A One Word Prayer

/ Greg Asimakoupoulos
Calligrapher Timothy R. Botts’ rendering of Greg’s one word prayer

Thirty-five years ago I found myself in the basement of despair. If you’ve ever battled clinical depression, you can identify. It took every resource I could muster to find the energy to get out of bed. I lacked focus. I lacked feeling. I lacked a reason to live.

There I was. I was a husband, the father of three young girls and the pastor of a dynamic church. Looking back, I can identify factors that resulted in my emotional burnout. My life was out of balance. I had workaholic tendencies and the rate at which our congregation was growing only fed my obsession. Add to that, I was a self-acknowledged people-pleaser. And in a church where new visitors appeared each Sunday, there was a non-stop flow of people to please.

A growing church meant a growing staff. And with more and more people on staff, there were growing demands and expectations… and conflicts. At the same time my dad was struggling with a near-fatal disease that triggered fear and worry. 

In the midst of it all, I didn’t realize that my internal emotional and spiritual reserves were not limitless. And then without notice. Bam! I hit the wall! Upon impact I discovered an unavoidable truth. Caring for others without caring for yourself is careless!

During that dark season of being chased by “the black dog” of depression, I found some comfort in realizing I wasn’t alone. I learned that Abraham Lincoln and Winston Churchill had known that despicable canine’s bite.  Additionally, I found comfort in the care of a Christian therapist. I was also helped by a reduced schedule at work, increased exercise at home and adequate sleep at night. Going for long walks listening to worship music nourished my soul.

But I found the greatest comfort knowing that my church family and my devoted wife were lifting me into the Lord’s presence on the wings of prayer. My paralyzed plight was the focus of their intercession. They were praying for me. What is more, when I lacked the desire or the words to pray, they were actually praying for me (since I couldn’t pray myself).

Gratefully, my season of depression lasted less than a year. Eventually, I was able to escape the basement of despair. The dark clouds gave way to the warmth and brilliance of the sun. I felt alive again. Praise God!

One of the tools my therapist gave me was journaling. He encouraged me to put pen to paper and process what I was feeling (or not feeling). And that became a real gift to me. I began to journal my fears and doubts as well as my hopes and my dreams. I began to write poetry and in the process I discovered it to be my love language. I also began to write my prayers. It was like writing letters to God.

Fast-forward thirty-five years. I am a more balanced and contented person. But, having survived the frontlines of clinical depression, I still have some scars. I periodically struggle with down days. I have come to terms with the fact that I have a personality that is prone to emotional highs and lows. I have learned to recognize emotional triggers. Through trial-and-error, I have learned how to keep the door to the basement locked.

But let me also admit that even now, as healthy as I am, there are times when I lack the words to pray. I know I need to cast my cares on the Lord, but words fall short. I want to give Him my concerns, but I am not quite sure what to say. Ever been there? At times like this I employ a one-word prayer. I just speak the name of Jesus.

I just breathe the name of Jesus
when my heart is filled with fear.
And though I cannot see His face,
I know that He is near.

I pray “Jesus” when I’m worried
or those times when I’m depressed.
I say “Jesus” when my mind’s confused
or when I’m feeling stressed.


It’s a one-word prayer I whisper
when I’m not sure what to pray.
And by calling out to Jesus
I find help to face each day.

America 250: From A to Shining Z

/ Greg Asimakoupoulos

:

Celebrating cities of America alphabetically

From St. Augustine to Astoria
and from Baltimore to Bend,
our nation has much cause to celebrate.
From Crystal Lake to Concord
and from Denver to Detroit,
we’re pulling out the stops in every state.

In Evanston and Encinitas
Frankenmuth and Fairbanks too,
there are parties planned to honor Uncle Sam.
In Granite Falls and Great Falls,
also Hilo and in Hays,
celebrations are on tap that are so grand.

Ithica and Iowa City,
Jackson Hole and Jacksonville
will not just sit back and let this day go by.
Kishwaukee and Kenosha,
Louisville and Lancaster,
have a host of flags and banners set to fly.

Mystic Seaport, Minnetonka,
Naperville and New Haven
are invested in America’s soiree.
So are Omaha and Ogden,
Pendleton and Pittsburgh, too.
Uncle’s birthday is a time for us to play!

Quincy, Quilcene and Queensbury,
Renton, Rancho Santa Fe
join the shindig that we’ve all been waiting for.
So will San Jose and Scranton,
Tallahassee and Tempe!
It’s enough to make our grateful nation roar.

Union City and Uvalde,
Victorville and Vero Beach
are communities most grateful for our past.
Walnut Creek and Winston-Salem,
Xanadu and Xenia
are determined that this birthday bash will last.

Yonkers, York and Ypsilanti
call on Zion and Zeeland
to complete the list Saint Augustine began.
We’re a great big diverse family
that will pause on July 4th
to thank our founding fathers to the man.

O Canada (Revised)

/ Greg Asimakoupoulos

O Canada,
today we sing your praise.
Siblings are we
though we’ve gone separate ways.
We celebrate
our common past
and recognize our role
pursuing peace
at any cost
while justice is our goal.
Siblings and friends,
bonded by love,
O Canada we are one family.
O Canada we are one family.

** As a proud American who loves our neighbors to the north, I wrote these lyrics as a Canada Day gift to my Canadian relatives.

For melody click here…Bing Videos

The Atmosphere of Faith

/ Greg Asimakoupoulos
It’s the air we breathe as Christians

It’s the atmosphere of trusting
when we don’t have all the facts.
It’s knowing where to walk
although blindfolded with a mask.

It’s the atmosphere of leaning
on a pillar we can’t see.
It is standing firm when others feel
the time has come to flee.

It’s the atmosphere of living
without answers we desire.
It is doubting doubts and stepping out
to see what will transpire.

It’s the atmosphere of Heaven
for which we were all conceived.
It’s the atmosphere that’s known as faith.
It is the air we breathe.

A Dad, a Son and a Baseball Glove

/ Greg Asimakoupoulos
Our dad taught my brother and me to love baseball

Sixty-five years ago, when I was 9 years old, my dad bought me my first (and only) baseball glove. My Big Bill mitt was made of genuine cowhide and fit my hand like a glove. It was made by the Cragstan sports equipment company. I learned that my model was named for Bill Renna who played for the Yankees and Red Sox in the 1950s and earned his nickname from his imposing physical stature.

As Father’s Day approached this year, I retrieved my glove from the attic. Inserting my fingers into the well-worn leather, I contemplated the countless baseballs my glove has caught. Smelling the familiar fragrance, I realized that this symbol of my childhood has also caught a multitude of memories.

I remember playing catch in the backyard with my dad and my brother. Dad would throw Marc and me grounders and fly balls. I would pretend that I was Bobby Richardson, the shortstop for the New York Yankees and my brother would pretend he was Willie Mays, the San Francisco Giants centerfielder.

I have great memories of my dad taking my brother and me to watch the Seattle Rainiers play in the shadow of the mountain after which they were named. They weren’t a major league team, but they were a farm club for the Boston Red Sox. I insisted on taking my glove in hopes of catching a foul ball.

Another memory my Big Bill glove calls to mind is a big injustice I experienced in Little League. Our coach Mr. Steffenhagen promised that anyone who hit a home run would be treated to a milkshake. Well, even though I was far from the most athletic kid on our team, I succeeded in hitting a line drive into the outfield. Because the ball was bobbled, I made it home without being tagged. I was elated.

But when I asked Coach Steffenhagen about my milkshake, he told me I didn’t qualify. What I considered a home run, he insisted was a double at best. He said the outfielder’s error was the reason I’d made it home. I was devastated. But when my father heard what had happened, Dad made good on the treat I was denied.

That old glove also reminds me of how my dad maintained his perch on the pedestal of heroism. One day after school when I visited my pastor-father at his office, I left my mitt outside the church. When we were about to get into the car and head for home, I couldn’t find my glove anywhere. Someone had stolen it. I was heartsick. My treasured Big Bill was gone for good. Or so I thought.

A week or so later, my dad saw a couple kids playing catch near the church. He noticed that one of the boys had a mitt that resembled mine. He asked to see it. Sure enough, it was mine. My name and address on the outside pocket had been inked out with a ballpoint pen. I can’t describe the joy I felt when my dad returned it to me at dinner. I’m pretty sure I slept with it under my pillow that night.

My short-lived baseball career ended as a seventh grader when I made the Babe Ruth Division. My trusty Big Bill and I did our best to capture balls hit to right field. But, alas, our best was not enough to make the cut for the junior high school team.

Yet, in spite of my lack of ability, I remain an avid baseball fan. I follow the Seattle Mariners religiously. I guard my boyhood baseball card collection with my life. And even though I no longer sleep with my mitt under my pillow, I dream of the Mariners making it to the World Series this year.

Like many men my age, I credit my dad for a love of the game that punctuated my formative years and beyond. It is because of his influence that I have successfully passed on an appreciation for baseball to my adult children and my grandchildren. And while I’m grateful for that success, I want even more to pass on to them a love for their Creator.