Restoring Kingdom Builders

Tomorrow will be one of the most joyous and blessed days of my life.

My son Ryan is getting married to a fantastic Christian girl named Vanessa.

Ryan and Vanessa on the Day of Their Engagement

My wife and I have been praying for this day for years – but for a long time, it didn’t look like it was going to happen.

Ryan was born in Orange, California, on Labor Day.  Although we did not know the gender of our first child before birth, I was giddy as I was putting on my gown before he greeted the world.  The California Angels were playing at nearby Anaheim Stadium that day and Nolan Ryan, my favorite player, pitched and won against the White Sox.  Many people assume that I named Ryan after Nolan Ryan, but I actually saw the name Ryan Andrew in the sports section of the LA Times, and we chose to go with it.

When Ryan was growing up, he loved to collect baseball cards (he would talk to the players directly), build forts in our living room out of blankets and pillows, and lead neighborhood kids in endeavors like Spy Camp.  He played Little League and went with me to spring training in Arizona and countless Giants games at Candlestick Park.

But his whole world changed the Christmas we bought a family computer – a Mac IIsi, to be exact.  That was 20 years ago.  I can still see his eyeballs bulging out of their sockets when he saw it.

One summer, Ryan worked hard to earn enough money to buy his own computer.  I was very proud of him for doing that.

When he turned 16, I took Ryan to the East Coast for a 10-day trip.  We had a marvelous time seeing the sights, but most of all, we understood each other a lot more after that excursion.

While I taught Ryan how to play sports and drive, he taught me about The Simpsons, Seinfeld, Star Trek: The Next Generation and Hootie and the Blowfish.  Seems like a good deal to me.

Ryan eventually learned how to run the sound board at our church and later become a drummer.  Many nights, he assembled a band that played outside in the church parking lot very late at night – with the approval of security.

After graduating with a computer science degree from UC Irvine, Ryan chose to live in southern Orange County, where he has worked for several companies.

Somewhere along the line, he started attending a wonderful church in Irvine.  We thank God for Pastor Terry’s leadership and teaching and for the many friends Ryan has made there.

Ryan has also been mountain biking for years, training diligently and competing in races all over Southern California.

Ryan Mountain Biking

Even though he led a full life, something (or someone) was missing.  After dating numerous young women, Ryan finally met Vanessa via eharmony in the summer of 2010.  (Thank you, Neil Clark Warren!)  My wife and I have prayed for many years that Ryan would marry a mature Christian woman from a healthy Christian family and that they would serve the Lord together.  Vanessa is the answer to our prayers – and those of our son as well.

Tomorrow they become man and wife.  I’m privileged to be conducting their ceremony.

Tonight I’ll think back to the joy I felt the day he was born, the times we played catch together, three vacations where it was just the two of us – and a time two years ago when he wasn’t sure he would ever meet the right woman.

At Great Smoky Mountains National Park

It’s now the right time.  Vanessa is the right woman.  And, as usual, God orchestrated the whole thing.

May the Lord be high and lifted up!

And may the Lord bless Ryan and Vanessa with a few little Meyers – eventually!

With Sarah and Kim Overlooking The Forum in Rome

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Today is the anniversary of the day that my wife Kim and I were married.

You know, it doesn’t seem that long ago.

Kim’s father became the pastor of my church in the summer of 1973.  I had just been hired by the elders to be the youth pastor for the summer.  I told a good friend that I hoped the new pastor’s two oldest daughters were ugly so I could focus on my ministry.

One day, just after I started work, a large blue Suburban pulled up in front of the church office.  All eight members of the new pastor’s family had driven together from Chicago to Garden Grove, and they wanted to know the location of their temporary home.  While telling them, I hardly noticed who was in the vehicle.

Over the next few weeks, I don’t remember talking to Kim, even though I was the new youth guy.  One of my best friends, though, saddled up to me and asked, “How can I get to know Kim?”

But I wasn’t interested – in anybody.

Yet one night, after talking with her a little, I asked Kim if she’d like to go to the San Diego Zoo the following Saturday.  She said yes.  My brother John had asked a girl to go with him, too.

Every week in a discipleship group I led, I assigned a spiritual exercise called a “discipline.”  The discipline for that week was that no one in the group was supposed to listen to the radio.  (Hey, music in 1973 wasn’t all that great anyway.)  So instead of listening to tunes while I drove to San Diego, Kim and I talked.  (I don’t know what my brother was doing in the back seat.)

And we talked as we walked around the zoo.  And we talked when I drove home.

While I liked Kim, I didn’t really know what to do after that.  But one guy in the group definitely did.  He invited her out the following Friday night to a car race.  She went.  I heard about it and wasn’t happy.  (I was thinking about asking the Lord to revoke his salvation.)

One night, Kim shared that she was having a hard time with the boy friend she left back in Chicago.  I offered to listen.  We ended up driving to the beach.

I came home and told my mother that I knew I had met the girl I was going to marry.

A few nights later, I was at home when I heard a noise outside.  There was toilet paper hanging from our mailbox –  at 7:30 in the evening.  I looked around for the culprit, and found Kim, hiding under a car.

That was a good sign.

I asked her out again the following weekend, and then took her to Disneyland.  When you took a girl to Disneyland back then, it represented a sizeable investment.

Another night, some people from our church went to the Los Angeles Rescue Mission to put on a service.  When I heard that Kim was going, my interest in Skid Row skyrocketed.  She gave a testimony that night, and I sensed how much she cared about people who hurt.

Another time, we went to the Griffith Park Observatory and stayed out late.  Kim’s dad didn’t know where we were, and he had the cops combing Griffith Park looking for us.  (Kim sauntered in around 4:30 am., but that was the last time we ever tried that move!)

Honestly, we were just talking.

After dating Kim for only two months, Kim’s dad had a meeting with my brother and me one night.  (My brother was dating her sister.)  Her father told us that he blessed both of our relationships.  That was cool.

Kim and I stayed up all night before the Rose Parade in Pasadena the following New Year’s Day, and for the first time, we started talking about getting married.  We were young but in love.

We went together for two years before tying the knot.  The ceremony was held at our home church.

I had taken a full-time job as church custodian (I prefer the term ecclesiastical engineer) so we could get married before I started seminary.  The morning of the ceremony, I came to church to spend my normal 5 hours cleaning up the place before Sunday – and promptly locked my keys in the car.  Only my mother had an extra key, and she laughed uproariously when she arrived to let me in.

Later on, the deacons told me they had voted that I didn’t have to clean up the church on my wedding day – but they forgot to tell me.  (If I hadn’t done it, who would have?)

The church was packed even though it was a scorching hot afternoon.  Kim’s dad preached a l-o-n-g sermon while we both knelt on stage.

We went to Yosemite for our honeymoon.  We were so financially challenged that our friends rifled through the wedding cards and gave us any cash they found.

That was 36 years ago!

When we first started dating, Kim and I had a serious discussion about the future.  I believed that God had called me to be a pastor.  She preferred to be a missionary.  I couldn’t envision myself living overseas in another culture.  But because we couldn’t envision living apart, either, she gave up her dreams for me.

There are so many things I love about Kim.  She is kind, sweet, compassionate, energetic, feisty, EC – and a lot of fun.

But most of all, I love her heart.

2 children, 3 apartments, 9 houses, 9 churches, and 10 surgeries later, we’re still madly in love – and truth be told, just plain mad.

Right before we started dating, Gordon Lightfoot came out with a song called Beautiful.  The song begins:

At times, I just don’t know

How you could be anything but beautiful

To think that I was made for you

And you were made for me

That’s how I still feel, more than three decades after marrying my bride.

Happy anniversary, Kimbelina!  I love you now more than ever.

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John Stott died two days ago in London.  He was ninety years old.

More than any single person, he shaped the way I approached, interpreted, and taught Scripture.

Although Protestants don’t have a Pope, the British leader, author, theologian, and teacher was the next best thing for many of us.

A lifelong bachelor, Stott was the rector for many years at All Soul’s Church in Langham Place in London – right across from the BBC.  Although I’ve been inside the church, I’ve never attended a service there.  (If you look across the photo, you can see an exterior balcony at the BBC building.  U2 did a brief concert there not too long ago.)

After his tenure at All Soul’s, Stott undertook a worldwide teaching ministry.  I had the privilege of hearing him one time – at the Congress of Biblical Exposition in Anaheim in 1986.  Although the conference featured such great preachers as Chuck Colson, Chuck Swindoll, J. I, Packer, Howard Hendricks, Stuart Briscoe, and many more preaching all-stars, Stott was invited to give the first message.  During his talk, he referred to the perspicuity of Scripture, a term I had never heard before.  It was the genius of Stott that he could use a word like that and help us to understand both its meaning and application for our ministries.  (The word refers to the fact that the Bible is clear in its teaching.  If a passage seems unclear in one place, it will be made clear in another place.)

Although he was a great teacher, for me, Stott was primarily an author.  In the series The Bible Speaks Today, Stott wrote books on The Sermon on the Mount, Acts, Romans, Galatians, Ephesians, 1 and 2 Thessalonians, and 1 and 2 Timothy and Titus.  Stott’s analysis of each Bible book is accurate, clear, succinct and practical – and he can turn a phrase like nobody else.  And while some popular Bible teachers skip the problems in Scripture, Stott fearlessly plows right into each one, a trait I greatly admire and have tried to emulate.

For some reason, I have always been attracted to British thinkers and theologians, like Stott, Packer, F. F. Bruce, D. Martyn Lloyd-Jones, Alister McGrath, and the incomporable Charles Spurgeon, to name a few.  Their scholarship, thinking, and writing styles have always resonated with me.

Let me recommend three books by John Stott to you.  They are relatively inexpensive volumes:

First, Baptism & Fullness: The Work of the Holy Spirit Today.  While I’ve owned as many as 30 books on the Holy Spirit, Stott’s 119-page paperback volume has long been my favorite.  He deals biblically and sensibly with four topics: the baptism, fullness, fruit, and gifts of the Holy Spirit.  When I first encountered this book 35 years ago, it challenged and then changed my thinking on the Holy Spirit.

For example, he writes “a word to those who may have been given some unusual visitation of the Spirit.”  He goes on:

“It is understandable that you should want to bear witness to what God has done for you.  But I beg you not to seek to stereotype everybody’s spiritual experience, or even to imagine that the Holy Spirit necessarily purposes to give others what he has given to you.  It is spiritual graces which should be common to all Christians, not spiritual gifts or spiritual experiences.  In a word, let your experience lead you to worship and praise; but let your exhortation to others be grounded not upon your experiences but upon Scripture.”  Wow, that’s good!

Second, Decisive Issues Facing Christians Today.  Although the book is now 21 years old, Stott goes where most Christian teachers won’t go: headlong into controversies about social issues like the environment, human rights, racisim, feminism, abortion, and homosexual marriage.  Stott interacts with secular authorities first (many of them British) so we can understand their positions, and then lets Scripture clarify and arbitrate.  For example, here’s what he writes about gay sex:

“Christians should not therefore single out homosexual intercourse for special condemnation.  The fact is that every kind of sexual relationship and activity which deviates from God’s revealed intention is ipso facto displeasing to him and under his judgment.  This includes polygamy and polyandry … clandestine unions … casual encounters and temporary liaisons, adultery and many divorces … and homosexual partnerships…. In sum, the only ‘one flesh’ experience which God intends and Scripture contemplates is the sexual union of a man with his wife, whom he recognizes as ‘flesh of his flesh.'”

Finally, The Cross of Christ.  Published in 1986, it may be Stott’s greatest book.  It’s certainly my own favorite.  I have turned to it over and over again over the past 25 years, always with great profit.  Because Stott is always well-read, the book is penned with some theological depth, but is always richly rewarding.  This passage about Pilate protesting his innocence before Jesus’ crucifixion makes us think:

“It is easy to condemn Pilate and overlook our own equally devious behavior.  Anxious to avoid the pain of a whole-hearted commitment to Christ, we too search for convenient subterfuges.  We either leave the decision to somebody else, or opt for a half-hearted compromise, or seek to honour Jesus for the wrong reason (e.g. as teacher instead of Lord), or even make a public affirmation of loyalty while at the same time denying him in our hearts.”  Makes you think, doesn’t it?

Stott’s hobby was bird-watching, and I’ve read that he loved James Bond movies as well, so he wasn’t just a pie-in-the-sky leader.  He was transparently human.

But even though the man’s body his left our planet, his writings live on.  While he certainly wasn’t infallible, Stott was always gracious, willing to dialogue with his enemies and even chide his friends in the pursuit of truth.

Heaven is richer because of his departure from our planet.  But I am eternally grateful to God that I not only own most of his books (some are about two feet behind my left shoulder), but that the truth of God as taught in those books has worked its way into my own heart and soul.

Long live John Stott!

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The year was 1967.  I was 13-years-old and lived in Anaheim, California, just two miles up Cerritos Avenue from Disneyland.

In just their second year at Anaheim Stadium, my hometown California Angels – as they were called then – were hosting the Major League Baseball All-Star Game.

We played a lot of baseball in my neighborhood, and thanks to a couple of friends, we learned that when the American League teams visited the Angels, they stayed in hotels surrounding Disneyland.  At that time, the Oakland A’s stayed at the cheap Jolly Roger Inn.  The rest of the teams stayed at the Grand Hotel across Harbor Boulevard from Disneyland.

Most of the kids who lived near me collected baseball cards with varying degrees of success, so when we discovered that visiting players were staying about three miles from our community, we were curious to see if we could have access to them.

As it turns out, we could.

We’d arrive at the hotel in mid-afternoon and wait for the players to go to the ballpark, asking for their signatures.  Some took cabs to the stadium.  Others waited for the team bus.  A select few rented cars or stayed with friends or family.  We saw most of them, and 95% of them were cordial about signing.

It seems like a fairy tale now, but I once witnessed so many unbelievable things at the Grand Hotel.  Rod Carew rode a kid’s sting-ray bike all around the parking lot.  A kid named Gary – who didn’t have it all together upstairs – asked Al Kaline if he could interview him on his cassette recorder … and Kaline obliged.  Bobby Murcer needed a ride to Hollywood to be on a game show, and Gary volunteered to drive him … and Murcer agreed.  (None of us thought Murcer would return alive.)  A kid named Gordy – who got autographs with the rest of us – became best friends with Reggie Jackson.

And one time, my brother John and his friend Steve decided to ride the hotel elevator when the Yankees were in town – and Mickey Mantle stepped onto the elevator.  (And was not amused.)

Another day, actor Jimmy Durante – who was doing a show at the adjacent Melodyland Theatre – showed up in the parking lot, and we all got his signature.  (We didn’t have cameras on our phones in those days – much less phones – or I would have taken his picture.)  One day, two friends were walking to the hotel and decided to catch the tram ride from the Disneyland Hotel – and sat right by actor Fred McMurray.  Another time, I was at the hotel by myself when Hubert Humphrey came walking out – fast – with men in coats surrounding him.  He was running for President that year: 1968.  (I didn’t dare ask him for a signature.  I could have been shot.)

Back to the All-Star Game.  My best friend Steve and I planned to spend Sunday night, all day Monday, and Tuesday morning at the Grand Hotel getting autographs of players before going to the game itself late Tuesday afternoon.  Since the American League teams stayed in Anaheim during the year – and we could get their signatures anytime – we wanted autographs of National Leaguers instead.

This was before autographs were worth anything.  We never thought in terms of a signature’s value – we just wanted to obtain the autographs of people we admired.

At first, we obtained signatures on 3×5 index cards.  No one we knew was getting 8×10 pictures, postcards, or even baseballs signed.

But for the All-Star players, I went out and bought a brand-new autograph book – the kind we had our friends sign on the last day of grade school.

We also had to figure out the kind of pen we would use.  (This was pre-Sharpie.)  We tried out different ballpoint pens at home and brought several with us.

Steve and I finally discovered that while the National League players were staying at the Grand, the American Leaguers were staying at the Disneyland Hotel.

We parked at the Grand.

That Sunday night and the following day, Steve and I got the autographs of people like Jim Wynn, Fergie Jenkins, and the catcher for the Braves: Joe Torre.  But one guy in particular stood out.

We saw him walking toward us along Freeman Way.  He was resplendent in a light blue suit.  Honestly, I’ve rarely seen anybody with more presence or class in my life.

It was the great right fielder for the Pittsburgh Pirates, Roberto Clemente.

Clemente signed something for everyone in the small crowd surrounding him – including my autograph book.  It was a moment that I’ll never forget – especially when he died in a plane crash on January 1, 1973 while taking relief supplies for victims in Nicaragua.

We also obtained the signatures of future Hall of Famers like Ernie Banks, Don Drysdale, Bill Mazeroski, Orlando Cepeda, and NBC announcer Pee Wee Reese.  I nearly froze, though, when I saw Sandy Koufax, who had retired from the Dodgers at age 30 the year before and was now Reese’s broadcast partner.  Koufax was my hero.  He signed my autograph book.

I went home for dinner and brought back the best card of Koufax I had, hoping I’d see him again.  It was his 1955 Topps Rookie card – and was in mint condition.  Koufax signed it for me.  Some dealers have told me that when I had Koufax sign it, the value of the card plummeted, but I didn’t – and don’t – care.

No dealers were advising us back then, thank God.

On Monday evening, not much was happening at the Grand.  Chris Short and Richie Allen of the Phillies came to the hotel in a cab, and I obtained my first and only signature of Allen for the next 25 years – he was that tough an autograph.

Steve and I eventually decided to go over to the Disneyland Hotel and see if we could find some American Leaguers.  We didn’t see any players we knew, but it just so happened that Major League Baseball executives were having a meeting.  When these older men emerged from their meeting, Steve and I asked them to sign our index cards without knowing who they were – like Frank “Trader” Lane and Bing Devine.

But we both knew who Stan “The Man” Musial was.  He signed two index cards for me.  What a great, great night!

The morning of the All-Star Game, the lobby inside the Grand was a zoo.  Since the bellmen worked hard to keep the kids out of the lobby, Steve latched onto someone – I think a friend of Cepeda’s – ready to say that he was staying at the Grand.  We got some more autographs that morning (like Pete Rose and Tony Perez), and when I reviewed my autograph book, I was missing five guys.

They were a big five, too: Bob Gibson, Lou Brock, Juan Marichal, Willie Mays, and Hank Aaron.

It took me five years, but I finally obtained all of their signatures in my little blue book as well.  We didn’t have baseball card shows or conventions back then, so I had to find them and get them to sign – for free.

A friend from church named Larry invited me to go to the All-Star Game with him, and so we sat together – for all 15 innings.  In the 15th, Tony Perez hit a home run off A’s pitcher Jim “Catfish” Hunter and the National League won, 2-1.  I sat through the game knowing that for two days before the game, I had met nearly every player on the NL squad.

It was quite a feeling for a Jr. High kid.

Besides that, I ended up with a full ticket to the game.  It would be worth a lot today – but I traded it to a friend, who ended up co-sponsoring the first-ever card show a couple years later.

The All-Star Game is being held in Phoenix tomorrow, and I won’t be going.  (My wife is scheduled to fly in from Kenya via New York during the game.)  And I won’t be hanging around any hotels downtown, either.  (The hoardes of people hanging out at these events nowadays are just plain scary.)  I will watch the Home Run Derby tonight (they didn’t have events like that in 1967), and I’ll watch as much of the game tomorrow as I can.

If I decided to sell my autograph book today, I’m not sure it would sell for all that much.  Some of the signatures are barely legibile.  Some were quickly scrawled.  Some – like the autograph I obtained of Willie Mays the following year – don’t look anything like his signature today.

But the book represents a time in life when fans had access to their heroes (no single player made more than $200K) and didn’t have to pay $50 to obtain one cookie-cutter autograph at a card show.

Baseball is in my blood.  It provided a connection between my father and me, and later between me and my son.  There is so much about the game that I love.

Several years ago, my wife and I stayed at a hotel in Anaheim, and while out for a morning jog, I decided to run by the Grand Hotel.  It wasn’t there anymore, and it made me sad.

But when I think of my favorite baseball memory, I think back 44 years to a time when my heroes came to town.

To quote from a song by Abba, “I can still recall our last summer, I still see it all …”

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Yesterday morning, my step-father stopped by our house to do a couple of projects, and he brought with him an obituary torn out of the newspaper about the death of Harmon Killebrew.  The paper said that his funeral was going to be held this morning at the church my wife and I have been attending (Christ’s Church of the Valley) for nearly a year.

She asked me, “Why not go?”

So I did.  To be honest, I haven’t worn a dress shirt or dress slacks or dress shoes for nearly 18 months, but I did today – but I would only do that for Harmon Killebrew.

Why did he mean something to me?

When I was 13 years old, two of my friends called me on the phone and told me that they had gotten the autographs of Mickey Mantle and Whitey Ford just a few hours before.  I couldn’t believe it.  I grew up collecting baseball cards and could not imagine meeting any baseball player, much less two of the all-time Yankee greats.

My friends told me they got their autographs at the Grand Hotel behind Disneyland.  It was about a three-mile drive from our house.  I didn’t know how I was going to get there, but since the Yankees were still in town, I had to go.

So my mother drove a few of us to the hotel, and when the players came out to go to the ballpark, we got their autographs – even those of Mantle and Ford.

Since the Minnesota Twins were the next team in town, the mother of one of my brother’s friends drove us to the hotel on a Saturday afternoon.  When we entered the lobby, there were three baseball cards come-to-life sitting on the couch: Bob Allison, Harmon Killebrew, and Jim Perry.  There were all cordial, but Killebrew actually talked to us.  He was relaxed, warm, and kind.

Although I don’t have the signature he gave me that day, I still retain a few that I received from him later that year.  And over the years, I saw him in various venues, including spring training, and he was always the same great guy.

So at today’s service, I wept a little.  Country singer Charlie Pride sang three songs on his guitar, including, “Precious Lord, Take My Hand” and “I’ll Fly Away.”  Friends and family members shared tributes about The Killer, including a grandson who played an instrumental version of Don McLean’s “And I Love You So.”  Twins’ announcer and recent Hall of Famer Bert Blyleven shared a heartfelt tribute to Killebrew as well, finally encouraging us to give him a standing ovation.  We did.

And then our pastor spoke.  He had met Killebrew many times and stated that he had received Jesus into his life.  And our pastor presented the gospel in a brief but clear way.

Two of the great loves of my life intersected this morning: Jesus and baseball.

After the service was done, I spotted a lot of ex-ballplayers in the patio area: Don Baylor, Bert Campaneris, Tony Oliva, Fergie Jenkins, Frank Robinson, Robin Yount, and Rod Carew, as well as current Twins Joe Nathan and Justin Morneau.

All at my church!  What a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity!

Tony Oliva spent a long time talking to Bert Campaneris, and I wanted to talk to him for just a minute, but I didn’t want to interrupt their conversation.  Tony Oliva was named to the All-Star team in 1967, and a week or so before the game, the Twins came to town and my friend Steve and I obtained autographs from the various players, including Oliva.  Steve had the chicken pox at the time.  A few days later, Tony Oliva got the chicken pox and missed the All-Star game.  Steve was certain that he had given the chicken pox to Oliva.  I wanted to tell Oliva that story.  I’ll bet he never heard that one before!

Not long ago, I had the opportunity to visit the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, New York.  It was a relatively quiet day in the picturesque town, and I was able to wander around at my leisure.  While I’ve been in the gallery that has all the Hall of Fame plaques before, this time I wasn’t in any hurry.  It gave me the opportunity to think about those guys not just as ballplayers, but as men.

Over the years, I’ve had the privilege of meeting scores of Hall of Famers.  Some have been grouches for forty years.  Some used to be nice and have morphed into grouches.  It’s tough to walk around in public, I guess, when you are constantly bothered for your signature, which has become a commodity to be sold on eBay rather than something to be treasured by a true fan.

But for some reason, Harmon Killebrew never changed.  Of the few hundred pictures displayed this morning, a good deal of them were of Killebrew signing something: for a child, for an elderly man, or for dozens of fans.  For years, I had a signed 1967 Topps baseball card of Killebrew and teammate Bob Allison up on my bulletin board.  To hold it up, I used a push pin.  That little action devalued the worth of the item, but that’s okay.  To me, it’s priceless.

Because I remember the man.  Harmon Killebrew.  Number 3.  Minnesota Twins.  573 home runs.  1969 Most Valuable Player in the American League.  And along with Brooks Robinson, Hall of Fame third baseman for the Baltimore Orioles, the two nicest superstars I ever met.

While there may be more, I only know of a handful of Hall of Famers who have professed to be followers of Jesus: Bobby Doerr, Ernie Banks, Mickey Mantle (who received Jesus in the closing days of his life), Gary Carter (who gave praise to Jesus at his induction ceremony), and Duke Snider (with whom I had a wonderful conversation about his faith more than twenty years ago).  There are a few others who have professed to be Christians who seem to have gone off track a bit – but maybe they’ve come back to the Lord.  I certainly hope so.

But it’s one thing to be a Hall of Famer on the field – it’s another to be an all-time great with people.

Harmon Killebrew was both.

I’m reminded of the words of the Apostle Paul: “If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but have not love, I am nothing.”

How about a paraphrase: “If I hit 500-foot home runs, and am recognized everywhere I go, and have been immortalized inside my profession, and made a ton of money, but I’m a selfish twit, I am nothing.”

If love is the measure, then from all I know, Harmon Killebrew was really something.

And that’s the true legacy of the man – and of every man and woman.

Mr. Killebrew – thanks for being so cool to a 13-year-old kid.  I will never ever forget you.

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