Category: Life

Child

“He is known in the wild as Strider. His true name you must discover for yourself.”

That line is from a scene toward the end of The Battle of Five Armies, the third film in the somewhat bloated Hobbit series. I didn’t expect any great or profound truths to come to me while watching a fantasy movie–I was just simply trying to keep to my night shift sleep pattern while on sick watch over the family.

But. It was exactly 0105 when that elf-to-elf line was uttered, and then something occurred to me.

We don’t learn our true names until we pass from this world and stand before the throne of Christ. I think on that day, he will welcome us, and whisper our true names into our ears and hearts.

Clearly, that is no accident.

We go through our lives with some inkling of who we are. We know our given names, of course. Typically, they’re carefully considered by our parents. My first name, for instance, is after a friend of my father’s. It’s Thomas, as was his, but people called him Tommy. That’s what everyone called me as well, until I was old enough to decide I wanted to be called something else–which I thought sounded more mature (I don’t really care anymore, and nobody calls me Tommy anyway, except my siblings and a few ancient friends online).

But that isn’t my true name. It’s who I am here, not who I am in eternity.

Scripture assures me that I will be one day welcomed into Heaven, provided my name is written in the Lamb’s book of life. I don’t think that name will be Thomas Eugene Wilkins. I have no idea what it is, and in my opinion that doesn’t really matter anyway.

One thing I do know–one thing that matters to me a great deal–is WHO I am to God. Who I have been since that day in March back in 2000.

Until I get to Heaven–until angels carry me to Abraham’s bosom, that is the name I quietly speak to myself in my heart when I want to know who I am to God.

Child.

Hallelujah.

Listen to the words of this amazing song by Todd Agnew–it says close to what I’m trying to, but in a better way than I ever could.

Thoughts From The Park

I’m sitting here at the park and watching the boys play. They’re playing together for once, and they aren’t fighting. It’s been a pretty good day so far.

I’m thinking that they’re growing up so fast, it’s like a soft rope, slipping through my fingers. I wonder what kind of example I’ve been as a man? As a father? What kind of example will I continue to be?

I think of the example of my own father, who was close to the age I was when I got married and started my family. It wasn’t necessarily bad, I just think that people of his generation were different than they are now. And then he died when I was still young, just 16.

I think I learned more about manhood from my brothers-in-law than I did from my father. Mainly because I spent so much more time with them. Especially my sister Lee Ann’s husband, Phil.

I don’t think I ever thanked him, or my sisters, for being there for me when I was young. They saved my life in so many ways. They taught me how to treat women, and how to be emotionally available. Phil gave me most of my sense of humor. He also taught me how to relate to people in a way that puts them at ease, using the aforementioned sense of humor, mostly. And he taught me how to be a husband.

I’m hoping to give that to my boys. To show them how women should be treated. To be good and godly men, and husbands.

I think I do that by loving their mother, and letting them see. If that embarrasses them sometimes, I can live with that.

They also need to see me love God, and show them what he can do in a life–the changes that can bring. I learned that part from several Godly men and fathers who came into my life every now and then, always right when I needed them.

James Hogan.

Tim Wakefield.

Matt Botkin.

Merrill Roach.

Ray Traynor.

Ken Whitson.

John Whitson.

Zeb Ohland.

Paul Mondragon.

They made me realize how important it is to set an example.

It isn’t easy, and I probably should not expect it to be. Nothing good is.

So I will continue to love their mother, who is truly my better half, and the love of my life.

I will let God be my father, and example. I will love Him through the hard, and the ugly.

I will let him love me.

Brennan Manning said something once, to the effect that when our time comes, Jesus will ask us one question: did you believe that I loved you?

That may be the most important thing I can teach my kids.

God loves them. And when they believe that in their hearts, their lives will change forever.

Mine did.

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ALL Who Are Weary

My older son hates getting ready for church. Not going to church, or being at church. Getting ready. So much so that occasionally he will throw a giant fit because he doesn’t understand why he needs to get dressed up.

This morning I woke up at 0500 for some reason, and I looked at my phone, of course, because that’s what you do when you wake up. One of my sisters had posted the David Crowder song “Come as You Are” to me on Facebook and mentioned the song being beautiful.

She was right. It is.

That got me thinking about the Gospel, and more importantly, Jesus.

Come as you are.

I think the most beautiful truth about Jesus (in my opinion) that can be found in scripture is that of Matthew 11: 27-28

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In that passage, Jesus doesn’t make any qualifying statements about when you should come.

He doesn’t mention knotting your tie, or wearing a collar.

He doesn’t say anything about being ready, or in the right mindset.

He doesn’t even say you have to believe.

He says come to me, all you who are weary and burdened.

I will give you rest.

In my heart, he sounds something like this:

come to me with your doubt. Come with your loneliness and addiction. Come standing in that sin you just can’t seem to shake. Come mired in the filth of the world with your guilt about all the awful things you’ve done and seen hanging around your neck.

Come to me hurting. Come to me with your wounds still bleeding. With missing limbs. With that chasm down the middle of you that only I can fill. You don’t have to be ready.

Just come as you are.

As the year ends, have you been thinking about what’s missing?

Why 2014 blew so hard you don’t even want to know what 2015 will be like?

If I never write another word, or say another word, I think I would say this to you now.

Consider Jesus.

God.

Consider finding rest for your souls.

You may think Christians are full of shit, and many of them are.

Christ isn’t, I promise you.

You may think your life is too messy, that what you’ve done is too terrible for forgiveness.

It isn’t.

Consider Jesus.

Maybe you’re wondering about God, and yourself, and wondering what to do next.

Consider Jesus. Find a bible. You can get them free in the Kindle store if you have a smart phone.

Talk to someone.

Listen, folks. Maybe some of you will happen across this post and wonder who in the blue hell I am to tell you to do anything?

I’m no one special. I’m a man, like every other man. I’m a person just like you.

I doubt sometimes. I hurt and have been hurt. I am far from perfect. I lust. I hate. I mess up all the time.

But in March of 2000, I was able to literally lay my burdens down and it felt wonderful.

If you want to know more about it, scroll through my blog, or ask me in the comments.

If there’s anything you want to know about Jesus and how to know him from a regular person, I would be happy to answer any question I can without judgment.

If you don’t want to comment here, you can look me up on Facebook and message me. My name is on my blog page.

Talk to someone. Talk to God.

Come as you are.

Don’t wait.

A Good Year

2014 has been a tough year, no way to deny it.

Tough at work.

Tough medically (emergency gall bladder surgery on Valentines Day followed at the end of the year by Bell’s Palsy and a corneal abrasion).

Tough financially (because mostly of the above reason).

Even a little tough at home every once in a while.

Yet many wonderful things happened as well, and that, I think, is most important of all.

We helped to launch an amazing and for us, life changing church.

A church where we could grow in our personal faith walks, while discovering a wonderful and vibrant ministry where we could serve together.

We bought a home, after half a decade of prayer and saving and paying things off.

We paid off a car.

Our kids are healthy.

Our friends are supportive and always there for us (through late night hospital visits, much needed fellowship, date nights, phone calls, and emergency dr visits, among many other ways. We love us some Knapps, Ohlands, and Antonellis, Crawfords and Youngs)

My San Diego family is loving and very supportive. Many old wounds are healing there.

Don’t want to imagine what the year would have been like without the Whitson family. My words fail me.

Finally, and probably most importantly:

God is still good, and worthy, and on the throne.

I’m old and broken down, but alive, and wealthy in the only way that really matters.

Blessings.

Sweet Baby James

I just thought of something else to be grateful for this Christmas.

The few times I’ve gotten in my car to go somewhere over the past few weeks, I’ve had the same CD in the Impala’s CD player; Sweet Baby James, by James Taylor.

No, you’re right. It isn’t the least bit metal.

It’s good music, though. I’m not here to write an album review, but what I’ve been thinking about lately is how lucky I was to have such a wide exposure to music from a very early age.

My dad loved the big band stuff, and I heard a lot of that growing up. He had a pretty decent collection of 78 rpm records, and though I didn’t appreciate it much at the time, I love that kind of thing now.

My sister Lee Ann’s first husband, Jerry, gave my brother a box of old 45 rpm records–surf music, and some doo-wop, and other early sixties groups. I still enjoy that type of music when I get to hear it, too.

My sisters Debbie and Valorie introduced me to guys like James Taylor, and Kenny Loggins, and later on, Black Sabbath and Ozzy Osbourne as well as Bruce Springsteen.

That’s right. My sisters introduced me to metal.

My mother used to listen to KSON in the kitchen on this single speaker transistor radio. From her I learned about singers like Willie Nelson, Kenny Rogers, and Charlie Pride. Later on, my friends Shawn, Mandi, and Jackie would introduce me to more country–more modern stuff like Garth Brooks and Toby Keith.

Later in life, I would discover “Christian” music, and that was good, too.

So what I’m grateful for is music, all music. There is certainly plenty I neither like nor understand, but that’s cool. Someone likes it.

I could spend all day, probably, listening to songs and bands I like, and telling you about the people who introduced me to them, but I don’t feel like it, so I’m going to leave you with a song that’s been keeping me peaceful lately.

Before

A lot of people don’t think Christmas is that big of a deal, all things considered. It’s a day set aside for good old American-style capitalism, right? Maybe the family gathers, and it’s one of the few days of the year a whole bunch of people who normally don’t go attend church. So that’s cool.

But it’s just another day, right?

Not for me, and not for most folks who believe in what many might call “traditional” Christianity, if such a thing exists.

Here’s why, to my way of thinking.

Before Jesus could learn in the temple

Before he could read the torah

Before he learned how to work with his hands at the side of his father on earth

Before he saved the best wine for last

Before he made the blind see

Before he made the dead walk

Before he fed multitudes

Before he healed hearts and bodies and minds

Before he was chained to a Roman whipping post and flogged to within an inch of his life

Before he felt the desolation of his father in Heaven’s abandonment

He had to be born.

Now, think about all those things passing before his eyes as he hung there with his head down. Did he know what was to come upon his birth?

We don’t know.

We do know that when he cried out “eloi, eloi, lama sabachthani” it was with his heart ripped out in a way that man can never know.

And that was for us.

Been thinking about that ever since Eric shared that this morning in the kids ministry devotional and communion time.

And that’s why Christmas is such a big deal to me.

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Crooked Face Dad

I hate that at my advanced and decrepit age, I both need and crave reassurance of things, but lately I’ve certainly felt that way. More so than in a long time.

The Bell’s Palsy has really sort of made things difficult. The left side of my face is stone paralyzed, including my eye, which I have to tape shut much of the time. The resulting dryness has made it more susceptible to injury, which has already happened once and was incredibly painful.

Can’t drive, so I haven’t been able to work. All of that is bad, and a real pain in the butt. The house is decorated for Christmas and I haven’t felt like enjoying it. The worst part for me has been the inability to kiss my wife and kids.

So I have been getting really good at feeling sorry for myself.

Then a couple things happened yesterday. My younger son and I were sitting around and he said “will you play with me?”

I was about to say I didn’t feel well, and then I thought of a movie line from somewhere (of course). You’ve only got one life to live. You can make it chicken salad, or chicken shit.

Yesterday I made chicken salad. We played cars, and scooters, and ate peanut butter sandwiches. We got mom a Christmas present (I made all right turns going to the store), and when we were done, my little guy kissed me smack on my twisted lips and said “I yuv you crooked face, dad.”

Jen came home and did the same thing. I guess sometimes a kiss is a kiss. It’s the heart behind it, not the lips in front of it.

It’s going to be a good day.

Another Lesson From John

I didn’t realize I had a problem with vanity until the last week. Why would I? I’ve always sort of thought of myself as Joe Average. You know, the guy you will pass on the street or in the store and forget about a few seconds later. I was OK with that. The thing most people would remember about me is my height.

This past Sunday morning, I woke up and something was wrong. I had a pretty bad headache, and my face felt weird. It wasn’t exactly numb, but I couldn’t move my mouth like I wanted to. I took some Ibuprofen for the headache, and off we went to church–Jenny and I had a Sunday school lesson–we’re teaching about the Nativity, introducing one “character” each week. As the lesson progressed, I listened to the kids singing Christmas songs and I couldn’t stop touching my face. Now, my left eye felt kind of burny and gritty. I pulled my eyelid closed and that helped a little.

We went home after church and by the time we finished lunch, I couldn’t blink my left eye at all, and the left side of my face felt completely numb. My left eye and cheek drooped on my face, and when I spoke it was like I had a mouthful of mashed potatoes if I went on for too long (probably a good thing for my wife, as I am a bit of a chatterbox).

At first, I thought I’d had or was having a stroke. Except I didn’t have any of the other symptoms people talk about with strokes. We started doing research online and it seemed it may be something called Bell’s Palsy, which was supposedly a temporary facial paralysis of either (and occasionally, both) sides of the face.

My doctor was able to confirm the diagnosis, and prescribed medication to hopefully speed the recovery process, which can be anywhere from a couple weeks to several months. In the meantime, I have to wear an eyepatch because my left eye won’t close. When I speak, my lips sometimes twist up, like I’m blowing a kiss off to the right.

In short, I’m not at my most handsome. I’m seeing the Dr today and hopefully getting cleared to go back to work next week, and I’m kind of nervous about it. I look funny, I talk funny. I take a ton of pills. Not looking forward to being in the fishbowl an office or test can be. Nevertheless, I have to work.

So this morning, I was sitting on the couch with my four year old, and he asked me, “Are you OK, dad?”

I told him dad was a little sick still, and didn’t feel very good.

“How are you sick, dad? Does that eye patch make you sick?”

“No, daddy’s eye just gets dried out, and he has to keep a bandage on it.”

“Well, I love you with an eye patch, dad.”

“I love you, too, bud. What if Dad only had one eye, or no eyes?”

“I would still love you with no eyes. But you would be weird.”

Couldn’t help but laugh.

“You always weird, anyway, dad.”

I laughed again, and had to agree with him. I usually am pretty weird.

So hopefully, I will get cleared to go back to work. Weird, eyepatch, and all. Let’s do it.

Black People, White People, and Deuteronomy

I saw a YouTube video today from a man—a black man—regarding the “situation” in Missouri following the grand jury decision not to indict Darren Wilson in the killing of Michael Brown. He made the video back in August, but I think it applies even more now, following the madness of the past two nights. Here’s the video, if you’d like to see it.

I think he’s got some really great points, and though his video is made with African-American people in mind, I think we can all (yes, white people, too) glean some wisdom from it. Watch it and you’ll see what I mean.

You say you want change? Then change!

Deuteronomy 2:3 is mentioned, and I don’t think I’d ever heard that applied to this kind of strife before. It’s perfect. It doesn’t allow for apportioning blame. It just speaks the truth.

Haven’t we gone ‘round this mountain long enough? Turn north!

If you want things to change, change yourself! You need to. I need to. I want to be able to raise my kids and know I’ve done all I can to show them that people should be judged by the “content of their character,” not pigment.

That goes “both,” actually “all” ways.

We are all very different in the way we feel things.

Different in the way we react to things.

Different in our opinions.

Different in our hopes and dreams for ourselves and our families.

But we are also all the same.

We can’t do it on our own. We are not made to be alone, or go through things alone. We were created to be in community with one another.

It isn’t impossible.

But we have to change to make it happen.

Haven’t we gone ‘round this mountain long enough?

Let’s turn North.

Trying to Get It: Thoughts on Understanding the Ferguson, MO Situation

The media has been teasing all day that the jury in the Ferguson, MO, Michael Brown shooting case has reached a decision, but they haven’t said what it is yet. Will they or won’t they indict the police officer who fired the shots? No one knows yet.

What we do know is that people are mobilizing all over the place, fearing the worst. Why wouldn’t they, considering the riots and demonstrations that already happened? People are pleading for peace, and that’s good. Others from within the community are issuing warnings about how things are going to go should the verdict turn out differently than they would like.

It’s easy to imagine something similar to how the Los Angeles African-American community reacted after the Rodney King verdict—looting, burning, beating.

That’s the part I don’t understand, and I would really like to. What goes on in a person’s mind and heart that sacking their own community seems like an effective demonstration? From an “outside” the community perspective, it seems an adult equivalent of a child holding their breath so they can just die instead of giving in to whatever it is.

It’s difficult to imagine the level of frustration a person would have to do to destroy their own homes and businesses.

Certainly, some of it has to be righteous indignation, but I wonder how much more is just people enjoying the carnage, in a manner of speaking?

I don’t know. Is it because I’m white, and haven’t felt the sting of oppression in the same way black people have? Probably many would tell me it was.

People have argued that of course, Officer Wilson was making his story up, and that he killed Mr. Brown out of racism and malice. What if he didn’t, though? What if—as evidence seems to suggest—there is at least some truth to his story? Doesn’t the authorities manufacturing or changing evidence seems just as far-fetched as Wilson actually fighting with Brown and shooting him because he felt his own life was in danger?

Occam’s Razor, folks.

Anyway, there have been witnesses in both “directions,” including several coroner’s reports.

The truth of the situation probably in the end came down to feelings. Wilson felt this, and Brown acted however he did because he felt something else. We may never know.

I certainly don’t have any answers, except to say that everyone has a right to live, and that includes white police officers who fear for their lives. I think it’s unreasonable to tell someone when they should or shouldn’t be afraid, and just because Brown was 18 and unarmed does not mean he was unable to be dangerous.

So I guess we just need to all try and unlearn what we think we already know about people. White or black, we all have much to learn.

I hope this time, things don’t end in more violence. The cycle has to stop eventually, doesn’t it?