A Father's Power...

A few years ago, I led a men’s group at our local church. The first session, I started the group by asking each man who had been the most influential person in their lives. There were 15 or so men in the group that day and, almost to a man, each one said, "my father." I then asked them to tell us a little about their dads, and why they had named them the must influential in their lives. While each man had a different story to tell, many of the grown men were moved emotionally, some to tears while testifying about their dads.

I could relate to those men that day. My dad’s influence in my life is just as strong now though he passed away over eight years ago. Fathers possess a special quality that can be quite powerful. I hope I’ve had the same impact on my children my dad has had on me. 

Please let me reshare one of my favorite stories from another men’s group I had the privilege of leading many years ago in Louisiana. Eighty-five year old Brother M.C. Kelly told us this story about his dad and the impact he’d had on his life. Nothing I can think of relates the power a father possesses more than this:

"When I was about 10 years old, the little town I grew up in was forming a baseball team. I really wanted to be on that team, but I had no ball glove. I was in the local general store with my father and there was a ball glove in there for $4.00. We were very poor, and it might as well have been $400. My father worked long hours, but we barely had the means to feed our family, and oftentimes, did not. I looked longingly at the glove, but knew better than to ask. 

We left the store and the prospects of trying out for the baseball team were vanishing. Over the course of the next week or so, my father was absent for the evening meal. In fact, I went to bed every night without seeing him, and when I got up early the next day, he was already gone. 

The first night I saw my father again, he walked into the house with a package under his arm. He handed me the package, which I unwrapped to find that $4.00 ball glove inside. You see, my father had been working before and after his regular job, chopping wood and any other odd job he could find for a quarter, a dime, or whatever, because he loved me and wanted me to have that glove..."


Bro. Kelly’s voice trailed off and we looked up to see an 85 year old man openly weeping as he remembered an incredible act of love of a father, 75 years prior....now that’s real power.

Blessing to each of you dads this Father’s Day. Never forget what lasting impact you hold on someone’s life.

What's In a Name?

To the right of my desk at home hang two documents that I treasure much more than their monetary value. They are each nearly 150 years old. I inherited them from a cousin over 30 years ago and the older I get, the more I appreciate them. They are the Civil War promotion and discharge papers of Smith Povenmire, my great great grandfather. Smith served with the 179th Ohio Infantry in the Union Army. I’m hoping my dear old friends from Louisiana will be able to overlook that fact and read on.

I’ve done some research on Smith Povenmire. By all accounts he was an honorable husband and father. I have a couple of pictures of Smith that I’ve come across over the years. While they tell me little about the man himself, they do serve to put a face with the name. His son, John W. Povenmire, my great grandfather, had two daughters and four sons, one of which was my grandfather, John Orville Povenmire. While my grandfather died when my dad was just a small child, his brothers, my great uncles Smith, Ira, and Otis, all left lasting impressions as men of strength and integrity. I remember them as a boy as grandfather figures whom I admired greatly.

Growing up, my mother used to tell me to never "smear the good name your father gave you." I didn’t realize it at the time, but that "good name" had been passed down for many generations. I’m thankful for the name, and as I’ve grown older, realize the influence of men I never knew that set a standard for living that I’ve tried to uphold.

Psalm 78: 5-7 tells us that God

"...commanded our ancestors
to teach their children,
6 so the next generation would know them,
even the children yet to be born,
and they in turn would tell their children.
7 Then they would put their trust in God
and would not forget his deeds
but would keep his commands.

You ever think about what message you are sending your grandchildren, your great grandchildren, or even your great great grandchildren? I hope some day my grandchildren and their children and so on will read what I had to say in these blog passages. Not because they’re great pieces of literature, but because they somewhat reflect what God has done in my life. They’re part of my testimony, if you will.

I’ve gone to funerals before where the minister conducting the funeral read from notes written in the margins of the diseased’s own Bible to eulogize the person. The notes represented how God had spoken to those particular people at various times in their lives, and they served as a voice from the grave to those gathering to remember a loved one or friend.

I suppose everyone wonders how they will be remembered. I’d like my descendants to know I came from good stock, tried to uphold the name, and most importantly, trusted my life to God through belief and acceptance of Jesus Christ as Lord of my life. That’s the influence and legacy I’d like to leave.

Five Cups Overfloweth

On the outskirts of Lima, Peru lie poverty-stricken areas where thousands live in conditions that, to most of us, would seem unimaginable. They are communities that exist outside the peripheral view of the mainstream, literally carved into the mountainsides. Houses there are built from whatever material is available, primarily concrete block and sheet metal roofing. It was in one of these communities, known as the “Mirador,” literally the Viewpoint, that God blessed my wife and me last July while serving on an evangelistic mission team.

We split up into two teams of five, going from house to house all afternoon sharing the Gospel of Christ. Each team had a couple of Americans with interpreters from Ecuador and Chile. The Lima church we were working with ran a satellite church on the Mirador, and two sisters in the community served as the church’s missionaries. They were blood sisters as well as sisters in the Blood.

It was these two sisters who arranged many of our appointments that day on the Mirador. You see, they had been witnessing through word and deed to the people of their community long before we arrived. For instance, on a daily basis, the church sent simple breakfast food up the mountain, for children of the poorest of poor. The sisters coordinated this effort and many others for the people of their impoverished community. They made our efforts easy, as people were readily approachable, largely due to relationships these godly servants had established with their neighbors.

We saw person after person come to Christ that afternoon on the Mirador. There was Juanita, a woman who sold groceries out of her home; Roberto, a man making repairs on his house, Jovanna, a woman who’d resisted becoming a Christian before, but called upon the Name of the Lord that day...and on and on it went.

At one point, one of the sisters led us to her own home, where she’d arranged for three other women to meet with us, all nonbelievers. As we walked into her square, concrete block house, I was met by the sight of two nursing mothers, awaiting our arrival. While our culture calls for this to be done with discretion, this was not the case on the Mirador. Trying to mask the surprise of the situation, I asked my wife how I should proceed.

“Look ‘em in the eye and tell them about Jesus.” And, so I did. A few moments later, we celebrated three new sisters in Christ.

We continued visiting several other homes that afternoon, as the Holy Spirit moved about the Mirador. Each time someone said yes to Jesus, the two sisters cried out with joy. We witnessed some thirty-two commitments to Christ and, at the end our visits, we returned to the missionary sister’s house to rest and reflect on our day. The other team was still out on the mountainside.

The sisters seated our team of five at a well-used table and chairs in one corner of the house and went to work serving us refreshments of saltine crackers and coffee. They arranged the crackers on a chipped dish in front of us, brought the coffee out in a stove top percolator, and placed five mismatched cups in front of us. Their graciousness and hospitality were outshone only by their enthusiasm. It was quite obvious that this was a rather big event to be hosting. The warm fellowship they demonstrated toward us made their simple offerings as satisfactory as a grand feast.

Shortly after, the other team arrived and the sisters invited our team to the opposite side of the room to be seated on an old sofa and a few other metal chairs. The other team was seated at the table to receive the same royal service. From my seat, I noticed the sisters quickly, almost frantically, washing the five cups we’d just used for coffee. Hurriedly wiping them dry with a tattered towel, I surmised that those were the only five cups they possessed. Sure enough, the same cups were placed on the table to serve the second team.

Material wealth can easily be measured in earthly standards. By the world’s estimation, bank accounts, real estate holdings, and other physical assets make up a person’s personal worth. That afternoon on the Mirador, we witnessed genuine richness from two sisters that served their Lord with all their heart, soul, and mind...and to their name, they only owned five cups.

All Dogs (and Cats) Go to Heaven?

Atop wall shelves in one corner of our den are the pictures of four dogs and three cats. In the middle of the pictures is a card with a simple phrase that explains their meaning. The card reads:

"We’ll never forget good friends"

You see, the seven animals pictured on those shelves are pets that we’ve loved and lost over the last twenty years. There’s Callie, a Calico cat that we had for nearly 17 years; Jess, a boxer mix that was as ornery as he was lovable; Sophie, a lab/shepherd mix that was fiercely loyal and a bit too jealous at times; Luke, our first Black Lab who was as close to perfection as a dog could be; Ms. Kitty, a fat ball of furry love who we lost all too soon; Bobbi, our first tuxedo cat who ruled the roost for over 15 years, and Tillie, a spunky, beloved cocker/pomeranian who often battled Bobbi for head pet in charge.

Sadly, we’ll be adding an eighth picture to the group. Last Wednesday, we lost Duci, our second tuxedo cat, whose beauty was recognized this year in a cat calendar where she’ll appear as "Ms. November."

Duci was only six years old, but was suffering from feline infectious peritonitis (FIP), an incurable, fatal disease. Ms. Kitty had succumbed to it a few years ago. On Wednesday past, I made the decision to end Duci’s suffering. It was really a no-brainer, but still difficult. Pets in our house have always become part of the family.

The pain of losing a beloved pet feels a whole lot like the pain of losing a human loved one. When I lost my father in 2004, I felt sadness that seemed unbearable. I’ve felt similar feelings about losing pets, but there is a difference. The grief over a lost pet should be somewhat temporary. Not because we didn’t love them, no. But the relationship that we form with them isn’t to be on the same level of the relationships we form with people. That was never God’s intention when He gave us the animal kingdom to oversee. I still miss my dad greatly, but when he passed, I didn’t go out and start looking for another father that I would love just as much. All the pets on our memory wall have been "replaced" by other animals that we love just as much as we loved them.

I look forward to one day seeing my dad in heaven. I know that he was saved by his confession of Christ as his Lord and Savior. The Bible says that all who "call upon the name of the Lord shall be saved" (Romans 10:13). That remains our greatest hope as Christians. Some like to be comforted when they lose a pet by thinking perhaps the animal will be waiting for them in heaven.  Someone's even conjured up the notion of a "rainbow bridge" that supposedly pets cross over and await our arrival in a field of daisies, or something.   I’ve checked my Bible pretty thoroughly and can’t find the passage that talks about that rainbow bridge.

I’ve heard arguments, both pro and con, about pets being in heaven. Billy Graham says, "God will prepare everything for our perfect happiness in heaven, and if it takes my dog being there, I believe he'll be there." I’ve read books on the subject, arguing biblical passages supporting the theory. And, I’ve heard theologians cite scripture they claim rules out the possibility. After carefully examining both sides of the issue, I can conclusively say...who knows for sure? There’s absolutely nothing definitive about the subject. I do know this, heaven is a perfect place, and whatever the situation is, we’ll experience joy and happiness there that we’ve never felt here. There’ll be no complaint department, nor a need for one.

My conclusion on the matter is this: God’s plan of salvation was to send Jesus to die on a cross for the sins of mankind. Our role on this earth as Christians is to bring others to the foot of Calvary’s cross so that they, too, may receive the loving Grace that we’ve experienced. Whether our furry friends meet us in heaven or not isn’t the issue. Our real focus is our own salvation, and the salvation of the people we encounter every day.

Meanwhile, I’ll miss Duci...

No Bridge Over Trouble Waters

More than 6,000 Hondurans perished when Hurricane Mitch devastated the Central American country with 140 MPH winds in October of 1998. I witnessed the destruction a few months later serving on a mission trip to help build and rebuild churches, some that had been affected by Mitch. The massive amount of water dumped on the country before, during, and after the storm had turned rivers into wild ferocities, seeking outlets that were already overflowing.


One afternoon during our week-long trip, a Honduran missionary took me on a short drive to witness firsthand some of the hurricane-impacted rural areas outside the small village where we’d been working. In his sure-footed vehicle, we crept and climbed our way to a tropical rain forest area on a mountainside. Getting out beside a roaring river, my guide explained it was once a serene setting, the river merely a peaceful stream. The sound of its furious surge forced us to shout to hear one another.

He pointed to an area where a wooden footbridge had been washed out by the storm. The bridge, he noted, was the only link to the outside world for those living on the opposite side. I looked to see dozens of run-down shacks dotting the mountainside across the river from me. The community would be cut off until another bridge could be erected, which wouldn't be anytime soon.

As I peered across at the isolated community, I spotted two barefoot girls walking toward the raging river. They were seventy-five yards or so upstream from me, headed for the river with purpose. They looked to be about twelve and eight years old. As the girls neared the water, I began to watch them intently. What they did next will stay with me for the rest of my life.

With determination, the older girl grabbed the younger one and together, they walked straight into the furious river.

“LOOK! What are they doing?”

The missionary turned and saw what I’d been watching.

“Oh no...they’ve been told not to do that.”

“Hey, get out of there!” I yelled, though the girls had no chance of hearing me, let alone understanding the English I spoke.

My guide just shook his head in silence. I sensed this was something he’d witnessed before. We watched helplessly as the older girl battled her way across the raging river, with the younger girl clinging to her, literally for her dear life. At times their little heads were about all we saw bobbing above the water.

The force of the river carried the girls downstream as they finally emerged at a point just below us. They scrambled up the hill toward where we were standing. Dripping wet, their dark eyes met ours and they smiled, continuing on to a small concrete block shanty where they ducked inside.

When they emerged moments later, the younger girl was carrying a cellophane bag. As the girls approached us again, I saw it was a bag of rice. Both girls squealed with joy at the peppermint sticks I’d fished out of my backpack for them.

“Gracias, senor!” And with that, they scurried back down the embankment to return to their side of the river. I was still perplexed by the whole scene.

"That rice is probably all their family will have to eat for next week or so,” my missionary guide shouted in my ear. “Families send children across the river to find food on this side. You see, they send their children, because they’re the most expendable...” His voice trailed off as we nervously watched the two girls fight their way back across the river.

“Ok, but why send both of the children?” I asked, as the little girls climbed out on their side of the river and raced back to their simple shanty with the rice.

“Well, believe or not, the younger one serves as an anchor to keep the older one from being swept away. But, it doesn’t always work. Ten or twelve children have been lost since the bridge washed out.” Looking down the violent river, my throat tightened as I thought of the precious lives that had been swept away by the perilous act that I’d just witnessed.

“Dear God, please remedy this situation,” I whispered under my breath as we climbed back into the missionary’s truck. I didn’t turn back toward the river again, but I didn’t have to. I could still hear its roar for days, months, and now, years after I’d left it.

Three Dogs Tight

I heard Bill Cosby joke once that parents of only children aren’t experiencing the full joy of parenting.   After all, he said, if you come across a broken lamp in the house, you immediately know who did it.

Similarly, the same might be said for having multiple pets.   Being a three-dog family, we’ve witnessed some moving traits that animals demonstrate toward one another.   Our three dogs, Belle, Georgie, and Rosie are a mini family unit within our family.

We adopted Rosie the Boggle about two years ago. Boggles are a mix of Boston Terrier and Beagle, what some would refer to as a designer dog.   I suppose if you can think of a name for what were once called mutts, you can sell them instead of give them away.  Rosie has become the pup Belle and Georgie never had.   She follows them here and there, imitating their actions right down to the Belle-like way she sticks her hind legs straight back when she lies down.   She often basks in the sunshine with Georgie, nuzzling up against his soft black lab fur.

Georgie and our petite Great Dane, Belle, are both nine years old.   They’ve both been a part of our family for the past eight years.   No two dogs were ever more compatible. I don’t think a cross word between the two has ever been barked.   But there’s been times when they’ve shown a companionship that left us smiling in wonderment.



Vocationally, my wife and I had to live separately in the early months of 2005. Georgie moved with my wife to our new house in Kansas, while Belle kept me company and sane, while I waited for my transfer from Louisiana.   In April of that year, my transfer came through and we joined the rest of the family.   As we pulled into our new driveway, my wife came racing out to meet us and I eagerly jumped out of the truck.

Belle’s attention was on something else.   In the backyard, from behind a chain link fence, she’d spotted her old friend, Georgie.   You see, it had been four months of separation for them as well.   Belle sprinted to the fence and both dogs put their front paws atop the railing, nose-to-nose in an excited reunion.   The rest of their day was spent in joyful play and joint napping.

From the day we took her in, Belle has claimed a spot in our bed, at our feet.   Georgie’s custom made bed lays on the floor at the foot of our bed.   This has been their sleeping arrangement every night we’ve had them...except for a two week period in the winter of 2010.   Georgie had undergone a serious surgery to repair a torn ligament in his leg.   He was unable to climb the stairs to our bedroom, so I’d made him a pallet to sleep on in the downstairs den while he recovered.

The first night home from his surgery, we went through our usual routine before retiring.   I headed up the stairs to go to bed, looking back to see Georgie resting comfortably on his pallet.   Oddly, Belle was lying on the floor, next to her injured companion, instead of her usual practice of following me upstairs.

"C’mon, girl, let’s go to bed."

In a rare moment, Belle deliberately disobeyed me, lowering her head on the floor next to Georgie’s bedding.   She seemed determined to stand watch over her buddy.   While I thought that was touching, I was sure it wouldn't last the night.   You see, Belle has always been a true creature of comfort.  But when I woke up the next morning, her spot in our bed was still vacant.

Belle’s vigil over Georgie lasted two weeks.   Then one night, she once again followed me upstairs to go to bed, but stopped at the top of the stairway.   Turning back with her head tilted slightly, Belle peered downward into the darkness while conveying the softest of whimpers.

Switching on the stairwell light, I saw her companion contemplating his first post-surgery climb of the steps.   With Belle’s urging, Georgie made a slow, careful ascent up the dozen or so steps leading to his awaiting friend.   Both dogs then headed down the hall and got into their familiar spots.

Our three dogs have always demonstrated loyalty and love toward us that can not be mistaken.   But the quiet bond they possess with one another is an example from which we humans could learn much. I know I have.

Saturday Blessings

The group I see every Saturday at a local drug and alcohol rehabilitation center is always diversified. They come from all walks of life, but it’s the homeless ones that grab my attention, perhaps a little more than the rest. They come from under bridges and back alleys for a few days, maybe a week of relief from the harsh cruelty of their lives.

Homeless addicts are generally easy to spot. Their clothing is tattered and worn out, matching the look in their eyes. It isn’t difficult to see when a man hasn’t had a real haircut for ages, or when the redness of his skin is aglow from the scrubbing of a long overdue shower. His eyes aren’t as focused as most, a reflection of the difficult life he’s led.

Many are illiterate, always looking at me with a prideful helplessness when I hand them a pen and registration form. And although the Bible I place before them will go unopened, they often run their rough, weathered hands over it in a moment of reverence perhaps we’ve long since forgotten.

Yet, it is often during these times of respite from their difficult lives that these folks have touched me and others with insight and declarations of faith that you might never expect. Stripped of the materialistic comforts we so often take for granted, many of those I’ve met from the depths of society have developed a spiritual relationship that always leaves me trying to find more meaning in my own life. In short, they minister to me, though our intended roles are just the opposite.

My Saturday morning sessions are generally centered on having a real relationship with God through Christ. I emphasize that one should repair or create that relationship first in their attempt to reconstruct the nearly destroyed lives their addictions have brought about.

Floyd sat through my Saturday rambling with nary a word from his mouth. He made no eye contact, and for all I knew, the words I’d spoken about trusting God with one’s life weren’t reaching anywhere near his ears, let alone his life. His hair was matted and disheveled. He had on the wardrobe of many years of collecting whatever he could come across. He sat staring off into space, seemingly wanting nothing but for me to finish so he could move on.

Then, at some point Floyd’s eyes raised to meet mine. He looked at me directly and I could sense he wanted to speak. I nodded his direction.

"When I pray, asking for money to buy gin and cigarettes, is the money I receive coming from God or the devil." What a question. My answer was simply, "Yes." It got a few chuckles, but Floyd didn’t laugh.

Floyd said whenever he’d asked for money, God had provided, even though He knew what Floyd would do with the money.

"Sometimes, I think God not giving me what I asked for would turn out better for my life..." Then after he reflected for a few seconds, Floyd had a moment of revelation.

"You know, maybe that was God’s way of telling me He was still there..."

There was a quietness that fell on the room. Many of the participants and I realized that sometimes, just knowing God was present was enough. Floyd had touched us unexpectedly with a simple testimony.

Yet another Saturday, Cuban refugee Carlos slowly raised a wrinkled, somewhat withered hand to ask a question. I called on him and he said something in broken English that I couldn’t quite make out. I heard "Jesus," "die," and "cross," mixed in with some slurred "spanglish." I walked toward him and asked him to speak more slowly. Carlos said, this time quite discernibly, "If Jesus had all that power, why did he allow himself to die on the cross? I’ve never understood why He did that." I asked him if I offered to pay off all his past, current, and future debts, would he take me up on it.

"Of course I would," Carlos replied. Jesus, I told him, died on a cross to pay for your past sins, your current sin, and your future sins, out of His incredible love for us. Without that payment, we’d have no way to reach the Father, no way to God’s presence, heaven.

"Carlos, have you ever accepted Jesus as your Savior?" I asked him.

"No," he replied, "but now that I understand, I do!"

All that and more from folks taking a short break from lives most of us cannot imagine.