What the world's ugliest dog taught me about God

It's a title no pooch really aspires to have, but Yoda of Hanford, CA, is officially the world's ugliest dog. He's a sight. Hairless legs. Tongue hanging out the side of his mouth. Fur all amiss.


(The losers are not much prettier! Video here)


The 14-year old Chinese Crested Teacup Chihuahua was found in a field by the Schumacher family, wrapped in a garbage bag. At first, they thought it was a rat.


And you have to love the quote they gave to KSEE TV. "She's ugly. No doubt about it. But she's our ugly ... she's one of the family."


I started thinking about this family and what would possess them to pull this dog from a bag in a dirty field, wash him, comb the bugs out of his fur, and then feed him until he was strong. And once he recovered, what would he ever amount to? He would never play fetch. He would never walk with the big dogs. He would always be an ugly runt.


But the Schumakers saw something in Yoda. They loved this little guy, and that's what makes him almost -- dare I say it -- cute. They brought him out on stage, and he was strutting -- chin held up high, chest puffed out. He belonged.


This encourages me, that even the ugly, the despised, the terrible can be cherished and loved.


I myself was once picked out of the pound by someone I thought who cared. But when my flawed self was revealed, it was back to the field of the forgotten  And then He found me. He brought me home and called me His own.


And once again, I'm learning a little more about grace.
Call me... Yoda, an adopted child of the King.


Care to comment?




Bonnie Gray over at Faith Barista is hosting a blog carnival on faith, and today’s topic is encouragement. To see more posts on the subject, please visit Faith Barista.

Related articles

• 10 Years Of The World's Ugliest Dogs [Bow Wow] (jezebel.com)
• Pretty He Isn't: Yoda Named World's Ugliest Dog 2011 (PHOTO) (blippitt.com)
• Yoda Named World's Ugliest Dog (neatorama.com)

A War of Words

How many wars have we waged on words?

The war on drugs.
The war on poverty.
The war on obesity.
The war on terror.

None of them have been particularly victorious.

• We have greater drug use now than ever.
• 43 million Americans are on some form of government sustenance.
• More than 63 percent of Americans are overweight.
• Bombs are still going off all around the world, just not here.

One thing we are learning, is that you can't fight a word.

But I'm guilty of the same thing.
I've fought wars on fat, on cynicism, on depression. I've fought wars on anger, lust and dishonesty.

I lost everyone of them. Sure, I would win battles for a while, achieving a sense of victory. But then the smugness would prevail and the true man would come through and I would find myself right back to where I started.

You cannot fight a war on a word, because you never really know the enemy. It's an elusive target, undefined and fuzzy.

I think I need a different approach. What do you think?

Care to comment?

The God-Sized Dream

Everyone has dreams. Admit it. Even you.  

Maybe it's a material dream, revolving around a bigger house or a different job. Maybe it's as heart-felt as empty spot across the table with a spouse or a friend. Maybe it's an empty womb that cries to be completed. Maybe it has to do with a different location or destination in life.

We all dream.

Some are just silly. Like my dream to sit in a cabin, along a creek and just write. Or the one I have to stand in front of a crowd of people who refuse to let me go. "More. More. More!" 

Others are unrealistic. Like a job that doesn't require me to show up regularly, yet pays me a tidy sum. Yeah, right. Or a return to the way things were years ago. Time marches on. 

And then there are others -- those God-sized dreams that just require a little bit of faith and a whole lotta miracle. 

I believe there are four types of dreams -- Those that are fulfilled, those that are delayed, those that are denied, and those that are suppressed.  

Of all those, the most difficult to live with are those that are suppressed. We’ve all had God put something in our hearts and then we spend our days denying it ever existed, or making excuses why it can’t be done. The shadow chases us all our lives. 

It could be a venture or a project that takes some guts, some glory and some pain. Doesn't He own the cattle on a thousand hills?

Your dream could be about reconciliation, binding up brokenness. God is bigger than our ego, our pride and our shame and can heal up the wounded. What are we waiting for?

What excuses have you thrown up to keep you from chasing that dream?  It’s never too late to turn the dream suppressed into the dream

"Is anything too great for God?"

Care to Comment?



Ellis Island in New York City.
How many immigrants gazed out at Lady liberty, and dreamed?
Photo by David Rupert

Joining up with the others today at Faith Barista as we all discuss God-Sized Dreams

Garage Sale Grace

It was dirty, rusted and completely unusable.

I walked right by it, heading straight for the table of loose tools and shop gadgets.

But then, my eyes drifted back, drawn by the shame of its condition. Like a lookey-loo on the freeway, gawking at the wreckage, I just had to look at it's condition.

How awful!

It was an Underwood typewriter, the kind that my grandmother might have used at her factory secretary job  Or the kind that  reporters used to bang out their news stories, one letter at a time. It was the kind that the would-be writer would clackity-clack pour their hearts and souls, wondering if anyone would ever understand. 

Photo by David Rupert

What had happened?

Was it lost, buried in a pile of rubble? Was it left outside to the ravages of nature, it's case exposed to the winter’s snow and spring rains? Was it forgotten in an old garage, home to mice that ran across the keys and spiders' webs to build? 

It was wretchedly abused.

But someone had found a little value in it, even as an oddity. And rather than deposit it in the green dumpster in the alley, it now sat on the same table as porcelain dishes and old magaznes and late night television exercise contraptions still in their boxes. This once glorious instrument was now nothing more than another piece of junk at a garage sale.

Broken. Unusable. Despised.

Three dollars. That was the price. Really, even that was too much for something completely disabled .

But it needed to be rescued.

How many love letters were tapped out on its keys after the girls were put to bed and the radio with it’s news of soldiers marching in foreign lands was turned off.

How many novels were started, with halting dark-and-stormy-night first lines typed, then pulled out in frustration and thrown away?

How many recipes were copied, each letter copiously typed so the muffins would turn out just right for Sunday dinner?

How many sermons were written, heavy sighs expelled over it’s metal case, wondering if anyone would hear, if anyone would care?

The degenerate typewriter holds a thousands stories of love found, and love lost. Of hope and brokenness. Of dreams and joy.

It was worth nothing really in its current condition. But in my eyes it was worth everything.

I picked it up, heavy in my warms, as I walked to the car. I looked down and the dirt and rust were all over the sky blue shirt I wore. I smiled.

So this is how grace works. 

Care to comment?

Joining up with Graceful's Hear it on Sunday, Use it on Saturday. Read other posts here.

To my father

Dad would have been 94 next week...he didn't  quite make it.


He'll be on my heart and mind this weekend. You'll recognize some of what I've said about him before, but it bears repeating.

Adam Rupert, Emma Rupert,
 and Gordon Rupert (my dad)

The truth is, I wish I was half the man he was.


He was a roofer by trade, a cowboy at heart and a gentleman by nature. 



For more than 50 years, he crawled over rooftops, and literally hung on the edge of danger. We figured over the years he made more than 100,000 treks up and down a ladder, often with bundles of shingles on his shoulder and tools strapped to his waist.

His skill, his honesty and his integrity won him many loyal customers and fed our family. His was a simple approach. He rarely hired a crew, choosing instead the lonely road of a dedicated craftsman.


Who needs advertising when you drive this?

Advertising? His calling card was an old 1951 Chevy truck with a custom roof over the  that he drove down the highway with a ladder strapped to the top. He was famous for that truck and regularly people would pull up at a stoplight, roll down their windows and ask him to come over.

He never cheated his customers. He always backed up his work. He always had a smile and gentle way that exhibited Christ’s love.


I remember sitting on a roof with my dad as a small boy, eating half his sandwich and stealing coffee from his Thermos. I would catch his grey eyes, staring off at some distant shore. Where ever it was, I wanted to be there with him.


He spoke slow, not wishing for words to complicate a situation that could be resolved with a smile.


He breathed many a silent prayer on those roofs, simple thanks for the blessings of living another day. Such was the way of my father.


Dad never made a lot of money. But I learned that work wasn’t just about getting ahead. It was about glorifying God through your labor. It was about a High Calling that didn’t have to be articulated, but was lived.


His ethics, his serenity and his faith lives on in his children.


Happy Father's Day. Happy Father's Life.

Dad, I miss you. 


You can comment here.

There is no list

Jon Acuff is a witty reporter of the Stuff Christians Like. He has razor insight into what makes us tick in a laugh-at-ourselves kind of way.

But every Wednesday, he gets serious. And today, what he said could just change your life. I think it might change mine.

He was talking about the Prodigal Son and the second half of the story. You know the first half. Son takes the money and leaves home and goes off to see the world, sleeping with pigs.His father waits and welcomes, throwing a big party when the son comes home.

Acuff’s humanity imagines the day after the big party, when his father has a little chat with him.

 “Son, we need to go over the list.” His father said, “We need to make a list of all the money you spent, all the mistakes you made, and all the people you hurt. Then we need to figure out how you start repaying your debt,” the father said.

Of course, that’s not what happened. The forgiveness was whole It was complete. It was without a list.

I’ve had people tell me they forgave me, but the list was always there. It came up in conversation, or in subtle reminders of my failures. It came up whenever there was blood to be extracted, power to be exerted, control to be used. The list can be an amazing weapon. But unlike humans, God chooses not use it.

“I know that God’s forgiveness is eternal and inexhaustible,” writes Acuff, “But in my heart I feel like He’s going to run out of it. That He’s got a limited supply. And I’m burning them up, one by one, sin by sin.”

But that’s not the way  it is. There is no end to forgiveness. There is no list.

Care to comment?

Alien life

"If I find in myself a desire which no experience in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that I was made for another world."

-- C.S. Lewis

The way back home

My son and I were on vacation last week in South Lake Tahoe, visiting loved ones. Reminiscing. Laughing. Healing. Bonding. We escaped the family buzz and just the two of us headed out on a short hike to Cascade Lake and Falls. "A stunning vista that you'll never forget. Instant Gratification." beckoned the trail guide.

I read the directions to the trail head. "Drive up Highway 89 north from South Lake Tahoe 8 miles. Turn at Bayview campground across from Inspiration Point. Drive one-quarter mile to parking area."

The hiking directions were clearly stated. "It starts as a wide path winding through a fragrant ponderosa pine and spruce fir forest. A few stone steps lead to a narrower, rockier trail for the next 3/4 mile. The trail curves along the side of the mountain providing scenic views of Cascade Lake, Emerald Bay and Lake Tahoe."

The guide gave other options to multiple lakes and sights. 

But I was struck by the last line. "To get back to the trail head, just reverse your travel."

It couldn't be easier.


How come life got so complicated?

My son, your first steps were deeply stamped, because I was there with you. I walked, and you stepped you in my size 11 prints. Then, at an important juncture, you were on your own. You were a man. I stopped and pointed you to the path that you should take. Follow the trail. Listen to God.  Don't make the same mistakes I did. 

I should have told you more about the danger ahead. There will be times ahead of you where your path will end, you'll be deep in the thickets of life. You'll be far away from where you started. 


I've been there myself and it's not a good place. And rather than come home, I pushed forwarded and get lost. Surrounded my lostness, I made the situation worse.

I should have just retraced my steps. I should have come home. There, He waits.


Care to comment?

Without the honey, is it worth getting stung?

Is your goal big enough? Is it enough of a lure to keep you pushing hard to reach it? No pain, no gain, right? But that gain must be attractive. It must be enticing, even enchanting as Guy Kawaski implores.

Photo by Elizabeth

Heather Holleman has a blog dedicated to “flair.” She raises her kids, teaches her students, and follows God with the flair of life.

Last week she asked a simple question. “Is your goal attractive?”

She reasons that every goal requires some sacrifice.  But on the other side of that sacrifice, there must be some attraction. The carrot on the end of my exercise regimen and diet is to be able to fit into my jeans. If I practice the guitar till my fingers are sore, then one day I will be able to play for my friends in a rousing chorus.

Motivating employees with sacrifice alone is a deal breaker. And asking your family to give up things for no apparent reason will only be met with cold-stares.

Read Is Your Goal Sufficiently Attractive and learn how to add a little flair to your sacrifice.

And feel free to comment here. Are you currently engaged in a discipline? What is your end goal? Is it worth it?

That's okay God. I can handle this one.

Image via WikipediaWe all have things that we are gifted to do. Some of us are good with numbers. Others are good with words. Some of us are good with our hands. Some are good with their minds. It’s the variety that makes the people around us so interesting.

And that’s the way it is at life. Hopefully, you are excellent at what you do. In fact, Scripture calls you to excellence.

But there can be a slow creep when you know you’re good -- a certain pride that you can do things “on your own.”You might lean on God when it comes to analyzing reports – because you struggle in that area. But when it comes to orally giving a presentation, you don’t need God – because you’re blessed with a silver tongue.


You might regularly lean on God to change your brake pads in your car – because you still haven’t learned “righty tighty, lefty loosey.” But you didn’t lean on God to build your deck, because you bought a book from Home Depot. 


You might trust God when your daughter has her first boyfriend, but when you don't consult him when faced with a big decision at work because it's the same one every year at budget time. 

Can you see the danger of leaning on yourself when it’s convenient? Do you have areas in your life that you are totally okay giving to God, others that “you team up with” and still others that you “can handle?”


Care to comment?


Psalm 10: 4 “In his pride the wicked does not seek him; in all his thoughts there is no room for God.”

Farewell to my Coworkers

(I'm honored that the following is today's featured article at The High Calling)

It had been threatened for months, but today was the day.

One-by-one, managers called staff members into their offices. Behind those locked doors came the word, who would go and who would stay.

When it was all over, nearly 20 percent of the people in my building lost their positions and would have to find another position within the company, quit or retire.

That afternoon, you could feel the air being sucked out of the pores of the building, leaving the cubicles, the hallways and even the elevator shaft seemingly devoid of breathable oxygen. The atmosphere was stifling.

There was either shock at being one of the 20 percent or relief at being in the 80 percent. There was no neutral that day My job was safe. But I still felt a deep compassion toward my friends and coworkers.

Soon the rumor mill began to churn and the names of those affected leaked out. Those that were tapped out had a sad resignation. In the hallways they walked with little zeal or purpose, a sad march toward oblivion.

Image by Dan Hendricks. Used with permission via Flikr

They had a glazed look about them, having invested decades in this company and now, their job was no longer important enough to keep. That bitter pill was tough to swallow.

The ride in the elevator each morning was telling. Uncertainty and fear clung on them like the cheap perfume found next to the deodorant at the drug store. Nobody looked at each other, avoiding the question.

I didn’t know what to say at first. But then I began to purposefully talk abut the elephant in conversations with honesty and compassion. A hand on a shoulder. An ear to chew. A mind to reason. A heart to understand. It wasn’t really so hard.

Some were bitter, even angry. While others seemed to take the news well  – like Sophie. She had been in her position for almost 30 years, serving dozens of executives over the years as a secretary. At first, she was shocked, but then a peace came on her. She was going to retire --earlier than she planned – but she was hopeful.

“I want to stay, but I think God has another plan,” she told me. “He knows better than I do.”

Her smile and spirit was infectious, and served as a source of inspiration to others that were displaced.

The Friday goodbye cakes and speeches filled with platitudes are a regular thing these days. One by one, people I have known for years are leaving to different pastures.

And last week was Sophie’s last. She gave hugs and blessings to her coworkers. She neatly arranged her stapler and tape dispenser on her desk and pushed her chair in one last time. This was it.

I happened to be in the lobby as she left.  I watched her walk out of the building – alone. Through one door, then the second and she was outside in the streaming sunshine.

I waited and watched, wondering if she would look back. She didn’t. Holding back tears, she held her head high, clutching a tote bag filled with cards, gifts and the picture frame from her desk.

Under her arm was the plaque that said, “Jesus Never Fails.”

Goodbye.

Care to comment?

Some other places to check out. Who else do you read?

I have the great joy of highlighting just a portion of the excellent writing, musings and insights from among the 1,700 bloggers in the High Calling Network, where I serve as the newsletter editor. You can read the full narrative over at The High Calling.  

Do you have some favorite blogs you like to frequent? Drop a note in the comment box. 

Here are the posts that  caught my eye and hopefully, will touch your heart. 
Marni Arnold — Trust in the Storms

Leneita Fix — You Can’t Relate

Julie Gillies — Disqualified

Beth Covalt — Chasing Eden and Beauty School Drop Out

Billy Coffey — Jimmy’s Long Road Ahead

Melissa Runcie — The One I Really Need to Thank

Rachel Parton — Vanity Thy Name is Woman  

Dawn Gonzalez — Desperate Housewives

God's tattoo

From a distance, she was striking. Long brown hair and a winsome smile marked her. She was the kind that elicited jealous looks from from other girls and glances from passing boys. She handled the attention with style and grace.

Her table was ready and she sat down with her companion. Swinging off her coat onto the chair, she bared her shoulders. I was surprised to see that both of them were covered in elaborate, colorful tattoos. I tried to look away, but couldn't. An intricate pattern of vines with faces of animals and symbols were woven into the design. It was quite amazing -- yet disconcerting. She was so beautiful. Why mess that up?

People have their reasons. My Grandpa had a tattoo on his forearm, a remnant from his days with the merchant marines. Gang members use them to display their allegiance. Lovers commemorate their commitment. Some mark moments in their lives with ink such as a birth of a child or death of a loved one. I know Christians who have tattoos to display their faith, complete with images of Christ or Bible verses.

Call me a fuddy-duddy. Call me out of touch. Call me whatever, but I'll never get a tattoo. If you choose to, that's fine. But it's not for me.

But I do have indelible ink on my heart. I have the deep marks of love that broke it. I have memories of people who have touched it. I have visions of places that moved it. 

And God put His law on my mind, and then "wrote it on my heart," so I would never forget. And He gave the Comforter, to seal the deal, a sign of ownership.

 God's tattoo on me.

Marked.

This encourages me to boldly go forth. I'm His and He is mine.

Joining up with Bonnie at Faith Barista in  "What encourages you."

What do you think about tattoos? Has God left a mark in your life? Care to comment?