A letter from a father's heart.

My sweet baby girl,

I hope you are reading this on a beach somewhere as the sand holds your feet in it's grip and you feel the sea wash away the day's work and worries. I hope tears fill your eyes as you hear my voice whisper these words into your ear and you look up to see my smile in the setting sun as it paints you with it's fading glory.

You see, I saw you today for the first time. Your black and white "nest" on the monitor in front of me made you seem close yet a million miles away. As your mommy lay on that bed, hope for your future filled my heart. I knew you weren't just a picture but a somebody and not just a somebody but my daughter. You always will be. I will always be your daddy.

I will be the happiest man to hand you over to the man who will one day hand you over to our creator as you pass from this life to the next. I hope I am a good dad. My fulfillment will never be in you telling me so, but seeing some of my attributes in you shine through. It will be more than trophies or plaques on the wall for you to come in and say, "Daddy, will you dance with me?"

I write this letter with one purpose: To tell you that God exists. Even more than Him existing, He loves you. Look up for a second and watch the sun set into the sea. He did that because He loves you. The picture He is panting now is telling you a story. A story of old, that man rebelled against Him and separated man and God. God solved this separation by sending His son, Jesus into the world. Jesus died on a sinner's cross and beat death three days later. This is the reason for my letter.

God the Father loves you more than I ever could. He is singing a song over you as you read this now. Whether I am here with you or if I've passed on I want you to know, I love you. If your life was asked of you, I would beg to lay my life down in your place. If you were lost, I would search the deepest sea. If you were cold, I would wrap the summer around you. If you were lonely, I would sit by you and breathe. I love you my sweet princess.

From the heart of your father...

"I dont know what to tell them..."

That's what my dad said about 3 weeks ago. We had a pretty important conversation about the Gospel on the phone. A conversation that I will hold dear to my heart for years to come. I was telling him about my passion to preach and teach the gospel. He was not impressed but encouraged.

I'll let you in on a little bit of our conversation.

"It's all I think about." I breathe and it makes me think about the gospel."

"That's good, son." "I'm excited for you." It's the only story worth telling."

PAUSE

"Sometimes I think...what else can I say?" What else can I tell them?" " I teach and preach and try to make it as easy to understand for them but they continue to live their lives with such mediocrity." "Like Jesus never opened the mouth of the grave."

"Wow. I wish I knew how to counsel you or encourage you."

"I don't expect you to." "I expect you to preach." "Until cities lie waste without inhabitant, and houses without people, and the land is a desolate waste." (Isaiah 6) "Preach even when no one listens..."

This confirms everything I've experienced in the last year. I am going to take up the cross my dad carried and hope my sons do the same.

Our conversation was over as quickly as it started. It usually ends with questions about my family and how work is going. Not this time. It ended with two simple phrases.

"I just don't know what to say." "I don't know what to tell them..."

The old days

This is a picture of my Dad. I am proud to be his son. I NEVER thought I would say that. I just felt like he never understood me. Now, I know he does. He did all the while. I think I've been thinking about him a lot lately (see last post) because, as terrible as this sounds, I think his time here with us is slowly fading. I know none of us know the time of our passing from glory to glory but he talks about it a lot, so I'm ok with it. Maybe this is a way for me to cope for after he leaves. The thing that gives me hope is that I will see him again. I will get to worship with him. I will enjoy Jesus with him, forever.

I think back to when I was a kid and remember when my dad would hold me and rock me to sleep in an old wooden rocking chair that sat in our living room. He would pat my back and sing an old spanish lullaby that I sing to my boys to this very day. I remember that when I was scared or couldn't sleep, he would grab his old, withered Bible, sit next to my bed and read from the Psalms and comb my hair with his fingers until I fell asleep. I remember the times he would take us on dates, my sister and I. He would ask about school, friends and share wisdom, whether we wanted to hear it or not.

I miss these days. I know my Dad is still alive but this is what I want for my children. I can honestly say, I will never be like my Dad. I will try, but success will be out of reach. He loves my Mom. I think, if his life was asked in place of hers, he would gladly lay it down. I only hope I can fill his proverbial shoes one day.

The thing I will miss most about him is his preaching. This, I hold dear to my heart. Outside of the Bible, my dad is my spiritual hero. He led me to Jesus. He taught me about Jesus and he knows and loves me like no other man could. This post echos my last, that my parents were godly, holy examples and I would not want it any other way. The fights we had, times of trial and silence are places I look back to and think of their patience with me and the hope they had in a gospel that would change me one day.

I love my Dad. I want to mirror him in every way. In that mirror, I see Jesus, one who understands, feels what I feel, has seen the world through my eyes and loves me, despite who I am. When I stand before Jesus, I am going to thank Him for giving me my Dad. Then, my Dad and I will step aside and make way for the King...

The hopes and fears of father preacher

I've been thinking about my dad a lot lately. His hands shake and he is now slouching a bit in his old age. His memory is fleeing him but his head is adorned with wisdom and grey hair. If you didn't know, my dad is a preacher. I would have never, ever expected to think that I would follow in his footsteps. In fact, I remember thinking how I never wanted to go into ministry. Not just because of the beat downs my dad received but it just didn't interest me in the least. I would watch my dad preach on Sundays and at times I would be filled with hope and on other, with much conviction over sin. On some Sundays, his sermons filled me with much fear and trembling as he would talk about hell and what awaited for those who were not in relationship with Jesus.

My dad never exchanged truth to make anyone feel good. He had a graceful way of telling you that he cared through his harsh and horrifically true analogies. I remember in one particular instance, my dad was preaching a "revival" at a church in the Dallas area. The church was full and the majority were people who only came to big events. My dad came out of a meeting with the Pastor and some of the deacons ready to preach. Something was different about his "readiness". There was a fire in his eye and passion in his words as he challenged and charged the church with the truth of Revelation 2. He warned them of losing their Pastor because they had lost their first love (Jesus). People wept and flooded the alter that night. They embraced their Pastor after that day. My dad did not walk on egg shells that night. He smashed any proverbial ice in the room with a warning: "Jesus will come and close these doors. For He is the one who starts churches and He is the one who closes them!".

I would over hear my parents talk at night after my sister and I went to bed. I would creep to the edge of their room and sit and listen awhile. They would unpack the day, talk about their love for us and the love for the ministry. My dad would share stories about people in the church who would come and try to start fights or ask questions about the sermon on Sundays and he never seemed to bat an eye. It was part of his calling. His hopes and fears for the flock he was shepherding were of great joy to him and my mom. He saw that people were growing, asking questions, being offended by the truth of God's word, and that excited him.

I am writing this filled with 2 great hopes. One being that God chose me and called me into salvation and into the ministry. The second being that my parents loved me so much that they never did give up on me. They saw through all the pain and misery I brought as a child and teenager knowing that God would use me as His own one day. I don't think my dad ever expected me to follow in his footsteps, he just wanted to see me in heaven one day. I knew that he prayed for me. I would hear him late at night or early mornings in the living room laboring in prayer for my sister and me and the people of the church. At times you would hear him weeping over the lost of the city. My dad cared. He cared more than I ever could. He still cares. He cares for people.

I want to be like my dad. My heart is slowly changing into the heart of a Pastor. I want to Pastor people. Struggle with people. Show people folly and weep with them as they repent of sin. My dad's ministry might never be noticed by anyone "important". I don't think he cares about that. My dad didn't give his life to a call of being noticed. He gave his life to a murdered and resurrected savior. One that loved him so much that he laid down his life for him. This fills me with much hope that I may one day be like my dad. Giving my life to a purpose that might not get me noticed on earth, but that I may receive a crown in heaven.

I long for the day when we join the hosts of heaven and the myriads of angels and cry out to the lamb that was slain. As our eyes see the King, God almighty seated on His throne. I long for the day that He will call the faithful forward and they will lay down their crowns at His feet and worship Him. I know I will see my dad in that crowd. As Jesus takes my dad's face in his nail-scarred hands, looks deep into his eyes and says, "You did great. Welcome home.".

Christ crucified, Christ glorified,

- rg

"I told you so!"

So...I'm writing this blog with red cheeks (embarrassment) and excitement in my heart. I'm going to give a little back story so if you didn't know why I am writing this blog, you will be in the loop.

This past August Kallie, the boys and I loaded up our stuff and moved in with my parents here in Taylor, Texas (east of Austin). We have been here since August 20 something. We are so indebted to my parents for them allowing us to invade their space for a few months. To make a long story short, central Texas is not for the Garzon family. It definitely has it's perks but we love and miss Amarillo.

We came down here with a mission to help plant a church north of San Antonio. We have high hopes for the church and know they will do great because they have great leadership in place. Church planting, like central Texas, is not for the Garzon family either. We have some financial responsibilities that we felt would be irresponsible to ask people to pay for with their financial support, so we backed out.

With all this said, WE ARE MOVING BACK TO AMARILLO. We miss our house, we miss our friends, we miss our church. We miss it all. This will be the 3rd time we will be moving back to Amarillo and the last. It is where our children will come visit us when we are old. We will make Amarillo our home for many years to come.

Do me a favor if you are reading this and you live in Amarillo. Next time you see me, punch me in the gut and say "I told you so!"

See you all soon! We hope to be back by the middle of December.

-the garzon's

Update on my book.

Hey everyone.  I hope you haven't been holding your breath for an update on my book.  I suck at updating.  I have started writing again and am almost finished with the entirety of this massive project.  If you need a reminder the book is titled, well, for now, "Confessions of a Pastor's kid: A view from the front pew."

I am going to post a excerpt on here for you to read.  Please feel free to comment.

-much love

At the height of the charismatic movement our church (the church my dad pastor-ed) was moving right along.  We were seeing people saved and lives changed.  I was only ten or eleven so my memory is vague.  My dad was so excited to have his best friend from seminary come and preach a time of revival at our church.  His best friend was a protégé as an evangelist and a mere follower in his faith.  Little did we know that the time our church had as a whole was short and the clock was ticking. 

Excitement was in the air and the smell of Clorox filled our church.  You see, when you serve at a Hispanic Baptist church, clean time means Clorox time.  The people of our church, all with busy hands and altered minds, had been in deep thought and prayer for this weekend of revival.  The banner outside our church read, “Revival Services. Friday through Sunday. 6 P.M. Juan de la Garza preaching.”, or something like that.  Just look at any revival banner at any Baptist church and it usually reads that way.  Fliers were sent and the people of our church were living, breathing billboards for this one weekend.  The night had finally arrived and people filled the building being welcomed and ushered in not knowing that they would be a part of something life changing, at least for me.  The pews were full and the nursery bursting at the seams.  This was an exciting time at our church and with numbers comes revival, or so we thought.  You could hear all of the wood pews creak and crack as every body in the house sat down simultaneously and all of our heads shifted from the piano to the pulpit in unison.  “I’m honored for all of you to meet my best friend, Juan de la Garza.”  My dad’s excitement read by the tears in his eyes and the joy on his face.  The pulpit was cleared and a few seconds of silence reassured us that we were doing the right thing. 

Seconds turned to minutes and minutes into hours.  The words “Holy Spirit” were translated as “genie in a bottle” that night and this salesman had come to sell his product.  (I’m just now realizing how hard this is to write without getting emotional.) Pressured conviction lay heavy in the room and tears were now flowing steadily.  It was a weird phenomenon that night, one I could never describe as people dropped like flies to the floor.  One after the other someone would fall, lay on the floor, vulnerable and full of emotion after sense entered their mind.  It was hard for my mind to conceive what was happening.  The conversation of “the charismatic movement” dominated the prior weeks at our house and now it was happening before our eyes. 

The night continued on and the floor of the church mirrored the last day of the civil war.  My dad had put me in charge of the projector, the old school kind, so I was hard at work as we sang song after song.  Finally, the smoke arose, figuratively speaking and the salesman exited the room.  Division set in and my family was left to pick up the pieces.  News of this happening spread like wildfire around the local Baptist community and my dad’s job hung in the balance.  The night everything went down, (excuse my slang) I remember riding home with my mom.  Her jaw clinched tight and her silence communicated that my sister and I were only to speak when spoken to.   The light of the golden arches filled the car and my mom ordered our supper quickly and in just one breath.  The ten mile ride home seemed like an eternity as I watched the stripes on the road fly by and become one.  Confusion and questions collided in my head as my mom and dad talked very loudly in the living room.  For some reason that night my mom asked my sister and I to sleep in their room.  I stared at the light that seeped under the door and watched their shadows pace through the living room.  I listened to the soft rhythmic inhale and exhale of my sister echo next to me.  “I’ll take the kids if I have to because I can’t stand for this.” My mom said firmly.  “Mosito, (my dads pet name for my mom) you know I love you.  I don’t know what to do.  The church will fall apart. “  My dad responded.  My Mom ended the conversation by saying, “it’s me or this church, Ricardo, choose one. “  

 

Jesus is my girlfriend.

Catchy way to start this blog.  I hope I have your attention.  My other thought for a title was "the repercussions of K-love radio and a dangerous mind" but that seems way too arrogant.  

I spent the last week listening to 2 different christian radio stations here in town.  One I hear all the time at work.  Mainly because we are forced.  I haven't see any super-natural life changes happen over a plate of rice and an egg roll yet because of this station.  Eh, doesn't bother me too bad.  Anyway, I made myself listen to these 2 stations as kind of a...let's say...experiment.  It wasn't painful or anything.  It was a change from my usual, Glenn Beck and Michael Savage stuff on AM radio.  

Some songs I knew and some I didn't.  Some were catchy and some were just...bad.  Don't get me wrong, I like some christian music.  Heck, I consider myself a worship leader so I have to like a majority of it.  I'm just tired of the songs that have nothing to say.  I'm not one to judge an artist by their art but, come on.  I literally changed the station several times because I could not listen to the garbage they were playing. 

At times it wasn't even the songs but the things the DJ's were saying.  For instance, they talked about how we needed to give money for the station to stay afloat and things of that nature, which makes sense but not 2 minutes later they have a Hollywood approved nutritionist on to tell us how to eat.  Tangent but relevant.

Now for the songs themselves, the majority of them were "Jesus is my girlfriend" songs.  Feel good about myself and really over positive type songs that just made me sick.  Sounds like christian "artists" are never sad or never struggle with anything.  That's the song I would like to hear on K-love.  "I struggle with porn and my wife hates me."  Honesty might not work in the christian music industry.  I think it's gone too far now.  Past artists have set a pace or paved a path for others that honesty or truth seems too far out of reach.  

Disclaimer:  I like some worship songs.  God deserves praise and how else will the world hear it without some songs the church sings?  I know this.  My reason for writing this is to question the heart of an artist.  Why make pointless art or like Paul said in Corinthians, "a clanging gong"?  Are we writing songs to make a buck or are we writing songs that have something to say?

-much love