Jackie raises her hand and asks if she could say something. I’m the coach of my daughter’s middle school basketball team and this year has been somewhat challenging. It’s the first time most of the girls have experienced “real” competition. Jackie in particular has had trouble adjusting. She has questioned my coaching, cooperated indifferently at practices, and generally displayed the sort of behaviour that should have gotten her kicked off the team.
But I can’t kick her off. We are a fledgling church team with barely enough players to make us competitive. And we are sponsored by the church. My mission is to not only compete but help develop these young people as people. Sometimes at the expense of winning.
This does not come naturally to me and I have to dial down my competitive instincts to enable me to see the bigger picture. Mind you, I am ultimately committed to building a competitive, winning program. I believe such a goal can co-exist with developing character and this is my first year to begin to prove that assumption right…or wrong.
So here we are, a few minutes before a game, and who knows what’s going to come out of Jackie’s mouth. But I’m relaxed; I sense she has something good to say.
“Sure, Jackie, what would you like to say.”
She shuffles from foot to foot and looks around at her teammates. “I just want to say that I know I’ve been hard to get along with and I’m sorry for my bad attitude and I’d like to ask you guys to forgive me.” She doesn’t mumble it as if she had been coached into saying it; she doesn’t rush through it like some unpleasant duty. She just says it: cleanly, sweetly, in measured tones.
I’m stunned. I expected good but not life-changing. There is a pause while we all try to reckon with what we just heard. This kind of confession is hard for anyone, but the internal hurdles a 12-year old girl who feels like an outsider has to overcome to speak this uncoerced confession are daunting.
“Thank you, Jackie,” I say, “thank you very much.” Several girls give her a hug and words of encouragement. I don’t know if we will win this game and frankly I don’t care. This season has already been worth it.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
False Alarm
I was seated in church on a Friday night when Andrea urgently tapped my shoulder and motioned for me to take a phone call that had just come in.
“Hello” I whispered as I made my way out into the lobby.
“Daddy, this is M.” [my oldest daughter] “There are seven fire engines in front of our house and I’m not sure what is happening. The firemen are talking with Jordan and Andrew.” Jordan and Andrew are sons of friends of mine. More on this later.
“Are you OK?” This seemed like a reasonable question in light of seven fire engines at our house.
“Yes, I’m fine, but I just talked with one of the main fire guys and I think we are going to get a big fine or ticket or something. I think you better come home.”
A conclusion I had already come to. “Wait for me. Tell the chief that I am on my way.”
Jordan and Andrew are helping my wife clear away a lot of brush and timber and the remains of an old boathouse that were on the property.
Before I had left for church Jordan had asked me: “Mr. Wallis, would it be OK if we had a bonfire to burn up some of this stuff?”
“No problem,” I said. We’ve had many fires on the property this last year. We’ve burned brush and deadwood, and fairly regularly we have friends over to sit around some cheery logs blazing in a large clearing on the property, toast our friendship and talk long into the night. Although technically open fires are frowned upon in the city limits, our neighborhood is the home to several firemen, policemen, and state troopers, and there has always been a fairly lenient policy toward us residents as long as we keep it under control.
Jordan and Andrew have sat around these fires with us and their families numerous times, so of course it was no big deal for them to have a similar fire, invite some friends, and hang out till late into the night. Or so I thought. As I drove away from our home the vision of the sons of my friends enjoying fireside camaraderie warmed my heart.
When I got home there was only one fire engine remaining and it was in the process of leaving. Jordan and Andrew saw me pull into our driveway and bounded up to me.
“It’s O.K., Mr. Wallis! We talked to the fire chief and no one is getting a ticket or summons or anything!”
“Do I need to talk to him? Is he still here?”
“Nope. We talked to him and everything is O.K.” They were clearly pleased (and relieved) with the way things had turned out. “Do you want to see the fire we built?” They knew their audience. They know me well enough to know that I, too, was quite a knucklehead as a youth and not unfamiliar with getting into trouble.
“Sure,” I said, “Let me see it!”
The warm little cozy campfire I had envisioned turned out to be a teepee of timber some 10 feet tall and 15 feet in diameter. It was blackened now but I saw the picture of it in all its glory on their cell phone camera. The conflagration was at least 25 feet high. No wonder about 10 people called 911 thinking our house was burning down.
“Wow,” I said, “I’m impressed.” I was.
“Yea,” said Jordan, "the firemen stood around while I put it out. They asked me what I used and said it was a pretty good fire.” Turns out the boys had used a lot of wood and three gallons of diesel.
“Well, guys, maybe next time you can just keep it to a campfire.”
“Hello” I whispered as I made my way out into the lobby.
“Daddy, this is M.” [my oldest daughter] “There are seven fire engines in front of our house and I’m not sure what is happening. The firemen are talking with Jordan and Andrew.” Jordan and Andrew are sons of friends of mine. More on this later.
“Are you OK?” This seemed like a reasonable question in light of seven fire engines at our house.
“Yes, I’m fine, but I just talked with one of the main fire guys and I think we are going to get a big fine or ticket or something. I think you better come home.”
A conclusion I had already come to. “Wait for me. Tell the chief that I am on my way.”
Jordan and Andrew are helping my wife clear away a lot of brush and timber and the remains of an old boathouse that were on the property.
Before I had left for church Jordan had asked me: “Mr. Wallis, would it be OK if we had a bonfire to burn up some of this stuff?”
“No problem,” I said. We’ve had many fires on the property this last year. We’ve burned brush and deadwood, and fairly regularly we have friends over to sit around some cheery logs blazing in a large clearing on the property, toast our friendship and talk long into the night. Although technically open fires are frowned upon in the city limits, our neighborhood is the home to several firemen, policemen, and state troopers, and there has always been a fairly lenient policy toward us residents as long as we keep it under control.
Jordan and Andrew have sat around these fires with us and their families numerous times, so of course it was no big deal for them to have a similar fire, invite some friends, and hang out till late into the night. Or so I thought. As I drove away from our home the vision of the sons of my friends enjoying fireside camaraderie warmed my heart.
When I got home there was only one fire engine remaining and it was in the process of leaving. Jordan and Andrew saw me pull into our driveway and bounded up to me.
“It’s O.K., Mr. Wallis! We talked to the fire chief and no one is getting a ticket or summons or anything!”
“Do I need to talk to him? Is he still here?”
“Nope. We talked to him and everything is O.K.” They were clearly pleased (and relieved) with the way things had turned out. “Do you want to see the fire we built?” They knew their audience. They know me well enough to know that I, too, was quite a knucklehead as a youth and not unfamiliar with getting into trouble.
“Sure,” I said, “Let me see it!”
The warm little cozy campfire I had envisioned turned out to be a teepee of timber some 10 feet tall and 15 feet in diameter. It was blackened now but I saw the picture of it in all its glory on their cell phone camera. The conflagration was at least 25 feet high. No wonder about 10 people called 911 thinking our house was burning down.
“Wow,” I said, “I’m impressed.” I was.
“Yea,” said Jordan, "the firemen stood around while I put it out. They asked me what I used and said it was a pretty good fire.” Turns out the boys had used a lot of wood and three gallons of diesel.
“Well, guys, maybe next time you can just keep it to a campfire.”
Glory
My senior year in high school. Our soccer team files off the school travel bus and walks past the opposing team and their fans. I can feel their fear; we are BAD, as the saying would be today. And I am the baddest of the bad—top of my game, all-star forward, walking confidently on to the field where we would eventually win another game.
I shake my head to dispel this reminiscence and focus on the task at hand, which is swimming awkwardly down the “slow” lane at the rec center pool while the 80-year old ladies step sideways to avoid me. I can’t swim in the “medium” or “fast” lanes because I don’t know how to swim very well. I’m still trying to make it a full lap, up and back, using a normal overhead stroke. I sometimes feel like I could drown as I gasp for air and try to push myself to the wall.
I pause at the end of the pool and stretch and snort the chlorine water out of my nose. It doesn’t seem so long ago that my body easily did what I told it to do, but I’m pushing fifty now and it is largely telling me what to do (or most definitely what not to do). This getting up at 5:30a.m. and pushing my reluctant self through the motions of exercise is my quiet rebellion against the tyranny of aching age. It feels good to be able to exercise again without my joints protesting too much. Running regularly had to come to an end; I can’t take the pounding anymore.
But I can swim—at least after a fashion, and I think often of Paul’s admonition to “pummel my body and make it a slave.” There is no obvious glory at the end of this pummeling, as there was in my youth. But then I’m thinking of glory in very different terms than I did in earlier years.
Forty was a warning; a small black cloud on the horizon the size of a man’s hand. Fifty looms a couple of years away and the need to prepare for the inevitable decline can not be avoided. Or maybe it could, but the consequences of avoidance seem surely worse than this present discomfort. The present does not seem glorious, certainly not the concrete gloriousness of athletic achievement, but oddly enough I like this new challenge, even as I realize its ultimate physical futility.
I shake my head to dispel this reminiscence and focus on the task at hand, which is swimming awkwardly down the “slow” lane at the rec center pool while the 80-year old ladies step sideways to avoid me. I can’t swim in the “medium” or “fast” lanes because I don’t know how to swim very well. I’m still trying to make it a full lap, up and back, using a normal overhead stroke. I sometimes feel like I could drown as I gasp for air and try to push myself to the wall.
I pause at the end of the pool and stretch and snort the chlorine water out of my nose. It doesn’t seem so long ago that my body easily did what I told it to do, but I’m pushing fifty now and it is largely telling me what to do (or most definitely what not to do). This getting up at 5:30a.m. and pushing my reluctant self through the motions of exercise is my quiet rebellion against the tyranny of aching age. It feels good to be able to exercise again without my joints protesting too much. Running regularly had to come to an end; I can’t take the pounding anymore.
But I can swim—at least after a fashion, and I think often of Paul’s admonition to “pummel my body and make it a slave.” There is no obvious glory at the end of this pummeling, as there was in my youth. But then I’m thinking of glory in very different terms than I did in earlier years.
Forty was a warning; a small black cloud on the horizon the size of a man’s hand. Fifty looms a couple of years away and the need to prepare for the inevitable decline can not be avoided. Or maybe it could, but the consequences of avoidance seem surely worse than this present discomfort. The present does not seem glorious, certainly not the concrete gloriousness of athletic achievement, but oddly enough I like this new challenge, even as I realize its ultimate physical futility.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Liar, liar car's on fire
My daughter just bought a car from a private owner, who happened to be a relative of a friend of ours. At her first visit to the seller's home he was congeniality itself: smiling, deferential, helping her up the unsteady stairs as he and his wife showed her around the house. Everything was quite chummy and pleasant. She was charmed by him and the car. I investigated the car and felt that she really had a good deal. So this Tuesday she gave him the money, took the title, and leaving the car with him, went to get it registered. When she returned to pick up the car it had a fresh dent on the driver’s door.
“The pizza guy bumped into it,” said Mr. Charming, “I got him to pay for the damage.” Then he smiled brightly, paused and asked: “Can I keep the money?"
You read that right. He was asking my daughter for the money to pay for the repair on her car. As crazy as this sounds, it’s understandable if you knew my daughter. She is one of the kindest people I know and her persona and presence invites people to take advantage of her. Also, Mr. Scam felt from the beginning he was “giving away the car” and must have seen this as his opportunity to make a little more money.
“Sure, no problem,” said she. Truth be told she probably would never have noticed the dent and wouldn’t care about it if she had.
My inclination when I heard about it was to laugh about it and let it go. Until I heard how much the pizza dude was shaken down for: $500. I’ve delivered pizzas and $500 is a lot of cabbage for a guy hustling a second job.
Mr. Generosity had offered to clean out the car, wash it and do an oil change as a way to sweeten the deal for my daughter. She was to meet him this morning at his house. I drove along with her. He didn’t know I was coming.
I detected a certain nervousness about him as I introduced myself. After shaking his hand I said: “I may have the facts wrong, so let me get this straight and correct me if I’m wrong.” I summarized the history of the transaction and ended by saying:
“So, you worked the pizza guy to pay for damage on a car that wasn’t yours to pay for repairs you never intended to fix.”
“That’s right,” he said. “I don’t understand where you’re coming from, she (here he pointed to my daughter) was happy, she was fine with everything.”
Besides being unscrupulous he wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer so I tried to help him out.
“Here’s the deal,” I explained as I pointed to a house across the street, “this is like me selling your neighbor over there on the need to have his porch painted, taking the money, and then painting my porch instead.”
I paused to let this sink in.
“That’s not the way the world works. That’s wrong.”
He began to get upset, “Listen, this has been way more trouble than I ever meant it to be. I’m done with it!”
I was beginning to not like him. “No, I don’t think so. It’s not your choice to be done with it.”
I have a friend who takes dents like this out of cars and can do it inexpensively, so I said, “What you did to the pizza guy is between you, the pizza guy, and God, but I think we can resolve this fairly easily with a friend of mine.”
In the end, he coughed up the money for the repair and we got a good laugh. Even the pizza dude probably felt he escaped lightly from an insurance nightmare, so I guess we all won.
“The pizza guy bumped into it,” said Mr. Charming, “I got him to pay for the damage.” Then he smiled brightly, paused and asked: “Can I keep the money?"
You read that right. He was asking my daughter for the money to pay for the repair on her car. As crazy as this sounds, it’s understandable if you knew my daughter. She is one of the kindest people I know and her persona and presence invites people to take advantage of her. Also, Mr. Scam felt from the beginning he was “giving away the car” and must have seen this as his opportunity to make a little more money.
“Sure, no problem,” said she. Truth be told she probably would never have noticed the dent and wouldn’t care about it if she had.
My inclination when I heard about it was to laugh about it and let it go. Until I heard how much the pizza dude was shaken down for: $500. I’ve delivered pizzas and $500 is a lot of cabbage for a guy hustling a second job.
Mr. Generosity had offered to clean out the car, wash it and do an oil change as a way to sweeten the deal for my daughter. She was to meet him this morning at his house. I drove along with her. He didn’t know I was coming.
I detected a certain nervousness about him as I introduced myself. After shaking his hand I said: “I may have the facts wrong, so let me get this straight and correct me if I’m wrong.” I summarized the history of the transaction and ended by saying:
“So, you worked the pizza guy to pay for damage on a car that wasn’t yours to pay for repairs you never intended to fix.”
“That’s right,” he said. “I don’t understand where you’re coming from, she (here he pointed to my daughter) was happy, she was fine with everything.”
Besides being unscrupulous he wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer so I tried to help him out.
“Here’s the deal,” I explained as I pointed to a house across the street, “this is like me selling your neighbor over there on the need to have his porch painted, taking the money, and then painting my porch instead.”
I paused to let this sink in.
“That’s not the way the world works. That’s wrong.”
He began to get upset, “Listen, this has been way more trouble than I ever meant it to be. I’m done with it!”
I was beginning to not like him. “No, I don’t think so. It’s not your choice to be done with it.”
I have a friend who takes dents like this out of cars and can do it inexpensively, so I said, “What you did to the pizza guy is between you, the pizza guy, and God, but I think we can resolve this fairly easily with a friend of mine.”
In the end, he coughed up the money for the repair and we got a good laugh. Even the pizza dude probably felt he escaped lightly from an insurance nightmare, so I guess we all won.
Saturday, December 27, 2008
Exclusivity
I’ve been in a book club for about ten years. A few friends started it as a way to enjoy my wife’s legendary homemade pizza, throw back a few beers, and maybe smoke a pipe or two while arguing about the authors and books we love. We meet once a month and it’s a date we guard jealously. We’ve seen only a handful of new members as some moved away making room for new additions; but the ideal number has hovered around seven or eight guys. Which brings me to a problem that crops up from time to time.
Somehow over the years this simple gathering that sprang up naturally and flourished for love’s sake developed a certain alluring quality to those who heard about it. I would get the questions: “How can I get into your super secret book club? Do I have to perform seven feats of strength?” Funny questions. Diffident questions. Earnest questions. And many with that unmistakable please-let-me-in quality about them. This got me thinking.
One of our guiding lights has been C.S. Lewis and if you’re familiar with his work you may have read an essay he wrote entitled “The Inner Ring.” If so, you’ll know immediately what I hate about this situation. If you’re not familiar with this essay, besides recommending you read it and most everything else Lewis wrote, let me sum it up by saying I’ve always hated exclusive clubs. What attracted many of my college friends to fraternities, for example, was exactly what turned me off: a carefully cultured exclusivity. They tend to foster pride and derive much of their power by feeding off the dashed hopes of those turned away from membership. The weak sheep at the gate bleating for admission is music to the insider’s ears.
Our book club may not be a frat, but by its very nature it is susceptible to that most deadly sin: intellectual pride.
But it need not be so. At least I hope not. What saves me from throwing up my hands and killing the club is that I know that it sprang up naturally: friends who loved each other and shared a common bond. Exclusivity was (again, I hope) just an unfortunate byproduct of its existence, not its essence. Lewis’ analysis of cliques, clubs and informal coteries turns on this point.
I’m not a very compassionate man by nature and there is a significant part of me—admittedly a very ugly part of me—that simply doesn’t care what anyone thinks and has no problem turning down requests to join our club. I have done this many times over the years and have not regretted it. There are, however, many legitimate defenses for a club such as ours, perhaps the greatest of which is Jesus himself had close friends and unapologetically cultivated close friendships and even excluded some of his disciples to favor Peter, James, and John with more attention.
Still, I’m not Jesus, and I am troubled by the fact that the tendency of a club is to run counter to the grain of the Gospel. The Gospel is open to all, completely inclusive. Which leaves me contemplating changing the character and purpose of our club, and carrying on the internal debate on the legitimate bounds of exclusive friendship. I doubt there is a clear answer here; I will pray, consider options, seek counsel, and then, who knows? I hope at the end of the day our club survives for years of books and fellowship and beer.
Somehow over the years this simple gathering that sprang up naturally and flourished for love’s sake developed a certain alluring quality to those who heard about it. I would get the questions: “How can I get into your super secret book club? Do I have to perform seven feats of strength?” Funny questions. Diffident questions. Earnest questions. And many with that unmistakable please-let-me-in quality about them. This got me thinking.
One of our guiding lights has been C.S. Lewis and if you’re familiar with his work you may have read an essay he wrote entitled “The Inner Ring.” If so, you’ll know immediately what I hate about this situation. If you’re not familiar with this essay, besides recommending you read it and most everything else Lewis wrote, let me sum it up by saying I’ve always hated exclusive clubs. What attracted many of my college friends to fraternities, for example, was exactly what turned me off: a carefully cultured exclusivity. They tend to foster pride and derive much of their power by feeding off the dashed hopes of those turned away from membership. The weak sheep at the gate bleating for admission is music to the insider’s ears.
Our book club may not be a frat, but by its very nature it is susceptible to that most deadly sin: intellectual pride.
But it need not be so. At least I hope not. What saves me from throwing up my hands and killing the club is that I know that it sprang up naturally: friends who loved each other and shared a common bond. Exclusivity was (again, I hope) just an unfortunate byproduct of its existence, not its essence. Lewis’ analysis of cliques, clubs and informal coteries turns on this point.
I’m not a very compassionate man by nature and there is a significant part of me—admittedly a very ugly part of me—that simply doesn’t care what anyone thinks and has no problem turning down requests to join our club. I have done this many times over the years and have not regretted it. There are, however, many legitimate defenses for a club such as ours, perhaps the greatest of which is Jesus himself had close friends and unapologetically cultivated close friendships and even excluded some of his disciples to favor Peter, James, and John with more attention.
Still, I’m not Jesus, and I am troubled by the fact that the tendency of a club is to run counter to the grain of the Gospel. The Gospel is open to all, completely inclusive. Which leaves me contemplating changing the character and purpose of our club, and carrying on the internal debate on the legitimate bounds of exclusive friendship. I doubt there is a clear answer here; I will pray, consider options, seek counsel, and then, who knows? I hope at the end of the day our club survives for years of books and fellowship and beer.
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Racism
I’m not a racist. I’m multi-cultural, educated and have embedded in my soul an instinct to defend the disadvantaged, to side with those less fortunate. If a pan handler asks me for change and I have a buck or two in my pocket, I’ll give it. I used to feel a twinge of guilt as I walked past the Salvation Army “ringers” if I didn’t contribute, until I found out that the “ringer” takes home a generous portion of the contributions. My point is I’m a pretty soft touch, which brings me to last week…
He said “Merry Christmas” as I walked up to the convenience store to pay for my gas. I smiled and Merry Christmased him back, but part of my brain said “Black guy, hanging out in front of 7/11, greeting middle aged white guy driving a nice car…I’m going to get hit up for money on my way back.”
Sure enough, as I began to pump gas I could see him approach. He made a pretense of pointing out the paper towels to wipe up any gas I might spill [Don’t give me that, I thought, just get to your real question.] I mumbled a reply but my mind was racing: “It’s 10pm and I’ve got my wife in the car. I need to get out of here.” I climbed in the driver’s seat and saw him approach and tap on the window. There was a moment of fear and a quick internal prayer as I rolled down the window.
“I’m sorry to bother you but can I borrow some money for gas? My car is right over there and I don’t have enough to get home.”
“Hey, I’m sorry. We literally just spent our last cash on this gas.” [This was true.]
“That’s OK, sorry to have bothered you. Have a good evening.”
“Goodbye.”
We drove off.
Two days later I’m out shopping with my daughter for Christmas. We came out of TJMaxx late at night and walked out to our car. A man, a young white guy, approached us. He was carrying a baby girl—she was wearing a cute pink jacket.
“Hey man, I’m sorry to bother you. I’m stranded with my car on empty. Can I borrow some money for gas?”
“What a shame,” I thought, “the face of the economy’s troubles looks like this—some poor guy and his baby girl having to beg for gas money.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t have any cash…but I’ll tell you what: if you have enough gas to get to that gas station I’ll meet you over there and put a few bucks in on my card.”
“Thanks, man!” He ran back to his car.
As I pulled out and made my way around to where he was parked I saw him jogging up to me.
“Thanks for the offer but my friend I was expecting just showed up, so I’m OK. Merry Christmas.” He shook my hand and ran off.
Later I reflected on these incidents. I realized my experience of fear in the first and compassion in the second were not based on facts but on cultural assumptions. The black guy’s plight might have been real and I was standing at the gas station where I could have put some gas in his car on my credit card; the same offer I made to the white guy—whose plight might have been totally contrived. I’ll never know.
He said “Merry Christmas” as I walked up to the convenience store to pay for my gas. I smiled and Merry Christmased him back, but part of my brain said “Black guy, hanging out in front of 7/11, greeting middle aged white guy driving a nice car…I’m going to get hit up for money on my way back.”
Sure enough, as I began to pump gas I could see him approach. He made a pretense of pointing out the paper towels to wipe up any gas I might spill [Don’t give me that, I thought, just get to your real question.] I mumbled a reply but my mind was racing: “It’s 10pm and I’ve got my wife in the car. I need to get out of here.” I climbed in the driver’s seat and saw him approach and tap on the window. There was a moment of fear and a quick internal prayer as I rolled down the window.
“I’m sorry to bother you but can I borrow some money for gas? My car is right over there and I don’t have enough to get home.”
“Hey, I’m sorry. We literally just spent our last cash on this gas.” [This was true.]
“That’s OK, sorry to have bothered you. Have a good evening.”
“Goodbye.”
We drove off.
Two days later I’m out shopping with my daughter for Christmas. We came out of TJMaxx late at night and walked out to our car. A man, a young white guy, approached us. He was carrying a baby girl—she was wearing a cute pink jacket.
“Hey man, I’m sorry to bother you. I’m stranded with my car on empty. Can I borrow some money for gas?”
“What a shame,” I thought, “the face of the economy’s troubles looks like this—some poor guy and his baby girl having to beg for gas money.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t have any cash…but I’ll tell you what: if you have enough gas to get to that gas station I’ll meet you over there and put a few bucks in on my card.”
“Thanks, man!” He ran back to his car.
As I pulled out and made my way around to where he was parked I saw him jogging up to me.
“Thanks for the offer but my friend I was expecting just showed up, so I’m OK. Merry Christmas.” He shook my hand and ran off.
Later I reflected on these incidents. I realized my experience of fear in the first and compassion in the second were not based on facts but on cultural assumptions. The black guy’s plight might have been real and I was standing at the gas station where I could have put some gas in his car on my credit card; the same offer I made to the white guy—whose plight might have been totally contrived. I’ll never know.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Friendship
My friend John is divorced and he is crying on the phone. It's been several years now and the old wound aches as the holiday season advances upon him remorselessly. He's been alone before, but the pain can catch him unawares. Christmas is especially hard.
"I'm sorry, John."
In the pause while he masters himself I am reminded that my friend knows all too well that he was the main reason for the divorce.
"I'm sorry, Robert, to take up so much of your time."
He apologizes like this often.
"No problem. I'm glad you called."
What does friendship look like at this moment? Sympathy can bring a measure of warm comfort, but it can often be like the warmth of a fire of dry kindling: momentary and fast fading. My friend needs substantial comfort.
I touch upon the familiar themes that we all so easily forget: God knows you, he chose you, your sins are forgiven. We talk for a while as he wrestles with the consequences of his failures and the reality of God's grace. Time to apply truth:
"What can you do now, this season, to serve others? What about making a meal for a family in the church?" John likes to cook.
John wants to belong but so often has put his demands for relationship above disinterested love for others.
"Serving is good, I agree. But that's not developing deep relationships."
"I'm sorry, John."
In the pause while he masters himself I am reminded that my friend knows all too well that he was the main reason for the divorce.
"I'm sorry, Robert, to take up so much of your time."
He apologizes like this often.
"No problem. I'm glad you called."
What does friendship look like at this moment? Sympathy can bring a measure of warm comfort, but it can often be like the warmth of a fire of dry kindling: momentary and fast fading. My friend needs substantial comfort.
I touch upon the familiar themes that we all so easily forget: God knows you, he chose you, your sins are forgiven. We talk for a while as he wrestles with the consequences of his failures and the reality of God's grace. Time to apply truth:
"What can you do now, this season, to serve others? What about making a meal for a family in the church?" John likes to cook.
John wants to belong but so often has put his demands for relationship above disinterested love for others.
"Serving is good, I agree. But that's not developing deep relationships."
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