The day after my granddaughter Amanda’s wedding in Las Vegas, Dave and Nikki, her parents, worked a charity golf tournament for Quinton Robbins, the twenty-year-old family friend who had been murdered in the Las Vegas concert massacre last year. Since his death, Quinton’s parents have determined to keep his memory alive. His friends have done likewise.

On the side of the large hill in Henderson, Nevada, Basic High School classmates painted a gigantic “Q” beside the “B” that, for years, has served as a source of pride for the students. Should you visit that area, it will not be uncommon to see Quinton’s logo– a Q, antlers, a fishing hook and #3 for his sports jerseys’ number–on the rear window of several vehicles.

Joe and Tracey, Quinton’s parents, started a “Random Act of Kindness” tribute in their son’s name by creating 3” x 2” cards to be shared. (See insert above.) The cards went viral. People at dry cleaners, movie theaters, gas stations and restaurants would “Play It Forward” (“Play,” not “Pay” because of their son’s love of sports) and leave Quinton’s card for individuals behind them. They, in turn, would post on Facebook how they had been blessed.

At one In-N-Out, a restaurant where Amanda worked, twenty-eight cars in a row participated! Can you imagine what fun the attendant had, sharing with each car at the drive-through what number they were? “Sir, you are the 11^th in line to keep this going.” “Ma’am, you are the 19^th to play forward.” “Folks, you have just put an end to 28 people blessing others. Not cool!” (Okay, that didn’t happen, but I bet it crossed the employee’s mind.)

We all had a big laugh when Dave, our son-in-law, shared his experience about paying for the lone woman in the car behind him at a drive-through. After all, what could one person possibly cost? Thirty-seven dollars, to be exact. Either she was really hungry, or she was carrying out for her entire family. Whatever the reason, Dave said from that point on, he would put a cap on his contribution.

In spite of the Robbins’ desire to bless, the pain of Quinton’s death continues. At Amanda’s wedding, everyone understood when Tracey and Joe left during the groom’s dance with his mother. Still, they press on, creating scholarships in their son’s name. They are a testimony to the truth of Romans 8:28: And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.

When adversity strikes, we long for our tears to evaporate, our disappointments to fade, our suffering to vanish. None of that can happen without God’s provision to meet those needs.

Joe and Tracey refuse to let their son’s death stifle their commitment to be used by God. They respond to their personal grief by knowing the day will come when, thanks to Jesus, they will be reunited with Quinton in Heaven. After all, who paid it forward more than our Savior?

I am inspired to follow the Robbins’ lead and continue their Play It Forward memorial. Perhaps you will be inspired to do the same.

At weddings, my dress purse contains three things: lipstick, a nail file and Kleenex—lots and lots of Kleenex. This past weekend, I was in good company. By the time the celebration was over, there weren’t many dry eyes left.

This past Friday, I witnessed a sacred marriage union in which Tyler and my granddaughter, Amanda, committed themselves to God first, and each other, second. From the time they met fifteen months ago until this past Friday, they determined to keep their relationship pure. Their first kiss came at their engagement, and their next, after their wedding vows. Was it hard? According to them, crazy hard!

I pray you readers have had an opportunity to witness such a marriage. Perhaps it was your own. If so, you surely appreciated a sense of reverence and knew that you were a spectator to something extraordinary. Honoring God above all else has a way of causing that to happen.

Tyler and Amanda have many common interests. She works in the children’s ministry at church, and he is headed to seminary in North Carolina in the fall. They both ride dirt bikes, golf, line-dance and two-step, adore children and pray together daily.

At the rehearsal, the pastor brought everyone together to instruct us that this wedding would be God-centered and those in attendance would be encouraged to follow in the bride’s and groom’s footsteps and ask Jesus into their hearts. This would be no foo-foo message.

On the wedding day, the four sets of grandparents met at the church 30 minutes before the ceremony started; we were greeted by a scene that silenced our small-talk-ramblings: With heads bowed, the groom and his eight groomsmen huddled in prayer. During the ceremony, the pastor held true to his rehearsal instructions. The entire service was about God being foundational to a great marriage.

The rehearsal was no different. Toasts from the bridesmaids and groomsmen all confirmed what every guest knew: This couple had remained pure and couldn’t wait to spend their lives together honoring Jesus. Even their fun, crazy friends—most of them, actually–recognized something special in this couple. Three of Amanda’s maids-of-honor had known her since pre-school days. Together they had played softball and volleyball, ridden motorcycles, wakeboarded and taken years of dance lessons. Her friends had celebrated when—and yes, I will brag here just a little– she was voted Prom Queen her senior year, the most coveted honor at her high school, but most importantly, that she had grown in her love of the Lord and her desire to honor Him.

The groomsmen had similar stories about Tyler, and following their toasts, his mother spoke. Ever since her youngest son was born, she shared, not a day had gone by that she had not prayed for God to bring a strong Christian woman into his life. She fought tears while sharing that Amanda far surpassed anything she could have chosen.

By then, I had used (or shared) the entire box of Kleenex I had stuffed into my purse. I was not the only one grateful for table napkins.

Like I said, honoring God above all else has a way of causing that to happen.

Next time, I will bring a satchel.

God has made a resurgence on television. I first noticed it on one of my favorite singing competitions, American Idol, where this season several contestants shared that their singing roots were in church. Home videos were proof. Many were vocal about their faith and gave God the glory for their abilities. I prayed for them to be the last ones standing.

When Kyla Jade sang the Christian song “How Great Thou Art,” only a few notes into the melody, the live audience erupted in applause. Their standing ovation seemed endless. No one booed or stormed out in protest when God was being celebrated. I had proud goosebumps.

As the contestants were eliminated, five were left. Alone in the green room before their performances, they were free to do whatever they wanted. When they came onto the stage, Ryan Seacrest, the show’s host, questioned how they had spent their time. More spontaneous applause followed their answer: “We were praying.” And so was I, praying that their futures may continue to be testimonies to their love of God.

American Idol was not the only show where faith was expressed. This year’s shortened competition on Dancing With the Stars showed off the talents of athletes. One of them, Jennie Finch, was a softball pitcher (whom I have admired for years). She and her dance partner, Keo Motsepe, had learned the difficult choreography, but a few days before the show’s airing, Finch was convicted the song’s lyrics were not ones she wanted her children to hear. In her words, “I want to glorify God out there, and that just wasn’t a great choice for me to do that.” Motsepe was forced to choose another song and re-choreograph the dance. One of the judges commended Finch for sticking to her convictions. I needed pom poms.

And how about Britain’s royal wedding between Prince Harry and Meghan Markel where God and Jesus and the Holy Spirit were mentioned several times! (Yes, I set my alarm for the opening television coverage.) My prayers were that everyone who watched would be touched by the sacredness of the occasion and want to know more about this holy Trinity.

The same day, when the news stations turned to the live footage following the tragic, Santa Fe, Texas, school shooting, five community leaders spoke. All acknowledged that prayer was the answer. Thank you, Jesus.

More recently we were given first-row television seats to Rosanne Barr’s firing from ABC following the disparaging remarks she Tweeted about Valerie Jarrett (a beautiful woman, in my opinion). The public scorn was fast and furious but ultimately brought Barr to her knees where she Tweeted about her Jewish faith, asking God to help use this “bad experience” to move her to a place where she can help the hopeless.

“These [are] the four steps in repentance: admitting you were wrong, making restitution, asking forgiveness from those u have hurt & at last, cracking open your heart in deep sorrow and remorse, where tears flow.” For Barr, even those comments produced no standing ovations. No one reminded the naysayers we all are sinners and fall short of God’s glory. The skeptics were out in droves, questioning where this faith has been during Barr’s long, public career and praising ABC for acting swiftly. And although I must admit her apology elicited no proud goosebumps for me (perhaps a little judgmental?), of all the television personalities whose faith has been exposed, I think Roseanne Barr needs our prayers the most.

Conduct yourselves with wisdom toward outsiders, making the most of the opportunity. (Col. 4:5)

We met in the exercise room. “I’ll only be in here two minutes,” she said as a way of introduction. Two became twenty, during which time I learned the following:

• She is divorced from an abusive man who pays her only $600 a month in alimony. Her attorneys took most of her life savings.
• She has fibromyalgia and has battled Lyme’s disease for 20 years.
• She has been in three car accidents.
• Her siblings all say she is a hypochondriac.
• Some of the doctors she has seen have been really mean, especially her urologist.
• The house she put a bid on won’t be ready for three weeks, all of her possessions are in five storage bins, and that’s what led her to stay in the same 2-Star motel as I am. (Read last week’s article.) She is not happy here for several reasons.

• Feral cats live by the dumpster and someone feeds them.
• Geese, which are a protected species but should not be, leave their feces everywhere around the motel.
• Her room is filthy and filled with cockroaches. (I have seen only one.)
• The people above her have children who bounce off the bed.
• Last night she was awakened by a woman screaming. It was “really hard” to go back to sleep.

• Her previous apartment had mold.

• Her Labrador/best friend returned neurotic from a week at dog obedience school, refusing to mind and jumping on people. Not what she expected for $1500.00, and since there is so much geese/feral cat feces and people-litter around this motel, she has difficulty finding a place to get him some exercise.
• She has gained twelve pounds, has a muffin-top, and her hair is falling out.

Twice I interjected some thoughts, like how I probably would have alerted the desk about the screaming and surely there are some dog parks nearby. She ignored the first suggestion and spent five minutes explaining how, in her condition, it is difficult to navigate the dog park.

From that point on, I vowed to keep my thoughts to myself.

Then, looking at her watch, she said she had to scoot because she had a fibro-myalgia massage scheduled but maybe I could go out with her this weekend to a fun bar or movie.

“Rats!” I answered insincerely. “In two days my husband and I will be relocating to the other side of Jacksonville.” She seemed disappointed and said she hoped we could get together sometime.

Lord, please, NOOOOOOOOOOOO! I said to myself.

As a Christian, I know God wastes no opportunities. Pastor Andy Stanley once wrote, “We don’t need to pray for more miracles, we just need to be more sensitive to the opportunities that God brings our way.” Do I believe God had a reason for Ms. Chatterbox and me meeting? Yes. Maybe to tell her Jesus is the answer or maybe just to be a listening ear or maybe to hear someone complain non-stop so I know what I sometimes sound like to God. No doubt to pray for her.

In actuality, I did all of the above…well, except for telling her Jesus is the answer. For that one, as I had vowed, I kept my thoughts to myself.

And with that opportunity, I failed her the greatest.

Helicopter parents, as I wrote last week, refuse to let their kiddies suffer consequences. These folks are the first ones in the principal’s/coach’s/ dance instructor’s office when their child complains about unfair treatment.

Not my mom.

No matter how many times in grade school I whined about how mean my teacher, Sister Deloris Marie, was to me, my mother never changed her tune: “Well, Patty, you must have done something to irritate poor Sister.”

“Yea, like breathe,” I reminded her and then added dramatically, “But when I come home dead someday, you will know who is responsible.” And then I went outside to play kick-the-can. In my mother’s eyes, I was guilty until proven innocent and had Sister Deloris Marie notified my mother of me misbehaving, there would have been double-trouble at home.

Then the unexpected happened. A classmate’s mother came to our house to share that her daughter was bothered by how Sister treated me. It was a Hallelujah moment. My typically non-interfering mother, now forced to resolve the issue, set up a visit with Sister Deloris Marie, expecting, I’m sure, to hear she had a grave sinner for a daughter. I feared that intervention, knowing that had I done even one teensy thing wrong, my kick-the-can days would be over. Things must have gone well because neither my mother nor Sister tortured me after that conversation.

Unlike Mom, some parents turn a deaf ear to complaints of their kiddos’ bad behavior. One of the most bothersome Biblical stories about ignoring the children’s sin involves the high priest and judge, Eli, and his two scoundrel sons and fellow priests, Hophni and Phinehas. In 1 Samuel we read the dastardly duo stole money from the offering and slept with women who served outside the sanctuary.

Eli confronted his boys. “What’s going on here? Why are you doing these things? I hear story after story of your corrupt and evil carrying on. Oh, my sons, this is not right! These are terrible reports I’m getting, stories spreading right and left among God’s people!”

At this point, I expect to read that Eli responded the way my mom would have, had she been alive in 1100 B.C. You know, like take away his sons’ camels for a week or force them to repay the treasury by sheering a few extra sheep or demote them from temple priests to keepers of the doves. Nope.

He does nothing.

So, God does. His message—“Judgment is coming because you refused to discipline your sons”– cannot be misinterpreted. Who of us wouldn’t be on our knees begging God for a second chance to do the right thing and discipline our children? Not Eli. His comment? “He is God. Let him do whatever he thinks best.”

Get a donkey prod for this guy! These are his heirs, his flesh and blood, and he doesn’t have the gumption to beg God for mercy! What is wrong with this man? This is no slap-on-the-wrist correction. God even directs a prophet to tell Eli that his sons both will die on the same day. Read 1 Samuel 4:10-18. The father dies a few hours after his sons. It is a discipline that never needed to happen, had Eli parented like his kids mattered…

which, of course, makes me appreciate a mother who cared enough never to let me get away with anything. Thankfully, she saved God a lot of time making His point.

“Why is it that we try and keep from our kids the very thing that made us successful, our failures.” (anonymous)

You obsess over your child’s homework. And his diet, as if a hotdog for breakfast will doom him to a life of obesity. You interfere in childish skirmishes and insist your little angel is right, even if six witnesses disagree. You expect at least three phone calls a day when Princess enters adulthood. And every time Bubba loses a job or a wife, the Welcome Home banner is draped across the threshold of his childhood home where his clean bedsheets await.

Helicopter parents, hovering to micro-manage, please stop!

Many of this generation are babied, protected and entitled because the only location good enough for them is Easy Street. My plea to you is simple: Let your children struggle. Stop masking your kids’ mistakes by refusing to allow them to suffer consequences for their behavior. In my day (yes, when dinosaurs roamed the earth), parents believed their role was to grow independent children. Taking a few knocks was part of that process. No more.

Drake, my grandson, holds the local high school record for being penalized during his basketball practices this year.

Failure to bring tennis shoes? Run a few sets of stairs.

Being late? More stair laps.

Forgetting tennis shoes AGAIN? Add more laps.

Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

When it became apparent Drake had mastered the stairs but failed to elicit the desired rehabilitation, he was assigned the towel drill. Placing his hands on a towel on the floor, he ran from one side of the gym to the other in that bent position. In fact, he performed that drill so many times, when baseball season rolled around, he was the best-conditioned player on the team.

His parents laughed with each escapade. It never crossed their minds to complain or to rush to school with that forgotten pair of tennis shoes to cover for their child or to ask for a private meeting with Coach Young. Yea, them.

Recently, Fort Scott celebrated when eight wounded veterans caravanned through town. School children were given an opportunity to be dismissed from class so they could wave flags and cheer for the soldiers. They, like many of the rest of us, came together and showed our appreciation for those who fought to give us the freedoms we all share.

One mother felt differently. She was livid that her young child had to stand in the rain waiting for the caravan to arrive and drove to the site where his classmates were waiting, insisting he get in the car while she berated the adults who were there with the other kids.

Really? REALLY? I wonder if it dawned on her that those soldiers probably spent more than a little time in the rain, protecting our homeland. What message did she give her child about honoring the real heroes of our nation? (Not to mention, for goodness sakes, when we were little, we played in the rain.)

In the book Weird, author Craig Groeschel reminds us that our greatest priority as parents is to gradually transfer our children’s dependence away from us until it rests solely on God. To raise boys and girls who do not idolize their dads and moms; instead, they honor the only One who truly knows what is best for their lives…which probably includes not a few lessons about consequences.

Helicopter parents, please let God be God. Land that runaway plane of interference, turn off your blades of privilege and let your children’s failures be their lessons. Before it’s too late.

I asked God to stop the rain, to allow a rainless window of only an hour so people would attend the parade for the Combat Veterans. I texted prayer warriors. And every half-hour, I checked the radar. 100% chance of rain. Not to worry—meteorologists have been known to make mistakes. Besides, God’s decrees overrule anything weather forecasters predict.

Right?

Right.

Only this time, God didn’t intervene. As the Fort Scott police and sheriff’s officers lined up at the airport, no one complained about getting wet, and when the soldiers exited the plane, one of the officers told all of the staff to remove their hats—the hats that would somewhat protect them from the rain– in honor of those they were meeting. So, they stood there, hats over hearts, they, our own local heroes, saying thank you to their fellow protectors.

Leaving the airport before the caravan, I drove through town, praying harder for the rain to let up, and if that didn’t happen, that people would forego the bad weather and support the troops. I couldn’t help but tear up, seeing our American flag draping between two firetrucks on 10^th and National. Friends congregating nearby with a huge, homemade banner. Houses sporting the Red, White, and Blue. Community College students lining the median on Highway 69. School children waiting in the rain with flags and posters. (Thank you, Mr. Beckham, school administrators and teachers for making this happen.) Civil War reenactors sitting atop their horses while carrying American flags and saluting these national champions. And then there was the mother of a veteran, waving pom-poms, alone at the end of Wall Street, jumping and cheering.

Small town caring at its best.

Still, God did not stop the rain.

The day after the parade, I spoke with Jenn, my daughter-in-law who, along with Adam, her husband, worked tirelessly to organize this event. When I asked her what the soldiers’ favorite part of the day had been, she did not hesitate. They all agreed. “That people would stand in the rain for us.”

Get that?

It was the rain that blew them away (thankfully, not literally).

At that moment, it dawned on me. Who wouldn’t eagerly leave school or their job or organize a yard get-together on a sunny day for such an occasion? But our citizens refused to let bad weather prevent them from saying thank you for the enormous sacrifices these men made for us.

God did not stop the rain. No doubt because Isaiah 55:8-9 is true. For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways, declares the Lord. As the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts.

I need to remember that.

Rain or shine.

Eighty-three-year-old Howard, a tennis partner of Dave and mine in Mexico, commented about Carolyn, a Canadian friend who also winters in Mazatlan. Carolyn had been ailing for several months and had lost so much weight, she offered me all of her “big-sized clothes” because she no longer could wear them.

(Good friends do that, you know.)

Both men and I were discussing Carolyn’s weight loss. Howard said she looked feeble. It was an opening I could not resist.

“Howard, do you think I’m feeble?”

He took no time to respond. “I think you’re a tank.”

The cannonball had been shot. It was too late to reload.

I responded, as together as my personality would allow. “A tank? I’M A TANK?”

Backpedaling out of this potential war zone, Howard attempted to take a different aim. “A tank, in a good sense. Like a formidable force, an arsenal to be reckoned with.”

It was a nice save, I’ll admit, even if it was too desperate and too late.

For Howard, that is. It was the perfect time for Dave to defend me.

And he would have, I’m sure, had he been able to stop laughing.

Howard would live to regret that remark. Everyone who knows Howard—who, not coincidentally, headed the lab that worked on the first nuclear bomb and frequently uses military metaphors– soon learned of his verbal faux pas, which, of course, I couldn’t wait to share. His size-two wife was mortified, and our other friends at first were shocked by his directness. Then it became funny, the word spread and tank jokes became the norm.

To everyone’s—except Howard’s delight, I must add.

Was I offended? Absolutely not. I know Howard. I know his intent. As a military man, he honestly thought he was paying me a compliment.

And no, my head is not stuck in a turret. I am well aware that there are others whose “tank” comment would be anything but funny. The truth is, we are all concerned about Carolyn’s weight loss (which, I must admit, I have found.) Add to that the fact that when I play the net in tennis and the men try to break my nose with their shot, I say “Bring it on!” instead of acting wimpy. Howard knows I am tough, a trait I wear like a badge of honor.

No one likes to be around thin-skinned people who don’t take laughter seriously. In medieval times, those who viewed themselves with such self-importance that they acted with extreme seriousness were labeled “accidy,” which just “happens” to be one of the seven deadly sins. People like the Pharisees were viewed in this light. They poked fun at nothing, especially themselves. B-O-R-I-N-G!

I am the opposite. I laugh at myself. As a Christian, I must, if I am to obey God and love my neighbors. In 1 Corinthians 13:5, we learn that “loving” means we are not to be easily provoked or stirred to anger. When the fuse of offense is lit, I must check the intent and ask God to guard my heart and help my reaction.

I have watched marriages dissolve and friendships implode because one (or both) of the parties are hyper-sensitive. Innocent comments offend those who are so preoccupied with “self” that they fail to understand that we all are sinners, we all make mistakes, we all say things without thinking them through.

Please don’t misunderstand me. This column is not about comments intended to wound or destroy. This is about not taking ourselves so seriously. There is a huge difference, much like a tank to a pistol. To make it clear…Howard’s a pistol.

I’m a tank.