Charlie Brown was upset his dirty friend Pig-pen received the same party invitation he did and told him so. “Good grief! You didn’t even change clothes! You’re not going to Violet’s birthday party looking like that?!!”

Pig-pen looked down at himself and asked, “What’s wrong?”

Charlie Brown threw his hands in the air and said, “What’s wrong?! You’re a mess, that’s what’s wrong!! They won’t even let you in the house, Pig-pen! They’ll bar you at the door!”

Pig-pen said, “Oh, I don’t think so…¨

Charlie Brown raised his voice: “Of course, they will! You won’t be welcome at all! Your appearance will be insulting.”

Before Charlie Brown could finish his words, the door swung opened and there stood

Violet. “Well! Pig-pen! Come on in! How nice to see you! How nice of you to come.”

From behind his back Pig-pen brought out a gift and presented it to Violet who gushed, “Oh, thank you! You shouldn’t have!”

As Violet held the door open, Pig-pen turned around, closed his eyes, thumbed his nose at Charlie Brown and declared, “The present was clean!”

Seeing past unloveliness is not easy, except, of course, when we want others to see past our unloveliness. The Bible gives us the biography of a tax collector named Levi. You might know him as Matthew, as in the “Matthew, Mark, Luke and John” quartet. Few were as hated as tax collectors. After all, they were the ones who bid on districts to own the rights to tax the people as they saw fit. The government expected “X” amount each year, and any “profit” went to the collector. Many were corrupt, but more importantly, the Jews despised them because they were collecting taxes for the Romans, the chief oppressors to Israel. Tax collectors were therefore considered as traitors and sinners, no different than prostitutes, gamblers and thieves.

Along comes Jesus. He, like Violet, sees not the dirt. He sees the present, the someone who matters, the someone who needs to know him, and he encourages Levi with two words: “Follow me.” Not as easy as it sounds. Levi probably makes a good living. To walk away from his secure job means someone else will pounce on his position, and chances are he never will get it back. And for what? To follow a man who noticed him.

Hidden in these scriptures are some real nuggets. Levi immediately throws a party (my kind of guy!) and invites his friends to meet Jesus. Matthew and Mark record that the guests at his banquet were other tax collectors and sinners. Rejects hanging with rejects. Levi wants them to meet the one he has chosen to follow. His attitude is not one of haughtiness; it is of compassion, just as Violet’s was…just as ours should be. But is it? Like Levi, “Come meet the one I’ve met” should be our first priority.

But there’s another nugget here. Jesus came to the party! To a banquet filled with imperfect sinners. Get that? Jesus chooses to hang with the riff-raff. He doesn’t first sit down with Levi and lecture him on the spiritual laws of salvation. Levi doesn’t have to meet Jesus’ standards as a first-step towards their friendship. Jesus accepts him and his friends as they are, in spite of how they appear to others. Jesus sees past the unloveliness.

The people just like Pig-pen.

The people just like Charlie Brown.

The people just like you and me.

Talking to your grandchildren has to be one of the sweetest blessings on earth. This conversation? Not so much. My text to Logan, my college-student grandson, began with this: “Hi Logan. I’ve been thinking about you. How are things going?”

Within a few seconds, he responded: “Who tf is this?”

“Tf”? “TF”? Perhaps it was a typo. Yes, that’s it, and an embarrassing one at that. Cell phones are known to do that. An apology would be forthcoming. “Mammy,” I answered.

Within seconds I received his answer: “Whay T”

Perhaps his fingers were off by one key. I checked. They would have to be off by an entire keyboard for this to make sense. Maybe a friend had his phone. But why would he pick friends like this? My mind splattered into worry-overload. There was only one explanation. He’s on drugs. Oh, dear Lord!!! This sweet, Christian boy/man had succumbed to the temptation of the Colorado (i.e., marijuana is legal) state and was stupiding his brain cells.

I texted, “What???” and immediately received his answer: “Whats (sic) your name?”

He was too stoned to recognize his own grandmother. I needed a Xanax.

“Okay. Is this Logan Green?” my fingers groaned.

Answer: “no its not who tf is this this is logan Haughton.” (sic)

“Lord, have mercy,” I said aloud. I read this not a few times, and, having no clue who “logan Haughton” is, answered: “I am Logan Green’s grandmother. So sorry I bothered you. Obviously this is a wrong number because my grandson would never use tf.” Then, re-reading my critical, self-righteous remark, added, “God bless you.”

His answer was a shocker: “Its ok I was confused for a sec God bless you to.” (sic)

This conversation was not over. Now it was my turn. “You have made me curious. I have no idea how your number ended up in my phone book, but I appreciate your blessing. Do you normally answer with a “tf” response?”

“No,” he texted, “im (sic) a son of god! I was just really scared kida (sic) just because I didn’t know who was texting me”

“So you’re a Christian?”

“Yes.”

Now it was this grandmother’s turn to share some of her ageless wisdom. “Oh, I am so glad to hear that. Please know that everything you say and write needs to be a reflection of your love for the One who paid a great price for your (and my) sins. Never forget that.”

Logan’s reply? “Ok thank u for sharing that”…to which I responded, “I will pray for you, Logan Haughton, for the rest of your life.”

Our texts ended with Logan writing, “Thank you soo much.”

Once I made the correction in my contact list, I had a sweet text conversation with my real grandson, Logan Green.

He has no idea how close I came to jumping on a plane to Colorado to smack him upside his head.

“Don’t touch each other. Don’t even think of touching each other.”

We had just pulled out of the church parking lot and these were threatening words to my sons, Jeff and Adam, ages 4 and 3 years respectively, who were engaged in a finger battle in the back seat of the car. They creepy-crawled their fingers to an imaginary line separating them. And then they attacked. What started with fingers ended up in a slug fest.

I pulled the car over to the side of the freeway, got out of my seat and walked around the car to the side where Adam was sitting. Reaching across Adam, I drew an imaginary line between the two boys. It came with a warning: “Do NOT even think about crossing this line. If you do, you will be spanked.”

Returning to my driver’s seat, I put on my blinker and pulled onto the California freeway, tilting my rearview mirror and craning my neck to see what would happen next.

Jeff started. His index and middle finger wormed their way to the “middle line.” Adam did the same from his side. My sons were within one-quarter inch of each other, a standoff of fingers, ready to strike.

And then it happened. Jeff crossed the “line” and attacked Adam’s fingers, twisting them into a knot. Adam wailed.

I pulled off the freeway, unbuckled Jeff’s seat belt and spanked him. Today I would be facing jail time. The point is, once the words were out of my mouth, I needed to follow through. If not, all future threats from me would become no more than pointless ramblings. It was one of the few things in parenting I tried to do God’s way. Ecclesiastes 5:5 warns us: “It is better to say nothing than to make a promise and not keep it.”

Our government recently saw the devastating consequences of meaningless words.

In 2013 Bashar Al-Assad, President of Syria, used chemical warfare against his citizens. He had been warned that “crossing that red line by using chemical warfare would bring about catastrophic consequences.” The difference between the warning Jeff and Adam received and

Assad’s warning was that I meant it. President Obama did not.

A few weeks ago, Syria’s dictator dared us again. To him, our “red line” was an idle threat. But this time, it wasn’t. After Assad used chemical weapons on innocent children, President Trump ordered an attack on two of the Syrian chemical airfield locations.

I know that what I did on that California freeway pales in comparison to what President Trump did, but empty words are epidemic in this generation. How many times do we hear parents threaten—even using the “1-2- 3” countdown—and then do nothing? Friends share the juicy news they promised they wouldn’t. Commitments to volunteer at church are cancelled for an invitation to golf or a shopping spree.

Too many times, promises aren’t followed and threats are hollow. Matthew 5:37 gives us Jesus’ perspective on such words: “Simply let your ‘Yes’ be ‘Yes,’ and your ‘No,’ ‘No’; anything beyond this comes from the evil one.” There are no pinky promises, no crossing our fingers, no I swears, no “Just kidding” and no crossing over on the line on the seat.

You say it? You mean it.

End of discussion.

In our tennis match this morning, my husband and I were partners against two other men. Right after I hit the ball into the net, Dave made a suggestion.

“Patty, follow through.”

“Okay.”

Five shots later, this time into the fence: “Patty, you still aren’t following through.”

“Okay.”

“Did you know that most power comes from your follow through? Watch baseball players hit. Their bat doesn’t stop when it hits the ball.”

“Well, maybe when the tennis ball hits my racquet, that’s enough force to stop my swing. Have you ever thought of that?”

“Patty, that’s not true.”

Ignoring the fact that I’m married to Roger Federer, I answered: “Maybe in my world, it is. Maybe I’m just too delicate to hit with power… you know, too fragile.”

And since there isn’t a delicate or fragile bone in my body, we both crack up.

Still, Dave is right. I don’t follow through.

But neither does he.

(I can’t help it.) Oh, maybe in tennis he does. But there are more important things than sports. (Did I just say that?)

Dave makes lists, scads of them, believing that just writing the words is somehow fundamental to the task’s completion.

• Buy muriatic acid to get the rust off the tile.
• Buy Gorilla Glue to fix the rip in the couch.
• Buy duct tape. For something…anything. You can’t have enough.
• Think of other things needed to fix other things.

Most of us have at least one area in which we don’t follow through, don’t you agree? Get on that treadmill…now turn it on. Resist second-helpings on that molten lava cake. Apologize for poisoning the neighbor’s dog. Send that thank you letter. (Yes, letter, not email or text.) Allow only ten minutes per day on Facebook. Call Mom. (Feel free to forward this last one to my children.)

The list is endless, I know, but there’s still an area where our follow through is much more critical. Author Lisa Morrone wrote about it. “In our spiritual lives our follow through—or lack thereof—can markedly impact the power with which we live and the course of direction our lives take.” Paul said it best. Acts 20:24 ESV But I do not account my life of any value nor as precious to myself, if only I may finish my course and the ministry that I received from the Lord Jesus, to testify to the gospel of the grace of God.

We start our walk with God and then sit down, sidetracked by circumstances or setbacks or laziness, and stop short of completing our spiritual journey. The simplicity of Colossians 2:6 is profound: Repent, seek the Lord for further direction, and keep going. Get that? Keep going. Follow through.

And yes, in case you are questioning, it’s on my list.

Submitted by Patty LaRoche

He is on track to revolutionize their country and become its king, but then he is executed, this man who gave sight to the blind, calmed the storm, taught them to pray and showed them unconditional love. A movement so full of life has come to nothing. Their dreams? Crushed.

Their hopes? Now hopeless.

Still, in their darkest hour, a few hang in there.

Their fearless devotion does not end at his death. When the majority of his disciples duck and run, a handful stay with Jesus through the crucifixion and after. Although the Gospel accounts differ, we can piece together some highlights.

Joseph of Arimathea and Nicodemus team up to remove Jesus’ body from the cross and anoint him with 75 pounds of myrrh and aloe. They wrap his body in a clean linen cloth and carry it to the nearby tomb. “The women who had come with Jesus from Galilee followed Joseph and saw the tomb and how his body was laid in it. Then they went home and prepared spices and perfumes.” Their plan is to return after the Sabbath to complete what Joseph and Nicodemus began. Luke 23:55-56

Jesus’ faithful are determined to bestow on him an extravagant love.

Take Mary Magdalene, for example, the one whom Jesus saved from demon-possession. In her darkest hour, she refuses to desert her teacher. “While it is still dark,” she and a few other women head to the garden tomb where Jesus’ lifeless body lies on a rock slab. It matters not that a stone the size of a Volkswagen covers the opening or that the tomb is heavily guarded by Roman soldiers. Extravagant love moves forward, no matter how dark the circumstances. Finding the stone rolled away, Mary tears off in a sprint, and upon finding Peter and John, says, “They have taken the Lord out of the tomb, and we don’t know where they have put him.”

The disciples lace up their sandals, pull up their tunics and rush to the tomb to see for themselves. Finding it to be true, they disperse, probably to alert the other disciples.

Meanwhile, Mary stays outside the tomb, weeping. Overcome with hopelessness, she looks inside and sees two angels sitting where Jesus’ body had been. They ask why she is crying. “They have taken my Lord away,” she replies, “and I don’t know where they have put him.” She then turns to see a man standing nearby. Supposing him to be the gardener, she says, “Sir, if you have taken him away, tell me where you have put him, and I will go and remove him.”

In her darkest hour, Jesus calls her by name. Recognizing her Lord, she cries out in Hebrew, “Rabboni!”—which means “Master.” It’s not a “Whew!” moment; nor is it a “Well, surprise, surprise!” reply. Mary’s heavy heart has been restored! Jesus tells her to inform the disciples of what has happened. That will wait. She falls at his feet. It is the Lord. He is not dead. He is risen! The extravagant dark has turned to extravagant light.

Hope. Is. Restored.

It’s the same hope offered to us in our darkest hour. Jesus wants to meet us as he did Mary– in moments of our discouragement and grief, so that, like Mary, we will know our Redeemer lives. Know. Not guess, not question, not presume. Unlike Muhammad. Unlike Buddha. Unlike every other religious leader who died and stayed in the ground. With Jesus, there are no grave remains to visit. His grave is empty.

He is the Hope in which you and I can be sure.

As my friend Joyce once said, “If Jesus can die extravagantly for me, surely I can live extravagantly for him.”

No matter how squeamish you are, I recommend you see the movie “Hacksaw Ridge.” Even though the war scenes are graphically gruesome—I closed my eyes—the message to rely on God far exceeds any blood-and-guts cinematography.

If ever someone’s Christian convictions dictated his decisions, it was Desmond Doss’s. In the opening scene, Doss is reading aloud from Isaiah 40:31: But they who wait for the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings like eagles; they shall run and not be weary; they shall walk and not faint. That verse becomes his life refrain.

After joining the army to work as a medic in Okinawa during the bloodiest battle of WWII, Doss relentlessly defends his belief not to shoot a gun, kill the enemy or work on the Sabbath. (Hard to do in war, and especially difficult to convince your army buddies you deserve to serve alongside them.) Doss’s bunkmates despise him. As they practice their sharp-shooting skills, he reads his Bible. In their eyes, they are asked to protect a young, skinny medic who refuses to carry his fair load.

Because of that, Doss is beaten, persecuted and charged with “mental instability.” After arguing for his First Amendment rights—the freedom “to be like Christ: saving life instead of taking it”—he wins his court martial case and is allowed to go into battle.

Only when he is in a foxhole with Smitty, the soldier who led the bunkhouse assault against him, does Doss reveal why he abhors violence: as an adolescent, he had pulled a gun on his alcoholic father who was beating his mother. The foxhole partners soon realize they have many things in common. As a friendship is formed, the Japanese attack.

In the ensuing battle, Smitty is killed. The American soldiers are forced to abandon the area, leaving their wounded behind.

Doss desperately pleads with God. “What do you want of me? I don’t understand! I can’t hear you!” At that moment, Doss hears a cry from a wounded soldier. His answer has come. Doss stands, says “Alright,” straps on his helmet, and as his fellow soldiers retreat, walks back into battle. Alone.

That scene plays out multiple times as Doss begs God to allow him to save “just one more.” Each time, as an injured fighter cries out, Doss belly crawls to follow the voice of the wounded. Exposing himself to heavy gun and mortar fire, he drags severely injured men to the edge of the ridge, ties a rope around their bodies and lowers them to the waiting medics below.

Because of Doss’s bravery and faith in God, he is able, over a twelve-hour period, to save 75 wounded comrades. This courageous action and others earn Doss America’s highest military award, the Medal of Honor, the first ever given to a conscientious objector.

Doss had begged for an audible voice from God; instead, he received his answer amidst the cries of the desperate people around him. So what are we to take from this?

If we want to hear God’s voice, maybe it’s as simple as paying attention. To our neighbors. Our friends. Our families. Our enemies. Just like God called Doss to do the impossible, perhaps he wants the same from us.

The question remains: Are we interested enough to listen?

O LORD, what a variety of things you have made! In wisdom you have made them all. The earth is full of your creatures. Psalm 104:24

A friend sent me an email that addresses the attention God paid to numbers when He created the world. It began with God’s use of the number “7” (meaning “perfection”) in the hatching of eggs:

• The canary in 14 days
• The barnyard hen in 21 days
• The ducks and geese in 28 days
• The mallard in 35 days
• The parrot and the ostrich in 42 days

The email then moved from eggs to legs, comparing the design of the elephant, horse and cow. I read that, to rise from the ground, elephants’ four legs all bend forward, horses use their front legs and cows rely on the strength of their back legs.

I wasn’t too sure how that proved the cleverness of God, especially after I watched a video of an elephant rising—his front ankles, not his knees, bending forward. However, the next part of the email fascinated me. It dealt with the numerical qualities of fruits and vegetables.

• Each Watermelon has an even number of stripes on the rind
• Each Orange has an even number of segments
• Each Ear of Corn has an even number of rows
• Each Stalk of Wheat has an even number of grains
• Every Bunch of Bananas has on its lowest row an even number of bananas, and each row decreases by one.

At that point, I was ready to jump in my car, speed to the local supermarket, fill my cart with whatever of the aforementioned produce I could find and have a counting party. But as I continued reading, two plus two wasn’t adding up to four. “The waves of the sea roll in on shore twenty-six to the minute in all kinds of weather.”

It just so happened that I was reading this email from the beach in Mexico. You know, where the waves roll in. So, I watched. And counted eighteen seconds elapsed between the first and second wave. Then sixteen. Do the math. There’s quite a difference between 26 and 3.5. It was time to research the truth of this email.

Starting with eggs, the extensive list proved that not all egg-hatching is divisible by seven. For example, pigeons take 10-18 days and pheasants, 24 days. Then I checked out the fruit. Some watermelons, for example, have no stripes. As for the orange? Well, unless nine is an even number, this isn’t true, either.

On Google, atheists had a field day with this information. Sadly, Christian enthusiasts, eager to validate intelligence in design, were passing on this fruitless data as if it were Gospel. Sermons were created from it. Facebook fanatics were copying it.

Stop! Stop! I wanted to scream.

God doesn’t need us to make up “facts” to support His cleverness in creation. We are surrounded by his work. Look at animals. Fruits and vegetables. The ocean. Human beings. All demonstrate the brilliance of One with a mind-blowing imagination. No extra addition is necessary. God. Is. Enough.

And that, Readers, is my two cents worth.

Revelation 4:11 reminds us of the attitude we should have towards God’s handiwork.

You are worthy, O Lord our God, to receive glory and honor and power. For you created all things, and they exist because you created what you pleased.

In elementary school, my St. Mary’s classmates and I prepared ahead of time to answer the notorious, pre-Lenten question, “What are you giving up for Lent?” My friends’ answers paled in comparison to mine. “Candy.” “My bicycle.” “Ice cream.” “Bonanza.” Naturally, no one was crazy enough to say “Nothing”… especially when the nuns had us stand beside our desk and share our answers. It was a spiritual opportunity to one-up each other.

Probably because of jealousy, my noble sacrifice never received the acclamations it deserved, even though mine really, truly eclipsed everyone else’s. I would give up, for 57,600 LONG minutes, my absolute favorite snack, a snack I pined for all day long, a snack that could keep me satisfied for an entire evening, a snack upon which I was dependent for happiness—salt on ice cubes. Had my classmates starved for 40 days, their sacrifice wouldn’t have come close to mine. They, unlike me, had no idea what withdrawals were all about.

With a glass full of ice in one hand and the salt shaker in the other, I could sit for hours licking away. And refills, well, they cost me nothing.

I get goosebumps just thinking about it.

The first year I proudly broadcast my answer in class, Sister looked at me like I was a wack-a- doodle, told me this wasn’t a joke and had me sit down. (Seriously! Even I had limits as to how much I would lie. I mean, who’s going to be stupid enough to fib when grace points were involved?) Sister had no idea what discipline it took to pretend to be holy.

For the entire Lenten season, it was all I could do not to sneak an ice cube. It was simple. Remove the ice tray from the freezer. Pull the silver lever to loosen the cubes. Grab a sliver that fell to the linoleum floor. Add a couple of salt granules, and voila, I would be in Heaven.

Figuratively speaking, I mean. Literally, not so much.

After all, violating a sacred Lenten oath was serious stuff. And since I feared Hell for a number of other sins I recurrently committed, adding this biggie just might do me in.

Now that I’m older and have turned my addiction to potato chips instead of ice cubes, I see great merit in this 40-day sacrifice. But maybe there is something more that could be done, like the suggestions I received in an email recommending other ways to fast during Lent.

• Fast from hurting words and say kind words.
• Fast from sadness and be filled with gratitude.
• Fast from anger and be filled with patience.
• Fast from pessimism and be filled with hope.
• Fast from worries and have trust in God.
• Fast from complaints and contemplate simplicity.
• Fast from pressures and be prayerful.
• Fast from bitterness and fill your heart with joy.
• Fast from selfishness and be compassionate with others.
• Fast from grudges and be reconciled.
• Fast from words and be silent so you can listen.

Serious stuff, don’t you think? Of course, this should be a life list, not a 40-day one.

I have to think salted ice cubes or potato chips would be a whole lot easier.

Last week I wrote about the connections God made possible through Debbie Rodriguez, the owner of a beauty salon here in Mazatlan, Mexico. Debbie introduced me to Heather and Andrea, two YWAM (Youth With a Mission) workers who are involved in several local ministries. Before long, connections were made involving people I know who could help the ladies’ outreach.

Little did I know how far back God’s plan extended. One connection had begun two years earlier in Nevada, Mo., with Mike and Betty Morris. The Morris’s had met with me to describe their ministry of using color-patterned soccer balls to share the gospel. They donated several balls for me to bring to Mazatlan. For a year, they stayed in my closet—the balls, not Mike and Betty– because I had no clear direction as to how they should be used. Not surprisingly, God did.

Last December, a former professional soccer player, Andrew, spoke at church, asking for help with his soccer ministry involving some of Mazatlan’s toughest youth. If he could turn them to Jesus, he said, he could turn them away from the drug cartel that was actively pursuing them as delivery boys.

I about tackled him after the service.

Two Saturdays ago, Andrew and I drove to the colonia where he ministered to those kids. His rule is simple: If you want to play soccer, you come to the Bible study first. Twenty boys and girls—ages 8-16, attended. Holding the multi-colored soccer ball, Andrew explained the gospel. Pointing to the black patch, he spoke of sin. The red patch represented the blood of Jesus. The green one was new life. White was how God sees us after we make Jesus the Lord of our lives, and gold is Heaven. He spoke for 30 minutes, but since it was in Spanish, I just stood at his side, nodded, and pretended to understand. (I think “Amen” makes me look bilingual.)

Fifteen minutes into his talk, a flirtatious young girl sashayed onto the concrete slab where we were meeting. No language necessary. Her skimpy dress and heavy make-up caused the young men to almost salivate. Andrew invited her to join the Bible study. Not on her radar. She then was asked to leave, much to the young men’s frustration.

Five minutes later, Mr. Cool Guy arrived. Donning several gold necklaces, GQ clothes and shoes, he was out of place with these shoeless, dirty-clothed adolescents. He jumped on the concrete water bin next to one of the boys. Immediately he had the adulation of everyone there who laughed as he tussled the hair of his seat-mate. Clearly, he loved the attention. Clearly, Andrew did not. Andrew gave him three chances to pay attention and then told him to leave.

Following the Bible study, the “futbol” game began. It was rough. Bare feet and flip-flops blasted the soccer ball as hard as any shoe could, and not infrequently the boys ended up on the concrete. When a fight broke out, Andrew broke it up. My job was to stay out of the way, guard the two extra soccer balls and not break up any fights.

On our way back to town, Andrew and I spoke of his mission. He needed help. Immediately I thought of Heather and Andrea. Once back in my condo, I contacted them to see if they were interested in connecting with Andrew. They were thrilled.

In all honesty, I have done very little throughout this “Connection” journey. I’ve listened. Sent out a few emails. Partnered to watch other’s talents be used. God simply multiplied my meager efforts. Of course, if He can use a soccer ball and a beauty shop, there’s nothing off limits…including me and including you.