Don't Quote Me

     In the book of Revelation, Chapter 22:18, it says "I testify to everyone who hears the words of the prophecy of this book: if anyone adds to them, God will add to him the plagues which are written in this book;". I think I may be in trouble. In one of the blank pages in the back of my bible, I've added some thoughts and sayings over the years. So, in case I break out in boils or get scorched by the sun, I've posted them here:

• "The Lord rewards faithfulness about fruitfulness" - Billy Graham
• God looks at our methods, not results
• Excuses are often lies packed in the skin of reason
• Excuses are just reasons why you would do it again
• "The ship belongs in the water of the world, but if the water gets in the ship, it sinks" - Dwight L Moody
• If you have faith enough to ask, you have faith enough
• The central struggle of the Christian life is the struggle to keep on believing Jesus
• Glorifying God is not what you do for Him (Law), it's what God has done for you (Grace)
• The beginning of entitlement is the end of grace
• Vision will not be embraced by anyone if it's not embraced by you
• The fear of consequences is no deterrent when the fear of God is gone
• The pillars of trust are competence and character
• "It's amazing what you can accomplish of you don't worry about who gets the credit" - Ronald Reagan
• "God doesn't want you to invite Him into your business, He wants to get you into His" - Brett Johnson
• The Holy Spirit doesn't make me better than you, He makes me better than me
• "Jesus isn't looking for salesmen, He's looking for witnesses" - Travis Osborne
• "We pray that God makes our circumstances better, but God uses our circumstances to make us better" - David Jeremiah
• "Greatness = calculated and constant action that benefits others" - Travis Osborne
• No God, no peace; Know God, know peace
• Far from God? Who moved?

    Now my only dilemma is that the next verse in Revelation says "and if anyone takes away from the words of the book of prophecy, God will take away his part from the tree of life and from the holy city, which are written in this book".  

Now what do I do? 

I'm Not Old, I'm Older

     Getting older (not old) is a good thing, considering the alternative. But getting older is not a good feeling. It's a tutorial of our anatomy as each recently used muscle inflames itself to notoriety. It's a reminder that remembering is.... ah, forgetting what you were going to say. Getting physically older betrays the immature thoughts of our mind or notion that we are still able to unscrew jar lids, lift 50lb bags of dog food without consequence or sleep through the night without interruption. The adage the older I get, the faster I was rings true. Racquetball succumbs to Pickleball. Basketball is replaced by Cornhole, and Golf becomes par for the course. 

    And speaking of courses, when or who teaches us how to get older? Throughout our adolescent years, parents are tasked with teaching the necessities of getting through life, but who teaches the old to get older? How do we keep from being grumpy but gracious? How do we get better and not bitter, selfless and not selfish? How many times have I heard myself and peers say "I don't put up with that anymore"? Why? How do years of walking on this planet entitle us to being impatient and graceless? Who gave us permission to express our unfiltered thoughts via an unbridled tongue?

    Lord help us (me) to be gracious in speech and humble in thought as we age. To remember that our role as parents of adolescents no longer exists. Our assigned task of nurturing, leading, teaching and modeling maturity ended years ago. We had our opportunity the first 18 years of their life and there is no make-up session. May we embrace the freedom from our earlier responsibilities and behave more like cheerleaders, advocates, and encouragers. May our counseling be in response to inquiry, not our unsolicited expression of opinions. The proverb to be slow to speak and quick to listen (James 1:19, Proverbs 18:13) seems especially applicable to us. 

    Though getting older may feel like uncharted waters, rest assured the Captain of life's ship is in control and we've been endowed with the very presence of God in our lives when we place our faith in Him. May we exercise the gift of love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self control throughout the remaining days of what we may think we have. 

God Is Not A Supplement Vitamin

    While reading the book of Chronicles this morning a familiar scenario is played out where a king aligns himself with a neighboring kingdom without first consulting God. But God’s seemingly infinite mercy sends a prophet to warn him of the ill-advised and unholy alliance and requires the king to step out in faith. At that moment God leaves the king with the choice of either going into battle on his own, wholly dependant on his own strength, limited knowledge, strategic aptitude and an army that outnumbers his enemy… or, reduce the size of his army in obedience to God and go into battle in the Lord’s strength. The kings decision will result in saving his life and victory, or die along with his followers (talk about a restless, sleepless night making that decision).

    I noticed that the king was not asked to muster up the largest, strongest and smartest army he could and then ask God to watch his back or fill in any weaknesses. God would hardly be the hero in that scenario. In fact, when are we ever asked to live on our own smarts or strength? Instead, God asks that I wholly lean on Him; to cast ALL my cares on him. Even Jesus modeled this principle when he said, “Apart from the Father, I can do nothing.” To ask God for His help only when my strength runs out is as silly as an elephant and me tied to a log and asking the elephant to pull only when I am no longer able move it.

    I don’t believe God wants me to call on Him only when I’m stuck, drowning or helpless. He’s not a supplement like some energy bar or multi-vitamin. I believe God would rather have me sit on the back of the elephant in awe and wonder of His strength as He performs His mighty works. Of course then there would be the temptation to take the credit for moving the logs, but that’s for another writing.

Lessons On How To BE A Better Brat

I’ve chosen to believe that being called a brat is an endearing term solely used by the female gender and is quite often accompanied by an unrestrained whack to the shoulder. Apparently I was especially endearing to all 5 women managers I reported to at IBM. But the best brat moments were perpetrated against my peers. I’ll let you judge if the endearing name-calling was appropriate.

The Magic Properties of Silicone

It was while working for Likit (pronounced Like-it by the owners and Lick-it by everyone else) Windows, a small manufacturing company in the SF bay area, that I was exposed to silicone. Used to glaze a window to the aluminum frame, the bead of silicone was devoid of color and when cured had considerable elasticity much like a rubber band. A long bead of the material, held vertically by one end, would stretch and retract under its own weight very much like a string of snot hanging from your nose after a violent sneeze. Recognizing these unique properties, this knowledge was forever engrained in my memory until an appropriate application presented itself.

Ten years later, such an opportunity presented itself while working in a cubicle farm. Margaret insisted on coming to work and sharing her sniffing and hacking virus with everyone within a 12 foot radius of her sneeze infested workspace. Since my cubicle was within the sneeze fly zone, it was only a matter of days before my immune system succumbed to the barrage of airborne attacks. Being that retaliation is not part of my nature, I decided instead to teach her a lesson for the sake of my cubicle buddies. Having created a 2 foot spaghetti-like strand of cured silicone the night before, I gathered the gummy mass in my hand and approached Margaret. No sooner did I began to speak when my head reared back, eyes squinted with hands quickly covering my nose and mouth. Upon expelling a loud Ahh Choo and nodding my head forward, I released all but one end of the long bead of silicone. As the clear, mucus-like bead stretched and bounced from my nose, a quick flip of my hand transferred the seemingly snot-like material onto Margaret’s shoulder. At that moment, I would have preferred stunned silence. I mean, we were all professionals working at a fortune 100 company in a San Francisco high rise. The loud screaming and physical gyrations by Margaret were clearly unexpected. Fearing that her peers would dial 911 and report a 51-50, I quickly removed window glazing from her shoulder, to which see responded by an affectionate whack and name calling.

Excuse Me, Mister

Being a slow learner, Margaret returned the next morning with Kleenex in tote. By mid morning I was exhausted of her sniveling, sneezing, coughing and nose blowing, Accompanying my collection of plants such as Boston fern, devil's ivy and dieffenbachia, was a small spray bottle of water used to lightly mist my cubicle oasis. While Margaret was busy speaking and breathing through her mouth to one of her clients, I decided another lesson was due. Strategically pointing the sprayer in the direction of the nasally tones being emitted from her cubicle, a robust sneezing sound was generated from my side of the cubicle partition while simultaneously giving the spray bottle a good squeeze. The resulting fine mist that settled on her desk caught her in mid-sentence while dialoguing with her client. Margaret bolts up from her chair, yelling “OMG!, OMG! I can’t believe I just got sneezed on!.... Oh, I’m so sorry, I’ll have to call you back”.

Open, Says Me

Some years later, and having matured from spreading simulated nose fluids on to my peers, I preyed on the less technical and somewhat gullible young college graduates. First, the set up. New badge readers had recently been installed to replace the previous model that only read  a magnetic strip on everyone’s ID. The new readers looked the same but were able to read the new badges that had an embedded chip. Instead of swiping, you merely needed to wave the badge in proximity of the reader and the door would unlock. Rollout of the new badges started at headquarters and was slowly working its way to the west coast. Since I had recently relocated back to California, my badge was issued out of my previous reporting location back in New York and had the imbedded chip.

On this particular occasion, dear, sweet, young Cory was carrying the day’s lunch run and with hands full was unable to swipe her badge to gain access to the office. Having set down a tray of drinks and numerous bags, Cory swiped her badge just as I approached while she began the delicate juggling of drinks, bags and bowls while holding the door open with her foot. Being in a helpful mood, I relieved her of some of her load… well at least my part of the lunch, while inquiring why she put everything down just to open the door.

“Don’t you know about the new password feature on the readers?” I asked.

“What are you talking about Erich?”

“Here, close the door and let me show you”

Now it just so happens that the badge clipped to my belt was at the same height as the badge reader, but not visible under my untucked shirt. As I strategically stopped next to the reader, i instructed Cory that she only needed to say the password for the month and the door would unlock.

“Nut aaah. You’re just messing with me. What’s the password? Show me.”

While discreetly brushing by the reader I responded,

“Open sesame” which was followed by the familiar click of the unlocking mechanism.

“No way! Go inside and close the door. I want to try it.”

As soon as the door closed, the persistent “Open Sesame”s began as I gathered a small band of her peers to hear Cory uttering pure nonsense behind the locked doors. Though warmly greeting her when she entered after swiping her card, the aforementioned whack and accusations of being a brat ensued.

In Memory of Dad

I was Dad’s favorite son. And though I could have been emotionally and psychologically damaged by a first-time father, I choose to believe he actually did a pretty good job. But Dad wouldn’t dream of taking credit for raising a son he was so obviously proud of. He bathed me, and all he loved with endless prayer… prayer for guidance; prayer for safety; prayer for my spouse even before I married; and later, prayer for our grandchildren. His greatest prayer was that we would all grow to love the Lord with all our heart, soul and mind.

It was pretty tough to get into any real trouble knowing Dad was probably praying for me at the moment of temptation. Although Dad never spanked me, he certainly disciplined me. His piercing eyes of disappointment were all it took to turn me into a repentant puddle of blubbering remorse. And it was always followed by a loving hug and verbal confirmation that he still loved me. As a result of Dad’s sensitivity to the way God had wired me, I can honestly say he left no scars on my life, only blessing.

I had the privilege of walking with Dad through one of the most difficult times in his life. I say privilege because I saw first hand how real and comforting God was in his life. Comprehending only to the extent any 7 year old could, I remembered the deep pain in his eyes as he ushered me into the kitchen and told me he would no longer be living in the same house.

But what transpired in the following years characterized his love and devotion to me. Every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon, Dad would pick me up and take me to his apartment where he would cook up his infamous cabbage with bacon or some other culinary cuisine. Just Dad and me, bachelors eating our meal in front of the TV while watching The 3 Stooges and Hogan’s Heroes.

The weekends were the highlight of the week. Nearly every Saturday was spent exploring the roads and lakes of California, gorging ourselves on milkshakes, rye bread and bbq ribs along the way.

My memories of Dad are numerous, and the list continues to grow. I remember;

- His whistle, his harmonica and his inability to catch fish,

- His love of hymns and singing in church cantatas… even if he did make up words as he sang,

- His ability to machine parts to the 10,000th of an inch that would propel the Space Shuttle to outer space, but cutting a 2x4 never came out to the right length,

- How he knew where every road went in CA, because he’d been on every one,

- His love for flying, His love for his kids, his love for his grandchildren and ham,

- His green thumb for growing orchids

- His ability to pick the ugliest cars on the planet… which was probably a contributing factor in falling in love with Brenda, who owned a Rambler when they began dating

I remember him -

Buying my first Bible, bicycle, fishing pole, helicopter ride, and car,

Teaching me to repair my own car, mow a lawn and play chess,

Buying beach front property at Shelter Cove as an “investment”, but actually just an excuse to drive to the remotest beach in the state of California

The importance of always carrying a pocketknife in order to cut a stick of salami,

And his consistent reminder that he loved me.

Chapter 4, verse 13 in the book of Acts sums up his life well...

"Now as they observed the confidence of John and understood that he was a uneducated and untrained man, they were amazed, and began to recognize him as having been with Jesus."

How I Lost My Dad

I imagine every person can remember a time in their childhood when they experienced the gut wrenching fear of losing their parents. Perhaps the separation happened in a clothing store walking through deep canyons of clothes or momentarily hiding in the center of a clothes rack lured in by the imaginary secret hideout. It could have been in a busy crowd at Disneyland where the distractions were so mesmerizing that the hand you reach up to hold, that should have been your parents, was actually that of a complete stranger. The reaction is universally the same. A slow comprehension of what just happened followed by an overwhelming flood of emotion that you are alone rushes through your every limb accompanied by paralyzing fear that the severed relationship will never be restored.


Today, I lost my dad. Not a physical misplacement while hiking through the woods or shopping in a big box hardware store, but a very real loss in the fundamental ability to communicate. His Alzheimers has finally taken its toll and has rendered my Dad speechless and unresponsive... which has left me speechless. No more stories of escaping from concentration camps, near capture by the Germans while traveling on a train, or his dad whisked away by the Russians never to be seen again. But I’ll never forget his reason for etching these stories in my memory. They all pointed to God’s faithfulness and providence. No matter what “life” threw at him, Dad rested in the fact that God was in control and all things would work together for his good. Even recently when feeling agitated and restless, scurrying about in his wheelchair with great determination to get... somewhere, the mere mention of the Bible or Christ completely changed his demeanor and seemingly a blanket of peace would envelop him.
I don’t believe Dad has long on this earth, especially since he’s virtually stopped eating, but the sweet memories of him will last long past his presence.

Roger Flies Home on July 23, 2011

The good man brings good things out of the good stored up in his heart, .... For out of the overflow of his heart his mouth speaks - Matt. 6:45

Roger had a BIG heart. And Roger loved to talk. But unlike many of us who like talking about ourselves, the overflow of Roger’s heart caused him to speak of the God he loved and served and about those God placed in his life. Rarely did his speech start with the dreaded “I”. Rather, his conversations consistently spoke of others. “How’s work going Erich? How’s the ministry? How are Jessica and Bryan? How about Valerie and Page? How is Pam doing? You have such great kids." Even if a sentence started with “I”, it would be in reference to a memory he had of someone else or an event. “I remember when you...”

Of all his kids (because that’s how he made his kid's spouses feel, like one of his kids), I was the lone recipient of being questioned about one of our favorite past times... “Have you been flying lately?”

One flight we experienced together was of special significance. It would be his last flight as pilot-in-command (PIC). It was a typical severe clear California summer day in the year 2000. We departed Columbia Airport (O22) for a quick hop to Pine Mountain Lake (E45) and back. On the way we flew to Twain Harte and circled the Comfort Cabin, barely visible through the tall pines. After completing the exercise of steep turns, we broke off toward Columbia and Roger began announcing our intentions as we neared the airport. For the 98% of you non-pilots, the world of flying has standard phraseology when communicating with the tower, or in the case of the non-towered Columbia, to advise other aircraft around the airport of our position. The normal advisory would go something like:

“Columbia traffic, Cesnna Skyhawk 5 miles south at four thousand, inbound, Columbia traffic ”

Roger’s overflowing heart could hardly allow him to state such a succinct advisory. Instead, Roger keys the mic and announces:
“Columbia airport, we’re in a rented Skyhawk and just got done flying circles over our cabin in Twain Harte and are on our way back to Columbia”

Entering the traffic pattern at Columbia, the announcement would normally be:

Columbia traffic, Cessna Skyhawk entering the down wind for right traffic,  runway one-seven, Columbia traffic”

Roger’s broadcast:

“Columbia, we’re in a Cessna over the lake and heading for runway 17. The weather is beautiful today. We’re going to cut the traffic pattern a little short”.


And that we did. Instead of flying the conventional rectangular pattern and announcing every leg (downwind, base and final), Roger sharply banks the plane the right in a loop “pattern” and firmly plants the wheels on the runway, and we roll down the runway. And roll. And roll. No sensation of braking, just rolling. Suddenly a 4,670 foot runway doesn’t seem so long anymore when Roger asks “would you like to take over and stop the airplane?”

Now it may come as a surprise to you, but I actually refrained from making any sarcastic remarks like “oh heck no Roger, I’ve always wanted to wrap a prop into a cyclone fence to see if it will cut through and then plummet 500 feet off the edge of this plateau”. Instead, my feet reacted before my mouth and jumped on the brake pedals.

And so ended Roger’s last flight as pilot. His neuropathy hindered his ability to feel his feet and press down on the upper portion of the rudder controls to activate the brakes. Though his days of an octogenarian pilot had ended, his love for flying never did. And now he can fly without an airplane.