Author: Jon Gauger

When you're two, being with Grandma and Grandpa is cool.

When you're ten—not so much.

Tim was at that awkward stage but never failed to hug his grandparents every visit. Wishing to reinforce good behavior, I once told him, "You know, I love the way you give such great hugs to Grandma and Grandpa. That's very nice of you! And I know they love, it too."

Timmy's reply: "Well, they won't be around forever. Someday they're going to die" (umm…a bit blunt, I thought). But what he said next, I have never forgotten: "That's why I always give a good goodbye."

Ironically, the elusive nature of life seems to elude most of us "sophisticated" adults. Proverbs 27:1 advises, "Do not boast about tomorrow, for you do not know what a day may bring." And James 4:14 reminds, "You are a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes." Meaning—you and I had better learn what it means to give a "good goodbye."

On a hot September night, I heard the echo of that ten-year-old boy's commitment to a "good goodbye" above the beeps and blips of medical equipment in an intensive care room. His wisdom prompted me to grab my mom's hand and stroke her arm. I told her I loved her. I quoted Psalms 91 and prayed with her. And then I kissed her goodbye.

My last.

But at least it was a good goodbye.

Let me ask you a question. When someone you love leaves, do you give them a good goodbye? Really? Is it the kind of goodbye you would be okay with if you never had another shot at it? If that phone call came in the middle of the night bearing the most shocking news, would you be okay with your last goodbye of a week or two ago? Standing there at the casket, would your previous goodbye comfort you, or would it haunt you?

If not, there's still time. Today. Now! So pick up the phone. Make that call. Send them a card or email or text!

Give everyone you love the gift of a good goodbye. And give it again every time as if each visit is the last. Because someday, it will be.

 

 

Lots more wisdom from kids to be found in the book, Kids Sayt the Wisest Things.  Get it half-off this Friday!

 

 

Before traveling to Vicente Guerrero in Mexico, I had never even heard of, let alone met, a Oaxacan. They are among the poorest of the poor.

Partly because of their “lowly” heritage and partly because they are indigenous, they are looked down upon by many, so they typically get the crummiest of the crummy jobs. If it’s dangerous or back-breaking or low paying, a Oaxacan is usually doing the task.  My daughter and I were there to learn about them and minister to them, under the care of a beautiful Mexican ministry.

Our host, David, told me that their team regularly delivered a tank of milk to give the kids in one neighborhood some much-needed nutrition. Would we want to drive out with their team, assist them, and help pour the milk? Of course!

The next day, the back of our van rattled, and we could hear the warmish milk sloshing the sides of the metal tub. An unkind gravel path demanded too much of tires, shocks, struts—and passengers. But finally, we arrived.

We were expected because the kids came crashing out of cardboard houses, tents, and other makeshift homes. Clutched in every child's hand was a plastic cup, many of them filthy.

Having been handed a pitcher, I squatted down, one knee in the dirt so that I could reach the kids and their cups. One little fellow cried out, “Mas! Mas!” Even I knew that meant he wanted more. So we gladly refilled his cup. Gulping the milk, he melted into the crowd behind me.

I was so busy filling cup after cup that at first I didn’t feel it. A small hand patted my shoulder. With the kind gesture came the sound of a little boy’s gentle voice: “Amigo!” He couldn’t have been more than four or five. I do not know his name. But he presumed to give me a name I felt I did not deserve—amigo.

My initial thought was, How could I possibly be your amigo? Wouldn’t I do much more with this Mexican ministry instead of showing up for a few days if I was really your amigo? The thought haunted me for years.

But as I now think about that hot morning when we poured warm milk into the cups of those poorest of the poor, Christ’s words come to mind: “And if anyone gives even a cup of cold water to one of these little ones . . . truly I tell you, that person will certainly not lose their reward” (Matt. 10:42).

The fact that we wish we should or could have done more does nothing to erase the smallest gesture of kindness we did perform. The least acts of charity matter—not just now, but for eternity! In the amazing economy of Jesus, even giving a cup of milk to a poor Oaxacan boy is noted and somehow marked for future reward!

I think that's a lesson Christ might have been trying to teach me through the voice of a little boy who, in the middle of a hot, dry Mexican morning, downed his second cup of milk, patted me gently on the shoulder, and gave me that kindest of names, “Amigo.” Maybe that’s a message you need to hear, too.

 

You’ll enjoy a generous collection of stories like this in Kids Say the Wisest Things.  Why not get your copy on Amazon!  And do me the kindness of leaving a review, would you?  Many thanks!

“We all wonder.”

The bold white letters against the black background make a big statement.  Maybe you’ve seen the billboards or web banners for the Explore God website.  The ministry addresses the fundamental questions most of us have about God, the Bible, and the Christian life. 

The other day, while boarding the train heading home from Chicago, I bumped into one of those very ads as I hiked up the steps into the passenger car.  Except, just underneath the message, “We all wonder,” someone had scratched in the rebuttal, “No we don’t.” 

And there it was—the argument of the ages.  

The smugness of that reply made me a bit queasy. Such an arrogance—”No we don’t (wonder).”

Actually, that graffiti artist probably speaks for a lot of people in our culture.  Though God has left us plenty of evidence—what theologians call general revelation—many do not wonder.

Ecclesiastes 3:11 proclaims God “has planted eternity in the human heart.”  And Psalms 19:11 trumpets the reality that “The heavens declare the glory of God.  The skies proclaim the work of His hands.”  Then there’s Romans 1:19 which declares, “That which is known about God is evident.”

Those who choose not to wonder about God do nothing to subtract from the insurmountable evidence that He exists.  And the path they are on leads to horrific disaster.

Do YOU wonder?

The fool has said in his heart, ‘There is no God.’

—Psalms 14:1

It's a big week for four-year-old Lucy.

At her church’s Vacation Bible School, she was challenged to receive Christ as her Savior—and she did!  One might not expect to see much dramatic life transformation in a four-year-old (not exactly a "life of sin" from which to turn away).  But one would be wrong.

Lucy is suddenly a fearless (if not fiery) preacher.  Her mother calls her an evangelist.   She regularly gets into the face of her two-year-old sister and proclaims, “Sadie, you need to make a decision!”  But Lucy’s gospel witness is more than lip service.

At the VBS, students hear daily talks from missionaries who serve in Papua New Guinea.  Lucy now bubbles over with tidbits about life in Papua New Guinea, and the vast needs they have there.

So taken is Lucy with the spiritual condition of Papua New Guinea and the enterprising work of the missionaries, she boldly announced to her mother that she wanted to give her money to “the Michigans.” 

With due respect to our Michigan readers, Lucy’s spiritual journey is worth noting.  She wants her money (not somebody else’s) to get to “the Michigans.”

Lucy is living proof:

When Jesus touches your heart, He also touches your wallet.

And maybe that’s the reason so many of us give so little—we’ve only let Him touch our hearts a little.  But if He’s touched us—really touched us—then we can’t help but give.

To the church.

To the homeless.

To “the Michigans."

A splash in the eye is what got my attention.

Huffing in the heat of the late morning, I gingerly hopped over several lines of train track coming out of Chicago’s Union train station.  Having cleared the last of the rails, something wet plopped on my head. 

The only place it could have come from was the high-rise off to my right, known as “The Residences at Riverbend.”  Currently, you can buy a one-bedroom condo for 404,900.  Need a little more elbow room?  A two-bedroom unit will set you back between $539,000 and $825,000.  But if you really want to spread out (and if you have just shy of a million bucks on hand), grab a three-bedroom unit.

I looked up and around and saw nothing that might have caused the splash on my face. Then I looked higher—and found the source.  Two squeegee-wielding window washers slathered suds on windows so high, I could barely make them out.

The Riverbend condo building is 37 stories tall.  Short by Chicago standards—but plenty high enough when you’re standing next to it.  Or washing windows outside of it!

Several hundred feet up, two men dangled from ropes whose knotted ends danced lazily on the sidewalk in front of me. The workers might as well have been ants on a distant limb. I paused.  Pondered.  Took pictures.   And zoomed in on these daredevils with my iPad camera.

Who in the world would do this?  Who would willingly suspend themselves several hundred feet above the pavement with nothing but a couple of ropes to guarantee their safety?  No doubt those ropes are reasonably reliable—but the hefty insurance premiums these workers pay bear testimony to the inherent danger.

A more sobering question then followed.  When it comes to eternal life, who in the world would be so foolish as to suspend themselves over the flimsy hope that God might let them into heaven if their good deeds outweigh their bad? 

Nowhere in Scripture do we find such a hope, but the idea is rampant in our culture.  Nothing less than receiving the forgiveness of Jesus and His rule over your life will grant you eternal life. 

Precisely what do you depend on to get you into heaven?

The Bible says, “These things I have written to you who believe in the name of Jesus Christ so that you may KNOW that you have eternal life.”

Are you dangling from a risky rope…or certain of eternal life?

Out at the camper, we inherited somebody else's deck. 

With the help of a lot of friends—and a John Deere tractor—we managed to move two 8×8 foot wooden sections to our site.  The repurposed deck then got a thorough power-washing.  The next step was…a step.  Actually, we needed to build three sets of steps.

Like most "morning" projects, the construction of those steps turned out to be an all-day affair.  So I measured, sawed, and fastened, all the while vaguely aware of a cloud of gnats swirling and swarming.

After taking a much-needed shower and changing into some comfortable clothes, I took a look in the mirror.  More than 24 bites encircled my neck (yup, I counted).  They grew red and slightly swollen—but didn't itch too severely.   Looking back, it struck me as odd that I had worked the entire day with only a vague sense of their presence.  That said, their bite marks were anything but vague. Amazing the damage a nearly invisible insect can inflict.

But isn't it also true of you and me that we cause the most damage to our treasured relationships—with small things?  Am I the only one with a history of hurting loved ones with small grunts of ingratitude, tiny criticisms, snippets of cynicism?

Haven't you found it true that you can often avoid the "big sins," but you cause great trouble with the small stuff—the gnats of life?  Ecclesiastes 10:1 says, "Dead flies make the perfumer's ointment give off a stench."  And James 3:6 points out that tiny tongue of yours is "a fire, a world of unrighteousness."

We Christian folks have a history of warning our kind about the big sins of life.  But I'm not sure we've adequately estimated the damage caused by "smaller sins." As they say, nobody ever woke up and decided to ruin their life—or someone else's.  But it happens.  A bit at a time.  A bite at a time.

Beware the gnats.

At Ben’s Pretzels, they mix flour, water, and salt—and make magic.

At Ben’s Pretzels, they thank you for stopping by calling out, “Have a pretzel day!”

At Ben’s Pretzels, you hear Christian music playing over the speakers and read Bible verses on the walls.

No visit to Shipshewana, Indiana would possibly be complete without a pretzel at Ben’s. As I’m blessed with a wife who agrees, we recently sat down to a steamy hot twist slathered in butter and bursting with bits of crunchy crystal salt.  

Munching while marveling at this delectable (but hardly diet-worthy) treat, my eye caught sight of an antique stove. To be precise, it was a “Direct Action Lorain Oven Heat Regulator”—circa 1920s.   Resting on top of its built-in pie rack were half a dozen Ball jars and two Bibles.

Nestled directly on top of its modest stovetop surface, I saw a boxy looking basket, along with some Post-it notes and pens.  A sign next to them read, “Need prayer?  Write it down and put it in the box.  God bless!” 

Know what? Quite a few people had written down prayer requests and put them in that basket. 

Got me to thinking. What if Christian-owned businesses everywhere started doing that?  What if Christian doctors had such a basket at the counter where you sign in for your appointment?  What if Christian lawyers welcomed prayer requests in a basket in their front offices? 

Observe that with such a basket, nobody is preaching a sermon.  Not even a sentence.  Just offering to pray.  

I get that certain businesses face restrictions.  I understand that for lots of reasons, lots of places couldn’t offer a prayer basket.  But some could.  Many could!  So why not today?

And if you don’t happen to own a business, why not offer to pray for someone you know is hurting?  We can—and should—pray for and with our unsaved friends.

Again—why not today?

When I first began preaching,  I ran every sermon outline by my friend and mentor, Mike Kellogg of Moody Radio.  Peering over his glasses, he matched his steely stare with a deep-throated warning I’ve never forgotten: “This had better be about the Bible.”  

Throughout my ordination process, that same truth chiseled itself into my soul.  In truth, I still think about it every time I’m crafting a sermon outline.   It is the yardstick I use to measure my own sermons—and those of others. 

A few weeks ago we traveled to Florida, our flight taking place during Sunday morning church hours.  Later that day, my wife and I decided we’d watch a sermon on the iPad. I selected a pastor whose book was released by the largest Christian publisher in America. 

We listened carefully, expecting solid Bible content.  But we heard precious little.  There were many stories and many good points and lots of good truths to ponder.  But most of the sermon could honestly have been transcribed and handed off for delivery by a secular self-help speaker.

Now don’t get me wrong.  I love stories.  At heart, I am little more than a story teller.  And stories are great.  Jesus told tons of them.  Yet when it comes to a Sunday morning message, I am keenly aware that my stories must never overshadow the Bible text, but instead, reinforce it or illustrate it. 

As a minister of the gospel, I am standing as God’s representative, opening God’s Word to God’s people.  This ought to put a holy fear into the hearts of those of us who would presume to preach.

Wondering if perhaps I was being a bit harsh on the iPad preacher, or if our initial impressions were wrong, I went back and watched that same sermon again—this time with a careful eye on the clock. 

The sermon itself was 35:06 in length. I ran a stopwatch app, noting every single instance the preacher either read from the Bible, referenced a passage, or tried to explain the passage. The most generous of measurements shows a maximum of 6:25 of actual Bible content.  Meaning just 19% of the message quoted or explained Scripture. 

In a day when 69% of churchgoers believe that everyone will go to heaven…In a day when 56% of churchgoers don’t believe that sharing their faith is an essential obligation of their Christian life…how can a sermon with 19% biblical content be okay?

It isn’t!

This Sunday, your church will feature a sermon. It had better be about the Bible

 

Preach the Word; be ready in season and out of season; reprove, rebuke, and exhort, with complete patience and teaching.        –2 Timothy 4:2

 

 

“I seen ‘em way before I got to the intersection,” recalled my friend, Jack.  “They were on the sidewalk just outside a Starbucks in downtown Chicago, waving iPads as they gestured.”  I knew a story was brewing with Jack. There always is.

“Who were they?” I asked, taking Jack’s bait.

“At first, I wasn’t sure. Since I go that way a lot, I figured it was probably an environmental group like Sierra.  You see them a lot.  Young folks hungry for conversations and contributions—mostly the latter,” Jack chuckled.

“So if it wasn’t Sierra, who was it?”

“The ACLU. That’s who.  Advocating to keep abortion legal.”

“So did you engage them or avoid them?”

“Actually, I wanted to yell at ‘em.  But that’s already been done—and with little impact.  Besides, it didn’t seem consistent with the What would Jesus do? bracelet I still wear.

“Okay, so you didn’t yell, Jack.  But what did you say?”

“For a long time, I just listened to the guy who’d cornered me. I wanted him to get the sense that I cared about him as a human—-that I respected him.  Everything in me wanted to argue.  But honestly, I believe the Holy Spirit was reigning me in.”

“Then what?”

“Then came a pause in the conversation, and he asked me what I thought.  I told him I had heard his perspective but was troubled by the medical reality that an unborn child has a beating heart and fingers and fingerprints very early on.  To abort such a little one seemed cruel.”

“Any response?”

“He made it clear he was comfortable with the idea of taking the life of an unborn kid.  It became obvious we were worlds apart in our thinking, and I knew things were drawing to a close when he stopped showing me stuff on his iPad.”

“So how did it end, Jack?”

“The conversation just naturally came to a close.  But here’s the thing”—Jack stuck his finger in my face. “Nobody yelled. In fact, I even complimented the guy.  Then we shook hands.”

“Very cool, Jack.”

 

Very cool, indeed.  In a culture that is as polarized as it is poisoned with vitriol, a follower of Jesus had a respectful conversation instead of a shouting match.  That sounds quite a bit like something Jesus would do.   Way to go, Jack!

Her name is Agnes. 

She misses her mother. 

 

The shards of her broken life frame a story that redfines tragedy.  I listened to bits and pieces as we sat in her third floor apartment outside of Chicago—a long way from her childhood home in Budapest, Hungary.  At the age of eleven, she awoke to the sound of a gunshot in her front yard, announcing the arrival of German storm troopers.  Black booted soldiers forced their way through the front door—in search of Agnes’ mother. 

 

One week previously, the Nazis hauled away her father in a similar early morning assault after which he was forced into a large truck transport heading for a death camp.  Ironically, the Nazis needed a Hungarian who spoke German to assist them with navigation.  Agnes’ father was fluent, so he volunteered.  Upon arrival, the Germans—perhaps as a thank you gesture—released him and he eventually made it back to Budapest. 

 

November 20, 1944. Agnes recalls that her mother was “herded away at gunpoint, bundled up in her Persian lamb coat with a backpack containing mere necessities.  She tried to put on a brave face as she kissed me goodbye.”

 

Agnes never saw her mother again. Not that she didn’t try.  “For years, I walked up and down streets looking for her.”  Nor was this to be Agnes’ only loss at the hands of the Nazis (her mother died of “natural causes” in a concentration camp. 

 

On a cold winter night, they took her aunt and uncle.  “Along with many others, they were taken to the shore of the icy Danube river where they were shot and left to die in the frigid water.”

 

Only later did she discover that their deaths at the banks of the river were as likely to be the result of drowning as gun fire.  “As ammunition dwindled, the Nazis improvised by wiring several people together before firing one shot…killing as many as ten people with one shot.  They had become masters at exterminating Jews.”

 

Peering into a black and white photo on the wall of her apartment, my eyes locked briefly with this couple whose lives were snuffed out.  I try but cannot process any of this emotionally.  

 

Proudly—and still with a smile—Agnes shows me a photo of her mother and father.  The smiling little kid—the one without a care in the world—is Agnes.  She lost that world nearly 75 years ago.  

 

How could it be that 75 years later one man—Hitler—is still causing so much pain to people like this lady?

 

Her name is Agnes. 

She misses her mother.  

Still.