I went camping in the Florida Everglades—once. I was in my teens and part of an active Royal Ambassador church group. You must be a Southern Baptist and of a certain age to remember the RA missions program for boys. It was sort of an alternative to scouting for some of us. The name is taken from 2 Corinthians 5:20 where Paul proclaims we are “ambassadors for Christ” as we go about the mission of reconciliation. We went camping in the Everglades National Park as preparation for a cross-country camping trip we would be taking to Washington D.C. that August to the RA National Congress.

Alligators, snakes, and mosquitoes were all on my mind as we set up our pup tents in a circle around the campfire. We had driven out to a point where our leaders parked their cars and the truck.  We hiked through mucky high grass and through some trees and overgrown bushes. We eventually arrived at a clearing that was very dry and flat.  As the darkness settled in, we crawled into our tents, zipped up our sleeping bags and tried to remember that the Lord was with us. When the sun came up, we all got up. Then we heard our leader tell us to be quiet and get very still. The men were examining the whole camp site. Then the announcement was made, no snakes in sight, but we had been visited in the night by at least one bobcat who had explored our garbage pile and everything else in the camp. I did not know I was supposed to worry about bobcats in the Everglades. After camping in the Everglades, we knew we could face just about anything together. 

The RA Pledge took on new meaning for me during that trip: As a Royal Ambassador, I will do my best: to become a well-informed, responsible follower of Christ; to have a Christ-like concern for all people; to learn how to carry the message of Christ around the world; to work with others in sharing Christ; and to keep myself clean and healthy in mind and body. These are still good words to live by and a reminder of the Kingdom adventure we are on together, representing Christ our King.  

Keep healthy. Pray mightily. Enjoy your life today. Share the journey. And let’s experience the love and power of God together. 

Mother’s Day, just like families, is special and complicated. Dorothy’s maternal grandfather, Paul Gummelt, was the sixth of his parents’ children. Paul’s mother, Mina, died after the birth of her 9th child and his father later married an 18-year-old woman from their Baptist church at Cottonwood, Texas named Minna. Paul’s dad and stepmother had 12 children.* Paul and his wife Lydia had one child, Freda Mae. Freda was 16 when her mother died. Her father later married another Lydia. Dorothy’s mother, Freda, was the definition of humility and contentment. She married Albert Niederer and they were married 68 years at the time of her death in 2005. She and Albert lived a simple life, he as a church furniture maker, she as a homemaker and church volunteer. Their son, Ray, was a scholar and pastor, and their daughter married a minister. Freda never learned to drive a car, so when their church relocated in 1951, they built a home a block away so she could participate in all the activities. When Dorothy moved away from home after college, her mother began writing letters to her almost daily. Throughout our married life, until she was no longer able, Freda sent us a continuing account, almost a diary, of her thoughts and the news of the day. She ended many of her letters with, “I must close before the postman comes.” Her next letter would begin telling us that the postman took her last letter to us. Sweet memories of love and devotion.

Mother’s Day 2021 is a complicated day for many people. The first Mother’s Day after a mother has died is often incredibly painful, as well as all the Mother’s Days following the loss of a child. As a pastor, I feel the heart cry of the couples who wanted children, but it did not happen. I hear the pain of the “unwanted.” I listen to some incredibly difficult stories of mother-child animosities and abusive addictions. I see the broken hearts of those who never knew their mothers, and the pain of grandmothers who have their grandchildren torn from them by divorce or court order.  Yet, God has given us a rich gift in our complicated and sometimes messy families. This week, take a few minuets to reflect upon all the mothers and grandmothers in your family story. Somehow you and I have become who we are because God’s love has embraced us, nurtured us, and redeemed us. 

Keep healthy. Pray mightily. Enjoy your life today. Happy Mother’s Day. And let’s experience the love and power of God together.

*For those doing the math, Peter Gummelt, Dorothy’s great-grandfather, had 21 children born across 49 years.

As the designated adventurer at our house, I am the grocery shopper for more than a year now. I have learned that pimentos are never located on the pickle aisle and that Velveeta cheese is located wherever the last tired stocker set them down because it is not a cheese. I have learned to eat my shopping mistakes. Try as I might, apparently chocolate dipped ice-cream bars do not qualify as a shopping mistake. The actual worst of my grocery mistakes was just a few weeks ago. My assignment was to get a can of old-fashioned quick cooking steel cut oatmeal. I honestly thought I did. But I didn’t. I got old-fashioned steel cut Irish Oatmeal in a can, 1 pound and 12 ounces net weight. It did not say quick cooking or fast cooking or 10-minute quick oatmeal. Dorothy noticed immediately. It was decided that we would press ahead. There was a winter storm in the forecast.

Upon reading the fine print on the back of the can we learned that the shortcut method was to boil water in a pot, add the oatmeal, stir and boil for 5 minutes. Cover the pot and store it in the refrigerator overnight. The next morning, put the pot back on the stove, bring it to a boil and stir it for another 9-12 minutes. By my estimation, the quick-cook method takes about 25 hours. We opted for the traditional method—30 minutes on the range. I also noticed that the recipe kept referring to this as porridge. I remember porridge as something Little Orphan Annie had to eat, with a big frown on her face. Porridge is oatmeal, flax and other bird seeds boiled in a big pot, which is stirred constantly until you are done. It suggests you add buttermilk or honey and brown sugar suitable to taste. Our pot of porridge lasted us for days. We tried syrup and apple sauce with cinnamon on it and we tried smothering it with various flavored yogurts. Our final attempt was to use a large amount of pumpkin pie filling. That actually tasted best. By the way, porridge diluted to a thin, watery state is called gruel. It was used to help the sick get well. It tastes worse than it sounds.

We make mistakes. We try to hide them, own them, or make up for them. The best policy is to admit them, deal with them, and learn from them. We still have a pound or so of the oatmeal left in the can. It will keep.

Keep healthy. Pray mightily. Enjoy your life today. Press ahead.  And let’s experience the love and power of God together.