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Tenacity Wins the Race

By Brenda Black

I tearfully watched as one after another of thousands of runners willed their wearied legs toward the finish line. Some ran for the first time a race that far and hard. Their grimaced lips and tear-filled eyes revealed the pain of the process and relief for its culmination. Some tested their endurance for the hundredth race, cruising past in steady strides, with experience breathing in and out as evenly. From the first timers to the Olympic qualifiers, each one reached their destiny powered by tenacity.

Half wincing, half intrigued, I witnessed a man pull nails out of a board with his mouth, in pursuit of a Guinness World Record. His tenacity demanded steely concentration, as well as tough teeth! In a room filled with photographers, judges and reporters, he never lost focus, but annihilated the nails and beat the clock as if he ate hammers for breakfast.

A young, female doctor who owns a brand new clinic is home on maternity leave, planning how she'll juggle a newborn and 8,000 small and large animal patients. She tells me she'll take her race one leg at a time and handle the tough test of dual commitment and a divided heart. She's filled with tenacious optimism and determined to balance family and career.

They all remind me yet again of the amazing potential of the human spirit and body when one puts his or her mind to something and compels the heart to follow. While their examples are inspiring, it is also humbling to think of how little I often expect from myself. A bit of pain or inconvenience and I might be prone to take the shorter, easier route. At the end of that decision, I have to wonder, did the short cut leave me more fulfilled or empty. Will I know that I left it all on the field and played this game of life to win, pushing the limits of my own human possibilities, if I never do the hard stuff or try something out of my comfort zone?

Stepping out in faith and fortitude takes effort. Marathon runners don't wake up on race day and go 26.2 miles without building up the stamina, one step, one mile at a time. Guinness record breakers know the target before they ever make the attempt, and they practice, practice, practice. Moms count the cost and factor in the blessings to be the best they can be for their babies, in spite of the tears and trials. After weighing the odds and looking to the prize, the tenacious go to work to see their dreams become reality.

How about you? What's on your radar or your bucket list? Have you decided it's time for a little self-improvement? The only one who can make it happen is you.

Take the first step. Keep the focus. Find the balance. Be tenacious and finish the race.

A Life Lived Well

By Brenda Black

Funerals are not among my top favorite social gatherings. My ability to empathize deeply makes ministry to the grieving emotionally draining personally. Still, we count it an honor to be there for people when they need us most. Together, my pastor husband and I have counseled and comforted, preached and sung our way through a hundred sad gatherings and sorrowful good byes. How wonderful when those farewells can celebrate life more than bemoan death.

Recently, the mourners came in smiling, laughing and honoring a long and lovely life. Though little Ruthella fell shy of 5 foot, she cast a long shadow over her community and left a legacy. She lived life well for nearly 97 years. That's a lot of time. Time to be born and time to die. Time to plant and time to uproot. Time to tear down and time to build. Time to weep and time to laugh. Time to mourn and time to dance. Time to love and time to hate. Time for war and time for peace. Though she racked up decades of opportunities to do it all, she was content to just do what she did best, and bloom right where she was planted.

Her vast extended family remembered a woman who spent most of that time living, planting, building, laughing, dancing and loving on all of them. She chose kindness, forgiveness and gentleness, whether enduring hefty trials or just every day messes. According to those who knew her best, she never lost her temper, never raised her voice. She just took it all in stride with an easy-going demeanor. Perhaps her longevity was due to her passivity. She let a whole lot roll off her near-to-the-ground shoulders that could have weighed the little lady down. She resisted the temptation to retaliate. As a result, she wore grace as her garment instead of rage. Her pattern must be the healthy path to take. It obviously served her well.

It is a fact, that the opposite is true. A person filled with anger destroys himself and his reputation. Hot-tempered fools self-destruct from high blood pressure, heart attacks and ulcers. They poison relationships and create animosity and enemies.

Hate begets hate. Rage embitters and distances. But a quiet and gentle spirit produces peace and praise. Ruthella's example left a big, beautiful wake of grace.

Frankly, I'd like to live more in her tiny boots than walk in big, worldly shoes. I'm tired of the rage and rants in society. Everybody seems to have a bone to pick. At the drop of a hat, we come out with dukes up and fighting mad over any little thing. “There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens” (Ecclesiastes 3:1). I'd just like to see more of it devoted to good things. Maybe if we lived more like Ruthella and less like rebels, always with a cause, we'd live life well and others would want it to be long.

Never Too Old to Remember a Melody

By Brenda Black

More than usual turned out for the Sunday afternoon church service at the nursing home. Typically, our attendees are in the middle of sweet after-lunch slumber about the time we show up to sing a few songs and serve up the Word of the Lord. On this day, they came --in walkers and wheel chairs, with assistance and resistance -- to worship.

As I stood to lead the singing, it occurred to me the vast range of comprehension from one patient to another. At one table near the front sat three ladies I'd just met. One introduced herself no less than half a dozen times to my husband and myself, as if seeing us each time, for the first time --all in the span of about 10 minutes. To her left a misty-eyed darling rested her arms gracefully on the table. She did not know her name. She resorted to pat, memorized phrases to respond when she couldn't process our simple and kind questions. Next to her reclined a beautiful little woman, dressed in bright pink sweats and sporting a short-cropped, silver shock of hair that looked so soft, I wanted to stroke it. She said nothing, just stared straight ahead when I leaned in to welcome her.

We started off on an upbeat note with a song I thought they might recognize. Though we distribute hymnals, I've noticed very few of the residents open the books. Mostly, they just cradle them, sometimes fondling the pages with quivering fingers when I announce the selected number. But when the music starts, some in the room perk up. They mouth the words, and smiles cross their faces. Even the most non-responsive sometimes taps one socked foot or lifts a bent and frail hand heavenward. My heart melts. They know the words, they feel the rhythm, they experience for one blissful moment a touch of God here on earth.

My little friend met me one more time before we departed. Chances are pretty good she won't remember me the next time I see her, but she knew the melodies and the messages of those timeless songs. The precious lady in the middle may not have known her name, but she knew she was loved and that we cared. And I caught a glimmer in the eye of “pinky,” when I sang right to her. One time, she even grinned.

To my delight and off to my right, a sprite and alert resident, whom I had not met prior to the service, nearly bounced in her chair on some of the selections. She closed her eyes on others, slightly lifting her slender chin upward. Her face appeared soft and peaceful at times; joyful at others. I watched her recall from memory every word of every verse. When I left the service that day, I stopped to thank her for her sincere worship. We agreed and sealed it with a hug, that when all other memories fade, the words of a melody remain.

When I grow old and more forgetful, I pray that what's left of my mind will be filled with good music and meaningful lyrics. I'd like to think that someday, though I may not know your name or mine, I'll recognize an old song. And when I don't have much strength left in this faltering body, that some of the songs that have ministered to me all my life, will still be touching my soul when the lights are going out.

More than Music from MercyMe

By Brenda Black

Nearly 3,200 fans ticketed their way through chain link fences to concrete benches, and chairs they would rarely occupy, for a concert at the 2014 Missouri State Fair. They came to hear award winning gospel recording artist MercyMe belt out hit after hit. A top act from this genre has not graced the MSF grandstand stage since 1997. Back then it was Sandi Patty, famous for her incredible range and lilting voice. But on a balmy night more recent, five men dominated vocal acrobatics, with lead singer Bart Millard holding notes to incomprehensible lengths and never faltering from pure tones and perfect pitch. Their talent worthy of State Fair exhibition.

The band has been around since 1994, but in 2001, the world sat up and took notice when they released an original crossover single, “I Can Only Imagine.” That song helped secure a double platinum certification on their debut album Almost There. Millard's incredible talent in both his vocal and song-writing abilities – he wrote “I Can Only Imagine” on a legal pad in one sitting – continues to take the band's sound to the top of the charts. They've released six additional albums, plus a greatest hits, with four certified gold. They had 13 consecutive top 5 singles on the Billboard Christian Songs chart, with seven reaching No. 1 status. MercyMe has eight Dove Awards, numerous Grammy Award nominations and just released their latest album Welcome to the New.

With all that talent and all those trophies, surely this music man must have a peachy life, spared from all difficulties. Think again. From under the spotlight, he exposed his soul, and proves once again that, to some degree, everyone is broken. Between upbeat, drum-driven songs and heartfelt, symphonic stories, the singer/songwriter with the brilliant smile and a voice like an angel shared personal testimony of hurt, abuse, grief and confusion on his life's journey.

Michael Ging, a 23 year old fan from Sedalia could relate, “My parents split when I was only three years old too,” he said. “Bart sharing about his life, the abuse from his father, and how God redeemed those hard days, brings home the point that God is real. He loves us and He is merciful.”

From the outside looking in, we quickly surmise that people on such platforms don't struggle. In a moment when it would be easier to keep up the image rather than be transparent, Millard tore down the curtain and talked about coming to terms with forgiveness, and how he looks forward to meeting his saved and transformed father one day in heaven. He confessed difficulty over losing a cousin killed on the job, and admitted rough spots in a marriage from unresolved issues. Bart got real and it made a difference to someone going through something similar. My guess is that there were about 3,199 others also touched by his words.

Sometimes encouragement comes through a song on the radio. I am more convinced than ever that God ministers through His gifted performers. The inspiration for those hit tunes may come from one act of kindness or one thoughtful word from one man or woman. For Millard, it came from a friend who told him over and over again, “You are holy, righteous and redeemed.”

Everybody is broken. We all need a Savior. We all need understanding and support and patience and healing. We may not all have a voice like Bart Millard, but we can get honest with one another and offer help and hope. The result will take us a little closer to the heaven we can only imagine.

Try it this week. Lift someone with a kind word of “I've been there, brother. I understand. And I know what happens when the 'Hurt and the Healer Collide.'” With “All That is Within Me,” I pray you are able to say “So Long Self” and let “The Word of God Speak” through you, because “All of Creation” calls us to “Move” for God's glory.

There is definitely more to MercyMe than just music. And there's more to you and me than what we let the world typically see.

(photos courtesy https://www.facebook.com/backroadprod)

An Open Letter to Missouri Farmers

By Brenda Black

To all my friends on both sides of the farming fence: to the conventional and the all-natural; to the multi-generational and the first-time farmer, we are in this together. I love the passion for getting back to the basics as much as the commitment to banish world hunger. I applaud the ingenuity, the tenacity and integrity of all of Missouri's Ag community. It takes dedication and sacrifice to be capable and humane stewards of land and livestock. Every one of you has my utmost respect.

Right now, we are living in exciting times in agriculture, where the challenges compel innovators to find answers. Those resolutions come in a host of forms from high-rise, glassed-in, urban gardens to rotational grazing. Some employ timed breeding and new seed technologies. Ideas come from fifth generation farmers, university think tanks and long-established allied industries. Health enthusiasts, city folks and country caretakers alike contribute to the success of agriculture.

While we each constantly and tirelessly work to do our best, there is a growing shadow of intimidation that seeks to undermine each and every one of us. Animal rights and environmental extremists want to mandate your every move. We have an enemy that wishes to see Missouri families ruined. That enemy would love to whisper in your ear that the Missouri Farming Rights Amendment is big ag vs. small farmers; conventional vs. organic. But in reality, the battle is ALL of US vs. the bullying tactics that include intimidation, big bucks, and deceitful, sensational propaganda. Outside entities steamroll states on the fuel of millions of dollars and the wheels of outrageous lies. And they put good people right out of business and steal their rights using the ballot initiative process to impose their radical views!

If you eat; if you wear clothing; if you drive a car; if you take a vitamin or take insulin to stay alive; if you read a book or feed a pet; if you have a heart valve replacement or play football, your life is dependent on agriculture. How much greater the reason to guard that which is fundamental to our well-being.

The fact remains that small farms, and organic agriculturalists are not exempt from outside influence and are at just as much risk as the conventional farmers if we don't collectively work together to eliminate such underhanded strategies to sway regulations. The Missouri Farming Rights Amendment is not about insulating bad players. It is about protecting ALL of Missouri's farmers from anti-ag organizations.

My encouragement is that you do not let the lies and scare tactics of outside influencers undermine Missouri's number one economic contributor, nor one of the fastest growing hobbies -- agriculture. Neither should we allow their underhanded, over-funded, misguided bullying to take away any of our freedom to operate with best practices and with good conscience.

If we succumb to their rich scare tactics, every one of us loses. We lose the right to raise our families as we see fit. We lose the right to grow food the way science and experience prove is beneficial. We lose the right to try new things OR go back to old ways. We lose the right to plant hundreds of acres or dabble with dirt on a small plot in our back yard.

The outsiders who want to control the way you grow your food, feed your family and live your life, are bent on an old and deceptive strategy – divide and conquer. The Missouri Farming Rights Amendment is for everybody in this state that just wants the freedom to operate without undue and unfounded interference. It's about working together to protect our land, livestock and livelihood, as well as our families' healthy and happy futures.

If we don't stick together, we stand to lose the things we value most – our farms, our freedom and our rights as Missouri families. Think before you vote and say yes to Missouri Farming.

Bob - The Backyard Bodyguard

Meet my brave, new friend Bob -- Bob White.  I met him this week as he parked and piddled his way through my backyard and called sweetly his country song right outside my window.  He was so close, I could see his chest puff and his head tilt back with each delightful bellow of the quail's familiar tune "bob white...bob white."

Though I hear them daily in spring and summer, the shy little birds are typically out of view.  I was thoroughly enjoying the serene and seldom seen picture of one of God's precious creatures, when all of a sudden he darted as though startled. 

A few feet to the right, he stopped suddenly and began to cock his little black and white striped head and walk in a circle.  I was certain he had spotted a wiggly morsel. In short order, my eyes spied what he had already seen -- a black snake considerably larger than any old earthworm.  As he pondered the size of his prey, he continued his circulating intimidation.                                                                                                                     And I winced and shuttered and worried, just knowing I was about to see that beautiful little bird become the dinner instead of the diner. They eyed one another in an exchange of power and fear, with the quail's head ever tilting and the snake's coiled body arching higher from the grass with his every pass. 

Then, the dangerous dance ended.

The snake hastily flattened and took his rapid leave, with Mr. Bob White in hot pursuit. First I cheered... then I jeered... for Bob was chasing the black snake right toward me!  Of course there was wood and concrete and glass and insulation and well, you know, a house to protect me! Still, I didn't like the idea of that snake finding refuge somewhere near my domicile.

Enter, hero #2 -- Mr. Black just happened to walk into the room about the time I began shooting photos through my window.  At my prompting, he went back outside and interrupted the snake's planned route.

Bob took flight, safe and sound, and I heard him continue to call, letting me know he's not far and has become my new watch dog.  As long as I hear him singing, I'll feel secure.  And when he grows silent, I know I'll be thinking he's cornered another varmint.