The Rich Little Boys of Mozambique
It was the summer of 1999 and I had traveled to Africa to visit some of our missionaries in Zimbabwe. A few days later, I went by truck with a friend and two missionaries to neighboring Mozambique where the mission was trying to start some churches.
At that time, Mozambique was a war-torn nation that had suffered through 15 years of civil conflict and fighting. Crossing the border into the town of Chichulachula was not really a difficult task. The tariff was only 83 Zim dollars, a little over $5 American. The bad news was that we learned from the border patrol that it would cost us $30 American to cross back into Zimbabwe at the end of our visit. They went on to tell us that they would not accept Zim dollars, Mozambique medicais, or even American Express travelers' checks! My problem was that I had brought only travelers' checks and an American $100 bill.
We decided to enter Mozambique anyway, hoping that we could somehow find change for my $100. We tried the bank in this little town of 10,000 refugees, but they only had medicais. The bank did give us the name of a local man who might be able to help. With the assistance of one of the villagers, we were taken to this man's rather elaborate compound. Amazingly, without quibbling or questioning, he willingly gave me two twenties, a ten, and a fifty dollar bill in exchange for my hundred. No fee, no charge. What a relief! I saw the easy exhange then as a "God thing" and I still do today.
I tell you that story to tell you another story. While we were surveying the town, we were followed everywhere by a group of little boys who obviously had suffered the devastation of war. Their clothes were ill-fitting and tattered, their feet were shoeless, and their faces dirty. But laughing and kicking a soccer ball made of plastic bags and string, they followed us throughout the dusty streets with faces aglow with what I could only call joy. With holes in their pants, I am sure that not a one of them had a red cent, much less a single centavo (100th of a medicai). But for them it was a great day. They were alive and living in the moment.
Much more than me. Worried over my $70 problem (if I had to surrender my $100 back at the Zimbabwean border), I had been so preoccupied with my money woes that I had failed to take in the amazing sights and sounds of my only foray into Mozambique. We visited the marketplace and interacted with dozens of people, but most of it was lost on me. I was too busy worrying.
I will leave the application to you, my friend. I am far too embarrassed by the story to even consider it. I can only say I know who the real pauper was that day.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Monday, May 19, 2008
Scoot Back, Daddy, Scoot Back
I had accepted the call as senior pastor of a large congregation that had recently erected a huge state-of-the-art building, resulting in a major indebtedness. Feeling the pressure of my new responsibilities and with a strong desire to impress my parishioners, I had hit the ground running. I was in the office early every day and almost every evening found me out shepherding the flock or reaching out to potential church members.
My wife, Teresa, was very understanding, but our little daughter, Mandi, at two and one-half years of age was perplexed by my absence from home. She loved for me to read to her after dinner each evening and it was a practice that I continued in my new position—with one caveat. I would sit on the edge of my recliner with her seated by my side and read a quick story or two before rushing out for another night of harried activity.
One evening Mandi said something that jolted me back to reality about my role as a father. I had sat down with her in my recliner, once again on the edge, ready to quickly read and run. Mandi stopped me and, patting the recliner seat, said, “Scoot back, Daddy, scoot back.” She knew on those rare occasions when I wasn’t going out for the evening that I would relax, sit back in my recliner, and leisurely read stories to her heart’s content.
Her words pierced my soul as I understood what she was really saying, “Slow down, Daddy, please. Make time for me.” Appropriately chastened, I scooted back.
I had accepted the call as senior pastor of a large congregation that had recently erected a huge state-of-the-art building, resulting in a major indebtedness. Feeling the pressure of my new responsibilities and with a strong desire to impress my parishioners, I had hit the ground running. I was in the office early every day and almost every evening found me out shepherding the flock or reaching out to potential church members.
My wife, Teresa, was very understanding, but our little daughter, Mandi, at two and one-half years of age was perplexed by my absence from home. She loved for me to read to her after dinner each evening and it was a practice that I continued in my new position—with one caveat. I would sit on the edge of my recliner with her seated by my side and read a quick story or two before rushing out for another night of harried activity.
One evening Mandi said something that jolted me back to reality about my role as a father. I had sat down with her in my recliner, once again on the edge, ready to quickly read and run. Mandi stopped me and, patting the recliner seat, said, “Scoot back, Daddy, scoot back.” She knew on those rare occasions when I wasn’t going out for the evening that I would relax, sit back in my recliner, and leisurely read stories to her heart’s content.
Her words pierced my soul as I understood what she was really saying, “Slow down, Daddy, please. Make time for me.” Appropriately chastened, I scooted back.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
A Small Change Can Make a Big Difference
Sometime ago, I talked Meg into visiting the Louisville Slugger Museum during a visit to her new hometown. For the uninitiated, Louisville Slugger has been the premier producer of major league baseball bats since the turn of the last century. The Hillerich and Bradsby Company (parent company of Louisville Slugger), in the days before aluminum bats, made almost all of the wooden bats that boys of my generation used. Although 95% of bats today are metal, the Louisville Slugger factory continues to turn out 8,000 bats per week from the Northern Ash billets which arrive each Monday morning from a lumber mill in Pennsylvania.
Because the major leagues are the only “purists” still using wooden bats, they are the main customer (along with collectors) for this former booming business. Perhaps the most intriguing thing I learned in the tour of the factory was that almost all bats before 1935 weighed 38 ounces or more. A 38-ounce bat is heavy and close to what Babe Ruth used when he hit 60 homers for the Yankees back in 1927.
But it all began to change in 1935 when a brash young hitter made his first trip to Louisville and ordered bats weighing only 32 ounces. This kid had figured out something that had escaped the minds and calculations of all the major leaguers up until that time. He had determined that it was bat speed and not bat mass that was the most important variable in being able to hit a baseball long and true. Now most major leaguers use bats that weigh 32 ounces or less. Alex Rodriquez, the highest-paid player in baseball today, uses a 31-ounce bat that has a scoop of wood removed from its top, thus making it weigh in at 30 ounces.
Everybody today who swings a bat owes the kid from 1935 a lot. He had the courage to challenge the prevailing paradigm and try something new. Maybe there’s something for us to learn from him as well. Sometimes a seemingly small change can make a big different whether it is in our personal lives or in the life of the church. It just takes the vision and courage to step out in faith with our Lord.
Oh, the kid from 1935? Why, Ted Williams, of course, the greatest hitter in the history of our national pastime!
Sometime ago, I talked Meg into visiting the Louisville Slugger Museum during a visit to her new hometown. For the uninitiated, Louisville Slugger has been the premier producer of major league baseball bats since the turn of the last century. The Hillerich and Bradsby Company (parent company of Louisville Slugger), in the days before aluminum bats, made almost all of the wooden bats that boys of my generation used. Although 95% of bats today are metal, the Louisville Slugger factory continues to turn out 8,000 bats per week from the Northern Ash billets which arrive each Monday morning from a lumber mill in Pennsylvania.
Because the major leagues are the only “purists” still using wooden bats, they are the main customer (along with collectors) for this former booming business. Perhaps the most intriguing thing I learned in the tour of the factory was that almost all bats before 1935 weighed 38 ounces or more. A 38-ounce bat is heavy and close to what Babe Ruth used when he hit 60 homers for the Yankees back in 1927.
But it all began to change in 1935 when a brash young hitter made his first trip to Louisville and ordered bats weighing only 32 ounces. This kid had figured out something that had escaped the minds and calculations of all the major leaguers up until that time. He had determined that it was bat speed and not bat mass that was the most important variable in being able to hit a baseball long and true. Now most major leaguers use bats that weigh 32 ounces or less. Alex Rodriquez, the highest-paid player in baseball today, uses a 31-ounce bat that has a scoop of wood removed from its top, thus making it weigh in at 30 ounces.
Everybody today who swings a bat owes the kid from 1935 a lot. He had the courage to challenge the prevailing paradigm and try something new. Maybe there’s something for us to learn from him as well. Sometimes a seemingly small change can make a big different whether it is in our personal lives or in the life of the church. It just takes the vision and courage to step out in faith with our Lord.
Oh, the kid from 1935? Why, Ted Williams, of course, the greatest hitter in the history of our national pastime!
Thursday, May 08, 2008
The Last Word in Lonesome
Country music icon, Eddy Arnold, died this week at 89, just a few short months after his wife of 66 years, Sally, passed away. Interesting, really, was the timing of his death. Just this morning our Cracker Barrel Men's Group was discussing The Man in a Mirror and how we guys tend to be so poor at social networking. In the simplest terms, we don't have many friends and don't try too hard to make new ones.
Someone in the group made the observation that most men die years before their wives and--if they don't--they die soon after their mates' demise. So it was with this pioneer of "The Nashville Sound." Once a man's spouse and closest friend (perhaps only!) dies, his ability to cope with a world of increasing solitude is often nil.
Not to belabor the point, but of all the songs that Arnold recorded I remember best his 1966 hit, "The Last Word in Lonesome Is Me." It reached No. 2 on the U. S. Country charts and is still heard frequently on radio stations that cater to old-time country music lovers. "The Last Word in Lonesome Is Me!" Yeah, I know that the lyrics really speak of a lost romantic partner, but beneath the surface the pathos suggested by our male isolationist tendencies looms large.
Caught up in family and work responsibilities from early adulthood, many of us males allow our friendships from high school and college to go dormant. Sensing that most of our social needs are met by our wives and our children, we blindly trudge through life, oblivious of our relational needs beyond our nuclear family. Then, one day we look around and notice that our kids are grown and have their own lives,the workplace no longer needs us, and our robust social network of childhood years is nonexistent.
My observation about Eddy Arnold is just that, an observation. Perhaps his social network was intact and strong; I hope so. I'm just wondering about yours, my brother. And mine.
Country music icon, Eddy Arnold, died this week at 89, just a few short months after his wife of 66 years, Sally, passed away. Interesting, really, was the timing of his death. Just this morning our Cracker Barrel Men's Group was discussing The Man in a Mirror and how we guys tend to be so poor at social networking. In the simplest terms, we don't have many friends and don't try too hard to make new ones.
Someone in the group made the observation that most men die years before their wives and--if they don't--they die soon after their mates' demise. So it was with this pioneer of "The Nashville Sound." Once a man's spouse and closest friend (perhaps only!) dies, his ability to cope with a world of increasing solitude is often nil.
Not to belabor the point, but of all the songs that Arnold recorded I remember best his 1966 hit, "The Last Word in Lonesome Is Me." It reached No. 2 on the U. S. Country charts and is still heard frequently on radio stations that cater to old-time country music lovers. "The Last Word in Lonesome Is Me!" Yeah, I know that the lyrics really speak of a lost romantic partner, but beneath the surface the pathos suggested by our male isolationist tendencies looms large.
Caught up in family and work responsibilities from early adulthood, many of us males allow our friendships from high school and college to go dormant. Sensing that most of our social needs are met by our wives and our children, we blindly trudge through life, oblivious of our relational needs beyond our nuclear family. Then, one day we look around and notice that our kids are grown and have their own lives,the workplace no longer needs us, and our robust social network of childhood years is nonexistent.
My observation about Eddy Arnold is just that, an observation. Perhaps his social network was intact and strong; I hope so. I'm just wondering about yours, my brother. And mine.
Monday, January 28, 2008
Grandma's Pickled Corn
It always seemed to be a risk worth taking. While Grandma and the others were preoccupied with more important things, I would sneak out to the backyard, pass the persimmon tree, and down the dark stairs that led to the basement cellar. Lifting the wooden chuck that had long since replaced the Yale lock on the door, I would silently enter the cold, damp confines of the dirt-floored depository of Grandma's jams, preserves, canned beans, and pickled corn.
The pickled corn! Her other treasures were of no importance to me, but her pickled corn was too mouth-watering for a country boy to pass up. Like a thief executing the greatest heist of history, I would stealthily make my way through the darkness to the large brown-and-white crock that was covered with cheesecloth. Almost delicately pulling the cloth aside, I would reach down into the briny fluid to retrieve an ear of the delectable delight. Not daring to be caught, I would hide in the shadows of that cellar and consume my prize much too quickly, considering that most of us like to savor our culinary favorites.
I have searched the world over trying to find pickled corn that could begin to match Grandma's. Most of it is pickled in jars today and simply cannot compare with the briny ears that sat and soaked in old crocks in those damp, dark cellars of the past. Oh, I have the pleasure of eating a whole pickled ear of corn now and then--there are still some folks who like to do it the old-fashioned way. But even then, none tastes as good as hers.
I wonder what the difference is. Was it just a young boy's first experience with a taste that suited his palate? Was it the thrill of a "stolen pleasure," pickled corn enhanced by the adrenalin rush? Or, is it simply that my taste buds have acquiesced to time and lost their acuteness? I'm not sure, but there are days when I would give almost any monetary price to have that experience one more time.
And about my thievery. I certainly wasn't the first grandchild to do it and I wouldn't be the last. Somehow, I sense that Grandma knew what we were up to anyway.
It always seemed to be a risk worth taking. While Grandma and the others were preoccupied with more important things, I would sneak out to the backyard, pass the persimmon tree, and down the dark stairs that led to the basement cellar. Lifting the wooden chuck that had long since replaced the Yale lock on the door, I would silently enter the cold, damp confines of the dirt-floored depository of Grandma's jams, preserves, canned beans, and pickled corn.
The pickled corn! Her other treasures were of no importance to me, but her pickled corn was too mouth-watering for a country boy to pass up. Like a thief executing the greatest heist of history, I would stealthily make my way through the darkness to the large brown-and-white crock that was covered with cheesecloth. Almost delicately pulling the cloth aside, I would reach down into the briny fluid to retrieve an ear of the delectable delight. Not daring to be caught, I would hide in the shadows of that cellar and consume my prize much too quickly, considering that most of us like to savor our culinary favorites.
I have searched the world over trying to find pickled corn that could begin to match Grandma's. Most of it is pickled in jars today and simply cannot compare with the briny ears that sat and soaked in old crocks in those damp, dark cellars of the past. Oh, I have the pleasure of eating a whole pickled ear of corn now and then--there are still some folks who like to do it the old-fashioned way. But even then, none tastes as good as hers.
I wonder what the difference is. Was it just a young boy's first experience with a taste that suited his palate? Was it the thrill of a "stolen pleasure," pickled corn enhanced by the adrenalin rush? Or, is it simply that my taste buds have acquiesced to time and lost their acuteness? I'm not sure, but there are days when I would give almost any monetary price to have that experience one more time.
And about my thievery. I certainly wasn't the first grandchild to do it and I wouldn't be the last. Somehow, I sense that Grandma knew what we were up to anyway.
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