Breathing

Travis Meadows has long been a beloved singer and songwriter in our family. If you’re not familiar with his music I would highly recommend it.

We were fortunate enough to get him to do a house concert a couple of years back.

He put on an incredible performance – but the most memorable part of the evening for me was talking with Travis in my parents’ kitchen later that night.

Travis has been through a lot of heartache. He’s open about mistakes he’s made and the consequences he’s experienced.

I don’t know if I’ve met a more humble or grateful person. He counts every single day as a grace.

"A good day for me is waking up breathing,” he told me. “There's a lot of people that didn't wake up today."

I don’t remember the last time I thanked God that I woke up breathing. I don’t remember the last time I thought about all of the people that didn’t wake up today.

I should, though. I should thank God for every breath I get to breathe.

I can’t keep my lungs pumping. I can’t keep my heart beating. I can’t number my own days.

I could give you a list of complaints and grievances. I could tell you all the ways that things are hard or unfair. I could offer up all of my problems.

But I woke up breathing today. I woke up with a heart that’s still beating.

So did you.

I don’t know what you’re going through.

You might be in a really sweet season. You might be going through the darkest time you’ve ever known.

But you woke up breathing.

It might be a hard day – but it’s a good day.

Keeping Score

I love bowling. I really do.

I think it’s mostly nostalgia. I learned to bowl from my grandmother and great-aunt (both of whom I loved – and both of which passed away in the last handful of years). I have a lot of sweet memories of bowling with them.

Then, when I was in high school, my brothers and I picked up bowling again. I’m the oldest. Michael is a little more two years younger and Matt is three years – almost to the day – younger than Michael. I don’t know why but bowling bonded us. It’s what we did together – just the three of us.

So, when my mama called me to say that she was taking Annie – my oldest niece and my little brother’s daughter – bowling and asked if I wanted to come, I dropped what I was doing to be there.

Moments before I arrived Annie smashed her finger between two bowling balls on the rack. She finished out the last two frames but had no desire to play another game. She asked if I would play the second game for her.

So, I did.

I bowled my own game – and I bowled hers.

I honestly don’t remember what I scored for Annie.

I do know that a handful of frames in I had bowled a hundred points in Annie’s name.

And she was delighted.

“Chrissy!” she shouted to my mama. “I have a hundred points!”

Let’s be honest. Annie didn’t have a hundred points. I had a hundred points.

But she got that I was bowling for her. She got the credit for the score I bowled. It wasn’t my score – it was hers.

Here’s the thing.

I’ve gotten credit for a game I didn’t bowl.

Jesus played the perfect game. He bowled 300 (the highest score you can get in bowling, in case you didn’t know).

And He did it on my behalf. He bowled, if you will, in my name.

I did nothing. I bowled only gutter balls. I didn’t knock down a single pin.

But Jesus credited His perfect game – His perfect life – to me.

He’ll do the same for you.

All you need to do is stop trying to bowl your own game and let Him give you His score.

Lessons from Aidan (Part Two)

I met Aidan Mackey in England a couple weeks back. He has long been considered the foremost scholar on G.K. Chesterton. I was in Oxford for a course on C.S. Lewis and Chesterton had an enormous impact on Lewis, so Aidan joined us for a number of meals.

Aidan stood up on our last evening together and asked if he could share just a couple of parting thoughts.

“People often think that because I speak with an English accent I know more about any given subject than they do. They are wrong.”

We all chuckled because, well, he was speaking to a group of Americans.

But, what Aidan said was true.

We are all so easily be taken by people that sound intelligent.

I assume that if they speak with a sophisticated accent or use big words or have a string of letters behind their name, they must know what they’re talking about.

I even do this with people who simply sound confident.

I assume that if they speak with such great conviction, they must have really given their position the thought and consideration it deserves. They obviously must know what they’re talking about.

But, is that really the litmus test for truth?  Of course not.

It can’t be.

Aidan is intelligent. But, all the more so because he knows that there is more to intelligence and more to truth – than just sounding intelligent. There is more to truth than just claiming something, wanting something, even willing something to be true.

The measure of truth is the Author of truth.

The wise – like Aidan – know that.

We shouldn’t assume that people who sound intelligent are. Or those who speak confidently are right. We shouldn’t assume that every truth claim is truthful.

Let’s, instead, be wise. Let’s submit, first and foremost, to the Author of truth and the Source of all wisdom. Let’s measure the truth, first and foremost, against Him.

Lessons from Aidan (Part One)

I had the distinct honor of meeting Aidan Mackey in England a few weeks ago when I was in England. I had never heard of him before, but I learned quickly that he is regarded as the foremost scholar on G.K. Chesterton.

Aidan did not claim such an honor for himself. He was adamant that he was neither a scholar nor an academic in the proper sense. But, he was, after all, president of the G.K. Chesterton Study Centre and if the British Library entrusts you with eight boxes of the renowned Chesterton’s personal belongings, you’re a scholar – proper or not.

Aidan served in the British Air Force during World War II. He said he was stationed in Africa because it was where they believed he would do the least damage. After the war he spent most of his career as a teacher and headmaster. He had seven daughters and speaks of them with warmth and pride and delightful British humor. He told us that when a young man asked his blessing for his daughter’s hand in marriage, Aidan said, “I would love to give my daughter to you in marriage, but I need to know that you can provide for a family. After all, there are nine of us.”

When we asked how he came to be the foremost scholar on G.K. Chesterton, he, again, denied it and gave the humblest answer I could have imagined.

“There have been many unfair things that have happened in my life.” he said, “Mostly to my benefit.”

Aidan takes no credit whatever.

He isn’t suffering from low self-esteem. He’s embracing self-forgetfulness.

When I think about the unfair things in my life, I focus on things that have not been to my benefit.  I’m happy to take personal credit for those things that were to my benefit.

But, the credit for success is not mine to take.

Every good thing I have has been given to me by God.

I can decide what I do with what I’ve been given, but I can’t take credit for the good things I’ve been given.

I could use a little more self-forgetfulness.

I could do to express gratitude for the graciously unfair things that God brought into my life.

I could learn and live the humility of Aidan.

Choosing Joy

I met Margie on a flight from Charlotte to St. Louis. She and Jackie, her best friend of sixty years, were on their way back from visiting Margie’s daughter.

I took the aisle seat and prepared to avoid two hours of small talk by pulling out my headphones. Margie said, “Now, are you going to cause any trouble on this flight? Because this row only has enough room for one trouble-maker and I’ve already got that role covered.”

“No,” I said. “The flight attendant asked me sit here, so I could keep you in line.”

I put my headphones away.

We talked for the rest of the flight.

She told me she wanted to get a BB gun she could scare off the squirrels that congregated outside her apartment window, but Jackie wouldn’t let her. “It’s just not safe, Marge,” Jackie piped in. “You’re a terrible shot and you’re liable to hit someone.”

Marge rolled her eyes and looked to me for support. I gladly complied. “You should definitely get a BB gun, Marge. Jackie, mind your own business.”

Margie told me about the time she and Ruthie mooned Jackie and Frannie when they were out golfing. Jackie, without looking up from her book, said, “Seventy-nine is too old to be mooning people, Marge. Nobody wants to see your wrinkly behind.”

Margie leaned over and told me not to listen to Jackie. “She reads those dirty romance novels. You can’t trust her.” This time, Jackie looked up. “I’m reading John Grisham! Marge, don’t tell people I’m reading dirty books!”

I laughed at the banter between these old friends. Jackie went back to her book and Marge and I went back to talking.

Marge hasn’t had an easy life. When her first husband lost his battle to cancer, she took a job in the hotel management industry that kept her on the road and away from home most of the time. She remarried in her mid-fifties and enjoyed two decades with her second husband before he lost his battle to Parkinson’s. Margie is eighty-seven now. She moved into assisted living a couple months ago. Her health is declining and the pain in her left hip has stripped her of the independence she loved.

But, she has no complaints and no regrets.

I asked her how she had cultivated such a joyful spirit despite all the heartache she had experienced.

“God has been so good to me,” she said. “Even in the darkest times, He gave me reason to be grateful. You can’t choose what God will ask you walk through, but you can choose how you walk through it. Oh, there's been heartache, to be sure. I've cried a lot of tears and I still deeply miss the people I've lost. It's just that I decided a long time ago I didn’t want to waste a single minute of my time dwelling on what might or should have been. Cranky old people start out as cranky young people. Don’t be a cranky young person, Casey.”

I won’t be.

Thank you Margie. I’m glad I took my headphones off.

Hurried

The gate attendant announced that we would be boarding shortly, so I put my book away and got in line. When they called my group, three grown men shoved past me to get on the plane first.

We were in the first boarding group. We had assigned seats. The overhead bin space was not going to be full. There was no reason to hurry.

But, hurry is what we do.

I’ve been noticing the symptoms of hurry a lot lately.

I was in Utah for vacation, driving on a windy, narrow mountain road with my siblings, when a truck came barreling up from behind. Our pace (the speed limit) was evidently too slow for him, so he swerved into the opposite lane to get around us. Mercifully, no one was coming, because he certainly wouldn’t have been able to see around the bend if anyone was.  As it turns out, he was going the same place we were. He “beat” us there by seconds.

I was trying on a shirt at a small boutique later that week. Through the dressing room curtain, I heard a customer tell the saleswoman that she was ready to try on her clothes. The saleswoman told her that there was only one dressing room (mine, for the moment) and, as soon as I finished, she would be able to use it. She kindly offered to hold the woman’s clothing if she wanted to continue browsing while she waited.

“But, I’m ready to try my clothes on now,” said the clearly impatient shopper. “So, what do you suggest I do?”

I confess that a part of me wanted to take my sweet time in that dressing room.

Hurry is just what we do. It’s a habit.

Often, we don’t even realize we’re doing it, much less know why we’re doing it.

“Hurry,” writes John Ortberg, “is not just a disordered schedule. Hurry is a disordered heart.”

I don’t know what’s disordered in your heart. I know – at least in my more honest moments – what’s disordered in mine.

I prioritize productivity over people and movement over memories. I think more about what’s ahead of me than what’s right in front of me.

Life is short. Too often, it’s way too short.

Let’s slow down. Let’s learn to wait. Let’s find out what we have been missing. Let’s take a deep breath. Let’s stop and, quite literally, smell the roses.

Let’s get our hearts back on track.

Chapter One

Three weeks ago, I sat across from two of my oldest and dearest friends at my parents’ kitchen island. We hugged and laughed and caught up after months apart.

Dick told me that he missed my writing. He said that he hoped I would pick it back up again. I promised I would when life slowed down. I promised I would when I had more time.

Dick went home to be with the Lord last Friday.

I’m writing again.

Because life isn’t slowing down.

Because I’ll never have more time.

Because my friend encouraged me to write.

I’m writing again, but, today, words feel so inadequate. This morning, we gathered to celebrate this sweet man. His family and friends shared their memories and we sang “Happy Trails” in his honor.

I have so many memories of my own.

Dick donned a toga and waved a palm leaf in honor of the “king” at my father’s 60th birthday.

He asked me to be his partner the last time we were at a Barn Dance together – and he didn’t mind at all that I wasn’t very good.

He made me the first Manhattan I ever tried.

He gave the best hugs.

He could always make me laugh.

And he taught me so much.

He taught me the proper way to chop wood.

He taught me to savor friendship.

He taught me that when you love someone, you tell them - a lesson I wish I had learned so much earlier.

He was more family than friend.

I loved him so much.

I'm rambling, I know. But, I am trying to find words worthy of this man and I'm coming up short.

C.S. Lewis closed The Chronicles of Narnia with the most beautiful – and, perhaps, the most comforting – words for a Christian faced with the loss of a brother. Dick was well-acquainted with my love for C.S. Lewis, so I don't doubt that he would patiently indulge me.

“And for us, this is the end of all the stories, and we can most truly say that they lived happily ever after. But for them it was only the beginning of the real story. All their life in this world and all their adventures in Narnia had only been the cover and the title page: now at last they were beginning Chapter One of the Great Story which no one on earth has read; which goes on forever; in which every chapter is better than the one before.”

I hold to the promise that, one day, we’ll step into that greatest of adventures alongside you. But, until then, my dear friend, we will miss you. And we will love you always.

The Middle of Stories

When Steve Jobs passed away a few years ago, his sister, Mona Simpson, gave his eulogy. I remember reading it in the New York Times the next day and something she said leapt off the page at me. "We all — in the end — die in medias res. In the middle of a story. Of many stories."

She's right.

But life, as well as death, happens in the middle of many stories.

People have moved in and out of mine. Some stepped out of my story far too soon and others overstayed their welcome. Some have been a source of great joy and others have left pain and hurt in their wake. Some have changed me in ways I can hardly explain and others I can barely remember. But all have left their mark.

We live and die, work and play, laugh and grow, in the middle of stories, of many stories.

We shape each other's plots.

We impact each other's stories.

We change each other's lives.

What an incredible responsibility it is to know that, for better or worse, we leave a mark.

What mark will you leave?