At 30,000 feet, I'm watching the sunrise with the clouds below the sun. It gives me a wonder to keep my eyes focused while my mind drifts back to just a few days ago. I was sitting in a bookstore (one with free WiFi). I go there on a weekly basis searching for expressions of culture at the magazine stand. 

 

The magazine stands are next to the coffee shop, so my routine includes a grande with no room, a handful of magazines, and a comfy chair. This time the search was interrupted by my cell phone.

 

The number was extra, extra long. It was an old friend who, since January, has lived and worked in Germany.

 

"Ron, we just heard of your need for ministry funds and we want to help," he said. 

 

The day had begun with a discouraging conversation with a potential major donor who wanted to see more controls in place. He also wanted a definite lock-in to a local church. He strongly suggested his church. His church was still true and faithful, not like other the host of others. 

 

We didn't see eye to eye on much of anything so as he put it, "My checkbook will remain closed." 

 

I think my trip to the bookstore was therapy...maybe a little escape, but God found me. He knows my number. He had already nudged my Germany buddy to stand in the gap. That call changed everything. At the end of the call, he asked, "Now who do I make the check out to?"

 

I replied, "Faith Coaching Network."

 

His last words were, "Ok, we will be sending a $5,000 check tomorrow. And, we hope to do more later on. You hang in there!"

 

"Thank you! Thank you!" I said as I punched End Call on the phone. 

 

It was a God moment. A three-minute phone call had radically transformed my day, But God had one more surprise coming my way.

 

"Tell me about faith coaching," he said. It was a young student who had been quieting listing to my phone call. 

 

"I'm sorry, I overheard your conversation and looked up FaithTeam.org. I like this, tell me about it," he continued.

 

I did and he bookmarked the site and promised to tell his friends. Who knows what God will do with this.

 

Who knows! 

 

"Sir, do you want some something to drink?" the flight attendant asked.

 

Yes, coffee, black," I responded. Who knows what's next.

 

I’m as old as the NBA, the CIA, and Frank Capra’s “It’s a wonderful life.” Before I spent my first day in kindergarten America was introduced to the transistor, 45 RPM records, tubeless tires, life savers, the first jet airliner, antihistamines, and Studebakers. I didn’t pay much attention, though. I was snuggled close to the family radio listening to Fibber McGee and Molly, One Man’s Family, Inner Sanctum, The Lone Ranger, and Amos and Andy. We ate our meals at home together as a family around our dinner table.

 

I had collections of baseball cards, yo-yo’s, and marbles I wish I still owned.

 

My parents trusted government and hand shakes. Back then America was a nation of problem-solvers who believed in hard work and teamwork. We didn’t have much, but we didn’t know it.

 

My earliest memory is a Sunday school class where my teacher pulled people out of her Bible and they stuck to a newfangled gadget they called a flannelgraph board.

 

While I was reading about Dick and Jane, Curious George, and The Hardy Boys, Sir Hillary conquered Mt. Everest and TV conquered radio. We loved that snowy, black and white screen filled with Howdy Doody, Roller Derbies, Gorgeous George, Ozzie and Harriet, Superman, Ted Mack’s Original Amateur Hour, and Lawrence Welk. Meanwhile, a national interstate highway system was emerging and new products made their way into our homes: spray cans, ball point pens, and TV dinners.

 

It seemed like all our heroes were constantly fighting for truth, justice, and the American way. We were motivated by human need and the common good. Behind the doors of our houses, life seemed uncomplicated, but secretive. My dad had a problem with alcohol but we didn’t mention it. It was our family secret.

 

1955 was an eventful year. Our house moved 36 inches in a mud slide. The house survived, but the front yard ended up across the street. It was the year my first car rolled off the assembly line, of course I didn’t own it till 1965. This was the year for Disneyland, Velcro, ducktails and ponytails, transistor radios, Chuck Berry, Rosa Parks, Davy Crockett, the coonskin cap, and Playboy magazine. My greatest fear was nuclear war and my greatest dream was having my own room.

 

Before John F. Kennedy was elected president in 1960, we learned to appreciate Frisbees, Barbie Dolls, ultra sound, stereo sound, Alaska and Hawaii, Sputnik, The Cat in the Hat. Pampers, and Sesame Street. While Kennedy challenged America to “ask what you can do for your country,” I was trying to make sense of the new math, Vietnam, and the draft.

 

Tension and unrest tarnished our “We can do anything attitude.” America suffered through the Cuban missile crisis, JFK’s assassination, racial unrest, inner-city riots, the outlawing of prayers in school, integration in the south, the Beetle’s invasion, and the hippie generation. But, before the decade of the sixties was over, we would also experience the first heart transplant and unbelievable live pictures of “the giant leap for mankind.”

 

We were facing a national identity crisis. Riotous voices called for dramatic changes, as a country we were attempting the painful process of purifying our actions and intentions. So, if it existed, it was criticized, or protested. Distrust intensified!

 

While my children were still toddlers we learned to wait in line for gasoline, no-fault divorce swept the country, pocket calculators multiplied, Pet Rocks were nurtured, and skateboards increased the numbers at emergency rooms.  Father’s Day became an official holiday. Watergate scandalized the nation, and for the first time, more marriages ended through divorce, than through death. “Jesus People” were on the cover of Time magazine and  youth ministry became a featured new ministry in churches throughout America. 

 

While my girls were in grade school, the White House Conference on the Family ended without agreeing on the definition of family, the first case of AIDS was reported in the U.S., MTV was introduced, would-be mothers aborted one fetus in three, people the world over endured the summer months waiting to find out who shot J.R., Apple computers were introduced, Blockbuster opened it’s first video rental store, Iran held Americans hostage 444 days, the space shuttle, Challenger, exploded before our eyes. Fast food and FedEx kept us filled, scheduled, and busier than ever, while a growing spiritual emptiness prevailed.

 

As my girls moved through high school, out of our house and into adulthood, the Berlin Wall was torn down, communism unraveled from within, and the USSR collapsed. Beepers, fax machines, remote controls, microwaves, cable TV, cellular phones, CD players, and computers became technical necessities, High tech had begun. The new gadgets were obsolete within 48 hours of their release, but soon we would have a 24/7 high-definition window on the world.

 

We have watched war in our living rooms, while crime and violence escalated from inner-city streets to the caldesacs in our own neighborhoods. We’ve witnessed bombs destroy buildings filled with people. We’ve cried in national horror as the World Trade Towers fell to ground.

 

Drugs have invaded suburbia, thousands of kids have more parents, than cousins, Forty percent of our children don’t live in the same house as their birth father. Private schools are springing up faster than Dominoes pizza places, while over 2 million children are being schooled at home.

 

Respect has dwindled and discipline has all but disappeared. 

 

Yet, no one has stepped up to claim responsibility for these massive changes. Why is that? Government at all levels is no longer trusted; in fact, trust is on the endangered values list.

 

Victims are everywhere, demanding handouts and 15 minutes of fame. While we have grown eager to cast blame, we seem unable to cast a captivating vision. We’ve got plenty of poll-driven reactions that point to what’s wrong, but not much on what’s right. 

 

We talk of change, but miss the point. In an age of instant gratification, the collective voice of pop culture cries, “What’s in it for me?”

 

Cynicism is around every corner. Our neighbors far and near are stretched and stressed, constantly searching for a vision beyond the circumstances, looking for a trustworthy reason to hope again. We are adrift without trust. Days are filled with noise and distraction. Innocence has disappeared. Humpty Dumpty has fallen and only the king can put him together again. And, the king is not government at any level. 

 

I think it’s past time to take action. It’s time for a holy vision; time to change for a holy reason. It’s time to stop living self-contained lives.

 

God has a better idea. It’s perfect and trustworthy: Do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with Him. This is where we find the storehouse of hope. I certainly don't have it all together, neither do you, but we can both chose to live toward this holy vision. We can: Do justice, Love mercy, and walk humbly.

 

God says, “Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past. See I am doing a new thing! Now is springs up; do you not perceive it?"

 

Yes! God!

 

I have learned a valuable lesson watching grandkids climb trees.

 

People who are afraid tend to take their trunk hugging very seriously; they refuse to listen to the possibilities of life beyond their fear and they generally refuse to own-up to their fear. Most of the time the trunk hugger’s fear is covered by demands, outbursts, and put downs. They can talk about climbing skills and tell you about Tarzan, but until someone shows them how to take the next step they will remain comfortably unwilling to venture beyond their position on the trunk. 

 

My faith calling is to the adventure of “showing the way.” How about you? Not easy is it.

We moved to a different town just as I entered junior high school. Making the transition from elementary school to junior high is a tough experience for any twelve-year-old, but mine was a disaster.

 

There were eleven of us "new" kids, and for the first two days we were tested to see if we could fill-in the right little bubbles with marks from number 2 pencils.

 

On the morning of the third day we were told to report to the Vice Principal’s office for our class schedule. It was a pink slip class schedule with room numbers and teacher’s names, but no map. The clock was ticking, and I had no idea where Room 17 was. I was late and new and lost.

 

By the time I found Room 17, I was terrified. I waited outside the door for a few seconds, trying to collect the courage to walk in. Believe me, I wanted to run away to Australia.

 

Then, at the moment I opened the door, the class erupted in laughter. I knew they were laughing at me. My skinny frame sported thick horn-rimed glasses and embarrassing new "tin-grin" braces. Not daring to look up, I walked over to the teacher with my eyes fixed on his shoes.

 

When I handed Mr. Bell my pink slip, Mr. Bell responded, "Oh, no!"

 

I was stunned, frozen in rejection. He pointed to a chair by the door and said, "Sit there for now. We'll see about getting you a desk tomorrow."

 

At the time I was sure it was all about me, but it was really about a funny comment from one of the kids, lousy timing, and an overcrowded classroom. I sat there, never lifting my eyes, replaying Mr. Bell’s words over and over in my mind. “Oh, no.” He didn’t want me in his class.

 

As soon as the bell rang I bolted out the door and headed for my next “rejection” room, hoping the day would get better, but feared it won’t. Then, I noticed I had Mr. Bell for Science and Math in the same now infamous "rejection” room. Where was God in all this?

 

He was there I just missed him. It wasn't the first time and it sure wasn't the last time. Sometimes he is hard to sense when you are in the middle of pain.

 

Oh, by the way, my Junior High school’s name? Downer Junior High. I painfully felt every nuance of the name.