LifeVesting » LV Stories

The Nest and The Bow – A Fable

Andy Wood — Fri, 16 Dec 2011 06:11:22 +0000

They were two branches off the same Vine.

Designed in the Vine’s image, each a was unique expression of the nature of its Creator. One was tender and sensitive, with stunning intuitive wisdom. The other was strong and masculine, with a compelling view toward the horizon.

They loved being branches of the Vine. And they loved each other. But they’d cut themselves off from the flow of the Vine’s life. They believed the lie that they could thrive on their own. The result: An odd combination of life and death in the same form.

Form without flow.

Image without reality.

As they dreamed of a future together, they asked one another, “How can we shape ourselves so our offspring can know our love and be fruitful?”

The one, in her tender sensitivity, suggested, “I will build a nest of myself for my little ones to rest in. I will allow myself to be broken, again and again, so that I can be shaped into a warm, safe place. I will always be a refuge they can turn to, a shelter from the storm and a hiding place from the wind.”

“What if they take you for granted?” her partner asked. “And what will you do when they’ve left the nest?”

“My love for them is always greater than their capacity to understand or be grateful,” she replied soberly. “And my branches, though aging, will always welcome them home.”

The other had a different plan. “I will be formed into a bow,” he said. “I will form my offspring into arrows, capable of flying to distant places. Then I will offer myself to be stretched to my fullest capacity so that I may launch them to their place of destiny.”

“And what if, once you release them, they never return?” his partner wondered.

“My love for them is greater than my desire to control them,” he answered. “And my strength, though waning, will always send them forth.”

Time passed, and dreams died. After all, dreams always take on the character of those who possess them. Broken and separated, and helpless to do anything to change their plight, the Nest and the Bow surrendered to the curse of sorrow, hopelessness and futility. The only thing they despised more was the pathetic, distorted image of the partner they’d once dreamed with. All they had left to anticipate was their appointment with the fire.

Gathered up for the brush fire with others who shared their fate and waiting for their final verdict, they encountered a Stranger.

Strange because He looked so much like them both… tender, yet powerful.

Strange because He seemed so out of place. This was a brush pile, yet this One was so, so… alive.

“Who are you?” asked the Nest.

“I am the Branch, from the stem of Jesse,” He replied. “The life of the Vine flows through Me. A life of wisdom and understanding, counsel and strength.”

“And why are you here?” asked the Bow.

“The Gardener placed me here to offer you a Way,” He answered. “A Way to restore what time and death have taken from you. A way to experience the fulfillment of your deepest dreams.”

“And what will you make of yourself?” they wanted to know.

Suddenly, without warning, the hand of the Gardener plucked the living Branch from the pile and carried Him toward the fire.

“A bridge,” He called.

“I’ll be a bridge.”

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“I’ve Finished the Big Surprise”

Andy Wood — Wed, 23 Nov 2011 07:06:05 +0000

Dylan hadn’t smiled for days. His grandmother, whom he loved dearly, had died, and the ten-year-old was crushed. His friends were worried about him, and convinced him to visit their special friend, an old man they called The Storyteller. The Storyteller loved children, and often helped them with the special stories he would make up. The Storyteller also knew Dylan’s grandmother.

“This is Dylan,” one of the kids said that Monday afternoon. “His grandmother died last week, and he’s very sad.”

The Storyteller looked up from his gardening and sized up the boy. “Sad” was an understatement.

“Looks like she found the Big Surprise,” said the Storyteller, with a twinkle in his eye.

“What’s the Big Surprise?” asked Dylan dejectedly.

“Well, let me tell you about it,” said the old man as he turned to sit on the grass and the kids sat around him. “A long, long time ago, there lived a very wealthy and handsome prince. He was known throughout the realm as a kind and loving man. But he was also very lonely. For years he had searched and waited for that special someone that he could give his whole life to – someone he would be willing to die for, and to live with forever and ever. But for many different reasons, he never found her, until…

“One day, while riding through his kingdom, he spotted her – his bride-to-be. Strangely enough, she was even more lonely than the Prince. He saw a beauty in her that she couldn’t see in herself. And the courtship began between the Prince and the Bride.

“People in those days did weddings very differently than the way we do. Once the groom proposed, and the bride said, ‘Yes,’ a time of waiting always followed. During that time, the groom would go away to prepare the home they were to live in. When everything was ready, he would return to take his bride to their new home. But here was the catch: the bride never knew when her bridegroom would return. Her responsibility was to be ready at any moment, day or night. It was a disgrace to the bride to be caught unprepared when the groom appeared.

“When this particular Prince said good-bye to his Bride, he promised her a very special treasure – one fitting for a child of the King, his father. He playfully called it, ‘The Big Surprise.’

“Breathless with anticipation, she wanted to know everything she could about it. What is it? Where is it? What’s it like? The Prince only smiled and said that she wouldn’t believe him until she saw it for herself. But as he turned to ride away, he promised he would send her some “little surprises” along the way. And he promised his bride once again that he would return for her.

“The Prince was true to his word. He did send those little surprises – expressions of his love, and hints of what the Big Surprise was to be. He told her again that she was the one he had been waiting for. He told her how it moved him to know she was hurting. He told her how much he believed in her, and that he needed her. He encouraged her, and let her know that time and distance hadn’t spoiled his love for her. He promised her a home they could enjoy together, without ever having to say, ‘Good-bye,’ again. Again and again, he found ways to say from a distance how much he loved her, and how much he anticipated sharing their forever-home.

“But the weeks turned into months, and then years. Many years, in fact. And it became harder and harder to keep waiting. Sometimes the Bride gave up entirely. At other times she would get some hint that the Prince still remembered, and that he was still coming. But I’ll be honest, Dylan. Sometimes it scares me. I’m afraid the Prince will return, and the Bride will have given up.”

“You mean the Bride is a real person?” Dylan asked.

“Well, sort of,” said the Storyteller. “The Prince is Jesus, and the Bride is His church. And Dylan, the other day your grandmother got a special message from her Prince. It said, `I’ve finished the Big Surprise! And I can’t wait to show it to you!’”

“Is the Big Surprise like… Heaven?”

“Yep. And one day soon, we won’t have to wait any more. The Prince will call our name, and we’ll all get to enjoy the Big Surprise together.”

“That’ll be awesome!” Dylan said. And for the first time in days, he smiled.

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The Reunion Barbecue

Andy Wood — Mon, 07 Nov 2011 06:25:05 +0000

Alexander's Bridge over Chickamauga Creek

Imagine throwing a little backyard barbecue and inviting 12,000 of your closest friends. And even closer enemies.

It happened nearly 125 years ago, in 1889, at a place called Chickamauga, near Chattanooga, TN. And it took place where these friends and enemies had once gathered 26 years earlier to kill each other.

You don’t hear as much about the Battle of Chickamauga as you do Vicksburg or Gettysburg or Shiloh. But in two days, 66,000 Confederate and 58,000 Union troops staged two days of hell – desperate, often hand-to-hand combat. Somewhere around 18,480 Confederate and 16,240 Union soldiers were killed, wounded or missing when all was said and done.

One side won the battle. The other won the war.

Then as time passed, something remarkable happened. I don’t know who Tweeted the idea or who posted the Facebook page, but somebody believed that the country should establish memorials at significant battlefields. And their idea: Let’s have a reunion and invite soldiers from both sides to come back to Chickamauga and break bread – and swords – together.

Would you believe they did? To the tune of 12,000 people.

That’s a lot of barbecue.

That’s a lot more heart.

On hand that day was Major General William S. Rosecrans, who commanded the defeated Union forces at Chickamauga. Of that historic gathering, Rosecrans said, “It took great men to win that battle, but it takes greater men still, I will say morally greater, to wipe away all the ill feeling which naturally grows out of such a contest.”

Because of the efforts of those gathered that day, as well as others, Congress authorized the establishment of four national military parks to be established at Chickamauga/Chattanooga, Gettysburg, Shiloh, and Vicksburg.

All because somebody went first and said, “Let’s never forget.”

All because a lot of people agreed and said, “Let’s quit fighting.”

All because some courageous and big-hearted people decided to turn a battlefield into a barbecue.

Greater men still?

Morally greater?

No doubt about it.

Let’s be clear, though. This was 26 years – not 26 weeks – later. Some wounds take time to heal – especially wounds on a national scale.

Let’s also admit that a lot of folks probably chose to remain bitter and stay home.

That said, I wonder. Are there any battlefields you need to return to? Any swords you need to bury? Any personal memorials you need to establish, like the altars built in Genesis, as reminders of the past or symbols to declare, “Never again”?

It doesn’t take a grand reunion or an open-roasted pig. (Note to my Texas friends: It weren’t no cow on the pit that day.)

It doesn’t take an act of Congress.

Sometimes the healing begins with a chance meeting at Walmart (that just happened for me) or a willingness to be the first to say, “Let’s have lunch or coffee.” Sometimes it’s just a matter of treating a former enemy like a friend. Or at least like a human.

“Blessed are the peacemakers,” Jesus said, “for they will be called children of God.” There is never a time you look more like your Heavenly Father than the times you make peace.

Maybe it’s time for you to remember.

Maybe it’s time for you to return.

Maybe it’s time for you to reunite.

Maybe it’s time for you to make peace.

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How Long Will Your Influence Last?

Andy Wood — Fri, 22 Jul 2011 07:57:18 +0000

(From the forthcoming book, Coach Lightning)

(Note: Anybody can be an influence to people sitting right in front of them. But it takes a special kind of character to continue to shape lives you first touched 50 years ago. The following is an excerpt about the way Morris Brown did that, and how his influence lives on to this day. You can see other excerpts here and here.)

Benjamin Disraeli, the British statesman, once said, “The greatest good you can do for another is not just to share your riches, but to reveal to him his own.” That’s what you discover when you talk to the people whose lives were touched by Morris Brown. You hear the language of wealthy people. And they’ll tell you that Coach Brown was instrumental in revealing their riches to them.

One of the greatest contributions any leader, teacher, or friend can make in terms of influence is to “raise the bar” in the pursuit of excellence. Morris did that time and time again. Don Hunt calls him a “beacon in my heart and soul” to this day. From the days of Little League baseball until today, Don says, Coach Brown’s life and actions remind him to strive to be the best person that he can be.

It’s interesting to note that in all the conversations or interviews about Coach Brown’s influence, nobody went to a chalkboard and started drawing the X’s and O’s of a football locker room. Morris influenced players and students by first influencing them as people. As he helped raise up a generation of excellent people, the on-field or on-court play took care of itself.

Another important thing to notice about Coach’s influence: words always took a back seat to actions. Oh, you’ll hear the occasional story about something he would say in teasing or teaching someone. But mostly what you hear is the story of a man who led by example and influenced by action. The way Robert Earl Scruggs described it at Coach’s memorial service, Morris lived his funeral sermon in front of him for the 50 years they knew each other. “How wonderful can that be?” he asked rhetorically.

How wonderful indeed. Jill Glenn talks of the respect she had for Coach Brown and the way he conducted himself on and off the athletic fields. “I never heard him utter a curse word,” she said. “Actually, I really never heard him raise his voice. He was a quiet and gentle man with a winning smile. Coach Brown touched and influenced so many lives at Shady Grove and West Jones. He will live on in each one of their memories for the rest of their lives.”

Influence is never neutral, and it never takes place in a vacuum. Whenever people talk about influence in general, it’s always attached to something really good or painfully bad. And when people live unforgettable lives, the shape of their influence is crystal clear. Morris is proof of that. In describing his influence, Don Hunt says that Coach taught him “the importance of hard work, discipline, sacrifice, and commitment. And, especially to strive to make good decisions in life.”

Lewis Goins, who taught with Morris at Shady Grove, experienced that influence from a different angle – that of an inexperienced teacher.

Coach Brown took me under his wing as a young teacher and coach and taught me how to work with students and parents. I give him all of the credit for my success in working with students. He was an expert in the areas of discipline and encouraging students. He once said to me, “Whatever you do in dealing with students, always be fair in your dealings. If you give respect, you will get respect.” Coach was a true example for me, and most of all he was my friend who I miss a lot.

Robert Earl Scruggs calls him a finisher – a model of determination. “I don’t know if there was ever a time that Coach ever quit a race. He was quick to tell you that he never had anyone to outrun him. I can just hear him now saying to St Peter, ‘I’ll race you from here to the Golden gate. What do you say?’”

The greatest of the positive influences are forged out of the three things that the Apostle Paul said live on in us and beyond our lifetime: what we believe (faith), what we expect in the future (hope), and who we care about (love). Morris left a legacy of memories in all three areas. He was a believer – first in Christ (more on that in the next chapter), then in the people he loved, and they knew it. He influenced those around him to believe, expect, and strive for the best in their future. And the greatest, most common testimony of Coach Brown’s students, peers, friends and family: He loved. Oh, how he loved. Robert Earl Scruggs adds:

That’s what is important – those memories created out of love. Coach created a bunch and he is enjoying the fruits of his labor. I hope that you and I, because we crossed paths with Coach Morris Brown, will have the same influence, and that someday someone can say of you that you were a memory maker. And you left some memories because memories will never die. Faith, Hope, and Love. The greatest of these is love because it never fails.

It was a little silly story as Wendell Gavin described it, but one with a poignant (and pungent!) message. A man and his grandson were walking down the road when the grandson said he smelled a skunk. The Grandfather told him it wasn’t the skunk he was smelling – it was influence. “Coach Brown is gone,” Wendell said, “but his influence will be around Jones County for a long, long time.”

Don Hunt adds in his tribute a sentiment that many more would attest to: “Yes, you were my coach; in fact you are the only person in my athletic life who I feel comfortable calling you ‘my Coach.’ And, I hasten to add that you are still my coach and always will be.”

The immediate influence of a boss, friend, pastor or teacher can be felt, well, immediately. Daily contact, regular accountability, and ongoing communication keep our prime movers front-and-center on our life’s radar. It’s a completely different brand of influence, however, when an army of men and women rise up and call someone blessed after 40 or 50 years.

Oh, to live that long and longer in the lives of those we touch.

Oh, to leave that powerful a legacy.

Oh, to command that kind of influence.

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The Grand Celebration That Wasn’t

Andy Wood — Wed, 06 Jul 2011 16:57:02 +0000

A Fable about leadership, teamwork, unity, and of course, honey…

It was a lovely morning in the Hundred Acre Wood, where Christopher Robin’s friends lived and played. The bees were abuzz making their honey (and You-Know-Who knew just who it was for).

Kanga had already gotten an early start on motherly things, while Roo was playing close by.

Piglet was pacing about his tidy home saying “Oh Dear, Dear, Dear” because he knew something Important was about to happen, but he couldn’t quite remember what it was.

Rabbit was tending his garden, nervously glancing around for signs that he soon may be bounced by Tigger.

Eeyore was a bit confused as he chomped on a thistle because he couldn’t think of anything to be gloomy about.

Owl was remembering the time to no one in particular that his great uncle Waldo on his mother’s side did something famous because it happened on a lovely day such as today.

And Winnie the Pooh? Being a Bear of Very Little Brain, he was sitting at the Thotful Spot, thinking. And wishing for just a bit of honey, because as everyone knows, bears think better when their tumblies aren’t so rumbly. And there’s nothing like honey to take the rumbly out of the tumbly.

This was no ordinary day after all. This was the day of the Grand Celebration. They weren’t quite sure what they were celebrating, but everyone had agreed that today would be a fine day to celebrate it.

It all started when restless Roo and playful Tigger were frolicking in the forest and Roo said for no particular reason something like, “We should have a party tomorrow and invite all our friends.”

“Tiggers love parties!” the bouncy cat replied. “We should invite old long ears!”

“We should invite everybody!” Roo exclaimed. “We will call it the Grand Celebration.”

“Woo-hoo-hoo-hoo! Tiggers love Grand! And the more the merrier,” Tigger exclaimed.

And so it was decided. And the playful pair started to invite their friends.

“Mama!” Roo said. “Tomorrow we’re going to have a Grand Celebration! Will you come?”

“That will be nice, dear,” Kanga said, busy with dinner. “Just be careful and make sure to clean up your mess.”

“Ooooh, Tigger!” Rabbit shouted as he shook the dirt from his face and ears. “Stop bouncing me!”

“Can’t help it, ole’ buddy ole’ pal. We’re having a Grand Celebration tomorrow, and everybody’s invited. And you know, Tiggers love Celebrations. Can ya’ come? Well? Can ya’?”

“If you’ll promise not to sneak up on me and bounce me into tomorrow (sigh), I suppose I can come,” Rabbit replied. Everyone knew that also meant Rabbit’s Friends and Relations.

“Will there be honey?” Pooh asked when Tigger and Roo told him the Delightful News.

“Of course!” Roo said gleefully. “What’s a Celebration without honey? Now Pooh, would you invite Rabbit and Owl?”

“That’s a fine idea,” the chubby cub said as he made off for Piglet’s house in the middle of the beech-tree.

Piglet was sweeping in front of his door and thinking about his grandfather, Trespassers Will, when Pooh walked by, lost in thought.

“Hello, Pooh!” he said. “Where are you going?”

“Oh, hello, Piglet! I’m going to see Owl and… oh… well… there you are. Not Owl, of course. You’re Piglet. But I’m coming to invite you to the Grand Honey Celebration tomorrow.”

“Oh my,” Piglet exclaimed. “I never knew Honey had its own Celebration. I would be most delighted to come.”

“It was my idea,” Pooh said.

“The celebration?” Piglet asked.

“No, the honey, I’m sure.”

“So how are we celebrating?” Piglet wanted to know because Piglets ask questions like that.

“Oh, in the usual way, I suppose,” Pooh replied.

Meanwhile, while all this was going on, Roo and Tigger had caught up with Eeyore, who had just figured out that he would never think of a day of the week that didn’t end in “Y” because, well, they all did, and that was pretty disappointing for some reason.

“Eeyore,” Roo squealed. “Do you want to come to the Grand Celebration tomorrow?”

“Don’t see much reason to celebrate,” Eeyore droned in his low voice. “But thanks for noticin’ me all the same.”

“Come on, Long Face!” Tigger chimed in. “Everybody’s gonna be there.”

“Suppose I will,” Eeyore said. “It’s not like I have anything else to do, which I don’t.”

Owl told his friends Pooh and Piglet much the same thing, but he took a whole lot longer to say it, what with telling stories about other Grand Celebrations he was reminded of so that by the time he was finished nobody remembered for a minute or two why Piglet and Pooh had knocked on Owl’s door in the first place.

And so the Day arrived. Rabbit was wondering what time the festivities were supposed to begin and, of course, in what particular order they were to take place. But no one had bothered to establish a proper starting time. So he and his Friends and Relations stayed busy – or at least looked so.

Piglet was a bit disturbed that no one had mentioned whether Heffalumps or Woozles had been invited and was considering sending his regrets, but wasn’t quite sure whom to regret to.

Roo was getting into some sort of mischief when he was supposed to be cleaning up his room, while Kanga was hanging laundry on the line and planning meals and worrying about her boy’s safety and things.

Eeyore had been looking yet again for a lost tail when he found an especially tasty clump of thistles.

Tigger had forgotten his promise to Rabbit and was bouncing at breakneck speed toward his vegetable garden – the one that had the sign saying, “NO TRESPASING, STEELIG, OR BOUNSING.”

And Winnie the Pooh was just about to explain to Christopher Robin that today was National Honey Day or something like that. Or if not, it should be.

When all was said and done it was a fine day. But there was no Grand Celebration, even though everybody had agreed to have one.

Agreement is one thing. But sometimes agreement isn’t enough. Grand Celebrations call for something more. Something like teamwork and Unity. Grand Celebrations are the result of having:

One spirit – committed to mutual success.

One mind – agreed on the same goals and on the priority of those goals.

One effort – “rowing in the same direction,” toward the same prize.

“Christopher Robin,” said Winnie the Pooh to his Friend.

“Yes, Pooh?”

“Do you suppose that if tomorrow we had a party for the bees, they could bring the refreshments?”

“Silly old bear.”

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Tracing the Rainbow Through the Rain – Life After Rejection

Andy Wood — Fri, 01 Jul 2011 05:44:36 +0000

You wouldn’t have wanted to trade places with George. But bad as it was, when all was said and done, I don’t know that he’d have wanted to trade places with you, either. Years ago George Matheson was ushered into new dimensions of faith, understanding, and intimacy with the Lord. But the price he paid was beyond expensive.

It all began with the brutality of rejection.

George had his future shining in front of him. He was engaged to be married, and was pursuing a career and calling in ministry. But that bright future began to dim – literally – when George began going blind. When his fiancé learned that the doctors gave him no hope for a cure, she ended the engagement, saying she couldn’t go through life taking care of a blind man.

I don’t know of a loneliness more devastating and bitter than that of rejection. Matheson had to learn to do without a woman he had come to feel he couldn’t live without. What’s more, he had to live with the piercing thoughts that taunted him incessantly:

“You deserved to be rejected.”

“You’re not worthy to be loved.”

“You will never be loved. Who would want you?”

In spite of the pain, George continued to pursue his vision of a life in ministry. And his grief, rather than turning into bitter resentment against the lady who caused it, was transformed.

Whatever else he was, George was no hymn writer. But the night before his sister’s wedding, as Matheson reflected on what he had lost, but what he had gained in the love of God, he penned the words to a hymn that through the years has brought hope and comfort to broken people everywhere. It was one of those moments, George testified later, when the words flowed so quickly that five minutes later he was done, and the lyrics have remained untouched.

The profound and simple words George wrote to O Love That Wilt Not Let Me Go show how a broken, rejected man was changed by the steadfast, immovable, abundant love of God. Read them. Slow-ly…

O Love that wilt not let me go,

I rest my weary soul in Thee;

I give Thee back the life I owe

That in Thine ocean depths it flow

May richer, fuller be.

In his pain, Matheson found in the heart of God a love that would hold him stubbornly and firmly. He found a place where he could rest and not feel like a burden. He found Someone who was worthy of his total commitment and his steadfast confidence.

O Light that followest all my way,

I yield my flickering torch to Thee;

My heart restores its borrowed ray,

That in Thy sunshine’s blaze its day

May brighter, fairer be.

In our times of loneliness and rejection, we often experience confusion. Where do I go now? What do I do today? But in the midst of our confusion, when our own “torch” seems to yield so little light, there is a Light that follows us – a Sun whose rays brighten the way for us.

O Joy that seekest me through pain,

I cannot close my heart to Thee;

I trace the rainbow through the rain,

And feel the promise is not vain

That morn shall tearless be.

There is a joy that seeks you through your pain. Isn’t it tragic that so many of us close our hearts to it? When the way seems the darkest, and the heart seems the most desolate, it’s possible to “trace the rainbow through the rain.” And there you will find a reminder that in heaven there is no panic – only praise. And the promise of the tearless morning soon to come.

O Cross that liftest up my head,

I dare not ask to fly from Thee;

I lay in dust life’s glory dead,

And from the ground there blossoms red

Life that shall endless be.

In the midst of our rejection there comes a reminder: Jesus knows what it’s like. He was the most rejected man who ever lived. And the same Jesus who understands the pain of our rejection and loneliness also wants us to experience the transforming power of His cross. And your rejection may well be one of the nails that hold you there.

Rejection isn’t always the final kind. Sometimes it comes in the form of criticism or harsh words from others. One day I ran across a verse in Proverbs that deals with the words of other people: “The refining pot is for silver and the furnace for gold, And a man is valued by what others say of him” (Proverbs 27:21).

The words of others about you have the same effect as the refining pot on silver or the furnace on gold. They purify you! They increase your value. Sometimes those words are positive and encouraging. Sometimes they are negative and critical. Sometimes they are based on the truth, and sometimes on a lie. Sometimes they “help” and sometimes they “hurt.” But in God’s hands, they always increase your value!

You don’t have to like rejection in order to embrace it. Rejection may come disguised as your enemy, but in God’s hands and in His stubborn love, it can be one of your best friends and wisest teachers.

There really is a love that won’t let you go. Ever.

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A Heart Once Captured Will Never Let Go

Andy Wood — Mon, 23 May 2011 15:59:37 +0000

You wouldn’t have known from meeting Martha the first time that her life had been a sinking ship. Rewind from the near-poverty this single mother of two sons lived to the day she walked away from her “covering” – an abusive, controlling religious system. Go back a bit further to the time her minister husband left her for another woman. If you dare, rewind a bit more to the night she and her husband came home to find their third son, Matthew, dead in his crib from SIDS.

Life had not been kind. But you wouldn’t know it from the courageous smile, the ox-like willingness to work, and the radiant joy she had in her relationship with Jesus Christ. Sure, Martha had her moments, and could cry with the worst of ‘em. But a heart so captured by the grace of God will cling to it, even when everything else seems lost.

I once asked her why she didn’t just walk away, since loving and serving God had been so costly. I don’t remember any words – just the look on her face that let me know I had just asked the most absurd question possible.

A heart once captured will never let go.

Memos From the Cell

Talk about a captured heart! A man writes from prison to friends in another town where he’d been arrested, beaten, and imprisoned. He was 60-plus years old and his life had seen what he described elsewhere as “troubles, hardships, difficulties, beaten, jailed, and mobbed.” Why was he still so joyful? Let Paul answer that question himself:

I do not claim that I have already succeeded or have already become perfect. I keep striving to win the prize for which Christ Jesus has already won me to himself (Philippians 3:12, GNT).

Paul had more than a bull-headed determination or a narrow-minded obsession. He had a captured heart, and an unquenchable love. And a heart so captured would never let go.

A Winter Soul-stice?

There will always be a reason to close the door on your heart…

-Your dreams are exhausted by time…

-Your faith is challenged by the distance you still have to travel…

-Your vision is blurred by fear or loneliness…

-Your passion is seared by grief or soured by disappointment…

Live long enough, and sooner or later you will encounter that moment when nobody – nobody – would blame you for icing down your heart and settling in for winter soul-stice. After all, that’s the easy thing to do…

-Just assume nobody really sees you.

-Just decide nobody actually feels what you feel.

-Just resign yourself to a world where the distance between you and your dreams are impossibly long, and the spaces in the heart for love and peace are reserved for somebody else.

After all, isn’t all that – the love, the peace, the fulfillment, the understanding – isn’t all that supposed to be effortless?

Hardly. But sometimes it’s just easier not to get your hopes up, and to retreat to the safety of life in an emotional closet.

But see, here’s the deal… Wherever you are, even in your self-imposed closet, the Captor of your heart can find you. Reveal Himself to you. Gently restore your capacity to feel something other than pain. Reel in the imagined distance between you. Touch your heart with first love again. Reveal truth that transcends the “facts.” Calm your fears with the steadfast wonder of His presence. Open the door of your heart again. And give you love-borne strength to carry on – sometimes with new dreams, new connections, new ideas and new possibilities.

The Triumphant Thaw

If your journey has been torpedoed and your heart feels like ice, or someone you care about has retreated to an emotional closet, know this: He who gave you the capacity to feel has given you also the capacity to heal. And He who bore your griefs and carried your sorrows still delights in thawing hearts imprisoned by pain.

I’ve seen it.

I’ve lived it.

A heart once captured will never let go.

I last saw Martha nearly 30 years ago. But I did read about her recently… in her obituary and life tributes. I learned that she had gone back to school and gotten a degree in religion, and was a chaplain, I think in a hospital – using her love for Jesus to help others in crisis and pain.

I’d like to tell you that life had been kinder and gentler in the last 30 years. But Martha had lived long enough to bury her other two sons. And the last five years of her life she waged a faith war against the cancer that relentlessly attacked her body.

Her body lost. But her fearless, captured heart was gloriously triumphant. It lives on in lives she touched… and in the presence of the One who never – ever – let go.

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Teachers Don’t Punch Time Clocks

Andy Wood — Mon, 03 Jan 2011 10:13:28 +0000

(From the forthcoming book, Coach Lightning)

Mention Morris Brown’s name around Jones County, Mississippi to anybody who knew him, and they’ll probably reply, “Oh, you mean Coach?” Not much chance of somebody piping up and saying, “He was my Social Studies teacher!”

But don’t let the labels fool you. Coach was always a teacher at heart. And while a football field or basketball court may have been his favorite classrooms, they certainly weren’t his only ones. There were precious few, if any, specialists in rural education in the 1950s. But that was fine with Coach Brown. He willingly embraced teachable moments wherever the situation called for it.

Just ask Dale Holifield, who grew up on a small farm in Jones County. At age 11, Dale was so shy he could have been considered antisocial. Outside of farming, he participated in very few activities. Even when he went hunting and fishing, he usually did it alone. All of that changed one summer day at the W. C. Houston grocery store, across from Shady Grove School. Dale was getting a cold RC cola to drink and chatting with Bubba Houston, the store owner’s son. The time came for Bubba to go to baseball practice, and he invited Dale to come along. Dale reluctantly accepted, and joined Bubba at the small practice field behind Bubba’s house. Hoping not to be noticed, Dale took a seat on the ground under a shade tree to watch the practice.

He didn’t sit very long.

Coach Brown meandered over and began asking the painfully shy boy some questions, the most important of which was, “Do you want to play ball?”

It wasn’t but a few minutes until Dale was holding a bat in his hands for the first time in his life. Hitting something, however, was a different story. As usual, Coach was nothing but encouraging. “You’ve got a good cut,” he said to Dale, “just keep your eye on the ball.”

Here’s how Dale describes the impact of his teacher and coach:

“I did make the team and I did get to where I could hit the ball every now and then. I think what I just described would be very small and insignificant to most people, but I know it changed me for the rest of my life. I know Coach had that kind of impact on everyone that came in contact with him. “

The best teachers genuinely care for their students; Coach Brown was no exception. Martha McLemore was a majorette with Coach Brown’s daughter Pam, and would often spend the night at the Brown home. At home, at school, and on band trips together, Martha says that Coach had a way of picking at students that made them feel completely at home. She adds, “He was so loved around school, he was just everybody’s friend.”

“Because of his coaching I learned to understand the games of football, basketball, and baseball and I still enjoy watching each today,” says Hilder Grace Houston. “Not only was he my teacher, coach, school bus driver, County Beat 1 Supervisor, he was a friend as well.”

Aubrey and Sue Carol Green are also among the many who testify to this day of the way Morris loved his students and players. Aubrey, who has been on both sides of the teacher-student relationship, once said, “If you can get a child to like you, that child will give you his best.” Commenting on this, Sue Carol adds:

“That was the gift Coach Brown had, and my guess is, he never knew it. He genuinely loved me and I knew it. There is probably not a kid he coached that didn’t feel the same way. Now that is a real legacy.”

However loved he was, however, Coach didn’t sacrifice discipline and excellence on the altar of popularity. There was a proper way to go about things (particularly in the 1950s), and Morris understood and taught that. Linda Shoemaker Tally was a Shady Grove cheerleader for one of Coach Brown’s championship Shady Grove teams. She recalls the privilege it was to ride the football bus to games.

“Coach would always make us sit at the front of the bus away from the players as those players had to keep their minds strictly on the task at hand… winning the game! On a few occasions after a BIG win, he would allow us to sit with the players. We were always good because we knew that Coach would be checking frequently in the mirror as he drove the bus most of the time. Any mess up and we would lose the privilege of riding the bus. Coach felt responsible and did not want anything to happen to us under his supervision.”

After the Jones County schools consolidated, Morris was named Athletic Director and head football coach at West Jones. A long way from that first season at Shady Grove, when he suited up 13 players, he had 120 to choose from in 1965. From that, he had to whittle the roster down to 65 players, and do so in a fair and equitable way. Finding the balance, the results speak for themselves. In the first two football seasons ever at West Jones, Coach Brown led them to two conference titles, two county titles, and two bowl game victories. Bill Glenn, who was on those teams, says:

“Coach Brown was without a doubt the best person as well as the best coach I ever played for…. He was a great leader and a great coach. Coach Brown was very competitive and loved to win, but never at the expense of trying to hurt a player of the opposing team. He taught us the real meaning of sportsmanship whether we won or lost. I will never forget the things he did for me and I will never forget him.”

One of the most remarkable qualities of the best teachers is the way they mentor other aspiring teachers to excellence of their own. In that sense, Aubrey Green’s experience is second to none. A student at Shady Grove during his junior and senior years, Morris was his basketball coach. After graduating, Aubrey went to Mississippi State University, where he majored in secondary education. He returned to Shady Grove for his student teaching, where none other than Coach Lightning was his supervisor.

“I remember the first day and first class which was a social studies class. Coach Brown called the roll, introduced me to the class, handed me the textbook and class roll book and then said, ‘I have something to do in the gym.’ He never came back to the class. He started me off right, as I was on my own! Everything went well for me and Coach made the experience a pleasure.

After completing his student teaching requirement, Aubrey was offered a teaching position at Shady Grove beginning the next school year, which happened to be the high school’s last. But when the schools consolidated, Morris hired Aubrey as an assistant football coach, track and junior high basketball coach.

Eight years later Aubrey Green was transferred back to Shady Grove Elementary School. He and his brother James coached the football team. The next year, who should return to Shady Grove but Aubrey’s mentor? He helped the Green brothers coach football that year. Aubrey says, “He was a great help to us because of his many years of high school coaching experience.”

Teachers don’t punch time clocks. As such, they often influence students without realizing it. It is remarkable to me that many of the stories that are retold again and again come, not from the boys on Coach’s teams, but from the girls. Like this one from Jill Glenn:

Coach was very competitive and would always find a way to win those games. My senior year after the spring game… we asked the coaches if we could have a Powder Puff football game. The coaches agreed and they were our referees. On the last play of regulation time, I picked up a fumble and raced 98 yards for the winning score. Two of the coaches raced beside me and as we crossed goal line, they raised both arms to signal a touchdown! I don’t think any of the opposing team even gave chase. Even though I was on the sideline and just a cheerleader, I learned by watching Coach Brown’s championship coaching that a fumble was a live ball and could not end the game! After all, I had been around Coach Brown’s winning teams since his early years at Shady Grove.

One more thought. Teaching is an exercise (and often a test) in patience. And in the crucible of athletic events, the pressure can get to the best of coaches. But not Coach Brown. Repeatedly his players have testified that they never heard him use foul language or mistreat a student or player. Hilder Grace Houston adds, “He was always kind, never showing he was upset when you goofed up. He would just turn red in the face, scratch his head and smile.”

I’m picturing that… and smiling, too.

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Force of Nature, Face of God

Andy Wood — Thu, 16 Dec 2010 05:41:24 +0000

(The 12 Ways of Christmas, Part 10 – The Way of Mourning)

Joan Hightower was a force of nature. At least that’s what the folks in Savannah would tell you.

Need something done? Calling Joan is like money in the bank. Problem solver, morale officer, executive earth shaker – no challenge seemed too big. She could plan the battle, lead the charge, cheer on the troops, bandage the wounds and make the refreshments – all with a convincing, contagious can-do attitude.

A 16-year veteran of widowhood, this impressive package of inspired living could run circles around women half her age. And men? Joan would just laugh.

She was the first woman to sit on the board of directors at Savannah’s First National Bank, taking her husband Tom’s seat after his death. She was the first female president of the Chamber of Commerce. An active volunteer in both church and community life, Joan’s many awards and honors spoke volumes about her value and influence.

Everybody wanted to be like Joan. Or at least be near her when she was being like Joan.

Rise Above

News flash: No one admires another person because of how easy his or her life is. They admire them because of the obstacles they have overcome. Joan was no exception. She had a history of rising to any occasion – and doing so with winsome flair.

When her mother died a month before her wedding day, Joan finished organizing the wedding herself and made it a fitting tribute to her mother’s memory and dreams.

When she miscarried twice in the first four years of her married life, she responded in faith and trust, refusing to allow death to have the final word on her dreams to be a mother.

When Tom became sick with multiple myeloma at age 41, she took the roles of caregiver and managing partner of his real estate investment company.

When her son Greg was accused of financial impropriety and insurance fraud, Joan held her head and humor high, despite the personal embarrassment and disappointment.

When she was forced to fire or retire three long-time, faithful employees because of the recent turbulence in the real estate market and the economy, she did so with as much kindness and dignity as she possibly could – even helping one of them find another job quickly.

That was Joan.

So when she chose the week of Thanksgiving to have what she called “a minor abdominal surgical procedure,” no one thought that much of it, really. Joan promised she’d be there with bells on (literally) in time for the lighting of the city’s “holiday” tree on December 1. And there she was, even if she was moving at just the speed of mere mortals.

She didn’t tell anybody about the pain.

But when the hurt and swelling around her incision got worse rather than better, Dr. Garrett decided it was time for an encore. Intra-abdominal abscess, he had called it. Imagine Joan’s surprise when she woke up – not to the sight of new bandages over a set of stitches, but to a screen covering a hole in her abdomen the size of South Carolina.

At least that’s how Joan described it.

And to make matters worse, there was nothing Joan could do to fix it but lie there. For days. With Christmas on the way and family coming in and food to prepare and decorating and gift wrapping and more cooking and church activities and doesn’t God know what month it is?

The Screen

Bruce Welker had been Joan’s pastor and friend for six years. He had seen this woman in a variety of situations. But nothing had prepared him for what he saw that Thursday when he knocked on the door of Room 310 at Georgia Regional and heard the familiar voice say, “Come in.”

Joan Hightower was bewildered.

Propped up in the hospital bed, hands resting at her sides, staring off into confused space, Joan had nothing to do. There were no meetings, no contracts to sign, nothing to promote, no ribbons to cut. The many (many!) cards and flowers had been read and arranged in the room. TV was a nuisance, so it remained off.

All she had to do was lie there and literally heal from the inside out. She couldn’t leave the hospital with an open wound. And the wound couldn’t heal on the outside until it healed from within.

“I have a rotten gut,” she said to Bruce.

“Well, it couldn’t happen to a nicer girl,” the pastor quipped. “What do you mean?”

“Dr. Garrett said there was literally nothing to attach the sutures to. That I’d had this condition for a long time and it was literally eating me away.”

“So what’s the solution?” he asked.

“Time,” she said with an exasperated sigh. “And I do not have time for this. It’s Christmas, for crying out loud.”

“Yeah, God forbid there’s a day in December with nothing for you to do,” Bruce said teasingly. “Who’s gonna keep the world turning now?”

The conversation turned to her now-uncertain plans for Christmas, then to family. Which children and grandchildren were coming? What family traditions did they have?

“When the kids were little, I was all function and Tom was all fun,” Joan said. “Their favorite memories to this day are the Twelve Little Adventures he would do every year on the 12 days leading up to Christmas Day. He was so creative until the chemo killed it.”

That led to the story Bruce had never heard his friend tell – of the sickness and death of Tom Hightower, who was as respected in the community as his wife had become.

“I remember after he died,” Joan was saying, “I jumped into solution mode. I organized the funeral, wrote thank-you notes, took care of the kids, and made sure the business kept moving. I guess…” her voice trailed off.

“You guess what?”

“I was just thinking… I guess I’ve been in solution mode ever since.”

“Didn’t you have support?” Bruce asked.

“Oh, people were wonderful,” Joan said quickly, “and so encouraging. In fact, over and over again for weeks I heard the same thing. People kept telling me how good I was doing at handling everything, I just kept being… well… good.”

“And the mourning?” Bruce asked. “How long did that last?”

“Same as any other morning, I guess,” Joan said. “Up early and at ‘em.”

“Not morning. MOURNING.”

There it was again – that expression of bewilderment. Followed by the look that says, “I just figured something out, but I don’t know what to do about it.”

“I guess when I think about it, I’ve never really mourned for Tom.”

“Yes. You have,” her friend said softly. “In places that weren’t designed to handle it.”

Staring Down the Losses

The Way of Christmas is the way of mourning. No one can ever fully enter into the story without staring down the losses that brought Jesus here in the first place.

We mourn the loss of our innocence; He came as the Ultimate Innocent to bear our guilt and shame.

We mourn the loss of our way; He came as the Way to set us free from eternal confusion.

We mourn the loss of truth; He came as the Truth to redeem us from the lie that gain is godliness.

We mourn the loss of life (nowhere more brutally revealed than Herod’s bloodthirsty rampage against the infant sons of his day); He came as the Life to conquer the last enemy yet to be destroyed – death.

We mourn the loss of relationships; He came as the Healer of the Breach and the Author of Forgiveness.

He came to bear our griefs and carry our sorrows. To comfort those who mourn and give them beauty for ashes, and the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness.

Unfortunately, for those who pretend that all is awesome, no comfort is available. He can’t heal what we won’t feel. Executive earth shakers need not apply. Same goes for addicts and anybody chasing a superficial kind of happiness.

But those who realize their desperate need for God and learn to “feel their feelings” before the Lord make an important discovery – it is better to have mourned and been comforted than never to have felt at all.

+++++++

Bruce said good-bye to Joan and, as was his habit, cruised past the big nursery window to check out the newest crop of church prospects. On the way to the car, he realized he’d left his jacket in Joan’s room, and went back to get it.

From far down the hall, Bruce could hear the strangest, most beautiful Christmas carol he ever heard. It was the sound of Savannah’s most admired woman, with no one left to impress, lifting up uncontrollable sobs in wave after wave of grief.

It was the sound of the breeding ground of comfort and joy.

This was Holy Ground, and Bruce knew better than to interrupt.

“I don’t really need a jacket anyway,” he thought to himself.

Suddenly the December wind didn’t seem so cold.

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4-T

Andy Wood — Mon, 29 Nov 2010 10:00:21 +0000

(The Twelve Ways of Christmas, Part 8 – The Way of Sharing)

(Note: Last year I started a series of stories titled The Twelve Ways of Christmas. Hopefully this year I will complete it. If you’d like to go back to where it all began, click here.)

K-Mart. It was the one place in Oak Ridge that David Carpenter knew would still be open Christmas Eve as he observed his years-of-time-honored tradition of last-minute shopping. Having made his way down every single aisle (also an annual ritual) and tossing in unique stocking stuffers, David now stood waiting his turn in the checkout line.

Behind him, Maria Martinez laughed with her brother Aaron as the two of them had gathered some last-minute items themselves. Aaron had a handful of stocking stuffers for his two boys; Maria was delighted that her niece, Sophie, would be joining the large family celebration. She was also excited that her new job as a lab technician had finally enabled her to be as generous with her gifts as she’d always been with her 22-year-old heart. Both were oblivious to the nicely-dressed man who waited and watched in front of them.

David watched as the random assortment of items passed across the scanner. The monotone beep of the cash register intruded on the sound of Brenda Lee singing “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree” on the in-store sound system. Lightly touching the end of his items, a pretty red plaid little girl’s dress with a white turtleneck shirt glided across the conveyer belt. With one part of his mind, David could see where this was headed. With another, he was lost in thought as he gazed that the tag that read in bold letters, 4-T.

Rewind: One Hour

For most of his adult life, David Carpenter admitted that he knew a lot more about making money than he did about making friends or manning his post in a family. Neither a boast nor a whine, David’s often-repeated statement was truth as he understood it. That’s not to say he didn’t care about people, or had no friends at all. David was the kind of man that made the mid-fifties look good. He had superb people skills, a very handsome appearance, and the air of someone who not just knew how to get what he wanted, but one who had already achieved it.

None of that was much comfort as the slow-motion eclipse known as Christmas Eve descended on Oak Ridge, and on David Carpenter’s life. Business and travel had hit the pause button, and David sat in his recliner, alone in his exquisite home. Still dressed immaculately from the Christmas Eve service at his church, David strategically pondered his next move. As long as the wheels of commerce ground on, David had plenty to keep him busy. But now there was nothing to do but feel.

Feel the loss of his wife of 16 years, to cancer, this past August.
Feel the emptiness that comes from a life that dispassionately burned bridges behind every meaningful relationship.
Feel the odd contrasts of a showplace home, morphed into a living tomb.
Feel the confusion that comes from not knowing what to do at Christmas, when there is no one to share it with.
Feel the awkward grief that comes from losing more than just a wife, but also a lifestyle, comforts and traditions that she had almost always seen to by herself.

And that was David’s strategic dilemma. What to do about tradition. For years this too-busy entrepreneur and executive had turned a last-minute shopping emergency into a bragged-on tradition. His comfortable financial status always made generosity possible; David was good for that, particularly with his church and local charities. He was also good to buy Tara the nice-ticket items that made Christmas a grand parade of things. The new living room furniture, the kitchen makeover, and the 2002 Ford Thunderbird were all big gestures. But over time, it was the Christmas Eve run that Tara had laughed and talked about most.

But the one thing David couldn’t buy was a cure. His driven workaholism couldn’t cure cancer. Nor could it fix that part of him that was long on making impressions, but so short on intimacy.

David knew a nice Christmas turkey dinner awaited him tomorrow in Knoxville at his sister’s house. He looked forward to seeing her and her children, as they were now “officially” his only living relatives.

Unofficially, there was Kelsey.

The last time David had seen her, the four-year-old little girl in the red plaid dress had sung “Santa Claus is Coming to Town” for him. Days later, her mother – tired of being the “other woman,” and weary of the empty promises of a dream chaser – took David’s biological daughter to Florida. There she had eventually married a fine Christian man who had adopted, with David’s consent, his little girl. True to form, once again, David had dispassionately walked away.

Over time, David had made his peace, first with God, then with a woman he had grown to love – an executive recruiter named Tara Stallings. Like her husband, Tara was driven. Unlike him, she’d had enough relationship-building glue for the both of them to hold their home and marriage together.

Christmas is for Sharing

For David Carpenter, tonight there was no logical reason to make his storied traditional run. Though he had agreed, for psychological purposes, to allow the professional decorator to work her magic in the house, the stockings hanging by the fireplace looked particularly empty.

Framing all his thoughts and feelings this night were the words spoken by the pastor at this evening’s service. He had mentioned that the events surrounding the birth of Jesus had one common effect – they created a desire in all the major players to share.

Joseph and Mary shared their time – willing to have their entire lives detoured by the incarnation of the Son of God.
Joseph shared his talent – teaching his Stepson what He could do, literally and figuratively, with some wood and nails.
A band of Iranian (Persian) astrologers shared their treasure – offering exquisite gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh.
The shepherds, Simeon, Anna, Joseph and Mary shared their testimonies – declaring by their own initiative what God had done and how He had included them in the Plan of the Ages.

The Way of Christmas, the pastor had said, is the Way of Sharing. And the pathways for sharing the joy involved the “Four T’s” – time, talent, treasure, and testimony. And for David Carpenter, somebody lit a candle in his heart.

David had not lived a joyless life. But often without realizing it, he had spent most of his life defining his joy in solo terms. “Joy” was the result of whatever he could take from God’s hand and en-joy back in his cave, alone. Boy, had he limited himself. Joy was meant for – and the result of – sharing. And it had precious little to do with how he had defined success or happiness.

Back to the Future

Wandering through the discount store, David’s heart had felt an unfamiliar pain that extended beyond the typical waves of grief or loneliness. For the first time ever, he ached to find a way to redeem his past. To somehow break the seal and return to yesterday to undo what his selfish choices had done. Haunted by the logic of too-little-too-late, he nevertheless pressed on – filling the cart with items for no one, for reasons that made perfectly good sense to him. Somebody, he figured, could use the little magnetic picture frame. And who wouldn’t enjoy Hershey’s chocolate?

And there, resting on the conveyer with the hand lotion and scented candles, a little girl’s red plaid dress and white turtleneck shirt made its way toward the scanner.

David knew where this was going.

As the young woman behind him, who appeared to be about Kelsey’s age, laughed with her companion, the cashier held the dress up to David.

“Is this yours, too?” she asked, just in time for Maria to say, “Oh, no” – and David to smile and nod.

“Merry Christmas,” the full-hearted man said to Maria quietly.

Shocked at such a gesture from a total stranger, Maria Martinez asked, “Sir, are you sure?”

David just smiled.

“Ma’am, do you need a copy of the receipt for yourself?” the cashier asked, all-business.

“Uh, no… no,” Maria stammered. “Sir, thank you so much!”

“My joy,” David replied – still smiling.

“Could I give you a hug?” Maria asked, making her way around David’s basket.

“Hugs are free,” he said, holding her warmly. “Merry Christmas,” he repeated.

Fast Forward

David Carpenter emptied the contents of his shopping bags on the kitchen table back home. Opening the packet of note cards, he sat down to write:

Dear Kelsey,

You probably don’t remember me, since it’s been 18 years since we last met. I have no idea where you are, how you are, or if this letter will ever even find you. But there were some things I just HAD to share….

“Do not be afraid; for behold, I bring you good news of great joy which will be for all the people” [starting with the people in your own life] – “for today in the city of David….”