I had just finished my junior year in college at Birmingham Southern. I had my best year ever playing baseball, leading the team in batting average, homeruns, doubles and second in RBIs, earning me the Most Valuable Player award. We had a real good team and went all the way to the NAIA College World Series. Even though we were "two and BBQ" -- meaning we lost the first two games we played and were out of the tournament -- I made the All-Tournament team. Professional scouts were asking about me during the post season tournaments. I genuinely loved the game of baseball, something I'd inherited from my father who was a teacher/baseball coach for forty-plus years. Like many, my dream was to play baseball professionally. But after my junior year in college, baseball, which was everything to me at that time, was over for me. For good.

I lost my scholarship, a full ride. I had started using drugs five years earlier during my senior year in high school and had slowly, insidiously lost control and now pursued "happiness" instead of "joy" as short-term, immediate gratification became the ideal by which I lived. I only went to classes once that semester and failed to take my final exams because I didn't bother to make arrangements with my professors to accommodate our post-season schedule. I failed three classes and lost it all. The salt in that wound was my complete lack of desire to pursue my declared major of business. I was at a loss in life. No direction. No desire. Nothing. I moved back home to Atlanta, living with my parents. This only served to remind me of my shortcomings. I was working for minimum wages and felt like a loser.

One day I noticed in the paper that The City of Atlanta was recruiting police officers. A college degree was not required. I had always been attracted to the law and dreamed beyond the normal childhood stuff of becoming either a policeman or a lawyer. Here was my chance, I thought, to do something with my life. Passion was awakened in me for the first time in many months.

I showed up at the recruiting office with eagerness pounding in my chest. I met all the requirements except one. Drugs. All recruits had to pass a polygraph test showing they had been drug free for the previous six months. Over the past five years I had developed a pattern of binging on cocaine every six to ten weeks. Surely I could handle six months, I thought. I signed up for the Civil Service Test, vowing to come back in a few months. They would be recruiting for a year. My hopes remained high.

I stayed drug free for three months. Then came the night of February 22, 1983. That dreadful night. It would change the course of my and four other's lives forever. It was a Monday night, an occasional drizzle, in the high forties or low fifties. I didn't have to be at work until 1pm the next day. I was bored, restless and lonely. All the signs were there. But I was oblivious to what I now know as obvious -- to a recovering addict, "bored, restless and lonely" are "def-con 4" warning signs that Satan himself is hovering just below conscious radar detection waiting for one moment of weakness into which he'll pour his magic potion, only to leave you parched in pain soon thereafter. But to a practicing addict, such as I was at that time, "bored, restless and lonely" would lead to a "couple of beers," only to find oneself hours later nose deep in the corner of a sandwich baggy hoping their most recent deposit has cleared the bank.

I was oblivious and addiction is crafty. My desire to use eased in like the first twitch of a butterfly's wings still in the cocoon: hardly noticed. I think I'll go over to my ex-girlfriend's house and play the piano awhile, I thought. I hopped on my motorcycle and headed to her house. I picked up a six pack on the way. Nobody was home, so I let myself in (with permission). After over an hour of playing it was around 9pm and I decided to call my friend, Jeff, to see what they were up to. Jeff, his wife, Susan, and I graduated in the same class in high school. Jeff and I had also shared an apartment one summer a couple of years back.

Jeff and Susan had been out that night with Clay and Flora, whom I did not know, and they had decided to take a road trip to Helen, Georgia which was about an hour and a half north of Atlanta. Jeff didn't say why they were going to Helen and I didn't ask, but I knew in my gut I didn't need to go. I told myself that I would stick to my alcohol and just enjoy the company. I could tell Jeff wasn't crazy about me joining up with them, but he said if I wanted to, I was to rendezvous with them at a specified Texaco station on Atlanta's perimeter at 10pm. He emphasized that if I was not there at 10 o'clock they would go on without me. By the time we hung up it was ten after nine. I played the piano for a short while longer and then headed out. I had my six less one wrapped and strapped on the back of my motorcycle. The Texaco was twenty minutes away, so I wasn't in a hurry. I was moving with the flow of traffic down Roswell Road when I saw the spinning blue lights. I was doing 47 in a 35. Nobody went 35 on this five lane road, so I fully expected this Atlanta cop to be a first class jerk with something to prove. Wrong. He was incredibly laid back, even courteous, smiling the whole time he wrote up my speeding ticket.

While the cop was writing my ticket, several things dawned on me. How ironic that I got pulled over by one of the very police force that I wanted to join. I had three months clean and I needed three more. Was this God trying to tell me to get on my bike and go home? Although I had not been living a Godly life, I certainly believed in the existence of God and had had a relationship with him in my early teens. Maybe he was trying to warn me. To join Jeff and friends would clearly jeopardize my chances of becoming a policeman. With this thought nagging me in one direction, I eyed my five remaining beers wrapped in a paper bag and strapped to the back of my motorcycle. I couldn't believe the cop hadn't asked about them. It was so obvious what they were. Finally, the kind cop handed me my ticket, mentioned the date of traffic court and said goodbye. With him, the blue lights and the squawking police radio all leaving at once, it was suddenly very quiet, even peaceful. I hung my head. I took a deep breath and let it out. I knew I should go home. By now I would be fifteen minutes late for the rendezvous anyway and Jeff had said they would go on without me. Just in time, the addict in me came up with a brilliant rationalization: Proceed on to the Texaco -- yes, they've probably come and gone by now, but maybe you'll see them -- whichever way it plays out, you'll know it was meant to be. Typical diseased thinking of an addict, but again I was oblivious.

I arrived at the Texaco about fifteen after ten. Jeff's car was not there. Surely they had come and gone, I thought. But my desire to use convinced me to hang for a little while and see if they showed up. Ten minutes went by. No sign. Twenty minutes. Nothing. Thirty, forty. By now my sitting there was bordering on the absurd. Surely they were half way to Helen by now. Why am I still here? What am I doing! I knew that once I connected up with them and got drunk that it was going to be next to impossible not to do more. The wait in the corner of the Texaco parking lot was like a forty-five minute cold shower, especially on the heels of getting a speeding ticket, and provided me with an opportunity to do some intermittent rational thinking, for truth to seep in and do battle with my desire to get high. And battle they did -- truth versus lies, obedience versus desire. It seemed like an eternity, and I was paralyzed under the spell of such a battle. In the end, it was a text book example of that often hard to grasp principle: In this fallen world, to not choose at all is to choose the darkness. Almost an hour after the appointed time, Jeff's silver two-door compact slowly turned into the Texaco and rolled up to an empty gas pump. The good in me berated myself for still being there -- the part of me that wanted to get high was thrilled to see them. Two unmistakable opportunities to do the right thing had presented themselves to me, and I had passed on both. My destiny was sealed the moment I saw them turn into the Texaco. Or was it?

With the purchase of a tank of gas and a case of beer behind us, we five jammed into Jeff's tiny two-door and headed to Helen, Ga. I had expended a lot of energy the last hour battling and ultimately ignoring what I knew to be the will of God and that ate at my gut and gnawed at my bones. But I drank my second and third beers and soon found comfort in the solidarity of purpose all of us in the car shared. How often had I heard the voice of reason calling and just turned the radio up and ignored him?

About fifteen minutes west of Gainesville, Ga., maybe an hour into the trip, Jeff strayed out over the yellow line while taking a sharp curve to the right and, realizing his mistake, jerked it back over to our side of the road. No harm done. But for a brief few seconds, we three in the back seat stared at each other in disbelief. I don't know about the others, but I thought Jeff shouldn't be driving. He doesn't make mistakes like that. And then I wondered for the first time - how much partying had they done before I hooked up with them tonight? With maybe four beers in me by that time, one of which I'd had over three and a half hours ago, I had to be the most qualified to drive. I let it go without comment, but my concern was getting harder to ignore.

Fifteen minutes later, God presented me with my third and final opportunity to escape tragedy or perhaps redirect it when Jeff suddenly pulled the car on to the dirt shoulder for a pee break. We were in the middle of nowhere in the black of night just outside of Cleveland, GA not far from Helen. Jeff and I ended up choosing a spot where we could talk away from the others. I asked Jeff if I could drive. He said no and I asked him why not. Jeff explained that we were actually going a good ways past Helen to a house that was over the state line in North Carolina. He went on to say that, if I drove, my asking for and receiving directions at every turn would highlight the fact that we were past Helen and/or in North Carolina. Jeff didn't want the others to know this and his hope was that we'd be having enough fun in the backseat not to notice that we had passed Helen, much less how far we had gone past it.

So, there I was, sitting on the edge of that razor blade for maybe five seconds that seemed like thirty, trying to decide whether or not to blow this gig wide open and demand to drive. I was somewhat miffed for being lied to about where we were going as this trip was going to take at least two hours longer than I had thought but, truth be told, I still would have gone. That Jeff had drifted over the yellow line in that curve was still heavy on my mind, but this sobering thought kept bumping up against a brick wall that wasn't going away -- the cold, hard fact that I wanted to get high. And none of us, of course, knew there were lives and a lifetime of consequences hanging in the balance. In the end, I decided to drop the issue and keep my mouth shut. God, forgive me, but I wanted to get high.

We climbed back into the car and 14.2 miles down the road we had the wreck. Thankfully, there were no other cars involved. After a long, downhill straightaway, the road took a soft left-hand turn but we just kept going straight. Our right-side wheels started down the steep shoulder on the right-hand side of the road but then a driveway veered off to the right. We hit the shoulder of that driveway square on going 70 mph and this launched us airborne straight over (perpendicular to) the drive. There was a steep fifteen foot drop off on the other side of the driveway and we were airborne for forty or fifty feet, long enough for the front of the car to tip downward until we slammed headlong into an 8' x 8' concrete slab on the ground. Who on this earth has an eight foot square concrete slab in their front yard near where the driveway meets the street? And what are the odds that we'd hit that slab dead center -- bull's-eye. There is a very significant difference between the collision impact loads of concrete versus the ground, and it was the initial impact that caused the brunt injuries that killed Jeff and Susan and sent the missile shaped well that houses the suspension system up through the back of the bench seat and into my and Clay's back on both sides of the car. The car then rolled four or five times and landed on its wheels, but was pretty much demolished.

Two hours later, I woke up in the hospital emergency room to the blood-curdling screams of Clay in the cubicle next to me. I noticed that I felt no pain. I noticed that I felt nothing. I intuitively knew that we'd had a bad wreck, that people had died, and that I was paralyzed. Within seconds of opening my eyes, a doctor rushed into the room to the foot of my bed and started poking each of my toes with a needle. After each poke, he looked up and asked me if I could feel it. After the fourth or fifth toe, he stopped looking me in the eye before asking me the question. Somewhere around the sixth or seventh toe my soul went numb. I soon found out that Jeff and Susan had been killed instantly. Clay had shattered every bone in the right side of his body. I had a small tear in my colon that required surgery the next morning. All three of us in the back seat were paralyzed for life.

For many years I put on an outward image of strength by getting a law degree and practicing for several years. But the wheels around me were a secret source of anger, fear and sadness. There came a day (twenty years ago now) when I finally let go of this burden. When I did, a great empty space was created, into which the water of life of the Lord flowed. I now know that He tried to warn me (and no doubt all of us) three times that fateful night, and I, like Peter, ultimately denied him his say. Not anymore. Now when anger, fear and sadness rear their ugly heads, I am filled, not with an incomplete, imperfect magic potion, but with the water of life, the Lord, who never leaves me thirsty.

Rendezvous

Both wheels underneath turning

Burning up the road

Headed desperately towards my rendezvous

The voice of reason calling out to me

In a mystery

If I'd only known that it was you

Blue lights they are spinning

Policeman he is grinning

Reminding me of promises once made

Gently you're insisting

And then there's me resisting

Feels like you're raining down on my parade

Back on track afraid I've already missed

The meeting planned for this corner parking lot

Cold is in while I'm waiting for them

Considering

Whether they've come and gone or not

And just before eleven my eyes turn toward the heavens

I start to feel desire stayed

Gently you’re insisting

And then I start resisting

Feels like you're raining down on my parade

Last chance I am standing beside the road demanding

For all concerned that I drive

But then he starts explaining the deal we're entertaining

Dictates that I must ride

Blue lights they are spinning

Policeman he's not grinning

Reminding me of promises once made

Gently you insisted

And kindly I resisted

Felt you were raining down on my parade

"Hey, you, over there in the corner. You've been there for 21 years. Haven't said a word. What's up with you, anyway?"
"Who, me?" said the Stud.
"Yeah, you. Wake up. I said what's up with you, anyway?"
The Stud looked down at the ground, thinking of memories past. Suddenly, he looked up, saying, "You really wanna know?"
They just looked at him. Waiting.
"I was just remembering. I do that a lot. I guess it's almost all I do now. It's all I am. Memories. When I was thirteen years old and threw the no hitter for the state championship in Pony league. Man, that was awesome. It all came down to that last pitch. 3-2 count. Two outs. Bases loaded. Last inning. We're winning 2-1. One pitch for the state championship. [Pause]. I wasn't even scared. No fear. Just focus. Now that's the definition of being alive, man! Pure adrenalin. Total rush. Yet legal. None of that drug crap. That's clearly bad for you. But this was sports. But also that rush. Nothing bad in that is there? Or was it? Anyway. Total focus. I was living that moment to it's fullest. It just doesn't get any better than that. That's life, isn't it? I knew I had to throw a fastball. The batter knew it would be a fastball. Everybody there knew a fastball was coming. Even more living in the present. No more secrets. It was like, "Here, world. You're all focused on me. You know what I'm going to do. It's simply a matter of whether I can execute or not." I still feel it when I remember it. The wind up. The release. It was perfect. Man I'm good. Perfect. Not over the middle of the plate. Not thigh high. No, I'm too good for that. I painted the low, outside corner. Perfect fastball. It was so perfect it froze the batter. He wouldn't dare offer at such perfection. It would be like swinging at a pitch from God himself. But a god of no grace. Just sheer determination to win. This god would not lose. Could not lose. All the battter could hope for was some grace from the umpire. None coming. He rung him up. Called strike three. Game over. No hitter. State champions. And the world shook while this god, me, had an orgasm like no other. For those moments in time, the world, all at that park, delighted in no other, only me. I was a god."
I think back to those magical moments often. Hm. All the time. That's all I have now. The memories. The state championship in high school. With my father as my coach. Pleasing him so well. Making him love me. I know it pleased him."
"Why are you crying right now? You cry so deeply."
"I don't know. I guess I just never felt how my father loved me. I know he did here, in my mind. But I didn't feel it. See it. I needed to feel it. See it. Touch it. The only time I got anything that I remember was when I did well in sports. I had to do something special to see him smile at me. Put his arms around me. Love me. [Pause]. That's why I cry."
I remember playing quarterback my junior year. Even God wanted me to play quarterback that year, taking out Beckham with that injury. The baseball game against North Cobb my senior year. Two homeruns, two doubles. A third homerun that went foul. I was in the zone that day. Catching my junior year. I had a cannon. Nobody could steel on me. Nobody. Not even the fast boys at Gordon high school. They were shocked. No cross over step. I would just stand, pivot on my back leg. And gun. I would hear people in the stands talking about my arm after throwing someone out. Leading the team in hitting in every category at B'ham Southern. Going to the college world series. Making the all-tournament team. The scouts asking about me there. The regional tournament before that where I went 3-4. The opening day of that season against Will Clark's team where I went 4-4, a homerun, two doubles, and a single. On and on and on, I could go."
Memories. Without my legs, I can't go make some more. No, that was taken from me. Tell me why. I was not a bad person. I was not conceited about my talent. I never bragged. I just did it. I was good. You made me that way. You gave it to me. It was me. And then you took it away. Why? Why give it to me at all if you're going to take it away from me? That's why I've been in the corner so long. Why not? I can't perform for you anymore. It'll never be the same. Nobody wants to here me ramble about my memories. Without my legs, I'm worthless. I'm just a dried up has been. The rest of you go on and do your thing. I'll just sit over here and watch. That's what I am now. No longer the athlete. I'm just one in a crowd. I'm just a spectator.

I find myself in a spiritual quandry right now.

Simply put, I need and desire more of our Lord. I feel dry. I'm feeling left behind. I sense that the Lord has so much more to offer than I experience of him daily. I feel for me to continue growing, that I must have more of Him. Scripture tells us that this is true.

Wisdom, knowledge, faith, healing, miraculous powers, prophecy, distinguishing between spirits, speaking in different kinds of tongues and interpretation of tongues. Where are these gifts of his Spirit in our church today? We seem to focus on so very few gifts of the Spirit--wisdom, administration, teaching, preaching and mercy--and assign them to so very few in our congregations (mostly paid staff members). Is this the way of the Word?

Again, what has happened to wisdom, knowledge, faith, healing, miraculous powers, prophecy, distinguishing between spirits and tongues? When is the last time someone was healed in your church? Better yet, who in your church has been blessed with the gift of healing? And who is the prophet in my church? On and on ... In my church, it's as if these things do not exist anymore. As if, with the passage of time, the Lord is losing some of his power in his church. It seems as if our freedom in his Spirit has been restricted to a few very predictable things. Can we say, "God in a box?"

And the same goes for our worship of the Lord. The Psalms talk on and on about what we would call serious "partying" to the Lord in praising him. Make music, music, music. Praise him, praise him, praise him. And dance, dance to the Lord in joy. The Bible speaks of dancing 27 times. Only three times is it spoken of as shamefully employed--once to the fatted calf, once to an altar to Baal, and once it was Herodias seducing Herod. All other references to dancing are positive, uplifting and full of joy. Apparently dancing was a common way to express praise to the Lord. You get the feeling that when there was music, there was dancing to the Lord. When is the last time you or I danced to the Lord in our church?

So where can I find a church seeking the Lord in all his power and not ashamed to worship him with our all? Don't hear me wrong, I don't think that each and every church is expected to be employing each and every spiritual gift regularly, and be playing each and every instrument listed in Scripture regarding the praise of our Lord. But it does seem to be a necessary requirement that any true church will acknowledge, be open to and seek these gifts and forms of worship that are found in Scripture.

Yes, there are churches tapping into some of these gifts and forms of worship not seen in the typical western Protestant church today. But I've yet to find one that doesn't seem to be either way out of balance, i.e., over emphasizing one or two of the items discussed above, or employing a gift or form of worship not found in Scripture.

Lord, help us to seek and find ALL of you!