Author: danefowlkes

Stark reminders of aging are unavoidable these days. I’m not certain it’s due so much to another year come and gone (the fifty fifth such event for me), as to nagging frustrations arising from increased physical limitation. Why can’t I bend over in the morning without doing warm up exercises to prepare for the warm up exercises? Why can’t I eat what I want whenever I want without then carrying it out in front for the world to see and causing Jenny Craig to recruit me for her next before and after? Why does morning arrive too soon but the night too late? Why these crevices in my face where smoothness once ruled the earth? And then, if things aren’t bad enough in mid-life, I read still another reminder in Scripture: 

“Anyone can see that the brightest and best die, wiped out right along with the fools and dunces. They leave all their prowess behind, move into their new home, The Coffin, The cemetery their permanent address.And to think they named counties after themselves!
We aren’t immortal. We don’t last long.

Like our dogs, we age and weaken. And die.”

(Psalm 49:10-12, The Message)

Well, isn’t that special?! Thanks, Sons of Korah, for the pep talk! Talk about stating the obvious, but tossing tact to the wind. Honestly, it’s just the strain of straight talk I need to startle me out of spiritual lethargy and holy hardening of the arteries. Get the paddles out—jump start me Lord! Shock me into a meaningful life of submission and service. Whereas my first thought has been self-preservation, show me how to be spent for You and for the benefit of others. I’m not immortal. I repeat—I am not immortal! Invest what’s left of my life so that something remains of me that matters when I lie down and join my dog. Remake me into a perpetual mentor, a teacher from the grave. Whatever changes in me are necessary, accomplish them so that I will be a compass whose needle always points Godward: in private and public, the same; alone and in a crowd, no difference. A man of integrity and faith, of strength and grace; a “clutch man.” 

 
No doubt I will continue to deteriorate, to weaken and eventually return to dust, but Lord, make old age an opportunity rather than a curse. Bring to life right now what will remain long after my bones disintegrate. Make me a memory that speaks fluently the greatness of our God.

“By faith Abel offered God a better sacrifice than Cain did. By faith he was commended as a righteous man, when God spoke well of his offerings. And by faith he still speaks, even though he is dead.” (Hebrews 11:4, NIV)

“The word longing comes from the same root as the word long in the sense of length in either time or space and also the word belong, so that in its full richness to long suggests to yearn for a long time for something that is a long way off and something that we feel we belong to and that belongs to us. The longing for home is so universal a form of longing that there is even a special word for it, which is of course homesickness.”~Frederick Buechner (The Longing for Home: Reflections at Midlife)

Vacations are worth the effort even if they cost a pretty penny, but home is priceless. Our daughter and grandson headed east some time ago for a mother and son getaway to the Big Apple, armed with a jam-packed itinerary and prepared to brave the crowded city. They came back with a myriad of photos and stories of metropolitan adventure, but were admittedly relieved to return home. I understand. My wife and went on our own vacation about the same time of year. Whereas they headed east, we went west for our respite, taking in the grandeur of the south rim of the Grand Canyon, the iconic red rock formations of Sedona, and seemingly endless array of Sonoran cacti. Vacation was all we hoped it would be (all of ours are), but I confess that having home to return to is what makes every journey enjoyable. Home is the greatest adventure of all.

Today’s trials threaten to steal my hope and confidence that all of this makes sense somehow. Hopelessness is a strain of spiritual amnesia; I lose sight of whose I am and where I’m headed. God never induces a comatose existence, leaving me numb and disconnected from the moment; while not always removing or resolving my strife, grace reminds that this momentary struggle is part of a journey that leads back home. One of the prized books on my shelf is entitled, “No Picnic On Mount Kenya,” and it describes the ordeal of Italian prisoners of war who escaped and climbed their way to freedom over Africa’s tallest peaks. Today may not resemble a picnic in any shape, form, or fashion, but the beauty of it is that our Father is helping us over the rocks on our way back home.

I hear friends complaining that it’s much too warm this year to feel like Christmas. I understand their sentiment, although, to be honest, the warmth and humidity feel just like the Christmases I remember growing up in Port Arthur. But when you think about it, the significance of the season is not confined to temperature or emotions associated with holiday memories. The Christ event means the King of Glory stooped to become one of us so that he might lift us up to a whole new plane of existence.

Although each plot is entirely predictable, I can’t keep from viewing episodes of the TV show, “Undercover Boss.” In it’s first season, my wife and I were invited to a preview event of a then upcoming episode centered around a corporate executive where we live. I was hooked. I love witnessing weekly the inevitable personal and executive transformation that results from a chief executive officer going undercover to reconnect with his or her employees. There is something extremely moving about a high level executive awakening to the needs and struggles of his or her employees, and the climax always comes as the transformed leader gives back to those that fostered the undercover awakening. I can’t help drawing a parallel with the incarnation, inadequate comparison as it is. The writer of Hebrews expresses it well: 

“Therefore, since we have a great high priest who has gone through the heavens, Jesus the Son of God, let us hold firmly to the faith we profess. For we do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weakness, but we have one who has been tempted in every way, just as we are–yet was without sin. Let us then approach the throne of grace with confidence, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help us in our time of need.” 

I love that truth! Jesus Christ perfectly identifies with my agony in the trenches and reaches down to pull me up. The incarnation is much more than orthodox dogma; it sustains each step and fills each breath with hope and meaning. If a corporate executive can become a caring employer who delights in giving back, I better understand how Christ joyfully extends to me full and abundant living in light of his own human journey. “The Son of God became a man to enable men to become sons of God” (C. S. Lewis). Christmas continues to change the world, one life at a time. Each person that hears the Gospel and responds by faith is living proof that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of the Living God! 

Quite honestly, we meet most Sunday evenings as much to stay connected with one another as we do to get in touch with God. Fortunately, the two motivations are not mutually exclusive, and in the midst of the most ordinary of settings, extraordinary things happen. Just last night we gathered in our regular meeting place, a small recording studio that doubles as a yoga studio once-a-week for a few of us, and did the predictable thing at just such a gathering the Sunday before Christmas–we sang Christmas hymns. We closed the musical portion of our worship by singing reverently ‘O Holy Night!’ Our worship leader has a knack for finding obscure lyrics to familiar songs, which makes our song sets comfortable yet disturbing all at the same time. I plunged into the lines written by John Sullivan Dwight in 1855, only half looking at the printed page since I’ve sung the carol from childhood. But then we came to the second verse and I had to pay attention to what I was singing. These words were deliciously unfamiliar…

Led by the light of faith serenely beaming,

With glowing hearts by his cradle we stand;

So led by light of a star sweetly gleaming,

Here came the Wise Men from Orient land,

The King of kings lay thus in lowly manger,

In all our trials born to be our friend;
     

     He knows our need,

     To our weakness is no stranger

     Behold your King,

     Before Him lowly bend!

     Behold your King

     Before Him lowly bend!

The mellow tones of acoustic guitar slowly faded. The profound declaration we had just uttered found its mark and we were collectively moved to silence. More than participating in cherished tradition, we had rediscovered the grand theme of the cradle event–Christ fully identifies with us, which means we in turn may fully identify with Him. We bow before a King who reaches down to take us by the hand and walk with us through the shadows. My hurt is His pain; His triumph is my hope. Christmas means Jesus Christ knows me and loves me no less for the knowing. When I doubt, He sees a seeker; when I blaspheme, He hears an honest heart. “To our weakness is no stranger.” All that I find disappointing in myself He came to the cradle and cross to redeem. If you think about it, Christmas is entirely a matter of grace–a virgin pauper gives birth to a King, earthy shepherds entrusted with a heavenly message, a dirty stable becomes sanctuary for the Most High. Wonder of wonders, He did it all for me; He wrapped himself in confining humanity just for you. 
     

     Behold your King

     Before Him lowly bend!

Compare and draw your own conclusions:

Quran (5:33) – “The punishment of those who wage war against Allah and His messenger and strive to make mischief in the land is only this, that they should be murdered or crucified or their hands and their feet should be cut off on opposite sides or they should be imprisoned; this shall be as a disgrace for them in this world, and in the hereafter they shall have a grievous chastisement.”

 
Quran (8:12) – “I will cast terror into the hearts of those who disbelieve. Therefore strike off their heads and strike off every fingertip of them.”

Matthew 5:43-48 “You have heard that it was said, ‘You shall love your neighbor and hate your enemy.’ But I say to you, Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, so that you may be sons of your Father who is in heaven. For he makes his sun rise on the evil and on the good, and sends rain on the just and on the unjust. For if you love those who love you, what reward do you have? Do not even the tax collectors do the same? And if you greet only your brothers, what more are you doing than others? Do not even the Gentiles do the same? You therefore must be perfect, as your heavenly Father is perfect. (Jesus Christ)

I didn’t set out to have a memorable Veteran’s Day experience, but I ended up with one I’ll never forget. I had arrived near Shreveport six hours earlier, at the tail end of a late night drive that came to a screeching halt when I conceded to nearly losing my fight to remain awake behind the wheel. The Fairfield Inn just off the Interstate looked somewhat akin to the Taj Mahal to my bloodshot eyes, and the bed was comfortable, at least what I can remember of it. What might best be termed a “nap” jump started me for my journey eastward into Louisiana, the Pelican state, Sportsman’s paradise, and state of my birth. I arrived for my first business appointment less than an hour later. To be completely honest, I have the best job in the world – thanking good people for selfless acts, praying for the same, and sharing stories of what God is doing around the world; I have no idea why my employer hired me, but I thank God daily that they did. The only downside is that I’m away from the most wonderful woman in the world a good deal, but her forbearance simply adds to her appeal and frees me to offer my best. 

My final meeting of the day was to be with a husband and wife, the caveat being that the man was scheduled for chemo therapy in the morning, making his wife uncertain that he would feel up to a visit. I phoned an hour before the appointment and learned that I could make the visit, so I headed toward the magnolia and oak lined streets of University Terrace. The first thing I observed was the fresh wooden wheelchair ramp gradually ascending to the front of the two story brick Tudor. I pressed a small doorbell to the right of massive waxed mahogany doors, and shortly thereafter one of the doors opened and I was greeted by a man wearing a black ball cap emblazoned with ‘Vietnam Veteran’ in front, a black windbreaker with the US Army logo over the chest, holding an elongated wooden walking stick with a knob at the top that reminded me of the end of a femur. He extended his hand and I took it as his wife walked up and introduced herself and referred to her husband as “the General.”

They led me into what my grandmother would have called the parlor, a formal living room adorned with a breathtaking array of oriental furnishings and decor. The setting was so surreal that I feared I would be unable to concentrate on conversation, that is, until they began sharing their unforgettable story. I learned that this was no ordinary soldier; I sat face-to-face with a bonafide American hero. His military awards and decorations include the Distinguished Service Medal, Defense Superior Service Medal, Legion of Merit (third oak leaf cluster), Bronze Star Medal, Meritorious Service Medal (fifth oak leaf cluster), Army Commendation Medal (with oak leaf cluster), Army Achievement Medal, Special Forces tab, and the Parachutist Badge. He is a four star general, recently retired following forty years of military service, but something was terribly out of place. A man who dined with kings and presidents and commanded combat troops literally around the globe is now fighting for his life against Leukemia. I listened spellbound as they recounted his post retirement ordeal and relayed with a guarded note of optimism their game plan to defeat the disease, and learned that they anticipate a bone marrow transplant in three months if he remains healthy enough to undergo the procedure. They listened politely and with genuine interest when I shared what God is doing across the nations, then, not wanting to overstay his stamina, I asked if I might pray for him before leaving. He agreed and we stood in a tight triangle. I placed my arm around his shoulder and began to pray for God to heal this man from inside out and outside in. I said “Amen” and wiping away tears I offered to see myself out. The general insisted on walking with me to my car and we exited the house down the long ramp leading to the curb. I assured him I would pray daily for him and with jaw set and chin held at a dignified degree, the general thanked me and said I must return so that he might share his story in greater length. I agreed and silently prayed while pulling away from the curb, “Please Lord, heal this man for your glory.”

I’ve never done this before in a post, but I’m asking for 50 believers to commit to joining me in praying for the General’s healing every day for 50 days, starting today and continuing through January 1. If you will join me, please simply reply to this post by saying “I will pray.” Thank you.

For a time he was a soldier. With wiry frame and James Dean good looks, he walked first into the heart of Lois Richey and then rode onto the battlefield of Korea. An iron tank was his chosen coat of arms and he commanded well just south of the DMZ. Occasionally, he weathered enemy fire while dishing out plenty of his own. Comrades in the 4th armored division called him Hank; his bride called him Sweetheart, and years later my sister and I called him Dad. His is one story among many, of men and women who sacrificed something or everything for an abstract notion known as “patriotism” or “love of country.” I think, for Henry, it was something far more tangible than that. He had attempted to enlist years before during World War II, but a temporary medical condition made him fail the physical. So, when the world’s aggression turned to Korea, Hank was ready. Not eager to leave his wife behind, but driven by an inner sense of loyalty to defend what he had always known and refused to relinquish–liberty, be it ours or another people’s–he exchanged oil refinery work clothes for army green and khaki. Dad didn’t speak often about those days. In fact, I’ve learned more recently from his best friend and comrade in arms, Don, than I ever did from Dad himself. Soldiering was something he did because it was right, not something he wore around as an entitlement. Atop my shelf sits what remains physically of his service–a U.S. flag presented to my mother at his death, an officer’s chevron, a gold braided cord from his uniform; but something intangible and far greater remains and will endure. His service for family, friends and country are a memorial to greatness forged in distress, and loyalty superseding personal comfort or preference. In a word, Henry Winstead Fowlkes leaves a legacy, one to salute with life and strive to emulate. Thank you Dad.   

She heard and spotted them first. She always does. We were on the return portion of our customary evening walk atop Lake Waco dam, facing into a north breeze that made me anticipate upcoming brisk winter walks that will be, quite literally, breathtaking. Since my hearing has never been quite up to snuff, subtle nuances of sound often escape me, which explains why she paused and looked up toward the westerly thunderheads while I maintained rhythm of pumping arms and straining footfall. When she vanished from my periphery, I slowed and turned, and then followed her gaze skyward.

“Do you hear them?” she asked. 

“Hear who?” I replied.

“The geese.”

We aren’t “tree huggers” in a political sense, but my wife and I definitely appreciate and are drawn to the natural side of living. We own more bird feeders than pretty much anything else, and erected a deer feeder several years ago in the pasture behind our home–not to lure deer to their death, but to keep them well fed in winter. As a result, simple events that fly below the radar for most, like hummingbirds disappearing for warmer environs and the honking of geese high above or near the horizon, command our attention. When I heard what had stopped my wife in her tracks, I strained to find visual evidence of audible clues, finally detected the pulsating ribbon of geese snaking its way above black and blue mottled clouds towards the southern horizon. It was in that moment that my wife gripped my arm and jerked me to attention. Starboard of the skein of geese, a Bald Eagle came into focus almost directly overhead. We have enjoyed rare sightings of eagles on the periphery of Lake Waco before, so we had no problem identifying the proud raptor. I attempted to capture the image with my iPhone, but vision was rendered useless by the blinding sun. Had it not been for geese we would not have seen the eagle.

Geese brandish their own strain of beauty, but they aren’t exactly exotic creatures. In fact, we have friends living on Lake Athens that loathe them because of their propensity to blanket a lawn with poop. Pre-winter geese sorties are pleasant to behold, but never catch one by surprise. They are somewhat expected, even taken for granted, until winging it next to eagles. Thank God for the ordinary events and individuals that bring the larger picture into focus. I better detect what God is up to when I see him in juxtaposition to my grandchildren, the cashier that annoys me, the colleague with cancer, the relative that talks non-stop out of loneliness, the friend agonizing over a prodigal child, a church that’s lost its way. The ordinary yields glimpses of glory when I pay attention.

Technically, it wasn’t eavesdropping, but I felt like I had invaded sacred space when I opened the spiral notebook next to the bear and fish lamp on the bedside table. We had just arrived after dark at one of our favorite getaway locations in the Arbuckle Mountains of Oklahoma, where a serpentine assortment of small wooden structures dot a ridge just of north of Honey Creek. Our preferred dot is officially designated Cabin #4; it is the second cabin you come to when slowly ascending the narrow gravel path. The structure itself is less than awe inspiring, but the cantilevered wooden deck overlooking Honey Creek and small but persistent water fall of several feet down below has climbed near the top of our list of favored short term retreats. My wife and I have our own accepted duties when settling in to overnight lodging away from home. I unload the vehicle of essential cargo while she arranges sleeping quarters and then tends to kitchen accoutrements. Having completed a couple of trips between Jeep and cabin and properly stowing our limited gear for the weekend, I turned my attention to inside the cabin. I like this place with its mock log interior and exterior, moose and bear pillows, and pictures ruggedly framed and strategically arranged to engender the tenor of a remote bungalow aloft the high lonesome in some wilderness location. Nice try– this is Oklahoma, but I give an ‘A’ for effort and appreciate the rugged, if not slightly stereotyped, decor.

Beside the queen sized bed near center stage is a small pine nightstand adorned with only two items. The first is a black metal lamp consisting of a bear holding a fish in its mouth at the base, and a lampshade adorned on four sides by hoof prints that I assume are supposed to be those of a moose. The other object is a zebra print spiral notebook on which someone has written in ink, Cabin #4. It contains personal messages recorded by previous guests, sentiments intended to express appreciation to the owners for pleasant surroundings. I opened the notebook and skimmed through the entries until I came to one dated 4-19-15. It read:

“I’m not sure who is reading this, but these are my last days. I wanted to be free, hear water, feel air for the last time. Who knows how long we have, but at this very moment I’m gonna live to the fullest and this place feels healing and free. Thank you. Brittany”

A lump formed involuntarily in my throat as it dawned on me that I was reading what well may have been someone’s final confession. I turned the page to see if anything followed and found one other paragraph from Brittany:

“4-20-2015
Truly, I am still here. Beautiful. Love it. Better than a hospital today. Felt good. I got all the way in the water…. Anyway. I live!!! As long an full as u can. This may be the last getaway I get until the ultimate getaway. Up. Heaven doesn’t sound too bad. I love God. I need help, but he will be there. He’s here now. Thank you, Brittany”

She had recorded these thoughts six months before, and only God knew if she still lived or if, in her own words, she had made the “ultimate getaway.” Either way, her words struck a resilient chord. She had found a way to yell at the top of her pen that she was here; life matters, and she was part of everything that made sense in the world even when it stopped making sense to her. I closed the notebook, returned it to its familiar place, and sat on the love seat against the wall. Without intending to do so I said aloud “Goodbye”; in retrospect it was more prayer than parting resignation. “It was a long while ago that the words God be with you disappeared into the word goodbye, but every now and again some trace of them still glimmers through” (Buechner, Whistling in the Dark). I shut my eyes, prayed for a woman I’ll never meet, and asked the Father to enable me to fully live and do so with influence until my own goodbye. 

 

She wouldn’t describe it as immediate attraction, but love at first sight isn’t all it’s cracked up to be anyway. A quick survey of biblical couples is enough to caution against placing too much stock in hasty physical attraction. “The more impetuous a relationship’s beginning, the more difficult it may be to stabilize it later” (Yitzchak Ginsberg). King David was not emotionally prepared for either of his encounters with love at first sight. David was smitten when he first laid eyes on Abigail, but being a “woman of intelligence” (1 Samuel 25:3) she convinced him to wait until he cooled down from his fever pitch. Her wisdom was vindicated by his later impetuousness with Bathsheba. Though described as a “man after God’s own heart,” David’s rash response to physical and emotional urges landed him in hot water more often than not. Blessed is the man who meets a woman that both ignites a spark under him, and coaxes it into a slow burning flame that grows over time. I am that man. 

I met the best part of my life at a predetermined place and time. We planned to meet outside the Navarro County courthouse in Corsicana, having mutually agreed to eating lunch together at a neutral site so that either or both of us could make a graceful exit should the experience prove uncomfortable or unbearable. I arrived first, and sat in my pickup nervously waiting for her to pull up. When she did, even from a distance I could see that she was attractive, and her arrival in a sporty Acura RSX made me feel all the more awkward and out of place. I sat frozen to the stained bench seat of my old Ford while she waited for me to exit my truck and walk over to greet her. After what seemed an eternity to us both, I garnered enough courage to make my way to her open window. We exchanged greetings and I invited her to join me for lunch a few blocks away at Roy’s Cafe on Beaton Street. The date was off to a sluggish start, largely because I proved adept at all the wrong things. She chose healthy salad-something while I doused my chicken fried steak in ketchup, but for reasons known only to her she agreed to extend our date by walking together down Beaton and stepping into antique shoppes. To my surprise and utter delight, we kept finding reasons to prolong the experience, extending the date a full eight hours. What was even more unexpected was her willingness to see me again. We married six months later, and today we celebrate our wedding anniversary. The attraction is stronger now than ever because it has deepened into appreciation. I recognize the value of my wife and can honestly say that I see God’s grace in her eyes every morning; I married way out of my league. To say that I wish her a happy anniversary would be trite and hackneyed, as well as woefully inadequate. What I want to do is acknowledge her immeasurable worth by being the man I could never be without her. This is not love defined by attraction; it is far more meaningful than that. It is appreciation, satisfaction, adoration, respect, friendship, astonishment and passion enough for a lifetime. Thank God I got out of the truck and said ‘hello.’