Our memories are a precious gift.

We use them every day, and they help us in ways we often don’t even realize. Some memories remind us what to do. Some remind us what not to do. Some make us laugh, and some bring a tear to our eye before we even know it is coming.

I watched a program on television that was revisiting events from the year 2025. I remembered most of them, but there were a few I didn’t recall. I am convinced I probably heard about some of those events when they happened, but for whatever reason, my memory did not file them away where I could easily find them again.

Why some memories stay close and others drift away, I cannot explain.

When our memories begin to grow weak and we become more forgetful, it is nice to have people around us who can help us remember. Sometimes they can refresh memories that have not been called upon for a long time. Even if a memory seems gone, hearing someone else talk about it can brighten your day and bring a little piece of it back.

This past Christmas, my younger son gave me and Dot a memory stick he had made from old VHS tapes we had kept over the years. Watching those old family Christmas get-togethers was something special.

There they were.

Family members as young adults.

Children who are now grown.

Loved ones who have passed on.

People laughing, talking, opening gifts, and moving around in rooms that held more love than we probably realized at the time.

Watching those old tapes brought back memories I had not thought about in years.

As we age, our memories seem to get robbed from us for some reason. Maybe our minds have reached capacity, and new memories push some of the old ones farther back. Maybe those old memories are still there, tucked away in the deepest rooms of our being, waiting quietly until something opens the door.

Sometimes I just sit and look off into space. My mind will start filling with memories, some wonderful and some sad. I sit there dreaming of precious moments and the precious people who made them possible.

The Bible speaks of the wisdom of older people. I suppose that wisdom comes from living through so much and carrying the memories that come with those years. Memories grow over time. They settle deeper. They change shape a little. But many of them still teach us.

We all need to cling to those moments when memories are spoken.

Listen when older folks tell a story.

Ask questions while you still can.

Watch the old videos.

Look at the old pictures.

Let people repeat themselves once in a while.

One day, those voices will be gone, and the source of those memories will become a memory too.

God bless.....

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Bob: Morning, Ralph.

Ralph: Morning, Bob. What’ve you got there?

Bob: Coffee.

Ralph: I can see that. I’m old, not blind. You’ve been staring into that cup for five minutes like you’re expecting an answer to come floating to the top.

Bob: I’ve been thinking about the Serenity Prayer.

Ralph: Well, that’s better than what usually comes floating to the top of your coffee.

Bob: You know it, don’t you?

Ralph: Sure. “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference.”

Bob: That’s the part.

Ralph: What part?

Bob: The last part.

Ralph: Wisdom?

Bob: Yeah. I’ve heard that prayer thousands of times over the years. And it always seemed to me that we put the emphasis on serenity and courage.

Ralph: Well, they’re the big words.

Bob: That’s what I used to think. But lately I’ve been wondering whether we’ve got it backwards.

Ralph: How so?

Bob: Because before I can accept what I can’t change or find the courage to change what I can, I’ve got to figure out which is which.

Ralph: Ah.

Bob: And that’s usually the hard part.

Ralph: Well, you ain’t wrong about that.

Bob: Think about it. There are things I can’t change. I can’t change yesterday. I can’t make somebody love me. I can’t bring somebody back who’s died. I can’t control what another person thinks about me.

Ralph: Can’t make it quit raining either.

Bob: No.

Ralph: Although I’ve complained enough about it to establish that complaining doesn’t work.

Bob: That’s rigorous scientific research.

Ralph: Forty-some years of gardening. Pretty good sample size.

Bob: But then there are things we can change. Somebody’s hungry, we can feed them. Somebody’s lonely, we can visit. Something’s wrong in our community, maybe we can speak up.

Ralph: Maybe.

Bob: Why “maybe”?

Ralph: Because that’s where your wisdom part sneaks back in.

Bob: What do you mean?

Ralph: Sometimes I tell myself something can’t be changed because I’m scared to fool with it.

Bob: Exactly.

Ralph: And other times I keep fooling with something that ain’t ever gonna change because I’m too stubborn to quit.

Bob: Exactly!

Ralph: Don’t get excited. You’ll spill your coffee.

Bob: But that’s precisely it. Sometimes we call fear “acceptance.” And sometimes we call stubbornness “courage.”

Ralph: Hmm.

Bob: So how do you know the difference?

Ralph: You asking me?

Bob: You’re the country wisdom half of this operation.

Ralph: And you’re the fella with all them degrees.

Bob: That’s why I’m asking you.

Ralph: Well, I don’t know. Seems to me sometimes you’ve got to get quiet long enough to figure out what you’re actually standing in front of.

Bob: A wall or a fire.

Ralph: What?

Bob: I’ve been thinking about it that way. If it’s a wall that truly can’t be moved, maybe I need to stop bloodying my head against it. But if it’s a fire and I’ve got a bucket of water—

Ralph: Then standing there talking about accepting the fire ain’t much of a virtue.

Bob: There you go.

Ralph: Wall or fire.

Bob: Wall or fire.

Ralph: Trouble is, Bob, some things look a whole lot like both.

Bob: Which brings us back to wisdom.

Ralph: Yep.

Bob: And I’ve been thinking that the same problem shows up in another prayer.

Ralph: Which one?

Bob: The Lord’s Prayer. “Thy will be done.”

Ralph: Lord knows I’ve said that a few times.

Bob: So have I. But lately I’ve wondered whether saying it is the easy part.

Ralph: I think I know where you’re headed.

Bob: How do I know whether I’m following God’s will or my own will and just putting God’s name on it?

Ralph: Now you’ve gone to meddling.

Bob: That’s what Connie says.

Ralph: Smart woman.

Bob: Seriously, though. Human beings are pretty good at convincing ourselves that what we want is what God wants.

Ralph: Been more than a few wars started that way.

Bob: And church fights.

Ralph: And family fights.

Bob: And political fights.

Ralph: Now you’re really meddling.

Bob: But it’s true. “God wants this.” “God told me that.” “God is on our side.”

Ralph: Funny how often God agrees with whoever’s doing the talking.

Bob: Exactly.

Ralph: So maybe “Thy will be done” needs a little humility attached to it.

Bob: Maybe that’s what wisdom is.

Ralph: Could be. Being willing to ask, “Lord, is this really yours, or is this just Ralph wanting his own way?”

Bob: That’s a hard prayer.

Ralph: Most useful ones are.

Bob: You know where this takes me?

Ralph: I suspect I’m about to find out.

Bob: “Thy Kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.”

Ralph: Okay.

Bob: What if the Kingdom doesn’t come all at once?

Ralph: I don’t reckon it does.

Bob: What if it comes in thousands—millions—of little decisions? Somebody figures out, This is something I can’t change, so I’m going to release it. Somebody else realizes, No, this one is mine to do something about.

Ralph: One puts down the hammer. The other picks up the bucket.

Bob: That’s it.

Ralph: You know, that reminds me of something.

Bob: What’s that?

Ralph: Jimmy Carter.

Bob: I know the quote you’re thinking of.

Ralph: Course you do.

Bob: After Carter died, his niece recalled something he used to say about his faith—that he wanted to do whatever he could, wherever he could, whenever he could, for as long as he could, with whatever he had, to make a difference.

Ralph: That’s the one.

Bob: There’s a lot of wisdom in that.

Ralph: Notice he didn’t say he’d do everything.

Bob: Or fix everything.

Ralph: Just what he could. Where he could. For as long as he could. With what he had.

Bob: Knowing the size of his bucket.

Ralph: There you go.

Bob: There’s another prayer that says something similar. The one attributed to Saint Francis: “Lord, make me an instrument of your peace.”

Ralph: Instrument. I like that word.

Bob: Why?

Ralph: Because an instrument don’t have to play the whole song.

Bob: Oh, that’s good.

Ralph: It just has to play its part.

Bob: Ralph, I’m definitely writing that one down.

Ralph: You’ll owe me royalties before long.

Bob: So maybe that’s what contentment really is.

Ralph: Playing your part?

Bob: Knowing what’s yours to carry and what isn’t.

Ralph: That’s different from not caring.

Bob: Very different. Maybe contentment isn’t wanting nothing or doing nothing. Maybe it’s learning where our effort belongs.

Ralph: And where it don’t.

Bob: Yes.

Ralph: I reckon I’ve wasted a fair amount of my life trying to fix things that weren’t mine to fix.

Bob: Me too.

Ralph: And probably walked past a few things that were.

Bob: Me too.

Ralph: That’s not a particularly comforting thought.

Bob: No. But maybe wisdom isn’t about always getting it right.

Ralph: What’s it about then?

Bob: Being willing to keep asking the question.

Ralph: Wall or fire?

Bob: Wall or fire.

Ralph: And if it’s a wall?

Bob: Maybe pray for the serenity to quit beating my head against it.

Ralph: And if it’s a fire?

Bob: Pray for courage.

Ralph: Then pick up the bucket.

Bob: Even if it’s a little bucket?

Ralph: Bob, I spent half my life around farms. I can tell you something about buckets.

Bob: What’s that?

Ralph: Ain’t nobody ever put out a fire with the water they wished they had.

Bob: Meaning?

Ralph: Use what’s in your bucket.

Bob: Whatever you can.

Ralph: Wherever you can.

Bob: Whenever you can.

Ralph: For as long as you can.

Bob: Sounds like wisdom.

Ralph: Maybe.

Bob: Maybe?

Ralph: Well, I’m still working on knowing the difference.

Bob: Me too, Ralph.

Ralph: Reckon that’s why it’s a prayer.

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I have been thinking lately about connection.

Not internet connection. Not how many Facebook friends we have. Not how many people follow us or how many names are stored in our phones.

I mean that wonderful, sometimes almost mysterious feeling of knowing that somehow, for a moment, we belong to one another.

It can happen in the smallest ways.

Someone remembers your name. A friend calls for no particular reason except to ask how you are doing—and actually waits long enough to hear the answer. A stranger smiles at you in the grocery store. Someone reaches across a table and touches your hand. You sit beside somebody you love without saying anything at all, and somehow the silence says enough.

None of these things will make the evening news. And yet I wonder if these aren’t the things that hold the world together.

We spend so much of our lives being told that we are individuals. Be independent. Stand on your own two feet. Take care of yourself. Make something of yourself.

There is certainly nothing wrong with independence. But I think somewhere along the way we started confusing independence with isolation.

We were never meant to do this alone.

Look at almost everything that gives life meaning. Love requires someone to love. Friendship requires a friend. Compassion requires another person’s pain to touch something inside us. Forgiveness requires a relationship worth healing. Even laughter somehow becomes better when someone else is laughing with us.

And grief may show us this most clearly.

When something breaks our heart, people sometimes struggle to find the right words. The truth is, there often aren’t any.

But somebody sits beside us. Somebody brings food. Somebody hugs us. Somebody says, “I’m here.”

And strangely, that can be enough.

Not enough to make the pain disappear. Enough to remind us that we don’t have to carry it by ourselves.

Maybe that’s what connection really does. It doesn’t necessarily fix our lives. It reminds us that our lives are joined to other lives.

I’ve taught meditation for years, and people sometimes think meditation is about withdrawing from the world—closing our eyes, becoming quiet, escaping all the noise.

I’ve come to believe almost the opposite.

The deeper we become aware of ourselves, the harder it becomes not to notice how connected we are to everything else.

The air entering my lungs was outside of me a moment ago. The food on my table came through countless hands. The words I use were taught to me by other people. The person I have become carries pieces of parents, teachers, friends, strangers, people I’ve loved, people I’ve lost, and even people who irritated the hell out of me.

None of us is entirely self-made.

We are, in some strange and beautiful way, made of one another.

Jesus understood that.

When someone asked him to name the greatest commandment, he couldn’t seem to talk about loving God without immediately talking about loving our neighbor.

Love God. Love your neighbor.

The two belonged together.

And then, as Jesus had a habit of doing, he made “neighbor” much bigger than people expected.

Maybe that is the spiritual challenge of connection. It is easy to feel connected to people who look like us, vote like us, worship like us, love like us, and agree with us. The harder work is remembering our connection to the person who doesn’t.

The refugee. The person sleeping beneath the bridge. The frightened teenager. The lonely old man. The person on the other side of the political argument. The person whose life story we don’t understand. Even the person we don’t particularly like.

I just heard that Lincoln once said: I do not like that man; I must get to know him.

Connection doesn’t require agreement. It requires recognition.

There is another human being over there.

Someone who has been afraid. Someone who has loved somebody. Someone who has been disappointed. Someone who has probably lain awake at three in the morning worrying about something. Someone who wants, in one way or another, to know that they matter.

Just like me.

Maybe that’s why division is so destructive. Before we can comfortably hate people, we usually have to stop seeing them as people. We turn them into categories and labels—liberal, conservative, immigrant, evangelical, atheist, gay, straight, rich, poor, Black, white, us, them.

Labels make separation easy. Stories make it harder.

Sit across a table long enough and listen to someone’s story, and something begins to happen. The label starts disappearing. A person appears.

And suddenly the distance between “them” and “us” becomes a little harder to maintain.

I don’t think we are going to heal everything that divides us with another argument.

I think some of it may have to be healed around kitchen tables, on front porches, in church pews, over cups of coffee, on park benches, and in all those ordinary places where one human being has the courage to really see another.

Maybe that’s why I have come to treasure those moments more as I’ve gotten older.

The conversation that runs longer than expected. The hug at the door. The friend who stays. The hand that reaches for ours. The laughter around a table. The quiet realization that somebody knows who we really are—and they’re still sitting there.

We spend much of our lives trying to become somebody.

Maybe one of life’s gentler lessons is discovering that becoming somebody was never quite the point. Perhaps the point was discovering that we are somebody to one another.

And maybe that is one of the great beauties of being alive:

For a little while, on this enormous spinning planet, we get to find each other. We get to sit together. We get to carry one another when the road gets heavy. We get to laugh. We get to grieve. We get to love.

And every once in a while, if we’re paying attention, we realize something that may have been true all along.

We were never as separate as we thought we were.

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I’m sure I can’t recall every detail accurately. Time has a way of jamming this old mind with other things, and some memories get a little fuzzy. But saying that, I do remember the general story.

Back in the late 1970s and early 1980s, there was a little town near where I lived. My family visited there frequently, and at that time it was in a dry county. Folks who wanted alcohol had to go over to neighboring counties to buy it.

In that little town, there was a small group of people who wanted an ABC store. They pushed for it month after month and year after year, until finally they got it placed on the local voting ballot.

To keep the story short, the vote was a strong no.

But that only slowed the group down. It did not stop them. Every time an election came around, they worked to get that ABC store referendum back on the ballot. Time after time, the people voted no.

For a while, local churches and youth organizations helped lead the opposition. But slowly, the thought of a new revenue stream began to sound good to more and more people. Folks started thinking about the money it might bring in and the relief it might provide for the community.

Little by little, the no vote got narrower. Then one day, the no was gone. By the slimmest of margins, the store was approved.

I guess the positive side of that story is that persistence pays off.

But that can also be a negative thing.

As with most get-rich-quick ideas, including lotteries and such, the promise of a windfall can look a lot better than it really is. People who once said no started seeing a prize somewhere down the road. I guess some of them may still be looking for it.

But once your no is gone, it can be hard to get it back.

Right now, our nation is being fed a theory that voter fraud is rampant. There is overwhelming proof and evidence showing otherwise, but that no is being challenged just like the no in that little town.

A small group keeps preaching the lie. And they are persistent.

They say it over and over. They dress it up in different clothes. They repeat it until people who once knew better start wondering if maybe there is something to it after all.

That is how a no gets worn down.

That is why we have to be careful.

If we lose our confidence in fair elections, getting it back will not be easy. If we let people convince us our vote does not matter, or that elections cannot be trusted unless their side wins, then we have let go of something precious.

The right to vote is not a small thing. It is not a party thing. It is not a Republican thing or a Democratic thing.

It is an American thing.

Now is the time for what John Lewis called good trouble. Now is the time for a clear and resounding no.

No, I will not believe lies about our election process.

No, I will not let fear replace facts.

No, I will not let a small persistent group wear down one of the most important rights we have.

It can happen.

The way it happens depends on you and me.

God bless America, and God bless you.....

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On Sunday, August 16, Elon Community Church did something that was both remarkable and, in another sense, exactly what it has been saying it believes for years. In the heart of conservative Alamance County, North Carolina, the congregation voted overwhelmingly to call Jonathan Chapman as the new head pastor. He is gay. He has a husband. And he is no stranger to the church.

Years ago, while a student at Elon University, he served as an intern at Elon Community Church. His experience there helped lead him toward seminary and ministry, and he was eventually ordained in that same sanctuary. After years of successfully leading churches in Connecticut, he has now been called home to become the church’s pastor.

Elon Community Church is an Open and Affirming congregation. Rainbow-colored doors stand outside the church as a public declaration that all are welcome. But there’s a difference between putting a belief on a sign and being asked to live it. This past weekend, the congregation was asked to decide whether those doors were simply a symbol—or a promise.

The vote was 95.6 percent yes.

Sunday morning, Ralph and Bob had a few things to talk about.

Ralph: Morning, Bob.

Bob: Morning, Ralph. Quite a weekend at church.

Ralph: That’s one way of putting it.

Bob: I’ve been wondering what you thought about all of it.

Ralph: Well, I’ve been wondering what you thought.

Bob: I think we both know how to waste a perfectly good morning avoiding a question.

Ralph: That’s one of the things I’ve learned from hanging around lawyers.

Bob: Fair enough.

Ralph: Truth is, Bob, I thought about those rainbow doors out front.

Bob: So did I.

Ralph: We’ve had them there for years. Pretty colors. Everybody drives by and sees them. They’re even part of our church logo now.

Bob: They say something about who we claim to be.

Ralph: That’s the part I’ve been thinking about. It’s one thing to paint a door. It’s another thing when somebody actually walks through it.

Bob: That’s pretty much where I landed too.

Ralph: You know my history. Part of the reason I wound up at this church was because of what happened when one of my own children came out. The church I was in couldn’t get past that. And I couldn’t get past what the church did.

Bob: I know.

Ralph: So this wasn’t exactly just some theological question for me.

Bob: No. You had some skin in the game.

Ralph: More like some heart in the game.

Bob: That’s better.

Ralph: But I’ll tell you something else. I understand some of the folks who struggled with this.

Bob: I do too.

Ralph: Some of them have spent their whole lives believing certain things about the Bible. Good people. People who’ve brought casseroles when somebody was sick, taught Sunday school, sat beside us at funerals, prayed for our children.

Bob: And voting differently doesn’t suddenly erase all of that.

Ralph: Exactly. If we’re gonna say everybody’s welcome, seems to me that better include people who aren’t quite where I am on every question.

Bob: That’s actually the part I’ve been struggling with since the vote.

Ralph: The cheering?

Bob: Yeah.

Ralph: Me too.

Bob: I understood it. People were excited. We’d just voted overwhelmingly to call a pastor many people had become very enthusiastic about.

Ralph: Ninety-five point six percent.

Bob: That’s quite a vote.

Ralph: I’ve seen Baptist votes on what color to paint the fellowship hall that weren’t that lopsided.

Bob: But when everybody started cheering, part of me celebrated too. Then I thought about the people in that room who had just voted no.

Ralph: They heard that cheering differently.

Bob: I’m sure they did.

Ralph: Maybe that’s something we’ve got to remember going forward. Winning a vote ain’t the same thing as winning a person.

Bob: That’s good, Ralph.

Ralph: Don’t sound so surprised.

Bob: I’m writing it down.

Ralph: You know what got me, though? Something he said Saturday.

Bob: I think I know.

Ralph: “I don’t want to be your gay pastor. I just want to be your pastor.”

Bob: That got me too.

Ralph: Because after a while I almost forgot about the gay part.

Bob: Exactly.

Ralph: I was listening to a preacher. A pretty darn good one.

Bob: And funny.

Ralph: Lord help us, don’t encourage him.

Bob: Ralph, we’ve sat through enough sermons in our lives. A preacher who can make me laugh gets bonus points.

Ralph: I’ll give you that.

Bob: But Sunday was when it really came together for me.

Ralph: Crossing the Jordan.

Bob: Yeah. He kept coming back to taking the “next faithful step.”

Ralph: You were squirming around over there.

Bob: I wasn’t squirming.

Ralph: You were doing something.

Bob: I kept thinking about my father. Dad used to tell me, “You don’t have to figure out the whole future. Just do the next right thing.”

Ralph: Next right thing. Next faithful step.

Bob: Pretty close.

Ralph: Maybe closer than pretty close.

Bob: Then the new pastor said something else I can’t get out of my head. Sometimes we don’t see God looking through the windshield. We see God in the rearview mirror.

Ralph: I liked that.

Bob: Me too. Because you look backward and suddenly things that seemed disconnected begin to form a line.

Ralph: Like him being a student across the street all those years ago.

Bob: And interning at our church.

Ralph: Feeling called to seminary while he was here.

Bob: Being ordained in our sanctuary.

Ralph: Going off and serving churches for all those years.

Bob: And those rainbow doors.

Ralph: Yeah. Ain’t that something?

Bob: He helped inspire the very symbol our church eventually adopted. And years later he comes back and stands behind those doors asking us to call him as our pastor.

Ralph: That’s one of those things that makes you look in the rearview mirror.

Bob: It certainly made me look.

Ralph: You know what else stayed with me? That woman who stood up before the vote.

Bob: Me too.

Ralph: Ordained all those years ago.

Bob: And then defrocked in 1993 because she was gay.

Ralph: And all she really had to say was that it isn’t 1993 anymore.

Bob: There wasn’t much to add after that.

Ralph: No.

Bob: You know, Ralph, I don’t think everybody has to see this weekend the way I do.

Ralph: Neither do I.

Bob: But I do think our church had to answer a question.

Ralph: What question?

Bob: Whether those rainbow doors were decoration or a promise.

Ralph: Hmm.

Bob: We’ve been saying for years, “No matter who you are, you’re welcome here.”

Ralph: Easy words to say.

Bob: Most important words are.

Ralph: Until they cost you something.

Bob: Or make you uncomfortable.

Ralph: Or make the neighbors talk.

Bob: And I suspect some neighbors are going to talk.

Ralph: Bob, this is Alamance County. Some folks would talk if Jesus himself showed up and parked crooked.

Bob: That’s probably true.

Ralph: But here’s where I finally came down on it.

Bob: Where’s that?

Ralph: I don’t know everything about where this is going. Don’t know what it’ll mean for the church. Don’t know what people outside the church will say. Don’t even know whether some folks inside will stay.

Bob: Neither do I.

Ralph: But maybe that’s the whole point of crossing a river.

Bob: How so?

Ralph: You can’t stand on one bank demanding to see everything that’s gonna happen on the other side.

Bob: You eventually have to step into the water.

Ralph: One step.

Bob: The next faithful step.

Ralph: Or like your daddy said—

Bob: The next right thing.

Ralph: Maybe they’re the same thing sometimes.

Bob: Maybe they are.

Ralph: And Bob?

Bob: Yeah?

Ralph: Those doors out front?

Bob: What about them?

Ralph: I reckon Sunday we found out they really do open both ways.

Bob: What do you mean?

Ralph: They opened wide enough to welcome our new pastor in.

Bob: And the other way?

Ralph: Now we’ve got to keep them open wide enough that the folks who voted no still know they belong here too.

Bob: That’s going to take some grace.

Ralph: Well...

Bob: What?

Ralph: If we’re gonna put that on the sign too, we’d better mean it.

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Sometimes I close my eyes and wonder what comes after all of this MAGA stuff.

After the anger. After the division. After the racism and misogyny. After the cruelty, the fear, and the constant need to decide which Americans belong on which side.

Because eventually, this moment will pass.

Every political movement does. Every president leaves office. Every generation eventually hands the world to the one coming behind it.

So I find myself wondering: What do we want to leave them?

I hope we don’t simply replace one angry movement with another. I hope we don’t spend the next twenty years looking for people to punish for the last twenty. I hope instead that we rediscover something we seem to have forgotten—that accountability should matter more than political parties.

If a Republican abuses power, hold that person accountable. If a Democrat abuses power, hold that person accountable too. Maybe one of the lessons of this time is that democracy can’t survive very long when character only matters when the other side misbehaves.

And maybe we had to see some of this darkness clearly before we could understand where it leads.

I don’t know.

But I do know that I don’t want my grandchildren inheriting another generation of Americans arguing about who deserves to belong. I want them to inherit the future we dreamed about when we were children.

Remember that future?

We imagined flying cars and cities covered with gardens. We thought science would cure diseases that had frightened human beings for centuries. We imagined technology making life easier, education becoming available to everyone, and human beings exploring worlds we could barely see through our telescopes.

We believed the future would be better. Somewhere along the way, our dreams became smaller.

We developed technologies our childhood selves couldn’t possibly have imagined, yet we use some of the most powerful communication tools ever created to insult strangers we’ve never met.

We possess enough scientific knowledge to perform miracles previous generations couldn’t have imagined, while millions of people still struggle to obtain basic medical care.

We can send spacecraft billions of miles into the solar system, yet we still haven’t figured out how to make sure every child goes to bed with enough food in their stomach.

That seems like such a terrible waste of human brilliance.

Imagine what we could accomplish if we spent less of that brilliance fighting one another. Imagine the diseases we could cure. The oceans we could restore. The energy we could create without poisoning the planet that gave us life.

The children we could educate.

The lives we could save.

The worlds we might explore.

I know that sounds idealistic.

At my age, I’m okay with that.

I’ve lived long enough to see things that once seemed impossible become ordinary. I’ve watched computers shrink from machines that filled rooms to devices we carry in our pockets. I’ve seen diseases become treatable that once terrified families. I’ve watched human beings circle the Earth in a space station while talking with schoolchildren thousands of miles below.

Human beings are astonishing creatures. Unfortunately, we’re astonishing at hurting one another too. Maybe growing up as a species means deciding which of those abilities deserves more of our attention.

I sometimes imagine people living a hundred years from now looking back at photographs of this period. I wonder what they’ll think of us.

Maybe they’ll shake their heads and ask how people with so much knowledge could have spent so much time being afraid of one another.

But I hope they’ll also see something else.

I hope they’ll say: That was when they finally learned. That was when accountability became more important than loyalty. That was when disagreement stopped requiring hatred. That was when they remembered they belonged to one another.

That was when humanity grew up.

Maybe the next great era of human history won’t begin with another political movement or another powerful leader.

Maybe it begins much more quietly.

With love.

Accountability.

Curiosity.

Connection.

And the stubborn belief that, despite all the evidence we sometimes provide to the contrary, human beings are still capable of becoming something better than we have been.

I haven’t given up on that future.

Not even close.

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We live in a world where faith and facts are often intertwined.

The problem is, they don’t always seem to agree with each other.

Faith does not always seek an explanation the way facts do. Faith leans on trust, hope, and a sense of the miraculous. Faith helps us believe in what we cannot always see or prove.

Facts look more to the intellect. Facts calculate. Facts test. Facts measure. Facts try to interpret what can be seen, studied, and reasonably understood.

When faith and facts seem to conflict, faith often depends on hope to provide what is unseen. The Bible says, “Faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.”

Factually speaking, that can be hard to accept as rational.

And yet, for people of faith, it is real.

These two things, faith and facts, have caused disagreements for as long as mankind has existed. They have divided families, churches, communities, and nations. They have even helped start wars.

Even now, in our great nation, men and women in positions of power will sometimes manipulate both faith and facts for their own benefit.

It would almost be comical if it were not so serious.

I guess that is why the separation of church and state has always been such an important topic. Jesus spoke to this in his own way when he said to give to Caesar what belongs to Caesar and to God what belongs to God.

That sounds simple until faith and law begin to rub against each other.

Then the question becomes, “How do I obey both when they seem to conflict?”

Some folks foolishly act like they always know the answer.

I don’t think it is always that easy.

Sometimes we have to let faith and facts stand where they are, and then we have to decide whether the conflict is important enough to justify our actions. Is this issue meaningful enough to take a stand? Are the consequences worth it? Am I standing on faith, or am I just standing on my own opinion and calling it faith?

My personal remedy is to look at myself first.

Is my faith reliable enough to allow me to ignore the facts?

Or are the facts more reliable than my desire, fear, or hope?

That is not always an easy question.

I believe miracles happen. I also know that I often trust facts because facts have proven trustworthy in many areas of life.

If the doctor tells me I need medicine, I don’t usually say, “No thank you, I’ll just have faith.” I can have faith and still take the medicine.

Maybe Jesus wants us to trust the facts He gives us so our faith can move forward.

There was a time when people prayed for cures to diseases that are now curable. That faith was real. Those prayers were sincere. But the answers often came through doctors, scientists, researchers, nurses, medicine, and knowledge.

I am pretty sure the way people prayed for healing was not exactly the way the medical world achieved the results.

But it was still an answer to prayers of faith.

Faith and facts both have to go through growing pains.

Facts grow as we learn more.

Faith grows as we mature, struggle, pray, question, and trust.

It is up to you and me to let both of them grow in us.

If our faith is real, it should not be afraid of truth.

And if our facts are honest, they should leave a little room for wonder.

God bless.....

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Ralph:

Good morning, Bob.

Bob:

Good morning, Ralph.

Ralph:

You know, when I say what I’m about to say, you may look at me twice just to make sure it’s really me.

Bob:

Oh no. I feel a little spin coming.

Ralph:

Maybe so. But here it goes.I’ll be glad when the hummingbirds leave for the fall and winter.

Bob:

Who are you, and what have you done with Ralph?

Ralph:

I know. I know. I can hardly believe I said it myself.

Bob:

You? Glad for hummingbirds to leave?

Ralph:

If there’s anybody who loves those little creatures more than I do, I’d like to meet ’em. I really would. But Bob, they keep me so doggone busy. Filling feeders. Washing feeders. Cleaning feeders. Mixing nectar. Fighting ants. Then doing it all over again, and again, and again.

Bob:

So you’re not tired of the hummingbirds.

Ralph:

No.

Bob:

You’re tired of being the hummingbird cafeteria manager.

Ralph:

That’s exactly right. And they don’t tip.

Bob:

Well, let me ask you something.

Ralph:

I had a feeling you would.

Bob:

Tell me again how you feel when you see that first hummingbird in the spring.

Ralph:

Now don’t start that.

Bob:

Tell me again how they make you laugh.

Ralph:

Bob.

Bob:

Tell me about the one that flashes red and green when the sunlight hits it just right.

Ralph:

Man, you know how to snap a fellow back into reality.

Bob:

I’m just saying. You don’t sound like a man who wants them gone. You sound like a man who needs a rest from loving them.

Ralph:

That may be the truest thing you’ve said all morning.

Bob:

We don’t always talk about that.

Ralph:

Talk about what?

Bob:

How even the things we love can wear us out.

Ralph:

That’s true. And it makes a person feel guilty sometimes.

Bob:

Exactly. We think if something gives us joy, we ought to be able to enjoy it all the time.

Ralph:

But joy still takes tending.

Bob:

Yes it does.

Ralph:

That first hummingbird in the spring is something special. I’ll be sitting there, and all of a sudden one shows up like a little flying jewel. I holler for Dot like I’ve seen a miracle.

Bob:

And have you?

Ralph:

I believe I have.

Bob:

But by August?

Ralph:

By August I’m standing at the sink washing feeders like I’m running a restaurant for birds with no manners.

Bob:

There it is.

Ralph:

And they fight too. That’s what gets me. Tiny little things, but they act like they own the whole yard.

Bob:

Sounds like New York drivers with wings.

Ralph:

That’s a terrifying thought.

Bob:

But you know, I think life works that way. The beginning of something carries excitement. The middle carries maintenance.

Ralph:

That’s good.

Bob:

First comes wonder. Then comes responsibility.

Ralph:

Like hunting season. First day, you’re up before the alarm clock. Clothes laid out. Coffee ready. Gun cleaned. You’re excited before your feet hit the floor.

Bob:

And later?

Ralph:

After a few weeks of cold mornings, climbing into a stand in the dark, sitting still with your toes froze, you start thinking that warm bed knows you better than the deer do.

Bob:

So even hunting has a hummingbird feeder.

Ralph:

I reckon it does.

Bob:

Writing is like that for me.

Ralph:

I figured you were going to drag writing into this.

Bob:

Sometimes a poem or story comes to mind, and the words just flow. It feels effortless, like the thing was already written somewhere and I just happened to hear it.

Ralph:

Like water over a dam.

Bob:

Exactly. Then other times, I have a thought, but getting it into words is like working a jigsaw puzzle with half the pieces upside down.

Ralph:

And one piece missing.

Bob:

Always one piece missing.

Ralph:

And it’s usually under the couch.

Bob:

That too.

Ralph:

But when it finally comes together?

Bob:

It feels like seeing that first hummingbird.

Ralph:

The world just feels right.

Bob:

Yes. For a moment anyway.

Ralph:

Maybe that’s why God gave us seasons.

Bob:

Say more.

Ralph:

Well, if hummingbirds stayed all year, maybe I wouldn’t get that same thrill in the spring. If hunting season never ended, I might quit appreciating opening day. If Christmas lasted twelve months, we’d probably get tired of lights and wrapping paper.

Bob:

Connie may already be there with wrapping paper.

Ralph:

Dot too.

Bob:

So seasons protect joy.

Ralph:

I think they do. They give us time to miss something.

Bob:

That’s a beautiful thought.

Ralph:

Don’t act so surprised.

Bob:

I’m not surprised. I’m appreciating.

Ralph:

Well, appreciate quietly.

Bob:

Yes sir.

Ralph:

The things that give us pleasure often come with a price tag. Sometimes that price is work. Sometimes it’s patience. Sometimes it’s letting go for a while.

Bob:

But the price is worth it for those moments when joy shows up.

Ralph:

Like that first little bird.

Bob:

Or the first clean sentence after three terrible pages.

Ralph:

Or the first deer you see after sitting all morning.

Bob:

Or the first cup of coffee after deciding not to go hunting.

Ralph:

Now you’re learning.

Bob:

So what will you do when the last hummingbird heads south?

Ralph:

I’ll probably stand there looking at the empty feeder and feel sad.

Bob:

Even though you just said you’ll be glad?

Ralph:

That’s how life is, Bob. We can be glad for rest and sad for absence at the same time.

Bob:

That may be the whole sermon right there.

Ralph:

Don’t call it a sermon. Folks might quit reading.

Bob:

Fair point.

Ralph:

But I will miss ’em. I’ll miss the buzzing. I’ll miss the fussing. I’ll miss the way they hang in the air like they’re held up by pure stubbornness.

Bob:

And then spring will come.

Ralph:

Lord willing.

Bob:

And one day, when you’re not quite expecting it, one little hummingbird will appear.

Ralph:

And I’ll holler for Dot.

Bob:

And start mixing nectar.

Ralph:

And complain by August.

Bob:

As nature intended.

Ralph:

What about your poem?

Bob:

It’s out there somewhere, floating around in my mind. It will show up when it’s ready.

Ralph:

Like a hummingbird.

Bob:

Like a hummingbird.

Ralph:

Well, I hope it comes soon.

Bob:

Me too.

Ralph:

And I hope mine come back next spring.

Bob:

They will.

Ralph:

Until then, I guess I’ll enjoy the rest.

Bob:

And trust the season.

Ralph:

That’s about all any of us can do.

Bob:

Rest when it’s time to rest.

Ralph:

Rejoice when it’s time to rejoice.

Bob:

And clean the feeders when the hummingbirds come home.

Ralph:

God bless…

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One of my teachers, Jack Kornfield, tells a wonderful teaching story about enlightenment.

A young student goes to his master and announces, “Master, I believe I have become enlightened.”

The master looks at him and says, “Go back. Study more. Work harder.”

So the student does. A year later, he returns.

“Master, this time I know I have become enlightened.”

Again, the master sends him away. “Study more.”

Another year passes. This time the student returns, but something about him is different.

“Master,” he says, “I no longer seek enlightenment.”

The master smiles.

“Ah, foolish boy. I see you have become enlightened.”

The student sits with those words for a long time. Finally, he returns to the master and asks the obvious question.

“Now that I have achieved enlightenment, what comes next?”

The master answers:

“The laundry.”

I love that story.

We spend so much of our lives thinking the important thing is somewhere else. The next accomplishment. The next insight. The next spiritual breakthrough. Someday, somehow, we are going to arrive.

And then there is the laundry.

Most of us have also heard the old Zen saying, “Chop wood, carry water.” The idea is much the same. We don’t necessarily find ourselves by escaping the ordinary tasks of life. Sometimes we find ourselves by being fully present while doing the little necessary things that life has placed in front of us.

There is another saying, often attributed to Albert Einstein, although the attribution is uncertain: “There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle.”

Maybe the master, the old Zen saying, and those words about miracles are all pointing toward the same thing.

Enlightenment may not be about escaping ordinary life at all. Maybe it is about finally being awake enough to see what has been there all along.

The laundry. The wood that needs chopping. The water that needs carrying. The person standing in front of us. The stranger who needs a little kindness. The dishes in the sink. The sunlight coming through the window.

Perhaps the miracle isn’t somewhere beyond the ordinary.

Perhaps the ordinary is the miracle.

Those thoughts led me to this poem.

Everyday Enlightenment

Remember when we were young,
when kindness seemed like second nature?

Share your toys.
Say thank you.
Help when someone falls.

Now the world hums faster,
and kindness can feel like a luxury,
something we'll get to
later.

But what if later never comes?

What if this moment is all we have
to soften an edge,
to brighten a stranger's heavy day?

They say enlightenment is a mountaintop,
a quiet mind,
a life untangled.

But maybe
it's simply the way we choose
to move through the noise.

Maybe it's how we meet the world—

not with frustration,
but with patience;

not with indifference,
but with care.

The world is shifting beneath our feet.
Nothing holds still.
Nothing stays.

So why grip so tightly
to what hurts?

Why not let go
and let kindness rise
like a tide carrying us forward?
There is no finish line.
No grand arrival.

Only this moment.

This person.

This chance
to make the path a little softer
for someone else.

Walk with me.

Let's meet the world gently.
Let's make the small things matter.
And then—

let's do the laundry.

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What if there was a way to bottle knowledge and open it up whenever we needed it?

Wouldn’t that be something?

The thing about knowledge is that it has limits. A few years back, I was sitting in a doctor’s office, and on her wall were diplomas and certificates showing the vast amount of knowledge she had acquired. She was obviously very educated and a leader in her field of expertise.

I respected that.

But at the same time, I could almost see in my mind’s eye that same doctor sitting on the side of the road, calling for help with a flat tire or some other vehicle problem.

Her bottle of medical knowledge was filled to the brim. But right beside it might have been another bottle labeled “change a tire,” and that bottle may have been almost empty.

Likewise, that same doctor might have looked at my Mamaw Waller and thought of her as an uneducated person. Mamaw may not have had diplomas hanging on a wall, but cooking cornbread and fried chicken the way she did required a kind of knowledge all its own.

That doctor may have had the ability to learn those things, but she might not have had that particular bottle filled yet.

The number of knowledge bottles scattered around this world is more than we could ever imagine. Trying to fill even a few of them can be mind-blowing.

My bottle and your bottle may have similar qualities, but they are still different in taste. Your bottle may hold a quart, and mine may hold a gallon. Some bottles are slowly filling as we pursue our goals. Others may be about as full as they are going to get.

Maybe we lost interest.

Maybe we lost motivation.

Maybe our interest went somewhere else.

So we put that bottle on a shelf, thinking we might come back to it someday.

Knowledge can be powerful. It can also be foolish. It can be life-changing, and it can be wasteful if we don’t know what to do with it.

My daughter-in-law once said about our son, “He has more useless knowledge in his head than anyone I have ever met.”

I had to laugh at that.

But I also think a bottle of useless information is not such a bad thing. You never can tell when that one odd piece of knowledge may be the exact thing you need.

Somebody may know how to rebuild an engine.

Somebody may know how to make a baby stop crying.

Somebody may know how to comfort a grieving friend.

Somebody may know how to fix a leaking pipe, balance a checkbook, plant tomatoes, teach a child, read an X-ray, make biscuits, or pray with somebody who is scared.

All of those are bottles of knowledge.

So don’t belittle or make fun of another person’s bottles.

Sure, yours may be a little fuller in one area. Yours may be fancier. Yours may have a big label on it with a degree or title attached.

But that other person’s bottle may be the one that saves you one day.

Like I said, it would be nice to bottle up knowledge and open it whenever we needed it. That doctor could open up a bottle labeled “change a tire” and go along her merry way. I could open up a bottle labeled “medical diagnosis” and maybe understand half of what she was telling me.

But life usually doesn’t work that way.

Instead, we need each other.

We need people with different bottles than ours.

We need the doctor and the mechanic.

We need the teacher and the farmer.

We need the scientist and the cook.

We need the preacher and the plumber.

We need the person with book knowledge and the person with common sense.

Keep filling your bottles of knowledge, no matter what your ambitions may be.

But don’t worry if you can’t fill them all.

There are plenty of people out there carrying bottles you can call upon for help.

And if you are willing, maybe one of your bottles will help somebody else.

God bless.....

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Something unusual happened to me recently.

I was a guest on a podcast hosted by a young man about half my age. His show is dedicated to helping people with ADHD, offering conversations and solutions for those struggling with racing thoughts. He invited me on to discuss how meditation might be useful in managing that constant mental chatter.

As we spoke, I found myself developing a deep respect for him—not just for his curiosity or intelligence but also for the sheer effort it takes to create a podcast and the dedication required to provide real help to others.

Yes, I imagine part of this work is therapeutic for him, too. But isn’t that how we all develop empathy? By working through our own struggles and, in turn, offering something meaningful to the world?

When we wrapped up the recording and had a moment to chat privately, I found myself saying something I don’t think I’ve ever said in that kind of situation. I told him, “I don’t know why I’m saying this, but since I’m 75 and you’re about half my age, I think I can say it…

I’m proud of you.”

He was genuinely taken aback, in a really nice way.

Later, I received a message from him thanking me for that moment. He shared that his Nana, whom he was very close to, had recently passed away. He got the chance to have a final conversation with her, but she was not able to respond. If she could have, those were the very words he wished she would have said to him.

And hearing them from me, at that moment, in that way, meant the world to him.

I don’t know why I said it. It just came out.

And of course, I had no idea what it would mean to him. But it left me pondering something I’ve been thinking about a lot lately: the nature of synchronicity and coincidence.

Coincidence is easy enough to understand. It simply means two incidents happen at the same time, no big deal. But synchronicity has a different feel to it. It carries with it the suggestion of meaning, of purpose, of some unseen intelligence weaving events together in ways we can’t quite explain. I don’t know if I fully believe in that… and yet, I can’t quite dismiss it either.

How often have we experienced something and thought, Wow, what are the odds? All these tiny details had to come together in just the right way for this to happen at this exact moment.

But isn’t that true of everything? If I see a bird land on my bird feeder, I could say, Look at all the things that had to align—this bird had to be born, I had to buy this feeder, place it right there, fill it with that particular seed, and at this precise moment, the bird had to land there.

So, does some divine thread connect everything, or are we just assigning meaning to randomness? My wife, bless her heart (see, I am becoming Southern), would call it a God thing, and she’s comfortable with that. And there is comfort in that. So why should I resist? Why should I choose discomfort when the question is beyond my ability to answer?

Maybe one day, science will develop instruments sensitive enough to detect the energy that moves through the universe and declare, with great confidence, that it is intelligent. Or maybe it won’t. I don’t know.

What I do know is that I can choose my beliefs. I can choose to see the world as entirely random, or I can choose to believe there is some deep, abiding intelligence that connects us all. And if I have that choice, the real question is: Which belief will bring me more happiness? Which belief will lead to a more meaningful, productive life? Which belief will benefit not just me but those around me?

For now, my working hypothesis is this: there is, indeed, some connective tissue, some divine intelligence, some godly glue that holds us together. At least, that’s my current best guess. And I will stick with it

At least for a while.

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Why is it so hard to stay neutral?

Maybe I don’t want to be involved in every difference of opinion or argument that comes along. Maybe I’ve got enough of my own troubles without being drawn into somebody else’s mess.

I have two neighbors that I think the world of. I like both of them. I care about both of them. But right now, they are in the middle of a disagreement, and it has gotten a little uglier than I want to be involved with.

Lord knows I have enough to deal with myself.

The problem is, when two people are upset with each other, not taking a side can sometimes make both sides suspicious of you.

If I speak to one neighbor at the mailbox and the other one sees me, well, you know how that can go. All of a sudden, a friendly conversation about the weather looks like a secret meeting.

My question is this:

Why does it have to be that way?

These kinds of situations happen in the best of families. They happen with coworkers. They happen in social circles. They even happen in church. People we love, or at least care about, can put us in an either-or situation, and we are left carrying emotional strain we never asked for.

Now, I am all for people having passion for a cause or belief. I understand standing up for something you have invested your life in. I understand having strong feelings about justice, fairness, faith, family, politics, or whatever else matters deeply to you.

But I also believe there are times when a person ought to be allowed to say, kindly and honestly, “I understand how you feel, but I don’t have a dog in this fight.”

That does not mean I am against you.

It may just mean I am not called to fight this particular battle.

And to be fair, I might not give a hoot about the other side of the coin either.

Sometimes neutral does not mean weak. Sometimes neutral means tired. Sometimes neutral means cautious. Sometimes neutral means I care about the people more than I care about the argument.

To be sure, I appreciate folks who take a cause and stand their ground. I have no issue with somebody disagreeing with me. Disagreement is part of life. We are not all going to see things the same way.

But I do think we need a little respect.

Like the old song says, R-E-S-P-E-C-T.

We need respect going forward, respect going backward, and respect when somebody has the good sense to stay in neutral.

I have my causes and beliefs too. I am guilty of standing on a soapbox once in a while. If I feel strongly enough about something, I will speak up.

But I hope I never make someone feel badly just because they are not ready to climb up on that soapbox with me.

It is very possible that many of us like to stay neutral sometimes because we are trying to keep peace. Not because we don’t care. Not because we are afraid. Not because we lack conviction.

Sometimes we stay neutral because we care about both people.

That is where I am with my neighbors.

I like them both.

And I hope my neutrality represents kindness to all, not betrayal of either one.

There are times to take a stand.

There are also times to lower your voice, keep your heart open, and refuse to make the fire any hotter.

God bless.....

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Ralph:
Bob, somebody knocked on my front door yesterday. Scared me half to death.

Bob:
You didn’t know who it was?

Ralph:
Didn’t have a clue. Nowadays if somebody comes to your house without texting first, folks think something terrible must’ve happened.

Bob:
Or they’re trying to sell you solar panels.

Ralph:
Exactly. When I was growing up, people didn’t call. They visited.

Bob:
They’d just show up.

Ralph:
Mama always had an extra chair. Daddy always put another scoop of beans in the pot. Nobody apologized for dropping by.

Bob:
You know, that reminds me of something I noticed in Costa Rica years ago. Before cell phones became common, a lot of people didn’t even have landlines. If you had a question... you walked to your neighbor’s house. If you wanted to borrow a tool... you walked. If you had news... you walked. People were constantly showing up at each other’s doors. And no matter why they came... before the conversation started, somebody handed them a glass of water. It was almost a ritual. “Sit down. Cool off. Tell me what’s on your mind.”

Ralph:
I like that. Nowadays we send somebody a thumbs-up emoji, or a picture of what they’re eating

Bob:
We’ve gotten very good at communicating. I’m not sure we’ve gotten better at connecting.

Ralph:
Church used to work that way too. After service folks stood around for an hour talking. Kids ran around. Somebody always said, “Y’all come by the house.” Sometimes they actually meant it.

Bob: I think that’s the important part. We still say those words. We just don’t expect anybody to show up.

Ralph:
You know what else I miss? Neighbors borrowing things. Sugar. A ladder. A cup of flour. Nowadays folks order everything from Amazon. Don’t even know the fellow lives next door.

Bob:
There’s something about borrowing a cup of sugar. You almost have to bring it back. Then you wind up talking for another twenty minutes. Maybe borrowing sugar was never really about sugar. Maybe it was God’s way of introducing neighbors.

Ralph:
Now that’s funny.

Bob:
I worry sometimes that convenience has quietly stolen something precious from us. We can order dinner. Order groceries. Order clothes. Even have a doctor visit on a screen. All without ever seeing another human being. Convenience is wonderful. Isolation isn’t.

Ralph:
Loneliness sure has become common. Funny thing... we’ve never had more ways to communicate.

Bob:
And yet people tell researchers they’re lonelier than ever. Maybe what we’re missing isn’t conversation. Maybe it’s presence.

Ralph:
Being somewhere together.

Bob:
Exactly. Sharing a meal. Watching the kids play. Sitting on a porch while the sun goes down. Not because anything important has to be discussed. Just because somebody mattered enough to spend time with.

Ralph:
You reckon folks could get back to that?

Bob:
I think so. It might start with something as simple as knocking on a door. Or putting the phone down. Or inviting somebody over for coffee without checking six calendars first.

Ralph:
You know... I think we’ve complicated friendship.

Bob:
Maybe we have.

Ralph:
Seems to me... people don’t need another app. They need another porch.

Bob:
You know, Ralph... maybe that’s why we keep meeting out here every Sunday.

Ralph:
How’s that?

Bob:
Because somewhere along the way... we forgot how to visit. Maybe these conversations are our way of inviting people to pull up a rocking chair and stay awhile.

Ralph:
Coffee’s on. Bring your own stories.

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At the risk of sounding a bit syrupy, Connie and I were given the blessing of being invited to take part in the founding of a new Church in Costa Rica. It is called The Garden of Grace Church under the stewardship of Pastors Allen Cudahy and Bill Fuqua. We chose the name Garden of Grace because Bette Grove, the owner of Roberto’s beachfront restaurant and hotel in Playa Hermosa, Guanacaste, graciously offered her extensive gardens for service every Sunday.

Over the last few weeks Pastor Allen asked me to write a poem to illustrate his sermon. He is doing a series on the Lord’s Prayer and last week he was focusing on the line: Forgive us our debts.

Here, then, is my poem.

Stolpersteine, 
Stumbling Stones
 
Forgive us our debts.
 
Not bury them
beneath another layer of pavement.
 
Not rename the street,
rewrite the book,
or teach our children
that no one was taken
from these houses.
 
In Germany,
small brass stones
are set into the sidewalks
before the homes
where Jewish neighbors once lived—
 
a name,
a birth date,
the place where a human life
was carried away.
 
They call them Stolpersteine,
stumbling stones.
Not because they rise high enough
to catch the foot,
but because truth,
when met unexpectedly,
can interrupt our stride.
 
The street remembers
what the nation once tried to forget.
 
The stones do not accuse
the person walking home.
They simply refuse
to let absence become invisible.
 
Perhaps guilt is such a stone
not placed in our path
to make us fall forever,
but to stop us long enough
to look down,
 
to speak a name,
 
to remember what happened,
 
to admit that peace cannot grow
from a truth we have buried.
 
Forgive us our debts.
 
The forgiveness is already there.
 
God is not standing
behind a locked counter,
waiting for the proper payment.
 
Grace has canceled the account.
 
Love has opened the door.
 
But still,
we stand outside—
our fists filled with excuses,
our pockets weighted
with reasons why it was not our fault.
 
Forgiveness asks no payment.
 
But peace asks us
to come inside.
To lay down the story
in which we were always innocent.
 
To acknowledge the wound.
 
To listen without defending.
 
To learn what our actions cost.
 
To repair what can be repaired.
 
God does not demand this
before loving us.
 
God loves us
so that we may become strong enough
to love ourselves.
 
Perhaps that is why
those who seek recovery
do not begin with amends.
 
First, they learn to tell the truth.
 
They name what has ruled them.
 
They search their lives.
 
They speak aloud
what shame told them
must remain hidden.
 
They become willing.
 
And only then,
when grace has made them strong enough
to face another person’s pain,
do they knock upon the door
and say:
 
I remember.
 
I was wrong.
 
I cannot undo it.
 
But I will not hide from it anymore.
 
Forgive us our debts.
 
Not so we may forget them,
but so they no longer become
the final word about us.
 
Not so the warning light
is smashed or covered,
but so we may understand
what it was trying to tell us.
 
Not so history disappears,
but so history
does not have to repeat itself.

Amen

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In my lifetime, I have taught Sunday School classes and made presentations at my place of employment. I was a member of the Jaycees and often had to speak at meetings and events. I’m no stranger to public speaking.

Heck, I even won a novice speech contest with the Jaycees on the state level.

But to this day, I still get butterflies in my stomach just thinking about standing in front of a group of people.

Though I seldom, or maybe never, will have to do that again, I can’t help but marvel at folks who can speak so eloquently and effortlessly. I wonder if they still get an occasional butterfly or two themselves.

Now, I will contend that I have made a few perfect speeches and presentations in my life.

They usually happen when I’m alone and looking in the mirror.

Or maybe when I’m walking around by myself, rehearsing what I wish I could say exactly right.

I guess that’s one reason I would rather write than speak. Of course, writing brings its own issues, and I have plenty of struggles there too. My spoken grammar and written grammar both need a lot of help from spell check.

I have read and reread, edited and changed, corrected and rewritten things I have written more times than I can count. But even then, there’s no telling how many times after I send something, I read it again and find a mistake.

If it’s not a grammar mistake, then my phrasing is out of whack.

But like all writers or public speakers, I keep hoping for that one statement that stirs someone’s spirit. That one little group of words that brings a smile, offers comfort, or helps somebody see something in a new way.

Sometimes those words come from the most unexpected places.

When my son Nathan was very young, we were in a Christmas store. He came walking up to me, and I asked him if his mom was about ready to go.

He looked up at me just as serious as he could be and said,

“No. She’s still looking at the activity scenes.”

He meant nativity scenes.

I am sure baby Jesus would have gotten a laugh out of that.

I sure did.

But that little childlike message lifted my spirit. I still think of it often at Christmas, and I still love reminding Nathan of it.

There was no perfect grammar in that moment. No polished speech. No carefully prepared sermon. Just a little boy trying to say what he saw.

And somehow, it was perfect.

So what’s my point?

Keep writing.

Keep speaking.

Keep trying to say what is on your heart, even if it doesn’t come out exactly right the first time.

Take that childlike attitude with you. Be honest. Be simple. Be willing. You never know when something you say or write might become the very thing someone else needed to hear.

Sometimes the best words are not the fanciest words.

Sometimes they are the words that come straight from the heart.

The kind that only come from the mouth of babes.

God bless.....

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Ralph:
Bob, I was watching my neighbor’s daughter out in the yard yesterday. You know what she was doing?

Bob:

Probably chasing butterflies.

Ralph:
Close.

She was watching a caterpillar. Not for a minute. Not for five minutes.

Twenty.

Just sitting there in the grass like she’d discovered the greatest thing on earth.

Bob:
Did she ever get bored?

Ralph:
Didn’t look like it. She talked to that little rascal like they was old friends.

Bob:
You know what I find interesting? Adults will drive three hours to see the Grand Canyon...

take one picture... and spend the next fifteen minutes looking at the picture instead of the canyon.

Ralph:
That’s because if it ain’t on Facebook... did it even happen?

Bob:
Maybe, or maybe we’ve forgotten how to simply look.

Ralph:
Kids haven’t.

Bob:
No.

Everything is new. A puddle isn’t just a puddle. It’s a place to splash. A stick becomes a sword. A cardboard box becomes a castle. A caterpillar becomes the most fascinating creature in the universe.

Ralph:
You know what I think?

Wonder’s free. Maybe that’s why grown folks don’t value it.

Bob:
That’s a good line. I think somewhere along the way we stop asking, “I wonder...” and start saying, “I already know.”

Ralph:
And that’s dangerous.

Bob:
Very.

Because once we think we’ve got everything figured out... life quits surprising us.

Ralph:
I remember Daddy showing me the stars. We didn’t have one of them fancy telescopes. He’d just point. I’d ask, “What’s that one?” Half the time he didn’t know. Didn’t seem to matter. Wonder don’t require answers.

Bob:
I love that.

Wonder isn’t the opposite of knowledge. It’s what keeps knowledge alive. Scientists wonder.

Poets wonder. Children wonder. Maybe saints wonder too.

Ralph:
Church ought to have more wondering.

Bob:
Now that’s an interesting thought.

Ralph:
Seems like sometimes folks think faith means having all the answers. I always figured faith was trusting God with the questions.

Bob:
That may be one of the wisest things you’ve ever said. I teach meditation. People think the goal is to empty your mind. It isn’t. It’s to notice. Notice your breath. Notice the birds. Notice your own thoughts. Notice that the world is still full of miracles you’ve stopped seeing.

Ralph:
Miracles?

Bob:
Think about it. A seed disappears into the ground... and months later you’re eating a tomato. A baby learns language. A hummingbird flies halfway across the continent. Your heart beats about a hundred thousand times today... without asking your permission. If that isn’t miraculous... I don’t know what is.

Ralph:
Maybe we’ve seen it so many times... we quit seeing it.

Bob:
Exactly. Familiarity is one of wonder’s greatest enemies.

Ralph:
You know what I think that little caterpillar was doing?

Bob:
What’s that?

Ralph:
Teaching an old man to slow down.

Bob:
I think it taught me something too. Maybe life hasn’t become less amazing. Maybe we’ve simply become less amazed.

Ralph:
You reckon wonder comes back?

Bob:
I do. Usually about knee-high. Or with wings. Or crawling across a leaf. All we have to do... is stop long enough to notice.

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Give us this day
our daily bread.
Not tomorrow’s bread,
so that we, in our foolishness,
can stuff it into plastic bags
and try to make the manna last,

or turn it into bricks,
stacked high,
as if a wall could prove
that we are safe forever.

Give us this day
our daily bread.

Not barns filled beyond need,
not cupboards crowded
with what someone else is missing.

Not gold or silk
that only feeds our wanting.

Just this day.

The monks walk out each morning
with empty hands
and begging bowls filled with faith.

They do not know
who will fill them
or what the day will bring.

They walk with open hands,
making room for grace.

And the people come,
placing rice into the bowls,
each gift becoming both blessing
and bond.

The monk receives enough to live.

The giver receives the chance
to become generous.

Whatever remains
when the day is over
is given away.

No hoarding.

No carrying yesterday’s abundance
into tomorrow’s fear.

At sunrise,
the bowl is empty again.

And somehow,
worlds apart,
the prayer is the same:

Give us this day
our daily bread.

Blair rises each morning
to watch the sun come up.

While many of us are still sleeping,
he stands before the horizon
and receives his daily bread—

a gift that has never come before,
a gift that will never come again.

Light arriving without invoice.
Mercy warming the earth.
Another chance
to begin
again.

Each morning,
I trade a day of my life
for this day
and whatever bread comes with it.

This is no small exchange.

A day cannot be returned,
or saved,
or spent twice.

So I make a quiet promise:

Since I must give my life for this day,
let me leave something worthwhile in it.

A word that heals.
A burden shared.
A truth spoken gently.
A lonely person noticed.
A hand opened.
A bowl filled.

Because when evening comes,
the hours will be gone.

The only thing remaining
will be whatever love
I left behind.

Give us this day
our daily courage.
Our daily patience.
Our daily hope.

Give us enough strength
for the road beneath our feet,
enough light
for the next faithful step,
enough grace
to forgive
and begin again.

And when our bowls are full,
may we notice
the empty bowls around us.

For perhaps God answers
the prayer for daily bread
through human hands.

Perhaps the bread we ask for
is sometimes placed before us.

And sometimes
it is placed within us
to be given away.

Give us this day
our daily bread.

And give us the faith
to receive it,

the wisdom
to know when we have enough,

and the love
to share it
before the sun goes down.

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I believe myself to be a moral person. That doesn’t mean I think I’m better than anybody else. It just means I try to live in a way that respects other people. I try to be mindful of their physical, mental, and emotional struggles. I try to be a good neighbor. I try to avoid conflict when I can, and I try to offer help when help is needed.

A lot of that comes from my relationship with church. And just for clarity, I am not only talking about a building. I am not even talking only about the congregation where I choose to worship. I am talking about the inner workings of my faith.

Naturally, I want that inner part of me to be around people with similar values and beliefs. I believe it is vital to our spiritual and social well-being to have a place where people can gather, worship, pray, sing, listen, learn, and fellowship.

Now, after saying all that, I have to admit something.

I am torn in my spiritual life.

Somewhere along the way, the church, both inwardly and outwardly, has lost some of its identity with me. In other words, sometimes I just don’t recognize the church anymore.

I am sure some of that has to do with me. Maybe I need to be refreshed, so to speak. Maybe I need to reevaluate my own inner man before I spend too much time looking at everybody else. But I also know what I see, and some of what I see troubles me.

I remember a preacher speaking at my church many years ago. He said something I had never heard before, though I have heard it many times since. He said, “We need to stop playing church.” At first, that phrase struck me a little funny. Playing usually sounds enjoyable. Playing is fun. Children play. Families play games. Folks play music.

But I understood his point.

There is a time to play, and there is a time for serious action. And faith is not supposed to be pretend. We cannot take the moral fibers of who we claim to be and pick and choose where our devotion applies.

We cannot take a stand on abortion and turn a blind eye to child abuse. We cannot help our white neighbor and walk away from our Hispanic neighbor. We cannot preach love on Sunday and practice suspicion on Monday. We cannot claim compassion only for the people who look like us, vote like us, speak like us, or live like us.

We are either trying to be the church, or we are not.

I wonder sometimes if we have become that lukewarm church mentioned in Revelation. Do we warm up to what we like and cool off toward what we dislike? Do we become passionate about certain sins and strangely quiet about others? Do we defend the parts of faith that serve us and ignore the parts that challenge us?

I hope and pray I am wrong.

But Christianity has taken a front-row seat in our country’s image right now. Many people are looking at the church and questioning the motives of those who profess spiritual love and compassion. And maybe they have reason to ask.

There are non-spiritual forces trying to redefine the role of the church. Some established churches seem to be dabbling in these new identities, confusing political power with spiritual strength. But Jesus did not call us to power the way the world understands power. He called us to love, mercy, truth, and humility.

Spiritual growth is a process, and we all need to keep working at it. But that childlike faith Jesus talked about should never be something we outgrow.

Maybe that is what I miss.

I miss my church. I miss the church that taught me kindness. I miss the church that taught me to care about the stranger. I miss the church that taught me the poor mattered. I miss the church that taught me forgiveness was stronger than revenge. I miss the church that taught me love was not just a word we sang about, but a life we were expected to live.

Most of all, I miss my inner church. The quiet place inside where faith was not about winning an argument, proving a point, or choosing a side. It was about loving God and loving people.

Regardless of your faith, if love and compassion are the foundation of that faith, then we need to stand together and live like moral people.

Not just people who go to church.

People who are willing to be the church.

God bless.....

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A few weeks ago, I had a long conversation with a school teacher from Southern California. He taught in one of the tougher neighborhoods of Los Angeles, and as you might imagine, we didn’t agree on everything.

When I think about California, I picture a place that’s trying to care for people. I think about protecting the environment, expanding opportunities, and making sure no one gets left behind. As someone who has been a lifelong Democrat, that’s a vision that resonates with me.

His picture was very different.

He described schools with too many programs and too few resources. He talked about well-intentioned ideas that looked wonderful on paper but never seemed to work in the classroom. He spoke about a culture of participation trophies and feel-good slogans that, in his experience, often masked classrooms that lacked the resources children really needed. He described the result as a form of covert oppression—a system that offered the comfort of good intentions while too often failing to provide children, teachers, and working families with the resources they needed to flourish.

His conclusion was that one political party had been in charge for so long that no one was asking the hard questions anymore.

I’ll admit it.

My first instinct was to defend my point of view. Before he’d even finished speaking, I was mentally preparing my rebuttal. I knew what I wanted to say.

Then something unexpected happened. I stopped trying to answer... and started trying to understand.

The more he talked, the more I realized we weren’t really arguing about where we wanted to go. We both wanted children to succeed. We both wanted families to flourish. We both wanted people to have opportunities.

Where we differed wasn’t so much in the destination. It was in which part of the elephant we had touched.

You remember, the teaching story of the five blind men who had each touched different parts of the elephant … one an ear, one the trunk, one a leg … and wound up with quite different descriptions of what an elephant was.

That conversation reminded me of something that’s easy to forget. Most of us don’t experience our opinions as opinions. We experience them as reality. We don’t just see the world. We see it from where we stand.

If I had spent twenty years teaching in his classroom, would I see the world differently?

Maybe.

If he had lived my life, would he see some things differently too?

Probably.

That doesn’t mean one of us was right and the other was wrong. It means we were each looking through a different window. Our experiences had shaped what we noticed, what we feared, and what we hoped for.

I’ve been wondering lately if one of the greatest acts of humility is simply admitting that our window isn’t the whole house.

Listening doesn’t require us to surrender our convictions. It doesn’t ask us to abandon our values or pretend that every opinion is equally true. But it does ask us to loosen our grip on certainty. It asks us to believe that another human being—even someone we disagree with—might have seen something we haven’t.

I left that conversation with my political views intact. But I also left with something I didn’t have before.

A little more curiosity.

And a little less confidence that my perspective was the only one worth seeing.

I hold that wisdom isn’t found in abandoning our principles, but in the willingness to examine and re-examine them. It’s found in remembering that every one of us is standing somewhere. None of us sees the whole landscape from where we happen to be.

Sometimes the most important step we can take... is simply walking over to see what the view looks like from the other side of the mountain.

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I heard a preacher one time talk about keys.

He told about a job he had as a young man at a local mill. His supervisor had a key ring hanging from his belt, and the preacher joked that it must have had a thousand keys on it.

He figured that man had to be important.

After all, he had access to so much. He could open doors other people couldn’t open. He could go places others couldn’t go. There were rooms and buildings and closets that young preacher could only wonder about.

That supervisor must have been trusted to be carrying that many keys.

I have a small key ring myself with about six or seven keys on it. I know which lock each one opens. They go to my outside buildings and a few cables and locks I use around the house.

The other day, I was trying to open one of those locks, and I couldn’t get it to unlock.

For a moment, I was confused.

Then I looked a little closer and realized I had selected the wrong key.

In my defense, it looked a lot like the right one.

If somebody had given me a quiz and asked me to match each key to each lock, I believe I could have passed it with flying colors. I would have taken my time. I would have used my memory and my experience. I would have studied the keys and the locks.

That test would have been easy.

But isn’t it funny how often we get in a hurry, grab a key without thinking, and try to open a lock it was never meant to open?

Trying to unlock your house door with the wrong key while your arms are full of groceries is not a pleasant experience.

Running out in the rain with what you think are your car keys, only to find out you grabbed the truck keys, can aggravate a person in a hurry.

And life is a lot like that.

We know to do right, but sometimes we choose wrong.

We know the truth, but sometimes we select the lie.

We know patience is better, but we grab anger.

We know kindness opens more doors than pride, but pride sure is easy to reach for.

Like the wrong key, a poor choice will not open the door we hoped to walk through.

And when that happens, we miss whatever was waiting on the other side.

That supervisor at the mill was trusted with many keys. But if he had misused them, those keys could have been taken away. Trust is like that. It can take years to earn and only a moment to damage.

When we share our keys with someone else, we hope we are handing them to a trustworthy person.

The right key matters.

The right person matters too.

There are many keys in this life.

The key to happiness.

The key to success.

The key to understanding.

The key to forgiveness.

The key to peace.

The key to a good marriage.

The key to being a better parent, neighbor, friend, or Christian.

But those doors do not open just because we want them to. We have to choose carefully. We have to slow down. We have to use the key that fits.

A lie will not open the door to trust.

Anger will not open the door to peace.

Selfishness will not open the door to love.

Pride will not open the door to wisdom.

So maybe the question is not how many keys we carry.

Maybe the question is:

Do we know what they open?

And are we trustworthy enough to carry them?

What does your key ring have on it?

God bless.....

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