Scene #1: Protestors looted stores, torched the American flag, threw frozen water bottles at police, and destroyed their own communities.

Scene #2: Protestors created hand-made signs, lined the toll booths, gave drivers the thumbs up and waved them through.

Guess which scenario represented Mexico? Definitely not the first one.

A few years ago, my husband and I were driving from Las Vegas to Mazatlán, Mexico. Nearing our sixth toll booth, we noticed several adults waving signs protesting the gas price-hike in Mexico. Most Hispanics were concerned that because America was pulling businesses out of their country, they would suffer economically. They felt slighted and fearful.

Yet, no one appeared angry. No one blocked our path. No one chose to teach us Gringos a lesson by smashing our car or hanging us from the overpass. Quite the opposite. We were given the thumbs-up and waved through without paying a toll.

Last year, as Dave and I crossed the mountains in Mexico, we were stopped before our first toll booth by dozens of protestors, many resting in tarp shacks while their amigos blocked the road. Three smiling men approached Dave’s side of our truck and told him to pay them 50 pesos instead of the 31 pesos in tolls. I asked “¿Por qué?” (“Why?”) and was told “because that’s what we are doing.” Apparently, these men and women—along with their police escorts– had taken over the toll booth. We paid the money; the protestors removed the barrel from the front of our truck and we were waved on. Not for one second were we anxious.

Peaceful. Unified. Safe. Very unlike today’s American demonstrations… which makes me wonder, why is it that so many of America’s protests are becoming more barbaric than our less-advanced neighbors, they who have so much less than we? What happened to a code of morality where objectors show a modicum of self-restraint like they do in Mexico? When did a civilized society turn into brutes that rant, rave, curse, steal and burn Bibles (which, as we know, contains the answers to our problems) as a gesture of disagreement?

Christians must take action. We need to offer hope. That’s what happened at the “Riots to Revival” event in Portland, Oregon, Saturday night. CBS News reported that between 4,000 and 7,000 worshippers united for a night of “praise, worship, and to hear Bethel Music’s Sean Feucht speak” at Waterfront Park in an effort to heal America’s brokenness.

“White, Black, Hispanic – we came and released our song of hope over this city,” Feucht said. “People gave their life to Jesus. Hundreds of people. We baptized people in the river behind us. There was so much joy that took over the streets of that city last night.”

For those of us with less musical ability, here’s another idea. Let’s follow Franklin Graham’s Instagram call for specific prayers: for PEACE because “the anger of man does not produce the righteousness of God” (James 1:20); for PERSPECTIVE, because “the wisdom from above is first pure, then peaceable, gentle, open to reason, full of mercy and good fruits, impartial and sincere” (James 3:17); for PATIENCE, because of God’s “kindness and forbearance and patience” toward us all (Romans 2:4); and for the OUTPOURING of God’s wisdom and direction for our leaders and officials who are dealing with this crisis. Ask God to change hearts and heal this divide in our nation.

Graham’s way is much more in line with the Mexican way. I think that God likes that way best.

Last week, I wrote about the satisfaction that comes from edifying others with the words we speak/letters we write/texts we send. On the morning I finalized that column, I had asked God to let me be a blessing to someone.

Little did I expect Him to use a medical professional, phoning me to update my personal information. Following questions about my insurance, she forewarned me that she would ask three questions that I did not have to answer, should I found them uncomfortable; nevertheless, she was obligated to ask. All dealt with my sexuality: what sex I am; if I was born that sex; if I prefer to be referred to as that sex.

I answered each question and then told her that I did not envy her having to ask those questions. She said,” You have no idea” which—for some reason—I found funny. She began giggling and said that I was the first person to make her laugh after answering those sensitive questions. I was a “breath of fresh air” because most people lecture her about how God made man and woman, shaming her for bringing up such “nonsense.” She spoke about their angered outbursts and “if everyone knew how difficult it is” to ask those questions—questions she was mandated to ask–perhaps they would be kinder.

I asked, “So Christians are the hardest on you?” Affirmative.

“Well, I’m a Christian, and I have some advice,” I responded. “The next time they bark at you, ask them what one identifying characteristic marks a Christian. Remind them, if they don’t know, that the answer is ‘love,’ and question if they are demonstrating love in the way they are talking to you. That oughta do it.” We both got tickled, and then she reminded me that, should she follow my advice, she would be looking for a new job. I told her that I wouldn’t last 30 seconds in her position. And we laughed some more.

At the end of our conversation, she stated that I had made her day. I shared that I had asked God in my morning prayer time to let me be a blessing to someone, and I was glad that she was the beneficiary. She shared that she was too.

Christians, we need to pick our battles. This young gal, frustrated that she was given such a task, knew that it was less messy for someone on the phone to take the abuse than a receptionist or nurse. By giving this information ahead of time, she explained, once in the doctor’s office, the patient would be referred to with the correct pronoun, so as to avoid public embarrassment. Sadly, the attempt to respect someone’s dignity caused this caller’s dignity to be demeaned.

I doubt that my caller felt closer to Jesus after the outbursts of her Bible-thumping patients. When something clearly isn’t someone’s fault, why should he/she be the recipient of a “Christian” tongue-lashing? She has no choice in how she responds; her job is to treat her attackers kindly.

I think you and I both know which one exudes the more Christlike character.

As scientists are scampering to find a vaccine for Covid-19, I can only imagine the gratification of discovering its cure. Or cancer’s. Or A.L.S’s. Or any of the other, horrific disease that plagues us. And yes, I do spend far too much time imagining unattainable accomplishments…

Like bringing the Democrats and Republicans together as a team, where name-calling and lies cease to exist.

Like ending world hunger or domestic abuse or genocide or corruption.

Like solving a Cold Case file and bringing a criminal to justice or using DNA to release an imprisoned inmate.

Or, more selfishly, like being a winning jockey in the Kentucky Derby or the #1 driver in the Indianapolis 500 or capturing the gold after tumbling across the mat in the Olympics.

My imaginations will never become a reality, of course, because I’m not smart enough, not courageous enough, not young enough and not talented enough. But that’s okay, because I have been blessed with another gift: I love to celebrate the success of those who have been given gifts by God to do what I can only imagine, knowing that others can complement my weaknesses without threatening who I am.

My gift is edification. I get excited for others’ successes and don’t feel slighted when others have what I don’t. I enjoy telling a pastor that he has delivered a thought-provoking sermon, or a waitress that she has done an exceptional job tending to my table, or a trash collector that he’s dependable and pleasant and his boss is lucky to have him. I love praising talents or kindness that others exhibit, knowing that everyone has something that can be praised. EVERYONE!

Long ago, I realized that envying what someone else has or what they do diminishes what God wants to do in me. Regrettably, I have a couple of friends whose vocabularies lack compliments. I remember showing both of them a spectacular home, only to have one comment, “Boy! You’d be nuts to want to clean that thing,” while the other said nothing.

I don’t understand it. My uncomplimentary friends love to receive compliments, so why do they find it so hard to celebrate others’ blessings? Psychologists would call them insecure, but they who need validation themselves fail to realize that true satisfaction comes from building up others.

In 1 John, the apostle, writing to newbie Christians, shares his excitement about walking with Jesus. He is eager to pass on to his readers the difference Christ will make in their lives, but I love what he wrote in Verse 4: Our motive for writing is simply this: We want you to enjoy this too. Your joy will double our joy. (MSG) In other words, seeing you as the beneficiary of something special makes us double-happy.

And that’s good news. Encouraging or praising or edifying someone is itself a blessing. I may not be able to cure a disease or end corruption or win a horse race, but I sure can make someone double-happy with a simple, sincere compliment. This morning I prayed for such an opportunity.

Stay tuned next week when I share how God answered my prayer.

“Optimists see opportunity in every danger; pessimists see danger in every opportunity.”

Winston Churchill

If there were a category somewhere between “optimistic” and “delusional,” my husband would land there. Need proof?

“All I have to do is tighten the screw and the door will shut.” It did not.

“This ladder is steady.” It was not.

“I’ve found a new glue that will hold the water pipe together.” It did not.

“Duct tape and zip ties will look fine on our outdoor lights.” They did not.

“That kayak cannot tip.” It can, and it did.

“Flex-Seal will stop this hose from leaking.” It did not.

“Our boat is running well.” Except for needing a new battery, it probably was.

I tend to favor the pithy attitude of people like Walt Disney who once said, “I always like to look on the optimistic side of life, but I am realistic enough to know that life is a complex matter.” That last part has been hard for Dave to nail down (pun intended).

Personally, I lean more towards a healthy dose of realism—you know, hope for the best but plan for something short of “best” (no doubt because that’s how my life has played out). John Wooden put it this way: “Things turn out best for the people who make the best of the way things turn out.” I have to admit, Dave does that. He never gets upset; he just plods along with his next, grand, Gorilla Glue and duct-tape idea.

Now, if you’re like me, you would much rather hang with an optimist than a pessimist. I know no one who wants to spend time with a curmudgeon who sees only what’s wrong, and even if they are right, their stubborn disposition does nothing to draw others into agreement with them. When I think of pessimists, I am reminded of the man who belly-ached to his neighbor, “My hen hatched out 12 chicks, and all of them died but 11.” Have you met someone like that? Worse, are you that person?

Real-deal Christians are not pessimists. They live by Romans 8:28: And we know that for those who love God all things work together for good, for those who are called according to his purpose. No matter if screws are stripped or ladders are uneven or batteries are dead. No matter what.

Optimistic people find ways to brighten other’s lives. Take, for example, major league baseball, which recently began its shortened season. Because no fans are allowed in the stands, the Los Angeles Dodgers came up with the idea of having cardboard cut-outs to replace the loyal, season-ticket holders who typically fill the seats. Then they allowed supporters to submit their pictures, pay a fee, and have their faces used. Remaining chairs hold large, stuffed animals and even celebrity cutouts. The life-size cutout of Tom Hanks—whose first job was to sell hotdogs at the Oakland A’s field—stands erect on the stairs dividing two sections behind home plate.

Before the game, the cameraman caught one of the Angels’ players walking amongst the Oakland “fans,” placing Angels’ t-shirts over the cutouts. How fun is that? They are finding good in something bad (Covid-19). We all should be doing likewise.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, Dave just headed to the garage with some wire and electrical tape. Something tells me there’s a story in what is about to unfold, and being the optimist I am, no doubt it will be a good one.

Mmmm-mmmm. Looks pretty tasty, don’t you think? Three ice cream balls coated with chopped nuts and topped with whipped cream and, of course, a juicy, red cherry. Now, I’m not a dessert eater, but when Dave and I saw this picture on a menu at a Florida restaurant, I figured it couldn’t hurt to give it a try. I asked the waitress if it was as good as it looked.

“We don’t have any,” she replied.

“Oh, you ran out?” I asked.

“No. We never had it. We just copied the picture off of the internet.”

It took me a few seconds to digest (excuse the pun) what she had said.

“You mean you just thought this looked appetizing and added it to your menu?”

“Yep. We get a lot of requests for it.”
I burst out laughing. “So, you just pretend? Oh my gosh, that’s hysterical!”

With that, our waitress turned on her heels, not finding it as funny as Dave and I did.

Can you imagine being so gutsy? Surely our waitress wasn’t supposed to tell us the truth. Surely she was to simply explain that they had run out of that particular dessert that particular day. Whatever the motive, I wondered what would happen if the restaurant got caught…you know, by the actual creator of those treats. What possible good could come from such pretense?

Then again, they aren’t the only ones who pretend. We all are guilty. It might not be as blatant as this menu, but I see it all the time, especially in Christian circles. We act peaceful. Non-judgmental. Loving. Giving. Maybe even Holy.

Oh, if such pretense could be our reality!

I love how Socrates put it: “The greatest way to live with honor in this world is to be what we pretend to be.” What would it be like not to pretend just a little… like when I encounter telemarketers or slow drivers or people who don’t keep a six-foot distance and manage to bite my lip instead of biting off their heads?

Today I made a call to “Janet,” a Covid survivor and one I wanted to question about some political issues. I began by asking how she was feeling. She shared that she was surprised to hear from me (probably since we last talked 18 months ago and weren’t close friends), that she was doing great and had just made a four-state trip with her husband. Since Janet had not been anywhere due to the virus AND this woman’s voice sounded nothing like my friend, I realized that I had dialed the wrong Janet.

As it turned out, in our hour-long conversation, this Janet soon was sharing her spiritual struggles, and I was the ear she needed. When it was time to hang up, she said, “I cannot believe how God used you to call me out of the clear blue. How I needed to talk to you!” This was my chance to tell her the truth and not pretend, and that’s what I did…well, sort of.

“Neither can I, Janet. Neither can I.”

I choose Jesus. I’m not sure I’ve ever wanted him more than I do now as I watch this country make decisions that make no sense. The horrific death of George Floyd incited behaviors that make me question how the moral chasm in this country has gotten so deep, that make me wonder what happened to church-going families who, no matter their socio-economic status, valued life and the rule of law and order. How do people who scream “injustice” see no injustice in their own destructive rebellion? When did politicians become so single-minded in their pursuit to retain their positions that they cower to disorder and disregard for what has made America the most powerful, most blessed country in the world?

Jesus, fill these peoples’ hearts. Turn them back to you.

When I was pregnant, in my mid-twenties, and watching a ballgame at Main Street Park, I politely asked a young, black girl to watch her language, since several young children were playing within hearing distance of her foul mouth. When she flipped open her pocket knife and called me a slew of white-trash names, I chose to leave the park. I hadn’t taken 30 steps when I heard her behind me, turned and saw that she was running after me. Fortunately, I was near my car and was able to get inside and lock the door. I was terrified. This made no sense. What had happened to this young gal to cause such hate?

I had grown up in this town and was friends with the few blacks with whom I attended school. Dave was a professional baseball player, and we had black player friends who frequented our home on multiple occasions. We hung together. We took care of one another. Some had been raised in the ghetto but made determined choices to overcome.

Today, I dream of revival in those cities where blacks are not given a fair chance. And they aren’t. I cannot imagine what it must be like to fear being pulled over by a policeman because of the color of my skin. Or having my children receive a sub-par education because they live on the wrong side of the tracks. Or living in poverty so that drug-sales become my livelihood.

I pray for a day when potential athletes and musicians and artists and entrepreneurs (no matter what color) develop their talents and become a blessing to others. I want young girls to understand their value to God, to know that they don’t need men who promise their loyalty but run for the hills when the pregnancy test comes back positive. I want young men to see the potential that God has put inside them and know that their strengths can be used for good and not gang-warfare.

I want blacks to stop killing each other while decrying “Black Lives Matter.” Of course they matter! So do Jews’ lives. And Chinese lives. And Hispanic lives. And Muslim lives. God made us all in His image. Each of those ethnicities has been persecuted, yet they don’t spend weekends killing their own. I want Reverend Sharpton to not only speak at funerals when the cameras are rolling, but I want him to start a revival on the South side of Chicago where 80 people were shot over the Fourth of July weekend.

Tell those poor souls about Jesus, Mr. Sharpton. He is the answer, the beginning of the heart-change they need so desperately. Their riotous lootings are not.

The revered leader, Martin Luther King, once said, “Riots are socially destructive and self-defeating. I am convinced that non-violence is the most potent weapon available to oppressed people in their struggle for freedom and justice. Violence will only create more social problems than it will solve.”

There are hundreds of God-fearing, brilliant black leaders who are speaking out against violence. Why is it that many refuse to listen?

Jesus, fill their hearts. Turn them back to you. Oh, dear Readers, let that be our prayer.

Happy Fourth of July! Today, I sit on my deck, recovering from the Covid-19 virus, grateful that I live in a small town in the Midwest where friends and neighbors have gone out of their way to bring food and run errands. One lake neighbor dropped off chocolates and Twizzlers and flowers on our steps while another, on his drive from Kansas City to Tulsa, stopped to shop for items we needed, including a miracle-find of Clorox Wipes. Pam, my Utah friend, called her homeopathic guru and over-nighted me herbs and vitamins. Cards have arrived, and daily, friends and family members text, asking about my improvement. Many have phoned Dave, my husband, when it was difficult for me to maintain any breath control to speak.

I can’t say enough about Dave. He has been a saint. I was quarantined to the basement for 14 days. Dave made sure I had a thermometer and an oxygen reader, and even though I had no taste buds, I never was without a plate of fruit (a wonderful, stocked refrigerator treat from our Stilwell friends). When I progressed to being able to walk up the stairs and sit on the deck, he stayed a step behind me to steady my walk, brought me blankets and disinfected the area.

All of those were wonderful blessings, but what has touched me the most has been the out-pouring of prayers. Oh, how I relied on those prayers! When I would cough so hard I thought my lungs would explode, when I would chill and sweat and be incapable of taking a deep breath, when every bone ached, when I was so unsteady I could barely make it to the bathroom, I remembered the prayer-warriors who were lifting me up.

And so, today I sit on my deck, taking time to thank a mighty God who, it seems, is not calling me Home quite yet. He is calming my normally-frantic brain and causing me to concentrate on the beauty of life. I am blessed to watch as three fishermen, unaware they are in my eyesight through our deck rails, patiently row around our dock, casting their lines in various directions, enjoying the moment, even though no fish are biting. Two squirrels, playing “tag” for the past hour, have found my peanut feeder and leave not a shell for their friends. Birds, hidden in the cascade of overgrown tree limbs, noisily chatter while a butterfly comes near enough for me to touch it. A sweet visit.

But then 14 geese, determined to visit every morning and leave their “mess” on our newly-concreted sidewalk, show up to eat the grass seed we planted a few weeks ago. Dave makes the walk to our dock, waving frantically to run them off. With their ruffled feathers, they honk and jump into the lake, but it is only a matter of time before they return. Life, as we all know, is not perfect. But a small town in the Midwest comes close.

In a few days, the lake will be a place of celebration as jet-skis and boats and campers come for a day of recreation and entertainment. Fireworks will be shot from docks, music will blare, and we all will be reminded of those whose sacrifice proved just how “unfree” freedom really is. This year, we small-towners have much to be thankful for. Here, we don’t have to worry that our shopping areas will be taken over by misdirected rioters who set up camp and intimidate gutless, city officials into acquiescing to their desires. Here, parents of toddlers playing in the front yard or youngsters watching television don’t have to guard against flying bullets. Here, store owners don’t need to plywood the windows on their stores or protect against thieves helping themselves to whatever loot they can carry away. Here, the American flag is revered, not burned.

Let us count our blessings, and even though there always are reminders (like unwanted geese) that small-town life might not be perfect, I imagine that most of us wouldn’t live anywhere else.

He’s something, isn’t he? He and his friends hang out on the pier where my stepdaughter Nanette lives in California. Last December, Dave and I were there, and on our early-morning walk, “Birdy” perched harmlessly along the rail. Other pelicans—not as large or arrogant—occupied space nearby, but my eyes were drawn only to this stately creature, wings outstretched, as if showing off his finest Yoga move.

On our return, Dave was several steps ahead of me, fascinated with the local fishermen’s catches. I lingered to watch an elderly woman, encircled by Birdy’s friends congregated at her feet, begging for their morning ration of bread crumbs.

Birdy, not one to lower himself to mere croutons, sat, loftily looking down at the feeding frenzy below. I was drawn to him, enticed by his self-importance. That’s when I shot this picture…and that’s when the unexpected became…well, in my case, the expected.

I turned my attention to where Dave had sauntered, just in time to get hit upside my head with what felt like a bowling ball, causing me to stagger enough that some passersby caught me before I rammed into the rail. Suddenly I was getting more attention than Bird-Feeder-Woman. “Wow! He hit you really hard.” “Are you all right? I’ve never seen anything like that, and I come here every day.”

(Like I said, “expected.”)

Apparently, Birdy had attempted to take flight, but his body acted more like a 747 than a normal, 12-pound pelican. Or he was punishing me for taking my eyes off of him. All I know is, my “harmless” bird-buddy was anything but. My head was proof.

Have you ever been stunned when something you considered harmless, wasn’t? It could be as simple as a bad shrimp or leaving your purse in a shopping cart or an impromptu bet gone bad. Or maybe it was something more. A life-long friendship turned sour. A brotherly investment in which you ended up holding the empty bag. A one-time, sneak-peek at a porn sight that betrayed your spouse’s trust. The list is endless. I’m betting we all have a Birdy story.

Adam and Eve sure did. Enticed by the “harmless” serpent, they tasted the forbidden fruit, and sin entered the world.

Samson sure did. One “harmless” look at Delilah caused him his ultimate blindness and death.

King David sure did. His “harmless” lust for Bathsheba turned to immense grief for him and his family.

Your Birdy won’t by my Birdy, but we deceive ourselves when we foolishly fail to recognize the warning signs. Birdy’s wings were not a harmless Yoga move. They were a “Get out of my way, Dummy! I’m getting ready to take flight” move.

Jesus warned us to beware of what we treat as “harmless”: sin and evil. He said: “Watch out! Be on guard” (Luke 12:15). Had I applied that with Birdy, I would have saved myself one gigantic headache…which, yes, I realize, is better than an eternal one.

A visiting pastor attended a men’s breakfast in the middle of a rural farming area. The group had asked an older farmer, decked out in bib overalls, to say grace for the morning breakfast.

 “Lord, I hate buttermilk,” the farmer began. The visiting pastor opened one eye to glance at the farmer and wonder where this was going. The farmer loudly proclaimed, “Lord, I hate lard.” Now the pastor was growing concerned. Without missing a beat, the farmer continued, “And Lord, you know I don’t much care for raw white flour.” The pastor once again opened an

eye to glance around the room and saw that he wasn’t the only one to feel uncomfortable.

 Then the farmer added, “But Lord, when you mix them all together and bake them, I do love warm fresh biscuits. So, Lord, when things come up that we don’t like, when life gets hard, when we don’t understand what you’re saying to us, help us to just relax and wait until you are done mixing. It will probably be even better than biscuits. Amen.”

I have to wonder if God isn’t doing a little blending in America. A country that started off so strong has taken a turn that (hopefully) is teaching us much, mainly that God remains in charge. He is fully capable of making warm, fresh biscuits out of some pretty unpalatable ingredients, and yes, some of us require a little more kneading than others.) So, if we agree that this blending is our answer, then 2 Chronicles 7:14 KJV gives us instructions on our goal: If my people, which are called by my name, shall humble themselves, and pray, and seek my face, and turn from their wicked ways; then will I hear.

To do that, we need to make Ps. 139:23-24 our daily/hourly prayer. Search me, O God, and know my heart; test me and know my concerns. See if there is any offensive way in me; lead me in the way everlasting.

Examining our own hearts is pointless, no doubt because we will find a way to justify our evil actions/attitudes. After all, we haven’t killed anyone. We didn’t loot those stores or throw iced water at the police officers. We merely sat in our comfy living rooms and watched on television as the wickedness of someone else’s heart played out. But that’s not what God calls us to do. He wants us to lay our ugly hearts at His throne and ask Him to reveal any wickedness in us (even though it is so much more our nature to find the wickedness in others).

Get that? Any wickedness. Any times when we have remained silent and not spoken out against bigotry and violence. Any times we have secretly celebrated payback between our race and theirs. Any times we have allowed others’ prejudiced behavior to affect ours. Any times we have not asked God to help us examine our hearts, to call our wickedness into account and to change our ways.

Last night I watched Just Mercy, the true story of Harvard law school graduate Bryan Stevenson’s defense of wrongly condemned Walter McMillian who was sentenced to die for the murder of an 18-year-old girl. Stevenson quickly learned that in the South, he, a black man, was himself a target, simply because of the color of his skin.

Refusing to return hate for hate, he founded the Equal Justice Initiative in Montgomery, Alabama. He and his staff have won reversals or release from prison for over 135 wrongly condemned death row prisoners and won relief for hundreds of others wrongly convicted or unfairly sentenced. Black and white. Blending at its finest.

If God is stirring something in your heart like He is mine, then we need to agree to be part of the blending process. Granted, we’ve come a long way, but until we determine what we can do to make a difference, we will have a long way to go.

Theologian Dallas Willard wrote, “I’m practicing the discipline of not having to have the last word.” It’s a discipline I definitely need (just ask my husband), and I can’t help but wonder how much better off our country would be if everyone did likewise.

Recently we have watched unspeakable carnage as thug-protestors chose to get the last word under the pretense of seeking justice for the death of George Floyd by police officer Derek Chauvin. Buildings and vehicles were set on fire and stores looted as angry mobs defied curfew orders and stood nose-to-nose with officers attempting to seek order. Post offices, banks, book stores, CNN’s headquarters and a church were among the targeted areas. My girlfriend in San Francisco shared that protestors took over a freeway in nearby Oakland where some used baseball bats on windows of the stopped cars… their way of getting the last word, I guess.

I’m sure that we all have questioned the hatred in Chauvin’s act. How was he so determined to get the final say that he callously dismissed the desperate last words of Floyd, calling out for his mother? But Chauvin’s behavior is not the only one I find alarming. How could someone stand by and video an officer kneeling on a man’s neck and not intervene?

And then there are the violent rioters. Is it possible that they believe that answering hate with the “last word” of more hate is a justifiable action? Will the new Samsung television they just stole from Target improve racial tensions? Will the desecration of a monument to the victims of Armenian genocide (itself dedicated to fight racism) in Colorado help others recognize with more clarity the horror of Floyd’s death? Does the destruction of 580 pair of eyeglasses in a privately-owned optometry shop bring resolution to the injustice done to blacks? How does spray painting city buses or tossing fireworks into a jailhouse prevent further vitriol? Are we now filled with more compassion for the arsonists as we watch the newscasts of burned police cars, paid for by our taxpayer dollars?

The point is this: Do these violent rioters not know that their “last word” has done nothing to help reduce racism in our country?

How tragic, that instead of creating unspeakable carnage, they don’t follow the example set by the Des Moines, Iowa, protestors. According to the USA Today newspaper, following a tense situation, they knelt and then asked for police officers to do likewise, saying that they would obey the curfew and leave the area if the officers took a knee. “At the urging of a pastor from the community, senior Des Moines police officers Irvin Franklin and Jack Kamerick knelt and said a prayer.” Other officers as well as a group in riot gear agreed to the protestor’s request.

The “show of peaceful solidarity” proved that the “last word” can be one of unity and not division, and practicing it, like Willard suggests, just might be the answer we all are seeking.

Beginning in 2016, Lewis Miller and his floral elves began an ingenious project in New York City. Loading buckets of flowers into a van, they began to secretly create arrangements designed “to make people smile.” And just like that, with their pop-up installations, “Floral Flash Art” was born.

According to Miller, “Our goal is to create a positive, emotional response through flowers…If you can just stop, pause and just have one second of joy, that’s amazing because that’s one of the things that’s so lacking and it’s hard.”

Once a month, Miller’s workers begin around 5:45 A.M. and complete their task before sunrise. Their arrangements are found in trash cans and near monuments, subway stations, construction equipment, statues, and street corner hot dog carts. Passersby are encouraged to take a flower to brighten someone else’s day, and when the arrangements are removed, they are taken to local care facilities.

Lewis’s love for flowers began at the age of seven when he would create (and recreate) designs using the same flowers. As a teen, his first job was to pick weeds at a local golf course where the lone female member, a 70-year old lady, took a liking to the young man and asked if he would be able to create floral arrangements for her home. He was eager to try, and before long, he was designing for her frequent parties. The word spread.

And that’s the part of the story I love. It took one person to give a weed-picker a chance, and now that weed-picker has evolved into a world-renowned florist who is giving back. One elderly lady saw potential. Was it that Lewis didn’t complain? That he was clean-cut? Diligent? Punctual? Cared about the grounds? Whistled while he worked? I have no idea, but this golfer looked beyond the lowly position and saw something she liked.

I’ve been there. When Carol Kent asked me to speak with her agency, I had no credentials like her other speakers. I had authored no book, held no PhD, and had very little background in public speaking. Yet, she gave me a chance, and it was life-changing. Of course, we all know that the ultimate one who saw potential was Jesus. Not one of his disciples had impressive credentials, yet he groomed them to grow into a bold, brave group of believers whose impact continues to impact the world.

We might not have the talent of Lewis Miller, but we all are capable of turning a weed-picker into a smile-bloomer with words of encouragement, and I’m thinking that today would be a great day to start.