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.”

I don’t worry about little things. Only big things. Like covering my bald spot and keeping it covered. Or answering a question at bible study correctly. Or keeping my fingernail polish from chipping. Or missing a deal on Etsy. Or honking (when and for how long) at rude drivers. Or forgetting names. Or questioning if the pastor is singling me out with his sermon. (And yes, he is.)

You know, big things.

I hope you get my point. Making a mountain out of a molehill is an area in which I excel, and before I know it, I’ve turned that little hump into Mt. Everest. So, you can imagine what I do with actual mountains… like every one of my family members. People on my bible study’s cancer list. Our country. Being bold in sharing the Gospel.

One person defined worry as “to gnaw.” This is what he said: “Like a dog with a bone, the worrier chews all day long, and sometimes it is a very old bone the worrier gnaws. The bone gets buried and dug up, buried and dug up, as the same old pain gets reworried ceaselessly.” I so get that.

If I give myself permission, I can allow those thoughts to turn into a runaway freight train, and my worries can consume my thoughts until they dominate my moods. That’s why I need to cling to Charlie Brown’s adage: “Worrying won’t stop the bad stuff from happening. It just stops you from enjoying the good.” So true. After all, we all are given X-amount of seconds to live. Why would we spend even one of those thinking of “the bad stuff” and not the “good”?

You and I are surrounded with blessings. Too many to count. This year, because of the giftedness of my step-daughter and daughter-in-law, I will be taking 100 Ziploc bags of lotions, shampoos, etc. to hand out to people who work at the dump here in Mexico. Today at church, three of the praise team members were introduced as coming to Christ through the ministry in the colonias where the poorest of poor live and where our church weekly goes to feed and tell them of Jesus. We learned of a musical conductor who brought instruments from the states and is starting an orchestra with the children in a colonia. Every time our pastor returns to the U.S., we were told, he returns with wheelchairs; to date, he has brought over 100 which he “loans” to the handicapped. Blessings upon blessings!

For 2020, I’m making a pact with myself to stop my runaway, worry-train dead in its tracks. I will focus on what is good and true and edifying. I will hand my concerns over to God and refuse to take them back, and I will remember what Corrie Ten Boom wrote in her book, Clippings From My Notebook: “Any concern too small to be turned into a prayer is too small to be made into a burden.” And that includes my bald spot.

Sometimes I’m selfish. You probably are too. We’re born that way, you know. To get our way we cry, pout, throw a temper tantrum and, if not careful, become a teensy bit bratty. That’s because some of us never grow up. We think of ourselves measured only by our needs and desires before thinking of anyone else. And even though some of us (like me) were blessed with parents who demonstrated the opposite side of that self-centered coin, if we’re not careful, our greedy genetic pool will represent a sewer system rather than a stream of living water.

Dave and I have a friend who lives to bless others. He and his family reside in Stilwell, Kansas, but own a house next to ours at Lake Fort Scott. In spite of working full time and having three very active teens and a wife whose job sends her all over the world, he has a knack for hearing of a need and then meeting it. His name is Vince, and if “givingest” were a word, that would describe him. For the months Dave and I are gone in the summer, he mows our yard. A few weekends ago, he gave up a Friday evening and Saturday morning to help Dave with some electrical work. He never complains or reminds us of all he does for us. Ask and we receive. Don’t ask, and our friend will somehow sense what he can do to make our lives easier.

I hope you have such a neighbor. This is a first for us. In the past, “neighborly” would not describe those living beside us. They have borrowed and not returned, helped themselves to whatever was in our refrigerator (even my last piece of cheesecake—seriously put me over the edge!), ignored us, introduced themselves only to ask if we smoke or host loud parties, and talked nonstop about their perfect family. You get the picture. But then there’s Vince. Dave and I don’t know how to reciprocate, for even a pitching pointer for his son or an occasional meal does nothing to move the benevolent pendulum that swings decidedly in Vince’s favor.

I recently heard a disturbing statistic that 75% of Americans don’t know their neighbors. It made me wonder what our country/city/neighborhood/family would be like if we all modeled our giving after Vince. What if we looked for ways to help instead of keeping tabs on how little others have done for us? What if we never guilted anyone into meeting our needs? What if we all tuned our ears to hear a need and then did what it takes to make someone’s life better? Better yet, what if we figured out that need without ever being told about it? Jesus was great at that, you know. He washed his disciples’ feet, a menial job designated for servants. In his day, feet were filthy. Grunge between the toes. Dirt imbedded in the callouses. No hot-rock pedicures for these guys. Still, while dining with his disciples, Jesus got up from the table, took off his outer garments, wrapped a towel around his waist, and washed their feet.

Daily, Jesus allowed himself to be inconvenienced and interrupted and invaded. He made time for others. Ephesians 2:10 lets us know we are to do likewise. For we are God’s handiwork, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance for us to do. Get that? Our Heavenly Father has gone before us to give us opportunities to bless others, so perhaps 2020 could be the year when we become a little more Vince-like and pay attention to God’s nudgings.

Should 2020 be your year to do a little bathroom remodeling, here’s a tip: You don’t need a vanity. All you need is a metal T.V. tray.

Just take a gander at the picture I took at the motel where Dave and I stayed on our Christmas trip to spend time with his daughter and her family in Henderson, Nevada. Impressive, right?

At least the motel’s reviews were. (I’m thinking they were made by Bedouin sheepherders who dwell in caves and cliffs, but I’m not sure.) Anyway, when I looked for the room’s coffee pot, Dave, who had checked us in, told me that coffee was available only in the morning in the lobby at 7:00 … the same lobby, as he described it, that doubled as the workout room since it boasted a machine with a belt gizmo that jiggled waist-fat while you waited. Sweet Jesus! What kind of motel had we chosen?

I mean, at home I program my coffee pot the night before so there is no lag time between when I wake up at 5:00 and bolt to the kitchen. My brain is programmed to demand Java before I can function. Two hours without coffee might do me in.

Then, as usual, God got my attention. Hadn’t I just last week written an article about not grumbling? And hadn’t I, while driving just a few hours before, had a visual of what really mattered? The story unfolded earlier when I slowed down for an accident in the highway medium where a man appeared to be doing CPR on a victim whose body hung outside a smoking sports car. Pulling onto the shoulder, Dave and I ran to help, asking if someone had called

9-1-1. They had. By then, two other men joined us and, fearing the car would explode, wielded fire extinguishers aimed at the crushed engine. Time was critical.

As it turned out, the Good Samaritan was not doing CPR. His pumping motion was from a crowbar he used to disengage the woman’s leg from the twisted metal. Immediately, I knelt beside the woman’s head, held her hand and began praying. The engine smoke was overpowering, and the victim’s moans were gut-wrenching. I asked her name. “Angela,” she groaned and then begged for help. As a crowd gathered, I called on Jesus, asking for wisdom for the helpers and comfort for Angela.

With each crank of the crowbar, the victim pleaded for help. Through tears I tried to encourage her, saying that the paramedics were coming, but when her leg finally was freed, I couldn’t believe the damage. Her foot went one direction, her ankle another, and her leg still another. When someone said we needed to move her away from the smoking vehicle, I objected. We had no idea what internal injuries Angela had endured. Instead, I prayed that the fire extinguishers would be sufficient.

If the doctors were able to save her leg, no doubt Angela will struggle. A T.V. tray/vanity substitution or a cup of early morning coffee probably will not be on her list of concerns. Instead, she will long for the day when she can walk to the sink unassisted or to the kitchen to make her morning brew.

Somehow when I awoke that next morning, coffee didn’t matter. As it turned out, praying for Angela was the perfect substitute.

Do everything without grumbling and arguing, (Philippians 2:14 NIV)

Last month at church we were handed a paper leaf. On it, we were to write a list of things for which we are grateful. The elderly lady who handed it to me said that there was a problem. She had so many things to list, they never would fit into such a small space. She needed dozens of leaves. Author Max Lucado would love her outlook. He wrote this: “We live in an art gallery of divine creativity and yet are content to gaze only at the carpet.” Have you noticed that being thankful appears to be in short supply, while griping is plentiful? Grudgery and gratefulness daily compete for the attention of our thoughts, even though developing an attitude of gratitude has the potential to completely change the way our day will go. Picture two glasses, side-by-side. The larger glass is half-full, the smaller glass is full, and an arrow points from the larger to the smaller glass. The adage underneath speaks liters: “If you see your glass as half empty…pour it into a smaller glass and stop whining.” Ann Voskamp would agree. She wrote the book One Thousand Gifts: A Dare to Live Fully Right Where You Are, challenging her readers to list 1000 things for which they should be grateful. (I highly recommend her book.) Ann knows that sometimes that is not easy. As a child, she and her mother watched her young sister be crushed under a truck. Her mother ended up in a psychiatric hospital, and her father turned from God. As an adult, Ann stood beside her brother-in-law as he buried his first two sons. In spite of her setbacks, she chose to believe that God is joy, and on that she would rely. So, here’s the New Years’ challenge. At some time during each day, make a list of 10 typically-taken-for-granted things for which you should be grateful. Avoid the obvious like “family,” “health,” “a job,” etc. To make it a little more challenging, make it things from the past hour. Here’s my list, created this morning when I woke up: 1. A working thermostat 2. A morning devotional from my daughter-in-law 3. An indoor bathroom 4. A cup of coffee and a chocolate chip cookie (no comments necessary) 5. A quiet lake 6. A husband who wakes up and makes me laugh 7. A text from a friend celebrating her weight loss 8. A car that starts 9. Janice Allen organizing Pickleball 10. Buck Run

Let’s take it one step further. The next time you find yourself complaining, look for a blessing instead. For example, while shoveling snow, thank God that you have arms and legs, since many don’t. Thank Him that you have eyes to see the path of your shovel, and thank Him that you have a home with a sidewalk. Thank Him for a warm coat and snow boots and hot cocoa waiting for you inside when your job is finished. And thank Him for you being alive to thank Him. In the meantime, I am giving Him thanks for you readers who (most of the time) encourage me to keep writing. To God be all the glory for giving me this opportunity. May 2020 be filled with an art gallery of blessings for us all!

People regularly ask me how I have so many crazy experiences. I tell them that God wants me to give others an appreciation for their “normal” lives. Other times, I bring it upon myself. One thing is for sure: Those who know me well are used to “unusual” things happening when I’m around. Today, our fourth day in Israel, would be no different.

My two sons, Jeff and Andy, and Andy’s wife Kristen and I were finding Tel Aviv to be mega-expensive. A lunch of sandwiches ran around $100, and breakfast was more than that. Ash trays were found on all restaurant tables, as smokers appeared to be the norm. Fortunately, almost everyone we met spoke some English, and street signs typically were marked in three languages: Hebrew, Greek and English. Our GPS was scattered, and most times the four of us received different signals as to how to navigate the roads. We would pick one and hope for the best. Sometimes, that worked in our favor. Sometimes, not.

Tour guides had suggested we visit Hafai which boasted of exquisite gardens, temples and beaches. Only an hour’s drive away, we would find Bahá’í Gardens, 19 geometric terraces around a shrine located near Mount Carmel, the site where Elijah confronted the false prophets of Baal, and one we wanted to see. Without researching further, we left Tel Aviv around noon, headed towards the Old Testament site. I was excited. As one who had stood against false prophets and Jezebel, brought fire from Heaven and was taken to Heaven alive, Elijah is one of my favorite Old Testament characters.

At the garden entrance, signs warned us that this was a holy place. No gum-chewing, cell phones or loud voices were allowed out of reverence for this place. A dress code was strictly enforced, and since my daughter-in-law Kristin’s shorts did not cover her knees, we were denied entrance. Not to worry. Andy, her husband and my son, had swim trunks in the car. The fact that he is an XL and she is a size-four would not dissuade us from entering. Kristen’s flowery, poofy swim trunks, rolled several times over at the waist, seemed to satisfy the guard.

We hustled towards the temple, expecting to see signs informing us about Elijah’s experience. Once there, we were told the sacred temple was closed. No reason given. We could come back another time when it would reopen.

On our way out of the gate, I asked the attendant to explain what we had just seen. That’s when she shared that we were on holy ground in reverence to the Bahá’í faith. (And that had to do with Elijah…how?) Well, it didn’t. It had to do with a “oneness” religion in which we are all created alike in love. How we had managed to make a day out of this was anyone’s guess! All I knew was that we certainly were not involved in anything that had to do with Christianity or God’s prophet.

So much for listening to the guide who convinced this was a “must see.”

Tomorrow, however, we told each other, we would visit sites related to Jesus and no one else. We just did not anticipate the dangers ahead in making that happen.

Four of us boarded our Tel Aviv tour bus, heading for Jerusalem. We were grateful to be here, considering the airport interrogation my sons Jeff and Andy, Andy’s wife Kristen, and I received when we left Miami, Florida, heading to Israel. We had anticipated a memorable—probably tearful– Christian experience as we would navigate the country where Jesus had spent much of his life.

To say it was memorable is an understatement.

The Miami El Al Airline agent began the questioning before we even checked our bags. “How do you know each other?” “Where did you sleep last night?” “While you were asleep, did anyone have access to your luggage?” “Has anyone been near your computer in the past few days?” “Why do you all live in different states?” “When was the last time you slept in your parents’ house?” “How many bedrooms were in that house?”

And that was just the beginning. Since Andy is coaching for the K.C. Royals and moves frequently, his answer to how many flights he had taken over the past few months raised eyebrows. Two senior agents were called in to further interrogate Andy and Kristen about their lifestyle, especially since they live in different states part of the time.

Obviously, not just anyone is allowed into Israel.

After convincing the panel of interrogators we were not a threat, we were allowed on board. Even Kristin, apprehensive (to put it mildly) about a trip to another country, later shared that the 12-hour flight had been an unexpected pleasure.

Jeff had arranged to rent a car, and at the AVIS booth in Tel Aviv, he was told that the actual price was five times the original quote because four of us would not fit into the size car he had rented. I chose not to take that personally. That, plus the hidden costs, caused the price increase. As we lugged our suitcases, backpacks, etc. to the pick-up zone, we were excited to see the sleek cars available. Unfortunately, those were not ours. Ours was in a different area. Ours was the size of a golf cart–a mini golf cart. Our laughter was uncontrollable as we crammed our possessions into whatever cavity we could find—including the dashboard, under our feet, behind our necks and in our laps.

Arriving at our rented condominium, we were pleasantly surprised at our spectacular view. Overlooking the Mediterranean Sea, we could see hundreds of bikers, runners and walkers filling the trails along the beach. Israel was alive and inviting. Tomorrow we would bus it to Jerusalem and walk the Via Dolorosa. Let the tears begin!

Which is where this story starts. We awoke early to board our tour bus, but as we did, a siren sounded, an alarm similar to the ones I heard in drills as a child when we were given instructions on what to do if an atomic bomb headed our way. Everyone was removed from the tour busses parked by ours, and we were ushered to a stone wall nearby. Explosions were heard at a distance. Our tour guide explained that those sirens had not sounded for four years, and it probably had “something to do” with the fact that Israel had killed a Palestinian Jihad militant and his wife in Gaza the night before.

Or it has something to do with the fact that I am in Israel, I told myself.

When the sirens stopped, we boarded our bus, our nerves a little edgy. (Being bombed has a way of doing that, you know). Shortly after leaving Tel Aviv, our guide explained that apparently Gaza had retaliated with air strikes, but because Israel is protected with an “Iron Dome,” the Gaza missiles had been shot down. Supposedly the Dome is 90% effective. Still, there’s that little 10% element that would keep us on our toes.

What can I say? We wanted a memorable experience, and we were getting one.

Not surprisingly, it would not be our last.

Over 40 years ago, Jack, a friend of Dave and mine, decided to get his doctorate in divinity and enrolled in a renowned D-1 university. Part of his interview process was to read and critique a book explaining the book of Mark that was written by one of the divinity professors. Jack would be given 30 minutes in which to present his oral criticisms to the renowned scholar.

The book was no easy read. Each chapter had at least 140 footnotes, and the end explanation was that nothing happened after the two women encountered an angel at the tomb where Jesus had been buried. The interviewer based that on Mark 16:8:  Trembling and bewildered, the women went out and fled from the tomb. They said nothing to anyone, because they were afraid.

For a little background, most of today’s Bibles include another 11 verses in Mark which add that Jesus then talked with several people before he was raised into Heaven, but footnotes explain that these verses were not in the original manuscripts and were added later. The professor’s book stopped at 16:8.

At this point in Jack’s story, I interrupted to counter with the obvious: No matter where Mark ended his writing, Matthew, Luke and John all addressed Jesus’ resurrection and appearance to others. We need to look at the entirety of scripture and not just selected sections. Jack assured me he had used that same critique (which was dismissed because each book, according to the professor, should stand on its own). Jack presented several other arguments to which the professor stated that Jack could have gotten those positions from one of several journals and that none of them were original. He wanted something unique.

Our friend came up with a brilliant defense. The women obviously did talk and share their story or else no one would know that “they said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid.” How could Mark have come up with that if the women hadn’t told someone that’s what happened? (Like I said, brilliant.)

Refusing to be outdone, the professor responded, “Yes, but how do we know they were real people?”

WHAT??????

That’s right. The accomplished, theological master-mind in the Divinity department was an atheist. To him, the Bible was a myth. Jack about fell out of his chair.

It wasn’t until later that Jack came across a quote from atheist-turned-Christian C.S. Lewis’ that might have stymied the professor: “Supposing there was no intelligence behind the universe, no creative mind. In that case, nobody designed my brain for the purpose of thinking. It is merely that when the atoms inside my skull happen, for physical or chemical reasons, to arrange themselves in a certain way, this gives me, as a by-product, the sensation I call thought. But, if so, how can I trust my own thinking to be true? It’s like upsetting a milk jug and hoping that the way it splashes itself will give you a map of London. But if I can’t trust my own thinking, of course I can’t trust the arguments leading to Atheism, and therefore have no reason to be an Atheist, or anything else. Unless I believe in God, I cannot believe in thought: so I can never use thought to disbelieve in God.”

What would the prof have said against that? (Probably that C.S. Lewis wasn’t a real person.)

In case you are wondering, Jack was accepted into the School of Divinity but chose to pastor a church instead. Another brilliant move, if you ask me.

As part of our Florida church’s “Hope for Freedom” team, I am in training to be part of the speaker’s group that warns middle and high schoolers of the dangers of human trafficking. This past weekend, our group joined with the A21 anti-trafficking organization to hold a silent, single-file walk in support of the millions of men, women, and children who are trapped in slavery today.

Over 600 carried signs to bring attention to what is going on in our communities, and even though Florida ranks 3^rd amongst states in which trafficking occurs, our Midwest towns are not immune. Hand-held signs explained the urgency: “Only 1% of trafficked individuals are ever rescued.” “Human trafficking generates an estimated $150.2 billion-dollars annually.” “There are millions enslaved in the world today.”

Hope for Freedom has been a huge blessing for me. Krysten, the head of our team, works tirelessly to fight this ongoing battle, no matter what size the venue. Last month we spoke at two sessions (one for boys aged 10-17 and one for girls age 10-16) for a Christian organization called “I Am Royal.” My job as a “newbie” was to pass out material and listen to our speakers reinforce the powerpoint and answer questions. I was thrilled to do that much.

“I Am Royal” is run by mothers who are determined to save at-risk youth. The event culminated in a celebratory, semi-formal gala to which Hope for Freedom was invited. Renee—a veteran of our group—was the only one who could attend, and since they needed someone to take Renee’s picture accepting our group’s certificate, they reached out to me.

The participants, dressed in frills and bowties (furnished by the group leaders), walked the royal blue carpet to receive their certificates and crowns for completing the class. There were speakers, singers, dancers and presenters, all there to encourage the participants to stand apart, know who they are in Jesus Christ and live for him.

That evening I learned that Terra Kennedy, a woman who saw a need to help boys and girls lead a violence-free life, started “I Am Who I Am,” an organization with this motto: “Violence and Abuse is Never Your Fault.” “I Am Royal” is only one of the groups with whom she has partnered to inspire youth to make good decisions.

Kennedy, like Krysten, is passionate about making a difference…one person at a time. They know that none of us can tackle all of abuse’s horrors, but we can do…something. They have inspired me to question what would happen if we all were the “somebody” who started to do “something” “somewhere.”

Could we co-op to take a meal to those who protect our community or help fund-raise for benefits to serve those in need? Could we volunteer as a reader to pre-schoolers, plant a tree, paint a public trash can or pick up litter? How about driving a cancer patient to his/her treatment, clean up a river bed or meet a neighbor? Or at a deeper level, what if we asked God to show us where we can be used…and then do what He lays on our hearts?

One person at a time.