Yesterday I wrote about my trip to Searcy 30 years ago to begin my freshman year.

But later, there was another trip to Searcy. This was the summer of 1984. I was still 27, and I was “trying out” for the preaching job at the College Church. As I heard the story later, the tape I’d sent to the search committee (now I almost can’t believe I had the courage — or audacity — to send one) got put in a junk pile when they saw my age. But later, after several didn’t seem to fit and after a couple sniffed at the salary, they had to return to the pile.

So the call came, inviting me to come speak on a Sunday morning and evening. At the time, I didn’t even own a suit. So my dad bought me one so I could try out in appropriate attire. (I know, I know . . . some of you at Highland are wanting to ask, “So whatever happened to those suits and ties you used to wear while preaching?” Hey, they were never “me”!)

Shortly after that, Neale Pryor called me at home in Wilmington, NC, to say the elders would like to invite me to become their minister. It was a bittersweet evening, as we rejoiced over the new ministry but grieved over having to tell the people in Wilmington we were leaving.

In the following couple months I turned 28, Megan was born, and we endured the 110 mph winds of Hurricane Diana (for seven hours).

Then, in October 1984, Diane and I returned to Searcy with our two year old and our newborn. Now I was back with all of those people I mentioned yesterday whom I revered (along with many others). Only now, I wasn’t their student; I was their preacher.

What was I–what were we–thinking?

But people were gracious. The seven years were, for the most part, wonderful. The four services every Sunday wore me out, but, hey, I was young! (Besides, Diane had the really hard job, as those of you who were around Megan in her healthy years know.) My life was blessed by older mentors, by deep friendships, and by lots of students to teach and train.

The memories wash over me now: Jimmy Allen’s and Neale Pryor’s gospel meetings, laughing until I fell on the floor at Christmas parties at Dwight and Barby’s house (I’m especially thinking of those moments today, because Barby’s battle with cancer ended yesterday, and this wonderful woman went to be with the Lord), running every day with Leon, watching out the windows of my office as hundreds of students crossed Race Street, listening to J. D. Bales as he tried to talk some sense into me (he was always very gracious with me, though I frustrated him at times), sitting in on Ray Muncy’s upper level history classes, going to Hunan’s (the only Chinese restaurant I’ve ever been to that included a taco bar in the buffet line) with the Coxes and Cochrans, playing ball on Monday mornings in the old gym with Matt before he started kindergarten, taking Megan to her special speech classes on campus, crying as we learned more about her challenges, holding each other as we wondered how we could survive without sleep, wrestling matches on the floor with Matt and Megan, “the house” (was it on Center or Market? Anyway, it’s where a bunch of college guys lived whom I had mentored and who, in turn, took Matt into their inner circle . . . it was a house of laughs and love . . . but should probably have been condemned for health reasons.), calling James to ask exegetical questions, crawling into Tom’s office in the Bible department when I was upset, speaking in chapel and at club devotionals and at the lily pool devotionals, “Peak of the Week” in the Administration Auditorium and then in the Benson Auditorium (it was a bigger crowd, but never felt quite the same as our first few years crammed into the admin), being asked by David Burks to speak at the first graduation ceremony of his presidency, playing pick-up basketball games with Avon Malone and Jimmy Allen, and having an asthma attack from laughing so hard at Craig’s imitations of Harding and College Church people. I remember Diane and me dressing in leather and chains, dying our hair purple and pink, and going onto campus to trick-or-treat on Halloween. (I was 29, and she was 28! Students who figured out who it was nearly passed out. I think they were thinking that a preacher’s wife should not be THAT HOT.)

We left Searcy in the summer of 1991. It was the last year I spoke at Harding or the College Church (other than three funerals). Eleven years of my life–four as a student and seven as a minister–have been spent there. What a blessing! I wish I could go back in time and do some things more maturely, but unfortunately maturity usually only comes after failures, forgiveness, and the passing of a few years.

We’ve returned to Searcy a few times since then. Maybe the most memorable was in May, 1992, when we went back for Diane’s graduation. She attended from 1976-78, then took a class or two a semester from 1987-1991. After doing her student teaching in Abilene in the fall of 1991, she was ready for graduation.

For the last 30 minutes we took requests. You can imagine the ones that came up.

At one point the worship leader, a good buddy, got choked up. It reminded him of learning to sing tenor by sitting next to his mom in church. (She preferred singing tenor over alto.) He remembered singing at a funeral for the first time when he was in 3rd grade. These songs are deep down in his soul.

There are songs that take me back to my earliest years. They take me back to the old church in Neosho . . . or to areawide gospel meetings . . . or to Green Valley Bible Camp. They open my eyes to see the “cloud of witnesses” who nurtured faith in me. “Each Day I’ll Do”; “Trust and Obey”; “Just As I Am”; “He Leadeth Me.”

How about you? What songs take you back across the decades?

Megan Diane Cope (born August 26, 1984)

Megan Diane Cope died nine years ago today [now thirteen years]. Who — in our success-driven world — would want her genetic make-up? She was, after all, mentally retarded.

Her ten years here were too short. So today, again, we grieve her absence, and we look forward to seeing her again to thank her for helping to set our worlds right.

Some who are older than me remember two-week meetings, but I only go back to one-weekers. One in the fall; another in the spring. Every year.

You’d think those are bad memories. And yes, those probably weren’t my favorite two weeks of the year.

And yet — I remember the excitement at our church of knowing that someone was coming with urgent messages. Most years, Guy Napoleon Woods came. Other favorites were Hugo McCord, Bobby Key, and Walter Buchanan (my favorite because he was always so much fun at Green Valley Bible Camp near Bentonville).

I remember Guy N. Woods as a man in whom there was no doubt. His book “Questions and Answers” was like our “Pearl of Great Price” — not exactly the Bible, but still a pretty holy book.

But with the others, the memories are much better: the church getting ready in prayer, the discipline of going to the assembly every night (while other kids were playing ball!), and the attempt to write down every scripture mentioned.

I’m not wanting to go back to gospel meetings. Not at all.

But . . . remembering them makes me ask these questions: In what ways are we providing biblical teaching for the church? In what ways are we reaching out to people who are lost (in every sense of the word) — so that we seek to go out rather than attract?

The question made me tired. That IS a lot of sermons.

I started fulltime in 1982 with a wonderful church in Wilmington, NC, that gave me the freedom to grow into the job. And since then, it’s been Sunday after Sunday (with plenty of breaks), year after year, decade after decade.

Sometimes I think I’m about out of gas. Are there older preachers out there? Have you had the same feeling? Sometimes I think I’ve given what I have to give.

Don’t feel sorry for me. It’s a privilege. I get to lead the church in the Lord’s Prayer. I get to lay my hands on babies to represent the church, saying, “May the grace of the Lord Jesus Christ, the love of God, and the fellowship of the Holy Spirit be on you forever.” I get to see the faces of people as the word of God is spoken in their midst. I see the tears of hope-within-grief; I see the yawns from exhaustion. I get to sit on row one, right in front of Bob and Roye Sue. I’m permitted to listen to people remember at times of death. I’m still in the sanctuary as the last words are spoken over coffins by children and spouses.

I can’t ever imagine regretting all these Sundays. And years. And decades.

Here’s what I remember about that year of preaching:

1. I’m glad no one was taping sermons then. I’m especially thankful there are no surviving MP3s for a podcast. (Note to anyone in Alread and Sheridan: if there are any surviving reel-to-reel copies, I’d be willing to buy them in order to destroy them.)

2. I loved the drive time. A beautiful blonde was sitting by my side every mile of the way.

3. Even if I didn’t feed the congregation well, they certainly fed us well! It was a nice break from the regular fare of Pattie Cobb cafeteria on the Harding campus. (Does anyone else remember eating there?) We’re talking home-grown vegies and large quantities of beef.

4. There was great joy in standing before the church speaking about things that matter. My life hadn’t caught up to the things I spoke about — it hasn’t yet! — and yet there was electricity in speaking words of faith and hope.

5. This tiny church (Alread) and small church (Sheridan) launched me with encouragement and compassion. How many churches are there out there — within driving distance of Abilene, Searcy, Oklahoma City, Lubbock, Henderson, Nashville, Malibu, etc.– that have graciously listened to people who knew way more about Greek and Hebrew than they yet knew about life? Blessed are the encouragers of the world.

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Donald Trump looks small when he’s mean and vindictive. No defense for Rosie here, but there is irony in having Mr. Trump as the moral compass for young women who stray.

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Here’s my “If You Come to Abilene for Christmas” guide.

Bar-b-que?

1. Sharon’s (across from Towne Crier). Now our favorite bar-b-que place in town. Be sure to get the corn.

2. Betty Rose’s. I like the smaller version on S. 7th. Maybe it’s because it’s so close to the office. The friendliness of the people there matches the excellent food.

3. Joe Allen’s. Not quite the same ambiance since they left the shack on Treadaway . . . but still good.

4. Harold’s. Two kinds of sauce: “hot” and “d——— hot.” Believe the sign before you lather it on. I haven’t been since . . . yesterday.

5. Harlow’s. NW side of town.

Mexican/Tex-Mex?

1. Alfredo’s. It’s the only place in town Eddie Parish would get Mexican food. (That’s saying a lot since Eddie and Judy’s kitchen WAS the best place in town to eat Mexican food.) I will vouch for the guacamole. I’ve made sure to taste-test it scores of times before offering you, my dear readers, this recommendation. I did it for you.

2. Los Arcos. Randy Harris has made this a cult favorite. He ought to eat free there. They actually had to add on a side room. We call it the Harris Fajita Room.

3. Abuelo’s. “Los Mejores de la Casa.” About the best meal in town — though pricey by Abilene standards (about the price of a bagel and OJ in NYC).

4. Pappasito’s. I’d list it first, but it’s a little ways out of town. (2 hours and 15 minutes to the east, including a bathroom break at Love’s.)

5. Rosa’s. This is a sentimental favorite. We’ve crammed 30 people in there many times and laughed ourselves silly. If you go on Tuesday, you’ll be joined by a couple hundred ACU and Hardin-Simmons students for the Taco Tuesday special.

Oriental?

1. Szechuan. The list stops here. It was — I kid you not — named in some list of the best 100 oriental restaurants in the United States. Unfortunately, they’re closed right now for remodeling. Maybe you’ll no longer have to go at 10:45 a.m. for lunch just to get a table.

Steaks?

Hey, this is steak country. You can’t go wrong. The chains are good: Texas Roadhouse, Logan’s (so I’ve heard — we haven’t been yet), and Outback. But I’d stick with a local: either Joe Allen’s or Lytle Land and Cattle.

My favorite place to get a steak is HEB. It’s eight minutes from their meat market to my grill.

What’s continually surprising is how Wal-Mart is changing this part of the world. With prices much higher in NW Arkansas, the dramatic growth is now heading north into McDonald County, Missouri. Tiny little towns where I sold newspaper subscriptions as a boy are now booming with people working in Arkansas and living in Missouri. I’ve heard that Jane, Missouri is projected to be the fifth largest city in Missouri in another decade. (Bet you’ve never heard of Jane, MO.)

It isn’t just Wal-Mart people locating here at the world’s largest retailer’s headquarters. It’s all the other companies that have offices full of people who can work constantly with Wal-Mart. (Someone estimated that Proctor and Gamble alone may have hundreds in their office here just to work closely with Wal-Mart.)

I’m sure lots of people who come must think they’ve fallen off the earth into some redneck decade of the past. When you land at the NW Arkansas airport (xna), if you look out the window you realize there are airstrips with cow pastures all around.

One slightly sad thing is that as you drive through McDonald county you don’t see scores of old pick-ups. You see hundreds (and thousands during rush hour, I’m told) of expensive SUVs. And — I can hardly believe this — I saw a sign advertising single family homes in the 290s. Are you kidding me? In NW Arkansas/ SW Missouri? The governor’s home is supposed to be in the 290s!

Ah, well, a bit of nostagia. Hopefully these people coming in are still floating on Elk River and staring in amazement as they pass the bluffs of Noel. Hopefully they’re still going to Twin Bridges to fish. I hope they can take in the “Shepherd of the Hills” play. (Branson was a tiny town with a small play and a little “Silver Dollar City” when I was growing up. The only country music played on the car radio from a station out of Springfield.) I hope they can go on a hay ride to see the spook light near Seneca and can drive into Neosho to spend an afternoon at Big Spring Park — catching crawdads and climbing the hills.

I went to bed last night with the sounds of the cousins (and Aunt Diane) playing spoons. It’s such a wonderful sound.

The turkey was delicious; everyone in our family made it to grandma’s; we took an afternoon walk with perfect, sunny weather; and the Cowboys won.

That’s a good day. (How was YOUR Thanksgiving?)

When I share with people about how Diane and I met, I sometimes mention how I saw her at the College Church of Christ. It was a Friday night and there was a special focus on evangelism. It was a small crowd made up mostly of Bible geeks. An unaccompanied, beautiful, blonde elementary education major sort of stood out.

That’s the official story.

The real story is that that was the second time I’d seen her. The first was in a gym. She was playing volleyball with her club.

And she had on tight jeans. Not tight like painted-on tight, but like most jeans were then: tight at the top (which is, of course, the bottom) and bell-bottomy in the legs.

Though I was a pristinely pure Bible major (cough, cough), I, ummm, noticed her. Five foot, two. Eyes of blue.

So, yes, looks matter. Not like the heart, the personality, the character of a person. But when you’re finding a spouse, physical attraction often is what gets your attention. (More on that below in the 13th comment.)

She’s still hot. Even though she’s 50 today, she doesn’t look a day over, say, 35. (Is that still a compliment for a woman?)

All right, all this confession to say this: there was a zip and zowie back there that helped bring us together. But through all the many years together, so much more has come in the warp and woof of marriage. In daily routines, in shared chores, in deep sorrow, and in great joy. In faith, hope, and love.

It’s a great mystery, this marriage thing. But a mystery which today, on my Beloved’s 50th birthday, I’m very thankful for.

Twice a year, we had preachers come in and speak every night for a week. The two who came most often to our church were Guy N. Woods, our unofficial pope, and Hugo McCord. I also remember Bobby Key, Bobby Dockery, and Walter Buchanan, three men whom I always liked to hear.

But we were hardcore. It wasn’t just our gospel meetings in Neosho; it was all the area congregations having their fall and spring meetings. We were always encouraged to “support XYZ church” in their gospel meeting. So we were known to travel to Hottel Springs, Seneca, or Joplin to support their revivals. I mean gospel meetings.

Here’s the funny thing: while I think there’s a part of that culture that is funny (not as in IDIOTIC funny but as in THAT’S MY FAMILY funny), those aren’t bad memories. While I probably wouldn’t have volunteered to go to worship every night for a week, there was a certain excitement about it. The Bible would be preached. Some wandering sinner might be saved. The song leaders were usually hyper-caffeinated. Afterward the middle-aged men I liked so much would gather outside for a smoke to talk about sports.

Now I’m wondering: what is it we’re doing now that one day will seem sort of funny to my kids, but that will be a fond memory as part of their faith formation?

None other than the man in black himself. (Randy Harris, not Johnny Cash.)

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ACU students were buzzing with excitement because fall break is here. Guess what fall break is. Today. That’s right: it’s one day off. But you package it with the name “fall break,” and everyone is giddy with relief.

Great game last night for ACU, defeating the #4 team in the nation. They’re now 7-0.

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Wanted: Two tickets to Game Four! Here’s something I wrote on this blog three years ago:

My insular world of Neosho, Missouri protected me from much of what was happening in 1968. That fall, I entered 7th grade at Neosho Junior High School and started my downtown paper route after school.

So much was happening in the world that year. The Tet offensive was launched in January. Martin Luther King was assassinated in April, and Robert Kennedy in June. Only later did the impact of the My Lai Massacre begin to sink in as we heard news reports about Charlie Company and Lt. William Calley.

Occasionally I’d get to watch “Rowan and Martin’s Laugh-In.” Goldie Hawn and Lilly Tomlin made quite an impression — in their own ways. Tiny Tim was singing, “Tip Toe Through the Tulips,” Mike Wallace was launching “60 Minutes” (Don’t you know some exec said, “It’ll never last”?), Peggy Fleming was skating, and Joe Namath was wearing a mink coat!

But in my world, it was Bob Gibson. My beloved Cardinals were headed back to the World Series (after their wins in 1964 and 1967), led by the greatest pitcher of his era. You may disagree — but, hey, start your own blog!

In 1968 Gibby won the National League MVP and the Cy Young. His ERA for the year was 1.12, with 268 strikeouts and 13 shutouts. Maybe most remarkable is that he completed 28 of his 34 starts. Can you imagine a pitcher today having half that many completed games? I still remember having my little transistor radio nearby on any day Gibson was pitching.

That summer my maternal grandmother and my cool, young aunt (who was probably 20ish at the time) took me to Chicago. We were visiting lots of relatives along the way, but I think my Grandma wanted to be there for the start of the Democratic Convention when her candidate, Robert Kennedy, would be nominated. After his assassination, she changed allegiance to Eugene McCarthy, and in August we headed for the Windy City, with Grandma preaching Democratic politics to anyone who would listen.

I’m sure what my aunt remembers most about the trip is the beginning of that stormy convention. (Will there ever be another quite like the 1968 Democratic Convention? And yes — I was there!) But what I remember is that these two women I loved took me to Wrigley Field. And of all luck, they were playing the Cardinals! I had so much fun, they took me back the next day.

In October, we (yes WE — I considered myself part of the team) were facing the Detroit Tigers. With the newspaper connection, we again scored tickets, this time to game 6.

I was in a bit of a predicament as a Cardinal supporter. Because the Cards went into game 5 with a 3-1 lead. If we won that game, we’d repeat as WS champs. But I wouldn’t get to see them in game 6. So I rooted for St. Louis, but didn’t mind much when they lost.

The rest is sad history for a Cardinal fan. We lost both the sixth and seventh games. But that’s not the really sad part. The saddest was that we wouldn’t be returning to a World Series until the 1980s.

In October the Cards lost the World Series and in November Richard Nixon was elected president. My grandma and I were both sad.

But after that, here are the shows I remembering loving most when I was a kid:

“The Roy Rogers Show” – By the time I was watching TV, The King of the Cowboys was already in reruns on Saturdays. (”Happy trails to you, until we meet again . . . .”) Whenever we played Cowboys, I always insisted on being Roy Rogers — what with Trigger and Bullet and all — while my little brother had to be Gene Autrey.

“The Andy Griffith Show” – I still hear the whistling in my mind. Barney Fife was one of the great comedic characters ever.

“Lassie” – Again, the whistling. A young boy and his collie, constant danger, weekly heroism. What could be better.

“Flipper” – Sandy and Bud were so lucky.

“Daniel Boone” – Fess Parker and that great coonskin cap. (”What a Boone, what a do-er, what a dream-come-a-truer was he.”)

“The Ranger Ed Show.” I doubt this will be on anyone else’s list. It was a local program. But my cousin and I were addicted. We were official members of the Ranger Ed Club. (I still have my badge.) Once he said he’d give a horse away to the viewer who could send in the best name for the horse. My cousin sent in “Ride-A-Lot” . . . and won. That raised the question of what to do when you win a horse and you live in a neighborhood in town. But they found a place to keep him.

No “Bonanza” for us, since it was on Sunday evenings, when we WERE IN CHURCH!

I’m sure there were others that will come back to me as others who are about my age comment — but these are the ones I can remember. (A little later came “Beverly Hillbillies” and “Gilligan’s Island.”)

How about you — earliest TV memories?

I was driving to the church building that Tuesday morning when I heard a news flash on NPR that a plane had hit the north tower of the World Trade Center. Was it a pilot error? Was it a mechanical malfunction? Or — God forbid — was it an attack? No one yet knew.

When I arrived at the office, we all gathered around the tiny black and white television whose rabbit ears picked up the Today Show. Like everyone else, we watched the tragedy unfold.

About an hour later, someone came from our Ladies’ Bible Class, asking if I’d come say a few words and pray. Several who were old enough to remember Pearl Harbor were in such deep sorrow for the world.

Now, five years later, we’re still in awe that young men could be convinced that God would be glorified by such destruction — that they would honor him by killing themselves as they murdered so many people.

Hatred is toxic. Hatred fueled by religious conviction is murderous.

Today we can again pray for Shalom — for the kingdom of God to continue breaking into this world of confusion and anger. And we commit ourselves to being people who follow the way of the kingdom.

What do you remember about that day?

We were a Ford family (had to do with who did the most advertising in the newspaper where my dad was the publisher), so I drove a Falcon. That was followed by a Maverick.

Yesterday, the range of gas prices I saw in Abilene was from $2.30/gal to $2.64/gal. I decided to go with the $2.30. That’s quite a free fall from the $2.99 of a couple months ago.

The temptation every time gas falls a bit or a new source is discovered (as was reported yesterday) is to forget about the need for conservation. But we all know that over the long haul, that’s essential. There is not an unlimited supply of oil, and we must not be in a situation where our oil dependence dictates foreign policy.

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Yesterday as I read Nehemiah, these insights stuck with me:

First, he was a man on a mission — to rebuild the walls of Jerusalem (about 445 B.C.) — and wasn’t going to be deterred by opposition. Sanballat, the fly in his soup, sent him a letter through an aide that read:

“It is reported among the nations — and Geshem says it is true — that you and the Jews are plotting to revolt, and therefore you are building the wall. Moreover, according to these reports you are about to become their king and have even appointed prophets to make this proclamation about you in Jerusalem: ‘There is a king in Judah!’ Now this report will get back to the king; so come, let us meet together.”

He sent this reply: “Nothing like what you are saying is happening; you are just making it up out of your head.” He knew they were just trying to discourage him so he wouldn’t complete his task. So Nehemiah prayed, “Now strengthen my hands.”

Second, he was angered by the way the people of privilege were ignoring the needs of the poorer members of the community. He challenged them: “Let us stop charging interest! Give back to them immediately their fields, vineyards, olive groves and houses, and also the interest you are charging them — one percent of the money, grain, new wine and olive oil.”

And third, when the law of God was interpreted and explained to the people and when they were filled with sorrow, Nehemiah told them not to weep. There’s a time for repentant sorrow, but this was a time of joy. The word of God was being heard and they were being reformed as a community of trust. So he said: “Go and enjoy choice food and sweet drinks, and send some to those who have nothing prepared. This day is holy to our Lord. Do not grieve, for the joy of the Lord is your strength.”