Jesus Saved a Life: We Were There

I was a young pastor in a university town, newly baptized into the fierce faith of campus ministry. Soon after, a group of Christian students—bold, bright-eyed, unashamed—welcomed me into their company. They carried the gospel like wildfire, unafraid to bring the name of Jesus into the thick of frat house bravado.

 

“Will you join us,” they asked, “as we go into the fraternity houses to speak the name of Jesus?”

I said yes. Braver in word than in spirit, I nodded—though inside, I trembled.

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Three Old Friends Living Under the Blessing

Three Old Friends, Weathered by Time

Three old friends. Once college roommates. Now, silver-haired sages with weathered faces and tender hearts. We gathered with spouses on a Zoom call, decades of life behind us, some days heavy with loss.  Yet even in the ache of aging and memory, there was a quiet sense that we are still living under the blessing. What do old friends talk about?

 

We reminisce about life “back in the day” Read More

How I Fight My Battles: 

It was the late ’80s. A guest was coming to Chapel—an international musician, a name known across the Christian world, and more importantly, my daughter Keri’s favorite: Michael W. Smith. She skipped school that day, rode with me to the airport, and sat behind us with quiet anticipation. Only later did I discover she had tucked a tape recorder under the seat, capturing every word, as if to hold onto a memory of a fleeting morning. She knew something special was unfolding. Years later, one of his songs—simple, pulsing like a heartbeat—brought me back. “This is how I fight my battles.” A repeated phrase, a cry, a creed. Not through sword or shield, but through praise. Through presence. Through faith. It summoned in me the vision of Isaiah 61—an epic chapter of beauty and protest, lament and renewal.

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Tables, altars, and presence

Jesus was a carpenter, but as an artisan, not simply a builder.  My “office” table was built by the Boos company and was intended to be a cutting board in a kitchen.  It sits in the corner of what I sentimentally call my “cabin,” a room with knotty pine walls and ceilings, a space of intimacy, warmth, and windows. Twelve windows in all that let me see the sun coming from the east in the morning and the shadows as they move to the west in the evening. It’s sturdy, as cutting boards should be. It’s the perfect height to give me a view of the horizon—with its sunlight, trees, clouds, and the morning marine layer of fog. After all, I live on an island in the Pacific Northwest.

 

This table has become, for me, my altar in the world; it is more than just furniture.

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I can sing anytime

Outside Chris’s bakery, Oak Harbor, WA, he carried a box of a dozen of the most colorful doughnuts in the bakery. He was parked next to us. I heard him singing as he prepared to climb into his truck. I said with a smile, “You haven’t had a doughnut yet; how can you be singing?”  He smiled back and replied with joy on his face and delight within, “I have Jesus. I can sing anytime.”

 

Wendy and I both felt his joyful conviction. I started my morning by taking our dog, Mackenzie, out to the backyard. My daily morning prayer is a greeting of adoration, an old Jewish prayer: “Blessed are you, Lord God, King of the universe.” And “This is the day the Lord has made, let us rejoice and be glad in it.” Just moments later, we experienced this man’s testimony of praise.  Yes, he testified, first in song and then in naming Jesus as the reason for his joy.

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