Author: Jon Gauger

Like you, I’m trying to cram in the last bits of summer.  Out at our camper, I sat outside with my tablet.  Dusk was past, yet I was largely unaware of the light show going on around me: fireflies. At length, I took a break from my reading to (finally) observe the lightning bugs.

Consider these gentle light bearers whose lifespan is only about two months.  They have no batteries—at least not as you and I consider batteries. These bugs just light up. The glow of their light bursts is brief, but somehow comforting.  And despite our advances in technology, scientists are unable to explain just how the blinking yellow-green lights are turned on and off.

God could have designed these bugs so that they fly only in the tree tops—largely outside our comfortable range of vision.  Instead, He chose to give us an amazing nightly light show right at eye level—with no two evening performances ever the same.

Only after a long time of observation did it hit me that this remarkable scene I was enjoying was supported by a stunning soundtrack: a blend of crickets and cicadas performing a hypnotic symphony.

No charge for this show.  The price of admission: time and a capacity to be satisfied with childhood wonder.

And that's the sick irony.   Most of us take only a sip of such splendor, while we drink deeply of lesser things: our smartphones, TV’s and tablets. We are more inclined to Facebook or FaceTime then face the miracle of a nightly light show.

Psalms 19:1 “The Heavens declare the glory of God. The skies”– blinking with fireflies–”proclaim the Work of His hands.”

Seen any good light shows lately?

If you are charmed by the aroma of pine trees and find magic in the sway of long needle branches, the place for you is White Pines State Park. The timber lined drive is itself worth the trip.

But the real draw to this 385 acre Illinois park is the log cabin dining room.  Built by the Civilian Conservation Corps in the 1930s, its massive timbers, dark with age, offer a gracious backdrop for lunch.

 

Having placed our food orders, my wife and I sat back in our chairs and took in the ambience.  That's when my eyes came to rest on the two-some at the corner table.  The woman was well into her sixties, maybe early seventies.  Her companion, though an adult, was considerably younger.

As he spoke, he gestured oddly–almost wildly–his hands bent at a severe angle, his legs thrashing now and again.   It was as if a computer glitch had disconnected a proper sense of motion from the man's brain.   (Cerebral palsy will do that, my wife quietly observed).

When the couple’s lunch arrived, the woman cut up his portion into tiny bites, speaking kindly to him.  As this guy turned his head, I saw him chewing—violently–face contorted.  Frankly, it was downright unappetizing.

I began asking myself who was this man?  What was his story?  And more importantly, who was this woman extending such patience and care?  His mother?  His aunt?

He mashed up food, grinding with a ferocious intensity—then sneezed.  She wiped his mouth graciously, continuing to speak softly while touching his wrist lovingly. It was tempting to try and eavesdrop on their conversation, but there was far too much noise in the log cabin to make out anything of their exchange.

Nevertheless, as I watched this beautiful ugly scene (for it was both), I heard another voice—an ancient one: “Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy.”

They say the town is only one square mile–has less than a thousand residents.  But every year, half a million people come for a visit.

I'm talking about the phenomena known as Shipshewana, Indiana.  This tiny strip of land is home to one of the largest flea markets in the entire United States—and some of the best eating on the planet.

More remarkable than the food or the farms is the faith element.  A strong Mennonite and Amish presence is evident in the Bible verses that you see, the music streamed into restaurants and the Christian books and concerts available seemingly everywhere.

 

My wife and I took a buggy ride out to an Amish house for dinner.  Afterward, she asked the tour operator about crime in the area.  “Don't have much of that,” he chuckled, adding, “I haven't locked my doors in the 28 years we've been here.  Tried to once, but the lock was stuck, so I haven't bothered with it since.”

Indeed, the one squad car we saw patrolling the streets looked pathetic for lack of action.   My wife observed that in a mall, individual stores closed at different times with no gates or doors barring their merchandise.   The idea of stealing is, apparently, not part of the local culture.

Everything is clean.  Everything is safe.  Everything is comfortable.

It dawned on me that in large part, this must be the result of Christian people doing their best to run their businesses according to Christian principles, and live their lives in a truly Christian way.  And it seems to rub off on the general population.    Decency, honesty, uprightness, cleanliness—these are the byproducts.

My theory was bolstered some when we gassed up the car for the ride home just a few miles outside of town.  The place was void of the Christian atmosphere we'd previously experienced.   The property there was untidy and the people appeared seedy.  Of course, one can't over generalize.  Nevertheless, the connection seems apparent.

Isaiah 32:17 “And the effect of righteousness will be peace, and the result of righteousness, quietness and trust forever.”

What a difference the presence of Jesus makes!

Horses clip-clopping along the streets, black wagons in tow.   Women in bonnets and men in suspenders.    You don't need a time machine to see all this.  Just drive three hours east of Chicago to Shipshewana.

During vacation season, this northern Indiana town of less than a thousand swells with tourists hungry for a taste of the simple life—along with a heapin' helping of Amish cooking.  The Amish and Mennonite people have set the gold standard when it comes to country roast beef.  Their noodles, fresh breads, apple butter and fruit pies are also stand outs.  Not to be missed: the Rise and Roll Bakery, featuring what may well be the world's largest cinnamon sticky buns.

The strong Amish and Mennonite presence is evident everywhere–from bearded men sporting wide brimmed hats, to women riding bicycles laden with blueberries. But what struck my wife and me more than anything was the visible presence of God-fearing people unashamed to live for Him.

• Bible verses adorn mail boxes and driveways.
• Billboards announce the imminent return of Christ.
• Christian books, verses, and videos are for sale in hardware, clothing and furniture stores.
• Several theaters in town host a slate of concerts with well-known Christian artists.

As we sat there eating a tasty Mennonite dinner, peering out at horse-drawn buggies in the street, my wife Diana asked an insightful question: “How long can a place like this last?” I pondered her words as “Are you washed in the Blood?” played over the restaurant's speaker system.

With the rise of the angry atheist and freedom-of-speech squelching political correctness, one wonders if Shipshewana (as we know it today) is living on borrowed time.  In a nation where the fastest growing religious group is those with no beliefs of any kind, it would seem Shipshewana may be terminal.

Horses and buggies, of course, will always be welcome for the novelty they offer.   But all that Bible and Jesus talk–that might have to be nixed.

2 Timothy 3:1 “This know also, that in the last days, perilous times shall come.”

Better enjoy Shipshewana–while you still can.

Captain Edwin Musick was a man’s man, a true adventurer. He learned to fly just before World War I and became one of the first pilots in history to log more than 10,000 hours.

Known as “Meticulous Musick,” he demanded precision of himself and his crew—from the way they maintained the aircraft to the creases in their uniforms.

He was hired by Pam American as their chief pilot and went on to set ten world records, including the first flight to the Pacific aboard the China Clipper flying boat. In recognition of this stunning achievement—and many other aviation firsts—Time Magazine put his face on the cover of their December 2, 1935 edition.

The Time article said of Musick, “He refuses to show off or make wisecracks for newsmen. He has never been known to stunt in a plane, never makes a flight without the most meticulous preparations.”

On January 11, 1938, Captain Musick took off from Pago Pago (in American Samoa) pioneering a new route for PamAm to New Zealand. Shortly after takeoff in his S42 flying boat, he reported an oil leak in engine number 4, radioing his decision to dump fuel and return to Pago Pago.

But the dangers of dumping fuel in the S-42 were well known. The draining fuel tended to flow back over the wing, toward the dangerously hot engines.

Shortly after reporting their intention to dump fuel, the S-42 exploded.  The bodies of Captain Musick and his six crew members were never recovered.  Tiny pieces of the plane were all that remained.

When someone as careful and as experienced as Captain Musick makes a fatal error in judgment, it makes me pause.  It should make ALL of us pause and ask, “What kind of foolish error am I making in life?  In my faith?  What danger have I allowed into my spiritual journey?”

Pondering foolish choices—Captain Musick’s and mine—I’m drawn to Ephesians 5:15: “Be very careful, then, how you live–not as unwise but as wise.”

Deep inside, I covet having a perfect lawn.  No bald spots…no weeds. Just lush greenness.  But I just don't work hard enough on the weeds. My wife does most of the weeding at our place.

Recently, I observed an outbreak of weeds in our hostas.  Unable to resist a pun,  I called it a “hosta” situation.  In a rare moment, I took the bold step of a weed intervention.

Level one found me yanking two foot thistles out of the ground.   Thanks to the rain, most all those weeds were easily extracted–roots and all.

Level two meant going on hands and knees in the hostas, snatching handfuls of Creeping Charlie.  The tough vines had entwined themselves around a thousand helpless victims.  Here again, I was grateful for the wet ground, as I was able to yank them out by the roots. I felt like a modern day Moses, freeing my people from slavery to the Weed Pharaoh. 

By the time I was done, much of our driveway was totally covered in weeds.   (Who says it's not easy being green?)    Rinsing the dirt from my hands, I was unable to rinse a thought from my mind:

You and I bemoan how easily weeds grow up.  Whether literal weeds, or the weeds of bad habits, they require little to take root. Yet as I pondered the rainy season that made yanking those weeds out by their roots so much easier, it made me wonder.  Is it possible that God blesses us with seasons in our lives when it's actually easier to root out bad habits, what David called “willful sins” in Psalm 19:13?   Is it possible that there are certain seasons He intends for us to do extra violence to our stubborn habits, our inward wickedness?

I am not a theologian and cannot quote chapter and verse here.  Nor would I—as my friend Michael Easley cautions–“push this too far.”

I can only say that in a soul like mine—and perhaps like yours—it might well be time for a weed intervention.

How do you celebrate a two-year-olds’ birthday?

For our family—with a grandson who loves trains—that meant a meal at Two Toots Restaurant.   The big draw at this unusual eatery is a model train that runs throughout the place. On the tracks, a locomotive pulls eight flatbed cars, each fitted with a basket that actually hauls your meal right to your booth.

So there’s Caleb watching this train hauling burgers and fries. Every single time that train went around the track, he got excited.  Every single time they sounded the horn, he bounced in his seat. Every single time the train disappeared from view, he waved and said, “Bye Bye…Bye bye.”

It was fun watching Caleb have fun.  But gradually, the rest of us “more sophisticated” adults moved on to other interests and conversation.  Once the food arrived, we were more into munching our burgers and dipping our onion rings than whatever was going on with the train.

Not Caleb.  He remained fascinated the whole evening long.

Caleb’s intrigue set my mind traveling down a different track. Much like the red baskets delivering meals to our table, we are daily—even hourly—delivered huge carloads of gifts from our generous God: forgiveness, provision…grace.

The train loads of His gifts come with such frequency, piled high with such generosity…we are at risk of appearing bored with His blessings.

Is it possible you and I are guilty of this sin: bored with our blessings?  We often don’t even think of them.  But there’s a cure.  It’s called thankfulness.

Let’s say thanks….every single time.  Every single blessing.  Every single gift.

Just like Caleb greeted that train with a smile and wave….let’s choose to greet the daily, hourly, minute-by-minute kindness of our God… with a thank you.

Bored with our blessings?

I hope not.

Our heavenly Father loves to give us good gifts—by the train load.

Let’s thank Him for every gift.  Every time.

Listen carefully.  I think there’s another train coming around the bend!

Heroes rarely get the press they deserve.  At least not in this life.

Take Samuel Whittemore, for example.

I'd never even heard of the man until I learned that he was one of the men most admired by a friend that I admire.

Samuel Whittemore was born in Charlestown, Massachusetts in 1696.  A farmer by trade, he was a patriot at heart. At the age of 78, Whittemore became the oldest known combatant in the War of Independence.   Here's how it happened.

British forces were returning to Boston, having just fought the battles of Lexington and Concord.  As you may recall from history class, those were the opening skirmishes of the war.

Whittemore was doing what farmers do—working in his fields—when he spied an approaching British brigade.   Imagine the ice water that chilled his veins.

Whittemore quickly took up a position behind a stone wall.  As the British approached, he unloaded his musket, killing one soldier.  But there was no time to reload the rifle, so he picked up his dueling pistols, took careful aim, and shot another, then mortally wounded a third.

But by now, Whittemore, who was fighting entirely alone, was completely surrounded by a British detachment.  He reached for his sword, only to be shot in the face.  Next, he was bayoneted numerous times.   Left for dead in a pool of blood, he was later discovered by colonial forces—alive—still trying to load his musket to fight again.

Whittemore was taken to a Doctor Cotton Tufts of Medford, who saw absolutely no hope for survival.   But Samuel Whittemore refused to die.  History records he not only recovered, but lived another full 18 years, dying of natural causes at the age of 96.

Samuel Whittemore embodied the spirit of Ecclesiastes 9:10: “Whatever your hand finds to do, do it with all your might.”  And with that, I raise a salute to my newest old hero–Samuel Whittemore.

When you run a business, the name of that business is…..well, big business!  Branding experts tell us we want crisp and cool.  Something with a little razzle dazzle.  Something that positions our product or service in a way that people will remember.

But in West Africa, they take a different approach.  Traveling through Ghana, the roads are lined with wooden stalls selling everything from fruit to phone cards to photocopies. Most of these so called shops are between three and six feet wide—that's it!  And most all of them are clearly marked with a business name hand painted on a tired gray board.

Some of the business names were humorous.  Among them:

• The “No Comment Hair Cut” shop.
• The “No Weapon Food Joint”
• Another restaurant alternative, the “Don't Mind Your Wife Chop Bar.”

But more than the occasional humorous names, I was struck by the strong references to Jesus and the biblical faith that I saw everywhere.

For example, every  taxi had a name.  Such as….

• God is One
• The Lord is My Shepherd
• To God be the Glory
• Jesus Family
• Fear Not—given my impression that there is plenty to be afraid of in Ghana traffic, I found that name somewhat assuring.

Then there's the cab titled, “By Grace.”  Imagine being asked, “How did you get here?”  You simply answer, “I've come this far…by grace.”

In our travels, we drove by…

• God First Upholstery Works
• The Blood of Jesus Christ tile store
• God Will Do—Welding and Fabrication Shop
• Christ Must Increase Restaurant
• Jesus is Lord Quality Frozen Foods
• Ask God Electricals
• King of the Universe—Dealers in Hardware

At first, I found all those signs mildly humorous.  Then they struck me as quaint. The more of them we saw, the more I became impressed with these shop keepers.

Would I be so bold as to put the name of Jesus before the name of my business?  Would I have the courage to put God first—not just in my dealing—but in the very sign that defines my occupation?

I now admire these people.  Their work ethic, their hope to achieve something more for their families in a tough economy.  But mostly, I admire the way they are unashamed to name the name of Jesus, who himself said, “Whoever acknowledges me before men, him will I acknowledge before my Father.”

If I ever do go into business, I hope I'll take a lesson from my friends in Ghana—and let JESUS get top billing.

Darkness has descended upon Ghana and we are stuck in a poky line of traffic streaming into the capital city, Accra.  The stop and go driving leaves me pondering two signs I saw earlier in our travels to the Cape Coast.

This morning, as we cruised along the George Walker Bush Highway (named for the U.S. President that brought financial aid to this West African nation) I saw a billboard that I really liked.  It said, “Behold, I am coming soon.”  And the quote, of course, is attributed to Jesus.

“What a great sign,” I thought, as we rumbled down the highway.

But less than one minute later, we encountered another billboard.  This one featured the large photo of a bearded man wearing a turban.  The caption identified him as “The Promised Messiah, Mahdi.”

While I support free speech, and the rights of other religions to express their views, I was angered in my spirit by the deception.  The true Messiah, Jesus, has already come.  Already given His very life for us paying for our ticket to heaven with the signature of His own blood.   Yet in the second billboard, Jesus was essentially being assaulted by a fake messiah.

God has given us the choice to believe whatever we want. We are welcome to worship whatever god we like. But we do NOT get to choose the consequences of our choices.

The Bible says, “He that believes on the Son has everlasting life: and he that does not believe the Son will not see life; but the wrath of God abides on him.”

The truth is the penalty for rejecting Jesus is Hell.

So when I see a billboard promising a different Messiah than Jesus, it makes me feel the same as if I saw a doctor prescribing chocolate to cure cancer.

Our enemy loves nothing better than to quickly counter truth and beauty with lies and ugliness.   Let's not be fooled.