(I wrote what follows five years ago and laid it aside until my Dad was in Heaven. Dad read everything I wrote and I did not want to cause him any grief, even if inadvertently. The children are now 12 and almost 15, but nothing else has changed.)

This week we made some memories for our grandchildren. Our son Neil’s three children — Grant, nearly 10, and twins Abby and Erin, 7 — live one mile from us, and consequently we see them several times a week. During the Easter break, my wife Margaret and I decided to treat them to a train ride to Birmingham, then rent a car and drive 60 miles north and visit my parents for a day. The rail trip took 7 hours, a long time for children of this age who needed to be reminded not to ask again “how much longer.” We took along books to read, games to play, a picnic lunch, and snacks, and managed to get through the ride just fine. The girls got a lot of lap time with Grandma and Grandpa and everyone napped for an hour or so.

At my parents’ home, the kids became better acquainted with cousins and aunts, they explored the deep woods and meadows, discovered baby puppies with their eyes still shut, plus kittens, wild turkeys, a possum, and the obligatory farm dogs. They’re still talking about it.

Building memories for a child is a grand enterprise. Somewhere I read of a father who had to back out of his family’s ski vacation into the Rockies due to the unexpected demands of his job. Reluctantly, they started on the long drive without him. When his work wrapped up earlier than expected, he made plans to join them. Since he knew where each day’s drive was taking them and where they were spending each night, he flew to the city ahead and hired a taxi to drive him miles out the interstate and leave him. An hour or two later, as the family whizzed by in the loaded-down van, they spotted a familiar figure with his thumb in the air. “Was that Dad?” “That couldn’t be Dad!” “It was! It was Dad!” “Turn around.”

Later, when a friend asked him why he went to such trouble to surprise his family, the man answered, “Just think — for the rest of their lives, my kids will be talking about their crazy, wonderful dad!”

Unfortunately, not all family memories are so idyllic. Some families go through such pain that the memories are better off forgotten. Choosing what to retain and what to release can be an art. But it is always a choice.

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As I write, yesterday was the first day for high school seniors to sign with colleges around the country to play football next year. The morning Times-Picayune is jam-packed with stories of “blue-chip prospects” in the state and elsewhere who have committed themselves to attend college and play ball at LSU, Tulane, and other schools in the state. According to the rating services that study these things, LSU and Alabama have recruited the best talent in the nation.

Every athletic team of any size and prominence in this country — professional or amateur — has its scouts, people who are paid workers or volunteers who keep up with the teams at lower levels in order to recommend talented individuals for the teams or schools they work for.

If you want to send a thrill through a high school senior just before a big game, tell him, “A scout from such-and-such university is in the stadium tonight.” To give the same thrill to the college senior, say, “A scout from such-and-such pro team is in the stands.”

They’re being looked at, their talent and abilities assessed. Life may be about to change for them.

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As a young lawyer, Abraham Lincoln, whose 200th birthday we celebrate next week, longed to make a mark in this world, to do something significant enough to cause his name to be remembered.

In “President Lincoln: The Duty of a Statesman,” William Lee Miller writes that in 1841, during a time of depression, Lincoln told a friend “that he had done nothing to make any human being remember that he had lived — and that to connect his name with the events transpiring in his day & generation and so impress himself upon them as to link his name with something that would redound to the interest of his fellow man was what he desired to live for.”

Interesting ambition.

Miller goes on to comment, “…twenty years later, at the time of the Emancipation Proclamation….’He reminded (the friend) of the conversation — and said with earnest emphasis — I believe that in this measure (meaning his proclamation) my fondest hopes will be realized.'” (p. 39)

If Lincoln’s life-goal was indeed to be remembered, then he would have been gratified, overwhelmed, and even staggered to learn he is the most-honored of all our chief executives, and the most written-about American ever.

“May He grant you your heart’s desire”(Psalm 20:4).

I’ve been memorizing that wonderful 20th Psalm, a keeper in every way. This morning on the drive to the office, as I was reciting the first four verses — that’s as far as I’ve gotten — that prayer-wish stopped me in my tracks. What exactly is “my heart’s desire?” If it’s the Lord’s will to grant it, and if that’s something I ought to be desiring and even expecting, then identifying it would seem to be a reasonable thing to do.

I’ve mentioned here the answer Pastor Frank Pollard gave when a seminary student asked how he wanted to be remembered: “I don’t want to be remembered; I’m only the messenger.”

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Anyone who knows me at all is aware of my admiration for David Crosby, the 13-year pastor of the First Baptist Church of New Orleans. He has the sharpest mind and tenderest heart of anyone I know. Sometimes when we leave a meeting where he has been the featured speaker, I find myself thinking, “Wish I’d said that.”

David reminds me of what a critic once said of Dr. George W. Truett, the greatly-admired pastor of Dallas’ First Baptist Church throughout the first half of the 20th century. The man just couldn’t figure out why everyone admired Dr. Truett so highly and finally went to hear him preach. As he came out of the church, a friend asked, “Well, what did you think?” The critic said, “He didn’t say a thing I couldn’t have said — if I’d thought of it.”

That’s how I feel about Dr. Crosby. (My problem is, I never think of it!)

David is an excellent writer and his op-ed columns frequently appear in the Times-Picayune. Recently, he put those writing skills to good use in producing a book on the basics of the Christian faith called “First Principles.” It’s published by Pelican Printing here in New Orleans, and I recommend it highly.

First, let me emphasize this is not a book of clever stories and recycled sermons. This is just what the title implies, a book which deals with basic biblical doctrines of the Christian faith. Each chapter title begins with “I believe.” The first five chapters are “I believe that God created,” “I believe that Jesus saves,” “I believe the Holy Spirit sanctifies,” “I believe in the church,” and “I believe in prayer.”

Here are samples of his writing and the insights awaiting the reader….

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Simon Cowell stares at the “American Idol” contestant, disgusted at what he has just heard. “You were awful,” he says. “The worst thing we have heard all day.”

We almost pity the poor celebrity-wannabe for her humiliation. However, to our amazement, even as the tears flow and her voice breaks, she pokes out her bottom lip and with fire in her eyes, says, “You’re wrong. I have a great voice and someday you will eat those words. I’m going to be a star.”

We members of the vast television-viewing public sit at home enthralled by such self-deception. “How could she think such a thing,” we wonder. Doesn’t she know how terrible she is? Hasn’t anyone ever told her the truth?

I know what her problem is, because I’ve been there.

On our Alabama farm, during the summers of my 15th, 16th, and 17th years, I spent six days a week in the fields plowing. As a rule, I was a half-mile from any other living soul, and at times, when I plowed the bottomlands we called Bunkum, a full mile away. With no one in earshot, I felt free to sing, and brother did I ever. I opened up and belted out a country tune, a hymn, or the latest gospel quartet number at the top of my lungs. When I wasn’t singing, I was whistling. All day, every day.

All alone.

Then one day when I was in college, roommate Joel Davis and I had a temporary boarder named Kenneth Hogue. Now, Kenneth had a tape recorder, one of those old reel-to-reel things (the only kind in existence in 1960). And that’s how, one afternoon while no one else was in the apartment, I plugged it up and turned it on and recorded myself singing. And had the surprise of my life.

Through all those years of singing in the fields, I had been hearing the full musical instrumentation behind me. In my mind, the piano was playing and the quartet was singing, with my voice blending in.

But the tape recorder would have none of that. There was my voice, standing all alone out in the field, stark naked, exposed for all the world to see and hear.

It was one of those moments you never forget.

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First a little background. I fell in love with Sarah Chamblee when she was four years old. I was preaching a revival in the church where her dad was the minister of activities and each night, sat on the front pew beside little Sarah until time for me to walk to the pulpit and preach. She was every bit the little lady, quiet, studious, lovely, and sweetness personified. I would draw pictures for her, naturally. That week was the only time I saw her until she was grown. When she started to school, she would write asking me to draw her with her “big red dog.” She would send school photos. I have more than one from her teen years. (She told me much later she never did have a big red dog; she just wanted one.)

About five years ago, I called that church (the FBC of Denton, Texas) to ask if Bill Chamblee was still on staff. He was; I think he spent his entire career at that church before retiring in 2008 to begin a sports ministry. Anyway, Bill’s wife Marcia called Sarah, by then married to Jeremy Armstrong and teaching school at Frisco or somewhere, and said, “You’re not going to guess who called today — someone out of your past.” Sarah thought of three or four names, mine being one.

She and Jeremy drove over to visit us four or five years ago. Then, two and a half years ago, Ella was born. This child is a blessed replica of her mama. These days, the photos are either of the entire family or just Ella. She’s a winner.

Now, here’s the story….

The other day Sarah was instructing Ella how it was important that she learn to obey her parents without complaining or stalling. She said, “God tells us in the Bible that children are to honor their parents by obeying them.” With that, the two-and-a-half-year-old hopped up and ran into her room. She picked up her little pink Bible and returned to the living room, plopped it in Sarah’s lap, and said, “Show me!”

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My friend Reggie often serves churches as interim pastor. Since he’s a seminary professor — not only teaching several classes of future preachers but handling a heavy administrative load outside class — he does not have enough time or energy to do much more than preach for the church that engages him.

A colleague told me yesterday that when Reggie begins his work at a church, he tells the pastor search committee, “I am not interested in becoming your pastor, so please don’t ask me. If you ask me once, I will say ‘no.’ If you ask me the second time, you will have my resignation.”

He adds, “Because that tells me your committee is not actively searching for a pastor for your church, but is looking inward.”

I’ve known a hundred interim pastors over the years but have never known of another one saying such a wise thing. In fact, the average interim pastor gets his head turned all too easily by the wooing of the pastor search committee or by members of the congregation. (I am all too aware that occasionally the Holy Spirit chooses this method of matching a preacher up with the right church, so this is not a blanket condemning of the process.)

Ernest is a retired director of missions and a longtime friend. Recently, I was speaking in the association where he put in many years and over supper was hearing about his post-DOM existence.

“I’ve been retired five years,” he said. “And there has not been one Sunday when I’ve not been interim pastor in some church somewhere.” He continued, “I might have missed a few Sundays preaching, but I was always the interim pastor at one church or another.”

I told him that a mutual friend, J. C. Mitchell of Columbus, Mississippi, once told me after he retired from being director of missions that serving as interim pastor of churches was so liberating and gave him such a podium for making a difference in the church, he thinks he might have been called by God to be an interim pastor!

Ernest laughed and said, “I know exactly what he’s talking about. A church is willing to receive counsel from the interim they would never take from the regular pastor.”

“That’s strange,” I said. “Why do you think that is?”

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(Background Text: The first few chapters of Acts)

A Canadian pastor friend tells of a woman who stood in a testimonial service and announced, “I’m determined to do anything the Lord tells me to do — so long as it’s honorable!”

Most people would not express it quite that blatantly, but many of us erect conditions to be met before we will obey the Lord. This is particularly true when we make the decision to leave our comfortable buildings and impact our community with the gospel.

“Yes, sir, Lord — we’ll be going into our Jerusalem with the message of Christ! We plan to meet people and minister to them and share the gospel — and we intend to do this just as soon as all the conditions are right!”

Therein lies the barrier to obedience. We intend to obey the Lord’s command to evangelize our Jerusalem just as soon as the CONDITIONS are right, the COMMUNITY is receptive, and the CORE-GROUP is ready.

On the surface, that sounds like good, conservative, reasonable and solid thinking.

1) Ideal conditions within the church: the congregation is healthy, united and supportive of this plan. The offerings have been exceeding the budget lately, creating a nice surplus for missions. The timing is ideal.

2) Ideal conditions inside the community: as we move out into the city, the people welcome us with open arms. They’ve been eager for someone to bring the gospel their way. The gangs disperse, crime drops to nothing, and everyone rejoices that we loved them this much. The community is ready.

3) Ideal conditions within the core-group assigned to this task: they are all trained soulwinners, Spirit-filled, fully prepared for whatever circumstances they find, and eager to make a difference. The leadership is right.

That sure would be nice.

Too bad it hardly ever happens that way. It’s not how the real world works — not even in the original Jerusalem community where it was the disciples themselves infiltrating their community with Jesus’ message.

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They’re complaining around here about a newspaper article written by some northern reporter who was featuring one of his city’s sports heroes, a fellow who grew up in the Bunche Village neighborhood of Metairie. Most of the article was about him, we’re told, but one paragraph got everyone’s goat locally. The reporter said something to the effect that Metairie is dirty, dingy, and dangerous.

The athlete had told the reporter that the railroad track runs through the village where he grew up and that frequently dead bodies were found alongside it. Sounds like a scary place, all right.

That same railroad track runs 200 yards from my house since I live just south of Bunche Village. We’ve not seen any dead bodies, but the world being in the shape it’s in, I don’t doubt that guy did across the tracks.

Aaron Broussard, President of the Jefferson Parish Council (we don’t have a mayor for Metairie; even though the population is over 300,000, it’s unincorporated and run by the parish) responded quickly to point out that Metairie is one of the safest places in Louisiana (which just raises the question of how safe Louisiana is) and far safer and cleaner than the city where said reporter lives and works.

My own observation to all this is: it all depends. Depends on what part of town you’re in, depends on where you look. Every city of any size I know anything about has its lovely sections and it’s eyesores, its “Norman Rockwell” neighborhoods and areas where you would not want to be caught after dark. Metairie is like all those other places.

Just depends on your perspective. On your focus.

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A half-century ago, a study commission was created to look into the matter of stress and its impact on the health of the American population. Its chairman was Paul Dudley White, who is widely recognized as the founder of preventive cardiology and was the personal physician for President Eisenhower. The commission announced what we take for granted today, that stress is a killer and must be dealt with in order to live a healthy well-functioning life.

When asked what people could do to get stress out of their lives, Dr. White said, “Stress is life.”

There is no getting around stress. Even if one stays home and locks all the doors and has his meals slipped under his door, the human spirit still finds matters to worry about, causes to stress over. If you are alive, you are dealing with stress.

Stress is not “par for the course;” it is the course.

“Economy is lousy, and so is our health.” So goes the headline in Tuesday’s Times-Picayune. The article by Stephen Smith is a reprint from the Boston Globe, and brings news that has to have been expected. The tanking economy with its burgeoning unemployment lines, foreclosed homes, and revelations of waste and scandals in high circles is affecting the health of Americans.

Smith writes, “At Massachusetts General Hospital, patients whose blood pressure was in check just weeks ago now find it rocketing out of control. They blame the economy.”

“At Boston Medical Center, obese patients who had been shedding weight are packing on pounds again as they resort to cheaper, high-calorie food and abandon gym memberships. They blame the economy.”

“At a Framingham doctor’s office, patients forgo screening tests such as colonoscopies because they don’t want to spend scarce dollars on copayments. They blame the economy.”

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