The night I got arrested…

24 03 2011

Last weekend I shared a story with about 50 parents about a mistake I made when I was 15 years old. I point to this experience as the beginning of a tumultuous 4 years in High School.  But not for me (at least, not at the time). My parents experienced the most hardship and difficulty during this part of my life. I know it’s true because they told me. Staying up late at night arguing what to do with me and how they were supposed to move forward in the midst of a pretty solid amount of dumb decisions.

The night I went to my first ever High School dance I was filled with excitement, fear, and anxiety. Mostly the latter two. I succumbed to peer pressure (which would turn out to be a trend for me) and invited a girl I didn’t know all that well because “we were part of the same group.” We dressed up, I placed the corsage on her wrist, we ate a delicious dinner, had our parents drive us to the school, and I suffered through the actual dance- only dancing during the slow songs. To my wife’s chagrin, I still treat most situations involving and form of dance this way.

After the dance I went to my friend’s house with 2 of my best buddies and began to watch TV and talk about girls and eat a ridiculous amount of food. At about 2 am one of the less intelligent members of the group informed us that he had smoke bombs and it was our duty to light them in front of the Carl’s Jr. down the street. We agreed. We put dark clothes on and set out for our adventure. Unfortunately, we didn’t make it very far.

As the lights flashed above the police car our immediate reaction was to run. All of us except for the guy whose house we were staying at. He decided to sit on the curb, so we had no choice but to join him. The four of us were piled in the back of the police car and I thought my life was over. We ended up having to pay a hefty $20 fine and take a 4 hour curfew violation class on a Saturday.

The part I remember most about the whole experience was probably mom and dad’s reaction. That and the horrible feeling in my stomach the next morning. Like I said before, this was the start of a string of stupid decisions I would make for the next 4-5 years and my parents had to deal with the headache of it all. However, in their response and reaction to my dumb decisions they ALWAYS communicated love. I knew they cared about me, I knew they loved me, I knew there would be consequences, I always got disciplined and I always knew they had forgiven me.

This week I am teaching on forgiveness and in preparation for the message, one of the first things I grabbed out of Timothy Keller’s book The Prodigal God was that forgiveness costs something. It cost my parents a lot of sleepless nights and it caused arguments and disagreements between them. But the price they paid for me is the reason I am sitting in an airport getting ready to go with my dad to our yearly March Madness games. I have a great relationship with my folks. I respect them and love them and I am so thankful for their sacrifices.

But, as much as it cost my parents to forgive me, it cost Jesus a lot more. As much as my parents sacrificed for me, Jesus sacrificed a lot more. As much as my folks longed for me to come home, Jesus desires for me to come home that much more. Without any kids of our own, I think this is part of the way I understand forgiveness. And I can’t even begin to express how grateful I am. Hopefully our students grab onto that as well.

 

 

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