The Birthday Boy

We didn’t think he’d ever get here. He was due May 23, 1980. He didn’t arrive until June 8 (thankfully, it was still 1980). And his tardy birth came after a day’s and night's worth of worthless labor that finally gave way to the C-Section that brought our Nathan David McCallum out of the womb and into the world. He is our first-born, our only son. We love him. And he turns 30 years old today.

Nathan David McCallum. There’s story behind his name. The front story is this: we named him for Nathan Larry Baker, one of my key mentors in ministry. And we named him for David McCallum, my older brother. I was named for my dad’s oldest brother; I thought I would keep some of that tradition alive. That’s the front story.

The back story is a bit different. If you know your Bible you will recognize that the names Nathan and David belong together. David was Israel’s greatest king. Nathan was a prophet in David’s court who called the king to task for his sin with Bathsheba. And in some ways that story has played out in our son’s life. There’s some David in him for sure. He’s a leader. He likes music. He loves God. He expresses his thoughts very well whether in speaking or writing. And he has some bold sinner in him too. By the same token, he’s got some Nathan in him as well: he desires righteousness, and he loves to speak God’s word into people’s lives. Nathan David McCallum—that’s our son.

And he was a joy to raise. Having grown up for the most part without a father on hand, I didn’t know fathering, but I knew boys. I was pretty sure I’d figure out how to raise a boy. And Nathan was easy. He provided us with lots of laughs. Like the time he escaped from the church nursery one Sunday night on a little scooter and rode it right down the center aisle of the sanctuary while I was preaching. Or the time when he was around eight and was the lead in a church Christmas play. He spoke his lines, was supposed to move down the steps, but caught his foot on a cord, pulling a mic stand down hard on the side of his head. Ever the consummate professional, he just rubbed his head and didn't miss a beat with his lines. He always did have a lot of poise. He was also very good at imitating voices and entertained us at countless mealtimes. He was especially good at doing Steven Urkel from Family Matters. He could do the Urkel dance and everything. He was pretty good at doing the opening of Monday Night Football too. Talented kid and pretty darn funny.

He rarely gave us any trouble either and usually did what he was told. There was one occasion that stands out in my mind about one of those rare moments when he was less than cooperative. When Nathan was about three years old, my wife was out and I was trying to watch a Razorback game while Nathan was supposed to be napping. Very few Razorback games made TV in Kansas City, so I liked to devote full attention to them when they were on. But Nathan wasn't cooperating. He kept calling me for this or that, and I kept telling him to pipe down and take his nap. It became a war of words that wouldn't have escalated if I had just gone in there in taken care of the situation. But I was more interested in my game than I was in my son at that moment. So I let it get out of hand. I got so mad at his interruptions that I decided I'd fix him good … at the next commercial. Since he was being so mouthy, I determined to wash out his mouth with soap—and not just any soap, but dishwashing soap. So I dragged him by his little arm into the kitchen, put a few drops of that slimy, blue liquid on my finger, and smeared it across his teeth and mouth. Then he looked up at me, tears streaming down his sweet, pudgy cheeks, and do you know what he did? He blew a soap bubble. Then I laughed and he laughed and I scooped him up in my arms and gave him a great big hug. We survived moments like that, Nathan and I.

We even survived the infamous California Grapes caper when he was in second grade. The kid had the nerve to steal a couple of California Grape characters (remember those claymation figures back in the mid-80s?) from a classmate at school. We found them in his room. We learned he stole them, and I lowered the boom, trying to put the fear of God and the fear of Dad in him all at once. I made him give them back. Then he had to apologize to the student he stole them from, to his teacher, and to the school principal. I gave him a spanking, a lengthy lecture about the morality of stealing, and I threatened to take him to the local jail so he could experience the last stop on the road of thievery. Then, I grounded him. You’re probably thinking, “That’s a little over the top.” You’re right. It was; I was a maniac. But the good news is that since he turns 30 today, his grounding is finally over. I have a daughter too, but for some reason, right or wrong, I was always harder on my boy.

But we have enjoyed a lot of great times too—lots of pitch and catch with the baseball, basketball under the lights on our back driveway, four downs (a football game for two we made up), lots of watching the Hogs and the Royals and the Chiefs, and plenty of video games when those games were just taking off. We played Nintendo RBI Baseball until Nathan started whipping my backside. That’s when I decided to leave video games to the younger generation. Nathan and I had a lot of fun together while he as he was growing up, and I wouldn’t trade those times for all the money in the world.

Nathan had a pretty good childhood, I think, a happy one all in all. He became a Christian as a youngster and walked with the Lord pretty closely until we moved from our home in Greenwood to our new assignment in Hot Springs. Nathan was 15 at the time and just didn’t make the adjustment all that well. He did very well in school, had lots of friends, and was even voted by his classmates as the “Best All-Around” boy in his class. But he struggled spiritually. That struggle reached its peak during his college years when he fell into some serious sin. Maybe that’s the David in him.

But there’s some Nathan in him too, and I can’t tell you how proud of him his mother and I were when Nathan rebounded from his fall to get back on the path with Jesus. Dayna and I knew he hadn’t been walking with the Lord. And we’d been praying for the Lord to draw him back. Well, the Lord answered our prayers with a sledgehammer. But that’s okay. God is a wise and loving Father who knows just what it takes to do redeeming work in the lives of His children. Nathan fell, and both God and the church caught him in the safety net of grace.

Life has had its challenges for Nathan along the way. Things have rarely been easy for him: a major move during a formative time in his life, major facial reconstruction surgery his junior year in high school, some bad decisions in college, a lost scholarship, having to grow up ahead of schedule, a rocky marriage, and finally divorce. But while life sometimes knocks Nathan down, it does not knock him out. To paraphrase Paul in 2 Corinthians 4, Nathan has this treasure in a jar of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from himself. That's why he doesn’t throw himself a pity party and doesn’t sit around moaning, “Why me?” Nope. He always gets up. He always moves forward. And God continues to work His plan in Nathan’s life.

God is using Nathan’s life these days to influence college students, young adults, and especially his own two children, Noah and Reese, who adore him. He loves them very much. It’s hard for him as a single dad, and I am often amazed that he does as well as he does in that situation. He works full time, he’s active in his church, and he takes care of two little kids half of every week. It makes me tired just thinking about it.

I’ve always believed God has great things in store for Nathan. Some of that greatness is going on now. Some has yet to be revealed. But this I know: Nathan is up for whatever God leads him to do. Maybe it will be in vocational ministry some day. Maybe it will be in volunteer ministry (which he does a lot already). Maybe it will be the raising of two kids who may end up being difference-makers of their own. But this I know: whatever God has in store for him, Nathan will rise to the challenge. By God’s good grace he always has.

And so on his 30th birthday I want to say of him what another Father once said of His Son: “This is my beloved son in whom I am well-pleased.”

Nathan, it's a joy and a gift to be your dad. Happy Birthday, son! And, God willing, many, many more.

15 Years and Counting

As of June 1 it has been my privilege to serve the First Baptist Church of Hot Springs for 15 years. That’s a long time in pastor-years. It was mentioned this morning that in our 173 year history I now have the longest pastoral tenure by five years. That’s hard to believe—especially with a church that has been so stable for so long.

Some have asked me what the secret is to long pastoral tenure. (I was in my first pastorate for almost 14 years before I came to Hot Springs so folks think I must know something about this subject.) Well, I’ve thought about that question a lot, and I don’t know that I really have any answers. I did hear one answer from a long-tenured pastor. He said the secret to long tenure is this: no pulpit committees. It has to be more than that, but I don’t know that I can put my finger on it. Perhaps, however, these things have helped:

• I try to keep fresh in my relationship with the Lord so that I’m working in His power instead of my own.

• I try to love the church family as they are and not as I wish they might be.

• I try to bring it every Sunday.

• I try not to let either the criticism or the praise I receive linger in my heart and mind.

• I try to show up each day even when I don’t feel like it.

• I value church unity.

• I try to deal with church problems rather than sweep them under the rug.

• But at the same time, I try to pick my battles wisely.

• I try to assemble a good team of staff and volunteers.

• Rather than doing the same year of ministry every year, I try to make sure we’re always doing something in the church that keeps us moving forward in some way or another.

• I’ve always hated packing and moving.

And that’s pretty much it. You’d think someone with my experience would be wiser or more profound, huh? Sorry. That’s about all I got on the subject. But it seems to be working, and God seems to be using me, and the church seems glad I’m still around.

Today, as people were leaving several said, “I pray you’ll be here 15 more years.” To which I replied, “No you don’t. In 15 years I’ll be 68 going on 69 years old and you’ll be thinking, ‘Is that old man ever going to retire so we can get some young blood in here?’” I worry about that a little—knowing when it’s time, knowing when I’ve quit growing and started coasting, knowing when I’m a liability rather than an asset for the church. But I’m not going to worry about that today. Today, I'm giving thanks to God for allowing me to serve a church that loves my family as we are and that treats us better than we deserve. Today is celebration day because it’s been my great joy and privilege to have served the good family of First Baptist Church in Hot Springs for 15 years, and, God willing, for many more years to come.

Casualties of War

Memorial Day has always been somewhat surreal for me. The day is set aside to remember our war dead and to reflect upon on the price of freedom. Many cemeteries line their driveways with American flags. Many communities will have a memorial service at a monument built for veterans. Such somber reminders. And yet many will spend this day playing on the lake or traveling home after a holiday weekend. Others will invite friends over for a cookout and conclude the evening by watching a fireworks display. Surreal. The very freedom that allows us to do such things is often the farthest thing from our minds. But who can blame us? It’s easier to play than to remember—to remember the human cost of war, the grief of those who get news their loved one was killed in battle, the kids who grow up without a father, knowing him mostly through a picture on the mantle next to a folded American flag. So, so many have died on fields of battle for their country, for their buddies, because somebody had to. It's right and good to remember them and their families.

But death is not the only casualty of war. You can’t visit a VA hospital without stepping aside for the man with one leg on his crutches and the man with no legs in his wheelchair. And then there’s the guy on the elevator wearing a shirt with an empty sleeve, and next to him is the man with a face scarred from burns sustained in combat. Death is not the only casualty of war.  Not every casualty comes home in a flag-draped box.

I think of two veterans today who have brought that truth home to me. The first is my father: a U.S. Navy Seabee in the South Pacific during World War II. It was bad enough getting shot at by Japanese snipers while trying to build an airfield, bad enough watching buddies picked off like ducks in a carnival shooting gallery. But then there was the letter—the one from his wife, the one that was supposed to cheer him up, give him hope, and remind him of what he had to look forward to if and when he ever got off those God-forsaken islands in the Solomons. “Mail call! McCallum, looks like you’ve got a letter from your wife.” I can hear his buddies whooping it up and giving him the business. And I can see him taking that letter, running it past his nose to check for the scent of perfume, then clutching it tightly while he found a quiet place to open it, to read and reread every word. Ahhhh! Just a little piece of home in that hell-hole in which he found himself in 1942. I can see him carefully opening it (my father was particular about such things), unfolding it, holding it up to good light, and reading the salutation. Well, what hit him next might as well have been a Japanese bullet. The name that followed “Dearest …” wasn’t my daddy’s name. Seems his wife had found a new lover and had mistakenly enclosed her love letter to him in my father’s envelope. Between his war experiences in the jungles of the Solomons and that letter, my father was never the same again. At least that’s what his family has told me. Like so many others who apparently came home in one piece from places like Tulagi, Normandy, Viet Nam, and Afghanistan, there were wounds we couldn’t see with our eyes, wounds that haunt them and hurt them for their rest of their lives. Casualites of war—body intact, soul in more fragments than the remnants of a mortar shell. So I think of my dad on Memorial Day.

And I think of another veteran named Steve. Steve grew up in a Christian family, volunteered for the Marine Corps, and ended up in Viet Nam. Steve was never the same after his experiences there. He was introduced to drugs while fighting that war, and except for a few years, never could quite kick the addiction when he came back home. That was tough enough. But I’ll never forget the day he told me about something he did in Viet Nam that was so heinous he had never told a soul until he told me, and then he made me swear I would never tell another soul either. He was hoping, I think, by confessing his sin that he would find some relief from the guilt he had carried for almost 20 years. I don’t think he did. He did get his life on track with Christ for a few years, but then when trouble once again battered down the door of his soul, he soon reverted back to the drug scene and died with a needle in his arm. Casualties of war. Many years passed between Steve’s tour of duty in Viet Nam and his death, but no one will ever convince me that the two were not somehow intertwined.

So on this Memorial Day 2010, I pause and give thanks for the brave men and women who died in battle for our freedoms. And I pause and give thanks for the brave men and women who are dying one day at a time from the internal scars of war. You’d think with all the destruction and the killing and the grieving war leaves in its wake that somehow we human beings would find better ways to solve our differences. Maybe the fact that we don’t and we won’t is the most surreal thing of all about a day like Memorial Day. But I am not without hope. It's just that I don't look outward for hope; I look upward—longing for the return of Jesus, His decisive destruction of evil, and the great vision of the prophet to come true: “He shall judge between nations and decide disputes for many peoples; and they shall beat their swords into plowshares, and their spears into pruning hooks; nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war anymore” (Isaiah 2:4).

Karen on My Mind (Part 2)

Wow! Just wow! Not two days after I posted the previous blog, Karen on My Mind, one of my Facebook friends, who was also a teenager in the church I referenced, read the blog, emailed me about it, and suggested I check out a certain Karen on Facebook to see if it was her. I did and it was. After all these years of having no idea if Karen was alive or dead or where she might live, God has allowed us to reconnect with one another again. That’s good news!

Here’s even better news: Karen is doing well. After years of being up and down, in the hospital and out, Karen is feeling pretty stable these days. And what’s more, she’s walking with Jesus and active in her church. (Pardon me for a minute while I step away from the computer and do a couple of cartwheels, a somersault, and a cheerleader jump in praise to God.) Words are sort of my business, but I can’t find enough words or the right words to express my praise and thanksgiving to God for His good work in Karen’s life. I do think of a Scripture that seems to apply: “Being confident of this, that he who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus” (Phil. 1:6).

Is this a great story or what? Even though it was hard to see all those years ago, Karen built her life on the Rock, and even the storms of abuse and rejection and heartache and loneliness couldn’t knock her down. Well, they might have knocked her down, but they couldn’t knock her out. It’s as if Jesus came to Karen in her storms and said, “Devil, you can’t have Karen. She’s my girl. I love her. I’ve saved her. I’m for her. I’m with her. And I’m going to keep her forever.”

So, if you feel like a Karen in this world, be encouraged: God has a hope and a future for you. And if you're reaching out to some Karen in this world, don't doubt for a minute the mercy and power of God to save and to keep in spite of all the obstacles that must be overcome.

Like I said, I’ve got no words to express my praise, but the psalmist does, so I’ll borrow his: “O give thanks to the Lord, for He is good! And his steadfast love endures forever.”

Karen on My Mind

At some point or another along the way, Karen had come to the church where I served as Youth Minister. I did not know her. Had never seen her. But her name was on the roll, so I went to visit her in her home. And what an eye-opening visit it was. Karen was from a family that didn't have much in the way of stuff. They lived in a run-down house. Karen wore old clothes. She seemed rather embarrassed about the conditions in which she lived. And while she managed in school, I don't think she was making any honor rolls. On a scale of 1-10, her self-image must have registered at about a negative 5. While I had no evidence, my hunch was that there may have been some kind of abuse going on in the family.

Anyway, I invited Karen to church. I could tell she was a girl who needed Jesus and needed friends. And I was of the opinion that she could find both through the church's youth ministry. I was able to tell her about Jesus, and she accepted Christ even though she found it hard to believe that someone like Jesus could love someone like her. I introduced her to the youth group. Some of the kids knew her through school. It was all a very uncomfortable mess. In a room full of beauty queens, Karen stood out as the great exception. In a room full of "who's who" types, Karen stood out as the great exception. In a room of high fashion, Karen stood out as the great exception. She felt intimidated by them, I think. She couldn't connect with them. They wouldn't connect with her. I don't think that they intended to be mean; they just couldn't find a way to connect with her, and they didn't try very hard either. I even went personally to some kids and said, "Please sit by Karen. Please talk to Karen. Please try to include Karen in your group." But it just didn't happen. She only felt more and more uncomfortable. And eventually she dropped out. I hung with her as best I could, but to the best of my knowledge, she finished high school, moved out, and I lost track of her.

Several years later, I heard from her. "Where are you?" I asked. "I'd like to come see you." She said she was in the psychiatric ward of the county hospital. I went to see her. And once again I thought, "Here's a girl who needs Jesus and who needs Christian friends." But she wasn't about to try the church again. She tried once, had the door slammed in her face, politely slammed, but slammed nonetheless. This is what she said, "I tried the church once, and there's just no place there for someone like me." The church had a chance to redeem Karen from a terrible life, and by shutting her out of the fellowship, the church let her go. And now, I don't even know if she's dead or alive.

I share this story because I’ve been preaching a series of sermons on relationships, and I can’t help but think again of Karen—a girl who had no strong and healthy connections with anyone. I can’t imagine how lonely she must have felt every day of her life and twice on Sunday. I can’t help but wonder how many Karens we cross paths with in the church and in the world. And I can’t help but wonder what a difference it might make if we would notice them, speak to them, include them. This is not easy work. Having been burned more times than they can count and having so little confidence in themselves, the Karens of the world are rarely going to meet you halfway. At least at first, you might have to put forth most, if not all, of the effort. Could I encourage you to do just that? Could I encourage you not to give up but to hang in there and keep building a bridge of friendship even when you feel like you’re getting no where? Karens don’t believe in themselves; will you believe in them? Will you love them like Jesus and to Jesus? The Karens of the world are worth it. God loves them. Jesus died for them. And the church needs them.

You know what I hope for? I hope that someday the phone rings and that Karen is on the other end: “John, I just wanted you to know that I’m better, that I found my way back to Christ and to the church. Thank you for loving me and believing in me when I could do neither one of those things for myself. Thank you for pointing me to Jesus and the church all those years ago. For the first time in my life I think I’m going to be okay.” I would love to receive such a call, but I’m not holding my breath.

Here’s what I’m doing instead: I’m keeping my eyes peeled and my soul sensitive to the next Karen that crosses my path. And when she or he does, I’ll try all over again. The way I figure it, we all pretty much look like Karen to God, and yet He pursues us, loves us, and at great sacrifice reaches out to the likes of us. If God did that for me, it becomes my privilege (dare I say duty) to do that for others. Like I said, this is no easy task and successes may be few and far between. But maybe the success is in the loving and the trying and the reaching and the knowing that if we reach even one, the angels will dance, heaven will sing, and Jesus will clap His hands for joy because a lost one has been found and a stray has come home. Read the gospels and you’ll see that Jesus loved and sought the Karens of this world. He's still doing the same thing, but now He wants to love and seek them through you and me, and He wants us to make room for them in our circles of fellowship. I’m game. Will you join me?

The Birthday Girl

It got kind of dicey when the doctors gave my wife Dayna an epidural in preparation for the C-section that would bring our second child from the womb to the world. Something went wrong. The anesthetic moved up instead of down, and Dayna went into respiratory arrest—she couldn’t breathe for the life of her. The doctors acted quickly. In less than a minute, I’d guess, they had her under general anesthetic and a breathing tube down her throat. The first C-section was smooth as silk; this one as smooth as sandpaper. But it all worked out. They put Dayna to sleep, made a quick and skilled incision across her waistline, and in a matter of seconds I got my first look at Kristen Anne McCallum. That all happened on May 10, 1982. And that little girl turns 28 years old today.

A baby girl. I knew nothing of girls. Having been raised among three brothers and having a two-year-old son when Kristen came into the world, I knew all about boys. I knew about wrestling and playing ball, about getting dirty and eating like a pig, about bodily functions and acting crude. And I knew how to discipline a boy too. They take a spanking pretty good. I could yell at a boy when I needed too. But how do you discipline a girl? I wasn’t sure I had it in me to yell at her. And I wasn’t sure I could spank her either. So I was kind of nervous about having a girl. Could I really enter her world? Other than the GI Joe I played with in the mid-60s, I’d never been around dolls in my life. And even then, GI Joe was no girl doll. He was always shooting the enemy and blowing stuff up. He’d have had no trouble wiping out Barbie if he thought she was a Communist. He was one bad dude. But this girl world was going to be different—dolls and tea parties, Kaboodles and My Little Ponies, jewelry and makeup, dresses and ribbons and lace. I hoped she’d at least like sports a little and was so pleased when she did. But this girl thing was going to be a whole new world for me. I wasn’t sure I would ever be able to understand girls. And all these years later I’m not sure I understand them much better.

But I sure am glad God gave us that little girl named Kristen. What a gift! For the longest time we called her Krissy. It just seemed right. But you know how it goes: kids grow up, they get more independent, they want to put away certain childhood things, so Krissy became Kristen. I don’t remember exactly when that happened, but it just seems right to call her Kristen these days. She’s all grown up. She’s the wife of a good man, Robert, the mother of a beautiful little girl named Hallie, and carrying her second child as I write these words. She’s all grown up.

But there sure was joy in the journey to adulthood. She was always such a good kid—well-behaved, respectful of others (except maybe of her brother who wasn’t very respectful to her either), thoughtful, happy, a good friend, helpful, bright, humble, Christian. People have always described her as beautiful on the inside and the outside, a girl whose scent is sweeter than Chanel No. 5; it is the fragrance of Christ.

She took up music early on in her life and became quite good at the piano. I’ll never forget her first recital. It was a Halloween recital. So her mom made her a Razorback cheerleader outfit and Kristen played Arkansas Fight, elevating the mood of all in attendance—well, my mood anyway (we lived in Missouri at the time). I guess a lot of my memories revolve around Kristen’s music. I remember her writing songs and playing them (usually after I was in bed), but what a treat. One of those songs was published and churches were singing it in worship all over the country. She wrote a song for my son's boy Noah when he was born, and even though I've heard it a thousand times that song still makes me misty. There’s just something about the way she plays and sings that touches the hearts of those who hear. I think it’s because her music comes from the depths of who she is and from a heart that has been touched by God. Though this is not a word I toss around lightly, there is an anointing in her music, and God has just used her in that way for years and years.

Like any kid she had her share of heartaches too—disappointments, boy stuff (though she never was boy-crazy, thank God), frustrations, the time in second grade when she had to get glasses, the time we moved from the only home she ever knew just in time to start eighth-grade in a whole new state and a whole new school. But she did just fine. As has always been the case with Kristen, everywhere she goes she finds people who were just waiting for her to walk into their lives—some friends here in Hot Springs, college friends, a group of teenage girls she discipled and mentored during her college years, and then finally this guy named Robert Parrish.

I remember when she told us she thought Robert was the one. I wasn't so sure. But then again, I wouldn't have been sure of anyone. We're talking about my little girl here. But the truth is: she couldn’t have picked a finer man, nor he a finer woman. They married in June of 2005. I was a little taken aback at the cost of such an undertaking. Kristen has always been pretty practical but my cheapness outweighed her practicality in the wedding process. Thankfully, I only made her cry a couple of times. I was being cheap and stupid, and I regret that now. But she had a great wedding, and as a church newsletter reported after their annual picnic, “a good time was had by all.” She deserved far more than we were able to do, but I’m so glad we could do what we did for her.

She’s doing fine these days—still serving the Lord along with her husband through TBarM Christian Camps deep in the heart of Texas. She’s still encouraging young people in their walk with Jesus. She’s still singing to the Lord and active in her church. She’s a virtuous wife. She’s an excellent mother. And no mom and dad could ever hope for a finer daughter. She stays in touch. She sends encouraging notes, knowing just what to say and how to say it. She sends tons of pictures of Hallie. And Dayna and I still pinch ourselves to think that this little child born 28 years ago became God’s good gift to us. Though the wisdom writer said this about his wife, I want to borrow his words and say them about my daughter Krissy, oops … Kristen: “Many daughters have done nobly, but you excel them all. Charm is deceptive and beauty is vain, but a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised.”

I hope you’re not too embarrassed by my praise today, Kristen. But I can’t help myself. I have loved you since the doctor told your mother she was pregnant. I have loved you every day of your life. I will love you forever. I am thankful for you, proud of you, and honored to be your dad. Happy Birthday, Kris! And God willing, many, many more.

This Year's Nomination for the Mothers Hall of Fame

One of my favorite moms in the Bible is the mother of James and John, two of Jesus’ disciples—the ones He nicknamed “the sons of thunder.” Maybe Jesus gave them that nickname because they were short-tempered, explosive, quick to anger. There was that time when a Samaritan village refused to let Jesus pass through, and James and John asked Jesus if they could call down fire from heaven and incinerate them on the spot. Jesus rolled His eyes and told them to forget it, but something in those young men was so fired-up about that Samaritan rejection that they wanted to literally fire-up those Samaritans too. So, maybe Jesus called them “the sons of thunder” because of their quick fuse. Or, heck, maybe it was because they passed a lot of gas. I don't know. But regardless of whether they were short-tempered or gassy, you’ve got to love the woman they called mom (tradition calls her Salome). And what she must have endured in their upbringing! (I’m shaking my head as I write that line.) Temper tantrums, wrestling matches—how many pieces of pottery did those rowdy boys break through the years? But she and her husband Zebedee, got the boys to manhood. I suspect she did most of the raising because Zebedee was out in his fishing boat most of the time trying to scratch a living together for his family. So when you’re a mom and you’re raising sons of thunder, I doubt if every day is a Zebedee-do-dah-day. Had to have been a lot of tough ones too. How many switches did she wear out on their backsides? How many times did she have to grab them by the ear to pull them apart? Can you imagine how often she said, “Just wait till your father gets home”? But she got those boys raised.

Like most boys in that day, they followed in their daddy’s footsteps and joined him in the fishing business. That’s what they were doing when Jesus told them to leave their nets and follow Him. And these spontaneous, impetuous sons of thunder did just that. Sort of makes you think their mom did something right in their raising. She probably told them Bible stories and made sure they were at synagogue every week whether they wanted to be or not, whether they disrupted the service or not. We don’t know exactly what their spiritual condition was, but we do know this: these sons of thunder had spiritual sensitivities. When Jesus called them to do a radical thing like leave everything behind and follow Him, they anchored the boat, dropped their nets, and hit the trail with Jesus.

Apparently their mom followed too. She shows up in the story every now and then—like in Matthew 20 when she approaches Jesus on the sly and makes her big ask. I wonder if she rehearsed her speech. I wonder if she told her boys what she was up to. They were with her when she made the ask. She got Jesus off to the side, dropped to her knees at his feet, and asked, “Master, would you do me a little favor?” Jesus was all ears: “What do you want?” He asked. I don’t know if she hesitated or blurted it right out, but she sure wasn’t bashful: “Would you let my two boys sit at your right and your left in the kingdom?” Huh? Are you kidding me? She asked that? Hey, lady, while you’re at it, why not just ask for the key to the executive washroom and the corner office that overlooks the glassy sea? Sheesh! Probably not a bad idea to keep Jesus in between the sons of thunder, but to ask for the seats of honor … holy moley! That takes some kind of nerve. Maybe in some ways she’s no different than the mother who tells the band director that her daughter should be first chair flute or tells the coach that her son should be the starting pitcher and bat fourth in the line-up. But talking to a teacher or a coach falls way short of asking such bold things of the Lord. The mom of the sons of thunder went straight to the top: “Grant that my sons can sit on your right and your left in your kingdom.” She didn’t even say please. Some pushy mom for sure.

Still, I can’t help but like her and admire her just a bit. She was no outsider. She followed Jesus too. When she asked Jesus for the favor, Jesus didn’t have to ask her name. He knew her and loved her. She knew she could talk with Him about anything. And really, like most moms, she just wanted the best for her sons. She wanted them to be with Jesus. And she wanted them to be like Jesus. Can a mother want anything better for her children than that?

Jesus went on to explain to her that He didn’t make the kingdom seating charts; His Father did. And He also told her that before there is a crown to wear there is a cross to bear. That applied to Jesus. And that applied to James and John too. Being with Jesus and being like Jesus means more than a parade and a throne; it means some suffering along the way. That’s what Jesus meant when He asked James and John, “Can you drink the cup I am going to drink?” Of course, being sons of thunder and being clueless as to what Jesus meant, they boldly proclaimed, “We can.” Well … eventually they did—James was the first of the original disciples to die a martyr’s death—Herod killed him in Jerusalem in the early months of the church. And John suffered much persecution and even exile before he apparently died as an old man. Their mother was witness to much of that. I suspect she saw her son John beaten and thrown in jail in Jerusalem for preaching the gospel. And she no doubt wept bittersweet tears when Herod put the axe to the neck of her son James. She outlived one son. She surely died long before the other.

But I just bet she died content and at peace. She might not have received from Jesus everything she asked for, but she did receive everything she hoped for. Her two sons of thunder were with Jesus and they were like Jesus. And even better, because Jesus drank the cup of the cross and died for their sins, mom and her two boys are all with Jesus now in heaven. The seating chart just doesn’t matter to her anymore because no matter where they’re seated, they are all around the same table, and they get to enjoy one another’s company forever.

So today, I nominate this lady for the Mothers Hall of Fame and offer this simple greeting: Hey, mom of the sons of thunder, Happy Mother’s Day to you!