God's Call

"So, tell me about your relationship with your father." Uh oh, he had to go there didn't he. Friday, as part of the "candidacy process", I had a meeting with the Conference psychologist. He asked some very tough questions that, along with reading Deitrich Bonhoeffer's The Cost of Discipliship, has really got me thinking about God's call and what it means to answer.

Then I heard the voice of the Lord, saying, "Whom shall I send, and who will go for Us?" Then I said, "Here am I. Send me!" (Isa 6:8)

I wish that I could say that my response to God’s call had always been “Here am I. Send me.” Unfortunately, it has often been just the opposite. For as long as I can remember, God’s call has been present. And though it has taken thirty-five years for me to answer, I now look back on my life and see how God’s guiding hand has brought me to this place, where I can say without reservation, just as Isaiah did, “Here am I. Send Me!”

My family first saw the evidence of God’s call when I was a small child, much of which I can’t even remember. A great deal of my time was spent with my grandparents, and while they rarely attended church, they never missed an opportunity to watch Brother Adrian Rogers’ Sunday morning service on television. As soon as he was finished I would set up a TV tray and “preach” to anyone who would listen. My uncle told my mother recently “I thought for sure that boy would end up a preacher the way he used to carry on come Sunday morning.” Like most children, I dreamed of being an astronaut, policeman, doctor, or cowboy, but preacher was always mixed in there somewhere.

My adolescent years saw, what I considered to be a great upheaval. In the winter of ‘81 when I was eleven, my mother and stepfather moved us from Memphis, Tennessee to Batesville, Mississippi where we began attending a fundamental holiness church. While that by itself may not be bad, for an eleven-year-old boy that could barely remember the last time he was in a church, three-hour worship services, four days a week can be something of a shock. This began a struggle with my parents that lasted through my teen years where I tried to balance pleasing my family and determining for myself what it meant to please God.

As a young adult, on my own, I continued to seek God and struggle with what it meant to please Him. This eventually led my wife and I through the doors of Courtland United Methodist Church, where the love we felt assured us that this was home.

Most of my life has been like so many others. My wife and I have been married fifteen years. We have two wonderful children, who remind us everyday who God is. The journey hasn’t always been easy and at times I didn’t even recognize it as a journey at all. There have been times in my life when I was sure that in the face of my persistent refusal, God had given up and would let me live my life the way I wanted to. But thank God, that in spite of my protests, He has been ever faithful.

Just when I thought that I had reached a place in life where I could be comfortable, a wonderful family, a good career, God’s call echoes within my heart, just a little louder. “Whom shall I send, and who will go for Us?” There is only one answer that fills my mind, “Here am I, send me!”

While I may not yet fully understand where that answer will lead me, it is my intention to be considered a candidate for ordained ministry and to fulfill the requirements necessary for ordination as an elder in the United Methodist Church. Above all, my goal is to serve God wherever His call may lead.

Not Easily Forgotten

We were still several hundred miles from the coast when we began seeing the tell-tell signs of Katrina's fury, a battered sign here, a missing shingle there. With each passing mile as we approached our destination, the scene became increasingly bleak; mile after mile of endless destruction mirroring the battered souls that sought refuge from the storm.
There are moments in time when reality bursts upon you with such ferocity that you are changed forever. On Saturday, September 10, I experienced such a moment when I was awakened from a dreamy sleeplike state, induced by a constant barrage of unimaginable images of destruction, so widespread that my mind became numb to the never ending sea of battered lives. Slowly at first, the images came, as we made our way from Northwest Mississippi, south to Gulfport, then west on I-10 to Waveland, crossing Hwy 90 to Gladstone Street and finally to the small one-story house with the green roof, where we went about the task of collecting what remained of our loved-ones treasures. We gathered pictures taken over several lifetimes, furniture that Grandpa made, wood carvings that spent hours being fashioned on the craftsman's table, keepsakes and mementos, things of value because of time not money spent. And when the last strap was being tightened on the trailer, I realized that the time spent with my family in this labor of love was oh so much more valuable than the priceless treasures we collected. These irreplaceable reminders of life's most precious moments became for me symbols of life's most enduring theme; love. Good enough, lesson learned, or so I thought. One last time before we leave, I'll survey the damage done to this small house with the green roof. As I walk around the southern end of the house, I notice something brightly white among the grey fence slats and brown pine needles. Hurriedly now I move forward. What could this be that stands out so starkly against the brokenness? Anguish now washes over me, as I realize that I am seeing what I hoped to never see. It is a tiny white shoe, washed undoubtedly by the churning waters and the pounding rain. A small white sneaker with a velcro strap, small enough for maybe a four year old. A four year old... my son is four years old. My heart breaks as I wonder how many times this small white sneaker with a velcro strap was slipped onto a little four-year old foot. Sometimes in a hurry, "come here and put this shoe on, we're going to be late." Or maybe playfully, "boy, that's not a foot." How many mornings do you think were spent looking for this little white sneaker with a velcro strap. "Here it is. I found it under the bed."...

Now I've found it,
and I wish I could slip it,
on the little foot that lost it.

Lord, Liar, Lunatic?

"I am trying here to prevent anyone saying the really foolish thing that people often say about Him: 'I'm ready to accept Jesus as a great moral teacher, but I don't accept His claim to be God.' That is one thing we must not say. A man who was merely a man and said the sort of thing Jesus said would not be a great moral teacher. He would either be a lunatic-on a level with the man who says he is a poached egg-or else he would be the Devil of Hell. You must make your choice. Either this man was, and is, the Son of God: or else a madman or something worse. You can shut Him up for a fool, you can spit at Him and kill him as a demon or you can fall at his feet and call Him Lord and God. But let us not come with any patronizing nonsense about His being a great human teacher. He has not left that open to us. He did not intend to." -- C.S. Lewis, Mere Christianity

Safe at Last

Uncle Toy and Aunt Peggy are now safely in Rhode Island. My wife Sheranne and I took them and their dog Rudy to the Memphis Int'l Airport Saturday morning. They'll be staying with their daughter, Becky Jo for awhile. Thank you for the many prayers offered on their behalf.

It is amazing to see the outpouring of support from across the country and around the world. I'm sure that many of you have given already, but if you haven't, please consider following one of the links at the top of this page and assist in the reliefy effort by giving generously.

I've heard some people say, those that chose to stay, when they were warned of the impending disaster, deserve what they got. I don't know about you, but I've made some pretty careless decisions before. Not only have I made careless decisions, but some were completely stupid. Not only have I made stupid decisions, but I'm sure I'll make some more. My prayer is, that when I do, that someone, somewhere, who is smarter than I am, is gracious enough to lend me a hand, wether I think I need it or not.

What a Difference a Day Makes

Here's another update on Uncle Toy and Aunt Peggy. Like someone's actually reading this. But it makes me feel better anyway.

The original news that they were on their way to Jackson was incorrect. Actually, they were still in their home. The emergency personnel from Batesville, as their last deed before coming home to regroup and recoup, found Toy and Peggy's house using a street address that had been relayed to them.

By this time the floodwater had receded from their home and they assumed the worst was over. They were completely unaware of the massive devastation spread across the remainder of the Gulf Coast region. When the Batesville firefighters were finally able to talk to them early Wednesday morning, they had decided to stay in their home and wait for basic services to be restored, not realizing how long it would actually take.

Later that afternoon they decided to try and travel 10 miles to a friend's home in Diamondhead, where they hoped that living conditions would be somewhat bearable. They "hitched" a ride to Diamondhead (I've yet to get all the details of this) and made it there sometime Wednesday evening.

Their friend's house was in much better condition. It even had electricity and running water supplied by a generator and well, but was uninhabited. Their friend, a Doctor, had evacuated before the storm struck and was safely in Florida. They settled in for the night, hoping for some much needed rest.

All the while, Richard and J.C. were headed to their home in Waveland not knowing they had moved. Eventually Peggy was able to contact her niece and inform her of their location, which was relayed to Richard. The Doctor's home is located in a closed community in Diamondhead, protected by a wall and armed security guards. When Richard and J.C. arrived there about 9:00 last night, they found, to their dismay, that they had driven the length of the state, only to be stopped by a security guard that wasn't about to believe this haggard looking duo was looking for anything but trouble.

After a brief but intense conversation with Martha, Toy's sister and my mother-in-law, the guard relented and helped the pair search door to door until they found the elusive couple. Richard and J.C. took the two home, where they gathered their belongings and began the long return trip north. They finally reached our house this morning, just as I was leaving for work.

I'll try to post more details of their experience after I get a chance to talk with them this evening.