Bib overalls, salty language, and raucous laughter; just the sounds the nurses expected from the crowd gathered in my father's hospital room: Two old truck drivers, one former country/western singer, one millwright, two farm wives and me.

     As the chemo drugs drip...drip...drip into Dad's system, I listen to the husband of my uncle's fourth ex-wife regale my dad with remembrances of their drinking days as trucking buddies:

"...and then he got up and busted the bottle over my head..."

     The room bursts into laughter at this now-humorous memory. Dad, struggling for breath as his laughing fights with his cancer for the air in his lungs, puffs out a reminder that I'm a "preacher". Everything gets quiet for just about two seconds; then the whole room explodes as this news just makes them laugh harder and louder.I'm laughing, too, now; there's no disrespect intended at all; in fact, quite the opposite.

     The joy of old friends notwithstanding, I've spent the whole day trying to get some alone-time with Dad. I want to talk to him about the doctor's view of his prognosis, about how much help he wants from machines and medicines, but mostly, I want to talk to him about being ready to meet God. All day long he's either been too drowsy or too sick or too uncomfortable. Now the room is just too crowded.

     So I relax and listen to this rip-roaring tapdance down memory lane.My father spent his whole life driving trucks, drinking beer, playing pool and testing his manhood with give-and-take bar brawls fueled by one or two or three drinks too many.In the old days, these barroom combatants licked their wounds, picked each other up and settled their differences with another round---sometimes it was another round of boxing, but usually it was another round of beers.

     Simple people living simple lives by simple rules.

     Suddenly, about forty minutes into this mass visit, the millwright clears his throat and pauses to be sure he's got the attention of everyone in the room. He puts his hands on the knees of his bib overalls and gets serious. "No more drinking and bar fights for me now, Howard. Those days are behind me. Now I have a different reason to live."

     "I want to tell you about my Lord and Savior."

     You could have knocked me over with a feather. All the laughter stopped, and only the beeping of a heart monitor broke the silence. He continued, "For some time now I've been living life for a different reason, and that's what Edie and I drove over two hours to tell you about."

     He proceeded to do just that, over my father's surprisingly mild protests. If there's a sweeter, gentler way to present the Gospel, I've never heard it.

     He closed with this statement: "I don't want to offend nobody, least of all you Howard. And I won't mention it again unless you ask. But I'm not talking about dying and where you go then; I'm talking about living like you've never lived before." With that, he patted his wife's knee, winked at me and said his goodbyes. My dad listened and watched...

     When the "roll is called up yonder", there's a millwright from Kansas who will probably be found at the front of the line, hearing directly from Jesus about how pleased He is to receive him into His Kingdom. Determined to tell his old drinking buddy about his Savior, he refused to let crowds or timing or strangers or anything else get in his way. When he felt like the bond of their past knit them again, he cleared his throat and "said his piece." It was a simple testimony from a man and woman living a simple life, reminding me again that simple isn't stupid; it's just direct and unpretentious.

     Just like Jesus.

     And salvation. --by Randy KilgoreRandy@madetmatter.orgwww.madetomatter.org 

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No Defeat in Our Hearts
July 14, 2011 . By Randy Kilgore

He who has an ear, let him hear what the Spirit says to the churches. He who overcomes will not be hurt at all by the second death.-Rev. 2:11
 
     An early fall breeze slipped beneath the trees, sweeping brittle, browned leaves in tiny swirls before it. The leaves scratched their protest on the sidewalk before disappearing into piles pressed up against the chapel where Jesse James' stepfather preached his sermons. The chapel's stone walls dammed the wind's efforts to create a river with leaves, so I shifted my gaze to the right.
 
     I was stalling, of course, hoping I could will away a goodbye waiting inside the home on the grounds of this tiny church camp in Holt, Missouri. It was the summer of '76, the start of my final year of college.
 
     Knock or stall, knock or stall? I opted to stall.
 
     On the crest of the hill, visible from the chapel's back door, stood three rough-hewn crosses placed there a decade earlier by a gaggle of nine-year old boys earning merit badges in summer camp. To the left of those crosses, rusted barbed wire pinned itself against the headstones of the cemetery where "Myrtle's ghost" slept. Myrtle liked to visit campers sleeping in the three wooden cabins some Stephen-Kingish planner devilishly decided to build right next to a graveyard. There, for decades, boys and girls spun scary ghost stories with Myrtle as the star. Happily, I was one of those talespinners.
 
     Even with school in session and the campgrounds empty, the aromas of the past swept memories forward under duress. The smell of damp canvas tents, their musty odors always strongest in the dewy dawn, drew me back to a time when, despite evidence to the contrary from the cemetery next door, I just assumed everybody lived forever; especially giants like my friend and mentor waiting in the house.
 
     I looked down to the field where cancer first made its effects known to us just a few short months before. Three of us were raking a field, and Francis was laughing as hard as I ever saw him laugh. As usual, I was the cause of that laughter. Grumbling about the crows and rabbits rousting his garden, Francis called them "d--- rascals"; and the stunned look on my face caused him to burst out laughing. "Preachers shouldn't swear," I said in shocked disbelief at what I'd just heard. He wanted to answer, but he couldn't because he was laughing too hard. "Oh, Randy," he'd say as he tried to catch his breath, but then he'd look at my face and bust out again.
 
     Suddenly, he grabbed his side and winced; Francis never winced.
 
     Like the browned and brittle leaves scraping the sidewalk to resist the wind's push, no amount of prayer or protest stopped the sweeping reality of the next few months, when cancer shoved Francis up against the walls of time, planting him inside the home where he waited to tell me goodbye.
 
     I'd worked all that final summer caring for the campgrounds that were his charge. Though Francis led me to the Lord as my pastor, he moved on to be caretaker of a church camp, and I spent every summer and many weekends being his helper while he taught me my faith. Climbing off the tractor, I'd find Francis sitting in his study, brass quintets blasting Gospel music as he rested with his eyes closed, sometimes praying, sometimes sleeping. We'd listen to his favorite Christian radio shows while we waited for Norma to finish dinner; I grew intimately familiar with the de Haans and the Epps and all the older radio heroes of the faith sitting in his study waiting for dinner.
 
     All these thoughts raced through my head as I waited to go inside to tell Francis I had to head back to college; I didn't want to knock because I didn't want to go. More than that, I didn't want him to go, either.
 
     It was Norma who drew me back to the present as she opened the door. "Randy, come on in; he's excited to see you." I hugged Norma, the silent witness all these years to the bond forming between Francis and me, and she smiled the same smile I saw in the good days. I wanted to say something memorable, but I couldn't speak, so she did: "He knows you love him. I do, too."
 
     For nearly an hour I stood by the hospital bed they'd moved into the living room. For nearly an hour he laughed and laughed at the stories I told on myself. Then, as he got tired, we got serious, and he spent his energy rounding off some rough edges he still saw in my faith. I listened, even as I tried to sort out how to say goodbye.
 
     He stopped me before I got the chance. "You remember, Randy, what I've always told you. We have nothing to fear from the story of life because we know how it ends. I'm not afraid. You go do what I've taught you."
 
     Francis had the same twinkle in his eye this last day I saw him as he had the first day I met him. It was once said of Winston Churchill that "he had no defeat in his heart."
 
     Frances didn't either.
 
     No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us. For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord. (Romans 8:37-39)
 
--Randy Kilgore
Randy@madetomatter.org
www.madetomatter.org

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On being a willing whats-his-name...
July 8, 2011 . By Randy Kilgore

But even if I am being poured out like a drink offering on the sacrifice and service coming from your faith, I am glad and rejoice with all of you.  --- Philippians 2:17

     What if Jesus asks you to be completely unimportant and insignificant? What if He chooses to use you as a conduit to set someone else up to complete His work? What if He piles glory and honor on somebody half as faithful to a relationship with Him as you are? Can you take it?

     In a culture that prides itself on self-made-success-stories, there's little incentive to think small.

     Now, in our saner moments, we probably understand God sees and treasures those behind-the-scenes-sacrifices, and somewhere in the grand scheme of things, He'll balance it out. But what if He doesn't? What if we get to heaven and the same people who took victory laps down here get to take victory laps up there? Can we live with that?

     One thing I've learned over time is I'm not indispensable. Every project I think can't survive without me does quite fine in my absence, thank you. And whereas I used to be right smack in the middle of exciting, fruit-producing faith races, now I find more often than not that my best use is coaching other racers, or cheering them as they continue to run, and even sometimes just passing water bottles to them as they whip by without noticing who it is that handed them the water..

     Until we realize our value comes from our relationship with God, and not with the highs and lows of the fruit we get credited with producing, we're always going to have roller-coaster spiritual journeys...high when the fruit is flowing and people are noticing; low when the fruit is hidden or someone else is getting the glory. The Apostle Paul understood this better than most of us; contentment comes from our actual relationship with God. Nothing else...nothing else...goes into God's "I-love-you" equation but that. If we invest in the relationship with Him, He'll accomplish everything He wants to accomplish in and through us...even if that means we get to be "nobodies" from an earthly perspective. In fact, God is always delighted with us when we happily serve in hidden ways..

     It's a no-whining zone, though. Whining not only robs us of the joy of the moment of service, it also robs Him of our worship and respect..

     The best and most valuable team member is always the one willing to surrender credit and glory in favor of humility and collaboration. Relationship trumps activity in God's economy. When we learn to love Him and love others more than the goals and accomplishments we pour so much of ourselves into, we usually find God shows us new goals, new activity and new accomplishments; and our labors of love have both meaning and impact...because we're working shoulder to shoulder with Him.

     Let the glory of God's presence bathe us in the humility we need to serve others in or out of the limelight.

--Randy Kilgore
Randy@madetomatter.org
www.madetomatter.org

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More Than We Can Bear
June 29, 2011 . By Randy Kilgore

     Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? Shall tribulation, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or peril, or sword? ...But in all things we overwhelmingly conquer through Him who loved us. For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor things present, nor things to come, now powers, nor height, nor depth, nor any other created thing, shall be able to separate us from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord. -Romans 8:35, 37-39
     Sometimes, life is not about moving forward. Sometimes the struggles we face are simply so overwhelming that it takes all the strength we have merely to hold on.

     George Lacy was a public school teacher when he and his wife Minnie decided to take their vocational skills to the mission field. In 1903, the couple and their five children journeyed to Saltillo, Mexico to organize and operate a school for girls, the Madero Institute.

     Joy turned to sorrow in December, 1904, when a daughter fell ill with Scarlet fever. She died so quickly doctors weren't able to diagnose her illness. Shortly after that, a son also died. Not knowing what was wrong but desperate to escape the illness, Mrs. Lacy and the three oldest children boarded a train to return to Arkansas while Mr. Lacy buried their two youngest children, his heart breaking. Before the train reached home, the three remaining children also died of the fever. Lacy's letters to the Foreign Mission Board describe in terrible simplicity the utter despair he and his wife felt in those hours. He writes these words: "Sometimes it seems more than we can bear..."

     Some of you are facing just such a time right now. The pain of the loss of a loved one; the struggles of caring for elderly parents who no longer remember you; the uncertainty and fears of grave illness; the loss of a job; the debilitating and misunderstood darkness of depression; all of these and so much more are real parts of a fallen world. In these moments it often seems more than we can bear. We cry out to God with questions, sometimes even in frustration and anger. When the answers aren't apparent, it often feels like He isn't there, or isn't listening.

     He is there and he is not silent, though the sound of His voice may be hard to discern and the touch of His hand may not be easily felt.

     These are the times when the work of the Holy Spirit goes on in you even in fits of rebellion, even in the very face of spiritual doubt. When you can no longer pray, the Holy Spirit lifts your heart's deepest prayers for you. When you cannot move forward one more step, the place where you pause is inhabited by a Trinity of compassion. Paul understood this when he built his list in Romans 8 of the things which cannot separate us from the love of Christ. He knew clearly what we need to remember when the pain is too great: It is not necessary for us to hold on to the love of Christ in those difficult times because He is doing the work, making certain nothing that is done to us, indeed nothing that we do ourselves, separates us from His love.

     George and Minnie Lacy decided to return to Mexico, to face the place of their greatest despair. Forty-six years later, when their ministry ended there, their work left behind a trail of children whose lives were touched by the same love of Christ that sustained the Lacy's in their deepest trials. It was not their own strength that moved them through the storm. It was the promise that Christ made that "I will never leave you nor forsake you."

     He has not left you either.
 
--Randy Kilgore
www.madetomatter.org
Randy@madetomatter.org
 
Taken from Made To Matter, © 2008 by Randy Kilgore. Used by permission of Discovery House Publishers, Box 3566, Grand Rapids MI 4950l. All rights reserved.