Dear Trailhead family, I never knew Eileen West to be young in the classical sense. Eileen was my Sunday school teacher for several years in the late 80’s. I was young, maybe 5 or 6 years old, and Eileen was a grandmother and a grandmotherly type. Eileen taught our rambunctious group the stories of the Bible using her storytelling gift and a flannel graph. She never had help in the classroom that I recall and never seemed to need it (although she may have begged to differ). If that old church building were still standing, and I were able to revisit it, I am sure I’d be shocked at how small our basement classroom was, but somehow it always had enough room for the stories being told. The story of Jonah and the fish worked reasonably well, especially since the church basement was known to flood during our rainy spring seasons, but the Israelites marching around the walls of Jericho made us all feel particularly cramped. Noah and the Ark was a stretch, mostly because we couldn’t wrap our young minds around someone building a boat for decades and decades on end, but we kids liked that the result was a floating zoo. Jesus feeding the 5000 was where our room and imaginations met their match. “How did Jesus do that?” we asked when Eileen explained that Jesus fed more people in this one casual miracle than made up the entire population of our town. “God can do anything,” she said and we believed her. I didn’t know much about Eileen other than she lived a few towns over and drove herself 30 minutes to teach us little hoodlums each Sunday. I do remember raising my hand one Sunday in church, signifying that I wanted to follow Jesus and Eileen was the person who talked to me about it after I had walked forward. (Back in those days, Jesus didn’t meet you in your seat, but only at the front near the altar). Eileen was one of those comforting presences in my life growing up that you assume will always be there, but eventually, I grew older and so did Eileen. I remember hearing that my parents were driving a meal over to her place because her health was failing and later, in a casual conversation, they mentioned that Eileen had passed away. Teresa of Avila either said or wrote, “When one reaches the highest degree of human maturity, one has only one question left: How can I be helpful?” I have no idea if Eileen ever heard of Teresa of Avila, but she was incredibly helpful to a group of tiny humans and I was fortunate enough to be one of them. To this day, I do not doubt that Eileen loved me and somehow, the way I understand and experience Jesus loving me is similar to how Eileen loved me. (Minus the Dixie cup of Kool-Aid and the animal crackers, I should add). I began by saying that I never knew Eileen to be young in the classical sense. I stand by that. However, as time has passed, I have begun to wonder if maybe Eileen was younger than I gave her credit for. You see, week after week, for many years, Eileen taught the kids in her Sunday school class about Jesus and I never detected fatigue or that this was monotonous to her. And then I came across this passage from G.K. Chesterton and it made me wonder all the more. Take a look at it for yourself: Because children have abounding vitality, because they are in spirit fierce and free, therefore they want things repeated and unchanged. They always say, "Do it again"; and the grown-up person does it again until he is nearly dead. For grown-up people are not strong enough to exult in monotony. But perhaps God is strong enough to exult in monotony. It is possible that God says every morning, "Do it again" to the sun; and every evening, "Do it again" to the moon. It may not be automatic necessity that makes all daisies alike; it may be that God makes every daisy separately, but has never got tired of making them. It may be that he has the eternal appetite of infancy; for we have sinned and grown old, and our Father is younger than we. Maybe it was a sense of duty that compelled Eileen to spend time with us kids each week, or maybe, just maybe, she was much closer in age to us than we ever knew because she was like her Father. Either way, thank you, Eileen. Grace and peace be upon you, Grant.

Dear Trailhead family, I just met Joseph. He is 74 years old and on his way to see the cardiologist. Joseph has more than a passing resemblance to how I imagine Abraham or Moses. Or any of the Old Testament prophets for that matter; short, stocky, bursting with energy, an impressive beard. I could tell he wanted to talk. I had work to do and I hid behind my work as long as I could. But then Joseph asked me a question and we were off. His opening remark was about my gloves and he wondered if they were warm. I said that they were. I commented on his coffee. How a hot cup of coffee is the best way to keep your hands warm. We were now friends. We talked about his 94-year-old brother who is in hospice and grew up during the Great Depression and the Second World War and he hoped to see his brother before he passes. We talked about how the uncertainty of life during the Cold War impacted Joseph’s childhood and career. How Joseph served in the Air Force during Vietnam but never went to Vietnam. Somehow we even talked about the violence found in the Old Testament and how that may not be the clearest portrayal of God. And then Joseph had to get to his doctor’s appointment and we said goodbye. Joseph is gone and I am left to wonder what God was up to in that encounter. My conclusion? Something about salt and light. Here’s how The Message puts Jesus’ words, Let me tell you why you are here. You’re here to be salt-seasoning that brings out the God-flavors of this earth. If you lose your saltiness, how will people taste godliness? You’ve lost your usefulness and will end up in the garbage. Here’s another way to put it: You’re here to be light, bringing out the God-colors in the world. God is not a secret to be kept. We’re going public with this, as public as a city on a hill. If I make you light-bearers, you don’t think I’m going to hide you under a bucket, do you? I’m putting you on a light stand. Now that I’ve put you there on a hilltop, on a light stand—shine! Keep open house; be generous with your lives. By opening up to others, you’ll prompt people to open up with God, this generous Father in heaven. Thank you Joseph for taking the time to show me God-flavors and God-colors today. Grace and peace be upon you, Grant

Dear Trailhead family, Eons ago when I was about to turn thirty, I decided I wanted to climb a Colorado fourteener for my birthday. Colorado is blessed with more than 50 mountain peaks reaching over 14,000 feet above sea level and a few of those mountains are accessible to people who lack technical climbing skills. People like me. Since I had never climbed anything so formidable, I did a lot of research. Armed with blogs and books and maps, Cassie and I traveled to Colorado, fueled up on pizza the night before our climb, got up insanely early, and drove to the trailhead. That’s when we really started learning about climbing fourteeners. Especially climbing fourteeners in late spring. The first surprise of the day was how much snow we encountered on our drive to the trailhead. So much snow that it became clear that if we continued to drive up, we might never drive down. So we parked well short of the trailhead and began our climb. The next surprise was just how high fourteen thousand feet is and how difficult it is to breathe at that altitude. The climb was less than five miles one way, but starting at 11,000 feet meant we were breathing hard the whole time. But we made it to the top. And it was spectacular. Sunny skies reflected off the snow-covered mountains spreading off in every direction. Cassie sang happy birthday to me and we ate our leftover pizza in an oxygen-deprived state of bliss. And why shouldn’t we be happy? We were at the top; as everyone knows, going down is easier. Except it wasn't. The snow, with a nice crust that supported our weight on the way up in the cold, was now softened by the sun and was no longer willing to hold us up. For the majority of the trek back down, we sank to our knees or deeper with each step. We were no longer having fun. Late that afternoon we made it back to the vehicle, back down the mountain road, and back to civilization. We were sunburned, dehydrated, sick from the altitude, terribly sore, and grumpy. We both agreed that there are better ways to celebrate a birthday. But I was hooked. Over the next five years, I climbed as many fourteeners as I could, including returning to the original climb a few times to try it with better gear and better conditions. And each climb had a special moment for me: the first sliver of the sun rising over the horizon, throwing its color and light up and out in every direction. To avoid the crowded trails I’d typically start my climb several hours before sunrise and the scope of my view for those first miles was whatever my headlamp could illuminate. But once the eastern sky began to turn from black to gray and from gray to yellowish-orange, I’d get my first view of my surroundings and the mountain I was climbing. The sunrise always necessitated a short break to soak in the view and savor the beauty. However, a few times, my route had me climbing towards the sun as it rose. And my view, rather than being awe-inspiring and postcard-worthy, was more like looking into, well, the sun. Blinded by the light. Whereas before the sun rose I was blissfully skipping along (who am I kidding? It was more like slowly putting one foot in front of the other), I was now tripping on rocks and having a hard time decerning where the path even was. All because of the light. Headlamp no longer needed, I was now pulling my hat bill low, holding an arm high to shield my eyes, squinting to make out just what exactly the light was illuminating. Which reminds me of that ornery old prophet Isaiah, when he wrote, “The people walking in darkness have seen a great light; on those living in the land of deep darkness a light has dawned.” I love that verse. This Light was an answer to prayer. The answer to the prayer. The Light would be God among us, with us, one of us. And yet, some six hundred years later, when the Light dawned, I wonder if it wasn’t just a little blinding. I picture those first-century Israelites doing a lot of pulling their hat brims low, arms held high to shield their eyes, squinting to make out just what exactly the light was illuminating. A baby who is… God? A baby who is God who grows up to… die? A baby who is God who grows up to die… for what? The people walking in darkness were looking for something else. Something a lot more like… Rome. Since Rome was the problem, the solution should look like Rome, only more powerful. But Jesus didn’t come to be a bigger Rome or a better Rome. Rome already had its gods; the powerful always have more than enough gods. Jesus came for those who had lost faith in their gods and were humbly looking for something real. And that's where the blinding part comes in. I suspect that until we stop fighting the brilliance of the Light, until we stop shielding our eyes and glancing away to protect our vision, we never experience the miracle of the Savior. The Light is blinding. But maybe, it blinds us to what is false and fake, and then, only when we are properly blind, do we see what is real. "When Jesus spoke again to the people, he said, 'I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will never walk in darkness, but will have the light of life.'" Grace and peace be upon you, Grant

Dear Trailhead family, Christmas is almost here. Maybe you are excited. Maybe you are not. Maybe it doesn't feel like Christmas should be almost here because someone or something is missing from this season. Regardless, Christmas comes. Or, a better way to say it is, Christ arrives right on time. The story of humanity is that we have not fully shown up to the moment—any moment. Maybe it was a simple command in a good garden not to eat from a certain tree or maybe it was a solemn covenant made between the Almighty and his people, but the consistent part is that we have consistently not held up our end of the bargain. Shame on us? Game over? Go home, you didn’t make the team? You’d think, but no. Rather, it would seem that our limits, our fallibility, has been factored into the story from the very beginning. Paul, the rangy theologian/missionary/author/former persecutor of all things Jesus, writes to this effect, “Christ arrives right on time…. He didn’t, and doesn’t, wait for us to get ready. He presented himself for this sacrificial death when we were far too weak and rebellious to do anything to get ourselves ready. And even if we hadn’t been so weak, we wouldn’t have known what to do anyway.” (Romans 5, MSG) Christ arrives right on time. One day, in a tiny village that was bursting to the seams with visitors because a far-off person with power had made a degree, a baby was born. Born in a room frequented by animals to a young girl, a virgin girl. By the birthing virgin’s side was a young man who was tasked with caring for the baby and the baby's momma. The baby was not his. The circumstances seem less than ideal. Maybe no one is ever ready for Christmas. And yet, Christ arrives right on time. While this miracle of birth was miraculously happening, outside of town a group of shepherds were shepherding. In contrast to the hustle and bustle of Bethlehem, these shepherds appear to be left out. Whatever is happening in town, they are not necessary nor significant enough to leave their sheep to participate. But the quiet of the night suddenly broke when a figure appeared to them. Not only did this thing, this being, appear out of nowhere and begin to speak, but something called “the glory of the Lord” shone all around them. They were terrified. The shepherds weren’t ready for Christmas. I remember moments like this as a child when I was minding my own business, playing with Lincoln Logs or Lego blocks or Hot Wheels cars, and suddenly my mom appeared out of nowhere and the glory of her authority shone about her and I was terrified. Why? I can't say for sure. But what I am sure about is that anyone who cared to do a little sleuthing could find some dirt on me. Most likely recent dirt, incriminating dirt. I had siblings after all; I was never innocent. Some way, somehow, I was guilty and I knew it. And my mom’s presence must mean that justice would be served. We know little for certain about the shepherds but we do know this with certainty, they were every bit as guilty as little me. And yet, my mom, I mean the angel, had a message that caught the shepherds completely by surprise. The greatest event in the history of great events was taking place and they had been exclusively invited to witness the moment. This wasn’t about the guilty being held to account, but about the account no longer belonging to the guilty. But let’s back up to where we began. The lead-up to the first Christmas was not magical. The birth of the Savior of the world was not preceded by massive discounts on TVs and Toyotas, it was not anticipated by the lighting of the Rockefeller Christmas Tree and Myriah Carey’s soulful voice singing Christmas classics, nor was it celebrated by elaborate church productions and candlelit services. Hardly. The lead-up to The Birth was the worst of times. And into the despair, the questions, the anxiety, the shortfalls, Christ arrives right on time. After all, how anticlimactic would it be for a savior to show up to a people and a place that needed no saving? So rejoice in your weakness, in your unpreparedness, in the tinge of sadness and regret. Christ, your Savior, arrives right on time. Grace and peace be upon you, Grant

Dear Trailhead family, Augustus spoke and the people obeyed; he had decided it was high time for a census. Rome needed money to do what Rome did and to get money, Rome needed to know who to tax. So people streamed from wherever they lived to their ancestral homes to be counted for the pleasure of Augustus, emperor of Rome. This affected a man named Joseph and his fiancée named Mary. And it affected the near-term baby growing in Mary’s belly. This baby was not to be born 9 months after the wedding was consummated. No. This baby was to be born before the wedding. Oops. Babies born before the wedding in this culture were not common. Not common at all. Joseph and Mary’s situation turned more than a few heads, caused more than a few tongues to wag. The gossips and busybodies loved the situation; family and friends were mortified. This story takes place in that peculiar space that usually follows a few bad decisions. You know, too much to drink, being in a place you should never have been, with people that do not have your best interest in mind, at a time of day when you should have been somewhere else. Accept, none of that applied to Joseph and Mary and their illicit child. Why? Because the child was not a mistake. (As if the miracle of new life could ever be so callously categorized). Rather, this child’s lineage can be traced back to the beginning. As in, the beginning of everything. Here’s how the story goes: “In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth. The earth was formless and empty, and darkness covered the deep waters. And the Spirit of God was hovering over the surface of the waters.” Empty. Dark. Unformed space. Oh, and the Spirit of God was there too. Roughly nine months before Joseph and Mary responded to the Emporer's decree and found themselves in the little town of Bethlehem, Mary’s womb had been empty, unformed space. Until it wasn't. The story goes like this. An angel by the name of Gabriel made an unannounced visit to the teenage Mary. The angel Gabriel came excited. “Rejoice Mary! You are favored! You, Mary, are blessed by God!” Mary was confused and disturbed. You know, like let out a shriek and drop the clay pot and pee your pants confused and disturbed. Gabriel realized that he needed to cool it a little. And he tried, he really did. But the news was just too good. “Don’t be afraid, Mary,” Gabriel blurted, “for you have found favor with God! You will conceive and give birth to a son and you will name him Jesus and He will be very great and will be called the Son of the Most High and The Lord God will give him the throne of his ancestor David and he will reign over Israel forever as his Kingdom will never end!” After his breathless announcement, Gabriel stood there, chest heaving, grinning at Mary. But Mary was still just as confused and disturbed. “It’s nice that we have a name picked out for the baby,” Mary surely thought. “But could we back up just a bit and talk about how this baby is getting inside me?” Out loud, Mary asked the angel, “How can this be? I am a virgin.” She was hoping that the angel would understand that the part of her body that makes a baby was formless and void. Gabriel did understand what Mary was saying. Yes, her womb was dark and empty, formless and void. But the Spirit of God was hovering. So Gabriel explained how all this would happen. “The Holy Spirit will come upon you, and the power of the Most High will hover over you. The baby to be born will be holy, the Son of God.” And that is just how it happened. From an empty womb and the hovering Spirit, “to us a child is born, to us a son is given, and the government will be on his shoulders. And he will be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.” Grace and peace be upon you, Grant

Dear Trailhead family, O little town of Bethlehem, how still we see thee lie! Above thy deep and dreamless sleep the silent stars go by. Yet in thy dark streets shineth the everlasting light; the hopes and fears of all the years are met in thee tonight. Bethlehem means “house of bread.” A long time ago, Jacob, his family, and his servants were traveling. His wife Rachel was pregnant and gave birth to a son. The birth did not go well, and Rachel, in the last moments of her life, named her newborn Ben-Oni, Son of My Trouble. But Jacob (He Deceives), renamed He Struggles with God (Israel), renamed his newborn child, Son of My Right Hand, or Benjamin. Apparently, renaming was a lot more common back then. Rachel was buried at Bethlehem; laid to rest at House of Bread. For Christ is born of Mary; and, gathered all above, while mortals sleep, the angels keep their watch of wond'ring love. O morning stars, together proclaim the holy birth, and praises sing to God the King, and peace to men on earth. In Matthew’s account of the life and death and life again of Jesus, he begins by placing his story into the larger human story and writes this unassuming line, “Boaz the father of Obed, whose mother was Ruth, Obed the father of Jesse, and Jesse the father of King David.” “Obed, whose mother was Ruth.” The account of Ruth, the foreign woman whose story became woven into the genealogy of Jesus, says this, “In the days when the judges ruled, there was a famine in the land. So a man from Bethlehem in Judah, together with his wife and two sons, went to live for a while in the country of Moab.” There was no bread in the House of Bread, and so this little family set out to find food. But tragedy strikes and the man from Bethlehem, who is seeking to provide for his family, soon dies. But all is not lost. The boys, now men, marry Moabite women and live happily ever after. Happily ever after for about 10 years, that is. And then Naomi’s two sons both die. Now we can safely say that all is lost. “So Naomi returned from Moab accompanied by Ruth the Moabite, her daughter-in-law, arriving in Bethlehem as the barley harvest was beginning.” (Ruth 1:22, emphasis added) Bethlehem, the House of Bread, sustains. Once again, there is bread, even for a bitter old woman and her foreign daughter-in-law. How silently, how silently, the wondrous gift is giv'n! So God imparts to human hearts the blessings of His heav'n. No ear may hear His coming, but in this world of sin, where meek souls will receive Him still, the dear Christ enters in. Ruth marries Boaz and they have a son, Obed. Obed has a son named Jesse and Jesse has a son named David. Well, more accurately, Jesse has many sons, and the runt of the litter was named David. Poor David. A few decades back, Israel (the nation) had begun to think they should have a king, you know, like all the other nations. The problem with this request was that Israel did have a king, or rather, they had The King. But Israel insisted that they needed a human king and God answered their prayer. God instructed Samuel, a prophet and leader in Israel, to anoint for them a human king. Saul was his name and long story short, Saul disqualified himself and his family from the throne. Enter David, the youngest son of Jesse. 1 Samuel chapter 16 begins this way, “The Lord said to Samuel, “How long will you mourn for Saul, since I have rejected him as king over Israel? Fill your horn with oil and be on your way; I am sending you to Jesse of Bethlehem. I have chosen one of his sons to be king.’” Jesse of Bethlehem, David of Bethlehem. Bethlehem, the City of David. Bethlehem, the House of Bread, sustains. O holy Child of Bethlehem, descend to us, we pray; cast out our sin and enter in; be born in us today. We hear the Christmas angels, the great glad tidings tell; O come to us, abide with us, our Lord Emmanuel! The prophet Micah shared with humanity some 700 years before Jesus was born, “But you, Bethlehem Ephrathah, though you are small among the clans of Judah, out of you will come for me one who will be ruler over Israel, whose origins are from of old, from ancient times.” Bethlehem, the House of Bread, would continue to sustain. And just as Micah prophesied, Jesus was born. In Bethlehem. The Bread of Life, born in the House of Bread. Thirty-three years later, Jesus broke bread and passed it to his followers, inviting them, “Take, eat. My body, broken for you.” The Bread sustains. Even today. Especially today. Grace and peace be upon you, Grant

Dear Trailhead family, His name was Sam. (His name was most definitely not Sam, but for our purposes today, his name is Sam). Sam could not have predicted a year ago the place he now found himself. Just a few months back, Sam had found a mysterious spot on his skin. No matter how he rubbed at the spot, put ointment on the spot, or ignored the spot, the spot was there. While Sam did not know the technical term for his skin disease, the law had plenty to say about how it was to be addressed. Sam dutifully showed the spot on his skin to a priest and waited the required week. The week was long, lonely, and agonizing. And the skin issue only worsened—significantly worsened, in fact. After the week in isolation, Sam went before the priest again and heard what he feared most. It was leprosy, a defiling skin disease. His life was forever altered. He was unclean in the eyes of his community and unclean in the eyes of his God. Sam was considered cursed by God, and Sam felt it to his core. Following the expectations of the law and his community, Sam tore his clothes, let his hair go unkempt, covered a portion of his face, and moved out of his home. His goodbye to his wife and children felt like what hell must be like. The pain was stifling, crushing. Now that he was a leper, instead of offering a blessing of Shalom to those he passed by, he was to shout “unclean, unclean.” Unclean was the opposite of shalom. Eventually, Sam found a clan of similar people. Some were Israelites, some were Samaritans, but the painful reality of their leprosy brought them together in an unfamiliar truce. Contempt for the other vanished as they all found themselves in a horrible category more profound than nationality, that of the living dead. This was Sam’s reality. His days were filled with begging, seeking enough handouts to sustain life. A life, Sam thought bitterly, that he no longer wanted. Then one morning, a ripple spread across the community of the unclean. Jesus, the roving teacher, was rumored to be approaching. Curiosity got the best of Sam and soon he found himself moving with his company of lepers to a place near the road. And there the Teacher was, walking along, young, healthy, full of life, conversing with his traveling companions. Jesus looked so at peace, so whole, so happy that Sam shrank back, aware that his presence could only detract from the moment. Sam knew that his best gift to this rabbi and his friends was to remain invisible. And so he did. But not all of the lepers were so considerate. “Mercy! Have mercy on us!” one of them cried out. Jesus stopped mid-conversation and looked around. His gaze fell on the disfigured company of outcasts. His gaze fell on Sam. Shalom had been broken. And Sam knew what came next. Jesus would shake his head sadly while pointing out to his companions that this is why we must live holy lives, devout lives. For if you didn’t, well, just look. This group of tattered men served as a warning as to the effects of sin, of lawlessness, of disobedience before God. Sam braced his soul for the words but Jesus said none of that. “Go,” Jesus said to Sam and those around him, “present yourself to the priest.” “Why?” Sam thought. “Go to the priest just so he could pity us and confirm what we already know, that we are unclean?” But the leper to Sam’s left immediately started off, clearly intending to do what Jesus had said. Soon another broke rank and followed the first. Then another and another until nine men were moving away. Sam suddenly felt very alone. And even though he had no desire to be scrutinized by a priest again, he followed along behind the leperous crew. They were all he had. And that is when a most curious thing happened. The man who had first cried out to Jesus now let out a shriek. Sam looked up immediately, expecting to see kids throwing stones at his friend or Roman soldiers using the butt of their spears to move his friend out of the way. Instead, the lead leper was pulling at his clothes as if they were suddenly burning hot or filled with biting insects. But the clothes were not what was garnering his attention, rather, it was what was beneath the clothes. Flesh, glowing, vibrant, healthy flesh. And then the next man yanked back his tunic and the next and the next. Each in turn reacted to their skin with a start. One man fell to the ground sobbing, one let out a curse, another began to run, another simply touched his skin as if he had never seen skin before. And then Sam felt something. A tingling sensation, like a blanket that had been hanging near the fire, was now being wrapped around his body. Sam looked at his hands and his breath caught in his throat. Whose hands were those sticking out from his tunic? Surely those hands were not his hands? Where had the angry, open sores gone? How could clear, healthy skin suddenly appear without a hint of scarring or other damage? How indeed? A few years later, Sam’s life had almost returned to normal. He had been reunited with his wife and kids, and the joy he felt every time he remembered his homecoming filled him with awe. To hold the hand of his child, share a hug with his wife, or simply offer a blessing to a passing stranger would often cause Sam to tear up or outright sob. Sam was living again, his life had been rescued that day when Jesus had instructed ten lepers to make their way to the priest. And a day never went by that Sam failed to remember that moment. And a day never went by that Sam wished that he had gone back to thank Jesus. Now on his way to Jerusalem, Jesus traveled along the border between Samaria and Galilee. As he was going into a village, ten men who had leprosy met him. They stood at a distance and called out in a loud voice, “Jesus, Master, have pity on us!” When he saw them, he said, “Go, show yourselves to the priests.” And as they went, they were cleansed. One of them, when he saw he was healed, came back, praising God in a loud voice. He threw himself at Jesus’ feet and thanked him—and he was a Samaritan. Jesus asked, “Were not all ten cleansed? Where are the other nine? Has no one returned to give praise to God except this foreigner?” Then he said to him, “Rise and go; your faith has made you well.” Luke 17:11-19 Grace and peace be upon you, Grant p.s. Happy Thanksgiving friends; may our lives be marked by gratitude to God and each other!

Dear Trailhead family, Larry Williams was successful. At least that is how he felt most of the time. His house was the right distance in and out of town; he lived in a neighborhood that just a few years ago was pasture and the 3-acre lots held modern, stylish, large homes. Larry’s was the largest. Larry drove a late-model pickup truck with all the bells and whistles. Larry’s wife, Betty, playfully made fun of his truck, saying it was more luxurious than her Mercedes SUV. She wasn’t wrong; his truck was nice. Larry and Betty were almost empty nesters and were enjoying the rewards of playing the game the way it was meant to be played. Larry and Betty met in college and chose degrees with great financial upside. Through the hectic early years of starting their careers, their marriage, and their family, they never stopped pursuing their goal of financial independence. They weren’t the kind of rich that buy NBA franchises, but they knew the kind of people who did. Larry had few regrets. His three kids liked their parents, or at least they liked the perks of being from a well-to-do family and therefore acted like they liked their parents. And that was good enough for Larry. Betty was great; Larry had chosen well all those years ago and Betty was the steady voice of reason and calm in the family. Betty kept Larry grounded and Betty kept the family together. And make no mistake, she enjoyed her status in life. Living in a midsized town meant that the Williams were small-time celebrities, and they were recognized and envied by almost everyone in town. Of course, occasionally having to cancel a tee time or lunch date with friends because of an impromptu trip to Cabo or London only added to the mystique. Larry and Betty were both involved in their local church and faith had always played a predominate role in their lives. As was common, Betty shouldered the responsibility of getting the family to church, often chiding Larry that he was more trouble than the kids to get out the door on Sunday mornings. But once at church, Larry was happy to be there and felt like the investment of time once a week was good for him and his family. Sometimes though, when the preacher wasn't totally on his game, Larry’s mind would wander during the message and he would think back to his younger years. Back then, 30 years ago, Larry was all about God. Larry had headed up a Bible study at his high school, he had volunteered at every opportunity at church and he had pushed his youth pastor to plan more short-term mission trips. Larry’s friends knew that hanging with Larry meant that, sooner or later, Larry would steer the conversation to something faith-related. It was inevitable. Larry’s best friend, Scooter (long story but it involved the school’s roof and a scooter) would place bets with other friends over how long a conversation with Larry would take to turn towards God or the Bible. Those had been good years when Larry felt certain about right and wrong, certain about what God wanted, certain about the purpose of life. But time and experience have a way of eroding certainty and losing Scooter in a car accident a few days before graduation had been the first of many foundational pieces to be pulled out from under Larry’s faith. Slowly, imperceptibly, Larry's faith became more and more peripheral. Wealth became a preferred savior, status did more to heal his soul than church or the Bible. Even after all these years, Larry would shake his head at who he had once been. But life was good and Larry wasn't complaining. His only issue was minor but still annoying. Once a week, sometimes more, sometimes less, Larry would have The Dream. The Dream was innocent enough, The Dream was no nightmare. But its reoccurrence was annoying. The Dream was always the same. Larry would dream that he was with a few friends playing poker in one of their mansions when he would excuse himself to use the restroom. On the way to the restroom, Larry would walk by huge windows that framed the mountains in the distance. But he never noticed the vista lit up by the setting sun because of the reflection he saw in the window. There, staring back at himself, was an alarming version of himself. Not hideous in that he was disfigured, but shocking in his poverty. Larry’s immaculately trimmed hair and beard we long and straggly, his manicured fingers sported long and dirty nails and his clear blue eyes looked empty and vacant. The figure looked haunted by nothingness, if that was possible. But that wasn't everything. The figure staring back at him was nearly naked. Larry’s muscular frame was replaced with a gaunt, malnourished body that was stooped and sickly. Rather than wearing his usual tailored clothes, Larry wore ragged shorts that were nearly threadbare, barely hanging on. His reflection looked hunted, desperate, scared. And it was at this point Larry would wake up from The Dream, his heart always pounding, his sheets always sweaty, his mind always racing. Larry hated The Dream. The Dream was so stupid, so disconnected from reality that he never shared it with a soul. And yet, somehow, The Dream didn't feel so disconnected from reality. Larry couldn’t put it into words, but when he looked at the broken, disfigured person staring back at him from the window, he felt that the real him was the fake, the fraud. And so The Dream continued its unwelcomed visit from time to time for month after month. Larry had given up hope that The Dream would ever not be there. The Dream was as much a part of him as his voice, his heritage, his DNA. And then, one night, The Dream was different. The Dream began as it always did, except this time, as Larry stared back at his forlorn reflection, another character approached. The new person was hard to describe as they seemed to come into and out of focus, but their intention was immediately clear. The person wrapped an arm around Larry and lifted a cup of something warm and nourishing to Larry’s lips. The wretched Larry drank and drank and his gaunt features began to swell, to return to health. But the person wasn't done. After the long drink, the person produced clothes. Larry was soon fully covered in new, clean clothes. But the person wasn’t finished yet. The person reached up to Larry’s eyes, eyes that still looked vacant and hurt, and gently wiped some sort of medicine on them. And that's when Larry woke up, eyes wide open. No racing heart, no sweaty sheets this time, but only a desire to be back in The Dream. Back in The Dream so he could spend more time with the person. Somehow, someway, that person was what this was all about. About that, Larry was now certain. Write to Laodicea, to the Angel of the church. God’s Yes, the Faithful and Accurate Witness, the First of God’s creation, says: “I know you inside and out, and find little to my liking. You’re not cold, you’re not hot—far better to be either cold or hot! You’re stale. You’re stagnant. You make me want to vomit. You brag, ‘I’m rich, I’ve got it made, I need nothing from anyone,’ oblivious that in fact you’re a pitiful, blind beggar, threadbare and homeless. “Here’s what I want you to do: Buy your gold from me, gold that’s been through the refiner’s fire. Then you’ll be rich. Buy your clothes from me, clothes designed in Heaven. You’ve gone around half-naked long enough. And buy medicine for your eyes from me so you can see, really see. “The people I love, I call to account—prod and correct and guide so that they’ll live at their best. Up on your feet, then! About face! Run after God! “Look at me. I stand at the door. I knock. If you hear me call and open the door, I’ll come right in and sit down to supper with you. Conquerors will sit alongside me at the head table, just as I, having conquered, took the place of honor at the side of my Father. That’s my gift to the conquerors! “Are your ears awake? Listen. Listen to the Wind Words, the Spirit blowing through the churches.” Revelations 3:14-22, MSG Grace and peace be upon you, Grant