Author: Jon Gauger

As she peered out the hospital window, angry skies warned Dory it was time to leave her husband with the doctors and head home.  Not easily done. He’d had a heart attack five days earlier.

Climbing into her four-door Chevy, she cruised down to the ferry that would float her across the lake from Mountain Home to Gamaliel—hopefully before the worst of the Arkansas storm hit. At about 6:30, she turned into her driveway, hurried inside and changed into her nightgown, and then put a piece of meat in the frying pan and set it on the stove. 

At 6:55pm, Dory’s watch stopped.  That’s when the tornado exploded her home, lifting her above 50-foot trees, ultimately tossing her body a thousand feet into the forest across the street. 

Concerned neighbors formed a search party, tromping through the woods, calling out Dory’s name.  Finally hearing a whimper, they placed her crumpled body on a bi-fold closet door, eventually getting her to the hospital.  The attending physician—the same doctor who had cared for her husband—announced that despite his team’s best efforts, Dory’s internal injuries were too many to overcome.  She was not yet 60. 

This all happened 50 years ago this week, back when my parents had six little kids to worry about.  Having just returned from Arkansas visiting his father in the hospital, my dad immediately returned—now for his mom’s funeral and to clean up the property.

“Clothes were scattered throughout the forest, their car buried under the rubble of what was a fireplace. One of mother’s quilts was found across the lake in a tree,” Dad recalls.

“Their refrigerator was blown nearly 200 feet across the road into a gulley where it sat upright.  One hinge was broken, but inside there was an egg carton with one fresh egg—unbroken.”  

Knowing that a shocking loss like this has soured many a man’s faith, I asked my dad how this devastation impacted his beliefs.  His reply: “Turning from God never entered my mind.  Mom was a strong Christian.  I knew I'd see her again. Was I sad?   You bet. Was I bitter? Not at all.  I felt sorry for my dad, of course. My attitudes and feelings were based on my faith in what the Bible says and who wrote it.”

Fifty years later, it’s difficult to think how hard it was for my dad and his dad.   In one storm, my grandfather lost his wife, and my dad lost his Mom. Hard to process.

Truth is, we live in a world where cancer often overcomes…where bullets kill …where car crashes turn deadly…where tornadoes blow up houses.  Yet as long as we have Christ, we have hope itself.  And not a flimsy, fuzzy vague religious notion, either. Hebrews 6:19 spells it out:

“We have this hope as an anchor for the soul, firm and secure.” 

That anchor, of course, is Jesus and His promise of eternal life for all those who know Him.

For now, we hurt.

Yet now, we have hope.

A hope that no tornado can ever blow away.

Had some thoughts last night that startled me out of that half-asleep stage.   Get this—I was shopping at a store—in heaven. The clerk was friendly enough.  But nevertheless, I was puzzled by the experience.

“What can we get you, sir?”  asked the guy behind the counter.

“A box of Kleenex” I replied.  

“A what?”

“Box of Kleenex.  You know, tissues.”

“Whatever for?”

“What for?” I stammered incredulously.  “For blowing my nose when I get a cold.”

“Not gonna happen. Didn’t you read the Book?  There’s no sickness up here.  No suffering.” 

“Well what if I…you know….cry at something sad. Not that as a guy I’d…”

“Not gonna happen:  ‘He will wipe away every tear from their eyes…’  Haven’t you read that?”

“Well yeah.  ‘Course.  But what about using the Kleenex for a dirty stain or a spot of mud?”

“Not gonna happen. Nothing impure will enter heaven.”

At that point I just sort of started looking up and around at the rather curious store.  The clerk smiled warmly and said, “You’re new up here, aren’t you?”  I nodded. He continued. “Well let me tell you what we do have in stock.  We’ve got kindness—available by the cubic yard.  We absolutely never run out of that.”

“What else do you sell?”

“Actually, we don’t sell anything here.  It’s all free.  All given away.   But to answer your question, we have grace.”

“I’ll take a gallon” I said.  “I could use a whole lot of grace.” He laughed again. 

“Mister, we could probably special order a gallon of grace but we don’t typically carry it in that small a quantity.  Up here, grace is generally measured in pools.  Swimming pools.  You’d call them Olympic-size from your earth days.” 

At this point, I was feeling a bit lightheaded. But having come this far, I figured I’d ask away. “What else do you have?”

“Mercy.  Available In three sizes.  Extra-large…Humongous…and Massively Mega.”

“So what would you say is one of your more popular items?” I couldn’t resist asking.

“That’s easy: righteousness.  Got plenty of peace around, too.  Flows like a river.  ‘Course all the fruits of the Spirit are here in abundant supply.  Oh—and there’s one other popular staple you should know we’ve got.”

The guy left a big ol’ hole in the conversation, so I played along and asked him, “Okay, so what’s your other popular staple?”

“Laughter,” he said with a chuckle.  Comes in one, two and three-ton shipments. And up here, there’s no cash and carry.  Just ask and receive.”

————-

There.  Now I’ve told you about my dream.  Hope you don’t think I’ve finally gone nuts.  And I hope it makes you long for heaven as much as it does me.

 

But as it is written: “Eye has not seen, nor ear heard, Nor have entered into the heart of man the things which God has prepared for those who love Him.  –1 Cor. 2:9

There are two kinds of grandparents.  There are those who live by the “show up, sugar them up and send them home” philosophy.   Then there are others—like me—who find every parting sad.  I'm never glad to see the grandkids go.  Never.  Does that make me sappy?  Probably. 

So there we were, putting on our shoes and getting ready to leave after a nice visit with four of our little buddies.  That familiar wave of melancholy was washing over.  Yet the silver lining was the fact that later in the week, we’d be watching the grandkids while their parents traveled out of state.   Naturally, the kids had been told about all this.

When you are four and have to wait—for anything—an hour feels like a day.  A day feels like a week.  And a week feels like a whole month.  Lacing her little arm through mine, four-year-old Lucy was definitely doing some processing.

As she lavished hug after generous hug, Lucy abruptly brightened and announced, “I don’t have to miss you too much!  I’ll see you in a few more days!” 

From a time-keeping standpoint, she was absolutely right.   But for me, it opened up an unexpected window into a longer look at time: death and eternity.

Who among us isn’t missing someone?  A mom who lost her battle with cancer…a daughter whose life was snuffed out in a car crash…a grandpa whose heart just plain wore out.  We miss them.  Grieve their absence.

Could it be, though, that we look at loss from a warped perspective?  Those who have gone before us and loved Jesus—we really will see them again—and soon! 

Meaning we can say with Lucy, “I don’t have to miss you too much!  I’ll see you in a few more days.”  The truth is, the need for Kleenex is coming to an end—and fast!

1 Corinthians 15:52 reaches out to us with all of Lucy’s happy eagerness when it proclaims, “In a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet; for the trumpet will sound, and the dead will be raised imperishable, and we will be changed.”

Those loved ones now gone–we miss them.  We ought to.  But not to the point of devastation. 

Let’s learn to celebrate with Lucy, “I don’t have to miss you too much!  I’ll see you in a few more days.”

To visit Bureau County, Illinois is to unplug.

You unplug from the roar of incessant traffic.  Instead you find yourself on roads where you are as likely to encounter a deer as another vehicle.

You unplug from a terrain of cement and asphalt, trading that in for farmland and grass and stands of ancient trees.

You unplug from the density of urban living.  There are more people living in my Chicago suburb than in all the towns that make up Bureau County combined. 

You unplug from the cocooned way of life that cautions us against waving to strangers or being too open with anyone about anything.  People in Bureau County wave whether they know you or not (which they probably do).

One of Bureau County's greatest treasures is the Kasbeer Community Church, parked just off of Route 26.  Here, I married my wife, Diana. Climbing the stairs into the entryway, I found it reassuring to observe that the pews and cushions and carpet and piano were all there, all the same, just as I remember them.

By my count, there were 21 of us attending services a couple Sundays ago. The Kasbeer Community Church has certainly seen larger crowds, but those who were there were definitely blessed.  We unplugged from the Chris Tomlin culture of worship and instead sang this:

The Lord's our Rock; in Him we hide,

A Shelter in the time of storm;

Secure whatever ill betide,

A Shelter in the time of storm.

O Jesus is a Rock in a weary land,

A weary land, a weary land;

O Jesus is a Rock in a weary land –

A Shelter in the time of storm.

 

There is something real and right about singing an old hymn in an old church.  But beyond the nostalgia, I found myself almost overwhelmed by the weight of the song lyric. 

If ever there was a weary land, it is ours.

If ever there was a time of storm, it is now.

The shelter for that storm is—and will always be—Jesus.  But to really get close, we have to unplug first.

One of the cool things with which God has blessed me is the opportunity to narrate audio books.  The most recent project is a book by Ed Silvoso titled, Prayer Evangelism.  While in “normal life,” I really love to read (a passion my wife, Diana and I share) forgive me for admitting that after six or seven hours in a studio, reading in front of a microphone is more like a job than a pleasure. 

But narrating page 39 of Prayer Evangelism, I was slammed, smacked, and convicted.  So much so, that I took out my phone and took a picture of the iPad screen so I could refer to Ed’s words again.   Here’s what he wrote:

We need to declare peace because we, as Christians, have been at war with the lost. Too often, “Repent or burn” is the banner under which we approach the unsaved of this world. Unfortunately, we have a tendency to strongly dislike sinners, and this soon becomes obvious to them.

I became aware of my own belligerence toward the lost the first time I tried to implement Luke 10 in our neighborhood. Instead of claiming the promises of God to deal with the problems I saw in my neighbors’ lives, I told God about everything that was wrong with these people. I talked to Him in disgust about the unwed mother and how she had to change because she was such a bad example to my daughters. I demanded that He do something about the couple who kept us awake at night with their arguing and fighting. I complained about the depressive neighbor whose front yard was a disgrace and a bane to real estate values on our block. And of course I did not forget about the teenager on drugs. I made it perfectly clear to the Lord what a detriment this young man was to our neighborhood.

All of a sudden, I sensed God saying, “Ed, I am so glad you have not witnessed to any of these yet.”

Surprised, I asked, “Lord, why is that?”

His reply was very sobering: “Because I don’t want your neighbors to know that you and I are related. I hurt when they hurt. I reach out to them. I constantly extend grace to them. I am the God who causes the sun to rise over the righteous and unrighteous alike. I love them. But you don’t. You resent them.”

——————————-

Ouch!  I feel Ed’s pain.  Because it’s my pain, my sin.  And maybe it’s yours, too.  It’s time to end the “wars”—all of them.  It’s time to start the peace.  Let’s quit judging unsaved people for acting unsaved!  Let’s learn to give them Jesus’ favorite gift—mercy.

Acts 2:21, “And everyone who calls on the name of the Lord will be saved.”

Walked into the Apple store the other day.  Wanted to take advantage of their special $29 battery replacement offer, as my iPhone is several years old.  So we dropped it off and perused mall stores selling products considerably beyond our income or station in life (among them a Tesla in which I dreamily sat).

When we came back to claim the phone, I was informed Apple refused to replace the battery because the phone had been exposed to water—which is true. About a year ago, I wrote of this disaster in The Thursday Thought. 

But in the kindness of Jesus, the phone came back to life and has functioned perfectly in the year since. Not a hint of trouble of any kind from my quick dip in the lake.  Like all phones, though, the battery only allows so many recharge cycles before it fades. Time for new.

As tech savvy readers know, Apple incorporates a small sensor inside the phone case that turns colors once it detects water damage.  A technician told me my phone was “stained.” 

I couldn’t argue the assessment. Guilty as charged.  Yet it all felt so harsh.  So final. No hope.  No second chance. Be gone!

It seemed to me a sad metaphor for the state in which sin leaves us: guilty—and stained. Like my incident in the lake, there’s no use in denying my culpability, my wrong doing. The sad truth is, I’ve stacked up a lifetime of selfish choices (the Bible word is “sin”).  

We are stained—every one of us—and therefore barred from the possibility of heaven and a right relationship with God. Like my fate at the Apple store, there was no hope for any of us.  No second chances.  Here’s how God assesses the situation:

“Although you wash yourself with soap and use an abundance of cleansing powder, the stain of your guilt is still before me,” declares the Sovereign Lord” (Jeremiah 2:22).   

But unlike my misadventure at the Apple store, the story doesn’t end there.  When Jesus died on the cross, He offered us the choice to be made clean by receiving the twin gifts of His forgiveness and assurance of eternal life. Consider I Corinthians 6:11, “But now you have had every stain washed off.  Now you have been set apart as holy.  Now you have been pronounced free from guilt, in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ and through the Spirit of our God.”

That’s not just good news. That’s great news. Way better than a new phone battery!

Did you ever destroy a musical performance? I have. 

Once when our family traveled as the Gauger Brass, we provided music for more than a thousand people at a banquet in Dayton, Ohio.  I was tasked with giving the pitch for a certain song which started with acapella vocals—simple.  But the note I played was one half-step off.  When the instruments started playing their accompaniment, it all sounded rather hideous.  Concert demolished!

A friend recalls attending a performance of Handle’s Messiah where one of the soloists—a baritone—began the evening with a polite smile on his face. Yet as the lengthy instrumental introduction to his solo went on, the gentleman grew less serene.   Gone was the smile, replaced by a furrowed brow. As the orchestral strains continued,  his mood turned to fear.  Then terror.  Abruptly, the confused soloist stood up and just started singing his part (nowhere near his proper entrance), while the conductor valiantly sought to put the whole thing back on track.

Having just come through the Easter season playing French horn with our church orchestra, I’m reminded that hitting the high notes without squawking is only half the battle.  Maybe the easy half.  The other half is keeping track of when you are supposed to play.  Or not play!

A lifetime of counting measures has brought about a simplified theology of living the Christian life. It goes like this:

• Stay focused so you know where you’re at.
• Play your part when you’re supposed to.
• Don't play when it’s not your turn.
• When it is your turn, do your very best.
• Watch quietly for your next turn.

When you think about it, that’s really all God is asking of any of us, isn’t it? 

Be focused.  Be ready. Be patient.  Our Conductor knows the score!

 

 

I have a problem. Maybe you’ve got the same one.  It has to do with our worship.  Can we talk?

Most of us really love to sing. Love to wave our hands in worship.  But we seem to have little capacity for something that Scripture says is a big deal: trembling in the presence of our holy God. That part of worship has largely evaded us.

In our Java-with-Jesus culture, God is increasingly portrayed merely as a benevolent friend.  But He is much more than that.

Hebrews 12:29 reminds us our God is “a consuming fire.” We are told in 1 Timothy 6:16 that He “dwells in unapproachable light.”  In Revelation 19:15 it says of Jesus, “From his mouth comes a sharp sword so that with it He may strike down the nations.” 

Psalms 114:7 urges, “Tremble, O earth, before the Lord, before the God of Jacob.”  Doesn’t sound to me like this is optional behavior.  Indeed, Philippians 2:12  commands us to work out our salvation “with fear and trembling.” 

A consuming fire…unapproachable light…a sharp sword. Did you read that?  So where’s the trembling in our times?

Isaiah 66:2 further clarifies, “This is the one I esteem; he who is humble and contrite in spirit, and trembles at my word.”

So I ask again, where’s the tremble?  Our tremble?

I suggest we do not tremble for one of two reasons.  Either we are ignorant of who God is, or we do know and are so arrogant that we simply don’t care, which is just plain reckless.  It seems to me we had better find our misplaced sense of caution.

Because the I Am has not become the "I was."

Because the Almighty has not become the “some mighty.” 

Because He’s not the duke of dudes—He’s the King of kings!

Where's your tremble?  Where’s my tremble?  The refrain of the old spiritual is a corrective we desperately need: Sometimes it causes me to tremble…tremble…tremble.

Ignorant, arrogant, or full of tremble.  

Which are you?

“As snowmen go, it was borderline pathetic.” 

Right then, I knew there was more to this story.  There always is with my friend, Jack. He immediately launched into a description of a snow creature that bore no resemblance whatsoever to the fabled Frosty.  

“The middle section was lopsided. The head was too small.  The pinecone nose looked goofy.”  Jack shook his head with a chuckle.

And what exactly was the occasion for this snowy silliness?  “We had an overnight visit from our nine-year old granddaughter, so we wanted her to have a little fun.”  The Windy City having lived up to its name, a dramatic mid-March snow blanketed the lawn. 

“‘Can we go out and throw snowballs?’ she asked me.  And really, it was the last thing I wanted to do right then,” admitted Jack.   “But I didn’t have the heart to say no. She is nine, ya know,” he said wistfully.   “Won’t be too much longer and staying at our house won’t be cool anymore.”

So out they went into the snow. First there was a sled ride, then there were was a snowball fight.  Finally there came the idea for the snowman. 

“There just wasn’t all that much snow on the ground, so we really had to work at it.  Believe me, I was sweating by the time that big bottom boulder was finally done,” Jack acknowledged. Even then the thing wasn’t right. 

Instead of three symmetrically shaped spheres, there were misshapen lumps.  Instead of white snow, there was a mottled skin of leaves and dirt and pine needles. 

“Frosty would not have been proud,” said my friend.  But maybe Jack’s judgment was hasty. 

Ephesians 5:16 urges us, “Look carefully then how you walk, not as unwise but as wise, making the best use of the time, because the days are evil.”  From where I sit, it seems to me that a snowman and sled ride and snowballs with a nine-year-old truly represented the best use of Jack’s time.  It’s hard to envision Jesus—who insisted the disciples, “let the children come to me”—passing up such an opportunity.

“It was the last snowman of the season,” Jack mused.  “And who knows when we’ll build another?  She’s getting so big.  Nine years old….”   Abruptly, he grew quiet, and so did I. Started thinking of my own little grandkids.

Silence. More silence.  He whispered, “Ya know, there really is gonna come a day when we’ll have built our last snowman.”   And then Jack looked away, for which I was grateful.  My eyes were doing something that reminded me of melting snow.

 

Honestly, I was not trying to photobomb anyone.  The doors to the Metra train whooshed apart, and I padded down the steps into a dense crowd.

I’ve ridden the train for three decades now, so I instantly knew upon exiting that something was going on. It was somebody’s big moment.  Worthy of a photo or two.  Or three.  Flashes were firing and phones were clicking and there was laughter and a palpable excitement. 

Me, I was just trying to walk toward my car and get home. I didn’t want to pry, so I snaked my way through the crowd and found an exit.

In retrospect, I'm thinking there’s little doubt I showed up in several of the pictures those folks snapped.  I'm in the background, maybe half out of frame.  Or blurry.  Just a nameless section of wallpaper for somebody’s grand occasion. 

Have you ever thought about the people that show up in the background of the pictures you take?   To you, they are nameless, almost faceless. But every single one of them has a story—even as they “invade” your story.

Ponder with me the fact that you and I with our individual lives are definitely part of some kind of larger scene Jesus is directing.  At His invitation, we play a small part of His story.   But we are not the center of the action.  He is.  John had it right when he said of Jesus, “He must increase, but I must decrease.”

Just like a crowd scene wouldn’t be a crowd scene without lots of people, Jesus somehow has determined He wants us in the scene with Him.  But we dare not ever take His invitation as an assignment to the leading role.

We are background.  Jesus is foreground.

We are “extras.”  He is the star.

He must increase but you and I really must decrease. 

Anything else would be photobombing Jesus Himself!