The call from a friend on March 24, 2025 was simple and routine for a moment. “What are you doing on April 23-24?”

I paused to think. “I think I’m free.”

“Well, in case you’re not, you need to be. We’re goin’ to Augusta.”

I knew what that meant. Silence. Speechless. At age 74, it was really going to happen.

My friend is not a member of Augusta National Golf Club but his friend was a member. I was merely a friend of a friend, often a good place to be. I never told my pal that I wanted to play Augusta. But he knew the obvious. He said there was room for one more. I suggested another mutual friend, who perhaps is even more blessed to be a friend of a friend of a friend who had a friend. A foursome!

I decided to keep quiet about this “good news”. Not even my wife would know about it. For now. I did not want the upcoming trip to glory to dominate the conversation for a month.

But oh, that was easier said than done. How do you not talk about such good news? How do you not work into the conversation something like… “Well, can you guess where I am going next month?” Not easy. Or… “Sorry men, I won’t be there next Wednesday. I will headed to Augusta National to play golf.”

There were a few instructions that came in through text messages over the next few days in the lead-up to the trip. A private plane would pick us up at a certain spot. Don’t be late. Do not put a travel bag on your golf clubs. No need. You will not need any money. Not even tips for caddies. Be sure to have a coat and tie for dinner. And be sure the sports coat is worn when you arrive on site. No cell phones or pictures on the course. Disposable cameras are acceptable. And don’t try to ‘re-pay’ the member who made it all possible. Don’t try to pay for anything. Just say “thank you” as often as possible.

Only a fool would object. Only a fool would try to think of reasons not to go, or try to pay for it, or fail to follow clear instructions of where to be and when to be there.

A few days before, it was time to tell my wife, Sue. She was thrilled but also became obsessed with making sure the clothes and the shoes were all correct. She considered the option that we would need to buy new golf shoes. None of my current four pairs, in her opinion, were worthy of the Augusta National Golf Club. None of them seemed suitable for this heaven-on-earth occasion. I talked her out of the new shoes when I reminded her that one pair had only been worn four times. The basic blue blazer was chosen. It took half an hour to choose the green and navy tie from Prestwick in Scotland. A haircut would be needed.

And in some ways, worst of all, I needed to practice. My golf game had been ignored, with no plans to practice or play much. My game was in total shambles. I would now need to get to work. My official handicap index was 7.2, but I had not broken 80 all year from my regular tees on my home course.

I could not afford for my golf ball to treat me like a stranger on the first tee at Augusta National. I did not want to look like 85-year-old Jack Nicklaus hitting his ceremonial drive off the 1st tee. I wanted to at least look like 75-year-old Tom Watson, who can still get it airborne quite nicely. I would need to remember how to hit a high draw off the tee, even if did only go 212. I would need to find my old right-to-left tee ball. It was somewhere in hiding, in the basement of my golf game.

The day arrived. Potential rain in the forecast was a concern.

The plane was waiting- just 30 minutes from home. The two young men flying the jet advised us that the flight would be about an hour. No TSA agent patted me down with a magic wand. No one checked my luggage for bottles of dangerous water or nail clippers or other such tools of terrorism. We took off with no Delta announcement of a delay and touched down in 57 minutes. The drive to Augusta from my house would have been nine hours of misery, plus an overnight on the way in a Hampton Inn, including breakfast with a girls’ soccer travel team from Illinois on their way to a spring tournament somewhere down south.

Touchdown was at 2’45pm. The ANGC van was waiting, no more than twenty yards from the steps of the plane. It is all a blur, but three or four men were there to grab bags and clubs, and a nice gentleman with a coat and tie was our driver for the twenty-minute drive to the club. I was given the honored right front seat to get a front row view of the Magnolia Lane memory.

Well, wouldn’t you know it? A light rain began to fall on the way to the course. The driver seemed certain it would quit in an hour or so. He gave us the news that Magnolia Lane had been tarnished by a hurricane in the fall of 2024. Thousands of trees had been affected, including magnolias which had been there since the late 1850s. Temporary substitutes had been planted, sparing no expense, but the club was still waiting on special replacement magnolias that could only be found near Savannah.

The driver narrated the history as we passed the “pearly gates” of Magnolia Lane into the entrance. He turned left, and we quickly parked and unloaded in a light rain with umbrellas offered, walking fifty yards or so to the Butler Cabin.

No one told me we would be staying at the Butler Cabin- but we were. Our member/host greeted us warmly. Just as expected, he was a humble and nice gentleman, younger than me. As he did several times, he was genuine in stating that he was honored and happy to have us as guests. He loved sharing his good fortune with friends, and even people like me who were not yet friends. He was teaching me how to be a gentleman.

So, first things first. I was led to the Baltimore Room, one of six rooms in the Butler Cabin. A television screen had a welcoming message and softly played the piano tune “Augusta”, which is the Masters theme, and it was so soothing and intoxicating. Pause for a moment and let the song ring in your ears. It is impossible to be there without wondering who else has stayed in the Baltimore Room. Hall of Fame golfers and more.

And then a brief Butler Cabin tour. Downstairs is where Scottie Scheffler, just ten days earlier, put the green jacket on Rory McIlroy. The fireplace, the chairs, the pictures. A small room actually. You could almost smell Jim Nantz’s cologne.

Thanks to the light rain, a complete tour of the famed clubhouse was the obvious choice to start the bucket-list trip. We saw every inch of it, I think. The Champions locker room. Up the narrow stairs into The “Crow’s Nest” where six beds await amateurs during the Masters. The pictures on the walls of Bobby Jones and all his friends from 1931 onward. The dining room where dinner would follow.

My favorite wall picture was in the men’s locker room, I think. A foursome from 1956 sat on a bench with the scorecard for the day. Mr. President (Eisenhower) shot 44-49/93, Ben Hogan shot 35-35/70, Cliff Roberts shot 46-41/87, and Byron Nelson was 36-36/72. Oh, to be a caddie in that group on that day. Or just a squirrel watching from the treetops. And I wondered to myself, can I at least beat Clifford Roberts and his ‘87’ tomorrow?

We ran into a famous member sitting with some friends. We were his compatriots for three minutes as he finished off an interesting tale to a growing crowd. We were all drawn together by this great game involving a little white ball and a hole in the earth.

We spent thirty minutes in the pro shop, buying whatever would be remembered forever. A quick call from a designated “phone booth” to Sue was required to decide if she wanted blue, pink, or white in the pullover with an old ANGC logo. A green shirt and sweater for me. I never looked at the price tag. Even now, I am afraid to look, and grateful that the credit card swipe didn’t embarrass me.

Blue skies appeared at just the right time. Caddies awaited us on the range. All experienced and perfect.

One of my first comments was the raw truth as I chunked a sand wedge. I muttered to myself within earshot of the caddies, “It will take all the religion I’ve got not to steal one of these Augusta ProV Ones.” A caddie overheard me, reached down, and threw two logoed balls into my bag. “There ya go. You didn’t see a thing.” No, I didn’t. Although, one of those balls stares at me now every day from his perch on a bookshelf.

Our host mentioned that we could continue the plan to play the Par Three course or go play nine holes. Our choice. The nine-hole option was tempting, but we all agreed that the Par Three made sense. So off we went. In hindsight, what a great decision. Shooting 47 on the rain-soaked front nine would have ruined dinner for me.

The Par-Three course was magnificent. All the holes were 95-155 yards. Four easy pars to start with good wedges. Then a bad eight iron into the water on the hardest and longest hole. Nice ‘sand save’ after my second shot caught a bunker, a really good double bogey. Then another par before my best shot of the day on the 7th hole to two feet for birdie from 115 yards. Wow. Then all three of my companions hit it to tap-in range on the 8th hole. There was much rejoicing with caddies snapping pictures as my routine par was mocked, as it should have been.

We joyously strolled to the final tee. Downhill over water on the 9th hole. I steal the tee despite my measly par on the 8th hole, and puff just a bit when my pitching wedge rolls to six feet. The flag is set up for a possible ace, but surely it won’t happen. Next up is my dear friend who must have spent years making this trip happen. He strikes a crisp wedge, but shadows make it hard to see the finish. We walk around the lake to celebrate four good finishing shots, but only three balls were found. Sure enough. My friend’s ball had found the bottom of the cup!! The Lord rewarded his generosity with a lifetime memory- the kind of story you tell at a funeral.

We return to the Butler Cabin for the best shower ever. Dinner at 7’30pm. Coat and tie, of course. About fifteen tables. Each table had one person with a green jacket. There was no way to miss the moment. Members and guests were clearly distinguishable. Waiters were smiling and watching, making sure all was well. The menu was amazing, but we were told that if we wanted something not on the menu, just ask. Apparently, someone is on call to make a run to the Piggly Wiggly on Washington Street.

I ordered the bone-in ribeye, but told the waiter that I would love a fried chicken leg too. He smiled and said no problem. Not even my grandma in her prime could have pulled that off.

Dinner was as good as you can imagine, followed by a tour of the famous wine cellar. We passed on the $10,000 French wine. By 9’45pm, it was bedtime. It was tempting to go sit downstairs in Jim Nantz’s chair all night, soaking up the hours, but I am old and tired, so the lights went out.

Chirping birds said hello in the morning, even before the sun. Meditation time in the Butler Cabin was a memory. The Keurig coffee was perfect. Three or four cups, all while reading Streams in the Desert (Lettie Cowman) and Hogan’s Five Fundamentals, which I found in a sitting room. “Faith is being certain of what we do not see. (Hebrews 11:1), ” said the devotional for April 24. Add that with a dose of Hogan’s “I dug it out of the dirt,” and you get golfer’s tingles. Is this heaven? Do the chirping birds know where they are? Are the squirrels shipped in from some special breeding farm near Savannah?

At 6’45am, we were the first people to entered the breakfast room, taking a perfect window table. No menus. Whatever you want. Corned beef hash was recommended, so two eggs over easy with the corned beef hash and bacon, and wheat toast. The waiter may have been around when Bobby Jones was still living. He seemed happier to be at work than we were to be at play. This was not his first breakfast at Augusta National Golf Club. It was obviously my first time. I was already choking on my bacon, thinking about the first tee.

We returned to the pro shop and had to wait ten minutes for the range to open. At 8’am we were standing near the first tee, waiting on one group that managed to beat us to the opening tee time. The member in front of us was an older black gentleman I had seen at dinner. He had a cart since he could barely walk. He smacked his drive, not far but down the middle. A woman guest was in the group, so I must confess, I immediately worried about being held up by this diverse couple who now had golf balls only about 150 yards away. My fears of slow play were ridiculous, since by the time we arrived at the first green, the lead-off act was long gone. Augusta members and caddies understand that bad golf is acceptable, but not slow golf. Keep it moving.

Details of the glorious eighteen holes are too much for this short story. My friend followed up his Ace from the evening before with a Birdie on Number One! My other blessed friend, who was there because he was “a friend of a friend of a friend,” is really good, and at age 70, hit every green on the back nine except for the par five 15th when he found the pond with his second shot. It proved again that a good drive on a par five will just get you in trouble. He shot a glorious 37, though. No birdies, but what a nine holes of golf.

As for me, my Bulls-Eye rewarded me for the honor of playing Augusta, making nice par putts on 3,5,7, and 9- not to mention a tricky downhill birdie putt on 8. It added up to 38, too good to be true. Sadly, it didn’t last, and in retrospect, my back-nine 44 was inevitable. Double bogeys- avoided on the front nine- surfaced on 12 and 15 when two happy balls decided to commit suicide in Augusta’s famous ponds. RIP to two fine ProVs. Rae’s Creek is for real. So is the slope in front of 15. I am not the first golfer to write a 5 and 7 onto the scorecard at 12 and 15. Sad stories abound.

The back nine was salvaged after a tired hook on 18 into the left rough, a three wood in front of the bunker, a 50-yard pitch to a back pin, and a miracle ten-foot par-putt that dropped to the roar of an imaginary crowd, saving me from perfect bogey-golf on the back nine. Meanwhile, our generous host was rewarded for his generosity by his best drive of the day, an amazing drawing five iron to five feet, and a putt into the middle of the hole for a finishing birdie. His only one of the day. Smiles and handshakes all around.

Now- what did I learn? I have been preaching nine (9) sermons to myself since that awesome day at Augusta.

1- Serving is Sweet - Once on the hallowed grounds, we experienced the way people should be treated. Perhaps it is a function of training, but I also suspect it is the awareness by every employee- literally everyone- that working at ANGC is a blessing. A joy. A privilege. An honor. These workers seemed to know that it is better to serve than be served. The cleaning lady in the Butler Cabin might be the happiest person I have ever met. Her name-tag said her name was “Love”. The golfers like me are surely tempted to worry about yesterday’s stock market dips, recent business setbacks, troubles at the USGA, or kids and grandkids in trouble, while the servants were just happy to have a heavenly place to work and serve. I need to serve more. “Those who are the greatest among you should take the lowest rank, and the leader should be like a servant.” (Luke 22:26).

2- Humility is Attractive - Even in the green jackets, it seemed possible to be humble. Our host/member was the essence of this humble attitude. His primary pleasure was knowing that his guests were having the greatest day of their lives. He bragged about nothing. If he has done something great in his life, I never heard about it. I wanted to ask about his business and life, but his humility seemed to say, “Don’t ask. I am blessed to be here, and I am no better than you.” I will be trying to be more like my latest ‘best friend’.

3- Friendships Matter - None of this story happens without friends. All the work and desire in the world mean nothing unless friends are there to help make it happen. So, thank you to my friend who made the call. Thank you to an Augusta member who said ‘yes’ to someone he didn’t even know. Thank you to my other pal for going along for the journey. Golf’s greatest gift for me has been friends who know the joy of a hole-in-one and the anguish of the yips. We suffer and rejoice together. God’s biggest compliment of Abraham was that he was a “friend of God”. (Isaiah 41:8). I have never really needed a psychiatrist, despite my foibles and fears, because God has given me friends. They seem to be there when needed.

4- Complaining is Stupid - I have spent way too much time in my life complaining. Being a lawyer has not helped me in that regard. Finding fault is my “spiritual gift”, if you understand what I mean. At Augusta, everything was so perfect that complaints were impossible. I found a one-inch wild mushroom in the left rough on the 14th hole, which led to me joking with our host about who to lodge my complaint with, since it was the first sign of imperfection I had seen. He told me he would take care of it. We laughed. The place was so perfect that I joked that I am going back home and complain about everything at our golf club. But seriously, I plan to stop complaining.

5- Only a Fool says NO - As I said above, when you receive the invitation, “Only a fool would object. Only a fool would try to think of reasons not to go, or try to pay for it, or fail to follow clear instructions of where to be and when to be there.” Even typing that sentence sent me into overdrive with a sermon in my head about the invitation of Jesus. He has offered us eternal life. He has offered a wonderful gift. It is free. Heaven is a free gift thanks to Jesus. And some say “No Thanks”. Hard to imagine but true.

6- The Absurdity of NO - And last, to illustrate the absurdity of saying NO to Jesus, imagine this conversation. Randy Wolff reminded me of this when I told him about my trip to Augusta. Randy played on the PGA Tour. He was an All-American at LSU. He was really good. He recalls a story about one of his “fool” friends on tour being invited by a member to play Augusta. This PGA Tour player said No!! He proudly declared that he would only play Augusta when he had earned the right to play in the Masters. Wow. Imagine the arrogance or pride of such a ridiculous statement. He wanted only what he earned. Are there people who miss heaven because they insist on earning their way into the Pearly Gates? Probably so. The gift of eternal life is too good for them to accept? Perhaps some deluded thinkers believe that nonsense.

7- Second Best Day - “Oh Happy Day” is a song about the day you arrive in heaven. Death here means Life there, and this turns the worst day of life into the best. So, in this Augusta National analogy, April 23/24 was the “Oh Happy Day”. But surely the “next best day” is the day you get the call for Heaven. My phone rang on March 24. That day was as memorable as the day itself. And for me, February 6, 1970, was such a day. The day of the call to follow Jesus becomes a day to remember. Thank you, Lord, for the call. It was a one AM ‘wake-up call’— and never forgotten. In many ways, I feel sorry for people who don’t have such a dramatic call. They’ve missed something, or at least it seems that way to me.

8- Witnessing to “Good News” - It took every ounce of restraint in my body, soul, and spirit to NOT tell anyone that I was on the way to Heaven on earth- er, I mean Augusta National. IF it is true that Christians possess this “good news” of eternal life and heaven, why are we so secretive about it all? Why are we so hesitant to tell people this good news? Maybe we don’t ‘really’ believe it? It must be some form of that. Maybe we sort of believe, but have not really gotten “the call”. When I got “the call”, the news was so good that I wanted to tell everyone. I called my brother and more. I put a small bumper sticker on my golf bag that said simply: “Christ Died for our Sins”. Many times along the journey of the last fifty years plus, I have lost that urge to tell everyone. It became ho-hum. I need to get it back. Every day.

9- Getting Ready - Last, I wanted to be ready when I arrived. I played and practiced a few times before the trip when I was not really in the mood. I went to the putting green to test six putters to make sure I didn’t embarrass myself. As it turned out, none of the six putters made the final cut, and I reluctantly went back to my often balky Bulls-Eye, the legendary putter that truly deserved the honor of playing Augusta. She rewarded me with some nice putts on the front nine and the final green. But the point is simple: you want to be ready to stand before a holy and perfect God on the day of Judgment. Before you criticize my theology, I fully realize that my good deeds do not get me through the famous pearly gates, and that “Jesus” is the only answer to the questions about worthiness to be there. But still… somehow, it still feels right to be as ready as possible to meet Him face-to-face. Being a disciple means being disciplined. So do it. Get ready.

Okay. There it is. Great days like this do not last twenty-four hours. They last a lifetime. Forever.