Happy Birthday, Still-Young Lady!

(NOTE:  Some people think Christians should never think about sex, much less write about it.  If you are one such person, I recommend you read your Bible a lot better.  And I recommend you don't read this blog.)

I love being 55.  My sixth decade on this planet has been fantastic, and I love almost everything to do with my advancing age.  But I realize everybody doesn't feel this way, especially people a lot younger than I am.

There is a precious young woman, dear to Winnie and me, who turned 30 yesterday.  She has spent some time recently dreading her thirtieth birthday.  Many women do.

I was seven when my mother turned 30.  I remember coming home from school, evaluating the situation quickly, then going into my bedroom, closing the door, and staying there.  I could be very intelligent when I was a little boy!

I didn't know Winnie until after her thirtieth birthday.  But she tells me she never said she was 29.  She spent that last year in her 20's saying, "I'm going on 30," preparing herself for the disaster to come. 

On that fateful day she stayed home from work, cleaned her apartment to within an inch of its life, preparatory to a party she gave herself, not a "birthday party", but an "anti-depression party".  No cakes, only pies.  No one who showed up with a cake or a present was admitted.  And admitted, no one was permitted to go.  "Don't leave me!" she begged, and did everything she could to keep them all there until the stroke of midnight turned March 21 to March 22.

Daddy told me his fortieth was devastating to him, though he never showed it.  But I remember the year after my fortieth birthdy punctuated  by an unbearable sense of "Is this all I've done with my life?"

For women, apparently, it is the 30th when the death knell begins to sound.  Somehow, after that date, you're no longer a young woman.  No longer the ingenue.  No longer fertile, no longer desireable, the ticking of the biological clock begins increasingly to deafen, the sound of shovels digging your grave begins to sound faintly, and louder every day, in your ears.  What is left after 30 for a woman but increasing age, increasing UNdesireability, and death?

There is a word for men who don't find 30+ women attractive:  STUPID! 

There is much I could say on the subject, but I can't say it better than Frank Kaiser did eleven years ago:

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One of the perks of dufferdom is an increased capacity to appreciate people. Friends. Spouses. And, for me, women. All women.



When I was 20, I had eyes only for girls my age. Any woman over 30 was ancient, over 40 invisible.  Today, now in my 70s, I still appreciate the 20-year-old for her youthful looks, vigor, and (occasional) sweet innocence.  But I equally enjoy women of my own age and beyond, and every age in between. I've learned that each has its own special wonders, attractions, magic and beauty.  As I grow in age, I value mature ladies most of all. Here are just a few of the reasons senior men sing the praises of older women:


An older woman knows how to smile with such brightness and truth, old men stagger.


An older woman will never ask out of the blue, "What are you thinking?" An older woman doesn't care what you think.


An older woman has been around long enough to know who she is, what she wants, and from whom. By the age of 50, few women are wishy-washy. About anything. Thank God!


And yes, once you get past a wrinkle or two, an older woman is far sexier than her younger counterpart!  Her libido's stronger.  Her fear of pregnancy's gone.  Her appreciation of experienced lovemaking is honed and reciprocal.  And she's lived long enough to know how to please a man in ways her daughter could never dream of. (Young men, you have something to look forward to!)


Older women are forthright and honest. They'll tell you right off that you are a jerk if you're acting like one. A young woman will say nothing, fearing that you might think worse of her. An older woman doesn't give a damn.


An older, single woman usually has had her fill of "meaningful relationships" and "long-term commitments." Can't relate? Can't commit? She could care less. The last thing she needs in her life is another whiny, dependent lover!


Older women are sublime. They seldom contemplate having a shouting match with you at the opera or in the middle of an expensive dinner. Of course, if you deserve it, they won't hesitate to shoot you if they think they can get away with it.


Most older women cook well. They care about cleanliness. They're generous with praise, often undeserved.


An older woman has the self-assurance to introduce you to her women friends. A young woman often snarls with distrust when "her guy" is with other women. Older women couldn't care less.


Women get psychic as they age. You never have to confess your sins to an older woman. Like your mother, they always know.


Yes, we geezers praise older women for a multitude of reasons. These are but a few.  Unfortunately, it's not reciprocal.  For every stunning, smart, well-coifed babe of 75 there's a bald, paunchy relic with his yellow pants belted at his armpits making a fool of himself with some 22-year-old waitress.


Ladies, I apologize for my fellow geezers. That men are genetically inferior is no secret. Count your blessings that we die off at a far younger age, leaving you the best part of your lives to enjoy and appreciate the exquisite woman you've become. Without the distraction of some demanding old coot clinging and whining his way into your serenity.  (http://www.suddenlysenior.com/praiseolderwomen.html)

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Thanks, Frank, I couldn't not have said it nearly so well!

Thank you, Lovely Wife, for teaching me so much!

Thank you, God, for letting me live long enough to learn this wonderful lesson!

Preaching to Myself: I Never Hurt Anyone

My pastor preached a fine sermon this morning.  That happens so often, I'm getting used to it.  If he ever leaves, I fear for his predecessor!  How will she/he compare?

ANYWAY, he preached from Jesus Parable of the Sheep and the Goats (Matthew 25:31-46).  If you don't know it, stop now and read it.  I'll wait.  It won't take you five minutes

[Insert brief intermission music here]

Back?  Okay.

I must have read that passage hundreds of times, and preached on it dozens of times.  Just this morning, for the first time, I realized what the Goats will say on that day.  Want to hear it?  Here it is:

"Hell?  Me?  But, I never hurt anybody!"

In this, the most focused picture Jesus ever painted of Judgment, there is only one criterion for entry: 

I was hungry and you fed me, I was thirsty and you gave me drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, I was naked and you clothed me, I was sick and you took care of me, I was in prison and you visited me.

Interesting, he doesn't ask what kind of language you used when you hammered your thumb, or whether you ever had sex, or went out dancing, or any of the things people seem to think he cares for so much.  Funny, it seems as if he cares most about how we treat other people.

But harmlessness isn't enough!  It's helpfulness he's looking for.  What do you DO for others?

Apparently my religion isn't private, just between me and God.  Apparently how I life my life tells everybody what I really believe.

And if I expect to get in for just not hurting anybody, I'd better get ready to share my space with the fencepost next door.

A Modest Proposal for Veterans Day

One of my favorite books, Robert A. Heinlein's Starship Troopers, is perhaps the worst story-telling he ever did. It's more preaching than story-telling, really. But the book has never been out of print since he first published it in 1959.  It's one of his most controversial, and one of his most popular.

The premise of the book is that to give rights, or privileges, without imposing equal responsibilities, always ends up badly.

In Starship Troopers the only people who are allowed to be citizens, to vote, or to hold office, are veterans.  There is no draft in this society, and they discourage you from enlisting.  When you go to sign up, they have a man in uniform there to meet you, a man with a couple of limbs missing, a "horror show", he calls it, to demonstrate what you can be signing up for.  "If you're lucky," he says.  Many of his colleagues "bought the farm".

There is no maximum age for service in this world.  And no one is turned down. If you sign up, the government is required to accept you, and to find some service you can perform, something uncomfortable, preferably potentially life-threatening, for the two years of your term, so that you will know know that your franchise is worth something!  They have the right to vote because they have earned that right by placing their lives on the line for the country.  Authority only to those who take responsibility.

The greatest power we have is the vote, and it costs most of us absolutely nothing. All we American citizens have to do to qualify for this enormous power, is simply to live to be 18. It costs us nothing to vote, and we are relatively immune, in the short run at least, from the consequences of how we vote.  Edmond Gibbon, in his huge Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire, noted that the Empire's collapse began when the plebes discovered they could vote themselves bread and circuses.  Sounds a lot like us today, don't you think?

Why is the captian of the ship the only one who can give command orders in the ship?  Is the captain the best sailor on the ship?  Does the captain know more than anyone else?  Is the captain right every time?  The answer to each of these questions is, "Not necessarily."  Only the captain can give command orders because only the captain bears responsibility for the whole ship!

Does it make sense to give just anybody who reaches a certain age the authority of the vote without expecting them to be responsible for anything?

Everybody who ever joins the military (I never did--one of my greatest regrets) in effect signs a blank check saying that they will pay any price, up to and including their lives, for the sake of their country. THAT is responsibility! 

Sometimes I think only veterans should be allowed to vote or hold office. Yes, that would let me out, and people who know me know I never miss a chance to vote.  But it makes sense.  Balance authority with responsibility!

My dad came home from World War II with a Silver Star, a Bronze Star, a Purple Heart, and a less-well-known one called "The Order of the Caterpillar"--a little patch given to everyone who ever had to "hit the silks", parachute jump, in order not to die. Daddy was a patriot, and I was determined he be buried with full military honors. That certificate of thanks I got from President Bush after Daddy died is one of the proudest things I own.

Daddy enlisted on December 8, 1941, the day after the Pearl Harbor attack. He was 17.

He and I disagreed violently on things political, social, economic, theological, just about everything. He was as extreme in his opinions as I am in mine.  So why should I give up my vote to him?  Because he earned it and I never did.

One of the reasons I can vote is an awful lot of people, like my dad, risked, even gave, their lives so I could.  How much do I appreciate it?  Well, quite a lot, actually.  But would I appreciate it more if I had earned it myself?  Maybe.  Maybe not.

I have had relatives who were career military who thought this was a terrible idea. And, like Heinlein, I'm not sure this would fix things.

But I am sure what we've got going is broken. I think this national obsession with rights and no talk of duty is a serious part of the brokenness.

What do you think?

Sacraments Everywhere

We had Communion in church this morning. I love communion. Your church may call it The Lord's Supper, The Last Supper, Eucharist, I don't know what.

I love communion. One of my favorite things about being ordained is being authorized to administer the Sacraments. Worship and Sacrament is my big thing. I think all that Church is rises from worship. And I think worship should always be sacramental!

It irritates me no end that so many of my Christian brothers and sisters think Christianity is something we're taught, like a philosophy or something. That heresy was condemned in the earliest days of the Church. We call it gnosticism: the idea that we are saved by special knowledge.

To pervert C. S. Lewis, I say Christianity isn't taught; it's caught, like the flu. Lewis said it nicer: "good contagion". You don't get it from books. As a 17-year pulpit veteran I can say authoritatively: you DON'T get it from sermons!

But we Protestants are the worst about exalting the sermon as The Point of worship. We place 'WAY too much emphasis on what Paul called "the foolishness of preaching" (I Corinthians 1:21)! That's one reason I like being in a more liturgical denomination. We recite the ancient Apostle's Creed every Sunday, or one of the creeds, and so we are no dependent on whatever the preacher comes up with at any given time. It's one thing to be blessed with a great preacher, as we are in my church. But everybody isn't! Woe to those churches whose worship is sermon-centered, if they are reliant on a poor preacher!

Best of all is the situation of the churches where the Gospel isn't just proclaimed every Sunday; it is also acted out, in the Breaking of the Bread.

I'm not a symbolist. I don't believe that the Sacraments are merely symbol. I believe God literally acts in Sacrament. I believe the Sacraments accelerate the function of grace. I can't prove it biblically. For every theologian who agrees with me, you can find one who doesn't.

The good news is, I'm a Methodist, a disciple of John Wesley. That means I'm an experientialist! It is my experience of the Sacraments that sends me so happily down this trail.

Theologians have writtens libraries full of books trying to explain what happens in the Sacraments. They fail, every time. They fail because they're trying to explain the inexplicable.

What happens when an infinite God touches a finite world? Mystery, that's what! Magic!

What happens when you try to explain in cognitive terms what happens when an infinite God touches a finite world? Linguistic nonsense! Language fails, and fails miserably, adequately to describe Truth.

For instance, God--one Person or three? The only true answer is Yes!

Jesus Christ--human or divine? Again, YES!

The priest blesses the bread and wine. What happens? Does it stay bread and wine and merely represent what Jesus did for us? Or does it magically become One Substance with the actual Body and Blood? How about the third, compromise idea--that Body and Blood magically appears hidden beneath the unchanged substance of bread and wine?

A lifetime of study and prayer, decades of administering the Sacrament, and I can say, with absolute confidence and authority: I don't know.

But I know when I eat the bread and drink the wine, I am a better man. I have taken Christ into myself, and somehow Christ has taken me into Himself. Everything is different, if only microscopically, if totally impalpably, if completely beneath any ability of human sense to measure.

The Roman Catholic Church recognizes seven sacraments: Baptism, Confirmation, Eucharist, Penance, Holy Matrimony, Holy Orders, and Extreme Unction (also known as Last Rites and Prayers for the Sick). We United Methodists only recognize two: Baptism and Communion, relegating the others to a lesser status as not being strictly necessary for salvation.

I think both lists are too short. I have found mystery and sacrament in many things. Some in the lists:

My marriage was earth-shakingly sacramental to me. So was my ordination. I will never forget how warm were Bishop Fitzgerald's hands on my head as I knelt before that assembly; I still hear his voice:

"William Franklin Thomas II, the Lord pour upon thee the Holy Spirit for the office and work of an Elder, now committed unto thee by the authority of the Church, through the imposition of our hands; and be thou a faithful dispenser of the Word of God, and of His Holy Sacraments."

Then they had me place my hand on a Bible and he said, "William Franklin Thomas II, take thou authority, as an Elder in the Church, to preach the Word of God, and to administer the Holy Sacraments in the congregation."

I have touched the sick and prayed for them, and felt the move of Grace.

I have sat in hospital waiting rooms, looking into pain-filled eyes and listening to stories of great sorrow, and known Grace to flow from me to those broken hearts.

I have smiled at a baby and had the baby smile back, and known that God has given Grace to the baby through me, and, through the baby, right back to me.

I have received Grace in movie theaters and in the car listening to the radio. I have felt Grace stir in a silent library, reading dusty, smelly books of literature, or history, or science, or music theory.

Grace regularly blows through my soul early in the morning when I open the garage door and step out under a dark, starry sky and feel that first touch of the morning air on my skin.

The first greedy gulp of ice-cold water into a parched mouth feels like Grace to me.

The flavor of my wife's turkey stuffing slathered in hot gravy (Oh, hurry, Thanksgiving!) exalts my very soul. Is that Grace? How can it not be?

Can your life be sacramental? Even the most mundane parts? Feeling sleep sweetly take your consciousness for a much-needed rest? Hot water flowing over your bare skin when you step into the shower in the morning? Driving in the still-dark morning to a job you don't like, feeling lonely and discouraged and futile, then realizing liquid balm from nowhere you can discern is pouring through your heart, soothing and comforting and encouraging, untily you're smiling and laughing and singing? Looking into your daughter's eyes across the table of a restaurant as she tells you what her creative writing classmates said about her latest story?

(Funny how life seems more magical, more sacramental, when I've been most faithful in my church attendance and Bible reading and prayer and "attendance upon the Ordinances of Religion", as John Wesley said.)

Can all these things be sacramental?

Can Grace actually be in these things?

Why not?

No Happy Accidents: Health

Daddy once told me, "Son, after you get to be about 55, you'll never be completely comfortable again for the rest of your life!"

I said, "Thanks, Dad! I'm SO glad I have that to look forward to."

Well, I'm 55 now. It's beginning to look as if he was right!

My medical record includes high blood pressure, high cholesterol, one sinus surgery, and the horrible letters MI (myocardial infarction--a heart attack). The doctor's lying scale said 213 when I was there last week. And I can't figure out why the DOT took my picture, but put some fat-faced man's on my license!

When I was 18, I would take my high school sweetheart out on Fridays. We always went to McDonald's, and I always ordered the same thing: three Big Mac's, two large orders of fries, and a chocolate shake. And I weight 135 pounds!

That was nearly 40 years and nearly 80 pounds ago.

A friend claims, in his late teens, to have been able to eat a dozen Krispy Kremes with a gallon of whole milk and never to gain an ounce. I believe him. I also believe he can't do it now!

The doctor said, "When you were 18, your body could process styrofoam if you ate any!"

In what realm of life can do you do whatever you want, as long as you want, whenever you want, with impunity, without paying any price? In what area of your life may you get away without exercising discipline?

There is every possibility that none of the failing health I experience today would ever have been a consideration if at any time I had begun to act as if I'm no longer 18! Discipline, as onerous as it is, would have brought me a significant amount of happiness I do not know today, and would have saved me considerable pain, fear, and expense!

A precious woman I know was diagnosed diabetic several months ago. She is philosophical about it. She says, "It's not unfair. I ate my share of cake and pie and cookies and candies. In fact, I ate several people's share!" She believes she deserved what she got. The good news is, wisely, she has adopted the discipline she should have taken on decades ago, she has lost a lot of weight, she is feeling better than she has in years, looking better, and she is going to live with diabetes "not barely, but TRIUMPHANTLY!"

What I took for granted just a couple of decades ago I now must work for. Well, God blessed me with magnificent good health. Many have died living as I have always lived, much younger than me. It's okay, I'm awake now, I'm paying attention, and I am not going to eat myself to death. I am going to exercise.

At least once a day I recite a list I call my personal Affirmations and Intentions, and, being who I am, I make them a prayer. They are in seven categories: Faith, Family, Fitness, Finance, Firm, Friends, and Fun. The third one, Fitness, goes like this:

"IT IS MY INTENTION to be as healthy, Lord, as you know I can be. I intend for my appetite to MEET, and not to EXCEED, my needs. I intend to find the foods that are best for me increasingly delicious, and the ones that aren't, increasingly cloying. I intend to drink all the water every day that I should. I intend to do some exercise, purely for the sake of exercise, every day. I intend, by my next birthday, for my gut to be gone, my blood pressure and my cholesterol and my resting pulse to be down to where they ought to be."

I've been checking out my family tree. There are an awful lot of people among my direct ancestors who lived well into their 80's and 90's.

I've decided to live to be at least 110. It's going to take discipline and work.

But what good thing in life, what really good thing, every happens without decision, commitment, discipline, and hard work?

No Happy Accidents: Marriage

"A man would have to stand around with his mouth open for a long time before a roast pheasant would fly into it."--Old Irish Proverb

Nothing good in life happens by accident. Well, nothing really good. There are happy accidents that brighten moments, days, maybe even weeks. But the good things of life, the REALLY good things, happen because you make them happen.

Take marriage. There is no fairy-tale, happily-ever-after marriage. It just doesn't happen that way. Sadly, 'way too many people aren't adult enough to realize that. They have bought the satanic lie of the romantic ideal: they think the only reason to get married is an emotional storm, a temporary insanity called "falling in love".

(A wise man once told me, if you can fall into it, it's a hole.)

And, like ALL emotional states, it goes away. One day you wake up and all the Fourth-of-July fireworks that got you there have fizzled out. And at that moment, the ignorant infants among us go for the divorce lawyer.

(NOTE: sometimes divorce is necessary. Sometimes a doctor has to decide to amputate, or the patient is going to die. Divorce is the amputation of the relationship, to be done in cases of physical abuse, or when it is the only way to save the soul. And like amputation, should be extremely rare, and absolutely, positively the last resort.

By the way, this is also how I view abortion.)

When it stops being easy and fun, the adults, the wise, get up and go to work. Because it takes work. It takes listening and talking, arguing and making up, hurt feelings and apologies, to make it work. It takes giving and taking, it takes asking and hearing no; and it takes saying yes, and saying no, learning when to insist and when to give in.

It's an elaborate dance, more intricate than any grand ballet, much harder, and much, much more beautiful.

Your marriage must be more important than either of you as individuals. Because your spouse is a person, a living, growing person. Each of you is getting older, learning, changing; and things you loved when you were in your 20's lose their charm when you're in your 50's. In your 40's you find yourself relishing things for which you cared nothing when you were 18. Sooner or later, you wake up with your spouse of decades, and realize, though the face is the same, the person behind the face is no longer the person you married. And you must adapt, if you want to stay married.

It's called "love", and, blasphemous as it sounds, love is not a feeling. It is a decision, a commitment. You stick by your commitments, if you can, whether you feel like it or not.

Our seminary counseling professor said, "Marriage gets to be a drag after a while. But if you keep dragging with it, it becomes wonderful!"

Another psychologist I met said that, except for cases of physical abuse (in which case, the rule is GET OUT!) it is virtually always easier to make a bad marriage work than it is to survive a divorce. And it is better, psychologically, for each of you.

What I'm saying is, it takes your whole life to learn how to love someone. And the only way to do it is in the context of a pretty iron-clad commitment to each other, a commitment within which you can try things, make mistakes, learn from your mistakes, and do better next time; where your partner can offend you trying to please you, and you can express your offense, and you two can step back, try again, and eventually make magic.

You can become remarkably selfish without this often-uncomfortable corrective. And you can grow to be a great person with this kind of help. A wonderful Christian psychologist I knew liked to say, "A good marriage is the best therapy."

A great Baptist pastor, Dr. E. Paul Billheimer, wrote a book decades ago entitled Don't Waste Your Sorrows, a follow-up to his magnificent Destined for the Throne, a beautiful exposition on how God uses prayer to prepare us for glorious things to come. In Sorrows, he proposed that the pains and failures and disappointments of life are the very tools God uses to make you strong and great. The last chapter in the book is dedicated to marriage, which is calls the greatest laboratory for developing Christian character.

He compares marriage to a rock polisher, which is like a tumble clothes dryer. You put rough rocks in it and turn it on. The barrel rolls over with an awful cacophony as the rocks slam against each other until they have knocked all the rough edges off each other and they all are smooth.

Sometimes it feels that bad. Sometimes it's all you can do not to give up.

But if you can find a way not to give up, you will know miracles.

Seriously, what wonder in life doesn't require some serious work?

And doesn't the work you have to put into it make it that much more valuable to you?

The Happiest Man in the World

Tonight I drove home feeling sorry for everybody in the world who isn't me.

South on Clairmont Road, right on North Decatur, past Emory University, left onto Lullwater, through Little Five Points and Inman Park before going toward downtown, south onto I-75 toward Clayton County. I started home shortly before 9:00.

Decatur is beautiful after dark. Those cozy old-Atlanta neighborhoods are so pretty in the daytime; but after dark, when you can't see the outsides so well, and all you can see is hints of the insides, somehow they are more intimate, as if they all were asking me in, a little.

I love Little Five Points all the time. It's like most college communities: you can see all kinds of people, all the time.

But at night, people walking the streets, crowded parking lots, restaurants, theaters, clubs full, people enjoying each other, laughing, forgetting their problems, embracing good times and good company. The magic must be a hundred-fold

I felt so happy it seemed impossible that it wasn't spilling out all over everyone I passed. I could have hugged everyone I saw.

Finally came the time to turn off Euclid Avenue onto Edgewood. There, ahead of me, the majestic spectacle of the jeweled towers of Atlanta, something that never ceases to amaze me, especially at night; but this time somehow it seemed as if I were leaving a magic kingdom for something still lovely, but somehow ordinary, mundane.

What made this night more magical than any other?

I had just spent about five hours with my daughter, that's what!

I picked her up at school at about 4:00, took her to the grocery store, back to her dorm; then dinner, where we sat and talked and talked and talked. When I finally took her home, neither of us wanted to go. We took a walk around her dorm area, just procrastinating, putting off the time I had to drive home.

My Emily has a mind full of magic and wonder. Talking with her can be like visiting a wonderful country; and tonight I had the best visit I had had in a long time.

You can have the most enjoyable conversations with her! She is almost violently opinionated! Keenly intelligent, delightfully articulate, so learned while still so young, yet she has a child's sense of wonder.

Her favorite thing in life is a good story. I'm the same way. But she composes worlds in her mind and tries to write them down to share with the world. When she starts being published, you can find out what I have known for the past several years--what a marvelous, marvelous place Emily's mind is!

So I drove home feeling like the happiest, most blessed man in the history of the world. No man ever deserved such a daughter! And I'm the only one who gets to be her daddy!

When she was a little girl, we would tell her how sorry we felt for other parents, because they didn't have the most wonderful daughter in history. She would protest, "But they think their children are wonderful too!" We would say, "That's what's so sad! They're all WRONG!"

She'll be 21 next month, and I'm still fully convinced my daughter is the most wonderful daughter ever born to the human race.

Prejudiced? Sure, I am!

But that doesn't mean I'm wrong!

The Self-Confidence Formula: First...

"First, I know that I have the ability to achieve the object of my definite purpose in life; therefore I demand of myself persistent, continuous action toward its attainment; and I here and now promise to render such action." Napoleon Hill, Think and Grow Rich, 1937, p. 54.

That's Mr. Hill's original wording. If you read my blog two past, you see how I reworded it. I added "In the name of Jesus" at the start, I replaced "I have the ability" with "You have given me everything I need (ability, attitude, and opportunity)". The rest is the same.

The notion has been growing in me for about four years that God doesn't make mistakes. Not even when he made me. Now, that's a pretty mind-blowing thought: that God did a good job when he made me! But the alternative is to call God a bungler. I think I'd rather give God the benefit of that doubt, and accept the distinct possibility that I might have been wrong in thinking myself worthless all these years.

It turns out God did mighty good work in making each of us, that he made each of us unique, and filled each of us with gifts and graces the world needs. Believe it or not, YOU ARE God's gift to the world!

Why accept this? Because if you don't, then you are undervaluing something God values pretty highly; and can you ever win when you disagree with God? If you don't, you're insulting God.

If you don't, the gifts God placed in you for the benefit of the world Jesus died for, the world will never receive! Because you think it's worthless, you don't offer it to people. And you cheat the world of something indescribably precious.

A low self-image is a mighty convenient excuse. If I'm a worthless, useless, sin-ridden jerk, then nobody can expect anything of me! But if I'm a Child of God, created by Him and filled by Him with things the world needs, I have a pretty hefty obligation! I owe the world the best I have!

And if God is the Master Artist I believe God to be, my best could be pretty impressisve.

So is yours!

Oh, and now that you've heard this, you're responsible for it. It will be on the Final!

Children Playing with Adult Toys

Kim Kardashian's getting a divorce. Married 72 days. And calling it quits.

At least she gave it a chance.

More and more a phrase careens through my brain, knocking holes in things, letting in some painful light. "Children playing with adult toys."

A couple of Sundays ago, I watched "West Side Story" again. Once in a while the story makes me angry. "Romeo and Juliet" does it to me too (Why not? Same story!).

Here's two street gangs, full of hormones and ego, serious stupidity, a bottomless pit of ignorance, almost un-self-aware. As the famous radio comedian Fred Allen characterized one of his less brilliant acquaintances, "He was born ignorant, and he's been losing ground ever since!"

They know what death is, but they don't know what death is. They have not yet grokked that "death" will sooner or later include people their age, people they know, and, eventually, them. So they swagger their way through life, totally self-absorbed, reacting to trivial things, over-reacting, until one day one boy from each gang ends up dead. And they are so amazed! Able to deal death, but not yet really aware of what "death" really is.

Children playing with adult toys. Unable to comprehend adult consequences, unwilling to shoulder adult responsibilities, brain-dead about anything adult, only totally insane over adult pleasures.

It turns out you can be 31, Kim, and still be a child.

It turns out you can have fully functionaly adult reproductive organs, and still be a child. You can have a child and be a child.

Sex. Drugs. Alcohol. Tobacco. Cars. Guns.

Life and death in decisions twelve-year-olds make.

Children playing with adult toys.

"Don't do the crime if you can't do the time," they say.

Don't dance if you aren't willing to pay the piper.

Don't play with adult toys until you're an adult, Kim.