Fox, Elway and Bowlen, Listen Up: Keep Tim Tebow

AP Photo

I am thrilled to see home-educated Tim Tebow continues to be a light. He is one example of a properly sheltered child now thriving as an adult in a hostile environment. I pray for him, because the NFL is not without it's temptations, and all of mankind is very frail when it comes to resisting them.

There are rumors--and that's usually the case--that the Broncos could trade Tebow. I'm not sure I could continue to be a Bronco fan--even after 35 years!--if they traded him. I would be that disenfranchised with the organization. Lockout or no lockout, Tebow is a leader. Tebow is the future and he will change the nature of the game if he's given enough flexibility. Denver needs this guy. They really do.

Is football eternal? I know that if we have nothing better to do in heaven, there's been enough saints in the game football will be an awesome game. I'll be a great lineman or linebacker for a team. It is battle and strategy. It is conquest and struggle. Those are things that God has placed in this man's heart, as he has in others. If there is not a battle to be fought against the dragon, football would be an excellent way to express God's gifts inside us. I love Him and what He has made inside me.

Salvation from God through the blood of the Lamb is the message that Tim's life is devoted to spreading. From his position, if he makes God his refuge, he can't lose. The Broncos and the NFL are not eternal, but the people hearing Tebow's message will live forever if they put their faith in the Gospel.



PS: Here's a great part of that long CBS article I linked above:

"When you go to the Pro Bowl, those guys are typically not only the greatest players but the ones that work the hardest. But Tim is a little different, from what I've heard," said John Lynch, a future Hall of Fame safety who invited Tebow and Miller to address the crowd at his annual foundation luncheon, which honors Denver-area youth who excel academically, in sports and the community.

"He's my neighbor so I see him," Lynch continued. "He's out on a mountain bike going by and it looks like he never has a down moment. We were having dinner one night at some folks' house and the lady was a great tennis player. Next thing you know they break into a ping-pong match. Tim's sweating. And she beat him the first game. He was going to stay until he won. I mean, he would not leave."

That's not to say Lynch, an analyst for FOX Sports these days, doesn't recognize the "serious legitimate questions" about Tebow's ability to smooth over his mechanical flaws on the field and break free of the spread-offense tendencies the former Heisman Trophy winner learned in college.

"There are a lot of things he has to prove," Lynch admitted. "But there's an aura. He's got that aura, for whatever that's worth. And that means something to me."

It means something to me too. Go Broncos! Go Tebow!
 

See Spot. See Spot...Slither?

Yesterday, my dad, my son, Bubba and I all took a drive. We set out to let Bubba do some target practice, but it didn't turn out that way. We came across a road closure and while we stopped to watch the work crew, one of the guys on the crew points to the base of a telephone pole. We get out and look at what he's pointing at and we discover over a dozen garter snakes slithering around and getting warm in the afternoon sun. At this point, my wife would probably be back in the car, but since she wasn't with us, we all studied them closely.

Then Grandpa gets an idea...or maybe it was mine...I'm not saying. The idea was presented that one of them would be a cool pet for Bubba. I snickered at the thought and said, "Yeah, right. I'd be in the doghouse just for thinking that." Well, Grandpa and Bubba had no regard for my sleeping arrangements and Grandpa dug out a bag from the back of his Jeep. The next thing I know, they're both up at the telephone pole and my baby boy, nearly 8 years old, is leaning over a viper pit...garter snake pit...whatever. Anyway, I scarcely had time to fear for his life when Bubba seizes the snake by the tail and holds it out to Grandpa, who is struggling to get the bag open in time. Grandpa closes the bag and walks back to the Jeep while my son, looking like the Croc Hunter, is all smiles.

We drive back home, create a makeshift place for him to stay and we head off to the pet store. Around $30.00 later, We walk out with the new home for our “free” garter snake. How was I able to leave the snake at home without alerting my wife? Very simple, she was out shopping with Grandma. We get the snake all settled in complete with sun lamp, water dish, rocks, hiding place and a fresh supply of crickets. When mother came home, we had been watching him for close to an hour.

Now, normally I wouldn’t stoop to such trickery, but in this case I had little choice other than subterfuge. Mom is still not thrilled, but she is slowly warming up to the concept. At least I think she is… she’s still not talking to me, at least not normally. She keeps mentioning something about Eve, heads and heels.

She had a slightly better reaction than Grandma, who took some convincing to get out of the car when she got home and heard about our new pet. Bubba has decided to name it Spot. A close runner-up was Doghouse.

What is it with women and snakes? Oh, did I mention the store sells frozen mice?

Bouncer - A Ski Story

I have been battling a bit of the blues lately. We have had snow on the ground since before Christmas here and it's getting into February. Snow where I live is like a good houseguest. It stays a few days, maybe two weeks and then it's gone.

I would be enjoying this more if I was able to ski. Sadly, my condition really doesn't like skiing, especially because it seems to be weather sensitive. Not to mention the fact that my toes still remember the indirect frostbite from high school days spent rocketing down the slopes. I couldn't feel my toes for a few years. But it was a small price to pay for all the fun I had.

Bouncer

One time when I was up skiing with my high school, a friend dared me to take a run called Bouncer. It was a relatively quiet day on the mountain and I had not done that run yet. My friend assured me that it was a groomed blue, meaning steep and smooth, good for large carving turns or tucking. My friend, of course, dared me to "tuck all the way down." Being young and foolish, and never for a moment considering why it might be named Bouncer, I did it. I got into the tuck and began to really pick up speed. It was like the movies. Trees were whizzing past my field of view. Instead of thinking 40 feet ahead, I was trying to look 150-200 feet ahead for people, which were thankfully almost non-existent. The adrenaline was in high gear. My heart was beating in my ears, battling to be heard above the wind as it roared. I could feel the dynamics of my skis changing with the speed and they felt terrific as they flew down the slope.

It was just about halfway down that I saw it. It was a 12 foot-wide access trail traversing the steepest section of the blue and forming an unmarked jump. Because it was white-on-white, my eyes didn't pick it up until it was too late to do anything. Anything, that is, but scream, "Oh NOOO!" My skis hit the jump and it forced me forward to where I was looking between the pair fairly closely. The snow peeled away as I rose up into my "modified spread eagle," also known as the "Look Ma, I'm About To Snort Snow!" position. I was flying! I saw the run fall away beneath me and I was flying!

Then...gravity reasserted itself and I fell like a rock. One thought ran through my mind. "Get forward over your skis now or you're a dead man." I leaned forward until I felt like any more would result in a somersault. Wham! My skis hit the snow and if I had been going fast before I hit the jump, falling the 25 to 30 vertical feet I covered in the jump made me feel like I was on rockets! I carved two giant rooster tail turns to bring myself to a stop and look back up at the "cliff" I had just soared over. It was the bounce in Bouncer. My other friends, who were not quite as crazy as I was had stopped short and were amazed to see that I was, in fact, standing and not lying in the middle of a yard-sale of slightly used, adrenaline-soaked ski gear. That night, we exchanged our stories over dinner and I thanked my friend for the dare. It made for one of my best experiences skiing. In the years following, I would do plenty more jumps, but none so high or thrilling as Bouncer.

Further Thoughts

Looking back on those days, now almost twice as old as I was then, I see the foolishness of my actions and wonder... I really do wonder... if I can get back up there and do it again! Am I crazy? Probably. On the other hand, it is one thing to tell stories and watch others do. It is quite another thing to actually live it yourself. I want to get healthy enough to challenge my son to go faster and fly farther than I did. Are there risks? Absolutely!

Far better it is to dare mighty things, to win glorious triumphs, even though checkered by failure, than to take rank with those poor spirits who neither enjoy much nor suffer much, because they live in the gray twilight that knows not victory nor defeat.

-- Theodore Roosevelt, 1899

Roosevelt is on Mt. Rushmore for good reason.

I want my son to take risks, to dare mighty things. As a father, my first instinct is to react and pull him back from the edge of risk. Yet, in his heart there is a man wanting to test himself, to see what he's capable of. He may be seven now, but tomorrow he's eight, then nine. When do I pass on that willingness to test himself, to gain the confidence he needs to dare to do great things? It starts right now. I will pass on what I have learned and encourage him to press into bigger and better things. I will counsel him to be wise but bold, for timidity is often excused as wisdom. I will not demand success, but I will give him a solid foundation from which to build and the courage to do so.

In such an endeavor, I will need help, perhaps moreso than the average guy because of my disability. Being disabled does not excuse me from raising a son to be godly, strong and full of courage. It is among my most sacred duties. The help I need will come from God, my family, and from a select cadre of men that can pass on to my son more skills, and more gifts. I want my son's life to be far richer, far more fruitful than my own. And it starts here.

God, help me complete this quest, in Jesus' name.

Fishing Beaver Dams

This post was originally published on my first blog, "Dad's Corner." 

It was hot. It was humid. And every few feet or so, you had to protect yourself from being slapped in the face by willow branches. At the age of 11, they stood over me like a forest. Marching though the morass, I was sure my dad was crazy. Perhaps he was driven by the thought of pan-fried trout with lemon juice. I'm not sure. But we were doing something that other people could think was fisherman's excess. We were fishing in beaver dams.

Beavers are engineers that use the materials at hand to construct massive dams across small brooks and creeks as part of making their home. Their dams retain significant amounts of water. Some dams can achieve a massive size, sometimes filling up most of a small valley. In these small reservoirs, trout breed and grow, sustaining small, industrious beavers and large, crazed fishermen.

These dams that we were in were not so large and they were choked by willow bushes, their elastic branches slowing our progress. Long grass would cover up beaver channels, which would be 1 or 2 feet deep with water, providing a soaking for whoever is fortunate to find them. My dad and I were prepared for this with hip waders, long thigh-high rubber boots that kept your legs dry...when they didn't leak. They were heavy, and in the days before neoprene, hot and sweaty.

With my dad's approval, I went down to the dam below him and worked my way through the willows toward a point where I could fish it. I approached the water and tried to get down to what looked like the perfect spot. I saw my next step, a bank of darker sand and I took it, putting all my weight on what looked like a sand bank. My foot and a good portion of my leg plunged into the brown bank which was actually a combination of mud and silt. My knee sank in and I was up to my thigh before I could compensate and pull back. To my horror, my leg was stuck and I couldn't pull it out. I panicked. I thought for sure this was some obscure form of Rocky Mountain quicksand that would be the end of me. I could see my dad searching for me only to find my little fishing cap sitting on top of my muddy grave.

I yelled-no, screamed-for my dad. When he didn't respond in the millisecond I patiently allowed for a reply, I screamed again. Soon a far-off voice called, "What?"

"It's got me! It's got my leg. I can't move!"

"What's got your leg?"

"The mud! Hurry! Come quick!"

"Just a second."

I allowed two seconds before I screamed again. "Dad!"

"What?"

"Come get me!"

"I'll be there in a minute."

Oh great! We've gone from seconds to minutes. "Dad, I can't get out!"

"Are you stable?"

"Well...yeah..."

"I'll be there in just a minute. Can you fish from there?"

"Well...yeah..." I was now faced with the odd task of carrying on with life as normal while I balanced on my right foot with my left leg gripped by the mud of death. I tried to fish, half-heartedly, and didn't catch anything. But the panic began to subside and my hot tears dried up. I even began to feel an odd sense of confidence that I would be all right. By the time the willows announced my dad's imminent arrival, I was relatively calm. He reached down and pulled on me, slowly freeing me from my muddy trap.

Whether we caught any fish that day, I don't remember. But what I carried out of that beaver dam was much more valuable than what I had set out for. I found that what looks like sand can often be mud, that panic is normal but not helpful, and that my dad would always come for me when I needed him, but on his own sense of timing, not mine.

Oftentimes, God hears a panicked prayer and responds with less-than-equal enthusiasm. It doesn't mean he doesn't care or that he isn't concerned about our feelings. But what I feel is often different from what's really happening. He knows where I am and he is strong and able to save me. Then why doesn't he do it right away? Because I have to learn that panic is not the response that gets his attention. Fear is the root of panic and the opposite of the love and peace he so much wants me to know and walk in. I could not find it if he would fly to my rescue every time. It's only when I am quiet, when I put aside my panic and fear, that he can speak words of comfort and peace to me. I must wait on him; wait for him to rescue me.

Proverbs 3:25-26, Psalm 91:3

Long's Peak: Voices In the Dark

This post was originally published on my first blog, "Dad's Corner." You can view the original post at: http://homeschoolblogger.com/stevewalden/8403/

It had been a long day. Rising before 4 AM, we climbed 8 miles and 4,880 feet in elevation to the summit of Longs Peak, a huge mountain dominating Colorado's Front Range. One of the last parties to reach the summit that day, the sun was setting on us while we were less than halfway down. The fact that we had forgotten to bring flashlights was not lost on us, but there was little we could do. With just a little light left, we came to a group of tents and asked if anyone could spare a flashlight. We ended up with a small flashlight for our party of 4. That and the faint glow of moonlight was all we had to guide us home. Our legs aching and our toes complaining with every step, we carefully picked our way through boulders and down the trail. All the way down, my dad's voice continued to coach me and his faint outline gave me an idea of where to go.