Don’t Shoot the Messenger

From the 14th floor of my hotel, electronic trumpets sounded from beneath the hoods of modern day, four-wheeled iron chariots. The noise echoed for blocks. I was in town to cover the annual meeting of the Southern Baptist Convention. Never in my wildest dreams did I believe I would be struggling to get some shut-eye among this normally tranquil crowd.

Had Baptists taken to the streets in protest? Why all the excitement? Was there an emergency? Had there been an invasion? Was the building on fire? Why would hundreds of otherwise civil people be pounding their automobile horns at 11 p.m.?
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When it came to sports, I was always Mr. Average. I’ve ridden plenty of pine in my day. I remember one particular basketball game where no matter who the coach pulled from the bench, we weren’t going to win. As the clock ticked down to less than one minute, I remember thinking, whatever happens, please don’t send me in now.

Then it happened. It was as if life shifted into slow motion as the coach looked down the bench and yelled, “Sanders! Sanders you’re in the game.” No not now, I thought! Wow, a whole 40 seconds to turn the game around. Why doesn’t he just send me to the locker room for towels or something?
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The gallon jug of the doctor’s potion sat on the kitchen counter staring me down much like Goliath looked down his nose at the Israelites in the Valley of Elah. What had I gotten myself into? How would I ever devour this awful tasting gunk before I went to bed? Not to mention deal with the so-called, “cleansing effect.” Nonetheless, I mustered the strength following a day of prescribed fasting and faced the medicine one big gulp at a time.

I was convinced that consuming a gallon of cleansing concoction would be no sweat. Halfway through the second hour, I was pleading for mercy. As much as I hated it, I knew if my colon exam was to be effective, I had to prepare the temple, so to speak. No way was the doctor going to blame a failed procedure on me. This Goliath was going down. By the final hour, I was begging for a break. My entire family was cheering me on. At last, the giant was slain, and I was the victor-so I thought. The final victory did not come until the wee hours of the morning.
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At what point does a cucumber become a pickle? Once you are a pickle, you are pickled. Try as you might, there is nothing you can do to return a pickle to its native state. You would have better luck trying to get chewed bubble gum back to its original form than to transform a pickle into a cucumber. Come to think of it, trying to fit into the same blue jeans I wore in high school could have the same result. It’s not going to happen!

Have you ever heard someone say, “I’m not an alcoholic; I just drink a little often.” At what point does a casual social drinker become a drunk? That’s easy, after one drink too many. It’s not worth the risk in my book. Once you’re an alcoholic, you are always an alcoholic.
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Nearly 45 years ago, back in 1962, a young, 15-year-old girl from a very small town had to make a critical life-or-death decision. It’s not every day that a bright, beautiful and popular teenage girl is faced with such a tough decision.

A considerably older and handsome hometown boy took particular interest in the new pretty girl at school. She appeared much more mature physically than she actually was. Mutual attraction and the fun they shared as neighbors led from one thing to another. Before long, they were spending more and more time together, alone. Looking for love, they compromised their convictions and gave way to their passions.

The lapse in judgment and subsequent moral failure resulted in an unplanned pregnancy in a day and age when nothing but shame was associated with such actions. Accepting the consequences and hiding the obvious was only one of few options. Terminating the pregnancy was the easy way out. No one had to know. The family’s little secret could remain at home. Life as usual could continue.

She may have been young, but she was incredibly courageous. The thought of facing her classmates in maternity clothes was almost unbearable. Like most small towns, everyone knew everyone else’s business. Being pressured to drop out of school was almost more than she could take. Despite the temptation to take care of the problem with a simple doctor’s office visit, she did the honorable thing and gave her baby a chance at life.

The young couple married, and a nine- pound baby boy was born in the winter of 1963. Holding the baby in her arms melted any doubt that she had made the right choice. Certainly, the actions that led to this day had disappointed many. Nor was this the life she had always dreamed of. But how could anyone claim this bundle of joy cooing at her side was nothing but a gift from God?

The baby boy she held in her arms was me. I am incredibly proud that my teenage mother gave her kid a chance. Sure, she made a mistake, but she also realized two wrongs don’t make a right. My life became a living testimony of Romans 8:28. “We know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.” How could she have ever known that her little boy, conceived in sin, would someday become the executive editor of one of the leading faith-based publications in the country? She didn’t, but God did.

Unfortunately, many misguided doctors, politicians and parents don’t give kids like me a chance. Instead, they shed innocent blood in the name of choice. The only choice, according to God, is life. We must do all we can to encourage mothers to give kids a chance. This is one kid who is glad his momma did!

Gov. Brad Henry vetoed a bill April 18 that would have prohibited abortions to be performed with any state dollars except when the mother’s life is in danger. Senate Bill 714 would prohibit public funds and state-run hospitals from being used for abortions. The bill also requires Oklahomans to take out additional health insurance polices to cover elective abortions.

Henry vetoed the bill, saying, “It’s a very difficult decision for me. I do not issue this veto lightly. I believe every abortion is a tragedy, and I have a strong record of support for common-sense, reasonable restrictions on abortion.”

“I am extremely disappointed by the veto of SB 714 by Gov. Henry,” said Anthony L. Jordan, executive director-treasurer of the Baptist General Convention of Oklahoma. “The evidence is clear. Abortion destroys human life. While pro-abortion doctors and others have confused facts, it does not change the truth that the majority of Oklahomans are opposed to abortion. Taxpayers should not be required to pay for abortions with tax dollars.

“I am calling on all pro-life and tax conscience citizens to contact their legislator and insist that the legislature vote to override Gov. Henry’s veto of SB 714. Be assured, we will do everything possible to see that SB14 becomes law.”

Many in the medical community have come out against the bill, saying it erodes the doctor/patient relationship and ties a doctor’s hands in making tough medical decisions.

They have said the bill’s language is vague, causing them concern over what interpretations might be placed on that language in court.

The measure would permit an abortion in a state facility if the mother’s life is in danger. An abortion wouldn’t be allowed in the case of rape or incest. Opponents say exceptions should be made for a fatal defect in the fetus.

For more information and to download printable materials, visit http://www.bgco.org/stoptheveto

The journey to the mission field had been taxing. Even with modern transportation, it took us several days to arrive at our final destination. Cancelled flights, ticket errors and equipment failures contributed to our frustration. Despite the challenges, we were excited to team up with International Mission Board missionaries for a short-term mission assignment.

Once the jet lag wore off, we were ready to do our best assisting the missionaries. The difficulties we faced getting to the mission field paled in comparison to the challenges these heroes of the faith faced on a daily basis. Their calling kept them in the fray. They learned long ago there is no guarantee of comfort in a calling.
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It happened again recently, my 7-year- old diabetic daughter experienced an insulin reaction that dropped her blood sugar to extremely low levels. Only the Lord knows what the outcome may have been had some very unusual circumstances not altered the course of events.

Like most people, I was in deep sleep at three o’clock in the morning. My dreams were interrupted with the sound of shattered glass. As you can imagine, I jumped to my feet ready to investigate the cause and defend my family against any would-be intruder.
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There is a nightly ritual at the Sanders’ house. During this regular routine, I have experienced some of my most cherished memories with my kids. Once our small army has scrubbed behind their ears, brushed their teeth and tidied their rooms, they turn out the lights, jump in bed and wait for Dad to make the rounds. With six kids, making the rounds has been known to take more than an hour, but it is something I wouldn’t miss for the world.

Every night, I make a pit stop in each bedroom. While my actions have become predictable, the varied reactions I receive make the experience rich. My kids now confess it is hard for them to go to sleep without Dad stopping by.
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Death came knocking, and he was ready. The recent loss of my 91-year-old grandfather has given me reason to pause and reflect on the key ingredients for a life lived well.

For more than 91 years, my grandfather was an active, vibrant man. Growing up in the Depression put him in search of a better way of life. Hard work, determination and wit were the keys to his success. He epitomized what it means to be a self-made man. Despite his success, he was anything but selfish. He was a giver in every way.
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