The Flog – The Fabry Log

I was proofing a book I have co-written with Dr. Gary Chapman and one chapter discusses the biblical character, Rahab. Somehow, when we wrote the study for the end of the book, her name was spell-checked to become "Rehab."

I suppose Rahab needed rehab. Painful memories, bad choices. She had a lot to work through after her experiences in the house built into the wall.

We all need freedom from the past, but God offers more than a makeover. God's grace is better than rehab. It's a total renovation. In fact, it's not renovation at all.

The myth about following Jesus is that he wants to make us better, cleaner, or nicer. Install some carpet, paint some walls in our soul, and mow the yard. Not true. You can't rehab something that's dead.

Jesus wants to make us alive.

On the radio program, 5/17, we gave advice to graduates. High school. College. Med school. Technical school. If you wore the cap and gown, you are eligible to listen to these pearls of wisdom.

Here is a personal sticky note I would put on the dorm-sized refrigerator of any graduate.


I have learned much more from failure and pain than success. I hope you do not succeed at everything you do because you will become a small person if you do. You will believe the world is your personal oyster and it’s all about you. Perpetual success will stunt your growth. You need pruning. And pruning is painful.

Pain and failure show you how inadequate you really are. Everyone is telling you what a bright future you have, that you are our best hope for the next generation, that you have what it takes to change the world.

You do not. You have a limited ability, limited strength and endurance, limited mental capacity. You are young now and cannot conceive of running out of energy or ideas or drive or ambition. This is because life has only had a limited amount of time to smack the snot out of you. And it will. It will tear your heart out and try to feed it to the birds. It will make you kneel in the sand, at some point, with the sun beating down, and you will despair.

Your friends and family do not wish this for you because they love you and care about you and don’t want to see you hurt. They want the best for you, but they also know the horrifying truth about life and want you to be the exception to the rule.

Here’s the truth. Rejoice when life smacks the snot out of you because either you have made a terrible decision and this is a wake-up call to change, or you are doing the exact thing you were made to do and life does not like it.

The pathway to changing the world is not in your self-actualization or trying to feel good about what you’ve done or what you want to accomplish. You will change the world a day at a time stepping from one hot coal to another. And while you’re hopping you will become stronger. Not because you’re willing yourself to overcome the odds, but because you’re surviving and thriving in the middle of the struggle, this desert called life.

Life is struggle. Life is submission and abandonment. When you realize you are not strong enough, smart enough, and good enough to be who you were created to be, you have reached the first step toward peace in your heart. And that peace is not something you empty yourself to get. It comes from a relationship with God who can impute to you more than you could possibly imagine or achieve. And when you surrender to Him daily, and follow him, you will see the pain and failure and success from a wholly different perspective.

We did not have time to include the messages I wanted to on the tribute to George Beverly Shea, but I wanted you to read this email from Robin. What a great message and tribute to this man!

Chris,

My co-worker at Moody Radio MidSouth, Dawn Rae, suggested that I let you know about my connection with Bev Shea. Dawn Rae is the morning drive host here in Nashville, and I am her
fill-in when she cannot be at the mic.

Bev Shea was an incredible individual, and meant so much to so many people. Millions of people have heard his voice and been deeply affected by his public ministry. What many people do not know is that Bev had a very effective private ministry as well. He didn't just work with the multitudes, he cared for people one on one.

When I was young, my mother was the pastor's secretary at our church in northern Illinois. When we had guests at the church, they would usually come home with us between morning and evening services, having Sunday dinner with us and relaxing before going back for the evening activities. People didn't go out to eat regularly then like they do today.

When I was 8 years old, George Beverly Shea came to sing at our church. He came home with us after morning services and spent time with me while mom got the dinner ready. He asked me about my mother's piano and if I played or not. I said I did and I played a couple of little songs for him and he talked with me about Jesus. He asked me if I had asked Jesus into my heart or not. I confided in him that, while I loved Jesus, I didn't think I was good enough for Him to want me. He told me that I was exactly what Jesus wanted me to be, and that He did love me, just the way I was. He asked if he could play a song for me, and he sat down on the piano bench and pulled me close to him. He played "The Wonder of It All" and sang for me. We both had tears in our eyes. I asked him if he thought Jesus would want even me, and he said he was sure of it, so he lead me in prayer right on that piano bench and I became a child of God.

Of course at the time I had no idea how special this man was to so many people, but I can tell you that he meant the world to me.

Since that day I have been in contact with Bev Shea only twice. Once when he was hospitalized - I did get a very nice letter from him after that occasion. It had long been my wish to meet with him in person again to let him know what his kindness meant to me. At the time I was working as a contractor with the Southern Baptist Convention, and this was a wish that my co-workers were aware of. A few years back, they were kind enough to make that happen for me, and I was able to meet with Bev Shea when he was in town here in Nashville. Here is a photo of us from that event at the Country Music Hall of Fame:


I just wanted you to know how special this man was, and how much I will miss him. I know he's singing for Jesus now. Then again, he always has.

Robin Oquindo

People running for the finish line had a disorienting experience on April 15, 2013. Bombs exploded at the Boston Marathon. Smoke and flying metal will quickly reorient your life. The finish line changed. You can see it on the faces of those running, on those who were on the “sidelines,” because the sidelines became the point of focus.

Some ran for their lives. Others ran toward victims. Shirts used as tourniquets.

The finish line, which only seconds before had been so important, was unimportant. The ultimate goal, to finish this iconic race, faded because life was at stake.

Our prayers are with those who are helping, who are going through the crisis, who lost loved ones. Pray for believers in the middle of this, that they would be able to do their jobs and reach those around them.

So many questions come from an event like this. Who did it? Why? May God use the individual questions for our own hearts. Where are we running? Is the goal we’re headed for really the important finish line?

My cousin, Beth, died this week. She was 62 and had been through years of failing health. But I want to tell you how her encouragement affected me early in life.

Beth was eleven years older than me, so my brothers knew her better. They went to school with her and her younger brother, Ronnie. Ronnie was one of the most fascinating people I’ve ever known, but he was a recluse. He grew a beard and walked the highway with a stick and to people who didn’t know him, he seemed scary. He talked in a fast, staccato clip, and would show you pictures in an album he kept and retrieve minute details of the pictures and tell jokes with amazing linguistic ability. But he was strange. And he died like Beth did, mostly alone. I’ve often wondered about the family dynamics in that little house in Culloden.

Beth was full of laughter. Chubby cheeks and a smile and always chewing gum, and then you’d say something and out would come this belly laugh that shook the whole house. Beth did not care who heard her laugh.

She was doing a school project at some point, it must have been early in college, on child development and she came to our house and gave me a test. She sat at the dining room table and leaned down to eye level with me and asked questions, had me look at shapes and colors and more I can’t remember. I remember the smell of that glue. I remember her face. Her eyes. Looking inside me, drawing me out. And then her laugh and the way her face jiggled and her eyes sparkled and then she gathered her things and spoke in hushed tones to my mother about how bright I was, how intelligent, how verbal. I think Beth saw something in me and let me know it before anyone else. I think she knew I could hear. She was the first person who saw a spark, I guess. I’ll always love her for that.

Beth introduced me to my first Jewish friend. I don’t recall his name and at the time I did not know I was a Gentile. We didn’t have many Jewish families there in the holler. I really only knew two types of people, those who lived in Cabell County and those who lived in Putnam County. Our road divided the two. And there wasn’t that much difference, to tell you the truth.

But Beth brought this boy to us who, when he ate his peanut butter and jelly sandwich with my mother and me looking on, bowed his head and began to pray. Right there at the kitchen table with the linoleum floor and the cats climbing the brick outside the back door, waiting for scraps. It wasn’t as if we had never said grace before, but we usually weren’t as thankful for peanut butter and jelly as we were chicken and rice or one of the other dishes my mother would cook. Lunch was something we did ourselves, without God’s help, I guess. I can’t remember if he was wearing a yarmulke, but I think he was. And when he bowed his head, my mother looked at me and nodded, as if I should do the same, so I did. And when I opened my eyes he was staring at me and eating his sandwich as if I were the crazy one. He knew what he was praying about and I was keeping up appearances.

Beth also took me on a drive that, as I recall, was a dark and scary experience. I believe this other boy was with me in the back seat and she pulled up to a house in Huntington and went in, leaving us there to listen to Carole King sing about it being too late, baby. Blurred, shadowy images come back from that night, and that song. Every time I hear it I think of her.

She moved away, like many do, and found a husband and a new life in Illinois. But health problems caught up with her. Maybe it was the whipped cream. She had a son. Then grandchildren. But after her father died, she moved back to the little house across the street from the church. There was a lot of pain in her life.

I don’t know if she knew she was loved. I don’t know how alone she felt at the end. I only know it’s too late to tell her all these things. It’s too late, Now darlin’. It’s too late.

I write in anonymity. It’s a perk of the desert. Very few people in Tucson know about my radio work or my literary pursuits. That’s okay. It helps me blend in at the Farmer’s Market and Target.

But something happened yesterday that makes me think things are changing.

No, I did not get invited to the Tucson Festival of Books. It’s even better.

Two weeks ago I bought four new tires at a Firestone location 40 minutes away. This is another reason I live in anonymity, I live 40 minutes from civilization.

Yesterday I discovered a bubble on the right front tire. It looked like a mouse had moved in next to the rim and something inside said, not good. I Googled it and sure enough the experts said it needed to be replaced.

I called Firestone and took it in Saturday afternoon, bringing along a manuscript and a couple of notebooks to work on a writing project. Bill and Joey were at the desk and Joey followed me outside to inspect my mouse.

I estimate Joey to be early 30s. He talks fast. Very sharp. He knows a lot about tires, but he also seems aware of people and their needs. Inquisitive. While I was there a woman from the gas station nearby was having trouble with a pump and Joey went outside to help her. He reset a young man’s car radio after a new battery was installed. I’ve heard him on the phone explaining in painful detail about car problems and what could happen if those problems aren’t fixed. Usually he’s talking to me.

“Funny thing happened the other day,” Joey said as we walked to my car. “A guy came in from Indiana to get some work done and he sat down in the waiting area to read a book. And I looked on the back of it and there was a picture of you.”

I smiled and wondered if he was inquisitive enough to remember the title.

“It was called Not In The Heart. I told him, ‘That’s one of my customers!’”

I nodded and smiled. And then he inspected the mouse and ran his hand over it. “Yeah, you need a new tire. We’ll get that done right away.”

I handed him the keys and asked how much an oil change would be. And I’d bought the lifetime alignment, so I had him do all three. Then I headed for a restaurant where I could spread out my material and wrap my head around my manuscript. (The lady in Arby’s had not heard of me.)

When I returned, Bill said, “Joey brought this book over to me and pointed at the picture and said, ‘That’s him. That’s the guy who comes in here.’”

I smiled and nodded.

“So how many books have you written?” Joey said.

I told him and his jaw dropped. Then I gave him the line about how many kids I have and how most writers can’t make enough to feed their families from their writing so they have to do something else as their main job, blah, blah, blah. Writing is like digging a trench or fixing tires, really. It’s just what I do. It’s why I show us during sales.

I told Bill and Joey I would bring them a copy of Not In The Heart. Maybe they’ll start the first Firestone Book Club.