The Librarian

I was around eight years old, and it was about once a month that our teacher took us to the school’s library to check out a book. For me, this was an exciting time. Out of all the books in the entire library, I got to choose one to take home for an entire month.

But I couldn’t really read that well.

With my speech disorder, sounding out words didn’t really work (if it ever works). But I knew there was something valuable about them—stories.

I think Mr. Bo, the librarian, knew that too. He was an elderly man who shared a resemblance with Mr. Rogers, the children’s show host.

I distinctly remember him having our class all sit together on the carpet as he gently brought out a worn book that he treated like an old friend. He carefully held the green book and lightly turned each page as he read to us The Giving Tree by Shel Silverstein. He ended the story in a dry voice as he read about how all the boy wanted was to be with the tree and how the tree was happy. He slowly closed the book, sat it down on the table next to him, and patted it with his weathered fingers.

“Do you know what that book reminds me of?” he asked the class of children on the floor.

No one answered.

“My parents,” the old man said.

Being only a kid, I somehow knew that was a good book, and I also knew Mr. Bo was a good man.

For a number of months, I would always check out the same book. It was a large illustrated book of fairytales. To me, it was so much better than the other books because it contained multiple stories instead of just one.

While the students were allowed to look through all the books, I looked with them even though I knew I was going to renew the book of fairytales once again. Finally, I stood in line to have the book renewed.

When I placed the old book on the counter, Mr. Bo said, “This book is getting old, isn’t it?”

I nodded.

“An old book like this needs to retire to a special home where someone can take care of it? Would you want to take it home and take care of it?”

I smiled and shyly said, “Yes.”

Mr. Bo opened up the front cover and took out the library card covered with dated stamps. He then very carefully pulled out the cardholder that had been glued on the back of the front cover. He handed me the book and smiled.

At the end of the school year, my school held its end of the year awards assembly. My mom was in the back videotaping it with her large, rectangular, over the shoulder camcorder. I was just a regular kid, so I never got the best reader award or the best athlete award. I was always the good, quiet kid in class.

Towards the end of the awards assembly, the principal announced there was one more award that was very special. It was the library award, and only one student in the entire school would receive it.

Mr. Bo steadily made his way up the stairs.

My name was called.

I feel like Mr. Bo believed in me. He didn’t really know me. We never held a real conversation. But he saw something in me. And I saw something in him.

After I moved from that small town, I remember hearing that he passed away, and the school named the library after him.

I still have that old book of fairytales somewhere up in my attic safely stored away in a box. That collection of stories prepared me for the real stories I would encounter in life.

The stories I would experience, create, and tell.

Mr. Bo saw something in me and was a small part of my story although he never knew it. As leaders in this sometimes-confusing world, I hope we can see things in others. I pray that we can believe in people even after years of disappointment.

Let us be stories.

Judging People

For a while, I was into CrossFit. I discovered it at the perfect time in my life. I needed some new friends, and the people at my box were completely opposite of who I normally hung out with. They cussed, drank, went dancing together at local clubs, and were extremely healthy when it came to their eating habits. They were exciting and fun, and they seemed to like me.

One Friday night after a full week of working out at the box, we all went out for Italian food. Muscles were sore and still throbbing a little, but this was our celebration of an ending week.

For the normal American young adult, Italian food includes lots of noodles, creamy sauce, and bread. But for the crossfitter, it’s salad, water, and maybe a tea with no sugar. And you could expect this question with any mention of food: “Is it Paleo?”

Sitting at a large table with Italian music drowned out by the loud voices of the restaurant, I could barely recognize my CrossFit friends without their workout attire since they were wearing nice button-downs and dresses with hair gelled and makeup on. I quickly decided to not get the lasagna and soda that I really wanted. Instead, I would have a salad and tea like the rest of the group.

I was enjoying my meal and laughing at all the inside jokes and stories we retold that had accumulated from the last few months of CrossFit. Every now and then I would grab a fresh slice of white bread on the middle of the table, and when the server came to refill my ice tea, I would add another packet of sugar to keep it lightly sweetened.

My good buddy on my left turned to me and said, “You’re really enjoying that bread, man. If I ate bread like that, I would be huge.”

I didn’t take another slice.

Soon, the server refilled my tea again, and I added another packet of sugar.

My friend on my left said, “Are you getting any tea with that sugar?” and she laughed lightheartedly.

They were judging me. They were being legalistic in a way. They were trying to hold me to a higher standard of healthy living.

And I appreciated it.

Because they wanted me to be healthy like them.

Sometimes at church, people do the same thing. They make little comments about spiritual unhealthy lifestyles. They try to hold each other to a higher standard of healthy spiritual living.

But when it’s at church, people become furious and respond with, “How dare you judge me! Doesn’t the Bible say to never judge?”

There are clearly different types of judging. If I’m lost in an unfamiliar city and end up in a dark ally and see a man approaching me with a knife out, I’m going to make a judgement about him that he may not have the best of intentions. I could find out later that an independent film group was just filming a YouTube video, but I think making the judgement that there was a real threat would be the wise thing to do.

The type of judging the Bible teaches against is not discernment but condemnation. It is never my place to examine another person and condemn him or her to hell for all eternity. That’s not my call; that is wrong.

We should not live a life of condemnation if we are followers of Christ. We should not condemn others, and we should not condemn ourselves.

But we should be discerning, judging our surroundings and using the wisdom that God gives us to make the right decisions that help protect others and ourselves.

I want people to be discerning of my lifestyle. If I’m consuming pizza, donuts, and soda all day every day, what faithful friend would approve of such a lifestyle by saying nothing?

If I’m living in a way that is spiritually unhealthy, what faithful friend would approve of such a lifestyle by saying nothing?

I hope that I have faithful friends at church and not just at the CrossFit box.

Guidance in Becoming a Teacher

It was after school one common day in the 5th grade when my mother sat me down and said, “Someday you’ll have a job that you’ll go to everyday for the rest of your life. What would you want to do?”

I know the 10-year-old me probably answered by saying a Lego designer or professional toy tester, but I really did think about her question. After a good amount of time of serious thinking, I went back to my mom and told her that I wanted to help people.

I wanted to someday have a job where I would get to help people everyday.

She explained that doctors help people, so I decided to be a doctor.

There was a problem with this plan though. I fainted if I saw blood. I don’t expect people to really understand this, and I have forgotten the official name of this diagnosis, but it had nothing to do with fear. My body would involuntarily faint all on its own.

When I was in high school, I took a health class in summer school to get ahead in my units. My health teacher was a mostly bald, elderly man with translucent skin, a pot belly, and bony legs that surprisingly held him up. Since it was summer school, he wore shorts and a collar neck shirt.

One day while he was teaching on the cardiovascular system, he described to us how he had heart surgery before and how the doctors went through an artery in his leg to get to his heart. Seeing his protruding blue veins through his fishlike skin was just too much.

I became lightheaded and felt a slight chill. My hands became clammy, and my forehead started to perspire. I leaned down in my desk and crossed one leg over the other to try to get some blood flow back to my head.

I did not want to be known as the kid who fainted in health class.

I raised my hand and asked to use the restroom. The teacher motioned with his hand for me to go—his white haired, translucent skinned, blue veined arm.

I hurried out of the classroom as everything turned to white and then laid down outside next to the wall. With my knees elevated, I watched my vision return to me through the faded white.

I always thought I would grow out of this inconvenient condition, but I was slowly realizing I wouldn’t be able to help people as a medical doctor.

But I could help them with their psychological problems. Thus, I decided to become a therapist.

In my undergrad years, this was my vocational plan. I was a psychology major, but while plugging away at classes, I noticed I really enjoyed my English classes. I also enjoyed the overall college experience even though my university definitely lacked on stereotypical college living. (Note to high school students, if you feel ready to go away for college, do it. At least for two years after you finish your general education classes.) I learned double majoring would only take about a year longer, and I would then have two BA degrees, so I majored in both psychology and English.

It was when I was working in the English Tutorial Center that I first thought that maybe I could be a real high school English teacher. I was teaching English and writing to college students, so I figured why not?

My dad always suggested I should be a teacher. He would mention how teachers got off earlier than most other jobs and that teachers got the summers off. He brought it up so many times that I eventually became frustrated and told him, “Dad, I don’t want to be a teacher. I never said I wanted to be a teacher. I’m going to be a marriage-family therapist. That’s been my goal the whole time. I’m keeping to it.”

I remember him responding, “I know, but I just think teaching would be a really good job.”

After I graduated from college with my two degrees, I was about to start the application process for a master’s program in psychology when my mom showed me an ad by a private Christian high school looking for an English teacher. My mom suggested I just swing by and introduce myself. I didn’t have a teaching credential, but I was a little curious if they would even consider hiring someone straight out of college.

I put on a tie that matched my khaki pants and my light blue dress shirt, and I drove across town to the big church, which was also the campus of the small high school.

I marched up the stairs to the portable administration building and said to the principal, “Hello, I’m Terry Tripp, and I wanted to speak to you about applying for the English position.”

She looked surprised and invited me to sit down. She then asked about my teaching and ministry experience. I told her about my years of tutoring experience at the university and how I even taught a few English labs there. I went on to tell her my many years of ministry experience, leading worship, teaching Bible studies, and being on church leadership. She smiled, and told me to hold on.

When she came back into the room, she had an older woman with her. The principal introduced the older woman as the curriculum administrator. The principal asked me to say again why I came in today.

I restated that I was interested in the English position, and the two women smiled at each other.

The principal opened a filing cabinet to pull out a 40-page application and said, “This morning the pastor of our church came in and said if a young man comes in inquiring about the English position to hire him on the spot because he’s from the Lord.”

I responded, “Wow, that’s great. I guess it’s hard to argue with that. How many people have been applying for this position?”

“You’re the first one in weeks,” she answered.

I spent a few hours at home filling out the application. I think I had to write out about three different forms of testimonies, and about a month later, I stepped onto that campus as a fulltime English teacher.

Months later on the last day before Christmas break, I took a moment to go outside and just stand still and exist.

There was Christmas music playing on the intercom, and students joyously interacted with each other while eating their lunches outside in the light fog.

They were young. They were happy. They still had that childlike innocence about them—free from the calluses of life.

Although I was excited about the two week break, at that moment I realized something that I didn’t think would happen.

I was going to miss them; I was going to miss my students—the literature that we adventured through together, the inside jokes we developed, the encouragement of the good days, the counseling of the bad ones.

I was doing a form of therapy. Not therapy where I would see a patient once a month, but therapy where I see my students an hour every school day for an entire school year.

I registered for classes in a teaching credential program and a master’s program in education and never looked back. I eventually changed subjects to teach visual art, which was a great change for me, and now I’m able to see students’ more creative side in a relaxed learning environment with more time to counsel and interact with them.

Sometimes God makes decisions very clear in life, practically opening the door for us. Other times when choices are not that clear, we have to use the wisdom that God has given us along with the truth of his scripture to make a decision.

When I was living in Azusa for the summer while working on my MFA in visual art, Steven, a good friend and fellow student, and I got into a memorable conversation while driving to check out some LA art galleries.

I asked, “Don’t you ever wonder if you made the right choice? Don’t you ever wonder what if?”

He boldly said, “No, I don’t.”

“Never?”

He explained, “Why should I? If I’m walking in the Spirit and if I’m praying about every decision and if I’m not living in sin, why should I question past choices? If God is guiding me and if he was guiding me in the past, then questioning my choices guided by his Spirit would be questioning him, and I’m not about to question God.”

Steven’s answer was life changing for me, and it taught me that God is always guiding us in our choices and decisions if we’re in fellowship with him. Sometimes his voice is loud and bold while sometimes it’s in the whisperings of the Holy Spirit and the remembrance of his word.

The Faithful Commitment

The story is somewhat vague to me, but one of the first times my mom brought my dad home, my nanny’s sisters were over. My nanny later said to my mom, “How dare you bring that long haired hippie over when your family’s all here.”

My papa said to my nanny, “Honey, that there is a good boy,” and my nanny trusted my papa.

Required to get a legal signature for permission from his parents, my dad married my mom at 17, and she was 18. Even at such a young age, both of them agreed to do something extreme.

They decided to make a commitment to never allow any drugs or alcohol into their home.

They weren’t Baptist. They didn’t even go to church. But both sides of my family had siblings who struggled with drug addictions, and they had seen the dangers that come with alcohol. They wanted to safeguard their home, their marriage, and their future children.

As a high school teacher today, I examine the maturity levels of some of my seniors, and I’m further impressed by my parents’ monumental decision at such a young age.

Because of their precocious wisdom, my parents were able to give me one of the most precious gifts a kid could ever receive—a good and safe childhood.

I never had to worry about Mom or Dad drinking too much, and drugs were merely an alien concept that existed in another world.

When I was around 10, my mom and I went to the lake with one of my best friends and his mother. His mother had a drinking problem. Instead of bringing a bottle with her, she had a Big Gulp that she kept sipping out of throughout the day. In a few hours, she was passed out, and we all learned it wasn’t soda she had been sipping.

With my mom driving us all home in our minivan and his mother recovering in the passenger seat, my close friend sat one seat away from me trying to hide his tears as he sniffled privately.

I never had to experience anything like that in my house.

It was safe.

But commitments aren’t always easy to uphold.

Although my aunt Lana was only a few years younger than my mother, she almost seemed more like an older sister than an aunt. Not marrying or having children helped her stay in the youthful state of the vogue of the younger generation. She still listened to current popular music and dressed in a way that the kids at my school would say she was pretty if they ever saw her with me.

But she wasn’t around that much.

Sadly, drugs had taken her away from us; she didn’t ever want us to see her when she wasn’t doing well.

When she was around, she completed the family with her uplifting energy, smile, and life-bringing laugh.

I was in the fourth grade, and my family hadn’t heard from Lana in a while. Back before cell phones and social media, you couldn’t keep track of people as well, and honestly, I don’t think my family knew if she were dead or alive at the time.

One regular day my parents heard a knock at the door, and there she was with one of her guy friends. She was unhealthily skinny, which we all knew wasn’t a good sign, but she put on her loving smile and gave us all hugs being happy to see us. I remember my mom looking so thankful that her sister was alive and with her again.

Then Lana went to use the bathroom. After a few minutes, I noticed a disappointing look overcome my dad’s face. Lana eventually came out of the bathroom, and my dad walked in it. When he came out, he said, “Sorry, Lana, but you have to go now.”

She understood and left quickly. I saw my mom’s face fall as she watched her only sibling leave, not knowing if she would ever see her again.

As the front door shut, my mom was already in tears as she pleaded with my dad, “Couldn’t we just have let her stay? She’s not doing well at all.”

My dad restated the commitment, “No one is going to do drugs in this house. It’s our rule. We aren’t going to allow it for her or from anyone.”

I thought my mom was going to be angry. Maybe even furious. I was mentally preparing for some sort of fight—something huge. But my mom did something that I know was extremely difficult for her. She wiped her eyes and said, “You’re right. We can’t.” She looked down. “It’s just that she has had such a hard life.”

My dad responded gently, “I know.”

She and my dad honored their commitment even when it was the most difficult, and they probably didn’t even realize there was a blond hair, little boy watching from the hallway and learning valuable lessons that no scholarly article or academic book nor the most renowned college professor would ever come close to teaching.

Right after high school many years later, I went to a home Bible study associated with a church nearby. The father of the home who lead the study said to us, “If you could only have one word written on your tombstone someday, no name or bio, no dates of your lifespan, just one word, what would that word be?”

I thought about this question for a while as other people threw out words like, “kind” and “helpful.” Some said, “successful” and “ambitious.” Eventually, someone asked him what his one word would be, and he replied, “Faithful.”

Coming from little money with no real education, two young people, 17 and 18, decided to start a family being faithful to their commitments. And because of their selfless faithfulness, they allowed for their children to have a childhood full of peace, love, and safety, so growing up wouldn’t have to happen too fast.

Let’s pray that God helps us all be able to have “faithful” written on our tombstones someday.

The Healer

I was in the first or second grade when I first remember going to the eye doctor. I don’t remember the details, but the optometrist told my mom that my light blue eyes were so sensitive to sunlight that I needed to wear sunglasses whenever I go outside.

My mom, of course, took me directly to the glasses store and bought me a pair of Ray-Ban sunglasses. I wore them for about a week, and that was the end of those glasses.

In the 5th grade, I went to the eye doctor again. After having me read countless letters, the optometrist blurred the screen and said to my mom, “You see this right here?” He pointed to the screen. “This is how your son sees.”

My mom started crying at the realization of my horrible vision. Once again, she went directly to buy me a pair of glasses, and I wore them for about a week at school, maybe less.

I could get by sitting close to the board in most classrooms at school, and I found ways of just getting by at lunch and during recess. But I would wear my glasses at home.

A few weeks ago, I got a quick giggle when I came across an old photo of me behind my drum set with those golden clunkers weighing heavily on my face.

I just hated wearing glasses. They felt wrong to me. I knew many people wore them and even liked them, but I never accepted them as part of myself. When I had the chance, I would remove them for photos, and if I drew myself, there would be no sign of glasses.

One average day in the 7th grade, I was sitting on the couch watching TV, and I overheard my mom talking on the cordless phone to a friend from our old charismatic church about a healer coming in from out of town for a special Wednesday night service.

I liked the people at my old church; they were kind and loving. You got hugs from everyone. The sermons might not have always been biblically strong, but you could always count on the hugs.

I’m not for sure why, but I asked my dad privately if he would take me to the Wednesday night service to see the healer. Maybe it’s because I had previously expressed to my mom how I never wanted to be the kind of boys at church who sat in the front pews and seemed to cry in some dramatic worship performance every Sunday morning. As a young pre-teen, I wanted to be many things in life, but not one of them.

My father agreed to take me when he got home from work, and we drove across town together. I pretended to only be curious about hearing what the speaker had to say.

But that wasn’t the case. I read, heard, and even believed that God could heal. If there was any chance to have my vision restored, I was going to give this healing stuff everything I had.

We walked into an embrace of hugs and authentic smiling faces. People there were really so kind. Then the worship service started with the healer up on the stage.

I’m not really the singing type of guy in church, but I sang that Wednesday night. I sang every song, making sure I didn’t miss a word. I might have even lifted my hands–I’m not sure. What I am sure about is that I didn’t want to do anything that would jeopardize any chance of my eyes being healed. I cleared my mind and believed with all my might that I would be healed.

No one was going to be able to tell me that I didn’t have enough faith or didn’t worship God sincerely enough.

After a good 40 minutes of worship songs, the healer began his routine. He told us that God had given him the gift of healing. He explained that we could be healed if we had enough faith and truly believed. He quoted memorized scripture. Then he invited us to come down if we wanted healing.

A crowded line down the center isle appeared instantly, and I watched with my dad from a pew as people began to be healed.

People were healed from headaches, anxiety, back pains, bad dreams, tumors that they didn’t know they had, and many other things that were all really unfalsifiable.

My situation was clear. If I could see without my glasses, I was healed. If I still needed my glasses to see, then I wasn’t.

I reminded myself of everything that the healer said. I pushed out every ounce of doubt in my mind. I felt the rim of my glasses on my face and told myself this would be the last time I would ever need to wear them, and then I stood up to go stand in line.

A faithful and hopeful boy.

Doing his best to believe with all his heart.

When my turn in line came, the healer asked me what I wanted healing for. I told him about my horrible eye vision and how I wanted God to heal my eyes. The worship music continued as the healer spoke in tongues as he placed his hands on my temples and began to pray. After reciting a few Bible verses and praying some more, he finally declared that I was healed.

The people in the congregation hollered out praises that were mixed with the sound of a tambourine and music. I turned to walk back down that center isle believing with all my might that what the healer said was true.

After a few steps, I finally began to try to focus on something far away, but all I saw was a blur. But I didn’t put on my glasses because I didn’t want to doubt.

I sat during the remainder of the worship service pushing myself to believe I could see, but the fact that the healer appeared as nothing more than a blur on the stage was beginning to wear on me.

When the friendly congregation finally started gathering their purses and Bibles to begin their exiting round of hugs, I was forced to come to the truthful conclusion that I had not been healed.

Service was now over.

Disappointment.

“Are you ready to go?” my patient father asked.

“One moment,” I responded and boldly walked back up that center isle and asked the healer why my eyes weren’t healed?

He replied, “Well son, sometimes it takes God a few days to complete a healing.”

He might as well said, “Well son, I’m a complete fake,” or “Well son, I’m really spiritually confused.”

Riding home with my understanding father, I felt a little like a fool, but I was fine. I wanted to, at least once in my life, give the whole charismatic healing thing one sincere chance. And I did.

Now let me clarify, I do believe God can heal, but his ways aren’t our ways. He can’t be placed in a box or be assigned to some specific formula for miracles. He’s far too big for that.

In my life I’ve seen some cases of church show business, but I’ve also seen a good handful of undeniable miracles. Even as I’m typing this, I have 20/20 vision, unaided by any glasses or contacts. So God did have a plan for my eyes to be healed, but it was different than what I had planned.

 

Childhood Home

There’s something special about one’s childhood home. I was born in Bakersfield, California. When I was two, my parents moved out to Derby Acers. Just to give you an idea of this area, some people called it “Dirty Acers.” But to me it was home, and a wonderful home at that.

My parents were in their very early twenties when they bought a brand new, double-wide mobile home and placed it on a quarter acer of land. They put up a nice fence and divided the backyard for a horse corral. I remember having a swing set, a tree to climb in, a little area designated for our doughboy pool, an orchid for my mom, a long, extended drive to skateboard down, and still plenty of room for a young boy’s invisible adventures. It was in that backyard that my best friend Matt and I fought off alien soldiers who hovered over us in a giant flying saucer. Other days we were fighting off medieval warriors who were invading our castle as I was a knight and Matt was a wizard.

A dog named Boy barked in excitement at the imaginary scenes as my mom baked a cake inside waiting for my dad to get home from work.

I lived in that house until my family moved to Bakersfield at age 10, so the majority of my innocent childhood was spent there.

It really was a perfect place to grow up as a kid. I left my bike in the front yard, and there was never a thought about someone stealing it. Doors were often left open for a sweet breeze, and most of the time they were unlocked. We had horses, cats, bunnies, dogs, chickens, a pig, and three-wheelers.

The foothills and mountains that surrounded the valley were close and always clear, and there was something special about the sunset that fell down over them. There was time then too. Time to watch cartoons. Time to play outside. Time to stare at my mother as she made dinner or organized her records and folded laundry. Time to wait on the front porch to see if I could spot my dad’s work truck driving home on the main road a few blocks away. Time to think.

My younger sister, Amber, was about seven years younger than me. Since we moved to Bakersfield when I was nine, and she was around three, she didn’t get to experience the same childhood I did.

A few years ago, when I was in my early thirties, and she in her twenties, we made plans to grab lunch as we tried to do every few weeks. Christmas was approaching, and we were looking for some place special to eat. I thought up the idea of driving out to Taft for lunch and another 15 minutes to Derby Acers to show her where she first lived. I was surprised that she wanted to join me on this adventure. She had recently gotten engaged, and we would get to use the long drive to catch up.

The road went from straight, long lanes to hilly roads and then to a small two-lane road surrounded by oilrigs and foothills. Turning into our, I guess you could call it a neighborhood, the road faded to dirt. My sister jerked around in my truck as we went over the uneven dirt.

We drove past my old best friend’s house, Matt, and then turned left. There in the middle of the dirt road, I stopped in reverence to show my sister her first home.

After a few seconds of silence and an odd look on my sister’s face, she said, “Why did Mom and Dad live here?”

I looked to examine my childhood home. The fence had fallen. The grass has turned to dirt. The orchid was gone to just an empty dry space with scattered weeds. The pool has vanished. No dog barked eagerly to see me. It was a pathetic sight.

I tried to explain to Amber what it was once like—the fine details of every bit of energy that Mom and Dad put into it to make it a fine home for their two children. But then I realized something.

It was more accurate in my memory than it was in real life. What now stood wasn’t my childhood home, for it was gone forever.

Or maybe, it was forever saved in my memories, where it will always be real.

That’s the moment I understood that the past can’t be revisited in real life but only in the heart.

I looked at my sister. Graduated from college. Engaged. Grown. Accomplished. Faithful. Kind. Wise. She is what I still have from that past. Not some house.

We drove to Taft and ate at a Mexican food restaurant. It was mostly empty inside. There was a huge Christmas tree with colorful lights across from our table. My sister and I laughed and smiled as we told stories and revisited jokes while eating our food. And I enjoyed the present before me—my grown little sister who would only hold the same last name as me for a few more months.

Let’s be thankful for the past and hold it dearly in our hearts, but let’s be thankful for all God’s given us in the present and never neglect for a moment what we have now because in time, it too will be gone.

Last Dance

lady-in-red

In normal high school experiences, the only thing that is worse than being dumped by a wonderful person is having to break up with a wonderful person. That was me during my junior year. She was a great girl—pretty, smart, clean, classy, but we just had different missions in life. I felt that I had a different calling than she did, so during my junior year, I had to decide to do one of the most difficult things ever; I had to leave someone who loved me crying on her front yard after I took her home after school, as I drove off alone.

Don’t worry. She’s fine now. She has a beautiful family and a good career.

But back to the past, it was towards the end of my junior year in high school, and the prom was approaching. This would be the first high school dance I would go to without my ex-girlfriend. She already had her date, a decent guy.

It hurt in a way. I understood everything. It all made sense. But it still hurt.

I knew what I had to do. It’s what any teenage guy would do in high school. I would ask the hottest girl I knew to be my date. Someone who would be the type of girl to wear a blazing red, short dress. Someone who would latch onto my arm long enough, so I could walk through those huge, double doors of the prom’s entrance to have my ex see me for just a moment and miss me.

Now I thought, where would I find such a girl?

My youth group, of course.

I asked her with a folded note during a Wednesday night service, back before text messaging. She happily accepted. I’m still not sure if it was because of me or because she went to another school and wanted to be allowed to attend my school’s prom, which was on the opposite side of town.

Bringing this girl to prom wasn’t purely selfish. I was hoping I would find something amazing about her and that she would win me over, like one of those 80’s movies or something like that.

Prom night finally came, and with the financial help of my generous grandparents, we arrived in a limo. She wore a short, red dress and had taken on the essence of stereotypical, high school beauty. We walked in those double doors, and she was latched on my arm. The music vibrated through the souls of our shoes as our eyes looked up to be caught by the flashing strobes. My school’s ASB has once again transformed a regular building hall into something quite magical.

My date and I quickly found my group of friends as the guys lit up in surprise as they set their eyes upon my mysterious date. Then something happened that I’ll probably always be unsure about. My ex-girlfriend walked up to my date and said something before walking away angrily. My date’s mouth dropped in awe.

“What?” I asked.

“She just called me a skank!” my date said in her most high, feminine voice.

“She did?”

“Yes, she did!”

Now that was very out of character for my ex-girlfriend, but I honestly, I laughed a little in my mind, and maybe a small smirk broke through onto my face. The night was going just as planned, which is odd in life.

Just then a popular song came on, and my friends eagerly rushed closer to the center of the dance floor.

“I told one of my friends that I would dance with him for one dance since I’m at his school. Can I go find him to dance with him, so I can get that over with, and then we can dance for the rest of the night together?” my date so innocently asked.

“Sure, that’s fine with me,” I sent her off into the dark, teenager abyss of moving bodies.

I wasn’t really bothered by her request because I honestly just wanted to dance with my own friends. Most of them only brought friends as dates, so they could dance with others.

Half an hour went by. Then a full hour. Two. Three. Still no sign of my prom date. Someone asked if I knew where she was. I didn’t. Maybe she was nearby camouflaged with the other countless short, red dresses that moved around, near, and on sweaty guys. Someone else asked if I thought she was okay? “I’m sure she’s fine,” I answered.

I continued to dance with my friends and tried to pretend that I was having just as good of a time as I did at every other school dance. But I wasn’t.

I wasn’t second guessing my decision of breaking up with my ex, but I was sad. Maybe mourning in a way. And I was alone. The familiarity of the environment made me remember first dancing with her my freshmen year, and how I felt like the king of the world back then, when everything was still brand new. I gave her up. Now she was dancing with someone else, looking happy and pretty as ever.

Eventually, all my friends were coupled up with the help of the mood of a magical environment. I awkwardly stood there by myself. I watched time fade by like the last two years of my high school life. I felt like the fool. People started noticing that I was alone, and it was weird, so I had to go.

But I had nowhere to go. I couldn’t just leave my date, although she left me. I looked for a hideout, some place unnoticed safe—the restroom.

Surrounded by the cold, tall, echoing walls of the boy’s restroom, I could still hear the songs vibrating through the floors in muffled words of bass. My feet were now sore from my dress shoes—maybe tired. I looked into the scratched mirror and examined myself. Sharp dressed in a pressed shirt. A red tie to match a missing date. Hair still perfectly styled. But alone.

What this going to be my future now? Were the best days of high school already behind me? I was once the school’s vice-president for two years in a row. But not anymore.

I now second guessed my decision of breaking up with her. I felt wholeheartedly that it was the right thing to do at the time. I prayed through it. I felt confirmation.

I looked back into the mirror.

“What’s up with this, God? This isn’t how it’s supposed to be. I don’t even know.”

I heard the bass under the souls of my shoes start a new song—Lady in Red, the 90’s slow song that became the signature last dance at all my school’s dances. I gave a wry smile and thought how pathetic was I to hide out during my high school prom. I remembered who I was.

A child of God.

Someone bought with a great price.

Someone loved unconditionally.

I straightened up my posture and walked out of that restroom with a confident smile to see my world turning together in slow motion to the magical mood of the music.

I stood there hoping for a miracle. Waiting. Even enjoying the happiness of others.

Then, I felt a tap on my shoulder.

I turned around to see Britney, a friend of mine. Not anyone I ever flirted with. Not anyone I ever considered dating, but just a friend. She said, “I thought you might be feeling along there, stranger. Want to dance.”

“Thanks.”

We slow danced together at a friendly distance for the rest of that song, and I wasn’t alone.

Although we are friends on social media, Britney and I don’t talk much. We don’t comment on each other’s posts really or even “like” each other’s photos, but there will always be an element of gratitude connected to any thought of her. And although there have been many forgotten dances with many different girls, that one dance would never be forgotten.

After the lights came on and people rushed to find their purses and jackets, I finally found my date. She told me some dramatic story about searching all over for me. I didn’t believe her, but I wasn’t upset. I knew she wasn’t the girl for me.

I really didn’t give her much thought after that night, but I did think about Britney. I recalled how she was involved at her church. I remember visiting her youth group from time to time, and she was always there and involved with something. I can never remember hearing her say anything bad about anyone, not even once. She was never the center of attention. She mostly just blended in, but she always seemed faithful in all that she did.

I believe wholeheartedly that she walked in the Spirit. I believe the Holy Spirit gave her discernment to see what I was feeling. I can imagine her notice my out of character prom date. I can picture her watching me glance through the crowd at my ex-girlfriend every now and then. I can see her searching for me during the last dance of the night and feeling a bit of relief when she found me.

We know the Spirit leads us when we’re seeking after others instead of ourselves. When we dance with people in this crazy thing called life. When we embrace those who are hurting and alone.

 

Lost in a Grocery Store

lost-in-a-grocery-store

I often hear parents talk about how rambunctious their grown children were when they were young—how they would have their hands into everything that wasn’t theirs. How they would talk a stranger’s ear off. How they would break down and throw a fit in public when they didn’t get their way.

Honestly, my parents didn’t have these problems with me, not to say I didn’t come with my own share of unique problems.

I was shy. I had some unclear speech disorder that wasn’t properly diagnosed. I was an only child for seven years, until my sister came along. Yeah, I was that kid who played the first Nintendo Entertainment System and only had a few select friends who played with me. And the rest was all imagination.

I remember being about four years old and walking around the small town grocery store with my dad. Our home was about 15-20 minutes from the well-lit store, and it was a happy occasion to get to go with Dad for a dinner run. This was a time when stores were a more decorated for every holiday—individual and custom decorations for each season. Every once in a while, I would even get to pick out a toy from the isle across from the cereal. I don’t think my parents will ever realize how a five dollar piece of plastic would make my day.

So there I was walking through the store with wide eye wonder holding my dad’s hand. Then all of a sudden, I looked up and the hand I was holding was not my dad’s. This was terrifying for a four-year-old. He was a complete stranger, and I didn’t know where my dad was. My young brain couldn’t comprehend how this had happened. One minute, I was with my dad, and the next, a perfect stranger.

The older man looked down at me and said, “You’re a cute, little guy, but you’re not mine.” I turned all over to finally find my dad standing nearby and quickly reached out for his hand—embarrassed, frightened, confused; I wanted to cry, but I wasn’t one of those kids.

As an adult now, occasionally I’ll see small children who lose their mom or dad at a grocery store. A painful terror comes over them, and after a few seconds of desperately looking all around and realizing the scary truth of their situation, their eyes begin to water, their lips quiver, and then they cry. A loud cry from someplace in pain. Sometimes a scream, as all the other children continue walking quietly holding their parent’s hand, wondering what’s wrong with that kid.

Sometimes I get discouraged being a believer in this modern world. I’m bombarded with so many anti-Christ statements, philosophies, and ideologies yelled from rooftops. I see them printed online, in magazines, in newspapers, on television, and cluttered all over social media. I start to think that the whole world holds these same views, while a few others and myself are the only ones who still attempt to have some sort of desire to follow Christ.

But I’ve learned this is not true. The church is well. The church is strong. The church is winning. This is because the church is God’s bride, and God’s faithful to his bride. And in the end, God wins.

This world is full of believers who seriously love the Lord. Famous rock stars, actors, writers, artists, athletes, politicians. They are all out there and living for the Lord.

But why can’t we hear them? Why don’t we hear true Christians proclaiming their beliefs all over the media?

Because they aren’t lost.

They are holding their father’s hand.

Children aren’t terrified when they have their father’s hand. Believers have a peace that the lost children don’t understand.

Lost children in this world cry. They shout out. They don’t understand. They are angry. They hurt others. They take, steal, lie. They are hurting. They do anything they can to help themselves because they are lost—without a father.

It’s sad really. So very sad.

When we see the lost world, let’s remind ourselves that we are not losing simply because we are quiet. Let’s remind ourselves that we aren’t alone just because other believers aren’t yelling out. We are just at peace holding our father’s hand—the very best place to be.