Author: Jon Gauger

Candy wrappers. Beer cans.  McDonald’s packaging.  This kind of litter is seen everywhere in my daily quest for 10,000 steps.  But lately, I’ve noticed there’s a new trash in town: face masks.  Regardless of our opinions about their effectiveness, most of us would at least agree that those who wear them perceive them to be of great value.  Which makes me ask, why are there so many on the ground?  How could something potentially life-saving just tumble out of your pocket? Now, I myself have been guilty of stuffing one into my pants, only to have it flutter to the…

They asked me to shoot pictures at the birthday party.  And shoot pictures I did: posed groups, informal shots, family groupings, silly moments—some 462 photos in all. The heat and humidity were so smothering, it's a wonder the lens didn't fog over. Or melt shut.  Between shutter clicks, I recognized one of the relatives. We’ll call her Sarah.  Years ago, reliable sources told us Sarah and her husband had taken their kids to a Bible-believing church where they got involved in Awana.  But the kids were now in high school.  So was the family still actively attending? I took her…

Do you have the gift of discouragement? A surprising amount of people do!  They’re the ones who text or post things like: I don’t have the energy to pretend I like you today. Your call will be ignored in the order it was received. I don’t understand your specific kind of crazy, but I DO admire your total commitment to it. The gift of discouragement is everywhere, which is odd. Because most people already have enough of that: It's a relationship that burns as sandpaper rubbed across the back of your sunburned hand. It’s a job that eats at your…

Charlie Daniels—dead?  It can't be true!  Talk about a guy who was larger than life.  If you ever saw his iconic beard or watched him play the fiddle or heard him sing (country, rock, or Christian—he did it all), you never forgot him. A few years ago, Diana and I met Charlie Daniels as part of an interview for Moody Radio.  Like most truly great people, he was as humble and homespun as his blue jeans.  Jeans accompanied by a large brass belt buckle that read, "Jesus is Lord." Most of us know CD’s music—but not as many know that…

It’s one in the morning.  We are jolted awake by the sound of an alarm—our LP gas sensor.  What to do?  I remove the tanks from our camper and set them out in the yard. But the camper now wreaks of gas.  Is it safe to breathe?  Should we even be in the camper?  Are we an inch away from a Hollywood explosion? Ultimately, we spent most of the night in our minivan. Not exactly restful—but at least breathable. And safe. What was maddening was that over the weeks that followed, we continued to notice a sort of rotten egg…

To my way of thinking, it’s the worst part of Coronavirus: wearing a face mask.  No matter how it’s made—and despite claims to the contrary—a face mask is hot, confining and uncomfortable. It’s also one more thing you have to remember to take with you the second you leave home.     I’m intrigued by the creativity, though, that people have injected into this new tradition. You see all kinds of face masks—have you noticed? Some feature the logo of a favorite sports team.  Or a sticker.  Or the colors of a favorite university.     I’ve noticed that if you…

They say that troubles and tragedies come in threes.  First, there was the washing machine.  Aged and infirmed, it died an inconvenient death when we were in the middle of building a room addition and were stretched for cash. The next week, on a  bitterly cold night, we woke to the sound of our smoke detectors.  It was our furnace—nearly melted and ready to explode.  Replacement cost: five thousand dollars. A 66-passenger school bus rammed into our car just one week later, totaling the thing—another few thousand bucks we didn't have.  Though there were no injuries on the bus (which…

There’s magic in those undulating waves of orange and red.  Magic in the mesmerizing dance of smoke and ash.  Sitting around a campfire conjures up an uncommon sense of tranquility.  That tranquility, of course, ebbs and flows when little tykes are around.  Noting the many little ones enjoying the fire with us, my dad started tossing out single-serve packages of M&Ms.  The kids happily snatched them up—all except Ava. Bundled in a blanket on my wife’s lap, Ava was easy to overlook.  Noting the grand fortune that the other kids were enjoying, she unbundled herself, a three-year-old on a mission. …

I miss the fringe kids. The ones with the Mohawk haircuts.  The ones that wore spiked collars and weird shirts.   Somewhere along the way, we got swept into the high school ministry as small group leaders.  The students in our group didn’t come from church. At first, it was jarring learning about the boy with severe depression, abusing his medicine.  Or the girl with sexual orientation issues. Every one of these fringe kids had a story—and they were mostly all quite sad. But over time, we got to know them.  More than that, we loved them.  So the weird hair…

“It seemed like an ordinary day at first,” said my friend Jack. “Then we got the call.” “What call?” I asked, knowing a story was brewing. “A call to visit Eddie and his family—immediately.” “Why the rush?” "Hospice had moved in, and his kidneys were shutting down after a bout with cancer." “Did you know Eddie well?” “Well enough to know he didn’t seem to know Jesus.  Eddie was bony and drugged.  He slept mostly, while his two boys took turns stroking his arms or shoulder. Occasionally, they were able to rouse Eddie to share a quick memory or funny…