Support Your Local Pastor ( Heaven knows He Needs It )

Pete Drucker was a brilliant business innovator who has been largely given credit for the development of modern management theories and strategies.  His work has been universally lauded as responsible for the creation of modern business management.  He once took it upon himself to rank the most difficult management jobs in America and his top 4 at first glance seem to hold no surprises.  But much like the old Sesame Street ditty from my childhood, " One of these things is not like the other "...In no particular order, they are...
1. The President of the United States
2. University President
3. Hospital CEO
4. Wait for it.......Pastor

Pastor?!...How could this be true?  If you believe most of the people in my life, a pastor sets his own hours, does no heavy lifting and only works one day a week.  The most strenuous activity a pastor engages in involves flappin' his gums.  A friend recently told me that he had encountered someone who knew me from years ago.  When he discovered that I had become a pastor his response was " well, he oughta be good at that, he loves to talk!".  While that certainly validated that he did indeed know me, the pleasure I get from teaching has not insulated me from the hints of the difficulties to come.  And the statistics are alarming....

-70 % of pastors say that they do not have a close friend.  Does this ring true in my own life?  With only one year behind me, have I seen this condition begin to manifest itself within my life?...Sadly, yes.  I have seen too many pastors feel the sting of betrayal from those who used private conversations for some personal vendetta to not feel the pull to hide my flaws, my insecurities from the people in my life.  But the consequences of succumbing to that fear is isolation, loneliness.

-70 % of pastors said they have a lower self-image now than when they first started.  If I am honest, has this transformation begun within me? Well, it depends upon the day.  I have discovered that ministering to the sick and hurting is more difficult than I could have possibly known.  I have felt the shame of putting off a visit to the dying because I have no words of comfort that spring to my mind.  I have wept tears of guilt that I did not have the words to convince an unbeliever that his greatest need was Christ.  I am disgusted that the old sins of pride and self-centeredness  still rage within me.  But I am quicker now to weep before God, to look to him to meet my need to matter, to count for something.

-90 % of pastors say that the ministry was completely different than what they thought it would be like before they entered the ministry.  Well, in a word, yes.  The busyness of ministry has been a surprise.  Planning a Sunday service, coordinating a volunteer staff, vision setting, writing mission statements.  Planning message series, mass e-mailings and fliers, organizing youth outings, keeping financial accountability.  And then oftentimes, after praying, planning, long hours spent away from family, to be met with complaints about music, the length of the message...Yes, being in the ministry has been a bit different than I imagined.  But then to feel Gods Presence, His Spirit move amongst the body, to receive the hugs, the texts, the thank yous and encouragement as God uses me......I never could have envisioned such a thing.

- 40 % of pastors say that they have considered leaving the ministry within the last 3 months.  To this, I respond as Peter did to Jesus, " To whom would I go?!"...I have attempted life outside of Gods will, it didn't work.  The blessings that I have been given as I have given in to Him far outweigh any momentary inconvenience. I have thrown away my nets to follow Christ.  I will not return to pick them up again unless so directed by Him.

But what of my future in the ministry?  Again the statistics can give us pause

- 50 % of pastors feel so discouraged that they would leave the ministry if they could, but they have no other way to make a living.
- 45.5 % of pastors say that they've experienced depression to the extent that they needed to take a leave of absence from ministry.
- 50 % of pastors starting out will not last 5 years.

Sadly, this results in an even greater tragedy, one that diminishes our impact upon the unbelieving world..

- Over 1700 pastors left the ministry every month last year.
- 4000 churches begin each year and 7000 churches close.

Pray for your pastors, lift up their families.  If we are indeed in the midst of spiritual warfare, then I can attest to the difficulty of standing on the front lines... The casualty rate in any battle is highest among those who stand in the front, leading the charge.

"For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the powers, against the world forces of this darkness, against the spiritual forces of wickedness in the heavenly places."  Ephesians 6:12

"Us" and "Them"

My home town was invaded this past week.  Every year, for the past 20 years, my little community has played host to one of the largest country music festivals in America.  Our population triples and every patch of ground where you can squeeze a campsite is filled to overflow with tents, campers and RVs.  Roads are cordoned off, parks are made off limits, every available downtown parking spot is taken as thousands of people hit our town for 3 days of revelry.  Up until last year, I celebrated this event with an annual tradition of my own; I stayed inside my house for the entire time.  You see, I don't particularly enjoy country music.  I don't hate it, its just not my thing.  But more than that, if I were being completely honest, the overwhelming majority of these invaders to my peaceful little burg are in many ways alien to me.  Even in the best of circumstances, I have never enjoyed crowds, being squeezed in and jostled all about.  But add in the foreign elements of big trucks, cowboy hats, and tight Wranglers and I have always felt a little like an outsider in my own hometown for those three hot August days every summer.  So I have typically sequestered myself within my home and waited for the hordes to depart

But more than that, there is an element within those campers and concert goers that I have tended to distance myself from.  It is not the vast number of music lovers who bring their families and friends, enjoying the shows and respecting each other but rather those individuals who view the weekend as an opportunity to throw off the restraints of their everyday existence and get drunk and get loud.  The shirtless partiers heading into the grocery stores for more ice and beer.  The kids piled into a truck and flying through my neighborhood late at night, music blaring.  The ladies seemingly competing to see who can push the boundaries of good taste the furthest.  My discomfort in their presence led me to isolate myself from their presence...Until last year...

My church has nearly 80 acres of land.  The campus portion of our property is beautiful.  Manicured grounds, palm trees, flowers and lush greenery, an amazing amphitheater with a shimmering pond as a backdrop. Horseshoe pits, picnic tables, walking trails throughout the woods.  But the rest of the property is mainly fields.  Like the rest of the community, our fields are used as campgrounds for those attending the concert.  The last 3 years, we have rented portable showers as a fundraiser for our ministries and set them up next to the church.  For a small 3 dollar fee, campers can grab a hot shower in the morning as they rouse from their campsites.  Last year, I reluctantly agreed to man the showers as there were no volunteers.  I got up at 5:30am and trudged off to the church, turned on the hot water, unlocked the doors and sat in my folding chair, eager to be through with the whole thing...then something happened.  As the campers began to show up, the line becoming long, I began to have conversations with them.  They began to comment on how beautiful the campus was, ask what kind if church we were. As they stood in line, we spoke about music, how far they had traveled, our little community.  As I sat in that chair, I invited each one of them to attend our Sunday outdoor service.  Many said they just might.  The next day, I made them coffee, I brought them doughnuts, and I invited them to church.  By Sunday morning, an amazing transformation was complete.  I was not manning showers, I was spending time with friends.

I was speaking on that Sunday so after I made them coffee and visited with the early risers, I left the shower line and headed over to the amphitheater.  When the worship was complete,  I stood and moved to the stage my eyes scanned the crowd ...and I saw them...Older couples, families, and young men who had stood shirtless in line smelling like beer just the day before.  By my estimation, nearly 30 people who had taken me up on my invitation were now sitting awaiting to hear what God had to say to them in that beautiful amphitheater, on those beautifully manicured grounds.

As I left church that day, I considered how often we within the church define our world as "us" and "them".  We speak about them as our ministry.  We speak about Jesus love for them.  But what happens when "they" show up at "our" church?  What happens when they interrupt the peace of our lives, threatening our peaceful circumstances? What happens when our ministry shows up at our church?

My home town was invaded this past week.  Every patch of ground where you could squeeze a campsite was filled to overflow with tents, campers and RVs.  Roads were cordoned off, parks were off limits, every available downtown parking spot was taken.  But I was not hiding within my house.  I have started a new tradition.  I was making coffee and handing out Krispy Kreme doughnuts.

The Threads That Bind

The cute little blond, Grandma Debbie and my beautiful niece

I said goodbye yesterday to a piece of my childhood.



I was raised in a small town, the kind of place where moms let us ride our bikes in the summertime until the streetlights came on which was our signal to head home.  On warm summer Friday nights, my friends and I would walk down to the Rio theater and then walk home along tree lined streets, soft light pouring out of the windows of homes as we passed by.  We slept out in our sleeping bags in the yard and knew it was time to quiet down when my dad would pull into the driveway around midnight, returning from his shift at the paper mill.  I rode my bike to the baseball field and watched my friends play all afternoon, racing to retrieve foul balls to trade for a free snow cone at the concession stand.  We played football on the lawn of the Methodist church until " touch " evolved into " shove ", at which point we would head to the nearest home for lunch.

In the winter, if it snowed enough, our house became home base for all our friends.  The hill we lived on was blocked off by the city allowing everyone to slide down it until late at night.  We would slide down and over homemade jumps until our hands were red and numb, our hair matted with melting snow.  At that point, we would retreat to our carport where my mom kept the hot chocolate in a thermos for everyone to enjoy.

And through it all, church was a constant.  We would play Risk after church in the fellowship hall, a board game that lasted for hours.  We had winter hayrides and summer potlucks.  My brother met his wife at church when I was 12.  He was 15 and she was a cute blond with freckles.  He was quickly smitten and began to spend a lot of time at her home.  Since I pretty much went wherever he went in those days, I became friends with her family also.  Her father, a barber, cut my hair in the utility room. Her mom put a plate out for me at dinner time.  I learned to play cards around their dining room table.  Her brother Ted and I would pile our skis into the back of his little orange truck and head up the mountain.  Their home became a regular holiday stop for me as I met their cousins, aunts and uncles.  I called their grandmother Grandma Debbie.  Eventually, Ted and I became groomsmen in each others weddings.  Their family became my family.

As the years have passed, our lives are still entwined.  We share two nephews and a beautiful niece.  I have become a pastor at the church where they attend.  When I speak on a Sunday, I always get a sense of security as I spot them in the congregation.  Our children attend the same youth group.  I am their youth pastor.  Their family is my family.

Yesterday, I said goodbye to a piece of my childhood.  I went to the hospital to see Grandma Debbie.  At nearly 95 years of age, God is calling her home.  When I saw her lying on the bed, frail and fading, I expected her to be disconnected and remote, unaware and distant.  She was not.  She was full of energy and very much the Grandma Debbie of my childhood.  Her granddaughter, my friend, was combing through her hair gently with her fingers.  She had to lean in close and shout to Grandma Debbie who I was, and even though I'm fairly sure that she didn't recognize me, she gave me a hard time at my expense, the same person I remembered. In the hallway,  I had the privilege of hugging my niece, on the week of her wedding, as her tears began to fall before she went in to say goodbye to her great grandmother. I had the honor of standing in a hospital room with people who had invited me into their lives as a child as they said goodbye to someone they love.

As I was preparing to leave, Grandma Debbie told me to make sure to come visit her.  Holding her hand, I kissed her on the forehead and told her that I would definitely see her soon.


As I grow older, I understand that my life resembles the quilts that my grandmother used to make, some of which are displayed in my home.  Separate patches seemingly different but  when viewed from above revealing a beautiful design. Each patch is connected to the other by thread.  And so is my life.  All of my life experiences are seemingly disconnected from each other.  But as I view them from a higher perspective, they reveal a beautiful design. And as I left that hospital room yesterday, I thanked God for my family and the threads that bind us.

Ignoring Warnings

I heard the sound in the distance growing louder so  I walked out the front door and saw the helicopter as it zoomed over the housetops.  My young son was standing on the sidewalk filled with excitement at the sight of the blades flashing in the sunlight. But my heart immediately grew nervous.  It was the first day of summer vacation in our little town and the aircraft was heading towards the lake that lay in the distance.  I hoped that this was not evidence of tragedy, but too many times just such a sight had led me into the house of mourning; the teenagers huddled in the waiting room unable to believe that their friends had died on that corner.  The young man in tears sitting in his bedroom as he remembered his best friends last words before he jumped into the lake, only to hit the log that was submerged just below the surface. The church filled to overflow with high schoolers, still numb over losing their friend who had slipped off the boat deck into the water, his body retrieved later by rescue divers. As a youth pastor, the sounds of sirens in the distance clutch at my heart, and always bring forth from the recesses of my memory seasons of mourning for lives cut too short.

As I sit here writing these words, the 14 year old passenger is still in the hospital with numerous injuries.  The other young passenger in the car escaped serious injuries and the16 year old driver is waiting to hear if he will face charges of some kind.  They are fortunate....For they ignored the warnings.

The road around the lake cuts along the hillside and contains many curves and dips in the road.  Each corner is clearly marked by an obvious sign which gives directions as to what is coming and the proper speed at which to take it.  The dips and bumps are also clearly marked and painted in such a way as to be readily seen.  The corner they missed was marked in just such a fashion....But the greatest warning can be found just off the roadside among the grass.  On the very same corner that these three teenagers went off the road sits three small crosses marking the spot where three teenagers previously  lost their lives.  Over the years since their deaths, I have pointed out these crosses to my children, along with the story of one of the girls who was dear to my heart.  Not just as a reminder to drive carefully, but as a reminder to heed the warnings in life.

I see marriages fail.  I see children hating their parents and parents angry towards their children.  I see relationships crumble and people turning to addictive lifestyles to numb the pain.  I see warnings all around me. In the hurts that I witness, I hear the sirens calling out to be heard and am reminded of the words found in Jeremiah..

"I appointed watchmen over you and said,
    ‘Listen to the sound of the trumpet!’Jer. 6:17

I drive around the lake and slowly round the corner past the recent tiremarks and weather worn crosses and wonder how these kids could have ignored all the signs, the warnings.  But I am reminded that most of us ignore signs and warnings everyday.  Signs of relational weakness.  Signs of impending financial disaster.  All around us are memorials marking paths that have led to heartache and yet these paths are filled with people convinced that they will be the exception, merrily marching to their death. 

So many times as I have tried to comfort people who have experienced the heartache that lies at the end of the paths they have taken, they have asked in some form, " How could God allow this to happen?".  In those times, I want to remind them of the warnings that they ignored, warnings that God gave them.  And I want them to know that we warn those that we love. 

 Its why I drove my kids to that corner that I hate once again and slowed so that they could take in the scene.  A tragedy narrowly averted next to three crosses marking a tragedy occurred.  Warnings from a father to the children he loves.

Where Are You Going?

When I was around 8 or 9 years old, my dad decided to take the family on a nice and relaxing hike.  So my parents loaded my two brothers, my sister and I into our '76 Blazer and we headed across the mountains to Smith Rock State Park. I remember how hot and thick with dust the trail was as we set out on our little hike.  Thinking the trails would be clearly marked, my dad had not saw it necessary to bring a trail map. As we meandered throughout the towering peaks deeper and deeper into more and more rugged terrain, it became slowly obvious that his lack of foresight had been a mistake.  As the afternoon drug on, my father led us all around that park, choosing paths at random with the hope that the next turn would lead us out.  As I recall, we had not packed enough water to last much more than a quick hike in and out, something which was causing no small amount of irritation amongst my parents.  Finally, late in the afternoon, we saw a group of hikers on a ridge and my dad was able to get their attention through a series of screams, gutteral grunts and calisthenics.  They  were able to provide directions as to how we could escape our plight.  I do not recall the hike out nor the drive to Redmond.  But I do remember sitting on an open tailgate in the parking lot at Safeway and the delicious feel of an ice cold grape soda as it trickled down my parched throat....

Standing in the middle of those towering cliffs, my father did not need a solution to a problem.  He was not looking for an answer as his eyes searched the ridge.  What he needed was the right direction.  He had led his family down the wrong path and now he was standing where every wrong path leads..The wrong destination.  He knew that only the right path would lead us to where we wanted to go.  Lately, that truth has been becoming more apparent every day as I observe people all around me moving quickly and hastily down paths that all lead to well established outcomes.  But even more painfully, I find myself on paths that I do not even recall choosing, but well on my way to the wrong destination.  I have relationships that mean more to me than my own life which, seemingly overnight, became strained.  My reactions becoming steps down a path that is well worn with the regrets of those who walked it before me. But what to do?!...

When I was 18 years old, my girlfriend and I drove down to Eugene to go shopping.  We took Brush Creek Road, a winding highway that cut through the hills.  It was a particularly desolate stretch of road, marked occasionally by ramshackle houses and crumbling outbuildings.  It was upon our return trip that my car broke down.  In the age before cell phones, my car sputtered to a shuddering stop on the side of an unlit stretch of country road, far from anyone we knew.  As the evening grew inky black, we waited and hoped that someone would stop, but the few cars that were on the road that night seemed to be in a hurry to escape the very stretch of road which we found ourselves stranded upon.  Finally, I saw dim headlights approaching.  As the car drew near, it slowed down  and I was able to identify an old beat-up Honda cvcc.  As It slowly drew past, I noticed it was missing its rear window, more room for the pit-bull to stick his head through.  The car drove past us and then slowly turned around and parked behind us.  I got out of the car and walked to meet the man who emerged from the Honda. 

He was a gaunt looking man wearing camo pants and a sleeveless shirt.  His greasy hair hung long from beneath his stained trucker hat.  As he approached, my eyes were drawn to his belt, where a .38 sat in a holster.  He asked if we needed help and, as I stood in the dark alone and scared, I told him yes.  He returned to his car and pulled it in front of mine.  Getting out, he reached into the back of his car past the dog which was staring at me, and pulled a length of chain out which he attached to the front of my car and the rear of his.  He returned to his car and with a jolt we began to slowly move. After a bit, as we slowly lurched along that lonely highway, the unthinkable happened.  His car suddenly swerved onto a road leading into the darkness away from the highway which led home....

My girlfriend began screaming, my thoughts raced to my parents and friends who would find out about our deaths from the newspaper... My heart beating, pounding, my nose running, I knew I did not want to go down that path!...So I hit my brakes with all my strength and I ground that Honda to a stop!!  I yelled at my girlfriend to stay in the car, opened the door and stepped out into the darkness to meet the man who was approaching our car.  I walked quickly to close the space between us as he reached towards his belt....

I will stop my story there to let my point sink in...I knew I did not want to go down that path so I used all my strength to STOP!! I did not have a car problem, I was going in the wrong direction; away from safety, away from home, towards destruction....


So I find myself today on a path that is leading away from where I want to go.  What do I do?  I first  must STOP.  And then, much like my father that day standing on that dusty trail, his eyes searching the ridge, I look for direction, from The One who always offers it.

What path are you on today? What is its natural destination? Is it leading away from safey, towards destruction?...Stop and return to the path that leads home..


Hear, my son, and accept my sayings
And the years of your life will be many.
I have directed you in the way of wisdom;
I have led you in upright paths.
When you walk, your steps will not be impeded;
And if you run, you will not stumble.
Take hold of instruction; do not let go.
Guard her, for she is your life.
Do not enter the path of the wicked
And do not proceed in the way of evil men.
Avoid it, do not pass by it;
Turn away from it and pass on.
-Proverbs 4:10-15

When my Heart is Dark, I Still Have Hope

I was raised within the church.  In a sense, quite literally raised.  I can not recall a childhood memory that is not somehow bookended by my time spent there.  Sunday school was followed by listening to Brother Allen's sermon at First Baptist Church. All the while, I sat next to my mother on a wooden pew trying to distinguish the patterns on the stained glass windows.  As soon as the final prayer ended, we kids would run down the steps and play in the large expanse of yard, often making it as far as Ames Creek to look for Crawdads beneath the mossy rocks.  Later that evening we would head back to church to listen to another sermon and then play tag to the dim glow cast by the streetlights.  As I got older, Wednesday Awanas was replaced by Royal Ambassadors .
Arts and craft times in the basement of our old church.  Youth sleepovers and afternoon potlucks.  The sound of the choir, never entirely on pitch, but resplendent in their scarlet robes.  Mr. Shockey shuffling  down the middle aisle, sitting in a chair beneath the pulpit and pulling out his accordion as my friends and I would muffle giggles beneath the disapproving gaze of our moms.   These are the memories of my childhood.  But there  are even more.
Summer mornings filling the hot sanctuary with squirmy children as we began Vacation Bible School.  Standing to the procession of the flags. The third floor of our church transformed into a walk of terror on Halloween as adults would pop out of darkened doorways eliciting screams from me and my church friends.  Being hauled out of church by my mother, my toes barely scraping the floor, for some offense deemed too severe to ignore.  The swift and painful discipline administered as soon as the heavy door swung shut behind us. Stepping out from my pew and walking down the aisle, feeling all the eyes upon me, to the strains of " Just As I Am".  Brother Allen leaning into my nine year old ear and whispering, " Hold your breath" as he baptized me in the baptismal behind the stage.  The sound of the applause of our little church family.

 I have taken wonderful memories with me as I left that old church and began a life that has ultimately led me to ministry.  But I also took something else, an affliction that has stayed with me throughout these years. As I listened to those sermons on sin, I began to focus on my behaviors and and took my eyes off of my Savior.  "How am I doing" became more important to me than what Jesus had already done. Consequently my faith became a lifestyle, a series of rules and guidelines dictating which behaviors were acceptable and which were not.  I lost sight of what I knew at nine, that Christ forgave my sins, and put all my effort into becoming more righteous.  As I grew older, I became even more accustomed to looking within my self for the strength to navigate the shifting sands of this life. The work of Christ on the cross became an afterthought, not the center of my faith.

But As I have grown older, I have faced circumstances beyond my strength.  Beat down, discouraged and weary, I looked inward, not to my faith, but to the strength I brought to my faith, and discovered that all my best efforts collapsed beneath the weight of my circumstances.     

Romans 5:1 says, “Therefore, since we have been justified by faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ.”.  It goes on to say in verse 10  that we’ve already been “reconciled to God by the death of his Son".  As I have looked down at my circumstances, I have looked inward for strength.  Discovering I lack it, I have looked up and found that the strength I need is present in the finished work of Christ. Where my heart lacks peace, the promises of Christ abound with it.  Even in my darkest seasons, when my heart is weak and my faith seems small, I still have hope. Not because of who I am, but because of what He did.

"True faith takes its character and quality from its object and not from itself. Faith gets a man out of himself and into Christ. Its strength therefore depends on the character of Christ. Even those of us who have weak faith have the same strong Christ as others"!-Sinclair Fergusen

As I write these words, my mind goes back to the small church of my childhood...And I can picture Brother Allen smiling.

Set Your Sights For The Shore

Florence Chadwick preparing for her first attempt

On August 8, 1950, Florence Chadwick crossed the English Channel in 13 hours and 20 minutes, breaking the  world record. One year later, Chadwick crossed the English Channel yet again, from England to France making her the first woman to swim the English Channel in both directions.  But she had even more goals in mind.  So it was that Florence found herself  two years later, at the age of 34, preparing to become the first woman to swim the 26 miles between Catalina Island and the California coastline.  On the fourth of July 1952, Florence waded into the frigid water and began her journey.  She was flanked by small boats whose job was to watch for sharks and offer assistance if necessary.  Several times the boats fired upon sharks that swam alarmingly close to Florence. Hour after hour Florence swam, but after about 15 hours, as a thick, heavy fog set in, Florence began to doubt her ability.   She told her mother, who was in one of the nearby boats, shrouded in fog, that she didn’t think she could make it.  Both her mother and  trainer  offered encouragement. They told her it couldn't be much further, but she continued to grow discouraged.   They urged her not to quit, something she had never done . . . Until that day.

As she sat in the boat, Florence found out she had stopped swimming less than one mile away from the California shoreline. It was not the frigid water, not the sharks nor the exhaustion that caused her to lose hope.  Florence explained that she stopped swimming because she could no longer see the coastline.  There was simply too much fog. Having lost sight of her goal, she had quit.

Does that seem somehow familiar?  We live in a world that competes for our attention.  It tells us how we should look, how we should speak, what to drive, whether we are attractive or not.  Every commercial and magazine is communicating a message as to what we should focus upon. On top of that, we often give our best: to school, sports, relationships, only to experience heartache in return.  Even for the most ardent of believers, the temptation to lose focus is nearly overwhelming when it seems our efforts never seem to work out as we had hoped.  Life is hard, and the fog can be overwhelming.

But where is the shoreline?  For a parent, it is the vision of their child fully grown and living for Christ.  For a spouse, its a lifetime of faithfulness 'till death do they part.  For a teenager, its standing pure before his bride on his wedding day.  As life hurls its slings and arrows at all of us, it is the clear vision of our goal that keeps us moving forward.  But it is not just a vision of a future, but the future rewards that give us the strength to persevere, to carry on despite the troubles that attempt to weight us down.  Its why athletes put in the work, the time, and never call it a sacrifice.  They believe that the completion of their goal will bring a reward which outweighs anything they may have "given up".

"..I count all things loss in view of the surpassing value of knowing Christ Jesus my lord.."  -Philippians 3:8

The surpassing value of knowing Christ as our Lord, Savior and friend should be the north star that pulls us home.  Even as the fog grows thick and our hearts grow weak, it is the knowledge that His promises are true that serves as a beacon.

Two months after Florence Chadwick climbed into the boat, she tried again. This time, despite the same dense fog, she swam with her faith intact and her goal clearly pictured in her mind. She knew that somewhere behind that fog was land and this time she made it! Florence Chadwick became the first woman to swim the Catalina Channel, eclipsing the men’s record by two hours.

Florence completing the swim