Marvin H. Mischnick did not look like a hero.  He was wrinkled, hard of hearing and in need of a shave. Understandable for a man at the unlikely age of 99. As I sat in his living room, his World War 2 stories oozed out.

“I was a photographer for division headquarters, G2 Intelligence section. We were advancing in the city of Cologne, Germany.  Our general wanted to know if the bridges over the Rhine River would support our troops and equipment.  So they sent me behind enemy lines to take pictures.”

Marvin recalls operating the camera was “hard to do with frozen fingers in the winter.”  But that ended up being the easy part of his assignment.  In taking images of the bridges, he had to duck behind a rock wall along the river. “Every time I wanted to take a picture, I had to stand up and focus.  And every time I stood up, the Germans fired sniper rifles. Then I had to move again.  I was almost killed several times.”

Nor was this adventure his only brush with death. “After the invasion of France, I was sleeping in a pup tent. There was a dog fight overhead with Nazi planes, and while I was sleeping, a piece of shrapnel fell into my pup tent.  It missed me by six inches, almost going into my stomach.  It sure woke me up!" Marvin recalls with a chuckle.

Normandy Beach?  Marvin recalls arriving many hours after the opening assault.  "The sand was still stained with the blood of our young boys killed in the initial invasion."

Battle of the Bulge?  Marvin was there, too.  “I thank God that He was watching out for me (19,000 Americans died there), and when I got home, I thanked Him for watching out for me."

Upon returning home, Marvin hung up his uniform, but not his camera.  He launched a successful career shooting photos of babies and weddings and was hired by Sears and other stores to take pictures of children on Santa’s lap.

Just weeks after Marvin shared these adventures with me, he passed away.  Sad to think there are thousands of other Marvins out there with stories untold. But you’ve heard his.  So as we approach Memorial Day, I invite you to join me in saluting the bravery and legacy of Marvin Mischnick—a hero. 

As temperatures climb up, the lawn trucks roll in. I refer to the fleet of yard care vehicles that will clog the streets of suburbia from now until Halloween.  They will mow, trim, weed, and fertilize—for a fee.

Though our town prohibits the roar of their mowers and blowers before 7:00 am, the convoy carrying the platoon of lawn care commandos is in place and unloaded by O-dark-thirty most mornings.

While we could probably afford to outsource our lawn care, I’ve decided to do it myself.  Want to know why? 

First I need the exercise! Mowing the lawn gives me a few thousand vital steps.  I need that!

Second, it gives me a big-picture view. My weekly walk-around has revealed a problem with our sump pump drainage, divots we need to fill, and pavers that need leveling.

Third, mowing my lawn offers the unexpected benefit of connecting me with neighbors.  Whether it's people waving as they drive by, or the guy across the street who wants to talk—mowing connects me with my neighbors. 

They say ours is a service economy, and I can hardly argue that. With every tug of my Honda’s starter cord, something whispers I'm part of a dying breed. But I wonder.  Have we Christians imported that service economy mentality into our faith life?  Examples:

• Personal devotions—we’re too lazy to look up passages in traditional paper Bibles.  So we insist on electronic devotionals for our phones or tablets that include the Bible text (hate to wear out our fingers flipping actual pages).
• Evangelism—we’re happy to pay the pastor to do that for us.   As if someone else could.
• Prayer—most of us are comfortable leaving our requests with “the prayer team” because...well...that’s their specialty.
• Interacting with our teens—we’re particularly happy to pay the youth pastor and have the spiritual care of our kids outsourced to him.

On it goes.  But should it?  Maybe it’s time to rethink our attraction to outsourcing spiritual responsibilities that only we should handle.  Maybe it’s time to do that spiritual walk-around ourselves. In the end, this is soul care, not lawn care.   Way more important.

See you outside—and don’t forget to wave!

Like most other humans, I text. 

A lot of those messages I tap on the phone screen, though I also rely on voice-to-text communication.  But I've noticed that whatever method I use, my phone appears to be biased: in favor of all things vulgar.

If I should happen to slightly misspell a word, the phone often suggests something naughty, including profanity of all kinds. The phone's predictive algorithm goes so far as to look at specific words I've typed and then recommends "typical" follow up ideas.  Words that may be extremely inappropriate.

Have you experienced this?  I bet you have. Once, my wife texted our good friends, asking if this couple wanted to have supper at our place. Good thing she checked her text before sending it to the husband, as the "autocorrect" feature turned the message into an invitation for sex!

Sadly, this kind of thing is fast becoming ubiquitous in our day.  Honestly, I’ve watched this trend-toward-the-tacky over a long period.  It ranges from sexual innuendo to disrespectful putdowns to profanity, or even vulgarity.  If it's salty, slutty, or sleazy, our phones go there—every time.

None of this is by accident.  It is the result of deliberate coding choices built into the predictive algorithms that interpret my error-prone texts. Translation: our civilization is hardwired to discourage holiness, purity, and politeness.

I wish I had an answer to this cultural coarsening. I wish I knew why those calling the programming shots consider this good when it is undoubtedly evil. 

Let us beware—and let us choose better!

Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence, if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things.  —Phil. 4:8

The glory of springtime in bloom withered with a rude awakening this week. 

All I wanted to do was "simply" remove the worn wood siding on our storage barn and replace it with new. As it has been 35 years since we built the thing, it was overdue for an overhaul.

After emptying the ten-by-ten structure (a process which somehow filled our entire garage), I noticed the problem. One corner of the plywood floor had succumbed to rot.

As my fingers pressed deep into the spongy pulp, I knew this would be no small project.  Time for a trip to the lumber yard!

The new floor looks great. But after installing it, we endured a mini-monsoon.  Enough rain to prove that new plywood is not enough.  My little barn has sunk over time, and the only way to avoid the return of rot is to jack the whole thing up on cinder blocks—pray for me!

The thing is, I probably could have avoided the disaster of the rotten floor! If only I hadn't been inattentive, or let so much time go by before taking action. And if we could (somehow) live in a world without destructive elements.

Sadly, that barn is a metaphor for the way we maintain—or don't maintain—our spiritual lives.  A lack of attention over prolonged time combined with the destructive elements of our fallen world always leads to soul rot.

Yet we somehow persist in the foolish belief that maintenance is optional or can be delayed again and again.  Worse, we sometimes live as if we disbelieve in the reality of spiritual destruction all around us.

In the parable of Jesus, the wise man built his barn (okay, house) upon the rock.  He was attentive and took action—designing in a way that showed his awareness and alertness to destructive elements. 

Rot—or not.  The choice is ours. 

I am confused.

In our town—perhaps yours as well—we see lots of signs encouraging us to “stay safe—stay home.”  Point taken.  COVID-19 continues to threaten and kill.

Yet our town also features signs that say, “Businesses are open. Shop local.” 

Hmm....what are we really saying? "Stay home unless you have dough to spend, and unless you intend to spend that dough locally?"  Or maybe the intended message is "Spend your money here first—THEN stay home.  To me, it's a mixed message.

Sure, I get the fact that everybody needs milk and eggs and toilet paper.  Which means there is a point at which we do have to leave home. And we do have a choice in where we shop.  Still, it just feels like a mixed message.

But as I was contemplating this curiosity (unintentionally pointing the finger at our civic leaders), God reminded me four fingers were pointing back at me.  Am I not equally guilty of sending mixed messages?

Early in the morning, I ask to be filled with the Holy Spirit.  Yet an hour or two later,  I am so often so filled with myself, Jesus can't even get in the throne room of my heart, let alone find a place on the throne. Mixed Message.

I talk about the importance of a daily quiet time with God, but allow—even create—so much noise (activity) in my life, it all but drowns out the possibility for quiet.  Even if I do squeeze in the formality of a few minutes with Him.  Mixed message.

I encourage others to share their faith with unsaved friends and neighbors.  Yet my own heart can be virtually unmoved by the ticket to Hell that seems almost visible in the hands of so many I know.  Mixed Message. 

I could go on. But looking in my "soul mirror" is painful. The antidote?  Psalm 86:11, a prayer of David:

Give me an undivided heart that I may fear your name.