Real men cry

While we were living in Richmond, Virginia, a mutual friend introduced me to  Dr. Walter Mills and his wife, Sue, in 2002. We were not able to spend much time together until a couple years later when we moved to Georgia. By that time Walter had retired after a lifetime of helping people through his practice of dentistry. After retirement, he helped Sue and their daughter, Lori, with Sue’s interior design company. 

Over the years Walter and I have become close friends. I am the oldest of three boys, and I never had an older brother. I have often referred to Walter as my big brother. Walter had his third stroke and has been hospitalized for the past eight days. His mind is sharp but his left side is paralyzed. 

The Lord put me in Atlanta for my proton therapy at this time so that I could help take care of Walter and Sue. Sue has not left Walter’s bedside, so I have been taking care of their pets and things at their house during the week while I am in Atlanta. I am visiting with them each day, and it is sad to see my “big brother” lying in the bed with a feeding tube, and unable to communicate verbally. 

Walter’s left limbs are not functioning, but his right hand grip is still very firm. That’s the hand that has taken care of thousands of his patients in over 40 years of dentistry. As I stood there today holding his hand, I told Walter that when I grow up I want to be like him. He wanted to communicate with me, but his words would not form with his mouth. But, he communicated completely. He started crying. I started crying. Our hearts were in tune and the communication was clear.

Walter will be 89 on Monday. 

Two angels

I am driving into Atlanta on Mondays and then back home after my treatment. On Tuesday, I am driving back to downtown Atlanta and will return home on Fridays for the next five weeks. Today’s drive was awful. Anyone who has driven in Atlanta knows what a mess the traffic is. Well, when it rains, it is exponentially worse. It rained all day, so it was a stressful day.

Complicating the stress level was visiting my friend in the hospital. Dr. Walter Mills is a retired dentist, and he had his third stroke in the last few weeks last Thursday. He and his wife of 60 years, Sue, are dear friends of Cheryl and me and our entire family. Walter’s situation is not good, and it breaks my heart to see him lying in the bed with a feeding tube and unable to talk or move his left arm and leg. Sue and Walter lost both their children in their early 50s from heart attacks—just one year apart. 

While visiting with them today, a nurse came in to get his vitals, and he spoke English with an accent. I recognized that he was probably from French-speaking West Africa, so I just randomly spoke to him in French. He turned quickly to me in a big smile and spoke to me in French. Raoul was from Cameroon, and he had been in the USA for 4 years. We had a good visit, and as it is in most cases when I meet a West African in the US, it is like we have been friends for a long time. Raoul lifted my spirits on a dark day. 

Each day when I arrive at Emory Proton Therapy Center, I go to the men’s dressing room, put on my gown and wait for one of the therapists to call me back. Today, a new face appeared in the doorway calling for me. I introduced myself to him and he told me his name was Ndipku, so I greeted him in French, and his face lit up with a huge smile as he responded to me in French. He was also from Cameroon and had been in the USA for 12 years. As we entered the treatment gantry speaking French with one another, the other two therapists were asking what we were speaking. I don’t think either of them knew that Ndipku spoke French. 

During my treatment I was praying and thanking the Lord for making me feel so much better about the dreary, stressful and painful day by sending two angels to brighten my day. While praying I realized that I was wallowing in my dreary day while making no effort to encourage  anyone else. Our problems and challenges are never too big to keep us from encouraging others in Jesus’ name.

May the God of endurance and encouragement grant you to live in such harmony with one another, in accord with Christ Jesus, - Romans 15:5

Cats

I’ve never been really fond of cats. I think it has something to do with how quietly they move about – almost like stalking you. I’m not allergic to them although two of our children are. However, they all know I don’t like them!

Over the years cats have done some very nasty things to me – like in my car, like in my luggage, like in the bed of the guest room of friends where Cheryl and I were supposed to sleep, etc. Don’t think I need to go into more details here!

When the girls were young we had a few cats, and I tolerated them as outdoor cats. One of them had a habit of climbing up under the hood of the car to get near the warm engine in the winter time. Usually, when we came out of the house to get in the car, the cat would quickly exit the car. One morning when I cranked up the car there was this giant thud. I knew immediately that the cat had encountered the fan belt of my car. Not a good ending for that cat.

Cheryl was completely surprised 12 years ago when I brought home a cat. A farmer had a goat I wanted to add to my herd, and when I was ready to buy it he said there’s one condition—you have to take a cat home with the goat. He told me to be careful because the cat was wild.

So, I showed up with a solid black cat that the farmer had put in a mesh bag with the top securely tied. I carefully untied the mesh bag because I was afraid with my luck that the cat would attack me. I turned it upside down and the cat fell out and jumped out of the truck and hit the ground running with both of our dogs right on her tail.

The cat ran up a tree to a height of at least 25 feet. Cheryl looked at me and said, “Well, aren’t you going to get it down?” That was the wrong thing to ask me. I responded that I had no intention of getting it down and when the cat was ready to come down that she would come down by herself.

Of course, that sparked a bit of family anger as I was the bad guy who wouldn’t get the poor cat down out of the tree. There was little consideration given to the fact that I couldn’t even touch the cat with my 24 foot ladder much less get it down. The next day the cat was still up the tree. And, then the next day it rained and the very wet cat came down out of the tree. 

One of the granddaughters named the cat “Viola.” I don’t know where the name came from, but 12 years later we still call her Viola. By the way, I have learned to love Viola because she keeps rats and mice out of our garage. On cold winter nights Viola sleeps with our two dogs—one which chased her up that tree 12 years ago. If only people were able to forgive and forget like animals. 

If you are tired of my cat stories, you can stop here. If you are game to read one more, please continue...

When we were leading workers in Northern Africa and the Arab world region, my good friend, John, and I were visiting a family in a country in the Sahara. They were having some challenges living in a very desolate, dry and dirty place, and we had come to encourage them and to talk about the future for their family. 

John sat down in a chair in their living room, the couple sat on a sofa and I sat on a love seat. After only a couple minutes of sitting down, all of a sudden some wild thing jumped on my back and dug its claws into my neck and scalp. I reached up and grabbed the varmint and slung it with all my might across the room. The wild thing was the family cat! 

With no regard for my welfare, the couple ran to their traumatized cat and started loving on it. And my colleague and friend, John, well, he was so startled that he was just staring back and forth between the couple holding the cat and me. The only apology I received was this statement: “He’s never done that before.” Wouldn’t you know it—the feline fanatic chose me to attack for the first (and probably only) time

X-ray vision

When I was a young boy, like most of my peers, I loved comic books. Television was in its infancy, and the most popular kid’s program was Howdy Doody. Most boys want to be entertained by more adventurous programs than Howdy Doody. Fortunately, at one of the local movie theaters on Saturday afternoon I could watch a double feature of westerns for the admission price of six RC Cola bottle caps. To this day that was the best bargain for entertainment ever! 

So comic books provided most of the entertainment for 8-12 year old boys while I was growing up. My two favorite comic books were Superman and Mighty Mouse—two superheroes. Mighty Mouse started coming on TV on Saturday mornings and no longer was Howdy Doody the King of kid’s TV.

One of the things I like best about Mighty Mouse and Superman was that both of them possessed X-ray vision. I was so intrigued with this superpower. Cereal boxes and special offers on the back of comic books offered promotions on “real X-ray glasses.” Yes, I fell for them, and, yes, I was totally disappointed with the product.

X-ray vision meant that you could see through something or someone. I was reminded of all this while I was waiting for my proton treatment today. Surprising what all goes through your mind when you are about to be zapped with a daily dose of radiation.

I could have had all my radiation treatments in Rome, Georgia, and slept in my bed every night if I had chosen the traditional external beam radiation therapy. Those beams are measured doses of photons that go through your body. Marie Curie and her husband, Pierre, are responsible for discovering this medical procedure over 100 years ago. Treating tumors and cancer cells with proton beam therapy is only a couple decades old.  

Traditional x-ray treatments are more of a blast that goes through your body just like Superman’s x-ray vision. Proton therapy is more like a laser that stops at its target. Therefore, with protons less damage is done to tissues, organs and other vital functions that may be near the radiation. 

God doesn’t want to see through us like traditional x-rays. God’s gaze on our hearts is more like proton beams. His gaze does not see through the heart; he looks inside the heart. He just wants to cast His holy eyes into our body and focus his examination on our heart.

The condition of my heart is critical to my walk with the Lord. 

It does matter

This is not my first proton therapy rodeo. I had proton therapy treatment for my prostate cancer in 2012. At that time there were only nine places in the USA where one could receive this type treatment. The closest to us was Jacksonville, Florida.

Some friends had a beach house in Jacksonville beach and offered the house for us to use during my six weeks of treatment. It was a radiation vacation for Cheryl and me. The time together was sweet for our marriage and for our spiritual growth-and it was fun to walk on the beach everyday.

A takeaway from my first treatment at Emory this past week was this: OK, I met my radiation oncologist, and he has been practicing head and neck medicine for 30 years, and I felt really good about him being my doctor. But, where did these kids who are actually administering the proton radiation come from?

On Friday for my second treatment, I entered the treatment gantry and this lovely young lady, who was one of the radiation therapists who would administer my treatment, greeted me and asked what type of music I would like to have played during my treatment. I was not focusing on music! I was focusing on how to keep from moving, how to keep my tongue pressed against the bite block in my mouth, how to keep from coughing and most of all how to focus on something other than the discomfort and claustrophobic sensations of the mask. I replied, “It doesn’t matter.” She said, “Would you mind if we played Christian music?” I said, “Of course not.” 

The music helped relax me, and the time passed much more quickly. It did matter! I was so grateful for the young lady, but I was also grateful to the Lord for using her to help me feel so much more relaxed for the second treatment. From now on, I will tell them that I want Christian music played during my treatment. 

Isn’t it great how the Lord uses people to help us in our time of need. I was also very mindful of the training and expertise that these young therapists possess to enable them to administer radiation from a $180 million cyclotron in just the right places to rid my body of any cancer cells. 

“Whatever you do, work heartily, as for the Lord and not for men, knowing that from the Lord you will receive the inheritance as your reward. You are serving the Lord Christ.”  Colossians 3:23-24

32 to go

I had my first proton therapy treatment for my salivary gland cancer today. Being an alum of proton therapy, I thought I had this down. However, I realized it’s the other end of my body that’s being zapped so things are going to be different.

After I lie on the table in the radiation gantry, the therapist inserts my bite block in my mouth. That keeps my mouth in an open position and insures that my mouth does not move while depressing my tongue. Sound unnatural? Yes indeed!

I have a custom-made Spiderman mask that they snap down to the table to keep my head from moving. I’ve always thought the Spiderman character must feel very claustrophobic and uncomfortable in his get-up. Now I understand. My cheekbones are still aching from the pressure that the mask put on my face to hold my head in place. The whole process took less than 40 minutes.

Putting this all into perspective, my whining about this being uncomfortable and causing me minor pain has to be balanced with the fact that, hey, they are blasting me with radiation to get rid of my cancer.

I am grateful to the Lord for the provision of this technology as well as all of the staff who are attending to me and for their many years of training and expertise in dealing with whiny people like me.

What is Ton Tenga?


A few people have asked, “What is Ton Tenga?”

As a part of our family’s overseas service, we lived in Upper Volta (Burkina Faso since August 1984) for 7½ years. In addition to speaking French we had to speak the language of the Mossi people called Moré. In that language “ton tenga” means “our land” or more loosely “our farm.” 

When we purchased land in northwest Georgia in 2006, we named it Ton Tenga. We built our new house on this land and for the past 12 years, Ton Tenga has been our home.

Restart


I started this blog in 2007 when we were building our house because we wanted to share the building process with our kids and their families. At that time three of our four children were living overseas. The most activity on this blog was during my proton therapy treatment for prostate cancer at the University of Florida hospital in Jacksonville during 2012. 

Once again I am dealing with cancer, and the Lord has led me to do a restart with this blog to keep family and friends posted on what’s going on with the cancer treatment. 

A nodule developed under my left mandible last summer. I went to urgent care for an ear infection in June and pointed the nodule out to the PA, and she said that was due to the ear infection.

The nodule became bigger, but I did not worry about it. My dad fell the first week of August and resulting injuries and complications confined him to the hospital and nursing home until he passed away on September 8. I was in Mississippi for a great deal of the month of August, and once while sitting with my brother I mentioned the nodule, and he said, “Look, I have had one under my ear for the past 15 years.” He went on to say that his doctor told him long ago not to worry about it, so I just decided not to worry about the knot in my neck.

During my annual physical in October I told my doctor about it and after a quick exam, he said that he was sending me to get a head scan right after my visit with him. That was when things started moving fast—needle biopsy on the salivary gland showed poorly differentiated carcinoma; CT scan of chest showed no metastasizing in the chest; surgery on November 15 to remove the left submandibular salivary gland and tumor; pathology report revealed mucoepidermoid carcinoma; another needle biopsy on right thyroid because a scan showed a spot on the gland; neck dissection surgery on December 6 to remove 19 lymph nodes and then post-surgery problems with a buildup of serum in the neck above the incision resulting in reopening of the incision two times to drain serum.

I will begin 6-7 weeks of proton therapy treatment at Emory Proton Center in midtown Atlanta on Thursday. Treatments will be every day Monday – Friday. Those who have tackled Atlanta traffic know those experiences can produce a lot of emotional stress, and at my age I want to avoid as much emotional stress as possible. Therefore, I will be staying overnight for much of my time in Atlanta so that I can be more productive with my work.

Many of you will remember that I had proton therapy treatment in Florida for my prostate cancer in 2012, and I was very pleased with that treatment and the minimal side effects. At that time there were only nine proton treatment centers in the USA, but now there are many more and Emory’s center opened a year ago. I am very pleased with my radiation oncologist at Emory. He is the head and neck professor at Emory. He gave me his mobile phone number and email address in our first consultation with him. How many doctors do that!? And, he answers texts within a few minutes of receiving them!

Cheryl and I have received a wealth of prayers and encouraging support from family and friends from all over the world. So many are continuing to ask for updates on my treatment, so I have decided to restart this blog and post periodic reports and stories during my 6-7 weeks of treatment. 

Thank you for your encouragement and prayer support during these days. I would be grateful to learn of prayer requests that you have, so Cheryl and I can intercede with you and for you. 

On the day before I learned that I had this cancer, I sent this verse to a friend who was having a difficult health challenge and the Lord has affirmed that I should claim Joshua 1:9 during this season: “Have I not commanded you? Be strong and of good courage; do not be afraid nor be dismayed, for the Lord your God is with you wherever you go.”

Fifty One


I followed dozens of my classmates from high school to Mississippi State University where I quickly stopped walking with the Lord. Three months into that first semester the Lord really got my attention and made me realize that I did not have any real friends—only “party friends.” 

During that time I begin to pray and the Lord led me to transfer in the middle of my freshman year to Mississippi College. There I met Cheryl Keathley from Memphis, Tennessee. I joined a performing choir because they desperately needed tenors. Up until that time I could barely read music—much less know that I was a tenor! In choir rehearsals I could watch that beautiful young lady with strawberry blonde hair playing the piano from where I was seated as I looked at the conductor. She captured my attention, and we began to spend time together. 

We were attracted to each other because even though we were so different from each other in the way we grew up and some of the things that we liked to do, but after a few weeks we were in love and those differences faded. I had dated several girls in high school and in college before I met Cheryl, but not one of them won my heart like Cheryl did.

We met each other’s families during that first semester of dating. She planned to go to summer school that first summer after we met, and I wanted to be near her so badly, that I planned on going to summer school, also. During that time I was working at Borden’s Dairy on the cleanup crew in the ice cream factory, so I did not get back to the dorm until 11-12 pm each night. The dorm doors were closed at 11 pm during the week, but I could count on Cheryl looking our her dorm window watching for me to arrive at my dorm down the hill from her dorm. I would blink my bright lights up the hill to wish her a good night and to remind her that I loved her. 

That was 53 years ago, and she still makes me blink my lights. Today is our 51st wedding anniversary. It is difficult to imagine, but I love Cheryl so much more than I did 51 years ago. She has been the rudder that has guided our marriage to be a strong one. She has been the steady deliberate one who has kept me straight and sane during these years of living in seven different countries on three continents. If I have been successful in anything it is because she has been my hardest critic and my biggest cheerleader. 

My dear Cheryl, you bring out the very best in me and you are the perfect life soul mate for me. I am thankful to the Lord for giving me every moment of my life, and I am thankful to the Lord for giving you to me for you make every moment priceless. With all my love…

Three little phrases



Cheryl’s grandfather was not so good with some of his business practices, but he invented the machinery that made the world’s first fried apple pie that is sold all over the world today. He had the first patent on the fried pie (now baked!) in the early 1950s when a man named Ray Kroc (of McDonald’s fame) came to him and asked him to manufacture a 3 oz. pie. Mr. Keathley refused to do that and told Mr Kroc that if he wanted to buy pies from him that he would have to buy his 4 oz. pie. Mr. Keathley walked with the Lord all his life, and the Lord blessed him with several successful businesses. He never finished high school, but he was a brilliant man.

Cheryl’s father was also a very successful businessman in the baking industry and later in life as an entrepreneur. He did finish high school, and then he joined the army and served as an officer at the Nuremberg Trials after World War II, and he had many great stories about the Nazi leaders who were tried at the famous trials after the second Great War. Maurice was wounded in the Korean War, and he retired from the military as a Lt. Colonel after years of reserve service. He was a life-long Optimist and once served as Vice President of Optimist International. During his entire successful business career he served as a part-time Minister of Music in several churches in the Memphis area.

Among these many very successful endeavors, I think that one of his greatest achievements was that he was recognized by his peers as a very intelligent man—even though he only had a high school education. He often walked among very famous scientists, academicians and businessmen, and they would usually come away from the conversation telling others what a bright man was this Maurice Keathley.

Maurice had a secret weapon and it was actually three very simple phrases. Whenever he was with someone who was much brighter than himself or when he was with a person or persons and he did not understand the topic of the conversation, here’s what he would do: he would listen closely and make sure that his body language indicated a high level of interest, and he would intersperse the conversation with these three short quips: “It could very well be.” “Yes, indeed.” “Among other things.”

I have tried using these three small phrases, and it works. Now you can easily over-use that “Yes, Indeed,” so you have to change your voice inflections and the way you say it so that you say it differently each time. Try it and you will see that it works. People will think you are very smart. Why? Because you agree with them!

Names



I have never been a fan of name tags. Wearing them has been a part of my uniform for the past 14 years, but I still don’t like them. I have been to some meetings where they have prepared the name tags for the participants ahead of time. When I go to the registration table to get my name tag and a packet of program materials, sometimes they have my name as “James Cox.” After all, that is my name—James is my first name. Anything official has my name as “James Cox.”

I don’t think my Mother and Father knew what a headache it would be to name their son and then use the middle name. I dreaded the first day of school for all 12 years because the teacher would call out, “James Cox,” and my friends would laugh out loud.

I guess the only pleasure that I get in not using my first name is when a wise-guy telemarketer calls at dinner time and asks to speak to James or Jim. We just say there is no one here by that name!

I have done a lot of thinking through the years about names, but I guess it is more on my mind now since Allison and Will kept us guessing the name of their expected first-born for several weeks—number 12 grandchild and number 10 granddaughter! We are blessed.

I have often said that the most important word to any person regardless of where in the world they live is their own name. It is the sweetest and most important sound in any language.
People love to hear their name. When I first meet someone, I try to call their name right after I meet them. That affirms the person, and oh by the way, it helps me remember their name.

As I think about how powerful a name can be my thoughts go to familiar scriptures:
"Therefore God has highly exalted him and bestowed on him the name that is above every name, so that at the name of Jesus every knee should bow, in heaven and on earth and under the earth, and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father." Philippians 2:9-11
"Oh Lord, our Lord, how majestic is your name in all the earth! You have set your glory above the heavens." Psalm 8:1

Truett Cathy’s favorite Bible verse is Proverbs 22:1.
“A good name is rather to be chosen than great riches, and loving favor rather than silver and gold.”

Smells


While driving to work this morning I smelled the strong aroma of antifreeze in my old truck. That probably means that I have a problem with either the thermostat or the heater coil. Regardless, I am glad that I can take the truck to someone who knows a lot more than I do about repairs.

Smell is such an important sense. I have been told that I have a powerful sense of smell as I usually smell things that either others don’t smell or I smell it way before they do.

So I spent time the rest of today thinking about smell highlights in my life—I call those “smellories.” Here are some that came to my mind today.

While living in Burkina Faso, we didn’t have too many places to take visitors to buy souvenirs, but one good place was the leather shop. The shop was attached to the building where they cured the cow hides, and every time we went to the leather shop that smell welcomed us. It was a good smell, or at least I thought so.

Another vivid smell memory in Burkina Faso is the smell of smoke. Every village compound smelled like smoke. The villagers clothing always smelled like smoke. When I am burning debris and limbs at the farm, my clothes smell like smoke, and my thoughts always return to Burkina Faso—good smells!

Right at this very moment as I am typing this post, my thoughts about writing are interrupted with the aroma of fresh sausage. Cheryl is cooking sausage for a breakfast casserole—UMMM. Now back to collecting my thoughts…

Once while walking in desert sand in northern Sudan I smelled the camel dung as we walked through the largest camel market I have ever seen. For some of you who don't know me well, you would think that this would be a bad smell (for most people) - but not for this farm boy. UMMMM!

In the weekly market of Atee, Chad, where 3,000 people come from all over the Sahara, I smelled the pungent odor of dried seed from the nyeri tree, which is used in preparing the sauce that provides nourishment for families in the Sahel.

Other “smellories” include: the knock-your-socks-off aroma of a Lebanese bakery! The sweet whiff of mangoes being peeled in Egypt! Mustard greens cooking at Mimi’s house.

My nose burning from the odor of the dyes used in making rugs in the Atlas Mountains in the Maghreb. Crepes from a street vendor in Paris.

The cured leather of goatskin as I walked the narrow streets of the medina in Sanaa. Durian in Jakarta. Haria soup in the Marrakesh market - tastes as good as it smells. Chestnuts roasting on an open fire on the streets during Christmastime in Wiesbaden.

While thinking on all these smellories, the Lord has been saying to me, “Larry, if you have any purpose in My work—it has to do with these smells. For this is the fragrance of the world I died for.”

“For we are the aroma of Christ to God among those who are being saved and among those who are perishing.” 2 Corinthians 2:15 ESV

Together

I was in the Frankfurt airport train station waiting on my train. Sleepy and hungry after a trans-Atlantic flight, I bought hot tea and a pain au chocolat at a kiosk. I left the main part of the train station and wandered into a shopping mall. It was a Sunday morning about 7:00am. The city was still asleep, so I had plenty of choices of places to sit and have my breakfast. During the time that I ate, I only saw seven other people.

As I have traveled over the years I have always enjoyed watching people. I don’t mean staring, but I do admit to some intense looking. When I am traveling and in an airport or train station, I like to look for indicators that will tell me something about that person. Anyone can tell if a person is of Asian descent, but I like to study the face and guess whether they are from Korea or Southeast Asia or the Philippines.

A couple of young Asians (Korean I guessed) sat near me, engaging each other with the tell-tale signs of being in love. I knew that they were not siblings by the way they gingerly touched one another. Maybe I did stare at them because they abruptly stood up and walked swiftly away. But, remember that I am trying to stay awake so I had to be doing something so that I did not miss my train.
 
Soon after the young couple disappeared from the mall, another couple—much older than the young Asians—strolled into the atrium area. They were definitely not in a hurry, but then, why would there be a rush to get anywhere as nothing in the mall was open. As they strolled along hand-in-hand, I watched. They stopped and stared inside a storefront.

I have watched a lot of “window shoppers” in my time, but these folks were not looking at merchandise for sale inside the store. They were standing in front of a dry cleaners shop and just gazing inside. Why? I don’t know, but I did not dwell on the why. I was really impressed with the “what” they were doing. They were simply enjoying each other. They did not have to be entertained. They did not have a destination. They were happy just being together.

“Love does not consist in gazing at each other, but in looking outward together in the same direction.”
Antoine de Saint-Exupery

The First Christmas Pageant Ever



This afternoon we went to the Rome Little Theater production of “The Best Christmas Pageant Ever.” It is a great Christmas classic and the production was excellent. Allison played the role of Grace Bradley, and she and her fellow thespians did a great job.  

Tonight as I am reflecting on the play, I am thinking about an experience that could be called “The First Christmas Pageant Ever.”

One Christmas in Burkina Faso, our kids, our colleagues’ kids and some volunteers decided to have a live nativity during a Christmas Eve program at the church closest to our home. All the believers in our churches were first generation Christians, so the kids wanted to show the villagers what a Christmas pageant was all about.

Amanda was four at the time, and she was chosen to be Mary. She was excited after we explained what she was going to do. She had never seen a live nativity, much less participated in one.

The other four MKs and the Tennessee played the parts of the shepherds, wise men, and angels.

As usual we were on “African time,” so we waited at our house for some of the church members to come get us when all the people had gathered. It was late when they finally came and told us that we were ready to begin the service. Cheryl had to stay at home with baby Allison who was asleep by that time, and as we were leaving our home to walk the short distance to the church, Cheryl told Amanda to go to her room and get a baby to be the baby Jesus. Amanda came back with a baby all wrapped up with a blanket and cuddling it in her arms. When we arrived at the church, Amanda went to be with the other pageant participants.

Amanda was sitting on the front bench—mud brick church with a tin roof and a dirt floor—with the rest of the pageant players. There was no electricity in the church, so we had set up a portable generator earlier. We had three lights hanging in the church for the Christmas Eve program.

When it came time for the pageant Amanda was holding the baby very close to her body and wrapped in a blanket, and then she gingerly place the baby into the manger. When the shepherds gathered around the manger, they started laughing. That was odd. Why were they laughing when this was such a serious moment? Then I looked more closely and saw why it was so funny. Lying in the manger representing baby Jesus was Smurfette—that’s right, the bright blue toy with blonde hair.

Later I reflected on the oddity that all the Americans at the service laughed at the thought of having a stuffed blue toy representing baby Jesus while none of the villagers even laughed when the baby Smurfette was placed in the manger.

This was the villagers’ first Christmas Eve pageant, and from their reactions, you would have thought that we had been at a Broadway production. All the villagers were so excited about everything. Since they had never experienced anything like this in their lives, they really did not know what to expect. For them they were pretending anyway, so a blue Jesus was nothing unusual—especially since none of the village girls even owned any kind of a doll or stuffed toy.

In our culture we don’t like surprises about things that we have grown accustomed to seeing and experiencing. During this Christmas season as you experience pageants, cantatas, music productions, and other special services, pretend that it is the first one you have ever seen. Don’t go to Christmas services with an attitude that you are a veteran attender or with a spirit of a scrooge. Don’t go to criticize people or music or costumes or decorations—just go and enjoy and let yourself get carried away with the celebration of the birth of the Savior of the world. This could be your best Christmas season ever.

Perfect



During my time with my dad in Colorado recently, we were having breakfast at a hotel and reading the morning paper. My dad pointed out to me a headline in the Denver Post about the devastating typhoon that hit the Philippines. The headline read, “Imperfect Man, Perfect Storm.” His immediate reaction was, “They got it right about man, but there is no perfect storm. There is only a perfect God.”

I don’t know about you but I have been listening to see how many times I hear the word perfect used. I have heard it used twice this week—once when I gave a clerk the correct change and she said, “Perfect.” My thoughts were Wow, her standards are low if that’s all it takes to score a perfect. I told someone that I was going to be 15 minutes late for a meeting, and their reply was “Perfect!” I wondered what they would have said if I had been on time?!

Baseball fans will immediately think of the perfect game—when all the batters of the opposing team are retired without a hit or a run or without any player reaching first base. It is essentially 27 batters up to the plate and 27 batters out.

When I was in high school the perfect grade was 100. But help me with this one: What is a perfect score for our high school students today. I hear frequently of high school graduates with grade point averages like 104 or 107.67. Whatever happened to 100? I thought that was the perfect grade. It wasn’t very often that I received a perfect score of 100. So, if 100 is a perfect score, then what is 106?

As I usually do when I get enthralled with a word, I looked up the word “perfect” in some online dictionaries. I found this in more than one dictionary: having no mistakes or flaws; completely correct or accurate. This definition really says more of what I was looking for with this post: Lacking nothing; essential to the whole; complete of its nature or kind.

We have all heard someone say “perfect baby” or “my daughter is just perfect.” I know those are expressions and are used loosely, but we use a lot of words inaccurately.

While I can live with the sloppy way we use and abuse words, I am really hung up on this word perfect as used in the Bible. The real challenge for me is that the Scripture demands us believers to be perfect: “You therefore must be perfect, as your heavenly Father is perfect” (Matthew 5:48). I don’t know about you, but that verse is a tough one for me. If the goal is perfection then what hope is there for anyone?

Jesus was not establishing a new standard for us with that verse because God had already outlined it for us in Leviticus 11:44: “…you shall be holy, for I am holy.” God’s standard for us who bear the name of Christ in our lives has always been perfect holiness. That is a heavy truth!

I believe that God gave us the goal to be perfect so we would never stop trying to attain it. In the life to come, perfection will be our possession and experience forever and ever. Oh that will be glory for me—I am singing that tune as I form these words.

Now I am convicted myself: I have to spend more time working on attaining that level of holiness that God wants me to reach instead of focusing all my efforts on waiting to possess perfection when I reach glory.

Memories



During this past week I was talking with Dr. John G. McCall who has been a mentor for me since I was 19. I always enjoy our phone calls as he is always teaching me. This past week he talked about memories. He said that he has outlived all of his peers (96 years old), so all he has are memories of his peers.

On Saturday my dad flew from Memphis to Denver (all alone and no spring chicken himself!), and we have just finished a few days together traveling around the Rocky Mountains. He had never seen this part of the country, so we had a great time taking the cog railway up Pikes Peak, touring the Air Force Academy, and many more sites. It was a sweet time and we made some memories such as stopping in the city limits of Estes Park for a herd of 75 elk to cross the street and breathing the 20 degree air at 14.100 feet.

The Bible talks a lot about the importance of memories. Pete and I read Deuteronomy 8:1-4 during our adventure. This is a passage about remembering the Lord our God. The writer is urging the Israelites to remember the way the Lord took care of them during the 40 years of wandering in the wilderness of the Sinai. They were admonished to remember how good the Lord was to them so that they might be humbled before God. The amazing scenery that we have witnessed these past few days has been a constant reminder of the grandeur of God, and I have felt humbled before the majesty of our Creator.

I am sitting on the plane on the return flight from Denver, and I am sitting next to Pete, my dad. We just realized that this is the first time in our lives that we have ever flown on a plane together. I am thinking, “Why did I wait so long?”

Get busy making some memories!

Syria



I am distressed over what is and has been happening in Syria. Millions of people have fled their homes in fear of losing their lives. Many are reporting that this could be the worst humanitarian disaster of our time. This crisis has been going on for TWO AND A HALF YEARS. Six thousand Syrians are fleeing their country every day.

One in five people in Lebanon is a Syrian refugee. One in seven in Jordan is a Syrian refugee.
In addition to the 1.6 million refugees in neighboring and other countries, according to the UNHCR, there are 4.5 million IDPs (internally displaced people; those who are victims of the war, but they have not escaped to another country). Refugees are generally people who flee their own country because of persecution or oppression.

As the situation gets worse there are two things that are most appalling to me: US media almost ignores this tragedy, and American believers are giving so little to help these people.

A worker In the Middle East has produced this short video telling the story of one family who has been a victim of evil people vying for political power in Syria:
https://vimeo.com/66150049

Please take four and a half minutes to view this story. If you are moved by this story and by the plight of the Syrian people, do not give out of guilt, but give out of a thankful heart that you have been so blessed. If you give to Baptist Global Response (https://gobgr.org/), one hundred per cent of your gift will go to help Syrian refugees—none to administration. No other relief agency—Christian or other—can make that promise.

Who loves the Syrians? If you ask that question many people will respond, “The Russians because they are so aligned with other Shiite Muslims.” Others will say, “The terrorists because they are supporting the rebel factions in Syria.” One thing for sure God loves Syrians—just as much as He loves you and me.

Red and yellow, black and white, they are precious in His sight…

Ton Tenga Morning

I had difficultly leaving home this morning because of this view from our deck. "And I pleaded with the Lord at that time saying, O Lord God, you have only begun to show your servant your greatness and your mighty hand. For what god is there in heaven or on earth who can do such works and mighty acts as yours?" Deuteronomy 3:23-24


Thank you, Lord, for letting me witness your hand in your creation each and every day.

Pray-er



It was May, 1991, and the Soviet Union was falling apart. Gorbachev’s glasnost policies had turned the hearts of many of the satellite republics towards a spirit of nationalism that resulted in the countrymen of these republics wanting to rid their lands of anything to do with Russian dominance over the past 70 years. Statues of Russian generals were being removed and names of streets and cities were being changed from Russian names to Kazakh, Tajik, and Uzbek names.

I had the opportunity to be in the middle of these historic changes from 1989-1994 through a couple of companies that I had established in 1990. One of these companies took American business people to the former Soviet republics before communism fell to teach western business principles. Believe it or not, we used Junior Achievement material to teach banking, accounting, marketing, and other subjects. One of the challenges was getting these people who had lived for generations under the socialism of the communist regimes to understand free enterprise and all the good things associated with it, like profit and losses.

The other company did community development work in Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, and Uzbekistan. When we first started working in this area there were no other companies from the west registered. Until just before communism fell in 1991, our business training company was one of only two western companies registered in Kyrgyzstan.

It was a case of being in the right place at the right time. There are many stories from these years, and we will share more of them at a later time.

Today I want to tell you about one of the several delegations from these republics that we hosted in the US.  My first introduction to these former Soviet republics was through a consortium of Baptist colleges and universities. I was working with Mississippi College at the time when this consortium was formed at the Atlanta airport in August, 1987. We were part of this consortium from the very beginning, and it was this introduction that led me to want to do more in that part of the world.
We were bringing official government delegations from these republics to the USA for the first time since before the time of Stalin in the 1920s. Each delegation consisted of three high level government officials, an interpreter, and a representative of the KGB whose job was to make sure that these government officials returned to the USSR.

It has been difficult in this post not to tell stories that come to mind about these experiences with these government friends, but I must save those for another time and move on to my story for this posting.

The mayor of Frunze, the capital city of the Kyrgyz Republic, was accompanied by the government’s Minister of Education and the Minister of Culture and, of course, a representative from the KGB. I recall that the title they gave him was something like the Associate Deputy Director for Internal Administrative Affairs. We enjoyed joking with him about us knowing that he was in the KGB, and he was kind-hearted enough to laugh with us rather than attacking us with a piano wire!

After hosting this Kyrgyz delegation in Washington, DC, Chicago, and Atlanta, we brought them to Mississippi. One evening during their visit, I had some business to take care of at my office, so one of my colleagues picked them up at their hotel in Jackson and brought them to our home in Clinton. A cable had arrived in my office for the mayor, so I delivered it to him in my living room. He opened the cable, and there was a lot of buzz in the Kyrgyz language—the three government officials often spoke in Kyrgyz when they did not want their KGB colleague or interpreter to understand them.

After a few minutes of discussion, our Russian interpreter explained that the mayor had been asked to cast the deciding vote for the new name of their capital city. Frunze was a famous former Soviet army general, and the Central Asian republics were trying to rid their countries of all Russian influence.

The mayor cast his vote for Bishkek in our living room that evening, and the next day our office sent the cable that determined the name of the capital city of the Kyrgyz Soviet Socialist Republic, which today is known as Kyrgyzstan.

Among the many stirring memories from these experiences with our Central Asian friends were the opportunities to share our faith with them. During that same Kyrgyzstan delegation visit we took our friends to church. That was the first time any of them had ever attended a church service.

It was a large church, so we decided to arrive just as the service had started so the delegation would not draw any attention. We sat near the back of the auditorium, and as the service was about to end, the pastor, a friend, recognized our delegation and asked me to pray the benediction.

After the service was finished and we were walking to our vehicles, one of the delegation said to me in broken English, “Larry, I not know that you are a pray-er.” That sentence has been played over and over in my mind through the years. I pray. But, am I really a pray-er? Is praying such a second nature action for me that others recognize me as a pray-er?

I think that my Kyrgyz friend was asking me if I was some kind of holy man. He did not know other English words to describe what he wanted to ask me, so he asked in the only way he knew how. The way he used the word is not proper in our colloquial English,  but it was a powerful word for me to hear, and I hope that it rings in your heart of hearts just as it has in mine for the past 20 years. Lord, I want to be known as a "pray-er."