USING WHAT WE HAVE

There are times when I sit down at my computer and my mind is touched by thoughts that lead me to my word processor. 

Once, as I was reading one of Max Lucado’s short messages, I was reminded of the number of times Satan has endeavored to press ENVY into my heart.  It begins gently and takes on a familiar scheme. “Wow, Max writes so well.” “I wish I could write like that.” “Why can’t I write like that?” “Why does Max have that talent and I don’t?” “Grrrrrr!” You see where I’m going with this, right? 

In times of weakness, I have to remember some special assignments God has given to me.  When my friends’ son was killed in a car accident, my mind was filled with words that took the form of a letter from son to parents.  When I refused to write them, I was made miserable until I opened up Word and began to type. That “letter” was used by God to comfort grieving parents and was later used by the parents to witness for the Father. With so many more talented writers in the world, including Max, God used me for his purposes. Wow, how did that happen?   

The point I’m making is this: Though Max and I may not have the same talent level, we have the same Agent. Max was blessed to touch the world. Maybe, I was blessed to touch a few hearts. In the end, it doesn’t matter because the inspiration comes from the same source. Besides, I could probably beat Max in ping pong. I’m smiling broadly.

“All these are empowered by one and the same Spirit, who apportions to each one individually as he wills.”—1 Corinthians 12:11      

THAT OLD TABLE

There is a dining room table in my memories.  It was part of a magical house down the road in Marion Station.  Marion is a tiny village, now considered a ghost town, in Somerset County. 

The table belonged to my grandparents, and it was the place to be on holidays like Thanksgiving and Christmas.  Not all of the family could make it every holiday, but as my mind travels to distant memories, they are all there now.  The conversation is animated and the love obvious. 

I sit quietly consuming my feast and look around the table at beloved faces; faces that bring a smile and, perhaps a tear, at their recollection.  I loved them so much, but now those dear ones have gone to the Father.  Those of us who are left were but children then, and we are scattered. 

Often on holidays now I travel to my cousin’s home to eat some of her marvelous cooking and sample the cheery pie she frequently promises.  The gatherings are often small, as other family members have their own obligations and duties.  We enjoy our fellowship, but a part of my heart will forever be given to my grandparents’ table and that charming time known as childhood.

I can smile at my thoughts, knowing God’s house has a great table, and the family I am missing here is gathered there; rejoicing with the Father.  Granddad, Nanny, Mom, Uncle Bobby, Uncle Wade, Aunt Betty, Uncle Scotty, and little Jodie Dale must all look beautiful, just as I remember them.  Perhaps, Marvin and Ruth Whisnant, and their oldest son, Mike, from my heart-adopted second family, are seated nearby.  It’s my memory, so I’ll set the table according to my own heart. 

A valued friend says he doesn’t spend time thinking of the past.  We have different feelings on the topic.  There’s a popular television show with a main character who uses a line I like.  He says, “The future is cloudy, but the past keeps getting clearer every day.”  I plan to trust God with my future, but I’ll also thank Him for the strong roots nourished in my family’s soil.  They helped to make me who I am.   

“Father God, thank you for those you have taken, for their influence on my life, and for loving and protecting them . . . until I can catch up.”      

“And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and receive you to Myself; that where I am, there you may be also.”—John 14:3 (NKJV)

LIFE’S BRIEF JOURNEY

Whenever I would drive a long distance, I would usually break the trip down into parts. My house to the Bay Bridge is ___ miles and the Bay Bridge to the DC beltway is ___ miles etc. I think it tricks my mind into thinking the journey is shorter and there is a feeling of accomplishment when each milestone is passed.

There is no way I can compare this life to eternity. This life is much too short, but God put us here for a reason. We want to be in heaven and he wants us there, but not at the expense of wasting our time in this world. What would you do if God spoke to you and said “You only have 24 hours left to live, make the most of it?” What acts of kindness would you perform? Who would you tell you loved them? What beauty in this world would you try to enjoy one last time? How would you honor God?

I wonder what this world would be like if we all lived EACH day as if it were our last. Carpe diem (Seize the day)! Honor God by living this day for Him as if it were your last. Oh! And Howard, take your own advice. Blessings! 

Our days on earth are like a shadow. I Chronicles 29:15

A LOOK BACK

George Benson sang “Learning to love yourself is the greatest love of all.” While I think God’s love for us is greater, certainly self-love is important. When I look back at my own life, I recognize easily the areas where I was satisfied and the areas I felt lacking.

When I was early in my coaching career, a guy wrote a letter to Coach Waller pretty much offering his sympathy that Butch was stuck with me as an assistant. It angered me so much, I was determined I would become a good coach. I won’t self-congratulate but I think I grew immensely in my coaching skills.

The major area of doubt came in my attempts at romantic relationships. I’ve stated in recent years that I was always a romantic, but I was never very good at romance. Why? I was lacking in self-esteem and was too worried I would be shot down. I crossed paths with a well-known Salisbury business owner for a few years and marveled at his self-confidence. He used to say “If I ask 100 girls out and only 1 accepts, I still have a date.” Try as I might, I could never emulate his attitude. Christian author, John Eldredge, says that women are a prize and feel a man should want to win them. They are certainly a prize, but I was never willing to be “torn and covered with scars” in order to win the sweet lady’s hand. One woman told me she was looking for “a knight in shining armor.” No one ever called me Sir Howard, and at one sign of trouble or competition, I was ready to throw in my cards.

Not being married with children though meant I was able to offer shelter to several who were in need. That’s a positive. Not having children probably heightened my feelings for my students and players, and that’s not a bad thing either.

One of my very best friends once said, “God doesn’t make junk.” Whatever I possessed or was lacking, I was made by the Master Creator. He didn’t make any mistakes so I refuse to wish for something that was not meant to be. God loved me in 1948 and He loves me still. Not loving myself would show doubt in his workmanship. I’m as perfect as he made me and happy for his love. Full speed ahead.

Thoughts Of An Old Teacher

In 1974 I accepted a teaching job at WiHi paying $8,000 a year.  I had already turned down an offer from the federal government that paid twice that amount.  Green Giant Company, my part-time employer, had also sought to hire me to a full-time position and move me to Jersey.  I passed on that as well, because, you see, I had the teaching bug.

Once I had completed my first couple of years in the classroom, I never looked back.  In public education you teach whoever walks in the door.  I taught murderers and their victims.  I had one student who stabbed his mother because she changed the television channel, yet I chewed his backside out for misbehaving in class.  I wasn’t alone.  My colleagues and buddies were right there beside me.

Together, my fellow teachers and I fought a 33-year battle for better pay and conditions.  Some taxpayers often criticized us publicly and opposed any tax increases that would benefit us and our public safety brothers and sisters.  When I would identify my occupation to others, I would often hear “Oh, you’re a school teacher.”  It was often said with a tone of voice that would suggest “pond scum” could be substituted for “school teacher.”   I would proudly stick my chest out and say “Yes I am.”

Now that I’m retired, I don’t dwell on the negatives.  I remember the CPA’s from my accounting classes and the judge who played basketball for me.  Mostly, though, I remember the many smiling faces and bright eyes of young people of all shades and backgrounds.  I fashioned a hybrid version of what is often said about teachers: “Those who can, teach.  Those who can’t, criticize.”  This isn’t my story.  I had plenty of companions with their own tales.  And, they are still out there; younger versions being innovative, dogged in their determination, and most of all, being caring. 

Give a teacher a good word, and, when it’s safe, hug them.  They will always be fighting the good fight and your kind words will mean more than you can imagine.    

FAITH IN DARK TIMES

Max Lucado tells the story of faithful words found on the wall of a concentration camp:

”I believe in the sun, even though it doesn’t shine.
I believe in love, even when it isn’t shown.
I believe in God, even when he doesn’t speak.”

Max asks the question, “What eyes could have seen good in such horror?”  And his answer:  “Eyes that chose to see the unseen.”

How amazing was the faith of that concentration camp prisoner. I can’t imagine the horrors he witnessed and experienced.

Jesus knew well about horror. Knowing his death was at hand, he took three of his most beloved disciples with him to pray. Peter, James, and John were not only his disciples, but they were his friends. He asked them to stay awake and wait for him as he prayed. Despite their love for him, however, the exhausted disciples slept. Luke tells us that Jesus was in such anguish the “drops of blood fell from his body.” And yet, his request to God that the yoke he bore would be lifted from his shoulders was followed by “not my will, but your will be done.” (Matt. 26:39) Jesus’ strength could only be found through faith and obedience. And where would we be if Jesus had not possessed such strength; lost and buried under a mountain of sin. Praise God for the strength of our Savior!

Like me, you have probably experienced some very dark times during your walk through this life. If you haven’t, stop reading and give thanks to God for sparing you. Sometimes it’s difficult to look through the thick clouds of despair and see the light of relief, but it’s there. Every storm I have ever experienced has ended with soft rays of sunshine breaking through the overcast. It can be that way with the trials of our lives as well. When the going gets tough; have faith and look for the unseen. Reach out to God and hang on with all your might as he carries you through the storm.

God is our protection and our strength. He always helps in times of trouble. The LORD All-Powerful is with us; the God of Jacob is our defender. Psalm 16:1, 11

AN EXTRAORDINARY TEACHER

Many of the 4^th grade boys at Carrie Downie Elementary School, just outside of New Castle, DE, wanted cool Mr. Metzo as their 5^th grade teacher.  First, there were not that many male teachers at the school, and second, Mr. Metzo sported a flat top, great in 1958, and played ball with his students during recess.

When I saw at the end of the year that I had been assigned to Metzo’s class for 5^th grade, I was ecstatic.  Imagine my disappointment when I was pulled from Metzo’s class a few days into the new school year, and transferred to the classroom of Mr. Marshall.  Mr. Marshall was older and to my 10-year old self looked like an old fuddy-duddy.  To top things off, the class was made up of half 5^th graders and half 6^th graders; an arrangement I never understood.

I fretted for a while, but it didn’t take long for me to realize that teachers as well as books should not be judged by their cover, no matter how worn they appear to be.  Mr. Marshall was amazing.  I had disappointed my 3^rd and 4^th grade teachers, both young women, with my laziness.  They seemed to want my success far more than I.  I could find the most amazing things to daydream about, both in class and at home, when I was supposed to be doing my homework.

Mr. Marshall was the first person to call me “Roberts,” as in “Holy fudge, Roberts.”  I’m not sure what’s holy about fudge, but that was his classic line.  Though he was now in Delaware, I remember him being a die-hard Iowa Hawkeye fan.  He celebrated when his Hawkeyes looked to qualify for the Rose Bowl.  Like Metzo, Mr. Marshall also joined us in games of football and softball at recess, depending on the season.  He was always the quarterback and I once caught a touchdown pass from him that a buddy was fumbling and pushed my way.  Mr. Marshall made me feel like a college receiver that day, telling me I could play for his Hawkeyes; a dubious honor in my mind.

My work improved immensely under Mr. Marshall because I wanted to please him.  He was the first teacher and, perhaps the last, to talk to me about doubting myself.  We would have spelling bees and, although I usually did well, I would spell the words as if I was asking a question.  Mr. Marshall once said, “Roberts, if you ever get confidence in yourself, who knows what you will accomplish.”

Mr. Marshall was a gifted storyteller.  On days without outside recess, he kept us mesmerized with stories of Horacio Higgenbothem and Zelmo Zickafoose.  His invented characters were always battling some form of horror, most notably the gruesome “green slime.”  He was a master of the cliff hanger, getting his heroes to an exciting point and then saying, “Okay class, let’s open your history books to page 167.”  Oh, the humanity!  We would moan and whine, but history always would win the day.

At the end of the year, I found I would be moving on to George Read Middle School for 6^th grade and that Mr. Marshall would still be my teacher.  I was delighted.  Sadly, due to my step-father’s death, I had to leave George Read about half way through the year and return to Marion Station, where I would finish my elementary and high school education.  Mr. Marshall wrote me once and told me he missed me, but that he knew I was doing well in my new school.  He said, “The bean soup, a shared delight for him and I, just doesn’t taste as good with you gone.”  He sent me a picture of himself that I still have somewhere in my belongings.

It’s been 60 years since I last saw Mr. Harold Marshall, but his gruff though good-natured demeanor is alive in my memories.  He played a significant part in how I viewed myself by demonstrating his faith in me and making me feel I was special.  I’m sure Mr. Marshall has been gone from the world for some time, but during Teacher Appreciation Week, I am remembering him with fondness.  He was a superior teacher whose memory I will always cherish.

THOUGHTS FROM THE BATTLEFIELD

I hit pothole #69 almost a month ago and am headed full speed toward #70. I’m now traveling daily to Baltimore, in good company, to get zapped by radiation. The plan is to make cancer say “no mas” and shrivel on the vine.

My fractured finger and mangled hand are healing, as are my battered ribs. I come home to two aging felines who act like a kitty Santa Claus is “in the house.” They sleep close to me with one often wrapped around my head on the pillow. The purring is consistent, and comforting.

My schedule at Hopkins daily brings me in contact with the same fellow cancer fighters. We come from different locations, but we gather together to battle a common foe. There are husbands and wives, parents and children, and several loners like myself. I think we find some comfort in each others presence and commitment. When we are wearing our gowns, we all share a certain humility anyway.

Once this week I was corrected when I said there was no one who needed me. My friend, Bob, said “What? Don’t you think all those who respond to your FB posts with prayers and encouragement need you?” I don’t know about that, but I’m certainly grateful for them (YOU).

In the end, the success or failure of my conflict lies in the hands of the One who created me. Nothing I face can remove from my thoughts the promise below. It’s a promise that was also made to each of you. There is no ban in place or vetting required to accept grace as a gift. Friends, we are so lucky.

In my Father’s house are many mansions: if it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you.–John 14:2

THE LONESOME END

Back in the time when “old” Howard was actually “young” Howard, the Army football team had a player they called “the lonesome end.”  He never came to the huddle and would get his signals by watching the quarterback’s footwork.  Personally, it’s been over 50 years since I invited Jesus into my huddle, but often during that time I’ve asked him to play “the lonesome end.”  That has always been a mistake because what worked for Army doesn’t work for me.

Once we invite Christ into our lives we MUST give him control.  The dynamics he brings to the huddle are unlike any other.  When I was a boy playing sandlot football, I was often one of the last chosen.  When I let Christ be my quarterback, he always looks me square in the heart and says, “You are valuable to this team; go deep” (football language).  If you took time to read this, please note, YOU are also amazingly valuable.  God has life plays designed for each of us.   Go deep, my friend and be blessed!

For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord, plans for welfare and not for evil, to give you a future and a hope.–Jeremiah 29-11

Christ In The Midst Of The Storm

When I was eleven, my stepfather took his own life. My mother was recovering from an operation and the grief she bore was impeding her healing. Thirteen days after my stepfather’s death was Christmas Day. I watched as my mother sat on a sofa in her gown, seemingly lost in her sorrow. I saw two of my uncles go to her and offer words of encouragement. She nodded as they talked to her, but returned to her somber demeanor after they moved away.

Christ knew what she needed and He sent me. I sat beside her and she looked down at me and tried to smile. Her eyes were haunted and filled with sadness. I looked up and said “Mom, you’ve got to be okay because I need you.” As she gazed at me through tears, I saw something new enter the dark brown eyes. It was resolve, and that was closely followed by determination. Afterward, she seemed to improve visibly each day. During her bereavement, Christ was there, and He saw exactly what she needed to facilitate her healing. What she needed was to be told how valuable and important she was to her worried child. It wasn’t long before she was her vigorous and feisty self again providing me with ample amounts of love and just the right amount of discipline (I can be feisty too).

Something else happened as well. A woman who believed, but had strayed from her commitment to God, returned to Him. And as I watched her carefully, it was through her faith and dedication that I believed. Where would my life have gone if not for her pain, recovery, and renewal of her faith? Where would I be if Christ had not whispered encouragement? Christ was there as He always will be during the tumultuous storms we face. If your life is in turmoil, call on Him, trust in Him, and let Him lead you out of the tempest. Those ever faithful nail-scarred hands are reaching.

Nothing can ever separate us from God’s love. Neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither our fears for today nor our worries about tomorrow—not even the powers of hell can separate us from God’s love. Romans 8:38