Our friend's horse was in a jam. She had accidentally stepped into a small feeder that's usually used to hold a mineral block. It was so bitter cold that the bottom cracked when the mare stepped on it and her hoof went all the way through. Of course, that created something like a plastic bracelet around her hoof and she couldn't get it off. Visiting relatives saw the mare just standing there like a statue; traumatized and paralyzed by this thing that wouldn't come off her foot. So, they went out there to help. One of them calmed the horse while the other worked on setting her free. This is interesting because usually this horse would balk at letting strangers get near her, but not this time. She stood perfectly still, somehow realizing that these people had come to help her out of her jam. And they did.
When it comes to growing things, I'm not exactly Seedling Sam the Gardening Man. I grew up in an apartment in the city, okay? But my farm girl wife and some friends who have amazing green thumbs have taught me a lot about how things grow and flourish. I was reminded of one of those lessons when I read an article about growing blueberries in our local newspaper. The writer of that article is a recognized expert on blueberries. He explained how one of his most important steps in making blueberry bushes fruitful is to chop off branches. Sounds destructive, but actually it's constructive. He prunes away a lot of top branches so the interior branches are exposed to the sunlight. The result? Big blueberries and lots of them!
I seem to vaguely remember this old nursery rhyme from when I was a kid. It went like this: "Mary, Mary, quite contrary, how does your garden grow?" If you asked our grandsons that question, they'd probably say, "Real slow!" Maybe that's why Mary was so contrary. Last spring, the boys worked with their Dad to clear a little area in the yard where they could have a vegetable garden. And they were all excited about planting those seeds in the ground: tomato seeds, green beans, carrots, and lettuce. They went out the next day to look at what they had planted. Nothing. Then the next week, and the next week, and the week after that. They watered the garden when it didn't rain. They pulled up weeds. For the longest time, they went out to that garden to see what was happening and nothing was happening - or so it looked. Had they tried to dig up the seeds to see if anything was happening, they would have ruined everything. But you know the story. It finally happened: The tomatoes and beans and carrots and lettuce. It just took a little while.
When you've passed thousands of cars on the Interstate, you've seen a whole lot of bumper stickers - most of which you've forgotten. But there's one I saw I've never forgotten. It was just five little words - words which weren't even that original. But as I passed that particular car, I glanced inside at the passengers, and suddenly the bumper sticker took on great meaning. A mother was driving and she had her child in the back seat. It was a little boy, who even with a quick glance, I could see had some severe mental handicaps. You know, this lady had a very challenging life, and I knew how she was handling it because the bumper sticker told me. It simply said, "One day at a time."
I was there the day my son's dream died. Since he'd been little, playing big-time football had been his dream. If, as they say, biology is destiny, and him being my son, he was not destined to have a football player's size by any means. But he really worked at it, he spent hours in the gym, he was bulking up, he was practicing with focus and intensity. And honestly, he was very good at football - until the day he went down in a driving drill with a badly injured knee. He had torn his anterior cruciate ligament - an injury dreaded by anyone in sports. One of the top sports med doctors in our area examined our son's knee - and then he said those words that sounded like a death sentence to our boy, "You'll never play football again."
It was another one of those unforgettable summers with an amazing group of Native American young people. This particular summer, we had traveled to 14 Indian reservations to tell about the hope that those young men and women found in Jesus Christ. One village we were in was typical of so many - so much violence that we were actually advised not to sleep overnight there with the team; a lot of gang activity and a ton of despair. In most places, we're there for multiple nights, but in this particular village we could only do a single night outreach event. Usually, we're outside on a basketball court where the basketball events, the contemporary Christian music and the powerful Hope Stories of the team members convene and hold the attention of a very large crowd. But this night we had to be in a gym, and when team members began to talk about the Savior who had changed their lives, we had an unusual - and very distracting - exodus from the building that was led by several big gang members.
Stonewall Jackson, the famous Confederate general. Now, his mommy didn't name him that. He was actually Thomas Jackson. He earned the name we know him by in the first major land battle of the Civil War, the Battle of Bull Run. The Confederate forces were overwhelmed. They were retreating that day - except for a group of Virginia soldiers commanded by General Jackson. They refused to give ground, with their general, mounted on his horse in the thick of the battle, inspiring them to take a stand. Well, another Confederate officer yelled, "Look! There's Jackson standing like a stone wall!" The Confederate forces rallied behind Jackson and his Virginians, and they ended up routing the Union forces. And from that day on, Tom Jackson was Stonewall Jackson.
On a foreboding day in the spring, the tornado warnings were out for a small town in Illinois. Knowing they needed to find a safe place, some folks there ran for shelter into the basement of a restaurant that was housed in a hundred-year-old stone building. What they didn't factor into their choice was the old sandstone foundation on which that building rested. A tornado roared right through the middle of the town, and it made a direct hit on that building. It destroyed everything - the building, the foundation, and the basement. And eight people died there that day.
It was April in the mountains of the West, which means you can experience any or all of the four seasons during one trip. We had actually started our journey in warm temperatures, but by the time we hit that mountain pass, it started to snow - I mean the thick, big flakes kind of snow. All of us actually started singing Christmas carols - even though it was just a few days before Easter. We were racing a deadline, so the snow was a mixed blessing. It was incredibly beautiful, but it was almost blinding at times, and it made our trip slower and more treacherous. And then we saw it - a thin line of sunshine between the bottom of the snow clouds and the tops of the mountains ahead. We were excited because that was our future.
They take more abuse than anyone in professional baseball. More than the managers who make some dumb decisions. More than the players who mess up. No, it's those umpires that many fans love to hate. Oh sure, they make some calls the fans don't like or agree with, but I'd hate to think of a ball game without some objective official deciding whether the pitch is a ball or a strike, or whether a hit is foul or fair. I mean, it would be chaos without the umpire. Perhaps the place he's needed the most - and sometimes appreciated the least - is those close judgment calls when the runner and the ball arrive at the base at the same time. Everyone holds their breath as the umpire signals his verdict "Safe!" or "Out!"
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