Every day, thousands of people cross the border between the United States and Mexico with no problema. Passports are checked, a few questions are asked, and sometimes the driver is told to open his/her trunk. Within minutes, cars are leaving one country and entering another.

My husband Dave and I understood the protocol.

Sort of. Entering Mexico for an extended stay, drivers register their vehicle at the border, pay $600 for a windshield sticker and drive south, where they then may legally drive in Mexico. When they leave Mexico for the final time, they turn in the sticker for a refund. Easy enough.

Unless their names are Dave and Patty.

First, some background. This past summer while in the U.S., we sold the stickered mini-van. Dave removed the sticker so we could turn it in, register a different vehicle and enter Mexico. Once in the Customs’ office, we waited 30 minutes in the car registration line before explaining to the young gal what we were doing. She made no attempt to understand my Spanish. Or my Charades. Fortunately, a bi-lingual man came forward to interpret. The news wasn’t all that bad. We needed to drive around to the other side of Customs to a small guard shack where we would turn in our sticker.

Which is what we did. Which is where that guard said we needed the sticker AND the mini-van (something about the VIN number). Dave explained that we sold it. “You have to have it to re-register.” “But we sold it.” “You have to have it to re-register.” “But we sold it.” The agent sent us back to Customs. We now found ourselves in the miles-long, bottle-neck of Thanksgiving traffic heading into the U.S. We could see ahead to the cross-road we needed—the empty cross-road—but had at least an hour’s wait to get to it.

My typically-patient husband’s next question shocked me. “What do you think would happen if I drove over the grassy field to get back to where we started?” I told him the guards with the assault rifles would probably blow out our tires. Or our brains.

No problema. Putting the car into gear, Dave took off across the field. We were Bonnie and Clyde, had they lived another forty years. Fortunately, the guards were tending to more important things, like emptying out pick-up beds looking for illegal Americans. Or perhaps they were simply amused at two old fogeys bouncing along the moguled terrain.

Back at the car registration window, we waited in line, found someone who spoke English, and asked him to interpret to the cranky young gal. She didn’t care. No mini-van? No car registration. It finally was determined that we could register this car in my name but Dave could never, ever register a vehicle in his name until he presented the mini-van at the border. Ever!

I think this is a problema.

Sometimes there are systems in place with which we might not agree. Telling the Customs’ agents that we are really nice guys, listing our works in ministry, even showing gifts we are taking to the orphans would do no good. The protocol is in place, whether we like it or not. We should have figured out ahead of time what those rules are because now it’s too late.

Isn’t that the same with our eternal lives? The Bible makes it clear there is a protocol for getting into Heaven, and it has nothing to do with being really good guys or doing missionary work. It’s black and white and has no loopholes, no matter what I might think, no matter how much I might protest or try to explain why I didn’t spend some time on earth figuring this out.

In John 14:6-7a, Jesus explains this to his disciple Thomas. I am the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me. If you really know me, you will know my Father as well. There will be a time when it will be too late. And that, as we all know, is a problema none of us want to face. Thanks to God and His mercy, getting into Heaven is a lot easier than getting into Mexico.

My dear friend Frank responded to my Thanksgiving article in which I listed several things for which I am thankful. “Don’t forget good weather…and bad weather.” Simple message with a poignant prompt. I need to be thankful for everything because God many times uses the bad more powerfully than He does the good.

Then, this morning, my husband’s daily Baseball Chapel devotional, submitted by Arnie Knecht, titled “Thanksliving,” reminded me that this holiday wasn’t about a day of thanks; it was about a life of thanks. In Knecht’s words, “Thanksgiving is good. Thanksliving is better.” It is a lifestyle involving how we respond, knowing God “has saved us from a hopeless end and given us an endless hope.”

No matter what He uses to get us there.

Twelve of us were to share a Thanksgiving meal this year. We all are condominium owners in the same complex here in Mazatlan, Mexico, and over the years have become close friends. Deb and Jim offered their unit, and Deb led the charge in organizing things—including writing hysterical minutes when the women met to discuss the details. After all, it mattered whose oven had two shelves and whose had one, who owned a gravy boat and whose stuffing recipe was best. Jim purchased an additional table, and both were set a day ahead with linen cloths, fine china and crystal. Since Dave and I were the last two to arrive and were driving, we were given a list of grocery items the girls could not find in Mazatlan. Captain Deb was prepared for everything.

Except an emergency trip to the E.R. Thanksgiving morning. Deb had awakened her doctor-husband with severe abdominal pain. Because she was recovering from a recent car accident, Jim was concerned it was related. As they left for the hospital, we five wives met in Deb’s condo to create a Plan B for our late afternoon dinner.

Mary asked me to lead us in prayer for Deb and Jim. It was a precious moment of calming reassurance that we were sharing a special experience and gave us the teamwork attitude we needed. Sharon shifted recipe responsibilities as we assumed the duties originally assigned to Deb. Joyce offered her condo for the dinner, but Deb’s would still be the gathering place for much of the food preparation. Their units were ten floors apart but in the same wing, so the elevator became our best friend.

The men transported the second table, the extra chairs and all the place settings to Joyce’s condo, and we were in culinary business. What one couldn’t do, the other could. Sharon rolled out the pie crusts; Carolyn perfected the fluting before making a quick trip to the herb garden to pick fresh rosemary for the turkey. Three worked to skewer the turkey skin over the stuffing while another video’d the surgery. (Three chiefs, no Indians.) In between our assignment at Deb’s, we all returned to our own units to prepare our assigned dishes and then regrouped at Deb’s to make sure everything was covered. We spent the day laughing, cleaning up each other’s spills, comparing recipes and communing in sweet Thanksliving.

Deb’s trip to the hospital was not on our agenda, and when she returned home later that day, we all agreed that God had given us a treasured Thanksgiving memory. Had Deb not become ill, we all would have spent the day in our own condos preparing our dishes, our husbands would have watched football, and later we would have joined together for our meal.

Two days before Thanksgiving, Jim had asked my husband to say the prayer before our meal. Dave’s words were full of thanks, especially that Deb and Jim were home, and that God had done more than we ever expected.

He’s good at that, you know.

“Good weather…bad weather.” Thanksliving at its finest.

Psalm 9:1– I will give thanks to you, LORD, with all my heart; I will tell of all your wonderful deeds. On this Thanksgiving weekend, I thought it would be fun to list some of the things for which I am thankful. In no particular order, here they are:

 My husband, Dave. He loves me when I’m pretty unlovable.

 Veterans, police officers and fire fighters—the true heroes in our nation

 A home with 12 steps from my bed to the coffee pot

 Wearing white after Labor Day

 Time spent in my Bible

 Transparent friends who share their hearts and aren’t afraid to admit they mess up

 Butterflies, turtles and blue herons

 Salt

 Phone calls, not texts, from my kids (Feel free to forward this to my children.)

 Lumber yard employees who know what I want when I don’t

 Watching my grandkids play sports (or doing anything, for that matter)

 Indoor plants that survive my gangrene thumb

 Mascara

 My Monday morning Bible study group

 Mail delivery and trash collection

 Pickleball and the friends I’ve made because of it

 When a recipe turns out like the photo-shopped picture (I’m imagining here.)

 Yoga

 Extended warranties

 Mosquito zappers

 Smiles from people I don’t know (Thank you, Walmart greeters!)

 Stilwell lake neighbors

 Highway bumps that wake you up when you are leaving the road (Trust me, I know.)

 Lays’ Kettle Potato Chips—seriously the best!

 Indoor toilets

 Elastic waists

 Shared recipes (Thank you, Jara Martin and Julie Readinger.)

 Warm socks

 Laughter—the kind that takes your breath away and makes you snort

 Dancing to oldies’ music

 Inspirational movies (Hidden Figures is a must.)

 An oven timer that has saved me countless burned concoctions

 Horses—any kind, any size, any age

 Mazatlan, Mexico, and the friends we have made

 My Kindle

 Pizza delivery

 Game nights

 You, my readers

 And most importantly, Jesus Christ.

“I don’t mean to interrupt people. I just randomly remember things and get really excited.” I saw that plaque in a diner and knew exactly what it meant. If I don’t share my thoughts immediately, they will be gone…immediately. Still, I force myself to refrain because it’s downright rude to interrupt. I mean, how many times have you been telling a story when someone one-ups you or changes the subject and takes over the conversation? Without ever asking you to finish yours? I-R-R-I-T-A-T-I-N-G!

A newly-purchased sign, hanging in my step-daughter’s kitchen, counters that quote. “Oh, I’m sorry. Did the middle of my sentence interrupt the beginning of yours?” Nikki purchased it, hoping a relative gets the point.

And no, I am not that relative.

I’m really not.

On the day of the eclipse, I was at my friend Marti’s house. She was watching her granddaughter, Isabel, and was explaining the solar phenomenon to her. As Marti and I talked, Isabel exploded with random thoughts. Each time, Marti gently told her granddaughter that the adults were visiting and she needed to wait her turn. Isabel tried to be patient, and then she did what every well-mannered child does when she can wait no longer—she raised her hand and waved it frantically. Her behavior was delightful.

Many adults could learn from her example.

Of course, we all know that all interrupting is not bad. Some news should not wait, like telling me my chicken enchiladas are on fire or the neighbor’s dog is chewing on my patio furniture. In reality, life is all about interruptions, isn’t it? Henry Nouwen, a Roman Catholic priest and theologian, wrote, “My whole life I have been complaining that my work was constantly interrupted, until I discovered my interruptions were my work.” I get it. Most of my articles are based on something happening I wasn’t expecting.

Our life’s narrative is constantly being rewritten because of interruptions. In the past year, several of my friends have found that to be true. Cancer. A hurricane. An unexpected pregnancy. Divorce. Bankruptcy. Addiction. Mental illness. Death.

The Bible is jam-packed with interruptions. A young girl’s life was interrupted to be told that she would bring the Messiah into the world. Jesus was constantly interrupted by evil spirits or arrogant religious teachers, moments that gave him an opportunity to remind his listeners of grace. Judas interrupted Jesus’ celebration of the Passover with his disciples and again with his prayer time in the Garden, all leading up to the incredible sadness after Jesus’ death being interrupted by the life-changing news that his grave was empty.

And for those whose lives are based on that resurrection, there remains one final interruption for which we must be prepared. We find it in Thessalonians 1:16-17: For the Lord himself shall descend from heaven with a shout, with the voice of the archangel, and with the trump of God, and the dead in Christ shall rise first. Then we which are alive and remain shall be caught up together with them in the clouds, to meet the Lord in the air and so shall we ever be with the Lord.

It’s an interruption we can’t afford to miss.

I see you…I see you, professional football player, as you kneel down during the playing of the National Anthem…I see you, with your arm raised in protest…I see you thinking you are doing something to unite people over social and racial injustice. I see you…

But, more than that, here is what I really see…

I see a man pushing the wheels of his wheelchair as he returns home from a foreign land unable to function as he once did, due to fighting to protect you as you kneel on the ground.

I see a young widow, dressed carefully in black, mourning the remains of her husband, hugging a coffin on the tarmac of an airport. I see that same woman clutching a perfectly folded flag to her bosom as taps is played at his graveside. I see her young son, tears streaming down his face, knowing his father would never come home again.

I see graveyards full of tombstones, here and overseas, with names of those fallen, with dates showing a much-too-early death. I see so many, from so many different wars and conflicts, crosses and stones. They are too numerous to count.

I see the sacrifices made, the hearts broken, the tears shed, the shattered lives all in the name of freedom… all in the name of that red, white and blue piece of cloth that you choose to protest.

Social and racial injustice? You who make millions of American dollars for playing a game in a country where you have more opportunity to make a better life for you and your family than anywhere in the world? Really? The hypocrisy of it astounds me.

First of all, if you really want to protest, give your money and time to make changes. Give to those less fortunate than you. Help those people get an education, buy them food and shelter. Show them opportunities to make better decisions. Teach them that they have a purpose in life. If you really want to protest injustices…

Protest the treatment of veterans, who have to wait extremely long periods of time for healthcare, who are living under interstate bridges in boxes, who are committing suicide. Today over twenty of them will take their lives out of hopelessness and despair.

Protest the people whose goal in life is to make sure an unborn baby doesn’t see the light of day. There will be around 3,500 of them today. There is no greater injustice than that.

Protest the loss of religious rights as some atheist complained so much that public prayer by a group of young players on an athletic field is not allowed.

When I see that flag, when I hear that song, when I sing those words, I give homage to those who died for this land, who continue to protect this land, who don’t know if and when they will ever see their loved ones again. Some say that they died for your freedom so that you can take a knee. I say they died for your freedom so you can stand proudly and be thankful that God has blessed you enough that you can live in a country of so much opportunity.

Go ahead…Go ahead and kneel…Go ahead and be ungrateful.

I am watching…as are millions and millions of others.

We don’t see a protest of unity… we see a protest of disgraceful ignorance.

Source: Anonymous

Occasionally I receive an email that makes me laugh out loud. That was my reaction when I read the following:

Two 90-year-old women, Rose and Barb had been friends all of their lives.

When it was clear that Rose was dying, Barb visited her every day.

One day, Barb said, “Rose, we both loved playing women’s softball all our lives, and we played all through high school. Please do me one favor: When you get to Heaven, somehow you must let me know if there’s women’s softball there.”  

Rose looked up at Barb from her deathbed and said, “Barb, you’ve been my best friend for many years. If it’s at all possible, I’ll do this favor for you.”

 Shortly after that, Rose passed on.

 A few nights later, Barb was awakened from a sound sleep by a blinding flash of white light and a voice calling out to her, “Barb, Barb.”  

“Who is it?” asked Barb, sitting up suddenly. “Who is it?”  

“Barb – it’s me, Rose.”   

“You’re not Rose. Rose just died.” 

 “I’m telling you, it’s me, Rose,” insisted the voice.  

“Rose! Where are you?”   

“In Heaven,” replied Rose. “I have some really good news and a little bad news.” 

“Tell me the good news first,” said Barb.  

“The good news,” Rose said, “is that there’s softball in Heaven. Better yet, all of our old buddies who died before us are here, too. Better than that, we’re all young again. Better still, it’s always springtime, and it never rains or snows. And best of all, we can play softball all we want, and we never get tired.”  

“That’s fantastic,” said Barb. “It’s beyond my wildest dreams! So what’s the bad news?”

 “You’re pitching Tuesday.”

You’re at least smiling, right? Maybe even chuckling. How can you not? Still, the message is sobering. What if you and I substitute our names for Barb’s? What if we were told that we had less than a week to live? If you’re like me, all my time would be spent on relationships, hugging longer and more intentionally, making phone calls that should have been made months (years?) ago, having deeper, spiritual conversations with those close to me, asking forgiveness of those I’ve wounded.

Last week, I attended the funeral of Tim Bloomfield. Tim woke up Tuesday morning, having no idea it would be his last. He and his wife Sheryl were going to run errands. He called his brother, ended the conversation with “Later,” and hung up.

But there was no “later.” And the same will be true for all of us. Every second could be our “latest,” bringing us closer to eternity. We must prepare, and no, I’m not talking about getting our arm in shape for the Heavenly softball match. I’m talking about what Jesus referred to as “the greatest commandment:” Love God above all else, and love your neighbor as yourself.”

And that, Readers, is no chuckling matter.

Being wronged is never easy, no matter how menial the offense, because the chance to demonstrate our faith is always on the line. “I’m right, and you’re not” lurks like a caged animal desperate to escape. Because of my trust in Google Maps, I was in that cage last week.

Dave and I chose a four-star, Chinese restaurant—obviously so-ranked by starving reviewers– that, although eight miles out of the way, promised a grand buffet worth the drive. Clue one this wasn’t a popular restaurant was the lone car in the parking lot which, as it turned out, belonged to the hwc (hostess/waitress/cook). Multi-tasking at its finest. The menu wasn’t extensive—there was no buffet—but it had several chicken dishes, so I asked which ones had white meat. Simple question.

In her thick, Chinese accent, our hwc mentioned three, with General Tso being one. To avoid any language barrier, I spoke slowly. “General-Tso-is-white-meat?” She assured me it was. “Not-pressed- chicken-but- real-white-meat?” Yes, it was. Dave gave me his look which let me know I’d gone too far. In his opinion, we should not be fussy in a restaurant. Even if he asks for a hamburger well done and it arrives mooing and swatting flies, he won’t complain. If I, on the other hand, ask to speak to the management, he skedaddles for the bathroom.

While our entrees were being prepared, our hwc refilled three times the three sips we had drunk from our water glasses, brought Dave chopsticks and repeatedly asked if we would recommend the hot and sour soup to our friends. She was desperate and I felt sorry for her. I said I would.

But I won’t.

When our food arrived, Dave’s shrimp fried rice looked scrumptious. My “chicken” was a crusty shell encasing a pea-size portion of dark meat. DARK—white’s opposite. I munched on the two broccoli pieces and the rice, and because we were the only customers and our hwc was trying so hard, I opted to say nothing. I know. Shock! Shock! “Let the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be acceptable in your sight, O Lord, my rock and my redeemer.” I’m sure I heard angels applauding. Or perhaps it was Dave.

No, it had to be angels.

When our check was presented and my chicken leftovers removed from the table, I was flabbergasted by what came next from our hwc: “Why you order General Tso since you say you like white meat? Next time you come, you need order white meat.” Let the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be acceptable in your sight, O Lord, my rock and my redeemer.

While I decided if what my heart was meditating on should stay there or be uncaged, Dave hastily pulled out his wallet, paid the bill and reminded me that we were in a hurry. (We weren’t.) I knew I had a choice. I could be honest and help this poor lady not make the same mistake in the future with someone less loving, or I could make Dave happy and remain silent. I opted to please my husband. After all, it was a long ride home. Too, when it came down to it, it could have been worse.

At least my chicken wasn’t mooing and swatting flies.

Isaiah 43:18 (NIV): “Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past.”

I’m not sure there is better—or more difficult—advice.

If your mind is like mine, it chooses to cleave to the past like contact paper to fingers, even though by dwelling on the injustices done to us, we will miss out on what God has for us now. That’s because our brains cannot dwell on two things at once. We are incapable of reliving our past and our present at the same time. Get that? Incapable.

My mind has a tendency to love history, and no, not the “Name the presidents in order” kind of history. The history to which I’m referring is that which happens when Dave and I disagree. It can be something as simple as him telling me that it’s frustrating to wake up to dirty dishes in the sink. I now have a choice: I can make a mental note to never go to bed without cleaning up, or I can thank him for sharing with me what he is feeling and promise to never, ever, ever do that again.

OR…

I can tell Dave that (a.) dirty dishes have no eternal repercussions, (b.) since there’s nothing wrong with his hands, he is perfectly capable of taking care of the dishes if they bother him so much, or (c.) he has a critical spirit that needs addressing because this is not the first time he has found fault with something I have done. And then I will replay whatever has happened over the past, say 43 years, that I have found irritating. (When it comes to remembering these details, I have a photographic memory.)

You can guess how well this all works out. I just have the hardest time remembering that my past is not my destiny.

Unless, that is, I choose to live there.

Paul’s letter to the Philippians gives a better suggestion. Forgetting the past and looking forward to what lies ahead, I press on to reach the end of the race and receive the heavenly prize for which God, through Christ Jesus, is calling us. (3:13b-14 NLT)

The challenge of the past is not to see the mistakes of others. It is to train me to remember my mistakes so I can work towards becoming the kind of person God wants me to be. Where I was once selfish, I now can be tender-hearted and other-oriented. Where I was once angry, I now can be loving and kind. Where I was once lackluster about my sin, I now can be pained by how I have pained God.

The truth is this: my heart will not change if I cling to my past. I am to deal with it honestly and then displace it. An old Peanuts cartoon has Lucy standing in the outfield of Charlie Brown’s baseball diamond. As a fly ball sails toward her, she remembers all the other times she’s dropped the ball. And she drops this one, too. Lucy calls out to Charlie Brown, who’s standing on the pitcher’s mound: “I almost had it, but then my past got in my eyes!”

And I assure you, Readers, if we want to “receive the heavenly prize,” that is a ball we cannot afford to drop.

Thank you to all who took time to text, email, Facebook or stop me in person after reading my story of Quinton Robbins who died in the Las Vegas massacre. Quinton’s life had an incredible impact on those who knew him, and the outpouring of love brought tremendous comfort to his family and friends.

Every evening following the shooting, Quinton’s friends hung out at the Robbins’ house to share memories of how he had made them laugh, how he guilted them into paying for boat gas, even though he never gave that money to his dad (who actually filled the boat tank) and how he defended anyone being talked about behind their back.

One evening friends showed up with popcorn and an orange drink concoction because those were two of Quinton’s favorite snacks. My granddaughter, Britney, and her good friend from college purchased a wooden picture of deer antlers, signed it “Forever In Our Hearts” and had all of their friends autograph it—no messages, just names. Thirty of the closest friends organized a paper lantern send-off following the high school football team’s halftime tribute to Quinton. Nikki, my step-daughter, daily took food. One special gift was a huge basket filled with every possible snack, dips, gift cards to restaurants, and loads of Kleenex.

The theme of last week’s article was “This is a fallen world and bad things happen.” My friend texted me with a different perspective.

Was Quinton saved? Did he know Jesus as his personal Savior?

I read between her lines.

Had any of our relatives (or me) ever shared the truth of the gospel, even though it ran contrary to his family’s denominational beliefs? How did we impact Quentin’s life story?

My friend’s exact words were as follows: “Gun control may have its place, but Son control does not. Isn’t it time we stop trying to control Him and let Him be who He really is—Lord and Savior?”

She is right.

If you have time, please Google “Where Is God in the Midst of Tragedy? by Hope Church in Las Vegas,” a church which had several members impacted by the shooting. My grandson texted me after last Sunday’s service to tell me how he was touched by the sermon, so I listened on line to Pastor Vance’s message about the evil in this world. He concluded by saying that the cross of Jesus Christ is the greatest act of sin and injustice the world has ever witnessed…God clothed himself in humanity and we nailed Him on the cross.

“Yet God, in his sovereignty, has taken that moment of evil and has demonstrated love like no one has ever witnessed. In this life we may never have answers to this Las Vegas tragedy. But when we see God, we will see it differently.”

None of us are guaranteed enough breath even for today. If we know our friends’ passions for food and drink but not where they stand with Jesus, what becomes the end of their story?

And just as importantly, what becomes of ours?

Dave and I are in Las Vegas this week. Yesterday we took a break from helping Dave’s daughter Nikki care for her husband, Dave, who had major knee surgery. We went property-hunting and met with a realtor who spent several minutes assuring us of the safety in this area. “Casino owners will not tolerate ANYTHING that will cause tourists not to come here. They run the show. They run the government. You can’t find a safer place to live.”

Comforting thought.

Only he was wrong.

The phone call came in the middle of the night. Quentin, our grandson Logan’s best friend and one we have known since the boys were little, was killed by a crazed lunatic who opened fire during the final song of a Country Western concert held on the strip here in Vegas. Quentin and his girlfriend were dancing near the front of the stage when the “popping” started. When the singer, Jason Aldean, ran for his bus as bullets sprayed the stage, Quentin pushed his girlfriend to the floor and lay on top of her. During the 15-second break in gunshots, Quentin got to his knees to seek a way of escape. It was then that a bullet entered through his shoulder and exited near his hip. He was dead within minutes.

Quentin wasn’t supposed to be there. His girlfriend and her roommate had tickets, but when her roommate decided not to go, Quentin was offered the ticket. As a huge fan of Jason Aldean, he was thrilled. His story is one of many to be shared over the next several days as 60+ families will be organizing funerals for loved ones who, just a few minutes before being shot, were having the time of their lives. Questions will be relentless:

What turns someone into a monster capable of killing so many innocent people?

How can one person get ahold of so many assault weapons?

Do we blame the guns or blame the shooter?

Are we safe to go anywhere in public?

And the elephant in the room…Why?

Nikki’s family went over to Quentin’s home this morning. A tearful Nikki asked what she could take or say to help comfort his family. I told her what I tell everyone: Hug them. Cry with them. Pray for them.

Today Logan and I had a sweet conversation about Quentin. He was a high school JV basketball coach and avid golfer who was attending UNLV to become a dentist while working full time for the recreation department. He was the quarterback for his adult flag football team and played slow pitch softball once a week. He was quiet and unassuming and a great guy.

So much to offer…so, why?

Because, doggone it, this is a fallen, broken world (and yes, I hate that that is the answer). Death was not part of God’s original design. Life was meant to lead to life until eternity. Instead, it is a curse set in motion when Adam and Eve sinned. Death makes us hunger for things to be better; it makes us long to live in a place where true restoration happens and the last enemy—death—has been defeated.

The great Protestant reformer Martin Luther lost a son. His wife Katie shouted at him, “Where was God when our son died? Martin replied, “The same place He was when His Son died. He was there watching and weeping.”

Just like He was last Sunday night.

“Too many Christians live spiritually irrelevant lives.” Surely the article wasn’t talking about me. Surely it was talking about people who just stand on the Kingdom sideline, waiting for someone to come along and invigorate their love for Christ. Surely it was referring to those who remain in the same rut, year after year, as their journey to holiness remains stagnant. Surely it was addressing believers who have no quiet time with the Lord, who own no prayer journal, who only occasionally read the Bible.

Surely.

But then the article went on to question if Jesus is as much a part of our everyday talk as our latest golf game or the Chiefs’ game-winning interception or our granddaughter’s solo in the choir contest. Do we faithfully intercede for those who seek our prayers? Do we do anything other than maybe tithe our 10 percent and call it good? Do we seek to share the gospel every day?

Joining the sideline crowd here.

Every day? E-V- E-R-Y day? How about once a month? That wouldn’t be bad. Twelve people a year would hear what a difference Christ makes in my life. And those twelve would tell another twelve and…how awesome would that be?

The problem is, I can’t make even that claim. How different would Heaven look if we all lived a “spiritually relevant life”! What if we started today?

What if we just started?

Edward Kimball started with the thankless job of teaching young boys in his Sunday School class. More times than not he wanted to quit, but when one young man seemed confused about the gospel, Kimball went to the shoe store where he was stocking shelves and confronted the teenager in the stock room. That young man was Dwight L. Moody.

Kimball recalled being nervous… “putting my hand on his shoulder, I made what I felt afterwards was a very weak plea for Christ. I don’t know just what words I used, nor could Mr. Moody tell. I simply told him of Christ’s love for him, and the love Christ wanted in return. That was all there was. It seemed the young man was just ready for the light that then broke upon him, and there in the back of that store in Boston, D. L. Moody gave himself and his life to Christ.”

Through Moody’s ministry, thousands came to Christ. One of those was Wilbur Chapman who became an evangelist. It was he who preached to Billy Sunday, a professional baseball player who gave up his career to join Chapman’s team and later himself became an evangelist. A scholarly, dignified gentleman named Mordecai Ham was converted at one of Chapman’s meetings and began his own evangelistic team. So “spiritually relevant” was he that he rented a hearse and paraded it through the streets advertising his get-togethers.

Ham traveled to Charlotte, N.C., where teens decided to disrupt one of his meetings when they heard he had spoken of them skipping lunch to visit a house of prostitution near their school. Billy Frank, a classmate, decided to go only to watch the disturbance. Intrigued by Ham’s message, Frank returned another night and was converted. Billy Frank eventually became known as Billy Graham, the evangelist who preached to more people than any other person who ever lived, including the Apostle Paul.

It started in a shoe store. It ended with a world-wide explosion.

As for “spiritually relevant lives,” I think theirs was a slam-dunk.

Surely it’s our turn to give it a try.

The teary-eyed, African-American woman turned from the fast-food counter in San Bernardino, Calif., her takeout bag in hand and young son standing by her side. “I have never, ever felt so disrespected in my entire life,” she said to me. I looked around.

Good grief! I thought. What have I done this time?

“I’m sorry,” I responded, not a little embarrassed. “Is there a problem?”

She explained—loudly—that she had handed the cashier a $20 bill at which point the young gal held the money above her head, examining it carefully before announcing it “clean.”

“I watched the other three cashiers take $20 bills, and none of them checked the bills. It was an absolute disrespect to my color. This is 2016. I’m married to a white man, an attorney, and I’m going to call him right now and file a complaint. My son has read about this type of prejudice, but he’s never seen it. I feel so disrespected.”

“Do you think there’s any chance this is just a coincidence?” I asked.

“No,” she said, looking at me like I had just crawled out of a dumpster. “It’s obvious she thinks that because I’m black I’m using counterfeit money. I’m going outside to call my husband.” I turned to Dave, my husband, who was pretending not to hear our conversation. “She’s really ticked,” I told him.

“I didn’t notice,” he said, staring at the menu board.

Typical.

Dave and I were driving to California last year when we (correction: when I) observed this woman’s wrath. I suggested we wait in our car for her husband to arrive, just in case I was needed as a witness to a crime. Dave started the engine and skedaddled out of the parking lot.

I don’t know if the customer had a legitimate complaint, but let’s assume she did. Let’s assume the gal behind the counter was prejudice against blacks. Let’s assume none of us would have behaved like that. After all, as Christians, we love everyone…right? We can’t possibly have a prejudiced bone in our judgmental little bodies, now can we?

The Bible spends several chapters addressing personal prejudices, especially the ones between the Gentiles and the Jews. Even Peter was guilty—until the Lord forced him to face his bigotry when He orchestrated events to bring together Peter and Cornelius, who, from childhood, had been taught to disrespect (despise) each other. To Peter, Cornelius was a leader in the hated Roman/Gentile military whose job it was to oppress the Jews, and to Cornelius, Peter was from the opposite side of the camel tracks, a low-life Jew.

Until God got involved.

He did the unpredictable. God put in motion two events: He sent an angel to Cornelius who instructed him to send his soldiers for Peter; and He gave Peter three visions making it clear the Jews now could eat “unclean” Gentile food (a big No-No in Mosaic Law). Things were imploding on both fronts.

The end of this story is probably more optimistic than the San Bernardino one. At Cornelius’ home, Peter preached the “Good News” to Cornelius, his family and friends, and they committed their lives to Jesus and were baptized. Peter’s words (written in Acts 1:34-35) summarize the event. “I now realize how true it is that God does not show favoritism but accepts from every nation the one who fears him and does what is right.”

The result? We Gentiles (non-Jews) are fellow partakers of the promise in Jesus Christ, all because two men were willing to do things God’s way and not their own. I would guess the San Bernardino outcome might have been drastically different had both women chosen to do the same.