a form of self-preservation I use to cope and maintain in the midst of my guilt. But I doubt it. 

You ever receive a gift, and rather than just saying, “Thank you,” the first thing out of your mouth is “How much did it cost?” The answer I usually got was “Don’t worry about what it cost. That’s not important.”

That’s how God works.

So until a day when we can better acquaint ourselves with each other, I’m going to leave you with this: questions are good, and seeking answers is part of the human condition, but don’t ever get caught up in trying to find answers so much that you forget to live. 

You know the definition of satisfaction? Satisfaction is the death of desire. So once all questions are satisfied, will there be a desire to live anymore? God allows me to know what I need to know when I need to know it.

Nothing more, nothing less.

Hope that makes sense.

So much love,

William

Spouting Horn Beach Park, near Poipu, Kauai, lives up to its name. The giant blowhole can, depending on the tide and surf conditions, shoot a ferocious spout of water as much as fifty feet into the air.

Visitors can view this impressive natural ocean attraction from the top of a hill. There are guardrails and warning signs offering protection to keep tourists from wandering too close to the perilous spouting water and the subsequent mighty surge of the dangerous maelstrom as it swirls back through the hole into the ocean below. 

When I was there, however, the Enter at Your Own Risk signs were nothing more than a green light to me—a welcome mat, if you will. Honestly, I don’t even know why they put up offers of advice like that when I’m in the neighborhood. It’s like a dare. I don’t walk around looking for an adventure like that, but if it’s put right in front of me, what am I supposed to do? 

At that particular time of day, the tide was low, and the ocean level was way below the lava shelf’s rim. So down the hill my friend Tricia Walker and I trotted. I was sporting the cool flip-flops I’d bought four hours earlier and an equally fashionable gardener’s straw hat. 

No waves were flowing over the top of the shelf to wash us down the blowhole, and I knew I could back up far enough from the geyser when it blew to miss the churning, foaming maelstrom of water as it receded down the hole. 

Tricia and I stood between the blowhole and the ocean, exploring the sharp, serrated, ancient lava formations, when I glanced up and saw fellow tourists waving at us from atop the hill. I thought it a kind gesture from folks I didn’t know. So I did a bodybuilder pose, suspecting they were taking pictures of us, when I noticed some of them stop waving and begin pointing behind us.

I turned just in time to see a massive wave, much taller than the lava shelf, bearing down a mere handful of seconds from us. It must have been a freak minitsunami from some earthquake off the coast of Tasmania. 

I screamed for Tricia to hold on to something. I lay back on the lava floor, planted my feet as firmly as I could against a small incline in the shelf, slammed my eyes shut, took in a deep breath, and waited. 

The wave hit full force. Water gushed up the blowhole no more than fifteen feet from me. I found myself being shoved forward by the torrent of salt water pummeling against my back. Quickly, it all subsided. At that instant, I heard something ominous: rushing, groaning sounds and a sudden, violent gurgling—the ocean coursing its way back down the blowhole. I found myself being pulled along with it. I felt my feet come off the ground, out of my flip-flops. I dug in as hard as I could.

I have a distinct memory of some bouncy, horrified shrieking going on. I have decided to remember it as concerned sightseers atop the hill.

When the water finally subsided enough for me to know I wasn’t going down the blowhole with it, I realized I was less than a foot from the hole, pretty much straddling it, watching my brand-new gardener’s hat whirlpool out of sight. Tricia must have noticed my immediate sense of loss, as she attempted to grab it. I yelled, “Leave it!” 

I never knew what happened to my flip-flops, but I have my suspicions. All I know is that my feet were cut to shreds by the dried, razor-sharp lava, and for the rest of my stay on that beautiful island, those feet were severely sensitive. 

I’ve been told the blowhole is actually a sort of safety valve, much like the old steam engines that open if the equipment gets too hot or pressurized. This safety valve keeps the equipment from exploding and damaging the machines or causing injury to nearby people. 

If the blowhole were not there to release energy, the constant pounding of ocean water underneath the dried lava would slowly disintegrate the shelf, causing it to break apart and fall into the boiling ocean below. So the safety valve itself became the attraction. 

I sometimes experience that same beautiful, familiar feeling. It has become almost a motor response when I experience something that draws me closer to what I honestly believe heaven will be. 

When my body becomes responsive to an encounter with Jesus, that can be experienced only because I know his Holy Spirit resides in my heart. 

The closest earthly comparison might be sitting in the front car of a roller coaster—my favorite position—as it reaches the pinnacle of its slow, rhythmic, clickity-clacking climb. 

The car slowly crests the hill. My adrenaline begins to pulse the moment just before I hear the release of the brake, and the car starts its insane plunge back to earth. I look down at the curved track far below. I inhale again—and scream. The exhilaration and anticipation tighten in my chest and move up into my face.

I, through sheer determination, raise my hands off the safety bar into the air and take in the deepest breath I can manage, because I know there is not one single thing I can do to get out of whatever happens next. The only thing I can accept at that point is the thrill of the ride. 

After 45.5 seconds of sheer terror, the car comes to a screeching, abrupt stop, and my eyes fill with tears as I beg my fellow travelers to get back in line for one more ride. Why do tears fall when I feel such euphoria and elation?

I call it “the catch”—that moment when my emotion is at its peak and can’t rise any further. I get the same feeling when listening to praise music. I fill entirely up with the maximum amount of joy, anticipation, and expectation my body can withstand, until I can’t hold any more. I begin to shed tears with the certainty of the hope I have in Jesus. Why do tears come when I’m experiencing the pure joy of being in the presence of Jesus?

Praising Jesus and worshipping him is the closest I believe I will come to experiencing heaven here in this earthly body. It makes me look forward to the time when I’ll not be restrained; my worship and praise will rise forever; and the lump in my throat, the catch, will no longer be a hindrance. My joy will mix unendingly with every voice and heart at the throne of King Jesus.

Praise is perfect for here on earth, but I long for more. I’ve finally figured out that tears are our safety valve, the catch. I’m convinced the Lord gave us this earthly escape valve because our bodies can’t contain the magnitude of eternity.

Paul pointed it out in 1 Corinthians 2:9 (MSG): “No one’s ever seen or heard anything like this. Never so much as imagined anything quite like it—What God has arranged for those who love him. But you’ve seen and heard it because God by his Spirit has brought it all out into the open before you.”

I believe God created us to long for heaven and the release of our limited capacity to physically praise him the way we wish to. There have been times when I’ve stood in my living room with my hands raised, screaming praise songs, when my heart was about to explode with sheer joy. I didn’t want the thankfulness and love I felt for him at that moment to stop. The final expression of my worship was with tears. It was a small reflection of eternity. 

The safety valve, the catch—we weren’t made to experience here what we will encounter there; our bodies can’t contain it, so he gave us tears. 

A moving picture of this expression of the safety valve is in Luke 7:36–50 (MSG):

One of the Pharisees asked him over for a meal. He went to the Pharisee’s house and sat down at the dinner table. Just then a woman of the village, the town harlot, having learned that Jesus was a guest in the home of the Pharisee, came with a bottle of very expensive perfume and stood at his feet, weeping, raining tears on his feet. Letting down her hair, she dried his feet, kissed them, and anointed them with the perfume. When the Pharisee who invited him saw this, he said to himself, “If this man was the prophet I thought he was, he would have known what kind of woman this is who is falling all over him.” Jesus said to him, “Simon, I have something to tell you.” “Oh? Tell me.” “Two men were in debt to a banker. One owed five hundred silver pieces, the other fifty. Neither of them could pay up, and so the banker canceled both debts. Which of the two would be more grateful?” Simon answered, “I suppose the one who was forgiven the most.” “That’s right,” said Jesus. Then turning to the woman, but speaking to Simon, he said, “Do you see this woman? I came to your home; you provided no water for my feet, but she rained tears on my feet and dried them with her hair. You gave me no greeting, but from the time I arrived, she hasn’t quit kissing my feet. You provided nothing for freshening up, but she has soothed my feet with perfume. Impressive, isn’t it? She was forgiven many, many sins, and so she is very, very grateful. If the forgiveness is minimal, the gratitude is minimal.” Then he spoke to her: “I forgive your sins.” That set the dinner guests talking behind his back: “Who does he think he is, forgiving sins!” He ignored them and said to the woman, “Your faith has saved you. Go in peace.” 

The picture of the so-called sinful woman even being in Simon’s house is worth noting. She came ready, prepared to see Jesus. If supper was to be at 6:30, she was there at 6:15. 

She brought the perfume with her. It was not a last-minute decision. She knew who Jesus was, so she must have previously heard him speak healing and love to the hurting and forgotten. 

She probably followed him from a distance, fearing he would shun her, as everyone with any amount of dignity and integrity would have. 

She was not stalking a stranger. She withstood the scornful “What are you doing here?” looks from the others at the table. 

Because it was the tradition for the host of the party to have the guests’ feet washed and dried, she didn’t bring water or a towel. Instead, she must have thought she would finish the welcome by anointing his feet with oil. How surprised she might have been when she saw his road-weary feet covered with dust from his travels.

But her heart was too full to allow that to stop her expression of thankfulness. She knelt in front of the One, the only one who didn’t look down on her. In fact, Jesus was the only one who showed compassion. All she could do was respond with a full heart of gratefulness that her earthly body couldn’t possibly contain. Thankfulness that she would never be able to fully express in the manner she wanted.

She never spoke a word. Her love poured out in the only way it could humanly respond: tears. Her safety valve became the attraction. 

She wasn’t weeping tears on Jesus’s feet to make it clear how sinful she was or how wretched a person she knew herself to be. She was holding as much eternity as her earthly body could contain—maybe more than anyone else in that room, except for Jesus. 

He knew. He saw. He understood. I believe the owner of the alabaster box’s tears were from a heart filled with thankfulness, repentance, and newly realized acceptance. She could see a future filled with hope, maybe for the first time; forgiveness; and a sense of self. 

No woman of her status would have dared to do what she did. Newly discovered self-worth flowed from a life filled with adventure in the kingdom of love.

I’m satisfied that on the day she met Jesus in heaven, he gave her two gifts of her tears. He opened a great ledger and pointed to a specific time in history when he recorded her tears on his behalf, when no one else chose to wash his feet. Second, he gave her a bottle, maybe made of alabaster, in which he’d saved every single one of her tears, her safety valve, shed for his glory. And she was able to express her pure, real heart with the realization that she was finally home.

With the fullness of all eternity in front of her, she would no longer need the safety valve of a Hawaiian blowhole. She would finally exclaim, like the bride in Song of Solomon, “My beloved is mine. And I am His.”

That’s far more thrilling than a roller coaster.

I got mad. I got mad, and I vented to and at God. I was already on edge, and I guess I didn’t even realize my meteorically hazardous condition until I detonated. 

I rarely lose my cool. But the past few months had been hard. I worked hard to trust the Lord; stay surrendered; and stuff down frustration, fear, and, frankly, a huge lack of understanding of his plan. 

Rationally, I knew his plan was perfect and knew he was working, as he promised, for my good. I was cleaning house and knocked over my iron, and the lid to the water reservoir broke off. Great! Yet one more expense I can’t even think about managing. 

A few minutes later, I bumped a desk and knocked off a glass figurine given to me as a gift. It shattered. 

That was it. I screamed. I cried and even uttered a few not-so-well-chosen expletives. I pointed my finger and poked the air, angry with God for not meeting my needs. I was tired, worn out from trying to wear the right stoic face in front of a Father who knows my heart better than I know myself. 

After approximately ten minutes of my Paleolithic meltdown, I felt regret and guilt and crumpled onto the couch. I was a tired, worn-out pile of poured-out flesh. I apologized over and over for my lack of faith and maybe a little fear, remembering that God hadn’t had a problem offing a bunch of wandering, whining Israelites over an embarrassing manna and quail incident. 

I wanted an answer right then. I wanted God to fix my problems right then. Tired of the struggle, I felt I had grown enough through that season of seemingly constant heartache and stress, and it was time to rest. 

So fix it, God.

My good friend Gene told me about a time when one of his sons was younger, maybe seven or so. A long-planned trip was coming up for them, father and two sons, to a NASCAR event. It was all they talked about for weeks. 

The day before they were to leave, the younger son came down with a horrific stomach virus, and they were forced to cancel the trip. When my friend walked into the bedroom to break the bad news to his sick son, he was a little shocked by the reaction. As ill as he was, the little boy begged his dad to change his mind. When told he was too sick to go, the boy jumped from under the covers, ran to the end of the bed, and began to scream and cry. He beat his fists against his dad’s chest, yelling that the decision was unfair and that his dad was mean. 

When the child’s body grew weak from fever, he collapsed into his father’s arms and wept. 

My friend knew how hurt his baby boy was physically and emotionally. So he took the pounding. He told me later that he was willing to take the punches because his child chose to come to his dad instead of the Enemy. He chose to go to the one he knew he could trust. He chose the one who would truly and completely understand. He chose to pull in close instead of running, hiding, and isolating. 

I realized my old self would have done all those weak, foolish things—running, hiding, and isolating. Although I was still sorry I’d reacted in anger and resentment, I was relieved I had instinctively taken my rage and pain to the One who gets me and knows my love for him is real and honest. And he loves honesty. I still know there is a plan, and I will continue to wait on him—with him.

The Sunday morning after my conniption fit, my pastor gave the call for the offering. He spoke about real trust and about the one place in scripture, Malachi 3:10, where the Lord tells us to test him—to try him. To see if he will open the storehouses of heaven if we tithe. 

During those months, I wasn’t able to tithe regularly. It drove me crazy. I honestly love the feeling of giving 10 percent of my income. But it made no earthly sense to tithe when I was already in the hole.

Yet the Holy Spirit tugged at my heart. Six dollars was in my pocket—all I had to buy gas and survive till Wednesday, when I got paid. When the bucket passed, I prayed. Here I am, Lord. The widow with her two mites. I don’t know if I’m offering this to further your kingdom, to prove to myself that you’re true to your promise, or to show you that you can trust me with more. Maybe the truth was a combination of a couple or all of those. I don’t need a jug of oil that doesn’t run empty. But my gas tank could use some help.

I reached into my wallet and grabbed the bills between my thumb and pointer finger. Before I had time to think it through, I suspended my hand over the bucket. I took a deep breath and released the money. I watched the bills fall as if in slow motion, almost as if I could still grab them before they disappeared into the murky abyss. I was afraid. But I was okay with that. I’ve learned that doing something courageous has little to do with fear. Fear is just an emotion. Courage is an action.

That afternoon, a man I’d never met or even heard of got hold of me and said he and his wife were coming back from Fort Smith. He asked me to meet him at a gas station just off the 430. We shared friends in common, so I wasn’t worried.

When I got there, he blessed me by making my mortgage payment. Then he took my car over to the pump—I didn’t tell him I was low—and filled the tank. Finally, he said they’d stopped on their way in and bought a gift card so I would be able to get fuel when I needed it. He verbally blessed me again, and they were gone.

I sat in my car with my hands gripping and my head leaning against the steering wheel. I cried, feeling Abba’s big, warm, safe arms wrapped around his ragamuffin son.

Matthew 18:2 (MSG) says,

For an answer, Jesus called over a child, whom he stood in the middle of the room, and said, “I’m telling you, once and for all, that unless you return to square one and start over like children, you’re not even going to get a look at the kingdom, let alone get in. Whoever becomes simple and elemental again, like this child, will rank high in God’s kingdom. What’s more, when you receive the childlike on my account, it’s the same as receiving me.”

I feel certain El Roi—the God who sees—takes into account how bratty his kids can be from time to time.

Okay, so I think I’m over the embarrassment and mortification enough to talk about the following now. 

Yesterday I traveled down Maumelle Boulevard in rush-hour traffic to pick up Chinese food for the workers at the fireworks stand and myself. I stopped at a red light, glanced to my right, and saw a shiny new apple-red convertible right out of Hollywood. Entirely out of place. 

I thought about my pooch Falkor staying at Dr. Peck’s vet clinic during the day so he didn’t have to be kenneled so long at home, and I imagined how he’d look in the passenger seat while I was driving. (See “Find My iPad.”)

I call him “little man.” I’ll say it like four times in a row really fast. “Little man, little man, little man, little maaaan!” He goes berserk, jumping up and down with his tongue hanging out and his floppy ears flying, turning in circles. 

For some insane reason, I started saying it while driving down the boulevard, over and over. Trying to save gas, I had all the windows down. I then, again for some unexplainable reason, started singing it to the tune of “Camptown Races”: “Little man, little man, little man, doo-dah, doo-dah!” 

Every mile or so, I was stopped by a red traffic light. 

Next came “Summertime”: “Little maaaan, little ole little man.” That didn’t work as well as I’d hoped, so I returned to “Camptown Races.”

In my stream-of-consciousness exercise, I remembered loving Woody Woodpecker when I was younger and decided to resurrect Woody’s voice in Falkor’s honor. “HuhuhuHUhu. HuhuHUhu. Huhuhuhuhu, little man.” 

I spent the next couple of minutes, or traffic lights, trying to perfect Woody while calling out to my precious pooch. 

My voice was a little scratchy at that point, so I went from Woody to Elmer Fudd while the tune inexplicably changed from “Camptown Races” to the theme song from Flipper: “Wittle ole wittle man, wittle man, wittle man, faster than wightning.” I was cracking myself up.

At that point, I was stopped once again at a light, actually laughing out loud at myself. It was maybe the fourth light since I’d started down the boulevard. 

I felt compelled to perfect my cross between Woody Woodpecker and Elmer Fudd while singing “Wittle Man” to the tune of Flipper.

At this juncture, I truly believe it was, in fact, the Holy Spirit, who next instructed me to sing “Happy Birthday” to little man as performed by Katharine Hepburn impersonating Elmer Fudd. I can’t even begin to type out how that sounded. But I was insanely proud of it. 

I stopped for a moment to catch a breath and heard faraway laughter. 

I looked to my right and recognized the same red convertible from the first light, also with its windows down. The first thing I noticed was the woman in the passenger seat. She had her head leaning back against the headrest, laughing so hard she was slapping her raised knee. The dude driving was just staring at me. I have yet to accurately figure out his expression. Not disgust or even a lack of understanding. His mouth was agape, and his brow was furrowed. It almost seemed there was a semblance of awe. 

I gripped the steering wheel and stared straight ahead. I concentrated on the red light with everything in my being, as though I’d just graduated from driving school yesterday. The exact same shade of red rose from the back of my neck and traveled upward over my head and down toward my eyes. Thank goodness the light changed. I was able to raise my hand and wave fondly. They heard me proclaim as I raced down the road, “Th-Th-Th-That’s all, folks.”

In the third installment of Peter Jackson’s cinematic retelling of J. R. R. Tolkien’s epic trilogy The Lord of the Rings, Minas Tirith, the fortified capital of Gondor, becomes the staging area between the forces of good and the evil armies of Mordor. All is seemingly lost as Mordor’s onslaught rams through gate after gate of the city. Gandalf and Pippin find themselves trapped inside the citadel and believe their journeys are about to end in death. Pippin looks up to Gandalf and says, “I didn’t think it would end this way.” 

GANDALF: End? No, the journey doesn’t end here. Death is just another path, one that we all must take. The gray rain curtain of this world rolls back, and all turns to silver glass, and then you see it.

PIPPIN: What? Gandalf? See what?

GANDALF: White shores and, beyond, a far green country under a swift sunrise. 

PIPPIN: Well, that isn’t so bad.

GANDALF: No. No, it isn’t.

Back in 1997, a group of distinctively mismatched men—including myself—bonded and began a journey of friendship that has lasted almost a quarter of a century. Our travels have taken the three of us down different roads, and our individual stories have been rocky and sometimes obstructed by barbed thorns.

Tim Overby (called TO to avoid confusion) lives in Liberty, Missouri. He presently works for a home-improvement retailer. In order to be visible, TO usually stands in the front row when photos are taken. Although vertically challenged, TO is strong. Really strong. If he were put in a ring with a grizzly bear, I’m not sure where I’d place my bet.

Gene Nobles lives in Hot Springs, Arkansas, and is in an advanced stage of Parkinson’s. His relationship with Abba has grown powerful and personal despite his diminished body. Gene is our biggest advocate and encourager. He dreams big. He listens for the voice of Abba and draws his strength from deliberately acting on cues, hints, and perfect intentions from the Holy Spirit.

I round out the posse of three. All I will say about myself is that I always think I’m thinner until I see pictures of myself. And for some insane reason, I think I have more hair until I see pictures of myself. I hate that. 

There is a fourth member of our squad: Billy Borre. Billy was the youth pastor for the church we all attended. When Billy and his family moved from Little Rock to Nashville, he made it part of his mission to keep the other three of us together. He encouraged TO, Gene, and I to set up a weekly meeting to study books we loved, including The Ragamuffin Gospel, Wild at Heart, and The Sacred Romance.

We met early every Wednesday morning. We ate a lot of doughnuts. We continued to meet through life changes, holding each other up; encouraging each other; sometimes addressing hard, uncomfortable issues; and keeping each other accountable. And we ate a lot of doughnuts. 

We loved each other through it all. We understood—whether spoken or not—that we would always be there for each other. There have been periods of silence, as happens in most relationships in which time and distance fight against endurance.

Billy suffered from diabetes, and over several years, ministrokes went undiagnosed. Once discovered, the damage to his brain was irreversible. He has vestibular dementia, which will only get worse and will eventually take his life.

The three amigos decided we would not let Billy leave this planet without us being with him. It was our way of telling Billy that he mattered and that he’d made a difference in our lives, an eternal difference. We needed him to know he’d made an impact that would far outlive all of us.

TO, Gene, and I met in Little Rock and made the five-hour journey to Nashville with little silence. Memories of shared times together and where life and the Lord had taken us made the trip seem short.

We decided to visit Billy in the nursing home before checking into the hotel. We weren’t sure what Billy’s condition would be when we saw him. I spoke with his brother, Bobby, who is a champion brother, Billy’s biggest and most faithful advocate. He told us Billy had good days and bad days. His body had atrophied, with few core motor skills left. His mind, although intact, slipped almost daily. He remembered some things and people and not others. So we didn’t know what we would find.

When we located the nursing home, we silently, apprehensively walked the hallway and into Billy’s room. He was in his wheelchair, between two empty beds, with his head bowed to his chest. I was struck by how small and vulnerable he looked.

We stopped about five feet from him. I bent to eye level and waited. Billy opened his eyes and glanced toward us. He looked at me without recognition. I smiled and said, “What are you doin’?” 

I will never, as long as I live, forget that moment.

Almost in slow motion, his eyes grew wide with recognition. He lifted his head and leaned forward as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. He held out his arms. I raced to him and enveloped him in mine. He said, “I love you. I love you so much.” He knew.

I smiled. “Hey, I told you I was going to bring you a surprise. Look.” 

TO and Gene stepped forward for their turn for hugs and love. It was a holy moment. For almost an hour, we felt the presence of the Spirit of God all over the room.

TO asked Billy if he could read a few verses from the Bible. Of course, Billy slowly said yes. TO opened his Bible to Revelation 21 (CSB) and read, 

Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth; for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away, and the sea was no more. I also saw the holy city, the new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, prepared like a bride adorned for her husband. Then I heard a loud voice from the throne: Look, God’s dwelling is with humanity, and he will live with them. They will be his peoples, and God himself will be with them and will be their God. He will wipe away every tear from their eyes. Death will be no more; grief, crying, and pain will be no more, because the previous things have passed away. Then the one seated on the throne said, “Look, I am making everything new.” He also said, “Write, because these words are faithful and true.”

When TO finished reading, there was a moment of silence. Billy looked up at Gene and said, laboring with his words, “Gene, I will hug you now. God is going to make all things new.” Gene walked over to Billy, and they embraced in an eternal, life-affirming hug filled with declarations of “I love you” that I’m confident echoed through the halls and the promises of heaven.

Before leaving, we assured Billy we’d come back the next day. We asked what he liked to eat. Billy wanted Mexican and a Coke. Bobby, Billy’s brother, a taco addict who seriously needs a 12-step group, fully supported the idea. It was a plan.

Later that night, as we processed through our time with Billy, TO said, “The curtain was pulled back a little.” That summed it up. I learned that day that looking into the eyes of unimaginable hardship is where I get one of the most transparent pictures of eternity. We were reminded of 2 Corinthians 4:16–18 (MSG):

So we’re not giving up. How could we! Even though on the outside it often looks like things are falling apart on us, on the inside, where God is making new life, not a day goes by without his unfolding grace. These hard times are small potatoes compared to the coming good times, the lavish celebration prepared for us. There’s far more here than meets the eye. The things we see now are here today, gone tomorrow. But the things we can’t see now will last forever.

The next morning, TO was concentrating on a sermon outline he would be preaching at his home church the following Sunday. I’m in awe of this man. The Lord has redeemed his past and made him a conduit for knowledge and wisdom. His understanding and thirst for a relationship with the Lord are incredible. He remembers everything he studies. It’s incredibly annoying. Somehow, I didn’t get that genetic marker. Every time I read a scripture, it’s as if it’s the first time I’ve read it. Weird. I want to be there when the Lord hands him the “crown of exultation.” I can only imagine the believers who will be in heaven because TO spiritually invested in them.

Gene and I spent time reading and catching up on where we were in life. Gene, most times, refers to the Lord as Abba, one of the most significant names in how the Lord relates to people. It signifies a close, intimate relationship between a father and his child as well as the trust a child puts in his daddy.

That is how Gene relates to his life and present condition. His Parkinson’s disease has left him using a walking cane most of the time and sometimes a chair to move about. His body moves with uncertainty. But the light in his eyes screams of eternity and the joy of seeing Daddy for the first time face-to-face.

These are good men. We are three amigos who couldn’t possibly be more different, yet we are bonded together, a three-stranded cord that can’t easily be broken.

That afternoon, we made it to a Mexican restaurant and bought ten tacos, cheese dip, and guacamole. For three hours, we visited with Billy and his superhero brother, Bobby. 

Bobby would say he’s only a regular brother, but he’s anything but ordinary. He has sacrificed and been there every time Billy needed him. Bobby makes sure Billy knows he’s loved. 

As we sat at a picnic table, Billy continually touched us, held our hands, and affirmed his love for each of us. Later, we sat around Billy and watched as Bobby carefully, with sacrificial love and patience, trimmed Billy’s goatee. Billy reached up to hold Bobby’s arm and proudly look in his brother’s eyes.

Then, noticing signs that Billy was tired, we helped him into his bed. TO knelt next to Billy’s bed and asked him what his favorite psalm was. Without hesitating for a second, Billy said Psalm 1, and TO read those precious promises amid an occasional “Amen” from Billy.

Billy was tired. We knew he needed rest. I didn’t mention it to the other guys, but I believe we all recognized it was probably the last time we would see Billy on this side of the veil.

TO and Gene each took a turn bending down next to Billy’s bed and hugging him. When it came my time, I knelt beside him and took that courageous man in my arms. It was a fierce, life-affirming hug. He wouldn’t let go. He kissed me on my cheek and whispered, “I love you, Tim. I love you so much. I’ve always believed in you.”

When I let him go, tears streamed down my cheeks. Billy took my face in both his hands, and his eyes pierced into mine. At that pivotal moment, as Billy used his thumbs to wipe tears from my cheeks, the veil was pulled back, and my spirit gazed directly into eternity. I didn’t see a table of food or hear angels singing. I didn’t see a throne or seraphim. Those are surprises and delights yet to be unwrapped.

I felt the love and presence of Jesus, almost excruciatingly impossible for this frail human vessel to contain. Crystal pure. A prism of joy, hope, wonder, and expectancy. I pulled in one last time and kissed Billy on his cheek. Our eyes met once more, and I said, “Billy, if you happen to get home before I do, would you be standing there waiting for me?” 

His whisper was almost a shout. “Yes. Yes, I will. And when my kids get there, we will all be together. And I’ll say, ‘See that man over there? He’s the reason we’re all here.’”

I said, “Yep, Jesus will be right there with us.”

Bobby walked us to our car and thanked us for coming. We hugged him goodbye and quietly made our way back to the hotel.

Gene lay on his bed, weeping. TO stood beside the bed, holding Gene’s arm. Gene thanked Abba for that time, and he affirmed both TO and me as men and as ministers. Then he said something I will never forget. As Gene lay there on that bed, his exhausted body racked with tremors, with tears flowing freely and bravely down his face, he said, “Parkinson’s has been one of the greatest blessings of my life. His plan has perfect purpose, and I am overflowing with love.” I don’t know that I’ve ever encountered such courage and determination. Through the storms he’s been swept through, he’s trusted the Lord wholly, determined.

Hardship is part of our path to eternity. Abba allows difficulty and loss in our lives so we’ll continue to lean on him, depend on him, and stay surrendered to him. And oh, how much sweeter heaven looks through that lens.

Here’s the passage of scripture, Psalm 1 (CSB), that TO read to Billy:

How happy is the one who does not

walk in the advice of the wicked

or stand in the pathway with sinners

or sit in the company of mockers!

Instead, his delight is in the Lord’s instruction,

and he meditates on it day and night.

He is like a tree planted beside flowing streams

that bears its fruit in its season

and whose leaf does not wither.

Whatever he does prospers.

The wicked are not like this;

instead, they are like chaff that the wind blows away.

Therefore the wicked will not stand up in the judgment,

nor sinners in the assembly of the righteous.

For the Lord watches over the way of the righteous,

but the way of the wicked leads to ruin.

We believed we were going to Nashville to make sure Billy knew he had made a difference in our lives, had made an eternal difference, and was loved. 

Abba’s plans were far better.