“The world needs more tackle boxes and less Xboxes.” The clever meme made me think of how life used to be. You know, when people sat on their front porches every evening, swatting mosquitoes and wiping their sweaty faces with weary handkerchiefs. Where they rocked in squeaky swings, visited with the parade of families out for an evening stroll, sipped on their iced tea, discussed the latest happenings and talked to their kids about their dreams and plans for tomorrow.

No invitation necessary.

And yes, I realize that younger readers have no idea what I’m talking about. Sad.

Nightly, men gathered on the steps, listening to their favorite baseball team on the radio, whooping and hollering when Stan Musial rounded the bases or Bob Feller struck out the side. No one considered hiding away in dark living rooms while Netflix or Prime TV became their life-line of relationship and entertainment. Who would waste their time on that when there were fireflies outside, beckoning to be placed in jars or turned into engagement rings? When fresh hop-scotch box lines were blurred by the footsteps of giggly girls, and young boys played stickball under the streetlight, no coaching allowed?

Car doors were unlocked, keys in the ignition, no club to lock the steering wheel in place, no alarm that shook the neighbor’s house if someone neared the car. Yards had no fences. There was no need for warning signs that houses were being monitored, no cameras attached to doorbells and garage eaves.

During the day, window drapes were open, inviting. Mothers prepared family meals, often taking extras to an ailing neighbor or elderly church member. They cleaned and sewed, spanked the front porch welcome mat and brewed fresh, sweet tea, waiting for the evening pattern to repeat itself.

Hospitality was key to civility and friendship. Everything shouted an invitation to join in. Be a part of our family. Welcome! Welcome! Welcome!

No more. The last two generations have moved towards privacy, and now, with Covid-19, they are realizing a new kind of isolation. Yet, the more isolated we become, the more insulated we become. Look around and you’ll see few front porches. Most home “socializing” has turned to the fenced-in back yard where the BBQ and patio and cornhole make it clear that people are to stay out unless invited in.

And yet, I find it ironic that today many are barking at the unfairness of being forced to stay away from other people. “Our rights are being violated”…you know, the rights to hang with people in close proximity, the “rights” that we discarded when we adopted the mantra “Mi casa es mi casa,” built homes with no front porches, closed our shades and self-isolated. Because that’s the way we wanted it. But now, we protesteth much.

So, I have to wonder, once the restrictions are lifted, will we open up our homes and engage in others’ lives? Ummm, probably not. Instead, we will return to our bubbles where we will meet in restaurants instead of our homes (after all, guests are soooo stressful), where we will spend little (if any) of our lives engaging with our neighbors. How many witnessing opportunities are lost because of our selfishness?

Dr. Rosaria Butterfield has written a best-selling book, The Gospel Comes with a Housekey,” challenging us to practice radical, ordinary, biblical hospitality as we use our homes to make strangers into neighbors, and neighbors into the family of God. This book is not for the excuse-makers. It is for those who want to see others come to know Christ.

So now, if you will excuse me, I need to brew some sweet tea, shake out my welcome mat and sweep my deck. Feel free to drop by. No invitation necessary.

A Catholic priest and a Methodist pastor from two local churches are standing by the side of the road, feverishly pounding a handmade sign into the ground with a large rock. The sign reads: “The End is Near! Turn Yourself Around Now Before It’s Too Late!”

As a car speeds past them, the driver yells, “Leave us alone, you religious nuts!”

From the curve they hear screeching tires and a big splash. The pastor turns to the priest and asks, “Do you think the sign should just say ‘Bridge Out’?”

Have you ever met a person who has a knack for complicating things? The other day, as some of us were visiting-while-distancing on our deck, a woodpecker began thumping away on a nearby tree. “Jon” was the first to locate the intruder. “He’s right there,” pointing to where he spotted the bird. None of us could follow his finger’s guide. “Right there. Go up to the first branch. Then it splits a little and goes a different direction. Follow that aways and then go right. To the left of that is the bird, hiding behind the leaves.”

T.M.I. Now it was my turn. I simply followed the sound of the pecking…and put on my teacher hat. “Follow the trunk to the height of our deck. Where the first branch splits to the left, follow it about five feet…” Specifics.

You get what I’m saying if you ever have tried to learn a new card game when the explainer cannot start at the beginning or dumb it down. My frustrations are in high gear whenever we play games with a certain, unnamed family member named Dave who has a tendency to assume that we get what he is saying. Although I’ve played the game 100 times, even I am confused. Most times, our kids or grandkids or friends will turn to me and ask for an interpretation…a dumbed-down interpretation. (I do not take that personally.)

Recently, I’ve been asked to give my opinion on a doomsday video that is circulating, prompting people to question if we are in End Times, and last night a friend forwarded an email in which a leading doctor proposed the Covid-19 is a conspiracy to depopulate the world. Both were way above my retired paygrade, so I forwarded them to brilliant friends who could “dumb them down” for me and give me their take on what they heard.

I quickly learned that some people are incapable of simple explanations. There was one, however, whose brilliance did not deter her from speaking at my level. (No comments necessary.) Line by line, she presented facts opposing what the reader had presented. Analysis such as “a sweeping generalization without one shred of evidence” or “If truth is subjective then each group has their own truth,” etc. were specific to the writer’s critique. Perfect! I copied and pasted her response to my doubting friend…who answered, “So what if truth is subjective?” Round and round we go.

After several days of watching videos, seeking experts’ opinions and attempting to explain the fallacies in what I was seeing/reading, I knew it was time for something drastic. The “bridge is out” story gave me my answer. People needed to “turn themselves around before it’s too late.” Period. I would do what I do best, dumb down my answer and share this: “I want to focus only on Jesus, and every minute I spend analyzing end-of-the-world theories is one less minute I have to think about him.”

Actually, that’s not dumbing it down at all. That might be the smartest thing I’ve said in my entire life.

We all need a little help every now and then, and sometimes it comes from the most unexpected places. It might be the Walmart employee who wipes down our cart before handing it off to us, or the hardware store salesperson with curbside service so we can buy the shovel to work in our garden, or even a picture like this to lift our spirits.

Let’s face it. Times are tough…uncertain…maybe even a tad bit discouraging. Chances are, if you’re like me, a little spirit-lifter won’t hurt.

But before we get to that, maybe we need to understand where discouragement comes from. The following story explains it well.

It was advertised that the devil was putting his tools up for sale. When the day of the sale came, each tool was priced and laid out for public inspection. And what a collection it was! Hatred, envy, jealousy, deceit or pride…the inventory was treacherous. Off to one side was a harmless-looking tool priced higher than all the rest, even though it was obviously more worn than any other tool the devil owned. “What’s the name of this tool?” asked a customer. “That,” the devil replied, “is discouragement.” The customer asked, “But why have you priced it so high?” The devil smiled and explained, “Because discouragement is more useful to me than all the others. I can pry open and get inside a man’s heart with that tool when I can’t get near him with any other. It’s badly worn because I use it on almost everyone, since so few people know it belongs to me.”

Discouragement does not come from God. It comes from you-know-who, and it shows up in many forms: rejection; impatience; anger; sarcasm; lack of energy; ingratitude; fear; blame, etc. The list is endless. Some people go to bed, put the covers over their heads, and try to sleep it off. Others put on a happy face and play super-Christian. (“Why no, nothing is wrong. Praise God, I’m fine.”). But those who seem to deal with it best understand the source of their discouragement and turn to the One who can make a difference. They find the answer in Ps. 42:11 (MSG)

Why are you down in the dumps, dear soul?
Why are you crying the blues?
Fix my eyes on God—

soon I’ll be praising again.
He puts a smile on my face.

He’s my God.

Our eyes cannot be focused on ourselves and God. When we need a little pick-me-up, it would be nice to have someone pull us from the front and push us from the back, like the toddler in the picture. But there’s a better solution: Begin praising God for His goodness and His blessings, an easy thing to do when we realize Who initiates our “lifting.” As Ps. 30:30 says, I will lift You up, O Lord, for You have lifted me up.

I don’t know who wrote this, but I love the optimism, the encouragement, the hopeful side to this pandemic. We need that confidence, don’t we? Bret Baier, a news anchor, daily offers a message of expectation when he ends his television program with this: “We are one day closer to putting this all behind us.”

I envision the day when Baier’s statement will be our reality and we can learn powerful lessons from it…lessons, I pray, we never forget.

We all know that this silent killer has sneaked in unnoticed, and as we battle this foe, I am mindful of another enemy we are warned about in Scripture. Be alert and of sober mind. Your enemy the devil prowls around like a roaring lion looking for someone to devour. (1 Peter 5:8) See any similarities?

Could there be a more frightening warning to those unaware of our enemy’s attempts to destroy? If we compare Covid-19 and Satan, we can’t help but recognize likenesses: Both prey on the weak; both remain unseen; both are contagious, and both appear intent on destroying humanity.

Still, if we remain vigilant, we can remain hopeful by understanding a few more things about these enemies:

• They sneak in unannounced. (“So what if I run a few errands I probably should postpone?”/“But encourage one another daily, as long as it is called ‘Today,’ so that none of you may be hardened by sin’s deceitfulness.” Hebrews 3:13.)
• They come through friends (“There’s nothing wrong with hanging with our pals at the beach.”/ “Whoever walks with the wise becomes wise, but the companion of fools will suffer harm.” Prov. 13:20.)
• They come when we ignore the warnings. (“Wear masks”/“Put on the full armor of God.” Eph. 6:11.)

Yet as contagious as this virus is, as contagious as sin is, the antidote is simple. We must isolate ourselves from anything that causes us to fall victim to their death traps. We must be mindful that there are bad things seeking to destroy us, both in the physical and the spiritual world. We cannot allow ourselves to so much as sniff these deadly evils. Instead, we must do what is smart…what is hopeful. Trusting in our medical professionals is one way to do that, but to be eternally careful, we must turn our lives to Jesus Christ and know that he is the ultimate hope.

So, as the meme above says, “Hang in there, World.” How do we do that? The answer is found in Deuteronomy 31:6: Be strong and courageous… for it is the Lord your God who goes with you. He will not leave you or forsake you. One day we will “put this all behind us.” The choice we make now will determine what will lie ahead.

That, Readers, is the Hope that matters.

As I previously have written, since Covid-19 I am on a mission to throw away everything I do not need. At this moment, I am sitting on the floor, staring at “keepers”: my Bible; refrigerator; microwave; a spatula; laptop; cell phone; and Dave, although I may rethink this if he keeps moaning when I threaten to get rid of his guns, used puzzles and Perry Como CD’s. I tackled this project when I became concerned about what will happen when I die and my kids go through my “things,” an endeavor inspired when some of my girlfriends, quarantined with their husbands, began sharing their irritations with their hubbies’ peculiarities.

The behaviors that at one time made my friends laugh have become fodder for torture. One husband “under no condition” will part with his collection of old, worthless lottery tickets. Instead, he spends time counting and stacking them. Another husband refuses to get rid of his life-size Elvis cut-out that stands in the corner of his gun room, the same room with holsters hoarding space on glass shelves. His latest purchase hasn’t found its way to that cabinet because he sleeps with it strapped to his waist, certain that he’s on someone’s hit list for his stash of toilet paper. One friend, mid de-cluttering old clothes, is threatening to set a match to her husband’s jogging suit collection from the 1970’s. According to him, you never know when someone will have a ‘70’s party, and he will be able to clothe the entire list of invitees.

Um-hmmm.

Anyway, because of Covid-19, I am beginning to appreciate what matters most: the “keepers” I leave my family.

A friend emailed me to say how bored she is. Covid-19 has forced her to become a recluse, and she has nothing to do.
“Nothing to do?” I respond. Really? Nothing? I ask her a few questions.

Have you checked your spice rack? If yours is like mine, your basil, sage, tarragon and thyme expired in 2016. How about your photos? Do you seriously recognize the people in each picture? (No, you don’t.) And why do you need multiple snapshots of the same redwood tree—yes, we applaud you using multiple angles–from Yosemite National Park? Trust me, these are not slides your friends want to watch at the next get together. Correction: make that ANY gathering. What about tax statements held hostage since 2010? (According to the IRS: “Keep records for 3 years from the date you filed your original return or 2 years from the date you paid the tax, whichever is later…”) Buy a shredder. On line. But don’t bring the package inside.

For those of you who are Amazon freaks and daily are visited by UPS, pretend your gift is filled with bed bugs. Open it with plastic gloves. Outside. Discard the box immediately. In your rude neighbor’s trash can. (I’m funny.) Clean your file cabinet. (My kids would have gone nuts, had I died and they had to deal with all the irrelevant paperwork I’ve accumulated.); clean out the garage (although this virus will have to last a decade for me to finish this task); dance to praise music; smash old hard drives from laptops you have replaced but not discarded; rake those leaves you ignored since last spring; and pray. More than you ever have.

Don’t waste an opportunity. Wash your hands multiple times a day to the tune of “The Lord’s Prayer” (exactly 20 seconds, unless you try to break the speed of sound like I did when I was in elementary school). Or be creative. One of my friends is keeping entertained by pretending to do lawn work every time a realtor brings a possible buyer to her next-door neighbor’s house. (Hey, don’t judge. You know, that “sin” thing.)

Each evening, our California friends are staying in their front yards, playing charades with their neighbors across the street. Should you want to remain inside, check out your accumulation of unread books. And then read them! Recommend great ones to friends. Send an encouraging email or text to someone who is alone and discouraged. The other evening, one of my friends texted five of us a great Netflix movie to watch: The Shadows of Motown. Then we group-texted, sharing our fun memories of that era as we danced to the greatest songs of all time (my opinion, yes). As for those puzzles long overlooked, start one, and if pieces are missing, work on another to see if the runaways have relocated (spoken from experience). Should the prodigal pieces not appear, bid your puzzle goodbye. Trust me, the pain is short-lived.

Pack up clothes that last fit in 1995. If you haven’t lost those 45 pounds by now, chances are slim—even if you aren’t—that you will benefit from them before the moths do. Join the local group of ladies who are making masks for the health care workers. Stop calling your financial planner asking for advice; he/she has no crystal ball. Thank those people who stock the shelves with needed supplies—you know, the ones we all have taken for granted. Support local restaurants and businesses that are offering curb-side service in order to survive. Go through your church directory and make calls to those without a support system. Offer to pray for them. And then, do it.

Anyway, you get the point. God has given us this time to reevaluate our priorities. We all must use this time for good. I hope this article has given you some ideas, should you be one of those claiming to be “bored.” And if worse comes to worse, come to my house to de-weed my yard. I promise to keep a six-foot distance.

Counting the dozens of toll booth workers’ hands I touched over our three-day drive home from Mexico, I began thinking about how easily the Coronavirus could pass from one person to another. Hadn’t I made contact with the gas station attendant when I tipped him for washing our car window? And how about those motel rooms were Dave and I stayed? Was the television control infected? Our room key? Germ magnets, for sure.

I had hugged our staff good-bye when we left Mazatlán. Did one of them feel a little warmer than normal? What about the four couples we had over Friday night for our “clean out the refrigerator” party before starting home the next day? One of them was over 80 years old, the age when we are the most susceptible.

Yesterday I went grocery shopping. Besides mine, how many other fingers had squeezed the avocados before choosing a ripe one? Had the lady who bagged my groceries washed her hands for twenty-seconds in warm water upon exiting the bathroom? Perhaps I should begin wearing disposable gloves. Perhaps I should wear disposable gloves to pick out a box of disposable gloves since someone’s ungloved hands had placed them there on that shelf. Or are those just as useless as the white masks that have been sold to those who don’t realize the virus molecules are small enough to filter through the covering? Maybe I should check Amazon.smile for a hazmat suit and stay under my bed. (Can dust bunnies be lethal?)

As I write this, I am looking at autographed letters ready to be mailed. Last night Dave sat down to sign his baseball cards and insert them into self-addressed, stamped envelopes. He did not know one person who had mailed those requests. This morning it dawned on me: some envelopes he licked to seal. Yikes! Perhaps I should Clorox his tongue.

We easily can panic over this outbreak, become paranoid about our activities and live in fear. Our friend Charlie and his wife recently attended a concert in Las Vegas. Charlie said that the crowd sat mesmerized by the orchestra…until, that is, he sneezed, at which point all 1,000 in attendance turned to glare at him.

The problem is that paranoia leads to conspiracy theories such as these that are proliferating: eating in Chinese restaurants is dangerous; the virus is linked to HIV; or COVID-19 escaped from a Chinese research lab. Some shops have installed signs banning Chinese people from entering. What’s next?

What message do we send when faced with a threat? Instead of reason, we scream “Panic! Take care of #1! Over-react!” Granted, we must take precautions, but there’s something else we need to do. Pray. Pray to the One who can do something about our concerns. Pray to the One who tells us not to worry. Jesus said, “And which of you by being anxious can add a single hour to his span of life?” (Matthew 6:27) We need to pray for God to comfort those affected and to keep us diligent and mindful of ways we hopefully can prevent becoming a target. Martin Luther offered advice we all should remember: “Pray as if everything depends on God, then work as if everything depends on you.” Because it does.

The drive home from Mazatlán, Mexico, to Kansas is not easy. The three-hours on the toll road that began our first leg included 61 tunnels and two suspension bridges over deep gorges. Semi-truck drivers many times must creep along in order to make the steep mountain climbs. Because of that, about ninety-five percent of them have created a kind gesture for those of us who get stuck behind them on the numerous curves.

As we near them, they move to the shoulder and wait for there to be no vehicles coming towards them. They put on their blinkers when it is safe for us to ignore the double yellow lines and pass. It is not uncommon in the oncoming lane to have one semi straddling the double yellow while passing another semi. That is our clue to be kind and move to the shoulder.

Or get squashed.

Add to that unmarked potholes, an occasional cow crossing the highway, and men in black working in the tunnels, and it’s no wonder we pray the entire time we navigate this stretch. By the time we reach Durango, Mexico, Dave and I both have white knuckles and sweaty palms.

This past Saturday we were four-and-a-half hours into our journey when Dave realized that we would need more pesos to cover the $100+(U.S.) in tolls. Pulling over to the side of the road, he opened the back door to get into his backpack for the money. That’s when I heard the words that made me want to throw myself in front of the next semi that approached.

“Patty, where’s my backpack?”

“It should be right where you always put it. On top of your small suitcase.”

“Seriously. Where did you put it?”

“Why would I put it anywhere? It’s your backpack.”
“But you double-checked our condo to be sure we loaded everything in the car.”

“And so did you.” Let the blame game begin.

After hyperventilating for a few minutes, I had a brilliant idea. “I may have some pesos. Let’s count all the money we’ve got and see if we have enough to get to the border.”

“Patty, my passport is in my backpack. We can’t get into the U.S. without it.”

Of course, that wasn’t true. I could get into the U.S. Dave could be left on the side of the road to figure out what he needed to do. It crossed my mind.

Or I could be forgiving, laugh it off and drive back to Mazatlán with him. (The only part of that sentence that actually happened begins with the word “drive” and ends with “him.”) I was not laughing. I tried to be forgiving (especially since Dave was blaming me for this blunder), but having to retrace our drive through that mountain—making it nine hours of driving and about $15,000 in pesos only to end up where we started—made me homicidal.

Then Hubby dropped another bombshell. “We don’t have enough pesos to get back to Mazatlán.” I began making plans to jump from the first suspension bridge we crossed.

Dave presented our options: (1) “I can ask for mercy from the toll booth operator.” (No chance since Dave speaks about 10 words in Spanish, and none of them are in that sentence.) (2) “I can leave my watch with her as collateral and get it back tomorrow on our return trip.” (Same “No chance” reason as above.) (3) “We can get off the toll road, but that will add four hours of drive time.” (Sweet Jesus, please, NO!) (4) “Or we could find an ATM.” Which was the first sensible thing he said.

I think God knew that my unChristlike ideas were about to become a reality and I would end up in a Mexico prison because the first exit said “Aeropuerto.” Airports have ATM’s! There was hope. Dave and I both were surprised when I actually exited the airport with pesos and the machine had not eaten my credit card.

Sometimes we just have to be grateful for the little things.

Mr. Green peered over his fence and noticed that the neighbor’s little boy was in his backyard filling in a hole. Curious about what the youngster was up to, Mr. Green asked, “What are you doing, Jimmy?”

Tearfully, little Jimmy replied, “My goldfish died, and I’ve just buried him.”

“That’s an awfully large hole for a goldfish, isn’t it?” Mr. Green said.

Patting down the last bit of earth, little Joey replied, “That’s because he’s in your cat!”

I know how Jimmy feels. When I was eight years old, the week before Easter I walked downtown to the Kress store, and after spending my entire allowance, returned home with five pink baby chicks. Placing them in the large box I had prepared for them with straw, a soft blanket, water and food pellets, I doted on them for hours while I sat on the ground beside their new home, lifting one at a time to cuddle it.

When the phone rang, I ran inside to answer it. Returning to my quintuplets about ten minutes later, I was horrified to find bloody feathers strewn across the yard. Nearby sat a demon-cat with a pink feather dangling from its snarling mouth. In hysterics, I chased that evil feline until it scampered up a tree where, had I gotten my hands on him, it would have been the beneficiary of the same demise as Jimmy’s catch.

My heart was broken, and even though I might have been a tad bit at fault for leaving my babies unprotected, I accepted none of the blame and instead decided to enact revenge on that homicidal cat. I would stalk him just like he did my chicks. By sundown he had won. My mother refused to let me sleep under that tree with the intent of torturing that murderer, and by morning he had skedaddled, never to return.

I was not able to exact revenge. Bummer!

Martin Luther King knew all about the futility of payback. Perhaps that is why he quoted Mahatma Gandhi when he repeated, “The old law about an eye for an eye leaves everybody blind.” When Jesus said we are to love our enemies, he knew that revenge might be sweet, but its after-taste isn’t. Researchers have found there is additional stress and fear in those who perpetrate a “take justice into my own hands” action, probably because most acts of revenge go beyond the original transgression. One has to look no further than gang wars to see this carried out.

As Christians, we are empowered by the Holy Spirit to “turn the other cheek.” In our flesh that might not be impossible, but by relying on God-living-in-us, that type of forgiveness means we no longer feel the need for revenge which is, incidentally, the only way to demonstrate we represent a holiness that sets us apart. In other words, we are not to act in a vengeful way if we are to be Christlike.

I’m just not so sure Jesus included demon cats in that category.

For the past nine years, our friends, Scott and Pam, have come to Mazatlán to hang with Dave and me, and every year, the predictable happens. Wherever Pam and I go, strangers bump into light posts and wives elbow their husbands. That’s because Pam is stunning and people stare at her. I can’t figure it out. Other than her silky black hair, her cobalt blue eyes, her Italian skin, her perfect white teeth, her petite shape and her impeccable style, what’s to look at?

Nine years ago, our first time shopping at a Mazatlán mall, we asked a sales clerk how to read the Spanish clothing tags. She gave Pam a quick once-over and said “Chico.” Turning to me, she bellowed “Grande.” GRANDE! Pam was a chico. I was a GRANDE. As Pam headed towards the size-two sales rack and I turned towards the tops that double as RV tents, Pam gave me that “I’m so sorry” look. I countered with that “We no longer are friends” look. After I recovered (like three years later), the whole thing became funny. To this day, we both crack up when I bring it up…which is every time we are together.

Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha.

See, I laugh.

Three years ago we were shopping in a jewelry store. I could have robbed the store blind while Edna, the sales clerk, fawned all over Pam. Walking up to her, Edna cupped Pam’s face and began speaking of the “aura” that my friend exuded. She droned on and on and on and on while I stood there like a hood ornament on a junk yard Plymouth. After enough was enough, I cleared my throat and said, “Edna, what about me?” Her response, after staring at my face for a few seconds, was more than even I expected.

“Uh…No.” Then, returning her gaze to Perfect Pam, said, “But your friend, she is magnificent.”

You’d think I would learn, but I don’t. Yesterday P.P, and I went…you guessed it, shopping. Entering a different jewelry store, the clerk greeted us in English and then addressed my friend. “You have a stunning neckline.” I responded that it went well with her “aura,” and the saleslady agreed.

It’s a conspiracy. That’s what it is, a conspiracy.

The amazing thing about P.P. is that her beauty is not her only gift. She is a talented singer, dancer, voice-over specialist and painter. Our condo is filled with Pam’s magnificent contemporary paintings. On this visit, I ordered her latest: an abstract star. The minute I saw it, I knew it was perfect to hang above our guest bed. Pam shared that when she posted it on her website, she received this response: “You call this art? My dog could paint better than you do.”

I asked Pam how she answered. “I told him that he must have an awfully talented dog.”

Add cleverness to Pam’s list of attributes.

What people don’t know about my friend is that her life is not as perfect as it appears. As a child she was a victim of satanic ritual abuse. Her story is horrendous and too shocking to share, but it took years of counseling for Pam to recover. Her paintings became her therapy as she found that her unique blend of colors was a source of healing. What she has overcome would put most people in a mental institution. Not Pam.

Through her experience, she learned that God wants her to share with others who have been abused how to overcome their pain. She realizes (and it has taken her years to get here) that what satan meant for evil, God will use for good (rephrased Gen. 50:20). Pam now depends not on any therapist but on Jesus and only Jesus. Our thirty-six year friendship has become richer and deeper because of Him, and I am grateful that He has allowed me to be a part of her journey.

There were so many good-feeling moments from Super Bowl LIV. Here in Mazatlán, Mexico, I had proudly worn my Chiefs’ shirt in anticipation of the big event. Sometimes a stranger would give me a “thumbs-up” and point to my shirt, but since many of the people who live here are from the San Francisco area, that not always was the case.

Dave and I were the only Chiefs’ fans at the Super Bowl party we hosted. That did not dissuade me from hanging two Chiefs’ banners, one in my window and the other in my living room. We were excited! Well, I was. As Patrick Mahomes, the Chiefs’ quarterback, explained when asked in a pre-game interview how he remains so calm, he said he once was a baseball pitcher, and pitchers have to remain calm to do well. Enough said.

The pregame ceremonies were filled with nostalgia as the host city brought back the NFL’s top 100 former football players. Four centurions who served in W.W. II were introduced, with one presenting the token for the coin flip (at which point, I admit I teared up). Yolanda Adams’ rendition of “America the Beautiful” gave me goose bumps, as did the flyover with four jets streaming above in perfect synchronization. Players from both teams lined their respective 24-yard lines as a tribute to legendary basketball player Kobe Bryant who died in a tragic helicopter crash the week before.

And then there was the game which, for three quarters, looked like head coach Andy Reid would be denied his first-ever Vince Lombardi trophy. But then the Chiefs do what they do best: They came back. Down 20-10 midway through the fourth quarter, the Chiefs tacked on 21 additional points to win the game. During the postgame festivities, Chiefs’ CEO Clark Hunt credited the Lord for “blessing us with this opportunity. The glory belongs to Him, and this trophy belongs to the best fans in the National Football League.” According to the “Tyler Morning Telegraphy,” Hunt previously had shared his faith and spoken about how he makes spiritual development a priority. “In the National Football League, Christ is really glorified. My identity is my faith in Christ.”

Like I said, those were some of the many feel-good moments from Super Bowl LIV. My disappointment—shared by many friends—was the half-time show featuring two multi-talented, athletic, gorgeous Latino women: Jennifer Lopez and Shakira. Local Facebook postings were divided between those who considered it “the best halftime performance ever” and those who considered it the worst. In reading several reviews the following day, the word “sexy” appeared in most. But is that the goal of entertainment at the Super Bowl?

One of my girlfriend’s eight-year old twins commented on how “nasty” the dancers were. Granted, the show was intended to pay tribute to the Latin culture (at one point, Lopez’s caped American flag was reversed to the Puerto Rico one), but I felt this show’s vulgarity failed to live up to the dignity that preceded–and followed–it in what is supposed to be a family-friendly event. Both of these entertainers are too talented for such a performance! What confused me was how the NFL speaks out against human trafficking yet allows women to become objects who use their bodies to bring attention to the plight of their country. (As an aside, while the two dancers were entertaining the crowd, a dear friend was rescuing prostitutes on a trafficking sting.) No doubt that adds to why I found this show particularly offensive.

Christ certainly was not glorified during that act, and I was disappointed that an otherwise classy event was marred by such an unclassy performance. Nothing about it made me proud to be an American, except, I guess, that we are a nation of freedoms, even to the point that such freedoms give us the right to pole dance at a football game. Remember Yolanda Adams lyrics, “America, America, God shed His grace on thee…”? Fortunately, that covers even the Lopez/Shakira halftime show.

Howard is a nuclear engineer. He is 86 years old and lives in the same Mexico condominium complex as Dave and I. Last year he almost died when he checked himself out of a hospital because its NFL playoff games were broadcast in Spanish and not English. He returned to his condo long enough to watch the Sunday games. When his breathing labored, his wife, Joyce, called a friend who drove Howard back to the hospital where he was put in a coma, intubated, and spent a week in that condition. That was a year ago. Howard continues to recover.

Dave and I were not here at that time, but we were in constant contact with Joyce. Things were not good. Before we came down to Mazatlán this year, I prayed that God would give me an opportunity to have a straight-forward conversation with Howard about eternity.

Dave and Howard are buddies. Never a day goes by that Howard does not come to our patio (once, twice, sometimes three times) a day to “chew the fat.” Conversation ranges from politics to the importance of ocean tides to proper maintenance of tennis courts to the peso/dollar exchange rate to sports…lots and lots of sports. Dave and I have invited him to come to church with us, but Sundays are days he and Joyce meet another couple for breakfast. Year after year after year. “Someday,” he says, he will join us.

Because Howard once headed the laboratory team that worked on the atomic bomb, he has a great interest in modern warfare. Last week he responded to an email I forwarded him about a new U.S. missile that “slices, dices, but doesn’t explode” and recently was used to kill terrorist Suleimani. This was his response: “That is the problem with war, killing innocent people, and in today’s world even identifying the innocent from the enemy is not easy.  Why does God let us have war?” Since Howard does not believe in God, this was HUGE.

I answered soon after. “I’m sure He grieves over it as much as we do.  It’s a fallen world and won’t be perfect until eternity…depending upon where you end up.  We have to remember that this world is the antithesis of what Perfection will be.  Scholars much smarter than I have written at great length on this question.  I just try to do whatever little things I can to make it a better place.  One small step at a time.” Howard responded. “Yep. We do what we can.”

Last night, Howard came by for his evening chat. Three or four topics into the conversation, Howard began sharing why as a young boy he left the Mormon religion. He spoke of its history and the vengeance the church hierarchy had exacted upon those who persecuted its people. When he finished, I responded that Jesus had taught such a different message, like “Turn the other cheek.” Our friend pointed his finger at me and said, “He’s the man.” And for the next hour, Howard spoke of how no one has impacted the world like Jesus, how His message revolutionized the way people think, and that He taught compassion and love like no other.

As our conversation continued, it was apparent that Howard knew more about the Bible than most Christians. He just couldn’t “get” the God part. Abraham agreed to kill his son? Who would do that? Noah’s ark really held what it claimed it held? Impossible. The Tower of Babel was the cause of various languages? Nope. Had Jesus known God? (When Dave and I used scripture to show Jesus was God, Howard reminded us that scripture is man-written, not Jesus-written. He couldn’t buy the “God-inspired” part.)

Mostly, Dave and I just listened. I have no doubt this conversation will continue, and I am excited for where God will direct it.

Like I said, “One small step at a time.”