Between Idolatry and Joy: Some Thoughts on Life from a Jazz Saxophonist and Storm Chaser

There is an art to pursuing the things we’re most passionate about without letting them consume us. I certainly find this to be true of my own two interests, jazz saxophone and storm chasing, but the principle applies to all of us in whatever our preoccupations may be. Without fascination, energy, focus, and joy to drive us wholeheartedly in our pursuits, there’s no point to them; yet without restraint, self-awareness, and awareness of the broader world around us, it is easy to become a mile deep in our passions and an inch deep in life at large. Between these two realities, for me and I think for many of us, there lies a dynamic tension.

As a disciple of Jesus, I have to reckon with the issue of idolatry. In Old Testament times, an idol was easy to identify. It’s hard for us today to fathom people fashioning gold calves and graven images, both human and bestial, and then worshiping the things that they themselves had crafted. Yet that’s exactly what people did back then, both in pagan nations and in apostate Israel.

The funny thing is, we’re no different. We still bow down to the works of our hands, to things that are capable of becoming our gods if we let them. Things that blind us to truths bigger than ourselves and hinder our capacity to love God and others.

The problem with our modern idols, however, is that they’re not readily identifiable as such in the same manner as, say, a brazen bull or a figurine of Marduk. Anything in our lives can become an idol–our careers, our pursuits, significant relationships, the desire for love, our injuries and disappointments, our causes, our appetites, our emotions, our cars and other possessions, even our ministries and charitable occupations. Idolatry today is not usually something that is innate to the things in our lives, but is a matter of our attitude toward them and God. In ways subtle and not so subtle, it’s easy for us to invest ourselves in what we have and what we do in such a way that we allow it to define life and purpose for us. That’s a problem, because any of it can be taken away from us at any time, and sooner or later all of it is going to go. Then where do we find meaning; then where do we find life?

Moreover, we can become irresponsible and selfish in reaching for what we’ve defined as life, setting our pursuits above people we love and who love us. When we’re frustrated in those pursuits, we can become downright nasty, even destructive, toward persons who seem to inconvenience us, challenge us, or obstruct us. We’ll sacrifice others to our idols and justify ourselves in doing so rather than deal with our own hearts.

All this in the quest for life on our own terms.

Well do the words of Isaiah the prophet speak to us today: “[The idolater] feeds on ashes; a deluded heart misleads him. He cannot save himself or say, ‘Is not this thing in my right hand a lie?'”

Is there a flip side to this coin?

Of course there is. If God never intended for us to enshrine the things that we enjoy and love to do, neither does he want us to smother those things in sackcloth. In the Bible’s book of Genesis, in the Creation story, God from the beginning gave Adam and Eve something meaningful to do. They were gardeners, caring for the trees and flowers in Eden. Ironically, after they sinned, the man and woman’s immediate response was to hide from God behind the very things he had assigned them to cultivate and protect.

The problem lay not in the shrubs and trees and vines, but in Adam and Eve. The greenery in the garden was the same as the day when God first looked on it and called it good; it was the human heart that had changed. Ever since, in various ways, we’ve had a tendency to conceal ourselves from God and from each other behind the things we do.

Yet those same pursuits also have the potential to express the robust life of Jesus living in us untamed and unfettered. There’s nothing at all winsome about Christians who are so paranoid about idolatry that everything they do is constrained by a gray, lackluster religiosity. Many well-meaning believers confuse holiness with a boxed-in, sanctimonious, hermetically sealed existence that is about as invigorating as paper pulp. It hardly mirrors God’s exuberance in the act of creation, when with a decisive word he spun the visions of his heart into being–planets, suns, galaxies, luminous gas clouds, multiplied quintillions of celestial objects, all whirling across the velvet-black vastness; ocean tides pulsing and surf crashing against craggy shorelines; wildflowers waving in vivid, multi-hued pointillism in meadows and forests, knit together, unseen, by untold millions of miles of subterranean roots and rootlets.

Talk about a hobby! It was no dour, stuff-shirted God who created this fabulous world around us, this universe that awes and fascinates and humbles us; no, it was an eternal being who throughout the ages remains forever young–smarter than the most brilliant scientist, wiser than the wisest sage, yet passionately, perpetually, and unapologetically a child at heart.

God created us to live our lives as wholeheartedly, creatively, lovingly, generously, fearlessly, and beautifully as he lives his, in ways unique to each of us. Failure to do so is in itself a form of idolatry, a lack of trust that the One who hardwired us with our personal interests also supplies the grace and wisdom to express his life and fulfill his intentions through those interests.

The overarching principle is love–love of God and love of others. Love is ultimately what separates between idolatry–which is about pursuing our own independent way on our own terms–and the abundant, God-dependent life that Jesus offers. Christianity is not about good morals and rock-hard dogma; it is about nothing less than the life of Jesus himself living inside us, energizing us, guiding us in the pathway of his character. That is no weak, wan way of living. To be sure, it is a way that is often marked by self-sacrifice, pain, loneliness, misunderstanding, prayer, struggle, and self-control. But it is also a way infused with immense purpose, remarkable potential, endless fascination, and a joy that can be found in nothing else this life can offer.

In conclusion

Bringing all of the above to bear in a practical way for those of us who chase storms and/or play music: Whatever you do, do it with all your heart. God is not glorified by a timorous approach to the things you enjoy, nor does he want you to walk on eggshells for fear of offending him. Just keep in mind that there is more to life than your pursuits. Enjoy those pursuits, treasure them, but don’t grasp them so tightly that you can’t let go, and don’t let them give you tunnel vision so that you fail to see and participate in the broadness of life around you. Other people’s worlds are as rich and important as yours; to the best of your ability, enter into them, celebrate them, and let them expand you. Harness your interests in a way that makes your life bigger, not smaller–an expression of generosity, not selfishness, and of a Christlike perspective that values God and others most of all.

Behind the sound of a saxophone playing now tenderly, now exuberantly, always striving for creativity and beauty…behind the sublimity, the fascination, and the awe of a tornado churning across the open prairie…you can, if you choose, hear the song and see the face of God. If you submit your heart to him, he will in turn release his own magnificent heart in and through the things you love to do.

This, in part, is what life, true life, is about: allowing the things that are central to us to become the servants and the expressions of Someone far bigger than ourselves, and of a kingdom greater than our own.

October 30, 2010 by
Filed Under: Christian Music, Christian Spirituality & Inspiration, Church Worship, Jazz, Life, Music, Saxophone, Storm Chasing Tagged With: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Remembering September 11, 2001

On this rainy September afternoon, a departure from the normal focus of Stormhorn.com on jazz saxophone and storm chasing is appropriate. Nine years ago today, the weather was quite different from this present, somber overcast. Here in Michigan the skies were that crisp, crackling blue you get as autumn moves in. It was beautiful in New York City, too–a cloudless morning except for the thick, hot plume boiling out of the Twin Towers and spreading a pall of shock, horror, grief, fear, and anger across our nation.

Like any American old enough to watch and absorb the breaking news that day, I have my personal memories of September 11, 2001. I was sitting in my cubicle at Zondervan Publishing House when an email circulated from one of the employees saying that a plane had flown into the World Trade Center and that the aftermath looked terrible.

“How tragic!” I thought, not realizing that “tragic” barely qualified as an understatement for the holocaust that was beginning to unfold. I envisioned an accident involving a small, twin-engined private plane, not a commercial jet used as a missile by terrorists. Not until another email arrived announcing that the second tower had just been hit did I realize something much bigger was afoot. How big I still didn’t know, and even as I began to find out, I had a hard time wrapping my mind around the enormity of what was happening in Lower Manhattan.

Downstairs in the atrium, I joined a large group of employees who stood, transfixed, around a large television. Work? Who could work, and what manager would require us to? Together we watched incredulously as the towers burned. We gasped as first the South Tower collapsed, and then the North. “All those people!” sobbed one woman. I didn’t weep; the images on the TV screen seemed surreal to me, beyond emotion. I felt no sorrow, just disbelief and a kind of stunned, sick hollowness in my gut.

That day, over 2,500 people who entered the Twin Towers on what seemed like any other workday lost their lives. Heroes emerged in a moment of time–brave, ordinary firemen rising to the occasion, saving lives at the cost of their own when the steel girders buckled and the buildings plunged. And as that ghastly drama played out in New York, another jet crashed into the Pentagon and yet another fell from the sky in Pennsylvania.

How does one respond to so defining a moment in the history of our nation? How should one feel, what does one do, when an ordinary day becomes a day of infamy engineered by demon-possessed religious zealots? In my case, like others at Zondervan and across America, I labored through the rest of my workday in a state of numbness that made it impossible to accomplish anything, and then headed home.

Afterward, I headed to the weekly meeting of my Vineyard church home group. On the way, I drove past two women out for an evening jog. There they were, running down the sidewalk, talking and laughing as they ran, exactly as if nothing extraordinary had transpired during the course of their day.

How, I wondered, could they laugh? Evil had descended upon our country, an outrage whose aftershocks had not even begun to be felt. How could two people act so cavalierly, as if life simply goes on?

Of course I was making snap judgments based on fleeting input. I had no idea what was actually going through those womens’ minds or what the day had been like for them. In any case, each of us processes crisis differently, and there’s no manual for human behavior on a day such as 9/11. The fact is, life does go on because it must, benumbed and forever altered but moving forward nonetheless.

The ability for individual Americans to laugh and proceed with their day-to-day affairs, even as we grieved as a nation, was perhaps the most immediate victory we could enjoy–a proclamation to those monsters masquerading as men that yes, you’ve hurt us, but by the grace of God, you will never, ever subdue us.

To those who lost their lives nine years ago today: We will never forget.

To the selfless firemen, policemen, and other public servants who bought their badges of heroism at the ultimate personal cost: We thank you for your sacrifice and honor your deathless deeds.

To those whose hearts still ache over the loss of their loved ones in the tragedy of September 11, 2001: May God comfort you.

To all my countrymen who read these words: Let us always remember. And let us live our lives as the priceless gifts from God that they are, with purpose, integrity, freedom, charity, and an eye on blessing others. Perhaps the best way to honor those who died on 9/11 is to do what we can, in small ways or in great, to make our own lives count for something bigger than ourselves.

–Bob

September 11, 2010 by
Filed Under: Christian Spirituality & Inspiration, Life, Uncategorized Tagged With: , , , , , , , ,

Praise Team or Praise Family? Some Thoughts for Worship Ministry Leaders

The single, most far-reaching improvement you can make in your praise team involves the “C” word, “connecting.”

Worship ministry leaders, let me speak frankly. I’ve been a disciple of Jesus for 30 years now, and most of that time I’ve served in praise bands of various kinds. So when I write, it’s from an insider’s perspective, and a fairly seasoned one. It’s from that point of view that I’m telling you, something vital is missing from many–I daresay most–evangelical praise teams today.

Actually, two things are missing. Let me pose a question: How much of your weekly rehearsal times do you set aside for your team to connect with each other and to pray together?

In my experience, the answer for a lot of teams, truthfully, is, not much. Sure, the team members exchange greetings and a bit of conversation prior to practice, and the leader begins the rehearsal with a quick prayer asking God to bless the team’s efforts and vowing to give him all the glory. But when it comes to really connecting with one another and with God, deliberately and intimately, rehearsal times are typically two hours wide and half an inch deep.

I understand that there’s music to be learned and practical affairs to be discussed. But ladies and gentlemen, this is probably the only day of the week other than  Sunday when you’re all together. If you don’t devote a substantial part of it to growing not just as musicians, but as a little family who cares for each other and seeks God together, then what is it, really, that makes you a ministry? For that matter, what is it, other than the music you’re playing and the venue where you’re playing it, that sets you apart from any secular band? Because ministry lies in the moment and in your ability to relate to each other as complete people, not just as components of a band who fill neat little roles with set expectations–who play your parts and then go your separate, disconnected, and quite possibly painful and lonely ways.

Ministry starts in your midst as you prioritize what God values most, and that’s not music. It’s your brothers and sisters. It’s family. Jesus revealed God as our Father, not our band director.

I submit that making time for each other and for God is every bit as important as practicing tunes, and more. Except for the occasional new tune, you already know the material–you’ve been playing it for a long time. Chances are you know the music a lot better than you know each other. So, worship director, if you want to take your team to the next level of ministry, here’s where your greatest, most potentially life-changing opportunity lies. Not in your programming. Not in sound checks. Not in massaging a new, creative twist into a particular song. The single, most far-reaching improvement you can make in your praise team involves the “C” word, “connecting.” I’m not saying the other things aren’t important. I’m just saying that there’s something else that’s more important, and if you don’t get that in place, then none of the rest matters. Not really.

I think we evangelicals need to change our ministry model from that of a praise team to a praise family. And I think we need to invest the idea of rehearsal time with greater depth and breadth, as a time not only to tighten down the tunes and their order in next Sunday’s service, but also and more importantly, to grow closer together and to God in ways that give substance to the teachings and heart of Jesus. He didn’t say that the world would know we’re his disciples by the music we play, but by the love we have for one another. Moreover, the request that Jesus’ disciples asked of him was, “Lord, teach us to pray,” not, “Teach us to play.”

So, here’s my proposal: What would happen if your team devoted the first half-hour to 45 minutes of your rehearsal time to enhancing your relationships and your prayer life? Before you ever flip on a switch, tweak a dial, or pick up an instrument, you sit down and share your lives with each other with an honesty, care, acceptance, and mutual appreciation that goes beyond just scratching the surface. And you pray–not just the team leader, but all of you, one by one, organically–from your hearts with a hunger for God that far exceeds, “Lord, we come to you and give you praise and ask that you bless our practice time, and we give you all the honor and glory, amen.”

I challenge you to try it once and see if something good doesn’t happen. Then do it again, and again, every time you come together as a praise team. Persistence will bear fruit, and I believe that the fruit will in time ripen into something far better, more powerful, more Christlike, and more genuinely ministry, than you can imagine.

Show me a praise team that has something like what I’ve just described in place and I’ll come running to join it. I’ve played a lot of music over the years with a lot of very talented musicians, both Christian and secular, so I couldn’t care less how hot a band sounds.  Music isn’t a draw for me; spiritual and relational depth are. If you can offer me that, then I’ll gladly offer you my saxophone in return–along with all the rest of who I am as a person and brother in Christ–if you’ve got room for me in your praise family.

September 5, 2010 by
Filed Under: Band, Christian Music, Christian Spirituality & Inspiration, Church Worship, Life, Music, Saxophone, Uncategorized Tagged With: , , , , , , , , ,

Survivor Guilt: The Unseen Tornado Trauma

“The thief comes only to rob and kill and destroy; I have come that [you] may have life, and have it to the full.”–Jesus (John 10:10)

Forty-five years after he lost his younger brother in one of the 1965 Palm Sunday Tornadoes, Pete Johnson still finds it hard to talk about what happened that dreadful evening in northern Indiana. He feels responsible for his brother’s death.

The name Pete Johnson is fictitious. I doubt the man I interviewed yesterday afternoon would mind if I shared his real name or that of his brother, but my conversation with him is so fresh, and my topic so potentially sensitive, that out of care and respect I’m calling him Pete in this post.

Pete was with his family visiting an aunt and uncle in Dunlap, Indiana, when the deadliest tornado of the entire six-state outbreak swirled into view outside the picture window. As his relatives sought shelter indoors, Pete’s parents packed the kids into their car and took off down the road in a frantic attempt to outrun the tornado. They didn’t succeed. Pete’s dad told him that a house hit the car. All Pete remembers is experiencing a blow to the head and then regaining consciousness out in a field, where he’d been blown by the wind. Rescue workers rushed him off to a hospital. It would be some time before he learned that his younger brother, Mark, hadn’t survived.

Mark’s body wasn’t found until a week later, buried under debris in the devastated Sunnyside neighborhood. Pete wants to believe that his brother’s death wasn’t his fault. But still, after all these years, he wonders: What if…?

What if he’d gone straight to the car instead of hiding in the closet, as his aunt had told him to do? Maybe those few extra seconds would have saved his brother’s life. What if his family had ridden out the tornado at his aunt and uncle’s house, which sustained only minimal damage? What if…?

There’s no satisfying the what-ifs of survivor guilt. You can respond to them with your head, perhaps, but your heart doesn’t buy the answers, not when the wound goes as deep as the loss of a loved one taken by a disaster. There’s seemingly no closure, no tying off of the open ends, no last stone to turn after which the supply of unturned stones finally ceases. At the bottom of it all lies a tyrannical, perpetually haunting lie: “I’m to blame.”

People with survivor guilt suffer–and “suffer” is an appropriate word–from a form of self-imposed penance for not having been the one to perish instead of their loved one. Reliving the incident year after year, they blame themselves for failing to foresee the unforeseeable and stop the unstoppable, for not preventing things over which they had no power. Really, for not being God.

Tornadoes are quirks of the atmosphere, not so much objects as unfathomably powerful processes dependent on an ironically delicate balance of ingredients. Earlier this year I watched one take out the heart of an Illinois town, then disappear into nothingness seconds later. Like lions and Alaskan brown bears, tornadoes are magnificent but also deadly and unpredictable.

As a storm chaser, I’m captivated by the beauty and drama of tornadoes. Yet I’m also keenly aware of their dark side. Who isn’t? The human impact of tornadoes, when it occurs, is seldom conservative and often it’s wholesale. Homes blown to pieces. Trees debarked, debranched, uprooted and thrown hundreds of feet. Vehicles crumpled into balls of metal. Worst of all, bodies mangled and lives ended.

But there’s another kind of damage that can’t be seen. Long after the dead have been buried, long after houses and neighborhoods have been rebuilt, years after people have gotten on with their lives, a sadness lingers. And for many, survivor guilt haunts them. You can build a new home, you can buy a new car, but you can’t replace a loved one, and what do you do with your own wounded heart?

I believe there’s healing for those who struggle with survivor guilt. I don’t mean the sorrow of losing someone close; that will always remain, and it is not necessarily a bad thing. But the sting of guilt which serves no good purpose is exactly the kind of thing Jesus came to put an end to.

Let me be clear, as I share from a Christian perspective, that I have little interest in dogma, any more than Jesus did. The wounds that life can inflict are too real for game-playing. But just as it’s possible to glibly quote the Bible in a way that misses its meaning and heart, it’s equally possible to lightly dismiss the Bible and so miss not only its unnervingly pinpoint assessment of the human condition, but also the power and hope of the gospel for some very practical life issues.

The life, ministry, and teachings of Jesus reveal the heart of a God who desires that we should find true, deeply rooted peace in our souls that flows from the peace we have with him. For those who trust in him, Jesus has resolved the issue of guilt in all its forms, including survivor guilt, with a power and effectiveness that extend beyond the unpredictable events of our lives to a deep and certain, eternal foundation. In his execution on the cross, Jesus took everything that runs counter to the character and will of God and, absorbing it into himself as the eternal scapegoat for mortal mankind, put it to death. Then, in his resurrection, he opened the doorway to a new kind of life that is not subject to the values and limitations of this world.

This is fancy language, but for those who struggle with survivor guilt, the bottom line is simple: God looks at you and says, “Not guilty.” His heart toward you is that you should have life, not death; peace, not self-recrimination. That’s no mere religious proposition–it’s the living, breathing, passionate longing of God for your best, your freest, and your highest.

Given the reality of what God desires for you, the question isn’t whether you could have done something that might have saved your loved one. You’ll never know. That question is a deception from the devil, who loves to torment people with issues that have endless complexities and no resolution. It’s really no question at all–it’s a prison sentence and a distraction from the simplicity of faith. The true, powerful question is whether you’ll stop holding yourself accountable when God himself doesn’t, and stop beating up an innocent person whom he loves very much: yourself.

As you consider that question, here’s another one to contemplate along with it: If the situation had been reversed and you had been the one who perished while your loved one lived, would you have wanted your surviving loved one to live the rest of their days with the guilt that has haunted you? Wouldn’t you rather have desired with all your heart that he or she would think of you with love but not guilt, and fulfill the gift and potential of their life in freedom?

What you would want for your loved one would surely be your loved one’s desire for you. Love does not condemn, but frees and blesses.

I realize that what I’ve proposed is easier said than done. I just want to put the possibility before you–the seed of a new way of thinking which, I hope, can make a difference for you. I’m well aware that I haven’t experienced what you’ve experienced. My struggles have been my own. Yet they have been significant in their own right, and in the face of them, Jesus has made me a freer man as only Jesus can. So my words to you are spoken both humbly and frankly, with a longing that you should know peace at last, peace that only the love and grace of God can bring.

One of the titles by which the Scriptures call Jesus is “Prince of Peace.” The peace he offers rests not on life circumstances, but on an interpersonal relationship with him in which the quality of life that resides in him flows to us. It is a life in which guilt, shame, and torment can’t be found. If you belong to him, then the peace which is native to that life is more than his will for you–it is your very birthright as a child of God.

My prayer for you, if you struggle with survivor guilt, is that your birthright will become real to you in a way that frees you from a weight that is not really yours to carry. Bring it to Jesus and trust him with it. You don’t know what to do with it; he does. Letting him do so is a journey he’s eager to make with you if you’re willing to make it with him.

July 31, 2010 by
Filed Under: Christian Spirituality & Inspiration, Life, Storm Chasing, Tornadoes Tagged With: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

From Storm–Some Musings on My 54th Birthday

Today dawned clear and blue, the sky braided with jet contrails and accented with just enough clouds to add drama. More clouds are moving in now, but I don’t mind. The forecast for “mostly cloudy” means we’ll be seeing at least some sunshine, and the temperature is above melting and supposedly will hover in that vicinity through the next ten days. One month away from the vernal equinox and just ten days from meteorological spring, we’re getting what may be our first hint of warmer weather ahead. And we all know what that means: Storm Season 2010. Yeah, baby! Bring it on!

Today is my 54th birthday. Sitting here drinking my coffee, with the sun slanting through the sliding glass doors, the birds flitting about the feeders out on the deck of my apartment, the cat sleeping on the floor, and my sweetheart, Lisa, sitting in her room working on her blogsite, I’m taking a pause to consider how simple and yet how marvelously rich my life really is.

I am a jazz saxophonist and a storm chaser, and those are the topics I mostly write about in this blog. But before them, and above all else, I am a lover and follower of Jesus. That is my true, deep, core identity–the one sure and certain thing that can never be taken from me. All else can be stripped away, and in time, it will be, whether bit by bit, like leaves falling in the autumn, or in an instant that catapults me into eternity.

Most of the things in life by which we define ourselves are temporary. That is not to say they’re unimportant. They’re very important. But they can be removed in a heartbeat–and yet, we are still ourselves. So obviously, our identity as individuals, our “I-ness,” goes much deeper than what we do. We choose our pursuits because, in a very real sense, our pursuits choose us according to God’s intentions for our lives; but the fundamental state of being ourselves–that is not something we choose. We are here by decree, not personal choice.

Right now, if I choose, I can set aside my saxophone for the rest of my life. I can stop chasing storms forever, never trek through another wetland in search of wild orchids and carnivorous plants, never again pick up my fishing pole, never savor another mugful of craft beer, never hike another trail, never write another word. Those are all things I love to do, but I can choose not to do them. The one thing I cannot do is stop being me. That choice is not mine to make.

So today, as I celebrate the family members and friends who bless my life…my vocation as a writer which I work hard to excel at…the interests that I pursue with passion and joy–as I consider all of these rich, wonderful, irreplaceable treasures in my life, I give thanks to the person who has been the source of them all, and who ordained that I should be here to enjoy them, fulfilling, in the process, a purpose that goes deeper than the things themselves, and a pleasure greater and more lasting than the works of my hands.

Thank you, my Lord Jesus. Thank you for everything. Thanks for making me who I am–even in those times when it has been so terribly painful to be me. Thank you for my beautiful lady, Lisa; for my sweet mother and wonderful siblings; for my Jonathan-David buddy, Duane, and other close, close friends who truly know me and love me, and whom I have the privilege of knowing and loving. Thank you for the feel and smell of Gulf moisture, for the rush of inflow winds across the prairie grass, for cloud turrets over the plains that build into turbulent, dark skies and mighty tornadoes. Thank you for gifting me to pour music through the bell of my saxophone, and for my father who gave me that horn as his legacy and is now with you. Thank you for the promise of seeing him again someday.

Thank you for more things than I can possibly say–things I know of, and things I will never know of, all provided by a great, unfathomably deep grace that runs like an invisible current through my life, unfelt but powerful, gentle but mighty, upholding me, carrying me, delivering me, guiding me, providing for me, shaping me. Truly, Lord, you have been a father to me, and a friend, and a brother, and a savior, and my Rock.

Thank you, above all, for You. Your unfailing love has changed me. You, Lord, are the source of my identity and my life. I am who I am because you are who you are. Thank you for the gift of a grateful heart. Grant me to be your faithful follower and friend for all of my life, for there is no one and nothing else whom I desire to worship with all my heart. You, and you alone, are worthy.

I love you, Jesus. On this, my 54th birthday, I thank you for the gift of my life, and the gift of yourself. Imperfect man that I am, warts and all, Lord, let me be a gift to you.

–Bob

February 18, 2010 by
Filed Under: Christian Spirituality & Inspiration, Church Worship, Life, Relationships Tagged With: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
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