Horses clip-clopping along the streets, black wagons in tow.   Women in bonnets and men in suspenders.    You don't need a time machine to see all this.  Just drive three hours east of Chicago to Shipshewana.

During vacation season, this northern Indiana town of less than a thousand swells with tourists hungry for a taste of the simple life—along with a heapin' helping of Amish cooking.  The Amish and Mennonite people have set the gold standard when it comes to country roast beef.  Their noodles, fresh breads, apple butter and fruit pies are also stand outs.  Not to be missed: the Rise and Roll Bakery, featuring what may well be the world's largest cinnamon sticky buns.

The strong Amish and Mennonite presence is evident everywhere--from bearded men sporting wide brimmed hats, to women riding bicycles laden with blueberries. But what struck my wife and me more than anything was the visible presence of God-fearing people unashamed to live for Him.

• Bible verses adorn mail boxes and driveways.
• Billboards announce the imminent return of Christ.
• Christian books, verses, and videos are for sale in hardware, clothing and furniture stores.
• Several theaters in town host a slate of concerts with well-known Christian artists.

As we sat there eating a tasty Mennonite dinner, peering out at horse-drawn buggies in the street, my wife Diana asked an insightful question: “How long can a place like this last?” I pondered her words as “Are you washed in the Blood?” played over the restaurant's speaker system.

With the rise of the angry atheist and freedom-of-speech squelching political correctness, one wonders if Shipshewana (as we know it today) is living on borrowed time.  In a nation where the fastest growing religious group is those with no beliefs of any kind, it would seem Shipshewana may be terminal.

Horses and buggies, of course, will always be welcome for the novelty they offer.   But all that Bible and Jesus talk--that might have to be nixed.

2 Timothy 3:1 “This know also, that in the last days, perilous times shall come.”

Better enjoy Shipshewana--while you still can.

Captain Edwin Musick was a man’s man, a true adventurer. He learned to fly just before World War I and became one of the first pilots in history to log more than 10,000 hours.

Known as “Meticulous Musick,” he demanded precision of himself and his crew—from the way they maintained the aircraft to the creases in their uniforms.

He was hired by Pam American as their chief pilot and went on to set ten world records, including the first flight to the Pacific aboard the China Clipper flying boat. In recognition of this stunning achievement—and many other aviation firsts—Time Magazine put his face on the cover of their December 2, 1935 edition.

The Time article said of Musick, “He refuses to show off or make wisecracks for newsmen. He has never been known to stunt in a plane, never makes a flight without the most meticulous preparations.”

On January 11, 1938, Captain Musick took off from Pago Pago (in American Samoa) pioneering a new route for PamAm to New Zealand. Shortly after takeoff in his S42 flying boat, he reported an oil leak in engine number 4, radioing his decision to dump fuel and return to Pago Pago.

But the dangers of dumping fuel in the S-42 were well known. The draining fuel tended to flow back over the wing, toward the dangerously hot engines.

Shortly after reporting their intention to dump fuel, the S-42 exploded.  The bodies of Captain Musick and his six crew members were never recovered.  Tiny pieces of the plane were all that remained.

When someone as careful and as experienced as Captain Musick makes a fatal error in judgment, it makes me pause.  It should make ALL of us pause and ask, “What kind of foolish error am I making in life?  In my faith?  What danger have I allowed into my spiritual journey?”

Pondering foolish choices—Captain Musick’s and mine—I’m drawn to Ephesians 5:15: “Be very careful, then, how you live--not as unwise but as wise.”

Deep inside, I covet having a perfect lawn.  No bald spots...no weeds. Just lush greenness.  But I just don't work hard enough on the weeds. My wife does most of the weeding at our place.

Recently, I observed an outbreak of weeds in our hostas.  Unable to resist a pun,  I called it a “hosta” situation.  In a rare moment, I took the bold step of a weed intervention.

Level one found me yanking two foot thistles out of the ground.   Thanks to the rain, most all those weeds were easily extracted--roots and all.

Level two meant going on hands and knees in the hostas, snatching handfuls of Creeping Charlie.  The tough vines had entwined themselves around a thousand helpless victims.  Here again, I was grateful for the wet ground, as I was able to yank them out by the roots. I felt like a modern day Moses, freeing my people from slavery to the Weed Pharaoh. 

By the time I was done, much of our driveway was totally covered in weeds.   (Who says it's not easy being green?)    Rinsing the dirt from my hands, I was unable to rinse a thought from my mind:

You and I bemoan how easily weeds grow up.  Whether literal weeds, or the weeds of bad habits, they require little to take root. Yet as I pondered the rainy season that made yanking those weeds out by their roots so much easier, it made me wonder.  Is it possible that God blesses us with seasons in our lives when it's actually easier to root out bad habits, what David called “willful sins” in Psalm 19:13?   Is it possible that there are certain seasons He intends for us to do extra violence to our stubborn habits, our inward wickedness?

I am not a theologian and cannot quote chapter and verse here.  Nor would I—as my friend Michael Easley cautions--“push this too far.”

I can only say that in a soul like mine—and perhaps like yours—it might well be time for a weed intervention.

How do you celebrate a two-year-olds’ birthday?

For our family—with a grandson who loves trains—that meant a meal at Two Toots Restaurant.   The big draw at this unusual eatery is a model train that runs throughout the place. On the tracks, a locomotive pulls eight flatbed cars, each fitted with a basket that actually hauls your meal right to your booth.

So there’s Caleb watching this train hauling burgers and fries. Every single time that train went around the track, he got excited.  Every single time they sounded the horn, he bounced in his seat. Every single time the train disappeared from view, he waved and said, “Bye Bye…Bye bye.”

It was fun watching Caleb have fun.  But gradually, the rest of us “more sophisticated” adults moved on to other interests and conversation.  Once the food arrived, we were more into munching our burgers and dipping our onion rings than whatever was going on with the train.

Not Caleb.  He remained fascinated the whole evening long.

Caleb’s intrigue set my mind traveling down a different track. Much like the red baskets delivering meals to our table, we are daily—even hourly—delivered huge carloads of gifts from our generous God: forgiveness, provision…grace.

The train loads of His gifts come with such frequency, piled high with such generosity…we are at risk of appearing bored with His blessings.

Is it possible you and I are guilty of this sin: bored with our blessings?  We often don’t even think of them.  But there’s a cure.  It’s called thankfulness.

Let’s say thanks….every single time.  Every single blessing.  Every single gift.

Just like Caleb greeted that train with a smile and wave….let’s choose to greet the daily, hourly, minute-by-minute kindness of our God… with a thank you.

Bored with our blessings?

I hope not.

Our heavenly Father loves to give us good gifts—by the train load.

Let’s thank Him for every gift.  Every time.

Listen carefully.  I think there’s another train coming around the bend!

Heroes rarely get the press they deserve.  At least not in this life.

Take Samuel Whittemore, for example.

I'd never even heard of the man until I learned that he was one of the men most admired by a friend that I admire.

Samuel Whittemore was born in Charlestown, Massachusetts in 1696.  A farmer by trade, he was a patriot at heart. At the age of 78, Whittemore became the oldest known combatant in the War of Independence.   Here's how it happened.

British forces were returning to Boston, having just fought the battles of Lexington and Concord.  As you may recall from history class, those were the opening skirmishes of the war.

Whittemore was doing what farmers do—working in his fields—when he spied an approaching British brigade.   Imagine the ice water that chilled his veins.

Whittemore quickly took up a position behind a stone wall.  As the British approached, he unloaded his musket, killing one soldier.  But there was no time to reload the rifle, so he picked up his dueling pistols, took careful aim, and shot another, then mortally wounded a third.

But by now, Whittemore, who was fighting entirely alone, was completely surrounded by a British detachment.  He reached for his sword, only to be shot in the face.  Next, he was bayoneted numerous times.   Left for dead in a pool of blood, he was later discovered by colonial forces—alive—still trying to load his musket to fight again.

Whittemore was taken to a Doctor Cotton Tufts of Medford, who saw absolutely no hope for survival.   But Samuel Whittemore refused to die.  History records he not only recovered, but lived another full 18 years, dying of natural causes at the age of 96.

Samuel Whittemore embodied the spirit of Ecclesiastes 9:10: “Whatever your hand finds to do, do it with all your might.”  And with that, I raise a salute to my newest old hero--Samuel Whittemore.