Update

To All My Friends:

I am writing to let you know I was notified yesterday that I lost my direct appeal.  Of course the news was devastating and immediately tossed me into a chaotic storm of confusion.  A deep, deep sadness, rarely felt before, immediately blanketed my heart and spirit.  I really needed strength from another world and a special touch from the Lord.  After some time in prayer and reflection, I felt God's grace and comfort and strength and He again filled my heart with faith and hope.

I appreciate very much all the love you have shown me and the support you have given throughout these long 4.5 years.  More than anything I am so very grateful for the prayers you offered up to the Lord on my behalf.  Whenever I should come to mind in your thoughts, please take that time to pray for my daughters, Shayne & Shelby, and my parents as well.  Their lives have been the most affected by my failures, shortcomings, and choices.

At this point there are still numerous options.  But the mountains are much taller and larger and harder to scale.  I know God is able and in no way has the decision clouded my perspective of His miracle working power.  Though I am confident in His interventions in our lives and stories, I have zero confidence in the U.S. Justice System.  Something horrible has gone awry in this country and the system is no longer about fairness, the truth, nor about justice.  Something is amiss.  For further insight on this, I encourage you to read the Amanda Knox blog on my blogsite.

In closing, I would never wish an experience like this on any other person or family and I pray that no one I know would ever be subjected to such an ordeal and the interruptions a saga like this brings to one's life, one's mind, one's spirit and one's family.  In the coming days I will write in greater detail about the above on my blog.  Again thanks for your love, support and prayers.

With Much Love,

Steve


ps.  Feel free to forward to any mutual friends.

Worshipping God in a World Gone Mad

The year was 1966 and this was Captain Jeff Powell’s forty-second career mission in the air war over North Vietnam.  He was flying about thirty miles southeast of Hanoi in an F-105 Thunderchief, a supersonic aircraft carrying almost half its weight in munitions.  His target was a bridge, a vital North Vietnamese supply line connecting to the Ho Chi Minh Trail.

Powell rolled down through a 10,000-foot cloud ceiling, spotted his objective and released his weapons.  Half the cement span disintegrated.  When he tried to pull out of the maneuver, the controls of his aircraft wouldn’t respond.  Suddenly the sky around him turned a bright white as the fuel tank under his left wing exploded.  He ejected at the last possible moment.

A month later, Jeff Powell was blindfolded and trussed with wire as he was being marched through the jungles and villages of North Vietnam by night, his captors traveling under the cover of darkness to avoid being spotted by American bombers or rescue planes.  At one point, nauseous and feverish, he was hung from a banana tree in a large village as the star attraction in a circus of mockery.  He was stoned and urinated on by the villagers.

One month later, somewhere near the Gulf of Tonkin, Captain Terry Jones had survived the destruction of his F-4 phantom by a surface-to-air missile, ejecting only after trying every emergency procedure to regain control of his plane.  Floating through the Vietnamese sky, he knew his only injury was a cut on his arm, but he was terrified nonetheless.  Beneath him, excited villagers and militiamen were gathering in a rice paddy and were shouting and pointing violently.  Some brandished sticks and machetes; others wielded guns and they were pointed directly at him.

Six weeks later, Terry Jones was in a bamboo cage in the jungle lying on his stomach with his feet in wooden stocks, his arms tied behind him with wet ropes.  Following this tortuous confinement, he was taken to a temple in a village and turned over to a North Vietnamese officer.  The man had with him another American pilot who looked close to death.  He was heavily bearded and emaciated.  From there the two prisoners continued their march by night through the jungles and villages of North Vietnam.  Their final destination was Hanoi.

Thus Jeff Powell and Terry Jones, and many others like them, came together to a place the America airmen called the Hanoi Hilton.  It was a triangular building the size of a city block, surrounded by a dry moat and twenty-foot walls studded with sharp hunks of glass and topped with electric barbed wire.  Upon arrival, the two pilots heard a prisoner in solitary confinement from a cellblock called Heartbreak screaming at the top of his lungs, “Oh, God!  Oh, God!  Oh, my God!”  The captive American had been bent over backwards and tied so tight that his spine threatened to snap like a dry stick at any moment because he would not give his captors information beyond his name, rank, serial number, and date of birth.  Jeff Powell and Terry Jones both went through Heartbreak.  Every prisoner did upon their arrival at the Hilton.

Major James Kasler arrived at the Hanoi Hilton with a broken thighbone sticking into his groin.  He was beaten from 6:00 AM to 10:00 PM, each hour, for days on end.  His head was smashed and his buttocks ripped to shreds with fan belts.  His mouth was so badly bruised that he could not open it.  One of his eardrums was ruptured.  But Kasler found that when he recited the Lord’s Prayer, concentrating intently upon the words, he was able to block out the pain of his beatings and torture.

Captain James Ray, shot down on Mother’s Day, 1966, had been in solitary confinement for two years.  Each day’s menu consisted of two servings of pumpkin soup with a lump of pig fat in it.  He shared his cell with an army of ants, mosquitoes, and flies.  It would have been easy to lose his faith and his mind, but often and mysteriously, he would feel a presence from another world.  He felt he was not alone.  It was two years later that he learned his family and church were praying for him back home in Texas at the precise time he would feel this unexplained presence.

All the prisoners at the Hilton endured torture, seclusion, loneliness, depression, and a strict regiment of rules over a four-year period.  In their isolation, yet shared suffering, they developed a method of communication.  A language was created based on the Morse code.  With their ears to the walls and their bodies wrapped in blankets to keep the noise level down, the prisoners communicated by tapping on the concrete dividers.  The alphabet was translated into a 5X5 dot matrix in which each letter was represented by the placement of vertical and horizontal wall taps.  Once a prisoner knew the code, he was connected to his fellow prisoners.

Via this network, the men taught each other Scripture.  They also discovered the names of their comrades and learned about each other’s lives and families.  Through this method, they ascertained who was being tortured and who was deathly ill.  In this way they shared each other’s pain and could pray for one another and support each other in an environment where they could not see or touch.

Eventually church services and prayer meetings were conducted through this acquired means of communication.  The men learned to time the guard’s perambulations through the prison.  When the patrols were out of reach, the tapping began.  When the sentinels were close, the tapping ceased.  Every Sunday morning, the senior officers thumped on the wall five times at the appropriate moment.  This alerted the prisoners that it was time to worship.  The signal was “church call” and it was the highlight of each week for the prisoners.  It was the one moment they looked forward to in a world of chaos, torment, and anguish.

The service would begin with the tapping of a prayer and upon its conclusion each man would recite to himself the Lord’s Prayer or the 23^rd Psalm.  These portions of Scripture were recounted from memory – there was no Bible in the prison during these years – and taught during the week and passed from one prisoner to another via the rapping conduit.  Following the Scripture reading, the prisoners would sing silent hymns and conduct private prayers.  After the reflective worship, the sermon would be preached.  Then the service was brought to conclusion with the singing of the Doxology followed by a prisoner tapping the closing prayer.  The services took the majority of the day to complete.

In November of 1970, conditions improved somewhat.  After an unsuccessful American rescue attempt, the North Vietnamese decided for security reasons to move POW’s from other prison camps to the Hanoi Hilton.  To make room for the influx, new cells were partitioned off; men were finally moved out of solitary confinement and into large, open cells that could accommodate up to sixty prisoners.  For the first time in four years, the prisoners could finally see each other and talk face to face.  No longer was the tapping language needed.  Now they could finally worship God together in one place.

For years the prisoners had asked for a Bible, and for years their request was denied.  Then in December of 1970, one month after they were united, the English-speaking interrogator brought a Bible into the cell and the men gathered around it and for a moment they stood in stunned silence.  Then they began to weep.  In front of them was the written Word of God, the source of all hope, of all life, of all power.  Jeff Powell was the first to pick it up and through his tears read the Christmas story aloud, then several Psalms, then the Sermon on the Mount.  The men were not sure how long they would have the Bible or whether they would ever see it again, so James Ray turned to 1 Corinthians 13 and memorized the chapter.  The Bible was in the cell for two hours.

In the spring of 1971, some four months later, the prisoners saw the Bible again.  The North Vietnamese permitted three prisoners to copy the Scriptures for one hour a week under direct supervision.  James Ray was one of the three.  He sat on a wooden chair at a wooden table and with a guard at his side began copying the Sermon on the Mount.  During the five weeks the program lasted he managed to copy much more than Jesus’ most famous sermon.  Each day when he brought the precious words back to the cell, Ray’s cellmates recopied the words in the crude fashion they had devised for other writing: on toilet paper rations with brick dust ink and quill pens.  They recopied the verses because each week Ray had to return his previous week’s copy before he could transcribe more.

Eventually, on the condition that the prisoners follow an approved format, the North Vietnamese allowed as many as thirty men at a time to meet together for formal church services.  More often than not, these services would be interrupted and the men would be thrust back into their cells.  However, on one occasion they were able to worship uninterrupted and with no overseer monitoring their every word and action.  And this unexpected liberty allowed the prisoners to experience a service they would never forget.

Captain Tom Curtis woke up early on Easter Sunday, 1971 and studied the notes and verses that he and James Ray had assembled the previous evening.  Curtis looked at the roomful of sleeping prisoners around him.  Twenty-eight men.  All of them pilots.  How had they managed to survive in this place?

At about ten o’clock Curtis stood in front of the drab eastern wall and called the service to order.  Several of the men limped while getting up.  Others writhed in pain as they struggled to take a seat in the semi circle near the Captain.  Once each captive flyer was in place, a quartet of prisoners sang The Old Rugged Cross and then everyone joined in Amazing Grace.  Curtis recited the version of the Passion of Christ that the men had patched together from somewhat faulty memories, “And when they had bound Him, they led Him away and delivered Him to Pontus Pilate.  And they stripped Him and put a crown of thorns on His head, and spit on Him and hit Him.  And they said, ‘Crucify Him.’”  As he listened to the familiar words, Curtis thought of the experiences they had all shared: being bound, chained, spit upon, whipped, lashed to trees, and stoned.

One of the airmen then handed the Captain several pieces of bread that had been saved from their previous day’s rations.  “And He took the bread, and when He had given thanks, He broke it and gave it to His disciples saying, ‘Take, eat.  This is My body that is broken for you, do this in remembrance of Me.’ ”  The bread was passed and quietly eaten.  Then Curtis repeated the verses about the cup – “This is My blood shed for you.”  These men know about blood, Curtis thought.  Their own blood flowing from open wounds, from lacerations and ruptured eardrums, from torn out fingernails – blood that seeped through every makeshift bandage swathing their frail bodies.  Now they all thought about Christ’s blood, shed for them.

The cup of carefully saved seaweed soup was passed.  Someone quietly hummed Amazing Grace.  As Curtis brought the cup to his lips, he trembled and began to weep.  He wondered if they had any right to identify their suffering with Christ’s.  But then wasn’t their presence in this place, alive against all odds, a sign of Christ’s continuing presence with them?  Suddenly he recalled Jesus’ words, “I will build My church and the gates of hell will not prevail against it.”  They were part of that church, a part of the broken body of Christ in every way.  Yes, the church had prevailed, for here they were, worshipping God in the jungles of a world gone mad.  Against all odds, God’s presence was alive in what was otherwise a living hell.

This story was adapted from “Loving God” by Charles Colson.

On Commitment

 

Some years back, I found myself in a beautifully preserved medieval city in the country of my birth, Germany.  Dating back to the year 950, Rothenburg is the oldest walled city in the Fatherland and lies in the charming Franconian region of the state of Bavaria.  The city sits at the crossroads of two of the most breathtaking and scenic thoroughfares of Europe, which wind their way through central and southern Germany ­– the Romantic Road and the Road of Castles.

On this particular trip, I arrived in the city with some friends following a long flight from the United States.  We landed in Frankfurt and were driving to my family home in Northern Bavaria.  On the way, we stopped in Rothenburg so I could give my companions a quick tour of the famed city that served as a backdrop in the film Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.  Wandering the cobblestone streets, we were invited by a local acquaintance to visit an English Speaking Club to converse with erstwhile German soldiers who fought in World War II.  The Club meeting was held in a traditional German Kneipe somewhat hidden in the town walls.  Entering the ancient pub was a tight squeeze through a narrow passageway.  Once inside, the skinny corridor gave way to an old-world watering hole filled with antiquated furnishings and historical artifacts.  For the next few hours, I sat at a quaint wooden table surrounded by steins of beer and German veterans who survived not only the Great War, but also Hitler's Nazi regime.

As I probed the astonishing memories of these war heroes, they shared their riveting stories.  Their fascinating accounts of the conflict were told from a perspective somewhat counter to American versions.  Each narrative was filled with sensory details covering known histories stretching from the Normandy invasion, crossing the Battle of the Bulge, extending to the icy conditions of the Russian front, which ultimately derailed Hitler from conquering the world.  With each tale, a picture came together revealing a notable and significant veracity of life: Commitment through difficult times prepares our lives in advance for a fulfillment of life that is only experienced in reverse.

Throughout the world, human relationships either unravel or solidify in times of hardship and crisis.  These connections are the one constant that brings our lives enduring meaning and purpose.  Never was this clearer to me than in listening to these aged veterans open up about personal details of their lives.  Laced through the chronicles of their struggles were romantic tales of love found in a time of war.  There were inspiring stories of marriages surviving the unimaginable and hopeful sagas displaying the finest traits found in the human spirit.  I saw that not one of these men would choose to live his life differently even given the opportunity.  They seemed to possess a depth and quality of life rarely seen today that allowed them to look back over the years and recall difficult and tumultuous times with a touch of nostalgia. They had obviously lived lives that were rewarding and gratifying.

On another occasion, I spent a week with my German grandmother in her home.  One evening, she opened up about her life and shared some aspects of living in Berlin during the war.  She spoke fondly of hardships and joyfully told me about the period she was pregnant with my mother and trudged daily through the rubble and wreckage of greater Berlin to reach the munitions factory where she worked.  In sentimental detail, she spoke of life in the German capital during the unending months Allied planes swarmed the city and unleashed hordes of bombs in an attempt to bring the Third Reich to its knees.  At one point, her eyes moistened as she said, "Those were very difficult days but they were some of the happiest of my life."  Her words brought to mind something I read previously: Over sixty percent of Londoners who survived the Blitz when the German Luftwaffe utterly destroyed the city remember that time as the happiest of their lives.  Somehow a new spirit of life sprang up to eclipse the horror of the bombs in London.  In reverse, British citizens discovered a nirvana of life in a time of uncertainty and difficulty – one not seen during the years of struggle.  Commitment birthed that nirvana.

As one who is fascinated by world and biblical history, I have read and heard so many versions of the same story.  The names, faces, eras, and places change.  The dramatic details differ, but the storyline is the same.  Difficult times help nourish belief and strengthen bonds, preparing the way for a fulfillment and gratification of life that is difficult to find elsewhere.  Such a notion defies all logic and common sense.  But crisis, pain, hardship, and conflict lead to a quality and happiness of life that is not seen in advance but is experienced in reverse.  Commitment delivers this great reversal to our lives.

A crisis helps to unearth the foundation on which we construct our lives.  Difficult times drive us away from the temptations of a self-absorbed life, leading us back to dependence on God and community.  We start paying attention to actual human needs instead of falling for the illusions of a superficial culture.  In today’s affluent world, much of life is spent trying to avoid difficulty and stringent commitment, thus the high rate of divorce, and thus a culture that abounds with selfishness and an unhealthy focus on pleasure and instant gratification.  Oftentimes, our selfish pursuits call for us to abandon our commitments, especially in times of hardship.  We lose sight of what might become, of the rewards and gratification that await those who stand firm through the difficulty.  Every crisis, no matter how difficult, comes back to bless our lives if we face our fate with courage and commitment.  There is no conflict we can endure that will not produce a blessing.  It hurts when we go through such experiences and times.  However, somewhere in the future we will appreciate and value the trying episodes.  They will bring richness to our lives.

Difficulty enables God to act in our lives.  It places our reliance square in his hands.  We must do our best to not shrink from attributes of commitment in such times.  When we concede, we only rob our lives of remarkable demonstrations of God's intervention.  We hinder God's ability to unleash the miraculous.  This principle is reflected through the historical events and inspiring stories found in the book of Daniel.  Israel and Judah had been overrun by the Babylonian Empire.  The majority of their citizens were exiled to Babylon.  In the midst of the chaos, most of the gifted young men were brought to the King's palace to undergo rigorous indoctrination in the Babylonian ways.  Four of them, Daniel, Hananiah, Mishael, and Azariah refused to abandon their loyalty and commitment to God during these long years of captivity.  At no point did they compromise their beliefs.  Their acts of commitment brought great favor and blessing; they also created unfathomable moments of crisis and conflict.  And in the crisis, they clung to God and to one another.  As a result, some of the most astonishing miracles in history took place.  Could it be that we miss out on the miraculous acts of God in our era, in our lives, because we walk away from our commitments too soon?

Commitment should be an absolute, not provisional.  When we make commitments, most of us do not make them with the intent to break them.  For the most part, we intend to honor our commitments with sincerity and determination.  We are aware they bind us to God and to one another and connect us to a quality of life to come.  So why then do we sometimes stray from commitments we make?  Is it possible that most of our commitments are made in times of sunshine and then suddenly, out of nowhere, the storms of life arrive, placing enormous pressure on our commitments to unravel?

Storms of life have a way of ravishing our hearts.  There are emotions and situations and tensions a human being feels in his life but can't always explain.  The truth is, oftentimes there are thousands of steps, and sometimes we don't even know what the steps are, and worse, at any given moment we may not be willing or even able to take those steps; and still worse, they are different for you and me and they are fluid and always changing.  Confusion easily sets in and clouds the picture in the window of our minds.  Blue skies are swept away.  Like a violent tornado that rips through a city, foundations are unearthed, walls to protect are torn down.  Fierce winds of life unexpectedly blow conflict and crisis into our world.  The landscape of our lives is abruptly and swiftly altered.  And in such moments, like Adam, we want to run, we want to hide, we want to avoid the conflict, the chaos, the crisis.  We believe we can take things into our own hands and fix our lives quickly with a few steps.  Absent of commitment, I don't believe we can.

Every person's life, every marriage, every relationship has crisis times, moments of truth when one person is tempted to give up.  Committed individuals, committed relationships survive these moments.  Crisis and conflict, pain and hardship, temptation and failure convince many to walk away.  These dramatic intrusions cloud our reason and judgment, often blinding us from seeing that great relationships take form when they are stretched to the breaking point and do not break.  The deepest strength and deepest love come only through testing.  Yes, we can leave.  We can walk away.  We will find new and fresh love somewhere else.  But just like our current relationship, that newness and freshness will fade.  Conflict and problems will arise.  And then what?  When we walk away, when we give up, we abandon a rewarding and gratifying life that awaits, one we can't imagine or recognize when our spirits are wounded.  Commitment cultivates in us a depth and breadth of love a couple enjoys on their silver anniversary, not on their honeymoon. 

As I write, I write to myself.  I have abandoned commitments made in my life.  I know all too well the curse and pain of divorce, of a life separated from God.  More than most, I carry the shame and pain of such failure in my spirit every day.  Though I have awakened to God's forgiveness and accepted his love and healing, this does not erase the consequences of my choices.  It does not always restore what has been lost, what has been squandered.

It's an odd feeling to be awakened from a life weakened by selective commitment.  I stand there looking in the mirror and my spirit gets an eerie feeling, as though it were haunted by a kind of nothingness, a void of something that could have been, an absence of people who should be by my side.  I hear the voices of children and feel the tender touch of a wife who wanted me to listen and to spend time with her and to love her for her.  I feel at once the absent glory of a life that should have been.  And then, a Voice arises from somewhere within making me understand that commitment is action, it's standing in the storms of life, not running for fields of ease and pleasure to avoid them.  The Voice tells me God comes to the side of the committed and though the past cannot be erased, the blessing of a future filled with promise is not stamped out.  For under divine inspiration, the Chronicler penned these remarkable words "The eyes of the Lord search the whole earth in order to strengthen those whose hearts are fully committed to him."  Commitment will bring life new realities as we allow God to lead us through our failures toward renewal.  One's past does not need to be his future.

Hardship, difficulty, conflict, crisis, as absurd as it sounds, point to a better experience where fulfillment comes.  God allows troubling times to take place in order to achieve some greater goal.  We are designed to live through something rather than attain something.  Commitment, then, if one has faith in something bigger than oneself, is the path to experiencing a meaning beyond the false gratification often found in our present world.  It prepares our lives to inherit the blessings of the Greater Goal.

When we look back on the life we lived, what we will remember are the stands we took, the times we worked hard to make the world a better place, the sacrifices we made for others.  Such acts spring from committed lives. This is what I heard and saw in the stories of the German veterans I met.  Their lives did not reflect inflexible determination but rather spontaneity and joy.  By investing their freedom in commitment, they secured a deeper freedom for their lives.  How brightly a story of commitment shines.  There is something beautiful that comes to those who pursue a committed life.

Scripture quoted - 2 Chronicles 16:9

Love Never Stops Believing

The diminutive house was simple but tolerable.  It consisted of one large room on a rutted and dusty street.  Its red tin roof was one of many in this poor neighborhood on the outskirts of the obscure Brazilian village.  It was nondescript but a passable home.  Maria and her daughter Christina had done what they could to add color to the grey walls and warmth to the inflexible dirt floor: an old calendar, a wooden crucifix, a faded photograph of a family patriarch.  The furnishings were unpretentious: a single bed on each side of the room, an artless washbasin, and an unfashionable wood-burning stove.

Maria's husband had died when Christina was an infant.  The widowed mother, stubbornly refusing opportunity to remarry, found employment and set out to raise her young daughter alone.  And now, fifteen years later, the most difficult days and times had passed.  Though Maria's salary as a maid afforded no luxuries, it was reliable and provided life's necessities.  Now Christina had reached the age where she could work and contribute to the family finances.

Christina was a free spirited young lady.  Some say she got her independence from her mother.  More than likely it was the combination of her mother's self-sufficiency and the absence of a father figure in her life.  She cringed at the cultural view and traditional idea of marrying young and raising a family.  And this was not because she had no suitors, for she had her pick of men.  Her curvaceous figure, shimmering olive skin, and riveting brown eyes kept a steady stream of hopeful prospects at her door.  She possessed the rare magic some women have that causes men to become entranced, reeling them into a captive spell, sending their heads turning, their minds spinning, their thoughts wandering, their hearts racing.  But it was her spirited curiosity and idealist hopes that pushed the idea of marriage and family away.  She longed for something bigger and better, something vibrant and exciting, a place where dreams are discovered, where life is more than subsistence.

Christina spoke frequently of moving to the city.  She visualized trading her dirt floor and impoverished barrio for the paved roads and bright lights, for the nascent excitement of the mystical shining city sitting on the sapphire water's edge, rimmed with lush green mountains, protected by Jesus towering high above.  Just the thought of this horrified her mother.  Maria was always quick to remind Christina of the harshness of the city, "People do not know you there.  Jobs are scarce and life is cruel.  How will you survive and what will you do for a living?"  Christina ignored and dismissed her mother's questions.  She refused to allow anything to dissuade her from pursuing her dreams.  Yet, Maria knew exactly what Christina would have to do for a living.  In a country with a sparse middle class, migrants with limited resources, inadequate skills, and no contacts are usually forced into a sordid underground world of survival.  That is why Maria's heart broke when she awoke one morning to find her daughter's bed empty and the one family suitcase missing.

Maria knew immediately where her daughter had gone.  Instantly, she knew what she needed to do.  Time was of the essence.  She quickly rifled through her drawers and threw some clothes in a bag, gathered up her life savings, and ran out of the house.  On her frantic rush to the town bus stop, she entered the local drug store to purchase one last thing she needed - pictures.  She sat in the photograph booth, closed the curtain, and spent all she could afford on images of herself.  With her purse full of black-and-white photos, she boarded the bus for Rio de Janeiro.

Maria was aware that Christina had no means to earn enough money to build a life in the city.  She also knew her daughter was too determined to give up.  When hope meets hunger, when dreams meet desperation, a person will do things once deemed unthinkable.  Knowing this, Maria began her search in areas of the city known to grant opportunities for a beautiful woman to make money fast – bars, hotels, nightclubs, casinos, burlesque halls – any place with a reputation for prostitution.  She went to them all, searching desperately for her beautiful daughter.  At each venue, she anxiously asked managers, bartenders, servers, dancers, patrons, if they had seen Christina.  Repeatedly she was met with disappointment.  So at every locale, she left her picture somewhere - taped on a bathroom mirror, pinned on a hotel bulletin board, glued to a corner phone booth, tacked in some high traffic area.  On the back of every photo was a written message.

After some days, both the money and photos ran out.  Maria was forced to go home.  With a broken heart, the shattered mother inertly returned to the bus station and boarded the bus to her penurious village.  She wept throughout the long and lonely journey home.

A few weeks later, young Christina descended the stairs of a cheap and seedy hotel clothed in a skin-tight guise that accentuated all her curves.  She looked nothing like the gorgeous young lady who had arrived in Rio filled with life and hope.  Her young face was tired.  Her laughter was suppressed.  Her innocence was lost.  Her spirit was broken.  The radiant brown eyes, once filled with vitality and vibrancy, now reflected pain and heartache.  Her dreams were dashed and her hopes were crushed.  Many nights over, she longed to trade the myriad of strange beds for the one familiar bed back home.  But she did not know how.  The shame, the disgrace, the dishonor turned her life upside down and distorted her view of a mother's love. In so many ways her home village was too far gone, too far away, to far removed from her innocent days.  Her spirit told her she could never return again.

As she reached the bottom of the stairs, she stumbled awkwardly in her vampish stilettos.  Stabilizing herself against the rail, her eyes roamed the petite lobby.  Suddenly they stopped.  She closed her eyes, rubbed them, and looked again.  Staring straight ahead, they fixated on a familiar face.  There on the lobby mirror was a small picture of her mother.  Christina's eyes moistened, her throat tightened as she rushed to the mirror and removed the small photo.  Written on the back were these words "Whatever you have done, whatever you have become, it does not matter.  Please come home."

She did.  Love was waiting.  It never stopped believing.

This is a true story originally shared by Max Lucado.  I took the liberty to rewrite a majority of the narrative in my prose.

A Hero is Gone – A Personal Tribute to Pastor Glen D. Cole

  

If death had granted him a moment to convey the sentiment, Pastor Cole would have declared his tragic and sudden passing on Valentine's Day a happy transit.  For this is how he viewed the world.  No matter how bad things appeared, how gloomy the clouds turned, he was extraordinary.  In the darkest moments of life, those times that derail and destroy most of us, he was always at his best.  He thought and lived beyond death, beyond the dark, beyond the grave.

Pastor Cole was my one and only pastor.  When God gave me a pastor, he smiled greatly and blessed my life enormously by giving me the best.  He was my mentor, my leader, my friend, and one of my life heroes.  There will never be another like him.  He had an aura about him.  He was a man who lifted everyone's spirits and lowered everyone's guard, one who accomplished so much in life.  Though it is Pastor Cole's body of achievements most will remember, it's his compassion, kindness, and giving heart I will miss.  He was the pastor, the friend, the colleague who was the first to pick up the phone and say, "I'm sorry for what happened" or "What can I do to help?"  He was the boss who was adored by his staff, so much so, they looked forward to coming to work each day and remained loyal at his side.  He was the man who sent handwritten birthday wishes, thank you cards, and encouraging notes - never losing sight of the power of personal touch.  He was the father who loved his sons, doing everything possible to bless their lives.  He was the grandfather who adored and doted on his grandchildren, making them feel special and treasured.  He was the husband who passionately loved his wife and showed us all what marriage means.

As the Pastor of my church, Glen Cole always believed in people and would see the best in them. He was a source of inspiration and hope, of courage and belief.  He gave us strength when tragedy struck, when we questioned God.  His sermons stirred the embers of our faith and reminded us of who we were, that nothing is impossible for God.  As a spiritual leader, he stood tall for us.  With God's help, he built our church, he built our school, he built our spiritual community. He built until we burst at the seams.  He was a pastor of the people, never above the people.  Every Sunday, people clamored to hear him speak, piling in for his messages as if to miss them would be to miss the rapture itself.  He always had something profound to say, something life-altering to convey, something inspiring to share, something fresh from God to transform our lives.

Pastor Cole was an amazing leader who took a personal interest in my life and the lives of his parishioners.  He truly loved people and cared for them deeply.  In my success, he was my biggest cheerleader and encourager. He is the person who paid me the highest compliment I ever received when he once introduced me at an event where I was speaking.  I will never forget the words he used and they often are a great source of hope in my immediate world and the darkness that sometimes envelops me.  In my wanderings and failures, he never focused on my personal issues.  He addressed them, then lovingly reminded me that God still had great plans for my life. "Steve, nothing can take away your calling and gifting," he would say. 

In the years I disappointed him and staggered around in a far away land, lost as a prodigal and forgotten by most, he never gave up on me nor did he forget about me.  He believed in me when I quit believing in myself.  From time to time, he sent me a note, a card, some reminder to show he cared.  Incredibly these gestures of kindness always arrived in my mailbox when they were needed most.  On one occasion I received an oversize manila envelope filled with my old writings he had saved for years.  Attached was a handwritten message that read, "I miss this great writer.  Please let him know his best days are in front of him.  God is not through with your life or wonderful gift."  I walked back inside my house with tears streaming down my face.

For me, Pastor Cole was Abraham without the doubts, Moses without the wanderings, David without the failings.  The planet has not only lost a great Christian man, it lost an honest pastor, a distinguished musician, a joyful encourager, a loving healer, a graceful reconciler, a courageous leader, a loyal friend, a devoted husband, a committed father, a dynamic preacher, a courageous leader, an inspiring visionary, and a dedicated and faithful Man of God.

Pastor, I will never forget you because I can't forget you.  To imagine a world without you is to imagine a world with a little less faith in it; a little less love in it; a little less hope in it; a little less God in it.  And this is not the kind of world where I want to live.  I will miss you more than you could ever know.  Thank you for inspiring my life, for believing in me, and for never giving up on me.  I love you with all my heart and look forward to the day when I sit with you somewhere beyond those pearly gates to tell you about the second half of my life.  Thank you for showing me the way and helping me find hope and healing again, life and love again.  Thank you for helping me find my Lord and Savior again.  Thank you for loving me in the good and the bad.

Pastor, you have gone home now, leaving us who grieve your passing with the wonderful memories you gave, the incredible good you did, the inspiring dreams you cast.  The passage of time will never completely heal the sadness of this moment.  But I will carry on as you would want me to.  I will do the best I can to emulate your amazing life, a life that demonstrated unconditional love, reflected genuine hope, and displayed astonishing faith.  Whenever I need to find you, I know where to look.  I look to where you tried to get me to look all along.  I look up.

Tender Love

A few weeks back, my friend Terry Foley shared with me a personal experience that moved me deeply.  His story demonstrated how love has its own power and is the only force capable of conquering the human heart.  As I reflect on Terry's experience, something Mother Teresa once said comes to mind, "Love to be real, it must cost, it must hurt, it must empty us of self."  In this season of love, I would like to share Terry's experience with you.  May it reaffirm in your heart that the most beautiful gift we all possess is the ability to love.  For only love can summon a response of love in our lives and in our world as the following story of Tender Love beautifully portrays.  I trust it will touch you heart in a special way.

The night came and passed and its sounds were of things a man grows accustomed to, but never trusts.  In my ignorance I lay there listening.  I held her most of the night while a blizzard blew, whiting out the room's only window.  Before drifting off, she asked me to hold her again.  Morning would soon arrive and as I lay there with her in my arms, I recalled our love story.  On this occasion, I didn't think of the bad times, only the good.  I did not want my sadness to affect her.  I would think of the bad when I was alone.  She had another love and my greatest fear was that she would shortly leave me to be with him.  But for now, she was here with me, safe in my arms and that was all that mattered.

As her head lay gently on my shoulder, I could feel her warm, irregular breathing on my neck.  After some time, she fell into a deep sleep.  I slowly removed my arms from her tender body and quietly rose from the bed.  It had been a couple of days since I changed my clothes and I wondered if I smelled.  I stumbled to one side of the room and reached down to the floor, pulled one boot on at a time, then slipped into the hallway to grab a cup of coffee.  When I returned, I sat down in a chair next to her bed and watched her.  For a long time, I stared and marveled at her indescribable beauty.  Thoughts roamed freely through my mind of all the joy she brought to my life.  I wondered, "How could a man love anyone more?"  She was beautiful, so wonderfully beautiful.  I thought back to the day I first laid my eyes upon her.  When I saw her, I was instantly filled with a passion that has not abated with time.  She arrived at a point in my life where I wanted deeper meaning in my relationships, where I wanted substance to go along with my natural exuberance for life.  All this came with my first glance of her.  From that moment on, my heart was forever hers.

Lost in my thoughts, staring silently into a reflective pool of memories, she opened her eyes, but just for a moment.  She stretched her arms toward me and I smiled and went to her.  "Hold me", she said.  Again I wrapped her tightly in my arms, never wanting to let go.  "You smell," she slowly whispered in a sleepy voice, then laughed softly and faintly.  I laughed quietly in return.  It was then she asked me the one question I feared,

"Daddy am I going to die?'

I stared into her big blue angelic eyes.

"Everyone dies, Sweetheart."

Somehow, the words comforted her as they twisted my insides.  Tears slipped from my eyes, trailed down my cheeks, and fell from my chin.  She tried her best to share her strength with me, to comfort me.  For this was my little Leigha's way.  Her first concern was always for others, especially those she loved, even as she stared death in the face.

It was several years later and twelve surgeries further, when I gave my daughter's hand to the one who would hold her in eternity.  We were alone again and I held her in my arms for the very last time.  There was a look of worry in her eyes as she stared into mine.  Experience told me, she was concerned for her mother and I. 

I pulled her close and whispered in her ear,

"Mommy and I will be fine Sweetheart." 

The break of a smile formed on her lips

"When you see Him baby, you take His hand and go with Him"

My words seemed to fill her eyes with hope.  As I gazed into them for the very last time, my fear was realized ... she left me for Him.  I felt her sweet spirit rise, leaving her pain and diseased body behind.

There has not been a day that my mind has not revisited those last minutes with my 12-year-old daughter Leigha.  Most days I go there many times over.  These days, I view that most painful moment of loss differently.  I do not see death and disease.  I do not see my frail little girl slipping away.  I now see my beautiful little angel standing in a white wedding dress, her body strong and lovely.  She is full of joy and smiling from ear to ear, holding hands with the One she loves the most.  Her Savior.  Her Healer.  Her Groom.  Now I ask you "Could a father be left with a more beautiful memory of his daughter?"

On this Valentines Day, hold those you cherish close to your heart, feel them breathe and take in their remarkable scent, and shower them with love and affection while you still have them by your side.

Random Kindness

We in the modern world have a tendency to approach life as a sequence rather than a series of moments.  Life is a constant; it's moving and changing and evolving.  I, like most, schedule my time, set goals, press ahead toward achievement and accomplishment.  Anything that gets in the way, I sometimes view as an interruption of sorts.

Today I read various stories in the Bible and began to notice how different Jesus' approach to life is from mine.  His encounters with people seem to be a series of random occurrences.  Often he let others determine his schedule.  He gave full consideration to interruptions, never allowing them to anger and dissuade him.  He paid attention to those who approached and saw worth and value in each person he came across.

Often when I ask others "What are some of the most memorable moments of your life?" I receive similar answers from dissimilar people.  Narratives come back in story form depicting someone who displayed kindness, who showed concern, who took the time to stop and listen, to hug and touch.  In short, most describe an experience where someone exhibited a random act of kindness towards them.

Life is relational, not formulaic or propositional.  More than anything, Jesus demonstrated this in his earthly life.  At no point do you see him holding seminars to offer the world propositions on how to get along.  He didn#226;#128;#153;t write books containing divine formulas for success and fulfillment.  He wrote no manifesto on life.  Unlike Muhammad and other so-called enlightened ones, Jesus penned nothing.  Others wrote about him, and what they wrote is what he displayed, what he lived out.  The majority of stories about Jesus centers on some dynamic of relationship.  His two great commandments are built on principles of relationship.  Absent of relationship there are no commandments to follow.  You can't love the Lord your God with all your heart or love your neighbor as yourself without relationship.

Jesus is a full embodiment of the Kingdom of God.  His life displays how this Kingdom functions.  Repeatedly what we see through his actions are random acts of kindness.  Jesus went around looking people in the eye to tell them they were beautiful, that he stood for them, that he believed in them.  He was not afraid of controversy, of revealing the worth of those considered worthless.  Often Jesus shunned the in-crowd by extending kindness to the outcasts.  I think of all the so-called losers of society whom Jesus touched and changed: the cripples, the blind, the lepers, the prostitutes, the poor, the wicked, the diseased.  Entire communities shunned these and told them they were no good.  But God, the King of the universe, walks down the street, looks them in the eye, holds their hands, heals their infirmities, visits their homes, eats at their tables.  That must have been the greatest moment of their lives.  His kindness unlocked the door to their hearts.  Kindness rearranged their entire world.  Twenty centuries later, that same type of kindness was still at work in the Cosmos, transforming a young boy's life and altering his destiny on a flight from Chicago.  As I read the story, I could only think #226;#128;#147; this is something Jesus would do.

At his best, when the darkness subsided and the sun shone brightly, Walter Payton could be spectacular.  He was one of football's true icons, a player so esteemed that the NFL's Man of the Year Award bears his name.  Those who knew him closely said he was a man addicted to laughter.  When he was happy, all he wanted to do was laugh and laugh.  Like most of us, he had many flaws.  But beneath those flaws was an inherent goodness and deep love for people.  He had a genuine desire to make people happy.

If fans approached him with footballs to sign, Payton first insisted on a quick game of catch.  If they wanted him to shake a child's hand, Payton knelt down and engaged the youngster in a conversation about school.  He understood the power of embracing another life, the impact it can have.  While traveling to Orlando for a vacation in 1996, Payton, sitting in first class, was told that a ten-year-old boy named Billy Kohler, who needed liver and kidney transplants, was on the plane, heading to Disney World courtesy of the Make-A-Wish Foundation.  Touched by the story, Walter asked the flight attendant to bring Billy and his father to the first class section.

The flight attendant walked to the back of the coach section and approached Billy and his father, "There's someone who would like to meet you in first class."  As Billy and his father are escorted to the front, they see Walter Payton standing in the aisle.  Walter greeted them and knelt down to Billy's level and said, "You have been facing a lot of adversity.  But know you will come through this.  No matter what follows, you need to keep your head up, you need to keep fighting forward, and you need to believe.  You have gone through more in your short life than most of us have in a lifetime."  Overcome by the moment, Billy started sobbing.  Payton reached out, embraced Billy, then tickled him beneath his chin. "You are a hero," he said.  "Just know that you are a hero."

That particular encounter had an enormous impact on the life of young Billy Kohler.  Through the dismal, excruciating and frightening months of undergoing two vital organ transplants, Payton's random act of kindness helped push him through.  On the darkest of days when Billy felt he would lose the battle for his life, Walter's words, "Keep fighting forward," propelled him to hold on and not allow his spirit to succumb.  One man's kindness dislodged the grim reaper's grip on a young boy's life, supplying him with the strength and courage needed to hold on.  Billy Kohler was not dragged through death's dark door because kindness stood in the doorway and blocked his path.  Death returned to the grave empty-handed.

It's a powerful occurrence to have someone look you in the eye and say, "You are worth something."  We owe it to ourselves and to others around us to engage in such unforgettable acts.  Deeds of kindness are a flourishing feedback loop of blessing to our lives.  Not only do they awaken life in others, paradoxically, they replenish life in our own hearts, in our immediate world.  I have seen this notion proven in the life of a young man whom I met three decades back when he was a student in my youth ministry.

Jon Pritikin is a dynamic individual and one of the greatest communicators I know.  His gifts have taken him all over the world, placing him in settings often incomprehensible for a Christian speaker.  In the last year alone, Jon has spoken to Arab and Jewish Schools in Israel, Palestine and Jordan; been a featured guest on MTV and the highest rated talk shows in Asia; conducted hundreds of assemblies in public schools in North & South America, Asia, Europe, and the Middle East; and ministered to vast audiences #226;#128;#147; some a million plus #226;#128;#147; throughout the Buddhist, Muslim and Hindu regions of our planet.  Not only has he been well received, he's been invited back and given the keys to schools, cities, and nations.  Doors have opened wide for this young man for one reason #226;#128;#147; his kindness.

Jon is one of the kindest individuals I know.  I have seen his life in every setting imaginable and ceaselessly and endlessly, he encourages people, he builds them up, he lifts their spirits.  His acts of kindness are constantly inspiring others and bettering their lives.  Never have I heard him speak an unkind word of another.  His life is a living testament of kindness.  And that kindness has returned to him a hundredfold in the opportunities he has been given.  Kindness opens your life to a world of bounty and blessing, it opens doors leading to wonder and astonishment.

A person's worth is determined not by appearance or income, ethnic background or citizenship status, but rather is bestowed as a sacred inviolable gift of God.  How we respond matters.  Our choice of kindness makes a difference not only to us and our own destiny, but amazingly, to God himself.  God gives us all the opportunity to participate in the restoration of people's lives.  He allows us to help reverse the pain and unfairness of this world.  Like Walter Payton, like Jon Pritikin, like Jesus himself, may we be kindhearted people.  Random kindness makes a loving God visible in an unloving world.

P.S.  For more information on Jon Pritikin, go to Feelthepower.org.  I highly recommend you support his ministry.