Anxiety swirled like the impurities in a glass of pond water.

I was feeling uneasy...a bit cranky—and I didn't quite know why.

Call it a case of the Monday Morning Blues.   Or was it?

Pacing myself along the mile-and-a-half walk to work, I attempted to take some sort of emotional inventory and became the the subject of my own interrogation:

Why are you so uptight, Jon?

            Not sure.

Did you have a bad night's sleep?

            No.  Slept reasonably well, actually.

Are you gainfully employed?

            Gratefully, yes.

And would you describe the work you do as meaningful, or merely busy work?

            Definitely meaningful.  I love that about my job.

Nervous about paying some bills?

            Not really. None in particular.

Did you eat three meals yesterday?

            Yep.  Never had to worry about a single one of them, either.  Unlike some places I've traveled. 

And are you married to someone who loves you?

            Yep.  I'm blessed, in fact.

What about your health?  Perhaps there are issues there?

            Actually, none! 

And you have some spare change on your dresser, is that fair to say?

            Yes.

You realize, of course, that little fact alone puts you among the richest in the history of civilization, right?

            So I've heard.  Read it somewhere.

Isn't it true you've been forgiven of your sins?  All of them?

            Yes.  Absolutely true.

Isn't it also true when this little blip on the time line we call “life” is over, you'll spend eternity in heaven?

            Yes.  All eternity.  

Isn't it true that “He has said never will I leave you, never will I forsake you”?

            Yes. It's true.  Every word of it.

So let me get this straight.  You have a loving family, a good job, good health, money to pay the bills, you don't worry about food—ever—you're richer than most folks in the history of the planet...you've been forgiven all your sins, granted eternal life...but you're still upset?

            Umm....Not really.  Not anymore.

I didn't think so.

To me, they represent the most exotic, most luxurious travel experience in the history of flight.  The Boeing Clipper ships.  Built from 1934-1941, these were essentially flying boats with no capacity to land on the ground at all.  Hence the name, “Clipper ships.”

The largest of these planes, the Boeing 314, had room for 74 passengers—and could even provide sleeping accommodations for 36 of them.  And remember--this was before World War II.

A dining salon served meals on linen covered tables as passengers relaxed in comfortable chairs.  These planes featured washrooms, hot and cold water, air conditioning, and a lounge for playing cards or writing letters.  They also traveled with an anchor which was let out whenever they landed in a harbor to let passengers on or off.

Cruising at about 150 miles an hour, the Clipper Ships opened up the possibility of travel to Asia.  There were routes to Hawaii, Guam, Wake Island and the Philippines.   No big deal  today, but it was truly cutting edge back then.

Just as these marvelous machines showed their mastery of the skies, World War II broke out.  By the time the war was over, the era of the Clipper Ships was ended.  The advent of the jet engine made flying much faster.  Plus, passengers wanted to land on the ground, and not be confined to water.

So the Clippers were scrapped, sold or sunk.

Sad, in one way, but necessary in another.

The older we get, the more inclined we are to reminisce and wish for the good old days.  But I wonder if as Christians, we hang on too long to techniques, strategies and even ministries that were useful in the past, but are no longer truly effective.   Like an airplane carrying a boat anchor, some things just…no longer fit.

With respect to those who have navigated the skies long before us, maybe it’s time to lose the anchor.

P-s-s-s-t!  Come hear Jon Gauger speak this Sunday at West Suburban Community Church in Elmhurst.  Topic: When You're Out of the Comfort Zone.  Time: 10:00am.  Directions: westsub.net.

How likeable are you?

I'm serious.

If a group of honest folks were to assess your likeability on a scale of one to ten, with ten being the best...how would you score?

My guess is most of us think we are more likeable than we really are.  We minimize our crankiness, our quirkiness....while maximizing the good.

This is an important question if we care about how non-believers perceive those who claim to follow Christ.

Wanna know why I think most Christians are less likeable than they think they are?  Check out these stories.

One time attending a national convention for a major Christian organization I spoke with a member of the hotel management staff.  He told me that this crowd (Christians) had more complaints, did more whining than any other group that rented the facility.

Ouch!  Not exactly likeable!

My brother was once a waiter at an Italian restaurant.  I know him well enough to know that he is a truly hard worker and knows how to work well with people.  He told me that the absolute worst tippers at the restaurant were Christians.  Invariably the folks making the biggest show about saying grace showed almost none of that grace to their server.  My brother told me that it was a widely known fact in the industry that Christians were/are the worst tippers.

Ouch!  Definitely not the stuff that defines likeable.

And there are so many other ways that we Christians come across as unlikeable.

Example: angry Christians—angry about all kinds of things.  That's a lot of us!   So we write angry letters to the editor and shout angry things at protest marches.  And while there's a place for righteous indignation...we can never forget that “God did not send his son into the world to CONDEMN the world, but that the world through Him might be saved.”

How are we imaging Christ to the world?

Let me ask you one more time—as I ask myself—just how likeable are you?

Like you, I’m trying to cram in the last bits of summer.  Out at our camper, I sat outside with my tablet.  Dusk was past, yet I was largely unaware of the light show going on around me: fireflies. At length, I took a break from my reading to (finally) observe the lightning bugs.

Consider these gentle light bearers whose lifespan is only about two months.  They have no batteries—at least not as you and I consider batteries. These bugs just light up. The glow of their light bursts is brief, but somehow comforting.  And despite our advances in technology, scientists are unable to explain just how the blinking yellow-green lights are turned on and off.

God could have designed these bugs so that they fly only in the tree tops—largely outside our comfortable range of vision.  Instead, He chose to give us an amazing nightly light show right at eye level—with no two evening performances ever the same.

Only after a long time of observation did it hit me that this remarkable scene I was enjoying was supported by a stunning soundtrack: a blend of crickets and cicadas performing a hypnotic symphony.

No charge for this show.  The price of admission: time and a capacity to be satisfied with childhood wonder.

And that's the sick irony.   Most of us take only a sip of such splendor, while we drink deeply of lesser things: our smartphones, TV’s and tablets. We are more inclined to Facebook or FaceTime then face the miracle of a nightly light show.

Psalms 19:1 “The Heavens declare the glory of God. The skies”-- blinking with fireflies--”proclaim the Work of His hands.”

Seen any good light shows lately?

If you are charmed by the aroma of pine trees and find magic in the sway of long needle branches, the place for you is White Pines State Park. The timber lined drive is itself worth the trip.

But the real draw to this 385 acre Illinois park is the log cabin dining room.  Built by the Civilian Conservation Corps in the 1930s, its massive timbers, dark with age, offer a gracious backdrop for lunch.

Having placed our food orders, my wife and I sat back in our chairs and took in the ambience.  That's when my eyes came to rest on the two-some at the corner table.  The woman was well into her sixties, maybe early seventies.  Her companion, though an adult, was considerably younger.

As he spoke, he gestured oddly--almost wildly--his hands bent at a severe angle, his legs thrashing now and again.   It was as if a computer glitch had disconnected a proper sense of motion from the man's brain.   (Cerebral palsy will do that, my wife quietly observed).

When the couple’s lunch arrived, the woman cut up his portion into tiny bites, speaking kindly to him.  As this guy turned his head, I saw him chewing—violently--face contorted.  Frankly, it was downright unappetizing.

I began asking myself who was this man?  What was his story?  And more importantly, who was this woman extending such patience and care?  His mother?  His aunt?

He mashed up food, grinding with a ferocious intensity—then sneezed.  She wiped his mouth graciously, continuing to speak softly while touching his wrist lovingly. It was tempting to try and eavesdrop on their conversation, but there was far too much noise in the log cabin to make out anything of their exchange.

Nevertheless, as I watched this beautiful ugly scene (for it was both), I heard another voice—an ancient one: “Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy.”