Chip Shots

Tony had polio. I presume he was one of the thousands of children who contracted the disease during the epidemic in the mid-twentieth century. Like most self-conscious adults, however, I never asked him about it. His right leg was stiff. He walked with a cane. Once I got to know him, I hardly noticed it. His quick humor and keen insight quickly captured my affection. As best I recall, he only spoke about his condition once. We were camping together on the Mogollon Rim. Have you ever noticed that stepping out of the world of asphalt and concrete, and into the world of trees and cool breezes opens your heart and clears your mind? It refreshes the spirit like a dive in a pool on a sweaty hot day. Anyway, Tony and I were having one of those philosophical discussions that typically emerge in such settings. He was an avid reader and excellent teacher; I always enjoyed our conversations. I related to him a discussion I had with another friend of mine, who a hard time accepting the existence o...

I have always loved Thanksgiving. I don’t know if it is the mild climate, the scrumptious turkey, the fall football, or the family gatherings – I’ll take them all! Growing up in Lake Havasu City, we’d squeeze the whole family, Mom and Dad, three boys and our little sister, into the ’69 Rambler wagon. Our goal was to reach Phoenix and my uncle’s Moon Valley home by noon. Upon entering Wickenburg we knew we were only an hour away. Somewhere near the tiny berg of Surprise, we’d make a left on Bell Road and head toward Phoenix. Other than the section that ran through Sun City, most of it was dirt back then. After arriving, we’d eat dinner somewhere during the end of the Lions game and the beginning of the Cowboys game. I hate to admit it now, but there were few options in Arizona back then: I was a Cowboys fan. Of course, God was a fan, too. The open domed stadium gave him a ring-side seat to cheer on his favorite coach and quarterback, the equally devout Tom Landry and Roger Staubach. Aft...

The picture commanded a torrent of memories. How old was she? Twenty-five, he guessed. He remembered those blue jeans like yesterday. High on the waist, loose at the hips, straight down the leg, folded at the ankle. Her waist-length golden brown hair rested casually over her shoulders, nesting on her tan knit vest and short-sleeved shirt. It must have been late summer, early fall. Hoisted upon her waist, in her favorite purple overalls, was their two-year-old daughter. They waved to the camera in the phony style of a princess on the back of a convertible. They both sported an impish grin. He had forgotten how bald his daughter had been. Still, no one ever mistook her for a boy; her beautiful eyes gave her away even as an infant. She stood in the kitchen of the country farmhouse where they lived while he was in graduate school. Linoleum flooring, Formica countertops, painted cabinets -- he loved that home. He smiled as he thought of its crooked floors. What a time he had jimmying ...

In the movie "Shawshank Redemption," Red speaks about Brooks, his beloved inmate friend. After a lifetime in prison, he was released -- only to take his own life. He couldn’t live on the outside. “Brooks is just institutionalized," Red mused. This is the sad state of many Christ followers. We have been “institutionalized.” Set free from the sentence of death, we have never learned how to live. Our lives lack joy, passion and peace. Sins continue to imprison us. We circle our wagons and decry the sad state of affairs on the outside. Like the sincere but misguided saints in "Babette's Feast" we are content to wait out their days until Jesus returns. We are institutionalized, and we like it that way. Another of my favorite movies is "The Dead Poet’s Society." John Keating is the new teacher a stuffy private school. In his first class meeting he asks his students to read aloud the introduction of their poetry textbook. After they have done so, he dema...