I am finally going through my office, which has been boxed for over a year since departing my last church ministry. Besides finding my Spock bobblehead piece, I found an old sketch book. This sketch is from 1993 and is a study of a halogen torch lamp and an old-school push button phone.

As my wife and I started out our new life together, Target had plenty of these lamps. They were all the rage back in the day. But, the phone from say 1979? That was old for even back then. Wireless handhelds were popular, but I am sure there was a spare room that included this phone which forever is captured in my sketchbook.

If you have ever used an old AT&T phone you can imagine with me the weight of that thing. The handset was identical to the feel of every pay phone of the day which could be used as a weapon if it were not attached with a cord stronger than a titanium chain. Dropping the phone was not a problem, since engineers back then made sure it would not shatter like the cheap ones made after the breaking up of MaBell.

Two items from yesteryear remind me of how time flies and of how ordinary objects become museum pieces or end up in a sketch book. So, the future person who reads this soon-to-be-ancient blog post might be wondering  what it was like to even have a blog, let alone read one.

We all have the unexpected rainy days, right? Everything you planned or hoped for just goes sideways in a moment. It does not have to be anything tragic but simply just enough to get you off balance. It does not take much to push us to the brink, given the right set of circumstances.

These are the days that start out with bad news, accompanied by bad news and then lived in a context where you have no idea how to process it because you are with grieving people in a house over stuffed with family the day following a memorial for a lost loved one. That was Tuesday. It was just the start of the day.

I found a Starbucks, did some work and then drove around the block several times. Perhaps, I should have circled once more. My dad used to walk around the block when the Dodgers were failing as to not show us explosive behavior. You knew not to speak to him as he headed to the door. He had to walk it off alone. I don’t like being alone.

After showing a bit of drama on my part, I rushed my family to the car and headed to a beautiful little town on the coast called Santa Cruz. This was my beach town growing up—a thirty minute drive from my hometown. On the drive over the hill I had to let the kids know I was sorry and that I was upset and unfortunately directed it at them. They forgave me, even though my actions hurt them.

The minute we arrived, rain drops. Then pouring rain. Now that we live in Southern California, our blood has thinned and it being summer we were in flip-flops and t-shirts. We were cold and wet.

Then it started to get fun. We got even more drenched between bookshops and stores as the rain increased. It was now an adventure. We picked up a hat, a hoodie and some books. We all were wet, but we were together.

Because of the generosity of family, our budget for this short trip allowed us to go to a favorite Italian restaurant to end the day. It was a first time for our kids there and a treat to celebrate, albeit a day early, our wedding anniversary with the four of us. A day that had begun so badly had ended so heavenly.

Sometimes life is like this. We get off balance easily by things—sometimes big or otherwise. I wished I could have kept it to myself like my dad did with things, but also am glad I have a family that goes through things together. Sometimes, you need to go through things alone. Only sometimes, though.

What is your preference in dealing with rainy days? Go it alone or not?

The heart of man plans his way, but the LORD establishes his steps
Proverbs 16:9 (ESV)

In a moment a fork in the road appears. The highest and lowest points of our lives may come upon us like a hairpin turn. We do not see it coming. I remember one of those.

As newlyweds, we were 20-somethings helping a brand new church in a Southern California beach town. We both were raised in the Bay Area all of our lives so this move was a big fork in our journey and an exciting one. The group of young adults we met and the young pastor we served were full of life and committed to the fantastic cause of reaching people who were not easily interested church.

I remember nightly walks on the beach all the way to the town pier with my new bride. The sandy beach with fire pits, volleyball, and late night conversations with these friends made life rich. We lived by the beach access in a tiny apartment. We had a black and white TV with a cardboard box for a stand and an old sofa that was circa 1962. Both of us could not even fit in the kitchen at the same time.

It seemed that life could not get too much better. We were living for a cause. We had each other. Friends and mentors supported us. This all made up for the embarrassing answer to the question my father-in-law rightfully asked of me before our move. He asked, “How will you earn a living?” The church was to pay a stipend that was not even enough to cover our rent.

My wife worked part time for an office and was finishing her post-college teaching certification and I was taking classes at a local community college while being mentored to teach piano to little kids as well as leading worship for the fledgling church.

One evening our youth leader was watching a beach side mansion and of course she invited us to enjoy the spoils of her side job of house sitting. Here my wife and I were enjoying a literal highpoint simmering in the rooftop hot tub, gazing at the ocean vistas and experiencing the shared bonding moment you just feel when young and with friends your age. I remember breathing in and exhaling, “life cannot be much better.” Then a fork appeared.

Our young pastor called us down from the roof. He sat us down and with great pain and tears told my wife and I that her father suddenly died. We were stunned. My father-in-law was a relatively young man still in his 40s. This event instantly colored things for us. We decided soon after to move back to our old city and be with family, attend Bible school and leave such a life we enjoyed and people who we deeply loved in such a short time.

All it takes is a moment for many things and everything to change. God reminds me often of the beach year. It was a mountaintop. It was not a destination, but a fork on the journey. So many great things and beautiful people have been filled with what was lost. But, yes, something was lost. All in an instant what we experienced before evaporated.

In difficult and challenging times, the lowest points in life can change. I know, not every season offers such a quick ascent or descent. However, both are possible. And, hope says that in the darkest legs of the journey that forks will appear as well. They might emerge through a fog of our pain, doubt and loss. Or, they may come through muddled choices or whimsical decisions. But, they will arrive. And, you can never go back to the way things were—thankfully, for the better as well as the worse.

The beach was a place in time, just like some of the darker seasons in my life story. The joy is in moving forward to the next fork. The next step in the journey will change me. The beach shows me that I need to embrace the highs and lows and the in between times, too. In a moment, any of it or all of it can change.

Are you hoping for that new fork to appear or the current one to end? Or, are you hoping the opposite?

My family took a weekend getaway to the California North Coast redwoods (250 miles from our town of Redding). We had our Sunday “church” as a family while on a short hike at the Lady Bird Johnson Grove. Some of these trees are the largest in the world, towering hundreds of feet from over a thousand years or more of growth. What a place to have worship together.

We were discussing the “fruit of the Spirit” as found in Galatians. I was trying to bring home the point that we will produce who we are, just as a seed will produce the fruit it is. As Christians, we are designed to produce love, joy, peace, patience, kindness and so forth.

The discussion turned a bit when my son doubted he could make the right choice. I explained that due to our second birth, we are “born again” and in this new identity we can do what we are meant to do.

Dad, “how can someone be born again once they are already born?” We quickly went to Jesus to answer that. My son was playing the part of Nicodemus and we paralleled his questioning with that of Nicodemus in John 3.

Ethan was not sure, besides having “prayed to have Jesus come into my heart” that he ever “trusted” Jesus. We had to go over “faith” with my 9-year-old boy. Faith is trusting Jesus. We trust that Jesus did for us what we could not. We simply believe. Right then and there my boy prayed silently a prayer of faith.

I am not sure if this was the moment or not of his salvation or simply a deepening of his faith. It seemed truly significant. All I know is that church is really fantastic under the canopy of redwoods.

As a platform person for many years, I live in the public eye and have learned to read a room fairly well. Leading worship or speaking requires the intuition to know if in general people are tracking with you or not. In our culture of achievement and success we have to measure something. So, you gaze at the room to assess your ministry impact and so do others who judge your success.

You cannot help but see a front row individual raising her hands flamboyantly or a stoic, stereotypical, and manly guy in the back row glaring at you. Judgments are made in a flash. Does she know everyone can see her arms wave like a pelican? Surely, she is showing off or is simply a weirdo. This big guy in the back row must know I can see him stare at me week after week. This story is about that guy in the back row.

Imagine a linebacker. He looks moody. His stare intimidates. I am leading worship on the stage with hundreds in the room and still this guy is imposing. Sure, I do my best to not focus on the people in the room. This is especially true of those who are obviously out of sync with what we are doing. But, I notice things.

I notice the guys like that gargantuan man in the back row. I also see the agitated and expressive older man in the center left aisle cover his ears and scowl as the guitarist performs a lead line. The teens to the right are texting and passing notes as you might expect. Their parents are even less interested than they are and are actually chatting during the verses of the song. And the lady who waves her arms—I notice her, too. Big time.

Even the pastor, I notice. Sometimes the teaching pastor in the front row is fumbling through his notes, making last minute changes on his sermon. Or worse, in the back wondering why the back row people do not seem to sing at all. Well, that big guy in the back row is not singing. He hardly moves. He stands there disaffected. I hate that. I honestly feel appalled by what I observe.

Forget the fact that hundreds are singing, with some tearing up from God’s touch on their lives. Ignore the smiles of those so glad to be in a safe place to sing in worship. Look at those young adults with their eyes closed as if I was not even of consequence compared to what God was showing them. None of it matters, apparently. The guy in the back just gets to me. He matters.

I used to go to a fancy gym right next door to one of the church’s I served. It was the kind that had attendants hand you towels and refresh your water. It was my time to exercise, unwind and enjoy the spa. Walking out of the shower one day, I was approached by none other than this back row church linebacker.

He actually smiled at me. Awkward could not be a word powerful enough to describe the setting and this encounter. The very guy I nearly hated for his response to my passionate platform ministry stood in front of me. I had no towel to cover me. I probably dropped it in shock of bumping into this fellow. But, that did not stop him from having a conversation. (Where is that towel guy when you need him!?)

To make this even further from comfort, this stoic fellow actually began to tear up as he spoke to me. “Rich, your music brought me to God. I cannot thank you enough.”  He went on, “I can’t even do anything at church but stand there during the worship music. If I were to sing, I would end up crying and losing it.” He then shook my hand and left.

I just got schooled. For one short moment my entire world collapsed. I was already undressed in the flesh, but inside my heart was exposed. This man was not who I thought he was. In fact, I had no idea about his story. Even more than that, did I even know my own story?

The scowling, inattentive, and stoic parishioners endeared themselves to me more that day because of this very large man in a men’s locker room. People come hurting, empty and confused through the doors of our churches. I am one of the first lines of defense for them. It’s not about me, even though I get stones thrown at me sometimes. It’s apparently not about those smiling, bouncing, and receptive ones. Nor, about those who make it an art form to critique my ministry. It is about this man. He matters.

Do I love that one lost enough to leave the 99 for a bit? This encounter showed me how disconnected I am at times to what God is really doing through me and around me. To be in tune with my story is to know that God indeed wants me to be there for the unseen, immeasurable and awkward people he puts in front of me. That is success. Measure that.

Dear faithful readers and occasional lurkers. It indeed is true. I did see God at Winco! Let me describe Winco. It is basically the local Walmart-type, super cheap grocery store chain where the melting pot of society simmers 24 hours daily. To see God here was actually transcendent.

I went on a mission to spend no less than or no more than our last $40 in cash from what we set aside for our groceries per week. Milk, yogurt, cereal and various items barely fill the bottom of the over-sized basket. Admittedly that sight made me feel somehow small. Everything was on sale, and at checkout I rang up at $30.56. But, my cash was gone.

When you are seriously on a budget with negative cash flow, losing cash feels like a sucker punch. I checked all my pockets and right when I turned around to go check my car I see God.

Now, God was inhabiting the body of a very tall and big white haired man wearing a tacky Hawaiian shirt. And, how I knew it was God was when he said, “did you happen to lose some cash?”

“Yes, I lost $40.”

“Here.” He handed me the bills nicely folded and told me he found them right in the middle of the aisle and that he was about to give it to the manager.

The clerk saw and heard all of this and said, “I’ve got chills. You don’t see this everyday.”

Seriously, this fellow was a God-sighting. I am sure he never even thought twice about what to do. He would never call himself a hero, and because of that he is one in my book.

You can find God in some very strange places like a dirty barn where he was born as a baby, dinner with prostitutes and working through nice old men in a tacky Hawaiian shirt.

I hated wood shop. We made tie racks. I did not wear ties in sixth grade. But, making a sculpture in art class enchanted me. While some were creating ash trays, pencil holders and primitive dishes or mugs I embarked on controversy. I made a bust of Richard Nixon. Why? Well, an artist does things for reaction and even in Middle School politics were fun. This was the late 70s after all.

So, I made Nixon with the jowls and all. Everyone was interested in what I was creating. People sneered, giggled, smirked and some gasped that I would make the image of a fallen Republican. My family of Democrats would even love this when I took it home, I thought.

The day we came to class to fire our pottery and sculptures I opened the cabinet to discover Richard as flat as a pancake. Everyone was a suspect, including the liberal-hippie art teacher. Wow! How could anyone have the gaul to turn my creating into a blob?

Not to worry. I rolled the former President into a flat surface and created something fun and useful for the ten minutes remaining. My creation became a large die pencil holder. People liked dice hanging from their rear view mirror so maybe this could be cool.

It turned out OK and at least my grade did not suffer. However, I realized that as an artist I was not going to get much appreciation at times. Being misunderstood does not make you an artist, but artists surely are misunderstood.

By the way,  I remember having that thing in my room until I got married.

Thanksgiving is approaching and I would like to extend my series of posts on this (Part 1, Part 2) with the hope in all of this. The victims sister has asked me to pass on the following to our community of Murrieta and my neighborhood:

I would appreciate a message to be passed on to your neighborhood and community. It would mean the world to myself and our entire family. The message is: Our words cannot express how much we appreciate you all. Your cooperativeness in the investigation, your flowers, stuffed animals, candles, words of encouragement and empathy left us speechless. We had to move to get away from the memory of losing Isabelle there so tragically. Please know that we know things no media, no paper, no network, will ever know so we assure you that you are in a safe neighborhood and the murderer that caused our lives to be hell is not amongst you. Be grateful to have the police department you do. Again, our love and thank you’s to all of you. God bless…….  -M

I sure hope my neighbors will read this. I am going to copy this and hand it to as many as I get to meet the next week or so. Thanks does indeed go out to our police force for doing their job. Even though I am not applauding the TV media in the exploitative nature they portrayed things (no surprised there) I am supportive of our local law enforcement for letting us all know that they are working hard to protect us and enforce law and order.

The other thanks is to God for providing us an amazing home in a great neighborhood. I pray that we enjoy and thrive here and bless this block as I know the memory of Isabelle and her surviving children deserves such. Isabelle’s sister let me know how much she and Isabelle enjoyed espresso in the very kitchen that is now ours. I will remember to pray often for the family as I pour many many cups of coffee in the years to come.

Happy Thanksgiving and God Bless!

Greg Sidders in one of his last acts as our senior pastor decided to make official my acquiring of his stapler. I found this note on my desk this morning.

Greg, I will miss partnering with you. I have learned much about communicating and appreciate your passion to keep things about what’s important in your teaching–Jesus! Saying goodbye is not fun–minus you allowing me to poke fun at you in front of the whole church about having dibs on your stapler.

I pray that your book becomes a best seller, that your new ministry life will be even more exciting and rewarding and for your family to be blessed beyond your dreams! Thanks for inviting me to be part of such an amazing church, staff and community!

-Rich

I worked as an accounting clerk for a main office of a large retailer. The part of my job I liked was finding errors and reporting them to Loss Prevention to the two former cops–i.e. pudgy guys in corduroy jackets. In today’s paperless world it is hard to imagine carbon credit card receipts and miles of register tape being manually reconciled, but indeed that was 1986. With an increasing speed at the 10-key calculator and an eye for irregularities I might make something of myself..well, not really.

The pressure weighed heavy to produce a dessert. I had to be a team player moreover succeed at contributing something worthy of my manhood; or, can we just say “keep my pair” while holding my nose to this awful, tortuous office rite of passage?

My mind frantically struggled to picture the dessert creation I was to bring. I was no slouch in the kitchen when it came to making something edible, but dessert created a fantastic opportunity for failure. Of course, I was living with my mom and asked her advice. She offered her recipe file box and directed me to “fast” favorites.

“Dump Salad” was listed on one of the cards. I loved the title. And, I could prepare it quickly. The pure pleasure of the messiness in the recipe meant I might retain some sense of manhood. More truthfully, I simply feared further embarrassment compounded to an already awkward work environment.

With shear genius I obtained the ingredients in this anti-establishment-pistachio-jello thing and literally dumped the ingredients into a bowl. All I recall is that a mountain of Cool Whip was involved and jello mix and some nuts, and other stuff.

With beads of sweat I displayed this dish on the dessert end of our office eats table. Would anyone even attempt to eat this stuff? Should they?

Then, the most miraculous thing occurred that one afternoon during the year of ratted hair and leg warmers worn over stretchy pants office women–they LOVED it! The hilarious thing was that I was inundated with requests for the recipe.  That day an office potluck one-hit-wonder was born–Dump Salad.