"Then Herod called the Magi secretly and found out from them the exact time the star had appeared. He sent them to Bethlehem and said, “Go and search carefully for the child. As soon as you find him, report to me, so that I too may go and worship him.” After they had heard the king, they went on their way, and the star they had seen when it rose went ahead of them until it stopped over the place where the child was.  When they saw the star, they were overjoyed." (Matthew 2:7-10)



Before there was "OnStar, there was God's Star.  I am a driver for Uber and Lyft.  Uber and Lyft use more than cars to transport people.  In Nashville, one can rent a Lyft scooter.  In Monaco, there are Uber helicopters.  In this story, magi traveled by Uber camel from Persia all the way to Bethlehem.  The term "magi" is one of the most mistranslated terms in the Christmas story.  The term is sometimes rendered "wise men" We don't even know if they were men.   A famous Christmas Carol calls them "three kings"  We actually don't know how many there were and there is no indication that they were kings.  Magi, however, was the term for Zoroastrian priests from Persia or modern day Iran.  These magi were fortune tellers who looked to the sky  to read the future and provide daily horoscopes.  Archaeological  finds from this period tell us that Persians were expecting a Savior to come from the west whose reign would be marked by justice, righteousness, peace, and joy. 

Meanwhile, Israel was experiencing "radio silence" from God.  The last prophetic word had come 400 years earlier.  The coming of a Messiah was a story few paid attention to anymore with the exception of a few old geezers like Simeon and Anna who waited expectantly for the Messiah and some mangy shepherds who reported an angel sighting and an announcement of baby born in Bethlehem.   

As these astrologers from Iran gazed into the night sky, suddenly, a most unusual star appeared over Bethlehem and these Zoroastrian magi followed the star.  When I look at the stars at night, they are so distant I cannot distinguish which state or city any give star hovers over.  Yet, this star led the magi to the very house where Jesus was.  God's star led them with pinpoint precision.  It must have shown down like a spotlight or emitted laser beams to make clear this unmistakeable address.  

As a rideshare driver I rely on GPS.  It's amazing how accurate it is.  I can drive to a house on a rainy dark night and pull into somebody's driveway without being able to see the numbers on their house.  Somehow, God's star distinguished this house from all others.  

When I drive for work I turn my  Uber or Lyft app on when I am ready to receive rides.    I  get a "ping" when a rider that I am closest to requests a ride.  In this ancient story, Persian seekers were looking to the sky when they got a ping.  These magi got on their Uber camels and followed God's GPS to the antidote to their  fears and the fulfillment of their lifelong hopes.  The "hopes and fears of all the years"  led them to an unlikely family in a tiny town in Judea.    

I have now given over 5000 rides as a rideshare driver. I don't remember most of them.  Some rides, however, are Divine appointments.  I know what it is like to experience a ping from God's GPS.  Following are a few short stories. The names  of my Persian riders have been changed because we live in a dangerous world not unlike the times of Jesus.  

 Ping! I remember the exact spot where Sophi stood when I picked her up on Cumberland Avenue on the campus of the University of Tennessee.  She was attractive, small of stature with brown hair and olive skin with glasses that made her look  studious.

"Where are you from?  I asked, sometime early in the ride.  She lowered her large brown eyes, "I am from Iran."  That's when I felt an internal ping.  This was just after the 2016 elections and US/Iranian relations were at an all time low.  I wondered how this graduate student felt being driven by an XL American man.  I smiled big and turned my head so she could see my face from the back seat.  I'm so glad you are in our country.  She smiled and relaxed and we had a wonderful conversation about Iranian culture and what it was like to be an Iranian in our culture.  I drove her all the way to west Knoxville where she was going to meet with her Iranian family and friends  for a party of fellow Iranians.  Bookmark this story.  

Fast forward six months.  I was driving in North Knoxville when I got a ping to go to a medical clinic.  The ladies I picked up looked tired, happy, and disoriented.  They were also olive skinned and their English was quite broken.  Let's call them Aleah and Lila.  Lila spoke better English and explained that they had just arrived from Iran.  The medical clinic is always the mandatory first stop.   I was their first American contact.  They tried to ask me questions and I tried to understand.  I asked if they were Muslim and they gave me the international sign of "so so"  I asked where their hijabs were.  They told me they took them off on the plane and were looking for a new life.  I told them I was a pastor.  They didn't understand the word.  I thought for a moment.  "I am like a Christian Imam"  They smiled with recognition.  We like Christians.  I invited them to church and they came.  I helped them settle into their apartment and they had me over to their apartment with no furniture and served my wife and I a beautiful meal on their floor.  

Shortly after their arrival to the US, our government enacted a travel ban on all Iranian citizens which trapped these ladies in our country, separated from husbands and other family members.  They are extremely hard working.  Both of these ladies worked two jobs and have since moved into beautiful apartments with beautiful furnishings to match their beautiful spirits.  

God's GPS brought us together.  They were baptized and are an active part of our church today.  We have become dear friends.  Some of their Iranian family was already living in Knoxville.  We were invited to a family gathering in Knoxville to meet them.  I couldn't believe it.  My GPS took me to the same house I had driven to many months earlier to deliver Sophi to her family party.  Sure enough,  Sophi was at the gathering and I discovered that she is a sister to Lila.  The beautiful house was owned by their other sister Emerald who is a professor at the University of Tennessee.   Her and her husband Imon are a wonderful Muslim couple with two beautiful children.  

We are all friends now.  They have all been to my church.  I come to their homes quite frequently. They have been in mine.  They have made me an honorary Persian.  My Persian friends are quick to point out that the cruel leaders of their country are not true Persians but are people who came from the outside to hijack their country.  Persians, are a very proud people with a rich heritage of kindness and excellence.  

I also met another Persian young man named Ali while driving.  He was standing outside of Stokely Hall on campus. I drove him home to his apartment near my church.  He was not a Muslim. I would describe him as an agnostic "seeker."  He told me that when he was supposed to be doing his prayers, in Iran, he was instead practicing his Michael Jackson dance moves.  I invited him to experience  American culture by visiting my church.  He did and we are dear friends to this day.  

Sophi,  Emerald, and Lila's mother is still in Iran.  I have only met her on Facetime.  She was a Shiite which means they believe in Jesus and even in  the resurrection.   They are not far from the Bethlehem story.  This Shiite mother told me that God led her daughters to my car that day.  She asked me to pray for her son who was having social problems in Iran.  We did and miraculously, her son has returned home and returned to his senses.  This mother in Iran has completely followed Jesus and is waiting for the ban to end so she can come to the US and I can baptize her.  

Not everyone in this story is a Christian, some are seekers, some are Muslim, but all of us are friends.  My life is so much richer because I know them.  Our conversations continue and my heart pings every time I am with them.  I receive more from them than I have ever given.  

God's GPS, however, doesn't just work with Iranians.  Time does not allow me to tell you of Emma from Colorado, but I know where she was standing when I picked her up.  She is now part of our church.  Time does not allow to tell you about Chuming from China who literally told me on a ride,  "I want to be a Christian, how can I be a Christian?"  She was baptized and has since moved to Vegas for work, but we stay in touch.  If I had time I would tell you about Monika, with seven kids who lives less than two miles from our church.  I baptized two of those kids last week.  We met because of God's GPS.  

So after four hundred years of silence, a ping went out from Bethlehem.  Matthew is careful to point out that this is not just a Jewish story.  Zoroastrian priests came to Bethlehem and laid down their gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh-gifts fit for a king.    Jesus did not come to start a new religion but to save the world.  He is more than the Jewish messiah, He is the king of the world. 

Most of my drives are just drives to get people from A to B.  However, if my heart is open I often hear much more going on with my riders that just the need for a ride to work.  We all are on a journey to find the answer to all our hopes and fears.  I am not  the hero of these stories.   I'm only the camel transporting people to Jesus-the true star of Bethlehem.  

I can't ell you how blessed I am to be able to drive people from all over the world on one small part of their life journey.  I get to transport people who were created in the very image of God.  I feel both the privilege and the responsibility of this.  Sometimes I even tell my riders, "it was an honor to be your driver today."  Our life coordinates connected because of God's GPS.  

After leaving Bethlehem, the magi were warned in a dream not to go back the way they came.  I think this is true of all of us who have followed God's GPS.  You won't go home they way you came, once you have encountered Jesus.  Merry Christmas!

The familiar ping of the Uber app interrupted the rhythm of my morning.  Often when I am close to finishing a task at the church I will turn on my app and leave the church when I get a call.  Today as I readied to leave the office Uber notified me that  someone nearby needed a ride.  I rushed to my car and looked at my phone to ascertain my destination and learn the name of my rider.  I did a double take when saw the message at the bottom of my screen- "Picking Up Jesus"  It took a second to register that this was a common Hispanic name.   I was struck by the irony so much that I took a screen shot of my phone.  

Jesus happened to be less than a mile from my church.  I picked him up and had the most pleasant conversation with him.  He told me it was his first ever Uber ride  I told him it was the first time I had picked up Jesus.  And not only was his name Jesus; he was also a carpenter! Our conversation moved from carpentry to Holy Week and our mutual love for the other Jesus.  At the end of the ride, I got Jesus' business card because I may need him to do some construction work for me.  

As I reflected on the ride I was reminded that I'm always "picking up Jesus"  Sometimes we get so focused on what's wrong with the world and the people in it, that we forget that the Bible teaches that we are all stamped with the image of God. Theologians call that bad or the sin within us "depravity". And while its true that we all have that we all have sins that separate us from God, beneath the depravity in all of us there is a spark of Jesus. I am intrigued by the thought that every time I drive my Uber I am giving rides to people with that God image inside of them. I am "picking up Jesus"!  

I'm also fascinated by the thought that ride sharing works on algorithm sent out from an anonymous computer program. Technically it's total chance which riders I pick up. But I frequently leave a ride shaking my head thinking that this ride was more than a coincidence.  I have come to call these "chance" encounters "algorithms of grace". 

Every day as the algorithms direct me to new people I have an opportunity to serve, learn from, listen to, and yes even love my riders.  On Maundy Thursday, the night that Jesus gave us a new command to love one another,  I picked up Jesus.  Thank  you Jesus.  

Luke 4:22  “All spoke well of him and were amazed at the gracious words that came from his lips. “Isn’t this Joseph’s son?” they asked.”
     I had just preached my first sermon.  I was eighteen years old.  I began the sermon in Genesis and ended in Revelations in the matter of ten minutes.  It wasn’t very good.  Aunts and grandmother’s however were pinching my cheeks lying that it was the best sermon they ever heard. People were speaking well of me.  And then it happened.  One of my peers was waiting.  “Don’t let it go to your head,” they said.  The message was clear.  “We know you.”  “You’re the guy we played football with.” 
The way I interpreted those words were, “God will never say anything special to us through you.  You are just Phil.  We know everything there is to know about you and its not that impressive.  It's the phenomena of discounting the familiar. 
 Jesus understood this dynamic so well that he eventually said,  “Beware when all speak well of you.” 
The reason that people were speaking well of Jesus was because he was “on fire!”  After spending forty days in the desert being tempted by the devil, Jesus came out victorious and as Luke says “full of the Holy Spirit” 
His first order of business was to go to the temple in Nazareth and get up in front of the congregants and open the scroll to Isaiah six and proclaim those iconic words. 
“The Spirit of the Lord is on me,
    because he has anointed me
    to proclaim good news to the poor.
He has sent me to proclaim freedom for the prisoners
    and recovery of sight for the blind,
to set the oppressed free,
    to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.”
 
He then rolled the scroll back up and set it down.  He dropped the mike.  If that wasn’t enough, while everyone stared at him he proclaimed…”“Today this scripture is fulfilled in your hearing.” 
 
 
But then he goes to his hometown and the momentum is slowed.  “isn’t this (Average Joe’s) son?  Isn’t this the guy I played football with? 
 
I don’t know how you imagine Jesus in school as a boy, but without admitting it, I think we assume Jesus stayed in from recess, so he could study the scripture and that there was a halo around his head and when the lights turned off he glowed. 
 
This, however, would be inaccurate.  If our theology of Jesus is correct, in addition to being all God he was ALL BOY. 
 
They danger of this passage is that we think Isaiah’s quote is meant for Jesus alone. With our 21st century Christian sensibilities, this is the point where we say,  “Yay Jesus!  Preach to the poor, open blind eyes, set the oppressed free and proclaim the Lord’s favor.  
 Jesus, however, was quoting a passage that Isaiah owned for himself.  More to my point, the Isaiah passage was meant for all of his followers as well.  We are to say,  “The Spirit of the Lord is upon me…”  We don’t dare, however, because we are too familiar with one another.  We have played football with each other. 
 
C. S. Lewis suggests, however, that if we are to recognize the “holiness” in one another we are going to have to take seriously the people we played football with.  In The Weight of Glory Lewis writes…
 
 “There are no ordinary people. You have never talked to a mere mortal. Nations, cultures, arts, civilization—these are mortal, and their life is to ours as the life of a gnat.
But it is immortals whom we joke with, work with, marry, snub, and exploit—immortal horrors or everlasting splendors. This does not mean that we are to be perpetually solemn.
We must play.
But our merriment must be of that kind (and it is, in fact, the merriest kind) which exists between people who have, from the outset, taken each other seriously—no flippancy, no superiority, no presumption.
And our charity must be real and costly love, with deep feeling for the sins in spite of which we love the sinner—no mere tolerance or indulgence which parodies love as flippancy parodies merriment.
Next to the Blessed Sacrament itself, your neighbor is the holiest object presented to your senses.”
I don’t know about you, but I want to help set the oppressed free.  I want to help our blind society to receive back its sight and I want to proclaim the good news that mercy triumphs over judgement to world in need of good news.  

​On this day of national mourning for President H. W. Bush, my mind goes back to some life changing day in August 1988.  

The unobstructed sun baked our oiled skin as we rowed a borrowed boat across a friend of a friend's borrowed pond.  These were luxuries we couldn’t have afforded save for the kindness of people who let us live like the other half of society that day.  Melanie and I were still newlyweds.  To be precise it was the first anniversary of our wedding.  I was just finishing a two year stint as a teacher in an underfunded Christian school on a pauper's salary.   We were happy and didn’t know we were poor.  Our apartment in Columbia had been furnished by Honest Charlie’s used furniture.  Charlie took a liking to me and marked down already bargain basement prices to accommodate our budget.  We furnished our entire place for around $250.00 We had access to the Food Bank and I must say, we ate the best government cheese and had the best choice of sugary cereals.  It’s no wonder the poor often battle with their weight.  We were leaving this life behind, however, to become seminary students.  For the next three years we would become even poorer.  This time period reminds me of my Grandfather Bird’s comment about his family when he said, “We were dirt poor, and then the depression hit.” 
 
Today, however, I was splurging.  I wanted to impress my bride with a worthy Anniversary.  The private pond outing was just the beginning of our day. The farm pond was halfway between Columbia Missouri where we lived and our final anniversary destination of St. Louis.  After thoroughly luxuriating in the sun and water, we excitedly drove the one remaining hour to Westport Plaza where St. Louis’s wealthier crowd played.  We were not staying in the Red Roof Inn this time.  Melanie had found a thirty-five dollar deal to the Ramada Inn.  We had not stayed in places fancy enough to go above the second floor. Riding the elevator to our lofty hotel room was a sumptuous  deviation from our basement apartment lifestyle.   
 
I couldn’t wait for the dinner surprise.  I had heard advertisements for a famous steakhouse owned by two former St. Louis Cardinal football players-Dan Dierdorf and Jim Hart.  For you younger folks, consult the history books.  The Cardinals were also a St. Louis football team.  Dierdorf and Hart’s were known for their big steaks.  I had been saving for this night. 
 
We dressed up,  for the special occasion as people did in the 1980's.  I donned my best suit and tie and Melanie looked stunning in her dress, curly brown hair and heels.  The restaurant was so close we walked to it. 

The lights were dim and the atmosphere smelled of old money.  The waiter asked what we wanted to drink. When we said, “water”, he looked a little perturbed.  It was more than the expense of the wine, neither of us drank. 
 
Instead of bringing a menu, the waiter brought out a tray of raw and oversized steaks.  He explained the various cuts of meat before showing us the menu.  When I looked at the menu, my heart sank.  I didn’t carry a credit card at the time and I didn’t have enough cash for two steaks.  I had underestimated their prices.  I tried to hide my growing discomfort from Melanie, but she sensed it.  “Why don’t we split a steak,” she suggested.  “Good idea”, I said.  “Did you see the size of those steaks?” 
 
The waiter came back to our table and I said that we would like to split a prime rib.  He looked at me with an expression that barely hid his disgust.  “There will be a seven-dollar splitting charge,” he said. 
 
“Give us a moment,” I pleaded.  I suddenly felt poor, unworthy, and embarrassed.  I glanced at Melanie and asked, “Do you mind if we leave?”  She took my hand, nodded her head toward the door and we escaped quickly without making eye contact with anyone.  I was humiliated.  I didn’t want to go anywhere else.  We retreated to the hotel to regroup.   By then, I was exhausted.  I had a great education and low income. It's the perfect combination for wounded pride.   
 
It had been a long day and I asked Melanie if she minded me taking a nap and then we would order up room service.  Room service had steaks I could afford.  Melanie was her ever positive self.  I fell asleep and Melanie went to work.  She found an extra bed sheet and made a tablecloth out of it.  Melanie knew how to make flowers out of tissue and the Kleenex box became her source material to the most beautiful bouquet of paper flowers.  Somewhere she found a candle and when I woke up, steak was being served in our hotel room on a bed sheet tablecloth on the hotel room table.  In our more than three decades of marriage, this meal is still the most memorable. 
 
The hotel had another luxury we didn’t own-a television.  As we finished dinner, we turned on the television to watch what the whole nation would be watching that night-Ronald Reagan’s farewell speech at the Republican National Convention.  To research this writing, I watched his speech again.  I was shocked when I heard him say these words recounting his first Republican Convention in the year he was elected.   “On the night of July 7, 1980 we left with a mutual pledge to conduct a national crusade to make America great again.”  In this case, he wasn’t recounting promises made, he was reminiscing about promises delivered.  He humbly admitted we still had a ways to go. 
 
Reagan’s speech and the convention that followed bolstered this young man, just getting started in life.  I didn’t feel poor by the end of that evening.  Melanie’s magic and Reagan’s rhetoric completely changed my mood.  George H. W. Bush followed up that speech with an unforgettable speech of his own on August 18.  It was his famous “thousand points of light” speech. 
 
For me, Bush’s speech recalled Abraham’s vision as he looked at the stars and was challenged to “count them if you can.”  It recalled Martin Luther King’s “I Have a Dream” speech that envisioned a brighter and better day. 
 
I didn’t feel excluded from this vision.  I was included.  The thousand points of light suggested that there was room for my “little light” to shine.  It was not a partisan speech, it was expansive and inclusive and appealed for there to be “one America.” 
 
Two years later, I would be commissioned as an officer in the US. Army and George H. W. Bush was my first commander-in-chief.  I am proud to have served under him.  I was stationed at Ft. Campbell Kentucky as a Chaplain Candidate when Marlin Fitzwater delivered President Bush’s message that “the liberation of Kuwait has begun.”  It wasn’t lost on me that the messaging was not about defeating an enemy, it was about freeing a people.   I cried that night as I watched the bombing of Baghdad as CNN’s Bernard Shaw reported from atop the Al-Rashid hotel. 
 
I was grateful that President Bush met his objectives and then ended the war.  I am proud to have served under a president who didn’t do a victory dance on the Berlin Wall. His gracious response made him one of the fathers of the reunification of Germany.   I am grateful for his modesty, humility, humanity and quiet spirituality. 
 
Melanie and I left that August anniversary and entered seminary.  Inspired by Bush’s speech, we volunteered at a homeless mission upon arrival at seminary.  Melanie worked in another mission until she graduated from seminary  with a Master of Social Work.  She shines her light as a counselor and pastor.  I served as a Chaplain in the Army and since then I’ve been a parish pastor.  I dream of a church as diverse as President Bush's vision.   I still believe in President Bush’s vision of a thousand points of light that are as diverse and beautiful as the night sky. 
 
Thank you, President Bush for your service to our country.  Thank you for making me feel included.  America is better because you served.  I mourn your loss and this second lieutenant salutes you one last time. 

Having just returned from a memorable Thanksgiving in the Big Apple I thought I would share a nugget from my wife’s family history, that gave birth to their Pentecostal heritage.  
 
Spring had come in more ways than one to the tiny little flat on 374 Atlantic Avenue in Brooklyn New York.  It was 1912 and Pasia and Peter Strepka were settling in to their new life in America.  They were so new that much of their time was taken up in language school.  Pasia was befriended by a lawyer’s wife who admired how clean her hands were and offered her a job as a maid.  Peter found work in a local restaurant.   These were grateful immigrants.   When their cousin Joe Kawalyk arrived on a ship from the Ukraine and passed the Statue of Liberty, he famously heaved his luggage carrying all his earthly belongings overboard shouting, “I’m beginning a new life!” 
 
Easter was coming and the Strepkas were ready to celebrate the resurrection of Jesus Ukrainian style.  The Easter eggs from that part of the world are stunningly beautiful and Pasia decorated the apartment with these homemade treasures.  Pierogis, which they called “pataha”, and lamb were on the menu.  They scrimped and saved and scraped up enough money to have their first Easter feast in America.  Their Orthodox priest was to come and say the required blessing before they ate the sacred meal. 
 
Candles were lit, the food was ready to be served, and the family gathered with grateful hearts.  Noon came and went without the priest’s arrival.  The food had to be warmed again, but still the priest did not come.  After some time, it became clear that he was not coming. In spite of the embarrassment of eating that meal without the priest’s blessing the family said their own blessing and ate wondering what had happened to their priest. 
 
In their culture it was enough of a slight that Peter was quite angry and confronted the priest the following Sunday.  When asked why he didn’t come, the priest said, “I’m sorry, but your family is behind on their giving, that is why I didn’t come.” 
 
The struggling family was incensed.  They were as generous as their meager earning would allow in spite of living at a poverty level. 
 
This opened their hearts to accepting an invitation to a house church meeting being held by a Polish Pentecostal preacher that cousin Joe had met in language school.  The preacher’s custom was to meet in  Ukrainian homes teaching about the new encounter with God that sweeping the country which some called Pentecost.  Soon the whole family was converted. 
 
Pasia’s daughter Catherine would later marry a Pentecostal man from Ohio named Stanley.  They were in attendance at the founding of a new Pentecostal denomination in 1945 called the United Pentecostal Church.  Stanley Chambers was elected to the second highest position known as the General Secretary because he was the only one at the meeting that knew shorthand.  He would eventually become the General Superintendent of the denomination where he served with integrity and distinction.  Stanley and Catherine gave birth to three daughters and a son.  Their second daughter Judy gave birth to three daughters. Judy’s oldest daughter Melanie is my wife. 
 
This Thanksgiving our family took our first family trip back to New York.  We saw a show on Broadway, froze through the Macy’s Day parade and gawked at the sights on Time Square, Madison Avenue, and Central Park.  On Thanksgiving Day, however, after the parade, Melanie boarded the subway to Brooklyn with our two daughters and stood outside an Apartment complex one 374 Atlantic Avenue and stared up at a third-floor window.  Melanie  gratefully told our girls the story of this epic moment in their family lore. 
 
Maybe our seminaries should focus less on indoctrinating students on the finer points of Calvinism and should instead attempt to immerse their students in the lifestyle of Jesus.  The Strepka’s needed love and welcome when they came to America.  A Polish Pentecostal preacher shared that love with them. 
 
I’ve come to believe that heaven is not a place for the theologically perfect.  Our theology will never be quite right.  The Apostle Paul said that “now we see through a glass darkly.”   Heaven will be filled with those who have received the grace and love of God and who in turn bestow that grace and welcome on others. 
 
The ripples of one man’s generous welcome to Melanie’s family reverberates through time and I am grateful.  

​I guess I should have seen it coming.  It was right under my nose and yet so disguised.  The hints were everywhere.  The fact that her dad could not be reached at his work so my dad was called to drive her mother to the hospital to deliver her.  Did you catch that?  My dad helped deliver the package that my three-year-old mind was oblivious to receive.  This was the first clue.  For now, however, the package was addressed to her parents to be kept, coddled, and cared for until she was delivered to her permanent address.   She was anything but a welcome surprise to me then.  She was only competition for my baby sitter’s attention.  And besides that, she was a girl with cooties! Did you catch that?  Her mom was my baby sitter. 
 
How little did I know the improbable journey this package would make before arriving at my doorstep.  First, her parents moved to New York, then my parents moved to Illinois when I was seven.  I was in close proximity to my surprise for only ten months and I honestly don’t even remember it.  This is not what little boys focus on.  I was distracted by more important things.  There were imaginary wars to fight with Minnesota snowballs, homes to build out of cardboard boxes and yes, eventually girls my age to crush on.    
 
But we left all of that for Illinois.  Later I learned that my destined package moved from New York, to Georgia, to Tennessee, and even spent a year in London England before landing in Missouri.  I grew, made friends, and got an education without a clue that the course of my life would shift as the result of a cold 1967 October day in St. Paul Minnesota. 
 
During my growing years, I saw the package a few times.  Our parents were friends.  She, however, was just a little girl to me.  Three years younger is another category of being when one is a child. 
 
And then it happened.  Unsuspecting, I came home from Wheaton College for Christmas break and my pastor dad scheduled a guest speaker for New Year’s.  The speaker was the man I earlier spoke about who was working when his baby was delivered.  The speaker brought his family.  He invited his eldest daughter onto the stage to do a puppet show for the children.  I don’t remember anything about the puppet.  I got short of breath.  My heart raced.  I saw a young woman in a red plaid jumper wearing a Parisienne cap with curly brown hair and magical eyes.  Suddenly, our three year difference didn’t matter. 
 
Two years later, her father walked her down a church aisle and delivered her to me as I waited impatiently to receive this package all wrapped in pure white because she had been kept safely and solely for me.  This was holy ground. 
 
Today is her birthday, October 24.  We have been together for thirty one years.  She is still stunningly beautiful and more importantly radiantly pure.  Melanie Jean Bentley now Nordstrom was my October surprise. 
 
Loving wife, nurturing mother, and impeccable character are inadequate words to describe her to you.  Those who know her understand that I am not exaggerating.  She is simply God’s greatest gift to me. 
 
Today, Melanie , we will give you tokens of our appreciation far too inadequate to express what you mean to us, but YOU Melanie are and always will be the GIFT.  

​“There was a man sent from God whose name was John.” (John 1:6)  Its pithy isn’t it?  It’s as if the Apostle John was given an assignment..."Sum up the life of John the Baptist in one sentence."  Let’s see.  I could talk about his humility.  I could talk about his courage.  I could talk about his complete willingness to decrease while his cousin Jesus increased.  One sentence?  Here goes.  There was a man sent from God whose name was John. 
 
Today is my dad, John Nordstrom’s, birthday.  I don’t even like to think of some future day when he will no longer be physically with us, but I know what I hope is on his tombstone.  John 1:6 is a fitting summary of my dad’s life. 
 
He turns 78 years old today.  Did I just see a pig fly by?  That is the likelihood of my dad’s lifespan.  He should have died in his early thirties.  His health completely failed; his kidneys both died.  This happened to coincide with the year he was planting a church in Northern Illinois.  I remember dad sitting down to preach.  Miraculously, he received a matching kidney from his mom until it failed some fifteen years later.  Even more unlikely, he cheated death again and received a kidney from his brother, which is functioning perfectly over thirty years later.  In more recently years, he beat prostate cancer making his longevity even more unlikely.  I frankly grew up with the feeling that I needed to be grateful for every year with my dad.  I assumed his life would be much shorter.  The words his doctor told him early in his diagnosis became a guiding principle for our family-“Give your children memories.” 
 
I cannot and will not ever forget his voice.  The quality of his voice alone is a national treasure.  Our family is a musical family and my dad is hands down the best singer of us all.  At the insistence of his choir director in college, he made an album called “Down From His Glory.”  I can sing every lyric of those songs from wearing that record out.  He has a classical voice with tones that reach down past his vocal chords and into his soul.  He must have sung the Lord’s Prayer at hundreds of wedding and funerals. 
 
But then there is his preaching voice.  My father’s preaching shaped my life.  I recall a message he preached at my niece’s baby dedication encouraging people to “Be Faithful Over a Few Things”  He spoke about loving God and loving your family and keeping it down to just the most important things.  I’ll never forget him preaching  a sermon called “A Cloud About the Size of a Man’s Hand”  It was a message on hope when all seems hopeless.  He preached a message one time called “My Son, My Son.”  It was about David’s heart cry for his son Absalom.  I, however, heard his voice crying out for me to walk in God’s ways. 
 
I hear his voice every day.  Even on days we do not speak I hear him.  It’s what Isaiah talked about when he said, “Whether you turn to the right or to the left, your ears will hear a voice behind you, saying, "This is the way; walk in it." (Isaiah 30:21)
 
His voice encourages, warns, loves, guides, and comforts me.  Like John the Baptist, my dad is extremely humble.  He’s somewhat shy, but when it comes to caring, he is the best pastor I know. 
 
These may sound like the words of a doting son, but I assure you that hundreds of people can attest to these words.  Dad is loved my so many and his influence continues to spread.  My mother Phyllis of course was the rock of our family always and especially during dad’s lean times.  She sold real estate, World Book Encyclopedias and was the business manager of a car dealership to keep our family afloat. 
 
Dad, I’m honored to be your son.  The older you get, the more encouraging you get.  Thanks for being such a tender and strong voice in the sound track of my life. 
 
There is so much more I could say.  I could talk about alcoholics he provided shelter to in our home while they were recovering.  I could tell about his love for people of every race.  I would love to tell you of the ten years that he and I got to pastor together in Southern Illinois.   He deserves his own book.  However,  if I had only one sentence I suppose I would echo the eleven words of the beloved Apostle,  “There was a man sent from God, whose name was John.” Happy birthday dad. 
 
Your son,
 
Philip
 

“There was a man sent from God whose name was John.” (John 1:6)  Its pithy isn’t it.  It’s like the Apostle John was given an assignment-sum up the life of John the Baptist in one sentence.  Let’s see.  I could talk about his humility.  I could talk about his courage.  I could talk about his complete willingness to decrees while his cousin Jesus increased.  One sentence?  Here goes.  There was a man sent from God whose name was John. 
 
Today is my dad, John Nordstrom’s, birthday.  I don’t even like to think of some future day when he will no longer be physically with us, but I know what I hope is on his tombstone.  John 1:6 is a fitting summary of my dad’s life. 
 
He turns 78 years old today.  Did I just see a pig fly by?  That is the likelihood of my dad’s lifespan.  He should have died in his early thirties.  His health completely failed; his kidneys both died.  This happened to coincide with the year he was planting a church in Northern Illinois.  I remember dad sitting down to preach.  Miraculously, he received a matching kidney from his mom until it failed some fifteen years later.  Even more unlikely, he cheated death again and received a kidney from his brother, which is functioning perfectly over thirty years later.  In more recently years, he beat prostate cancer making his longevity even more unlikely.  I frankly grew up with the feeling that I needed to be grateful for every year with my dad.  I assumed his life would be much shorter.  The words his doctor told him early in his diagnosis became a guiding principle for our family-“Give your children memories.” 
 
I cannot and will not ever forget his voice.  The quality of his voice alone is a national treasure.  Our family is a musical family and my dad is hands down the best singer of us all.  At the insistence of his choir director in college, he made an album called “Down From His Glory.”  I can sing every lyric of those songs from wearing that record out.  He has a classical voice with tones that reach down past his vocal chords and into his soul.  He must have sung the Lord’s Prayer at hundreds of wedding and funerals. 
 
But then there is his preaching voice.  My father’s preaching shaped my life.  I recall a message he preached at my niece’s baby dedication encouraging people to “Be Faithful Over a Few Things”  He spoke about loving God and loving your family and keeping it down to just the most important things.  I’ll never forget him preaching  a sermon called “A Cloud About the Size of a Man’s Hand”  It was a message on hope when all seems hopeless.  He preached a message one time called “My Son, My Son.”  It was about David’s heart cry for his son Absalom.  I, however, heard his voice crying out for me to walk in God’s ways. 
 
I hear his voice every day.  Even on days we do not speak I hear him.  It’s what Isaiah talked about when he said, “Whether you turn to the right or to the left, your ears will hear a voice behind you, saying, "This is the way; walk in it." (Isaiah 30:21)
 
His voice encourages, warns, loves, guides, and comforts me.  Like John the Baptist, my dad is extremely humble.  He’s somewhat shy, but when it comes to caring, he is the best pastor I know. 
 
These may sound like the words of a doting son, but I assure you that hundreds of people can attest to these words.  Dad is loved my so many and his influence continues to spread.  My mother Phyllis of course was the rock of our family always and especially during dad’s lean times.  She sold real estate, World Book Encyclopedias and was the business manager of a car dealership to keep our family afloat. 
 
Dad, I’m honored to be your son.  The older you get, the more encouraging you get.  Thanks for being such a tender and strong voice in the sound track of my life. 
 
There is so much more I could say.  I could talk about alcoholics he provided shelter to in our home while they were recovering.  I could tell about his love for people of every race.  I could tell you that the church he planted just celebrated 47 years and is being led by my older brother and his namesake-John.  I could talk bout pastoring with him for a decade in Southern Illinois or fun family vacations.   He deserves his own book.  However,  if I had only one sentence I suppose I would echo the eleven words of the beloved Apostle,  “There was a man sent from God, whose name was John.” Happy birthday dad. 
 
Your son,
 
Philip