Pam and I ate at Five Guys (Times Corners) on Saturday. As we ate, a young woman–late 20s, I figured–came in wearing a hijab and what I will describe, in no doubt unlearned lingo, as Middle Eastern attire. As she picked up her order, one of the employees, a young black fellow, engaged her in brief conversation. She responded with a big smile and abundant personality.

As she ate, I kept glancing her way. She was just an ordinary young woman eating a cheeseburger and fries while reading a book. Yet she also represented the fears and hatred of so many Americans. I considered going over and asking her if people in Fort Wayne ever gave her a hard time about being Muslim, but I didn’t. I assume she endures some of that, like derogatory remarks thrown her way from passing cars.

Another thing occurred to me. Everybody in that restaurant knew she was (most likely) a Muslim. Nobody knew I was a Christian.

As the woman finished her meal and headed for the door, the young black man behind the counter called out, “Thanks for coming, ma’am.” He didn’t say that to anyone else–just her. I’m going to guess that he was trying, in a small way, to compensate for the attitude of so much of society. Good for him. We should all think that way.

Rev. Burton Lange passed away on Monday morning, June 22. He was an amazing pianist, and funny as all get out. For 40 years, he pastored United Brethren churches in Pennsylvania and Virginia. He was a Huntington University alum, as was his youngest son, Jerry Lange.

In 1967, Burt Lange was the evangelist at Junior Camp at Rhodes Grove Camp and Conference Center in Chambersburg, Pa. He spoke each night and gave an altar call. One night some friends were going to the altar, and they nudged me to go with them. I did. I don’t remember anything else about that night. It wasn’t my night.

My night was the next night. That’s when the Holly Spirit grabbed my heart. I got up to go forward. “You went last night,” a friend said. “I know.” And I kept going. That night, at age 9, I gave my life to Christ and haven’t ever doubted what happened.

Several years ago, I reminded Burt Lange of this and thanked him for the role he played in my Christian life. “With your upbringing,” he humbly told me, “if it wasn’t me, it would have been somebody else.” He’s right. It would have been somebody else. But it wasn’t. It was Burt Lange.

And so tonight I’m remembering that summer night, that walk to the altar, that old tabernacle which was torn down about ten years ago. And I’m remembering the counselor who awaited me on the other side of that altar, the man I knelt across from. The man I called last Sunday night to thank for being my Dad. I remember he was weeping. “Do you know what you’re doing, Son?” he finally asked. “I think so,” I replied. He explained some things to me, and then led me in a salvation prayer.

THAT was my night.

Burt Lange, and my Dad, classmates at Huntington College. Forever intertwined in my spiritual journey.

In 9th or 10th grade, I bought a pack of cigarettes (it was Winston), rode my motorcycle out into the Arizona desert, and smoked 5 or 6 of them. I didn’t know how to smoke, and wanted to figure it out on my own, without anyone watching. I didn’t want to make a fool of myself.

I’ve (happily) never smoked since. But let me tell you the backstory.

Dick and Nora Lundy were a fabulous couple at my United Brethren church in Lake Havasu City, Ariz. They ran Lundy’s Diner. They also built a big lodge in the Hualapai Mountains, about 60 miles away. It would host church retreats.

Three of us from the youth group spent a couple weekends helping Dick with construction. Tom Wilson and Tim Armour were fairly new Christians. And me. It was a blast. We worked hard, and the Lundys fed us royally. Dick was a big, jovial guy, somewhere well above six feet. We held our breath every time he ventured onto the makeshift scaffolding he cobbled together from scrap pieces of 2x4s and plywood. It always held, but only by divine intervention.

On one perfectly calm star-lit night, the three of us sat outside the lodge just chillin’. out. That’s when Tom and Tim pulled out some “supplies” and began rolling their own cigarettes. They offered to make me one. I said no thanks. Are you sure? Yep, no thanks, but you go ahead.

It wasn’t a principled no. I said no because I’d never smoked before and feared making a fool of myself. I didn’t want to leave Tim and Tom and the Lundys with the burden of explaining to my parents how their firstborn son asphyxiated himself in the Hualapais.

I watched Tim and Tom sit back against large rocks and leisurely puff away, with tiny tendrils of smoke wafting skyward. The stars, the fresh mountain air, the pine trees all around–it was so tranquil, so peaceful. Nicotine addiction played no role. They were just young Christians relaxing after a very long day of servanthood.

I wished I had said yes. Even now, I do. I feel like I missed sharing a very special moment of community with my friends in the Lord. As I watched them sitting there smoking away, they were so at peace with the world. Me? I was thinking more about my ambivalence and discomfort, and felt a bit envious. I wanted to join them. I really did. Having a cup of coffee in my hands might have accomplished the same thing, but I was 7 years away from trying coffee. In that moment, a cigarette just seemed perfect.

After finishing one cigarette, my memory is that Tim and Tom smoked a regular cigarette. When it was done, they were done. And then we just sat there a while longer under the heavens.

Reflecting on that specific moment, in that specific context–yes, a cigarette would have been just right. Just one. I should have told Tim, “Sure, I’ll take a cigarette, if you’ll show me how it works.” Just one cigarette, nursing it slowly, while gazing into that vast sky with my friends in Christ.

In the 40 years since, I’ve never had a sense that God would have minded. As long as it went no farther than that. And that’s why, if this situation ever arose again (which it never did), I wanted to be prepared.

I began the day by stepping, barefooted, into soft cat poo placed strategically just outside our bedroom door. It was no doubt Murphy, though I couldn’t prove it in a court of law, especially now that I have decontaminated the crime scene (and my foot). Our long-haired Murphy seems to have difficulty cleaning his nether regions. Even my low-powered olfactory system goes on alert when he enters the room.

So, I did a relevant Google search, and came up with numerous forums in which people discuss this malady, which appears to be quite common. I learned a great deal, including the usage of technical terms like “crusties” and “dingleberries.” People offered a variety of solutions, which included using such items as baby wipes, rounded scissors, Vaseline (you heard me), high-protein food, and fine-mist spray bottles. One person suggested, “Fire–it’s the only solution.”

Stinky Boy, sensing that evil machinations were afoot regarding his tender parts, decided to jump on me and play Lovable Lap Kitty. After cleaning himself everywhere but “down there,” he went to sleep for 30 minutes, sprawled open-faced. I can’t resist lovable, regardless of the smell. However, this afternoon I plan to run my recliner through the car wash.

Just on a whim, I began the day by going to Amazon and doing a search on “diapers.” I’m curious to see how many diaper ads appear on web pages I peruse during the day.

Sure enough, ads for diapers have been calling for my attention all day. Here’s what turned up on a BBC page.