Rural Community

The ranch house where my wife grew up sits back off of a gravel road in rural central Texas. You can see for miles from the back porch, and if you really try, you might be able to spot three other residences across the landscape. The next closest house is on the other side of a large cultivated field. It's a place where, if you don't want to be bothered by people, you pretty much don't have to be. For the past 20 years, it's been that kind of place for me, a place to get away from the crowds and busyness of city life. "Getting away" had to have been in my father-in-law's mind when he moved here from Dallas and built the house back in the '70s.

You would think that people who choose to live in this area put a high value on privacy, and in a way I suppose you'd be right. Dogs are the security system of choice at every house. You don't just drive up and get out of the car if the dogs don't know you. If you're not from around here, you get the impression that everyone keeps to himself. That was the impression I had of Johnny, my father-in-law, when I first met him: king of his country castle, and didn't care to be bothered. But once you get to know people here, you realize that they don't keep to themselves at all. In fact, with only a few families spread over the area, they all know each other quite well and, if I may be blunt, know each other's business quite well, for better or worse. One of the ironies about the sparse population is that there is no disappearing into the crowd.

For most of the two decades I knew Johnny, he had a regular morning ritual. He got up early, dressed like he was going to work (which he wasn't--he was semi-retired by the time I met him), got in his pickup or sport utility and left the house for two or three hours. He was always going "to the store in Leroy" or "to West for a haircut," or "had something to pick up in Bellmead," some sort of excuse to leave the house. And whatever his eventual destination was that morning, his route was generally the same. He weaved around the network of gravel roads near his place, checking in with the other farmers and ranchers who lived there, trading favors--and stories--with them, and slowly developing some meaningful relationships.

When Johnny died, several farmers and ranchers who lived nearby came to the funeral. I think everyone in the family was surprised by the large turnout. Some people I had met, others I had never seen before, but all of them knew Johnny and considered him a friend. I was struck by the sincere sense of personal and community loss they felt at his passing. They told stories of times Johnny had helped them, or expressed how they were going to miss having him around. They brought enough food to the house to feed a small army (and nothing out of a paper sack--stuff like brisket and ham and homemade desserts). This community of "loners" was not at all what it appeared. Even if some of the crustier old ranchers would never admit it, theirs was a close community of interdependence.

We remarked during this experience how often people in the more crowded confines of big cities endure hardship or loss while those around around them barely notice or may even be completely unaware of their loss. Population density seems to dehumanize and devalue us in each other's eyes, and desensitize us to each other's needs. We're closer together, but much more distant. We're "respecting each other's privacy" to everyone's detriment, content to be merely curious or suspicious of each other in lieu of knowing and caring for one another.

I'm happy to say that our own neighborhood experience is bucking the trend of urban and suburban life. People are peeking over the privacy fences and talking on the sidewalk, sharing burgers off the grill and carpooling the kids to school. The love and support our neighbors have shown us in our grief has been a major comfort to us. And we're aware that several families on our block are in the same season of life, dealing with the emotional strain of aging and ill loved ones. In times like these, privacy isn't all it's cracked up to be, and community is more than a nice thought or good intentions.

I don't have to jump in my truck to check in with my neighbors, but I learned something from Johnny about the intentionality of checking in. Last night I stopped by a neighbor's house on the way home. My son and I ate their food instead of waiting to get home to our own kitchen.

Acts 2:42-47 TNIV "All the believers were together and had everything in common. They sold property and possessions to give to anyone who had need. Every day they continued to meet together in the temple courts. They broke bread in their homes and ate together with glad and sincere hearts, praising God and enjoying the favor of all the people. And the Lord added to their number daily those who were being saved."

Elizabeth's Letter

It's been a while since my last post. A recent death in our family put the blog on hold for a while. In a SpringsLetters first, my wife Elizabeth requested that I post the following today from her:

I’ve often thought it fairly cliché when people say, “Words just can’t express my gratitude.” As someone who loves to talk a lot, I’ve thought surely someone could come up with a better way to say thank you.
Well, I was wrong.
As so many of you know, my father passed away on May 9th. While his health has been precarious over the last year or so, my family was rather blind-sided by his death. Maybe we were conditioned to his frequent trips to the hospital, maybe the doctors just didn’t emphasize how serious his condition was, maybe we were just not willing to face the reality. I don’t know. All I know is, I got a call at 1:30pm on Friday telling me that they didn’t think he was going to make it, and within the hour, he died. I wasn’t even able to make it to his bedside to say goodbye and tell him how much I loved and appreciated him. Big regret.
I also was unwilling, while he was alive, to broach the subject of his spiritual welfare, because I was afraid he would be mad at me, or there would be tension. Big regret #2.
Those regrets have weighed very heavy on me this week. (I told some friends that I felt like Sandy, the squirrel from Texas on the cartoon, Sponge Bob. Because she is a land dweller, she must wear protective headgear to help her breathe underwater. But, when she cries too much, her bubblehead fills up with water and she must attach a handle to flush the water out. I just haven’t been able to find my handle….)
Slowly, though, I have become more and more aware of God being “the One who lifts my head.” He’s gotten me out of bed when I would have rather stayed in, pulled the covers up and slept all day long. I have relied on His new mercies every single morning, more than usual.
He’s slowly clearing the fog that I’ve seemingly been walking in for over a week and reminded me that while the loss of a loved one is terribly painful and sad, it should be fully experienced, not shoved down and ignored.
(I’m beginning to wonder if this is one of the ways the Lord teaches us to have joy in Him…. I think I’m starting to understand that joy in the Lord may not manifest itself through dancing and laughing, but maybe it’s through tears and questions and trials and searching. Maybe the joy part is just the knowledge that there’s a God in heaven who hears my crying, my questions, my pleadings. And, in this case, it’s the knowledge that God already knows what it’s like to have Someone He loves die.)
My family and I have been blessed throughout it all, though; friends who have called to check on me (us); all the many prayers and hugs; the tears shed along with me; text-messages sent at all times of the day; emails expressing sadness for me and my family; the care-taking of our dogs; meals brought over, so I didn’t have to worry about cooking; even plants and flowers sent to remind me that living goes on, and it’s beautiful.
So, here I am…at a loss for words as to how best to express my gratitude. I wish I could come up with something new and fresh, something that conveys how amazed I’ve been by friends, old and new…a way to tell them they have been Jesus to me and my family.
I pray that “thank you” will suffice. E.

What's a Mom Worth?

Can you put a dollar value on motherhood? The newspaper said today that if you include "overtime," moms typically do about $117,000 worth of work in the home each year, based on current market value for tasks usually done by moms in the home. When I read that, I thought to myself, "wow, maybe I should get into that line of work." But then I started thinking about what moms do, and realized I couldn't handle it.

The most important things moms do have no price tag: being the listening ear after a hard day at work or school, kissing boo boos, cheering from the bleachers, and saying bedtime prayers, just to name a few. I think one of the great intangibles many moms bring to a family is their noble aspirations for everyone else in the home. Moms tend to ooze their hopes and dreams for the rest of the family. Often, the mom's desires for her family's spiritual welfare become the catalyst for God's work in the whole family. Our new teaching series, "Starter Homes," is an extension of those desires. We hope that some moms' hopes and dreams for God's work in their family find encouragement and help in this series.

The Bible says such a woman is worth more than rubies (Proverbs 31:10). Since I'm not very knowledgeable about precious stones, I decided to find out how much rubies are worth. To my surprise, they're even more expensive than diamonds. I found a 4+ carat ruby for more than $12,000. So ladies, you obviously deserve more than the small gift most of us will be able to give you this mother's day, but remember the immense value you have in the eyes of God--and the rest of us.

Come and celebrate Mother's Day with us at Countryside Park Sunday at 11:00 AM! Click here for more info.

Know Your History

"I remember when we had to walk to school in the snow, uphill--both ways." So goes the famous rant, the intent of which is to drive home a point about how much easier kids have it these days. But the kids don't seem to get the point (I certainly didn't). What they learn is that the ranter is an old fogey, intent on telling stories from a past that doesn't concern them.

If there is a fogey book in the Bible, it's Deuteronomy. The people of Israel are on the far bank of the Jordan river, about to cross over into the promised land. But before they cross, Deuteronomy happens. Moses spends the whole book reminding them of everything the Lord has done for them in the past, and repeating all the details of God's covenant relationship with his people. I can see this mass of humanity staged at the bank of the Jordan, ready to cross. But Moses insists on reminding and retelling all their family history first. He says the word "remember" sixteen times in the book. In chapter 11 he tells us why: "Remember today that your children were not the ones who saw and experienced the discipline of the LORD your God: his majesty, his mighty hand, his outstretched arm" (v. 2); "It was not your children who saw what he did for you in the wilderness until you arrived at this place" (v. 5). Without their stories, a whole generation would inhabit the promised land with no idea that it was promised at all; they wouldn't understand that their home was a gift from God, that the place they lived was decided by God and representative of their unique relationship with God. The land of milk and honey is one thing if you grew up in slavery in Egypt, and another if you grew up on milk and honey.

Our stories form a lens through which we view the world. Without them, the very same experiences have completely different meanings. This is true for our children if they never hear our stories, and for us if we forget our own past. This Sunday, each family in our table group will be bringing a story of God's provision to tell the others. It occurred to me while working on our story that my own children don't know much about how God has provided for us over the years, even rescued us in dramatic fashion more than once. I don't expect the kids to be riveted by our stories, and they already think we're fogeys. But the stories are still important. I'd like them to know that my low-income, blue collar upbringing was actually great; that people continue to have wonderful lives who have less money and stuff than we have right now. I'd like them to know that the generous giving of others has made the life we live possible, and that generous giving on our part can do the same for other families, or other kids who don't have families. I'd like them to know that God has seen us through, and the other families at our table also. This week, saying grace around the table will have a whole new meaning.

Next week, I'll post some of the stories that are shared. If you have a story of God's provision, I'd love for you to share it as a comment.

The New Math

Apparently, 22 divided by 2 equals 35. That was the math this weekend as we celebrated the birth of a new neighborhood table. Our 22 people at a recent table gathering was the signal that it was time to start a new group in the neighborhood adjacent to ours. But instead of ending up with 2 groups of 11, we had 17 at our table and the new table had 18. I'm not hung up on numbers, but the stories behind them were significant. Here are a few highlights:

• We discovered that there were people who would participate in a group if it was even closer to their home. "Pedestrian scale" - being within walking distance of someone's home - is significant even if the family still drives to the table. This tells us that having more tables covering smaller geographical areas is important. This thing will snowball as more new tables begin.
• People who have not attended a Sunday service at the Springs, and may or may not attend one any time soon, are participating in the new table. While we would love for everyone to attend our services, it is becoming clear that neighborhood life is the place where people are connecting, more than services. It is likely that in the near future, attendance at our tables will be greater than attendance at our services. If you take into account that the tables occur twice as often, attendance is already about equal, and tables are growing at a faster pace. Growth of the tables will drive attendance at services, not the other way around.
• There are probably people who think that neighborhood life is somehow easier for Brad and me because we're pastors. WRONG. We discovered that many people in our community would rather be in groups that do not include us. As soon as a group opened up close to them that did not have a pastor in it, people jumped in. Those of us on church staff are often the least effective in reaching people in our community because of the "clergy" stigma. Brad and I hate the clergy stigma and rebel against it, but it still exists. So all you "lay people" out there, take advantage of the opportunities you have!
• Starting a new group was a contagious win, not a grieved loss. Two families left our existing group to start the new one; instead of sadness over "losing" these families, the predominant feeling at our table yesterday was excitement; two more families are now more excited about their own opportunity to start tables in the near future.

By dividing our table, we added to our involvement and multiplied our potential to love our neighbors. It's the new math!

Several weeks ago, our table decided to purchase some cheap, kid-proof dishes that were washable, instead of going through a bunch of paper goods every time we met. We decided to give our dishes to the new group as a gift to encourage them in their new endeavor. So I presented the new group with their birthday present yesterday, and encouraged them to do the same for the next group that starts.

I hope Target and Wall Mart start getting a lot of cheap housewares business!