(From May 27, 2019)

I’ve never been a Red Sox fan, per se, or even a Bill Buckner fan, actually. But, I admit, I’ve had a soft spot in my heart for Billy-Buck ever since the night of October 25, 1986, when I watched a routine ground ball — with a little bit of a funky spin on it — miss his first baseman’s mitt just a few feet from first base. I know he probably took his eye off the ball just a bit, but, man….

Two outs in the bottom of the ninth…Game 6 of the World Series, with the Red Sox up, three games to two. The New York Mets had already scored two runs to tie the score, so if Buckner fields the ball and steps on 1st base, the game goes into extra innings, and there’s no guarantee who wins. But, as the ball slowly dribbled behind him, and down the right-field line, Ray Knight galloped home with the winning run, sending the Sox & Mets to a deciding Game 7.

My personal theology holds that God REALLLLLLY probably doesn’t care about who wins baseball games…but, I may or may not have literally prayed that Bill Buckner would drive in the winning run in Game 7, and be the hero for Boston, and their beloved Red Sox. (Full disclosure: I REALLY, REALLLLY hated that Mets team.)

It was not to be. The Red Sox lost Game 7, and in a fairly predictable, and yet, still terrible aftermath, not only was Buckner blamed for the loss of a baseball game, and the World Series, but he was branded as one of the worst sports “goats” of all time.

Even though he and his family had made their home in Massachusetts, eventually the harassment, taunts, and criticism — especially from the media — forced them to move to Idaho, where Buckner purchased a ranch.

One of the ironies in all of this is that Buckner was an outstanding baseball player, and a true veteran leader on that Sox team. Everyone agrees they would have never even made it to the World Series without him. He had a great career with the Dodgers, Cubs, and Red Sox…until 10/25/86.

Thankfully, time does heal most wounds — if we let it. It took almost 22 years, but Billy-Buck finally had a triumphant return to Fenway Park when he was announced to the opening night crowd in 2008, to throw out the ceremonial first pitch. The standing ovation he received lasted almost two minutes, and, not surprisingly, brought tears to the eyes of many, including Bill Buckner.

I’m glad. Buckner was only sixty-nine years old when he passed away this morning from a form of dementia. I’m glad that he got to experience not just the sense of being forgiven, but also the even more powerful release of forgiving those who had tormented him, and his family. According to his wife, he was at peace with both God and man when he slipped across the Last Divide.

RIP, Billy. I’m happy for you now. 😇

You’ve probably heard about mega-churches, I’m guessing. Huge crowds, thousands of attendees, but…

Christianity-lite…
Religious entertainment…
Prosperity gospel…
Social club…
Shallow worship…
The pastor acts like a rock star…
The band acts like rock stars…
All they want is your money…
You’re just a number to them….

I’m sure that there are places where some, or all, of those things are true. The problem with churches…is that they’re composed of people. And, people do stupid stuff. And, selfish stuff. Embarrassing stuff. Sinful stuff.

Except for me. And you. (Actually, I’ve heard a few things about you, so I’m starting to think I might be standing alone. 🤷🏻‍♂️😇)

Anyhow, I used to be a member of the pastoral staff, and I’m related to the pastor (by marriage). We were there to celebrate the dedication of a new worship center.

Yes, the music, stage, lighting, sound quality, and volume had SOME things in common with a rock concert. A REALLY GOOD rock concert. But, the rock star persona was nowhere to be found.

The worship music — especially the lyrics — was obviously designed to point the listener/worshipper in one direction: towards a holy God, with a heart of love, grace and redemptive power for those who worship Him…as well as those who are fallen, broken, and far from God. He STILL loves them.

Interspersed with the songs were short personal stories — previously recorded — by a hodgepodge of attenders: different races, sizes, shapes, backgrounds; young and old, from middle-schoolers to a lady who started attending this particular church thirty-one years ago when she was sixty-nine years old. (Do the math: she’s 100-years-old.)

One 40-something guy shared that, years ago, he had been desperately trying to kick a drug habit, without success. His buddy, in the throes of addiction himself, suggested he try this particular church. He did…and found help…freedom, faith, hope…a changed life.

A single mom told this story: After attending for several months, but not getting involved, her teenage son died at home in a tragic accident. The EMTs on the scene asked her if she had a church home. She told them, “Yes, I attend Seacoast, but they don’t know who I am. I’m just a number.” She was stunned when, in about ten minutes, TWO pastors, including the Lead Pastor, showed up to pray, comfort, and provide assistance. She said they never left her side during the ordeal…and that’s how she survived…and realized she was much more than a number.

The stories kept coming. Lots of them…along with my tears. I’m telling you: hearing people share about how their lives were changed because someone (pastors and parishioners) reached out in love to help them when they were at the bottom…. Somehow, I think that might actually qualify to be placed in the column of things that Jesus would both do, and approve of.

There were also two guest speakers, of note. The mayor of Charleston — who is a Democrat —thanked the pastor, emotionally, for coming to his office when the city was in a time of crisis, and leading a time of prayer where, he said, he had “never sensed the presence of God in a greater way”, and the crisis was resolved. He also thanked the church for “taking a stand” when the city encountered dark, dangerous times due to the mass shooting at Mother Emmanuel Church.

Then, U.S. Senator Tim Scott — a Republican — talked about how the pastor has been a mentor to him for over 22 years, and thanked the church for providing over 4,000 meals to the grieving church family at Mother Emmanuel during that tragedy, contributing to a spirit of healing and reconciliation in the city.

Oh, yeah; one other thing: They don’t take offerings.

They. Don’t. Take. Offerings.

People give — voluntarily, with no pressure — because they want to, and they go out of their way to do it: on-line, or by dropping their offering in boxes scattered around the auditorium.

Yes, there are some juicy, scandalous stories out there about mega-churches and pastors. Just remember: it may not be true…you don’t know the whole story…and, not all mega-churches are the same.

And, this type of environment might not be for you. That’s okay. No one is forcing you to attend a mega-church. My church home has an average weekly attendance somewhere in the 300-400 range, I think.

But, I’ve gotta tell you: Seeing a church that cares more about the people OUTSIDE of their four walls than they care about themselves, and doing something about it…making a HUGE difference in the lives of people they don’t even know — in their community…in disadvantaged areas…and around the world — I kinda felt like I had encountered Jesus, or someone who looked a lot like Him.

Well done, Seacoast.

I love you all. ❤️🙏

In late 2013, my 85-year old dad, Robert Samuel McGarity, had been in a nursing home for a couple of years, with seriously declining health, and had been admitted-and-released from hospice care at least twice.  I thought I had prepared myself, and was pretty confident that I was ready for him to be free from his suffering, and for me to let him go.  Then, the phone rang, and they told me that he had a serious infection with a raging fever, had stopped eating, and he was starting to shut down.  They said he had maybe 2-to-3 days, and we should say our good-byes.

I thanked the lady on the other end of the line, hung up the phone…and fell apart.  I was glad I was alone.  Turns out, I wasn’t nearly as ready as I thought I was.  🙄

We called the kids in, and each of us went to see him, while I tried to figure out if this was really happening.

Two weeks later, the nursing home called again, said they didn’t understand why, but the infection and fever were gone (without benefit of any antibiotics), he was eating again, and….  Well, they kind of apologized because my father hadn’t died.  😳

Oh well.  Dad never was one to be limited by someone else’s expectations.  I wonder if, in his mind, he didn’t say, “Well, Jesus, we fooled’em again!”  😜

Four years ago today, on May 8, 2015, the Irishman finally went home to Heaven. I think I was a little more ready this time…and I’m thankful.

I’m thankful for his life, and his example, and his legacy.

Pastor. Evangelist. Missionary. Church planter. Church builder.

Gospel singer. Softball player. Horseman.

Husband. Dad. Grandpa. Big brother. “Uncle Sam”.  “Brother McGarity”.  He really was the “original” Sam McGarity, the first of what is currently four consecutive generations holding the name.

I was recently reminded of how his commitment to love my mother – and ONLY my mother – had such a powerful and profound impact on my life, and on the lives of my boys, whether they knew it or not. “For better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, till death parted them after 54 years….”

Something that I have taken for granted most of my life — a legacy of faithfulness in marriage — is something that was handed down to me by a man who vowed to break a generational curse. And, he did. He SHOWED me that you could be friendly with EVERYONE…but NEVER inappropriate.  He was a faithful, loving husband. It’s certainly not the only thing he taught me, but it stands out…and I’m grateful.  👍

So…Dad, I want you to know that I’m happy for you, and Mom.  I’m glad that you get to be together, in Heaven, with Jesus, forever…however that whole Eternity thing works.  (I’ll be the first to say that it’s beyond my comprehension.)  I’m grateful for the life lessons, and the heritage of faith and music, and the hunting trips, and the games of pitch-and-catch, with you saying, “Okay, hit my glove.”  For hours. Great memories.  😍🤗

But, I also want you to know that I still miss you. Somehow, I think that, maybe, that might still be important to you.  Maybe not…but, I think that you might – in Heaven, even – actually laugh.  They’ll get used to it. 😂  Thanks for everything, Dad, including THE name. Love you. ❤️ 

— Douglas Samuel McGarity

May 1st, 1972: “Take It Easy” was released as a single.

And, before May, 1972, was over, this happened….

In May, 1972, I was 14-years old when my family moved from Versailles, Missouri, to Tucson, Arizona.

For over 1,300 miles, I rode in the “second car” with my older brother, Bob, and as we scoured the airwaves for any rock station we could find on the car radio, we heard a new song, “Take It Easy”, by a new group, the Eagles. I liked it. A lot. As Glenn Frey’s vocals took us to an intersection in Winslow, Arizona…and a girl…and a flat-bed Ford…I was taken in, mesmerized, and hooked.

By the time we arrived in Tucson, I not only had a favorite song, I had a band to call my own. I know it sounds silly, juvenile, and immature, but through all of the great music of the 70s (and since), no band ever replaced them at the top of my list. I just really liked the music.

Witchy Woman. Peaceful Easy Feeling. Desperado. Already Gone. On The Border. Lyin’ Eyes. One Of These Nights. Take It To The Limit….

By the fall of 1976, I had been through two new high schools, and went back to Missouri as a freshman in college, so “New Kid In Town” seemed very relevant. “Hotel California” seemed scary and mysterious. “Life In The Fast Lane” seemed wild and adventurous. Then, in 1979, came “The Long Run”, “Heartache Tonight”, and “Sad Café”.

I loved all of these songs. Every single one of them, along with all of the others that I’m not mentioning now. My children (and wife, God bless her) have said that they know more about the Eagles than they ever wanted to, but even they admit to liking their music. Just not in the overdosed volume that I force-fed them through the years.

I’m not alone. For millions of us from my generation, the Eagles serenaded us while we dated, broke up, got back together, grew, moved on, broke the rules and/or laws, graduated, got kicked out, dropped out, signed up, changed, matured, got married….

For some of us, we might not remember everything we did, but we know the Eagles were there when we did it.

For some of us, the fast lane lifestyle proved to be too much excess, and it ended too soon.

For some of us, it wasn’t about the lifestyle at all. It was just about…the music. And, the music was glorious.

RIP Glenn. And, thanks for the memories, and the music. I’m sad that you’re gone. It was quite a ride.

January 19, 2016

I’m not cut out to be a teacher. Believe me; I tried it. I was terrible…AND I hated it. I was a pretty good coach, but no one ever nominated me for “Teacher of the Year”.  No one. Ever.

But, I married well. And, I married a teacher.  (One marriage; same person.)  A really good one. And, we had children.  Several.  So…

My oldest son — Douglas Chad McGarity — is the 2018-2019 Teacher of the Year at Georgetown K-8 School.

Besides having a mom who passed on the “teaching gene”, Chad married well, too. His wife, Tiffany, WAS the teacher of the year.  Last year.  THEY have won “it” two years in a row.  It’s a budding dynasty.

In my opinion, teachers are a special breed. They do something that is incredibly difficult…nigh unto impossible.  They do something that is largely under-valued in our society, and yet, it is crucial to the future of our greatest resource:  our children. They do something that I know is hugely important, and yet, I’m unwilling to do it.

You’re unwilling to do it.

And, they do it for very little money.

Because they believe that children are more important than money.

Chad:  I don’t know how you do it. But, I’m glad that you do…and I’m incredibly proud of you for doing it. Keep up the good work, and CONGRATULATIONS!!

The last week of August, in 2013, I walked into a friends place of business, and said, “You know anyone that’s hiring?”  

I was — to put it bluntly — desperate. After thirty-three years of vocational ministry, at the age of fifty-five, I was starting over. I needed a new direction for my life.  

I needed a JOB. I needed a paycheck. 

My friend picked up the phone, and called his childhood friend, who was now one of the owners of a logistics company. Within a few days, I had an interview.  The owner said it might be an opportunity to “get my foot in the door.” 🤔

I showed up for the interview wearing a suit & tie. Turns out, I was a bit overdressed.  The interviewer literally tried to talk me out of the job.  “I’m not sure that you would be happy doing this kind of work.” 

I said, “Look, I just want a job. You tell me what you want me to do, and I’ll do it. Tell me what you want me to wear, and I’ll wear it.”  Any sense of entitlement or arrogance was pretty much gone. 🙄 

I hope I never get it back. Seriously. 🙏

I got the job, but only after convincing him that I was willing and able to dress down to a more casual attire, suitable for warehouse work.  I was hired to “maintain FDA-level cleanliness standards in a food-grade warehouse.”

They needed a janitor.  🙄 In a warehouse. A really good janitor. In a really BIG warehouse. 

“Here am I, Lord. Send me.” 🤦‍♂️

So, I “stuck my foot in the door”.  👍 My first day on the job at Port City Logistics was Wednesday, September 11, 2013. I remember saying a prayer before I went into the building that day. “Lord, thanks for the job. Help me to be grateful for this job. Help me to do it well…and help me to honor You…and not embarrass You, or my family.” 

I’m not saying that it was easy.  I had to shut out that voice (👿) that wanted me to dwell on…things that had been lost.   But, God answered that prayer…or, at least the part about being grateful. For the next fourteen months, I never hated my job, or resented going to work. That’s the truth. 🤷🏻‍♂️

In October, 2014, when I approached the owner about the possibility of something “more substantial” 🤑🙄, I assured him that it wasn’t because I didn’t like my job. The first week of November, 2014, I moved into a new position, in the office, helping to take care of one of our customers.  Our BIGGEST customer. 😳 

I still didn’t know anything about the logistics industry, and this is where I have to pause to say a HUGE “Thank you!” to Port City — and Dana Morgan Bowen, in particular — for investing in, and training me.  This story would have had an unhappy ending a long time ago without her expertise, thoroughness…and patience. 🤦‍♂️🤪

For almost 4 1/2 years, I have helped to handle that account, along with Dana, and then Terry Pritt (when Dana was promoted).  They both deserve a medal, or something, for putting up with me. 🙄

A few weeks ago, I was approached with a simple question:  “Are you interested in ‘moving up’?”  🤔😬 Today, Port City made it official:  I’m the new warehouse manager at one of our nine locations. 😳😊  You can check us out at portcitylogistics.com. 

Let me just say that this wasn’t part of some master plan. Not mine, at least.  I do, however, have a few observations (🙄) that are, I think, worth noting: 

1. I think it’s healthy to be grateful for the simple things. 
2. It IS possible to start over at fifty-five. 
3. Anyone who will give you a chance to start over at fifty-five…and anyone who will give you a helping hand along the way…both are pretty special. 🤗🤗❤️❤️ 
4. I believe Psalm 37:23. “The steps of a good man are ordered by the Lord.”  That includes imperfect, flawed, immature, 61-year-olds with Adult ADD.  Hey…wanna go ride bikes??? 🤦‍♂️🤪
5. I’ve said this before, but maybe you need to be reminded:  If you feel like you’re trying to crawl out of a hole…KEEP CRAWLING, until you can get on your feet. If you’re crawling, at least you’re making progress. 👍
6. Never, NEVER look down on small beginnings. 
7. Secular work, and “ministry”, are not incompatible. At all. Just sayin’. 
8. We are ALL works-in-progress…and I’m still working on what I want to be when I grow up…although pitching for the St.Louis Cardinals is looking more and more like a long shot.  😢🙄😜

As I begin in a new role, my prayer is the same one I prayed on that first day, over 5 1/2 years ago…and, your prayers are appreciated, as well. 

I love you all. ❤️🙏

I “grew up” in a small town in central Missouri. “Population 2,047”, the sign used to say, until they changed it to something north of 2,200…at which point we excitedly began to prepare for the arrival of…whatever comes with being a big city.

In 1968, I was 10 years old. Versailles (MO) was overwhelmingly white, with a fairly small percentage of African-Americans. As far as I knew, everyone in town pretty much got along with each other. To my 10-year-old eyes, there wasn’t much racism, that was visible, anyhow. Yes, a lot a things were “separated”…like church. There was a pretty varied assortment of denominational churches, and then there was “the black church”. To this day, I couldn’t tell you what the actual name or denomination of the black church was, but I do recall that my father (who was the pastor of the local Assembly of God church) had to explain to some of the board members WHY he had invited the youth choir from the “black church” to come and sing at our church. I DON’T think he bothered to ask or explain why he accepted the invitation from the pastor to be the guest preacher at the “black church”, but I do remember that it raised a few eyebrows. So, there was that….

And, I was aware that some white people had a more noticeably antagonistic attitude towards African-Americans (NOT the term they used to refer to them). There were plenty of racial jokes around, including the use of the “N” word. I told one of those jokes one day, standing in the lunch line at school. No sooner had I delivered the punch line (which included that word) than I turned around, and saw one of my best friends standing less than five feet away. Yes, he was black. I quickly turned around, and acted like I hadn’t said it. I tried to tell myself that maybe he hadn’t heard it, but I knew that he had. Even as a little boy, it still ranks as one of the most humiliating moments of my life. I never said anything about it to him…until our ten year high school reunion. When I pulled him aside to apologize for something I had said almost 20 years earlier, he claimed he had no memory of it, but he assured me that I was forgiven, anyhow. I still felt a little bit of…something good, and clean…for getting it off of my chest. Some lessons are painful. (When I traveled from Savannah back to Versailles for my father’s memorial service in 2015, the FIRST person I saw standing outside of the church, waiting, was that friend. Some things are priceless.)

Still, that was pretty much the extent of racism in my little world. We probably wouldn’t even have called it racism; it was more like “bad manners”. That’s how I saw the world.

Then, somebody shot, and killed, Rev. Martin Luther King, Jr. Even in my sheltered, largely oblivious, ten-year-old mind…there was no doubt. Somebody…white…murdered him BECAUSE he was black. And, he wouldn’t stay in his place. And, he wouldn’t be quiet.

The shock to my system was visceral. “Do these kind of people exist? What kind of hate has to be in someone’s heart to do something like that? This is 1968, for Pete’s sake! We’re all supposed to be more civilized than this?” Deep thoughts for a 10-year-old boy…but I think it’s actually a pretty fair assessment of what a lot of my 10-year-old friends were thinking, too. We all lost some of our innocence.

Yes, there were riots, and demonstrations, and speeches. Televised coverage of the funeral, of course. But, there was also a significant amount of attention given to the things that Dr. King had said while he was alive…the message that he had so forcefully, and eloquently, delivered…that had gotten him killed. Many of his words have become practically immortal. Sermons have been preached. Speeches have been made. Songs have been written. Untold numbers of books have been written specifically about those words. Plaques, banners, posters, bookmarks, keychains, coffee cups…you can find his words preserved on just about anything that will hold print. Practically every major city in America has a street named after him. There are magnificent statues of Dr. King that have been built in Chicago, Atlanta, Washington, D.C., and even Memphis, the city where he was murdered.

I don’t know of anyone, including myself, that could tell you a single word that was ever spoken by the man who killed him. I suppose you could look it up on Wikipedia, but I’m pretty sure it’s not a hot search item.

I can tell you that among my little circle of friends in that tiny mid-western town, I think it was pretty much a foregone conclusion that our generation would see the end of that kind of racism in the civilized U.S.A. We would see to it. We were going to help. We were sure….

Oh, to have that kind of naïve innocence, again.

As we think about Dr. King, today, fifty-one years after his death, there is still a lot of work to do. The bad news is that there are dark forces in our culture today who are trying to make it acceptable – almost fashionable, even – to declare themselves as white supremacists, white nationalists, and even, racists. The good news – I think, maybe – is that the obstacles are a lot more out in the open now. There’s not much naïveté left.

The job is unfinished…but it is a job that is worth doing. The job, for you and I, is to do whatever we can to contribute to building a society where no one is judged “by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character.” Those words – Dr. King’s words – are loaded with meaning and power, my friends.

In the words of the theme song of the civil rights movement, “We shall overcome, someday.”

“So let’s not get tired of doing what is good. At just the right time we will reap a harvest of blessing if we don’t give up.”
‭‭Galatians‬ ‭6:9‬ ‭NLT

I love you all. ❤️🙏

*Note:  This was first posted (on Facebook) one year ago.

Nugget #1                                                ”Speak up for those who cannot speak for themselves; ensure justice for those being crushed. Yes, speak up for the poor and helpless, and see that they get justice.”  ‭‭Proverbs‬ ‭31:8-9‬ ‭NLT‬‬
God cares for the poor…the oppressed…the disadvantaged. He wants us to not only care, but — according to verse 9 — He calls us to “speak up” for them, and see that they get justice. 
Maybe we all need to pray that God would give us a heart of compassion for anyone less fortunate than ourselves…and resist the tendency to justify our advantages. That’s what the Pharisees did…and I think we know how Jesus felt about them. 

Nugget #2                                                  ”Who can find a virtuous and capable wife? She is more precious than rubies. Her husband can trust her, and she will greatly enrich his life. She brings him good, not harm, all the days of her life.”‭‭Proverbs‬ ‭31:10-12‬ ‭NLT‬‬  

Question: Who can find a virtuous wife?Answer:  Me!  (Sometimes, you just get lucky. 😜🤷🏻‍♂️)

Have a great Sunday, everyone!  I love you all. ❤️🙏

I didn’t think I would ever be writing about…THIS. 😳

I love to write.  Quite a few of you have commended me for being willing to tackle challenging issues. For about three years now, I’ve been writing about a lot of stuff:  personal experiences, loss, recovery, family, racism & race relations, faith, politics, sports…even abortion.  That’s plenty, don’t you think?  

Sex, and men misbehaving?  Nope. No way. Not a chance. Not going there. Never. 

NEVER say “never”. 🤦‍♂️ 

The attached article from USA TODAY is really what, kind of, slapped me upside my head.  I don’t want to “over-spiritualize” this, but… A Voice seemed to say, “Okay, Doug: you want to write?  You need to write SOMETHING about this, because it’s relevant, and it’s a real problem.” 

“Yeah, but…I don’t wanna.” 

I don’t know of ANY guy who wants to talk about this kind of stuff, because…well, we know, deep down, the kind of things that we are capable of trying to hide in some dark corner of our hearts.  As I write this, I’m sitting in a room, by myself.  And, I’m still embarrassed, and terrified.  I don’t feel qualified to write about this, except that, you know, I’m a guy. 🙄

NEWS FLASH:  Men struggle with sex. There. How’s that?  Finished?  Can I be done now??? 😬 

I guess Mr. Kraft is the latest “victim” of himself.  But, there HAVE been a few others, haven’t there?  The article — and you should read it — says “millions”…as in, millions of men who purchase sex from women (and children) every day.  And, the sexual aspect of this isn’t even close to being the worst part. It’s the slavery…and the abuse, and the violence, and the inhumanity that goes along with it. 

MILLIONS. EVERY DAY.  

Then, there’s R. Kelly, Bill Cosby, Harvey Weinstein, and, just TODAY, a high-ranking Vatican official…. Celebrities, politicians, CEOs, priests, mega pastors, televangelists….  Guys like me.  I mean, guys who LOOK like me. “Normal” guys.  Not me, though….🤥

Every man struggles with sex, on some level.  Pornography, which is itself a huge problem, further fuels the demand for the sex industry, and therefore sex trafficking.  

I’m 61-years-old. I still remember my first real exposure to pornography. I was a sophomore in college. BIBLE college. Studying for the ministry…. 

I walked into a convenience store less than a mile from campus to get…something. I don’t remember what it was, because I walked down an aisle in the store, turned a corner, and there was a display of porn magazines. Right in front of me. I can’t describe the various stages of decision-making that rapidly transpired in my teenage-adrenaline-fueled mind within seconds, but there was a chemical mixture that included fear, excitement, curiosity & rationalization. 

I picked up a magazine. 

For the next 5-10 minutes, I…looked. 🤥 Okay, maybe it was 15-20 minutes.  When I walked out of that store (it seemed to me like I slithered out), there were three main thoughts on my mind:  

1) I think I’m going to Hell. 

2) If someone from the college finds out about this, I’ll get kicked out of college BEFORE I go to Hell.  And…

3) I wanted to go back and look some more. 

Guilt, shame, fear…and attraction. 

Fortunately, I didn’t become a pornography addict. That doesn’t mean that I haven’t struggled with sexual temptation and sin.  Recently, I ran across this “statistic”:  “99% of men struggle with lust and the other 1% have a problem with lying.”

I heard a “variation” of that “statistical report”, years ago, when I was a teenager. 🤦‍♂️🤷🏻‍♂️

Anyway, I’m not saying all men are going to do the same things. I’ve never paid for sex, or had an affair.  However, I know — I understand — that like ANY and EVERY man, I’m completely capable of messing up: wrong place, wrong time, wrong woman, wrong frame of mind, bad decision…BOOM!  And, it’s done. Just thinking about it, and putting it down like this…my stomach starts tightening up like I’m going to be sick. It literally scares the $&#% out of me. 

So, what is my purpose, or goal, in writing about a delicate, embarrassing subject that 100% of men struggle with?  (By the way, I have no idea what the percentage is for women, or what their struggle might be like. I don’t WANT to know. I’ve been married to the same woman for forty years, and most of the time, I don’t understand her, so….🤦‍♂️)  Here’s a few things that seem significant to me right now: 

1. This problem: It’s embarrassing, and shameful. Officially. More and more revelations of men treating women, girls, and yes, even boys in terrible, horrible ways for their own gratification. Human beings being treated inhumanely…like slaves. The brutality of it is beyond words. 
2. Collateral damage. This is one thing that isn’t talked about nearly enough. In so many cases, the offenders are married men, with wives and children. What happens to them?  Men:  If you’re not going to think about the damage you’re doing to the person you’re using (and you should), think about the damage you’re doing to the people you love: wives, children, other family. I’ve seen the results of this damage.  It’s awful, and it often becomes repetitive, generationally. 
3. I know this isn’t a new problem. It’s been around as long as men, women, and sin. But, that doesn’t mean it’s not a big deal. The results are just as old, too. 
4. Men: This isn’t just about you, or me. Our sons, and daughters, and grandchildren are at risk. Think about them, too.  Starting today, be the dad, or the grandpa, that they can be proud of.  Hand them a legacy of integrity, and decency. They are worth fighting for. If you’re involved, or struggling, with this at any level, do whatever you have to do to separate yourself, and get “clean”. 
5. From a legal, and moral, standpoint, I think it’s important for everyone, all across our culture — Christians, atheists, Muslims, Republicans, Democrats, rich & poor — to do everything we can to stop human trafficking.

That’s all I’ve got right now.  I love you all. ❤️🙏

One afternoon in October, 1996, my dad drove his pickup truck, pulling a trailer loaded with lumber, into the woods of the family farm in central Missouri, where his brother lived. He parked the trailer underneath a huge oak tree he had selected as the perfect spot for an elevated deer stand. Then, he climbed 28-feet up, hoisted the tools and lumber he needed with an elaborate pulley-system he devised, and started working.  Dad was 67-years-old. 🙄

He had invited his older brother — my Uncle Fred — to join him, but Uncle Fred had his own project going, so he declined. However, about 30 minutes later, Uncle Fred reconsidered, thinking, “Sam probably shouldn’t be up there by himself….” 🤔  So, he made the 1/4 mile walk up through the woods to where Dad was already at work, almost 30-feet up. 

He was there less than five minutes when he watched my dad fall. 

Dad fell twenty-three feet, landing on top of the lumber that was stacked neatly in the trailer, shattering the bones in his right leg.  He bounced off of the trailer, and fell another five feet to the ground, landing on his back.  When his head snapped back against the ground, it found a 3-inch piece of rock sticking just barely out of the ground, splitting the back of his head open.  Thankfully, he never remembered any of it. 

When my uncle arrived back at the house, out of breath, waving his arms and crying, the family asked him what was wrong. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He couldn’t speak. Someone asked, “Is it Sam?”  He nodded, “Yes.”  

“Is he alive?”  

He shook his head, “No.” 

When they reached the site, they found my dad, Sam McGarity, sitting up, with his back against THE tree…dazed, bleeding, in shock…but alive. 

In the ambulance, on the way to the hospital, Dad told the paramedics, and I quote, “It wasn’t the fall that hurt me. It was the sudden stop at the end.”  It was only about the millionth time that he had used that line. 🤦‍♂️

I will never forget driving from Houston to Missouri with my wife, Dee, and stopping in Oklahoma to call the hospital to see if my dad was still alive. 

A month later, the doctor told us, “I spent the first two days trying to save his life, and the next two weeks trying to save his leg.”  He was successful on both counts. (Yay, God, and way to go, Doc!)

However, it dramatically changed the quality of Dad’s life for the remaining nineteen years of his life. In 2008, not too long before Dad came to live with us, as I was helping him maneuver between his recliner and his walker one day, he surprised me by saying, “Son, if I could have just one day of my life to do over, I would have never gotten up in that tree.”  He said it with such understated conviction in his voice, it shocked me. It disturbed me. I don’t ever remember him expressing that kind of deep regret before. 

Do you have one of those days in your history?  A day that you deeply, and painfully, regret?  A day that, in your mind, has stamped you…defined you?  More than one, maybe?  What do you think your chances are for a do-over?  

I can tell you. Your chances of a do-over for THAT day are exactly the same as they were for my dad. 

Zero. 

That’s the bad news.  The good news is that there are OTHER days that are available to you. Unused days. Days that are still out there, waiting. Waiting for YOU…to LIVE them. Days that God has given to you…and me, too. 

My dad?  In the nineteen years he had left, among other things, he moved from Missouri to Texas, watched his grandsons play ball, attended one of his grandson’s wedding, met his first two GREAT-grandchildren, bought a new house, and — after my mother had passed away — got married. At the age of 75. Yes, there were some rough days…some regrets. But, he “lived”. 

Can I tell you that in my life, I’ve had more than a few regrets?  Painful ones. I wasn’t always confident that I could ever be happy again. But, can I also tell you that I’ve had more than a few comebacks, too.  And, I’m doing everything I can to try to live. 

Every. Day. 

I don’t know what your story is, or what kind of regrets, and broken dreams, you’re dealing with. I’m not trying to minimize your pain, or your grief. I’m just sayin’…you can still LIVE. And life can be good. The sun can shine on you again. 

In Psalm 27:13, the Psalmist says, “I remain confident of this: I will see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living.”  

My dad did. I see that goodness every day. You can, too. I hope you’ll give it your best shot. Don’t quit. There are unused days out there in front of you, just waiting to be lived. And, it never hurts to ask for Divine help, either. 

I love you all. ❤️🙏