Of Running, Raining, and Doing Your Best

Jennifer (my daughter-in-law and one of my best friends) and I decided to run the Country Music Marathon while sitting around the supper table last October. I’m 56 and haven’t run anywhere except to the bathroom in 10 years. Jennifer is 30, beautiful and fit, but long distance running is a whole new game. SO, we started training. The first day we ran together we did 3 miles. I thought I was going to die. She talked and laughed the whole way and I concentrated very hard on sucking as much oxygen out of the air as possible and not throwing up.

In early December we ran our first race, the 5 mile Frosty Fun Run. It was 19 degrees when we started and warmed up to a balmy 22 by the time we finished. Doris, Josh, and Jon-Mical came out to cheer us on and Jennifer coached, and begged, and intimidated me all around the course. We finished, thanks to her, and I still wear my blue Frosty Fun Run tee-shirt with great pride.

For the next 4 months we worked really hard. We ran together 2 or 3 times a week. “Short” runs of 4, 5, and 6 miles in the middle of the week and long runs on Saturday. The day we did 14 I thought my legs would fall off. I did 18 alone because Jennifer was battling a knee injury. I finished it but when it was over I told Doris, “I cannot run one step farther than that.” We just kept at it.
About 3 weeks ago we ran 20. It was a turning point day. We ran it pretty fast (for us) and fairly easy. When we were through we both felt good and were brimming with confidence. “We can do this.” We prepared, paid the price, and believed. WE ARE READY!

Thursday afternoon we went to the Nashville Convention Center to pick up our racing numbers and our pre-race packets. INCREDIBLE! 36,000 runners from all over the world were coming together for this race. We saw body sizes of every possible ilk. There were rail thin Kenyan’s with 2% body fat and there were, well others. I couldn’t help but do a mental inventory. “I can beat that guy. I can beat that guy. She is going to kill me.” Jennifer and I were so excited, the big day was almost here. Try to rest Thursday night because we knew on Friday night we’d be too nervous to sleep.
Friday was an absolutely gorgeous day in Middle Tennessee. Cool in the morning. Bright sun, High about 80. I ran a few errands. Did a little yard work. Got my stuff together. Got a pre-race haircut. Then about 1:30 I checked my email and the worst possible news came. Severe thunderstorms and possible tornadoes were predicted for late Saturday morning. The race organizers had decided to cut the race to 4 hours and 30 minutes. (They ended up cutting it to 4 hours). If you did not make it to the place where the half marathoners split off (11.2 miles) in under 2 hours you would be diverted to the half and not be allowed to run the full.

Now two things, Jennifer and I have been training for 5 months to run 12 minute miles and finish the 26.2 mile marathon in a very respectable 5:20. We had secretly hoped to break 5 hours but we never considered the fact that we would have to run our first ever marathon in 4:30, nearly an hour faster than we’d trained for. The other thing is that our “bucket list” goal is to run a marathon, not a half, a marathon. And now the National Weather Service is trying to do us in. All of our training, planning, and mental preparation had to go out the window.

On Saturday morning I picked Jennifer up at 4:30AM. We drove the 45 minutes to LP Field, the home of the Tennessee Titans, and joined our 36,000 fellow crazies. There were two huge lines, one to get on the shuttles that would take us to Centennial Park where the race began, and the other to get in one of the 40 or so port-a-johns. One quick lesson we learned, by 5:30, pre-race port-a-potties are NASSSSTY!
15 minute bus ride to Centennial, 10 minute walk across the park to drop off our gear pack, and its time to get in place. We are in corral 14. That means there are 13,000 people ahead of us before we start and about 13,000 people behind us. The vast majority have on yellow race bibs signifying that they are running the 13.1 mile half marathon. Our bibs are blue. One by one the air horn blows and each corral is sent off. Because of the impending storms we are all going off a little early. For us, corral 14 about 5 minutes after 7 there is a blast, a roar, and the marathon is underway.

I’m not going to bore you with the blow by blow but many have asked so here are the highlights. Jennifer and I felt like we needed to really speed through the first half in order to have a chance to finish. We spent the first hour passing a lot of people as we ran down Broad Street in Nashville. We crossed the 11.2 mile mark in just under 2 hours. That’s about 20 minutes faster than we thought we’d have to run, but they let us through and did not divert us to the half marathon route. We crossed the half way point, 13.1 miles in 2:24:44. Way below our projected time and fully on track to break 5 hours, but too slow if we were going to finish in 4:30. We just kept pushing. The Country Music Marathon is known for its hills. We became well acquainted with them. From the start to mile 14 was beautiful. At mile 14 the weather began to cloud up and by mile 15 it was raining. Mile 15 to 19 is pretty much all uphill. It’s a long run up out of the Metro Center. All of that was into a howling wind and driving rain. By mile 16 I had to take my glasses off because of the rain which was a good thing. I couldn’t see the lightning flashes as well. From mile 17 on there were police at every intersection telling us through bullhorns to seek cover because of the storm coming.

We hoped that by making it through the half split we would be able to finish. But at mile 20 we could see the police lights flashing ahead of us. We were being diverted. Instead of making the final loop into Shelby Park and back we were forced to turn towards the river and LP Field. When it was over we had run 21.5 miles in 4:01:20. We were on track to finish in about 4:50, 30 minutes below our goal and well inside 5 hours. But mother-nature and the Metro police department said no.

We crossed the finish line to the cheers of thousands of soaking wet spectators, race officials and other runners. We stood for a minute and cheered the thousands of runners that were still coming in and then went to find our family.
It has been an incredible adventure. I have fallen in love with my daughter-in-law all over again. We worked really hard and did our best. We have the certificate and the medal that says we finished the Country Music Marathon but we are a little disappointed in the fact that it was abbreviated. Last night I sat on the couch, my knees packed in ice, and searched the internet for a marathon in May or June. Who knows, I might see you in South Bend, Indiana, in a few weeks. Thanks for praying for us, listening to us, and asking about us. I marked the marathon off my bucket list but put a star beside it. There’s always next year and my nephew is interested in running…

The Fine Art of Falling

I am thinking about writing a book. Failure And How I Achieved It: AGAIN. I just have a talent for not getting it right. It amazes me how many times I can fall down, even on the lessons I’ve spent a lifetime learning. I have 3 weeks of great devotions, then for a week, nothing. Doris and I have 20 wonderful days together then I will get crabby, cranky, and contrary. I do so good at staying truthful then out of the blue I will exaggerate to the point of lying. (Like I just did when I said I have 3 weeks of great devotions before I miss.)
A couple of days ago we took Jon-Mical to the local tennis courts and let him run and chase tennis balls over this huge expanse of green concrete. He’d run great. (We’ll as great as a 2 foot tall, 21 month old kid can run.) Then all of a sudden he would just fall. No hole to step in. No object to trip over. For no reason he would just sprawl out on the pavement, little hands outstretched, face down. Just like my walk with God.
Then he’d do an amazing thing. He would hop back up and start running again. He never looked back. He didn’t stop to analyze the fine points of kinetic energy, optimum balance, and gravity. He just started running again. Full of life and joy, enjoying the next steps.
I guess there is a lesson to be learned there. (You knew there would be, didn’t you?) We are all going to fall. You might stay on your feet longer than I do. You might not make quite as spectacular a splash when you go down, but I promise you this, you will fall. Remember the verse of scripture, “Where two or three are gathered together, one of them will take a nose dive.” (Mike 4:15) It’s just the way we live in a fallen world, fallen.
The good news is we don’t have to stay down. We do not have to remain on the pavement. If there is one thing I have learned it is that falling is not final and failing is not fatal. Listen, fallen brother or sister, God loves you as much when you are nose down on the sidewalk as he does when you are flying down the track. He does not give up on you. Let me say that again, He does not give up on you so don’t you give up on yourself. Here is a real verse, I John 2:1 says, “My dear children, I write this to you so that you will not sin (fall). But if anyone does sin we have one who speaks to the Father in our defense—Jesus Christ the Righteous One.”
So, try not to fall. Keep fighting the good fight. Keep running the race. But when you fail (and you will), hop up. God is not finished with you. He has so much more growing for you to do. Hey, maybe you could write a book about it?

Thanks for your prayers,
Mike

EXHAUSTION

There is a peace that comes in appropriate exhaustion. Not the exhaustion of trying so hard on my own, giving everything I have to fix everybody I know. That kind of exhaustion contains an element of frustration and anxiety. Inherent in it is the understanding that tomorrow I will simply have to do it all over again. That kind of exhaustion eventually breaks the spirit and wears out the body and forces me to what recovery language calls “my bottom.” From there I am certainly capable of making horrendous decisions to mask the pain and hide the hurt of yet another failure to live up to expectations, real or imagined.
Days melt into days and weeks fly by in a flurry of activity and tasks. There is so much to do and the urgent usually supersedes the really important. At the end of the day I am not satisfied by what has been accomplished but rather frightened at how much farther behind I have fallen. That exhaustion is fitful, frightening, and frustrating. And I know it too well.
But there is a peace that comes from appropriate exhaustion. This exhaustion is centered in the will of the Father. It is a satisfying ache, a gratifying soreness that can be either or both, mental or physical. At the end of the day, or the week, or the journey, it is an exhaustion that whispers to ourselves, “I have fought the good fight. I have kept the faith. I have finished the race….” That exhaustion comes with confident trust in the faithfulness of God to pick up the slack, make up the difference, fill in the gaps. It comes when we are lost in Him.
I have known that exhaustion a few times in my life as well, not enough, but a few. And the difference in that exhaustion versus my own, self created fatigue is astounding. The exhaustion that comes from doing His work, His way is temporary. It is resolved by the Sabbath rest. It is limited. It does not reach out of me to the circumstances around me but stays connected to the task at hand. And it is shared. There is a clear sense of being a “partner in the Gospel” as opposed to the panic of carrying this weight on my own.
So here’s what I think about exhaustion. It is from there that I am able to look back and see what path I am really on. When I am so tired I cannot move then I am finally able to stand still long enough to reflect back over my steps, to check my bearing, and to confirm that I am listening to the heart of God say, “This is the way. Walk in it.” Being exhausted is not such a bad thing when it turns my face toward Him.
Oh, there is much to do today. I am sure at the end of the day I will be, well, you know, exhausted. But I am equally sure that if He is my focus and my guide, if my steps are ordered by Him, and if all that I do I do in His name and for His glory (whether standing on the assembly line or in front of the classroom), then there will be great peace in my exhaustion. And with peace comes rest. “God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change. The courage to change the things I can. And the wisdom to know the difference. Just for today.” Mike

The Green Hammer

One of the most significant moves that Doris and I made was the move from Augusta, Georgia to Mt. Vernon, Ohio. We had been married just a few years and I was called from being a youth pastor at a small church in the south to become the associate pastor at a very large, university centered church in the Midwest. (Translate that NORTH. Yankees.) It was one of those churches that didn’t even have a full name. You just said “First Church” and everyone knew what you meant.
I was out of my league from the first day. I was replacing a high quality, experienced staff member that was incredibly well organized and had it all together. Not only did I not have it all together, I couldn’t even remember where I put it. I was intimidated and anxious. The staff was gifted. The congregation was massive. And the job was overwhelming. I was thrust from the relative obscurity of a small, southern church to the limelight of the entire denomination. Scary!
The second day on the job I was in my office, the largest office I had ever had or have had since. I was doing all that I knew to do. I was hanging pictures. And even that wasn’t going too well. I was using the back of a Hebrew Dictionary to try to drive nails in places that didn’t want to be nailed. The pictures were pretty crooked, not very secure, and kind of wobbly. Other staff members were hurrying by outside my office doing far more important things. Parishioners were scurrying in and out on missions that I knew nothing of. No one was stopping in. No one made conversation. And I just kept thudding away with the Hebrew book.
In the middle of the morning, a nice, old guy named Delmar poked his head in. He said, “Reverend Courtney,” (I was a kid still wet behind the ears and he was at least 120 but he always called me Reverend Courtney. Still does.) “Reverend Courtney, I saw you in here this morning. I went home and got you a present. I thought you could use this.” There in Delmar’s gnarled old hand was a green hammer. If he was 120 the hammer was ancient. It had a fiber glass handle with flaking paint, straight claws that were chipped from pulling years of nails, and it looked to me like the best tool in the Sears and Roebuck catalogue. Delmar grinned a kind of sloppy grin and asked, “You mind if I help?”
He pulled out a tape measure and a level and for the next two hours we hung pictures and diplomas while he told me stories about the church, his family, and how good God was. He was meticulous in his work, every picture was exactly the same height and perfectly straight, and profuse in his conversation. He told me all about Stella, his wife. About Jan and Denny, and Trish and Ton-ton. He laughed at my nervous jokes and admired the pictures of Doris. And when the picture hanging was done he smiled, handed me back the green hammer, and said, “You’ll do fine here.”
A few months later Josh was born. Delmar and Stella became Papaw and Mamaw to Josh. They “adopted” him from the first and were our go-to babysitters and our surrogate grandparents. Every holiday, when the “Yankees” huddled up alone in their northern houses, we were invited out to Mamaw and Papaw’s to boil corn or play Rook. Whenever there was a hard decision to make or a question about being a father, a husband, or a minister, I would find myself talking to Delmar, usually not about the problem but about family, wood burning stoves, and how to plant a great garden. But every conversation would end with, “Reverend Courtney, you’ll do fine.”
My “career path” changed dramatically with that move to Mt. Vernon. God used that position to open doors of ministry for Doris and me that I never dreamed possible; national boards, great churches, international travel, college trustees. And when the job seemed overwhelming and I started to really doubt, I’d pull out my green hammer and remember my talks with Delmar.
It seems to me that life is full of situations for which we feel ill-prepared and under qualified. Nobody told me that parenting would be so hard, or that married life took so much work. I’m not trained in growing old or saying goodbye to dreams. The economy has me baffled and my ministry is not going where I thought it would. My family is a mess. I’m looking at divorce. My health is getting bad. I am battling depression. My addiction has the best of me. I feel all alone and scared to death.
Listen to me, in those moments, if we will just get still, God almost always pulls out some kind of tool, lays it in our hands and says, “You’ll do fine here.” Proverbs 3:5-6 says, “Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge Him and He will direct your path.” He has the tools. He has the stories. And he has the time to sit with you and put your heart at ease. You may not figure it all out at once. You might not know what happens way down the road. But I promise you He will show you the next step and give you the grace you need for today. For all of your struggles, He has a hammer.
There have been a lot of moves since then. I’ve made more than a few decisions, some of them not so good, as you know. The green hammer goes with me every time, and the grace and kindness of an old guy that believed in me. In fact the hammer is in my desk drawer at the counseling center that I direct. When a new counselor or staff member comes looking a little wide-eyed and overwhelmed I take it out and we go in their office and hang pictures. We talk about Doris, my sons, and my grandson. I laugh at their nervous jokes and I assure them that God is still in control.
Delmar is still in Mt. Vernon. He’s pretty sick right now and I imagine facing some things that seem overwhelming. He is looking at a battle that even my green hammer can’t fix. For those of us that love him, and maybe even for him, it’s scary. You know what I believe. I believe that in the middle of this terrible time God is even now pulling out His own version of the green hammer, the tool that Papaw, (and us) needs to get through this. I believe He is laying it in Papaw’s hand and the God of the universe is taking the time to bring grace and kindness to all of us. And He is saying, “Delmar, Trust me. Whatever you face in the days ahead, you’ll do fine here.”
Mike

Real Men

A few weeks ago I spoke for another retreat. This one was for men. Just men. All shapes and sizes. All kinds of backgrounds. I’ve done this is Texas, South Carolina, Ohio, Florida, California, and a dozen other states. I have spoken to fathers and sons, promisekeepers, men with a mission, biker’s for Christ, and sissies for the Savior. (Okay, I’m just kidding about that last one.) I have talked to men in recovery, men in ministry, and just men.
There are some things I have noticed about men’s retreats. For one thing there is just as much hugging as their female counterparts but it is a lot louder. Hug. Three loud, manly smacks on the back. Let go. That’s the accepted formula for men. On the other hand, men’s retreats are usually quieter. Not a reflective, meditative kind of quiet. Just a, “I don’t want to talk about it” quiet. I think we probably have as many hurts, habits, and hang-ups as any women’s group but with a much smaller vocabulary to express that.
“How’s it goin’?” “Good”
“How’s the fam?” “Fine”
“Work?” “Good”
“ Gonna’ be a good year for the Titans.” “Yup”
“Any thing I can do?” “Nope.”
“Well, good talkin’ to ya.” “Me too.”
So here’s the deal. After speaking to all of those men’s retreats, and after being one for all of these years, I’m still not sure what makes a man a real man. What really does separate the men from the boys? Or from the girls for that matter? I mean apart from the obvious biological differences (which we DEFINETLY don’t talk about) what does a man do that makes him a man?
I know what he doesn’t do. He doesn’t cry. Real men don’t eat quiche. Real men can’t jump. Well, actually only white, real men can’t jump. They never let you see them sweat. They never say never. They never quit until the fat lady sings. It just goes on and on, the things that we know that men are not supposed to do. But what do men do that makes them, well, men.
I don’t know, but there are three things that come to my mind. First, they work. Now I know that some jobs are different from other jobs. Some men where suits and some men suit up. Some men get their hands dirty and some men get their nails done. I know great stay at home men. I know retired early men. I know men that were wounded in battle and unable to work since. But, when it gets right down to it, all men have buried in the double helix of their DNA the unquenchable thirst to be productive, to matter, to work.
Now, don’t get your panties in a wad, I know women work too. They work hard. They work more than one job. They never stop. But for men it’s different. For women, work is what they do. For men, work is who they are. “Hey, my names Mike. So whadda’ you do for a livin’?”
There is something in men that calls us to work. And when work is going well, life is good. When it’s not, we’re not. I have this conversation with men almost every week. “So Bob, what brings you to see a counselor?”
“I don’t know. My wife thinks there’s something wrong with our marriage. She’s just not happy.”
“Do you agree?”
“Well, we don’t spend much time together. She seems to cry a lot. I’m not really sure.”
“So, tell me Bob, how about you? Are you happy?”
“Me? Sure. I’m great. Work’s good. Got a promotion last week. I’m good”
We are men. We work. And that work defines us whether we like it or not.
The second thing that men do is play. More than women, men focus on, get involved in, subscribe to, obsess over play. Maybe God made us this way because we need the relief from the work gene, but whatever the reason, men are good players. I know men that would miss the birth of their third child for opening day at the stadium. I have a friend that has season tickets to every team in town and can balance his schedule like an accountant so that he doesn’t miss a game. He may not remember his wife’s birthday but he knows what time they drop the puck on the next home stand.
We know batting averages and fantasy draft stats. We fish and hike and run and lift. We might not be able to quote John 3:16 but we know what number John Riggins wore for the Washington Redskins, (44, so did Reggie Jackson, Chuck Foreman, and my college roommate). Women do stuff to be with other women. Men do stuff to do stuff. We play.
And finally, one of the things that men do, we die. Okay, I know that women do to but men do it sooner, more often, and more spectacularly. We were born to die. James Dean, Billy the Kid, John Kennedy, John Lennon, and those guys that are lifting up the flag on Iwo Jima. Men just die. Have you ever been on a cruise when they take you out at the beginning of the trip and give you the lifeboat speech. “Here’s how you put on your life jacket. You are to go quickly and safely down this corridor to boat number 12A. Don’t take time to pack your belongings. And, oh yes, women and children first.” To which every man on the ship puffs out his chest and looks at his buddy proudly, “Yes, we die.”
As clearly as we feel the need to work and the urge to play, men have the capacity to die. Not just to die but to die with purpose. In John 13 it is not coincidental I think that Jesus says, “Greater love has no man than this; that he lay down his life for his friend.” Jesus knew that women live sacrificially. They do that far better than men. But men are hardwired to fall on the grenade, to take the bullet, to give their lives for their friends, their family, and their country. We may not do much else right but, when the time comes, we die.
So if that is true, if that’s what real men do, then how do we live? In a world where it takes two incomes to survive, where leisure has become a business, and playing is an industry, and where frankly, there are nearly as many opportunities to die like a hero as there once was, how are men to be real men.
Well, this may be the longest blog I’ve ever written so let me just give you three examples. There are three men that come to my mind that I would call real men. Three men, fairly obscure that frankly I would be proud to pattern my life after. They are Sammy, Jerry, and Pa.
Sammy is my step-father. He is a good man. A simple man with simple tastes. And he works. As long as I have known Sammy he has worked hard. Getting up early every morning, rain or shine, being on the job long before other men punched in, and staying to clean everything up long after others were gone. Nashville Wire, Krogers, Sammy has worked hard and always taken great pride in his work. I can’t tell you how many times he has been named employee of the month or the year. The wall above his tool bench in the garage is covered with plaques. He is a hard worker.
In fact, Sammy works too hard to be doing it for some company. I think he works too hard to even be doing it for the money. Somewhere, deep inside Sammy there seems to be this conviction that the way he works is a reflection of his character as a man, as a Christian man. He may not be eloquent. He doesn’t get up and sing in church. But everyday Sammy testifies to the integrity of God by the way he gives his very best effort to his work. He is a living expression of, “Do all that you do as unto the Lord.”
Jerry is my cousin. And Jerry plays. He is one of the funniest people I know and I come from a family full of funny people. (And some of us that just think we are.) Jerry’s funny is soft, understated, self-effacing, just enjoying the situation kind of funny. He brings a smile and a chuckle into every circumstance. He brightens a room by walking in it. And he laughs so that he can help you laugh.
Jerry has seen his share of hard knocks. His job hasn’t always gone great. His dad died when he was way too young. He has dealt with disappointment and disability. But he has always played. Dancing on a desk when Ann (his wonderful wife) was worried about finances, putting a dead bird in the salad when his mother was taking things to seriously, and giving me a coke tab instead of a wedding ring during my wedding, (he was my best man), Jerry has taught me to play my whole life.
But Jerry doesn’t play because he doesn’t care. He cares deeply. No, I think he plays because he trusts. I think he is so sure that God is able, that God is in control, that he is willing to relax and leave the outcome to the One Man who can make a difference. “And our God is able to do exceeding, abundantly more than we can think or imagine.” If that is true then we should feel free to play.
Finally, Pa is an example of a real man to me. Pa dies. Now Pa by the way is 124 (at least it seems he’s been around that long. Actually, Pa is 87 and his name is not Pa. His name is Charles Cantrell and he is my father-in-law. He is a good, deeply devoted, Godly old man. And he dies, daily. As long as I have know him, well over three decades, he has given his life to God and to others without reservation. He is a walking example of, “I am crucified with Christ, nevertheless, I live.”
Every time I hear Pa pray he says, “Only one life, will soon be past. Only what’s done for Christ will last.” And he lives that way every day. He has given his last dollar to strangers. He has gone out in the middle of the night to pray with broken men. He has shared his faith and his heart with more people than we could ever count. He has literally given his life away for the sake of the Gospel. Not for recognition or reward but because He just loves Jesus. He dies like a man in all that he does.
Well, in these three men, and in dozens of others that have spoken into my life I am beginning to see what makes a man a man. And I hope I am beginning to find a model to try to embrace in my own life. I want to work well, play hard, and die for the Kingdom. If I do then perhaps my sons can look at me and say, “He is a man.”

I Know

On Monday I wrote in the Branches Newsletter http://www.branchesrecoverycenter.com/ about the need to know and be known. I call that intimacy and I believe it drives the heart of men and women in the choices they make, the goals they set, and the desires they follow. That's why we Twitter, Facebook, and MySpace. To be known is why we join groups, buy BMW's, and do Jenny Craig. For kids, the need to be known leads to piercings, sexting, and drooping pants.
But as hard as we fight to be known, we may strive even more to know. The quest to know, to really be sure, is the constant in the human struggle. We live as post-postmoderns. The postmodern said, "We cannot know." Now we say, "I want to." Skepticism, doubt, and the agnostic are no longer in vogue. We have become again searchers, seekers of the truth, people who want desperately to know.
So how do we know that we know? Well, I don't know. There are sometimes I am so sure about things. I am convinced I have this all figured out. I really, really have the answer (or answers.) But other times, usually at 2 o'clock in the morning. My eyes open wide and a tiny, terrified voice in me says, "I don't know."
Take just one piece of this knowing stuff for instance, the Jesus story. I mean, come on, a baby in a manger, walking on water, alive-dead-alive again. How can we know something like that? It seems a little far-fetched really.
Well, here's one thing I know, knowing is a choice. I have chosen to know what I know. And I choose to know Jesus. Everybody has to start somewhere. I choose to start by believing there is a God, He is good, and His Word is true. From there it’s just a matter of knowing what He says about who He is. In John 17 Jesus says, "Father, though the world does not know you, I know you." He goes on to say, "I have made you known to them and will continue to make you known." Jesus was just so sure!
So, on those days when I just don't know, and believe me there are plenty of them, I return to what I do know, to what I have chosen to know, "I know in whom I have believed. And I am persuaded that He is able to keep that which I have committed to Him until that day that He returns." everything else seems to fall in to place when I remember what I know.
The things on my prayer list, I don't know about them. A little kid with cancer. A good man who is losing his job. A fit young man who is stricken. A pastor couple that tried hard and now it's all coming apart. A mother dying. A father leaving. I don't know...But, I know that Jesus loves me, that God is able, that this world is not all there is. That's all I know for right now, and that seems to be enough.
Listen, whatever you are going through, you can make it. God loves you with an everlasting love. I know that. Mike

Intimacy: Know and be known

There is written into the DNA of every man the need to know and be known. From the very beginning God created man in community. He said, "Let us make man in our image." He gave man a name, Adam, and of all His creatures only called Adam by name. In fact God assigned to Adam the responsibility of naming the other creatures. Then God said, "It is not good for man to be alone." And He made woman. God knew that men needed to know and be known. Another word for that is intimacy.
Emerson Eggerichs in his book Love and Respect reminded us that only human beings are intimate face to face. Of all other creatures, God made us to "know" each other looking into one anothers eyes. This need for intimacy, to know and be known drives us when we are dating, moves us to the altar in marriage, creates a constant, subsurface yearning in us that can, when not fulfilled lead us to the most unhealthy of choices.
This sexual illustration of intimacy points us to another issue, men confuse intimacy with sexuality. We even use that language. "My wife and I were intimate last night." "Have you been intimate with her?" Men are intimate in order to be sexual. (Women are sexual in order
to be intimate.) But intimacy is not the same thing as sex or sexuality. The truth is that the need for intimacy is incapable of being satisfied by sex or any other human/physical means. The hunger is far too deep.
C.S. Lewis speaks of this hunger when he says, "We cannot tell each other about it. It is the secret signature of each soul, the incommunicable and unappeasable want, the thing we desired before we met our wives, chose our friends, or chose our work, and which we shall still desire when we are on our deathbeds, when the mind no longer knows wife or friends or work. While we are, this is. If we lose this, we lose all."
There is an insatiable need written into the DNA of every man to know and be known. And that need can only be met in a face-to-face, deep and dedicated relationship with the One who created us. Intimacy is a part of my relationship with my wife. It fuels my love for my children (and for Jon-Mical.) It moves me to desire strong male friendships. But true intimacy can only finally be found in my walk with the One who really knows me. Paul says, "I want to know Christ and the power of His resurrection, the fellowship of sharing in His suffering, becoming like Him as He is, and so somehow to attain to the resurrection of the dead." That is intimacy.