One day, a writer sat in front of his computer thinking about what to write on his blog.  He wrote all different kinds of stuff on a regular basis, but at the time, he had nothing interesting to say.  One thing he did know, however, was that the more he told stories as opposed to other genres of writing he tried, the better the results.

So he decided to write a story about himself, and how he was trying to figure out something to write and the epiphany came upon him that he was better at telling stories than trying to get people to feel better about themselves or challenging them to do something.

The problem was that the writer also realized that sometimes he ran out of stories to write, and that made him sad because he knew that, more than anything else, he should be making new stories to write about- going out and making a difference in his world or traveling through a comedy or a tragedy with friends.

You see, this writer seemed to do his best work, not when writing about imaginary lands or other people’s junk, but when he wrote about his adventures- Like the time he realized Jesus might be okay with beer, or the time a bee stung his mouth.

So making new stories became his mission, and he wondered what friends would like to be a part of that mission…

Love the 'do Marty!

For whatever reason, sometimes we have the opportunity to be thankful in spite of the most horrific circumstances.  The following story is one of those “most horrific circumstances” that I am now currently thankful for (or someone is).

Star date:  The end of my freshman year in college. Twas May of 1994, and I had just finished  a full year of college at this institution of higher learning and even higher rules of living.  Most college students leave their freshman year of college and head home for the summer.  Ya know, hang out with the old classmates and brag about who went to the best parties that year.  Going to PCC however left little room for conversations like these and more room to try to figure out anything at all about what was going on in popular culture,(“No, I’ve never heard of Ace of Base, are they good?”).  Plus my parents lovingly dropped me off at school in September of ’03 from my lifetime hometown of Fremont, Ohio and immediately (meaning that day) moved to Tucson, AZ – but thankfully they left me the address.

So as is the college ritual toward the end of the school year, I looked for someone to give me a ride from Pensacola, Florida to Tucson, AZ.  And if you were going to LA, that would be fine too because route 10 goes all the way across the country, baby!

Allison eventually got in touch with me and asked me to meet her at the Commons one day with a group of people who would be riding across the country together.  When I arrived, I found Allison, Kim, and John waiting for me and we talked for a bit, getting to know each other before we made this insanely long road trip as a group.  Allison was finishing her sophomore year as a Criminal Justice major, Kim, too, would be a senior the following year, John suffered along with me in having 3 more years of college to go.

So we decided on a time and a place to meet after our schools graduation ceremony (figuring if possible we could break out somewhere in between the 3rd and 18th verses of the schools alma mater song) and exchanged pleasantries as we went, living our lives for the rest of the year.

Finally the day arrived that we would be leaving for the year.  We were scheduled to meet at 11:45 am in the center of campus, pack our car up, and drive away.  I guess that schedule worked for two of us as John and I were the only ones to arrive.  Of course this was long before cell phones were readily available (actually, I’d be interested in knowing if you can have one at PCC) so we simply had to wait.  12.  12:15.  12:30.  I’m starting to get impatient.  1 rolls around and there is still no Allison or Kim.  Maybe they thought we were freaks, I quipped inside my own head.

Finally at 2:00 pm, our two heroines arrived apologetically after having dropped a friend off at the airport “and it took longer than we thought it would.”  Either way, at this point already on this Friday John and I were irritated, so we let it go, packed up the car, and headed west.

Hanging out with Mike and Roo after an 18 hour drive

The times I remember the most are the ones I had to get off my duff and have.

The time Carie told me she’d never ever date me, then two weeks later, after she had time to reconsider, I remember watching the sun set on a Friday night (August 29, 2003, if you were wondering) listening to the reasons why she changed her mind.

Or the time I drove to Massachusetts in 1997 on about 2 hours notice because I had 5 days of nothingness.  The trip took 18 hours of driving solo.  Then after hanging out with my friends Ruben and Mike for 2.5 days, I headed back 18 hours to Atlanta.  Oh yeah, and I had just arrived into Atlanta from Tucson, AZ (35 hour drive) that evening.

Or the time Dave and I decided to gank a newspaper machine from out front a dollar store.

Or watching a play I wrote and directed be performed on Easter 2001 here at Fellowship Church.

Or taking pictures with the family in Mexico that our team had built a small house for.

Or the time last Saturday when I stood inside of a crowd of people, mostly younger, and jumped up and down to a few hard core Christian bands for the first time in more than 5 years.  I kept thinking to myself, I’m too old to be here.  But after reading Donald Miller’s newest work of art, A Million Miles in a Thousand Years, I realized I was just creating another memorable scene in my life.  The kind of scene that I will look back and and be happy that God put me on this earth to live out an incredible story of memorable scenes.  Not necessarily a story (on this earth anyway) with an incredible climax where all my problems go away and my life eventually resolves itself, but one of fulfillment through Jesus and…

a whole lot more memorable scenes.

I was listening to an interview this afternoon from one of my favorite writers, Donald Miller.  His new book comes out this fall called “A Million Miles in a Thousand Years”.  In the interview, Miller spoke of the importance of story and the study he’s done on the literature genre called story.  His insights were very interesting, but one of the most interesting things he said dealt with the main character in a story.  Your story.  My story.  It doesn’t matter.  He said that, in literature, the main character has to want something, or there’s no point in reading or participating in the story.  He also went on to imply – though he didn’t actually say this – that what the character wants says something about the character of the person, and how interesting the character is or isn’t going to be.  So I took a look at the things I want and the things I will do (or not do) to get what I want, and hopefully this will give me a good feel for what kind of story I make.
One of the things I want is to see my community transformed with the love of Christ.

What about you?

Jarrod Jackson walked into his house mesmorized by the scent of flowers.  Halle, his 6 year old daughter,  had outdone herself this time by picking what Jarrod assumed was “the most flowers ever.”  This assumption came from a promise made by Halle herself the day before.  She picked flowers everyday from the bushes his wife planted years before, and when Jarrod sarcastically quipped that “the house could use more flowers,” her promise to pick “the most flowers ever” brought on a huge smile.

Jarrod loved Halle like any father  loves his daughter, except more.  She was everything to him, and he loved coming in from the station every day, walking into his house, and seeing her run into his arms.

Today he said hi to Karen Krittle the babysitter, then walked towards the room he knew Halle would be in, and of course here she came as fast as she could.
“Hey Halle,” he said tenderly as her lightweight frame and long blond hair leaped into him.  A mosquito could have done more damage, but the feeling was so amazing.  “Were you a good girl for Karen today?”
“I tried to be.  But I might have been bad once.”  Karen smiled from across the room, nodding no way in silence behind her back.
“Oh well, I know you can be better next time” He said with a big smirk on his face and tickle in his fingers as Halle laughed in return.

Karen said goodbye for the evening to Jarrod and Halle and walked out of the house, leaving Jarrod and Halle alone for the time being.
“What are we going to do tonight dad?”
“After dinner, maybe if you eat all of it, we’ll go get some ice cream for dessert?  How does that sound?”
Halle’s eyes blew up huge.  “Really?  Ice cream?  That’s amazing!  I’ll eat it all daddy.  Promise.”
“Well then, we’ll be going for ice cream,” the father patted the daughter on the head and sent her to wash up for dinner.  At 6’4″ and solid in frame, Jarrod hovered over his daughter like a mythical giant over the normal people of the world.  His size worked for his occupation as a Oakham police officer in Central Massachusetts, really close to the ends of the earth.

Real crime in Oakham happened once a month, and with Halle waiting for him to arrive home every day, that was no problem for him.  His real excitement started when he was off the clock.  As he started to place the Macaroni and Cheese that karen had made earlier in the day in the oven, he pondered how fulfilled his life had become.  He never thought it would be this way, but it was this way and more.

He didn’t move very gracefully across the kitchen quite yet, and he was thankful for the ways that karen went beyond what he paid her for childcare, like preparing the evening dinner for Jarrod and Halle.  She said it was much better than seeing them eat McDonald every night.  Jarrod guessed that she was correct.

Twenty minutes went by and they felt like forty as he tried to find the right utensils, plates, cups, and what to put in the cups.  Jarrod loves his Mountain Dew, and he was thrilled that Halle hated it.  Water was always good enough for her, just like her mom.  He called to Halle to come down for dinner, very proud that everything was ready.

Another 5 minutes went by and Jarrod ran out of things to do.  He called again, and heard nothing.  Immediately he imagined the worst and ran up the stairs towards her bedroom.  She sat on her bed, appearing okay, but with tears in her eyes.  “Sweetheart, are you okay?”  Jarrod said without scaring her, but with enough intensity to show his concern.
“Daddy, my tummy hurts,” she whimpered softly, allowing his heart to melt just a bit before he answered.
“Oh, it’s okay sweetheart, let’s lay you down here in bed.  I’ll bring some dinner up to you in a few minutes if you feel better.”
“Daddy, am I gonna be in trouble?”
“No, baby, why would you say that?”
She just peered over at the corner of the bed.  Jarrod needed to stand and walk around that corner to see where her eyes were.  As he turned and looked, a pile of vomit mixed with blood stared back at him.
He quickly turned to Halle.  “What happened Halle?  Is this yours?”  He felt kind of stupid asking the question because she was the only one in the room, but she had nothing on her clothes.
She just looked up at him with big eyes, then held her stomach and groaned a sad and pitiful sound.

Immediately Jarrod cradled his daughter in his arms and headed out the door, down the stairs and into the garage.  He wished he had cleaned it out because he was forced to wiggle his way through countless boxes that he had never unpacked when they moved into this house.  Finally he found the 2005 Nissan Sentra he would be driving to the hospital, and gently placed Halle inside the back seat.

Running back inside to grab his keys and his cell phone, he tripped on one of the boxes again, and this time, almost broke his foot in the process.  This might be fitting, he thought since he was going to the hospital.

Finally in his car, he backed out of the garage, and almost hit Karen’s car on the way out.  I told her not to leave it here again after work hours without telling me, he thought to himself, realizing that mistakes happen and he had more important things to deal with at the moment.  Occasionally Karen’s husband Bob would pick her up from the house and they would leave the car overnight in the driveway.  This was fine with Jarrod, but he was afraid he would hit the car if he was ever in a hurry to leave.  Like at a time such as this.

The drive to UMASS University Campus was about a half hour.  To live  as far away as he could from the world in a place like Oakham always seemed so wonderful until today.  Now he couldn’t get into Worcester fast enough. He was a cop, after all, and it would be easier to get forgiveness than permission, right?  Halle seemed okay, but he wasn’t taking chances.  He’d already lost his wife, and this circumstance was doing an amazing job helping to remind him of that fact.

Halle looked so much like Chloe, her mother, and the love of his life, that every time he turned around, he could see his wife lying back there, in a much bigger car, but with the same awkward groaning and facial expressions.  His foot kept pushing harder on the accelerator at each thought that strolled through his head.

They finally arrived at the emergency room, where he parked at the  front glass doors of the newly designed wing, and quickly threw the keys to the valet parking guy in the red polo shirt, who for some reason was taking his time getting to the car.  It doesn’t matter, Jarrod thought grabbing the back door and reaching in for his daughter, who by this time seemed to be mostly asleep.

Moving swiftly into the rotating automatic doors, Jarrod headed straight for the nurses station.
“May I help you?” she said quickly, realizing there was some gravity to this situation.
“Yes, my daughter, pretty all of a sudden, started complaining about a stomach ache, then she showed me a place near her bed where she had vomited some stuff and it was mixed with blood and she needs to see someone very quick.”  He was urgent in his delivery, understanding what it takes to see someone in emergency rooms, in America, Canada, or anywhere else in the world.

A female nurse, hearing the uproar, and seeing the 6 year old girl in his arms, motioned the man in the Oakham police polo and kacki shorts to bring her to the table next to her about 15 feet away.  He immediately obeyed.

“Thanks for seeing her so quick.  Really quick actually.”
“Well, keep in mind I’m not a doctor, I’m a nurse, and I’m just doing a preliminary examination, to see where we stand right now.  In a few minutes, you’re going to have to give your information to the front desk, so we have a long way to go.
Now honey”, she said to the recently wakened Halle, “Tell me what hurts.”

“My tummy” the girl said almost inaudibly
“How long have you had this tummy ache sweetie?”
“Right before dinner.  Daddy was going to make me Mac and Cheese,” she said smiling.
“Yum, I love Mac and cheese,” the nurse said repaying the smile, then looking at Jarrod.  “Okay, Mr…?”
“Crowe, Jarrod Jackson.”
“Okay Mr. Jackson, what I need you to do is to take this sweet girl back into the waiting room and make sure she’s as comfortable as possible until the doctor is able to see her tonight.”
“What?”  he said shocked.  “Did you hear what I told the other nurse?  She vomited blood.  That sounds like she needs help now.  Right now!”  He said this loud enough to cause the security guard at th front desk to walk back and extend his chest.
“Sir, she is going to be fine.  I know what to look for in an emergency, and I know how she’s doing, and right now, there are others we have to look at, okay?”

He just stood there for what seemed like 5 minutes, but actually was like 5 seconds, and gazed at her and the security guard and his beautiful daughter.  She looked scared now because he looked scared, so he scooped her into his arms and carried her slowly past the front desk into the waiting room.  He laid her down on a long brown leather flat chair and sat next to her, whispering in her ear to sleep so the pain wouldn’t be to bad.

His phone rang.  Bob, karen’s husband was calling, but he had no use for small talk about the Red Sox tonight or a make up call about their car being left in his driveway.  He just didn’t want to talk to anyone.

Time elapsed and people came and went.  Two ladies talked loudly about their combined 9 recent trips to this place.  It wasn’t difficult, but from what he could hear as he half paid attention, one had feet circulation problems, and one had “bathroom issues.”  An odd trilogy of people, two guys, one lady joked against the West wall of the waiting room that the lady had an Ipod touch in her purse for more than 3 months, and she left the store casing around it.  About 3 times, Halle woke up, complaining that she “had to go to the bathroom”.  He took her with the care of a member of the royal guard around Buckingham palace.  One time he had to wake her up just to go answer insurance questions at the front desk.  Time just passed, and eventually, 3 hours later, they called her name.

“Halle Jackson!”  the words sounded like the London Symphony Orchestra or better.  he stood her up for what he hoped was one of the last times of the evening, and carried her to the small room the nurse had pointed him to go.  he walked in, and there was more waiting.

Sitting in a room like this brought back the memories of Chloe, and what she had gone through.  Correction.  What they went thrugh together.  Phone call.  I’m not going to answer the phone Bob.  Ugh.

The doctor walked in smiling, and began his interview, asking Jarrod a few questions first.  He answered robotically, and eventually, the attention was on Halle.  As the doctor began the examinations, he remembered these were the same questions they had asked Chloe.  All of them.  They were routine now, but soon, they would ask about the vomit and the blood, and they would become more pointed.  Ultimately they would need to “run some tests” and then what?  Is stomach cancer hereditary?  Does his beloved daughter have what his precious wife had when she passed away 3 years ago.  Oh God! Big beads of sweat began to drip through his hairline and down his forehead.  He started shaking.  The doctor noticed and asked jarrod if he was okay.

The phone buzzed again.  Text message from his captain telling him to call him asap.  “Excuse me doctor, but I have to call my captian.  as you can see (motioning to his shirt) I’m a police officer, and he’s asked me to call.”  The doctor nodded, somwhat irritated at this intrusion, and continued asking Halle questions.  Jarrod dialed the number – 508-882-3346.
“Hey Captain, what’s up?  I’m kind of busy.”
“Where are you Jackson?”
“At UMASS, the emergency room for Halle.”
“I hope she’s okay, but I have to tell you something hard.”
“Uuhh, ok, shoot.”
“I don’t know how to tell you this, but Karen Krittle, your babysitter was found dead today in her car parked in your driveway.”
Stunned, Jarrod immediately sat down in the empty chair to his right.
“What…what happened?”
“Apparently she drowned in her own vomit.”

The two blog story posts I’ve posted in the last week:  Love doesn’t die just because she did and The Dimming of Hope have been writing exercises for me.  I have taken unique random scenes that have  given me second thoughts during my day, and created a story with a point out of the picture in my mind.  The former story was created during a rainstorm I drove through while passing a house.  The house had a small window at the top, and I wondered out loud if anyone was currently gazing at me through it.    The latter story I happened upon when I was pumping gas at a Mobil with my wife Carie.

Like M. Night Shyamalan, I placed myself in parts of the story for no apparent reason.

He grabbed his hard hat, keys, and what was left of his wallet, and headed out the door.  George Wikley emanated a complete sense of frustration at what was happening at his home this morning.  George woke up having to work like any other Saturday, and the idea of fighting with his wife AND teenage son wasn’t first on his “to do” list.

Let’s see, he thought to himself slamming the door of his 1950′s cape style house in Paxton, Massachusetts, They’re mad because I was too loud.  They’re mad because there was no food in the house for breakfast.  Gee, I wonder if there is anything else we can blame me for? I’m glad I wasn’t around for Pearl Harbor.

The problems George faced paled in light of hunger, AIDS, and famine in Africa, or war in several other parts of the world, or even financial difficulties that so many fought against right there in suburban U.S.A. because of layoffs and the economic breakdown.  No his problems stemmed from relationships.  He hated his wife, and he hated his son.

No, not really hated…but almost.

Communication at this point in the Wikley household consisted of asking George for money, asking George for more money, or swearing at George because he announced after the question (or sometimes before) that he had no money.  And so on a daily basis George yelled, screamed, and swore back, leaving him a zombie each time he walked out the door of his own house.

Thankfully this Saturday was sunny and cool, not really a normal late June day even in Massachusetts.  The last several weeks brought little but rain, rain, and more rain to his world, so if nothing else, today was a brief respite in the sky.  Thank you weatherman, he smiled as he opened the door of his Verizon truck the supervisor postion he held at the popular phone company allowed him to drive home.

After a few minutes of driving as the sun beat down on his face, the newness of the beautiful day wore off, and the clouds of his heart came flooding back to him, remembering the earlier fight with his family.  He transformed into a zombie again.  Realizing he needed gas before he drove in to get his orders for the day, he turned left instead of his usual right onto West Mountain St, then an immediate right onto W. Boylston St.

The Mobil gas station was the closest, so he drove in, got out of his truck, and started pumping gas.  Today he didn’t care what the environmentalists thought about the company.  It was the closest, and he would almost be late.  Plus his son was a newbie environmentalist, thanks to the local  “treehugger” club at the Wachusett School he attended.  He joked to himself, He always had the money sucking vampire traits of my wife, and the desire to change the world like me.  Sick combination.

Through the intense thinking going on in his mind today, he neglected to realize the pump kept stopping and he kept squeezing, causing the gas to eventually flow out onto his brown work boots.  That’s okay.  Brawn (his best friend at work) smells like gas every day at work. He jumped into his truck, turned the key, and began the short half a mile drive to work from this station.  He drove around the back of the gas station, and towards the exit deep in thought.

As he drove past the pump on the other side of the station, a women got out of the passenger side of a white GMC Sierra 1500, and leaned her arms on the truck bed, stretching her legs out a few feet into his driving path.  Besides the woman was blond, small, and beautiful, he had to get to work.  George always froze when he talked to beautiful women, so he decided instead to beep her out of the way.  Clearly her husband or boyfriend or whoever he was that was pumping the gas on the other side of the truck did not like the beeping of his woman from 4 feet away, because he moved around the front of the white truck and had a few words to say for George and his “stupid Verizon truck.”  But those were the only intelligible words he could understand as he drove out of the parking lot, and back the way he came.  So I guess I won’t tell that dumb idiot that he’s putting regular gas into a diesel engine.

George remembered when he used to care about people.  What they thought and who they were.  He remembered having a desire to help people and to do something important with his life, because as his priest used to say, “More bliss can be got by serving others than merely serving oneself.”  Yeah well, I wish I would have kept going to church and dragged my wife and kid along too.

George finally arrived at work thinking about what he used to be like and what he used to want. He parked next to Brawn as he always did, and the two walked in together as they always did.

“How ya doin bron (as George pronounced his best friends nickname)?”
“Oh, I’m great for a fat old man George!” Brawn responded.  But I’m about tired of  my wife and daughter.  You wanna trade families?

This house - the inspiration for this story

The 83 year old man looked out of his upstairs apartment window wishing it would stop raining.  It seemed like that’s all it ever did anymore, and he couldn’t go out when it rained like this.  His cane probably wouldn’t hold up, and he would slip, or fall.  Either way, it wasn’t a satisfying image rolling around in his head.  Today he would be content to peek out at sheets of rain coming down in waves on the roof of the silver Nissan driving below his Brooks-E. Mountain St corner window view.

Days like this tended to bring back memories of his wife of 58 years.  Equal in age and life wisdom, she quadrupled him in energy and “spunkness” – the description the kids had given her when they were younger – until she left him for another life.  One he  never believed or hoped in, until that day.  The day of the car and the lights…and the rain.
“Why the hell did she have to drive all the time?” He thought to himself, feeling the new found flushness of his face.
“Because I still can,” he could almost hear her saying back to him, as smug as she always was, and as cute as she always would have been.  A tear emerged from the inside of his right eye.

Just as he was getting lost in his thoughts, that boy came around the corner again, the one that lived in the house next door, but was constantly walking over toward his house, and moving towards his entrance.  He knocked at the window, waving the boy away.  This was not a loving gesture by any means from his point of view, but the boy waved back, as if to say, “I don’t really care if you’re being mean and waving me away, I’m still gonna hang out here where you can’t come down and see me anyway.”

“Dumb kid” he muttered to himself, certain that he was quite clear as to what he wanted from the boy.  And even more clear that this generation of kids would ruin the world as he knew it.

It wasn’t like it used to be, for him or the world.  The world used to be so simple, and he used to be so loved.  She loved him.  He didn’t know why, but she did.  She always did.  Through their young adult life and through his career,  the kids and the bills – she loved him through all that.  And now, she was gone.  Sure the kids were still there, and their kids and even some of their kids, but about 3 months afer she left (he preferred to use this term), he realized their visits had been about her and not him.  Love seemed to be no more.

Despite the bumping and movement he heard in his hallway, he was tired and wanted to take a nap.  Tomorrow the senior agency would come and pick him up for his weekly appointment to “some kid doctor who couldn’t tell a cold from a cat” he would lavishly share with anyone who would listen in the waiting room.  He needed his rest.  “Damn noises in my hallway,” he spouted off, walking slowly away from the noise and towards his bedroom, where he hoped not to wake up.

In about two hours of napping, he dreamed.  Dreaming always takes so much out of you, and he was never a fan, but this time it was no use.  He couldn’t stop from dreaming.  He dreamed he was at a party.  The party must have been at his only daughter’s house.  She was so beautiful, though he never told her so, preferring to leave the “mushy” stuff to his wife.  It seemed that the party centered around him – they were celebrating him.  Whether it was his birthday or anniversary, he could not tell.  But he did see the sign that said his name, and for once his family all centered around him, smiling and laughing about his life.  He decided that he would take the opportunity during a quick lull to ask them all a question.  After all, they were all there, and he wanted to know.
“Why did you stop visiting me when she died?” He asked his room full of family members and friends.  Immediately their smiles turned to scowls, and they turned away from him, one by one.  Unsurprisingly, he opened his eyes in a cold sweat, and the daytime rain had given itself over to a nighttime drizzle.  He took a sip of the water sitting at the side of his bed.

“Finally, the son decides to show its face,” the 83 year old man thought, smirking to himself as he peered out the same corner window he gazed at .
“What?” the man watching TV in the other room asked, deafened by the volume of old reruns of Miami Vice blaring from the speakers.
He ignored his son’s question, only to ask one in return.
“Why are you here again?”
Begrudgingly, the man stood from his father’s favorite seat and said, “I told you dad, I am going to take you to the doctors office today.”  The younger man shut off the television and asked his dad if he was ready to go.
“Don’t rush me, I’m putting on my coat.”  The man reacted a bit more harshly than he should have, the son thought, and responded, “You okay dad?”
“I’m fine,” came the predictable response, with an unpredictable tag along.  “I just don’t understand why you people don’t love me.  No one loves me…like  she did.”  The last 3 words trailed off, but the meaning was clear.

Silence in the room for the next 5 minutes as the man readied himself for the doctor.  The son eventually broke the silence.

“Dad, who did you have fix your apartment door and paint the hallway?”
“No one.” The dad responded, looking at his son like he was an alien.
“Someone did it.  And did a great job too.  I asked your idiot landlord how much that was going to set you back, and he said he didn’t do it, and you didn’t ask.”

“Nope. I did not ask.  And if I did, he would have waited until I got in a damn car accident to do it.”  The words stung himself  more he thought they would.
“Well, someone must love you, because the walls didn’t paint themselves and the door didn’t fix itself.”

His son opened the apartment door for him, walked him slowly across the freshly painted hallway, and towards the newly-fixed front entrance, as a beam of sunlight shone through it’s window and splashed on the old man’s face.

A guy at my church asked me a great question about the Bible the other day, and I answered him in an extensive, drawn out type answer that took a while to research.  In the midst of my research on the question, I found this article by NT Wright, who, in my humble opinion is the man, and at the same time is not trying to be the man.  In the aforelinked article, Wright asserts:

“The Christian Bible we know is a quite astonishingly complete story, from Chaos to Order, from first creation to new creation, from the Garden to the City, from covenant to renewed covenant, and all fitting together in a way that none of the authors can have seen but which we, standing back from the finished product, can only marvel at.”

This is a great article and worthy of your reading time, but something that stuck out to me – a question I would like to raise – is this:  Do we do Scripture injustice by giving “new believers” excerpts of Scripture, specifically John and Romans, in an effort to teach them a specific theology bent relevant to these two books?

I mean, in one sense, I understand that all Scripture is powerful, in that it is inspired by God, and so excerpts are fine, no matter what books of the Bible they carry.  But that’s not why we offer up those two books as relevant to those who are “new to the faith”, is it?  We want them to read those two books because we want them to believe what we believe – I think – about the Bible, and our thought is that if they read those two books first, what we believe will come easier to them.

I’m not a legalist about this thought, in fact, it’s just a thought.  But I wonder if we take the appropriate story out of the Bible when we hand someone an excerpt of Scripture, and say, “Here you go.  You don’t need to know why you need salvation, redemption, and the like.  You just need to know that you do.  So get in the Christian line, sis (or bro, if she is a he).

Right now I’ve just finished Deutoronomy, and am reading Isaiah and Hebrews, and the light bulb just kind of clicked on today reading each of these books, that I wonder if people are missing out on the full experience at first because the meat is so important that we forget the forks and diningware, not to mention the appetizers?

It’s just a thought, but I’d like to hear yours.

I’m interested to know your thoughts on baptism.

This weekend, one of the things we’ll be focusing on at Fellowship Church is baptism.  If you know someone who is thinking about who God is or who has just started reaching out to Him, this will be an incredible message for them to hear.  For those of you who are already full engrossed in all things baptism , then it will be a good reminder of that time that you took a step to publicly identify yourself with Christ.

But we will also be focusing on something new – a new way that Fellowship Church uses technology to fulfill our mission of leading people into a growing relationship with Jesus Christ.

Also, I’ll be sharing with the church about our upcoming new series we’ll be starting in June.

Have a fantastic memorial Day weekend, and with all the parties you’ve been invited to, don’t forget to join your Fellowship Church family this Sunday morning.

“To reach who no one else is reaching, we have to do what no one else is doing”

p.s.  I had this fantastic story to share with you in this post, but after I finished, for some reason it didn’t save,and I lost most of my work.  So, either because I was too lazy to type it again or because I felt that probably I wasn’t supposed to share it, It remains in my head.