Turning 35.

Happy birthday to me.  Today.  February 10th, 1981, my mom gave birth to a beautiful little boy named, well, me.  Ha.  She always seems to call me on this day after dinner and says, "happy birthday papito!  I love you and am so proud of you."  Words I will never tire of hearing.

I don't know what makes 35 so reflective but it makes me stop and think.  I'm halfway to 40.  Wow.  I still feel like I'm 18 in so many ways.  My body tells me otherwise after a game of pick-up basketball.  I just wanted to take a minute on the morning of my 35th birthday and tell you a little bit of what I've learned...

These are some things I've learned in 35 years:

My dad taught me the most valuable lesson.  Use your ears more than your mouth.  I tell my children this everyday before school.

My mom taught me to love no matter what.  It doesn't matter what they do to you or say.  Love them.

My wife taught me to be patient.  The hardest lesson to learn so far.

My children have taught me to laugh.  Their laughter is better than money in the bank.

My father-in-law taught me that hard work pays off and that there are no short-cuts in life.  If you do see a short-cut, don't take it.

My mother-in-law taught me that love trumps any negative thing someone could say to you or about you.

My sister taught me to keep pushing, keep asking and don't give up.

My sister-in-law taught me to love my family and how important they will always be.

My brother-in-law taught me to be humble, quiet and work hard no matter who is looking.

The Holy Spirit has taught me that he's with me no matter who distant I feel.

Jesus has taught me that he loves me no matter how I feel that day.

The Father has taught me that He doesn't condemn me no matter what I've done.

These are just a few things I've learned.  The greatest lesson I've learned so far in 35 years is to know that I'm loved not because of what I can do or say or how hard I can work.  I'm loved because Jesus made me lovable.  That's the best thing I know today.  Resting in the truth of Romans 8:1.

-ricky g

I'm exactly who you thought I am...

My heart is heavy at the moment as I just heard the news of my favorite preacher, Tullian Tchividjian,  pastor of Coral Ridge Presbyterian Church in Florida, resigned his position this weekend due to a marital failure.  I do not know all of the details but because his granddad, Billy Graham is world-famous, it is all over the news.  I think more than that it's because he's a christian and a pastor.

I quote Tullian all the time as his preaching (by the power of the HS) has set me free in many areas of my life.  He preaches the unadulterated good news that Jesus came to do for sinners what sinners couldn't do for themselves.  I've read (or am reading) all of his books and his am an avid listener of his weekly podcast.

I thought it was odd that over the last few weeks CRPC was having guest preachers as Tullian was in the middle of a series on the book of Acts called "Unstoppable" which I was very much enjoying.  I knew he had taken some kind of sabbatical but thought it was only for some time for him and his family to get away as he does most summers.

As I walked through Target waiting for the kids to look at toys I saw someone on my FB page post "tell me this isn't true..." and a blog titled "The age of the unknowable Pastor" with Tullian's picture.  My stomach sank into knees.  I began to read the words in the blog and the dread words "extra-marital affair" appeared.  My heart was broken.  But why?  Why did my heart ache for Tullian and his wife?  Why did it become surreal at the moment I read it?

Idolatry is why.  John Calvin said, "the heart is an idol making factory" constantly fashioning idols and replacing them with each other.  Our hearts are dark and sinful and should not be listened to, no matter what your sunday school teacher says.  Tullian had become that in my life.  This is why when you hold someone in such high esteem, it's like they die.  It's like someone takes the ground out from underneath you.  God does these things because He loves you.  He does this because he deserves to be number one, not someone you just call on when things get bad.

Tullian is exactly who I thought he was.  He is, as Paul says in Romans 7, "oh wretched man that I am, who can save me from this body of death?"  Thankfully this isn't where Tullian's story ends.  This isn't the last we have heard from him.  Why?  The world is watching.  How do we forgive one of our own?  How do we love our own when something like this happens?  How far does our grace really reach?  The breath of fresh air comes after the statement Paul makes at the end of Romans 7 into Romans 8.  So we stand and say to you pastor Tullian, "There is no condemnation in Christ Jesus, Tullian.  You are exactly who I thought you were...a wretch like me."

http://www.crpc.org/statement-from-coral-ridge-leadership

Beautiful Boy Part II.

It's been an adjustment, to say the least.  Meetings, talks with family and some nights of restless sleep.  I think the hardest thing, to be complety honest is the label that comes with Autism.  The night my wife told me that the school psychologist called, I called my mom.  Sometimes, all I need to hear is her voice.  Calming, reassuring me that it would all be ok.  That Elijah was perfect and it was all in a sovereign God's will for him to be Autistic.  You may think, "how can she say that?", and I'll get to that.  As I told her what the school psychologist had said, I began to sob.  My heart was broken for my little boy.  My beautiful Elijah.  "I know baby.", she said.  "I know it's hard..."

I think God has our best intentions at the very root of what He allows to happen to his people.  The very overly-used-in-most-graduations-verse, Jeremiah 29:11, says, "I know the plans I have for you...plans to prosper you and not to harm you."  But, what if harm is good for us?  What if what looks like God is killing us is actually him saving our lives?  What if like Hosea said, "the breaking of bones" is the best thing at that time?  Sounds like God is mean and that's not what Joel Osteen would preach or write about.

As I sat on the other end of the line with my mom that night and wept, speechless to say the least, I remember her saying, "this is good."  Good?  My son being disabled is good?  She said it with no hesitation in her voice.  You see, my mom knows that Romans 8 says, "and we KNOW that ALL things work together for GOOD...".  All things.  So yes, the good, the bad and my son's autism.  Suffering and the worst news possible should set you free.  If it is not followed by the best news imaginable, then it's only news.  I could sit and wallow and fear the worst for Elijah, but...the best news is that God has good news for me.  

The most liberating part of this whole story with Elijah is me dealing with the label of him being disabled.  We've had some hard days and we've had some days where him and I just talk.  The truth is, I am slave to a facade I want people to see.  I wear a mask of always being fine, when in reality, my heart is broken for my baby boy.  That's freeing, though.  I don't have to hide who I want him to be anymore or try to suppress the fact that something was different about him.  I'm free of faking it for him.  We had to come out and tell everyone the truth and I've come to realize that I was locked in a cage that was open the whole time.  Opened by the best news imaginable.  

Beautiful boy.

This is my son, Elijah.  Some of you may know him, some of you may not.  He is distant at times and awkward in social situations.  He has temper tantrums and loves legos.  His rationale is not that of a "normal" 9 year old but loves with all of his heart.  We have always known Elijah was a little different.  I remember when he was about 18 months old and he threw the biggest fit and it took everything Kallie and I knew to get him calmed down.  After about an hour and half of struggle, we got him out of that furious mindset.

A few years ago, Kallie approached me and asked if I thought Elijah functioned like a normal little boy.  It took me back as it opened pandora's box of thought and emotion.  He wasn't normal.  She began to research the word I always dreaded to hear..."Autism".   I remember thinking to myself, "I can't have an Autistic little boy."  Selfish in so many ways but Kallie always reminded me that God made him exactly the way He wants him.  Good news in the midst of a punch to the gut.

Today, after much testing and many meetings and years of pleading with the school district, we received the news that Elijah is on the Autistic spectrum.  The call came in today, thankfully to Kallie and not me, that they will diagnose him with an Autistic disorder.  Kallie said, for her, it is a weight off of her shoulders.  To me, it is almost a weight I cannot bear.  In fact, I weep as I type.

I must be honest that I want the best for Elijah.  I want him to succeed and want him to lead a normal life.  I want him to get married and have kids of his own and to work a job he loves.  I want all of this for my beautiful boy.

As you read this you may think of ways to comfort me or think "I know some pretty high functioning autistic people and they are fine."  Thank you in advance.  It's hard though.  I have a son who has a disability.  Freeing in some ways to write and overwhelming as well.  In a lot of ways I take this as bad news.  But, here's the good news...

Elijah walked up to me when he was 5 years old and asked how to be saved.  He had just got out of the bath and put his pj's on.  I still remember his damp hair cold on my neck as he hugged me and prayed asking God to save him.  This, Elijah understands.  God loves Elijah and Elijah knows this.  He understands the price that was paid at calvary for what he's done to offend God.  Elijah understands.

This is good news to me in the midst of a punch to the gut.  It may be a long, difficult road with my son ahead of us but one day, well, we know the rest of Elijah's story.

Farewell, Pastor...

My phone rang last night.  It was my dad.  Pastor, dad, friend.  You see, my dad has been struggling lately.  He was diagnosed with Parkinson's disease a few years ago.  I saw a man with Parkinson's at work today and someone had to hold his drink for him due to the shaking of his hand.  It has to be embarrassing.  Humiliating for something invisible to rob you of the life you once lived.  Your life is changed forever.  I don't think we have a whole lot of time left with him and as we talked last night he said, in his words, "I've asked the Lord to take me home so I can be with him."  Hard.  Very hard.  Even just to write.  Hard.

His call was unexpected but his calls always have purpose.  My dad has been a pastor of a church for as long as I've been alive.  As long as my sister has been alive.  It was his calling from day one of his new birth.  He was good at it.  He (is) was always a good preacher and at times it seemed like he was on the verge of calling fire down from heaven.  I long to preach like him one day.  All this to say, my dad decided to retire.  He said he has peace about not being at the church anymore.  Something I never thought I would hear my dad say.

Change isn't easy, but it's coming.  It's weird that I'm "there" with one of my parents.  To know that his time with me is slipping away, until death separates us for a little while.  I'm going to let you in on a little secret.  I want to be like my dad.  So, I decided to write him a letter.  A kind of "open letter" since those are all the rage now a days in the evangelical community.   So here you go.  A letter to my Pastor dad.

Dad,

You may never read this but I hope you know it.  I love you.  I miss you.  I pray for you.  The hardest part of growing up has been not being around you as much.  I miss the days I would wake up afraid and you would sit by my bed and read the bible to me and those words would comfort me into a deep and peaceful sleep.  I got to do that with Elijah the other day.  You would be so proud of him.  He's smart and reminds me of you in so many ways.  The words he uses and how he loves to read.  He tells me all the time that he loves Jesus.  It's the only thing I hoped for, dad.  You are leaving a legacy of Jesus being loved.  Thank you for telling me the greatest story ever told.  The only story worth telling.  Kyle is so bright and reads so well.  He smiles like you and laughs so much.  Annabella is like mom.  She loves to be loved but keeps you at an arms length.  She gets so excited when I come home and throws herself into my arms.  I remember greeting you like that when you would get home.  You should see Kallie now.  She has grown up so much in the faith and has lots of questions.  I hope I can pastor her the way you pastor-ed mom.  Don't lose heart, dad.  You may not be the pastor anymore but you still have a ministry.  You minister to me.  I love you dad.  I hope you believe that.  I know I caused you lots of heartache as a kid and even have as an adult but your grace has been evident in the fact that you took me back every time.  Your grace got me to where I am.  A pastor once said, "Law makes the wayward run and never come back.  Grace may make them run but they always come back."  I came back, dad.  I love you.

your son,
Ricardo J.

"I'm coming home..."

As many of you might know, I'm a LeBron James fan.  I love the guy.  I grew up loving Michael Jordan in the 80/90's and the championship Bulls over those years too.  I know, I know, I sound like a bandwagon fan.  In a lot of ways, I was more a fan of Michael's shoes than his balling and still am a fan of his shoes.  

That's beside the point but I think ultimately I was a distant fan, more than a true fan.  No other person in sports makes me feel like LeBron makes me feel.  In the summer of 2009, my wife and I watched as Lebron sunk a 3 pointer to win a game against some team (haha) in the playoffs.  That sealed it for me.  I don't know what it was but it made me feel accomplished and I wasn't even playing the game, or a fan of the Cavs or LeBron.  As soon as I heard that he made the decision to play in Miami, I switched teams with no qualms.  It felt even better to see LeBron win that elusive ring and almost rub it in Dan Gilbert's face as he held the MVP trophy and championship trophy.  

But, in reality, this post isn't about championships or revenge or leaving the big three.  This is about something bigger than basketball.  

While we were on our vacation in Colorado this summer, the news broke that LeBron was making his way back to Ohio.  I was shocked in many ways because I never truly saw reconciliation between the two parties.  My wife read the letter LeBron wrote and tears filled my eyes.  LeBron said something that struck me.  He says in the letter, "this is bigger than basketball."  He goes on to say that if him being in Ohio makes someone go to school and come back and start a business, it's worth it to him.  Don't get me wrong.  I know money talks.  I'm not naive to the fact that LeBron wanted a max deal.  On the other side of the coin, I think he could of gone to many other teams for way more money.  That's why I say it's more than basketball.  LeBron realizes that for some people, he gives them hope. He knows that some kid in Akron who doesn't have the ideal home life might take up basketball because of him and stay off the streets.  He knows that people will unite under a team they can be proud of.  He knows Ohio needs hope.  

We all need hope.  Colossians tells us that all these things now are but a shadow and Christ, He's the substance.  He's the one that truly gives us hope.  He reminds us to long for a home that He has prepared for us.  There will always be a void that LeBron or basketball or championships can't fill.  Only Christ can fill that void.  All things point to Christ and the hope He gives.  Even a kid from Akron.  

My favorite pastor and preacher Tullin Tchividijian writes about this from another interesting point of view here:  http://www.pastortullian.com/2014/07/12/the-grace-of-a-great-a-farewell-to-lebron-james/

A view from the front pew...

About 6 years ago, I started writing a book.  At the time I was calling it, "Confessions of a Pastor's kid.  A view from the front pew.".  Well, I promised myself that after a week long speaking engagement I had this summer I would pick it up again.  I have set a goal, loose goal, that I will have a manuscript by January 1, 2015.  So, this is me telling you, I'm writing again.  It's scary in a lot of ways, that big of a project.  I don't expect to be at the top of the NY times best seller.  Maybe I should rethink the title to "Victory in your life everyday and millions of dollars are yours if you just believe.".  Nah.  I'll wait to see what the publisher says.  This time, on the real though, I will keep you updated.  I actually posted an excerpt here of a chapter a few years ago.  Look back and you'll find it.

So, here it goes.  Going to pour my guts out in a book and sell out all my friends and family.  Just kidding...kind of.

Ricky G

BUY AND READ THIS BOOK NOW!!

Just picked up my friend Andy Dietz's new book "Kidnapped in Budapest: The chilling, true story of a missionary" and read it in one night.  I couldn't put it down!  I've heard Andy tell this story first hand and it was just like that night on the Mexico mission trip when he took the time to tell me.  I really recommend you buy and read this book.  God stirred my heart to think about my relationship with Him and to ask myself if He really does come first.  Andy not only tells his encounter with wicked men but also his encounter with a God who is in control when everything seems to be in complete and utter chaos.  Do yourself a favor and get this book.  It's an easy read but will challenge and stretch you beyond the comfort you may find yourself in.  May God mark our lives with suffering and not the easy way out!  God, remind us to experience life and not just live it...

Yikes...4 years since my last post

Is blogging still cool? Is saying cool still cool?  I was looking over my blogs and my last one was 4 years ago...yikes.  I thought maybe I'd see if people were interested in seeing what we were up to.  Maybe you care, maybe you don't...but here it goes.

The last time I wrote, we were a family of 4.  Now, we are a family of 5.  We added Annabella Joy to the mix in 2011.  She's 3 now and the light of my life.  She is smart and adventurous but scared of her own shadow.  Literally, her own shadow.  She reminds me quite a bit of my mom.  Clear about what she wants and doesn't know a stranger.  Elijah is 9 now and Kyle is 6.  Both of my boys are super smart.  Elijah, my little need-boy, loves video games, the trampoline and reading.  Kyle loves life, laughing and...girls...and girls love him.  Yes, I know, a little young.

Kallie and I have been through our up's and down's but are rock-solid.  She's my best friend and I can't imagine life without her.  I always say, if Kallie wasn't around I'd be walking around the walmart parking lot in my pajamas all day, clueless and virtually lost.  She's the apple of my eye and the hope I see for humanity that people still care, love and have a soul.

My life, as of lately, has been rocked by God's grace.  I have been set free of many of my cynical views, jaded stances on theology and have just been set free to live under, as Pastor Tullian says, "the banner that says 'it is finished'".  I have been prepping for a camp I will be preaching at soon and I will leave you with this story of how God's grace had changed my life:

When I was in college, I worked at a church, I'd say at the time the most popular church in that town amongst all us christian men and women.  It was where all the cool christians went to church and hung out and dated each other.  I somehow managed to score a job in the youth department as the youth intern the summer I was dating one of the deacons daughters.  She went to work for the camp we would soon attend that summer and I stayed behind to assist the youth minister.  As our time came near to leave for camp I was short on funds.  I lived about an hour and 15 minutes from my hometown so taking a trip to get money from my padres was not easy either, or cheap for that matter.
I called my mom, as I usually did, and asked her if I could meet them halfway and get some money.  She said the words I still dread to hear sometimes even now, "let me ask your dad".  After a few short seconds of silence my dad came on the phone.  "Why do you need the money?" he asked me.  I explained to him that I had to pay rent and buy stuff for the trip and had ran short after all of that.  He pushed a little further and asked if I had stuck to my budget and not spent money on Wendy's.  Ummmm...Wendy's.  I lied and said yes.  He asked a few more questions that revealed the truth and I was enraged.  I actually think I remember yelling at him and saying a cuss word under my breath and not just a christian cuss word like "dang" or "shut the front door".  He listened and continued to offer some wisdom but said it was hard to help when I had dug my own finical hole.  I hung up on him.  I was mad.  How dare him.  A few hours later I heard a knock on my apartment door.  I opened it and saw my parents standing there.  They asked if I had eaten yet and when I said no, they persuaded me to eat with them.  They paid for the meal and before they left they handed me two crisp hundred dollar bills.  We said our goodbyes that night and nothing was said about the prior conversation on the phone.

You may say to yourself, "how dare him do that after you had yelled at him".  The truth is it did not create in me a sense of shame or guilt but of freedom.  Not freedom to take advantage of my parents but freedom to love because I was loved.  They did not say anything about, you don't deserve this money or when you get back come do dishes for two weeks.  Nothing was said, ever again.  I had sinned against my parents and they loved e and showed me grace.  This creates a long obedience in the same direction rather than a begrudging obedience.  I love my parents for this and I love Jesus even more in the face that, "while I was still a sinner, Christ died for me."

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 

The power of the narrative.

My boys make sense.

Let me unpack that statement.  I watch my boys play, either together or apart and the things they do make sense.  Kyle, our youngest is still a little too young for this but our oldest, Elijah does what this blog will be about so well.

I've noticed that when Elijah plays he has a grand imagination.  The way he captures me and his mommy as his audience goes to show that he does not imagine for the recognition or any kind of glory but simply because he himself is captivated by story.

When I watch him play with his "super heros", which the majority are bad guys or VEDOM, (Venom from Spiderman) he carries the story so well.  To be completely honest with you he's hardly ever violent either.  These are some of the things I witness when he plays...  

That's just an example and one of the better pictures I have of him playing but you get the drift.

I only wish I could be inside his head as he plays.  To see the story that drives his play.  To see who he will rescue and why he does it.  To see the outcome from his eyes.  This is the power of the narrative.  The power of story.  We need to keep our kids dreaming.  We need to challenge them with math but remind them to be mystics.  To keep wonder as close as a whisper.  Imagination can be a beautiful thing but when suffocated our children no longer are our children, they are our co-workers, our pastors, our teachers and yes, even our Presidents.

The power of story reminds us of who we are and what we were meant to do.  To tell a story.  A true story about a God who loved a people who were so lost.  A story about a cross and an empty grave.  A story about a King and a Kingdom.  A story about struggle, about pain and about hope for those people.  A story that makes sense.

Get involved with story.  Tell a story.  Imagine with me.  Appreciate beauty because it is soon followed by wonder...

 

      

The Scorpion Part 3

In Sterling City lived a man named Martin.  Martin loved his family but was having a tough time getting along with his wife who he loved dearly.  They spent most of their time fighting and arguing, mainly about money and some of the past things Martin had done.  Martin's sins hung heavy over his head but this one day in particular, Martin was having the toughest time.

After a quiet dinner, not in the nice kind of quiet but the kind where there is deep tension and no resolve, Martin stepped outside to smoke his evening cigar.  Martin lit the cigar and took a long inhale holding the smoke in for a few seconds.  "God, if you're listening to me, why did you make me?  I guess you always make those people that just bother people and I guess that's me." Martin said as he exhaled the smoke in his mouth and lungs.  He flicked his cigar and continued, "You shouldn't have wasted your time."

Martin continued to smoke his cigar all the way to the end as he leaned against the side of his house and watched the sun set over the river that has no end.  Martin threw the butt of his fading cigar onto the ground and smashed it making sure to extinguish the embers that glowed on the cement.  He felt some type of resolve after talking to this God he had only called upon when he was in a hard place or needed help on a test in grade school.  Martin decided to take a walk and talk to this God.  Maybe God needed to hear what Martin had to say.  Maybe whatever Martin said would change the way God felt about him.  Maybe those TV preachers were right.  Maybe Martin needed to be saved.  Whatever that meant.

Martin peeked in the back door and told his wife, "I'm going on a walk.  Be back soon.".  He shut the door, slipped his hands in his jeans and started towards the front.  Martin walked with his head down, defeated but with a purpose.  He needed to go somewhere where this God that seemed to be listening would speak to him.  Martin walked on down a few blocks and past the post office.  He came to a lonely dirt road that looked like it led to the river that has no end.  He followed it and came to it's banks.  Martin sat down and watched the water rush by.  The water didn't move quickly but something about the way it was moving flowed with vigor.  

Martin sat in the quiet and kept his head down as the sun set over the Sterling City.  Martin spoke directly to the ground hoping that God was still listening.  "So if you're into this saving stuff, how does it work?"  he said.  Martin plucked a blade of grass and continued, "If you are a loving God, why didn't you save me a long time ago?  Am I that bad of a person?"  Martin said as he plucked a few more pieces of grass and tossed one by one.  "You know what?  I think I'm wasting my time.  I don't think you truly love me.  If you did, you would say something back..." as Martin finished his statement he saw a ruckus to the right of him on the bank of the river that has no end.

Martin saw an older woman down on one knee sticking her hand in a small branch that was caught on the bank and every time she stuck it in she would quickly pull it out as if something was stinging her.  She didn't look crazy or like she had escaped the old folk's home, she just looked like a regular old woman.  Martin stood from his sitting place and walked over to the woman.  He could now see that her hand was swollen and stung all over by a scorpion that was caught in the branch.  Martin grabbed her by the shoulder and said, "Ma'am, no offense but are you crazy?  That thing just keeps stinging you every time you stick your hand in there.  Why are you doing that?  Just let it die!".  

Ann grabbed her hand that was now numb from the stinging and tried to wipe the tears running down her face.  She held her hand tight to her chest and whimpered for a few seconds before responding to Martin.  She looked at Martin and said, "Why would I deny this scorpion a chance at life when it's nature is to sting and my nature is to save?" 

The Scorpion Part 2

Ann kneeled next to the branch that was caught on the bank of  the river that has no end and watched the small scorpion struggle to gain it's freedom.  It struggled and tried to maneuver it's way out but to no avail.  The scorpion seemed tired and sat with it's body half in the water and the other half on the bank caught in the branch.  

After watching it struggle for a few seconds, Ann reached down and broke a few limbs off of the branch so she could get to the small and tired scorpion.  There was nothing special about this scorpion but Ann had a feeling deep inside her that she needed to save this scorpion from it's impending death in the river that has no end.  Ann slowly made her way with her hand down to the scorpion itself.  As she put her hand near the scorpion she felt it's stinger poke her between her thumb and index finger ever so quickly that it took her a few seconds to gather what had happened.  Ann lifted her hand to her face and saw where the scorpion had penetrated her skin.  A small drop of blood fell from the wound.  Surprisingly there was no burning feeling.  Ann thought that all scorpions were poisonous, but maybe not this one.

Ann had an overwhelming feeling that the scorpion still needed to be saved from the river that has no end.  Her hand throbbed with pain but without even thinking she reached down to try and save the scorpion again.  Without even seeing the stinger poke her, she watched the scorpion pull it's stinger out of her hand.  She leapt up and grabbed her hand.  Tears streamed down her face as she looked at the scorpion with a love she could not understand.  Ann thought to herself, "Why won't you let me save you?".  

Again, with a love for the life of the scorpion that would not stop, Ann reached down again and again was stung by the drowning scorpion.  Ann continued and with every try the scorpion would not relent and with every try Ann would tear her hand back and whimper in pain.  Ann did not quit.  She was sure that she looked foolish and was grateful that there were no onlookers.

Between stings Ann looked at her hand and cried out in agony.  The pain had subsided but her hand looked horrific.  It was purple and swollen and now becoming numb.  Ann would not quit and the scorpion mirrored her efforts. 

The Scorpion. Part 1

In the town of Sterling City, on the 5th block east of the river that has no end, there lived a lady named Ann.  Ann loved to take walks right before the sun set every night.  She had ample time to do this as her husband had passed in the great war and her 2 beautiful children were now married and had children and lives of their own.  

On one particular night, Ann went through her daily routines.  She cooked her small portioned dinner, ate it ever so slowly on the back porch, washed and cleaned what was dirty and laced up her white, dingy walking shoes.  

Ann loved this time because Ann always talked to God.  She would ignore the looks she received from some of the passersby because she knew God was listening.  Sometimes God would talk back.  She would talk and talk to her heart's content then after awhile she would always say, "Listen to me, I've taken up all of our time with crazy talk, now it's your turn...".

Most of the time, the talks were one ended.  But after her spiel, Ann would just listen.  Now Ann was a creature of habit and she would walk the same path every evening.  There were times Ann would walk and see her footsteps from the day before and think, "maybe I should walk another path to the river that has no end.".  It was too far from familiar for her so she stuck to the same path, night after night.  

She timed her walk just right so when she reached the river that has no end, almost right on time, the sun would slowly set.  Every time Ann had a new feeling come over her.  A small tear would come to her eye and a smile would form on her lips.  Ann always had the same thing to say, but every evening the "thank you" she said meant something different.  

On this evening Ann made her regular walk, past the post office, onto the dirt road that led to the river that has no end.  She looked at her watch as she made it to the banks of the river and said "ah, right on time".  The sun began it's descent and Ann took a deep breath, closed her eyes and said, "thank you.".  She opened her eyes to take a look at the setting sun that had painted her with it's rays and suddenly something out of the right corner of her eye caught her attention.

There was a small branch that had floated down stream and snagged on the bank of the river that has no end and something was moving inside of it.  There was a struggle.  It seemed to be a small creature that had it's legs caught in the branch.  Ann stepped over to it, knelt down next to it and could now see that it was a small scorpion.