Three little phrases



Cheryl’s grandfather was not so good with some of his business practices, but he invented the machinery that made the world’s first fried apple pie that is sold all over the world today. He had the first patent on the fried pie (now baked!) in the early 1950s when a man named Ray Kroc (of McDonald’s fame) came to him and asked him to manufacture a 3 oz. pie. Mr. Keathley refused to do that and told Mr Kroc that if he wanted to buy pies from him that he would have to buy his 4 oz. pie. Mr. Keathley walked with the Lord all his life, and the Lord blessed him with several successful businesses. He never finished high school, but he was a brilliant man.

Cheryl’s father was also a very successful businessman in the baking industry and later in life as an entrepreneur. He did finish high school, and then he joined the army and served as an officer at the Nuremberg Trials after World War II, and he had many great stories about the Nazi leaders who were tried at the famous trials after the second Great War. Maurice was wounded in the Korean War, and he retired from the military as a Lt. Colonel after years of reserve service. He was a life-long Optimist and once served as Vice President of Optimist International. During his entire successful business career he served as a part-time Minister of Music in several churches in the Memphis area.

Among these many very successful endeavors, I think that one of his greatest achievements was that he was recognized by his peers as a very intelligent man—even though he only had a high school education. He often walked among very famous scientists, academicians and businessmen, and they would usually come away from the conversation telling others what a bright man was this Maurice Keathley.

Maurice had a secret weapon and it was actually three very simple phrases. Whenever he was with someone who was much brighter than himself or when he was with a person or persons and he did not understand the topic of the conversation, here’s what he would do: he would listen closely and make sure that his body language indicated a high level of interest, and he would intersperse the conversation with these three short quips: “It could very well be.” “Yes, indeed.” “Among other things.”

I have tried using these three small phrases, and it works. Now you can easily over-use that “Yes, Indeed,” so you have to change your voice inflections and the way you say it so that you say it differently each time. Try it and you will see that it works. People will think you are very smart. Why? Because you agree with them!

Names



I have never been a fan of name tags. Wearing them has been a part of my uniform for the past 14 years, but I still don’t like them. I have been to some meetings where they have prepared the name tags for the participants ahead of time. When I go to the registration table to get my name tag and a packet of program materials, sometimes they have my name as “James Cox.” After all, that is my name—James is my first name. Anything official has my name as “James Cox.”

I don’t think my Mother and Father knew what a headache it would be to name their son and then use the middle name. I dreaded the first day of school for all 12 years because the teacher would call out, “James Cox,” and my friends would laugh out loud.

I guess the only pleasure that I get in not using my first name is when a wise-guy telemarketer calls at dinner time and asks to speak to James or Jim. We just say there is no one here by that name!

I have done a lot of thinking through the years about names, but I guess it is more on my mind now since Allison and Will kept us guessing the name of their expected first-born for several weeks—number 12 grandchild and number 10 granddaughter! We are blessed.

I have often said that the most important word to any person regardless of where in the world they live is their own name. It is the sweetest and most important sound in any language.
People love to hear their name. When I first meet someone, I try to call their name right after I meet them. That affirms the person, and oh by the way, it helps me remember their name.

As I think about how powerful a name can be my thoughts go to familiar scriptures:
"Therefore God has highly exalted him and bestowed on him the name that is above every name, so that at the name of Jesus every knee should bow, in heaven and on earth and under the earth, and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father." Philippians 2:9-11
"Oh Lord, our Lord, how majestic is your name in all the earth! You have set your glory above the heavens." Psalm 8:1

Truett Cathy’s favorite Bible verse is Proverbs 22:1.
“A good name is rather to be chosen than great riches, and loving favor rather than silver and gold.”

Smells


While driving to work this morning I smelled the strong aroma of antifreeze in my old truck. That probably means that I have a problem with either the thermostat or the heater coil. Regardless, I am glad that I can take the truck to someone who knows a lot more than I do about repairs.

Smell is such an important sense. I have been told that I have a powerful sense of smell as I usually smell things that either others don’t smell or I smell it way before they do.

So I spent time the rest of today thinking about smell highlights in my life—I call those “smellories.” Here are some that came to my mind today.

While living in Burkina Faso, we didn’t have too many places to take visitors to buy souvenirs, but one good place was the leather shop. The shop was attached to the building where they cured the cow hides, and every time we went to the leather shop that smell welcomed us. It was a good smell, or at least I thought so.

Another vivid smell memory in Burkina Faso is the smell of smoke. Every village compound smelled like smoke. The villagers clothing always smelled like smoke. When I am burning debris and limbs at the farm, my clothes smell like smoke, and my thoughts always return to Burkina Faso—good smells!

Right at this very moment as I am typing this post, my thoughts about writing are interrupted with the aroma of fresh sausage. Cheryl is cooking sausage for a breakfast casserole—UMMM. Now back to collecting my thoughts…

Once while walking in desert sand in northern Sudan I smelled the camel dung as we walked through the largest camel market I have ever seen. For some of you who don't know me well, you would think that this would be a bad smell (for most people) - but not for this farm boy. UMMMM!

In the weekly market of Atee, Chad, where 3,000 people come from all over the Sahara, I smelled the pungent odor of dried seed from the nyeri tree, which is used in preparing the sauce that provides nourishment for families in the Sahel.

Other “smellories” include: the knock-your-socks-off aroma of a Lebanese bakery! The sweet whiff of mangoes being peeled in Egypt! Mustard greens cooking at Mimi’s house.

My nose burning from the odor of the dyes used in making rugs in the Atlas Mountains in the Maghreb. Crepes from a street vendor in Paris.

The cured leather of goatskin as I walked the narrow streets of the medina in Sanaa. Durian in Jakarta. Haria soup in the Marrakesh market - tastes as good as it smells. Chestnuts roasting on an open fire on the streets during Christmastime in Wiesbaden.

While thinking on all these smellories, the Lord has been saying to me, “Larry, if you have any purpose in My work—it has to do with these smells. For this is the fragrance of the world I died for.”

“For we are the aroma of Christ to God among those who are being saved and among those who are perishing.” 2 Corinthians 2:15 ESV

Together

I was in the Frankfurt airport train station waiting on my train. Sleepy and hungry after a trans-Atlantic flight, I bought hot tea and a pain au chocolat at a kiosk. I left the main part of the train station and wandered into a shopping mall. It was a Sunday morning about 7:00am. The city was still asleep, so I had plenty of choices of places to sit and have my breakfast. During the time that I ate, I only saw seven other people.

As I have traveled over the years I have always enjoyed watching people. I don’t mean staring, but I do admit to some intense looking. When I am traveling and in an airport or train station, I like to look for indicators that will tell me something about that person. Anyone can tell if a person is of Asian descent, but I like to study the face and guess whether they are from Korea or Southeast Asia or the Philippines.

A couple of young Asians (Korean I guessed) sat near me, engaging each other with the tell-tale signs of being in love. I knew that they were not siblings by the way they gingerly touched one another. Maybe I did stare at them because they abruptly stood up and walked swiftly away. But, remember that I am trying to stay awake so I had to be doing something so that I did not miss my train.
 
Soon after the young couple disappeared from the mall, another couple—much older than the young Asians—strolled into the atrium area. They were definitely not in a hurry, but then, why would there be a rush to get anywhere as nothing in the mall was open. As they strolled along hand-in-hand, I watched. They stopped and stared inside a storefront.

I have watched a lot of “window shoppers” in my time, but these folks were not looking at merchandise for sale inside the store. They were standing in front of a dry cleaners shop and just gazing inside. Why? I don’t know, but I did not dwell on the why. I was really impressed with the “what” they were doing. They were simply enjoying each other. They did not have to be entertained. They did not have a destination. They were happy just being together.

“Love does not consist in gazing at each other, but in looking outward together in the same direction.”
Antoine de Saint-Exupery

The First Christmas Pageant Ever



This afternoon we went to the Rome Little Theater production of “The Best Christmas Pageant Ever.” It is a great Christmas classic and the production was excellent. Allison played the role of Grace Bradley, and she and her fellow thespians did a great job.  

Tonight as I am reflecting on the play, I am thinking about an experience that could be called “The First Christmas Pageant Ever.”

One Christmas in Burkina Faso, our kids, our colleagues’ kids and some volunteers decided to have a live nativity during a Christmas Eve program at the church closest to our home. All the believers in our churches were first generation Christians, so the kids wanted to show the villagers what a Christmas pageant was all about.

Amanda was four at the time, and she was chosen to be Mary. She was excited after we explained what she was going to do. She had never seen a live nativity, much less participated in one.

The other four MKs and the Tennessee played the parts of the shepherds, wise men, and angels.

As usual we were on “African time,” so we waited at our house for some of the church members to come get us when all the people had gathered. It was late when they finally came and told us that we were ready to begin the service. Cheryl had to stay at home with baby Allison who was asleep by that time, and as we were leaving our home to walk the short distance to the church, Cheryl told Amanda to go to her room and get a baby to be the baby Jesus. Amanda came back with a baby all wrapped up with a blanket and cuddling it in her arms. When we arrived at the church, Amanda went to be with the other pageant participants.

Amanda was sitting on the front bench—mud brick church with a tin roof and a dirt floor—with the rest of the pageant players. There was no electricity in the church, so we had set up a portable generator earlier. We had three lights hanging in the church for the Christmas Eve program.

When it came time for the pageant Amanda was holding the baby very close to her body and wrapped in a blanket, and then she gingerly place the baby into the manger. When the shepherds gathered around the manger, they started laughing. That was odd. Why were they laughing when this was such a serious moment? Then I looked more closely and saw why it was so funny. Lying in the manger representing baby Jesus was Smurfette—that’s right, the bright blue toy with blonde hair.

Later I reflected on the oddity that all the Americans at the service laughed at the thought of having a stuffed blue toy representing baby Jesus while none of the villagers even laughed when the baby Smurfette was placed in the manger.

This was the villagers’ first Christmas Eve pageant, and from their reactions, you would have thought that we had been at a Broadway production. All the villagers were so excited about everything. Since they had never experienced anything like this in their lives, they really did not know what to expect. For them they were pretending anyway, so a blue Jesus was nothing unusual—especially since none of the village girls even owned any kind of a doll or stuffed toy.

In our culture we don’t like surprises about things that we have grown accustomed to seeing and experiencing. During this Christmas season as you experience pageants, cantatas, music productions, and other special services, pretend that it is the first one you have ever seen. Don’t go to Christmas services with an attitude that you are a veteran attender or with a spirit of a scrooge. Don’t go to criticize people or music or costumes or decorations—just go and enjoy and let yourself get carried away with the celebration of the birth of the Savior of the world. This could be your best Christmas season ever.

Perfect



During my time with my dad in Colorado recently, we were having breakfast at a hotel and reading the morning paper. My dad pointed out to me a headline in the Denver Post about the devastating typhoon that hit the Philippines. The headline read, “Imperfect Man, Perfect Storm.” His immediate reaction was, “They got it right about man, but there is no perfect storm. There is only a perfect God.”

I don’t know about you but I have been listening to see how many times I hear the word perfect used. I have heard it used twice this week—once when I gave a clerk the correct change and she said, “Perfect.” My thoughts were Wow, her standards are low if that’s all it takes to score a perfect. I told someone that I was going to be 15 minutes late for a meeting, and their reply was “Perfect!” I wondered what they would have said if I had been on time?!

Baseball fans will immediately think of the perfect game—when all the batters of the opposing team are retired without a hit or a run or without any player reaching first base. It is essentially 27 batters up to the plate and 27 batters out.

When I was in high school the perfect grade was 100. But help me with this one: What is a perfect score for our high school students today. I hear frequently of high school graduates with grade point averages like 104 or 107.67. Whatever happened to 100? I thought that was the perfect grade. It wasn’t very often that I received a perfect score of 100. So, if 100 is a perfect score, then what is 106?

As I usually do when I get enthralled with a word, I looked up the word “perfect” in some online dictionaries. I found this in more than one dictionary: having no mistakes or flaws; completely correct or accurate. This definition really says more of what I was looking for with this post: Lacking nothing; essential to the whole; complete of its nature or kind.

We have all heard someone say “perfect baby” or “my daughter is just perfect.” I know those are expressions and are used loosely, but we use a lot of words inaccurately.

While I can live with the sloppy way we use and abuse words, I am really hung up on this word perfect as used in the Bible. The real challenge for me is that the Scripture demands us believers to be perfect: “You therefore must be perfect, as your heavenly Father is perfect” (Matthew 5:48). I don’t know about you, but that verse is a tough one for me. If the goal is perfection then what hope is there for anyone?

Jesus was not establishing a new standard for us with that verse because God had already outlined it for us in Leviticus 11:44: “…you shall be holy, for I am holy.” God’s standard for us who bear the name of Christ in our lives has always been perfect holiness. That is a heavy truth!

I believe that God gave us the goal to be perfect so we would never stop trying to attain it. In the life to come, perfection will be our possession and experience forever and ever. Oh that will be glory for me—I am singing that tune as I form these words.

Now I am convicted myself: I have to spend more time working on attaining that level of holiness that God wants me to reach instead of focusing all my efforts on waiting to possess perfection when I reach glory.

Memories



During this past week I was talking with Dr. John G. McCall who has been a mentor for me since I was 19. I always enjoy our phone calls as he is always teaching me. This past week he talked about memories. He said that he has outlived all of his peers (96 years old), so all he has are memories of his peers.

On Saturday my dad flew from Memphis to Denver (all alone and no spring chicken himself!), and we have just finished a few days together traveling around the Rocky Mountains. He had never seen this part of the country, so we had a great time taking the cog railway up Pikes Peak, touring the Air Force Academy, and many more sites. It was a sweet time and we made some memories such as stopping in the city limits of Estes Park for a herd of 75 elk to cross the street and breathing the 20 degree air at 14.100 feet.

The Bible talks a lot about the importance of memories. Pete and I read Deuteronomy 8:1-4 during our adventure. This is a passage about remembering the Lord our God. The writer is urging the Israelites to remember the way the Lord took care of them during the 40 years of wandering in the wilderness of the Sinai. They were admonished to remember how good the Lord was to them so that they might be humbled before God. The amazing scenery that we have witnessed these past few days has been a constant reminder of the grandeur of God, and I have felt humbled before the majesty of our Creator.

I am sitting on the plane on the return flight from Denver, and I am sitting next to Pete, my dad. We just realized that this is the first time in our lives that we have ever flown on a plane together. I am thinking, “Why did I wait so long?”

Get busy making some memories!

Syria



I am distressed over what is and has been happening in Syria. Millions of people have fled their homes in fear of losing their lives. Many are reporting that this could be the worst humanitarian disaster of our time. This crisis has been going on for TWO AND A HALF YEARS. Six thousand Syrians are fleeing their country every day.

One in five people in Lebanon is a Syrian refugee. One in seven in Jordan is a Syrian refugee.
In addition to the 1.6 million refugees in neighboring and other countries, according to the UNHCR, there are 4.5 million IDPs (internally displaced people; those who are victims of the war, but they have not escaped to another country). Refugees are generally people who flee their own country because of persecution or oppression.

As the situation gets worse there are two things that are most appalling to me: US media almost ignores this tragedy, and American believers are giving so little to help these people.

A worker In the Middle East has produced this short video telling the story of one family who has been a victim of evil people vying for political power in Syria:
https://vimeo.com/66150049

Please take four and a half minutes to view this story. If you are moved by this story and by the plight of the Syrian people, do not give out of guilt, but give out of a thankful heart that you have been so blessed. If you give to Baptist Global Response (https://gobgr.org/), one hundred per cent of your gift will go to help Syrian refugees—none to administration. No other relief agency—Christian or other—can make that promise.

Who loves the Syrians? If you ask that question many people will respond, “The Russians because they are so aligned with other Shiite Muslims.” Others will say, “The terrorists because they are supporting the rebel factions in Syria.” One thing for sure God loves Syrians—just as much as He loves you and me.

Red and yellow, black and white, they are precious in His sight…

Ton Tenga Morning

I had difficultly leaving home this morning because of this view from our deck. "And I pleaded with the Lord at that time saying, O Lord God, you have only begun to show your servant your greatness and your mighty hand. For what god is there in heaven or on earth who can do such works and mighty acts as yours?" Deuteronomy 3:23-24


Thank you, Lord, for letting me witness your hand in your creation each and every day.

Pray-er



It was May, 1991, and the Soviet Union was falling apart. Gorbachev’s glasnost policies had turned the hearts of many of the satellite republics towards a spirit of nationalism that resulted in the countrymen of these republics wanting to rid their lands of anything to do with Russian dominance over the past 70 years. Statues of Russian generals were being removed and names of streets and cities were being changed from Russian names to Kazakh, Tajik, and Uzbek names.

I had the opportunity to be in the middle of these historic changes from 1989-1994 through a couple of companies that I had established in 1990. One of these companies took American business people to the former Soviet republics before communism fell to teach western business principles. Believe it or not, we used Junior Achievement material to teach banking, accounting, marketing, and other subjects. One of the challenges was getting these people who had lived for generations under the socialism of the communist regimes to understand free enterprise and all the good things associated with it, like profit and losses.

The other company did community development work in Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, and Uzbekistan. When we first started working in this area there were no other companies from the west registered. Until just before communism fell in 1991, our business training company was one of only two western companies registered in Kyrgyzstan.

It was a case of being in the right place at the right time. There are many stories from these years, and we will share more of them at a later time.

Today I want to tell you about one of the several delegations from these republics that we hosted in the US.  My first introduction to these former Soviet republics was through a consortium of Baptist colleges and universities. I was working with Mississippi College at the time when this consortium was formed at the Atlanta airport in August, 1987. We were part of this consortium from the very beginning, and it was this introduction that led me to want to do more in that part of the world.
We were bringing official government delegations from these republics to the USA for the first time since before the time of Stalin in the 1920s. Each delegation consisted of three high level government officials, an interpreter, and a representative of the KGB whose job was to make sure that these government officials returned to the USSR.

It has been difficult in this post not to tell stories that come to mind about these experiences with these government friends, but I must save those for another time and move on to my story for this posting.

The mayor of Frunze, the capital city of the Kyrgyz Republic, was accompanied by the government’s Minister of Education and the Minister of Culture and, of course, a representative from the KGB. I recall that the title they gave him was something like the Associate Deputy Director for Internal Administrative Affairs. We enjoyed joking with him about us knowing that he was in the KGB, and he was kind-hearted enough to laugh with us rather than attacking us with a piano wire!

After hosting this Kyrgyz delegation in Washington, DC, Chicago, and Atlanta, we brought them to Mississippi. One evening during their visit, I had some business to take care of at my office, so one of my colleagues picked them up at their hotel in Jackson and brought them to our home in Clinton. A cable had arrived in my office for the mayor, so I delivered it to him in my living room. He opened the cable, and there was a lot of buzz in the Kyrgyz language—the three government officials often spoke in Kyrgyz when they did not want their KGB colleague or interpreter to understand them.

After a few minutes of discussion, our Russian interpreter explained that the mayor had been asked to cast the deciding vote for the new name of their capital city. Frunze was a famous former Soviet army general, and the Central Asian republics were trying to rid their countries of all Russian influence.

The mayor cast his vote for Bishkek in our living room that evening, and the next day our office sent the cable that determined the name of the capital city of the Kyrgyz Soviet Socialist Republic, which today is known as Kyrgyzstan.

Among the many stirring memories from these experiences with our Central Asian friends were the opportunities to share our faith with them. During that same Kyrgyzstan delegation visit we took our friends to church. That was the first time any of them had ever attended a church service.

It was a large church, so we decided to arrive just as the service had started so the delegation would not draw any attention. We sat near the back of the auditorium, and as the service was about to end, the pastor, a friend, recognized our delegation and asked me to pray the benediction.

After the service was finished and we were walking to our vehicles, one of the delegation said to me in broken English, “Larry, I not know that you are a pray-er.” That sentence has been played over and over in my mind through the years. I pray. But, am I really a pray-er? Is praying such a second nature action for me that others recognize me as a pray-er?

I think that my Kyrgyz friend was asking me if I was some kind of holy man. He did not know other English words to describe what he wanted to ask me, so he asked in the only way he knew how. The way he used the word is not proper in our colloquial English,  but it was a powerful word for me to hear, and I hope that it rings in your heart of hearts just as it has in mine for the past 20 years. Lord, I want to be known as a "pray-er."

Galloping Horse



Fannie Peeples was one of my mentors. To some of you that sounds strange for me to say that a woman was a mentor, but that just means that you did not know Fannie. The Lord brought Fannie into our lives when we moved to Vicksburg, Mississippi in late 1973. Within a month of meeting Fannie, she lost her husband.

A couple months after her husband’s death Fannie went with us on a senior adult trip. That was when I became so attached to Fannie. She was a wise lady—and I mean that in the strictest sense as she was very proper. We always dreaded having a meal in her home as we were afraid the kids would just totally blow it manners-wise or otherwise. Fannie was very active in many social circles of Vicksburg, but she was especially involved in the local Garden Club. She even authored a book for the National Garden Club.

Fannie was raised on a rural Mississippi farm, so she was a very matter-of-fact person. She always spoke her mind and laid out all the facts in any given discussion. She did not believe in talking around a subject—especially a controversial one. You never had to guess where she stood on an issue because she would tell you.

Sam and Fannie each had strong work ethic, and they had accumulated some wealth over the years. They were generous givers and supported several Christian ministries in addition to their own church.

The first week after her husband died an early death from a heart attack, one of Sam’s friends came to Fannie and said to her that he knew that she did not know much about business. Well, that was enough to make her boiling mad, but then the “friend” went on to say that he was offering to buy one of their businesses—a petroleum distribution company. I can’t print all of Fannie’s response, but her friend got the message. At that moment Fannie decided that she was going to learn the businesses and do better than Sam ever did. And, she did. This was the time in the 70s when the local service stations were becoming obsolete and convenience stores began to open. Fannie not only became much more successful in the petroleum distribution, but she developed over a dozen convenience stores selling her gasoline products.

She was quick witted, and she was so full of life and just fun to be around. Our family has some Fannie-isms, and in some future posts maybe I will share more of them.

Through the years I have heard her give this Fannie-ism several times. I dropped some food on my shirt at a meal where Fannie was present, and I was fretting about messing up my shirt. Fannie said, “Don’t worry about it. It’ll never be noticed on a galloping horse and that’s the only kind you ride!”

Another time I said that I needed a haircut, and Fannie retorted with the same response: “Don’t fret about needing a haircut because it’ll never be noticed on a galloping horse, and that is the only kind you ride.”

She was right. In her own way she let me know that it was okay for me to be high strung and ride a galloping horse. Until a few years ago I only worked in one speed—fast. I made mistakes by going too fast, but I figured that it was alright to make a mistake because I would get another opportunity to do the task again.

The years have mellowed me. I am more deliberate now—although I still like to make quick decisions and I still walk and work faster than most people. But, sometimes I catch myself walking at a very fast pace or working on a project at warp speed, and I pause and ask myself: Why am I doing this so fast?

I get my work ethic from my mother and dad. They are two of the hardest working people who I have ever known. My dad is 87 and he works hard in the garden or the yard or on a project at church or helping someone else. Often someone in my family will say, “Pete is going to kill himself working so hard,” or “Pete is going to die in that garden.” My response is “What is wrong with that?!” If he dies from doing something he loves then, what a wonderful way to go to be with the Lord.

My horse has slowed to a canter, but I am still riding him hard. Maybe the horse and I will be blessed to live on this earth for 87 years and die in the garden. Thank you Lord for giving us energy to complete all the work that You have called us to do.

Widow maker



Our sons still like to make fun of me regarding my Beagles. I kept a pack of Beagles for rabbit hunting for five years while we lived in Clinton, Mississippi. The boys sure enjoyed hunting rabbits with me and some friends during that time, but now they don’t talk about rabbit hunting together. They just like to poke fun at Dad—and that’s OK with me as I usually laugh with them.

They like to tell about how I would get up in the middle of the night when the Beagles started barking and annoying the neighbors. I would turn the water hose on and spray the dogs down real good to make them quit howling. It worked. I think their favorite story is about one of my methods for training the dogs not to run deer. Jumping deer and running deer while on a rabbit hunt is the good rabbit dog’s nemesis. No serious rabbit dog owner wants to keep a dog that chases deer, so dog owners go to great lengths to break that nasty habit.

One of my remedies for a dog that chases deer was to get a deer leg, put it in a barrel with the dog, close the lid and roll it down a steep hill. The dog would associate this uncomfortable ride down the hill with deer and would not be anxious to run deer again. It worked. Now someone out there is ready to report me to the animal rights people!

The boys and some of their high school friends would often call my dogs “stupid.” That I did not like because I thought my dogs were smarter than some of their friends. They enjoyed making fun of one particular Beagle named “Bila”—that name comes from the language we spoke in Burkina Faso and it means “son” or literally “son of.”  He was actually my best “jump” dog, but he did like to chase deer.

One day my Dad went with me to run the dogs. We enjoyed following the dogs through the bushes and brambles as they jumped rabbits and ran them right back to us—oh, we did not have guns. We just enjoyed experiencing the thrill of the chase. When it was time to load the dogs in the back of the pickup, all of them came back except Bila. He had decided to chase a deer, so I took off after him. It took me about 20 minutes to find him, and I was angry.

I was jerking the leash and pulling Bila through the briars. He would get tangled and I would just pull harder, not caring that I was stretching his neck while pulling hard on the leash. Bila was trailing me, and I was not looking behind me. I gave a hard jerk on the leash, not knowing that the leash was wrapped around a dead standing tree. These trees are called “widow makers” because many of them have fallen on a man in the woods and made his wife a widow.

This one was apparently ready to fall, as it fell and struck the back of my head. It knocked me out, and the next thing I knew was Bila licking me on the cheek. I don’t know how long I was out, but Bila may have saved my life. I was bleeding profusely from a head wound, and if Bila had not awakened me…

I put pressure on my wound, and Bila followed me back to the pickup where my Dad was anxiously waiting on me. He drove me to the emergency room where I was sewn up and released. I was grateful to Bila for awakening me.

Writing this story down for the first time prompts me to think about how we are quick to criticize or form an opinion before we know all the facts. I am guilty, and I know that many people are like me in that respect, so let’s be careful not to call another man’s dog stupid without knowing all the facts. My stupid dog may have saved my life!

Hummingbirds



It is dusk and I am sitting inside the house watching three hummingbirds duke it out around one of the hummingbird feeders. These are really selfish little creatures. There are three feeding positions on each of two feeders. The feeders are attached to our deck on the main floor and they are about 40 feet apart. These three hummingbirds are fighting over one of the feeders. There are no hummingbirds at the other feeder, but they have chosen to fight over control of this feeder. Why?

So I did some reading on the internet and since everything on the web is true, I want to share this fact with you: hummingbirds are very territorial. Sharing is just not part of the DNA of hummingbirds. They display very aggressive behavior in defending their territory.

Why that sounds like our own species! If you don’t believe it try driving on I-75 through Atlanta anytime of the day. You will witness some very aggressive territorial battles with some expensive armor.

I am making it sound like being territorial is all bad, but I believe that God wants us to be territorial in some respects. God knows our limitations better than we know them ourselves. He knows that we are incapable of taking on the whole world (I just started reading a book called “The World is Not Ours to Save”—not into it yet, but I like the title!). God exhibited territorialism in the Scriptures. God gave specific territory to Abraham. He did not give him the world. God sent some prophets to the northern tribes and some to the southern tribes. He sent Jonah to Nineveh.

As followers of The Way, I think we would use our resources (not thinking money here, but physical, emotional, intellectual, spiritual, etc.) more wisely if we would concentrate our efforts for the Kingdom on more specific sowing. Sowing everywhere can have a watered down affect.  What if we sow in a specific area and cultivate what we and others have sown? I believe that we will see greater results.

Don’t think broadcasting, but narrow casting. In this season of your life, what territory does God want you to claim, to nurture, and to conquer in His Name? Caleb asked for a mountain. For what are you asking?

Ducks

As many of you know--especially if you have dug back into the archives--this blog was started to share news about the construction of our house and about our hobby farm with family living in other countries. Ton Tenga is the name of our farm. It is from the  Mòoré (pronounced "mo' ray") language spoken in Burkina Faso, and it means "our farm" or "our land."

It has been a long time since I have shared news from Ton Tenga, so some of the family urged me to share some more farm news.

We have a few ducks and one very noisy goose, and they are constantly following us around the farm--begging for cracked corn. Cheryl suggested that we put up a duck crossing sign on our driveway--just for fun. Saturday, I finished mounting the sign, and immediately two ducks crossed the road headed to the garden to look for bugs. I snapped the following photo.

OK, so I know the photo is not properly posted, but I spent a long time Sunday night and then again tonight (Monday) trying to figure out how to get the photo in the right orientation. I gave up and you get the idea anyhow.

Angels



Does anyone out there who has a smart phone carry a camera anymore? These gadgets take such great pics that I don't need to carry a camera. Now the truth is that I stopped carrying a camera on overseas trips many years ago. I just don't like to be identified as a camera-carrying tourist. Now I find myself taking pictures overseas again because I can do it more inconspicuously with a very small phone.

It is surprising how many photos I have in my phone. I was looking through them recently--I really need to delete some of them, but it is hard to just wipe out a photo of something that I thought was very special at the time I shot it.

While scrolling through the pictures I paused to look at Jordan, Jenna and one of their friends dressed up as angels at a pageant at church. You know what angels look like--they are dressed in white, they have wings, and they are always smiling, right? At least that is what they look like in all the pageants that I have seen.

I don't really know how we know what an angel looks like. I suppose this notion of what an angel looks like has been passed down from generation to generation.

It strikes me that when an angel is introduced in The Word, the people to whom they appeared must have been afraid. Matthew 29:5 states: "But the angel said to the women, Do not be afraid, for I know that you seek Jesus who was crucified." So, what did the angel look like if the first thing it said to the women at Jesus' tomb was "Don't be afraid?" Probably not what our stereotyped notion of pageant angels is.

And, then, there is I Chronicles 21:30 where the angel carried a sword: "but David could not go before it to inquire of God, for he was afraid of the sword of the angel of the LORD." How many pageants have you seen with an angel carrying a sword?!

Many times in our lives our minds are set -- on what something is supposed to look like, on what you think something tastes like, on what someone believes, on where someone fits in the societal rankings, on how we are going to like someone -- before we ever get an opportunity to see, experience and understand for ourselves.

Perhaps you are guilty as I have been of forming an opinion of someone based on what others tell you, before you ever meet the person or before you get to know her or him. I really do not want to allow someone else to choose my friends for me by accepting their opinion before I have the opportunity to make up my own mind.

Khat



I am in Germany and reviewing international news. The headlines are full of the potential terrorist threats. The US and other western countries have closed embassies and some Americans have evacuated cities over the Muslim world.

One of our conference speakers here in central Germany reminded us today that we cannot insult God by asking God for too much, but we can insult Him by asking for too little. I took that to heart, and I have just prayed for the Yemeni Arabs. I made a bold prayer request and asked God for self-replicating churches to be started all over Yemen.

Memories of traveling in Yemen are flooding my mind as I type these words. Visual images of Yemenis’ faces rush through my mind. I am thinking about stories of encounters with workers who have endured very hard times living in this desolate, but beautiful country. I am praying for their safety and for their leaders who have to make decisions about their safety.

Once two of these workers were driving me and some colleagues back to the capital city from a provincial capital where we had been visiting with our colleagues. There were no rest stop facilities to be found, and it was a long drive, so we pulled over to the side of the road to make a “pit stop.” As we were taking care of business we heard the roar of engines headed our way. All of a sudden two heavily armored pickup trucks came out of nowhere and there were large and small caliber weapons pointed at us.

Our colleague immediately staring speaking rapidly to the armed men, and as quickly as the armed men had appeared, they disappeared into the fields of tall green plants.

We had stopped on the side of the road beside a field of tall dark green plants. I did not recognize the plants, but I was more interested in taking care of my physical needs that identifying the plant. The field was planted in almost-ready-to-harvest khat. Khat is an addictive plant that men in Yemen and the Horn of Africa chew on like tobacco for the narcotic effect that they receive. Men regularly chew this narcotic during the afternoon and get high and sometimes cannot complete their work. Many children have gone to sleep hungry at night because their fathers spent food money on Khat.

Khat is such a valuable commodity that owners go to great expense to protect their crops with armed men and vehicles. When we made that rest stop the guards quickly swept down on us because they thought we were going to steal khat from the field. When I was looking down the barrel of a 50 caliber machine gun mounted on the back of the pickup, many thoughts quickly went through my mind. But oddly enough I was not afraid. I did, however, instinctively raise my hands over my head in a silent proclamation of “Don’t shoot. I have done nothing wrong.”

I think a lot of fear expressed by us humans is driven by our perceptions and expectations. We can easily get psyched up to fear something when we think about it. Dread can become fear. Whenever my mind starts thinking about a fear of something, such as a noise in the dark while walking outside, I remember that the Scripture teaches us not to fear anything but God—and that is an AWEsome fear.

I Samuel 12:24: “Only fear the Lord and serve Him faithfully with all your heart. For consider what great things He has done for you.”

See one, do one, teach one



Shelby is probably the most risk-taking grandchild among our 11 grandchildren. Her dad often says that she is a daredevil, but I am not sure I like anyone using any word that has devil in it to describe one of my grandchildren. So, let's just say that she is extraordinarily daring. 

Sometimes when she is with me she watches me doing something on the farm, and then after I have finished, she says, "Now, I want to do it, Papa." I will usually let her do it--well, not everything. I haven't let any of my grandchildren run the bush hog.

When I began to learn the More' language in Burkina Faso, I enjoyed learning some of the proverbs from the Mossi culture. One of the proverbs says, "See one, do one, teach one."

I still love this proverb, and all my kids have heard me use it many times. For the past 30 years this proverb has helped me be a better leader. I have had challenges in my career thinking that it is easier for me to just go ahead and do something rather than allowing someone else to do it. After all, I can do this task better and faster than anyone else. Then I think about that proverb.

A leader helps those with whom he/she works be successful. One way of accomplishing that goal is to show someone how to do something by modeling it, then allow them to do it--even if they can't do it as well as you. Then, they are ready to show someone else how to do it. That's multiplication of leaders!

Sabbath



I believe in the Ten Commandments, and I also believe that they are foundational in our Judeo-Christian beliefs and legal system. I had to get that all straight before I launch into this one.

Occasionally my wife tells me that I should honor the Sabbath and rest. The fourth commandment is clear and dear to me and says that I should honor God by resting on the Sabbath. I do not ever want to hurt my witness with someone saying that I am dishonoring God, but I have an interpretation of what constitutes rest that may be different than others. Cheryl thinks of rest as napping, reading, lounging around, etc. I don’t like naps; I don’t like to sit inside and just stare outside. I like to be outside. I think of rest as working outside—tending to my animals or garden or pasture. I get great pleasure in working with God’s creations and God’s good earth. Working outside is like therapy to me. When I am caring for my animals or caring for our garden or even driving the tractor, I don’t consider any of that as work.

Anyone who knows my mom and dad understands me better. My parents are still going strong—or at least I think it is strong for their age. They embedded a strong work ethic in me. They picked butterbeans in their garden right beside Cheryl and me during a recent visit. As I worked my way through the bean patch, my back was hurting and I was on my knees most of the time, but I knew better than to complain.  My mom and dad were right in there with us.

The challenge for me comes with the definition of rest and of work. I agree that most everyone would define it just as Cheryl would—refraining from anything that smells like work. Rest can mean a lot of things: a rhythmic silence in music, what a column does on a foundation, sleep, stopping all activity that causes exertion, what farmland does when no crop is planted on it, etc.

I think of rest as a time of recovering strength. It would seem strange if you saw me sweating while doing some of my “resting.” My time outside is a refreshing of my mind, body and soul. Some of my best quiet times with God are when I am “working” on the farm.

This afternoon I picked peas from our garden. I sweated something fierce. It started raining, and I did not stop. I was soaking wet with sweat and rain, but I continued to pick—and I loved it. Was it work? Maybe for some people, but for me it was perspiration therapy. I brought the peas up to the house and I invited three granddaughters to help me shell them. For an hour we talked and shelled peas. No TV was on and the only entertainment was us talking with each other and telling stories about things we have done together this summer. Was it work? Not for me and I don’t think it was for the girls either. It was fun!

Now there are some chores on our hobby farm that I definitely consider work—mowing grass and running the weed trimmer. I don’t do things like that on Sunday as I consider that work. Picking blueberries or feeding my goats – that’s not work for me.

Cheryl and I have just spent a week of vacation with two grandchildren at a Christian Dude Ranch in Colorado. I left my computer at home. Several of the guests asked me for a business card, but I did not take any with me. I had a Sabbath Week. For the first time in years I read an entire novel in one week. I relaxed, but I admit that I thought about all that email that was piling up in my inbox. It is now late Sunday evening, and I am typing on my computer. I want desperately to work on some of that email, but I am trying hard not to “work.” Can it wait until tomorrow morning? Yes, but it will be a very hard Monday. As bad as I want to do email, I am not going to do so because I feel convicted that would be work and it would not be a good example for my colleagues.

As I have been typing, the sun has set. The Sabbath is over. So, should I do that email?!?

Pet peeves



Do you have a pet peeve? I do. Some of them make me sound so paranoid that I won’t admit them in this post. As a matter of fact, as I share one of my pet peeves, some of you will probably think, “So, that was so paranoid, wonder ‘bout the ones he did not share.”

OK, so here is one: a church bulletin or a printed program (wedding, funeral, graduation, etc) that lists a certain Winthrop Luper on program along with Elmira Dothan, Dr. Bartholomew Pierce, and Samuel Hogan. Notice anything wrong? One person has a title while the others do not. Now that probably does not bother many of you, but it really bothers me.

Everyone is equally important, so everyone should be treated in the same manner: If you are going to give one person in the program a title, then you must give titles to all of them. Makes sense to me!

I think the worst offenders of this are churches, and I will go so far to say that too many pastors are very proud to boast of their “doctorate” before or after their names. Our pastor asks to be called “Pastor David,” not Dr. (last name). I like that.

Everybody doesn’t have a bold title like “Doctor” or “Professor,” but everyone has the distinction of being a creation of God. Every person’s face into which we have ever gazed is one made in the image of God. Particularly as I travel I look into faces many days thinking, Wow! God made that face! It is absolutely amazing that apart from identical twins, no two faces are exactly the same. Even those people who do very nasty things in our world are ones who the Heavenly Father loves just like you and me. God doesn’t show partiality for the way faces look.

My responsibility is clear: to love the Lord my God with all my heart and to love my neighbor (ALL those faces) as I love myself. Nuff said.