I Hate Working Out!

2 CommentsABOUT ME & MY BLOG, Disciplines for disciples, ,

I started exercising again because I just turned 63 and want to make a difference for Jesus for many more years. Also, I want to live long enough to see both my daughters get married, expiring only when I’m holding my grandchild and, after looking lovingly at her/him, I whisper, “I love you, little Stevie….” then, suddenly, I’ll keel over.

Comedian/commentator Bill Maher asked, “Have you ever seen a fat 90-year-old?”

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Steve Sage is Dead!

ABOUT ME & MY BLOG, Steve Sanchez' Testimony,

December is always a special time of year because we anticipate the Savior’s birth, but it’s extra-special for me because it marks the anniversary of the death of someone who was a real sore trial to me: me.

Thirty years ago, I became a born-again believer in Jesus Christ, and died to myself.

I was not raised in a Christian household. The extent of my religious upbringing was dad telling me that God could be a beer can, therefore, I was not accountable to anyone and did whatever I wanted, not aware that I would eventually wreck my life and the lives of others.

“There is a way that seems right to a man, but in the end, it leads to death.” (Proverbs 14:12)

For my first thirty-one years, I did what I thought was right in my own eyes, not heeding the counsel of those who tried to steer me onto a straighter road, not realizing that “in the paths of the wicked are snares and pitfalls….” (Proverbs 22:5)

I had two stated goals before my death:

#1: Live life on the edge.

#2: Find out the dark side of life.

Both were achieved in short order.

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30 Years a Slave

1 CommentABOUT ME & MY BLOG, Special Days, Steve Sanchez' Testimony,

This old photo from my “other life” circa 1980, reminds me of my “stupid 20’s,” when I had no sense, lived for myself and cared not a whit about anybody else.

I was at a bar called Hussong’s Cantina in Ensenada, Mexico and decided it would be a good idea to dance on top of a table. Suddenly, two Federales grabbed my shoulders and escorted me to the shadows. Thankfully, a Mexican local, whom I did not know, followed us into the “torture room” and negotiated my release. (I’m the smug, shirtless guy standing next to one of the arresting officiales.)

Today, December 2nd, not only marks the day that shiftless guy died in 1990, but also marks my 30th anniversary as a Christian, a bond-slave of Jesus Christ, an unworthy servant, worm, wretch, completely dependent on my Master for life and breath and everything I have.

That picture, which shows up every year in my Facebook “Memories,” is a great reminder of what the Lord has done in my life…and in the lives of so many others.

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Pastor Steve Got a Tattoo

ABOUT ME & MY BLOG, Culture, Humor, Pastor's P.O.V., , , , ,

MY TATTOO WAS GOING TO BE A REALLY SMALL ONE that simply said, “Mat. 6:33,” the abbreviation for my life’s verse: “But seek first His kingdom and His righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well” (Matthew 6:33).

I wanted to be reminded of it, forever—in ink! It was going to be so very tiny and hidden on the underside of my wrist, that the only way anyone would ever notice was if I gave a high five right above their sight line or smacked them with on the forehead with my hand.

I was never, ever going to get one but my daughter DD convinced me. Yes, I blame her.

On her 17th birthday she begged me for a tattoo. I said no.

“Please, Dad?”

“No!”

A week later: “Dad?” Please?

“No!”

A week and a half later….

It went on like that for several more months—begging, cajoling, nagging—did I mention that she was a teenager?—until I relented and called the tattoo parlor (do they still call them that?). Much to my delight, the law said you cannot get a tattoo in the great, awesome State of Texas until one is eighteen years of age. Strike a victory for Parental Rights!

Figuring she would eventually forget about it, I let it go with a smile in my heart, thanking God that this body-art desire phase would soon pass, all the while hoping she would not take a secret road trip to Nevada with her ne’er do well high school friends. You know who you are.

She didn’t forget.

On her 18th birthday I lost my right of refusal; DD was now an adult. She could vote, join the military and even get a…a…dreaded tattoo. “Hey Dad, are you gonna get one with me?” 

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