They were newlyweds returning from their honeymoon. As the 21-year-old Granger Kent and his new bride traveled toward home, surely their thoughts were on their future and the excitement of establishing a home and building a family. Seated not far from the newlyweds were two men, both engaged, and traveling to meet their brides and celebrate their weddings. 154 years ago, these and many more were gathered on a train traveling from Cleveland to Buffalo, New York.

The New York Express departed Cleveland in the early hours of December 18, 1867. As it made its way toward its destination it struggled to keep up with the appointed schedule, and by the time it reached Angola, NY, it was running nearly three hours late. The train engineers had no hope of arriving on time, but they were doing all they could to minimize the severity of their tardiness.

Other than the frustration of anticipated schedules being missed the trip was mundane. These were the days when passenger trains were the primary way of travel. It is likely that every passenger on the train that day had taken many similar trips and gave little thought to the significance of this trip. As they passed through Angola, they knew they were getting close to their destination and likely began to turn their thoughts to what they would do when they arrived. Angola was not a planned stop, so the train passed by the little wooded depot at a steady speed. The telegraph operator in the station noted her passing and surely waved at the engineers as they passed.

“The good old days weren’t so good.” That was my grandfather’s response to the impulse to remember the days of old as being better than the present day. Every generation is tempted to allow nostalgia to cover the hardships and brokenness of the past. As a kid, I would listen to the adults talk about how good things used to be and how broken things were becoming. Now I am an adult and often find myself being an enthusiastic participant in similar conversations.

My grandfather used to say that when he was a child, he carried enough water to float a battleship. He grew up in a home that did not have running water, and one of his regular chores was to bring in water for household use. He would say this to communicate how thankful he was for the modern convenience of in-home running water and to encourage me to be thankful for the goodness and convenience of in-home running water. I often imagined what life must have been like for him growing up with chamber pots and an outhouse. I imagined how uncomfortable it must have been on cold and rainy days and how inconvenient and time-consuming taking a bath must have been. But the truth is, I was never able to appreciate household plumbing with as much thanksgiving as my grandfather did.

The earliest disagreement I can remember having with my wife came in the early days of our courtship. We were both students at Shorter University and in the last year of our studies. Though we had known each other since our freshman year, we had only recently begun a serious relationship and were excited to spend as much time together as possible. I had invited Dana over to my apartment and was preparing a meal for her. The specifics of the meal have long since evaporated from my memory, but the particulars of our disagreement remain fresh. I had recently purchased a 4lbs. bag of sugar and was preparing to use the new sugar in whatever I was making. When I opened the sugar container, Dana noticed a singular black ant crawling across the top of the sugar. The building my apartment was in was an older building and thus the occasional bug was just part of living there. When Dana pointed out the little ant, I scooped it out and went on with my business of preparing food. Dana immediately protested and demanded that I throw away the entire container of sugar. I countered that the majority of the sugar was untouched by the ant and throwing out all of it would be wasteful. She contended that it was all contaminated by the presence of the little ant.

My favorite holiday is Thanksgiving. I enjoy gathering with family, sharing a good meal, and spending the day unencumbered by the regular demands of life. During the Thanksgiving season, we rightly turn our attention to what we are thankful for. When thinking about what we are thankful for, we generally identify things, people, and events that we have received. You might be thankful for a good gift, a good relationship, or an advancement at work. These are certainly worthy of being thankful for, but I think there is something else that we should consider. God certainly blesses and provides by giving good gifts, but He also blesses and provides well by what He says "No" to and what He withholds.

Different eras bring different desires, but the common thread is a desire for what is perceived as better than what you have. When I was a kid, I very much thought that the kids who were growing up in homes that were more affluent than mine had it better. Many of them had parents who were much more accommodating to the desires and wishes of their children. Many of them, though they attended church somewhat regularly, had no problem with spending the weekend at the river or some other activity that seemed so much more exciting than attending Sunday school and worship. I often felt as though the kids who drove nicer cars were more blessed. I was very envious of those who could spend their Sundays skiing while I sat in church. On the issue of church attendance, I employed every argument I could muster to attempt to persuade my parents that missing a Sunday or two would not negatively impact my walk with the Lord. I passionately proclaimed that we were under grace and not under the law. In more desperate moments, I may have even insinuated that my parents were committing the sin of legalism. No matter how passionate I pleaded, their response to my desire to turn my attention away from worship and keeping Sabaoth was “No.” I was not thankful for it then, but the magnitudes of gratitude I feel today are incalculable. There was more grace in what I was not allowed to do than if I had enjoyed the freedoms and provisions I thought were so important.

I have an odd collection of rocks on the bookshelf in my office. Among the collection are a jagged chunk of concrete, two broken bricks, three red cylinders cut from a brick wall, and a large cement cylinder cut out of a floor.

The first of the collection is the large cement cylinder. It stands about 4 inches tall. The sides are smooth from the blade that cut it. The smooth sides reveal the rock and rebar that were once part of the first floor of Roberts Hall, a men’s dormitory on the Rome, GA campus of Shorter University. During my sophomore year of college, the building was being wired for a new campus phone system and computer network. To provide access to each floor for the needed wiring, holes were drilled through the concrete floors. The new phone system was rendering the payphones on each floor obsolete, so their closets made convenient spaces through which to run the new wiring. The payphone closet was adjacent to the place at the end of the hallway, where I would often go late at night to read scripture and pray. The circular coring blade that cut through the concrete produced smooth-sided cement cylinders that the workmen left on the floor when they finished. One night, as I was reading scripture and praying, I noticed the forsaken remnants of the previous day’s work and decided to take one piece to be a reminder of how the Lord had been so gracious in those days and at that spot to draw me to Himself. It became a treasured reminder to me of God’s grace to convict me of sin and to deepen my obedience to His word.

We pass them by every day on the roads that we travel without much thought or recognition. Little green signs, with white numbers marking the distance in miles from a starting point, blend into the scenery beside the road. These mile marker signs are part of a very long history that stretches back to the first constructed roads. There still stands today beside the roads that the Romans constructed stones engraved numbers indicating the distance from Rome. These stones are called milestones. With this long history, the word "milestone" has found a place in our lexicon not only referring to an object that indicates the distance from a specific point but also to a moment in time that has significance or distinction.

This past weekend I traveled to Columbus, GA, to celebrate a milestone with my dad, who is also named Ben Smith. On Friday, September 1, 1978, my dad started running. From the start, he recorded his running miles and eventually would add them to an Excel file to keep track of his total distance. I was a little boy when he started running, so I do not remember a time when he was not a runner. I do remember that over the years, I would hear him mention different goals that he was striving for. In the early 1980’s he was training to qualify and then run the Boston Marathon. Years later, as his total distance of running approached the distance in miles equal to the distance around the Earth at the equator (24,901 miles), he regularly made announcements as to how close he was getting. When he reached this milestone, he was running with some of his longtime running partners. They stopped and used a disposable camera to capture the moment then continued their run.

We are people of stories. We tell stories to chronicle our history and express who we are. The stories we tell about ourselves paint the mural of who we are, what events have shaped us, what we hope to become, and how we hope to be remembered. Our stories are living things. How we tell them, when we tell them, who we tell them too, and what details we include (and exclude) all are part of the living story. Listening to others tell their stories helps you understand and know their heart. Understanding and knowing another’s heart goes a long way to helping you be more gracious towards them.

It must have been sometime in the mid-1980s when I experienced both the thrill of unrestrained excess and the brutal consequences that followed, all in the span of an hour. It took place at a wedding reception in our church fellowship hall. These were the days when most couples had their wedding receptions at the church fellowship hall, and whole families were invited to attend. If you are unfamiliar with this cultural era, let me briefly describe the setting. The wedding ceremony would take place in the church sanctuary. Following the service, the wedding party and the guests would walk over to the church fellowship hall. This could be anything from a building finely appointed and decorated on the level of the sanctuary or it could be a metal building normally used as a gym with strategically placed flowers to dress it up for the special occasion. The bride and groom would stand in a prominent place to greet each guest while everyone else enjoyed small sandwiches and other finger foods arranged on a long table in the center of the room. At one end of the table there would be a punch bowl and at the other end would be cake. All the guests would stand around with small plastic plates in hand, talking until it was time for the bride and groom to make their grand exit. Everyone would then line each side of the walkway leading out of the building, and as the couple passed between them, all would throw rice and shout congratulations!

These past few weeks have been deeply troubling for many in the Southern Baptist Convention as we witnessed some of the Executive Committee members and Executive Committee staff attempt to ignore the directive of the messengers and thwart an investigation into their handling of sexual abuse issues. It was ugly. It was frustrating. And it revealed a serious threat to the polity and stability of our Convention.

Preaching the gospel is a strange thing. Observing from a human perspective, it seems rather simple and powerless. And yet, the humble appearance of preaching is in contrast to what Scripture declares it to be. Vested in the humble act of proclaiming the word of Christ is the power to save.

The church we attended while in seminary had a ministry at a local nursing home. They would send someone out each week to conduct Sunday services. Several times I was asked to lead these services and preach. It would just be me and someone who would play the piano. The nursing home staff would assemble the residents in the dining room where I would lead the singing of a hymn then preach. Some of the residents were aware that they were participating in the service, while others were not. Some would grow tired and fall asleep before I finished leading the service. I preached with all the effort and skill that I had but often wondered what real effectiveness or eternal impact I had.

If you know me well, then you know that I have a great fear of snakes. Hatred may be the more correct word, but certainly, the presence of a snake produces in me an undeniable feeling of fear. Once, many years ago, as I was opening the door to our home, a snake emerged from behind a chest freezer that was sitting beside the door. It so startled me that I jumped back and left my keys in the door. I called a friend who lived and worked nearby and who I knew was not afraid of snakes. He was gracious enough to immediately come over and remove the snake. While he single-handily moved the heavy chest freezer and caught the snake I stood at a safe distance in the yard. There was a part of me that felt ashamed that I was not helping my friend or willing to confront the snake alone, but my fear outweighed my shame causing me to remain in the yard while my friend worked alone.

What are you afraid of? Some may say pridefully but with confidence that they are afraid of nothing. Others may have a long list of things that cause them to fear. I believe that in some part, fear drives everyone. You might think this is an overly broad or overly pessimistic declaration, but I do not think so. Once you look for it and recognize it, you will find the influence of fear almost everywhere.

I have a cheap little screwdriver in my desk drawer. Calling it cheap is likely too gracious of a word. It has the form of a miniature screwdriver but not the ability to perform the task of such a tool. This little screwdriver is not an effective tool for anything. It is cheaply made, and if it were to be used for anything that caused real pressure to be applied, it would likely break or bend under the strain. So why do I keep it in my desk drawer? I keep it because of who gave it to me.

The annoyances of unsolicited sales calls are part of the modern life. At one time, our landline phones would ring around supper time with offers for cheaper long-distance phone service. Today we get calls on our cellphones throughout the day with urgent pleas to purchase vehicle warranties before our current warranty expires. Even though the script that the salesperson reads promises much, most of us have grown immune to their promises and simply ignore the calls as an annoying distraction. I have learned to check the caller id to identify telemarketers. My eyes are keen to identify the items of junk mail for an immediate toss in the trash. I consider myself rather adept at both recognizing and avoiding such attempts to sell me worthless products or services. So, it is with some bafflement how I came to make the following purchasing decision.

When I was a child, my mother would often take us to visit my great-aunt, who lived in a nursing home in Columbus, GA. When we would enter the building, we would be greeted by a resident who spent his days sitting by the front door. He seemed to always be there. The front of the building had large floor-to-ceiling windows. He likely enjoyed the spot by the front door because it afforded him a good view of the world outside. We would have likely walked past this man with little more than a polite greeting if it were not for his aggressive initiation of a conversation. When the man saw someone enter through the front door and begin to walk toward him, he would enthusiastically and with great confidence shout out, “I bet I know where you got your shoes!”

My first solo hospital visit as a pastor did not go as planned. In fact, it went so badly that I hoped that the lady, whom I was visiting, did not remember the visit. I never even told her that I came to see her that day.

I was serving as an associate pastor of a little church while attending seminary. I was primarily responsible for student ministry. But on this occasion, our pastor was out of town, and I was covering the hospital visits. This was to be my first official pastoral visit. Sure, I had visited the hospital before, as well as gone with other pastors on such visits, but this was to be my first solo visit. I had no worries, why should I? Every other such visit I had been a part of seemed easy and tame. How could I have imagined that on that day, my experience would leave an indelible mark on my memory but one I would never reveal to the person I was visiting.

A few years ago, I decided to start running. Several reasons motivated me to start running but chief among them was I recognized that my health was not moving in a positive direction. It was not that I had a health crisis or had received some troubling diagnosis but rather I recognized that the combination of not eating well and a lifestyle that was mostly sedentary was conspiring to rob me of energy and endurance.

When I began running, I did two things. First, I dramatically changed my diet. I cut out things that were high in sugar and salt and I cut my portion sizes. The second thing was I began to run every morning. Well, more accurately I attempted to run every morning.

The story of Cliff Young has always fascinated me. If you have not heard of Cliff Young then let me tell you a story of how a 61-year-old farmer turned the professional running world upside-down.

In 1983, Australia hosted its ultramarathon, a 573.7-mile foot race from Sydney to Melbourne. This is a race that takes days to run, and professionals from all over the world came to participate. Shortly before the race began, a 61-year-old farmer named Cliff Young, wearing overalls and galoshes over his boots, walked up to the registration table and requested a number to enter the race. The people at the registration table thought it was a joke—that somebody was setting them up—so they laughed. But Cliff Young said, "No, I'd really like to run." So, they gave him a number and pinned it on his old overalls.

The Bibles on my shelves tell in part the story of my personal walk with the Lord. There is the 3-inch thick Parallel Bible with four translations that I used through high school. Then there is the well-worn, duct taped spine, two-inch-thick Bible I used throughout most of college. I do not know why I opted for such big Bibles back then. Next to this Bible is the much thinner (Ultrathin Reference Edition) Bible I used for some of my college years and into my seminary days. It does not have as much duct tape applied, but it is all the same, held together, both on the outside and the inside, with applications of tape. Duct tape is the poor man’s rebinding. In all three of these Bibles are margin notes that reference particular times when God was moving in my life. In all three there are highlighted scripture verses that God has used to comfort, convict, and challenge me. And all three hold a special place in my heart because they were a significant part of my life in their respective seasons.

With each of these Bibles, I set them aside and began to use the next one because I preferred to use a different size or typeset. Or, in the case of the last two, they were becoming so worn, with pages falling out. Time and wear had limited their ability to keep up with the rigors of accompanying me through life and ministry.

There is a part of me that is sad to acknowledge the dearth of biblical literacy today. Biblical literacy has historically influenced our politics, public speech, education, poetry, and music. Without a general knowledge of the Bible, much of the writings of previous generations will not be fully understood. Phrases like “let justice roll down like water and righteousness like a mighty stream” in Dr. Martin Luther King’s “I have a dream” speech lose their authority and power when they are divorced from the prophet Amos and become just another line in a great speech. Without an awareness of biblical themes, the opening words of the Gettysburg address just seem like a strange way to reference time.

Finding the right church is not easy. Unfortunately, too many see this as a consumer driven process rather than a spiritual act of obedience. Few go beyond the superficial of music style of the services or speaking ability of the pastor. In an interview for The Blue Mountain Review my fiend Clifford Brooks asked me how someone should go about finding a church. My response was five suggestions that I think are critical to making this decision.