Permanent

When you’re a kid you think things will last forever.  Everything is permanent.  My best friend will always be my best friend.  My friend group will always be exactly like it is.  I don’t think that it’s you being illogical.  I think it’s just your inability to see beyond five minutes in the future.  Even folks who are a little more mature, folks that make good grades and smart decisions, aren’t a lot better than everyone else.  Sure, I made good grades and went to college, but so what, in a group of people that couldn’t see more than 5 mins into the future, I could see 6.  Big deal. 

So, you go to college or you join the military or you go to work, and then life starts and not only for you but also for everyone else.  You see very quickly that the folks you thought would always play a big role in your life start to disappear.  Now, don’t get me wrong, you stay acquainted with a precious few, but you don’t know each other like you did.  Not only that but what they think doesn’t seem to matter as much as it used to.  Then what?  Well, you make new friends of course.  College friends or adult friends or whatever you want to call it.  Again you think, this is permanent, and again, it turns out not to be.  Sure, some of your best friends you will make during this period, but again, it’s only a precious few not the multitude that you might expect. 

Somewhere around this time, you get married.  If you are lucky, you’ll fall in love.  You don’t want to go anywhere without them.  You don’t want to do anything without them.  Food doesn’t taste as good when they aren’t there.  Experiences are a waste of time if you can’t share it with them.  You can become obsessive, and I don’t think that’s real.  That’s temporary.  If you are lucky, you’ll fall in love for real.  But if you win the lotto something else will happen.  You’ll learn to be so comfortable with the person that you don’t mind being away from them because you know they will be there when you return.  That you’ll pick up where you left off like picking up an old conversation.  This person will become what I like to call my “left hand”.  Could I live without my left hand?  Sure, I could, but things would be a lot less comfortable.  That doesn’t sound as romantic as what they show in the movies, but trust me, it is.  In fact, it’s way more so.  It’s commitment.  It’s trust.  It’s comfort.  And again, you think, this is permanent, but it’s not.  Of course, you don’t know that yet though, so what do you do?  You take this “left hand”, and together, you form some more people to be part of your world.  These people will become your heart.  Not just your heart either, but the “left hand’s” heart as well.  You’d lay down in traffic for them.  Give them anything that you can.  Not anything to keep them happy, but certainly anything they need.  They get older and grow stronger, and right about the time you’ve got it all under control and think everything is cool, what happens?  They leave.  They find “left hands” of their own.  Make more creatures and the spinning wheel spins.  Eventually, you find out that even the “left hand” isn’t permanent.  Sure, some folks lose there’s to life, work, and stress, but most people don’t.  Most people discover new things to worry about.  Scary words like “cancer” and “Alzheimer’s” and “heart disease” and… well, you get the idea.  If you live long enough, you lose your “left hand”.  You’ll watch them put her in the ground, and you’ll walk away crippled for the rest of your life.  A wound that won’t heal.  So again… not permanent. 

Over the last few years, I’ve realize that all my life, I’ve been looking for something permanent.  I long for it.  What’s more, I think everyone else does, too.  How else do you explain people’s actions?  People invest tons of time and money into their family, their children, and probably worst of all their property.  I think it’s the search for something significant.  Something that will outlast yourself.  Your legacy.  Your permanent record.  And, in the end, it’s all for nothing.  Look at the Romans.  In their time, they ruled the known World.  Of course, it wasn’t the whole world, but it was the only part that mattered.  They ruled it all.  They had incredible food, culture, buildings, history, monuments… A couple of years ago, Jess and I went to Rome and when you see the old City, some of it is left, but most of it is a pile of stones.  And that’s the greatest civilization in history.  If they can’t achieve it, what chance do you have? 

Sounds depressing doesn’t it?  It is.  If you think about it, it’s all a big nothing.  Truly, it’s all a big nothing.  And if you think about that too long… well… that’ll make you feel pretty bad.  That’s where I’ve been for the last few years.  I had a really hard time getting past it, and then, everything changed.  I figured out that there is something permanent.  It was so obvious, I really felt stupid when I realized it.  The present.  The present is definitely permanent.  Why?  Because it’s always here.  You don’t ever live in the future do you?  What about the past?  Nope.  It’s always the present.  All you ever really have is the moment you are in.  Everything you own, everything you have can be taken away, but not this moment.  This second.  That’s always here.  True happiness lies in owning it.  Every breath.  Every heartbeat.  Having realized that has really changed me.  I guess I always knew it, but really grasping it changed my attitude.  It changed my outlook.  I’m happier than I’ve been in a long time.  I don’t worry as much about the past or the future as I used to.  Why?  Because they aren’t permanent, even the past changes, based on what happens right now.  It’s like Eddie Vedder said, “It makes much more sense to live in the present tense.”  Or maybe even better yet, C.S. Lewis said, “If I find in myself desires which nothing in this world can satisfy, the only logical explanation is that I was made for another world.”

Echoes

To most people, it's just a basketball.  It's a symbol of recreation.  It's for play time.  For me, it's so much more than that.  It's the symbol that I most closely associate with my childhood.  It's passion and pain.   

I come from a basketball family even though most people probably don't know it.  My grandfather and his brother were excellent players.  They played the old style back in the 20's, but growing up I still heard people around town talk about how they could nail it from way out.  All my Aunts were great players, and when I say that, I mean like All-State quality leading scorer type players.  My Aunt Reba for example was one of the best players in the State of Louisiana her sophomore year.  Her team went to the State Championship and she not only started but played a pivotal role.  She may have even been the leading scorer, but I'm not completely certain of that.  Her younger sister Sherron was just as good.  They even played together in my hometown when Reba was a Senior.  I reckon they were something to see.  My Mom didn't play.  Not because she couldn't, in her 60's now, but she can still nail a hook shot before you know what happened.  Most of my cousins… same thing. 

I learned to dribble when I was 3.  I vividly remember it.  I was on my grandmother's carport with both of them coaching me.  Because my Dad was principal of the high school, I also had uncommon access to the gym.  I shot basketball every day after school for at least an hour or two.  I loved it more than anything.  My room was covered in posters of different players and I wanted nothing but to play in the NBA.  Obviously, that was never an option, but a boy can dream,  right?  I could shoot three pointers at 10 from anywhere around the line.  I would play horse with high school kids and win.  I was never a great dribbler or penetrator, but so what?  Last time I checked, they give you an extra point for longer shots and I was better at that anyway. 

At about the age of 11, things took a turn.  I began to play really organized ball.  I was being coached for the first time.  There are people who thrive in this environment.  I wasn't one of them.  This wasn't my coach's fault though.  It was mostly mine.  I was a baby in many ways.  I wasn't used to doing things wrong.  I wasn't use to life not being fair, and having to fight for your position.  I still lived in a fantasy world where people received what they deserved, but that's just not true.  It's just not the way the world works, and a lot of folks would do good to learn that. 

Over time, I lost interest in basketball.  I could always still shoot because I stayed on the team until I graduated.  In other words, I had to play a certain number of hours a week, but my heart wasn't in it.  I didn't try.  I certainly didn't play on my own time.  Why would I?  It was something I felt that I had been born to do, and something I had failed at miserably.  I couldn't see a solution.  It's depressing to think about.  It haunts me.  I wish I could go back and practice all the time.  Prove myself.  Validate my heritage.  I think about it all the time, more than you can imagine.  But for what?  I can't go back.  It's lost. 

Today, I still play basketball.  I shoot as a warm-up before working out, and I can still make it rain from way out.  I like to see how many NBA 3's I can hit in a row, and I admit sometimes lifting gets put aside because I'm having too much fun.  But, there's a flipside to the coin.  It bothers me a lot.  It brings back bad feelings and thoughts.  When I am stressed at work or at home, I don't show it outwardly unless it's a flash of my temper, which I try to control.  Rather, I internalize things.  I guess, I always have.  I'm so extraverted, I don't think most people realize that about me, but it's true.  When I'm asleep at night, I'm defenseless against my inner struggles and that's when I dream.  If I'm stressed, it's almost always basketball that comes back to me in my dreams.  I can smell the gym.  Feel the sweat.  I can't make a shot for the life of me.  Not only that, but I dribble off my foot or throw passes that are easily picked off.  I wake up angry.  Wishing I could change it.  The wound is fresh all over again.   

That's life, right?  It is.  And I often overlook the good things basketball left me with when thinking on the bad.  For example, I don't quit.  Not ever.  Sometimes, to a fault even.  The other thing is that I don't believe in losing.  I hate it.  If there's one thing that I want my daughters to learn from me (other than faith), it's that in this life nobody gives it to you.  You have to take it.  No apologies.  It's me or you, and that's all there is to it.  It's not bad.  It sounds bad but it's not.  It's not even harsh.  It's just how the world works.  You've got to know that and deal with it whether you like it or not.  The sooner you figure it out the easier life will be.   

There's something else still though.  Something deeper.  Something darker.  The Bible tells me that the enemy comes to "kill, steal, and destroy".  I think we often think of that in terms of our property, possessions, or even health, but that's stuff is temporary.  Even my body doesn't really belong to me when you think about it.  It's just a place I rent for a little while.  I don't think Satan cares much about that stuff.  If I were him and had all the power at my disposal that he does, I wouldn't bother with peoples possessions, I would steal people's dreams.  Why?  Because it wounds you far deeper than a wrecked car ever could.  It doesn't just hurt you at the time, but it keeps hurting you over and over and over.  It echoes through your life until you are dead.  There are people who let this destroy them.  People who fill themselves with depression and eventually bitterness over things that have happened that they can't change but they wrestle with on and on.  I think it's natural to relive your life.  To have regret.  People who say they have none are liars.  Sorry, but you are.  But in moments of pain, I need to remember… I have to remember… my birth rite wasn't stolen from me.  My heritage hasn't been lost.  I am His.  He has marked me with His blood.  The Bible says that He comes to bring "life and life more abundantly".  So far, I've been talking about a game, and it's not that important.  On the other hand, what is important?  My grandmother was a mighty woman of God.  My Dad talks about how she would pray for him/me for hours…. literally hours.  He could hear her while he was setting tobacco.  I was five when she died and still.  Hard to imagine.  Her Dad was a minister.  So was his brother.  They planted churches all over the countryside, and undoubtedly led many folks to Jesus.  My other grandparents also had an equally rich heritage.  My grandfather's Dad was a minister as well.  So what?  Lots of people go to church.  Yes.  And it is a big part of the Southern culture.  Sure.  But there's a difference between attendance and conviction.  My heritage certainly has some great ball players in it, and I'm not one of them, but what else it has is worth so much more!  People who had "more abundant" life!  People who passed something down to me that is more priceless than John D. Rockefeller's fortune.  They told me about Him.  They introduced me to Him.  They showed me how to put Him in my heart.  They taught me the sound of His voice. 

So, will I teach my girls how to play basketball?  You bet!  And if you're reading this, you'd better guard them on the baseline, too.  I haven't forgot how to rip that net, and I plan to show them how.  But you know what I care far more about teaching them?  It is far more important to me that they know Him.  Truly know Him.  Somewhere down deep where everything else fades away and it's only their thoughts and His voice.  I want them to feel His presence throughout their spirit in a way that is so real they can't ever deny it.  In short, someday when they write about their feelings, as I am now, I hope they can end it like this…

This world is not my home.    

 

The valley of death and dying

I am not one who is easily moved by the worship service at church.  Having grown up in a very charismatic church, I am very uncomfortable around emotions.  I think growing up in a church where people cried and shouted on a regular basis had the opposite effect on me that it has on other people.  Rather than being comfortable around emotions because it's normal, I'm actually really uncomfortable.  I think it comes from my inability to discern what is authentic and sincere from what maybe in fact me a crazy person.  That said, yesterday in service I felt the spirit of the Lord in my heart during the worship.  Kind of rare but it came from singing a song that elaborated on the 23rd Psalm.  I was struck by the words "In the valley of death and dying, you are with me.  You are with me." 

So many times, I think we as Christians look around us and are perplexed by the troubles in our life.  I know I am certainly guilty of having my spirit yell out, "Where are you!?!"  This happens both on a public and private stage.  Many this past week, were asking "How could God allow the SCOTUS to make this decision?  What is happening to my country?"  I was asking, "My house has been for sale for over 60 days.  We've done everything we can do.  It's rained a years' worth of rain in 60 days… seriously?  What are You doing?  Why don't you send someone to buy it?"  These types of questions are normal for sheep.  My grandfather used to ask me, "Son, what do you think the dumbest animal is?"  I used to respond, "Well, the ostrich has the smallest brain."  He would then often times say, "Nah, for me, I think the dumbest animal is a sheep."  As I've grown older, I've seen the wisdom in his statement, and I've often wondered if we was trying to plant a seed in me.  Either way, if you've spent even a small amount of time around sheep, it's easy to understand why both my Grandpa would think they are stupid and why Jesus would refer to us as sheep.  They are stupid!  Stupid beyond imagination.  They frighten at the smallest things.  This is why a single dog can control a hundred of them.  I look at my life and I see how sheepish I am.  So many times, I panic and freak out because I don't see a solution.  Meanwhile, my shepard must be wondering, "Does he not have any sense?  Have I ever failed him?  The day when he thought he would lose his family, who did he cry out to?  Who was there?  Who saved him?  When he thought the boat he was on would sink?  Who saved him?  When he left that stupid camera bag on a train in Italy, who found it for him?  Does he still not see that I hold tomorrow in my hand?  That I see his future and his eternity, and I've got this?"

 For this reason, I try to remember to ask forgiveness daily for my lack of faith.  I try to remember that God has a plan for my house in San Antonio.  That He loves my children more than even I do.  That He has already picked out their husbands.  That the family circle will not be broken with me.  That He doesn't care anymore about the laws and government of the United States than He cared about the laws and government of the Romans.  That He's got it.  That He's coming back for me.  And that, I shouldn't expect anything from this world but death and dying, but that He is with me.  He comforts me.  He gives me Life, and Life more abundantly.  He doesn't expect me to be satisfied.  He will not leave me here. 

 This world is not my home.