Chip Shots

Nowadays, couples often go public with both the gender and the name of their as yet unborn child. Not us. Why take all the adventure out if it? “It’s a boy,” the doctor says, and they say, “Yeah, we know. You told us six months ago. We’ve already picked out his name and furnished his bedroom and bought his toys and signed him up for Pop Warner.” My goodness! Where’s the fun in that? We specifically told our doctor: do not tell us if it’s a boy or a girl. Consequently, we had to search for both kinds of names. Kyle and Kurt were easy choices for boy’s names. And if we had a girl? I’d heard a name as a teenager and always kind of liked it: “Kyan” (pronounced like Diane). But it was such an unusual name. Dare we risk giving our child a name she might not like? And what would other people think? Right up to the end, we were undecided. But moments after our daughter was born, Donna looked at me and said, “Kyan?” “Kyan,” I said through the mist in my eyes. That was twenty-two years ago, and ...

While our home is being built in Cave Creek, we’re living in a small apartment. It’s … ahem … cozy. For example, our son who is home from college sleeps in the closet of his brother’s room. Like I said, it’s cozy. This winter our TV went on the fritz. To make a long story short, we were left with — horrors — antenna TV. Do you remember those days? Only a few stations, fiddling with the antenna, no ESPN! (I know, it’s rather shocking!) As a result, we've been spending a lot of evenings viewing movies at home. Recently we watched The Notebook . Have you seen it? It tells the story of an older couple who now live in a nursing home. She’s there because she has senile dementia. He’s there because, well, that’s were she is. When their children try to persuade him to leave he says to them, “As long as she’s here, I’m not leaving. Wherever she is, that’s my home.” Each morning he leaves his neighboring room to spend the day with her. She doesn’t recognize him, thinking instead that he is a...

At first I was pleased. Then I was offended. Now I'm fmish’d (is that a word?) I was pleased ... because a friend from long ago contacted me out of the blue. I hadn't heard from him in many years and was delighted to learn something of what was happening in his life. Then I was offended ... for suddenly the tone of his letter changed. It started with the words, "I am writing you to let you know about a fantastic business opportunity. Have you ever heard about...?" What? Give me a break! How naive does he think I am? Does he really think I don't see through his blatant recruiting effort? Send me a greeting card, or send me a recruitment letter, but don't try use the one to validate the other! In so doing, you demean both our relationship and your "fantastic business opportunity." Now I'm fmish’d ... which is a word my friend uses when he sees me stewing over something. As in this: how many times have I used the same techniques to interest people i...

“Steve, they called your name! Go down to the field!” “What?” I said to Donna as I looked for my seat. “When we came in I signed you up for a contest. I guess they picked your name!” Incredulous, I made my way to the dugout. Seven other fans were there along with the ballplayers. “What’s going on, I asked?” trying not to appear completely ignorant. “In between innings you will try to throw a strike. One of you will win two tickets to the World Series,” said the contest spokesman. “Are they serious?” I thought. “The real World Series? Free tickets just for throwing a strike? They must be kidding!” Several thousand people in the stands. No warm-up. Jumping stomach. First in line. “Relax and throw,” I thought. I did, and … completely missed the target! The crowd let out a collective moan. Fortunately, no one else was any better. The second time around, the ball barely squeaked in for a strike. I waited. It was the only strike any of us threw. They took me to the head office and, sure enou...

Yes, I'm one of those guys in tight shorts on a bike. You know, the kind that irritates you on the road? That’s me. One day, for example, I was pedaling toward Bartlett Lake when something crashed against the back of my helmet. I nearly fell off my bike! Catching myself, I saw a chunk of ice bouncing on the road. I guess the driver thought it would be fun to see if he could hit me. If he knew how close he came to causing an accident, he'd probably think twice before doing it again. Or not. I don’t know why cyclists irritate motorists. I suppose it’s because we get in your way. Trust me, if you’ve ever had to change a tire while cycling you’d know why we tend to gravitate away from the rocky edges. Or maybe you’re just jealous of our good looks. In any case, I've been honked at, sworn at, and, now, thrown at. At least I haven't been spat at. Yet. I began cycling a few years ago at the invitation of a friend from our church. Dragging myself out of bed for our first ride, ...

Mary was frantic. “Where’s my boy? Have you seen him?” No one had. Two days later found him in, of all places, a house of worship. Can you imagine her relief and frustration? “Why have you treated us like this?” she asked. Like any other twelve year old boy, he didn’t understand why she was so worried. “Didn’t you know I would be in my father’s house?” he replied. These are the first recorded words of the world’s most famous man. “My father’s house,” Mary thought. “I wonder what he meant by that….” Years later, he still used the word “Father.” Now, however, his meaning was clear: the Father in question was God Himself. Today we’re accustomed to thinking about God as our Father. But at that time it was a revolutionary idea: never before had anyone referred to God that way. To do so would have been considered blasphemous. The crowds found his apparent familiarity with the Almighty both attractive and offensive. Some sought to stone him for it. But others were drawn to the man for whom G...

Sometimes it pays to be young and foolish. As a young man I thought I knew something about love. I met a girl in high school and, at the ripe old age of twenty, we thought we were ready for marriage. It was 113 degrees on our wedding day. The guys wore brown velvet tuxedos and bow ties; the girls peach dresses. Miraculously, no one passed out. The groomsmen decided to play a joke on me. They wrote "HELP" on the soles of my shoes so that when we kneeled for communion everyone would see. Fortunately, I sniffed the scam and spent my last few moments of single life feverishly scrubbing my shoes clean. Seems like I've been cleaning crap from my soles ever since. Why, just the other day I had to say, "I'm sorry; that's not really the man I want to be." But that's another story for another time. Maybe I should have left the words "Help" on the soles of my shoes. God knows I need it. As a pastor it is my privilege to help many couples get married...