Count Your Blessings (#2)

Blessing #2: My Wife

I first met Jennifer Sue Short in 1991. Our first date was October 15th, a double date with mutual friends, at a little french deli called La Petite France in Waco, TX.

Who knew then what life would be like 19 years later?

She has the bluest eyes and the most honest smile. She is a godly woman who always prays fervently for others. She has always amazed me how she puts others first. It just comes natural to her. She has done so through our entire marriage and even more so now, as a mother.

I've not been the best husband over the years. Heck, I've not even been a "good" husband. I have not been the best provider. I have put my career first...even my hobbies first. But she has always been faithful, supportive and giving. I don't even want to entertain the idea of where I'd be in my life without her, because I know I'd be a mess. Well...a bigger mess!

I have not ever, nor will I ever deserve such a wonderful wife. But I thank God for giving me one anyway.

That is truly a blessing!

How about you? Have you taken time lately to really count your blessings? Try it! You may realize just how blessed you really are!

Count Your Blessings (#1)

Over the course of the next couple of weeks, I'm literally going to be counting my blessings. I have been blessed so much in my life and it would be absolutely unconscienable of me if I did not tell the world (or the three of you who read this) about those blessings. I thought about creating a whole new blog for this, because honestly, new blessings come all the time and there's already a lifetime of them to write about. But, for the sake of brevity alone, I will share with you my top 10. Today, #1: Blessing #1. I have a Creator who knows me, loves me and wants a personal relationship with me. I had heard a lot about God growing up. After my father died when I was 7, I remember Rosie Forehand and Barbara Newport--my Sunday School teachers--giving me my first Bible at First United Methodist Church in Three Rivers, TX. I learned bible verses. I sang the songs. It was there that I developed an appreciation for hymns. But as much as God was wanting to talk to me, I did not want to talk to him. He had taken my parents away, after all! I kept God at arm's length for years...though every once in awhile I would chat with him. "God, if you're real, then..." When I was 16, I was living at the South Texas Children's Home (which will be mentioned in a later blessing.) It was there that I finally came to know Christ. Where I accepted him. And he accepted me. I have made so many mistakes over the years. I have wandered so far away at times. But he has not. The God who created me in my mother's womb has never left my side. He knows my thoughts. He knows my heart. He knows my shortcomings as well as my accomplishments. And through it all, he still wants a relationship with me. That is truly a blessing! How about you? Have you taken time lately to really count your blessings? Try it! You may realize just how blessed you really are!

R.I.P. Lucy

You were born 11 years ago...and a Christmas gift to my lovely bride.

A priceless addition to our new home.

I swore we wouldn't spoil you but within days, you were sleeping in our room.

And you had become absolutely entangled in our lives. You were our "child" before we had children.

You were our best friend. Always there at the end of the day with that goofy grin on your adorable, crooked face.

Yes, you destroyed the laundry room. Yes, you ate momma's eyeglasses...and a pair of scissors...and countless toys, hairbrushes, toothbrushes.

You became all too familiar with the "cone of shame."

You tormented the cat. (And I was okay with that!)

You learned to catch a frisbee. I still don't know how you jumped so high, with that girth!

You never really learned that WE were the ones taking YOU on a walk!

You disappeared while we were on vacation, and we spent 13 days scouring the tiny towns of Westcliffe and Silvercliffe for you. And when we found you, it was like finding a prodigal child. We rejoiced. We cried. We celebrated.

You dressed as "superdog" for Halloween, but you were terrified everytime trick-or-treaters rang the doorbell.

You wrestled with me in the living room.

You loved to play "hide and seek" (though you got a little over-excited when you finally found us.)

You even learned how to play football, carrying the ball by the laces as you rambled past me before I could tackle you.

But you hid everytime daddy watched the Cowboys play.

You loved the snow. And popcorn. And beer. Let's be honest--anything edible (and some things non-edible) that fell on the floor.

You never did catch that squirrel that tormented you in the backyard.

Even as you aged, you never lost that "puppy-like" softness to your ears.

And when we did finally have kids, you took such good care of them. Even when they pulled your hair, threw toys at you and

poked.

poked.

poked.

You brought so much joy, Lucy.

You were part of our family.

And we will miss you terribly.

Rest in peace, sweet girl.

Last Night I Killed a Man

Last night, a man came through the front door of my home. Though he seemed somewhat familiar, I did not easily recognize him. He smirked as he told me that he had become quite comfortable sitting on my sofa, sleeping on my bed, wearing my clothes. He laughed at me as he casually strolled through the living room, like he owned the place. So I attacked him. I knocked him down in the hallway but he regained his footing. We wrestled past the kitchen and my son's bedrooms. My fists clenched tightly, I threw punches from every direction. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest with every single blow. The fight moved into the master bedroom as we became entangled. We spun like madmen around the room, into the closet doors, over the bed and against the dresser, landing in front of the mirror in the bathroom. I wrapped my hands around his throat. I clenched my teeth and dug my fingers in as I told him that he was not welcome in my home. He pushed back. Spewing his hatred for me, calling me "weak" and "pathetic." He threw out reminders of past transgressions. But I was relentless. I squeezed tighter. His face turned red. I could see the fear grow in his eyes as he drew what he knew would be his last breath. He begged. He tried to bargain. But I just...kept...squeezing. Last night I killed a man. And I hope I never see him again.

The Monster

It was no ordinary dream. Me--in ragged clothes, shackled on a wooden sailing ship. Dirty, sweaty, smelling the salty sea air and fish. My captors--huge, dark, filthy. I never saw their faces as they opened the trap door and shoved me into the hull of the craft. Only large hands that grabbed, pawed, poked and prodded. I fell into the dark room, landing solidly on my back, in the rough, dry hay scattered about on the hard, wooden floor. I moaned in pain at the collision of wood and bone. The door above me was shutting, sealing off all light. Blackness. I couldn't see two inches in front of my face. But I could hear something. Groaning. Grumbling. No...growling. Like the gutteral moan a lion makes before it's about to feed. And it grew closer, louder. I could feel the beast's hot breath on my neck. I swung violently. Flailing aimlessly in the dark hoping one of my strikes would land. But my arms met no resistance. Then the beast grabbed me. I could feel its claws sinking into my flesh like penetrating hooks. Digging deep into muscle and bone. If I was going to survive, I'd have to kill it. We wrestled as I fought back the snapping of its jaws. My eyes were beginning to adjust to the darkness but still not enough to see the beast. Was it a panther? My only glimpse was of two ghostly eyes--and only for a second as we tossed each other on the floor. Finally, I got both hands around my attacker's neck. And squeezed. And squeezed. With violence I squeezed. I could feel the larnyx crushing under my thumbs. I could feel life leaving the beast. I refused to let go. I refused to let up. I would keep squeezing until my fingers and thumbs met. It was over. Panting, gasping for a lung full of air, I collapsed to my knees. And my eyes continued to weed out the darkness. The form of my attacker was starting to take shape. It was no lion. No panther. No animal. The monster was... me. It's a bizarre thing to see your body, lifeless. Even if it's in a dream. And to know that it was your own hands that choked the life out of you. For as long as I can remember, I have had vivid dreams. Scary dreams. Awful, terrible dreams. I have been chased by massive bears, alligators and untold monsters. But never has the monster been me. Never have I had to wrestle myself for life. For fear of death. But I am fully aware that this is exactly what's going on in my life right now. I am the monster I fear the most. I am the one who holds me captive and forces me into the dark places. I specialize in self-destruction. I don't expect anyone to understand these things. Perhaps I write this for me and not anyone else. Sometimes it's best to just say it, write it...whatever. So that I can begin to confront it head-on. This was no ordinary dream. It was a wake-up call.

Faded Fish

Last weekend, my 3-year old son and I had some father/son bonding time as we washed the cars together. First, we washed Jen's car. Morgan had a blast! He was scrubbing with the soapy rag, just grinning from ear to ear. Then, daddy brought out the water hose. His face lit up. His eyes widened. Oh my! "Daddy! Can I do it?" "Yes, beautiful boy. Here you go!" He was spraying water everywhere! Awesome. Just awesome. For some reason he was obsessed with the headlights on momma's car. He would run around and spray the rest of the car but he kept coming back to the headlights. They were sparkly clean by the time we were done, looking brand new! Then, we moved onto daddy's Jeep. Morgan LOVES daddy's Jeep. It's nothing too fancy. It's 11 years old, been around the block a time or two (nearly 100K miles.) I just bought it a few months ago and this is the first time that I really spent time cleaning it. It wasn't until we were finished when I noticed something on the front driver's side panel. A barely noticeable fade from one of those fish symbols. Someone had put it on the Jeep in the past, but it was long gone. I thought about that a lot over the past week. I wonder if my spiritual walk isn't like that sometimes. I wonder if the only obvious sign to others that I'm a Christian has become faded..barely noticeable. Honestly, I feel that way often. I feel like I sometimes take steps that are so far away from what I believe. Perhaps not intentionally. But I'll get preoccupied, distracted and the next thing I know, I've ventured off the path. A faded shadow of what I want to be. I am trying my best not to be a faded fish in this world. It's not always easy. And I won't make any promises. But just in case you're wondering, yes I love Jesus! And I believe in Him with all my heart, soul, mind and strength. I believe He was God incarnate. I believe He was crucified, dead and buried. And I believe He rose from the dead to save us all from eternal hell...if we'll only believe. And, I believe He's like my 3-year old son with a water hose. When God needed a salvation plan, Jesus said, "Daddy, can I do it?" I believe His salvation message is plenty for all, but for some reason He's intent on focusing on the individual. He wants a relationship. He wants to make sure that--like the headlights on momma's car--I am shiny, clean and looking new.

Righteous Anger

In Christian circles, we often hear about "righteous anger." It's supposedly the anger that comes from a holy place within. Anger against evil and wrongdoing. Anger against something that would anger God Himself. It's sometimes referred to as "righteous indignation." That's a pretty big word. So I looked it up. Indignation means

"anger aroused by something unjust, unworthy, or mean."

But we need to be very careful with this. It's very difficult for us humans to be indignant about anything without it becoming personal. Righteous indignation, I believe, cannot be personal. It has to remain "anger on behalf of God." But what if it's God you're angry at? (I know, I know, I'm about to step on some toes here, but hear me out.) Lately I've been really struggling with this. I'm angry. I'm mad at God because I think He did something unfair. Now, I'm mature enough in my walk to know that's impossible. But I can't seem to get past this. You see, I'm angry that David Hames didn't walk out of the collapsed Hotel Montana in Haiti. I'm angry that he doesn't get to hold his two boys again...hear them call him "daddy." I'm angry he doesn't get to run his fingers through their curly hair or wrestle with them on the living room floor. I'm angry that his wife doesn't ever get to hug him again. I'm angry. And in my limited ability to understand anything God does, I perceive it to be "unjust." But is it "righteous anger?" Is it "righteous indignation?" I think not. It's impossible to be angry at God for being unjust, because God cannot be unjust. So I struggle with this. I struggle with how to express my feelings to the Almighty over this situation. Why does God sometimes allow unfair, unjust things to happen? I wish I knew the answer to that question. In the meantime, I am trying to temper my temper...and accept the fact that His plan is beyond my comprehension. Not righteous indignation...but righteous submission. And that is a very hard thing to do.