Years ago, my father taught me something I’ve never forgotten.

Dad believed in taking care of a good pair of shoes.

You didn’t replace them every time the styles changed or the soles wore thin. You polished them. You had them re-soled. If you took care of them, they’d take care of you.

That lesson has stayed with me.

Whenever my travels take me through Charlotte Douglas Airport, I usually stop at a little shoe shine stand. For years, the craftsmen there have cared for one particular pair of black shoes now over 10 years old. These well-worn shoes have seen a lot of life. They’ve carried me through camp meetings, conventions, hospitals, board meetings, weddings, funerals, and countless ordinary days in between. They’ve been re-soled, polished, and carefully maintained. They’re no longer new, but they’re still doing exactly what they were made to do.

Recently, I noticed something I’d somehow overlooked all these years. About midway through the shine, the craftsman lit a small torch and gently passed the flame across the leather.

For just a moment, I wondered, “Why would you put fire on a perfectly good pair of shoes?”

Then I watched.

Not enough heat to damage them—just enough to warm the polish so it settled more deeply into the leather.

Then the process continued.
More brushing.
More buffing.
Only later did the shine begin to appear.

I smiled and thought, “There’s a sermon in that.”

Maybe that’s why the flame spoke to me.

Anyone who has served the Lord for very long eventually encounters the fire. Not because God has forgotten us, and not because we’ve failed Him. There are simply some things He accomplishes only through experiences we would never choose for ourselves.

None of us ask for pressure, disappointment, criticism, anxiety, grief, or the weight of responsibility. Yet those very seasons often become the workshop of God’s grace.

Pressure strips away self-sufficiency.
Disappointment enlarges compassion.
Uncertainty teaches trust.
Need drives us to prayer.

Just as the craftsman patiently worked the polish deeper into the leather, God patiently works His grace deeper into our lives. He isn’t in a hurry. Some things can only be formed through time, care, and yes—even a little heat.

The flame isn’t punishment.
It’s part of the process.

Then another thought occurred to me.

The shine didn’t appear while the flame touched the shoe. The craftsman wasn’t finished. There was still more brushing, more buffing, and more patient attention. Only then did the shine emerge.

That’s often the way God works.

The fire is not the end of the story. It’s one part of His work.

One final detail stayed with me.

The craftsman never held the flame in one place very long. Too much heat would have damaged the leather.

God knows exactly how much pressure His children can bear.

He never wastes the fire.
He never leaves us there forever.
The flame moves on.
His work continues.
The shine remains.

When I walked away from the shoe shine stand that day, I couldn’t help but admire those old shoes.

Then another thought crossed my mind.

They aren’t valuable because they’re expensive.
They’re valuable because they’ve been cared for.
They’ve been repaired.
They’ve been maintained.
They’ve even been through a little fire.
And they’re still useful.

I suppose people aren’t all that different.

The older I get, the more convinced I become that God’s greatest work is not keeping us from the fire, but bringing us through it. He patiently restores what has been worn, strengthens what has weakened, and shapes what we could never become on our own.

Maybe that’s what God is looking for in all of us.

Not lives that have never known the flame.
But lives that, by His grace, have been cared for by the Master Craftsman…

Repaired when necessary…
Strengthened through the heat…
And still reflecting His light.

Yes, I really do think there’s a sermon in that.

The greatest part of Camp Meeting may begin on the drive home.

Every Camp Meeting eventually comes to an end.

The final sermon is preached. The last song is sung. Friends embrace one another, promise to stay in touch, and begin the journey home.

Many people assume that means the spiritual momentum has to end as well.

I don’t believe it does.

In fact, I believe the greatest influence of Camp Meeting often begins after we leave.

If you grew up attending Camp Meetings, you probably know the feeling.

For one week each year, life seems to slow down and speed up at the same time. Old friends reappear. New friendships are formed. The singing seems a little stronger. The fellowship seems a little sweeter. The preaching carries a sense of expectancy. The altars fill. Missionaries tell stories. Young ministers dream. Older saints remember.

Back in the day, the Camp Meeting choir was open to anyone who wanted to sing. You didn’t have to audition. You simply showed up. Many arrived as much as two hours early to rehearse. There was something beautiful about hundreds of voices blending together—not because they were professionals, but because they shared a common faith and purpose.

Children ran the grounds while parents visited. Ministers renewed friendships in hallways and around dinner tables. Testimonies were exchanged. Lifelong memories were quietly being made.

Then suddenly, it’s over.
The final amen is prayed.
The last handshake is exchanged.
The parking lot empties.
The lights go out.

And somewhere between Saturday morning and Monday afternoon, many people experience what I call the Camp Meeting “come down.”

Peter didn’t want to leave either.

Perhaps that’s why Peter’s response on the Mount of Transfiguration feels so familiar.

After witnessing the glory of Christ alongside Moses and Elijah, Peter blurted out, “Lord, it is good for us to be here.” Then he suggested building three tabernacles.

In today’s language, he was saying, “Let’s stay right here.”

Most Camp Meeting people understand that instinct.

Who hasn’t wished for one more song, one more testimony, one more altar service, or one more conversation with an old friend?

Peter didn’t want to leave either. He simply wanted to preserve the moment.

But Jesus led him down the mountain—not because the mountain wasn’t important, but because there was ministry waiting in the valley.

Jesus wasn’t taking Peter away from the blessing. He was teaching him how to carry the blessing into the valley.

Camp Meeting still serves that purpose today.

Why We Feel It

Part of it is physical.

After a week of services, fellowship, late nights, and constant activity, the adrenaline finally wears off. Sometimes what feels like spiritual discouragement is simply exhaustion catching up with us.

Part of it is emotional.

Camp Meeting reconnects us with people who helped shape our lives and ministries. Then, almost overnight, everyone heads home. We miss the fellowship more than we realize.

Part of it is anticipation.

For months we’ve looked forward to this week. When something we’ve anticipated for so long suddenly ends, it’s natural to feel a sense of loss.

And part of it is the contrast.

For several days we’ve been immersed in worship, prayer, preaching, and fellowship. Then Monday morning brings emails, meetings, hospital visits, family responsibilities, and everyday routines. The change can feel abrupt.

Carrying Camp Meeting Home

The healthiest response isn’t wishing the week had lasted longer.

It’s taking Camp Meeting home.

Rest if you’re tired.
Reflect on what God said.
Stay connected with the friends who encouraged you.
Above all, live what you learned.

The blessing of Camp Meeting was never meant to remain inside a campground, convention hall, or sanctuary. It was meant to follow us home—to our families, our churches, our communities, and our everyday lives.

Camp Meeting isn’t the finish line of our year.
It’s the refueling station for the road ahead.

For several years now, I’ve occasionally heard Camp Meeting dismissed as an outdated tradition or a needless relic from another era. Some say there’s too much of this or too little of that. Others question whether these gatherings are still necessary.

I understand the conversation, but I respectfully disagree.

Camp Meeting doesn’t become meaningful simply because it appears on a calendar. It becomes meaningful when God’s people prepare, pray, and keep its focus on worship, evangelism, fellowship, and the faithful preaching of God’s Word. When those priorities remain at the center, Camp Meeting continues to be one of the Church’s greatest blessings.

The Real Measure of Camp Meeting

I’ve attended Camp Meetings for most of my life.

I’ve heard unforgettable preaching, powerful singing, and testimonies that still encourage me decades later.

But the real measure of Camp Meeting has never been what happened during the week.

It’s what remains after the week is over.

Do we love Jesus more?
Do we pray more faithfully?
Do we serve more willingly?
Do we return home with renewed vision?

Peter wanted to build three tabernacles and stay on the mountain.

Jesus gently led him back down because ministry was waiting in the valley.

The choir sings its final song.
The last handshake is exchanged.
The parking lot empties.
The lights go out.

God’s work doesn’t.

Perhaps that’s how we take Camp Meeting home.

Not in our luggage.
Not in our photographs.

But in renewed faith, deeper friendships, greater love for God’s people, and a fresh commitment to serve Him.

That’s how Camp Meeting lives on long after the lights go out.

My thoughts on a new Generation of Camp Meeting Speakers and Evangelists.

Paula and I have been blessed to participate in Camp Meetings across the Church of God for many years. Looking back, our hearts are filled with gratitude for the opportunities to worship with God's people, build friendships, and witness His faithfulness.

Over the years, one of the greatest joys has been watching new voices emerge and new leaders step forward to serve their generation. The Church is strengthened when seasoned leaders make room for others, offering encouragement and support along the way.

While I always enjoy the opportunities God provides, I find myself increasingly drawn to the role of encourager, mentor, and supporter. At this stage of life, my greatest satisfaction is helping a younger generation of ministers succeed in the opportunities God places before them.

With that in mind, I have compiled a few thoughts for those who are invited to serve as featured speakers at Camp Meetings, conventions, and similar gatherings. These are not rules—just lessons learned along the way.

Here we go.

1. Understand where you are. A Camp Meeting platform is both a privilege and a responsibility. Approach it with humility, gratitude, and respect. When approached properly, there is something powerful about churches gathering in unity with expectation for God to move.

2. Prepare spiritually, mentally, and physically. The enemy often targets those preparing to minister. Protect your prayer life, mind, body, and family.

3. Know the region. Every area responds differently. Some crowds are expressive and vocal. Others are reflective and reserved. Don't measure effectiveness by outward response alone.

4. Preach what God is speaking to you now. Lean toward what the Holy Spirit has been saying to you in your current season of ministry. Fresh bread usually feeds people better than reheated leftovers.

5. Don't try to prove you belong there. If God opened the door, your gift will speak for itself.

6. Bring hope. Pastors and church leaders often arrive carrying burdens nobody sees. Leave them stronger than you found them.

7. Don't spend your time trying to turn one invitation into the next invitation. Enjoy the opportunity God has given you without trying to leverage it into something else.

8. Remember who you're speaking to. You are preaching to pastors, evangelists, church leaders, and faithful laity. Honor them for their faithfulness.

9. Honor the Overseer and leadership team. You are serving their vision for that gathering. Express appreciation for those who made the event possible.

10. Don't feel obligated to recite every name on the program. A simple expression of gratitude is sufficient.

11. Be yourself. Don't preach under the pressure of performance. Flow in the gift God has given you.

12. Preach toward the altar. Never forget that someone in the room may need Jesus, and someone else may need to come home to Him.

13. Worship from the beginning. Put the notes away. The service has already started.

14. Express gratitude often. Never lose your appreciation for the opportunity to serve.

15. Depend on God. No amount of preparation can replace the work of the Holy Spirit.

16. Let God handle promotion. Trust God to be your best promoter.

17. Remember you're in a Pentecostal meeting. Expect God to move and make room for His presence.

18. Support the other speakers. Attend when you can. Listen. Encourage them.

19. Travel light. Leave the entourage at home. Humility still looks good on every preacher.

20. Honor your spouse. Few people sacrifice more for your ministry than the person sitting beside you.

21. Love the people. Shake hands. Listen to stories. Let people connect with you.

22. End the day with gratitude. Thank God for the privilege of representing Him and speaking into the lives of others.

23. Remember how you got there. Calling, preparation, mentors, leadership, and God's favor all played a part.

24. Stay humble. Be grateful for the privilege.

25. Keep the main thing the main thing. Your highest calling is not preaching Camp Meetings. It is loving God, loving your family, serving people, and caring for others.

Jesus will never say, "Well done, good and successful Camp Meeting preacher."

What He will say is, "Well done, good and faithful servant."

The challenge is not getting there. The challenge is surviving success without allowing it to define your worth.

Lay every opportunity at the feet of Jesus. Then rejoice when He calls you His faithful servant.

Now let's have Camp Meeting—and let's pray God's richest blessing upon a new generation of preachers, pastors, and leaders.

When I stepped into a more pastoral season two years ago, there was a quiet impression that settled deeply into my spirit.

“Guard your peace… and the peace of those you serve.”

It was not dramatic. Not audible. Just clear, steady, and persistent.

I took it seriously.

I started fishing more. Began reading biographies again. I even came to appreciate the twenty-three-minute drive to the office. Somewhere between home and work, life slowed down a little. During that drive, I pray, visit with pastors and retired ministers, reflect, and occasionally just move along in blessed quietness.

Almost immediately, I took inventory of my social media world and made a deliberate decision: I would not allow noisy—often anonymous—voices from distant strangers unrestricted access to my attention, my spirit, my family, or the people I serve.

I came to a settled conviction:

Peace robbers would not be given a place. Drama belongs in a movie theater-not in my life.

That did not mean withdrawing from people or becoming inaccessible. It simply meant recognizing that peace—and a calm spirit—could no longer be optional for me.

I have discovered I lead better from a posture of peace.

Not avoidance.

Peace.

Over time, I have come to understand that guarding peace is about far more than protecting a schedule or reducing stress. It is about protecting your spirit, your perspective, your family, and the emotional climate of those entrusted to your care.

One of the quiet disciplines of maturity is learning to monitor voices. In the social media age, that discipline has only intensified.

A rumor can outrun a fact.

A fragment can become a narrative.

Assumptions harden into conclusions.

And people who would never sit across a table for an honest conversation can become remarkably courageous from behind a keyboard.

If you live long enough in leadership, ministry, business, or public life, you eventually discover a difficult truth:

You cannot explain yourself to everyone.

And you cannot allow every opinion to become an emotional assignment.

At some point, wisdom requires boundaries.

That does not mean pretending problems do not exist.

It does mean guarding the atmosphere of your home.

There are seasons when the healthiest thing you can do is reduce exposure, narrow the circle, and refuse to allow strangers to dictate the emotional climate of your household, your church, your team or the organization you serve.

That is not weakness.

That is wisdom.

You can become consumed with proving, monitoring, answering, defending, and managing narratives.

Be careful.

You can become so occupied with proving, answering, monitoring, and defending that you gradually surrender the very peace you were called to protect.

There is, of course, a place for response. Silence is not always the answer. Truth matters. Integrity matters. There are moments to clarify, confront, correct, or defend what is right.

But discernment matters every bit as much as courage.

Not every fire deserves your oxygen.

Not every attack deserves your attention.

Not every issue deserves your emotional investment.

Some matters must simply be entrusted to time, truth, character, and the quiet confidence of a life consistently lived.

Your peace must rest deeper than public sentiment.

If your identity depends upon public approval, criticism will eventually own you.

Applause is too fragile a foundation upon which to build a life.

Calling must run deeper than commentary.

Character must outlive opinion.

Live carefully, but do not live fearfully.

Lead humbly.

Love your family deeply.

Protect the peace of those you serve.

Do your work.

Tell the truth.

And when the noise grows loud—as it sometimes will—remember this:

You are not required to surrender your peace to systems, agendas, social media turbulence, or voices that have never learned the value of blessed quietness and the peace that passes all understanding.