I hope this finds you well!

The One Eye Out column is posted here.

“Skipping Smart – An Open Letter To Those Under 30”

If you’ve not already done so, subscribe (free!) on the home page of toddthompson.net. In early August, we will be redirecting “A Slice Of Life To Go” to the new website.

God’s best to you all !

Todd Thompson

I hope this finds you well and rested after a great holiday weekend.

The latest column is posted on toddthompson.net  – “Refurbished And Reconditioned”

If you’ve not already done so, take a minute to subscribe (free!) at the top of the home page. We will be redirecting the Slice Of Life To Go site over there within a month.

As always, your comments and feedback are welcomed. If you’re encouraged by the writing, please share it with your friends! (And even your enemies!)

Blessings to you!

tat

Transition.

Change over.

Make the switch.

Whatever we call it, it’s time.

The email subscription has been added to toddthompson.net !

You’ll see a green bar at the top of the home page. Simply add your name and email address. You’ll be subscribed!

Click here to check out the latest column and get signed up. I’d love it if you’d also share this with your friends. I want to encourage as many people as I can with God’s love and hope.

Thanks so much!

Blessings to you!

Todd Thompson

The latest column is up at toddthompson.net!

“Remember God’s Wonders”

Take a minute to read and share with those who could use God’s encouragement today.

Blessings to you!

Todd Thompson

The latest column, “Real World”  is posted at toddthompson.net. It’s one you should share with the young people in your life.

We are finishing a couple features on the new website, including an email sign up.

We will continue to let you know of new columns here until you’re able to make the switch.

Also…work has begun on the E-Book! I’m excited about the process and will keep you updated on the progress. The goal is to have it published by the end of summer. Pray for me!

Thanks for your continued friendship and readership!

Blessings –

tat

The latest “One Eye Out” can be found at toddthompson.net

W.W.M.J.D. ?

Go there, give it a read and share with your friends!

Blessings to you –

Todd Thompson

It took longer than I anticipated. I’m still adding images, content and a couple features. It’s still not perfect. But if we wait for perfect nothing gets done.

Please go poke around my new website and let me know what you think. This is a considerable and much needed change. After you’ve looked it over, go to the Contact page and shoot me a message. I’d love to hear from you!

toddthompson.net

Going forward look for my columns there. We will be adding an RSS feed shortly for those who wish to get the column delivered directly to their email.

I’ll make reminders here for a month or so, after which “A Slice Of Life To Go” will redirect to toddthompson.net

Thanks so much and I look forward to hearing from you!

Blessings

tat

I hope this finds you and yours healthy, well, and off to an amazing start in 2016.

Long time, no write.

It’s been over a year since I’ve posted a column. It was one crazy year. In many ways, a year of losses. Suffice to say, we were not sad to wave goodbye to 2015.

Many of you have emailed to wonder where the “Slices” have been. You’ve said you’ve missed them. Your kindness is much appreciated.

It’s a new year. I’m happily writing again. Within the next two weeks you’ll be hearing from me here with directions to a brand new website, including a new domain address and name change for the column.

I think you’re going to like it.

Anytime is the perfect time for a fresh start.

I’ll be seeing you soon!

Todd Thompson

I had the honor of speaking at Andy’s memorial service. In reflecting on it all when it was over, the thought occurred to me that, as alone as Shirley feels in this moment, she is not alone in her grief. Yesterday other mothers around the world, women she will never know, were saying goodbye to their children, too. Here’s hoping what I expressed to Shirley will be of comfort to others, too.

*******

My dear friend Shirley,

I know we’d both give anything to be sitting at your kitchen table right now, eating some of your famous cookies, drinking tea and talking about your latest glass creations. Yet in God’s sovereignty, here we are.

Years ago my good friends Duane and Sheri Cross were living in Colorado when their 10-year old son was hit by a car while riding his bicycle. He did not survive.

Their closest friends were missionaries, serving in Africa as Bible translators. They tried desperately to get back for the funeral but they were deep in country and there was no way to connect the flights.

In lieu of their presence, they sent a letter of condolence. In the letter they shared a story. They said that in the process of learning that tribe’s language they discovered their word for “grief” was translated “to sit in tent with”.

“To sit in tent with”.

We can’t possibly imagine what you are experiencing, unless of course we’ve been there ourselves. Some of your friends will be able to speak to the depths of your pain and grief because they’ve been where you are. In 2 Corinthians 1:4 it says that “we comfort others with the comfort with which we ourselves have received from God”.

For the rest of us, your friends and family, the best we can do for you is to “sit in tent with”. To simply be here for you. And if I may speak for all of us, please forgive our awkward and clumsy attempts at comfort. When our friend is sad, we want to help. We want to make it better. And because we want so badly for you to know how much we care and how much you are loved, in the trying we might say or do some dumb things. Our words may be ill-timed, yet please know they come from well-meaning hearts.

Because deep down, we know we can’t fix it for you. But we can “sit in tent” with you. We can be there to listen. To converse if you want us to. Of course, we will pray for you.

Psalm 139 tells us that God has all our days written down in His book before there was yet one of them. That means God put planning and forethought into our lives. From our perspective, God didn’t write nearly enough days down for Andy. Yet in God’s sovereignty, we are here. Memorial services are events where we celebrate a life lived. In Andy’s case, a life well-lived. We remember his many accomplishments and the lasting contributions he made to the people God put in his path.

As significant as those days of achievement are, they wouldn’t have happened if it weren’t for you. Andy wasn’t born fabulous. He had to learn the skills and talents that took him where he went.

He learned those from you.

Those days of you teaching Andy right from wrong? They are in God’s book, too. The moments when you caught him with his hand in the cookie jar. The moments when you had to discipline for the purpose of teaching him a life lesson. All the events where he looked up and saw you in the audience. All the prayers you prayed for him. And all the countless moments you were unaware he was watching how you lived. Your love for God. How you treated people. How you cared for and loved others.

That we celebrate Andy’s life today is a tribute to you.

I think you need to hear this. Especially on this day. You were a great Mom to Andy. God is pleased with how you raised him. As we celebrate Andy’s life, we’re celebrating your commitment to the most important job in the world…raising godly kids.

Shirley, you did good.

I would be remiss not to remind you of something you already know. We, those of us who believe that Jesus Christ died to save us from our sins, we have a hope. Our time here, while it may seem especially long without the ones we love, is but a micro dot in the span of eternity. In Hebrews10:24, God tells us to “not forsake the assembling of ourselves together”. Churches have hijacked that verse to put on their walls to remind people to be a regular on Sunday mornings. To be sure, church is a good thing.

But that’s not what the verse says.

It says don’t stop getting together. We are not to stop gathering around the table to eat dinner together and talk about the hope we have in Christ. Don’t stop drinking lemonade and sweet tea on the back porch with your friends. We assemble together not just for a morning of corporate worship. We assemble together to live out all those “one another” commands that Jesus gave us. Not the least of which are encourage one another, comfort one another, laugh and cry with one another, and pray for one another.

In short, we get together because when the season for “sitting in tent with” is over, we move the conversation to the dinner table. Or the porch. And everywhere else we celebrate this thing called life. Because we have a hope and a future in Christ.

Shirley, in times of trouble, we go with what we know. We know that God loves us. We know He has promised never to leave us or forsake us. We know that He will continue to perfect the good work that He began in us. We know that He is near to the broken hearted and He saves those who are crushed in spirit.

We know that He is our all-knowing, ever loving heavenly father. And we know that there is nothing that can separate us from the love of God which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.

Know that you are loved by many. We are here to “sit in tent with” you.

“Let us hold fast to the profession of our hope without wavering, for He (God) who promised is faithful.” – Hebrews 10:23

Todd A. Thompson- A Slice Of Life To Go

But I’ll always remember Ben.

During my years at Northwestern College, Mulder’s Phillips 66 held down the southeast corner of Highway 10 and Albany Avenue, across the street from campus. Back then, and even now for all I know, it was a full service station. They’d clean your windows, check your oil and pump the gas. Customers appreciate that kind of attention. Often it was one of his sons, Brett, B.J. or Scott, on the business end of the squeegee.

My transportation was a white two-door 1976 Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme. A pretty good looking car with the chrome rims I had on it. One morning I felt the car driving funny. I took it to Ben for a look. He walked once around the car and said, “You can’t drive like this. The steel belts are coming apart on all four of your tires.”

I maybe had four pair of tennis shoes. I probably had four papers to write. What I didn’t have was money to buy four tires. My I.D. said, “Todd Thompson – Poor College Student”. If it would have cost a dollar to get out of town, I didn’t have enough money to get out of sight.

“Bennie, I can’t afford new tires.”

“Tell you what. Just leave it here at the station. I think I’ve got some used tires that might work.”

“Bennie, I don’t think I’ve got enough money for those, either.”

“You can’t drive it like this. These tires are gonna blow anytime. Too dangerous. Just leave it here and let me see what I can do.” He said it like a Dad. In a pleasant but firm “don’t argue with me” voice.

I walked back to Colenbrander Hall wondering with every step how I’d ever be able to pay for whatever it was Bennie was going to do.

Those were the days before everyone and their Golden Retriever had a cell phone. So I walked back to the station about a half hour before closing. I found Bennie inside, ringing up a customer.

“Hey, come on out here and let’s look at your car. I put some used tires on it.”

I walked around the car with my one good eye wide open, staring at the wheels. I’m not saying Bennie was lying to me because he was an honest man. But for him to call these tires “used” would be like a car dealer saying the Chevy can’t be sold as new anymore because someone sat in the back seat. I think the only mileage on these tires was the distance he rolled them from the rack to the hydraulic lift.

“Bennie, these look great. But…”

He cut me off mid-sentence.

“I think $40 should take care of it.”

$40 per tire for tires this new? He’s being too nice. That’s a smokin’ good deal.

“$40 per tire is way more than fair, Bennie. It will take me a bit to get the money together. Is that ok?”

“No. $40 for all four.”

I remember him standing there, grease on his gray work pants and shirt, wiping off his hands with a shop towel. It was almost 5 PM, he was sweaty and needed a shave.

I couldn’t process it. He didn’t know me from a bale of hay. I’m just one of a few hundred college kids that come and go to earn a degree.

Bennie said, “Does that work for you?”

“You’re not charging me enough for these tires.”

“Well, they aren’t new. They’re used.” He turned around and went inside.

Those “used” tires ran pretty good…for over 60,000 miles.

They say people will forget what you tell them but they’ll never forget your kindness. Bennie Mulder’s kindness impressed itself on my life. When I’m having the private mental discussion about “how much do I do for this person?” Bennie and his used tires pop into my head and I remember it’s always better to err on the side of generosity.

I’ve shared my story of Bennie and his used tires in sermons I’ve preached, around restaurant tables, with strangers, friends and family. And as I begin my new job as a high school Bible instructor next week you can bet I’ll be sharing the story with my students, giving them an image and an example of what it means to treat people well.

A truth about relationships is that when we meet people, we either leave them better or worse. But we never leave them the same. Bennie Mulder, in the very brief time our paths crossed, left me a better person.

He was just giving a kid a deal on some tires. Decades later the lesson of his kindness is still rolling along.

God’s biggest blessings to the Mulder family as they celebrate a good man and a life well lived.

“A good name is to be more desired than great wealth, Favor is better than silver and gold.” – Proverbs 22:1

Todd A. Thompson – A Slice Of Life To Go

He announced himself as one of the chaplains and proceeded to make small talk with my Mom. Dad never spoke again after his stroke. He could only nod and smile.

Jerry looked at a piece of paper. “Says here you are from Swea City, Iowa. I knew a guy from there once.” I looked up from my laptop and saw him putting mental puzzle pieces together. “You wouldn’t be Todd, would you?”

I would be Todd. Or I might be Todd. It depends on who wants to know.

“Todd, it’s me. Jerry. Jerry Vander Lee.”

Jerry and I lived on the same dormitory wing at Northwestern College. We hadn’t seen each other in at least 25 years. Last I knew he was part of his family’s car dealership. Now a licensed marriage and family therapist, he also serves as a hospital chaplain.

“Dad, I bought my first car from Jerry.” Dad smiled.

Jerry said, “Let me think…it was a 1985 Oldsmobile…Cutlass Sierra. It was white with plush burgandy interior.” I could tell Dad was impressed that he remembered all those details after so many years.

Seeing Jerry was a great encouragement, especially given the circumstances. However, there’s something I wish I would have thought of in that moment.

When I bought that Oldsmobile from Jerry there were a couple small gifts the company put in the glove box. A cassette tape of mixed music, including the Oldsmobile theme song. “There is a special feel in an Oldsmobile…more than the factory ride, it’s a feeling of pride that you feel inside.” And in a small black box, a gold key fob.

Having just graduated college, it was a big deal to attach the keys to my new Oldsmobile on that fancy keychain. My life was on track. I was moving forward. Full speed, straight ahead. When you’re 22, you don’t think about life’s detours.

When Jerry was standing in my Dad’s hospital room remembering the car he sold to me, I had that keychain in my pocket. In fact, I’ve had that keychain in my pocket every day since I drove off the Kooiker Motors lot in Rock Rapids, Iowa in October of 1985.

That keychain has been with me every day for 29 years.

Over that time it’s held keys for two homes in Iowa, three in Arizona and two in Texas. It’s held keys for vehicles from Oldsmobile, Chevrolet, Pontiac, Mazda, Hyundai, Nissan and one GEO Prism. Never a Ford because the Thompson’s haven’t been a Ford family since 1935 when my Grandfather owned what he determined was a lemon that would make Henry Ford pucker in his grave for eternity and beyond. After that, all Fords were horrible cars, never to be trusted.

This key chain was in my pocket when I left my native rural Iowa for big city Phoenix and graduate school, feeling smart and full of anticipation. I had it in my suit pocket 5 years later the night I graduated from seminary, feeling dumber than a sack of hammers, my education having thoroughly taught me how terribly little I know.

This keychain was in my pocket when a neo-natal ICU nurse tried to squeeze my farm boy shoulders into a too small hospital gown so I could go peek into the incubators that held my adopted daughters. I looked at Annie first. When she opened her eyes, I was gone. Emma squeezed my finger. I’ve been wrapped ever since.

The keychain was in my briefcase for 9 years as a life insurance agent as I wrote policies for newlyweds and sat on death beds helping clients put their final affairs in order. It’s been on the podium while I preached the funerals of family members, friends and total strangers. It’s been down back country roads in Oklahoma, seeing wheat fields and hearing Meadowlarks. It’s been over mountains in Montana and walked the beaches of Barbados. It’s laid next to dessert forks on the tables of fine dining restaurants in New York City and next to coffee cups at hole-in-the-wall Kansas diners.

It’s traveled through the desert on Route 66 and more interstate highway miles than I could count. It’s paced hospital halls with me as I frantically prayed God’s intervention for a friend’s deathly ill child and it’s heard gut busting laughter around kitchen tables with the dearest of people.

It’s been with me at the Art Institute of Chicago as I stared in silent awe at the masterpieces of Seurat, Van Gogh, Renoir, Rembrandt and Monet. And it’s been held in the hands of my children while I admired their latest Crayola creation. It’s been to more concerts than most everyone I know. It’s heard U2 and the Eagles and the Rolling Stones. It was in my right front pocket when Andrea Bocelli sang “Ave Maria” with such beauty that I gave a brief thought to turning Catholic. And it’s been on the coffee table while I watched my kids sing the theme to “Phineas and Ferb”.

This keychain has been with me for new beginnings and tragic endings. It’s been on the dresser at the end of days I couldn’t wait to be over and days I couldn’t wait to begin.

Today it holds keys to our little house on the lake, a Hyundai Santa Fe, the church, the lock to a storage unit, and one for the “God totally did this” teaching job I begin in a few days. There’s also one very special antique Russwin key, circa 1910, that’s always on my chain. It’s to an unknown lock from an unknown place. A reminder to me that doors open and close yet there are rooms in the heart, full of memories that are always with us.

This keychain has been with me every day for 29 years. That’s a long time. Yet the days of my life have been written down in God’s book before time began. The God of the universe put time and forethought into my life. He’s always been here. He never leaves. He never forsakes. After His salvation, my favorite promise of God is that He will never leave us. In Him, we will never be lost and we will never be alone.

Being the sentimental guy that I am, I hope this keychain is in my pocket when, God willing, I’m old and gray. But I could lose it. Or it could finally give out. Or maybe someday a grandchild will accidentally drop it in the lake.

If and when that happens, God will still be here.

Even should the day come that I need a new keychain.

“Lord, you have been our dwelling place in all generations!” – Psalm 90:1

“Remember, I am with you always. Even to the end of the age.” – Jesus. – Matthew 28:20

Todd A. Thompson – A Slice Of Life To Go

Being a Dad of twin daughters, I’m a sucker for cute kids and this little girl takes my attention briefly away from the sermon. She looks my way. I smile and wave. She pulls back and hides on the floor behind her Daddy’s leg. I know what’s about to happen. In a few seconds her head pokes up over the top, like a turkey looking over a log. I smile and wave again. This time she grins and disappears, only to peer out from below. We continue the game until she is distracted by a church bulletin she discovers on the floor.

Peek-A-Boo is played between a big person and a little person. A simple game generating joy for both players.

From the perspective of the little person, the game is driven by one question: Will the big person be there the next time I peek?

From the perspective of the big person, the game of peek-a-boo is driven by a different question: How many times will the little person peek before they realize I’m still here?

God’s known me since before time (Psalm 139). I’ve known him for about 45 years. He’s always been there. Every time I look, He’s there. Yet I still catch myself playing Peek-A-Boo with God.

He was there the last time I looked. And the time before that. So what is it that makes us peek to see if He’s there the next time?

When the doctor says it’s cancer, we peek.

When we lose our job the same week we find out we’re expecting a baby, we peek.

When our kids seem to forget every bit of wisdom we taught them and go down a bad road, we peek.

When we start life over in a place we never wanted to be, we peek.

When someone we love struggles with an addiction, we peek.

When our spouse passes away and we’re left alone in a suddenly too big house, we peek.

When we’re grinding out life, wondering what is our purpose, we peek.

From our perspective, the game is driven by one question: Will God be there the next time I look?

From God’s perspective, there is no question. Only a promise. A promise never to leave us. While we human big people may tire of playing peek-a-boo with a toddler, God is never exhausted or exasperated by us. He knows our frame. He has compassion on us as a father has compassion on his children (Psalm 103).

The irony of playing Peek-A-Boo with God is that while I’m peeking, wondering if He will be there, I’m surrounded by evidence of His faithfulness. Years ago I peeked when at age 37, I thought I’d never get to be a Dad. God blessed me with twin daughters. I peeked when starting life over from zero in a place I never wanted to be. God blessed me with wonderful friends. I peeked when wondering if I’d get to do life with someone. God blessed me with a great wife. I peeked when praying for a place to use the abilities God gave me. God blessed me with jobs that utilize my talents.

Some of these blessings happened faster than expected. Most of them were years in the making. The constant is that every time I peek, God is there.

God promises to be there for you, too.

Is it silly to play Peek-A-Boo with God?

Maybe.

Then again, we are His kids.

And God never tires of the game.

“The Lord is compassionate and merciful; he is patient and demonstrates great loyal love. He does not always accuse, and does not stay angry. He does not deal with us as our sins deserve; he does not repay us as our misdeeds deserve. For as the skies are high above the earth, so his loyal love towers over his faithful followers.

As far as the eastern horizon is from the west, so he removes the guilt of our rebellious actions from us. As a father has compassion on his children, so the Lord has compassion on his faithful followers.” – Psalm 103:8-13

Todd A. Thompson – A Slice Of Life To Go

My twins Annie and Emma are not quite 4 years old on this Saturday morning in 2004. The three of us are at a Home Depot in Chandler, AZ. We round a corner in the back of the store when I look toward the far end of the aisle. Rolling toward us, dressed in boots, jeans, a western shirt and cowboy hat is a paraplegic man in a wheelchair. Before I can say anything, the girls bolt toward him. It looks like the three of them will meet in the middle by the PVC and sprinkler system parts.

It’s just the four of us in the aisle. I can’t yell them back without making the cowboy feel like I’m waving my kids away from him. I’ve yet to have a talk with the girls about being tactful in situations like this, what to say and what not to say. As if a 4-year old would understand anyway. It’s one of those parenting moments where you bite your lip and hope for the best.

They do meet in the middle. Annie and Emma apply their brakes directly in front of the cowboy, forcing him to stop. I’m bracing for what’s about to happen, running a list of potential apologies through my brain.

It’s a three second stand off that feels like eternity.

With a Texas size wave of the arm and a voice to match, Annie shouts, “Howdy, partner!”

I saw the wheelchair.

Annie saw the cowboy.

When you look at a person, what do you see?

Cowboy hats. Leather vests. Flip flops. Faded concert T-shirts. Silk ties. Sun dresses. Tattoos. Glasses. Piercings. Jeans. Evening gowns. Designer shoes. Yoga pants. Board shorts. Three-piece suits. Baseball caps. Hawaiian shirts. Team jerseys. Scars. There’s so much to look at on the outside. Some of it interesting and some non descript. None of it a complete picture of the person wearing them or bearing them.

The danger is to assume what we see is what it is. Or what we think it represents. We know this to be true. It’s why we check ourselves in the mirror before walking out the door. It’s why we spend time pondering what to wear. Because we know those who see us will assume what they see is who we are. It’s why we don’t stop with clothes and extend the assumption to the cars we drive, the homes we live in and the vacations we take.

Yet we are each one more, much more, than our layer of clothing choice. Or our vehicle or neighborhood. As a means of determining who we are, all of these are misleading. And incomplete. There’s only one common denominator on which we should focus.

We are, each and every one, made in the image of God.

Imago Dei.

The Bible tells us, “God created man in His own image, male and female He created them, in His image He created them.” (Genesis 1:27) When we look past the clothes and the cars and the houses we live in, we see what matters. We are each one a reflection of God’s image. It’s the only way to accurately view another human being.

When we push through the trappings, we discover the truth. The awe inspiring, reverent truth that the person we’re standing in front of is made in the image of God.

Next time you’re in Home Depot, don’t be like me. Be like Annie. See the cowboy, not the wheelchair. And while you’re at it, see the plumber. The retired guy. The mom with three kids. The punk rocker wannabe. The orange apron girl. The carpenter. The preppie college kid.  The business executive.

Each of them bearing the image of God.

“It is a serious thing to live in a society of possible gods and goddesses, to remember that the dullest and most uninteresting person you talk to may one day be a creature which, if you saw it now, you would be strongly tempted to worship, or else a horror and a corruption such as you now meet, if at all, only in a nightmare. All day long we are, in some degree, helping each other to one or other of these destinations. It is in the light of these overwhelming possibilities, it is with the awe and the circumspection proper to them, that we should conduct all our dealings with one another, all friendships, all loves, all play, all politics. There are no ‘ordinary’ people. You have never talked to a mere mortal. Nations, cultures, arts, civilizations — these are mortal, and their life is to ours as the life of a gnat. But it is immortals whom we joke with, work with, marry, snub and exploit — immortal horrors or everlasting splendors.”    –C. S. Lewis, from “The Weight of Glory”

Todd A. Thompson – A Slice Of Life To Go

A full blood Swede, her parents came over from the old country. I got my love of coffee from her. If you’re Swedish, first you have coffee. Always. Then you do the next thing. But not before. First you have coffee.

Because her generation, the greatest generation, was one of immigrants from Europe and Scandinavia, she was interested in where people came from. If you said your name was “Anderson” she’d ask whether you spelled it with an “o” or an “e”. Because if it was an “o”, you came from Sweden or Norway. If it was an “e”, you came from Denmark.

For years she matter of factly told me that in heaven, everyone will speak Swedish. I accepted this at face value until I was about 17. I asked, “Grandma, how can you possibly know that?” Grandma said it was because all the Swedes she knew wouldn’t be smart enough to learn another language.

My Grandfather courted her with great persistence. She didn’t play easy to get. In her late 80’s she wrote a letter to my cousin. “I once told your grandfather it would be a cold day before I ever married him. It was. -30 below zero on Christmas Eve 1924.”

She was an Iowa school teacher and high school principal in the early 1920’s. A life long learner, she read continually, including her Bible. She taught Sunday School classes, mostly to adults, for over 70 years. She did the Jumble word puzzle in the newspaper every day. She would also politely beat you in Scrabble anytime you wished.

In 1929 while living in Minneapolis, she and my grandfather and my Uncle John who was 6 months old at the time were broadsided by a drunk driver behind the wheel of a milk truck. She spent 7 months in the Anker Hospital. Because they didn’t think she would make it, they didn’t bother to put her in a body cast right away. She vividly described her nightmare the first time they gave her morphine for the pain. She dreamed that, beginning with her toes and moving upward, she could feel herself dying, slowly and surely, one square inch at a time. It was so terrifying she told them never to give her morphine again. The accident left her with a limp for life.

While from time to time she would reminisce about her teenage athletic accomplishments like swimming a mile across a lake, I don’t recall her ever complaining.

It was easy to remember how old Grandma was. Whatever year it was, that’s how old she was. Born in 1900, she lived in real time what I read about in my history book. Imagine being born before plastic. She marveled at every advance in technology because she lived through the days of gas fired lamps, walking rain or shine to a one-room country school, and coal fed furnaces. I was with her the day Neil Armstrong walked on the moon. She stared at the television in disbelief, remembering that for her it wasn’t long ago that a 20 mile trip to Fairmont, MN in a horse drawn wagon was a grand adventure.

The speed of advancement never ceased to amaze her. When, as a college student, I explained word processing on a computer, she stared at me, her hand holding her chin. Shaking her head she said, “It’s beyond my absolutely.”

She lived through World War I and the Great Depression. As with most everyone who endured those years, she became resourceful in creating something out of seemingly nothing. She made the family’s clothes on her pedal Singer sewing machine. She pedaled so fast you’d have thought it was an electric. She made clothes for my Dad out of feed sacks. She knew how to grow fruits and vegetables, how to can and preserve them. She made homemade soap that would laugh at grease, blood and grass stains before making them disappear.

During World War II, three of her brothers went to help save the world from the evil that was Hitler, Mussolini and Hirohito. They didn’t see one another for over three and a half years, serving in the Pacific and European theaters. During that time, she cared for her father who died of stomach cancer, while working as a mom and farm wife.

Our immediate and extended family remembers her kindness, her hospitality and her food. On the Iowa farm breakfast is what you eat in the morning, dinner is what you eat at noon, supper is what you eat in the evening. Lunch is what you eat at 10 AM and 4 PM. Coffee, of course. And something to go with it. Because according to Grandma, you can’t have coffee without something to go with it. Her culinary spreads were legendary in our family. Yet she never thought it was enough. In a letter written in the late 1930’s, she said, “Had the family over after church. I made Parkerhouse rolls, a three bean salad, deviled eggs, glazed ham, escalloped potatoes, baked chicken, oyster dressing, green beans, homemade apple pickles, cherry sauce, brownies and a lemon cake….it’s getting to where I just don’t know what to make for dinner anymore.”

Grandma wasn’t perfect. But I thought she was. As a kid I’d often stay overnight on Saturdays. Sunday mornings I’d wake up in the guest bedroom to the smells and sounds of bacon and eggs frying. Coffee boiled in the old white enamel pot into which she’d throw eggshells to settle the grounds. In the background could be heard programs on the AM radio like “The Heaven and Home Hour” and “Chapel of the Air”. Grandma could cook. Dining with her was an experience. She was the slowest eater in the history of mankind. Some of her unfinished meals date back to the Hoover administration.

I have a picture of Grandma and Grandpa on their 54th anniversary, Grandma wearing the “going away dress” she wore on her wedding day. It still fit perfectly. My Grandpa Thompson died in 1981. He and Grandma had been married 57 years. With some help, she stayed in her home for a time. When it became clear that she was no longer physically able to live by herself, she moved in with my parents.

Even though her home was only a half mile away and there was no pressing need to do so, she insisted on taking inventory of her home and dividing up her possessions among her two sons and six grandchildren. We all thought it was premature and told her so. I asked, “Grandma, why are you doing this now? You’re going to be around for a long time.” She responded, “I learned it from my mother. Do your givin’ while you’re livin’ so you’re knowin’ where it’s goin’.” She took great joy in seeing her things given away to be treasured by her family.

I had the privilege of preaching her funeral when she passed at 90 years old. On that day Gladys Kluger, a friend of Grandma’s since before 1927, pulled me aside and said, “In over 60 years of knowing your Grandmother, I’ve never heard her say an unkind word about anyone.”

Come to think of it, I never had, either.

The only time I ever heard her come even close was in her story about acquiring an antique buffet. She and my Grandpa were at an estate sale in the 1930’s. “Mrs. Johnson was bidding on it, too. The price was getting up there beyond what we could really afford. But I told your Grandpa that I thought Mrs. Johnson could probably do without that buffet.” They paid $12 for it. It’s now in my kitchen, a tangible memory of decades of wonderful food served with love to family and friends.

Summing up a person’s life in a short column, a eulogy or even a book, is impossible. We are each one so much more than the memories people have of us. Yet it’s the memories that remain after the person is gone. Let’s live our lives in such a way that the memories we leave with others will be sweet. That we will be remembered fondly as one who, with all our quirks, loved God and loved people.

Todd A. Thompson – A Slice Of Life To Go

It’s her first visit to the clinic. We rescued her from a shelter. They had her spayed and she needs the stitches removed. She’s only 7 months old. Just a puppy. A puppy afraid of the scale. It’s silly to have to lift a dog onto a walk-on scale, but we do what we have to. 52.4 pounds. Confirmation as to why she knocks the wind out of me when jumping on the bed in the middle of the night.

Over in the corner of the waiting room is a silver haired elderly couple. Their miniature French Poodle is under the bench, hiding behind their legs. And why not? It looks like big dog day at the clinic. Two St. Bernard’s with paws the size of salad plates are ready to go home. They lumber over to me for a rub on the head before dragging their owners out to the car.

Says Mrs. French Poodle, “I doubt Marquette has ever seen a dog that big.”

I peek through the front door. “He’s about to see bigger.”

St. Bernard’s are big. Great Danes are huge. This one’s name is Case. Case is as gentle as he is large. You don’t walk a dog that big. The dog walks you. Thankfully, Case, while not content to sit, is easy going around the wait room. He ambles over to get some attention from me and Sadie. His massive head rests for a second on my knee. Sadie seems suddenly small.

Mrs. French Poodle stares in wonderment. “How much does that dog eat?”

“About 8 cups of food a day.”

“How big are the cups?”

The exam room door opens and out comes a gorgeous German Shorthair Pointer. Brown and white and so excited to see his owner that he forgets about his injured paw. They go out the door, leaving a couple drops of blood behind. So back inside they come for another look. The dog is not pleased. I imagine it’s like leaving the dentist’s office and being pulled from your car to hear, “Sorry, we missed a cavity.”

A 30-something woman in a black nylon jacket comes through the front door with her Weimaraner, sleek and silver gray.

Sadie wants to be introduced.

“What’s her name?”

“Charlie.”

“She looks like a Charlie.” Sadie and Charlie exchange sniffs. All is well for a moment. Until Sadie goes for another sniff. She has no concept of personal space. Charlie growls and snaps.

“Sorry. She’s a girl. And she gets a little pissy sometimes.” Charlie’s lip is curled up, displaying some very white teeth. Her owner sighs, “Today she’s pissy.”

Sadie looks at me with a “what’d I do?” expression. But Case the Great Dane wanders back over for more attention and she’s happy again.

The German Shorthair reappears, this time with a wrap around his back right paw. “Try to make sure it stays on there, ok? If it comes off and it’s not bleeding, you’ll be fine. Otherwise, come back and see us.”

Finally it’s Marquette the French Poodle’s turn to be seen. Whatever procedure she is about to endure must be less scary than the enormous dogs surrounding her. She comes out from under the bench and shoots into the exam room like her tail is on fire.

It’s just as well for her. The next two dogs through the door are Huskies.

Indeed, it’s big dog day at the clinic.

Comedian George Carlin said, “Life is a series of dogs.” He’s right, you know. We mark time by the dogs in our life. For me it is Kelly and Molly and Molly II, the St. Bernard’s. Sasha the Shetland Sheepdog, Palmer the American Eskimo Dog and now Boxers Bentley and Sadie and Gracie the Maltee-Poo. I can bring any of them to mind and, like mile markers on a highway, tell you about that stretch of road in my life.

Who knows why?

Perhaps because our dogs are a steady, faithful presence. They never miss an opportunity to show they are glad to see us when we come home. Even when we run to the store and back they greet us as though we’d been away on a great adventure. They are with us through thick and thin. And sad though it is, we sometimes love our dogs because they stick around when the people in our lives don’t.

Life is a series of dogs. Gather the elders in your family together around the dinner table and after the plates are pushed back and the coffee is poured, you’ll hear the stories. The reminiscing. Someone will get stuck on whether it happened in ’51 or ’55. It’s the memory of the dog that points the way. “It must have been in ’55 because that’s when Dad had old Pete. He used to ride in that Chevy truck with him, remember?”

Everyone remembers and nods. Old Pete. Dad. The Chevy truck.

There’s a pause. Everyone is remembering.

Old Pete, the black hound with the streak of white on his belly. Dad in his overalls and seed corn cap. The red Chevy with the “three on the tree” transmission and the AM radio tuned to WCCO – Minneapolis. We can still hear Herb Carneal, the voice of the Twins, doing the play by play of Killebrew, Carew, Oliva, Kaat and Tovar battling the Detroit Tigers while we haul feed and hay on the farm.

It’s the memory of the dog that marks the time.

Dr. Casey says Sadie did great on her visit. She even gave kisses to the tech while her stitches were being taken out. She’ll be back next year for her shots. Hopefully, not before. She’s healthy and happy at the lake. Chasing birds, chewing up bones and shoes, barking at cats.

And marking this stretch of road in my life.

Though when it comes to marking the stretch of road we live on, Bentley the Boxer does a better job. Trash cans, bushes, fire hydrants, trees, he marks pretty much everything.

You know what I mean.

Years from now around the dinner table, I’ll remember that, too.

“Heaven goes by favor. If it went by merit, your dog would go in and you would stay out.” – Mark Twain

“Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom.” – Psalm 90:12

Todd A. Thompson – ASliceOfLifeToGo.com

After all, we have an image to protect.

But it’s always there.

If only it were a childhood disease that one out grows. But it’s not. It’s residual and in many cases, increasing in intensity as one ages. Depending on our brand of church, the symptoms of this condition vary. For some, a constant low-grade fever fueled by weekly announcements from the pulpit, prayer letters in our mailbox and ever present bulletin board posters. For others, months of asymptomatic remission interrupted by intense flare ups during spring break and one full week in the fall when it manifests itself into a full blown malady so overwhelming we are confined to our home.

Or work.

Or the bar.

Anywhere but church.

Old-timers like myself know it well. We can spot the symptoms from 20 pews away.

It’s INAMS. The “I’m Not A Missionary Syndrome”.

Most every evangelical church is involved with mission programs. A few have it written into their constitution. “We commit ourselves to the support of gospel missionaries both foreign and domestic”, or some such noble wording. Jesus called us to “go into all the world and make disciples”. If it’s in His Book then we better put it in our by-laws.

The problem is that over the centuries we’ve come to define “all the world” as any place but where we live. The world is “out there”. Preferably someplace that requires a series of painful immunizations and a passport for entry. Because God gives bonus points to those selfless, dedicated souls who give up their brick business in Birmingham to go teach Bible in Botswana. And if their brick business was a BOOMING brick business in Birmingham, then expect some magazine articles and maybe a Christian book deal. After all, people need to know how they, too, can be true believers.

(Well, that and we’re not above publicizing our humility as long as it’s for the cause of the gospel, right?)

Because real Christians never stay home. They go somewhere else. Real Christians only come home for Christmas every third year on a furlough because real Christians are “out there” in the world.

At least that’s how those of us who suffer from “I’m Not A Missionary Syndrome” feel.

Understand clearly, it’s not the pastors or missionaries who are holding themselves as holier than us. To the contrary, 99% of pastors and missionaries know better than anyone that they serve by the grace of God in spite of their shortcomings. As do we all. The 1% of pastors and missionaries who think the show is all about them are insufferable self-aggrandizing people who sooner or later hang themselves on the gallows of their own narcissism. Pride goes before a fall. Vocational Christian workers are not exempt from that truth.

If it’s a matter of blame, there’s plenty to go around. Start with the false distinction we promote in church on a near weekly basis. It’s the phrase that puts a wrinkle in my church bulletin every time it’s uttered.

“Full-time Christian service.”

Every time I hear someone say “full-time Christian service” I want to scream. What does that make the rest of us? Part-timers?

The phrase “full-time Christian service” is typically reserved for pastors and missionaries. It’s for those whose paychecks come from a church or mission board. Part of the blame is ours, those of us who sit in the pews or padded chairs. Over time, we develop an unspoken attitude of, “We pay them to do ministry. It’s their job.” It relieves the guilt we feel of not being in that position ourselves.

And because we pay them through our tithes and offerings, we have expectations. Unrealistic expectations. We want our pastors to be captivating speakers, intuitive counselors, visionary leaders, soul winning evangelists, compassionate care givers, and selfless servants. Oh, and we want their marriage to be perfect, their children to be angels, that they strike perfect balance between work and home and be available 24/7 if and when we need them. But hey, no pressure, pastor. Because we want you to be relaxed and fresh when we introduce you to our neighbor who’s looking for a new church.

The same goes for missionaries. As the old saying has it, “All of us are equal, but some of us are more equal than others.” For those of us who suffer from INAMS, this is where our condition becomes acute. It’s our own fault. We’ve placed missionaries on this pedestal. Missionaries are the Grand Poo-Bah’s for those of us with INAMS. We feel guilty enough that we aren’t pastors or even para-church workers here in the states. When we get the prayer letters from our missionaries in Germany and Malawi and Papua New Guinea, we envision all the stars in their crown while we stare at our little tin badge. They translated Ephesians 1 into a native language last month. We generated a couple hundred TPS reports at work, identified the source of the foul odor in the minivan and finally got the 3-year old to stop saying “poop”. Two accomplishments that, thankfully, were unrelated.

This is why so many Christians who never miss a Sunday will find a way to be gone during their church’s annual missions week. We can barely handle the guilt while reading prayer letters. Seeing missionaries in person 7 days in a row would incapacitate us. Over the years I can’t tell you how many people have said to me, “I love God. I’m thankful for missionaries. But I can’t go to that mission conference. It makes me feel second rate.”

Be it our pastors or our missionaries, we INAMS folk beat back our guilt by writing a check and sending it off. We love our pastors and our missionaries. We really do. We admire them. We pray for them. We just wish that in their presence, be it on paper or in person, we didn’t feel guilty about what we are compared to what we think they are. Or as comedian George Gobel once observed, “Did you ever get the feeling that the world was a tuxedo and you were a pair of brown shoes?”

Surprisingly, if truth be told, you could fill a lot of church busses with pastors who suffer from “I’m Not A Missionary Syndrome”. Pastoring a flock in Houston has it’s challenges. But you’re not in Haiti. Maybe a real pastor would resign and move to Port-au-Prince? A guilty thought for the pastor to bat away while praying with his parishioner in the hospital.

Ever wonder how and why we’ve turned Christian service into a competition?

The result is predictable. INAMS people like us live and work and have our meaning, not in the freedom Christ promises, but in fear. Fear that God will yank us out of our happy place where we are using our gifts and talents and put us somewhere we don’t want to be. This can even hold us back from going deeper with God, fearing that if we show Him we’re really serious about our faith we might start to stand out as a promising candidate for Africa.

Thinking critically, of course this makes no sense. If God’s goal is to share the good news of Jesus Christ with the world, why would He want to do that with a bunch of square peg in a round hole, grumpy, unfulfilled people? More accurately, if we are not pointing people to Christ in our work here as butcher, baker or candlestick maker…how would becoming a missionary be any different?

For the record, the majority of us would be lousy vocational missionaries. But we are excellent sales people, teachers, business owners, writers, students, engineers, computer geeks, cleaners, mechanics, tree surgeons and cooks. By God’s grace and design, we are gifted in these positions. We are talented in these positions. Our career is to serve others with excellence where God has placed us, using the gifts and talents He’s given us. Our calling is to point people to Christ within that career. Our career may change. Our calling never changes.

This applies to all of us. There are pastors who should be plumbers. And there are plumbers who should be pastors. It’s not about a title. It’s about using the gifts and talents God gave us, not about feeling guilty that we aren’t something else. Why would God try to win the world with people who aren’t where they belong? “Hi. My name’s Bob. I’d rather be putting up drywall in Denver but I’m here to say Jesus loves you. Hey, Mgando, how do you say “I hate it here” in Swahili?”

Time for some cut to the chase, bottom line truths:

* If we are a follower of Jesus Christ, we are ALL in full-time Christian service. No exceptions.

* What pastors and missionaries do for God’s Kingdom in their vocation is no more or less important than what we do for God’s kingdom within our vocations.

* The gifts and talents God has given us are no more or less important than those He’s given to pastors and missionaries.

* There is no magic in being a pastor or a missionary. They are simply serving out of their gifts and talents the way we are serving out of ours.

* If we are not pointing people to Jesus Christ where we are, any move is a lateral move.

Go back and read that truth again.

Again.

Once more.

Finally…We are never happier, more joyful, more fulfilled or more valuable to the Kingdom than when we are doing that which God has wired us to do.

So dump the guilt. It’s false. Point people to Jesus Christ where you are, being who you are, doing what you love to do.

For some crazy reason, people are attracted to that.

“Let your light shine before men in such a way that they may see your good works and glorify your Father who is in heaven.” – Matthew 5:16

Todd A. Thompson – A Slice Of Life To Go

Wood paneled walls from the 70’s. Fiber board ceiling tiles, slightly water stained from roof leaks of years past. No artwork on the walls, save a calendar or two from a local vendor. Booths along the walls, some patched with a little duct tape, others showing their cracks, wrinkles and age without apology.

Betty the waitress navigates the tables and chairs in between with coffee pot in one hand and water pitcher in the other. Wherever you sit down, there are salt and pepper shakers. Real sugar in a real glass dispenser. And an ashtray. It’s freedom the way it once was. The way my politically incorrect soul believes it should be still. The “no smoking” section is wherever you choose not to light up.

I slide into a booth. The guy across the room greets me. He’s wearing jeans, a white t-shirt and two sleeves of tattoos. “How you doin’?”, I ask.

“How am I doing?” He laughs. “Well, let’s not talk about how. Let’s just say I’m doing it.” He’s busy folding a stack of napkins while keeping up with the various conversations around him.

This is a place where the cook knows that to make a proper ham and cheese omelet you grill the ham first. Betty the waitress calls everyone “Hon”. She keeps my water glass full, my coffee hot and the regulars current on the latest news. “Did you hear about Naomi? She’s all stove up. Heard a noise in her engine and went to check it out. She thought it was the hood latch she was pulling but it was the emergency brake. Truck backed over her hand. She’s got three cracked ribs and a couple broken fingers.”

The man with crutches leaning up against his booth winces at the description. He gets up to leave with his wife. The old timer at the table to my left asks, “What happened to your wheel?”

“Bad sprain in my ankle. Fractured a toe.”

The old timer looks to the wife, “That’s what he gets for trying to kick you. I guess he’ll behave now, won’t he?”

She laughs. “We can only hope.”

My booth has a high back to it. When I look straight ahead all I see is a black felt cowboy hat with cigarette smoke swirling in and out of a stream of sunlight. The voice is large and deep. I imagine a broad shouldered burly guy. A “Black Bart” type. He’s talking with the old timer. In a gravel voice, the old timer laughs, “I’ve had a truck or two try to run away from me before.”

The old timer. He’s got to be looking back on 75 from a considerable distance. His weathered face is the same color as his canvas jacket, save the colorful band of Santa Fe pattern on it. He stirs his coffee and says to Black Bart, “Remember when we’d string up electric fence back on the ranch? I just got everything done and powered up. Must have forgotten to set the brake because that old pickup rolled back and pinned me to that hot wire. Don’t you know I was a scramblin’ hard to get free of that.”

Black Bart laughed loudly. Then coughed loudly. The smoke thinned, then mushroom clouded above his cowboy hat. It’d be a good idea for guys like Bart to quit smoking. Until you realize that tar is the only thing holding their lungs together. Bart reminisces, “One time me and Bud were goin’ to round up some cattle. I was riding that big bay horse. Remember him? Those gates had tricky latches. I got it open and rode through but that gate got away from me and bumped the old bay on the butt. I got a fast ride I wasn’t expecting that day.”

It’s breakfast the way it should be. Omelet. Hash browns. Texas toast. Coffee. They say you should eat like a king at breakfast, a prince at lunch and a pauper at dinner. After this meal I’ll be feeling like royalty all day.

“Here’s your ticket, hon. Thanks for coming in.” Betty’s good wishes are kind and sincere. She turns to let someone else know about Naomi’s cracked ribs.

Much as I’d love to stay and listen to more stories, I’ve got work to do. Leaving to pay, I look to my right. Turns out burly Black Bart is really Sonora Slim. A skinny bow-legged cowboy on his third smoke.

Driving away from the cafe and toward my responsibilities, I remember a line from the movie, “We Bought A Zoo”.  At the end of the film, the 14-year old girl asks the zookeeper, “Really quick…if you had to choose…animals or people?” In the pause that follows, they take in the interactions of animals and people around them.

The girl answers her own question with a giggle. “Me, too… people!”

Me three.

 “God must love the common man. He made so many of them.” – Abraham Lincoln

“God created humankind in His own image, in the image of God He created them, male and female He created them.” – Genesis 1:27

Todd A. Thompson – ASliceOfLifeToGo.com

Every Wednesday was a “quiet day” in the home office. Underwriters wouldn’t take calls from agents. In fact, if you dared try the switchboard operators would turn you away with a gentle but firm reminder, “It’s quiet day.” The underwriters went about their work with no phones ringing. As agents in the field, we quickly learned that if we needed their help we better talk to them on Tuesday or it would have to wait till Thursday.

While at a company meeting in Milwaukee I had opportunity to have lunch with one of the underwriters who handled my cases. She told me that company wide the underwriters processed more business on Wednesday each week than the other four work days combined. Simply because they could work without interruption or distraction.

That’s the value of quiet.

Technology has made it possible for us to do anything we want 24/7. It wasn’t that way when I was a kid. Everything went quiet for at least a few hours. Especially if you lived in a small town. Banks opened at 9 AM and closed at 3 PM. (There’s a reason for the phrase “banker’s hours”). The Post Office closed at 5. There were no card readers at the gas station. If the Chevy needed a fill up, you better get there before John closed his DX station for the evening. And television? For a long time we only got one channel. KEYC-TV Mankato, Minnesota. My kids will never know the experience of hearing, after the late movie, “This concludes our broadcast day” followed by the National Anthem and the screen going fuzzy white.

Back in the day, even TV went quiet.

Today the noise never stops. There’s nothing you can do at 10 o’clock in the morning that you can’t do at 10 o’clock at night. We can bank, shop, dine out, and refuel at any time of day. Even do it yourself postal stations are open all night. Add the convenience of internet and we can take care of pretty much everything without leaving the couch.

Activity buzzes noisily along,  24/7.

I can’t speak for you but I’m guilty of having a lot of noise in my life. It started years ago when I went through some very difficult and lonely times. A TV or radio playing in the background kept me company. I like having the radio on in the car. I like music playing low when I’m working. Seems innocent enough. Yet if I’m honest, I’m pushing away the silence, treating it as something I’m afraid of.

And maybe I am.

For me, it’s the early morning darkness. Those first bleary eyed moments when feet hit the floor. No noise. No distractions. Just me. That’s when I feel the most fragile.  It’s the most honest part of my day. Before I’ve layered myself with platitudes and self-talk. Before I start running my mental “to do” list. Before I turn on the coffee maker or the radio.

Those moments when it’s just me having to face me.

And God.

I’ve noticed something about myself. When I’m wise, I sit with the silence. It’s not always easy for me to do. Especially when silence is what I routinely push away. Yet when I manage to make room for it, to sit awkwardly with it, I seem better prepared for when the noise starts up again.

Years ago I met an artist in Scottsdale, Arizona. I don’t know his name. Everyone called him “Peaches”. He wore floral print Hawaiian shirts that resembled the large canvases of abstract patterns he painted. I asked, “When do you do your painting?” With an “I’ve tried every time of day look” he said, “Always paint early in the morning. Because by noon there’s so much junk in your head you’re not creative anymore.”

At a practical level, how much more could we accomplish, publish and produce, ship and deliver if we unplugged from the noise and plugged into the quiet?

At a spiritual level, how much more would we hear God’s still small voice if we made room for some quiet each day?

However you do it, here’s hoping you make room for the quiet.

Who knows? Maybe in time we’ll actually make friends with it.

Kevin’s letter said, in part, “I like sports and girls and country music. I’m bringing my stereo.”

Rich’s letter said, in part, “I like sports and girls and Christian contemporary music. I’m bringing my stereo.”

I figured I’d like these guys. And I didn’t have to bring my stereo.

For two years we shared the 3-man room in Colenbrander 3rd East. We played practical jokes on an almost daily basis. We discussed life, debated politics, bemoaned assignments from our professors, studied the Bible, and tried with futility to understand the mysteries of the female gender. Together we enjoyed the fraternity of our fellow dorm mates and formed friendships that would prove to be fast and deep.

Living with a Dutchman like Kevin was a cross cultural experience. From him I learned the letter “B” was key to living successfully in Wisconsin. Bucks, Brewers, bowling, brats, buns, butter and beer. He taught me essential Wisconsin survival skills like which cheese to buy (Gibbsville) and how to grill brats (Johnsonville only).

Rich exposed me to Christian contemporary music, expanding my taste beyond the hymn book. He was a good student and helped me be more disciplined in my studies. I enjoyed his wit and dry sense of humor. He claimed that staying loose and relaxed was key to performing well, hence his conviction that boxer shorts must always be worn on test days.

When graduation day arrived four years later, we’d bonded deep friendships. We went in different directions. Rich left for Chicago to earn his teaching certification. Kevin went to Taiwan to teach English as a second language. And I stayed in northwest Iowa to begin my insurance business.

Three years later found us all moving forward. Rich had found and married Beth. Kevin found Karen and they were to be married in the new chapel back on campus. For the first time in a long time the triumvirate from 3rd East Colenbrander were together again. Memories were shared, old jokes were told and the personal idiosyncrasies discovered in living with people for years were once again bantered about. We caught up on life as we celebrated Kevin and Karen’s marriage.

Late into the evening Rich said they had to leave. He and Beth, his beautiful wife of one year, were on their way to Ohio for a week of vacation. We exchanged hugs and pounded one another on the back as men are prone to do. Then we both said the same thing. “It was great seeing you, man. Let’s not wait so long next time.” He turned and with his arm around Beth, walked out the door and down the long sidewalk of Fern Smith Hall.

A week later I got a phone call from Rich’s brother, Doug. He said that Rich was dead. He had been electrocuted in a freak accident. He was 26. He left behind a 23-year old widow. They’d been married a year and one week.

Within days Kevin and I went from dancing in tuxedos at a wedding to carrying our best friend’s casket across a cemetery lawn. It was a stifling hot and humid August day. I could feel the sweat running down my back as my right hand gripped the rail on the coffin. We walked slowly from the hearse toward the small tent and the sea of faces circling the graveside.

This can’t be happening. Being a casket bearer is a job for old men in dark overcoats and fedoras, not twenty-somethings in silk ties and button down shirts living in their first apartment.

Yet here we are. I remember standing next to Kevin while someone prayed. Except he didn’t really pray. He was “preach praying”. And it went on forever. It was making me mad. I wanted to punch him. About five minutes into it Kevin leaned over and whispered, “If Gould were here, he’d tell this guy to shut up already.”

Finally it was over. We walked to the hearse for the ride back to the church for the obligatory ham sandwich and potato salad lunch. The six of us sat silent, staring through the windows at the citizens of Spencer running errands and working in their yards, oblivious to our sorrow and loss.

The thing about death is that it happens in the middle of life.

It’s hard to believe that was 25 years ago. It’s hard to believe I’m old enough to say things like “that was 25 years ago”. A lot of life has happened since then and most of it not according to the plans made by the idealistic college kids that we were. In business they talk about “5-year plans”. But they don’t have a class called, “What To Do When Your Plans Go Up In Smoke”.

It would be an excellent addition to the curriculum.

From birth we are taught, either purposely or by default, that life is linear. We roll over before we crawl. We walk before we run. We start school in kindergarten and move through elementary into junior high. Then high school. Then we go to college and take classes labeled “101” and “202”. Then “303” and “404” and we graduate. Because everything else has unfolded in order and proper sequence up to this point we think to ourselves, “I believe I’ll get a job, go back to grad school, get my master’s degree (and yes, Master’s classes begin with “505”), get married, buy a split level in the ‘burbs, have 2.5 kids, a couple Big Wheels in the driveway and get a poodle that thinks it’s a real dog.”

And for some, the plan works. Right up and through the part about receiving the gold watch after 35 years of service to the same company and retiring to travel the country in a Winnebago. But not for most. For most of us life is not a straight line. There are detours. Unplanned circumstances. These detours can either derail us permanently or they can become the fodder for a blessed life. If we insist on trying to make life go in order and according to our well intentioned plans, we’ll likely die a frustrated mess. If we accept the detours as experiences to be thoroughly lived instead of merely tolerated, we’ll discover blessings we didn’t anticipate.

Simply put, detours don’t take us away from our life. Detours are life.

It’s good to plan. It’s good to think ahead. It’s good to set goals.

It’s also good to remember that a loose electrical wire, or any other number of random occurrences, could make this day our last day.

Because even if life goes according to plan, the time between wedding and funeral is pretty short.

So go make the most of it.

“Teach us, God, to number our days that we might gain a heart of wisdom.” – Psalm 90:12

Todd A. Thompson – ASliceOfLifeToGo.com

Former Disney kid star Miley Cyrus’ song and dance performance with a married and old enough to know better Robin Thicke on the MTV awards show stunned many and horrified most. When liberal and conservative pundits agree on a line, it’s a miracle. When both sides agree that said line has been crossed, you didn’t merely step over it.  You blew past it like the General Lee running from Boss Hogg in the last ten minutes of a Dukes Of Hazzard episode.

In the entertainment industry they say any publicity is good publicity. Good, bad or lewd, Miley’s twerky dance exploded the Twitter world at a tweet rate even the Super Bowl couldn’t compete with. It’s ignited lively discussions and debates on social media and around kitchen tables. The critique on Miley ranges from “she’s a product of the Disney child star culture” to “she should be ashamed of herself” to “she’s an adult who can do as she pleases and we don’t have to like it.” The truth is likely a mash up of all the above.

Rather than take Miley to the woodshed, which she probably deserves, I’m more concerned about the mindset of those of us (myself included) who claim the name of Christ. In our critique, are we giving ourselves equal scrutiny? If our thoughts on Miley were prancing around on stage for the world to see the way they saw her, what would be on display?

Myth: I’m better than Miley Cyrus because (fill in the blank).

It’s an understandable thought. She was beyond “out there” in her vulgar behavior. But why? Why am I better? Or you, for that matter? Because I don’t simulate sex acts with people dressed in bear costumes on national television? Because I don’t try to make people forget Gene Simmons’ tongue? Because I don’t sing “we can love who we want and can kiss who we want”? Because I don’t turn a foam finger into a sex toy?

Not doing these doesn’t make me better than Miley. In fact, it doesn’t even make me less bad.

It’s one of the first Bible verses we learn as kids. “For all have sinned and come short of the glory of God.” – Romans 3:23. After five years of intense graduate school study in a Master of Divinity program, I can tell you that in the original Greek text the word “all” means…

All.

Profound, isn’t it? It’s a critical three letter word we need to remember. Because our standard of measure isn’t measuring ourselves against Miley’s righteousness. It’s measuring ourselves against God’s holy perfection. Which brings us to the next myth.

Myth: There are varying degrees of sin. And Miley’s degree is way worse than mine.

We like to think that, in this case, Miley’s sin is worse than ours because she was bumping and grinding while dressed in a nude bikini, singing lyrics that would make a dock worker blush. That has to be a bigger sin than whatever rude and private thought I had about her while viewing a clip of her performance. Right?

In a word, no. It’s not worse. Because there are no varying degrees of sin. Apart from the saving blood of Jesus Christ, sin has but one degree.

Death.

But, Todd! I’ve never even shaken my booty on my backyard deck or showed off the junk in my trunk to the squirrels in the trees let alone gyrate like Miley did in front of millions in what amounted to a couple thin strips of cloth away from a birthday suit. There’s no way I’m in the same category as her!

Which brings us to another myth.

Myth: Small offenses aren’t as offensive to God as big offenses. And Miley was as offensive as one could be.

While we humans do it all the time, God doesn’t judge on a sliding scale. Never confuse the consequences of sin with the degree of sin. Sin has one degree apart from Christ’s salvation. Death.

To stick with the current discussion, Miley’s obscene dance was broadcast to an audience of millions. Her poor example was viewed by young girls who, either as fans of her Hannah Montana character or her current “I’m not a kid anymore” rebellious image, have put her on a pedestal.  Miley was exponential in her negative influence and there will be consequences for that. If not now, then when she someday stands before God.

A Christian watching Miley’s performance silently thinking, “What a nasty girl. I’m so much better than her”, is guilty of pride. And perhaps a haughty spirit. No one else will ever know your mind, except for God. And it’s His standard of perfection we measure ourselves against.

Simply put, apart from Christ, a private sinful thought in one’s mind will send one to hell just as surely as a public sinful display to the world. The consequences for each will be different. Miley’s being critiqued around the world, including here.  No one’s tweeting about your or my proud private thought. Yet apart from Christ, they are both deadly.

Speaking of deadly, one more myth.

Myth: Comparing myself with others is a good barometer of how I’m doing spiritually. I’m glad I’m doing way better than Miley.

Comparing our sins with the sins of others is a waste of time. Think of it this way.

You’re in a long jump contest at the rim of the Grand Canyon. Miley’s a lousy jumper. After a running start she only makes it out about 10 feet.

You’re a world class athlete. Olympic caliber. You sprint down the runway and launch out 29 feet.

To what?

Comparing our sins with one another is like a long jump contest at the rim of the Grand Canyon. No matter how good you are, the result is death. There’s only One we should measure ourselves against and that’s Jesus. When we stand, we stand alone in His forgiveness, mercy and grace. The question isn’t are we sinning less or more acceptably than Miley Cyrus. The question is are we becoming transformed into the image of Christ?

Tomorrow’s another day. Who knows what we’ll see in the paper about Miley. Maybe she will tone it down. Maybe her next stunt will make the hair horns and foam finger look tame. Whatever she does or doesn’t do, God expects us to be critical thinkers and wise observers of our culture. He doesn’t want us to check our brains at the door. Yet He does want us to make sure we’re looking in the mirror of godly introspection before we think about taking the stage of indignation. Above all, remembering always that the grace God freely extends to us is available to everyone.

Miley included.

Todd A. Thompson – ASliceOfLifeToGo.com

“Yes, honey.”

“Daddy. Listen to me.”

“I am listening to you.”

“No, you’re not. You’re looking at your phone.”

“But I’m listening. I can do both, you know.”

“No, you can’t.”

“Yes, I can.”

I hadn’t lifted my eyes once during this exchange. I felt two hands on my face, pulling my head upright. There was Emma. Her little hands mushing my cheeks together.

“Daddy! Focus! I’m talking to you!”

Emma is right. It’s all about focus.

Our everyday technology is mind blowing. If you would have told my Grandmother that the day would come when she could carry the entire world in her purse, she would have thought you’d been rolling in the catnip a little too long. Yet when we carry a smart phone we carry the world in our pocket.

Wonder if it’s raining in Romania? Click click. Nope. 72 and sunny.

Want the news from Iraq? Click click. Two bombs exploded in Bagdad last night.

Did your nephew Nick in New Hampshire win his baseball game? Click click. Yep. 6-2.

Need to settle a bet as to who sang “If You Don’t Know Me By Now”? Click click. I told you it was Harold Melvin and The Blue Notes. Now buy me lunch.

We hear the phrase all the time. Multi-tasking. The idea that we can do multiple jobs or projects at once. We like to think we can. But we can’t. At least not in the way we think it works.

The laptop computer I’m typing on has 8 gigabytes of RAM. Random Access Memory. Simply put, the more RAM the more programs you can have open and functioning at the same time. I’m writing a column. Yet in the background my documents folder, I-Tunes, a calculator, my internet browser, Facebook, LinkedIn, and an Excel spreadsheet are all open and running. That’s a lot. But my RAM isn’t really challenged at the moment. I could open up a few more programs without losing speed.

It gives me the feeling that I’m very busy. And if I’m very busy then I must be doing important things.

And maybe I am.

But I’m not doing them all at the same time.

I could see fifteen icons at the bottom of the screen. Programs open and running. But I can only focus on one at a time.

I’m setting up formulas in a spreadsheet. I-Tunes is playing in the background. My brain grabs onto the second verse of a Tony Bennett tune like a cable car in San Francisco and rides off into the chorus. I’m not doing math anymore. I’m lost on Memory Lane, remembering something wonderful. My eyes are staring at the cells and rows and columns. But I have to wait till my brain jumps off at the next stop before I’m focused again on Excel.

You and I can have many projects in front of us at the same time. But we don’t multi-task. Our brains just “toggle” back and forth between tasks very quickly, giving the appearance that we are doing two things at once. Women think they multi-task better than men. They don’t. Because true multi-tasking is a myth. Their brains just “toggle” back and forth faster than do our male brains. A physiological fact that we guys have to concede.

Physiology aside, life should not be about how many tasks we can do at once. God wants us to focus on the moment. More importantly, He wants us to focus on the people in those moments. That we can click click and know the news in France doesn’t mean much if we’re too busy to know our next door neighbor is hurting over a wayward child. If in ten minutes on Facebook we can get life glimpses of 23 far away friends but can’t lift our head to focus on what our kids are saying, then we’re missing it.

Technology is wonderful. As long as we don’t lose our focus.

Because if we lose our focus, we’re not multi-tasking.

We’re multi-failing.

Now go find someone and mush their cheeks together. Look them in the eyes and tell them you love them.

Or that you were right about Harold Melvin and the Blue Notes. Then go do lunch.

And leave your smart phones in the car.

Todd A. Thompson – ASliceOfLifeToGo.com

+++

I came here for a quiet lunch to relax. Reading this sign has me riled. A Santa Sandwich? When it’s 98 degrees outside?

Last year I saw some stores putting Christmas stuff out in late August. Is there no end to this race to be the first store open on Yuletide Street? A Santa Sandwich in July? And isn’t the idea of a Santa sandwich a bit disturbing? Did Santa come up with the recipe and it’s named after him? Because if it’s really a “Santa” sandwich then are we eating…? No. It couldn’t be that.

A Christmas sandwich in July. Why bother having seasons anymore? Let’s do sparklers and fireworks on St. Patrick’s Day. How about hearts and flowers and chocolates on Flag Day? And turkey makes for a good dinner anytime so let’s do Thanksgiving in the spring. We could do Easter at the same time. Oyster stuffing, cranberry sauce and green bean casserole with speckled malted milk balls and chocolate bunnies. Yum!

A Santa sandwich in July. Is there no shame? Is there no end to blatant commercialization? Is nothing sacred anymore? I’ve got a great idea. This could be the hot new business idea of the year. Since everyone keeps pushing Christmas backward on the calendar why not open a store called “Holidays 24/7/365” ? We’ll sell everything for every holiday on every day of the year. New Year’s, Valentines, Arbor Day, Easter, 4th of July, the works. Imagine, on Black Friday you could buy everything in one shot. A Santa sandwich in July will become just as normal as Memorial Day flags in August.

A Santa sandwich in July. That’s just about the dumbest thing I’ve ever seen.

I finished my lunch and stood up to leave.

Wait.

The sign.

It says, “Try Our New Santa Fe Sandwich”.

Santa…Fe.

Oh.

Um…

Well then.

That changes everything now, doesn’t it?

Aside from the fact that I’m a dork, the point remains.

Context is everything. If what you’re looking at, be it in a book or in the face of the person you’re communicating with, doesn’t make sense then you must keep reading.

It’s not Santa hawking sandwiches in summertime. It’s Arby’s telling people to try their new southwest flavor. Big difference.

If I’d have leaned in one more inch, I’d have seen all the words. I’d have had all the information. It would have made sense. Because I didn’t lean in to fully understand I went into full rant for nothing.

At least it was a sign and not a person. How many times have we acted on incomplete information? How many times have we formed opinions of others without all the facts? Worse, how many times have we shared those ill-informed opinions with others, causing them to hold baseless judgments against another?

When communicating with others, let’s lean in to understand. Make sure we are reading, and hearing, the full message. The presence or absence of one small word can make all the difference.

In my case, the difference between Santa in the summer and chipotle sauce on a sandwich.

Context is everything. If in doubt, be it a sign or a book or a person…

Keep reading.

“Spouting off before listening to the facts is both shameful and foolish.” – Proverbs 18:13

Todd A. Thompson – ASliceOfLifeToGo.com

When I moved from an Iowa small town of 10,000 people to the city of Phoenix, then over 2 million, I quickly realized how I’d taken my support relationships for granted. Especially when my car broke down the first time.

I asked around at church and multiple people referred me to Rick. In addition to being a master mechanic he was also a mobile one. He’d come right to your house and do the work. I called him, he fixed the car and his number got put in my phone as my trusted mechanic until I moved to Texas over ten years later.

It didn’t take long to see what Rick was about. He knew his stuff when it came to cars. He was honest. He’d tell you what needed fixing yesterday and what could wait another 15,000 miles. He took care of his tools like the precision instruments they were. His work was expertly and quickly done. Before leaving, he cleaned up whatever he messed up doing the job. And his prices were fair. Everything you’d want in a mechanic.

Rick was gently open about his faith in Jesus. He cared about the spiritual condition of the people in his life whether they were old friends or new customers.

One July day the air conditioning went out in my Mazda pickup, turning my cool ride into a rolling sauna. I called Rick. He said, “I can do it but I refer my AC work to John. He’ll take care of you. This doesn’t have anything to do with your AC but I don’t think John’s a Christian. I’m praying for him.”

I called John and he fixed my AC, giving me a full warranty on his work. It blew beautiful cold for about three days when on I-10 in the middle of afternoon rush hour it quit.

John said bring it by and he’d fix it. It took him a couple days. I was back to cool and comfortable. Until a week later the AC started spewing triple digit air. It was like driving with a blow dryer in your face.

I was starting to get frustrated.

John was frustrated, too. He had other work to do besides fixing my truck over and over. Whatever profit he made on this job was long gone. But he had promised full satisfaction and I wanted to arrive at work not looking like I’d just run a 10K.

He put on a new part and sent me on my way hoping, I’m sure, that he’d never see me again. But three days later I was back, sweat drenched and more than a little put out.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say. I’ve never had problems like this with a job. Ever.” John paused to wipe his face on his sleeve. I could see he was at a loss. “I will get this thing working for you, even though you may not believe that by now.”

What came out of my mouth wasn’t a true picture of my emotions. But it was gracious. “You know, John, a little sweat never hurt anybody. In the big picture, if this is my biggest problem then I don’t have any problems.”

John stared at me. He shook his head. “These people…”, he muttered.

“What do you mean, “these people”?”

“These people. These people that Rick sends to me. They are all so…so…nice.”

His words dropped on my head like a Steinway out of the sky. These people, these Christians that Rick kept referring to John were nice. And “nice” stood out as different from what John was used to. I realized in that instant the power of kindness. Through the people Rick sent to John, God had been at work in his life. And I shuddered to think how an angry blast of verbal frustration from me could have undone every bit of it.

Never underestimate the power of kindness. Or the power of holding your tongue. Sometimes the best way to build someone up is to shut up and not tear them down.

It’s old advice. And true. When tempted to speak, ask yourself:

Is it true?

Is it necessary?

Is it kind?

If it’s not, shutting up is the godly thing to do.

“You must let no unwholesome word come out of your mouth, but only what is beneficial for the building up of the one in need,  that it may give grace to those who hear. And do not grieve the Holy Spirit of God, by whom you were sealed for the day of redemption. You must put away every kind of bitterness, anger, wrath, quarreling, and evil, slanderous talk. Instead, be kind to one another, compassionate, forgiving one another, just as God in Christ also forgave you.”   – Ephesians 4:29-32 

Todd A. Thompson – ASliceOfLifeToGo.com

“Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but a desire fulfilled is a tree of life.” – Proverbs 13:12

I’m having breakfast with a friend tomorrow. When he slides into the booth across from me I know what I’m going to see.

A face numb with sadness and disbelief. Even though he’s been to this cafe a hundred times or more he will look lost. He will stare at the menu like it’s written in French and making the simple decision between pancakes or bacon and eggs will be paralyzing. He will sound overly cheerful in saying “yes” to the waitress when she asks if he wants coffee. Then he will fidget with the salt and pepper shakers and straighten the napkin, aligning it in perfect parallel to the silverware, wishing desperately that he could straighten out his life with the same ease.

Then he will glance around the room before making eye contact and say, “I really appreciate you taking time to talk with me.” In the saying he will attempt to convey some degree of strength that both of us know he doesn’t have. His world has gone from familiar ground to unknown territory. He wants to have a handle on this. He wants it to be just a matter of time before it’s fixed. He wants to be on top of it.

But he’s not on top of it. He’s buried. He’s suffocating. He knows it. As for it being just a matter of time, it’s true. At this point, it’s all about time. It’s the question of time that’s haunting him. The years that have past. And the years to come. It’s the toss and turn, can’t sleep at night, can’t focus in the day fear that he can’t shake.

And though he won’t ask me the question because he knows it’s pointless, he will want to. He will badly want to ask.

How long until life will be good again?

They say you can’t fool kids and dogs. And you can’t fool someone who’s been there. That’s how I know how it’s going down tomorrow.

Because I’ve been there.

While your circumstances may be different, the core issue is the same. It’s about time. Time as in, “How long, God?” How long? How long until life will be good again? How long until God answers my prayer? How long until my dream comes true? How long until the longing of my heart is realized? How long until I have resolution to my uncertainty?

How long until…?

Proverbs 13:12 says, “Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but a desire fulfilled is a tree of life.”

Hope deferred. On hold. Postponed. Pushed back. Delayed. The waiting game. However you say it, it’s about time.

If you’re praying for a wayward child, you understand hope deferred. It seems the harder you pray, the further they run. While you bravely say, “God will take care of them” you can’t help but worry. And wonder, “How long, God?”

If you’re on your fourth round of chemotherapy, you understand hope deferred. You think this time you’ll hear the doctor say, “It’s in remission” but she doesn’t and you’re back to staring at the same off-white hospital walls while the IV drips and your tears run.

If you’ve been abandoned by your spouse, only to realize that while it was a shock to you they were planning it for a long time, you understand hope deferred. As you pick through the rubble of your relationship, you wonder how a lifetime commitment was dumped like a temporary job. And you wonder how life will ever be normal again.

If you’ve been on the promotion list for three years you understand hope deferred. Knowing you’re more qualified than anyone else yet continue to be passed over for candidates who cut corners, play the game or happen to have the right last name. You wonder how long until you’re recognized for your contributions.

If you’ve struggled with depression and anxiety, you understand hope deferred. Confidence, optimism, and a peaceful mind are islands you swim for everyday yet you feel like you’re drowning in a sea of angst.

If you’ve experienced the roller coaster ride of infertility, you understand hope deferred. To endure years of expensive medical tests and invasive procedures in a long shot attempt to accomplish what two teenagers achieve in 20 minutes in the back seat of a Chevy leaves you frustrated and angry.

Hope deferred makes the heart sick but a desire fulfilled is a tree of life. So when, dear God, will we finally see some trees?

Hope deferred makes the heart sick, in part, because we feel like no progress is being made. That we’re spinning our wheels when everyone around us it seems are hitting not so much as a speed bump on the way to their goals and dreams. With every day, week, month and year that passes with no apparent progress it seems we fall further and further behind.

It’s about time. And time is passing us by.

Were we solely in charge of all that concerns what we hope for, that would be true. But we’re not in charge. And that’s the good news. God is sovereign and intimately concerned with the details of our lives. If you’ll allow me a rapid fire burst of Bible references, Psalm 139 says “God had all of our days written down in His book before there was yet one of them”. Ephesians 2 tells us that “we are God’s workmanship created in Christ Jesus for good works that He prepared in advance for us to do”. Philippians 1 reminds us that “God who began a good work in us will continue to perfect it until the day of Christ Jesus”. And Psalm 138:8 gives us the wonderful sigh of relief promise that “God will accomplish everything that concerns us. His loyal love endures.”

Which is to say that the God of the universe put purposeful thought and planning into our lives, including good works He designed for us to do. In the progression of our life, He will never quit on us or on His plans for us. And best of all, at the end of our lives everything He intended for us will be accomplished. Perhaps not everything we intended for our lives will be accomplished, but everything God purposes for us will come to fruition. Guaranteed.

Whatever is making your heart sick right now, know that progress is being made even if you can’t see it. Because God is always at work, even when we’re waiting. And knowing that He promises to accomplish all that concerns us brings peace as we wait.

And when our hope is no longer deferred and God’s promise is finally fulfilled we’ll be able to say…

“It’s about time!”

“The Lord will accomplish all that concerns me.” – Psalm 138:8

 Todd A. Thompson – ASliceOfLifeToGo.com

A forty-something woman in a maroon t-shirt. On the front, three words.

“God knows everything.”

Walk around Wal-Mart and you’ll see plenty of T-shirt commentary. Everything from the most recent local 5K race event to an ancient tattered AC/DC concert shirt to an “I’m With Stupid” with the arrow pointing up instead of sideways. The later the hour, the more bizarre the slogans. This was the first time I’d ever seen “God knows everything” on a T-shirt.

Pushing through the store in search of orange juice and blackberry jam, my mind was stuck on that shirt. God knows everything. Of course He does. If God was a contestant on Jeopardy it would be, “I’ll take “Ask Me Anything” for $1,000, Alex.” God numbers the hairs on our head and can tell you how many hairs old guys like me used to have back in the day. God knows everything. That’s for certain.

Yet my mind isn’t turning on the question of His omniscience. I’m pondering what other people think when they see that T-shirt. If you’re at Wal-Mart checking off your grocery list and look up to see “God knows everything”, how would it strike you?

How did it strike you just now?

I think for many, it’s a fearful thought.

Maybe it’s the Santa Claus view of God that some of us have grown up with. Not in that He gives us everything we want. Rather He’s the God who has a list and He’s checking it twice to see who’s naughty and nice. So you better buckle down and live right because He knows when you’re sleeping and knows when you’re awake so you better be good for goodness sake. Don’t pout and don’t even think of crying because He’s coming to town. And if you’ve been naughty, He’s coming for you.

If our view of God is like this then to us “God knows everything” means we’re a mess just waiting to be discovered. So we live in fear and trepidation, trying not to mess up while knowing that no matter how hard we try the mess is inevitable and it’s just a matter of time before He draws a line through our name.

It’s true God knows everything. Yet His omniscience is, by definition, multi-dimensional. It’s much more than simply knowing all about our junk. Contrary to the guilt we impose on ourselves, the all-knowing God in heaven isn’t rubbing His hands together in eager anticipation of our next mistake so He can grab the hammer and swing for the pane labeled “In case of smite, break glass”. Yes, God knows everything. And yes, He knows about our mess. Yet He does not live to rub our nose in it. He wants to help us clean it up. The Bible says God is slow to anger and abounding in lovingkindness. In Hebrew, the word is “chesed” and it means “loyal love”. God’s love that will not let us go.

A favorite tactic of our enemy is to have us dwell on a faulty view of God. That includes focusing on one aspect of God at the expense of His other attributes. If we define God and His relationship to us by one narrow quality, we miss the whole of who God is. If we live in fear of God’s omniscience we’ll never realize what a blessing it is to us. I wonder how many people in Wal-Mart saw that lady’s shirt and said, “God knows everything? Great! Then He can help me figure out my career situation.” Or, “If God knows everything then He’d be perfect to talk to about this confusing relationship I’m in.” Or, “I’m glad God knows everything because my kids make me feel like I know nothing.”

Or, if you’re a person like me who’s turning 50 tomorrow, “God knows everything? Then He can help me figure out how to be the best I can be for whatever years I have left on the planet.”

God knows everything. Don’t let it scare you. It’s not like you’re going up against Him on Jeopardy. His omniscience isn’t to be feared. It’s to be revered and appreciated.

Because God promises to share His wisdom with all who ask.

So ask already. You can bet that I am.

“If any of you lacks wisdom, you should ask God, who gives generously to all without finding fault, and it will be given to. “ – James 1:5

Todd A. Thompson – ASliceOfLifeToGo.com