My Brother Buddy and the Canary

Cars. I grew up with a “car guy” brother. His name was Buddy, and he was my ticket into transportation or in teen terminology, independence, and freedom. Looking back, he was a car geek or in 1960s lingo, a “grease monkey.” Today he would likely be called a “car enthusiast.”

Buddy was my older brother by 2 years so the journey to my first car was well oiled. He had tested and tried everything with a motor so when my first car came, it was less an arrival and more of an acceptance. While I am not quite sure when and how the 1966 canary yellow Pontiac Bonneville convertible showed up on the street beside our house, I slid behind the steering wheel and began my first car driving experience.

As indicated by the picture, it was long, large, and loud. I don’t remember when we got the “canary,” but my memories were more fear than freedom when I drove it. One story, however, lingers, . . . lingers being the operative word.

Honestly, I can’t remember if this story happened to Buddy or me, but I distinctly remember “someone” in our family taking their driving test and while doing the parallel parking part of the test, that long, large, and loud Bonneville actually got caught on the “pipe” that acted as a curb between the parked cars on the driver’s test site. One of us, and this is where it seems almost impossible it was either of us because I distinctly remember passing my test the first time and yet Buddy was by far the best driver in our family. However, one of us backed up on the edge of that pipe and had to end up using the car jack to lift the car off that metal pipe.

Can you imagine the embarrassment of having the Kentucky state police officer get out of the car and walk back to the testing site building to inform the next person waiting to test that there would be a delay? I can’t imagine that . . . so why do I seem to remember it so well? Could it possibly have been me?

Well, that is the problem with writing about our memories. We remember things we have conveniently forgotten. Maybe I passed my test the second time I took it?

This book is my life book!

I know that sounds dramatic, but it is nevertheless true.

However, the life of this book would have died on those first yellow, legal-sized tablets stuffed in a folder, or in the leather-bound faded journals at the top of my closet or on the processor of my first Apple Powerbook Duo Dock computer, if my story wasn’t also your story.

My story is your story because we all live with an acute awareness of relational pain and our first and strongest response is to run. And I did. I ran and ran until I was utterly exhausted.

That exhaustion challenged me to put pen to paper and finger to keyboard where I learned to “Stay in the Room” long enough to negotiate both the work and wonder of truly satisfying relationships.

Ask yourself, does your mind wonder and ache from the weight of runaway relationships? They start as a promising and hopeful walk with an acquaintance, then a friend, and become a slow, almost accidental step in the other direction. Initially, the distance is small and unacknowledged, but soon it becomes deliberate and disappointing. Finally, there is nothing left but a whimpering regret filled with empty questions:
• What did I do?
What did I not do?
• Why didn’t they understand me?
Did I really not understand them?
• Why did they change?
Did I change?
• Why did they give up?
Did I give up too soon?
• Is it really over?
Can we start over?

We all deal with damaged and broken relationships. When those first moments of disagreement and frustration surface, we either pretend, hoping the differences will disappear, or pout, expecting the other person to read our minds. As the distance grows, misunderstanding leads to analysis, then anger follows with a desire to “win,” resolving nothing.

Typically, this is when we put on our running shoes. We want to run from this person who doesn’t understand us, who has unreasonable expectations of us or worst of all, has betrayed us. So, we run away from the confusion and the pain and start over, pretending that it will be better next time. Only it isn’t and it won’t be until we learn to invest in “Stay in the Room” relationships.

After decades of living, listening and loving people into what I call “redemptively reconciled relationships,” I invite you to put away your running shoes and find a soft chair and a cup of coffee. I invite you to dig deep into your relational regrets and uncover a set of personal principles that will both clarify your past and steer your future. I invite you to experience what can happen when you embrace authenticity, define boundaries, understand compatibility, develop discernment and build enthusiasm.

The coffee is on. The chair is waiting. Come and stay.

I Just Want to Breathe Again

Image credit Hackensack Meridian Health

The words came after days of fumbling through my silence. Not a good thing for someone who weekly weaves words. I am a preacher of all things sacred and soulful, so thoughts, words and spiritual observations are my trade.

I am writing this blog only hours before our nation observes the quadrennial practice of swearing in a president. My friends know my struggle over the past four years and before you stop reading, a struggle much less about politics and more about personality. It is less about governing a country’s resources and more about managing an individual’s character.

I fully recognize that much of my struggle with this president is due to his political base, but I am not talking about Republicans. I am talking about evangelicals, people who have a faith in Jesus Christ and believe that they can be “born again” through faith in Christ. These are “my people,” or at least, I used to think so.

My prompting to offer words during this consequential time in history is due to my journey as a pastor these past four years. Never in my 40+ years as a pastor, have I ever had to lower my head, clench my teeth and hold my breath when a president’s name was mentioned.

While we certainly had policy differences, for me, it was never just about politics. It was his personality. For the record, I am not talking about his personality profile (natural inclinations). I am talking about his personality behaviors (daily choices). For followers of Christ (evangelicals in its purest sense), we believe our “rebirth” allows a choice of our will and a surrender of our heart, to be a “new creation.” In the modern words of The Message translation, it goes like this:

“Because of this decision we don’t evaluate people by what they have or how they look. We looked at the Messiah that way once and got it all wrong, as you know. We certainly don’t look at him that way anymore. Now we look inside, and what we see is that anyone united with the Messiah gets a fresh start, is created new. The old life is gone; a new life emerges!

“Look at it! All this comes from the God who settled the relationship between us and him, and then called us to settle our relationships with each other. God put the world square with himself through the Messiah, giving the world a fresh start by offering forgiveness of sins. God has given us the task of telling everyone what he is doing.

“We’re Christ’s representatives. God uses us to persuade men and women to drop their differences and enter into God’s work of making things right between them. We’re speaking for Christ himself now: Become friends with God; he’s already a friend with you.”

Need I say more? Heralded into the office of the presidency on the shoulders of evangelicals, this president made a mockery of the miracle of the Gospel, that anybody can be “reborn” by the grace of God through faith in Christ. While I have no desire to list all my grievances with this president, the two that cause me to hold my breath include a refusal to tell the truth and demeaning anyone with whom he disagrees. I honestly even wondered, did Jesus watch this behavior and perhaps lower his head, clinch his teeth and hold his breath? I hear again those seven words of Jesus, “You will know them by their fruit” (Matthew 7:6). The apostle Paul’s declaration of the fruits of the Spirit roar in my ears: “But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control” (Galatians 5:22).

Now, I have said what has been grinding in my spirit for years. Why? Well, “I just want to breathe again.”

Recently, I discovered a song by an unfamiliar artist, Juwita Suwito. The chorus goes like this:

I just want to breathe again
Learn to face the joy and pain

Discover how to laugh a little, cry a little
Live a little more
I just wanna face the day

Forget about the woes of yesterday
Maybe if I hope a little Try a little more
I’ll breathe again

Yes, I just want to breathe again.

Merle and Living in the Age of “Shameless Blame”

Memories flow like running water when Father Time turns the page on a New Year. While we struggle with the words, we do not miss the sentiment swirling around our annual rendition of “Auld Lang Syne.” Each year we bid a simultaneous farewell and greeting to what was and will be and within that tension of reminiscent hope, we pause, or at least, we should.

We pause to listen for a heartbeat. It is that rhythmic contraction of the heart that unconsciously allows us to be at the very least, conscious and reflective and, at the very best, self-aware and discerning. Each year on this day, unlike any other, we are invited into the challenge of self-awareness.

I do not think it is an exaggeration to say that we live in a time of ever-weakening self-awareness. I call it the age of “shameless blame.” Perhaps now more than ever, I long for a healthy sense of shame. Honestly, I never thought I would say that.

But then again, I grew up listening to Merle. Country legend, Merle Haggard’s music was a prominent part of the stack of vinyl 45s my mother regularly rotated on the spindle of her stereo. His hard-driving, no-frills Bakersfield (California) Sound not only shook the Nashville establishment in the 1960s, but his music also displayed a rugged authenticity needed for times like ours.

I am reminded of Merle today, January 1, 2018, as I read the story of Johnny Cash’s first-ever prison concert, tenderly dramatized in the movie, Walk The Line. On this day in 1958, Merle is a 20-year-old San Quintin inmate serving a 15-year sentence for burglary. He later identifies the concert by the “Man in Black” as the turning point of his life and career.

I grew up listening and living Merle’s brand of music through my mother’s enduring admiration of his hard-living anthems. On the eve of this New Year, I find his songs of the 60s are a roadmap to the rugged authenticity needed to escape this weak and worried age of “shameless blame.” Just review some of the words from his classics in the 60s:

1965 “(My Friends Are Gonna Be) Strangers”

“From now on all my friends are gonna be strangers
I’m all through ever trusting anyone
The only thing I can count on now is my fingers
I was a fool believing in you and now you are gone.”

1967 “Loneliness Is Eating Me Alive”

“And honey you’ll have to hurry or there’ll be no reason to come home.
‘Cause this loneliness is eating me alive.”

1968 “Mama Tried”

“Mama tried to raise me better, but her pleading, I denied
That leaves only me to blame ‘cause Mama tried”

1969 “Workin’ Man Blues”

“Sometimes I think about leaving, do a little bummin’ around
I ain’t never been on welfare, that’s one place I won’t be
Cause I’ll be working as long as my two hands are fit to use”

1969 “Silver Wings”

“Silver wings, Shining in the sunlight
Roaring engines, Headed somewhere in flight
They’re taking you away, And leaving me lonely”

1969 “Okie From Muskogee”

“I’m proud to be an Okie from Muskogee,
A place where even squares can have a ball
We still wave Old Glory down at the courthouse,
And white lightnin’s still the biggest thrill of all”

Reverberating off the walls of our meager home on Decoursey Avenue in Covington, Kentucky, Merle’s words unwittingly settled into the texture of my adolescent consciousness. I felt my loneliness in his, I saw his Mama in mine, I worked my first job with dogged determination, and I sensed the substance of small town living as well as the pride of wartime patriotism.

Through the years, I re-acquaint myself with Merle’s music through the digital music streaming services he likely never imagined. But it is a story I read in Rolling Stone magazine not long after his death that offers my final, favorite impression. While his fans knew Haggard’s hardened, gruff image as displayed in his music, his real-life persona was different, especially as he aged. He was polite, reserved, but intensely curious, especially about current events. He became a news junkie and was politically outspoken, often taking positions unpopular in the country music world.

In 2010, he received a Kennedy Center Honor from President Obama and made news describing him as very different from the media perception. “It’s really almost criminal what they do with our President. There seems to be no shame or anything. They call him all kinds of names all day long, saying he’s doing certain things that he’s not. It’s just a big old political game that I don’t want to be part of.”

Now, let’s practice that pause I mentioned at the beginning of this blog. If you were feeling warm about my reminiscing of old Merle and suddenly went cold because I mentioned a former president that may not be your favorite, a pause for discernment is crucial.

In a plea for “self-awareness,” take a moment to reflect. Why are we so incredibly polarized? Why do we so easily vilify someone with whom we disagree? Why do we blame “the other” person, party, or circumstance?

May I say it again? We blame because we live in a time of ever-weakening self-awareness. We live in an age of “shameless blame.”

We can do better. We must do better. May it start with you and me!

Fall Fun or Evil Practice?

Picture-Halloween in Boston

I am in Boston to see my son, Nicholas and his beautiful bride, Stacie, and there is Halloween revelry bubbling around me.  Our Stacie is dressed as Garth Alger, the character played by Dana Carvey, of the 1992 movie, Wayne’s World.  It is a unique time of the year.

“Tis the season of Halloween . . .



things that go bump in the night
children in costume
gathering candy
neighborhood pranks
. . . sounds like good clean fun.”

Or is it?

Every year it happens and every year there’s a least some misunderstanding. For the record, Halloween was not originally a time of revelry and festivity. It was recognition on the eve of All Saints Day (which is November 1) that we build our world and our lives upon the foundation laid by the saints who have preceded us.

Hence Halloween, or “all hallows (saints) eve” was a time to reflect on those whose lives had been influential to us, and a time to sense their continued influence in our lives.
So, think about the saints—and remember that a saint is not so much a person who realizes that he or she possesses virtues and sanctity as one who is overwhelmed by the holiness of God. Or, as the boy said who was asked to define a saint, upon looking at the stained glass windows in his church with pictures of Saint Matthew, Mark, Luke and John, “A saint is someone who lets the light shine through.”

Continue your celebration of “Hallows Eve” this week and let God’s light shine through!


An Intersection of Strangers

Picture-Intersection of StrangersI don’t cry easily. Maybe someday I will. I am not proud of it. I do not think crying is a weakness. I just don’t cry easily.

Charles Dickens, in his classic Great Expectations, helps with my tear dilemma: “Heaven knows we need never be ashamed of our tears, for they are rain upon the blinding dust of earth, overlying our hard hearts. I was better after I had cried, than before—more sorry, more aware of my own ingratitude, more gentle.”

So why do I need to confess about crying? Let me explain.

My recent tears arrive most unexpectedly, both in place and in power.

I am on the beach, my favorite place to relax. Then without notice, streams of steady tears begin, my eyes unable to contain the flow.

I am reading a book, something I do most everyday of my life. In this particular case, I am reading a book written by a friend. While he initially identifies it as a “novel,” I am relieved to discover these words in the preface: “This story is based upon (such) a memory for me, the true story of the intersection of strangers.” I am relieved because for me most novels die somewhere between fate and folly, dreams and drama.

Maybe I cry because I know the writer and hear the heart cry of his memories. Maybe I cry because the writer is skilled at his craft and weaves a tale of bittersweet reality. Whatever the reason for my tears, they come as “rain upon the blinding dust of earth” when I read the last paragraph and look up to discover my wife has “caught me in the act.”

Disguised as a Trojan horse, the book enters the city of my soul and captures me unaware of the power of my missing brother.

I tell you all of this because I want to warn you to read the book. I want to warn you in the way that a town crier alerts the community to upcoming opportunities.

I want to warn you “memories matter,” people are precious and life is faithfully fleeting.

The title of this book is An Intersection of Strangers and Paul Heagen is the writer. It is a story of two teenagers whose intersection in life is timely and timeless, opportune and enduring. It is a story of cars and kids, parents and music, wars both foreign and personal, fate and faith, living and dying.

I can’t promise you will cry when you read it, but I can hope you will.

P.S. You can contact my friend Paul on his Defining Moments website ( or call 513-260-8330. Or simply go to Amazon to purchase.

Giving Up or Giving In?


We are only days away. We will soon be hearing strange sounding words like “Fat Tuesday,” “Ash Wednesday,” and “Lent.” And for those of us who did not grow up in church, well, these are confusing. Let me try to help.

Simply put, Lent is to Easter what Advent is to Christmas. Just as Advent helps us to anticipate the coming of the Christ child, Lent prepares us to celebrate the resurrection of the Christ God-man. Since the fourth century, this season has been devoted to Christian nurture through self-denial, reflection and penitence. It is a forty-day period of soul refreshment that starts on “Ash Wednesday.” “Fat Tuesday,” as you might expect, refers to the day before which has become a day of gluttony and carousing.

As I have observed over the years, the spiritual goal here is not so much a rigid adherence to a church calendar, but the recognition that human beings need to be reminded regularly of their need for self-examination and a re-opening of the heart to the reality of grace.

One of the main questions that surface during this timeframe is, what will you give up for Lent this year? To that end, may I offer a few suggestions from my files:

• Give up complaining; focus on gratitude.
• Give up pessimism; become an optimist.
• Give up harsh judgments; think kindly thoughts.
• Give up discouragements; be full of hope.
• Give up bitterness; turn to forgiveness.
• Give up anger; be more patient.
• Give up pettiness; become mature.
• Give up gloom; enjoy the beauty around you.
• Give up jealousy; pray for trust.
• Give up gossiping; control your tongue.
• Give up sin; turn to virtue.

So, why don’t you spend some time this week “giving up” some things you don’t need and “giving in” to some things you do need.

Flawed, Faithful Clay

The recent birthday celebration of Martin Luther King, Jr. calls us as a community of believers to affirm the truth: “Justice may sometimes sleep, but it never dies.” In our lifetime, we have see his dream of justice for all suffer with some moments of insomnia, but each time the dream has awakened in time to live through the night.

Had he lived, he would have been 86 years old this year. In his 39 years on this earth, he reshaped the world for the better although he did not live to see his dream fully realized. A citizen, minister and civil rights leader, he rejected violence in all forms. Through his strategy of non-violence, he helped initiate a new understanding for peace and social injustice in the turbulent ‘60s. In the process he earned the Nobel Peace Prize and was named Time magazine’s Man of the Year for 1963.

In the last few years, like many other famous people who have died, we have heard about Dr. King’s “feet of clay.” The recent movie, Selma, portrays this in a powerful scene where Coretta Scott King confronts her husband over FBI-manufactured evidence of his adultery and forces him to admit that there were, indeed, other women in his life, although King claims to love only Coretta.

Whatever we believe about his life, it seems clear to me that while it may not be appropriate for us to emulate his life, or for that matter the life of any other human being, it does seem fitting for us to recognize that even with his flawed humanity, Dr. King made a positive impact on his world and the kingdom of God.

The beautiful honesty of the Bible on more than one occasion speaks of the shortcomings of its heroes. Its David was a murderer and an adulterer and one of history’s lousiest parents. Still on his good days, his achievements were so grand that God called him a man after his heart.

This is not to say we should be like David or even like Martin Luther King. But it does say something about God’s ability and willingness to mold even flawed clay. Thanks be to God!

A Simple Prayer for the New Year

The day I am writing this (January 2), my calendar tells me that on this day in 1968, Dr. Christiaan Barnard performed the first successful heart transplant operation. The thought of a heart transplant feeds my thoughts for this New Year and the hopes and dreams that “spring eternal” as we resolute our way into 2015.

So, would you like to have a new heart? Not a physical one (unless, of course, your health demands it), but a spiritual one. One that is able to choose hope over fear and love over anger. I suspect after a year like 2014, most of us would agree that a little more hope and a lot less anger would be a good start for the New Year.

Frederick Buechner describes anger this way: “Of the Seven Deadly Sins, anger is possibly the most fun. To lick your wounds, to smack your lips over grievances long past, to roll over your tongue the prospect of bitter confrontations still to come, to savor to the last toothsome morsel both the pain you are given and the pain you are giving back—in many ways it is a feast fit for a king. The chief drawback is that what you are wolfing down is yourself. The skeleton at the feast is you.”

So, what bit of anger are you holding onto? Or perhaps closer to the truth, what bit of anger is holding onto you? What piece of the truth did not get told, what confrontation was unfair, or what frustration festered into fear that exploded in anger? Well, whatever its source, I would plead that you set among your resolutions, hopes and dreams for the New Year, a determined desire to rid your life of all and every form of destructive anger.

Now I am the first to admit that the “what” is easier than the “how” on this “rid yourself of anger” New Year’s goal. Most of us, with a little bit of reflective energy, can locate the eye of anger’s storm. It, however, takes pure, passionate, persevering patience to stay the course in moving from the source to the cure of our anger.

But mark it well, my friends, it will NOT go away on its own. Much to the chagrin of those who thoughtlessly say, “time will heal all things,” the fact is, it doesn’t. Until you and I identify our anger and offer it to God in a prayer of cleansing confession, we will not “get over it.” It will cling to us like glue and suffocate any plans we have for hope and healing in the New Year.

So, why not start today? The old proverb was right: “If you are patient in one moment of anger, you will escape a hundred days of sorrow.” Begin today moving from anger and sorrow. It starts with a simple prayer that invites God to transform your aches into opportunities, your regrets into possibilities, your anger into peace. Thanks be to God!

You Can’t Make This Stuff Up!

There are moments when all we can do is shake our head and state the obvious, “you can’t make this stuff up!” So it was on one late August afternoon in Northern Kentucky.

An early afternoon meeting ends, leaving me near my home and hungry. Seeking a quick lunch, I pull into my garage and as I ease out of my car, I hear it. A loud thud followed by a roaring engine and I get my first glimpse of the “you can’t make this stuff up” experience coming straight toward me as I peer through the window at the end of my garage.

A blue truck, engine thundering and tires spinning in the grass, heads toward my shocked gaze as I search for the face of the driver. Head jerking from side to side, hands writhing in contorted motions, his truck’s destination is unknown until it hits the large landscaping rocks in front of my garage, which spins the vehicle toward my driveway and the large, 8-foot poles holding hinged entrance gates. Slamming into one of the poles the wheels keep spinning, the driver’s foot unable to release the gas until one tire goes flat and settles the truck into a cornered resting place.

I hurry to the window of the truck and begin an impossible conversation with the driver. Still immersed in some kind of seizure, he jerks and moans, unable to focus on me or the cries of his 3 children in the back seat of the extended cab. A neighbor lady joins my investigation and while calming the children, she whispers, “there is a gun on the console between the front seats.”

I locate the gun and dial 911 to report the accident. Only a half block away, the police and emergency folks arrive soon, but not before one unforgettable visitor to this already strange set of circumstances.

I hear her from at least 30-40 feet away. She is making her way up the street with a hurried pace. She closes in on the object of her scorn (he had evidently clipped her car at the intersection), her cursing is loud and clear: “You blankety-blank, what the blankety-blank do you think you are doing? I am glad you got caught, you blankety-blank!”

She draws the attention of everyone as she walks up my driveway to confront the culprit of her contempt only to slam into a harsh wall of realization; she is cursing a man having a full-blown seizure. Unexpectedly her body and language do a backwards somersault. Her “god”-laced profanity in cursing the man’s existence suddenly changes to petitions of help: “Oh Lordy, Lordy, help that man! Somebody help that man! Somebody needs to help that man!”

She exits as quickly as she arrives, but my redemptive recollections of that day linger long beyond the estimates and insurance paperwork following that “you can’t make this stuff up” day.

For the record, the driver walked away, albeit slowly, from the accident. The victim of a diabetic seizure, his children were calmed, the truck towed, and yes, he had a license to carry the gun.

My deeper reflections of that day only recently surfaced. Knee-deep in Advent declarations and discoveries, I could not miss the parallel. The dictionary says a “diabetic seizure occurs when the body receives a number of different signals from the brain that happen at the same time and contradict each other.” Our world is awash with a myriad of diverse but simultaneous signals, which contradict each other and often leave us in a senseless seizure.

Yesterday, I watch the television screen at my gym offer alerts about the hostage situation in Sydney, Australia. The siege ends with the gunman and two captives dead.

Today, the alert on my phone produces a gasp as I read of the slaughter of over 100 children in the Peshawar school attack in Pakistan by Taliban militants.

And our own country is awash with the conversation around the recently released report on CIA torture.

The grand contradiction, however, comes when we boil the Christmas story down to a yearly celebration of mangers and malls. We sing with the angels about “peace” on earth, but when it is all over we leave our world peace to politicians and beauty queens. All these signals leave us numb and needy.

We are numb and needy for a clear, convincing Christmas message to awaken us from the sugary sweet seizure of a sentimental story gone stale. So, may I offer you some sanctified “smelling salts” to awaken you to the clear, convicting message of the Christ child come to earth.

To understand this story we must awaken to the place, Bethlehem. This place is on the “other side of the tracks” and it is intended to awaken us to the fact that God is doing something about real problems in the real world.

To understand this story we must awaken to the person, Jesus. This person, Jesus, breaks down walls. He breaks down walls of violence and injustice, rich and poor, worthy and worthless, and the sin and death that separate us from knowing the love, peace and justice of God in this world.

To understand this story, we must awaken to the peace, an inside out proposition available to Christ’s every follower. Peace will never simply be the absence of conflict. Real, honest, lasting peace is the presence of God through a personal relationship with Christ that exudes a hunger and thirst for right relationships, both human and divine.

To understand this story we must awaken to the personal, the personal opportunity we have to play a leading role in this real life drama of God come down in human form. Honesty, the choice is ours. We can either slip into the sugary sweet seizure of a sentimental story gone stale or we can awaken to the miracle of the Bethlehem Christ child come true.

Really, “you can’t make this stuff up!”