I had taken a carload of team members from our reservation outreach team to see a scenic canyon a couple of hours from where we were staying. Someone forgot to tell me that the station wagon they loaned me had a broken gas gauge. It said we had three-quarters of a tank. That wasn't true! It was getting dark, and I decided to take a shortcut across the reservation to get back to our place. It was a pretty deserted dirt road that traversed a very remote part of the reservation, and about halfway back we ran out of gas, forty miles from the nearest gas station. Those who understand some of what the Bible says about spiritual warfare will understand that ceremonies that summon the spirit world can bring an invasion of spiritual darkness. And apparently, we were stranded in an area that was known for a lot of that kind of supernatural activity. When we got back, a tribal man who grew up on this reservation and knew that area well, said with a look of really deep concern, "If I had known where you were, I would have come after you immediately."
Our daughter-in-law grew up in the desert. So, the first time she saw the ocean, and the seashells that are all over the beach at low tide, she said, "Can you keep them?" She did! Well the good news is, yes, you can. And we've loved collecting seashells when we've had opportunity to spend time along the coast. Some of those shells make it to shore totally intact. Others are broken, sometimes by the surf, sometimes by seagulls who've peck them open to get at their yummy tenants. Occasionally, I've found a particularly striking treasure like the conch shell that I picked up a few years ago. It was badly broken. But inside there was some amazing beauty - beautiful swirls in white and blue and pearl, and it made an incredible design to behold. Outside, that shell was just rough and plain - just another shell - but not on the inside. I never would have seen its unforgettable beauty if it hadn't been broken.
The train left Colombo, the capital of Sri Lanka, at 7:30 in the morning, headed for a popular resort area along the Indian Ocean. The train never made it. It was suddenly hit by this massive wall of water - that killer tsunami, you remember, that devastated so much of South Asia. The force of the waves tore the wheels off of some cars and leveled the train in this grove of palm trees. In one of those countless heart-wrenching scenes that came out of the tsunami aftermath, one young man at the train site wept in the arms of his friends as the body of his girlfriend was buried. He spoke out to this sweetheart who had died on that train: "We met in university. Is this the fate we hoped for?" Then, as he began to sob even more, he said, "My darling, you were the only hope for me."
Hooper Bay, Alaska, isn't the first remote place we've gone with our outreach teams of Native American young people, but it's a tough one. Each Summer of Hope, it's our privilege to take teams of Indian and Eskimo spiritual warriors to the reservations and the villages where America's most devastated young people live and die too young. The suicide rate among young Native Americans is four times that of the rest of America's young. In some places in Alaska, it's twenty times greater. Hooper Bay, Alaska, is one of the hardest places in this country to grow up. We had to take our team there.
Our friend commuted in his private plane hundreds of times, flying from a little airfield near his house to the community where his office was. Well, not too long ago, knowing that he wanted to get home before the weather set in, he left his office earlier than usual and he headed for his plane. As he was boarding, he told a friend, "I'm going home!" Those may have been his last words. As he landed a few minutes later, the plane went into a skid and it slammed into a tree. He probably died instantly, but he still made it home.
It was many centuries ago in a remote village in India. Word began to spread that something was about to happen that no one had seen in their lifetime - the prince was actually coming to visit this forgotten little village. Well, everyone was excited, but no one was more excited than the village beggar. Every day he eked out another day by sitting by the road with his little cup, hoping to get enough money to buy some rice to live one more day. He actually had two cups, one for collecting money and one for his few grains of rice. But now the prince was coming. I mean, the wealthy prince! When the prince finally arrived, the beggar mustered his most impassioned appeal, "Alms! Alms for the poor!" And the prince stopped. The beggar's heart was pounding furiously.
It was an incredible moment when our second grandchild was born. My wife and I actually got to be in the birthing room only minutes after his arrival. There was that fragile, precious little handful of baby boy, and then across the room was that amazing life-support system they call the placenta. I couldn't help but flash back to the birth of our youngest child. His delivery was the first one that I was allowed by the hospital to be there for. (That was in the old days, you know.) And I'll never forget our obstetrician's comment immediately after the baby and the placenta had come. He looked at me and he said, after having had this experience hundreds of times, "This is the greatest miracle known to man."
Our friend Jack was heading out on a recent canoe trip with some friends, undaunted by a river that was rising from recent heavy rains. No sooner had they pushed off into the water but the stronger-than-expected current dumped their canoe. All their supplies for the weekend were suddenly headed downstream. Instinctively, Jack started swimming after the supplies to retrieve them. He, too, was caught up in the current, and he was caught off guard at how cold the water was. In no time, he was beginning to feel the first indications of hypothermia with no way to get out. At that seemingly hopeless moment, a life jacket floated by. Jack knew this was his chance. He grabbed that life jacket in that one moment of hope and it saved his life.
They call them the chain gang. They wear stripes, but they're not prison inmates. They're football officials, and they carry this chain that measures whether or not a team has made a first down. Now not everyone is a football fan, so let me explain this. A team has four tries to move the ball ten yards. If they succeed, they get a "first down" and they get four more plays. If they fail, they have to turn the ball over to the other team at that point on the field. Many times it's impossible to tell with the naked eye if the ball has made it those ten yards, because it's very close. So they call out the chain gang. They come trotting out, they extend the chain to its full length, and then they set it down. If it extends beyond the ball, the team falls short. If it falls short, the team has succeeded. And as many who have played or watched football know, winning or losing a game can, in moments like those, literally be a matter of inches no matter how far you've brought the ball.
America has become a nation of trial junkies. We've got a whole TV channel called "Court TV." Many of us are fascinated with high-profile trials that often headline our news. Legal proceedings seem to grind on for months, if not years, and then weeks of hotly-contested testimony. Then suddenly it's in the hands of the jury, and we check the news to see if the verdict is in. Then, after all those months, it's over. In a moment, the verdict is in. When the verdict is guilty, there is one more decision to be announced - the penalty. In some cases, of course, that penalty is death.
Add new comment 
