THANKFUL

Oh, the joy of seeing the feet of God’s messenger bringing the good news of salvation to a people wandering in the wilderness of sin — Isaiah 52:7 (King Jimmy Translation)

The Massage

“Yu Got Gooud Feat”

(part two of four)

I lifted a corner of the towel to peek at what Sweet & Sour had in store for my feet. He elevated each foot and turned it from side to side for a closer examination. I assumed he looked for any diseases, ticks, or missing toes to protect him from any false claims of coming in with ten toes and leaving with six. I sat up.

I remembered Momma’s advice about never leaving home without clean undies and socks. She warned her tender Aggie scribe that someday a young, muscular man might hold my feet, and to his horror, discover lint accumulated between my toes because I didn’t change socks for three weeks. This toe-related lack of hygiene would bring shame to the family name.

“You see any athlete’s foot down there?” I asked. Boy, I’m glad I changed socks last week.

Sweet & Sour grunted. He remained silent, never lifting his head from studying my feet. “Yu got gooud feat,” he finally said, barely above a whisper. He looked up and put his hand to my chest. “Yu lay bak. Re-rax.”

I laid back and he placed the towel over my face again. Maybe it’s best I not witness what he does to my little feetsies.

His strong thumbs slowly massaged the bottom of my foot from the ball to the heel. Then he did the other foot. He manipulated his talented fingers, squeezing, rubbing and massaging my ticklish feet in all the right places.

At first, I suppressed my ill-at-ease giggling as Sweet & Sour’s wrestled my feet, but then re-raxation conquered me and all was well with the world. I yawned big. My feet seemed ten pounds lighter.

You have beautiful feet, the Lord said.

One of us needs glasses, Lord. I wouldn’t call my feet beautiful—especially after that freak little toe vs. loose dentures incident.

My eyesight is perfect, Jimmy. And the angels and I still laugh about that ‘incident.’

Is it because I have perfect bone structure and skin tone? Or is it because these feet have followed in the footsteps of A&M’s greatest?

The Lord sighed. Neither, Aggie. You have beautiful feet because wherever they take you, they take my message of love, grace and forgiveness to the world.

I felt the Lord wanted to divulge more details about his charge to share the gospel.

You carry the Gospel with you everywhere—even when your feet take you places you shouldn’t go, the Holy Spirit said. Your big feet carry your body, which is where I live.

Should I have not be here in the massage parlor, Lord?

Naw, you’re fine. Any massage parlor named Bigfoot is okay with me. (I’m glad the Lord has a sense of humor.)

Ahhhh! Comfortable. I drifted closer to dreamland. Re-raxed. Tranquility reigned in my body, soul and spirit as Sweet & Sour’s magically massaged my feet. Are your nail scars in my feet too, Lord?

Sure are, the Lord replied.

AHHHH! I bolted up on my elbows to see Goliath twisting my tickle-prone toes to 90-degree angles, evidently looking for lint.

“I hut yu?” Sweet & Sour asked?

“No, I’m okay. You took me by surprise.” I laid back and put the towel back over my face. Glad I went ‘bat-room furst.’

“Sorrie.” Sweet & Sour softly sung a familiar childhood melody: “Thes rittle pigie went market, thes rittle pigie sta hume. Thes rittle pigie had roat beef. Thes rittle pigie ha none.”

I grabbed the table when he seized my pinky. I expected the worst.

“Thes rittle pigie go—weh, weh, weh! —all da wey hume.”

The worst never came. Whatever Sweet and Sour rubbed my feet made them feel like a feather floating on air.

I heard thump-thump-thump coming from the Admiral’s table, like someone tenderizing pork chops with a meat cleaver. Is he karate-chopping cement blocks over there.

Before I could peek out the towel to check on the Admiral, Sweet & Sour grunted a new order. “Yu roll oveh.”

I complied.

He put the towel back over my head. In a moment, I experienced what those thumping sounds were. Sweet & Sour’s forceful yet soft hand-chops stimulated the back of my legs, relaxing the muscles. After a few minutes, only the law of gravity kept my legs from gravitating to the ceiling.

You’re my representative wherever your feet take you. You’re supposed to bring the good news about my love for everyone, the Lord said. Most of the time you do, the Lord sighed again, but . . . sometimes your message differs from mine.

You ride with me when I drive, don’t you, Lord?

I knew what the Lord meant. I don’t always portray a positive image of you, do I, Lord? I admit, at times I get testy, get a little sharp with people. I say things I shouldn’t. Oh, no! I grimaced. You go to the golf course with me, too, don’t you!

But I still trust you with my message.

Isn’t that just like Jesus? Always encouraging, never condemning.

Lord, are you giving me a message massage or a massage message?

Both, the Lord laughed. Just remember your “gooud feat” carry my gospel of salvation wherever you go, Jimmy.

Stay close to Jesus

Jimmy

P.S. Sweet & Sour carefully examined the abnormality of my right foot.

“I broke my foot in two places,” I said, explaining the defect.

“Not smart,” he said. “Yu no go there agin!”

(Continued)

My old, sinful nature was also nailed to the cross when Christ was crucified. Now I’m a new man since Christ lives in me—Galatians 2:20 (King Jimmy Translation).

The Massage

“Give Me a Hand, Will You?”

(Part one of four)

Some diners appeared annoyed while others looked amused at the two old geezers, gorging their lunches at the Snooty Pig, a local mom-and-pop café. These hog-like tendencies seemed unfitting for two gentlemen of extraordinary high esteem as your humble Aggie scribe and the Admiral. But put two chicken-fried steaks with gravy and biscuits in front of them and their Porky Pig propensities comes to life. Between a bite of steak and a swallow of iced tea, the Admiral sprang the craziest question on me.

“Have you ever had a foot massage?”

How a chicken-fried steak made him come up with that question is beyond me. We meet weekly for lunch but have never discussed foot massages. . . and certainly not foot fetishes.

“Only after I spilt milk on my foot and my two dachshunds licked me feet. Does that count?” I played along, just to see where this was leading. “They both needed penicillin shots afterward.”

“Oh no. No dogs involved,” he said. “There’s a massage parlor next door and I wanted to get a foot massage. I got them all the time when we traveled in the Orient and the Philippines with the Navy. Tell you what. I’ll treat you to a foot massage.”

“Hold on, Admiral.” I held up my hand. “This Aggie’s pretty ticklish, especially my feet. I’m fearful I might double over laughing and throw-up chicken-fried remnants on the massager-person.” I lowered my fork and looked around to see if anyone was listening. “Do I have to take off my clothes?” I whispered.

“Not unless you want to,” the Admiral winked. “After this foot massage, you’ll be so relaxed you could root for the Texas Longhorns and not care.”

“I know the Bible says all things are possible with God, but it’s impossible for me to be that relaxed.” I felt a story in the making. “Okay,” I relented. “I’m in. First, let me text Mrs. Aggie.”

“Pray for me. Getting foot massage”.

“Are you kidding?” Mrs. Aggie replied. “I’ll send the dogs up there. LOL!!!”

As often as we ate at the Snooty Pig, I never noticed the single storefront Bigfoot Reflexology next door. How did I overlook the name of a store like that?

“I’ll do the talking,” Bruce said.

“I’m counting on it,” I silently thanked the Lord. “I wouldn’t know what to ask for anyway.”

An elderly Asian gentleman greeted us in the dimly lit lobby. “Yu have a-point-rent?” he asked.

“No,” the Admiral said. “We just want a foot massage. Do you have any openings?”

While the gentleman checked his appointment book, Bruce scanned the flier of the services.

“Wait!” he interrupted. “Can you do a head, arm and shoulder, back, leg and foot massage? That’s better.”

The Asian gentleman scanned his book again. “Yes, far-row me.”

He pulled back a curtain and led us into an even darker parlor. The strong potpourri fragrance twitched my nose. Soft oriental music played in the background. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, two silhouettes stood in the dim light.

Two young muscular Asian men in skin-tight tee shirts, which heightened their rippled torso, immerged. Images of the Chinese Olympic gymnasts, whose strength on the parallel rings is incredible, caused my still digesting chicken-fried steak to reconsider its path along my digestive tract.

I looked around but didn’t see them. “Where are those tiny Oriental women who walk on your back to give a massage” I whispered to the Admiral.

He nodded toward the two young men. “You’re looking at ‘em, handsome,” he said.

My gulp was noticeable. Despite my apprehension of turning my “temple of the Holy Spirit” over to someone who probably benched pressed 400 pounds with one arm, my courage rose.

“Hi. I’m Jimmy.” I extended my hand.

I didn’t catch his name since the pain of his handshake must have been the same as an elephant stomping a mouse. Thankfully, I didn’t hear Samurai mentioned in his introduction. Mentally, I dubbed him Sweet & Sour.

“Yu silent cell pone,” Sweet & Sour grunted. “Yu go bat-room furst.”

What has the Admiral suckered me into now? I should have known better.

Sweet & Sour led me to a table. “Remove shoes. Roll up pant,” he ordered.

I complied.

“Lay bak,” he said. He placed my feet in a bucket of warm water mixed with a dark lotion that smelled eerily like teriyaki sauce.

Although the liquid wasn’t boiling, I prayed: Jesus—remember me when you come into your kingdom.

Sweet & Sour grabbed my head with his strong hands.

“Close eye. Re-rax.” Sweet & Sour’s strong hands suddenly became lamb-soft as he massaged my scalp, cheeks, and neck.

Ohhh. What a surprise. This is sooooo relaxing. I felt tension leaving my neck.

During a pause in the action, I looked over at Bruce. His arms hung down, his eyes were closed, his mouth opened, apparently totally relaxed. When his masseur referred to the World Wrestling Federation’s training manual, then grabbed the Admiral’s head and twisted it 360 degrees, my tension returned.

Sweet & Sour finished the head and neck massage and put a warm towel over my face.

Is this when the waterboarding begins?

Sweet & Sour grabbed my arms and pulled them over my head. I reasoned he placed the towel over my face so I wouldn’t see his laughter as he slapped my Jello-esque underarms around. While he massaged my arms up to my hands, the Holy Spirit spoke to my heart.

I see them?

Huh? You see what, Lord?

The nail scars. I see my nail scars in your hands.

You do? I lifted the towel to peek. I haven’t been crucified?

Oh, but you have, He said. When you accepted my grace and I became your savior, you were symbolically crucified with me. Now, your hands are my nail-pierced hands. Remember what Paul the apostle wrote, “I have been crucified with Christ.”

Yeah. What are you saying, Lord?

You do my work here on Earth. I reach people by using people—like you, my kids.

Yes, Lord, but I . . .

He stopped me. Oh, I know you’re not perfect, but those are the kind of people I use to show my power. It’s me working inside you that makes you effective and not you, on your own. I’ve stood back and watched some of the things you’ve attempted to do when you ignored my help.

I smiled. Funnier than America’s Funniest Videos, huh?

Yeah, afraid so—me and the angels laughed out loud.

Sweet and Sour broke my meditation.

“Yu raise feat.” He wrapped my feet in a warm towel and took the bucket away.

(Continued)

Stay close to Jesus.

Jimmy Eskew © 2017

P.S. While Sweet & Sour held my arms over my head, the other masseur leaned over, grabbed the other and spread out. “Make wish,” Sweet & Sour said. I didn’t like masseur humor.

God has removed our transgressions from us farther than the east is from the west—Psalm 103:12 (King Jimmy Translation).

Attack of the Pink Flamingoes

“The Confession”

(Part three of three)

I knew he did it, but it was something never brought up in conversation. Those involved had tight lips. Your humble Aggie scribe was determined to break the ice.

My buddy, Admiral Bruce, US Navy (ret.) met me for lunch at the Gargantuan Garlic Pastamania, our favorite Italian restaurant. Two week prior, our dear mutual friend, Tom, transitioned into Heaven. We spent most of our two-hour lunch recalling how our shenanigans produced countless stories over our twenty-five-year friendship. Some were true. Some were questionable. But all our stories were exaggerated.

Then came the ice breaker. “You guys did it, didn’t you?” My question caught him off guard. I knew the answer.

His fork, dripping with spaghetti sauce, stopped short of his mouth. Bruce glanced away, avoiding eye contact. “What are you talking about, Jimmy?”

“Oh, come on, Admiral,” I said. “You know. Don’t act innocent.”

“I don’t follow you.” His denial revealed his guilt.

“You know.” I jokingly shook my finger at him. “The night the flaming pink flamingos mysteriously appeared in Tom and Carolyn’s yard,” I said. “The legendary church scandal that refuses to go quietly into the night.”

“Oh, yeah, I heard about that,” the Admiral said. “Wait! You think Mary and I had something to do with that?” He seemed taken aback by my accusation. “You’re the one they blamed.” He grinned with that look of a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar but refusing to admit guilt.

“You never once stood up for me, buddy!” No one believed your humble Aggie scribe’s innocence. “I know you did the flamingo thing to Tom and Carolyn.”

“It was Mary’s idea all along,” he confessed. “Did you know her Bible college classmates called her ‘Typhoid Mary?’ She knew Carolyn would blame you.”

“Oh, yeah! Throw your bride under the bus.” I was unconvinced. “I’ve known your sweet Mary all these years. She’s a sweet, godly lady. Hey—she even plays the piano at church. No way this fine, gentle woman instigated this scandal!”

My Mary comments caused Bruce to lurch forward and spew his tea all over the table, soaking the bread sticks. He nearly choked. I quickly downloaded how to perform the Heimlich maneuver on my iPhone.

But scandals are nothing new to Admiral Bruce.

He served on the USS Dennis J. Buckley, a destroyer whose ship’s motto was experto crede, which means, “trust me”. He was promoted to commander of the destroyer USS Depends, whose ship’s motto was effluat multum de aqua, translated, “leaks a lot of water.”

While patroling the Trinity River south of Dallas, the Depends spotted an enemy submarine, loaded with nuclear missiles. Admiral Bruce launched the depth charges and destroyed the enemy sub. Naval investigators determined the submarine to be a kayak, and the missiles an 18-pack of Bud Light onboard. Pending completion of the investigation and whether the beer was brewed in America, the Admiral could receive the Medal of Honor or given a change-of-address card for Leavenworth, Kansas.

“Notwithstanding,” I continued, “you fanned the fire of my alleged flamingo guilt on social media. Despite your resolute denial of any knowledge of this scandal, which would make a politician proud, I forgive you.” I made him an offer. “Just admit you did it, and I promise to never bring the matter up again.”

How could Bruce reject such a generous offer of forgiveness?

I sweetened the pot. “I won’t write a story about it, either.”

“Just admit I did it? Hummm. Let me think about it.” He called the waiter to the table. “Can you bring another basket of bread sticks? Jimmy sneezed all over these.”

Years ago, a similar offer of forgiveness was presented to me, and I jumped on it with both feet. When my spiritual eyes were opened to who Jesus is, and I understood what he did for me out of love, when he offered his salvation, how could I refuse the deal of a lifetime. He didn’t offer to make me a better man, he made me into a new man. Not only did he take away all my sins, he chose never to remember them again. In God’s memory, those sins charged to my account were transferred over to Jesus’ account, and then he dumped them back onto the devil. That’s a pretty good deal in my eyes.

Remember King David, the greatest king of Israel? He battled depression. The devil hounded him with memories of his past, recalling every detail his monumental screw ups. He hid in caves in the backside of Israel, running from his physical and spiritual enemies. Although he belonged to God, his stupid choices led him to the lowest point in the king’s life.

How did God rattle David out of his poor baby pity parties? David chose to dwell on the offer God made to him. David penned one of the greatest works of praise, Psalm 103, when he remembered all the benefits of serving God. Besides healing, renewing, restoring, cleansing, the one biggie that made him leap out of the cave of depression was “As far as the east is from the west, so far he has removed our sins from us (Psalm 103:12). Enough of that poor baby stuff.

The devil tells the same lies today. You would think he would have learned, but as Christ followers, we can tell Satan to take a hike. Our sins, as ugly as they were, are forever removed from us. We are new creations in Christ Jesus. Now that is an offer no one should refuse.

Lord, we rest in your mercy, knowing our sins are no longer charged to our account. By the Holy Spirit’s power within us, the devil lost his hold on us.

Stay close to Jesus.

Jimmy

P.S. Admiral Bruce noticed a new sailor on his ship. “What’s your name, sailor?”

“Randy, sir,” he replied.

“What’s your last name? We don’t call anyone by their first name here, sailor,” Admiral said. “Breeds too much familiarity between the ranks.” Then he added, “And call me Admiral. Understand?”

“Yes, sir, Admiral. My last name is Darling. I’m Randy Darling.”

The Admiral stood silent, the wheels in his mind turning. “Okay, here’s what I want you to do, Randy . . . .”

Jimmy Eskew © 2017

There is no end to the enemies cunning ways; the devise schemes to destroy your precious ones—Psalm 83:3 (King Jimmy Translation).

Attack of the Pink Flamingos

“Revenge of the Aggie”

(part two of three)

They stood in silence, waiting for your humble Aggie scribe to emerge from my bungalow to retrieve the Sunday paper. Zoe, my schnauzer followed me outside. Her what-in-the-heck-is-this bark shattered the dawn’s silence. All twenty-five bright-pink flamingos stood at attention, greeting the sunrise. A four-foot sign placed under our oak tree stated: “Abundant Life Church Youth Group fundraiser”.

I laughed and shook my head. “I’ve been flamingoed,” I explained to my smiling neighbor, also getting his morning paper. He wandered over into the yard to check them out. I told about Carolyn and Tom being flamingoed last week and blaming me.

“Knowing you, I would have blamed you, too.” He laughed. “That’s something you would do.”

I immediately knew the culprit behind this act of vandalism in our peaceful neighborhood. My cell phone rang as I walked inside.

“Nah-nah-na-nah-nahhh, I got evennn,” Carolyn sang, like a first round loser on American Idol. Even holding the phone three meters away, I heard her distinctive I-was-born-and-raised-in-Oklahoma laughter.

Instead, I chose to take the high-road. “Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord,” I quoted to her in my self-righteous tone.

Carolyn scoffed at my religiosity. “You remember last week? Huh? Huh?”

“I told you before, Cupcake, that wasn’t me.”

“Yeah, you lie like a Persian rug, Jimmy Eskew!”

Even if I gave her indisputable proof I did not order the flamingos last week, she still would not believe me.

“I hope they charge you double the twenty-five-dollar removal fee.”

I conceded, just to quiet her laughter. “Okay, girl, you got me. See you at church.”

I called Mrs. Aggie. “Hey, babe, look out front. We got birda-fied overnight.”

In her half-awake stupor, she stepped out on the porch and shook her head. “I’m not cooking those for supper.” She shuffled inside and plopped into her recliner. “Get rid of ‘em. I don’t care how—just get rid of them. And why haven’t you brought my coffee yet?” (Mrs. Aggie is unsociable when she awakes to pink flamingos in her yard.)

Her demand annoyed me, but I showed her who’s on top of the pecking order. “Yes, dear.” I said, pouring her coffee. I’ve learned agreeing is the best way to respond to Mrs. Aggie’s fowl moods.

Later, I saw the youth pastor at church. He couldn’t hide his tickled-pink amusement at flamingoing our yard. He thanked me for supporting the mission trip as I surrendered the twenty-five-dollar ransom.

“They’ll be gone by tomorrow morning,” he said with a wink.

As I meditated during the service, I received a revelation as how to assure every penny of that twenty-five-dollar ransom was worth paying.

Several months back, a coworker snuck a twelve-inch rubber black widow spider into my truck. Upon discovery, and after changing clothes and checking my blood pressure, I rat-holed this “pants-changer” for future use. Its time had come.

The youth group’s positioning of the sign under the oak tree was perfect. I attached one end of ultra-thin fishing line to the top of the sign and the other end to the strategically placed “pants-changer” in the tree.

Field testing followed. When I moved the sign, the spider swung out of the tree, hitting me chest high. I adjusted the line, taking into consideration the average height of a flamingo-removing youth, the weight of the spider, and the projected wind speed at midnight. More field tests fine-tuned the spider’s sudden descent to land head-high on an unsuspecting youth. I struggled whether to repent for this act or wait and boast of the results on Facebook. That semester of “Swinging Objects from Trees 101” at A&M finally paid off. (I made a C+ in the course.)

Later, Mrs. Aggie and I awoke from terrifying screams and frantic, non-Sunday school words coming from the front yard. I sat up. The clock read 12:10 a.m. “Thank you, Jesus,” I whispered and laid down.

“You’re mean,” Mrs. Aggie said half asleep, pulling the covers over her head.

“Hummm.” I smiled and fell asleep.

Years later, those kids—now with kids of their own in the youth group—still laugh about that fun night that turned into terror but evolved into uncontrollable laughter.

Since Christ followers have the Holy Spirit living within us, we’re onto the devil’s rubber spider schemes, those hidden traps he sets hoping to disrupt our journey of faith. Our inner holy guide, the Holy Spirit, reminds us the devil is a defeated foe, and God’s protection is around us.

Twenty-five hundred years ago, the wicked Assyrians, who make ISIS look like a Cub Scout troop, attempted to exterminate God’s precious ones, Israel. God arose to Israel’s defense and strengthened the Israelites to defeat the Assyrians. That’s the same with the devil’s attacks against those who follow Christ. God enables us to stomp the devil like a spider.

I’m not saying that the devil’s surprises don’t sometimes scare the stuffing outta us, but we have this confidence that the Lord has our back, and can use every attack to mold us more into the image of Christ. Remember, the devil can only use rubber spiders.

Lord, may we not panic when assaulted when the devil throws rubber spiders at us. We trust that you have our backs and we need not worry. Open our spiritual eyes to see these attacks meant for harm become upward stepping stones in our walk of faith. In Jesus name. AMEN.

Stay close to Jesus.

Jimmy

P.S. I wanted to remove the flamingos, but Mrs. Aggie warned me how aggressive they were. Anyway, the E.R. doctor probably would not believe it got these hundreds of pecking wounds from pink flamingo yard ornaments.

Jimmy Eskew © 2017

That liar Satan, who accuses all believers nonstop before the Father, was crushed by Jesus on Easter Sunday—Revelation 12:10 (King Jimmy Translation).

Attack of the Pink Flamingos

“Guilty but Found Innocent”

(Part one of three)

The phone rang just as the sun peeked over the horizon, before I’d settled in my office with my first cup of shop coffee. Wonder which shop hand is calling in sick today?

“Jimmy Eskew! I’m gonna wring your neck!”

I immediately recognized that earsplitting shriek belonged to Carolyn, the red-headed wife of my good friend Tom.

Your humble Aggie scribed sighed. “What’d I do now, Buttercup?” This wasn’t the first time I received Carolyn’s early morning wrath.

“You know fully well what you did!” She gasped for air, followed by explosive laughter. “I went outside this morning and they were all over the yard. I woke Tom to see the flamingos.” I held the phone away from my ear, avoiding another round of her high-pitched laughter.

Then, I understood.

Our church’s youth ministry held a fundraiser for a mission trip. Parishioners were encouraged to buy “Flamingo Insurance” for twenty-five dollars to protect their yards from undocumented pink flamingo yard ornaments. Or, they could pay the youth group to invade another’s yard with the pink birds. Carolyn accused me of the latter. (FYI: Those who purchased flamingo insurance from the government exchange, the rates started at $30,500, with a $12,000 deductible. But I digress.)

Only specially trained youth personnel could remove these dangerous, aggressive flamingos, and only under the cover of midnight darkness. Because of the danger involved in removing these aggressive ornaments, a twenty-five-dollar removal fee was charged.

“Sorry, pumpkin,” I told Carolyn. “It wasn’t me. Must have been another of your flamingo-soul-saving friends. Even Pontius Pilate would find me not guilty.” Carolyn refused to believe my innocence.

Within hours, this flamingo scandal spread throughout the church gossip-mill.

It had to be Jimmy. I heard they found pink feathers in his truck.

I heard that Aggie ‘flamingoed’ Carolyn last night!

I think he acted on his own and Mrs. Aggie had no knowledge of this.

After being flamingoed, Carolyn should leave the church. Pray for Tom.

Calls and texts of congratulations or disbelief flooded my mailbox.

That’s not Aggie values. Friends don’t let friends flamingo others.

Congrats, Jimmy. I’ve wanted to do that myself but just didn’t have the faith to follow through. You da man!

I’m fasting and praying for you Jimmy. Your unrighteous behavior sent shock waves throughout the self-righteous community.

Kudos, Jimmy. Carolyn has needed flamingo-ing for a long time.

As much as I wanted to, despite the accolades and embellished stories, I could not take credit for this transgression against Tom and Carolyn. I did not order, or support, or in any way participate in any activity to flamingo my friends, yet I stood accused and declared guilty by the court of public opinion. I guess my friends know my forever mischievous personality too well. But This wasn’t the first time I’ve been falsely accused.

In fact, I’m constantly accused of wrongdoing. If you are a Christ follower, you, too, are falsely accused day and night. The Bible says the devil is constantly pointing out our flaws to the Father. Every time we fail to live up to God’s standards, the enemy points his boney finger and says, “See there! they did it again! See! See!”

Occasionally, I get frustrated when driving (you do to—don’t deny it) and say things that un-praise the Lord. All the time, the enemy cups his hand over his ear, listening for any slip of my tongue. The devil loves tagging along when I play golf. He rolls his hands, cracks his knuckles, does several finger-pointing practices, and clears his throat whenever I pull out a fairway wood. “Did you hear that, God? You hear what Jimmy said? Some Christian he is!” He gets himself insanely worked up, stomping his foot, pointing his wiry finger at me. “He’s broken all your commandments over and over! He’s guilty, God, he’s guilty!”

He accuses you of similar things, too, whatever your weakness may be.

I visualize God leaning over in his great white throne, looking the devil in the eye. “Oh, shut up! I’ve had enough of you and your accusations.”

Satan slowly backs up as God unloads both barrels on Satan.

“When Jimmy accepted my grace, he became a new man. I personally snatched off his filthy robe of sin—that you put on him—and clothed him the new righteous robe of My Son Jesus. Then I dispatched my Holy Spirit to live inside him, which guarantees his place with me. He and I are still working on his many rough edges, which he acknowledges are a problem, but I’ve got Jimmy covered.”

Satan stuck his fingers in his ears. He knew what God would say next.

“Jimmy stands not guilty in my sight. You annoy me—get outta here!”

Our heavenly Father ignores Satan every time he accuses a believer. Satan is the father of lies, so everything he says is not true (John 8:44). He reminds Satan how Jesus defeated him on Easter Sunday.

Lord, thank you for redeeming us with your mercy and grace. When Satan accuses us of transgression, you see Jesus righteousness on us, declaring us “Not Guilty!”

Stay close to Jesus.

Jimmy

P.S. I suggested a theme for the mission’s trip fundraiser, but the youth pastor said “Flaming Pink Flamingos for Jesus” just didn’t have the right ring to it.

Jimmy Eskew © 2017

March 2, 2017

When we become Christ-followers, God the Father takes our old sinful self and replaces it with Jesus’ righteousness. When God sees us, he only sees Jesus in us— Romans 3:22 (King Jimmy Translation).

“Who Are You, Really?”

Many people are disturbed about the “Fake News” coming from the main stream media these days. “Fake News” is describe as a distortion of facts to sway public opinion about people, events or ideologies. Often, reports and journalist make up “facts” to keep their narrative alive. As a writer, your humble Aggie scribe is noted for integrity and accuracy by reporting only the facts of a story. The following is an incredible story of high crime. Some may call this “Fake News,” but the reader will discern the truth.

An Aggie friend is the Texas A&M Bank manager. One day, two men stormed into the lobby and robbed the bank. One held my friend at gunpoint while the other cleaned the tellers’ cash boxes. Being creative, the Aggie tellers made the best of the situation, getting the robbers to pose with them for selfies to post on Facebook. Fortunately, no one was hurt, and each teller received over a thousand “likes” on their timelines. The bandits made a clean getaway.

The Texas A&M Police sent their top cop, Detective Colimbo, a Columbo look-alike, to investigate the crime. Known for his ruffled hair and maroon and white, rumpled trench coat, he smoked the same cigar since he joined the force in 1971.  The world learned of Colimbo’s detective skills during the Trump/Russia collusion investigation. He solved the root of the “scandal” when he found an open bottle of Russian salad dressing in President Trump’s refrigerator.

“What did the robbers do?” Colimbo asked the Aggie banker.

“One held a gun the size of a Howitzer at the end of my nose while the other robbed us blind.”

“You must have got a good look at them.” The detective never looked up but wrote furiously on his crumpled notepad. “Can you describe them? Were they short? Tall? Dark hair? Blond? Race? What’d they look like?”

“They were about six-foot tall, but I couldn’t tell for sure what they looked like,” the Aggie banker said. “They had stockings over their faces.”

“Okay, then,” Colimbo said, pulling another note pad from his raincoat. “What kind of get-away car did they use?”

“They didn’t have a car. They jumped on two elephants to make their escape,” the Aggie said. “The elephants crushed a Kia, turned over a hot dog stand, and lumbered down the block. As they fled, the robbers threw the Uber signs off the sides of the elephants.”

Colimbo  peered over his reading glasses, his eyes indicting he’d heard this story before.

“So, they were packing pachyderms too, huh? This happens a lot now. Ever since Ringling Bros. stopped using elephants, they’ve been on their own.” He shook his head slowly. “It’s a shame. Some elephants turned to Uber to make trunks meet. Looks like another case of a good elephant gone bad.” He took the cigar out of his mouth and motioned to continue. “What kind of elephants were they?”

“Are you kidding me?” the puzzled Aggie said. “I’m a banker–I have no idea. An elephant’s an elephant, isn’t it?”

“No. Asian elephants have small ears. African elephants have big ears.” Colimbo knew his three semesters of “Elephantology 101” at A&M would one day pay off.

“Sorry, I couldn’t tell,” the Aggie said. “The elephants had stockings over their head too.”

The bandits pulled stockings over their heads to hide their identity, hoping to outsmart the authorities.

Since humankind was ejected from the Garden of Eden, people attempt to hide behind a façade, daring not to reveal who they really are. When Adam and Eve sinned, the covered themselves with fig leaves, trying to hide from God. Their hide-and-seek game didn’t work.

Human nature has not changed.

People still hide ho they are but thankfully aren’t using fig leaves. Psychologist define this phenomenon as “masking.” One’s true emotions are concealed by displaying a faux emotion. Negative emotions such as sadness, frustration, or inferiority are portrayed with a positive emotion that is socially accepted. This may be a forced smile and acting nice, or an insincere sincerity. Many hide behind boasts of their exploits. They walk through life, wounded in spirit. Rejection, usually stemming from low self-worth, leads to resentment, and if not dealt with, opens the door for bitterness to move into our personality. Then the granddaddy of all emotions–guilt–becomes an unwanted companion.  Psychologists also say masking produces physical and mental health issues. Deep, unresolved hurts can lead to various forms of harm to self and others.

Masking produces spiritual health issues as well. God’s Word tells us he made each of us with a unique plan for our lives (Psalm 139:16). masking was never God’s plan. Sin taught fallen man how to live a lie instead of following God’s plan. Just like God saw past Adam and Eve’s feeble attempts to hide who the were after they sinned,  he sees right past our mask and into our hearts, seeing who we really are–the  “who” we want to deny.

Good news. For those who have trusted Jesus’ finished work on the cross to forgive sin, God sees us as his beloved child, Holy and righteous. Is there anything that God cannot do? Yes. He cannot see our sins, because Jesus’ righteousness covers our guilt. The Bible says we who trust Jesus are “hidden in Christ” (Colossians 3:3) Christ followers have no need to wear a mask, because our identity is well-known to God the Father. We’re his kids. He’s our Daddy.

Lord, you know everything about us. We may hide our true self from others but nothing is hidden from you. As you kids, what a comfort to know we are “hidden in Christ.” Thank You Jesus.

Stay close to Jesus.

Jimmy

P.S. Weeks later, the Aggie banker went to the police station to view suspects in a lineup. The police brought out eight elephants for the banker to identify as the two getaway pachyderms.

After looking intently at the suspects, he shook his head. “I can’t tell for sure,” my Aggie friend said. “They were also wearing sunglasses.”

Jimmy Eskew © 2017

February 11

Even though Heaven and Earth will pass away, but my words will remain steadfast forever—Matthew 24:35 (King Jimmy Translation)

Flash from the Past

The charming Mrs. Aggie and I have snuggled together in the Aggie homestead for twenty-seven years. Because your humble Aggie scribe inherited pack-rat DNA, Mrs. Aggie decided to declutter our home before we became stars on the cable TV show “Hoarders: Buried Alive.”

One ancient box, buried deep within a dust-covered chest, had Jimmy written in my mother’s handwriting on the cover. She kept everything from my sister and my childhood before moving to her uncluttered heavenly mansion at eighty-nine. Removing the lid created a Grapes of Wrath dust cloud that sent my allergies into a sneezing fit. When British archaeologist Howard Carter opened King Tut’s tomb, he couldn’t have experienced a greater rush as mine when I opened the box.

Lying on top, layered in dust, was my sixth-grade class picture.

“Oh, look,” Mrs. Aggie wiped the dust off the picture. “Aren’t you a cutie!” Her proud smile no doubt matched my mother’s smile fifty-seven years earlier

There I stood on the top tier, adorned in my neatly pressed Sunday shirt, chest extended, with a schoolboyish grin. Maybe my exuberance came from standing behind Susan Woodard, my one-and-only sixth-grade-and-forever heartthrob. Or maybe I looked that way because I was oblivious to the distress that awaited me next year in junior high.

My seventh-grade class picture featured me lost in a maze of 300 zit-speckled kids. The difference between the sixth-grade and the seventh-grade picture left me shaking my head. My forced smile revealed me as traumatized by constant bullying about my stuttering and repeated rejections of puppy love.

“Oh, my goodness!” Mrs. Aggie threw her head back, amused at my Edison High School marching band picture. She pointed to me on the top tier, standing at attention like a Buckingham Palace guard. “Just look at you. You played the tuba?”

I chuckled. “No, I only carried a tuba to attract women.” I think the tuba outweighed me.

“Now I know where you got your hot air.” Mrs. Aggie winked at me.

The band kids’ smiles were the epitome of innocence. The girls’ band hats rested high atop their bouffant hair. Most of the guys wore crew cuts since Beatle haircuts would not cover American boy’s ears for another two years. Within five years, the horrors of Viet Nam robbed the innocence of some of these boys.

When I reminisce of my band days, one incident stands out. While practicing for a halftime show one morning, without the band director’s approval, the tuba players got together and decided to do a spin every ten yards. The first two spins went smoothly. It looked cool. It was fun. During the third spin, the bell of my tuba coldcocked a cute little clarinet player, sending her earthward. The tubas never spun again.

Mom kept every report card from junior high through high school. The academic standards for 1963 revealed a simpler educational era.

Grades                                           Attitude Marks

A—93 to 100: Superior                                   S—Satisfactory

B—85 to 92: Above Average                        U—unsatisfactory (not my fault)

C—77 to 84: Average                                     I—Improving (still not my fault)

D—70 to 76: Below Average

F—0 to 69: Failure (no participation trophy)

Definitions of Dependability, Work Attitude and Self-Control

Dependability—Willing to assume his part in a cooperative spirit

Work Attitude—Applies reasonable effort and persistence to the task at hand. Assumes responsibility for his work. Complies cheerfully with the requirements of those in authority. (emphasis mine)

Self-Control—Shows normal reactions. Is not readily thrown into displays of excessive emotions. Remains calm when confronted with disturbing elements (emphasis mine). Has an even temper.

When not acting like a ding-a-ling, your humble Aggie scribe made average grades. My senior year found me as a regular on the honor roll.

School started with a prayer and the Pledge of Allegiance. Prayer is now banned and some schools do not say the Pledge for fear of offending someone. Give me a break.

Tucked away in the box was a receipt for $257.50 from Roy’s Auto Sales for a 1953 Ford 4-door sedan. Stamped in bold red letters across the document was “Paid in Full.” I needed that car. It carried my tuba better than my moped.

Have times changed? The difference between the Beach Boys 1963 hit “Surfin’ USA” and Beyoncé’s bumping-and-grinding 2016 Super Bowl halftime show reveals the extent our culture and values have changed. Today, moral relativism, based on feelings and emotions, determine right or wrong. Traditional Judeo-Christian values are considered outdated. Despite our social progress, people in 2017 ask the same question that was asked in 1963. In fact, this question arose over 2000 years ago when Pontius Pilate, the Roman governor of Judea, asked Jesus this question: “What is truth?”

The answer never changes: God’s Word. His truths are the only foundation that give our lives meaning.

The truth is our sin debts separated us from God. Our efforts to do good works for God, outside of his grace, were powerless to save us—that’s religion. Only through our trust in the work Jesus did for us on the cross are we redeemed from our sins and restored to God.

The principles in God’s Word guide us to peace and contentment. Who cares how the world sees us? What matters is what God thinks about us. As Christ-followers, he has stamped on our sin receipt—in bold, blood-red letters— “Paid in Full.”

Lord, when we come to you with a sincere heart, we will take your Word as absolute truth. Thank you that your grace, forgiveness, and mercy never change. Your salvation is everlasting. Nothing can separate us from your love.

Stay close to Jesus

Jimmy

P.S. After fifty years, the vision still haunts me of the cute little clarinet player sprawled on the field still clutching her clarinet, a tuba bell impression in her bouffant hair, her saddle oxfords pointing skyward. She never played on key again. She refused to sign my yearbook, too.

Jimmy Eskew © 2017

Remember, Lord God, the people you bought long ago. You saved us from our destruction—we belong to you forever—Psalm 74:2 (King Jimmy Translation)

Taking a Mulligan

Thirty-eight years passed since your humble Aggie scribe gave up the game that tries men’s souls—golf. It saved my sanity.

Our church was holding a golf tournament fundraiser for a mission trip, and I volunteered to help at the registration desk. As the wannabee golf pros signed in, I asked how many mulligans they wanted to purchase for five-dollars apiece. In golfing lingo, a mulligan is a ticket to take a “do-over” shot. For example, if someone makes an erratic shot and the ball lands in a water hazard or plops into a nuclear waste site, etc., the player uses a mulligan and takes the shot over. On his scorecard, the mulligan erases that bad shot—as if it had never happened. Many golfers, with their dreams of making the PGA Tour in jeopardy, purchased dozens of mulligans. Fortunately, a local bank offered financing.

One team had a last-minute cancellation, putting it a player short. Because I worked the check-in desk, the shorted team mistook me for a golfer and insisted I play with them. Working the registration desk didn’t make me any more a golfer than petting a kitten made me a lion tamer.

But I pondered the request. Even though I haven’t picked up a club in thirty-eight years, how hard could it be? Like remembering how to ride a bicycle?—just pick up a club and shoot under par?

“Sure,” I said, taking a step of presumptuous faith. “I’ll rent some clubs, and let’s go show these hackers how it’s done!” I purchased a couple mulligans, but doubted I’d need them. Besides, the mulligan money went to the fundraiser.

Russ, the clubhouse pro, had a new set of Strata clubs. This is an omen, I thought. It’s God’s will I play today. I grabbed the set of clubs and headed out, sure to set a course record.

I joined the players practicing at the driving range. After taking a few practice swings to loosen up the ole rotator cuff and shoulder muscles, I teed up the ball. That young whipper-snapper Jordon Spieths can learn a thing or two from me. After a couple more practice swings, I approached the ball.

Everyone on the practice range, everyone in the club house, everyone in the neighboring homes stopped what they were doing and watched me. Even the cars on the nearby boulevard stopped to watch.

This must be how Arnold Palmer felt, having the eyes of the gallery on him, I thought. I expect applause when I blast this ball 900 yards. “You guys don’t laugh,” I said, trying to cover my pride in case the shot wasn’t perfect. “I haven’t played in thirty-eight years.”

My swing proved to the gallery that I hadn’t played in fifty-eight years. The club struck the ground six inches behind the ball, and the ball dribbled off the tee. The Bermuda grass, dirt, and three earthworms went farther than the eighteen-inch flight of the ball. I grimaced and closed my eyes. No applause.

I held my hand up as if to accept praise. “That’s okay, guys,” I said, faking amusement at myself. “I meant to do that. Don’t try this at home—I’m a professional divot-maker.” I hoped my humorous remarks saved face, but that didn’t work either. We practiced forty-five minutes before hitting the course. My prayer was two-fold: Lord, don’t embarrass me, and don’t let me be nominated for the Divot Hall of Fame.

My first tee shot was mulligan-eligible, landing several yards shy of the ladies’ tee. I sensed by my teammates’ groans they may have wished they’d gone onto the highway to flag down someone to join them in my place.

As a writer, the debacle of my golf game gave birth to ideas for new stories. All the players in our group used their mulligans before the third hole. For the remainder of the tournament, we struggled to keep out of the sand traps, water hazards, and woods, but we laughed our way around the eighteen holes. Par was 72. I stopped counting after the eighth hole, when my score hit 180. I questioned my presumptuous faith.

Those mulligans for my struggling golf game weren’t the only ones I needed. Over thirty-five years ago, I needed a do over in life. My journey in life sometimes hooked to the left, only to be lost in the high grass. Or sliced to the right deep into the woods, while chasing some deceptive pleasure. If I wasn’t in a sand trap, I found myself in the rough, or more times than I can remember, in deep waters with the alligators. My life zigzagged every way except straight down the fairway that God had planned for me. Without a mulligan, I’d never make the green. Jesus purchased a mulligan for me when he gave his life on the cross. All my foolish mistakes, my sins, are forever erased from my scorecard, buried with Christ as if they never happened. By God’s grace, my life is credited as a perfect game, which is better than making par. I pray you too take the mulligan Christ offers.

Lord God, thank you for purchasing a mulligan for us after we found ourselves repeatedly trapped in the hazards of life. We’re thankful that as we play the game of life, your mulligans have paid for our mistakes—as if they never happened. You see our scorecard as being a perfect game. Thank you, Jesus.

Stay close to Jesus

Jimmy

P.S. Russ, the pro guy, gave me a lifetime membership at the club. My seismic hacking eliminated five gophers, drove every armadillo away, and unearthed an undiscovered oil reserve.

Jimmy Eskew © 2017

Let those that the Lord has redeemed tell their story—how the Lord delivered them from the clutches of Satan, how he called them out from the desolate lands of sin— Psalm 107:2–3 (King Jimmy Translation).

What’s Your Number?

In our creative writing courses, we are given writing exercises. An assignment I received required me to attend a meeting or observe an activity, then submit a thousand-word story that included a situation, characters, objective, obstacle, and plight.

Your humble Aggie scribe thought what to do and then remembered the nursing home ministry at his church.

I made the nine-hour trip to western Oklahoma to visit the End of the Road Nursing Home. After lunch, the residents, almost all in wheelchairs or using walkers, with oxygen tanks and walking canes, retreated to the lobby to visit.

“Number sixteen,” an old geezer called out. The group broke into laughter. In jubilation, they banged their canes on the floor louder than a herd of thundering horses.

What made the number sixteen so funny? As I wrote down my observations, another resident spoke up.

“Yeah, but what about number eleven?” he said, nearly falling out of his wheelchair, holding his side. Their heart monitors pegged out while the horses thundered again.

“That reminds me of thirty-one!” At the mention of that number, they did wheelchair wheelies and proposed a toast with their glasses of prune juice.

Thoroughly confused, I sought out the director. “What’s going on here? They call out a number and everyone laughs.”

“Oh, that?” he smiled. “Let me explain. These folks have told the same jokes over and over for decades. They’ve assigned a number to each joke, and since at their age they don’t have much time left to tell all the story, they just say the number.”

Someone else yelled “Twenty-two!” The residents went wild as if spending a week on a geriatric spring break, and gasped for air after spitting their dentures onto the floor.

“Okay, I see,” I told the director. “I’ll give it a try.”

I waited forty-five minutes while they swapped dentures in a trial-and-error effort to find their teeth again. I walked to the center of the lobby, cleared my throat, and confidently said, “Number Nineteen!”

No one cracked a smile. Many looked away, shaking their head in embarrassment.

Maybe they didn’t hear me? I spoke just less than the decibels of a jet engine. “Number twenty-five.”

Like before, nothing but crickets. Some shifted uncomfortably in their wheelchairs while others stared at their canes, avoiding eye contact. Their reaction should have warned me to quit while I still had my dignity, but I carried on—for the good of the story, of course.

“Number three?” I said, my voice trailing off.

Their moans were noticeable. By now, the tension in the room made the residents wish they were elsewhere. I felt like a piece of hamburger in a vegan lasagna.

Red-faced, I slipped out of the circle and approached the equally embarrassed director. “What happened?” I said. “I don’t understand.”

The director sighed. “Well, sir,” he finally looked up at me and put his hand on my shoulder. “I don’t mean to be rude—but some people can tell a joke, and some can’t.”

Maybe I couldn’t tell the stories the way the nursing home residents could, but one story I can tell with confidence: what God has done for me.

Each Christ-follower has a unique story how Jesus extended his grace to them to change their life. Jesus calls us to share this message of redemption with the world.

Christ rescued some from deep addictions that chained them in bondage for years.

God plucked others from the point of death and gave them a fresh start.

Others practiced good, moral behavior all their lives, maybe raised in church and kept most of the Ten Commandments, (except those pesky first three), but trusted in their own goodness to save them instead of trusting Jesus for their salvation.

Many never set foot inside a church but God revealed his grace in a most unusual way, maybe through a stranger, or from an incident that resulted in an epiphany of Jesus.

Occasionally the Lord knocks a self-righteous religious person off their high horse to get their attention. The apostle Paul comes to mind.

Many tried to live life by their own intellectual prowess, even denying God’s existence, then lost all hope. They cried out to God in desperation. In mercy, He opened their understanding as to who Jesus is and his offer of salvation.

Some understood their need for a Savior at an early age and have lived for Christ all their lives.

As Christ-followers we might not agree on every issue, but one thing we can agree on: regardless of how we came to Jesus, as unworthy of his mercy as we are, God lavishly poured out his grace on us. Before we loved him or even knew about him, God loved us and sent his only Son Jesus to redeem us from the penalty of our sins (Romans 5:8).

Only you can tell your story how Christ changed you. Share it with others when God presents the opportunity.

You’ve done so much for us, Lord Jesus. Show us how to tell others of your goodness and mercy, so others may know your grace.

Stay close to Jesus.

Jimmy

P.S. I tried one last time to entertain my elderly friends. “Number Sixty-one.” To my surprise, the room exploded with laughter. The thundering horses ran wild, but the prune juice spewed out the residents’ noses made the floor slick. The director, his hand over his chest, tried to catch his breath. He put his arm around my shoulder. “That’s hysterical,” he said. “We’ve never heard that one before.”

Jimmy Eskew © 2017

to them to change their life. Jesus calls us to share this message of redemption with the world.

Christ rescued some from deep addictions that chained them in bondage for years.

God plucked others from the point of death and gave them a fresh start.

Others practiced good, moral behavior all their lives, maybe raised in church and kept most of the Ten Commandments, (except those pesky first three), but trusted in their own goodness to save them instead of trusting Jesus for their salvation.

Many never set foot inside a church but God revealed his grace in a most unusual way, maybe through a stranger, or from an incident that resulted in an epiphany of Jesus.

Occasionally the Lord knocks a self-righteous religious person off their high horse to get their attention. The apostle Paul comes to mind.

Many tried to live life by their own intellectual prowess, even denying God’s existence, then lost all hope. They cried out to God in desperation. In mercy, He opened their understanding as to who Jesus is and his offer of salvation.

Some understood their need for a Savior at an early age and have lived for Christ all their lives.

As Christ-followers we might not agree on every issue, but one thing we can agree on: regardless of how we came to Jesus, as unworthy of his mercy as we are, God lavishly poured out his grace on us. Before we loved him or even knew about him, God loved us and sent his only Son Jesus to redeem us from the penalty of our sins (Romans 5:8).

Only you can tell your story how Christ changed you. Share it with others when God presents the opportunity.

You’ve done so much for us, Lord Jesus. Show us how to tell others of your goodness and mercy, so others may know your grace.

Stay close to Jesus.

Jimmy

P.S. I tried one last time to entertain my elderly friends. “Number Sixty-one.” To my surprise, the room exploded with laughter. The thundering horses ran wild, but the prune juice spewed out the residents’ noses made the floor slick. The director, his hand over his chest, tried to catch his breath. He put his arm around my shoulder. “That’s hysterical,” he said. “We’ve never heard that one before.”

Jimmy Eskew © 2017

Jesus explained it clearly. “Beware, it is easy to fall into all kinds of greed. Your worth is not measured by how much ‘stuff’ you have but if your name is written in Heaven’s Book of Life— Luke 12:15 (King Jimmy Translation).

Shallow but Well Dressed

He circled the block five times before a parking place opened in front of the courthouse. He skillfully parallel parked his new gold trimmed Lexus with the 23-inch custom wheels. This deluxe carriage came with every amenity known to mankind. Besides the all-leather interior, the surround-sound stereo and the eight-person hot tub, the 108-inch big screen TV fit nicely above the optional orchestra pit. The three-tier chandelier gave the interior that needed extra touch of class.

He wore only Gucci suits and shoes. Custom shirts under $300 he considered to be thrift shop quality. No way he would be seen in public not wearing a hundred dollar tie. Diamond and gold cuff-links were standard fare for attending his son’s Little League games. He hob-knobbed with producers to have his picture hung in the studio when ZZ Top recorded “Sharp Dressed Man.”

A curious crowd gathered, wondering who was behind the dark-tinted windows of the Lexus. Most definitely a celebrity? Maybe a scandal-free politician? Naw. Perhaps a sports figure?

The lawyer made his exit. He stood and adjusted his Versace sunglasses, straightened his tie, and smirked as he glanced at the common folks staring with envy at his Lexus. Oh, these peasants would give anything to be me. Why aren’t they bowing?

As he stood basking in the perceived adoration of the crowd, a multi-colored, oil burning, hub cap missing, muffler-tied-up-with-a-coat-hanger 1974 Chevy pickup slammed into the Lexus door, taking it completely off. The lawyer watched his door disappear down the street, tangled in the coat hanger holding the muffler, the gold trim sparking fireworks that rivaled the Fourth of July as it bounced along, which highlighted the Gilley’s sticker on the rusty bumper.

He shook his fist into the air at the fleeting door snatcher. “I’ll sue you,” he shouted. “You’ve destroyed my Lexus!”

A good Samaritan onlooker approached the lawyer. “I wouldn’t be so concerned about the door, mister,” he said. “The truck tore off your arm, too.”

The lawyer’s eyes became the size of satellite dishes. His raging face turned pale as he looked with disbelief at the bloody stub left of his arm. “My Rolex. My Rolex!”

You’ve seen the TV commercials. “You deserve this,” or “When others say, ‘No! we say ‘Yes!’” “No money down, and drive home a new  (name the automobile)…”

In today’s culture, easy credit or no money down, makes getting stuff easy, and plays on our emotion—greed—to have it all—now! Fifth Avenue says if we accumulate these “toys,” they will bring fulfillment into our lives.

To Christ-followers, nothing could be further from the truth

We ask ourselves. “How much is enough?” “How many toys can a person accumulate to bring contentment to life?” Usually, the things of God are on the back burner, if on the stove at all.

This isn’t a new phenomenon. Jesus addressed this issue during a confrontation between two brothers. He warned them against greed, which eventually destroyed them. He continued his lesson with a story of a wheat farmer whose insatiable greed wasn’t content with his already over-stuffed barns. He decided to tear them down to build bigger barns to accumulate more. That night, Jesus said, the farmer died (Luke 12:15–21). He may have had a nice funeral, but he left his stuffed barns and wealth behind. What kind of unsatisfied life did he have, controlled by greed, with little or no room for God? Human nature does not change. I’m thinking his life was probably shallow, same as many people today who trust in their riches.

Father, today may I enjoy your blessings and be content with the life you gave me. Improve the areas that need improvement, grow me in areas where I need growth, Use me in your kingdom to influence others toward righteousness and to trust you, Lord Jesus, as their savior.

Stay close to Jesus

Jimmy

After the police caught up with the Chevy truck, the driver disputed their citation for reckless driver. When they checked the driver’s license, it was found he got eight out of ten on the driving test. The other two lawyers jumped out of the way.

Jimmy Eskew © 2017

(apologies to my lawyer friends.)