Author: Jon Gauger

It was cancer, they said.

Didn't have long to live, they said.

So we began praying for George (not his real name) from my wife's side of the family.   George, age 59, had lived his entire life apart from God.  Some drinks.  Some divorces.  He was irreligious, irreverent and fully cognizant he was in his last weeks of life.

A family member suggested my wife send him a Christmas card.  So she found one that presented the essence of the salvation message, and included our little family newsletter, which also pointed to Christ.

At night—every night—Diana and I prayed urgently for George, that he would have his eyes opened, spiritually, and that he would receive Christ in his last days. It would be a lie to say that I had great faith.  Some faith, sure, but not the kind of faith I should have.

When the call came that George had died, along with it came details for the funeral. A two hour drive into rural Illinois brought us to the funeral home, where a minister made the claim that George was in heaven (“Liberal pastor for sure!” I grumbled to myself, oddly comfortable with my cynicism).

Yet the pastor went on to relate how he had visited George in his home, clearly explained the gospel message, and that both George AND his wife boldly stated their desire to receive Christ.  They prayed together!

Here was a man dangled close enough over Hell, his feet could have smelled of brimstone.  And yet….and yet….God snatched him away. His mercy and goodness and kindness and gentle call pursued this man to the literal midnight hour.

I am dumbfounded.

Forgive my lack of faith, Lord.

Me–who claims to believe–forgive my unbelief.

 

Amazing grace.

How sweet the sound

That saved a wretch like George…

                                                    …And me.

If dogs make you nervous, make no plans to visit the country of Romania.  For whatever reason, the nation is loaded with dogs—stray dogs.  When you go for a walk, or get out of a car, or head to the store, you cannot escape them—scruffy, matted, but usually harmless.

In the capital city of Bucharest alone, there are an estimated 65,000 wild dogs—enough to fill Ford Field in Detroit or the Alamo dome in San Antonio (imagine the sound of their collective barking).

In Romania, 9,760 people were reportedly bitten by the stray dogs last year.  Nationally, experts believe there are some 500,000 stray dogs in Romania.  One stray dog for every 40 people.

If the same dog-to-human ratio were replicated in the U.S., we would have nearly nine million stray dogs trotting around the country.  A population larger than Chicago, Boston, Denver, San Francisco, and Nashville—combined.

The question, of course, is why so many stray dogs?  Our friend, Laura, from Ploesti, told us the most likely explanation is that when Dictator Nicolai Ceausescu bulldozed tens of thousands of homes with nice grassy yards and forced the people to live in tiny apartment buildings, they no longer had room for their dogs.  Rather than destroy these pets, the animals were simply abandoned. Those dogs, of course, multiplied and now we have Rovers roaming Romania in huge numbers.

Dogs are not without mention in Scripture.  They are at times shown as voracious consumers–Ahab's wife, Jezebel, was literally eaten by dogs.   At other times, as in the story of poor Lazarus, they offer comfort—licking our wounds.

In Matthew 7:6 Jesus said, “Do not give what is holy to dogs.”  So while we cannot solve the problem of dogs in Romania, the greater concern for Christ followers is that we develop a spiritual sensitivity that prevents us from offering holy things to people who are as spiritually senseless… as a wild dog.

Call me obsessive compulsive, but I like to celebrate the new.

I remember the distinct smell of new pencils in first grade.  Or the smell of new erasers (“Pink Pearl” was the brand to buy).

Over the years, I've always loved the sheen on a new book cover—and have gone to great lengths to preserve my books.  I want the covers to look new.  Forever.

A particular peeve of my mine is when I loan someone a magazine or book and they bend back the cover on itself.   Or bend page corners as a book mark.

We once bought a new storm door that was installed with its protective plastic shrink wrap.    It looked so nice and the plastic actually seemed to be keeping the door clean, so we (I) decided to leave it on.  A month passed.  A year.  Then another.

When the plastic had grown gray collecting dust and dirt, I was asked (by a very patient wife) to please remove it.  But season after season of heat and humidity had made a glue (or more accurately, goo) out of the thing.   It took hours of scraping with a heat gun to finally clean it all off.

I look at a new life—our granddaughter, Lucy's, for example—and I ponder the fact that apart from typical one-year-old tantrums, her soul is essentially “clean and shiny.”  New, if you will.

But then there are the rest of us.  With some miles on us.  Some dirt on us.  Some I'm-not-new-anymore all over us.  We're covered in gray guilt we cannot scrape off.  Inside, we long for a clean slate. A new slate, even.

Did you know it's yours for the asking?

The Bible says, “If anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation.  The old has passed away.  Behold, the new has come” (2 Corinthians 5:17).

Here we are at the start of a new year.  Why not get that new life Jesus offers for yourself?  If you've got questions, talk to a friend now at 888-NEED-HIM.  And if you've already received Christ, let's celebrate that through His forgiveness we are made new.  Every day.

Have you ever given a toy that made you laugh?

One week before Christmas, Diana and I launched out into our day-long shopping extravaganza.  We’ve got a lot of “little people” on our list to buy for, so we headed straight for the toy section, where we were captured by the sound of two babies giggling.

My sweet Love—Baby Kisses sat on the shelf blowing kisses and giggling, apparently activated by light or motion.  My sweet Love—Giggling Baby offered her own lovely laughter.

Unable to resist, we plopped one of each into the cart, rolling off in pursuit of the rest of the gifts on our list. But every time we placed something else in the cart, we heard laughter.

In one aisle, we passed a young mom with two kids.  They all heard the giggling—and it brought them a smile.  Rolling down the check-out belt, the dolls giggled—as did our cashier.

By now I referred to the toys as “girls” and actually spoke to them (they giggled back to us as we rolled the cart across the parking lot). Laughed the entire ride home with every bump or turn.

Back home, I was sad to have to finally cover them in wrapping paper. But even after wrapping the girls—I mean dolls—they giggled.  You could actually see the colored paper bulging out the sides as the one attempted to blow kisses.

You know, I’m sure there were times when baby Jesus giggled…which made Mary giggle…which made Joseph giggle. And I wonder—I wonder—if God the Father giggled.  I have no verse or chapter to quote on any of this, mind you. 

Yet I do know this much: The angel declared, “good tidings of great joy which shall be for all people.”   Seems to me joy—and laughter—are never too far apart.

We live in dark times, to be sure.

We do not lack for objects of angst.

But should any of that—or the sum total of that—drown out the joy?  I say, no!

In fact, I think I hear…laughter!

More than half.

That's how much of my monthly paycheck our mortgage cost when Diana and I were first married.  The little two-bedroom ranch was all we could afford and there simply wasn't much left over for things like winter coats.  

As I recall, the early winter was unusually harsh, even by Chicago standards, and I needed a new coat.  What I was wearing was embarrassing to look at it, and insufficient for the three miles a day I walked in the Windy City.   Second hand stores weren't as available then, so we trudged through the mall.

I can still see its crisp outline on the rack —woolen gray and with a black collar.  The coat fit me beautifully.  The price did not.  So we put $10 down in layaway, hoping for a miracle—or at least some extra cash.

The cash never came and Christmas was looming.  I'd scraped a few dollars together for some gifts, but needed more money to buy Diana her present.   The only charge card I owned at the time was for Sears (not accepted at the coat store).

There was only one thing left to do.  Giving up on the coat was tough.  But the $10 redeemed back from layaway came in handy (remember, this was 30 years ago).

Christmas came and Diana and I had a special time, just being together.  After we exchanged gifts, Diana quietly announced there was one more.  I was told to open the living room closet.

You've guessed the story's ending.  But I promise you, you could never guess how profound a moment that was—and is—thirty years later.  Shocking kindness. Extravagant selflessness.

Three decades later, that gray coat is now worn and old.

But as it will always a have place in my heart, it will always have a place in our home.

I'll show it to you, next time you visit.

And Diana, for your many many lavish gifts of love—at Christmas and throughout the years—I say thank you and thank you again.  I love you!

Tough choices. 
Life is full of them.
 
I faced one at the airport in Timisoara, Romania.  We'd finished a major “Global Partners Training” event with about 150 Christian media professionals.  Flying on to Bucharest to visit friends, I now toted a (massive) bright red suitcase that was entirely empty–but not quite big enough to nest my second suitcase.
 
On the trip over, it was loaded with supplies for the conference, all properly distributed.  But now, the airline wanted $75 to transport it to Bucharest.  It would cost another $75 to haul the hollow box home to Chicago.   Given that I'd discovered “Bid Red” in the trash and that it's telescoping handle was no longer in the mood to telescope, it seemed like a no-brainer that I just abandon Big Red.
 
Still, I struggled.  My heart finally yielded to my head and I let the airline counter know that I would be leaving the thing there (no need to bring out the bomb squad!). 
 
Before condemning Big Red to a corner at the airline terminal, I removed every personal tag and double checked its many zippered pockets (something I apparently had never done since I picked the thing out of the garbage).  To my shock, I discovered things I had no idea were inside: the cover of a bike manual, a large folded poster of some Italian soccer team, and (forgive me, sensitive readers) a woman’s undergarment. 
 
Consider that I'd been toting Big Red all over Romania.  The same suitcase had made a trip to Ghana, West Africa a few months earlier.  Who knew I was carrying around all this unwanted stuff?  (Guess I….ur….should be more careful about luggage sitting out on the curb, eh?). 
 
May I ask you a question?  Is it possible you are carrying around stuff you had no idea was actually weighing you down? Stuff that shouldn’t belong to you as a follower of Jesus.   Stuff you've lugged around for a long time, maybe?
 
Jesus asked, “What should it profit a man if he gain the whole world and lose his soul?”
 
Maybe it's time to get rid of the baggage.
 

To travel internationally is to make mistakes.

Mine are made in every category imaginable: mistakes in language, social etiquette, public decorum—you name it.  I'm sure I've managed to embarrass myself a dozen different ways as I've traveled recently through Turkey, Romania and Ghana.

Navigating airport terminals, I'm intrigued with the incredible difference that a tiny word change can make in the finesse of language and communication.  

For example, flying Turkish airlines to Istanbul, we repeatedly heard cabin announcements as follows: “Ladies and gentlemen and dear kids….”  I loved the “dear kids” reference.  Charming.  Yet it made me think—do we really see our children as “dear”?   Or are they often simply a drain on us?

Flying out of the Bucharest airport, I heard the following message over the P.A. System:  “Passengers are urgently invited to board flight number….”  At first, the announcement struck me as quaint, even cute.  In the U.S, we don't “urgently invite” anyone to do anything.  We would urgently request but not “urgently invite.”

The slight difference is telling.

Peering out the window of Germany's Frankfurt airport, I noodled on all of this. Consider the language of Revelation 3:20—an “announcement” of sorts from Jesus Himself.  “Here I am! I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in and eat with that person, and they with me.”

Notice that Jesus makes no demands—here, or anywhere—in Scripture.  He extends the indescribably urgent offer of eternal life—but simply “knocks” at the door. Elsewhere He says “Whoever is thirsty, let him come.”  But again, no demands.

You might say, Jesus “urgently invites.”  But He never demands.  The choice is always ours.

What kind of choices are YOU making about Jesus?

Every Thanksgiving it’s the same: we beat ourselves up over the fact that we’re not as “thankful as we ought to be.”  We chide ourselves—and others—for the presumption that describes our thankless “comfort with comfort.”

A thankful spirit is hardly optional, not if you read Scripture.  So I suppose there’s a place for thwacking ourselves with this kind of jolt. Yet, for my part, I shall not attempt to preach at you in this blog.  Instead, I would like to reset the stage of that very first pilgrim Thanksgiving celebration.

In his book, “The First Thanksgiving,” Robert McKenzie does an eloquent job of taking us to that little gathering on a dreary Massachusetts shore.  He writes,

And yet in the autumn of 1621, the wounds were still so fresh.  It would be no stain on the Pilgrims’ faith if their rejoicing was leavened with a lingering heartache.  Widowers and orphans abounded.  Fourteen of the eighteen wives who had set sail on the Mayflower had perished during the winter.  There were now only four married couples, and one of those consisted of Edward and Susannah Winslow who had married that May shortly after both had lost their spouses.  Mary Chilton, Samuel Fuller, Priscilla Mullins and Elizabeth Tilley each had lost both parents, and young Richard More, who had been torn from his parents before sailing, had since lost the three siblings banished with him.  That the Pilgrims could celebrate at all in this setting was a testimony both to human resilience and to heavenly hope.

No doubt the capacity for the pilgrims’ thankful spirit had its anchor in the rock of Romans 8:38:  And I am convinced that nothing can ever separate us from God’s love. Neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither our fears for today nor our worries about tomorrow—not even the powers of hell can separate us from God’s love.

This Thanksgiving, there’s no need for a guilt trip.

But a simple, honest, heartfelt prayer of thanks is more than in order.

If you are searching for an unforgettable picture of intensity, I know a two-year old who can help.

What the scent of blood is to a shark, the sight of a book is to young Caleb.  He doesn’t merely read books—he inhales them.   From the moment his sense of balance enabled him to toddle across the floor, he has dragged books all over the house and on to the lap of anyone—I mean anyone—who will read to him.

As Caleb’s “Poompah Di-Di” (the name he has cobbled together borrowing my wife’s moniker, “Di-Di” and his own attempt at “grandpa”), I have shared his love of books—and the sense of his wiggly body on my lap.

While most children his age are content to sit there as long as the pages turn quickly, Caleb will stay as long as needed on any given page.  And while most kids are “sort of” into the images and text, Caleb’s ferocious interest is off the charts.  He will do anything it takes to get front and center with a book.   And happily hear it read ten times in succession.  No title ever gets boring.  No page is ever unworthy.

So lost in the wonder of his books is young Caleb, that his own head gets in the way of my ability to read the page!   I have to dodge his noggin to do the readin’!  Now throw into the mix the shared interest of his older sister in the same story and you can begin to appreciate I often have a very full lap.

Without wishing to strain at a spiritualization, I sometimes feel “shown up” by Caleb and his intensity. To the point:  When am I ever this intense when it comes to reading the Bible?  Why do I not read like Caleb reads—no chapter ever gets boring, no page is unworthy?

Jeremiah 29:13 “You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart.”

I’m pondering Caleb’s intensity—and wishing I had more of it.

What's the strangest place you have ever visited?  Traveling to 35 countries has taken me to some unusual locations, but none as bizarre as a trip to the ancient city of Hierapolis in Turkey. 
 
After a considerable hike through this historic city, you finally arrive at the Gates of Hell.  I'm entirely serious.  To the untrained eye (mine) the Gates of Hell appear entirely unremarkable.  Imagine a mound of dirt covered with cut stones that form a wall behind which are said to be the actual Gates of Hell.
 
How it is that long-ago-locals came to identify this spot as THE entrance to the world of the condemned is worth a brief excursion. 
 
The site is built on top of a cave which emits toxic gases, making it a convenient spot for the ritual sacrifice of animals.  Tied with ropes, the animals were tossed into the cave where they died, reinforcing the notion that this place of death represented the actual gates of Hell.  According to some reports, the cavern still maintains its deadly atmosphere.  Birds, attracted by the cavern's warm air, have suffered after breathing the toxic fumes. 
 
Having been to the place, it hardly seems fitting as an entryway to the lake of fire which burns forever, the final judgment.  Turkey’s so-called “Gates of Hell” make for an interesting visit but we would do well to separate biblical truth from lore and legend.
 
When the Bible speaks of Hell, it refers to a real place where real people will spend eternity.    Who will be there?  The Bible tells us in Revelation 20:15.  “Whosoever's name was not found written in the Lamb's Book of life was cast into the lake of fire.”  The only escape is to “confess with your mouth the Lord Jesus and believe in your heart that God has raised Him from the dead.”
 
Unspeakable agony, unending damnation—this is the real Hell, not some tourist site in Turkey. Unlike our visit to the supposed “Gates of Hell,” in Hierapolis, the real Hell is not a stopping off point.   It's a destination.  And having arrived, there is no going back.