It’s kind of hard to believe it now, but there used to be cows in Santee. Dairy cows. I never saw them, but I know they were there. I know because there used to be an actual dairy really close to my house–maybe a quarter mile away on a gentle hill overlooking the group of cookie-cutter houses I lived in. The dairy was long since closed by the time I paid it any real attention, though—closed and looking as if it had taken a couple of artillery rounds. We would pass by the ruins if we were headed to Prospect Avenue School to play basketball, or sometimes just a few rounds of H-O-R-S-E if we were lazy, or there weren’t enough guys for a game.

But it’s really different now.

If you’re driving down Prospect Avenue in Santee toward Cuyamaca today, when you make a right at Double M, it proceeds straight for a couple hundred yards, and then continues up a gentle hill into a large development of pretty nice 3 and 4 bedroom houses.

Back when I was a teenager, in the early-mid eighties, it was completely different. Double M ended where the hill began. There was a white wooden fence marking the end of the road, with two yellow metal signs proclaiming “road ends.”

You could easily get around the fence, though. Right on the other side was a dirt path cutting through the field of weeds. The path proceeded another couple hundred yards to an enormous pepper tree that shaded a large flat dirt area in front of the ruins. Lots of kids would hang out under the tree–partying, getting high, and occasionally sleeping there. Some luckier souls would also sometimes drag their sleeping bags inside the entryway for a different sort of fun (though neither my friends nor I were included in either of these groups). On the crumbling wall above the door, you could still see the name in faded blue, italicized paint.

“Rocky Home Dairy.”

Through the door was a large, empty room. There was no roof left, and only three walls, with the two perpendicular to the facade tapering down to rubble about 18 inches high at the back end. Behind that, there was a large slab of cement, littered with smaller chunks of concrete, trash, and weeds growing out of cracks in the cement. Trash of all sorts was scattered everywhere. Then there were the feed troughs, also choked and overgrown with weeds. It was hard to imagine there’d ever been a bunch of cows where hundreds of tract homes were little more than a stone’s throw away.

The path through the weeds continued behind the feed troughs, and eventually led to the back end of another old and narrow street, with several older but still-in-decent-condition houses on either side of the street, along with my friend B’s house. Another friend, D, also lived nearby. As did the young man (B) who’d been the leader of the church youth group I’d attended for a while with R and his brother. B lived about a quarter mile from the elementary school we’d all attended, and it was on the upper playground we’d play basketball or whatever we had the energy for, usually several times a week. Every now and again, we’d switch to football or sometimes just “smear the queer,” if we didn’t feel up to the challenge of running plays. That was usually my favorite game—it was little more than throwing the ball into the air and tackling the crap out of whoever caught it. As for football, that was also tackle, when we played it. Two- hand touch was for pussies.

You could also take some sheets of fiberglass or aluminum siding and slide down the fairly steep incline behind the dairy. When the tall grass and weeds were dried out, all you had to do was bend them down, and you could really get some speed up going down that thing. When I was small—had to have been right around kindergarten—people used to ride their motorcycles or dune buggies around the area. There were a few good trails that weren’t too rough. I have this picture I love of my dad and two of my sisters in his dune buggy—he has this sort of half-grin on his face, and my sisters are trying to keep from getting choked by their hair.

And I digress once again. Like with most things you do before you hit puberty, that sort of fun lost its charm pretty quickly, and we began to find other things to do.

By the time Christmas vacation in 1985 rolled around, we were pretty much done with sliding down the hill. We played basketball most of the time, when we weren’t in my friend R’s room listening to music and playing Atari. When we did play ball, we usually played two-on-two, but every now and then we’d get a pickup game going, or just take turns shooting from the key while we took turns telling lies and bullshitting.

That break was weird. Normally, shortly before Christmas vacation, you’d have a week of final exams, then you could go through the holiday without worrying about anything, and start a new semester when you got back. That year, break started just a couple days before Christmas. We had two weeks off, then a little more than a week of class, then finals the last week of January. None of us were really comfortable with it. And it was doubly strange because my friend B would be graduating early, at the end of the semester. He was a little older than me and R and a few other folks that hung out at 19, and decided that he would get done a semester early, and join the Marine Corps. No one could believe it.

Christmas break went by really fast, as things like that always seem to, and soon it was time to try and get back into a school mindset before finals. We tried to enjoy the remaining time with all of us together at school, but with finals looming, it was difficult. Monday, January 27th came along, and we each had two tests a day for three days. Could’ve been worse, I suppose–just two exams and then onto the bus to go home.

On the break between classes that Monday, the four of us met on the soccer field behind the racquetball courts. R had gotten this sort of demented frisbee thing for Christmas called an aerobie, and we wanted to throw it around. What it was, was this slightly weighted rubber ring, a little larger than a regular frisbee, and it was supposed to go for miles when you threw it. Sort of a bastard cousin of the boomerang, I guess. We’d only tested it in the field next to R and P’s house, and it had almost decapitated a kid running by. The soccer field at Grossmont seemed like a much better choice.

We threw the ring around the soccer field for a little bit, one guy on each corner, and it flew as advertised. It seemed like the damn thing would have gone down the hill to Santee if we threw it hard enough. We stood around bullshitting for a few minutes after we were done, and then it was back to finals. I remember leaving my math final and thinking I wouldn’t have done well with 4 hours to take the test.

My classes Tuesday the 28th were even worse, and about halfway through the final in my first class, someone wheeled a television into my class and turned it on. The plan was to take a short break, and watch the space shuttle Challenger launch. Instead, we watched it explode and disintegrate shortly after takeoff. They wheeled in a TV during the next final as well. The disaster was all anyone could talk about. The brothers and I didn’t see B on the bus ride home that day, but it wasn’t that unusual. He never liked the bus much, and often didn’t have a bus token, either. I don’t know how he got home some days, but he always did.

I can’t remember what exactly I did that night, but I know I didn’t study for the next day’s round of tests. I remember falling asleep listening to music, though.

The next day, I woke up when I heard the “bloop” of a police car’s siren–what I always thought of as the “pull over” noise. I crawled out of bed and went over to the window, looking out at the small piece of Double M I could see from my bedroom. The car had already gone by, and I couldn’t see anything from my window, so I wrapped my bedspread around my shoulders, and went out into the front yard. I could see the Sheriff’s car parked at the end of Double M, next to another car. An ambulance was backed up to the white fence with the doors open, and there was a small group of people milling around watching the action.

There were a few people standing around looking on, buy nobody knew anything for sure. I did hear from a few people that a couple of women had found a body lying in front of the dairy, in the large flat spot under the pepper tree. There was some speculation that it may have been a drug thing, but all we could do was wait to see what the news would bring.

It was all we could talk about at the bus stop, and on the way to school, and the fact that the brothers and I lived close by where the body was found made us persons of no small interest. For a little while, I felt like a celebrity. Who had the person been? Was it a drug deal gone bad? A murder? What was it? No one had any idea.

The tests went quickly that day, and no one saw B at all. The semester was over. We figured that he must have simply figured, screw the tests–I’m done. Or maybe he was so busy trying to cram that he didn’t have time to make an appearance on the soccer field, or anywhere else. All I know is that I didn’t see him.

We hadn’t planned on playing ball that day, but our curiosity got the best of us, and it was only a few minutes after we got home that the brothers were back at my house with a basketball and a boombox, ready to play. R slipped a cassette of Yngwie Malmsteen’s Marching Out into the stereo, and we walked up Double M to the hill with the strains of Soldier Without Faith ringing loudly in our ears.

We got to the little flat spot in front of the dairy, and were amazed to see the blood was still there, and due to the hardness of the ground, hardly any had soaked in. It was just gathered in a large, teardrop shaped puddle, with one side tapering to a small narrow stream that ran down the plateau into the grass at its base. I’d never seen anything like it, and was amazed at how bright red it was. I was also fairly surprised they hadn’t cleaned it up at all. No one had even so much as scattered dirt across the top. The guy’s life was just lying there spilled out, for all to see. There was just so much blood. We tried to guess what had happened once again, creating grander and grander scenarios, each trying to top the one before. I remember R’s brother nearly dropping the basketball in the slowly drying puddle.

Due to the weird timing on the winter break, and the rotten schedule for finals, we didn’t get any further time off, and school started again the very next day. We had yet to hear from B, but had figured that he would be sleeping in, and trying to prepare himself for wearing jackboots, and calling everyone “sir.”

When the bus pulled up and dropped us off across the street from my house that day, I saw a small, scrawny figure hanging around in front of my house. He was a little guy that was one of our group’s peripheral friends, but he lived closer to B than any of us. When I stepped off the bus, the first thing I saw was that he’d been crying.
And I knew.

It had happened something like this, though nobody could say with any degree of certainty: The night of the 28th, B left with his guitar case, as he also quite frequently did. He probably said his usual goodbyes to his family, and nothing seemed out of the ordinary. But he didn’t go to his band’s practice space that evening–he went to the dairy, and the flat space under the pepper tree.

Some short time after that, someone went into his room for something and found that his bass was still there, and also came across his suicide note.

The next morning, a couple women out walking had found the body of a young man wearing jeans and a polo shirt. He was lying under the pepper tree next to a guitar case and was quite obviously dead, with a large amount of blood around his head and a small caliber rifle lying by his side. It took almost a day to identify the body as B.
I don’t remember how it happened, but one of the brothers got hold of the note. It was the most heart-breaking thing I ever read. B was very sorry he had to do it, he said, but it had to happen. He was convinced he had a mental illness of some sort (the illness went unnamed and was not described at all). He thanked a bunch of people by name for being his friends. He thanked his band and his family. And he said goodbye and asked that his body be cremated. And the really terrible thing is that somehow a copy of the note got out, and made the rounds of the school. I always suspected that little shit M, but he would never admit to it, and I never found out any different.

At the funeral, the guys from his band laid guitar picks in his coffin. You couldn’t tell he’d shot himself–he looked waxen, but asleep. His blond hair was neatly arranged (which never happened in real life). No more bass riffs. No more missing bus tokens.

He was just fucking gone.

There were tons of kids there from school, most of whom he didn’t know, and who didn’t know him. Yet there they were. Someone told me years later that any time someone that young goes in such a way, it makes everyone else feel their mortality as well. It wasn’t that way for me—I just alternated between feeling numb and pissed.

School was weird for a while after that, too. Kids—especially girls—were crying all over the place. Like they’d lost someone they were close to. It was a huge load of crap, or it felt that way at the time. There were grief counselors available. Teachers were more sensitive, and asked how everyone was doing. Most of the students were doing great, I think. Something horrible had happened, but it did give people lots to talk about. But I didn’t really know, and I didn’t really care. And the brothers and I never fully got our mojo back. It was not the same without B.

Yet still, some things were good.

A couple days after the funeral, we began to learn a new song in Men’s Chorus–an old negro spiritual called “ain’t got time to die.” We were a room full of white boys, and the words felt and probably sounded strange coming from our throats. But when Mr B played the first few notes on the piano and we began to lift our voices, it was like I could hear B’s baritone voice next to mine. I remember losing the song, then, and breaking down. I was the first, but many of the guys soon followed suit soon thereafter.

We didn’t talk about it much after that, but I remember Mr B playing the piece through, and just letting us grieve.
After that, I began to learn about a new kind of guilt. At the time, I thought of it as absolutely true. While I may not have pulled the trigger of the rifle, I did nothing to stop B. It seemed that I should have known something. I should have had some kind of sense of what would happen (my brother made that very clear. I was B’s friend, wasn’t I?). Some kind of friend “radar” should have been triggered, as it had been when the gang came to my house after my dad died.

But it wasn’t. And B’s blood had soaked into the dirt in front of the dairy.

Still, even carrying that, I had to finish school. I had to graduate. And as my final semester progressed, my mom began getting sicker, too, and I had to help with that. I had just gotten a job I liked a lot, but I had to quit so I could “be there.” It was a busy year, and I think any more catharsis would have exploded either my head or my heart like a melon.

But, boys being boys, I felt like I had to at least keep up the pretext of being strong. I don’t know if my friends felt it, but I did. Plus, it didn’t seem right to be moping around when my mom was dealing with her stuff.

It took a while, but by the end of the semester, we mostly had our lives back. Or at least we acted that way. To me, that didn’t really feel right, but it was what it was.

Sometimes I would look up toward the hill and the dairy from the bus stop, but I never went up there again. As far as I know, none of us did. We never played basketball again after that, or at least I didn’t. Nor did we talk about it, either, now that I think of it. I wish I’d known then what I know now about keeping stuff inside.

I went to my old junior high school last year, and I stood in the key under the hoop closest to the fence, on the court we’d always used. It was pretty much the same, although the netless hoops were now painted orange and there were lineup numbers nearly up to the back of the key. But it occurred to me then that I was not the same at all. I was alive. I’d changed. And where once there had been the possibility to go the same route as B, there was now Jesus in place of that darkness.

It took me most of my life to realize that so many of the things that had happened in my life I had absolutely the wrong idea about, as far as my being responsible for them. I hadn’t totally blamed myself for B dying, but I had always felt like I could have done more, and like I’d been a lousy friend.

But even if that was true, the plain truth was that I wasn’t privy to the inner workings of B’s mind–and I had no idea about how deep his darkness really went. I had no way of knowing how long he was thinking about doing what he did. And when he decided to do it, I had no way to stop him once he’d made up his mind. He left his house at night, and not even his parents knew where he was going or what was on his mind.

Most of this God has helped me to realize over a very long period, but some of it occurs to me even now, as I sit here reading this over with my wife softly breathing behind me. The damage caused by the crap I’d believed about my part in B’s death was something I didn’t even think about healing for a very long time, well into my adulthood. It never would have happened without Jesus, and those wounds would have colored the rest of my life. And the sad truth about all of it is that God would have comforted B in his darkness, had he but asked.

He didn’t.

And God will not force himself on anyone, not even someone in that situation. Our free will to choose Him is absolute.

But I didn’t think about any of that the afternoon I went to the school. I just stood under that rusty orange hoop, and I thought about all games played on that court. I thought about my friends ministering to me after my dad died. I thought about B and all the rest of the guys. I’m not sure what everyone else I used to hang out withis doing, but R is now playing music with a really good band up in Portland, OR. Not sure about his brother, either, but knowing P, he is playing music, and doing it well.

Over the past few months, thanks to the wonder of social networking, I have begun to re-establish some friendships from that time of my life—albeit from a distance. Who knows what can happen?

And to shamelessly paraphrase from a Stephen King story–although I haven’t seen them in more than ten years (it’s actually over 20), I know I’ll miss them forever.

We are inclined to forget the deeply spiritual and supernatural touch of God. If you are able to tell exactly where you were when you received the call of God and can explain all about it, I question whether you have truly been called. The call of God does not come like that; it is much more supernatural. The realization of the call in a person’s life may come like a clap of thunder or it may dawn gradually. But however quickly or slowly this awareness comes, it is always accompanied with an undercurrent of the supernatural— something that is inexpressible and produces a “glow.” At any moment the sudden awareness of this incalculable, supernatural, surprising call that has taken hold of your life may break through— “I chose you . . .” ( John 15:16 ). The call of God has nothing to do with salvation and sanctification. You are not called to preach the gospel because you are sanctified; the call to preach the gospel is infinitely different. Paul describes it as a compulsion that was placed upon him.

If you have ignored, and thereby removed, the great supernatural call of God in your life, take a review of your circumstances. See where you have put your own ideas of service or your particular abilities ahead of the call of God. Paul said, “. . . woe is me if I do not preach the gospel!” He had become aware of the call of God, and his compulsion to “preach the gospel” was so strong that nothing else was any longer even a competitor for his strength.

If a man or woman is called of God, it doesn’t matter how difficult the circumstances may be. God orchestrates every force at work for His purpose in the end. If you will agree with God’s purpose, He will bring not only your conscious level but also all the deeper levels of your life, which you yourself cannot reach, into perfect harmony.

-Oswald Chambers

O God, complete the work you have begun in me.
Release through me
a flow of mercy and gentleness that will bring
water where there is desert,
healing where there is hurt,
peace where there is violence,
beauty where there is ugliness,
justice where there is brokenness,
beginnings where there are dead ends.
Waken in me
gratitude for my life,
love for every living thing,
joy in what is human and holy,
praise for you.
Renew my faith that you are God
beyond my grasp
but within my reach;
past my knowing
but within my searching;
disturber of the assured,
assurer of the disturbed;
destroyer of illusions,
creator of dreams;
source of silence and music,
sex and solitude,
light and darkness,
death and life.
O keeper of promises,
composer of Grace,
grant me
glee in my blood,
prayer in my heart,
trust at my core,
songs for my journey,
and a sense of your kingdom.

I didn’t understand a thing about addiction when I was a kid. I mean, I had a concept of my mother’s alcoholism, because it was pretty obvious, what with bottles being around, and mom often being incapacitated. I knew a couple of her brothers also had serious drug and alcohol problems, too. I knew, but I didn’t really understand. I saw the symptoms, but I didn’t get what they felt like.

There was this liquor store/market that was around the corner from our house, and it was closer than the 7/11 which was down on the corner of Mission Gorge Rd and Fanita Drive. The man that ran the store was also the slumlord that rented the crappy little duplexes behind the store (which are still there, and still crappy–the landlord is long dead, though), and he did something the 7/11 wouldn’t have even thought about doing–he allowed my mother to run a tab. This was especially convenient, because when my father was not working (masonry had its lulls), she could still get what she needed. Sometimes it was groceries, but more often than not, it was very cheap bottles of wine, and lots of them. There were several occasions when the bottles were chosen over food, and we ended up eating eggs for dinner a few times when my dad was out of town working.

I was generally a pretty good kid, and accepted these circumstances as the way things were. For all I knew, everyone had the same problems. Which wouldn’t have necessarily been bad, but it taught me that food was way more important than it actually was. When you had it, you really needed to pound it down, because you didn’t know if it was going to be there later. Additionally, for as long as I could remember, food was how comfort was given in my house, usually more often than affection.

I can actually remember the first time this ever happened. I was sent to the store I mentioned above with a dollar and some change. I was supposed to get a candy bar or something for my sister and a bottle of coke for myself. I ran all the way there, and about half of the way back. Right as I got to the corner of Prospect and Fanita, I stumbled and fell flat on my face. The candy and bottle of Coke went flying out of my hands. The bottle shattered on a rock, sending out an explosion of soda. I’d scraped both of my palms up, along with one of my knees. I remember running home in tears, clutching my sister’s candy bar. She ended up giving it to me, and I think I even ended up getting another Coke. And it seemed to happen more frequently after that. If I cried, or was hurt, or was rewarded for something I’d done, I would be given something to eat. Usually it was something sweet, or sometimes my sisters would take me out for some fast food. Jack In The Box was, and remains, one of my favorites.

That stuck with me my entire life, and I still struggle with it to this day. Done something good? I deserve a treat. Feel crappy about something? A nice big portion of something will make me feel better. And it did. It does. It also was a good way to numb pain, much like alcohol would be for alcoholics. Although since I’ve been aware of my family’s tendency to addiction, I’ve tried to avoid regular consumption of alcohol. Avoidance worked for a while, but in my mid-twenties, I discovered that alcohol worked even better than food at numbing. I never became a “Leaving Las Vegas” style alcoholic, but there was a time not too long ago that when I did indulge, I binged like a maniac. My buddy and I would go to Padres games, each with a twelve pack of something, and not go into the game until the beer was gone.

I do the same with food. I didn’t exhibit a lot of the behavior that food addicts do, so I convinced myself I wasn’t one for the longest time. I don’t eat in secret. I don’t often eat when I’m not hungry (but when I am hungry, I eat way, way more than I should). Seldom is the meal when I have only one serving of anything. I try not to eat many dessert-type foods, but when I do, it’s usually like I did with the beer at those Padres games. I would often consume a pint of Ben & Jerry’s all in one sitting—all thousand plus calories of it.

My problem, I think, is that I struggle doing anything in moderation–whether it be drinking, or eating, or anything at all, really. My weight, and consequently my health, has been a lifelong problem for me, and sometimes it seems like it always will be. I guess it’s the “once an addict, always an addict” philosophy. But an addict in recovery is of course preferable to one in full bloom. I guess the problem right now is that I feel like I’ve fallen off the wagon and broken both my legs.

I have made progress on and off over the years, mostly just from stubbornness and restricting the almighty heck out of my diet. A few years ago, I lost nearly 50 pounds, about 30 of which I’ve put back on. It’s slightly better than it was, of course, but still not where I want to be. I’d like to see if it’s possible to get my blood pressure down enough through diet and exercise that I don’t need to take medication for it anymore. I hate taking those damn pills.

I think my main problem is that I’ve always tried to go it alone, even to the extent of not spending any real time in prayer over my diet, and weight, and health. This is an area I’ve never truly given to God. Confessing weakness is not an easy thing for me. But in this area, I am tremendously weak.
Today, this moment, I can see that my health problems, and weight problems, were brought on not by God, but by me. My problems are because of me, and the consequences of my bad decisions (and not just the dietary problems). I choose to eat food that’s bad for me, in extremely unhealthy portions. I would choose to drink excessively (when I did drink), occasionally to the point of making myself sick. I choose to not exercise enough. A lifetime of this has left me with the very high blood pressure I mentioned a minute ago, which nearly killed me before I saw a doctor for it. Now, I have the pleasure of taking two different medications every day. I’ll probably have to do this for the rest of my life, but it’s a lot better than the alternative.

What am I getting at? I just wanted to lay the groundwork for where I am. But I also realize that changing my life is not something I’ll be able to do easily, or by myself. I need to involve God, and seek the accountability of others like myself, and people who have been through what I am only just beginning. To that end, I was briefly involved with a program called “Food Addicts in Recovery Anonymous.” Very similar to AA, but different from Overeaters Anonymous, mostly in its methods. FA’s path to health and weight loss is very strict, to start, and involves abstinence from all flour and sugar. You eat three weighed and measured meals with nothing in between. It was tough, and I think I did it for a month or two. It worked, but at the time the discipline became far more than I was willing to deal with, as it required me to attend AA meetings besides the once a week FA meeting. I was not down with that, and I crapped out pretty early on.

From what I can tell from the website, OA mainly consists of accountability, and planned menus, without the extremely strict nature of FA. We’ll see, I guess. I found one that meets in Yuma, and I was thinking about checking it out, and seeing if my wife would go with me.

So short term, what I’d like to do now is to attend an OA meeting and see what that’s like, and if I am more suited to its disciplines. In that regard, to those of you who pray, please pray that I am able to maintain the discipline I need to get healthy, whether or not I take part in a program.
The truth is, I’m tired of feeling bad, and tired of not being healthier. I know what I need to do, but in trying to do it on my own, I’ve failed miserably. And of late, I’ve felt myself sinking back into old thought patterns, and sin patters, I suppose. The way I’ve been treating myself feels like sin, and I’m tired of feeling all crudded up again. I guess talking about it like this is the first step. One of the guys in my small group mentioned being available to talk about this stuff, and I may take him up on it. But the very first thing I need to do, is give all of the stuff I’m feeling to God, and trust him to be in control. I think of that quote from Romeo & Juliet. “he that hath the steerage of my course, direct my sail.”

So please pray–whatever God puts on your heart to ask for on my behalf. And while I feel like I’m at peace about whatever happens with the work thing, it has been the source of a fair amount of stress lately, and more than a few large meals over the past week. In that regard, I have a meeting with the accident review board today at 3:20, and I will be very glad to get it over with and find out what my fate at work ultimately is. I’ve been on suspension since last Friday, and it’s the first time in my life I’ve felt like a discipline case. Though I suppose it’s probably standard operating procedure when you utterly destroy a government vehicle, and almost destroy yourself along with it.

I remember hearing my pastor in San Diego talk about the deaths of the apostles a while back. He said that except for John, they were all martyred. And since my memory is like swiss cheese, I had to look it up…Google is decidedly awesome…

“The Deaths of the Apostles

Matthew suffered martyrdom in Ethopia, killed by a sword wound.

Mark died in Alexandria, Egypt, dragged by horses through the streets until he was dead.

Luke was hanged in Greece as a result of his tremendous preaching to the lost.

John was boiled in a huge basin of boiling oil during a wave of persecution in Rome. However, he was miraculously delivered from death. John was then sentenced to the mines on the prison island of Patmos where he wrote his prophetic Book of Revelation. The Apostle John was later freed and returned to serve as a bishop in modern Turkey. He died an old man, the only Apostle to die peacefully.

Peter,was crucified upside down on an x-shaped cross, according to Church tradition, because he told his tormentors that he felt unworthy to die the same way that Jesus Christ had died.

James the Just, the leader of the Church in Jerusalem and brother of Jesus, was thrown down more than a hundred feet from the southeast pinnacle of the Temple when he refused to deny his faith in Christ. When they discovered that he survived the fall, his enemies beat James to death with a fuller’s club. This was the same pinnacle where Satan had taken Jesus during the Temptation.

James the Greater, a son of Zebedee, was a fisherman by trade when Jesus called him to a lifetime of ministry. As a strong leader of the Church, James was ultimately beheaded at Jerusalem. The Roman soldier who guarded James watched amazed as James defended his faith at his trial. Later, the officer walked beside James to the place of execution. Overcome by conviction, he declared his new faith to the judge and knelt beside James to accept beheading as a Christian.

Bartholomew, also known as Nathanael, was a missionary to Asia. He witnessed about our Lord in present day Turkey. He was whipped to death for his preaching in Armenia.

Thomas was speared and died on one of his missionary trips to establish the Church in India.

Jude, another brother of Jesus, was killed with arrows after refusing to deny his faith in Christ.

Matthias, the Apostle chosen to replace the traitor Judas Iscariot, was stoned and beheaded.

Barnabas, one of the group of seventy disciples, was stoned to death at Salonica.

Paul was tortured and then beheaded by the evil Emperor Nero at Rome in A.D. 67. Paul endured a lengthy imprisonment which allowed him to write his many epistles to the Churches he had formed throughout the Roman Empire. These letters, which taught many of the foundational doctrines of Christianity, from a large portion of the New Testament.”

It got me wondering. How far would I go to defend my faith? Would I take a sword to the belly rather than deny Jesus? Would I allow myself to be dragged along behind horses until I was battered and scraped to death? Would I suffer any of those fates for my faith?

The answer, of course, is “I don’t know.” Because I don’t. I’d like to say I would, but the truth is, there’s no way to tell unless something like that actually happens to me. I think of people like Cassie Bernall, hiding out in the library at Columbine, and when confronted by the killers, answered “Yes” to the killers when they asked if she believed in God. They shot her in the face at point blank range.

People say they probably would have killed her anyway, and that may even be true. But she didn’t know that.

My old pastor at Calvary Baptist once told me words to the effect that he hoped for the chance to be a martyr someday. So he would go on mission trips to places that gave him the best chance for that to happen. That seemed like some kind of crazy at the time, but now I wonder. Is it a bad thing to want the chance to pay the ultimate price for your faith?

Jesus did it for us.

No answers today, but the little gears in my head are turning. Just coming off a very long night of driving a truck around in the dark, following dogs. Just take a moment to think about what your faith means to you, and what you would do for Jesus.

How far would you go?

4Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. 5It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. 6Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. 7It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. 1 Corinthians 13: 4-7

If you’ve been to a few weddings, you’ve likely heard this passage, from Paul’s letter to the church at Corinth. If you’ve been to many weddings, you’re probably good and tired of hearing it. I know I am (I’ll wait to step outside for a few minutes just in case—I’ve yet to be struck by lightning, but it can’t be as much fun as it sounds). Jenny and I went with a verse from the psalms for our wedding (this is the day the Lord has made, I will rejoice and be glad in it).

Anyway, I was thinking of this verse this morning when I woke up, and I looked it up in its entirety when I got to work (once again, I’m on standby—nothing to do). A little piece of a sermon I heard once came back to me just now, and I can’t even remember where or when I heard it, but the speaker was talking about taking the word “love” out of this passage, and replacing it with “Jesus.” Now, I’m not normally one to take out or replace any part of scripture, but in this case, it made sense. Take a look:

4Jesus is patient, Jesus is kind. He does not envy, He does not boast, He is not proud. 5He is not rude, He is not self-seeking, He is not easily angered, He keeps no record of wrongs. 6Jesus does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. 7He always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.

It works, I think. And the reason why is because God is Love. Jesus is Lord, and God, and Son. Therefore Jesus is also Love.

He’s Love.

Love incarnate. God incarnate.

I wish I had some perfect, eloquent answer to explain what that means, but I only know what it means to me—what love, His love, means to me.

Love is getting a few friends together based on a feeling that something is amiss, and going to play basketball with a fourth, very early in the morning. Love is letting that fourth friend grieve in his own way, and just being there.

That’s a God thing.

Love is another friend witnessing to that same person with her life, and together with her family, praying for that him to come to Jesus. Love is praying that prayer over and over again, for many years without success, yet still persevering. Praying without ceasing for eight years—before he finally got it, and came to the Lord.

Another God thing.

Love is still another friend calling that same man during when he was at his absolute lowest—and keeping him from falling back into the darkness. She probably doesn’t even know what she did, but he remembers, and always will remember.

Another God thing.

And finally, love is a woman willing to persevere past that man’s shortcomings, and fears, and problems large and small, and finding within him the person God intended to be found, and loving the man in spite of all of it—seeing his true heart beneath all the other garbage, all the baggage.

A God thing, to be sure.

So I guess what I’m getting at is that it was Love that saved my life—that saved me, in so many different ways.

It was Love that gave me hope, and a reason to live.

And God is love.

So pray for the lost people you care about, and the ones you don’t know, as well. Pray for them. It works. Persevere, because sometimes perseverance is necessary. And while it’s true that it ultimately still comes down to the choices of the person being prayed for, it’s also true that prayer makes a huge difference.

Witness with your life, as well.

It’s only recently I’ve began to realize that my life tells people more than my words ever will. How I live it speaks volumes about what God means to me, and what he does, will do, and has done in my life. Do I live wantonly, or do I think about what God would think before I do something? Do I consider how I represent God in my workplace? In my leisure time? Do I love indiscriminately? Do I give cheerfully? Do I do whatever I can for the least of these? Do I forgive? And most importantly, do I pray?

4Jesus is patient, Jesus is kind. He does not envy, He does not boast, He is not proud. 5He is not rude, He is not self-seeking, He is not easily angered, He keeps no record of wrongs. 6Jesus does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. 7He always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.

I have to admit something right now.

There are some people out there (and some of them might even know who they are) I just don’t like very much. I would not go so far as to say I hate anyone, but there are definitely people that really chap my hide. It’s probably like that for anyone—maybe even for everyone. I never believed that Will Rogers crap. He never met a man he didn’t like? Try driving in California traffic, Will.

Maybe there’s a person like that in your life. Maybe the guy in the next cubicle is a really obnoxious, really profane fellow, and you’re tired of hearing him talk about his weekend activities. Maybe your boss keeps skipping you for a promotion, or never recognizes your contribution to the office. Or it could be something a little different. Maybe it’s not so much thinking that you don’t like someone, but the person in question just pushes your buttons in exactly the right (or wrong) way. Like the person who knocks on your door selling God in a convenient, pamphlet sized package. Or the homeless man that follows you down the street, begging for change, or food, or the shirt off your back.

It could be a million things, a ton of different scenarios. You know? People just suck sometimes. They’re rude, and annoying, and just need to go away.

Just because that might actually be true from time to time doesn’t change the fact that if I am the person I say I am, and if I’m really trying to be the person I want to be—the person God wants me to be, I have to behave differently.

I remember a couple of years ago, a few friends and I went clubbing in downtown San Diego. We’d parked at Horton Plaza, and when we were done doing our thing, we would walk back to the car. On this particular occasion, it was January the 1st or 2nd, and it was pretty cold. I had on this leather jacket my roommate had given me, and on the way back to the parking structure, we saw a couple of homeless guys sleeping along the wall to this one building that looked like it was probably offices during the day. We had to step around them to pass, and as we did, I felt a very strong call from God to give one of the men my jacket. God was even specific about which one—but I didn’t do it. I was cold. I even remember thinking something like “that dirty bastard should just get a freaking job—then he wouldn’t need to be crashing in doorways.”

I don’t think I wore that jacket again after that night, and eventually it found its way to the trunk of my car. About a year ago, another friend from church was going downtown around Christmas to hand out jackets, sweaters, and blankets to homeless people. I just so happened to have mine in my car—of course, it’s almost impossible it got to the same person, but still…it should have the first time.

Anyway, I’m back from my tangent. The other night, I was thinking of this verse in relation to a possible testimony I may have a chance to share at church.

40″The King will reply, ‘I tell you the truth, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me.’ –Matt 25:40 (in my NIV, the chapter heading mentions “The Sheep and The Goats.”)

And here’s the other thing that occurred to me. No matter how annoying someone is, no matter how much they piss me off, or inconvenience me, no matter how much I dislike them—even if for a good reason

Jesus still died for that person, just like he died for me. And he also loves them, just like he loves me. So I can longer treat people the way most of the world would tell me to.

Dang.

I’ll leave you with another few verses, from Isaiah.

3 He was despised and rejected by men,
a man of sorrows, and familiar with suffering.
Like one from whom men hide their faces
he was despised, and we esteemed him not.
4 Surely he took up our infirmities
and carried our sorrows,
yet we considered him stricken by God,
smitten by him, and afflicted.
5 But he was pierced for our transgressions,
he was crushed for our iniquities;
the punishment that brought us peace was upon him,
and by his wounds we are healed.

I was reading Luke last night, and what I had intended the focus on was the account of the crucifixion–instead, I stopped at this passage, right toward the end of the depiction of the Last Supper. It caught my eye, and I was once again reminded that God knows me infinitely better than I know myself. In short, this is what I needed to read. Check it out–so much wisdom:

“24Also a dispute arose among them as to which of them was considered to be greatest. 25Jesus said to them, “The kings of the Gentiles lord it over them; and those who exercise authority over them call themselves Benefactors. 26But you are not to be like that (emphasis added). Instead, the greatest among you should be like the youngest, and the one who rules like the one who serves. 27For who is greater, the one who is at the table or the one who serves? Is it not the one who is at the table?“

What is Jesus saying here? What I was thinking is that He seems to be saying that it is lesser to be a servant. The disciples are more concerned with being greater. It makes me wonder a little why he tests them, and forces them to figure things out on their own. I suppose I just answered that. The disciples don’t call Him teacher for nothing. So, then. Is it better to be greater than a servant? I thought we were supposed to strive for a servant’s heart? Which, to be honest, I am not the best at–even though I would rather serve than lead. Yes, I am a walking contradiction! Here Jesus continues:

“But I am among you as one who serves (emphasis added). 28You are those who have stood by me in my trials…”

So far, anyway. Though that is soon to change. Still, the following passage speaks to the rewards God has in store for the disciples–and for us–for good and faithful service:

“9And I confer on you a kingdom, just as my Father conferred one on me, 30so that you may eat and drink at my table in my kingdom and sit on thrones, judging the twelve tribes of Israel.”

He confers a a kingdom on me? Why? I think about eating and drinking at a table with Jesus and I am amazed. I think again of my unworthiness, of my many transgressions, and sins. Yet Jesus sees none of those things. He only sees me, lurching toward him like Frankenstein’s monster, with my arms outstretched. And He welcomes me…

“31 Simon, Simon, Satan has asked to sift you[a] as wheat. 32But I have prayed for you, Simon, that your faith may not fail. And when you have turned back, strengthen your brothers.”

The way I read this is that when Simon–Peter–has turned back from his sin, turned back from his willfullness and misdirected pride, when he has truly repented and cast the darkness of his heart into light, then he will not only be able to, but be expected to, strengthen his brothers.

And he confers on us a kingdom. It’s our responsibility to further the Kingdom. We can’t change lives or hearts, but we can tell them about the king. We can share his glory, and his love. I’m not so sure about Judging the 12 tribes of Israel, but I trust God to make that passage clearer to me when the time comes.

to be continued….

“Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; the old has gone, the new has come!” 2 Corinthians 5:17

I’ve read second Corinthians lots of times–next to Romans, I probably read it the most out of everything in the New Testament after the synoptics. It’s a beautiful book, and teaches volumes about healing. And every time I read it, I have to stop and think about the above passage for a good long while. The thing is, aware of my salvation as I am, most days I don’t feel like a new creation. Most days I feel all crudded up by life, and by my own inclination to sin.

For me, part of becoming a Christian–maybe even the largest part–was being made aware of my sin. Prior to that awareness, I thought I was golden because I was a pretty good guy. I was nice to old people and animals. I should be good, shouldn’t I? Nothing to worry about?

At the first church I attended I heard the testimony of a young man who’d been to Bosnia during the war there. He told of riding through a town in a Humvee and shooting at what he thought was a sniper. His shot was true, and he’d killed the person, only to find out it was a youth, with no gun. He’d been punishing himself for what he felt was murder ever since, even though the Army held him blameless. He put his body through all manner of badness before he surrendered his heart to God.

Another man told about how he’d stolen from his children to get money for drugs. He’d sold their toys for a few small rocks. He hadn’t come to Christ until he’d literally lost everything and had been living in a park. He’d then done nearly everything imaginable to get drug money, including burglary, robbery, and assault. He’d stopped short of killing, but not by much.

A woman had been a prostitute for nearly ten years, also a slave to drugs, and had come to Jesus in a detox center.

A man had beaten his 2 year old daughter, and had lost his family because of it. The child had recovered, but his marriage hadn’t. This man found Christ through the love and witness of the church’s pastor.

There were countless stories like this, and I didn’t feel like I could relate to any of them. Still, they made me feel better about myself because I never did anything even remotely like that stuff. I acknowledged my need for a savior, but felt that I had lots of time (and much less work to do to get one) because I was a good and decent guy. God would not condemn someone who was nice, now would he?

For years I thought along those lines….years.

But when I had that experience at the river, when I became aware that I had in fact been (and remained) a sinner, when I asked Jesus to take that burden from me, I was still aware of the person I had been before, even though I wasn’t entirely him anymore.

So even though I knew in my head that I was made new, I did not necessarily feel that way. I still don’t. How can I be new when I feel so old? How can I be clean when it takes steel wool to scrub off my sin?

Here’s the thing I’ve been trying to think about, and remember.

6You see, at just the right time, when we were still powerless, Christ died for the ungodly. 7Very rarely will anyone die for a righteous man, though for a good man someone might possibly dare to die. 8But God demonstrates his own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us. Romans 5: 6-8

So even before I knew him, while I was still wallowing in my filth, while I consoled myself with huge quantities of food, or alcohol, or empty relationships, God loved me just as much in that state of disgrace as he does now in a state of grace, having been forgiven.

Before I existed, He died for me. He could have simply pardoned me, like a governor sparing a convict on death row. He didn’t do that. He assumed the punishment for my guilt, and paid it himself. He walked the green mile for me. And whether I like it or not, whether I accept it or not, I am a new creation.

The old has gone, the new has come.

I was listening to this Brennan Manning sermon the other day, and he had a really good point. He said that until we can accept acceptance, we aren’t really a believer. I think part of my problem is that very thing: it’s hard for me to be accepted. I would convince myself that either my friends did not really accept me as I was, or if they did, once they found out the real me, they would bail like everyone else did. I thought the same thing about Jenny, even after we’d shared our hearts with one another. I just could not get past those feelings for the longest time.

It was much the same with God. I have always had difficulty accepting His acceptance, and His love. No, I don’t deserve it.

The wages of sin is death.

I have it anyway–I have his acceptance. And even if I had not ever seen Him as he desires to be seen, and accepted Him as abba, I would still have his love.

8But God demonstrates his own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us.

He died for us.

He died for us.

He died for me.

I am not worthy of Him, nor would anything I could do on earth make me worthier.

Yet I am loved, and because of Jesus, have a place in his kingdom.

Imagine that.

Anyway, I plan to work on being a new creation….and trying to see myself the way God sees me. It’s a continuing mission, and it will never end.

I think of a pearl, lying in a freshly opened oyster, or whatever mollusk pearls come from. All crudded up with sediment, and filth, and layers of built up….junk.

Jesus removes the impure jewel from its shell, resplendent in its rough beauty, dripping with water, tendrils of slime leading back to the shell. He holds it in his hand, ignoring the slime, and layer by layer, peels away the filth, grime, and sediment, until the thing in his hand is no longer rough, but shining.

A pearl of great price.

“You see had the depths of my heart and You love me the same”

From “Indescribable,” by Chris Tomlin

I’ve heard that song lots of times, and always thought it was a really good worship song, but I never really gave much thought to it beyond that. Then I heard it this weekend at church, and that one line cut right through to the centre of me.

I just can’t think of (and certainly could not write) a sentence that describes Grace better than that does.

There were times in my life where I feared the depths of my heart so badly that I could not bear to think of them. I could not stand to think of them because at the core of me, in the place where I everything I believe about myself resides, I had this image of my heart as a withered thing—and so bad that love was not something I was worthy of experiencing. Had I not finally surrendered my heart to Jesus, I believe that it would have atrophied into a clenched fist of stone, and my life would have been every bit as wretched as I expected it to be.

But Jesus sees the depths of my heart and he loves me the same.

I see the limits I put on His ability to love me and it shocks me, it really does. I really believed that I could not be loved by God because I saw myself as dark, withered, and dying on the inside. I always knew that God was real, and that he blessed people, and maybe even loved some of them. Just not me.

It seemed to me that the people that God seemed to favour were always of the same ilk. They were clean people. They loved and loved and loved. They followed the “rules.” They had not done, nor would they do, anything the Bible said or suggested they shouldn’t. They didn’t swear, or drink, or have sex with their boyfriends or girlfriends. They didn’t lie to get what they want. They didn’t lay awake at night thinking about visiting justice upon a person they deemed “bad.” They forgave everything.

I was not cut from the same cloth as people like that. It was true my life had been difficult, but lots of people had difficult lives and didn’t end up like me. My heart was full of acid, not love. I hated, and lied, and sinned.

And the truth I’ve finally gotten to the bottom of over the past few years are expressed perfectly by Chris Tomlin. I had no idea who Jesus was until I knew, really knew, that He saw the depths of my heart and he loved me the same.

He didn’t see a perfect heart. He saw one scarred by sin, and life, and unbelief.

And he loved me the same as if it was beautiful and perfect. I’d always thought of myself and my heart as bad. Once Jesus came to me in the midst of my darkness, I had to face the realization that my heart was good, and that God had made it that way.

It was as if Jesus had spat in dirt at my feet, made clay, and gently applied it to my eyes.

He saw the depths of my heart and he loved me the same. And the problem is that it was never the truth that made my heart wither.

It was the lies.

God showed me truth after truth, once I let him. He still shows me—because some of those lies are time-hardened and strong.

Jesus is stronger.

Maybe you think your heart is withered and dying. Maybe you think your heart is bad.

God does not make bad hearts, and He waters those that are withered. He gives drink to all who are thirsty. He gives truth to those who seek it.

He sees the depths of your heart and he loves you the same.