ritchiemiller.org

Today is Kim’s birthday. Happy Birthday! I do not know how you keep on turning 29 year after year, but you do it with grace.

For a birthday present I offered to give her a framed picture of me in my underwear, but she politely refused. I understand. It would be far too difficult to get any work done with a masterpiece like that setting around. Plus, it could make a lot of people jealous. That girl…she is always thinking of others.

Love, Ritchie

Kim and I our senior year of college. Don't you just love the 80's?

I want to thank you for all that you have donated to HOPE South Africa. Not only has Avalon Church come through big time, we also have had big donations from people all over the country. My aunt, Shelby Miller, and my cousin, Gary Miller, were able to get thousands of dollars worth of dental care supplies donated – tooth brushes, tooth paste, etc. – from the company where they work. In fact, it filled several shipping pallets. Avalon HOPE and HOPE South Africa – fighting poverty, AIDS…and tooth decay!

Kim and I will fly from Atlanta to South Africa on Wednesday the 10th. Here is a picture that shows 3 of the 4 houses already built at the children’s village. There will eventually be 7 houses built at this village.

Ritchie

I hope you have a great day today. Remember…

• Life is too short not to laugh, love, and smell the roses
• Life is too long to hold a grudge or an unforgiving spirit
• Things could always be worse
• Thank God for what you have
• When you do not understand just trust God – He’s got your back
• Smile – It will make others smile back…or at least wonder what you have been up to

Ritchie

Everyone agrees that parenting is hard. The good news is that it may not be as hard as you think. In Spoiled Rotten: Loving Your Kids Without Indulging Them, I have written a book that uses humor, common sense, and life experience to teach simple principles that demystify your job as a parent.

When you learn the “one thing” you must do, it makes communication, discipline, and protection so much easier. Stop living with stress and fear and learn how to release your child into the best future possible!

If you would like to have a parenting conference at your church or you would simply like to check out my book, go to www.spoiledrottenbook.com.

I think it will be a big help.

Ritchie

If you missed the first two parts here they are…

My very first pet was a Tabby cat named Puff. I am not sure why I named him Puff. Maybe he was puffy or maybe that name was simply a product of the creative mind of a small child that has not been stifled yet. All I know is that Puff was cool and aloof and he liked me. He did not even scratch me when I held him by the throat. I did not know that I was choking him. He must have been able to sense the love.

One day Puff did not show up when I went outside to feed him. That was odd, because He always came to get his grub on. (I know, I know. I am trying to quit that kind of talk, but I am kind of “gansta” since I grew up on the mean streets of Mayberry.) So I broke THE cardinal rule that my mom had set for me – “Do not cross the creek for any reason!” I am not sure why that was such a big deal since the creek was only about six inches deep and about a yard wide. But my cat was missing so I took my Indiana Jones self, put on my cowboy boots and my favorite pair of shorts and crossed the creek and prepared myself for the long journey to the tobacco barn. It was about fifty yards away.

What I found inside the dark, musty old barn was a revelation to me. Lying there on the floor was Puff! Puff was a perfect name for him too, because he was all covered with soot and was a lot fatter than usual. In fact, he was about to burst. Pleased with my discovery and confident that my mom would be proud, I grabbed the bloated feline by the tail and dragged him down the hill, across the creek, and up to the step by the back door of our house. “Mom,” I shouted proudly, “I found Puff!”

I wish you could have seen her face. It was a mixture of horror, disgust, confusion, and prayerful reflection, as in, “Oh God, what is wrong with my male offspring?” She did the best she could to explain death, that Puff was no longer with us, and that I should immediately, but gently, drop the cat before it exploded all over my favorite cowboy boots. She did a great job as the undertaker/minister. Finer words have not been said over a dead cat. Puff was buried with grace and dignity. My mom thought it was over.

It was not over by a long shot.

Imagine her bewilderment when I came to the back door about three days later and asked, “Why are there worms in my cat?” Now there is a Hallmark moment for you. It probably explains why my mother became such a deeply religious person. I heard her pray many times, “Oh my God! Please let this boy live to 18 and get out of my house!” She was so spiritual.

You too need to quit digging up your past. Past hurts, past failures, and past sins need to be buried under the forgiving blood of Jesus Christ and left there. Digging them up always stinks. It shackles you to your past rather than to your future. Everybody has past hurts, failures, and sins. Acknowledge them, ask for forgiveness, release forgiveness to others, and leave them in the past. God only uses broken people anyway. Being broken makes you depend on God and understand others. Burying the past heals the cracks in your life and allows you accomplish God’s mission for your life.

So let’s stop digging up past hurts, failures, sins…and cats. Everybody will be a lot happier. Plus, it smells a lot better.

Ritchie

If you missed reading the first part of the story here it is…

One day Puff did not show up when I went outside to feed him. That was odd, because He always came to get his grub on. (I know, I know. I am trying to quit that kind of talk, but I am kind of “gansta” since I grew up on the mean streets of Mayberry.) So I broke THE cardinal rule that my mom had set for me – “Do not cross the creek for any reason!” I am not sure why that was such a big deal since the creek was only about six inches deep and about a yard wide. But my cat was missing so I took my Indiana Jones self, put on my cowboy boots and my favorite pair of shorts and crossed the creek and prepared myself for the long journey to the tobacco barn. It was about fifty yards away.

What I found inside the dark, musty old barn was a revelation to me. Lying there on the floor was Puff! Puff was a perfect name for him too, because he was all covered with soot and was a lot fatter than usual. In fact, he was about to burst. Pleased with my discovery and confident that my mom would be proud, I grabbed the bloated feline by the tail and dragged him down the hill, across the creek, and up to the step by the back door of our house. “Mom,” I shouted proudly, “I found Puff!”

I wish you could have seen her face. It was a mixture of horror, disgust, confusion, and prayerful reflection, as in, “Oh God, what is wrong with my male offspring?” She did the best she could to explain death, that Puff was no longer with us, and that I should immediately, but gently, drop the cat before it exploded all over my favorite cowboy boots. She did a great job as the undertaker/minister. Finer words have not been said over a dead cat. Puff was buried with grace and dignity. My mom thought it was over.

It was not over by a long shot.

I will finish the story tomorrow…

My very first pet was a Tabby cat named Puff. I am not sure why I named him Puff. Maybe he was puffy or maybe that name was simply a product of the creative mind of a small child that has not been stifled yet. All I know is that Puff was cool and aloof and he liked me. He did not even scratch me when I held him by the throat. I did not know that I was choking him. He must have been able to sense the love.

One day Puff did not show up when I went outside to feed him. That was odd, because He always came to get his grub on. (I know, I know. I am trying to quit that kind of talk, but I am kind of “gansta” since I grew up on the mean streets of Mayberry.) So I broke THE cardinal rule that my mom had set for me – “Do not cross the creek for any reason!” I am not sure why that was such a big deal since the creek was only about six inches deep and about a yard wide. But my cat was missing so I took my Indiana Jones self, put on my cowboy boots and my favorite pair of shorts and crossed the creek and prepared myself for the long journey to the tobacco barn. It was about fifty yards away.

Tune in tomorrow for more of the story.

Ritchie

I have lived in the metro area of Atlanta for nearly 15 years now. When my family first moved here I was not used to the insanity of the traffic. After all this time I now drive faster, more aggressively, and find myself with far less patience on the roads. I think the Atlanta driving motto should be “Have Gun Will Travel.”

One day, during my first few months here, I was driving on the Interstate and I saw a car with a Christian bumper sticker that read, “Honk If You Love Jesus.” In my naiveté I thought that was an invitation to be friendly so I pulled up beside the car and blew my horn.

Imagine my surprise when the surly looking dude glared at me and flipped me off! I think he should remove that bumper sticker from his car if he does not like good Christian horn-blowing.

Today is Friday. Drive safely and don’t give anyone the middle finger while you are driving. That could be me blowing the horn.

Ritchie

When I was seven years old my family moved from North Carolina to Spartanburg, South Carolina. My dad’s job moved us there and we lived there for two years before we moved back to North Carolina. My mom wanted to make the transition smoother and she did everything in her power to help me meet new friends. We were there less than a week before she signed me up to try out for a little league baseball team.

I was nervous because I was a total stranger and I had never played baseball before. Playing catch in my back yard was about the extent of my experience. I met the coach and the very first thing he did was put me at home plate to see if I could hit the ball. The pitcher looked to be much older and bigger than I was. I am pretty sure that you should not be allowed to pitch in little league if you have a full beard. He wound up and threw a pitch that zoomed by me at about half the speed of light. It came up and in on me so I flinched a little. I am not sure how I ended up halfway down the third base line because it only felt like a little flinch.

I will never forget what the coach said next. He yelled at me to stop being a “fraidy-cat” and told the pitcher that if I flinched again to hit me with the ball on the next pitch.

I never played baseball again.

I have played a lot of sports competitively or recreationally: basketball, football, soccer, track, softball, racquetball, water skiing, snow skiing, cross country and have been bungee jumping and cliff diving. Even though I was never very good at any of them I loved the competition and the adrenaline rush. I am not trying to suggest that it was a great loss for me never to have played baseball. I can assure you that I have a much better chance of being the starting point guard for the Atlanta Hawks at age 45 than I ever did of being good at baseball. (Just in case you missed the satirical hypothetical I have a zero percent chance of playing for the Atlanta Hawks…unless they are looking for someone who is old, slow, and can’t jump, shoot, pass, dribble, rebound, or play defense)

My point is that your words have power. They can build up, inspire, and give confidence or they can tear down, cause fear, and crush someone’s dreams. Use them wisely today.

Ephesians 4:29 Let everything you say be good and helpful, so that your words will be an encouragement to those who hear them.

Ritchie

My grandpa Phillips – my mom’s dad – was a Scott-Irish tobacco farmer who scratched his living from the rich but reluctant foothills of North Carolina. His father and grandfather had, by sheer force of back-breaking labor, become merchant-land barons of a sort. Pa Wendell, as I called him, possessed the gift of a “Welsh tongue.” He was endlessly entertaining, a captivating story teller, and possessed a lust for life that made everyone around him feel alive. I think I inherited my gift for telling stories and public speaking from him. Even as a child, I loved being around him.

One of the stories I told at his funeral captures his wit and his “everything-is-going-to-be-OK” attitude. When he was around 50 he suffered a massive heart attack. It would be the first of several, but he grabbed life by the throat and would not let go until he was 72. During that first heart attack he lay on the hospital gurney in the emergency room and actually died. He was shocked back to life a couple of times and finally was stabilized. My grandmother was hysterical, as you can imagine. When she was allowed to see him she held his hand and with tears in her eyes asked if he “saw a light” like many have described seeing when they were on death’s doorstep. He got a grin on his face and said, “Well, at first, I thought I saw the Devil…but I woke up and it was only you.”

She slapped him right there in the hospital.

Ah…family dysfunction. It’s what helps make a heart attack funny.

So today, no matter what you face, laugh a little. It will be cathartic and will help you through. Just watch out for little, nunchaku-toting, ninja grannies. They slap sometimes.

Ritchie