Chris Fabry's Blog, page 6

Where's Jerry? Who does he look like?

My pal, Jim Whitmer, wrote and included the photo below. He and his wife,  Mary, met Jerry 46 years ago this fall. Jim writes:

We were all in a major photo shoot for Campus Life Magazine that was published in Feb. '68 - the lead article was about the "pressures" on a youth worker - and I was supposed to represent the stereotypical youth worker.  The attached 2-page photo spread show me (in the goofy cardigan sweater, with Mary hanging on me.)  But I've noted one of the important "extras" on the set.  He was known as "Moose" Jenkins back then, and the magazine actually called him that in the credits of the models.
 We've been friends with Jerry ever since.  Just a little "history" for you.

Respond to this and tell me what famous actor or literary character you think Jerry resembled 45 years ago.

What You Learn After Seven Hours Putting a Desk Together

I learned that my 17 year old son has more patience than I do.

I learned that what’s worth doing is worth doing right except when it comes to things you get wrong and you’ve already been at it six hours. Those things you can live with. Like the little plastic doodads that are supposed to go into the round, metal thingamajigs at the end so it doesn’t look like you put it together yourself.

You don’t have to put all those #6 screws in the back. I know. I took some out to finish the top drawer.

Lying in the floor and whining, “This is too hard,” does not help.

Sitting in the floor for seven hours is hard on your back but not as hard as standing for seven hours after you’ve lugged the thing in the room.

“Team lift” is a relative concept.

Sitting on the carpet for long periods of time makes you want to scratch your backside.

The desire to scratch is directly proportional to the size of the backside.

You can get younger children to laugh by scratching your backside and describing it with a word you’ve told them not to say. With a New York accent. But the 17 year old will not smile because he wears headphones.

Don’t cross your legs for more than five minutes at a time or you won’t be able to stand for a week.

It does not help to ask your son, after every step, what step you’re on. When you are on step #13 of 68, all you can see is 500 pounds of particleboard.

It does not help for other people to walk into the room and ask, “So, what step are you on?”

It does not help for people to walk in the room and say, “Wow, this is taking a long time, isn’t it?”

It does not help for other people to ask, when walking into the room again, “Is this the hardest thing you’ve ever tried to put together?”

It does not help to come in and look at my hat that has a flashlight duct-taped to it and say, “Dad, you know they make head lamps, right? Tee hee hee.”

It does not help to come in. Period.

Seven hours putting together a desk is a ridiculously long time. Especially when you have two people working together who are reasonably intelligent.

Seven hours putting together a desk makes you question the reasonable intelligence of yourself and your coworker.

The moment when you push the drawer in and it only goes halfway and there’s four inches of clearance above it is just about the worst.

The moment you finish the hutch and turn it over and see the back of one piece of particleboard staring at you is worse than the drawer thing.

The moment you realize you’ve screwed three screws into the wrong side of the finished piece of wood and that it will stare at you the rest of your life, or as long as you keep the desk, is worse still.

Seven hours of putting together a desk is a test of your faith in the sovereignty of God. And your sanctification.

It’s the day after and I still feel like scratching my backside.

However, when you’re putting the desk together for your wife who hasn’t had a decent desk in five years and deserves a space to call her own and you finish and arrange the computer just so, and finagle all the billion cords through the back of it and she looks at it and smiles and acts as if you just slew a dragon for the damsel in distress, it makes all the pain and questions and frustration worth it.

Just don’t tell her about those three holes in the front that shouldn’t be there or the doohickeys we didn’t put in the round silver things. And yes, it was the hardest thing I’ve ever put together, thank you very much.

Whose Name is on Your Glove?

My son is playing sports again. He’s been pestering us for three years, ever since we signed his brother and him up and I was elected coach of his previous team. We had five players.
It was a baseball team. That was a season that never ended, I’m still replaying it. But now he’s 12 and all grown up and ready to run the bases again. So he went to a couple of practices before the season starts and they were doing drills and I was standing around not thinking much about anything except how to stay cool in August in Arizona.
I wandered out onto the field to help. One group was taking batting practice and another group was in left field, so I thought I would stand between the two and “protect” the children (who were of varying ages and sizes). But I didn’t have a glove. It was just me barehanded standing there, watching, hoping.
Ten kids up. Ten kids barely hit the ball out of the infield. Until the Babe stepped in and belted one to left that went over my head by ten feet and I just stood there wondering what I would have done if I’d had a glove. Probably wouldn’t have helped, but still, hope springs eternal.
The ball landed between two six-year-olds who were laughing and pushing each other and doing anything but thinking of baseball. They must have heard me yelling, “Look out!” They didn’t flinch as the ball hit between them and rolled to the fence.
That’s when I remembered my glove, which is the point I’m getting to. A baseball glove is a sacred thing to a boy who loves baseball. You sleep with your glove. You eat with it. You sit on it on the bus. And when you’re in the outfield, if that’s where they banish you, you hold it to your face and smell the leather, the cowhide, and look at the names.
Writing on your glove is like writing in the Bible. Sort of. It felt like I was breaking some commandment. On the outside thumb I wrote, “Rose.” My favorite player. This was before the truth came out about Charlie Hustle, of course.
Tony Perez. Johnny Bench.
I couldn’t spell “Concepcion” back then, so I left him off the glove. This was not racist, it was spellist. Foster. Griffey. The names went on.
In small letters I wrote “Menke” for Dennis Menke who played third one year. Or ten, I can’t remember. And one glorious summer I wrote “King.” Not for Martin Luther King, but Hal King, who hit a game-winning pinch-hit home run over the Dodgers in game 1 of a doubleheader the Reds swept. This was back when you bought one ticket and saw two games instead of the way they do it now, which makes me want to write other words on my glove.
Back then, back when you were a kid, a name meant something. You aspired to achieve like those on your glove. You aspired to play like a champion. To be the very best you could possibly be. To throw as hard as Don Gullett. To leap and catch a ball like Cesar Geronimo.
Lee May and Tommy Helms were on the glove in the summer of ’71. Both were traded. I couldn’t believe it. Who was this Joe Morgan fellow?
You never know whose name will wear off and whose name you’ll carry. Each summer I’d go over the names that needed to stay and change the ones that had gone.
This is life. What seems important one year will fade the next. The trick is to find what lasts early on and stick with it.

So whose name is on your glove? 

The Saddest Sound

My father died two years ago on August 4th, my daughter's birthday. He was buried on my wife's birthday, three days later. It seems like such a long time ago and yet, it feels like yesterday in a way.

I made it home late the night before he died and through the early morning hours my brother and sister in law tended to my father as I slept on the couch outside of his bedroom. This was an act of love on their part, to help my father die in the home he had built, where he wanted to be, where my mother wanted him to be. They had been there through the transitions and would be here for this last one.

Early the next morning my brother awakened me and said it was time. When I made it to my father's bed he had stopped breathing. My mother came and sat beside me, closest to him and patted his hand. Then she looked at his chest and back at us and realized what was true. What she had feared and longed for.

I expected to hear the weeping and keening of my mother. We comforted her and sat with her and we talked about him. I tried to tell her she had done a good job taking care of him, that she had loved him well, but the words were hard to get out.

The hospice nurse arrived and he kindly walked us through the next steps. We destroyed the medication my father had been given and we waited on the hearse from the funeral home.

The saddest sound was not our crying. That was strangely comforting. We were sharing in this passage, remembering, celebrating, and trying to honor a good man who had lived well and loved well.

The saddest sound was not the wheels of the gurney down that long, narrow hallway, or the moment when my mother stopped them for one last kiss.

I don't know, maybe that was the saddest sound. Just thinking about it sends me over the edge.

But, perhaps, the saddest sound came as we were at his bedside, wondering what to do next. What do you say to a woman whose dearest friend is no longer with us, or to his children? What do you say to yourself when the only father you've ever known is still and lifeless? What do you do?

My brother walked to the end of the bed or into the other room, I can't remember which, and I wondered what he was doing. Could he not bear the sorrow? Did he need to be alone?

He walked over and turned off the machine supplying oxygen to my father. Just a flick of a switch and the whir of the machine silenced. It's something my father would have done. When there's a motor running that isn't needed, you turn it off.

That was the saddest sound to me. The final realization that yes, this is the end. This is goodbye. The room grew quiet. Uncomfortably so. My mother blew her nose. I leaned back in the creaky chair. And then, outside, somewhere near the hillside he loved, where he drove his tractor and walked and whistled at the cows, the birds began their singing. Actually, they had been there all along, we just couldn't hear them because of the motor.

My father was finally free of pain, free of the need for oxygen, free from taxes and politics and the groundhogs in his garden. I like to think of him somewhere on the back 40 of heaven, cutting a field of hay for God. On a new Massey Ferguson that never needs a tune-up. Feeding hay to lions and lambs and swapping stories with Moses and my Uncle Pooch. Returning from whatever chore he's been given with a grin and two lungs full of air that feel like the breath of heaven, because it is.

He's in a place where they don't need oxygen machines. And where you don't have to turn off the lights. Because the Light is always there.

Holding Down The Dog

We had to muzzle Tebow last night. It's the ears. The vet said he needs them flushed and rinsed and medicated. We tried without the muzzle but he was having none of it.

So we got him a treat and tried to coax him into the muzzle. Again, he was having none of it.

Finally, Reagan brought him onto his lap and held him tightly, and with a swift move I got the muzzle on. But it didn't fit Reagan.

No, I mean Tebow. Now he was scared. His one way to communicate with us was taken away. No more snarling and showing his teeth.

Brandon grabbed his hind legs, we put him on his side, (this took four people and the dog is barely ten pounds) and Andrea applied the medication.

He struggled for a while, and then we began talking to him gently, encouraging him. "Good boy, Tebow! Good boy."

I felt him relax in my hands. And when we turned him over for the other ear, he didn't seem as scared or fidgety. When it was over and the muzzle was off, he ran around the room wagging his tail and looking at us, as if he were grateful we cared. There was also a bit of, "Never do that again."

I don't know how many times God has muzzled me and held me down. I don't know how many times it will happen again. It feels better when it's over, but I know deep down it's never going to be over. There's always something growing in my spiritual ears.

Picture

Walking Away

I wish I had a picture of him walking away. I’ll try to describe it.
I remember when he was little, he’d walk away, at varying speeds, in order to retrieve something. “Reagan, stop.”
He’d keep going for the car or truck or plane or whatever was outside in the grass and I wouldn’t mind. I knew in his little cranium he couldn’t process all the “stop” signals I gave with all the “go” signals passing through the synapses.
“You need to obey me,” I would say. “There will come a day when I’ll tell you to stop and it will be really important. Do you understand?”
“Yeth.”
Today he walked away. And this time it wasn’t over a toy car, but a real one. Reagan is 17, not three. He’s 6 foot tall. I know that because it says it on his driver’s permit. I asked this morning if he wanted to go for his test and he grinned like the Cheshire Cat.
He drove, obeying the speed limit, and we got there just before the DMV opened. He practiced his 3-point turn. There was a long line of people waiting in front of us, but within half an hour he was in the car and I was watching the last 17 years melt in a right hand turn. Wheels spinning, asphalt running beneath him like summer fields.
I sat inside a little room at a student desk and read the 13th chapter of Proverbs and made some notes on a story. But I couldn’t concentrate. All those years gone like a flash.
And I went back further, much further, to my own driver’s test. I failed. My dad wasn’t there. Neither was my mom. I went with Mr. Lambert, our driving instructor at the high school, along with a few others from class. He said if we all passed he would take us Wendy’s and buy us dinner. Thank God for Floyd Persinger. Floyd and I were part of the “Epic Fail Drivers Club” that day, and I was glad to have company.
(This is from memory, and after 30+ years things get fuzzy, so if Floyd was not there or if you passed, Floyd, I apologize.)
Dawn Lewis and I were in the car when the State Trooper came out. Dawn sat in the backseat of the car that drove like a tank (I’m sorry, what were you thinking Mr. Lambert?), and watched as I nervously pulled toward the intersection that would lead me up Mt. Failure.
It was a gray, overcast day as I recall. The trees bare. Everything muted in a sepia tone. Or maybe that’s just my memory. For Dawn it was probably Spring and the sun was out and birds filled the trees.
Across the road was a brick building that people said was the state mental hospital. To this day, I don’t know if that was true, but what happened next, right there at that intersection, has stayed with me like a bad country song.
An older woman in a heavy coat stood, bow-legged, waiting to cross the street. I think she was carrying something, a bag, perhaps, or a cane. I’ve blocked that part out.
“Just stay right here,” the officer said. She sounded annoyed, like I was a stain. Like I was single-handedly keeping her from something she needed to do. Perhaps she had an abusive husband. Maybe she had a sick child and couldn’t concentrate. Maybe that was her mother crossing the street, I don’t know. All I know is we sat there, the three of us, in silence. And waited. Like eternity shuffling across the two lane blacktop. Have you ever heard a State Trooper breathe? I have. I think her stomach growled, too. Perhaps that was why she was mean to me, she was just hungry.
Then the old woman stopped, in the middle of the road. Just stopped, I swear she did. And because I was an observant child, I noticed something about her leggings. Her stockings. They were rolled down, bunched onto her ankles. And her stance seemed familiar. It was something I had seen on the farm, a dog, a cow, I can’t recall, but what happened next shocked me. I shouldn’t have been surprised because, looking back, it was inevitable.
She peed in the middle of the road.
Not just a little bit, this was prodigious. And the water cascaded down the slope and I sat with mouth agape at the horror. Abject humiliation. I turned to the officer. She stared straight ahead and put her hand out, urging me again to wait. Keep the foot on the brake.
I looked in the rearview at Dawn. Her hand was over her mouth. But not a word.
I looked back at the road and the old woman had begun to move again, hobbling along, water rolling down the double yellow.
When she was safely on the other side, the officer motioned me to proceed. As if nothing had happened. As if this was something you could expect in life. No big deal, move ahead. Nothing happened here, move along.
I should have put the car in Park right then and turned to her. “Can you help me process that? Can you help me understand? The woman should have been mortified. She just peed in the middle of the road. But there was no reaction from her. None at all. But even worse, you’re not reacting. You’re acting like this never happened. Please use your words. Tell me how to look at life when an old woman loosens her bladder in public.”
All my life I have wanted to put the car in Park and ask for an explanation. Ask for some clarification of where I really was, what was happening, to make sense of the events I’ve seen, but everyone seems to stare straight ahead or give a flick of the wrist to say, “Move along. Nothing happening here.”
I drove up the hill and parallel parked by a barn with two barrels in front of it. I think I did. My heart was beating out my chest wondering what horrors might await when we returned to the parking lot. How do you overcome something like that? Pulling out of the sharply angled drive, I managed to steer the USS Titanic so far into the other lane that I quickly realized how dangerous the situation was. With lightning quick reflexes, I snapped the car in Reverse, backed up, then safely made a much more judicious turn and drove the two ladies back to the police department, a feeling of cold chivalry running down my spine.
Dawn got in the driver’s seat and drove straight up the hill and back like she’d done this her whole life. When the officer led us inside she informed us that Dawn had passed and I had failed, with not much more emotion than the wave of her hand.
“You can’t back up in a roadway.” Or something like that.
“What happened, Fabry?” Mr. Lambert said when he heard the news.
I had no idea. The whole day had that hazy, vague, dream-like quality to it, like I would wake up and it would all be over. But as we passed Wendy’s and I heard the groan of the others in the car, I knew it was real. Floyd and I both did. We would have gladly sat in the car and watched the others eat through the rain-soaked windshield, water like tears running down.
The door opened behind me and there he was, all 6 feet of him, walking into the DMV, his sunglasses in hand. I gathered my things and followed, but he was moving quickly, looking around the room.
“Reagan, stop!” I wanted to yell. But I didn’t want to embarrass him. He’d passed the photo counter where he’d get his license. Or maybe he didn’t pass. 
He moved toward the front desk and closer to a room full of chairs, full of people needing a registration or a new license plate. And it wasn’t until then that I realized what was happening.
He wasn't moving through the building looking for the next station. 
He was looking for me. And it wasn't the stride of a fallen warrior, it was the gait of a returning conqueror. The stride of love.
I stopped and waited and he finally turned around. I waved my red hat and he saw me and smiled. Bigger than the Cheshire Cat. He put both thumbs up.
“Way to go,” I said, slapping him on the shoulder. It was a manly slap, full of pride and hope and love.
I wish I had a picture of us walking away.

Rahab vs. Rehab

I was proofing a book I have co-written with Dr. Gary Chapman and one chapter discusses the biblical character, Rahab. Somehow, when we wrote the study for the end of the book, her name was spell-checked to become "Rehab."

I suppose Rahab needed rehab. Painful memories, bad choices. She had a lot to work through after her experiences in the house built into the wall.

We all need freedom from the past, but God offers more than a makeover. God's grace is better than rehab. It's a total renovation. In fact, it's not renovation at all.

The myth about following Jesus is that he wants to make us better, cleaner, or nicer. Install some carpet, paint some walls in our soul, and mow the yard. Not true. You can't rehab something that's dead.

Jesus wants to make us alive.

Sticky Note to a Graduate

On the radio program, 5/17, we gave advice to graduates. High school. College. Med school. Technical school. If you wore the cap and gown, you are eligible to listen to these pearls of wisdom.

Here is a personal sticky note I would put on the dorm-sized refrigerator of any graduate.

Never underestimate the power of pain and failure to teach.
I have learned much more from failure and pain than success. I hope you do not succeed at everything you do because you will become a small person if you do. You will believe the world is your personal oyster and it’s all about you. Perpetual success will stunt your growth. You need pruning. And pruning is painful.

Pain and failure show you how inadequate you really are. Everyone is telling you what a bright future you have, that you are our best hope for the next generation, that you have what it takes to change the world.

You do not. You have a limited ability, limited strength and endurance, limited mental capacity. You are young now and cannot conceive of running out of energy or ideas or drive or ambition. This is because life has only had a limited amount of time to smack the snot out of you. And it will. It will tear your heart out and try to feed it to the birds. It will make you kneel in the sand, at some point, with the sun beating down, and you will despair.

Your friends and family do not wish this for you because they love you and care about you and don’t want to see you hurt. They want the best for you, but they also know the horrifying truth about life and want you to be the exception to the rule.

Here’s the truth. Rejoice when life smacks the snot out of you because either you have made a terrible decision and this is a wake-up call to change, or you are doing the exact thing you were made to do and life does not like it.

The pathway to changing the world is not in your self-actualization or trying to feel good about what you’ve done or what you want to accomplish. You will change the world a day at a time stepping from one hot coal to another. And while you’re hopping you will become stronger. Not because you’re willing yourself to overcome the odds, but because you’re surviving and thriving in the middle of the struggle, this desert called life.

Life is struggle. Life is submission and abandonment. When you realize you are not strong enough, smart enough, and good enough to be who you were created to be, you have reached the first step toward peace in your heart. And that peace is not something you empty yourself to get. It comes from a relationship with God who can impute to you more than you could possibly imagine or achieve. And when you surrender to Him daily, and follow him, you will see the pain and failure and success from a wholly different perspective.

Never underestimate the power of pain and failure to teach.

George Beverly Shea

We did not have time to include the messages I wanted to on the tribute to George Beverly Shea, but I wanted you to read this email from Robin. What a great message and tribute to this man!


Chris,
My co-worker at Moody Radio MidSouth, Dawn Rae, suggested that I let you know about my connection with Bev Shea. Dawn Rae is the morning drive host her in Nashville, and I am her fill-in when she cannot be at the mic.

Bev Shea was an incredible individual, and meant so much to so many people. Millions of people have heard his voice and been deeply affected by his public ministry. What many people do not know is that Bev had a very effective private ministry as well. He didn't just work with the multitudes, he cared for people one on one.
When I was young, my mother was the pastor's secretary at our church in northern Illinois. When we had guests at the church, they would usually come home with us between morning and evening services, having Sunday dinner with us and relaxing before going back for the evening activities. People didn't go out to eat regularly then like they do today.
When I was 8 years old, George Beverly Shea came to sing at our church. He came home with us after morning services and spent time with me while mom got the dinner ready. He asked me about my mother's piano and if I played or not. I said I did and I played a couple of little songs for him and he talked with me about Jesus. He asked me if I had asked Jesus into my heart or not. I confided in him that, while I loved Jesus, I didn't think I was good enough for Him to want me. He told me that I was exactly what Jesus wanted me to be, and that He did love me, just the way I was. He asked if he could play a song for me, and he sat down on the piano bench and pulled me close to him. He played "The Wonder of It All" and sang for me. We both had tears in our eyes. I asked him if he thought Jesus would want even me, and he said he was sure of it, so he lead me in prayer right on that piano bench and I became a child of God. 
Of course at the time I had no idea how special this man was to so many people, but I can tell you that he meant the world to me. 
Since that day I have been in contact with Bev Shea only twice. Once when he was hospitalized - I did get a very nice letter from him after that occasion. It had long been my wish to meet with him in person again to let him know what his kindness meant to me. At the time I was working as a contractor with the Southern Baptist Convention, and this was a wish that my co-workers were aware of. A few years back, they were kind enough to make that happen for me, and I was able to meet with Bev Shea when he was in town here in Nashville. Here is a photo of us from that event at the Country Music Hall of Fame:
I just wanted you to know how special this man was, and how much I will miss him. I know he's singing for Jesus now. Then again, he always has.
Robin Oquindo