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Amazing Grace  

It was cancer, they said.

Didn't have long to live, they said.

So we began praying for George (not his real name) from my wife's side of the family.   George, age 59, had lived his entire life apart from God.  Some drinks.  Some divorces.  He was irreligious, irreverent and fully cognizant he was in his last weeks of life.

A family member suggested my wife send him a Christmas card.  So she found one that presented the essence of the salvation message, and included our little family newsletter, which also pointed to Christ.

At night—every night—Diana and I prayed urgently for George, that he would have his eyes opened, spiritually, and that he would receive Christ in his last days. It would be a lie to say that I had great faith.  Some faith, sure, but not the kind of faith I should have.

When the call came that George had died, along with it came details for the funeral. A two hour drive into rural Illinois brought us to the funeral home, where a minister made the claim that George was in heaven (“Liberal pastor for sure!” I grumbled to myself, oddly comfortable with my cynicism).

Yet the pastor went on to relate how he had visited George in his home, clearly explained the gospel message, and that both George AND his wife boldly stated their desire to receive Christ.  They prayed together!

Here was a man dangled close enough over Hell, his feet could have smelled of brimstone.  And yet....and yet....God snatched him away. His mercy and goodness and kindness and gentle call pursued this man to the literal midnight hour.

I am dumbfounded.

Forgive my lack of faith, Lord.

Me--who claims to believe--forgive my unbelief.

 

Amazing grace.

How sweet the sound

That saved a wretch like George...

                                                    ...And me.

 
As a Wild Dog  

If dogs make you nervous, make no plans to visit the country of Romania.  For whatever reason, the nation is loaded with dogs—stray dogs.  When you go for a walk, or get out of a car, or head to the store, you cannot escape them—scruffy, matted, but usually harmless.

In the capital city of Bucharest alone, there are an estimated 65,000 wild dogs—enough to fill Ford Field in Detroit or the Alamo dome in San Antonio (imagine the sound of their collective barking).

In Romania, 9,760 people were reportedly bitten by the stray dogs last year.  Nationally, experts believe there are some 500,000 stray dogs in Romania.  One stray dog for every 40 people.

If the same dog-to-human ratio were replicated in the U.S., we would have nearly nine million stray dogs trotting around the country.  A population larger than Chicago, Boston, Denver, San Francisco, and Nashville—combined.

The question, of course, is why so many stray dogs?  Our friend, Laura, from Ploesti, told us the most likely explanation is that when Dictator Nicolai Ceausescu bulldozed tens of thousands of homes with nice grassy yards and forced the people to live in tiny apartment buildings, they no longer had room for their dogs.  Rather than destroy these pets, the animals were simply abandoned. Those dogs, of course, multiplied and now we have Rovers roaming Romania in huge numbers.

Dogs are not without mention in Scripture.  They are at times shown as voracious consumers--Ahab's wife, Jezebel, was literally eaten by dogs.   At other times, as in the story of poor Lazarus, they offer comfort—licking our wounds.

In Matthew 7:6 Jesus said, “Do not give what is holy to dogs.”  So while we cannot solve the problem of dogs in Romania, the greater concern for Christ followers is that we develop a spiritual sensitivity that prevents us from offering holy things to people who are as spiritually senseless… as a wild dog.

 
Celebrate the New!  

Call me obsessive compulsive, but I like to celebrate the new.

I remember the distinct smell of new pencils in first grade.  Or the smell of new erasers (“Pink Pearl” was the brand to buy).

Over the years, I've always loved the sheen on a new book cover—and have gone to great lengths to preserve my books.  I want the covers to look new.  Forever.

A particular peeve of my mine is when I loan someone a magazine or book and they bend back the cover on itself.   Or bend page corners as a book mark.

We once bought a new storm door that was installed with its protective plastic shrink wrap.    It looked so nice and the plastic actually seemed to be keeping the door clean, so we (I) decided to leave it on.  A month passed.  A year.  Then another.

When the plastic had grown gray collecting dust and dirt, I was asked (by a very patient wife) to please remove it.  But season after season of heat and humidity had made a glue (or more accurately, goo) out of the thing.   It took hours of scraping with a heat gun to finally clean it all off.

I look at a new life—our granddaughter, Lucy's, for example—and I ponder the fact that apart from typical one-year-old tantrums, her soul is essentially “clean and shiny.”  New, if you will.

But then there are the rest of us.  With some miles on us.  Some dirt on us.  Some I'm-not-new-anymore all over us.  We're covered in gray guilt we cannot scrape off.  Inside, we long for a clean slate. A new slate, even.

Did you know it's yours for the asking?

The Bible says, “If anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation.  The old has passed away.  Behold, the new has come” (2 Corinthians 5:17).

Here we are at the start of a new year.  Why not get that new life Jesus offers for yourself?  If you've got questions, talk to a friend now at 888-NEED-HIM.  And if you've already received Christ, let's celebrate that through His forgiveness we are made new.  Every day.

 
Laughter on the Shelf  

Have you ever given a toy that made you laugh?

One week before Christmas, Diana and I launched out into our day-long shopping extravaganza.  We’ve got a lot of “little people” on our list to buy for, so we headed straight for the toy section, where we were captured by the sound of two babies giggling.

My sweet Love—Baby Kisses sat on the shelf blowing kisses and giggling, apparently activated by light or motion.  My sweet Love—Giggling Baby offered her own lovely laughter.

Unable to resist, we plopped one of each into the cart, rolling off in pursuit of the rest of the gifts on our list. But every time we placed something else in the cart, we heard laughter.

In one aisle, we passed a young mom with two kids.  They all heard the giggling—and it brought them a smile.  Rolling down the check-out belt, the dolls giggled—as did our cashier.

By now I referred to the toys as “girls” and actually spoke to them (they giggled back to us as we rolled the cart across the parking lot). Laughed the entire ride home with every bump or turn.

Back home, I was sad to have to finally cover them in wrapping paper. But even after wrapping the girls—I mean dolls—they giggled.  You could actually see the colored paper bulging out the sides as the one attempted to blow kisses.

You know, I’m sure there were times when baby Jesus giggled…which made Mary giggle…which made Joseph giggle. And I wonder—I wonder—if God the Father giggled.  I have no verse or chapter to quote on any of this, mind you. 

Yet I do know this much: The angel declared, “good tidings of great joy which shall be for all people.”   Seems to me joy—and laughter—are never too far apart.

We live in dark times, to be sure.

We do not lack for objects of angst.

But should any of that—or the sum total of that—drown out the joy?  I say, no!

In fact, I think I hear…laughter!

 
Shocking Kindness  

More than half.

That's how much of my monthly paycheck our mortgage cost when Diana and I were first married.  The little two-bedroom ranch was all we could afford and there simply wasn't much left over for things like winter coats.  

As I recall, the early winter was unusually harsh, even by Chicago standards, and I needed a new coat.  What I was wearing was embarrassing to look at it, and insufficient for the three miles a day I walked in the Windy City.   Second hand stores weren't as available then, so we trudged through the mall.

I can still see its crisp outline on the rack —woolen gray and with a black collar.  The coat fit me beautifully.  The price did not.  So we put $10 down in layaway, hoping for a miracle—or at least some extra cash.

The cash never came and Christmas was looming.  I'd scraped a few dollars together for some gifts, but needed more money to buy Diana her present.   The only charge card I owned at the time was for Sears (not accepted at the coat store).

There was only one thing left to do.  Giving up on the coat was tough.  But the $10 redeemed back from layaway came in handy (remember, this was 30 years ago).

Christmas came and Diana and I had a special time, just being together.  After we exchanged gifts, Diana quietly announced there was one more.  I was told to open the living room closet.

You've guessed the story's ending.  But I promise you, you could never guess how profound a moment that was—and is—thirty years later.  Shocking kindness. Extravagant selflessness.

Three decades later, that gray coat is now worn and old.

But as it will always a have place in my heart, it will always have a place in our home.

I'll show it to you, next time you visit.

And Diana, for your many many lavish gifts of love—at Christmas and throughout the years—I say thank you and thank you again.  I love you!

 
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Jon GaugerJon Gauger

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