one voice against toyota

Down on third street in my little town, a tiny Dutch bakery sits between a smattering of second-hand and specialty stores. Early in a day, you can smell the loaves of crusty white and wheat and rye bread rising in their back-room ovens. You can enjoy a whiff of chocolate, whipped up for slathering on the cake donuts. You catch a hint of cookies baked with spices you can't quite identify.

But I don't go there in the early morning. I go there at 11:00 and I wait quietly and patiently at the back lunch counter--ala Jerry and George standing at the Soup Nazi's counter--and indulge an irrational hope that this time, the woman who takes my order won't sigh audibly or purse her lips when I ask her to substitute tomatoes for cranberries on my turkey sandwich.

To date, she's never been nice to me. As the matriarch of that Dutch clan (and presumed owner), she's got better things to do than play nice with the customers. Why else would she frost her tone with that thin glaze of irritation? She's got an edge. It says, "Make this quick and make sure you say thank you." I'm terrified of her.

But I go back, again and again. I'll go until they close the doors. I'll look away when she tries to eye-pin me, and hunt in my wallet for smaller bills when she complains about my $20, and slink to the far corner of the shop to wait for my lunch. Why? Because she makes the best turkey sandwiches on the planet.

It's one thing to endure bad customer treatment when the product is worth trembling over. It's quite another when its' a lemon.

Bear with me for this post. It's a departure from my usual, but I feel a need this morning to obey the mandate laid out in Proverbs 31:8-9:

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. (NLT)

My good friend, Pastor John Duncan, lives in Lake Elsinore, California in a modest white house with a pool in the backyard, a forty-year old parrot named Barney in the living room, and John's lovely wife, Debbie, bedridden in the back room. Debbie has Multiple Sclerosis. And because John is the kind of man he is, she's his sole concern. He keeps her company, keeps her in good supply of Diet Coke and Turner Classic movies, keeps her safe. In ten years, Debbie has never had a bedsore. He's a kind man, a good man, and a wonderful husband.

John pastored Calvary Chapel Lake Elsinore for almost 30 years, before a severe heart attack sidelined him last fall. His heart is only pumping at 25% capacity--up from 16% when he landed in the emergency room. He's been told by his doctors that any day could be his last. And while that's true of us all, most of us don't wake every morning wondering.

The combination of John's heart failure and Debbie's need for care caused a change at Calvary Chapel Lake Elsinore earlier this spring. John called forward another shepherd from within his flock, prayed over him, cried with his congregation, and stepped aside. He's been home ever since, trying to adjust to life apart from his fellowship.

The church was good to him. They've helped in any way they could, which included the gift of a car. Because of John's condition and the incessant heat--which could be fatal in and of itself--they gave John money to buy new, economical, reliable transportation. He went down to Toyota of Temecula, chose a Toyota Matrix, and plunked down his cash. And that's when his nightmare began.

He drove it 42 miles ... 42. And then a heating coil blew and spewed blistering fluid all over John's bare foot. I saw that foot a week after the incident and it looked horrible even then.

John did what we all would do--he called the dealership. They were curt, but they came and towed the car. And they kept it a month.

Back at home, John had a dilemma. He couldn't bend his foot for fear of breaking the skin. Because of reduced circulation, an infection in his foot could be life-threatening. But that meant he couldn't carry Debbie any more. His doctors forbade him to continue his round-the-clock care while he recuperated from the burn, so John took what savings he had left and hired 24-hour help. After three weeks, he'd spent several thousand dollars on that help.

Toyota gave John his car back finally. It broke down again. And then again. They started getting rude. He started asking for a new car. And when he finally began talking about a medical claim, they quit talking to him altogether. Their last communication with John was, "It's your car, it's your problem, and you can take your problem to Toyota USA."

It's been two months. In that time, John has had his car a total of 10 days. Toyota still has his car, they still have his money, and John still has nothing.

It makes me mad--so mad, in fact, that before I knew it, I'd written a few letters. Care to join me?

Dan Atwood (President of Toyota of Temecula)
datwood@toyotas4u.com

Jon Atwood (VP and General Manager)
jatwood@toyotas4u.com

UPDATE: It seems that Toyota of Temecula wants to avoid having to declare John's car a lemon, so they are offering a buy-back--but not a penny for his medical injuries. The problem is, if John agrees to a buy-back, Toyota can legally turn around and sell that car to another unsuspecting customer. And let me ask you--would you want to buy that doctored-up, fluid-spewing car? John could quietly take their buy-back offer and the loss of his savings. But because he doesn't want anyone else to go through what he's had to endure, he's going to appeal to Toyota USA to do the right thing. If you'd like to let them know what you think of all this, you can contact them by phone at: 800-331-4331 or by mail at:

Toyota Motor Sales, U.S.A., Inc.
19001 South Western Ave.
Dept. WC11
Torrance, CA 90501

If I can find an email, I'll post it here.

Whatever happened to customer service ... or honesty, for that matter?

nesting

A phone call from a friend woke us on that unforgettable Tuesday morning in 2001. We scurried from bed, huddled in front of the TV, and watched with the rest of the world while our innocence crumbled to the ground. I still recall my disbelief when the first tower dissolved into rubble. I turned to Dave. "But ... there are people in there," as if my logic could somehow reverse the moment, and silence the thunder, and undo the pain.

But my logic couldn't quell the horror. September 11th played out before us in stark shades of gray, one camera angle melding into another--an unrelenting parade of confusion and terror and grief.

I left my family sitting together on the couch. At the sink, I washed my hands and pulled out a frying pan, with no plan except that I was about to cook something. Tacos, I thought. Dave loves tacos. If I made them for a month straight, he'd probably still light up at the suggestion on day 32.

I crumbled, fried, chopped, sliced, stirred, scooped and slathered. Then I arranged those tacos on three plates, brought them to the living room, and watched for the briefest of moments--with my back to the TV--while my loved ones began eating. But it wasn't enough for me.

I went back in the kitchen, stood again staring out the window above the sink, and thought, Cookies. Forty minutes later, I brought a plate of hot-from-the-oven, oozy, gooey, chocolate chip cookies, and glasses of frothy milk.

Then I swept the kitchen floor, and then I mopped. I washed and folded a load of laundry. I scrubbed the sink.

And then, when I couldn't think of another thing to do, I sat down and cried.
*   *   *   
I'm nesting again this week.

It's what I do when I grieve. Now, mind you, I don't know Greg and Cathe Laurie. They don't know me, although I've met them both. Six weeks ago, I stood in a parking lot at the Calvary Chapel Conference Center in Murrieta, California talking to Greg about when might be the best time to interview him for my book. He gave me a copy of his just-released book, asked me to read it first, and said we'd set up something soon. The following week, I visited Harvest and was completely blessed by Greg's message.

Cathe Laurie has taught sessions at our Pastors' Wives Conference over the years. I'm always struck with her poise and the particular way she phrases her words. She's beautiful and gracious, and someone I suspect is a friend you like having.

I haven't been able to shake their loss this week. I have awakened in the night already praying for them ... especially for Cathe. I find myself asking God the same thing over and over: "Please, God, speak something specific to her--something audible. Give her an anchor."

I think about her boy, and I watch my own. I ignore his messes and try not to think of the alternative--of a floor robbed of his strewn belongings; of a sink not full of his unrinsed dishes.

And I cook. This week I've ground wheat for dinner rolls and for big round rustic loaves. I made a giant pot of split pea soup. Yesterday morning I awoke with a long, unignorable list of must-do tasks, and ignored them all. Instead, I mixed up a batch of pumpkin-chocolate chip muffins, so they'd be ready when everyone woke. And when I first heard those stirrings, I started frying bacon, because there's no smell in the world more welcoming than bacon.

Tonight it's roasted chicken, rubbed under the skin and inside out with my favorite concoction of olive oil, balsamic vinegar, fresh garlic, and rosemary I cut from my garden. And there might be a pie on the counter before too long, just to even things up.

I sometimes catch my own shadow and see my scurrying for what it is--an attempt to chase my own sadness with the filling of stomachs. It's as if I believe that if I keep them full and satisfied, I can keep them safe.

Unreasonable, maybe. But it's all I have.
*   *   *   
Nils-Udo "The Nest", Earth, stones, birch branches, grass, Lüneburg Heath, Germany, 1978, from GreenMuseum.org

we grieve with hope

I still remember what I felt when I first watched the video of Pastor Jon Courson memorializing his daughter, Jessie, after her death at the age of 16. I watched that man lift up the name of Jesus, and smile at the memory of his daughter, and comfort those who had come to comfort him. And what I felt was awe--awe at the God who could infuse that hurting man with strength, and give him the words that would direct our eyes in the only direction worth looking--toward heaven.

Today I was awed again. Pastor Greg Laurie stood at the same podium he's approached every Sunday since 1971, but he did so this morning with a grieving heart. He's had to let go of his son this week. Christopher Laurie is with Jesus today, no doubt forgetful of all earth's pain, and without any question fascinated by, riveted to, and caught up in the beauty of his Savior's face.

But his father still had to stand at that podium and speak his first words to the crowd that had gathered to grieve with him. And here's what he had to say.

I hope you'll watch today's service. And then, if you've never silenced life's noise long enough to hear and respond to the one and only question that matters, I hope you'll accept the invitation Christ holds out to you this very moment.

Today is a good day to secure your eternity.

*   *   *   
To view this morning's service at Harvest Christian Fellowship, click on the link that says: Previous Study - 2008-07-27.

please pray for the laurie family

I'm so grieved at this news.

This morning, the first-born son of Pastor Greg Laurie and Cathe Laurie was killed in an accident on the 91 freeway near Riverside, California. The initial report is that Christopher Laurie, 33, pulled into the carpool lane not realizing that the California Transportation Department had just shut it down. He drove into the back of a Caltran truck, which was parked in the carpool lane.

Christopher's wife, Brittany, is pregnant with their second child. They also have a daughter, Stella.

Would you lift this family up before the Lord? Ask Jesus to make Himself known among them, and to give them the only comfort that can help them through these next painful days and weeks and months.

Pastors Chuck Smith, Raul Ries, and Don McClure are at the home today. Pray that God gives them words to share.

Harvest Christian Fellowship has a statement posted here. If you'd like to leave a note of condolence for the family, you can do so there.

Update: This post includes a link to the webcast of Harvest Christian Fellowship's July 27th Sunday service, in which both Pastor Greg Laurie and Pastor Don McClure spoke on the loss of Christopher.

tasty morsels

It's happened again. Another media shark feast, all due to a whiff of scandal within Christianity. This time it's the principal of a local Christian school.

Not for one moment am I minimizing the charges. If they're true, they're awful. And they require serious consequences. But I'm taking a stand here.

I've decided to believe the best. And not just about this man, or this circumstance. For a long time now I've been trying to urge the women in our church to believe the best about each other, every time, in every situation. I tell them that because 1 Corinthians 13 comes down, in large part, to that one sentence: Love believes the best. That means we don't take offense at one another, and it means that when we stand at a cross-roads choosing between two paths, we turn our back on the one that says, "I think she really meant that," and we run down the road that says, "I believe she didn't." I'm convinced that it's only when we consistently make that choice that we'll have peace in our relationships and peace within the church. And it's only then that the world will look at us in wonder, recognizing a love that eludes them in their circles.

So I've been sounding the gong for a long while now. I believed it on a conviction-level. But only in the last few months has the conviction taken root in my heart. Over those last few months, I myself have been the subject of gossip. One person chose to put words in my mouth rather than admit to the ones she spoke. The words she credited to me were absolutely false, and so far beyond anything I'd speak that I didn't recognize myself in the revised story as it made the rounds. Another person stood at the cross-road I just mentioned, listened to my explanation, took a few tentative steps down the road of "I believe she didn't," and then turn and ran full speed down the road of "I think she did." When the dust settled, friends I've known and loved for twenty years (and some for twelve) left me and left our fellowship without one word, and without even once asking me for the truth ... all because they chose to believe gossip.

So my ethereal view of gossip--and the godly way to handle it--has been brought into concrete terms for me. And when this story hit the news yesterday, and people started murmuring about it, I made a decision. I'm going to believe the best until I'm forced to believe otherwise. And it won't cost me a thing ... except the lingering taste of a dainty morsel. But I am, after all, the bride of Christ. I should probably watch what I'm eating.

*    *    *    
The words of a gossip are like tasty bits of food.
People like to gobble them up. (Proverbs 18:8 New Century Translation)

Listening to gossip is like eating cheap candy;
do you really want junk like that in your belly? (Proverbs 18:8 The Message)

There are six things the LORD hates,
seven that are detestable to him:
haughty eyes, a lying tongue, hands that shed innocent blood, a heart that devises wicked schemes, feet that are quick to rush into evil, a false witness who pours out lies and a man who stirs up dissension among brothers. (Proverbs 6:16-19 NIV)

heart cries

On Sundays, I often come home already missing those I've left behind. I love this group of people. And I love what God has done in our midst. He's created a family who worships together, studies together, dines together, and prays together. Here's a post about the latter.


On Wednesday nights, when the message has been taught and we're all full and satisfied, we close our Bibles, arrange ourselves in circles, and turn our gaze from the Word to the Writer.

Within my own group of seven or eight, I try, at first, to not hear the voices in all the other circles. Because I have a hard time keeping my eyes closed during prayer (is it only me who feels closer to my Creator when I study the hands and feet and faces of His artwork?) I stare at the shoes lining our circle, and sneak surreptitious peeks at their owners. But soon the voices in the room begin to overlap and harmonize. I stop fighting the sound. Instead, I let it in, and I envision those ascending chords rising through the ceiling of this building. I've read that God draws in the fragrance of our prayers like a delightful perfume, and so treasures them that He keeps them in a special bowl. So although I can't see our prayers, I know the mingled sounds rise and swell and swirl together en route to the throne room.

    Lord, remember my brother-in-law on the mission field ...
                 ... and she’s only four, Father. Please touch her body ...
            My neighbor, Joe, is going to Korea after being in Iraq ...
                Lord, I want to lift up my workplace ...
        We want to see Your kingdom ...
         ... and so I thank You for providing ...
                 ...and be with the persecuted Church in other countries ...
         We pray for our president ...
                         ... that You would desire to dwell here ...
                                ... the continued presence of Your Spirit ...
        Please give us what we need to respond to You ...
              I want to pray for my dad ...
                                I'm grateful, Father ...


And I think in awe of the God who is everywhere enough to hear it all—-who bends His ear to pick up the sigh of a heart, and stores the memory of His child’s murmur.

once more

"Cut my hair," she says, with that all-purpose, pleading tone, the one she uses for popsicles and new shoes and just one more game of cards.

I don't want to cut her hair. She's twelve ... almost thirteen, and that means she owns an opinion or two. I'm not as this-or-that as I was last year, or the year before. I can't get away with bordering-on-funny anymore. She rolls her eyes and looks out the window at nothing--hoping, I sense, to distance herself from my corniness.

"No," I say. She doesn't know the words I hold back. It might be the last time, Tera. You might look at my handiwork, roll those eyes again, and sever this connection with finality.

"But, Mom--you do a good job. I like your haircuts," she says with soulful panache.

I don't say a word, but the room is thick with my worry. I'm not ready for a last time, I think.

"Just this one more time," she says.

"What if I ruin it?"

We're both surprised. She's not used to seeing me uncertain; I'm not used to dropping that veil and stepping out into the light.

"You won't," she says. Now I'm twelve, and she's the mother, buoying me in all my sinkable spots. "Just try. If we don't like it, we'll go down to the salon."

When did she become so rational?

My feet drag on the walk to my bathroom. Bending down to retrieve the black box from under the sink, I sigh. She's getting her way. And I'm afraid.

She hoists a kitchen chair out to the patio, plops herself down, and tells me how it's going to go. "Two inches," she says. "Maybe three. Just to here."

I watch her slender fingers clasp a spot on her almost blond, almost brown hair. "And if you go a little shorter, don't worry. It will grow."

I used to be the one to say that. When she was three, and four, and seven. "It will grow again, honey. Nothing to worry about."

I hold the scissors in the asked-for spot, draw a breath, and cut away a summer/winter/fall's worth of growth. Guide my hands, I beg the sky.

She giggles when I hand her the first silky clump of just-freed tendrils. There's still a little girl there. But it's the almost-woman I'm worried about. Will I pass her test? Will there be a next time?

Fifteen minutes pass. I've cut what I can cut, and I can't stall the verdict another minute.

"Go look," I say.

She looks. She stands in the living room surveying her sassy locks in our giant mirror ... and grins ... and tosses her head. "I like it," she announces. And then she's running upstairs for a shower, and her first go at the blow dryer.

I exhale.

She's not through with me yet.

a life recorded

Another from the files ...

Her name was Martha, and she was born eleven years, two months and thirty-eight days before me. She was covered by Farmers Insurance and adhered to a strict regimen of minerals and supplements; her daily dose included 300 mgs of Passionfever and 500 mg of Psyllium. Her blood type was A+ and she had no allergies.

I learned all this when I found and skimmed Martha's six-ring, refillable, 2001 personal planner in a nearby thrift store. Tucked in among the other planners--some oversized, some slightly scuffed, some just plain nasty-looking, the small, earthy-colored tapestry cover caught my eye and drew my hand into the book bin. I loved the feel of the planner in my hand and the ease with which it unzipped. I knew instantly I'd buy it--even before I discovered Martha inside.

It startled me a bit to read such personal information about a stranger, but like a voyeur who happens upon a wide-open window, I kept looking. I found out that Martha went to the symphony in January, and that the Austen in her life had the same birthday as my middle sister. I learned that Martha had had a library book due back February 2nd, her new ID card expired in March, and she met a friend for coffee in early April.

But around that same time--early to mid April--Martha recorded a Wednesday afternoon doctor's appointment ... and then another for the following Monday. By Thursday she'd added a new name, with the word "oncologist" after his title. In the flip of just three more pages it became clear. Martha had cancer.

It must have been a late-stages discovery, or such an aggressive cancer that the treatments didn't touch it. For despite a flurry of doctor visits and scribbled notes about the side-effects of the prescriptions and treatments she tried, by summer of that year, Martha stopped writing in her planner. Standing along the back aisle of the thrift store, with canned music floating overhead and the cry of an irritated child somewhere to my left, I turned page after page, wanting to see Martha's handwriting, wanting to find one indication that she'd lived to anticipate fall or Christmas or 2002. But Martha's entries ended.

I lost a dear friend to cancer last year. I said another good bye just three months later. But both those women knew Jesus. Both knew that death was nothing more than opening a door and seeing, finally, the face of the One they loved most. So despite missing them, my grief was laced with joy. I knew where they were and Who they were with.

I couldn't rest on that assurance with Martha. I hadn't seen a single piece of evidence that she belonged to a group of fellow-sojourners or that she stopped at least once a week to turn her face heavenward. And no, a planner can't capture the full essence of a heart or indicate the thoughts a dying person directs toward God. But I saw no evidence. Not even a hint.

And so, standing there in that dingy thrift store, surrounded by strangers, I grieved another, and reminded myself that our mission field is really no further away than the next person we meet.
*    *    *    
But sanctify the Lord God in your hearts, and always be ready to give a defense to everyone who asks you a reason for the hope that is in you ...
--1 Peter 3:15 (NKJV)

Look around you! Vast fields of human souls are ripening all around us, and are ready now for reaping. --John 4:35 (TLB)

america

We were birthed in the light of His favor, nourished on the truth of His Word, sheltered under the might of His arm and raised up for His sovereign purpose. May we not discard our heritage. May America turn back ... and bless God.