I have found, however, a few truly useful rules for successful living–but [...]]]> Throughout my school years I had to memorize numerous rules I never completely understood. For example, why must I lie down instead of lay down for a nap? But there is a grammatical rule that governs such statements even if I don’t know it.

I have found, however, a few truly useful rules for successful living–but they just don’t seem right. In fact, they appear at first glance to be flat out wrong because they conflict with our “common sense.”

THE FIRST ONE OVER THE FINISH LINE DOES NOT WIN THE PRIZE

In a race, the winner is the one who gets to the finish line first–unless he’s disqualified for an infraction of the rules. Rules are important, and we need to understand them.

Who was the strong man, David or Goliath? Goliath, of course, who stood taller than nine feet and had been a warrior since his youth. His opponent? A mere shepherd boy who couldn’t even wear a man’s armor. But Goliath’s bulk and formidable array of weaponry proved no match for David’s confidence, inspired and backed up by the name of the Lord God of Hosts. If bets had been taken that day, they would all have been on the strong man who lost. “The race is not to the swift, or the battle to the strong.” (Eccl 9:11).

So if the first one over the finish line doesn’t win the prize, then who does? “Blessed is a man who perseveres under trial, for once he has been approved (by God), he will receive the crown of life….” (James 1:12). Eternal prizes go to those who persevere despite obstacles and sidetracks. There are no shortcuts to maturity, and neither strength nor speed decide the winner.

PERFECT CONDITIONS DO NOT YIELD FRUIT

Perfect conditions seldom occur, and “he who watches the wind does not sow, and he who watches the clouds does not reap.” (Eccl 11:10). If we wait until conditions are “just right,” we won’t ever attempt anything.

When the Israelites crossed the Red Sea, they were led by God into the wilderness where they were three days without water. When the water they finally found at Marah was bitter, great complaints arose against Moses. Moses cried out to God, and following His instructions, tossed a certain tree into the water, causing the bitter water to become sweet. (Exodus 15:22-27).

Thus satisfied, sustained and nourished with sweet water, the people moved on. They camped next at Elim, an excellent spot with 12 wells of water and 70 palm trees. What could have been better? But the great work of God was done at the bitter waters; there is no miracle recorded at Elim, where conditions were perfect.

Out of the hard spots in life grow powerful testimonies, towering strength, clear insight. Perfect conditions don’t produce that kind of fruit.

BEING RIGHT IS NOT ENOUGH

Stated differently, the truth is never sufficient in itself. We do need to be right and have a firm grip on truth–but there’s more.

On occasion I assemble the ingredients for a chocolate pie on my counter. Tasted individually, however, they are disgusting. Bitter cocoa powder, chalky flour–and there’s no way I’d eat a raw egg! But in the proper proportions and cooked for the right amount of time, the result is really quite tasty.

I’ve been around numerous churches and individuals who were right in their teaching and doctrine, but they had neither significant influence nor power. Why not? An essential ingredient was missing from the mix.

Paul explains this way: “That we henceforth be no more children, tossed to and fro, and carried about with every wind of doctrine, by the sleight of men, and cunning craftiness, whereby they lie in wait to deceive; but speaking the truth in love, may grow up into him in all things, which is the head, even Christ.” (Ephesians 4:14-15, emphasis added). Truth does not prevail unless mixed with love.

In evaluating my various roles in life–husband, father, grandfather, teacher, leader–I draw one conclusion: I’ve been right a lot more times than I’ve been effective.

I’ve preached too much and prayed too little, loved too little, had too little compassion, overlooked too few wrongs done to me, forgiven too little. Indeed I was right–yet ineffective. Truth doesn’t stand alone.

The important rules that govern our lives are sometimes veiled in darkness.  But God waits to throw back the shutters and flood us with light–if we’ll ask Him. (James 1:5).

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I don't recall dreaming much as a boy. Though I enjoyed assembling [...]]]> "Now when they come to evict us from the house, do they call first, or do they just show up?" With such naivety my wife has spoiled many a good plan to quit a dull but stable job and pursue my dream de jour.

I don't recall dreaming much as a boy. Though I enjoyed assembling model airplanes, I never waited for the glue to thoroughly dry before hanging the warped, droop-winged replicas from the ceiling of my room. I'm sure my impatience nipped dreams of a career in aeronautics before they blossomed.

Instead, I pursued a career as an electronics design engineer. And with my first job came new dreams and schemes. But while some of my colleagues in Dallas sold high-powered TV antennas for receiving blacked-out Cowboys football games, my kitty cat door alarm brought only laughs. What cat owner wants to spring from his recliner whenever Puddy Tat exercises a whim to come or go?

After a couple of years, unrelenting stress precipitated a move to a more sedate industry–and a different sort of dream. Needing to assemble elusive, hard-to-find statistical data, I envisioned creating a slick computer database that other data seekers would eagerly buy. But I never discovered how to persuade the data holders to willingly turn loose.

When the jogging craze broke out in the early 1970s, I imagined running marathons. But minimal physical endurance limited my distance to just a couple of miles.

Before our children arrived, a dream rampant among expectant parents also fell upon me: we'll do it right where others have failed. No further comment needed.

Then when the dream of running a lucrative mail order business from home began to germinate, I attended seminars and formulated plans. But the stay-at-home mother of our children questioned the heretofore unidentified source of free labor my scheme hinged upon. "Now exactly who will be doing all this work while you're off to your paying job every day?" See what I mean about naïve questions? So much for mail order.

When I began writing newspaper columns, my confidence that hard-boiled editors would eagerly gobble them up bordered on euphoria. Didn't happen. And once I actually announced my candidacy for a political office but withdrew within a week.

Over the past 20 years, dreams of writing books have fallen flat despite positive comments from publishers.

So what have I learned from these repeated episodes of failed dreamed and schemes?

Though most have run aground, dreams have motivated me to step from the status quo into a better understanding of myself. Dreams have tempered the tedium that settles in when I realize how much of life is consumed by waiting for one thing or another to happen. Spent dreams have often given life to fresh ones that hold the bright hope of success in their hands–and beckon me to come.

And while not every butterfly need be chased in this phase of life, I still dream about the books….

Copyright 2004 James McAlister

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This peculiar scene has endured not because of Santa (a December fixture), nor because of [...]]]> As we passed through downtown Farmerville (Louisiana) this past weekend, I silently scoured the storefronts. Then from a memory reaching back about 20 years, I recognized the object of my surveillance. "There's where we saw Santa Claus in the rocking chair!"

This peculiar scene has endured not because of Santa (a December fixture), nor because of the rocker (a venerable southern symbol). But sweltering in the unseasonable heat in red suit and fluffy beard, Santa cooled himself with a huge bamboo fan in one hand as he waved his cap to passersby with the other.

Farmerville lies on our most direct route to Point, a smaller town that's "just a dot on the map" a few miles southeast across Lake D'Arbonne. Our friend Linda Hammett lives there.

Linda and her daughters, Kelly (9) and Kim (6), moved in across the street from us in 1975, and Mary watched the girls after school until Linda could get home from work. Kelly and Kim loved playing with our "Baby Jenny" (as they called her), treating her with utmost tenderness.

After about two years, they moved to Point to be nearer to family. Succeeding years found us regularly trekking to Point, taking our new son to see his "Aunt Winda." Kelly and Kim babied him, too, as he numerous "firsts" with their encouragement.

At Linda's house he picked his first flower and ate his first ice cream cone. And in the nearby woods, he first "hunted" bears with a wooden gun.

This trip to Point, the first in a decade, spawned vivid reminiscences from the "old days."

I remembered when Kim, through gritted teeth, concluded that my fishing worms looked like "pusketti." And when Mary questioned Kelly, who had mysteriously strolled over to our house to loiter in our kitchen, why she had left Kim at home, she airily explained. "I think there's a man in the house, but I didn't tell Kim so it wouldn't scare her."

And to Linda, our son enthusiastically paid the highest "compliment" in his repertoire. "Aunt Winda, I wuv ju more than goat's milk!"

Kelly gulped upon realizing that Mary and I had been married only 10 years when they had moved. "But I've been married 15 years myself! I thought you were so old back then!"

Though not unique to this phase of life, a mental evaluation constantly plays in my mind. Significant plans haven't yet materialized, and certain glorious dreams remain unfulfilled. Though Jesus emphasized that even a cup of cold water given in His name would bring reward, what activities have been truly worthwhile in the elapsed decades?

Watching Kelly and Kim interact with their own children, some older than they themselves when they tenderly handled our babies, unraveled one strand of this enigma.

Time does not squander the simple investments of kindness and love we make in each other, but instead pays out her dividends in a later season when we will more fully appreciate and understand them.

Copyright 2004 James McAlister

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My routine seldom varies: gather notebook, pen and reference materials; sit in [...]]]> On Monday mornings I endeavor to inflate a small idea in a full-blown column. But today, as I riffled an old book seeking a pithy quotation, four scraps of paper tucked within the pages interrupted my pursuit and shuttled me onto an unexpected sidetrack.

My routine seldom varies: gather notebook, pen and reference materials; sit in recliner and wait for cat to jump into lap; pet cat, ponder and scribble notes; arise and type at computer; repeat until finished. Since the papers materialized somewhere between the petting and the pondering, could there be some common thread among them? Indeed.

The first, a postcard dated July 1966, conveys a strong admonition to my wife Mary from her college friend Linda Harden. "I'm sure you are going to Glorieta, aren't you? We are counting on you! Don't forget to send in your $3 registration–now!" Though Mary had eagerly anticipated this summer missionary opportunity, our engagement permanently sidetracked her missionary aspirations.

Next is a business card for McAlister's Lawn Care Service, the once-thriving entrepreneurial enterprise our son launched as a teenager. In time, however, this singlar focus was decisively sidetracked in favor of college.

A gracious note from a 13-year-old friend in 1998 begins with thanks to Mary for a birthday present. But her note takes an instant sidetrack to the deeper question on her mind: "Do cats bring gifts such as mice and rats to their owners? Mine brought a small mouse up to the garage and laid it on a rug, and I'm pretty sure it was a gift for her mommy!"

Memories of countless, fruitless medical sidetracks emanate from the final paper, a prescription from half a dozen years ago for medication that actually worked.

Sidetracks are a part of every life, sometimes even diverting the famous from their intentions.

For A. A. Milne, the success of his children's books, particularly his character Winnie the Pooh, sidetracked his desire to be a "serious" writer. "There was an intermediate period when any reference to Pooh was infuriating; but now such a 'nice comfortable feeling' envelops him that I can almost regard him impersonally as the creation of one of my favourite authors."

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle harbored similar feelings about his spectacular Sherlock Holmes. As early as 1891 Doyle shared his concerns about Holmes with his mother. "He takes my mind from better things." In time, Doyle found himself even more closely identified with Sherlock Holmes to the exclusion of his other works. "I weary of his name," he again told his mother.

Upon retirement from full-time employment 20 months ago, I expected to vigorously pursue several book proposals… locate other newspapers willing to publish this column… learn Spanish…. Contrary circumstances have sidetracked those visions and others.

And despite my efforts to change the outcome, I'm truly grateful that one manuscript never saw print. I'm confident that my own sidetracks have a purpose–even if only to park me in front of unseen opportunities vying for attention.

Copyright 2004 James McAlister

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They must go somewhere, for occasionally they’ll unexpectedly knock again at our heart’s door. And the feelings they bring with their return are just as fresh as [...]]]> Science can easily explain how an ice cube slowly changes into a puddle of water that eventually disappears into thin air. But where do dreams go when they die?

They must go somewhere, for occasionally they’ll unexpectedly knock again at our heart’s door. And the feelings they bring with their return are just as fresh as if they had never departed.

Tonight some old dreams have come calling. Thoroughly buried long ago, I had assumed. But not so. Safely reposing within an old journal I was leafing through, they unexpectedly resurfaced. I share a few excerpts to illustrate.

“I came across an article this week about working at home, and something about it appealed to me.” My jobs compelled me to commute long distances for more than 20 years, and being able to work at home near our children was always a satisfying dream. I’m at home now, but the children no longer here.

And this one about Jenny, our retarded daughter. “Jen has had a hard week. She has been so restless in her bed that she has cuts and bruises all over her legs and feet.” Her injuries eventually healed, but there was always a persistent dream, whispered to God alone, that Jenny would get well, marry and have children that we would all enjoy together. But she, and consequently that secret dream, died seven years ago.

“I went to the doctor on Friday for a lot of seemingly unrelated issues. He thinks the problem is stress.” I had dreams that stress would subside as children grew and jobs changed. But despite a few brief respites, stress has generally increased with passing years. Only its sources have changed.

“The longer I think about writing full-time, the more feasible it seems.” Much like the dream of being a cowboy, as free as the wind and riding the open range, the vision of being a full-time writer working at home was never far from me. Now I am old, and the creative spark doesn’t strike fire as it once did.

Also tucked within that old journal was a snippet of “Hold Fast Your Dreams,” a poem by Louise Dirscoll, written out for me in my wife’s hand. “Hold fast your dreams! Within you heart keep one still, secret spot where dreams may go, and , sheltered so, may thrive and grow–where doubt and fear are not. Oh, keep a place apart within your heart, for little dreams to go.”

So dreams must go somewhere.

But where do dreams go when they die? To a far and distant land, there to hide beyond the reach of heart and hand?

Where do dreams go when they die? To heaven perhaps. Or to some deep cranny within the soul to sleep until an unexpected moment brings them back–to live again.

Where do dreams go when they die? Not far, I am sure.

I must confess to still having dreams that must be sleeping, for they surely have not died forever.

Copyright 2002 James McAlister

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