What was your favorite indulgences of 2011? There are a few indulges that I must celebrate:

Food: The Cheeseburger

Out of all the foods in my life, the one I miss the most when traveling around the world is the American cheeseburger. To me, it is the ultimate comfort food. This year, I have become a connoisseur of the blue cheeseburger, with caramelized onions, a bit of mayo and a tomato slice. With tasty fries in the mix, you come close to cuisine nirvana. Thank you cheeseburger, for your awesomeness!

Other Indulgences

Favorite Fast Food of 2011: Panda Express

Favorite Coffee of 2011: Fresh Kona coffee in Maui

Favorite Scotch of 2011: Anything from the Scotch Malt Whisky Society

Favorite Cigar of 2011: Oliva O (torpedo)

Favorite Donut: Sour Cream

Favorite Pub: Tap In, Grapevine Texas

Favorite Airline: American Airlines (Platinum Status!)

Favorite Coffee Shop: Tout de Suite in Algiers, New Orleans

When I bought the tickets for Roger Daltrey’s Tommy tour I thought it was a good idea. Me and two high school buddies, Darin and Don, would relive the Who experience through front man Roger Daltrey’s voice and the guitar of Simon Townshend (Pete’s younger brother). I’ve always wanted to see The Who.  Since Daltrey is 68 years old I knew this was probably my last chance to see the legendary band (minus the rest of the original members).

It was the first time Tommy, rock-n-roll’s first “rock opera”, was performed since The Who’s 1989 reunion tour. The album, released in 1969, was the story of a “deaf, dumb and blind boy” who becomes the charismatic leader of a messianic cult.  I remember seeing the film while I was in high school, and I believe I owned the album at one time.

When Daltrey came on stage swinging his mike around his head and body like a ninja warrior  the crowd erupted. I didn’t know what the big deal was at the time. Having since found out that this has been Daltrey’s signature performance move for over about four decades, this was the first point I found the show to not be what I expected.  The band jammed to the music of Tommy for a non-stop 77 minutes.  An animated film played overhead accentuating the story and the experience. The concert hall fans screamed, sang and danced with unbridled enthusiasm. A man two rows in front of us provided the lion’s share of our entertainment.  I’ve never witnessed someone so profuse in the art of air guitar, air drum, air microphone, and airy type dancing. I was really upset that I forgot my video camera.  He would have been 77-minutes of YouTube gold.

But by the sixth song of the Tommy set I came to a sudden revelation. I didn’t recognize any of the music. I turned to Darin and Don and asked, “What the heck are we listening to? Do you know any of this?”  They both shrugged their shoulders. We all assumed we knew The Who’s music, but we didn’t even vaguely recognise most of the songs on their most popular album. After the Tommy set Daltrey played another hour and a half.  Though we recognized a few of the songs like “Behind Blue Eyes”, “My Generation” and “Baba O’Rielly”, none of us knew the majority of the music. We were in rock-n-roll culture shock. Hundreds of people surrounded us swaying and singing to the music as we sat clueless. We might as well been watching a band singing in Japanese. In the end, I gave up trying to make sense of it, and just let the show carry me. Roger Daltrey is a legend.. We did not have to know the music to appreciate the talent we were watching. It was not hard to be a fan, if even an ignorant one.

The older I get the more I realize I never knew nearly as much as I thought I did when I was young. During my teenage years I felt omniscient.  By my twenties I was all-knowing, and I had enough arrogance to let everyone hear my universal wisdom. By my thirties I started to get a clue. The pains and realities of life had effectively peeled away my pseudo-wisdom; marriage and fatherhood knocked most of the brashness out of my ego. Now in my early forties I know just enough to possibly do a little good and a lot of bad (but for the grace of God). I have a lot of Tommy moments these days; sudden revelations of how I don’t know as much as I thought I did.

But I am learning that I don’t have to know the lyrics to sit back and enjoy the show. I am learning to enjoy the moment instead faking it to fit in appear wise. As we walked to the car after the show Don seriously said, “Hey guys, I thought we were going to see Roger Waters perform The Wall.” We laughed all the way home. I guess we’ll just enjoy our middle-aged wasteland.

Look at me, the hypocrite said.

I do not play in the houses of the wicked,

And I don’t live in the shadows of the complacent.

I read God’s word daily; I follow a One-Year plan.

I have a home church that thinks I’m God’s gift

Because they know I’m always available

And when they call me ‘faithful’ I blush.

The offering plate is weighted down with my tithes.

I go on mission trips, I volunteer in the nursery, and I sing in the choir.

And don’t forget how contrite I can be when I am caught in my sin.

It’s nothing for me to kneel at the front of the church repenting.

From the podium I admit the sins that others can relate to.

(But not the ones that really hold me)

It’s good for others to see I am not perfect.

I pray you are listening, the hypocrite said.

I drink a little and curse a bit so I can relate to reprobates.

Heck, Jesus created fine wine and ate with sinners–

It’s important to associate with heathens every once in a while.

Being ‘seeker sensitive’ is Jesus’ greatest commandment.

I love to show my astounding apologetic abilities on unbelievers.

I can debate the sacred underwear off a Mormon,

And argue an atheist to tears – I know that makes God smile.

You all should take note of my theological,

epistimological, ontological, and eschatological mastery.

When you’ve earned as many spiritual trophies as me,

You’ll know what it feels like to be this close to God.

(It feels pretty awe-inspiring.)

Stick with me and I’ll show you The Way.

Amen, the hypocrite said.

Amen

I recently had my yearly physical.  Once you’re over forty, these appointments get complicated and messy. I do realize that men don’t medically go through anything compared to women.  I cannot imagine what it would be like to put my legs up in stirrups once a year to allow a doctor to explore my nether-regions. And the process of giving birth? Forget it. I’d rather pee a golf ball.

Until age forty, the worst thing I had to go through at my yearly check-up was a doctor reaching down my underpants and uncomfortably grabbing my stones.  I acknowledge that men spend way too much time “adjusting”, but we become very uncomfortable when someone else does the adjusting. The strangest part of that specific examination is when the doctor tells you to cough. Was there ever such an uncomfortable, unnatural sounding cough? My cough resonates somewhere between an awkward laugh and my soul exiting my body.

When the magic age hits men go to the next stage: the prostate exam. It was around age 34 that I began to dread it. When older friends had their first “40” appointment I would ask them about it. Most look at the ground sheepishly and said, “I don’t want to talk about it.” So the dread built.

I went to my first prostate exam on my fortieth birthday. As my son left for school he tenderly put his hand on my shoulder and said, “Dad, be brave and have fun.” I could hear his mocking laugh in my head all morning. My wife just looked at me and said, “Quit being such a baby. This is nothing. Try having a vagina. Now that’s a burden.”

When I walked in to the doctors I must have appeared nervous. It might have been the sweat collecting on my forehead or my shaking hands. The nurse at the desk, a man about my age, saw how uncomfortable I was.

“First of all Shawn, I see it’s your birthday.  Happy birthday!” he said.

I weakly replied, “Thanks.  I didn’t really want to start the day this way.”

“Well, I have great news.  I know what you are dreading the prostate exam, but fear not. We have a new way we use to check the prostate.  It’s a simple blood test. No more uncomfortable digital exam.”

I was thrilled suddenly feeling lighter. This was a real birthday surprise. When they called me into the examination room, I hadn’t a care in the world.  The doctor’s assistant took all the usual tests: blood pressure, weight, various questions about my health and, thankfully this time, the blood tests. Then my doctor entered and sat down. We enjoyed some small talk. I was so relieved about the change in the prostate exam that I didn’t even mind the testicle exam.

So when he said, “Turn around and drop your drawers.  It’s time…” I froze.

“But doc, ummm,  ahhh, ohhhh, the nurse told me you don’t do that anymore.  What about the blood test?”  By then I was turning around and placing my hands on the table, thinking about how I had avoided cavity searches at airports for years.  The doctor snapped a glove onto his hand. That snap sounded like a horsewhip.

“Shawn, I don’t know who told you that, but this is the way it’s done. Now turn around and don’t tense up.”

DON’T TENSE UP! ARE YOU KIDDING?

At that point I went into some sort of coma-like state. The next few minutes were a blur. As the doctor spoke he sounded far away, like he was whispering at the other end of an airline hanger. As I stumbled my way to the front desk I glared at the nurse; remember him? The one with the false information?

He looked at me and smiled, “Happy 40^th!”

In all seriousness, the prostate exam saves lives.  I have two friends, in the last two years, who discovered prostate cancer early because of the exam. Remember, real me don’t fear the finger.

I hate the term “bucket list.”  It is over used and under engaged. When people tell me their bucket list it usually means the things they fantasizing doing before they die but they will never have enough devotion, doggedness or discipline to accomplish.

I do not have a bucket list but I do have a few desires that I hope to accomplish during my short stint on the planet.

Some of my desires have been easily fulfilled:

1. Own a Siberian husky (that dog actually saved my life)
2. Live in a cabin in the woods (it was a great place to raise a family)
3. Graduate college (does a degree in theology count?)
4. Join a church staff (I was young and foolish)
5. Get married (I married young but with no regrets)

Some of my desires have been tough to fulfill:

1. Start a non-profit (that is different than any on the planet)
2. Publish a book (The Via Crucis and The Via Advent- more on the way)
3. Live in a foreign country (Ireland for four glorious summers)
4. Run away as fast as possible from a church staff (I was older and wiser)
5. Stay married (tougher for my wife because she’s married to me)

Some are still ongoing:

1. Travel to 100 countries (I’ve been to 50)
2. Lose 80 lbs. (I’ve considered cutting off my butt but that would be 100 lbs)
3. Create a festival-worthy film (RU will be out soon!)
4. Read through all of CS Lewis published works in published order (on #50)
5. Start a successful adventure travel company (BoundlessExpeditions.com)

One of my most unlikely goals was one that most people will turn their noses at. It’s a desire I’ve had since 1985 and may be the most controversial wish I could expose about myself. Many of you will question my integrity, my taste and my sensibilities. You may ask, “Is Shawn really a Christian man or is it all a façade?” Revealing this wish might even generate hate mail or cause you to unlike me on Facebook. So what is my desire?

I post my forbidden desire in Pee-wee in my Dreams…

The shy child with intelligent eyes sat like a statuette as his parents drove him to the large brown building across town. Today was separation day. His parents had used the word ‘preschool’ to explain where they were taking him. The word petrified the boy so much that he thought he might throw up his morning Cheerios.

Working up his courage, he barely squeaked out his petition from his car seat in the back of the green station wagon. “I don’t want to go.”

The child’s quiet protest remained unheard. His mother and father could not hear him above the muffled music on the AM radio. He looked up at the back of their heads. Daddy was so strong even though his head had a small shiny patch in the middle of his thick black hair. He loved smelling Daddy’s aftershave when he hugged him in the morning. Daddy’s smell made the boy feel safe.

He protested louder.  “I don’t want to go.”

This time, the squeak of his little voice caused his parents to turn down the radio.  Mommy’s blonde ponytail swept to the front as she turned around to face him. Daddy’s eyes looked back at the boy in the rear view mirror.

“What is it, honey?” Mom’s affectionate voice made the boy want to burst into tears.

“I don’t want to go.” His upper lip quivered as he tried to act , he was acting strong.

His mother, seeing the anxiety in her son’s eyes, reached back and grabbed his hand. His tiny fingers held her like he’d never let go. “Honey, it’s only for a few hours.  Preschool will be is fun. There are new toys and lots of kids your age to play with. You’ll even get to take a nap and have snacks.” She smiled trying to combat stop the welling tears growing in his doey eyes.

He barely mumbled a final “I don’t want to go” as they pulled up into the gravel parking lot. The boy usually loved the sound of the crunching rock under the station wagon. This morning, but now it sounded harsh and angry. The daycare was in an old Lutheran Church whose shrinking congregation had abandoned the building. A daycare developed the empty building, retaining the history of a house dedicated to serving those of childlike faith and now, proportions.

His family was not religious, “God” never came up in the conversations but this “Christian” preschool was highly recommended and they knew it would be good for their boy.

Walking up the steps of the wood-framed building, the boy gripped both his parent’s hands with no intention of letting go. The boy thought the pine wood building smelled like Christmas trees. He could hear the laughter and squealing of other kids. Only fear and anticipation kept him from sobbing openly. He wanted to sob but he did not.

His parents exchanged confusing adult words with a grandmotherly kind-faced woman who looked down at the boy. Cupping his face in her hands she softly said, “He’ll be just fine.” she said. He did not agree. But he did not feel fine.

Finally letting go of their hands the boy hugged his parent goodbye, whispering in both their ears at the same time. “I don’t want to stay here. Please don’t leave.” His dad whispered back. “It will be okay. We’ll be back soon.  Try to have fun,” As soon as he saw them walk out the door the boy realized he was on his own.

During the morning, the grandmotherly woman tried to get him to play. She showed him the toys and the art centers.  Little boys ran over trying to get him to join their games of pretend. The girls just giggled at him.  But he would not talk.  Nothing could budge him. He sat at a table full of red, blue and green Play-doh and broken crayons, watching the whirlwind of movement and noise. Over the next couple of hours his shyness dissipated like morning fog as the boy gradually grew comfortable with his surroundings. But even though he smiled watching the other children he remained glued to his chair.

His eyes scanned the room. He liked the tall ceiling, which felt like the inside in the shape of a rocket ship.  The windows on the both sides of the large room were made of pretty colors, and they reminded him of looking into his kaleidoscope when he held it up to the sun.

But one window was very different from the rest. It was his favorite thing in the room. A huge stained-glassed window, over the back of the sanctuary, was illuminated by the noon-time sun. The boy did not know who was in the picture but he liked the tall man’s bearded face. The man had a kind smile, just like the grandmotherly lady. He had long hair and wore a large white robe. The boy thought that was funny. The smiling man made of colored glass held his arms open wide, like he wanted to give a hug to the world a hug.

Several children were also in the picture. The boy thought the man was happy because children were running to him.  Maybe he was about to take them to the park, or for ice cream, or to the movies. Or maybe they were his kids and he just got home from work, just like his daddy. The more he looked at the picture the more he thought he must to be their daddy.

“Okay children, time to go to your tables.” The young teacher looked like she was chasing butterflies as she directed the rambunctious tots into chairs. Laying piles of construction paper on tables the teacher began to give instructions.

“Now, children. I am going to ask you to draw something very special.  You’re going to have to think hard.” Most of the children, including the boy, grabbed their crayons of choice. The room quieted as they waited for her charge.

“Take your paper and draw me a picture of what .does God looks like.”

Most adults would stare at the paper, frozen in theological conflict. But for a group of children armed with Crayolas and uninhibited imaginations, the challenge was a delight.

“When you are done bring me your pictures and I’ll give you Oreos and milk.”  Crayons sped across paper. Some of the hasty drawings looked like tornadoes, others like clouds and one little girl, thinking about Oreos, forgot the assignment and drew a picture of a cat.

The quiet boy sat still for several moments. He wanted to draw a picture of God.  But what did God look like? He looked up at the man of colored glass that stood in the window. He smiled at the man’s joy-filled face. Seeing that picture gave him an idea. Rubbing his hands on his green corduroys, he grabbed a magenta crayon.

He meticulously drew the man in the white robe. His arms were so wide they looked like wings. His eyes, two tiny lines on the paper, shined. He was running to his children with a smile that took up half his face.

Once he finished he did not think the picture was very good so he sheepishly handed the picture to the grandmotherly woman. “This is beautiful Shawn.”  She laughed at the smile the boy drew on the picture. Her smile was reflected in the young boy’s.

“Thanks. Can I have my Oreos now?”

I am not sure why my mom held on to that squiggly childhood drawing. I do not have anything else I’ve ever drawn from my preschool years. The drawing, now hanging in my office, always reminds me that God, from our youngest memories, seeks us and find us. This is my first recollection of a loving God and it is tattooed on my heart.

Everyone has a doppelganger.  Mine is my friend of ten years, Nate Bostian. When we hang out, we almost always get the “are you guys brothers?” routine. Though our DNA is not compatible, we are brothers in the spiritual sense.

Nate describes himself as “a Jesus follower from the Anglican-Episcopal Tribe… but not the blue-eyed, blonde-haired, flag-waving jesus of the “religious right”, nor the non-descript, anything-to-anyone, pansy jesus of the “liberal left”… I follow the miracle-working, life-invading, death-destroying, killed yet risen again, quirky and wonderful God-man, Lord and King proclaimed in Scripture… I often fail at following Him… But He keeps loving and healing me anyway.”

Nate has been sharing the Word of God with students as long as I have known him. He is also an accomplished theologian with a knack of translating complex philosophical and theological concepts into practical and clear knowledge. He’s a teacher with a heart to challenge our concepts, preconceived ideas and misconceptions.

Recently Nate wrote, “On a fairly regular basis, one of my students will come to me with questions about whether the Bible contradicts itself. Sometimes their faith is shaken. Sometimes they are trying to find a reason not to believe in the Bible. Whether they are shaken or skeptical, the underlying concern is this: How could a perfect, truthful God give us an imperfect, flawed Book?”

Nate goes on to write, “What may surprise you is that I disagree with many Christian attempts to “defend” the Bible almost as much as I disagree with skeptical attempts to debunk it. It seems that most modern skeptics and many modern Christians are guilty of reading the Bible wrongly: In a way that is completely foreign to the purposes and materials found in Scripture itself.”

His blog, Nate’s Incoherent Babble, lays out five main factors that create an uninformed view of what the Bible is all about for both Christians and non-Christians in modern culture.

1. Christians often fail to admit when the Bible does actually have contradictions.
2. Many modern readers are abysmally ignorant of ancient cultures, literary styles, and standards of accuracy.
3. Many modern readers seem to want the Bible to be like the Quran, and then get upset when it is not.
4. Many modern readers fail to grasp the concept of development and trajectory across time in Scripture.
5. Many modern readers fail to understand that the Word of God is foremost Jesus Christ, and only secondarily the written text.

I want to challenge those of you who believe the Bible is truth, those who believe it is bunk and those who just do not know, to visit Nate’s Blog at http://tinyurl.com/3sfxmc9 and see what he has to say.

Thanks again, my friend, for excellent scholarship and drawing others into the Great Debate.

I love reading the book of Acts for what it is: a narrative of the first century church and the madcap adventures of a handful of men and women who dared to go wherever the Spirit of God led them.

I love that their humanity is touchable.  Though supernatural occurrences happen through them, they are not described in the story as super-human, ultra-holy or the social cream of the crop. These are ordinary folk who came under the influence of a supernatural Being.

Fisherman and tax collectors.

Doctors and ex-cons.

The despised,

the unrespected,

the unnoticed.

Farmers, family men, dedicated women and politicians.

They are a motley gang commissioned to proclaim to the world the good news of a Risen Savior.

Unlike the Old Testament patriarchs, judges or prophets who became conductors of God’s power for short spurts of time, the men and women of the book of Acts (and I believe through time since) became conduits of God’s presence and peace. The flow of God’s Spirit through them is always just below the surface. They are normal people with very abnormal rhythms to their lives.

As I flip through the stories of Acts, I often laugh aloud as I read the reactions of these missionary-saints to God’s presence showing up through them. They are as surprised at what God does through them as the crowds who witnessed the strange miracles that followed them.

As they cried out for God’s presence to be with them, these odd occurrences (we call them miracles) became sparks that started uncontrollable fires of faith. And as new lives were touched by God’s presence, they in turn became conduits of that same Spirit.

Thousands of pre-Christ years of conductors changed the direction of a nation.

Two years after the promise of God’s spirit became manifest at Pentecost, and people became the conduits of God’s presence, they changed the direction of the world (Acts 17:6).

So how do we, as post-Acts followers of Christ, continue to be conduits?

First of all, give up the longing to be a conductor of God’s power.

Flash in the pan miracles,

the need to be an influential communicator,

the desire to see God move NOW the way you want Him to move,

the necessity to be heard,

to be a bold Christian,

to change the world…

I understand saying those things is often against what every motivational speaker preaches from the pulpit.  But what about simply allowing God to fill you, to love you, and to love through you?

The miraculous follows God’s presence. God’s presence does not always follow the miraculous.

In Acts 14, Paul is in Lystra speaking to the Greek crowd, an avid group of god-worshippers, about the Risen Savior. Looking into the multitude, most of whom are spiritually deaf to his message, he catches the eye of one person.  This one man, lame from birth, was set aflame by Paul’s sermon. The conduit of God’s presence starts to flow to this lone one longing to rid himself of the old gods and their worthless sacrifices. The Holy Spirit was demolishing old temples in the heart of the lame man, and rebuilding a Holy Place where God’s presence could dwell.

“He listened to Paul speaking. And Paul, looking intently at him and seeing that he had faith to be well said, ‘Stand upright on your feet.’ And he sprang up and began walking.”

The rest of the story is humorous and worth reading, but there is a definitive crux in the passage. Paul is doing what he does best. He’s preaching.

But he is also looking into the crowd.

Not just at their reactions.

He is looking into their eyes.

He’s looking for that ‘one’ whom God’s Spirit is sparking to life.

He is not looking for a crowd reaction;

He is waiting for the ‘one’ whom God is seeking in the moment.

To be conduits, we must look for the one to whom God is leading us.  God is looking for that one life to change; that one person hungry for truth. That one crying out for a Savior.

Who is the ‘one’ today for whom you will be a conduit of God’s presence?

Will you be ok with reaching the one?

Can you be patient enough, quiet enough, prayerful enough, humble enough

to look into the eyes of those around you every day,

then become bold enough to speak truth and faith into their lives?

Lord, we long to be conduits.

Help us look for the ‘one’.

Help us to recognize their need.

Give us the courage to meet that need

as conduits of God’s presence, peace and love.

One of my dearest friends and examples of how to live life to the fullest crossed over to heaven a year ago today.  I wrote this is her honor and felt it was appropriate to repost it today. May you be surprised by Joyce…

Seeing old friends after a long absence is to the soul like a Texas summer rainstorm breaking weeks of 3-digit temperatures. At least that is what it felt like to me hugging Joyce and Allen a few weeks ago.

Allen and Joyce came into our families life seven years ago. In all time on this planet I have never known such genuine, joyful, down to earth people. What made this friendship so different is that Allen and Joyce out date us by 40-plus years.

They have served in the capacity of ministers for over 50 years. You can sum up their ministry philosophy with a statement from Joyce: “If heaven is anything like church I don’t want to go there.” Though they love the body of Christ, Joyce and Allen seemed to have glimpsed beyond the curtain of this world and peeked into the next. It is not church politics or gatherings that motivate them.  It is the face of Christ. And what they have seen beyond that curtain makes this world look like a dried up mud puddle strewn with rubbish.

Allen taught me the beauty of liturgy and tradition without the weight of pretense or hypocrisy. Joyce has sealed this truth in my mind: the fewer the words the better. But when you do speak let it be pure, powerfully sincere truth. Joyce did not hold anything back when it came to her philosophy of words. They have been our mentors, parents, compadres and one of the closest examples of Christ in our lives for the last several years. It should be no wonder that my first published book was dedicated to Allen.

Allen and Joyce

Over a year ago, they were called to spend a season at a church they started 30 years ago. Traveling to Oregon from Texas, in their twilight years, was a risky adventure. They would revisit their old parish as mentors to the church staff and bring some pastoral love to the congregation. We were sad to see them go but excited that they were being honored in such a way post-retirement.

After a year, their mission complete, they returned to Dallas. It was the middle of a scorching July when, after a fifteen month interval, we would revisit our friends.

That first hug– when you get to squeeze a person long absent, smell their hair, put your hands on their backs and just hold– that is a beautiful moment. We spent the next two hours hearing about their adventures in the northwest while we devoured Mexican food.  Joyce loves guacamole- I mean in an addictive way. Cheryl and I laughed watching her eat it by the spoonful.

Our two hours were spent as if we had never been away from each other. (The funny thing about Allen and Joyce is that when anyone  spends time with them they make them feel like you they are the most important people in the world to them. That is a gift I desire in my life and one that I woefully fall short of).  Even though Joyce was full of life she was tired especially as she talked about yet another heart surgery that awaited her.  Several surgeries over the last few years had taken their toll and she seemed weaker in body than I had ever witnessed.  But her spirit was as spunky,  joyful and playful as ever.

So when I received the call, three days later, about her death I was saddened yet incredibly thankful. She simply fell asleep and did not wake up. I am always disturbed by the suddenness of death- not death itself but just how rapidly it descends.  I was thankful  that Cheryl and I had a couple hours with Joyce before she decided to look beyond the veil.  A few months ago I wrote and article called the Onion of Immortality (http://tinyurl.com/2cqq7xt).  Here is a bit of that article that spoke to me after I heard the news:

As I grow older, the onion of immortality incessantly peels away. People that I love –die. Yet,  my confidence in God’s love and Christ’s sacrifice causes my discomfort with death to diminish. The departure of my beloved family and friends feels more like an eventual grand reunion rather than a state of permanent loss.

A while ago, I sat down with Allen Groff, my mentor. Allen has been a pilgrim for the last 85 years. After serving in WWII, he married Joyce creating a gaggle of children and grand children. Serving as a full time minister for six plus decades, he pioneered several churches, preached an uncountable number of sermons, wrote several pieces of published music, and accomplished almost everything a pastor can possibly achieve.

Conversing over a cup of hot chocolate, I asked Allen a question I had been anxious to ask him for over a year: Out of all his years serving God and mankind: what were his highlights now that he strolled in the twilight years of his life.  He said, “Shawn, out of all I have accomplished the times I treasure are moments like this. Sitting with a friend, sharing stories and laughter and love, those are the only possessions I will take with me when I am gone a few years from now. If any of my ‘accomplishments’ did not bring some or a smile to someone then they are nothing but hay and stubble. Those are the moments I will carry with me when I die.’

Joyce left this life the way she lived it: full of joy, peace and mischief. I thank God for allowing me to be surprised by Joyce.

(And I bet the heaven she now runs through looks nothing like a church service.)