CPR works!

Memorial Day could have been a most tragically memorable day at our house.

While Nancy and I were eating a barbeque chicken dinner, she suddenly started choking on her meat. This was no ordinary choking, like sometimes happens when something wants to go down the wrong pipe. This time it WENT down the wrong pipe -- and got lodged halfway in her trachea. And she couldn't breathe. Like, no air was exchanging. Like, do something NOW or this will be a bad night.

I moved behind her and told her to stand. When she did, I did the Heimlich maneuver on her. And just like the CPR classes show in their training videos, meat popped out of her mouth.

Whew!

So, what's the moral? If you don't know what the Heimlich maneuver is -- learn it. Get signed up for a CPR class at your local Red Cross or other health agency. It is WELL worth the money for the Basic Life Support (BLS) class. It's more likely you will be with someone who is choking on food than who passes out with a heart attack (although CPR can buy the person precious minutes while the ambulance is on the way to you).

If you DO know what it is, and haven't recertified in BLS, get recertified -- if for no other reason than to maintain your confidence that you can save someone's life.

And finally, if you ever wondered, "Does that stuff we learn in CPR really work?" I can assure you -- thanks be to God -- it does.

rich
rmaffeo@comcast.net

The Real Enemy

I don't know if the Hollywood version of the battle is true, but the story makes for an interesting spiritual parallel. Tobruk, Libya's north-eastern port city, saw many prolonged and bloody battles during World War II. German troops and their Italian allies recognized the value of its strategic location. So did the British.

During the height of the war, Allied commandos set out across 800 miles of Libyan desert to destroy the German fuel-depot at Tobruk. Several nights into their mission they spotted a dust plume on the horizon. It belonged to an Italian convoy wending its way toward them. Fortunately for the Allies, a large sand-dune hid them from the enemy column. Without safe alternatives, they settled down to wait for the Italians to pass. However,when the convoy reached the other side of the dune, the Italian army stopped their tanks and set up camp for the night. The commandos could do nothing but wait for day-break when the Italians would continue on their way.

The night wore on without incident until commando scouts spotted another string of armored vehicles moving toward them from the opposite direction. This one belonged to Germans.

Caught in the middle, it was only a matter of time before one group or the other discovered them. In desperation, the commandos executed a daring plan. They fired mortars toward the Germans, while at the same time, fired across the sand dune at the Italians. The commandos hoped each army would think the other fired on them. The plan worked. Within moments the Germans and Italians, their identities hidden by the dark, rained destruction on each other. In the conflagration, the commandos escaped into the night. A few days later, the fuel farm at Tobruk exploded in flames. The small band of warriors successfully completed their mission.

Scripture repeatedly makes the point, probably so we won't miss it: humankind is engaged in a bloody spiritual warfare waged by an enemy whose mission is to destroy us. The only force able to thwart Satan from completing his objective is Jesus Christ's Church -- His Body (Matthew 16:18; Ephesians 6:10-18).

Knowing the Church is an overwhelmingly superior force, Satan has, for millennia, executed a nearly flawless strategy against it. Rather than a direct frontal attack, he hides in darkness, firing volleys of bigotry, pride, arrogance and greed at groups within Christ's Body. Catholics, Baptists, Orthodox, Pentecostals, Methodists, Episcopalians, Lutherans, Nazarenes . . . . Group A, thinking the attack comes from Group B, diverts its energies from the Great Commission and wages battle against their allies. Meanwhile, group B does likewise and groups C through Z soon enter the fray. Before long the Church is embroiled in a seething cauldron, devouring each other -- and freeing Satan to move on toward his ultimate objective.

When the Germans and Italians surrounded them, no one among the small group of commandos cared about the race, political philosophy or denominational label of the person in the next foxhole. Only one thing mattered: work as a team to win the objective.

The Lord of the Church has called us to win our neighbors, friends and co-workers for Himself -- a critical objective if there ever was one. Our mission requires the undivided efforts of everyone on Christ's "team." May God help us to turn our weapons away from each other and take aim against the true adversary.


rich
rmaffeo@comcast.net

New Every Morning

Many centuries ago, God spoke to the Hebrew prophet about Israel: "As for you, son of man, your countrymen are . . . saying to each other, 'Come and hear the message that has come from the LORD.' My people come to you, as they usually do, and sit before you to listen to your words, but they do not put them into practice . . . Indeed, to them you are nothing more than one who sings love songs with a beautiful voice and plays an instrument well, for they hear your words but do not put them into practice." (Ezekiel 33:30-32)

He might as well have been speaking about me. I enjoy singing choruses about God's love and faithfulness. I love hearing God's word preached. I look forward to spending time reading the Scriptures.

But to put the things I sing, hear and read into practice . . . . Sometimes it's enough to get me wondering, "What's the use in trying?"

And then I'm reminded of Jeremiah's words, "Because of the Lord's great love we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail. They are new every morning; great is your faithfulness." (Lamentations 3:22-23).

Yes, I fail all the time. But His love is greater than my failures. I stumble over the same sins, day after day. But His compassions are new every morning. Every morning.

And that is why I keep trying.

Shouldn't you?

rich
rmaffeo@comcast.net

Praise the Lord (?)

“Praise the LORD. How good it is to sing praises to our God, how pleasant and fitting to praise him!” (Psalm 147:1)

Yes, it is good to praise the Lord. But when life flings us to the ground, our heart often catches in our throat before any words cross our lips. How can anyone praise Him when a spouse ends a marriage? Who can give thanks when the physician says it’s cancer? When any of a thousand things turn our stomach to concrete, most Christians need to be reminded of God’s character -- His nature -- before praise can slip past a broken heart.

Oh, how we need the reminder of His holiness, that He never does wrong, is never unjust, unkind or capricious. We need the reminder that there is never a time He is unaware of our circumstances; never a time He is unable to intervene.

God never misrepresents truth, and so we must hear it again: God passionately loves us, and His love never wavers one hair’s breadth toward any of His children.

Praise is possible, even through heartache. Though personal disaster swoops around us like crazed birds of prey, an intimate understanding of God’s nature can render praise as easy as breathing. When tragedy rips the flesh from our heart, a visceral knowledge that God loves us and knows our limits, makes praise what Christians do best.

rich
rmaffeo@comcast.net

The Value of Integrity

It happened more than thirty-three years ago, but I remember the incident as if it occurred last week. My friends and I had finished working the night shift and we went to a nearby buffet restaurant for breakfast. When someone distracted the cashier at the front door, I sneaked by and hurried to the food line. I still don’t know why I did it. I had recently become a Christian, but fell back into old patterns. As I piled food onto my tray I dismissed my nagging guilt.

When my friends joined me a few minutes later, I bowed my head and silently gave thanks. That’s when Tom snickered, “Look at Maffeo. He sneaks in without paying, and then thanks God for his food.”

They laughed with sarcasm. But I wanted to crawl under the table.

I worked at that company for another year, growing in my relationship with Christ as I studied the Bible, attended church regularly and committed myself to prayer. But I could never share my faith with any of those men. They had painted me with a brush dipped in hypocrisy.

“Flee the evil desires . . . and pursue righteousness . . . .” (2 Timothy 2:22).

For good reason, Scripture commands us to flee sin and pursue righteousness. We can't effectively share Christ’s love with others, rescuing them from the devil’s snare, if we ourselves are tangled in his web.

rich
rmaffeo@comcast.net

Mom, Me and Calvry

I was upset with my son. He disobeyed me, and I had to restrict him. I also was annoyed because I wanted him to go to the ball game as much as he wanted to go. Maybe more so.

"This is going to hurt me," I said, jabbing the air with my finger, "more than it hurts you."

I don't know how many times I said that to our children while they were growing up. Millions of times, I'd bet. And every time the words flowed across my lips I knew from their eyes, they didn't believe me. But I understood their skepticism because each time I mouthed those words I could hear my mother, so many years before, say the same thing to me.

I never believed her, either. After all, I was the one restricted. Not her. I was the one disciplined. Not her. I was the one... always. Not her.

But mom did a lot of things in those years while my sister, Andrea, and I were growing up...a lot of things which hurt her more than it ever hurt us. In 1955, when my father deserted us for another woman, single mothers had very few financial options available to them. Welfare as it is known today did not exist. We did not have food stamps, or WIC, or rent assistance. There was precious little governmental aid to put clothing on our backs or food on our table. As a young and attractive woman of 23, Mom could have packed us off to an orphanage and gone on with her life. But she didn't. Instead, she went to work. Not one job, but two.

She struggled to raise us. Though Andrea and I never suspected it, we were dirt poor. But we always had food...even if it was spaghetti with ketchup. Or boiled potatoes and sour cream. And we always had clothing, even though we used cardboard to cover the holes on the bottoms of our shoes, or our cuffs rose several inches above our ankles. But I especially remember we always had warm arms to snuggle us and tuck us into bed at night... before she left us in the care of a baby-sitter and hurried off to her night job.

"This is going to hurt me more than it hurts you." As an adult I now understand the sentiment more than I ever could as a child. I understand because loving my children sometimes means sacrificing things important to me. Sometimes it means giving up my own time and money and dreams and desires so that they might benefit. Sometimes it means giving when there is no more to give. And yes, sometimes it means saying no when it would please them so (and please me as well) for me to say yes.

"This is going to hurt me...." Lately I find myself thinking of Another who spoke those words, at least in principle, so many centuries ago. And in reflecting, I wonder who can ever really understand His sacrifice? Who can ever fully grasp the horror of an absolutely holy God offering His back to the whip so that our sins might be forgiven? Who can really understand the heartache of the heavenly Father as He watches His creation shake a collective fist in His face and turn a deaf ear to His love? Can you and I ever hope, this side of eternity, to adequately understand, "For God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son..."(John 3:16); Or Romans 5:8, "God demonstrates His own love toward us, in that while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us"?

I never knew my sin hurt Him so much more than it hurt me. I never knew my rebellion bore so much more heavily on His shoulders than it ever did on mine. I never knew it was my guilt which hammered spikes into His flesh. But in learning that truth I found myself... and still find myself... ever increasingly grateful for His love, His forgiveness and His sacrifice for me.

If the Lord is willing, my children will someday have children of their own. And I suspect that, as the need arises, they too will say to their offspring, "This is going to hurt me more than it hurts you."

I can only pray that while doing so, they will ever be reminded of the One who said it most clearly on Calvary. And that in remembering, waves of thankfulness will ever wash across their hearts.

Rich

rmaffeo@comcast.net

I Know Why He Died At Peace

On April 29, 2005, five months before his 90th birthday, Cyril James Farrell died peacefully in bed.

I know why he died at peace.

Cy married my wife's mother, Hilda, twenty-two years ago. They'd both lost their respective spouses to death. My wife and I, and our three children, didn't see Hilda and Cy more than once or twice a year because we always lived far from each other, but I remember those early years. Quick-tempered and a no-nonsense kind of guy, Cy usually told you what he thought about others, even if it wasn't polite or kind.

And he didn't mellow with age.

But where the passage of years can often set a person in a bad pattern, some life-events can result in just the opposite. That's what happened to Cy.

The first caught up with him in his early 80s. Illness confined him to a walker, then a wheelchair, and eventually a bed. The second life-altering event occurred when he was 85.

That's when he met Christ.

Perhaps Cy committed his life to the Lord Jesus because he finally caught sight of his mortality. Or perhaps it happened because Hilda brought him to church and Sunday school every week. Or perhaps it was because of his family's prayers. Then again, perhaps because of all those things, Cy confessed his sins to God and asked the Lord Jesus to cleanse his hardened heart with His blood.

Never let anyone tell you God is not still in the saving business. For 85 years, Cyril Farrell lived a good life, but a "lost" life. For decades he had heard about God's grace and forgiveness, but like all of us do to one degree or another, he turned away to live as he wanted, when he wanted, how he wanted.

Then, at 85 years of age, Cyril Farrell became a chid of God.

Slowly, probably imperceptibly to those who saw him every day, Cy began to change. And those who've known him as long as I have know the change was remarkable. Despite his loss of health and strength, I never heard him complain, except to say about his legs, "Isn't that the craziest thing? They don't work anymore like they used to."

Judging from the pastor's eulogy, and the words of those who attended his funeral, no one else heard him complain, either. Instead, they remarked that he always met others with a patient spirit, a ready smile and a kind word.

I guessed more than 300 white-haired friends showed up at the church. Many more would have come, but lived too far away, or were too frail to travel. I believe they came because Cyril James Farrell left a legacy worthy of Christian -- a legacy that attests to the grace, mercy and patience of God who stays with us, year after year, waiting for the Prodigals to come home.

Cy, from one Prodigal to another, I look forward to seeing you on the other side.

rich
rmaffeo@comcast.net