For God’s Sake Archive

“What is prayer?” read the title of a chapter in a weekly study I am leading. It is an excellent and important question, one with which I have been wrestling for years.

If you perused a typical prayer list, you would find a list of people with problems, some sick, some unemployed, some in financial straits.

Years ago, I enjoyed a short career as a professional musician, a choice that took me in an unexpected direction.

I had been working at an animation studio in Toronto churning out Scooby Doo cartoons for Saturday morning consumption.

One word that I would never use to describe myself is “athletic.” I played baseball in a municipal league in my youth, but I hung up my cleats and became a musician.

So, it was strange that, some 20 years later, I would be standing on a basketball half-court, about to go three-on-three against teenagers half my age. I have no recollection of how that absurdity came to be.

I met Rev. Williams through his son, who served on a church staff with me. It was early in my ministry. He was near the end of life, his mind ravaged by dementia, living in a care facility. Sometimes when I visited him, he was lucid; often he was not.

Every Wednesday, his son would bring him to the church to have lunch with the staff. The staff’s lunch conversations were lively affairs, sometimes humorous, sometimes serious.

“Michael, lead us in another one of those familiar, old hymns,” the pastor said in the middle of a worship service. I was gripped with fear because I didn’t know any other hymns than those we had just sung, but there was no avoiding his request.

I was the church’s new minister of worship, thrust into that position, so it seemed to me, with no other qualification than I was a musician.

When this column is printed, my wife and I will have just celebrated our 34th wedding anniversary and I can say after these many years, marriage is great!

We were married three months before I entered full-time ministry. The timing was fortuitous because it quickly became apparent that I wouldn’t be worth spit as a pastor without my wife.

One summer, my wife and I vacationed in Newfoundland, where, in addition to trying cod tongues, a disgusting local delicacy, we went on an iceberg cruise.

Local fishermen supplement their income by loading tourists into their boats and deliberately sailing them toward icebergs. Can you say, “Titanic?”

A friend once described the vacations my wife and I take to rural Indiana as “homey.” That is an apt description. Life slows down dramatically, and we get much-needed rest. If you are stressed out or suffering from insomnia, read on.

One recent vacation highlight was daily watching a groundhog venture out to forage for food. The chubby rodent had burrowed under a storage shed behind my father-in-law’s house.

My wife and I just returned from two restful weeks in rural Indiana. For the first time in years, we made the trip by air, flying out of the Destin-Fort Walton Beach airport.

On our departure day, the airline sent a notice encouraging us to arrive 2.5 hours early. Not a problem, we were packed and ready, and our ride picked us up on schedule.