Author: Jon Gauger

She was the only kid in the McDonald’s Playland.

Apparently, it happens a lot.

Alexa is nine.  Her dad lives in one town, her mom in another,  17 miles away.  She was the only child in the McDonald’s Playland until we arrived with our two grandkids.   Though they are younger than Alexa, she chatted them up.  My wife and I, as well while we waited for our order.

By the time I arrived with our tray of food, Alexa had seated herself at our table and stayed there for the entire duration of our meal.  She seemed plenty hungry—but not for food.

“I’m a Video gamer,” blurted Alexa.  Her preference?  “Games where you shoot people.”  She does not tire of McDonald’s food, even though she spends many hours a week there.  “Yogurt is my favorite,” she informed.

Alexa wore a brightly colored shirt featuring a whimsical cat driving a yellow Volkswagen Beetle.  She pointed out her dad who was seated in a glassed off party room, some thirty feet away.  Dad was glued to his phone, which was glued to the wall, charging.

Following our meal, Alexa joined our two kids climbing the plastic structures and sliding through tubes.  When it was time to wrap up, Alexa had questions: “Are you leaving?  Why?  Are you coming back?”  We told her we’d come back, because we camp in the area.  “So you will come back?” she asked as much as stated.  And then it was time to leave.

My wife took our two grandkids to the bathroom as Alexa went to be with her dad.  She threaded her arm around his, as little girls do.  Leaned her head against his shoulder.  But she might as well have been invisible.  His phone was all he could see. 

I was now seated across from Alexa, 15 feet away holding the Happy Meal toys for our grandkids while they finished in the bathroom.  I waved at Alexa.  On the other side of the glass, she waved back.

Then it was my turn to visit the restroom.  When I came back, Alexa was no longer with her dad.  He was as I’d left him—glued to his phone.  She was now in the back of the place, in the play area.  Our eyes locked for just a moment, Alexa’s and mine.  I waved.  Her curled fingers waved back twice. 

Pretty sure she smiled. 

Pretty sure I teared up.

She was the only kid in the McDonald’s Playland.

Apparently, it happens a lot.

 

For my father and my mother have forsaken me, but the Lord will take me in.

–Psalms 27:10

History oozes out if its pores—literally.

On Chicago’s Michigan Avenue, the spire-topped Tribune Tower clutches at the sky. Every time I walk past, I can’t just walk past.  I linger.  Stare.  Ponder the wall of stories. 

Constructed in 1925, the imposing gothic icon is embedded with stone and brick fragments of impressive pedigree.  Built right into the walls of the Tribune Tower are actual pieces from…

• The Berlin Wall
• The Alamo
• Wartburg Castle

But that’s just the beginning.  Look further and you will find stones from:

• The White House
• Coliseum of Rome
• Temple in Jerusalem
• Great Pyramid of Giza

The question I have is the same one you have: How did they get these priceless artifacts?  Do you just write the Prime Minister of Italy and say, “Hey, we’re building something new on Michigan Avenue and we’d love to have a chunk of the Coliseum”?  Think about all the stories represented by those walls!

Back in 2560 B.C. when sweaty workers lugged the first stone of the Great Pyramid into place, nobody knew just how great the Great Pyramid would really be.

In 1067, when the last brick was troweled into Wartburg Castle, nobody knew that hundreds of years later within its walls, Martin Luther would translate the Bible into German.

Those stone workers who chiseled the foundation of the White House could never have foreseen the history that would unfold inside the structure they were building.

But here’s the most impressive truth of all. As a follower of Christ, nobody—absolutely nobody—can tell how grand a story God will write on the walls of your life.

You might not feel like much is going on right now as you try to serve Him faithfully. It might seem that there is little to nothing about your spiritual journey worth even noting.   But I’m sure the Eiffel Tower was not the least bit impressive in the early stages of its construction.  Ditto for the Tower of London.   And the Pentagon must have seemed downright odd until it was finished.

Rest assured, God is constructing a wall of stories in your life. Philippians 1:6 tells us precisely that:

“God is the one who began this good work in in you” (this good story!) “And I’m certain that He won’t stop before it is complete on the day that Christ Jesus returns” (CEV).

Next time you’re visiting the Windy City, make it a point to visit the Tribune Tower.  Don’t just walk by, either.  Touch the stones.  Feel the history.  And know that God is writing a story in the walls of your life, too!

What’s the best day you can recall? 

For me, it would be the day I married Diana. Unforgettable.  Our honeymoon trip to the tourist trap known as Wisconsin Dells is without doubt the most fun and the most fabulous memory I have.

(You who are more spiritually minded will have to forgive me for not mentioning the day I received Christ as my favorite day.  But I was such a little kid at the time, I sort of took it all in stride). 

For our daughter, Lynnette, her favorite day on the whole calendar is….can you guess?  Hint: It’s not Christmas,  Give up?  It’s the Fourth of July.  Her flags and bunting and red-white-and-blue decorations are up weeks before the big day.   She and her family wouldn’t dream of taking in just one fireworks show.  They go to several.

This year during Fourth of July celebrations, Lynnette commented happily, “This is the best day!”  With four little kids around, she never lacks for an audience.  Five-year-old Caleb heard his mom’s pronouncement and begged to differ.  In a respectful but forthright tone, he countered, “Actually, the best day is the day we get to heaven.” 

Ka-pow!    Score one point for the five-year-old. 

The very first second we are conscious in heaven, we will certainly conclude, “this is the best day.”  Perfect health. Perfect faith.  Perfect rest.  Best of all, we’ll enjoy a perfect Savior whom we’ll worship perfectly doing perfectly suited tasks in a perfect environment perfectly satisfied for ever and ever.   

Caleb reminds us of Paul’s happy assertion in  1 Corinthians 2:9: “This is what the Scriptures mean when they say, ‘No eye has seen, no ear has heard, and no mind has imagined what God has prepared for those who love Him.’”

No wonder Paul later declares in Philippians 1:23, “I'm torn between two desires” (going to heaven versus. remaining on earth). “I long to go and be with Christ, which would be far better for me.”

Next time somebody asks you about your favorite day, I dare you to resist choosing any date from your past.  Instead, point to the future.  Point to heaven. 

The words came through but didn’t quite register.

At exactly 1:47 on Tuesday afternoon an email arrived announcing that my father had died—”please pray for the family.”  But before I ever saw the email, my son Tim called and asked if I’d heard the “news.” 

Something wasn’t adding up, so I placed a quick call to the email source (a wonderful family friend) and learned that they had made an error in identifying the deceased.  The lost loved one in question was actually my aunt.   A follow up email was immediately sent out to correct the error.

Obviously, we are sad for the family of Dad’s sister.  They have lost a caring mother and there is a hole in their family that will never again quite be filled.  And Dad, of course, has lost a sister.  The day previous we’d paid our respects at the funeral home. 

Still, it was strange to think that others were now thinking someone was dead who was actually fully alive (these things have a way of taking a while to get sorted out).   But Dad is hardly the first to be mistaken for dead.

In May of 1897, American humorist Mark Twain was traveling in London when someone started the rumor that he had become gravely ill and died.  When questioned by a reporter about the story, the much-mustached Mark Twain quipped, “The reports of my deaths are greatly exaggerated.”

I couldn’t resist texting my Dad, “How does it feel to have been declared dead—and come back to life on the same day?”  His response is choice.  He simply quoted Paul:

“I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.”

The sobering truth is, whether our death announcement is premature—or on time—we shall all have one eventually.   But followers of Christ need not let this sobriety check send us into a dark funk.  Why?  Our lives here are but shadows.  We shall have all of heaven and all of Jesus for all of eternity!  Allow me to quote again from Paul who said,

For if we live, we live to the Lord, and if we die, we die to the Lord. So then, whether we live or whether we die, we are the Lord's. For to this end Christ died and lived again, that he might be Lord both of the dead and of the living.   —Romans 14:8,9

I belong to Christ.

Christ belongs to me.

Everything else—even death—is pocket change.

Everyone has heard of Anne Frank, the Jewish girl who died in a Nazi concentration camp.  Fewer have heard of Gena Goldfinger, the girl who nursed 15-year old Anne as she lay dying.

Before Gena's journey to the Bergen-Belsen concentration camp, she spent time at Auschwitz, where an apparent malfunction in a gas chamber spared her life.  But a brother was shot by the Nazi SS.  One of Gena's sisters was gunned down trying to smuggle food into the camp.  Another sister died a horrible death after being injected with gasoline by Dr. Mengele.  

But little Gena—not even ten years old—was a survivor, and she intended to stay that way.  At the time, an epidemic of typhus fever had swept throughout the Bergen-Belsen concentration camp where she and her mother had marched.  Hundreds died every day.

Gena, of course, saw the effects of the epidemic up close.  Determined to ensure her and her mother's survival, the plucky girl talked her way into a job at the camp hospital. 

As for Anne Frank, Gena remembers, "She was delirious, terrible, burning up." Gena brought water to Anne in an attempt to relieve her discomfort. 

"I washed her face, gave her water to drink," recalled Gena, whose bunk was around the corner from Anne's.  "I can still see that face, her hair, and how she looked."

Unlike Anne, who died three months shy of her 16th birthday, Gena survived and lived a long life after the war, leading school children in tours of the death camps in later years.  

She had lost three brothers and two sisters in the Holocaust—along with a friend named Anne Frank.

On June 7 of this month, at the age of 95, Gena passed away.  I look at her life and wonder—when I finally come to the end, will there be anyone who remembers me giving them a cup of water?  We may not be in a concentration camp, but the parched and dying are all around us, some of them even appearing healthy on the outside. 

In her famous diary, Anne Frank wrote, "How wonderful it is that nobody need wait a single moment before starting to improve the world."

Jesus said, "And if you give even a cup of cold water to one of the least of my followers, you will surely be rewarded."  –Matthew 10:42.

Know anyone who could use a cup of cold water?

How many balloons would it take to lift you off the ground?

I’ve wondered about this question since I was a kid. Staring at the Pixar movie, Up, did nothing but stoke my imagination.  Maybe you’re curious, too. 

Adventurist Tom Morgan was determined to find the answer to this question. He and some friends jetted to Botswana in southern Africa, having determined the wide open planes and plateaus were a perfect fit for their crazy experiment. 

Strapped into a chair, Tom’s team attached 86 very large (think five-feet in diameter) helium-filled balloons.  And then he lifted off, higher and higher.  And higher. 

According to an article in The Red Bulletin, Tom Morgan eventually climbed to an altitude of nearly 8200 feet, choosing to remain airborne for three hours. Then it was time to settle down to earth. Morgan touched down safely on terra firma, having traveled a lateral distance of fifteen miles.  “It was like I knew what I was doing,” he bemuses.

Can you imagine the vistas he drank in at more than 8000 feet?  Stretched before him, the carpet of the African Savanna.  The photographer in me drools at the thought of peering through the lens of my Nikon at such a height.

Imagine the panoramas that you could stitch together in PhotoShop!  Lacking the smog and smoke of more industrialized countries, you would hungrily eat up the sights of Botswana, never to forget this banquet of beauty.  You would constantly stare, turn, look—and look again.

This business of constantly looking takes me to a favorite verse, 2 Chronicles 16:9. “For the eyes of the Lord run to and fro throughout the whole earth, to give strong support to those whose heart is blameless toward him.”

Our God is not looking for beautiful scenery.  He’s already gone on record as giving approval to His creation (“and behold, it was very good”).   So what is  God really after?  “A heart that is blameless toward Him.” 

He’s looking, searching, to and fro.  His “camera” is ready.  The question is, what does He see when He stares at your heart?  At mine? 

Not long ago, a doctor insisted I get a scan of my heart.  I was afraid of what it might reveal.  To my relief, everything looked great.  Yet I’m sure a scan of my spiritual heart would reveal plenty of concerns.

A blameless heart is not just God-approved, it’s God-supported.  He wants to give “strong support to those whose heart is blameless toward Him.”

So…how’s your heart?

Have you ever felt the blast of a bear exhaling on your hand?   Happened to me a few days ago.

We were visiting a small town Wisconsin zoo and I found myself frustrated trying to take pictures of Bugaboo and Berryboo—a pair of Black Bears.  In addition to the very sturdy chain link fence that kept the bears where they belonged, there was a secondary fence that kept us back even further.  So taking pictures of the bears was more like taking pictures of the fence.

In talking with one of the animal trainers I explained my dilemma, suggesting that if I could jam the lens of my camera up against an opening in the fence, the pictures would be much better. Taking pity on me, she led me to a spot where I could do just that.

But Bugaboo immediately padded his nearly 400 pounds over, shoved his mug against the fence and began to sniff at us. Not exactly an ideal shot, because once again, the fence was in the way of the shot.

Fiddling with my camera, I could actually feel his warm exhale on my wrist. At one point the bear let out a jolting snort, and then I got a face full of his breath. Not hideous.  But not pleasant, either. We were that close.

Peering at Bugaboo from my side of the fence, it was tempting to think that maybe he wasn’t all that dangerous after all.  Hadn’t I seen the zoo keeper let him sniff the palm of her hand?  Maybe he wasn’t the fierce killer I’d been led to believe.

That silly way of thinking is the same road many of us foolishly travel down when we wrestle with sin. We reason, “it can actually be rather tame, so there’s no need for all the handwringing.”  Until we get bit—with all the force of a Black Bear (more biting power than a leopard, a cougar or a gray wolf).

2 Timothy 2:22 urges, “So flee youthful passions and pursue righteousness, faith, love and peace….”

There’s a reason for the fence that God has set up as a barrier against sin.

Tame looking or not, we’d best remember that sin—all sin—is ferocious and deadly.  Soft fur coat and his cuddly name notwithstanding, Bugaboo will always be a killer.  Just like sin.

"This whole flap about fake news makes me laugh,” said my friend and armchair philosopher Jack.

“What’s funny about fake news?” I queried.

“The very name.  No such thing as fake news,” he insisted, removing his Chicago Cubs hat for a moment and scratching the side of his head.  “There’s truth and lies.  But in a culture that has cut ties with truth, the whole fake news brouhaha is hardly surprising.”

“What do you mean we’ve ‘cut ties with the truth?” I fired back. “That’s a pretty harsh statement.”

“Agreed. But when you dismiss the very idea of absolute truth, as our culture did years ago, you set up a pitch that nobody can hit.”

“Not sure I’m making the connection here, Jack” I allowed.

“Truth ain’t like a buffet,” intoned my baseball-loving friend, switching from baseball to food metaphors as he unzipped his officially licensed blue Cubs windbreaker. “You can’t choose some truth and then refuse the idea of absolute truth.   Because if some things aren’t true for all people all the time, then there’s no basis for calling anything true.  Nobody figured that when we bagged the idea of absolute truth, we’d eliminate the idea of truth itself.”

“Never thought of that, Jack,” I allowed.  “Tell me more.”

“It’s like someone saying, ‘A foot-long ruler doesn’t necessarily have to be 12 inches.  It can be whatever you want it to be.’  But then that same bloke comes back all in a huff two days later with a tape measure to prove his neighbor has built a fence on the wrong side of the property line.  But his offending neighbor fires back, ‘A ruler can be whatever you want it to be. My truth is my truth—-and yours is yours.’  Toss out the concept of absolute truth and you lose your authority to say anything is right or wrong.”

“Makes sense.  But it’s kinda scary.”

“Very. People in our culture claim to value scientific facts, but when those facts don’t line up with their version of the ‘truth,’ they often dismiss them.  So logic and reason and fact-based evidence are all tossed out in favor of “narrative” and “experience” and “cultural plurality.”    If enough of us believe something, then it becomes truth.  And if enough of us disbelieve something, then it becomes false.”

“So that’s why you say we’ve cut ties with the truth,” I muttered half to myself. Jack stood and zipped his windbreaker as I blurted out, “Is there any hope for truth then?  Any chance it can make a comeback?”

“Not likely” he said quietly.  “We’ve fallen far behind—and it’s late in the ninth.”  Jack adjusted his cap so the logo was centered.  “Then again, nobody thought the Cubs were gonna win the World Series.”

 

 

The train conductor has just punched my ticket.  Mike is his name.  He looks all snappy in his creased white shirt with the brass buttons, sporting a hat that bears the “Metra” rail logo.  A jangle of keys and the squawk of his radio define the man I’ve tried to get know a bit more than just “that conductor on the train.”

I greet Mike by name—and he knows mine as well.  Lost in thought, I stumble a moment when he asks how I’ve been doing.  The delay is just long enough that the conductor does the talking for me.  Mike suggests that I'm “living the dream.” 

Initially, I chuckle in polite agreement, as he moves on to the next passenger. Then the truth of his statement sinks in.  I am living the dream.   I’ve been forgiven by Almighty God, my sins paid for in full by a selfless Savior, and I am now indwelled by the Holy Spirit.  That’s living the dream.

I have the riches of God at my disposal, His storehouse of grace at my fingertips and unhindered, unending access to the throne room of the King of Kings.  That’s living the dream.

I have the love of Christ, the fellowship of the Holy Spirit, and the guaranteed protection of Almighty God Himself, 24 hours a day, 365 days a year.  That’s living the dream.

I have God’s personal assurance of unshakable peace so long as my mind is stayed upon Him. I have His promise of forgiveness, each and every time I confess—along with the stunning image that my sins are removed from me “as far as the east is from the west.”  That’s living the dream.

I have the bullet-proof promise of heaven when I die: unbroken fellowship with the One who made me for Himself… unstoppable joy… unfathomable riches… unimaginable beauty… unending new discoveries of His holiness.  That's living the dream!

In my half of the rail car there are at least 50 people texting, tweeting, reading, Facebooking and watching movies. They are being entertained for sure.  But how many of them can honestly say they are living the dream?

Are YOU?

Choking smoke, a shattered canopy and the eerie sound of wind against wings: pilot David Thomas Dinan was in trouble.  A Soviet MiG fighter had shredded his F-105 fighter over the jungles of Laos. When not riddled with bullets, an F-105—heavily used during the Vietnam War—could fly at Mach 2 and carry sixteen 750 pound bombs.

As the swept wing jet pancaked out of control there was no question it was time to bail. By all accounts, David T. Dinan successfully ejected from his aircraft.  Yet he died upon landing and his body was not recovered.

Leyland Sorensen, who served as an Air Force pararescueman was chosen for the mission.  Lowered by helicopter, his job was to bring back the injured and the dead.

But enemy gunfire erupted around Leyland’s helicopter and the rescuers were forced to abort their mission of recovering Dinan’s body.   Back at base, the rescue attempt would be rescheduled. 

Except, it never was.  Not that week.  Not the next month.  Not the next year. An administrative oversight?  Maybe.  No one knows.

But more than four decades later, when retired Air Force pararescueman Leyland Sorensen was invited to return to Laos aboard a C-17 and try to locate Dinan’s remains, he accepted the call of duty.

Imagine riding in a helicopter 45 years later over the very spot you’d been fired upon.  For three days they scoured a hillside they thought might be the place. Nothing.

On the third and final day allotted to the mission, they came upon a nylon pad that appeared to be from a parachute.  About 25 feet from the pad was more parachute material: a harness, buckles, and fabric.   They also found a locker key and a sock. 

Then came the miracle.  Lying on the ground was a laminated military ID card, caked with dirt.  The name was partially visible: “David T….”

A subsequent recovery team discovered the rest of David T. Dinan’s remains.  Last month, he was finally laid to rest at home in the U.S.—forty-five years after the first rescue was attempted.

To me, this is more than a powerful Memorial Day story.  It reminds me of what Christ did to bring us to God.  He traveled all the way from heaven to earth,  enduring deadly attacks from a savage enemy.  Christ ultimately gave up His own life to extract us from the wreckage of our sinful state. We who were “dead in trespasses and sins” have now been made alive through the sacrifice of Christ.

What a rescue!  What a Savior!