After some moments, I would ask my father, whom I loved very much, “Will you tell me a story?” And he would say to me, “What kind of story would you like to hear?”  And I would say, “Tell me a story out of your mouth.”

I meant by those words that no ordinary story would do.  I had already heard the “Once upon a time …” of the Three Little Pigs until I could recite it as easily as my own name.  A house of straw.  A huffing and puffing and “blow your house down.”  I’d already heard that piggy story a thousand times and more, and I knew how it would end.

Cinderella held no mystery for me, either.  Ugly step-sisters.  The fairy godmother.  The handsome prince.  A chariot of pumpkin, and mice who grew to be strong as a team of white horses.  That beautiful dress.  That fancy ball.  A clock that struck midnight, and a glass slipper, left behind as evidence that something incredible had happened.  I’d heard it all before.  I already knew that Cinderella’s foot was fit for a king.  I knew they lived happily ever after, too, and I didn’t want to hear it again.

Fairy tales always end that way, “… happily ever after.”  But even a child knows that fairy tales aren’t true.  No, on those cold winter nights while I rocked with my father,  I wanted him to tell me a different kind of story, a story out of his mouth, a story no other living soul had ever heard, or lived, or even read before; a story whose ending I did not already know.

My father is dead and gone now.  But on certain cold winter nights, I long to hear his voice just once more, telling me an unfamiliar tale about some nameless hobo who hopped a train to Memphis, and nearly died along the way.  If I close my eyes, I can almost hear my father now, describing the clack of a train on the tracks, or the groan of an engine pulling its load up some steep grade.  He could make the wail of a lonely train whistle so real and so sad, I’d want to weep for that hobo I didn’t even know.   What I wouldn’t give to listen again to one of those lyric stories my father used to tell me out of his mouth, while that old cane-bottomed rocker sang along.

I learned much about life in those stories my father used to tell. Words like longing, and hope, and living, and life took shape and form in the power of story.  A story about God, or faith, or belief —a story that includes a description of the smell of a newly mown field of hay rising on a gentle breeze — can lift and mesmerize a soul if you tell it just right.  And if you catch that wind and breath of faith with the wings of your imagination, you can soar to places only eagles get to fly.

Sometimes, a story out of his mouth was so incredible, so sorrowful, or exciting or splendid that I could not resist.  I could not wait.

“And then what happened, father?” I would ask.  “What happened next?” 

And he would continue, on and on, sometimes long into the night, painting those pictures with words, and plot and story.  Once, after a particularly exciting tale finally ended, I asked him, “Was this story real?  Did this story actually happen?”  I still remember waiting the longest of whiles before he answered.  He stared into the flames of our old fireplace, looking for all the world as if he were replaying some movie scene in his mind. And then, he finally said, “The best stories, my son, are the stories that are so unbelievable they have to be real.  You must decide for yourself if this is that kind of story.”

Now, I will tell you my tales, stories out of my mouth.  They will not begin with “Once upon a time.” And they may not not end with “… happily ever after.”  Perhaps you will learn about straw houses, and homes and lives devastated by the wind of life.  You may watch men, weak as mice who grow to be strong as stallions.  Who knows?  Perhaps you will hear a clock; some regulator ticking time’s incessant cadence, and watch as it strikes a final hour for one living a fairytale life.  Or maybe you will meet some character, some vagabond, some hobo trying to find his way down a lonely stretch of life’s narrow track, as he journeys on his way to nowhere in particular.

They will be as honest and truth-filled as I can tell them, these stories out of my mouth.  And if, perchance, after you have read one of them, you find it to be so incredible, so sorrowful, or exciting, or splendid that you cannot resist the asking, then who knows?  Perhaps, you will be tempted to query, “Was this story true?  Did this story really happen?”

And I will say to you, as my father said to me, “You must decide that … for yourself.”

The post The Storyteller appeared first on Ken Jones.

(Reprinted from the book, “God Happened To Be In the Neighborhood” by Ken Jones)

            I’VE ALWAYS loved company.  I grew up in a home where the front door was seldom locked and a constant stream of friends and relatives enriched our lives with their warmth and conversation.  I learned the art of hospitality by watching my parents welcome guests into our home – guests who had come with no other motive or agenda in mind but to see us and talk.

            When it was time to go home, the company always seemed to know it.  As the conversations died down, one of the guests would say, “Well, it’s time to go.  We don’t want to wear out our welcome.”  My parents would respond to such statements with a predictable, “Don’t rush off,” or, “What’s your hurry,” but everyone seemed to know the rules for a visit: Before it becomes awkward, thank your hosts for their hospitality and then … leave.

            When my wife and I were first married, we continued the practice of opening our home to family and friends.  Friendships, cultivated in the setting of our living room have enriched our lives, our family, and our ministry.

            In the summer of l983, however, an uninvited guest came to our door.  He did not knock.  He swaggered into our home unannounced and has been taking advantage of our hospitality ever since.  He dominates many of our conversations.  He chooses his own seat at our dining table.  He has his hand in virtually every aspect of our lives and insists that we plan our everyday routines and even our vacations around him.  Frequently, when I embrace my wife, or even look into her beautiful green eyes, he is there.  Even our marriage bed is not a stranger to him, and he seems to take particular delight in spoiling our attempts at intimacy.  He sits with us in church.  He goes with us on long walks.  He was not invited.  He was not expected.  His name is Pain.  He has become an uninvited guest at our house.  

And he doesn’t know when it’s time to leave.

            For most people, pain is a relative word.  When a headache interrupts our usually painless life, most of us hurry to the medicine cabinet and grab a couple of aspirins.  Within minutes, our acute pain has subsided, we feel better, and life goes on.  However, for millions of others, chronic pain is truly a “relative” word, like a long lost family-member who drops in uninvited and unwelcome and doesn’t know when to leave.  That’s the way it is at our house.

            I first noticed him when he would drop by for a casual visit, affecting and infecting my wife with his own brand of domination.  She would slow down and wait for him to leave before she could resume her household chores and other wifely, motherly, teacherly duties.  She usually announced his presence with variations on a theme:  “My legs are really hurting me today.”

            But in the early days it was rare for us to postpone any of our activities because Pain had dropped by for a visit.  In fact, I rarely paid any attention to whether he was visiting or not.  He didn’t talk to me.  Only to my wife. 

            It became increasingly apparent, however, that he was taking advantage of our hospitality.  This uninvited guest frequented our home more and more often, and we decided to seek professional help to evict this pest.  After nearly two years of increasing discomfort and various treatments, doctors recommended that Randee undergo fusion surgery for the deteriorating disc in her lower back.  We hoped the operation would bring relief from her pain and let her return to a normal life.  Neurosurgeons performed the delicate surgery.

            For days afterward, I sat in the hospital room and held her hand.  I stroked her face and told her I loved her.  But she couldn’t hear me, because Pain was talking to her.  The corridor lights flashed at 9:00 P.M. signaling the end of visiting hours.  Nurses would come and tell me – the husband – I had to leave.  But he stayed with my Randee all night long.

            Ten days after surgery, we heard the good news from the doctor, “You can go home today.”  I packed her things. The nurse wheeled her down the hall, and the four of us got on the elevator: Randee and me, and the nurse . . . and Pain.  I brought the car around to the front door of the hospital.  Three of us got in and rode off together.  The nurse stayed at the hospital.

            Since that first fusion surgery more than thirty years ago, our lives, Randee’s and mine, have been filled with so many wonderful memories, events, grandchildren, and incredible friendships. Our lives are enriched by the ministry to others that we enjoy tremendously. But, all along the way, Pain has been a constant presence in our lives. Randee’s degenerative disc and joint disease has resulted in a total of five fusion surgeries in her neck and back. And, she’s had both sides of her jaw replaced. She’s had three radical jaw surgeries, her mouth wired shut three times. She’s had both her knees replaced. Three hand surgeries. Three foot surgeries. So many wonderful doctors. So many caring nurses. And so much ongoing … pain. Early-on in our marriage, Pain came to take up what seems to be permanent residency in our home.  It may be that he lives at your house too.

            I don’t know what you think about him, that robber, that intruder, that violator who has come through your door and won’t let you rest.  The cause of his visit may be a herniated disk or a birth defect.  It may be a car accident or an emotional breakdown or deep depression.  It may be alcohol or drug induced pain.  But it is pain. Real. Profound. Impossible to adequately describe. Pain.

            I don’t know how you feel about your particular, personal pain.  But I am confident that when chronic pain comes to call, he brings baggage – feelings of isolation, fear, and doubt.

            I don’t know what you think of Him, the Carpenter, the Storyteller, the Teacher – who spits on the ground and makes mud, then smears it on darkened eyes and they see.

            I don’t know how you feel about the Doctor, the Physician, Heaven’s Healer who shouts into deaf ears, “Be opened!” and they are.

            But I will tell you how this husband and pastor feels – what I’ve learned about pain: 

l. Pain came into my life because God opened the door.  God didn’t cause the pain, but I am convinced He allowed it.  Why?  I have no idea. I only know … He knows. We choose to let that be enough, with regard to the ‘why?’ question.

2. Life and Pain are not the same.  Both are difficult, but they are not the same.

3. By seeing Pain as a person, I distinguish the one I love from the one I hate.  My wife and Pain are not the same.  The mother of my three sons, —the grandmother of my genius grandkids— and Pain are not the same.  She is the joy of my life. He wants to rob me of that joy. I really work at loving her, and distinguishing her from … him.

4. Some days are better than others. 

5.  Some days are worse than others. 

6. Every day is unlike any other, and I get to do two really important things, every day: Refuse, and Choose. Every day, I refuse to allow pain to define my relationship with my wife, my family, my life. The uncertainties of life are a part of every single person’s journey. I refuse to see our particular bag of challenges as something that makes us ‘special.’ And every day, I get to choose to walk in the light of God’s sovereignty. He knows. I do not. I’m okay with that reality. (I might as well be; there’s not much I can do about the things only He has control of.) 

7. It helps when I pray for my wife. (And I am woefully inadequate in that regard.) 

8. It helps when she prays for me. (And she is remarkably faithful in that regard.)

9. We are learning together about not dwelling on him; he pummels the flesh, but we choose to affirm the spirit and the worth of each other. 

10. We are both absolutely convinced that pain will not stay forever.  He will be evicted one day by the Guest of Honor who sits at the head of our table and our lives.  He who does all things well will perform it.  It may not be today . . . but someday.

“Now the dwelling of God is with men,

and He will live with them.

They will be His people,

And God Himself will be with them and be their God.

He will wipe every tear from their eyes.

There will be no more death or mourning

Or crying . . .

or pain.”

Revelation 21:3-4

The post The Uninvited Guest appeared first on Ken Jones.

How would you finish this statement: “I hate… ”?

     If your mother was like mine, you learned at a very early age to be careful how you used that word hate. Never, for example, would I entertain the thought of inserting a person’s name in the blank after hate. You don’t hate people. People are created in God’s image, and to hate someone would be a grievous sin. So I learned not to put people’s names in the blank after “I hate… ” (even though I did have an intense dislike for Butchy Sandstrom in second grade—but I didn’t mention it to my mother).

     Most of the time, it wasn’t even permissible for me to hate a particularly distasteful vegetable. I learned as I sat at the table in my growing-up years that food was provided by God, and cooked by my mother, and to intimate that you hated what either of those two sovereigns had set before you was positively unthinkable, to say nothing of unhealthy. I wasn’t forced to eat what I didn’t like, mind you, but critical commentary on dinner was totally unappreciated at our house and brought with it a certain and immediate invitation to leave the table without finishing neither the comment nor the meal.

     No, you didn’t hate people, and at least while you were sitting at the dinner table you didn’t hate vegetables—not out loud, anyway. 

     It did seem to be permissible to hate other annoyances, however. For example, mosquito bites were okay to hate. When I was young, mosquitoes used to eat me up. When I scratched a mosquito bite too much and it became red and sore, I could express my hate as my mother put ointment on the bite. But, I remember my mother’s corrective rejoinder if I said, “I hate mosquitoes.” She had what seemed to me a particular theology about mosquitoes, a sort of circuitous logic that seemed to envelop everything from the tiniest insect to the largest of animals. “Do you know why God made mosquitoes?” she would ask.

     I hated it when she asked me questions I didn’t have a good answer for.

     “Well,” she would say, “God made mosquitoes so the frogs would have something to eat. If there were no mosquitoes, the poor little frogs would have nothing to eat.”

     While I knew better than to argue with my mother, deep inside where she couldn’t look, I also knew that her logic must be flawed. If God created one thing so another thing would have something to eat—if God created mosquitoes so frogs would have something to eat—then it seemed to me that the next logical step in that proposed food chain was that I was created so that the mosquitoes would have something to eat, and that just didn’t seem to be right. Intuitively, I knew I had a deeper reason for being that providing nourishment for mosquitoes. I didn’t argue, though. I just let it go at hating mosquito bites.

     Since I’ve grown up, I’ve come to appreciate that there are many things I can “legally” hate. I hate cars. I know very little about how they operate; I know where to put in the gas and the key. About once every other year, I also put in oil. But I hate cars… and they hate me. I hate plumbing, too. It leaks, but I can rarely figure out why. I’ve replaced all of the pipes and fittings under our kitchen sink twice and the plumbing still drips (Have I mentioned that I hate drips?). There are all sorts of things I hate: ball-point pens that skip, flashlights whose supposed ever-ready batteries never are, anything—anything that is late, standing in any line, the sound of the vacuum cleaner. 

     I typed an invitation for people in our office to write down the things they hate. I won’t share all of the results, but here’s a list of what some of them said they hated:

• Sushi, Liver, (Ugh!), Anchovies, Raw Onions
• Okra (You know… the vegetable) (Obviously, this person never met my mother)
• Cleaning house (Note: this particular “hate” received more than one vote, but in almost every case the person who hated cleaning house loved a clean house. You figure out the significance of that bit of detail)
• Shoes that hurt my feet
• Cold coffee (3 votes)
• Bugs (dead) on my windshield
• Potty training
• People who are perky and bright first thing in the morning (It’s not normal)
• Alarm clocks

And finally, one of my personal favorites—

• Memos I receive reminding me about a meeting… that happened yesterday

     Several of my friends mentioned that they felt better after having written down what they really hated. I guess I did, too. Cathartic best describes the effect this little experiment had on me. “Getting life off my chest” you might say.

     I don’t know for sure if God watched my recent preoccupation with things I hate, but I suspect He did. The reason I think so is that this morning, I found a list on my desk of some things He hated. Leaky faucets didn’t make His list. Neither did cars that didn’t run or pens that don’t write. In fact, as I read His list and compared it to my list of silly annoyances, I was convinced that I have a lot more important things than mosquitoes to worry about that may be eating me up. How about you?

These six things the LORD hates,

Yes, seven are an abomination to him:

A proud look,

A lying tongue,

Hands that shed innocent blood,

A heart that devises wicked plans,

Feet that are swift in running to evil,

A false witness who speaks lies,

And one who sows discord among brethren.

(Proverbs 6:16-19)

The post I Hate It When That Happens appeared first on Ken Jones.

    That gathered group of friends waited, too.

We waited for the mothers to take their seats,

    And then, for bride’s maids to slowly walk,

    Holding flowers,
    Holding their heads, just so,
    Looking lovely,
    Keeping perfect cadence, just as they had rehearsed.

People whispered among themselves, too.
    As I stood, that day, waiting,
    I watched them, leaning over and noticing.
    They noticed how beautiful the ferns looked in the front of the church.
    They noticed how cute the flower girl was dressed, and how the ring bearer held his                
        pillowed treasure.

And they noticed me.
I could tell, as I read their whispering lips.
They saw my nervous and terrified visage, 
    As they smiled,
    As they whispered,
    As they…waited.

And then, the music changed.

And all our wait was over.
It was time.

Here comes the bride.
    And the people stood.
    As, indeed, they should.
    Those doors swung open.
    And SHE entered.

Regal is what she was.
And she captured me.

I saw her, backlit by stained glass windows.
    A shadowed outline of my wife-to-be,
    Slowly marching down a one-way aisle.
    No turning back.
    No turning aside.

Fearlessly, she faced forward, on her father’s strong arm,
    Toward that altar,
    Toward those vows,

    Toward that ‘me.’

We meant it, when we met, there.

I still remember:
The promises we exchanged.
The Holy Communion we shared.
That kiss, that embrace, as two-become-one.

And then, that turn…to see all of ‘them.’

The announcement.
The pronouncement.

Husband and wife, “til death do us part.’
Words that changed us,…forever.

On this anniversary,
On the occasion of our being married for a long time,
I salute my wife, and join in the sentiment of the wisest man who ever lived:

“A wife of noble character…is worth far more than rubies. Her husband has full confidence in her, and lacks nothing of value.” (Prov. 31:10,11)

(For my Randee, on the occasion of our 47th anniversary.)

The post On the Occasion of Being Married for a Long Time… appeared first on Ken Jones.

If I lived a truly grateful life?

What would it mean to the way I think, the way I act, the way I live,
    if every morning, as my feet hit the cold floor of life,
        I looked into the face of a loving God and said, “Thank you”?

If I got up every morning, and took stock of all I have,
    instead making my pitiful list of all I think I need, 
How would it change me?

For a certainty, it is true:
    The Book says that “every good and perfect gift” comes from His bountiful hand.
        A mind to reason, and strength, to stand.
        The breath in the air.
            The provision and care
                He faithfully shares 
                    With every living creature,
                        (which oddly enough, includes even me.)

Like manna of old, morning by morning,
    I enjoy a daily “provision” for life.

Whether I remember to ask Him, or not.
    Whether I even take notice of Him, or not,
He is there. 

How, I wonder, would things be different,
    If I would just address 
        and confess?
            Yes, confess … the sin of ungratefulness in my life?

Do I even have a clue?

I think not.

Because, … I thank not. 
    Not nearly enough.

“Bless the Lord, O my soul, and forget not all his benefits.” (Ps. 103:2)

The post On Living a Grateful Life appeared first on Ken Jones.

    But it’s been long enough now.  

    I guess I can tell you.

    One cool March day in the early Spring of 1991, something happened to me that changed my life. It didn’t seem like a particularly momentous thing at the time, really.  

    My wife and I took a day trip to Sonoma, California. We walked along tree-lined neighborhoods, looking in shop windows and browsing in the quaint ­little stores. As we sauntered along, enjoying those lazy narrow streets, one particular shop caught my attention. I would not describe it as a stationery store. That description would not be refined enough for what I experienced when I walked through the door. This store sold fine papers and pens and inks. Oak flooring and wide chair rail around the walls gave the entire shop an air of sophistication. Large bookshelves filled one entire corner of the shop, with dozens of books on how to write, why to write, and where to sell what you write. And nestled in the midst of those stacks of books, I saw cushy chairs with overstuffed arms, opening to me, and inviting one like me to have a seat. If “the writing life” has a smell, then the aroma of this room intoxicated me, with its hand-made papers, and beautiful pens, and wonderful books about words. I sat myself down.  I touched and held and skimmed more than a dozen of those books.

    I think, for me, perhaps time “stopped” for a few moments. The literary or musical term for what I experienced could probably be described as a caesura, a ‘grand pause,’ of sorts. A break in the movement. A ‘time out.’ I must have stayed in that place of words for more than an hour, thinking and looking at books about writing.

    I made only one purchase that day in that little shop. I bought something called a writer’s notebook. It wasn’t anything special, really. Every page contained a quote from some well-known or not-so-well-known writer. Usually, the quotes had something to do with writing, or the creative effort involved in putting pen to paper. But every page also contained empty spaces on which to write notes or jot down ideas.

      I left that store having made a decision. In fact, in my memory I can still see myself walking out the door of that little shop, carrying a small brown bag containing that notebook. And on the following morning, March 7, 1991, I sat down in a quiet place with my new notebook. I took out a pencil (I didn’t even use a pen). I dated the top of the first page, and then I wrote these words:

    I bought this notebook for myself. I rarely by (sic) something strictly for myself, but as soon as I saw this notebook, I knew I wanted it. I have made a decision to become a writer; I will write in this notebook, or one like it, every day.
    But I’m not going to write for anyone but me.
    Everyone, I think, needs at least one place in this world where they can be honest—totally honest—without worrying about who may be listening-in. For me, that place will be this notebook. No need for shoes, or socks, or good manners when I write in this notebook. I will think; I will dream; I will act, and move and record with one purpose and end in mind: to gain a better understanding and insight of myself, my God, and my world. I will write my thoughts and tell my stories and describe my scenes for my own growth and benefit. If anyone chooses to come along and watch—if anyone happens by to listen to what I may be saying—if anyone else opens the door to what I think by turning the knob of what I write, well then, fine. But I choose, from this moment on, to write… every day.  

    I’ve started nearly Every Day of my life since that March morning by writing something, either in my journal or on a computer. The Apostle Paul referred to himself as a ‘living letter, known and read by all men.’ I think God wants all of us to understand that we’re being watched; our lives are being read, whether we’re recording what’s going on with written words, or just living life as it comes along. For me, words matter. Words express who I am, and where I’ve been all my life. And I now believe that nothing, apart from the Bible itself, has shaped me and honed me and affected me more, both as a writer and as a man, than the discipline of writing about the story I live and the journey I travel… Every Day.

(Excerpted from “If I Should Die, Before I Live,” a work in progress, to be released in 2016)
Photo Credit / Monica Beck

The post The Door to What I Think… appeared first on Ken Jones.

    You see, an eternity ago, when Marcus, my oldest son, was nearly two, my wife and I began to teach him to talk. He stayed at it, — the talking, I mean — and now he’s an excellent communicator. In fact, he’s a pastor and writer. And when Nathan, our second son came along, when he was about two, we started teaching him to talk. And even after all these years, Nate still talks a lot. Of course, we couldn’t leave Simeon out of the ‘talking’ equation. He’s a licensed marriage and family therapist now, but when he was about two, we began to coach him on how to talk. We tried to get him to mimic us. We pointed to objects like birds and cars and did our best to get him to say those words. We’d had plenty of experience by the time Simeon came along, so our teaching was easier. (And now, Simeon has a son. And Simeon is teaching his son how to talk.)

    We probably made fools of ourselves, Randee and me, as we tried to get our kids to talk. We’d laugh at their attempts at language and applaud when they came close to identifying a household object correctly. I believe the sound of a child’s voice is one of the most wonderful sounds God ever created. Every time one of our kids began to talk, it seemed that another note was added to the song of our home. We marveled at these infantile expressions formed in the depths of their own experiences and discoveries. 

    Teaching our kids to talk brought tremendous joy to Randee and me. We taught them to be careful about their language; that words can hurt; that some words are inappropriate. We taught them the little song, “Be careful, little mouths, what you say.” We wanted them to know the power of the tongue and the harm it can bring if not harnessed. 

    But there’s a problem I thought of this morning. When my wife and I taught our kids to talk, I don’t ever recall telling them to be thrifty with their words. I don’t ever remember mentioning that words need to be measured and carefully meted out. I never mentioned ‘word-count,’ I guess you could say. I don’t know why I didn’t say something about it then. Maybe I was too enamored with the sounds of their little voices. Maybe I was too busy enjoying their talking.

    Talk is good. Talking must be good, because God could have created us all to be mutes if He hadn’t liked the idea of speech. But too much talk—too many words that haven’t been thought out—have a deleterious effect on human beings. As a pastor/teacher, in fact, I think I have a particular vulnerability to making idols out of my idle words. Maybe that’s why I was troubled this morning. A long time ago, while I was busy teaching my kids to talk, it might have been good for me to spend more time trying to teach myself to talk.

    The more infatuated I have become with the sound of my own voice, and my own words, the less likely it seems, that I am interested in listening to someone else’s voice, and story, and … life. I need to be careful not to make idol words out of my all-too-frequent idle words. I need to develop the habit of noticing my penchant for going on and on about what I think, my opinions, my pontifications, my fascination with the sound of my own voice.

    One pastor friend of mine used to say that if all the words a pastor spoke in a given year were set end-to-end, they’d amount to the equivalent of six novels. And … nobody writes six good books a year.

My dear brothers, take note of this:

Everyone should be quick to listen,

Slow to speak.

(James 1:19 NIV)

The post Idol Words appeared first on Ken Jones.

Every mom in the universe has a story about the day she became a mom.
    The time of day.
    The length of stay.
    The specific way they managed the birthing of that child,
        That baby, that gift from God they had waited for, and labored for.

Contraction details, and how far apart?
    And the doctor then says: “It’s okay to start …”
    And the pushing begins, and the courage and heart
    Of a mother delivers a child; sweet progeny,
        Just arrived,
        Just beginning,
        Just … amazing, this miracle.

And if you mention babies, or birthing, or ‘the day you became a mom,’
    To any mom, she’ll tell you.
    You won’t have to ask twice.

But dads are different, I think.

Ask most dads what it was like for them, the day they became a dad,
    And a smile might come.
    And the hands of some
    Will begin to move, as their arms wave in the wind.

Talk to a dad about that day, and the picture they will draw with their hands
    Will tell you they don’t know how to describe the feeling; they only know
    They had a feeling.
    An awareness.
    A certain reality that roiled their previously placid and self-focused life.

The very moment a man becomes a dad, … life changes.
    I remember the day I became a dad.
    Dads are different than moms, to be sure.

The day I became a dad,
    A new definition of ‘tough’ entered my mind.
    No dictionary needed.
    No teacher necessary, to tell me what ‘tough’ really meant.
    She showed me; that woman I married.
    She showed me, and I knew.
Deep down inside of me, I did not wonder. I knew.
    I now knew, why God said it wasn’t good for man to be alone;
    No man I’ve ever met, nor will ever meet has the nerve to birth a baby.

    And the day I became a man,
    I came to understand
    What it means to be ‘tough.’ 

I saw him for the first time,
    That baby,
    That boy,
    That pink and wrinkled form, 

Wrapped tight,
Squinting under white lights,

As I looked through a hospital nursery window.
He, only minutes old.
Me? Totally sold on this tiny life.
Captured, I was.

    I stood in the hall, mesmerized,
    As I studied that face, and memorized
    Every inch of that man child,
This one who would call me … his ‘Dad.’

The day I became a dad,
As I peered into the face of my son,
    I talked to myself; I had me a conversation with … me.

I stood there; I stared.
I rehearsed and prepared,
In whispers, declared:

“As God is my witness, I will be the most influential person in the life of this child, and all those 
        children I may ever sire.”
    There.
    I said it to me.
    I whispered it to him, and to all of his siblings who might follow.

And God overheard my whisper.
    And held me to my word.
        And the day I became a dad, I understood in a new way:

I am being watched by him.
    And, by Him.
And I love it that way.

God knows … I love being a dad.

The post From a Dad … On Being a Dad appeared first on Ken Jones.

    She couldn’t get inside her house, because it was full of garbage. Piles stood six-to-eight-feet high in every room. Her front door stood open, like a silent entry, unable to be closed because of the rubble. Garbage cluttered her entire front porch. In fact, the porch was more than cluttered, much more. It was totally covered with tin cans, empty boxes, old rags, an the residue of years of living. Garbages spilled over the sides of the porch, like a cascading waterfall of filth that ran into the yard and filled it too. Clara sat on top of one particular heap, five feet high, like a cherry atop some grotesque sundae made of giant scoops of garbage.

    There was a blackness that surrounded that house; a sadness surrounded that little eighty-year-old lady. And life all around her walked on by, trying not to notice the stench of it all.

    Day or night, rain or shine, summer or winter, she could be found sitting in her front yard, covered with a thin sheet of plastic. She busied herself by feeding the hundred-or-so cats that called her house their own private dump. Frequently, she would talk about why she could not go back into her house; some unmentionable event that caused her to fear its safety. “Aren’t you afraid out here in the dark and cold?” a passerby would ask. “Yes,” she’d reply. “I’m very often afraid. But I can’t go inside.” She didn’t spend days or weeks sitting in the midst of that squalor and filth. She spent … years.

    Every morning, a kind neighbor would bring coffee to her, and local residents would walk by and wave and speak. But no one took the responsibility to clean up Clara’s garbage. After all, it’s a free country, and if you want to sit on a pile of garbage for the rest of your life, well…. And yesterday was the rest of Clara’s life. That kindly neighbor brought over the coffee and found her wrapped in her thin sheet of plastic, surrounded by her cats; a lifeless form atop a mound of garbage. Hypothermia and exposure to the elements were listed as the cause of death. But the truth is, Clara never learned to deal with the garbage.

    I saw him again this morning. In fact, I look into his face every morning as I shave. Thinking about that garbage lady made me wonder how he was doing at taking out the garbage in his life. I wondered how many people walk by his life every day and wish he’d do something about his anger or resentment or pride. I wondered about how many rooms in his life were unavailable to him because unresolved issues stand in the doorway like a silent sentry. What fears and insecurities keep him from God’s very best for his life?

    Garbage is a by-product of living. And I can either acknowledge that much of the time, life is a bunch of garbage — and grow — or wrap myself in some plastic facade, climb atop my own personal pile of life’s inequities, and die spiritually.

    The difference between the two is the difference between the smell of the city dump and the smell of a beautiful rose…fertilized with a compost heap.

The post Clara Died appeared first on Ken Jones.

For a voice of wailing is heard  . . . “How we are plundered!

We are greatly ashamed . . . “

For death has come through our windows,

Has entered our palaces,

To kill off the children—no longer to be outside!

And the young men—no longer on the streets! 

(Jer. 9:19,21)

The post Known Only to God appeared first on Ken Jones.