Mark Boone: God2me4u

“You’re out!”
“I am not! He made me miss!” The 6 to 7 year- olds know every by-law and codicil in the rule book of “wallball”. I don’t know this game, so I stood on the playground of Lake Shore Elementary school watching recess, enjoying the sun on my face and the challenge of learning the nuances of the sport by observing these newly forming little members of society. I have watched before but it takes more than once because an adult cannot immediately see the invisible boundaries that the children all know.
My interest is not casual. My son is one of the boys. We have just had lunch with a hundred other noisy 1st graders in the cafeteria, and now it is time for Aaron and his schoolmates to impress “Aarons dad” with their wallball skills. “Watch, Aarons dad,” one hollers. “Did you see that, Aarons dad?” “Good job, honey” I say. “You’re good”. Aaron is very interested in impressing the old man too, which delights me (although I don’t show it as much as say, his mom). He’s cool like his dad, but I can see his glances in my direction at times, and that delights me too. He thinks I’m watching the rest of the world – and I am- but I’m aware of every move of this precious child God has given me.
The kids have to take turns because only 3 at a time play until one misses; then he is out and the next player rushes in. To me it is nothing short of chaos, but the kids know when a rule is broken or the ball bounces OB. When a disagreement occurs an informal hearing is held, shouting ensues, a majority is determined and the game is back on - all in 5 seconds or less. The grieving plaintiff weeps on the sideline and endures his loss of position and power for roughly the same length of time; then his hopes soar in anticipation of his next shot at the big time.
When his turn came Aaron ran in excitedly. The ball came to him, but a bigger player stepped in front of him and he missed it. The kid had done it on purpose so Aaron would be out, and I hurt for him as I watched my disappointed son turn as quickly as he had entered and go back to the sideline. “Don’t sweat it Dad”, I thought. “He’ll get another chance.” He didn’t say a word about it – just waited for his next turn. I was pulling hard for him when he ran in again, but this time the same kid hit the ball that Aaron was supposed to hit way over his head. He didn’t even have a chance to hit it, but he was out! Again he turned and returned to the sideline without a word. I saw him glance at me, and I pretended not to see. I was glad my sunglasses hid my eyes, and the hurt and anger and pride they surely betrayed.
By the time his next turn came the mean kid was gone. Some of the other kids had rebelled. There had been an uprising and a mutiny; the people had spoken and the tyrant was deposed! And in this daddys heart the band played, the crowds cheered and the guns saluted!
NOW- given a fresh, fair opportunity Aaron didn’t miss. Time after time he scrambled for his position and hit the ball till others missed, and he got to rule the court for several minutes - until the whistle blew and he was whisked away back to class, leaving me alone in the schoolyard with autumn leaves blowing around me. My heart was full of love as my mind replayed the moments I had just been allowed to share with my boy. I had not reacted to any of it, and except for an occasional “Good shot son” I had been a silent observer. I was proud of Aaron, not simply for the good shots he had made but mostly for his quiet handling of his hurt when he was treated unfairly. For his not lashing out. For his not GIVING UP!
Then the gentle breeze of the Spirit whispered to me of the gladness that surely comes to the heart of God when we persevere THROUGH the pain. In times when we are sure that God is barely a casual observer of the unfairness, the injustice. When we look for Him to intervene again and again and He’s always looking the other way. When our souls and minds cry out, “Daddy… why don’t you do something?”
And yet somehow, some way, as we grit our teeth and steel our commitment, and our faith STILL reaches out and believes the God who said “I will NEVER leave you nor forsake you”, the mighty heart of God swells with love and pride for His precious, precious child. As much as I fiercely love and protect my son, Gods Holy Word says “ …how much more will our Father in Heaven…” love and protect us. And as much as we shine when we sing the high note- score the goal - win the race … all of Heaven rejoices when we just quietly, faithfully, immovably persevere.

meb

“What a perfect crisp fall morning for a walk”, I mused as I briskly moved the 20 (or so) pounds I hoped to lose along the quiet, tree-lined streets. They were damp from the latest October rain, but right now with the kids in school and most people at work the fresh air was all mine. My body and spirit breathed it in deeply as I explored a neighborhood or two, acknowledging the occasional passerby. I prayed as I walked – mostly thoughts of gratitude and commitment to God, affirmations of my faith, requests for Divine guidance and help for myself and others… just a really, really great way to start the day.
I completed the self-imposed quota, but a downward glance at my gut and the beauty of the moment inspired me to continue on to the busier street ahead. I moved happily down the sidewalk, pausing to pet a big friendly dog and exchange pleasantries with his big friendly owner. Further down the street I met two orange-vested workers with tapes and survey gear, and comfortably jawed with them a bit.
I was beginning to tire, so after walking through one particularly nice addition I turned and headed for home. The construction guys were gone, and the gal and the dog had also moved on. However, in the distance I could see a man on a bicycle approaching on the same sidewalk I was on. The sidewalk was narrow, with bushes on one side and the street on the other, but I knew the cyclist would exit the sidewalk on the next driveway approach and ride past me in the beautiful bike lane specifically created for bicycles and conveniently located directly adjacent to the sidewalk upon which I was walking.
When the cell-phone gabbing loud-mouthed 30-something was ten feet from me I stopped, squeezed against the bushes and prepared to defend myself. I glared at him as he whizzed past on the sidebike- er,-sideWALK continuing to blab.
What an inconsiderate jerk! He coulda hurt me! I shoulda just knocked him off his bike into the street.
No, I couldn’t do that. That would be physical violence. Hmm. What a jerk.
I shoulda quick and flinched toward him when he was real close, made him jump and swerve - he mighta wrecked!
No… I couldn’t do that either. ”Lord, why am I so mad at this guy?” Suddenly it occurs to me that I am not at all like Jesus right now.
Well, at least I coulda waited ‘til he was right by me, then roared, “GOD LOVES YOU AND SO DO I” right in his face!
No… but at least now I’m laughing. And I walked a little slower the rest of the way home.
I know my attitude was not what Jesus’ would be. I have asked for forgiveness for my thoughts of retribution, and prayed for each person on my walk, including the selfish cyclist. I have also been gently reminded that in the past I have taken all of those courses of action, have had to deal with the consequences, and many times have lost a little more respect- from myself and others. And what is clearer to me now is that while I am not like Jesus now, I am more like him now than I was then.

meb

What happens in Vegas…
I’ve never been to Las Vegas, but I feel like I have. I suppose even in third world countries, Las Vegas, Nevada is the most visually recognizable city in America, maybe even above our nation’s capitol and New York City. I would go if I needed to, or if I had a good reason. I’m neither afraid of it nor seduced by it; but I have the feeling that the communication between my mind and my soul would be distorted there, and I value that interaction highly. If you like it… fine. It’s just not on my gotta-see-before-I- die list.
I understand the allure of the catchy phrase, because the idea of getting away with doing something we shouldn’t is a daily attraction/distraction for us (depending on our bent to sin), but saying that “what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas” is absurd. There have to be literally millions of cameras recording non-stop from any angle even the most innocuous event, and it would be far more accurate to say,” what happens in Vegas- if it’s of any interest, is likely being instantly viewed by tens of millions of gawkers, analyzed, discussed, and dissected byte by byte minutes later, and before you awaken with a hangover, the click of a button is showing greater planet Earth what should have but (ugh) - doesn’t stay in Vegas”.
I’ve been to many lonely, desolate places… far from civilization at times: the Midwestern plains, the big skies of Montana and the Dakotas, far up in the Rockies. The loneliest place I’ve ever been is on the dark, angry Bering Sea in winter, the closest land being hundreds of miles and weeks away, and if there were a place on earth where what happened there stayed there, I am sure that was it.
But what happens in Vegas, or on the black, icy Bering, or in the thick, steamy jungles of Africa does NOT stay there.
There are careful, detailed records. One is in your mind. Another unbiased, 100 percent accurate account is in the eternal, unbreachable, indelible databanks of Heaven.
The one in your mind is tricky. It can be triggered at the most inopportune moments and uncomfortable situations. You can manipulate it to a point, and over time or with “medicine”, you can expect the shock effect to lessen. You can excuse it, rationalize it, explain it, and eventually it can ooze away into near- obscurity.
But it will never, ever, in a million, trillion years… disappear.
Nothin’ you can do about that record, so hey - ‘fess up, accept the consequences, and try not to make any more messes you know will just bite your behind later! Good news, though. The other record- that one God has- is one you can do something about. Matter of fact- you HAVE to, because choosing to ignore it is not just a choice; it is the absolute worst choice you could ever make.
Please don’t do that.
But hang on- see, there’s this miracle product that you can get, and it erases indelible, eternal ink. It can seep through the heavenly vaults, breach the databanks, and delete all that yuck and pain and hurt. I tried it and I know it works!! This product came at an incredibly high price to the Father God; it was the blood of His only Son, Jesus… that He willingly gave knowing you could turn and walk away from it. This miracle eraser is the perfect product- the only product- that when properly applied is guaranteed to permanently purge all files and copies. All you have to do is choose to let Him use it.

So… in a way… in the most important, eternal way…
whatever happened in Vegas can stay in Vegas!
Thank you, Jesus.

meb

I'm wondering what Saturday was like for Mary, knowing her Son as only a mother can.
She had more faith in Him than anyone!

ONLY she KNEW with 100% certainty that her pregnancy was from God.

SHE had practically said, " Jesus, fix this" at Cana, BEFORE His miracles!

She saw ALL His ministry, she saw His meteoric rise, and she saw the seeming whole world 5 days earlier cheering for her son.

And now this.

She had probably collapsed from exhaustion after the horrific "Good Friday", and awoke like we all do immediately after trauma.

 Was it real??

Oh God... it was real! He's really gone.

My son... how could they... how could you LET them???

But Mary - his MOTHER... KNEW HIM!

And I just wonder, on that Saturday as she washed the  blood and dirt and sweat from her body, and put on fresh clothes, if a trace of a smile might have come to her mouth...

Oh Jesus... my son of... GOD.

 what are you up to THIS time?

meb

A matter of trust.
I love animals. I always have. Some kinds more than others, but the personality is what draws me rather than the species. I’ve loved a couple of horses, even loved a cat named Louis once; loved two Holstein calves that I reached inside their mamas up to my elbow to deliver, and who later would come to my call even upon reaching, uh- cowhood? I’ve made friends with pigs and goats and squirrels and deer; I got along famously in Mexico with dolphins and a large iguana named Valelentina. Dogs have always been my favorite, and my memory is full of many dogs that I have known and loved. Doesn’t have to be my dog; if you have a dog, I probably love your dog too- unless it’s one of those little yappin’ rats with a permanent scowl- and to be honest, once it shut up I’d probably love it, too!
We got Morgan from a Dalmation breeder in Tualatin, OR in late 1995. I remember some good-natured squabbling with Debbie over paying money for a DOG!! … but when we got there, she was so cute and really happy to be with us. I sat in the floor of the beautiful home of the breeder and felt sorry for this little puppy, the last of the litter. All the rest had been sold much earlier, because of more desirable markings or some other attraction. Morgan, at three months, was getting “old”, the man wanted to sell her and move on, and the discounted price was accepted. We packed up our cute little dog and went to our happy home.
Maybe it’s my selective memory, but I don’t remember any real house-training issues with Morgan like we had with her much prettier, precious dunderhead sister Maddy that we bought a year later from the next litter. Morgan just always seemed alert, wise, and anxious to please us- especially me, as we were forming a bond beyond that which I had experienced with other animals. Debbie and I had started a small business, and it took nearly all of our time, so the afternoons I had alone after work before going back to work were spent with Morgan, either working on one of a dozen remodeling projects or playing “fetch” with her.
We’d had Morgan for about 6 months when Debbie’s brother Tim approached us about letting her race with him in the “doggie dash”, a fun annual Portland event. Tim is a seasoned distance runner, and Debbie would be right there running with Tim’s weenie dog, so we cautiously agreed. The day of the event I was busy at work, wondering how the race had gone for everybody, when Debbie called crying. Morgan and Tim had won the race, but not together; Morgan was a mile ahead of Tim. Our lithe Dalmation (a small greyhound, really) had become spooked at the starting gun, taken off with Tim in tow, broken from her collar, and was last seen streaking toward California!
The next 4 hours included me and others (including police) scouring Portland streets, calling Debbie (now at work) for information, chasing down sightings, listening for updates on the radio. The radio stations had kindly announced the plight of this little lost dog, running terrified across busy streets, even freeways, looking for dad and mom… and home. Thousands of runners, spectators and listeners were looking out for Morgan. Several times someone would think they had her cornered, but she was trusting no one and would be off before I could get there. Debbie and I were heartbroken, not just at our loss but at the thought of our little hound who trusted us for everything being out there… alone and afraid.
There was another Dalmation owner in Portland at the time about our age; she also ran in the doggie dash, and was aware of the mass “puppy hunt”. Late in the afternoon, she looked out her kitchen window and saw her dog licking another dog that was just laying there exhausted and lame. It was a little Dalmation.
It was Morgan.
Debbie brought her home, and when I got there I got down on the floor beside her with tears. She couldn’t walk but wiggled and moaned and scrubbed her head against mine, and the bond between us was instantly deeper. From that moment we loved and understood each other better than I have loved or understood most humans. Our trust for each other was unquestioned. Through the years of accepting and training her “blonde” sister Maddy, countless trips to the beach we all loved, camping and exploring, running, chasing , and skillfully catching thousands of balls and toys, accepting and training our baby Aaron as he grew, she took it all in stride, and from her spot on the rug by the fire, she could take one long look at mom and dad, and exhale deeply and peacefully.
The last couple of years have been pretty tough for our family, you might say. Been tough on Morgan especially; gettin’ old and stiff, and dad hasn’t been around much. It was like old times, though, when we did get to see each other, and the trust was solid until the end. Morgan died last week in my arms, and it was just like that day after being scared and lost, when I got down on the floor with her, and looked into her eyes. She was scared to die, but in that moment her faith in me was unwavering, and she kept looking for me and then fixed her eyes on me until she breathed her last. I tried to be strong for her at the end, but as the tears flowed and I assured her that it was OK when everything inside of me screamed, “It’s NOT ok, none of this is ok”… she could see that in my eyes, and comforted me again as she has so many times, “Yes, dad, it IS ok. I love you, and it’s gonna be ok”.
I’m not entirely sure why I wrote this, but maybe it’s healing. Maybe you think I’m weak or loopy for loving my dog, and that’s OK. I just know that I have often thought of Morgan when I needed an example of faith and trust, and I guess somewhere deep within that’s what I want to be, for those I love and those who God puts into my life.

meb