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I got fired. I’d like to tell you why.
Just before I started grad school, I got a sales job with a unique premise. “Come to work for my janitorial company,” Sergio said, “and I will pay you a commission for as long as we clean the building.”
Remember that thing your mama told you about something sounding too good to be true? Yeah, that.
Living in a city the size of Fort Worth, I could easily see the potential for making some really good money for a long time. After all, the city was filled with office buildings, and that was the focus of Fort Worth Enterprises – particularly the big ones.
You can imagine how my eyes danced with dollar signs when I helped land the company’s first big account – no less than Hulen Mall. [click to continue…]
I want to tell you how a man invested in his future, and in mine. It happened nearly 15 years ago. He was in West Texas, I was in Memphis. Limited by distance, I was forced to have The Talk with him on the phone. It was a talk I dreaded.
This man was my father-in-law.
I had brought a lot of pain into his life and his family. And to say they were hurt and angry about it is putting it mildly.
I knew that in order to move on in a healing process in my life, I had to face up to some pretty serious mistakes – sins – and he and his family were the victims of a lot of that. I knew that regardless of what I would hear or how he would respond, I had to have The Talk.
Did I mention that I dreaded making that call? [click to continue…]
This is not a picture of God. It’s a picture of a Nanga Sadhu, or naked Hundu holy man. His face and body are smeared with ashes and he’s breathing out marijuana, not brimstone.
But look again.
I think in a lot of people’s minds, when they think of God, an image sort of like this emerges.
Angry.
Ashen.
Fire-breathing.
Other people imagine the opposite extreme [click to continue…]
It was that time again. Time to plan the annual Men’s Rafting Trip in Colorado. I had taken a group of fifty men a year earlier and discovered how some guys get the nickname “Bob” when they go rafting.
That’s all I want to say about that.
Now as I pulled out the file, I came across the list of men who had gone with me. What a difference 12 months had made! I was amazed at the profound changes so many of them had witnessed.
- Three had been fired from their work.
- One had quit his job and was unemployed for four months.
- One man endured an extended season of severe depression.
- Another had faced a dangerous autoimmune disease and was out of work for several weeks.
- One man’s career was at a dead end.
- Three others lost their businesses.
- One left for another state with no job in sight.
Put in Biblical language, “their brooks had dried up.” That is, they looked to a means by which God had provided for them in the past – health, strength, job, career – only to discover that the resource was no longer available.
Little did I know as I scanned that list that I, too, would soon face a drought of my own. Up until that time my ministry was fairly evenly split between an itinerant ministry and a part-time pastoral staff position. Within a matter of weeks, my traveling ministry had dwindled to two continuous months of inactivity. Then the church where I had served for four years terminated me, along with a number of other staff members, because of budgetary restraints.
Downsized! [click to continue…]
It was a momentous day, and I thought I knew why. Boy, did I have another thing coming.
It happened on an early morning in late August 1976. I was about to enter a new phase in my life called “college.” And today was registration day.
Preparations for this day had begun several years earlier. I was blessed to have one of those life-changer teachers in high school who saw it as her mission, partly, to give us a taste of what university life would be like. And I have to say, thanks to her, to whatever degree I may have dissed schoolwork in high school, I had my game face on now.
This was college. This was serious.
Advisors and friends had also prepared me for what to expect when freshmen show up at registration.
“You want what class? Nice try. That class closed when the sophomores came through here yesterday.”
Nevertheless, I had made out a schedule, and thought it was a good fit for me. I was excited. But I also wanted to be teachable and flexible.
Oh yeah, and godly.
So before I left for the campus, I knelt beside my bed and laid out my pre-designed schedule in front of me. And I began to pray. My prayer went something like this: [click to continue…]
I hated Ann Finch.
Three times she sent me to the principal’s office, and two of those times I emerged with a butt-on-fire.
One time she made me stay after school in an Ann-imposed detention. I lied to my mother and told her I needed to stay late because of band. When she picked me up, who should be walking out of the building but Miss Finch? She tattled on me, and then it was double trouble.
Once I ended the grading period with an 89.4 average. She gave me a “B” for the quarter. One lousy stinking tenth of a point! Too bad. She wouldn’t budge.
I liked Ann Finch.
Probably for the wrong reasons, but I liked her nonetheless. She was so easy to pick on. [click to continue…]
“I can’t hear in that ear.”
As long as I knew her, Mama was deaf in her right ear. Because of that she was always sensitive to multi-sensory sound. “I can’t stand all this noise,” she would say as the TV, piano, stereo, and/or people talking (I usually had some role in most of that) all converged at one place. Most often, though, I encountered that deafness when I wanted to whisper something SECRET in her ear as a child.
I can still hear in both ears, but I don’t know that I’ve ever been more aware of a cacophony of sound as I am today.
Lubbock to DFW
I guess I may have slept a total of two hours. There were the calls. The updated information. The relaying of information to my adult kids, and back. The processing. The adrenaline rush of a life-in-crisis that demands action. Now! Sleep, miles, and other needs be damned.
This morning I’m feeling general anger at every phone call, interruption, or other delay. It’s never convenient when the phone rings. But today, it feels downright rude. Unless I’m the one calling, of course.
My sister calls while I’m in the security line. She tells me the neurosurgeon has come in and said there is nothing they can do. “He said if they take her off the respirator, she could last until you get here this afternoon…”
“No, don’t wait,” I say. [click to continue…]
From our Fifth Anniversary Celebration
Walk inside my office and look to the left, just under the big window. There you will find one of my most cherished possessions. It’s an original framed caricature of a lion inside a cardboard box. It was given to me for Christmas 2003 by two dear friends. And it’s the kind of thing that when you see it, you know there’s a story behind it. And if you’re in my office for the first time, as a couple was yesterday, it’s only natural that you would ask about it.
So I thought I’d tell you the story behind it. This is the story of the Lion Dream. [click to continue…]
It was one of those unseen transactions, and I had the privilege of being the only seer. Even though this was a very public place, sometimes the public places are, well, too public. People are taking care of bid-ness, and moving about in their transes; I was no exception.
Until she walked by.
She was about 6 years old and it was about 6:00 p.m. [click to continue…]
You up for a little side trip? This one rolls down Memory Lane in a church bus with papered-up windows, wide-eyed teenagers, and me in handcuffs in the back of a police car. This is the (true) story of what happens when non-planning randomizers like me actually take the time to plan something. This is the story of The Underground Project.
Once upon a time (hey, I said it was a story), I was a youth pastor in Lumberton, Mississippi. I was fairly new, and school had just let out for summer. For the folks at First Baptist Church, that meant one thing: Vacation Bible School. And I was expected to have something each night for the youth group. So I planned to do something unique and special each evening. Can’t remember which night it was for sure – I think it was Tuesday. But on the promotional information, I said very little. I just said come later – at 8:30 – for The Underground Project.
Use your imagination. Be an energetic teenager in a small, south Mississippi town in the early summer. You arrive at the church to see a painted sign attached to the chain link fence that says, Closed by Order of the State. (What’s funny about that is that the old church building actually had a bad flood/mold problem and had been ordered closed within a year or so.)
Ex-pec-tant and excited, you enter the fellowship hall, where you are asked to have a seat and wait for instructions. Then in groups of 6 or 7, you are invited into a room. There I explain that I have some important information for you. [click to continue…]
