Faded Caboose

On my way to Fort Worth from Waco last week, I saw in an open field adjacent to the Interstate a faded purple caboose adorned by a handwritten 'For Sale' sign. After doing a double take, I had my hands full remaining focused on the road ahead while stealing glances to consider the anomaly. Instantly, I bombarded myself with questions: How does a thing designed to run on steel rails end up perched awkwardly in a grass field far away from the nearest tracks? Where had it traveled during its lifetime? What had it seen? Who and what had it carried? When did its usefulness began to fade? What replaced it? Why was it painted purple? Who could want it now? How much would someone ask for a grounded purple caboose? Almost as quickly, I thought of reasonable parallels in my own life, and by reflex uttered an audible prayer, "Father, prevent me from ending up like that." For some time now I've been gripped by what might be termed an obsession. I want to end well. I want my life to count today, but I really want my sum of days to result in a life well lived. Quite the opposite of Tantalus, the Greek mythological figure standing in a pool of water beneath a fruit tree with low branches, with the fruit ever eluding his grasp, and the water always receding before he could take a drink, this seems like a reasonable goal -- to have the curtain close with integrity intact, both useful and inspiring. Stated in another way, let me be anything but a faded and abandoned caboose. The inspired apostle expressed it best: "But I keep under my body, and bring it into subjection: lest that by any means, when I have preached to others, I myself should be a castaway" (1 Corinthians 9:27 KJV).

Where the Trembling Stops

In preparation for speaking Sunday night on Thomas a Kempis' notable work, "The Imitation of Christ," I referred to various commentaries for insight on 1 Peter 2:21, one of which is a tattered old set of Lange's Commentary that was printed in 1901. Holding in one hand something written more than 600 years ago and in the other another book printed a hundred years ago, I couldn't help but wonder if anything I've done, said, or written will last a day beyond my lifetime, much less hundreds of years. What will be my enduring influence? Will I leave any at all? Lingering impact is measured best not by programs initiated, buildings constructed, or institutions established. Instead, what endures is inspiration. It may transpire as I read your words, or it may settle deep as I remember something you said or did. I may have known you, or I may only read something that was a part of you, but if you inspire me to think and live better, you endure. I close every email with a favorite quote from Frederick Buechner, with the hope that it will prompt others and myself to think through both the strength and fragility of one life lived in concert or in conflict with others: "The life I touch for good or ill will touch another life, and that in turn another, until who knows where the trembling stops or in what far place my touch will be felt."