In the late ‘80s I lived in the North Dallas area.  At that time, you could get tickets to see the Texas Rangers for less than $10 and sit in the bleachers.  Some friends and I would frequently go to games.  We’d slow roast in the hot Texas summer sun and eat chips floating in Velveeta cheese sold under the name “nachos”. I would beg my friends to stop me from adding a pile of jalapeno peppers to my nachos, but sadly they could not be trusted to save me from myself.  Or maybe it was because they secretly delighted in the fact that sometime the next morning in the middle of the group therapy session I led, my poor decision of the night before would rear its ugly head.

The Rangers had minor league affiliates in Oklahoma City and a AA team in Tulsa.  I had never seen a minor league game so one weekend my friend, Chris and I decided to take a road trip and see the Oklahoma 89ers one night and the Tulsa Drillers the next.

One thing to know about minor league baseball is that the lower the level of minor league team, the more their games look like a variety show with some baseball thrown in.  When we arrived at the stadium in Tulsa we learned that the warm-up act to the game that night was an act called “Lady Dynamite.”  The way it goes is that a woman comes out to home plate where a box made of some unknown material awaits.  She puts on a motorcycle helmet and climbs in the box and it is sealed up.  There follows an enormous explosion and when the smoke and debris clear, Lady Dynamite rises from the ashes.  It was awesome.  You can’t make this stuff up.  In fact, if you Google “Dynamite lady blows herself up!” you can see a video for yourself.

Strange enough, I was reminded of Lady Dynamite Sunday night.  My next scheduled MRI is this week.  We’ve struggled with more than our share of anxiety and fear these past few weeks.  The scripture “pray without ceasing” comes to mind.  It’s an easy thing to say “have faith” or “trust in God” but sometimes other feelings battle with that faith and trust.

After church Sunday, Alisha and I went for a bike ride in the beautiful sunshine we were blessed with.  There was a concert happening at the church that evening.  I hadn’t planned on going but as we rode and talked Alisha said “I think you should go to that concert.  I think it will be good for you.”  I don’t normally like to leave the family on Sundays, but it felt like the right thing to do.  I felt I needed some time of quiet prayer and reflection.

I found a seat long before the concert started and just tried to search my heart and better understand these feelings that I had.  At the front of our church a large cross hangs on the wall.  As I sat there I wondered, maybe for the first time in my life, what it was like to hang there on the cross.  I know that it may sound morbid to some, but it was important for me to consider what the center of my faith may have felt as he hung from the cross, not just physically, but emotionally.  What did the view look like from that vantage point, surrounded both by people who loved him and hated him enough to kill him.

For whatever reason, in that moment I realized that from that perspective I felt like my view was from a prison.  And not just a prison, but solitary confinement.  Dark, oppressive, inescapable.  That is how I had been feeling, right or wrong.  I had a picture in my head of God because of the sacrifice made on the cross loving me enough to blast the cell open and setting me free.   Crazy as it sounds, I thought of Lady Dynamite all those years ago when with a single ear shattering blast she was set free and rose from the ashes.

This morning I sent up a flare asking for prayer from friends and family.  Last night Alisha and I went to our rock, prayed and lit a fuse that will blow open the door of the cell.  We wrote all of our fears and prayers on pieces of paper and lit them.  As the smoke rose I imagined those fears and prayers rising up to God’s inclined ear.