We love it when we hear those stories in the news about ordinary people who come upon someone in danger and risk their own lives to save them. And then there's the kind of story that came from Mount Everest. A British mountaineer became desperate for oxygen on his descent from that peak that is really a legendary mountain. Ultimately, he collapsed along a well-traveled route to the summit. He was dying. And more than forty climbers are thought to have seen him as he lay dying, and they passed him by. He died there of oxygen deficiency. He did not have to die.
Recently, a friend of mine had a ringside seat on a family of birds. They actually decided to nest under the roof on the porch. The fun part was watching the birth and development of those baby birds. My friend actually got to see them hatching out and then settling down into their nest. They all fit very nicely in there - at first. See, Mama kept filling their open mouths with more and more food, and the little birdies didn't stay little! They grew and the nest seemed to shrink. As it got more and more crowded, each baby did more and more wiggling around to kind of keep his position in the nest. Then they feathered out and they forgot about all of them sitting in the nest ever again! They began to perch on the edges of the nest until they were pushed off the edge by their siblings in a battle for whatever food Mama brought. One by one, as crowding pushed those little birds to the edge - and then over the edge - they were forced to either fly or die. They decided to fly. The last nester stayed in the nest for actually another full week, being fed as an only child by Mama Bird. Finally, Mama must have gotten disgusted with her nest-addicted child. She quit feeding him. First, there was a lot of squawking and fussing, and then even he abandoned the nest to finally touch the sky.
I had 18 hours in the city of Rome. That's how long it was between my flight connections to Africa. I decided not to waste that time sleeping in the airport when I could be seeing one of the world's great cities. And, my missionary friend, Dave, was kind enough to be my chauffeur and guide. With his help, I got a whirlwind tour that included the Coliseum, the Sistine Chapel, and some beautiful piazzas. But the highlight of my day in Rome was my visit to the Catacombs, the ancient caverns that wind beneath the streets of Rome. Dave's been there many times so he said he'd wait while I went in. Here were the caverns where some of the first Christians hid from the Roman soldiers who would take them to their execution for believing in Christ. Here they carved in the walls the ancient symbols of their faith - like the cross and the sign of the fish. Those symbols are still there as silent testimony to their faithfulness. And here in the walls, they buried countless loved ones who'd been torn to pieces by the lions in the Coliseum all because they would not renounce Christ for Caesar. As I emerged from those Catacombs, Dave said, "Well, what did you think?" All I could say was, "Our faith is very, very expensive."
My fascination started at a historic old life-saving station on the Outer Banks of North Carolina. It was there I learned about the heroism of the crews who once manned those life-saving stations all along the maritime Atlantic coast. Their heroism actually gave birth to what we know today as the United States Coast Guard. Their motto says it all: "So others may live." Some of that modern-day heroism was portrayed in a recent movie called "The Guardian." It's a story about that elite group of 280 men and women known as rescue swimmers - the first responders who jump from choppers into violent seas to rescue people who would otherwise die there. Now in the movie, a veteran rescuer shows a film of a burning ship from which he helped to rescue some desperate crewmen. He frames the essence of their mission in these sobering words: "They're looking for a miracle to save them. You have to find a way to be that miracle."
Each season in the U.S. seems to bring its beauty and its unique dangers. In the spring, think tornado, for example. In the summer and fall, some of us know what the word hurricane is all about. In the mountains in winter, it's important to be aware that with that season's snowy beauty may also come the danger of deadly avalanches. Every winter, we hear about some people who lose their lives as massive chunks of snow suddenly break loose and roar down the mountain. But every once in a while, we hear about lives saved. A few years ago, the rescuers were there not long after an avalanche, and they immediately started digging for survivors. In minutes, they pulled out one skier who was not only grateful to be saved, but in remarkably good shape for what he had been through. And the news reported that after that man was rescued, he didn't just head for a warm place to recover. He joined the rescuers, working side by side with them to save other lives. And they did!
My Dad worked to make the money for our family, so my Dad decided where we went on vacation - fishing. Now some people would consider that a dream vacation, but the high-energy, ten-year-old me didn't think so. After just a little while, I was complaining I was bored, but of course we kept fishing. Did I mention that my Dad made the money? Actually, we did have a good catch there and they were good eating. Catching them was fun. Eating them was fun. In between, there was this one step that was less fun - cleaning them. But for that fish to realize its culinary destiny, it had to be cleaned.
It was one of those unexpected phone calls that leaves you stunned. Our friend Curt, one of the most experienced private pilots we know, had crashed two hours earlier. He was landing on a grass strip near his home, a strip where he's landed hundreds of times. This time he somehow went into a skid that propelled his plane right into a tree. The plane caught fire and then it exploded and our friend Curt was in heaven. As a beloved leader in our community, his death rocked a lot of people, including me. Because of a collapsed wheel, he had been in a crash 14 months earlier actually; one which should have been fatal but from which he escaped with serious but survivable injuries. I can't tell you how grateful I am that he didn't die then. See, something very important happened between those two crashes.
He's been a phenomenon on the American scene for over 50 years - Dr. Billy Graham. Again and again, decade and decade, more than any other individual, he has appeared on the list of America's most respected men. In the twilight of his long ministry, his crusades took on a great sense of poignant significance. His crusade in Los Angeles near the end of 2004, attracted tens of thousands to the Rose Bowl, and many thousands to begin a personal relationship with the Savior that Billy Graham has proclaimed all these years. His message each night was translated instantaneously into 26 languages, including sign language. Interpreters fed their translation to groups of people sitting in their language groups, hearing the translation via headsets tuned to appropriate low-wave frequencies on their little radios. Billy Graham's Crusades have been translated since 1980, but they said never into so many languages as it was in Los Angeles. The translating coordinator explained that it was important that each person hear the message in his own "heart language."
It was the strangest picnic in American history. It was July 1861, on a hill in Northern Virginia, overlooking a stream called Bull Run. The Southern states had seceded from the Union, they'd attacked a Union fort in April, and now what the North called "the rebel army" was headed for Washington, D.C. Most people in the capitol thought the Union Army would mop up these Southern forces in a matter of weeks, and they wanted to see it happen as the Northern troops moved to engage the Confederates at Bull Run. They came from church in their Sunday best, the ladies and gentlemen of Washington arriving at the hill overlooking Bull Run in their carriages. They laid out their tablecloths, commenced their picnic, and started passing the fried chicken. Down below, the men in blue and the men in gray mingled their blood in the waters of Bull Run.
Our oldest son had just graduated from a wonderful Christian college. Most of his good friends were headed for careers in business or the professions - which can be great places to serve God. But his calling was to go as a missionary to an Indian reservation among a people listed by some world prayer people as one of the most unreached people groups in North America. We knew it wasn't going to be easy. In fact, his first place to sleep at night was just a little storeroom, where he slept on a table so he wouldn't be a snack for the critters on the floor. Now, he was there pretty much on his own, and he was just starting to try to break down some walls and meet some of the tribal young people there. He'd been there a couple of weeks when he called us one morning at sunrise his time. He had driven about eight miles to find a phone to call from. It was the kind of call that a parent doesn't forget. He said, "Mom, Dad, I've got to tell you I've probably never been so lonely in my whole life. In college, I had friends whenever I wanted them, I could go out on a date whenever I wanted to, I could get some money together when I needed to. But here, I have none of those things." To be honest, our parents' hearts were of course aching at this point. And then we were blown away by his unexpected conclusion. He said, "But I've also got to tell you this, "I've never had such peace in my life. I'm where I was born to be, doing what I was born to do!"
