Where it All Ends

This past Sunday, we were treated at Antioch Christian Church to a message by Steve Gregory. I always enjoy Steve’s messages. His casual style and friendly manner make him enjoyable, and the fact that I know him personally to be a nice guy helps, too. There was something about his message that I could not quite grasp; something that I couldn’t quite get my mind around. I finally figured it out after much contemplation which, by the way, is also the mark of a good sermon. The listener is left thinking.

Steve’s message was about the puzzle that is our lives and that we are the one’s who choose what piece of the puzzle Jesus gets to be. He used several examples of how this might be done. I mean no criticism of Steve’s message, but he never really hit the topic in a way that made sense to me. That may not be entirely accurate. He DID make sense, but I felt there was something still to be said; some completion.

As Steve spoke, I put my life into the example he was using. I’ve built my life into many puzzles over many years, each one coming up short and incomplete. The life I have built today, which I desperately hope is the final puzzle, is strong, stable, and feels infinitely durable. A wonderful home life surrounds me, filled with love, laughter, compassion, understanding and forgiveness. How did I do it this time? What worked and why? The answer was all around me.

I’ve assembled the pieces of my life many times, only to swipe them from the table in frustration. Jesus was not even a piece at all in the first attempt. After that failure was swept from the table, I figured he should be every piece. That was no good either, so the table was cleaned again. Then, I stumbled upon a puzzle structure wherein I could attach the things of my life to Jesus that I wanted to, all the while keeping those “private” parts of my life from Him. That particular puzzle lasted longer than previous versions, but still wouldn’t fit together totally and I had to swipe it from the table again. Drowning, I pulled myself into one final puzzle building attempt. This one worked! I didn’t really get why until Steve’s message on Sunday.

It occurred to me on the way home and I said it out loud, “Jesus was a carpenter.”

That’s it! I thought to myself. We’re all desperately trying to build our puzzles, moving pieces around the table with great effort, wondering where Jesus fits in, and the answer is right below us.

Jesus IS the table. The table is the only piece of any puzzle that touches all the other pieces. When we build our puzzle using the human things of our life like money, love, friendship, sex, career, children, etc. and try to put that puzzle on a foundation of human origin, it will always crumble under the weight. When we accept the human gifts of our lives and build that puzzle on the foundation table that is Jesus Christ, it will stand strong, never failing.

Jesus after all, was a carpenter. He knows a few things about tables.

Many times over the past few years, the occasion has presented itself where I need to go to a store to buy my wife some variety of “feminine product.” Every time I do this I inevitably hear from friends and/or family that they “would never do that” or that they “wouldn’t be caught dead with that stuff.” One friend even mentioned that she thought men were genetically made unable to so much as walk down that particular aisle.

Yesterday was one such day. It also happened to be Christmas Day. All that really meant was that I had to go to a truck stop to buy the products as it was the only “store” open. I went, bought what my wife needed and headed home. It did occur to me, however, that the whole genetic repulsion most men seem to have to the feminine needs aisle is solved in a truck stop. What I needed was merely inches away from bags of potato sticks and stacks of firewood. What man would admit to being unable to go down the aisle for firewood? No man I know.

Now I admit that when I was twelve, I didn’t want my Mom to sit her purse next to me at church. I thought it made me look “iffy.” But, as I said, I was twelve. I also thought that my Uncle Bruce invented the Pet Rock and that my Dad was the first to cook up a batch of Chex Party Mix. These days I don’t have a problem with holding purses, using pink cell phones, or storing my wife’s lipstick in my pocket if she is sans her purse.

I actually relish the opportunity to buy such products. Here is what I normally do. I drive down to Williams Bothers’ Pharmacy, walk in proudly and announce in a loud, steady voice.

“Mr Williams, I want you to sell me some feminine pads. In fact, today I think I’ll have Always Brand with Wings. For I am a heterosexual male with a wife of childbearing age.”

I mean, that’s what being straight is all about. That’s why it’s the only sexual preference for me.

My wife, Mandy, and her friend Courtney have joined together with me on a quest to get healthy, trim some fat, and basically try to look better naked. (That last part isn’t something we are joining together on…unless…)

Anyway, part of our mission is to adjust our eating habits to a more sensible, healthy method. None of us are interested in diets, which is good because it is universally known that diets do not work. What we have adopted is an eating style similar to what is outlined in Bill Phillips Body for Life program. Six days a week, the goal is to eat several small meals a day that are low in fat and high in protein, leaving the calorie counting and carb avoiding to others. One day a week is “cheat day” during which we can eat whatever we want. There are physical as well as psychological reasons for this method that you can read about and debate elsewhere. God may have rested on the seventh day, but I’ll be eating enough for both of us.

That leads me to the “test” I passed today. Today is not my cheat day; it’s Courtney’s. So, this morning after working out we sent her on her way to a day of cheeseburgers, fries and shakes (for that occasional stomach upset). Knowing this already had Mandy and me looking forward to our own cheat day, which is Sunday.

Today I also had to drive to Bloomington to take our dogs to the vet. On the way home, I started getting noticeably hungry. Part of the idea behind our program is to never become too hungry so that our bodies do not experience wild swings in insulin, so I decided to stop at the BP in Odon and try to find something healthy to eat. That, and I had to pee really badly. No force of will would save me from that. So, I swung into the parking lot, turned off the truck, and walked to the door.

Upon opening the door, I was met with the smell of pizzas that must have just come out of the oven. Tomato sauce, cheese, and pepperoni invaded my olfactory. I took an immediate right at the Jack’s Beef Jerky, walked briskly by the Grippos Barbeque Chips, and barely made it past the Beer Nuts before reaching the bathroom. I leaned against the door, heart pounding. Did those Reese Cups call my name? Nah, don’t be silly.

I finished my business and took a deep breath to face the obstacle course of marketing materials I would have to negotiate to make my destination. If I could make it to the sandwich counter, then pay and get out of there before cracking, I would be safe.

As if placed there by some omniscient, the Hostess Cupcakes met me right outside the door. I sidestepped them and just kept going. Planter’s Sunflower Seeds, Chex Mix, all sorts of hot and spicy meat products…they were all there. I stayed on course, and as I rounded the end of one aisle, there it was. Like the monolith in 2001: A Space Odyssey there stood before me an advertisement for Mr. Goodbar. I told myself that lesser men would have folded at the Kit-Kats, chuckled a bit, and moved on.

I finally made it to the counter. When asked what I would like, I faced one final test. Trembling and wiping beads of sweat from my upper lip, I spoke. “I’ll have a 6″ turkey on wheat, toasted, with lettuce, tomato, banana peppers, and mustard.” I swallowed hard and squeaked out a “No, thank you” when asked if I wanted chips or a cookie.

I paid as quickly as possible and stumbled out into the parking lot. I had made it! I had faced the very best marketing that Madison Avenue could condure, coupled with the smells of fresh pizza and still came out a winner!

On the way home I thoroughly enjoyed my sandwhich knowing that I had not let myself or my partners down. Cheat day will taste especially good this week.

This past week was Thanksgiving. I am sure we all spent valued time with loved ones, eating too much, looking at ads, and making Christmas plans. Thanksgiving is an appropriate holiday for Americans to celebrate because, well…we have so much to be thankful for. The mere possibility that we can gather with our friends and families as free men and women, spending time as we choose, worshipping, eating, sleeping, is reason enough to be eternally grateful.

I also have a private Thanksgiving that I am lucky enough to be able to celebrate weekly. It occurs right after our church service at Antioch Christian Church is completed. The music dies down, people start to speak to each other, some making plans for lunch, and there is a loud rumble from all the chairs in the auditorium being stacked and moved.

It is at this moment that I escape into the side hallway. The silence I encounter is always a shock as it is a stark contrast to what I leave behind. As people talk and make their way to the exits, I am alone. I walk slowly down the hallway to the left, turning right at the fist door. As I approach the next door on my left, I silently give thanks to God, creator of the entire universe, for the tiny gift he is about to give me personally. I take the first left.

There I will find my daughter, Alex. Sometimes she is waiting for me, searching the faces of parents picking up their own children. Sometimes she is across the room playing with a toy that has held her interest. In either case, when her eyes meet mine, her eyebrows raise, her hands go in the air and she exclaims, “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!” It is always the high point of my week, and to be honest, sometimes the sole motivation for attending that week’s service. I’m sure God is aware of that. He wants to get me in that building one way or another and he knows EXACTLY how to do it.

As I bend down to pick up the little girl with the bow in her hair that is heading my way in a dead run, I silently say my weekly prayer.

“Thanks.”