call me pasturescott

more than a hobby

[726 words, 4 minutes]

Now for something a little different. Some of you know I have a thing for bird photography—nature photography in general, really. It may be a hobby, but I cannot overstate what it’s done for my soul. I have discovered a healing in it that’s hard to put into words.

It started with a simple bird feeder in our backyard years ago (circa 2015). Over time that feeder attracted as many as fifteen different varieties of colorful songbirds to our yard. At its zenith our backyard not only became a sanctuary for birds but a quiet sanctuary for my soul.

Still grieving the loss of our only child, and respiting from massive health issues that required years of rehabilitation, I sought refuge in the backyard by watching (and listening) to “my” birds. It may have only been my imagination, but I was certain the trees came alive with the sounds of chatting songbirds every time I rolled out onto our back patio. Birds are very smart, you know. Undoubtedly they chittered on about the old guy and their supper.

Early on, when it seemed like birdwatching was becoming more than just a hobby of mine, I asked Sandy what she thought about my buying a camera to photograph and post “my” birds on social media. Sandy’s first reaction was a good natured laugh.

“Are you sure? I mean, I’ve seen some of the photos you’ve taken with the phone,” she chortled playfully. “More than a few have our heads cut off.”
“Ha. Ha. Very funny. Anyway, I could learn. Oh, and it so happens Amazon is having a sale on cameras this week…”

That conversation sparked my journey through a range of cameras, from an entry-level Nikon to Canon, then an upgraded Canon, and finally back to Nikon. I’d love to own a mirrorless someday, but that’s not financially feasible.

While I don’t get out with my camera quite as often as I used to — or as often as I’d like — I still can’t help myself from mentally framing a shot when I spot a bird out in the wild of suburbia.

Here are a few shots that I’m pretty happy to have in my camera roll, some new, some taken quite early on. If you’ll indulge me, I’ll just leave these with you for now.

Great Egret, Venice Audubon Rookery, Venice, FL

Brown Thrasher, Douglasville, GA, early photo

One of my favorite (early) healing trails: Florence Rd Trailhead, Hiram, GA

Red-shouldered Hawk, Silver Comet Trail, Powder Springs, GA

Tri-colored Heron, Kapok Park, Clearwater. FL

Silver Comet Trail in Autumn, Floyd Rd Trailhead, Mableton, GA

Osprey, Weedon Island Preserve, St. Pete, FL (with Hurricane Helene just offshore)

One of my favorite theologians, John Stott, was an avowed birder. Of the estimated 9,000 species of birds in the world today, Stott claims to have spotted 2,500 in his 87 years. He first developed a love for birdwatching by taking long walks with his dad. “Close your mouth and open your eyes and your ears, son,” his father instructed him.

He found “the highest possible authority” for his hobby in the Sermon on the Mount where Jesus tells us to “look at the birds of the air” (Matthew 6:26). He says that, in basic English, Jesus is telling us to “watch birds” and he points out that the Greek verb used means “to fix the eyes on or take a good look at.”

I believe I’ll keep on doing that until the day I die, with or without a camera. I’ve already asked the Lord for a thriving bird sanctuary in the new heavens and new earth, and I have little doubt my Father will oblige. I know I won’t get bored.

Selah, beloved.

black and blue

[900 words, 5 minutes]

One of my former parishioners, a longtime friend, contacted me about some books I left behind in our former church’s library and asked if I might be interested in receiving them back. One of them looks like a Father’s Day gift from Graham, he said. Of course I wanted it!

Seven-year-old Graham thought his dear old dad could use a book of devotional readings geared for men. Although I read many of its 365 entries in 1997, I never finished it. I thought it might be a good idea — in honor of my son’s wishes — to plow through its 400-plus pages again.

Its daily readings feature a selection of writings from various respected Christian authors and ministers. Some are unfamiliar to me but others I know all too well.

Here’s the thing. I built up a good head of steam reading the daily selections, feeling nourished by some insights I found therein, but one day I hit on one that stopped me cold. The writer was recognizable to me as a man who had just filled the headlines with substantiated charges of adultery. I decided to skip that day.

A few days later, another blighted pastor was featured. I skipped that one too. Two days hence, yet another disgraced man of God. Three fallen preachers in one week, in a book designed ‘for men seeking integrity.’ The irony was crushing. I mean, What are we even doing here?

These discoveries forced a question: What testimony am I building? I’ve catalogued a great many blog posts, spiritual essays, and sermons through the forty years I’ve been preaching. Do I want someone to come across something I’ve written twenty or thirty years from now and have them say, “no thanks, I’ll skip this guy”?

I’m privileged to be a part of a rotation of teachers for our church’s Thursday night men’s discipleship gathering. Each of the last two weeks I shared from Paul’s final words to Timothy.

I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith.

2 Timothy 4:7

It’s telling that I haven’t spent my time condemning those men who failed, but instead I’m taking stock of my own testimony. Lord knows I still have things the Spirit is working to redeem, and while I certainly have my share of disappointments and failures, I’m grateful to have the public testimony of a preserved faith. I’m holding on to that like a precious treasure.

A proverb reminds us to “Guard your heart above all else, for it is the source of life” (Prov 4:23, CSB). If the citadel is taken by the enemy, the whole town has to surrender. If the enemy overtakes our spiritual loves and affections, our entire testimony will collapse into rubble. People won’t remember our glory days; they’ll only recall how we fell on our swords.

It’s a fight to remain faithful. It doesn’t come naturally nor does it come passively. Paul’s last recorded words are solemnly directed at a pastor to get serious about death and judgment, the faithful proclamation of the scriptures, and faithful attendance to his own testimony. All else is prelude.

Prisoner Paul then makes a bold admission. He says “I’m ready, Timothy. I’ve been a lifelong warrior and I’m going out on my feet! I’ve done all that God commanded me to do. I’ve finished the race, gutting it out to the very last mile.”

There were a lot of battles and bruises that preceded such a declaration. In one harrowing passage, Paul recounted all the bloody miles of his marathon that led up to his finish line. Fought the good fight, indeed.

And then I remembered another fight the apostle had: with himself.

I run the race then with determination. I am no shadow-boxer, I really fight! I am my body’s sternest master, for fear that when I have preached to others I should myself be disqualified.

1 Corinthians 9:26-27 (JBP)

As if the world, the flesh, the devil, and religion aren’t enemy enough, we’ve got to face off with the man in the mirror every day of our lives. We’ve got to box ourselves, beat ourselves black and blue (the Greek in verse 27 means to bruise your eye), and train ourselves in godliness.

Paul said his hardest opponent was Paul. Alexander did him much harm, but Paul needed to be brought to the mat. Demas forsook him, but Paul needed to go all Rocky on himself. Hymanaeus had to be turned over, but Paul needed a black eye. The Corinthians were a source of endless consternation, but Paul stood toe-to-toe with himself every day of his life.

One of the great things about coming to the finish line — for me — will be to finally be done with this world, the devil, and myself. I get so tired of me. But if the word of God is true – and it is – it’s a good fight, a noble fight, a necessary fight.

If Scott Mitchell doesn’t want his testimony to be ‘skipped over’ some day, he’s going to have to daily go toe-to-toe with himself in the ring and punch himself in the nose, not box the air.

Winning takes training and discipline. It takes black eyes and bruised faces and broken noses to be able to say, “I’ve fought the good fight.”

That’s how I want to go out: black and blue and…ready like Paul.

Selah, beloved.

all the way home

[5 minutes]

Thirty six years ago a baby boy was born in the same city where I first spotted the girl I would marry and who would later be his mommy. That baby was born to someone else, but that someone already gave him up to Jesus so that we could have the rapturous joy of bringing him home. That was then.

He was the answer to his mama’s many prayers and the happy surprise of his disabled daddy. He’s perfect, we said. All his fingers and toes and not a flaw to be seen. He actually favored me. I had only wanted daughters, not a son, but he changed all that with my first look. That was then.

Graham learned how to walk by steadying a pudgy hand on my wheelchair tire, trailing trustingly along as I s l o w l y rolled across the living room floor, him putting one foot gingerly in front of the other. His favorite way to travel was to perch himself between my legs and ride on my footrests, giggling and bouncing at the world in front of him. We were Thunderbolt and Lightfoot. Speed Racer and Chim-Chim. My favorite way for him to ride was when Gra-Gra climbed on my lap, pulled himself upright, facing me. When he grabbed a fistful of my shirt and pumped his legs up and down, that was my signal. Off we went, doing wheelies and spinning and carving donuts in the carpet. That was then.

We could take him anywhere. He smiled at everybody he saw and they usually smiled back. Our little guy loved to sing Jesus songs and was never off-pitch. He made friends easily. He told other little boys on the McDonald’s playground about Jesus. He loved church, he loved his cousins, and he loved Christmas and Halloween and birthdays and pretty much any other day of the year. That was then.

The boy could pick up any instrument and learn how to play it by ear. Like his mama, music was inside him and moved him. He wasn’t a great student, didn’t have the handwriting skills of his mother, but he was the spark of life in every classroom. From kindergarten through elementary school, he was rewarded as the student with the most personality, aka class clown. That was then.

The angels God assigned to our Graham had their hands full. Rambunctious, daring, and always scoping out the next epic adventure, we never knew for sure if we had a tight enough hold on him. He was so adaptable, which is a good thing on the one hand, but not always on the other. Don’t get me wrong; Graham wasn’t a troublemaker, but trouble often found him anyway. That was then.

He gave his heart to Jesus before he became a teenager. I may have mentioned it earlier, but our son didn’t shy away from telling people about Jesus. He went on mission trips, laid hands on people and prayed for their healing, traveled hut to hut with the gospel, and left his only pair of shoes in Honduras for another who had no shoes. That was then.

Prodigals aren’t as rare as you’d think. Especially not the ones who grew up in pastor’s homes. Like many of us, Graham had high hopes but he got mad at a God whom he accused of ruining his dreams. He didn’t know what to do with that, where to take all that anger. It molested him, throttled him, imprisoned him. He became addicted to it, wore it all on both sleeves, and it became the death of him. That was then.

The thing about God’s mercy is that it keeps following us and hounding us and nipping at our heels. All the way home, the psalm says. All. The. Way. Home. God’s lovingkindness never lets up. I shared with another parent of a prodigal just this week the same words that encouraged Sandy and me when our beautiful son died: the power and strength and determined will of God’s hold on us is eternally stronger than our will to walk away from him.

The other thing about prodigals is that some of them, perhaps more than we think, come home. Graham sure did.

God’s merciful love did that. It followed him all the way home, praise Jesus.

Graham would be 36 today. Sandy is in Georgia this week to celebrate still being his mom. She has many things on her docket, but none more important than sitting by Graham’s graveside and reminiscing about all the “that was then” moments. It’s been almost twelve years now, but still we grieve — and that’s okay. Some years are harder than others to celebrate his birthday while mourning his passing. This is one of those years. Sigh.

Were it not for the rich mercies of Christ Jesus, we might just stay by his cemetery plot and never leave, chained to unremedied sorrow. But a hope greater than our grieving is beating in our chests and beckoning us on. We can drive away from that plot of ground, assured and at peace, because there’s a new now, not then, past the veil and scrim of this side of eternity, where Graham is waiting for us to get Home too.

Selah, beloved.