My wife and I recently brought home an old croquet set from her parents’ house in Nashville. She remembers playing croquet with her family in Paraguay when she was a young girl. In fact, they played with that very croquet set with traces of Paraguayan mud still present on the balls and mallets. My children also remembered playing croquet when we visited Peggy’s parents in the summertime, after they retired from their missionary work and moved back to Tennessee. Our girls have vivid and happy memories of those croquet matches with the cousins in the Skinner’s backyard. Grandpa was always the one who set it up. He knew all the rules and took time to oversee every game, making sure all the grandkids played fairly and correctly. It was great fun for all the cousins, and usually ended with Grandma inviting everyone in for cookies and ice cream, or maybe even fresh, cold watermelon.
Category Archives: Biblical Truth
THE OTHER MAN IN THE ROOM
Dr. Mike Sims glanced at his watch as he pushed open the heavy glass door and exited the family practice clinic. Depending on traffic he could be home in less than fifteen minutes. He walked briskly toward the white Honda Pilot waiting in his reserved space in the parking lot. A quick press of the button on the key fob unlocked it just a half-second before he pulled open the door and slid into the drivers seat. The warm Georgia sun had heated the cab nicely– a welcome relief in the midst of the January cold snap. It was Thursday, and he was normally off on Thursday afternoons. Dr. Sims’ final patient of the morning had required more time than he had anticipated, causing his delay in leaving the clinic. Some people simply love to recount details– every detail of every pain that they have experienced over the last 48 hours. But over thirty=five years of experience had taught him to listen carefully, because somewhere sandwiched in the midst of insignificant details was the tell-tale key to a diagnosis. Dr. Sims was a good listener. A warm, caring demeanor had always been his style, boosting his practice and retaining the respect and loyalty of most of his patients.
BREATHE MARK, BREATHE !
Breathe Mark, breathe! It used to hurt my feelings when I heard it, and I heard it at least a thousand times before I was twelve years old. My dad was the one who first crafted the phrase, but my mom and my older brother used it on me as well. If I ever got distracted, or forgot to do something I would hear, “Breathe Mark, breathe.” Nowadays, I would probably have been labeled ADD, but I came along about forty years before ADD became a diagnosis. I wasn’t really hyperactive (most of the time), but simply had a problem of “paying attention.” And it wasn’t the kind of thing that resulted in bad grades. I just “forgot” things easily.
Mom might say, “Mark go brush your teeth and hop into bed; it’s bed time.” I would dutifully head toward the bathroom with every obedient intention, but would almost always get distracted by something like– the old antique trunk in the hallway. In a split second, that old trunk would become a pirate’s treasure chest containing gold coins and jewels beyond my wildest dreams. It would steal away all of my attention. Then the next thing I knew Mom would be pinching the fire out of me, demanding why I didn’t obey her. I was stunned that she would think I wanted to disobey! My answer? “Mom, I just forgot.”
YES & NO
Yes and No– two powerful words. Both say a lot. But use them together and you have ambiguity. Use them together in a courtroom and you have trouble.
Several years ago I was subpoenaed to testify in court for a simple custody case. A fine couple in our church were hoping to get custody of their young niece, who’s mother had been arrested for drug possession several times and hospitalized in a mental institution. It seemed like an easy case to me. As their pastor, they needed me to be a simple “character” witness, testifying about their family stability, moral character, and suitability to be loving guardians for the child.
GREASY HAIR AND SILLY PRAYER
It was 1970. I was 14 years old and needed help with life. Being the shortest kid in my class was hard enough to handle, but couple that with my inability to excel at anything athletic, and anyone will understand why I needed help. The eighth grade is ground zero for male insecurity. Everybody knows that everything matters in the eighth grade– voice, wit, romance, odor, clothes, and especially HAIR. In 1970 it was a guy’s hair that told his story. The crew cuts and flat tops of the 50’s and 60’s were history, and guys were finally liberated to look like Jesus– or at least like the Beatles. The coolest men on TV sported locks of hair down on their shoulders and plenty of facial hair. Add bell bottom jeans, wide leather belts, and love beads and any guy could possess undisputed coolness.
Unfortunately, I was a 14 year old shrimp with only a little facial fuzz and very traditional parents who thought long hair was a sign of satanic rebellion. I tried showing Dad multiple pictures of Jesus in my Sunday school quarterly to prove that long hair could be a godly look, but it was of no use. He wouldn’t even let my hair creep over my ears, much less flow across my shoulders. We were able to work out a compromise though. I WAS allowed to wear my hair down on my forehead like Paul McCartney, just so the back was neatly trimmed and the entire ear showed. He didn’t like my “bangs” hovering over my eyes, but it was a compromise he was willing to accommodate– especially when he noticed how many of my friends were actually chasing the Jesus look, while their parents were obviously looking the other way. For me it was just the best I could get, even though I looked like a clean cut guy with love beads and a brown possum resting on my forehead.
