“My Grandchildren Have Each Come Equipped with GPS”

When my first grandchild, a beautiful little girl, was born, I was surprised to learn that grandchildren are born with an integrated GPS. All of mine have come thus equipped.

The Grandpa Positioning System can be initiated with a simple smile aimed at the old guy, a pudgy little finger pointing PawPaw in a specific direction, or a cute giggle triggering Granddaddy Gymnastics (which—let grandpas beware—may lead to lumbar consequences).

At one point a few years into my grandfathering career, led by the aforementioned GPS, I found myself, a father of four sons, in the strange position of perusing YouTube videos trying to learn how to French braid a little granddaughter’s silken hair. A major goal, of course, was to do a good braiding job. For an amateur, I did okay. (May I strongly suggest a good comb and dampened hair?) The over-riding goal, however, was to elicit smiles and giggles and hugs. On that score, I did better than okay!

The tricky part of French-braiding hair comes because the good Lord saw fit to give most grandfathers only two hands. The process requires holding at least three strands of hair and a comb, all at the same time while juggling a spray bottle, and not fumbling hair strands, comb, or water sprayer in the process. PawPaw’s fingers found the multitasking to be a bit challenging. But the giggles were wonderful compensation!

“All at the same time” can be a challenge—and not just for grandfathers.

When Jesus came into this world at Bethlehem, the Apostle John describes him as being “full of grace and truth.” In his ministry, Jesus himself makes it clear that those who love and follow him are to be people whose lives are filled with love, grace, compassion, hope, joy, and so much more—all at the same time. What a beautiful braid! But what a challenge!

In that “braid,” so many wonderful qualities are, by the power of God’s Spirit, woven together beautifully. But integral in that lovely weave, a special strand intermingles with the others lending a deeper tone, a richer sheen, and producing in the whole braid a magnificent beauty, lush and lustrous and, at the same time, providing a marvelous strength. That strand is truth.

“Grace and truth.” Our world is in desperate need of both. Real grace. Real truth. Together. Grace separated from truth becomes an anorexic wraith. Or change the image. “Cheap grace” is no more real grace than those pathetic globs of “poultry” Gary Larson once drew in his “Far Side” cartoon under the caption “Boneless Chicken Ranch” were real chickens!

And truth separated from grace? It is cold and hard and brittle, quickly lost as our society tries to force truth to be anything at all that anyone at all might find useful at any given moment at all. Hurling a rabbit off a mountaintop and calling him an eagle won’t help with the landing. Truth matters. But our self-destructive culture is often unwilling to admit that objective truth even exists. Many people don’t want it to exist. And many, because of their approach to life, can’t afford for it to. No wonder Pontius Pilate’s cynical sneer is as modern as tomorrow: “What is truth?” (John 18:38).

But truth does exist, and all genuine truth is God’s truth. The real thing is no chameleon or shape-shifter changing hue or form to fit the latest opinion poll or fashion. We might as well talk about “my gravity” or “my multiplication table” as to spout nonsense about “my truth.”

Accepting the truth about ourselves, our world, our Creator, is the way to life and healing and joy because in our Father, grace and truth are beautifully braided together with love.

 

    You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!

 

 

Copyright 2020 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.

 

 

“I Will Soon Be Taking Orders for MAMA Caps”

I’ve been thinking about ordering some hats. Caps, really. Baseball-style caps. Something like those famous red ones that are emblazoned “MAGA.”

But those won’t work for me. Oh, we can discuss the message, but I don’t plan to. Not here. I’m just talking about the style.

The fact is, I’m not a big hat person. I sometimes wish I was. Nothing looks better than a nice cowboy hat on a guy who was made for a nice cowboy hat. But I just can’t seem to pull that look off.

I’ve recently found a couple of Irish caps. Dunno if, occasionally, I can pull that look off. Some guys make fun of them. I don’t care. But if you want a hat to do billboard duty, forget the newsboy/Irish caps. You’d have to put your message on the top. It’d look like a tilted helipad, and vertically challenged folks would never see your ad/slogan.

So we’re back to some variation of baseball cap. Yeah, like the MAGA caps. But I repeat: I don’t care for that exact style. I don’t like straight-up billboard caps, even if they’re best for billboards. I don’t like flat brim caps; I want curved. I don’t like mesh hats; I want softish fabric. I don’t like cardboard or starched almost-90-degree angles; I like fitted or, at least, aerodynamic or what some folks call “dad” style. Soft. Well-broken in. A clasp, if it’s not fitted. No plastic.

Not a serious hat person, I seriously know what I want in a hat.

Now we’re ready for color. This will be hard.

I’m a sucker for blue or maroon. Or black. But ya gotta be careful these days. You can’t say “good morning” without sending the wrong message. “You’re a racist! You’re a homophobe! You’re a . . .”

What?! All I said was, “Good morning”!?

“It was your inflection. I’ve heard it before. It is systemic. You need to read this book or a few. Bathe appropriately in abject guilt. Then come back and try saying ‘Good morning’ to me again in the morning.”

So color matters. Red’s out. And blue. (Both appropriated by political parties.) White? (You dastardly bigot!) Black? (Better, but still . . .) Same with brown. Green? (It seems to elicit gaseous emissions.) So, rainbow? (Nope. Even “all colors fit all” has been sadly sullied and co-opted.) This is difficult. Okay. I vote to table the color discussion and move on to “message.”

Well, why not wear just a plain ol’ non-messaged cap to keep your head warm or salvage a bad hair day? Just a possibility. No? My mistake.

So . . . I vote for MAMA. I like it. You already feel warm hugs, right? Even before you know that it stands for “Make America Mature Again.” I could have said MAP(olite)A or MAC(ivil)A or MAN(ot)A(s)D(umb)A(s)AP(ost)A. All of the above are good messages for both political parties, whether, on any given day, they are engaging in self-righteousness, preening, virtue-signalling, busily shooting themselves in the foot, or perpetrating any idiocy anywhere in between. Yep, I vote for MAMA.

Somebody with an “in your face” cap of any sort comes toward me. I just turn toward them, and my MAMA cap says it all silently.

It says, for example, in the midst of this virus mess, if you’re not wearing a mask and I am, I’ll not scowl at you; I don’t know your reasons. The scowl would be wasted anyway because you couldn’t see it unless I frown all the way up past my eyebrows. That’s hard on a face, and mine’s showing some wear.

And if I’m not wearing a mask and you are, I won’t scowl because I’ll assume the best, that you don’t want to infect me. I’ll just figure you think it’s all hooey and that, if you’re a Christian, you sincerely believe you have very good reasons for not “submitting” to “governmental  authorities” (Romans 13) in this case.

I find myself in the middle on this discussion. Not unusual. But to my friends, both sides, who want to actively politicize this “issue,” may I just say that I don’t plan to join in.

It’s ironic. Intemperate alcoholics and intemperately loud teetotallers share the same problem—way too much focus on alcohol. Loud maskers and loud non-maskers are the same. There’s more to life, even in the pandemic, than to mask or not to mask. Decide. Don’t filibuster about it. And be nice to the rest of us who just want to get through this thing.

Disclaimer: If you force a hand at me, trying to make a point, not just because you forgot and have been doing handshakes courteously forever, I’ll take my hat off and tip it to you. What I’m really doing is looking at those letters, MAMA, to remind myself of why I shouldn’t extend my balled up hand into your teeth, which you deserve if you’re trying to force me to help you make your point. But you’re probably not. So I’ll probably shake it and later use hand sanitizer. Or I’ll fist-bump. Maybe hug. If I like you, and I probably do, I’ll risk a hug if you will. But your move first. And not in a crowd; I shouldn’t hug everyone.

But, you see, my MAMA cap covers even that. It says wordlessly to kids who should know this already, especially if they claim to be our Father’s kids (and our Father has always been maddeningly apolitical on this sort of issue, no matter what those who claim to speak for Him say), “Do you fussing little brats just need a hug? There ya go. I love ya. Now, go play. And straighten up. And get over yourself. Come back if you need your shoe tied. Or if you need another hug. Johnnie! Janie! I mean it!”

MAMA says it all. Caps, $12.99. A steal, I say.

 

You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!

 

Copyright 2020 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.

 

“May I Say Just a Few Words in Favor of Mondays?”

Well, here we are again. Monday morning. At least, in my corner of the universe. I mean, of course, as I’m writing this. I don’t know when you’re reading it. Whenever it is, I do very much appreciate your discerning and impeccable literary tastes. (And, I beg you, please give me at least one more chance after you read this particular column. I’m thinking it will be a little thin.) But onward . . .

This is probably not news to you, upon reflection, but most barbers and a good many pastors share a “general population” minority view of Mondays; we are very fond of them.

Please understand, I genuinely love what happens in my life on Sundays. At least, I love it once I’ve pried myself out of bed, and caffeine and hot running water have done their vital work.

And may I say, since COVID-19 shut down so many of our churches for real, in-life, in-person, flesh-and-blood worship times, I value Sundays now more than ever. I admit that I didn’t mind sleeping in for a Sunday or a few. That whole experience has been exhausting and involved harder work than ever, but having done Sunday’s video early, I did find a few positives in the general mess. And less than ever am I tempted to count myself as some other species who cannot imagine sleeping in on Sundays. On balance, it’s a sad and hurtful choice, I think, but I quickly admit it: I understand those whose church attendance good intentions are derailed by every “gnat’s eyelash and mosquito’s wing that falls on the rails” and who come faithfully—whenever the barometric pressure in Bolivia is conducive to church attendance. Hey, I’m human, too. (And some of you, for very good reasons, really should not come right now. But let’s also get real: more of you than are, wherever you attend, should. If not for you, for others; I’d say, for both.)

All of that said, just about any pastor worthy of any trust, pandemic times or not, will also understand me when I say that the best thing about Mondays is that they are as far as you can get from Sundays. A few of my breed may not admit such. They are probably also the ones who say they enjoy weddings.

Regarding weddings . . . Honored to have done them. A privilege to be asked. Love the families I get to share life with. Incredibly proud of and delighted by those weddings that inaugurated heart-warming marriages. But more convinced than ever that a great marriage has less than nothing to do with a big wedding where every gal the bride ever said “Good morning” to is a bridesmaid and the groom is suckin’ air to think of that many friends.

I do know a preacher or two that I trust who claims to like weddings. But it still tends to be, maybe just to me, a red flag. “Judge not.” I know. But a little discernment doesn’t always cross that line and recognizing a red flag can be a valuable life skill. For example, not everyone who wears a bluetooth phone earpiece habitually for no work-related reason is an idiot and well worth avoiding; in my estimation, for what it’s worth, which is nothing, two perfectly good strikes remain. And I’m glad to have been proven wrong here more than once. What’s on your red flag list? I find such lists interesting.

Okay, I was going to say something profound to wrap this up and salvage my space this week. I don’t think this is redeemable. May I just ask that you come back next week? It’ll be profound, I’m sure.

In the meantime, I’ll say with real thanksgiving, I am immensely thankful to the Giver of all good gifts. Please forgive me for thinking that one of those great gifts is called Monday.

 

                                  

    You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!

 

Copyright 2020 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.

Lazarus Was Dead, But Hope Had the Last Word

Lazarus was dead. Of that sad fact everyone was now absolutely sure.

He had been barely breathing when Mary and Martha, his sisters, had sent the urgent message to Jesus to beg the Lord to return to help the desperate friends.

They needed Jesus badly, and quickly. Yesterday, if possible, and it wasn’t possible. Even for the Lord. But the odd truth is that after he’d received the message from these dearly loved friends, Jesus had not hurried.

When he finally arrives back near Bethany, the funeral wreath, so to speak, is on the door. The “sign-in” register for friends and family who come to pay their respects is on its little stand just inside the front door of the house. And death has very effectively wrapped the whole household in its icy grip.

As is often the case at a time of grief, along with the mourners is arriving also a sad troop of dreary thoughts I’ll just call the “if only’s.” Those thoughts are popping into everybody’s heads and springing out of some lips.

Martha greets Jesus first, and she does so with tears and an “if only”: “Lord, if only you had been here, my brother would not have died.”

Then Martha goes to get Mary to come out and see Jesus, and what are the first words from Mary’s lips? “Lord, if only you had been here, my brother would not have died.”

Even when others nearby, seeing Jesus’ tears, are moved to say, “Behold how he loved him!” some of them say, basically, “He opened the eyes of a blind man! If only he had been here, could he not have kept this man from dying?”

Notice that another statement logically follows these “if only’s.” It is this: “But it’s too late now, of course.” If only Jesus had been here, there could have been a healing, a celebration, and a feast, but it’s too late now, of course. Now there’s only a trip to the cemetery and a sad viewing of the grave.

We understand the thinking.

“Ah, Lord, if only you’d been here,” we’re tempted to say, “when in my life this terrible thing happened, when I failed so completely, when I was hurt so terribly, when . . .   If you’d only been here, but it’s too late now, of course.”

Now I’ve already fallen into sin, betrayed my friend, stumbled into addiction, blundered into bitterness, embraced resentment, or embarrassed my Lord. It’s too late now that ______ has happened. (Fill in the blank with any failure, sin, or tragedy.)

“No,” God says, “it is never too late.” If death can be swallowed up in victory by the power of the One who is “the resurrection and the life,” nothing else in all creation can separate us from his love, his power, and the genuine hope that points to new life, new joy, new laughter.

Lazarus was “dead as a doornail,” but that wasn’t the end of the story, and it’s not the end of your story or mine.

 

You’re invited to visit my website, and I hope you’ll take a look there at my new “Focus on Faith” Podcast. At the website, just click on “Podcast.” Blessings!

Copyright 2020 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.

“I Think I Made a Mistake”

“I think I made a mistake.”

Those, I’m told, were the words on a note a dying 20-something-year-old wrote to his nurse before he expired. He was referring to his, as it turns out, suicidal decision to attend a “COVID party.”

I’m tempted to write, “Duh.” But it’s bad form to “duh” a guy who admits his own unforced error and pays such a high price for his own idiocy. And it’s not like the rest of us are immune to occasional stupidity and subsequent pain.

I write those words with a grimace. Well, with a computer, grimacing. Not a grimacing computer. A grimace on my face facing the computer. I am, at present, not writing or thinking very well.

I’m about an hour and a half away from a root canal, my first brush with that particular sort of dental calamity. At this point, I am ready to embrace the experience with the excitement of male and female lead lovers in a movie rushing toward each other on a “meadow run.”

Yes, right now, I am more than prepared to endure that worse than fingernails down the chalkboard, worse than boot on a cat’s tail caterwauling, worse than the latest poor-pitiful-me screams of society’s professional victims, worse than the hole-in-the-radiator hose agonizing whistle, worse than the bullet in the helicopter gear-box wailing high-pitched death-grind . . . I’m more than ready to endure all of that—and add in some delightful burning smells, some tasty chemical flavors, some tuchus pucker dental chair dancing, and more delights . . .

I’m ready for all of it, and will, yea, verily, write a check for the fun of enduring such multifaceted pleasure, if I can just get my dentist, my friend, to stab needles into my gums and inject a gallon or so of deadening juice, embalming fluid, or whatever the crud it is that they use to render one’s gums, teeth, jaw, and mouth numb and insensate. I’d prefer to be totally knocked out and sleep for a week, but it’s not an option.

I went in for a simple tooth-cleaning a couple of weeks ago but mentioned a tooth that was becoming a tad hot/cold testy. My friend and dental professional gave me the good news. Probably a root canal. But give it a few days. See how it feels.

A few days was all it took. So I called and scheduled an appointment. Next Monday, 10:20 a.m. Not an emergency, right? You’re not hurting badly, right? Right. We’ll call if we get an earlier opening. Okay.

So, last week, I officiated at a big funeral on Tuesday. Big funeral on Wednesday. (Two really good guys.) Wednesday, the tooth folks call. They could make a slot for me and my rebellious tooth on Thursday. When? 8:00 a.m.

Not much of a morning person ever, I know that I will be toast on that particular Thursday at 8:00 a.m. Funeral. Funeral. Root canal. Bam. Bam. Bam. No. No. No.

It’s not hurting that bad. Thanks, but I’ll wait until Monday.

Mistake. Mistake. Mistake.

I’m now an hour away from the anaesthetizing goop. Bring it on!

And I’m wiser.

“The right time is now; today is the day of salvation” (2 Corinthians 6:2). On most days, I’d tell you that the Apostle Paul is most certainly saying nothing at all about dental work. Today? I’m quite sure that he is.

To the palace of dental delights, I am ready to go. And I resolve never to put the trip off again. Bring on the joyful sounds. The merciful needles.

Now, please.

With apologies to the Apostle Paul, “Behold, now is the day of dental salvation.”

 

You’re invited to visit my website–and especially to check out my new podcast, http://www.CurtisShelburne.com/podcast!

Copyright 2020 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.