tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-55347684598441147722024-03-12T17:28:20.967-07:00Diary Entries in an Upside-Down KingdomWords to encourage others in our mutual journeys through this seemingly upside-down Kingdom of God.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger108125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5534768459844114772.post-1780549084562681382015-04-03T07:14:00.004-07:002015-04-03T15:53:10.509-07:00Saturday's over....<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">What follows is my post from two years ago when, even though it was Easter, Resurrection Day, mama was caught in some sort of perpetual sad "Saturday." Driving to work this morning, I thought back to these words. When I read the last paragraph, I was almost overwhelmed with gratitude:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i>"And even though...for now...she is locked in some sort of perpetual Saturday, not remembering it's Sunday...not remembering it's Easter...not remembering the power of the Resurrection...one day she will. His voice will remind her. His voice will call her name--Joyce--in a way that heals, resurrects, and restores her broken body and mind. And, when she hears Him, all the sorrow, hurt and hardness--which sometimes led her nearly to despair--will be burned away by the joyful brightness of His Love, His Light."</i></b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">This morning, I cut my Sabbath "quiet time" short to make the 25-minute drive to Shannondale Nursing Home to get mom ready and take her to Easter service. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">In words I wrote earlier that morning, I reminded myself that "<i>a far-off battle</i>" won by Jesus has made all the difference, even in a world that looks and feels like it is under the control of a foreign, oppressive power. And, on the drive to Shannondale, I had been singing an old Kimberly COG ensemble song loud and strong: </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"<b><i>Hear the bells ringing, they're singing that we can be born again.</i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i>Hear the bells ringing, they're singing Christ is risen from the dead</i></b>...."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">As I walked through Shannondale's front doors, I gave my best "<i><b>Happy Easter</b></i>" to everyone in the lobby, got on the elevator and hit the 5th floor button. But, that elevator stopped on almost every single floor and, when the doors opened, my view was one of sad faces, broken bodies, damaged minds. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">By the time I arrived on 5th floor, my smile and song were gone and my heart was heavy. It no longer felt like Easter Sunday--and the power of the Resurrection seemed far away. The faces I saw and the heart inside me felt more like some sort of perpetual Saturday. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">As I stepped off the elevator and saw mama's waiting face...dressed in a winter sweater...I pushed my sadness aside. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">After getting her wheelchair loaded and getting her buckled in, she and I headed for church. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">During the 20-minute drive, her frequent, repeated question began to grate: "</span><b style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>Today's Saturday, right?</i></b><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"...to which I replied, "</span><b style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>No, mom, today is Sunday...Easter Sunday...we're going to church</i></b><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">." </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">When we got there...miracles of miracles, a handicapped parking space was open. Then, a kind usher found a pew where I could easily park mom's wheelchair next to me. Then, my two handsome sons actually found mom and me...and sat beside us. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">My emotions are always a bit ragged on Easter...overflowing with gratitude for the cost of my salvation and for the promise of eternal life because of the Resurrection. And, I don't remember the last time I made it through a Sunday service without wishing I had more tissues.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But <b>that</b> Easter Sunday...became a powerful parable which took awhile to read. With my gifted, Jesus-loving husband in front of me playing in the orchestra; my beautiful, gifted, Jesus-loving sons on one side of me; and my beautiful, Jesus-loving, stroke-and-Alzheimer's-damaged mother on the other side...well...I was, quite simply, a puddle. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Then, as if God wasn't already speaking loudly enough, Pastor Avant began to talk about one of life's hardest "stones" to deal with--the "stone" of Alzheimer's. He read two incredibly beautiful letters--one from husband to wife...the other from wife to husband--who were locked in battle with this despicable disease. Then, my youngest son, who was sitting closest to me, reached over and patted my knee, and I lost it...dissolved into the kind of crying that's plain old ugly. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">When the service ended, I recovered and wheeled mom out. My three beautiful, gifted, Jesus-loving guys and I took her to Cracker Barrel where she ate her favorites--beans and greens, okra and cole slaw. Then, I loaded her back in the van, and headed to the place that has come to represent all that is "fallen" to me--sickness, brokenness, loneliness, dementia, death. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">On the way, she asked many times, <b><i>"When am I going to see the boys?"...."When am I going home?"...."Today's Saturday, right?"..</i>..</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And, at that point, it sure felt like Saturday...like that in-between time...when those first followers must have felt like the enemy had won...felt their hopes and dreams had been nailed to the same piece of ragged wood as their now-dead Rabbi. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But, as I drove, I remembered two of Pastor Avant's words after he read those sad, beautiful letters--<b><i>"God remembers." </i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And, when my mama can't remember that it's Easter...when she can no longer remember the cross and the Resurrection... can no longer remember the words of the long-sung hymns... can no longer remember our names...her name...<b><i>God remembers</i></b><i>.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">And even though...for now...she is locked in some sort of perpetual Saturday, not remembering it's Sunday...not remembering it's Easter...not remembering the power of the Resurrection...one day she will. His voice will remind her. His voice will call her name--<b><i>Joyce</i></b>--in a way that heals... resurrects... restores... her broken body and mind. And, when she hears Him, all the sorrow, hurt and hardness--which sometimes led her nearly to despair--will be burned away by the joyful brightness of His Love, His Light.</span></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.5pt;">"Love never dies. </span></i></b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.5pt;">Inspired speech will be over some day;</span></i></b><b><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.5pt;">praying in tongues will end;<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.5pt;">understanding will reach its limit.</span></i></b><b><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.5pt;"> <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.5pt;">We know only a portion of the truth,<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.5pt;">and what we say about God </span></i></b><br />
<b><i><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.5pt;">is always incomplete.<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.5pt;">But when the Complete arrives,<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.5pt;">our incompletes will be canceled….</span></i></b><b><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.5pt;">We don’t yet see things clearly.<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.5pt;">We’re squinting in a fog, </span></i></b><br />
<b><i><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.5pt;">peering through a mist.<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.5pt;">But it won’t be long </span></i></b><br />
<b><i><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.5pt;">before the weather clears<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.5pt;">and the sun shines bright!<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.5pt;">We’ll see it all then,<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.5pt;">see it all as clearly as God sees us,<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.5pt;">knowing him just as he knows us!</span></i></b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.5pt;">But for right now, until that completeness,<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.5pt;">we have three things to do<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.5pt;">to lead us toward that consummation:<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.5pt;">Trust steadily in God,<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.5pt;">hope unswervingly,<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.5pt;">love extravagantly.<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.5pt;">And the best of the three is love."</span></i></b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.5pt;">(1 Corinthians 13:8-13 The Message)</span></i></b></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5534768459844114772.post-57456214262152153242015-02-20T08:40:00.001-08:002015-02-20T08:40:53.332-08:00Before Jesus can show us who He is....<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Thinking back to a few years ago. Lessons learned from an Ash Wednesday service I almost<em style="font-weight: bold;"> </em>didn't attend.<br />
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It had been a busy day of job interviews and getting mama to a doctor's appointment. I'd almost talked myself out of going to an Ash Wednesday service at a church I'd been wanting to visit. But, reluctantly, I went. (Why does the Holy Spirit so often show up in "reluctant places"?)<br />
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As different speakers shared the Ash Wednesday readings, I began to realize it was the Holy Spirit who had pushed me past my excuses, out of my comfort zone, and onto that wooden pew to hear their pastor read the following passage:<br />
<em>"Be especially careful when you are trying to be good</em><br />
<em>so that you don't make a performance out of it.</em><br />
<em>It might be good theater,</em><br />
<em>but the God who made you won't be applauding.</em><br />
<em>When you do something for someone else,</em><br />
<em>don't call attention to yourself.</em><br />
<em>You've seen them in action, I'm sure—</em><br />
<em>'playactors' I call them—</em><br />
<em>treating prayer meeting and street corner alike as a stage,</em><br />
<em>acting compassionate as long as someone is watching,</em><br />
<em>playing to the crowds.</em><br />
<em>They get applause, true, but that's all they get.</em><br />
<em>When you help someone out, </em><br />
<em>don't think about how it looks.</em><br />
<em>Just do it—quietly and unobtrusively.</em><br />
<em>That is the way your God, </em><br />
<em>who conceived you in love,</em><br />
<em>working behind the scenes, helps you out.</em><br />
<em>And when you come before God,</em><br />
<em>don't turn that into a theatrical production either.</em><br />
<em>All these people making a show out of their prayers,</em><br />
<em>hoping for stardom!</em><br />
<em>Do you think God sits in a box seat?</em><br />
<em>Here's what I want you to do:</em><br />
<em>Find a quiet, secluded place</em><br />
<em>so you won't be tempted to role-play before God.</em><br />
<em>Just be there </em><br />
<em>as simply and honestly as you can manage.</em><br />
<em>The focus will shift from you to God,</em><br />
<em>and you will begin to sense his grace."</em><br />
(Matthew 6:1-6, 16-21, The Message)<br />
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This pastor then explained to us that, whenever we see the word "<em>hypocrite</em>" in our English Bibles, it's translated from the Greek word <em>for "actor" (hupokrites). </em>In Biblical times, actors wore masks, depending on the character they were playing. So, with that background, here are some words I wrote down from his sermon (thanks to the shorthand I still use from time to time):<br />
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"Most of us live our lives behind a mask.<br />
We're afraid if people see behind our mask, they won't love us.<br />
....Our masks do nothing to heal us--they only hide us.<br />
....But, Jesus already sees and knows all the ugliness behind the mask,<br />
and He says, "I love you child...this much"...<br />
Then He stretches out His arms on a cross and dies.<br />
....Lent is a time to let God help us take off our masks.<br />
For us to offer our unmasked selves wholeheartedly to Him.<br />
Taking off our masks is vulnerable and can make us feel completely naked.<br />
....But He has not called us to be actors--<br />
He has called us to be ambassadors. He has called us to be:<br />
'a rebuilder of walls, a restorer of homes,<br />
to raise up the foundations of many generations'<br />
--for our children and our grandchildren and their children....<br />
Could there be anything more beautiful than to live like that?"<br />
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Then, I stood in line for communion and to have those cross-shaped ashes painted on my brow. As the man who had just spoken those powerful, convicting, comforting words traced a cross on my forehead, he said quietly: "My sister, from dust you were formed, and to dust you shall return."<br />
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And, right there, my mind flashed back to a conversation with mom from earlier in the day. She couldn't remember something she wanted to tell me, and became frustrated and angry. She asked me, "Am I ever going to be normal again?"<br />
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And I began to cry.<br />
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NORMAL. What a loaded word.<br />
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I lost count of the times mama said to me, "I just always wanted to be normal." The sad irony is that her definition of 'normal' and the choices she made trying to achieve it brought even more chaos into her life.<br />
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But, standing there in front of that pastor, I realized that, like mama, NORMAL is one of the masks I wear. I too want to fit in and "just be like other people." And, just like mama, inevitably, that mask causes choices in my life that bring more chaos, damaging comparisons, confusion and sin.<br />
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The morning after that Ash Wednesday service--with mama's words and that pastor's words still echoing in my heart--I opened my favorite Lenten book, and the page fell open to words I wrote years ago:<br />
"Before Jesus shows us who He is, He has to show us who we are."<br />
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And those words rattled my masks. They still do.<br />
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<em>"The LORD is compassionate and gracious,</em></div>
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<em>slow to anger, abounding in love.</em></div>
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<em>He will not always accuse,</em></div>
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<em>nor will he harbor his anger forever;</em></div>
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<em>He does not treat us as our sins deserve</em></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<em>or repay us according to our iniquities.</em></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<em>For as high as the heavens are above the earth,</em></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<em>so great is his love for those who fear him;</em></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<em>as far as the east is from the west,</em></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<em>so far has he removed our transgressions from us.</em></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<em>As a father has compassion on his children,</em></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<em>so the LORD has compassion on those who fear him;</em></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<em>for he knows how we are formed,</em></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<em>he remembers that we are dust.</em></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<em>The life of mortals is like grass,</em></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<em>they flourish like a flower of the field;</em></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<em>the wind blows over it and it is gone,</em></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<em>and its place remembers it no more.</em></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<em>But from everlasting to everlasting</em></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<em>the LORD’s love is with those who fear him,</em></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<em>his righteousness with their children’s children—</em></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<em>with those who keep his covenant</em></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<em>and remember to obey his precepts."</em></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
(Psalm 103:8-18 NIV)</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5534768459844114772.post-83633801203868393862015-02-19T08:15:00.002-08:002015-02-19T12:56:56.331-08:00Ashes....<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXrVFiGlXW_Vptm1TPnHeFVf_c2bksUxBTzpW3HDMbDdURCah3AccgH84pC4KytMoSsQeyJQOAIWsfE1MFXJaqJ71XzcHMwYqkme7MFpJ0JSsZ7sSlHnajNbxOyOClejm4aTN8_ucT-Ebk/s1600/ashes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXrVFiGlXW_Vptm1TPnHeFVf_c2bksUxBTzpW3HDMbDdURCah3AccgH84pC4KytMoSsQeyJQOAIWsfE1MFXJaqJ71XzcHMwYqkme7MFpJ0JSsZ7sSlHnajNbxOyOClejm4aTN8_ucT-Ebk/s1600/ashes.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></div>
Ashes...the stuff left after the fire.<br />
<br />
How fitting that churches observing Ash Wednesday use ashes gathered from burning the previous year's Palm Sunday leaves. Once used to help sing "Hosanna!," these leaves become an ash-and-oil, cross-painting paste to remind us of life... death... the ongoing need for repentance... renewal... redemption.<br />
<br />
Truth be told, the first Ash Wednesday service I attended was more a comedy of errors than the practice of something sacred. The ability to juggle the bulletin, Book of Common Prayer and hymnal, while learning how and when to pull out and push back the altar from beneath the pew in front of you was definitely out of this PresbyBaptiCostal's comfort zone.<br />
<br />
Since then, I have learned the Ash Wednesday minister's focus--through song, sermon and prayer--is to call people to repentance. However, I was so distracted, trying to keep one step ahead of the next step, that I don't remember anything from his sermon.<br />
<br />
But I do remember words he spoke as he painted the cross-shaped ashes on my forehead: "Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return."<br />
<br />
The elderly couple sitting in front of me caused his words to ring and echo. This frail husband and wife “preached” me a crystal-clear sermon of just how quickly each of us "returns to dust," and of how we are called to live in the meantime.<br />
<br />
When it was my turn to go down front to receive communion and have ashes painted on my forehead, I waited to let this couple step in front of me. All the way out the pew and up the aisle, the husband took halting, shuffled steps, which seemed possible only by the support of his wife's small arm around him.<br />
<br />
I wondered how he would ever manage to kneel and get back up but, with her help, he did. I more heard than saw him take the bread and cup, because every breath was labored. They lingered there...at the altar...together...for several moments.<br />
<br />
As I watched their slow and painful walk back down the aisle and into their pew, I wondered what sort of devotion was required to get one’s self and one’s frail husband dressed and into the car…one’s self and one’s frail husband out of the car and into the church…one’s self and one’s frail husband up the aisle to painstakingly kneel at an altar to take the bread and cup and to get back up again.<br />
<br />
Watching them--with newly painted crosses on their foreheads--made me cry...and I bowed my visiting head to hide tears that might cause those around me to wonder, "What's wrong with her?"<br />
<br />
The church's Book of Common Prayer lay open in my lap, and I noticed tiny gray spots on its pages. I touched one, and it smudged. Then, I saw one of those "spots" drifting down and landing on the page, and realized these spots were ashes flaking off the cross on my forehead.<br />
<br />
As I tried to brush them off without smudging the page, the Holy Spirit spoke deeply into my soul, “That’s where such a determined devotion begins… in the flaking off…. of selfish desires…. of "the old you.”<br />
<br />
And, Jesus' cross...the forgiveness and power found there...is the only place... the only way... such life-saving “flaking off” can ever begin and can ever endure.<br />
<br />
So, in spite of how clumsy and vulnerable that "new" kind of worship felt, Jesus met me there and taught me a living parable.<br />
<br />
In his book, "The Voyage of the Dawn Treader," C. S. Lewis paints a beautiful picture of this "flaking off." One of the characters, Eustace, through pride, self-pity and greed, has acted in ways that have caused him to be "turned into a dragon." Once the exciting newness of being a dragon wears off, Eustace is miserable and very sorry for how he has treated everyone. Listen to what happens:<br />
<em>"I looked up and saw the very last thing I expected: a huge lion coming toward me...It told me to follow...And I knew I had to do what it told me, so I got up and followed it. And it led me to...a garden. In the middle of it was a well, which was more like a very big round bath...and I thought, </em><br />
<em>'If I could get in there and bathe, it would ease the pain in my leg' (from the jeweled bracelet that had become more like a shackle).</em><br />
<em>But the lion told me I must undress first....so I started scratching, and my scales began coming off all over the place. And then, I scratched a little deeper,...and my whole skin started peeling off beautifully...as if I was a banana...In a minute or two, I just stepped out of it. I could see it laying there beside me, looking rather nasty. It was a most lovely feeling. So I started to go down into the well for my bath.</em><br />
<em>But, just as I was going to put my feet into the water, I looked down and saw that they were all hard and rough and wrinkly and scaly just as they had been before....So I scratched and tore again and (it) peeled off beautifully again and out I stepped...and went down to the well for my bath. And exactly the same thing happened again, and I thought, 'Oh, dear, how ever many skins have I got to take off?'...</em><br />
<em>Then the lion said, 'You will have to let me undress you.' I was afraid of his claws, but I was pretty nearly desperate now. So I just lay down and let him do it.</em><br />
<em>The very first tear he made was so deep that I thought it had gone right into my heart. And when he began pulling the skin off, it hurt worse than anything I've ever felt. The only thing that made me able to bear it was just the pleasure of feeling the old stuff peel off....</em><br />
<em>Well, he peeled the beastly stuff right off...And there I was as smooth and as soft as a peeled switch and smaller than I had been. Then he caught hold of me--I didn't like that very much for I was very tender now that I had no skin on--and he threw me into the water. It smarted like anything but only for a moment. After that, it became perfectly delicious and as soon as I started swimming and splashing, I found that all the pain had gone....</em><br />
<em>After a bit, the lion took me out and dressed me...in new clothes....</em><br />
<em>And then, suddenly, I was back here...</em><br />
<em>Then Eustace asked, 'What do you think it was?'</em><br />
<em>And Edmund answered, 'I think you've seen Aslan.'....</em><br />
<em>Now, it would be nice and fairly nearly true, to say that from that time forth Eustace was a different boy. But, to be strictly accurate, he (only) began to be a different boy. He had relapses. There were still many days when he could be very tiresome. But...the cure had begun."</em><br />
<br />
<div align="right">
"Before the Passover celebration,</div>
<div align="right">
Jesus knew his hour had come to leave this world</div>
<div align="right">
and return to his Father.</div>
<div align="right">
He had loved his disciples during his ministry on earth,</div>
<div align="right">
and now he loved them to the very end....</div>
<div align="right">
Jesus knew the Father had given him authority over everything</div>
<div align="right">
and that he had come from God and would return to God.</div>
<div align="right">
So he got up from the table, took off his robe,</div>
<div align="right">
wrapped a towel around his waist, and poured water into a basin.</div>
<div align="right">
Then he began to wash the disciples’ feet,</div>
<div align="right">
drying them with the towel he had around him.</div>
<div align="right">
When Jesus came to Simon Peter,</div>
<div align="right">
Peter said to him, “Lord, are you going to wash my feet?”</div>
<div align="right">
Jesus replied, “You don’t understand now what I am doing,</div>
<div align="right">
but someday you will.”</div>
<div align="right">
“No,” Peter protested, “you will never ever wash my feet!”</div>
<div align="right">
Jesus replied, “Unless I wash you, you won’t belong to me.”</div>
<div align="right">
(John 13:1-8, NLT)<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
Oh, Christ, </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
You faced the fire of the Cross.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
And turned its ashes into </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Forgiveness, Redemption, Resurrection....</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
During these next 40 days </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
May I see you like never before. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Shine your Love<br />
Your Light on those places</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
In me that need to flake off...</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Even be scraped off...<br />
by the Lion of Judah.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Help me to desire<br />
what You long for me to desire.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
40 days from now,<br />
may I love You more than I do today.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Amen</div>
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5534768459844114772.post-85709353586953078262014-07-04T05:24:00.003-07:002014-07-04T05:24:43.964-07:00The 35th anniversary of The Great 4th of July Fire<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Yeah…yeah…I realize 4<sup>th</sup> of July memories are supposed
to be all about family gatherings and food, fireworks and fun. But…for me…the
memory that tops the list is what I’ve come to call “The Great 4<sup>th</sup> of
July Fire.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfj_UHnHRHGPl_Qw8Zsvh-zHqOejXDbluf6PD0L8Y_OwTEH0-NArqUNo30q7HtQIfF8GyujRM68gmVpIpv7sBe4TUy6yjq8NyYgmWX8eGLhV9-uMMsbtGHEr-y6P2l81NIvLhDqhExkxRW/s1600/Pinetrees+on+fire.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfj_UHnHRHGPl_Qw8Zsvh-zHqOejXDbluf6PD0L8Y_OwTEH0-NArqUNo30q7HtQIfF8GyujRM68gmVpIpv7sBe4TUy6yjq8NyYgmWX8eGLhV9-uMMsbtGHEr-y6P2l81NIvLhDqhExkxRW/s1600/Pinetrees+on+fire.jpg" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">It was 35 years ago today that Kevin, Barney, Pam, me, and a
couple of leftover-Church-of-God-campmeeting-boyfriends were shooting bottle
rockets out of Coke bottles in our front yard.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I should probably point out that it hadn't rained
since...oh...March. And, I should also point out that, during almost everything
I’m about to tell you, mama was unconscious in her bedroom in a drug-induced
"coma," recovering from back surgery. </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Which…looking back…was probably
a BIG blessin’.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Just across our front yard, separated only
by two-laned <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Stouts Road</st1:address></st1:street>,
Albritton and Lucy Rice lived in a house fronted by 10-12 acres of pine trees,
which amounted to LOTS of DRY pinestraw. (Did I mention it hadn't rained since
March?) One last detail--to this day, Kimberly has a Volunteer Fire Department.
(You may have seen the damage it suffered earlier this year when the tornado
hit Kimberly.) That particular year, the primary bottle-rocket-shooter, Barney,
was running for Town Council, with one “plank” of his campaign platform being
better fire protection.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Well, sometime after midnight, an hour or
so after shooting off the last rocket, we closed down the party. As my brother
crawled into his twin bed (in the room he shared with our now-comatose mama and
whistlin’ daddy...don't judge...it was a 2-bedroom house), he said he had a
feeling he needed to look out the window. Next thing I know, he's running into
the living room where daddy is snoring in his chair and Pam and I are watching
TV. He's yelling,<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><em><b>"The
woods are on fire! Albritton's woods are on fire!"</b></em><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">On the way out the door, stopping only long
enough to call Barney and tell him to get his butt and a bucket up to our
house, Kevin yelled at me, Pam and daddy, <em><b>“Hook up the hosepipe and get
as many buckets as you can find."</b></em><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>(We only found 3.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Once outside...barefoot and in pajamas...one
look across <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Stouts Road</st1:address></st1:street>
told me that fire COULD NOT be put out with a hosepipe and 3 buckets. It was
blazing!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">But...truth be told...we were always a
little scared of Albritton. He was the silent type. And most of us read lots of
"stuff" into silence. So, all we knew was that...somehow...we had to
put out that fire with a hosepipe and 3 buckets.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">We could not call Albritton. We dared
not alert the Volunteer Fire Department. The only call we could make was to
Barney, who always was our family's version of 911. So, Pam and I—barefoot
in our pajamas at the edge of Stouts Road (that's how far the hosepipe reached)—would
fill up the 3 buckets; and then Kevin, Barney and daddy (who chain-smoked
Salems throughout that entire night) would run into those fiery woods and back
again to fill up those 3 buckets.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Well, this bucket brigade went on for quite
awhile with no obvious results, So, in an act of frightened desperation, I went
into the house and grabbed all the blankets and quilts I could find (many of
them being mama's HOMEMADE quilts) to help fight the still-spreading fire.
(Yes, you heard me.... homemade.... as in heirloom....and only Alzheimer's has
allowed her to forget it...for now.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I dumped that pile of quilts on the road
beside Pam and yelled at her to soak them. Then, in my Keds and pajamas, with
those dripping quilts, I ran into those blazing pine trees--throwing them onto
burning patches of pinestraw and wrapping them around blazing tree trunks.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Every once in awhile, you'd hear pinecones
explode. Each time that happened, my brother would freak out. Later, he said
that each little explosion reminded him of a previous brush-clearing fire when
a red-hot pinecone seed went straight up his nostril. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I can't tell you how many refilled buckets
and resoaked quilts it took to put out that inferno...but with the
bordering-on-miraculous help of God…and Barney, we did it. By that time, we
couldn't go to sleep. So, all of us...exhausted and soot-covered...just piled
on the living room floor...except for daddy who sank into his recliner...still smokin'
a Salem. After a few minutes of quiet, Barney announced, "<em><b>Well,
there goes my run for Town Council."</b></em><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>And...that did it...we couldn't stop
laughing...tears made tracks down our soot-covered faces.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Eventually, Barney went home, and the rest
of us decided to get some sleep. But...just like that...it was<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><em>deja-vux</em><span class="apple-converted-space"><i> </i></span>all over again. Again, Kevin
looked out the front window. Again, he came running into the living room, this
time yelling,<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><em><b>"It's
goin' again!"</b></em><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>And
out the door he went, stopping only long enough to call Barney...again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">By this time it's about 3 a.m., and I
was just coherent enough to realize we needed reinforcements. So, I called Jeff
Easter. Jeff says he remembers the phone ringing and wondering,<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><strong><i>"What fool is calling
at this time of the morning?"</i></strong><span class="apple-converted-space"><b><i> </i></b></span>But, he picked up,
and...well...I'll let him tell this part of the story:<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><strong><i>"I heard this voice
say, 'Put your hosepipe in your car and get to my house now'!"</i></strong><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">When Jeff got there...hosepipe in
hand...Pam and I were on bucket duty again. (But, sadly, by this time, mama's
quilts had been lost to Fire #1.) And, we managed to hook up Jeff's hosepipe to
ours, which made it long enough that we could actually get the water
directly to the fire. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">And...by the first hint of daylight and, quite thankfully, before
Albritton ever had his first cup of coffee...Fire #2 was out.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Again, we collapsed on the living room
floor—more exhausted and soot-covered than before—this time joined by Jeff.
And, again, we ended up laughing ‘til we cried.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">About 7 a.m....mama came stumbling into
the living room in a post-surgery haze. She took one look at her living
room floor, filled with soot-covered, sleeping people, and yelled, "<em><b>MY,
LORD, WHAT HAPPENED WHILE I WAS ASLEEP?"</b></em><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">So we told her, swearing her to secrecy, and
then...with a rather pitiful blank stare on her face...shaking her head...she
went to the kitchen and did the only thing she knew to do—cook us some biscuits
and gravy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Years after<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><em><b>"The Great 4th of July
Fire,"</b></em><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>as we came
to call it, Barney confessed that, for several nights afterwards, he got out of
bed, got in his car, parked in our yard and walked through Albritton's woods
... just to make sure.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Funny thing...the next summer, you'd have
barely known what happened. As I walked through those woods...trying to figure
out exactly where mama's quilts had “died,”...patches of grass were growing,
wildflowers were blooming, and most of the trees had somehow survived. New
little seedlings were popping up everywhere...probably from those blasted
exploding pinecones.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Out of the ashes of<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><em><b>The Great Fire 4th of July Fire</b></em>,
new life had already started. It occurs to me...the same thing happens to us.
Out of the very ashes of the fires of our lives...God brings new life, growth,
beauty...even laughter... <em><b>IF</b></em><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>we
let Him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="right" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: right;">
<em><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">"To all who mourn,...he will give a
crown of beauty for ashes,</span></em><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="right" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: right;">
<em><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">a joyous blessing instead of mourning,</span></em><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="right" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: right;">
<em><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">festive praise instead of despair.</span></em><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<em><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">In their righteousness, they will be like
great oaks</span></em><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<em><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">that the Lord has planted for his own glory.....</span></em><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<em><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Instead of shame and dishonor,</span></em><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<em><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">you will enjoy a double share of honor.</span></em><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<em><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">You will possess a double portion of
prosperity in your land,</span></em><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<em><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">and everlasting joy will be yours....</span></em><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<em><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I will faithfully reward my people for
their suffering</span></em><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<em><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">and make an everlasting covenant with
them.</span></em><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<em><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Their descendants will be recognized</span></em><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<em><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">and honored among the nations.</span></em><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="right" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: right;">
<em><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Everyone will realize they are a people
the Lord has blessed.”</span></em><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<em><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I am overwhelmed with joy in the Lord my
God!</span></em><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="right" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: right;">
<em><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">For he has dressed me with the clothing of
salvation</span></em><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="right" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: right;">
<em><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">and draped me in a robe of
righteousness....</span></em><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="right" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: right;">
<em><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Everyone will praise him!</span></em><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="right" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: right;">
<em><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">His righteousness will be like a garden in
early spring,</span></em><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="right" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: right;">
<em><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">with plants springing up everywhere."</span></em><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="right" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: right;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">(From Isaiah 61, NLT)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5534768459844114772.post-64256554045692946762014-05-01T05:07:00.000-07:002014-05-01T17:44:54.819-07:00Growing up Kimberly <div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I’m not sure what will flow out of my heart and onto this blank page. I hope it offends none, encourages a few, comforts some. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">As is true most of the time when it comes to "things I worry about most," last night as I started scrolling through Facebook for weather updates and Garrett “sightings,” I was focused on the safety of “mine.” And then I saw a picture of my little church in Kimberly, Alabama—roof blown off, walls blown out, debris blown in. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And I couldn’t quite take in what I was seeing. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1ZSnZa3KT312K6SuCulZnDMcsvKle12DsQc-S_lsZPU7fU2PZLBVx3nVYHSXsPFHEvUp-dIJacrziBWIXR65HwMPyiH0kX1n2osDLiktQtxayVxxbQozhl8VY327dhMhbtBk-yJZMUBR4/s1600/Kimberly+church.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1ZSnZa3KT312K6SuCulZnDMcsvKle12DsQc-S_lsZPU7fU2PZLBVx3nVYHSXsPFHEvUp-dIJacrziBWIXR65HwMPyiH0kX1n2osDLiktQtxayVxxbQozhl8VY327dhMhbtBk-yJZMUBR4/s1600/Kimberly+church.jpg" height="180" width="320" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I haven't attended that church in more than 30 years. And, for the most part, the people who ARE that church to me have either died or move to other churches for reasons I won't go into here.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But, in those 30 years, I’ve taken that little church…and those people…WITH me. It and they make up such a large part of who Karen Kelley is that, to see it wounded and gaping open like that…well…I felt wounded...gaped-open. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The worst damage was inflicted on what I’ve always thought of as “The Old Sanctuary.” My first still-crystal-clear memory of this thing called “church” was in that old sanctuary. I was no older than 4, standing on the pew next to my mama, who was crying over a sermon some preacher was shouting about “the moon turnin’ to blood.” I was wiping her tears away and wishing I could tell that preacher to shut up and stop makin’ my mama cry. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">At the altar of that old sanctuary was where I asked Jesus into my heart, where I saw “signs and wonders” and watched in mortal fear as my little brother would pretend to be “slain in the Spirit” and hurl himself off the stage. (I just knew he was gonna be struck down dead.) </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">In this old sanctuary was where one of my favorite Kimberly stories took place—when Sister Janie (name changed to protect the innocent) shouted down her “stack” and, as she ran by the board where the YWEA plaques hung, that long whipping hair picked up one of those plaques…and she shouted it all around the sanctuary. (Like I said…signs and wonders.)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The stage of that sanctuary is where I played the little blind girl in “Christmas Comes to Detroit Louie,” and learned to LOVE the gift of music. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">That sanctuary is also where I became three peas in a pod with Joy and Pam.<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3kAOLqbaFYiHX_k8DkPK2kkelF4HzNd0KTl0CAo_sJnYiTwwtoN4aB3LyPEkhVP1JwwHEdmXFek0oZsOcuzjCv-DLoyYoJeRYs9cuHqFrj9FpEl_S6mSoWUz0KmlCsBg3zM0zkpTIvc7S/s1600/Old+KCOG.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3kAOLqbaFYiHX_k8DkPK2kkelF4HzNd0KTl0CAo_sJnYiTwwtoN4aB3LyPEkhVP1JwwHEdmXFek0oZsOcuzjCv-DLoyYoJeRYs9cuHqFrj9FpEl_S6mSoWUz0KmlCsBg3zM0zkpTIvc7S/s1600/Old+KCOG.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Two of the "peas": Joy in pigtails; me in blue.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Downstairs was where Sister Gracie and Sister Minnie made Bible stories come to life through flannel boards and tables turned into sandboxes. That basement also held the church kitchen, where you could count on the smell of a constant pot of coffee brewing if Brother Jim had anything to do with it. And that far back room (more dark cellar than church basement) was where Sister Mary scared the pee out of me (quite literally) on more than one occasion. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">In the “New Sanctuary,” which suffered less tornado damage but is still gaping and gashed, is where—after years of worrying and praying and bad dreams— I FINALLY was able to look down from that choir and see my sweet daddy’s hands raised in worship to a Savior who not only saved him but also instantaneously freed him from a 30+-year-three-pack-a-day Salem addiction. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">That sanctuary is where our sweet Brother Thompson showed us what Love looks like, acts like, pastors like. And that sanctuary is where his…our…sweet Sister Thompson would be so filled with the Spirit of God as she sang about “The Love of God” that a heavenly tongue was needed to finish its verses. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">That room is where, on a Sunday night, as I sat between Jeff on piano and Barney on organ (or vice versa), while waiting to "sing a special number," we all three fought HARD to recover after hearing my mama stand up and give this tearful, worry-filled prayer request: </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"Y'all need to pray for me; my doctor says I'm a walkin' bombshell."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">That room is where our Brother Jerald encouraged us, disciplined and discipled us, and where our beloved Sister Marla taught us that “you have to breathe before you can sing.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And how we did sing! Across the entire state of Alabama, much of the Southeast, on street corners in Manhattan, and general assemblies in Dallas. To this day, I’d hazard a very large bet that every. single. member. of the Kimberly Church of God Youth Choir could—with just a little prodding—remember every.single.word. to every.single.song. of “Celebrate Life.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">That sanctuary is where Becca and I got in BIG trouble for laughing out loud when our "skippin'-Brother-Beasley- prediction" came true right before ...actually just to the right...of our very eyes during a Sam Luke revival.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">That sanctuary is where I said goodbye to my sweet daddy. And where—years later—our Opa dedicated our first sweet baby boy to the Lord…surrounded and serenaded by family and friends. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And, most recently…so many years after all of THAT…that sanctuary is where I said goodbye to Sister Mary, my mama’s best friend--the same one who scared the pee out of me--said goodbye for both me and mama. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">For some reason, not being able to share today’s sad news with mama—that the church she loved and worked for…fried countless pieces of chicken and apple pies for…fought for (even if a couple of those “fights” were with its preachers)—well…somehow it makes it more sad. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And...confession time...this special place is where I had hoped to say the final goodbye to my mama after this years-long season of "the long goodbye."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Over the last few years, as Facebook has given me the gift of reconnecting with family and friends, three phrases have become frequent expressions of how blessed we were…and didn’t even know it: </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“Growing up Kimberly” </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“Growing up Kelley” </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“Growing up Kimberly Church of God.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I guess that makes me three-times blessed!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I’ve read and "Amen" people’s encouraging words: “God will bring beauty from ashes.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“It’s just a building; the people are the church.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“Maybe God wanted Kimberly to have something bigger and better.” (Although I’ve learned bigger does not always mean better.)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But…for a few days…I just need to grieve what is now gone. And…that…well…that somehow feels fitting…even sacred. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So, for all you others out there who know the blessing of “Growing up Kimberly Church of God,” if I could, I’d reach out and gather you all up. And we’d stand in a tight circle… and we’d hug… and pray… and cry… and we’d tell our stories (for the 10th or 30th time) all over again…and we’d laugh…and laugh some more…and we’d share “I Love Yous”…and we’d sing—OH HOW WE WOULD SING—and we’d say a proper “Goodbye” to this special little place God used in such a mighty, loving way in our little lives.</span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5534768459844114772.post-91304560727346473902014-04-08T04:37:00.001-07:002014-04-08T05:29:25.263-07:00Surprise Upon Surprise....<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLklMSfI_oIX8KFZ55FNoo9hCn0YYBjssurkRcMzLc6R4qCeaR4DEFLx6HMfTjWzejZ-zvIa_DIS0bg3KZtnwPVEsCgbxiKCgUacUozYKn-jiZP79AIxPJKrENotWHZ4o20TV0PTUzWVWE/s1600/John+the+Baptizer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLklMSfI_oIX8KFZ55FNoo9hCn0YYBjssurkRcMzLc6R4qCeaR4DEFLx6HMfTjWzejZ-zvIa_DIS0bg3KZtnwPVEsCgbxiKCgUacUozYKn-jiZP79AIxPJKrENotWHZ4o20TV0PTUzWVWE/s1600/John+the+Baptizer.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia;">John.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia;">You, whose conceiving </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia;">was
predicted by that incensed angel<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia;">In answer to a prayer by
parents </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia;">long past creating.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia;">You, whose birth was unannounced </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia;">by your voiceless father,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Whose doubts had dared to
question,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia;">And…then…mutely waited-out </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia;">some pregnancy of his own.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Your name scribbled </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia;">by
that still-silent father.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">(Because who on earth would
listen to a mother!)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia;">And…then…with new voice suddenly birthed, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia;">That father breaks into Holy Ghost
song:<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"><i>"And you, my child, 'Prophet of the Highest,"</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"><i>Will go ahead of the Master to prepare His ways."*</i></span></div>
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<b><i><span style="font-family: Georgia;">—Surprise upon surprise—<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia;">You, who grew up healthy and spirited out in your desert,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Until that voice of yours had to cry</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">(or else bust your soul wide open)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">That message sent from God,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">"Prepare for God's arrival!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Make the road smooth and straight!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Every ditch will be filled in,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Every bump smoothed out...."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">(And who doesn't want that?)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">So they came to your riverbank,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Expecting filled-in ditches and smoothed-out bumps.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Oh, to have seen their faces when you greeted,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"><i>"Brood of snakes!</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"><i>Why are you slithering down here to this river?</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"><i>You think a bit of water on your snakeskins</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"><i>Deflects God's judgment?</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"><i>Change your life, not your skin.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"><i>And don't even think about pulling rank</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"><i>By claiming Abraham as your father--</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"><i>God can make children from stones if He wants."</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"><br /></span>
<b><i><span style="font-family: Georgia;">—Surprise upon surprise—<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia;">But something—sickness of
themselves, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Desperation for change, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Fascination with you and those camel-haired coverings <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">And honey-covered bugs,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Some primal, cosmic
longing—welled up in them to beg,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">(or else bust their souls
wide open)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: Georgia;">“What can we do to change from snakes to children?”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">To which you cried, </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"><i>“Quit hoarding and extorting! </i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: Georgia;">Quit beating, bribing and blackmailing!”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Which made those wannabe
children wonder, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: Georgia;">“Could this camel-covered, bug-eating voice be Him?
<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: Georgia;">Be Messiah…?”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i><span style="font-family: Georgia;">—Surprise upon surprise—<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Even Herod got wind of
you; <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Courted that wild voice of
yours.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">But got stung by it
instead<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: Georgia;">“On the matter of Herodias,”</span></i><span style="font-family: Georgia;"> sister-in-law-turned-wife.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">And, so, stung
back—that’s what Herods do.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">And there you sit, in
that prison cell<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Cut off from your saving riverbank.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">And, because sometimes cells wear
down voices<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">--no matter how wild and
free they once were--<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">You begin to wonder
about that cousin of yours, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">The One you baptized, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: Georgia;">“Are you the One?”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: Georgia;">“Or are we still waiting?”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Waiting in that
prison cell<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">With worn-down voice and
worn-out heart.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">How many doubt-growing
days passed, John?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Until you send heart-sick
followers to ask,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: Georgia;">“Are you the One?”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">And…for 3 hours…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">He <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">doesn’t <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">even <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">answer.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">(at least not with words)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">He’s too busy—<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Curing. Casting. Causing. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i><span style="font-family: Georgia;">—Surprise upon surprise—<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">And then, as if 3 seconds had passed, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">He answers your
question with</span><span style="font-family: Georgia;"> His own,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: Georgia;">“Is this what you were expecting?<o:p></o:p></span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: Georgia;">...The blind see, the lame walk,</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: Georgia;">Lepers are cleansed, the deaf hear,</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: Georgia;">The dead are raised,</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: Georgia;">The wretched of the earth</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: Georgia;">Have God's salvation extended to them."</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">And your followers return to that cell where you wait,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Telling their own stories of what they saw Him do</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">--with their own now-opened eyes;</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">And echo words they heard Him speak</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">--with their own now-dug-out ears.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Did their stories answer your questions?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Did His question quiet your doubts?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">(I ask because I know how hearing of others' miracles</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Can cause the question, <i>"Why can't I have one of my own?"</i>)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">But, your cousin, The One
you baptized in that river, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">He doesn’t seem offended
by questions:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"What did you expect?</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">When you went to see John in the wild?</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">A weekend camper?</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">A sheik in silk pajamas?</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Not by a long shot.</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">What then?</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">God's messenger?</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">That's right...</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Probably the greatest messenger you'll ever hear."</span></i><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i><span style="font-family: Georgia;">—Surprise upon surprise—<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Then Herod has a birthday,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">And a young beauty<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">—the girl of that sister-in-law-turned-wife—<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Gifts him a dance.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">What a dance it must
have been!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">A dance that birthed a
vow, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: Georgia;">“I’ll give you anything you want!”</span></i><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">But the young dancer has
no wants. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">And, so, asks her still-stinging
mother, who hisses, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: Georgia;">“That meddling Baptizer’s head on a platter!”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i><span style="font-family: Georgia;">—Surprise upon surprise—<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">And so the birthday encore:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">That plattered head—eyes
and mouth open—<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Looks straight at Herod.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">(No wonder his dreams
turned to nightmares)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">And that headless body is buried
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">By stomach-sick,
heart-broken followers<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Who must tell his cousin,
The One,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">That the voice crying in
the wilderness is silenced.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">But wait…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i><span style="font-family: Georgia;">—Surprise upon surprise—<o:p></o:p></span></i></b><br />
<b><i><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><br /></span></i></b>
<b><i><span style="font-family: Georgia;">(*All Scripture references are based on The Message.)</span></i></b><br />
<b><i><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><br /></span></i></b></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5534768459844114772.post-57719637050473611742014-03-27T10:27:00.000-07:002014-03-27T11:02:08.627-07:00We are bold to ask...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3ut_m_gurkI3mS858AFujckjowptoDcFVJofsn35pv6GMfQrB0HH3_QcXEWyTBGoPPHpGS3_sR3YsoKwTll40Y9u5ukKKy9DSr_itctgroqpqasFGuFuxscqq7WgI_xDNdDQWcj6b_mje/s1600/Lord's+Prayer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3ut_m_gurkI3mS858AFujckjowptoDcFVJofsn35pv6GMfQrB0HH3_QcXEWyTBGoPPHpGS3_sR3YsoKwTll40Y9u5ukKKy9DSr_itctgroqpqasFGuFuxscqq7WgI_xDNdDQWcj6b_mje/s1600/Lord's+Prayer.jpg" height="320" width="250" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">So....another side effect of being 50something--sometimes I REALLY believe I have that "thing" known as adult-onset ADD. Used to, I could keep at least 6 or 7 "balls" in the air without even breaking a sweat. But no more. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">Where my ADD reve</span><span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; display: inline; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><span style="color: #333333;">als itself most is in my prayer life. I'll begin to pray, and the first shiny object that crosses my mind...--well, let's just say the prayer turns to dust, and I'm off and hopping down some rabbit trail.</span><br /><span style="color: #333333;">But...somehow...Jesus must have known there would be people like me. (Well...HA...of course He did--He knit us together.) So, when those first road-weary followers asked, "Teach us to pray, Lord," He gave them words that would settle them down, focus them on what's important, words that can be used as a START line for any prayer that has ever come out of my heart. They aren't FANCY words and, when you REALLY contemplate their meaning, they definitely aren't EASY words. (He must have known we don't really need FANCY or EASY--oh, of course He did.)</span><br /><span style="color: #333333;">So, this morning, after I had JUST used this unfancy prayer to settle me down, to focus my heart, to pray for His Kingdom to take over my heart, my Honey's heart, our boys' hearts, my nephews' hearts, my beautiful niece's heart, my family's and other dear hearts...well, these words for March 27 found me. (I just love it when God has a theme!):</span><br /><span style="color: #333333;">-----</span><br /><span style="color: #333333;">"....'We are bold to say'.... </span><br /><span style="color: #333333;">The word 'bold' is worth thinking about.... We do well not to pray the prayer lightly. It takes guts to pray it at all. We can pray it in the unthinking and perfunctory way we usually do only by disregarding what we are saying. </span><br /><span style="color: #333333;">'Thy will be done' is what we are saying. That is the climax of the first half of the prayer. We are asking God to be God. We are asking God to do not what we want but what God wants. We are asking God to make manifest the holiness that is now mostly hidden, to set free in all its terrible splendor the devastating power that is now mostly under restraint. 'Thy kingdom come...on earth' is what we are saying. And, if that were to suddenly happen, what then? Who would be welcomed in and who would be thrown the Hell out?...Boldness indeed. To speak these words is to invite the tiger out of the cage, to unleash a power that makes atomic power look like a warm breeze.</span><br /><span style="color: #333333;">To speak the second half of the prayer, you need to be bold in another way. Give us. Forgive us. Don't test us. Deliver us. If it takes guts to face the omnipotence that is God's, it takes perhaps no less (guts) to face the impotence that is ours. We can </span><b style="color: #333333;"><i>DO NOTHING</i></b><span style="color: #333333;"> without God. We can </span><b style="color: #333333;"><i>HAVE NOTHING</i></b><span style="color: #333333;"> without God. Without God we </span><b style="color: #333333;"><i>ARE NOTHING</i></b><span style="color: #333333;">. </span><br /><span style="color: #333333;">It is only the words, 'Our Father' that make the prayer bearable. If God is indeed something like a father, then as something like children, we can risk approaching him...." </span><br /><span style="color: #333333;">(Frederick Buechner, "Listening To Your Life")</span><br /><span style="color: #333333;">-----</span><br /><span style="color: #333333;">“And when you come before God, don’t turn that into a theatrical production. All these people making a regular show out of their prayers, hoping for stardom! Do you think God sits in a box seat?</span><br /><span style="color: #333333;">Here’s what I want you to do: Find a quiet, secluded place so you won’t be tempted to role-play before God. Just be there as simply and honestly as you can manage. The focus will shift from you to God, and you will begin to sense his grace.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">The world is full of so-called prayer warriors who are prayer-ignorant. They’re full of formulas and programs and advice, peddling techniques for getting what you want from God. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; display: inline; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><span style="color: #333333;"><br /></span></span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; display: inline; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><span style="color: #333333;">Don’t fall for that nonsense. This is your Father you are dealing with, and he knows better than you what you need. With a God like this loving you, you can pray very simply. Like this:</span><br /><span style="color: #990000;"><b>Our Father in heaven,<br />Reveal who you are.<br />Set the world right;<br />Do what’s best—as above, so below.<br />Keep us alive with three square meals.<br />Keep us forgiven with you and forgiving others.<br />Keep us safe from ourselves and the Devil.<br />You’re in charge!<br />You can do anything you want!<br />You’re ablaze in beauty!<br />Yes. Yes. Yes."<br />(Matthew 6:5-13, The Message)</b></span><br /><span style="color: #333333;">-----</span><br /><span style="color: #333333;">Oh, Abba God...thanks for knowing I would need these bold (but centering down words)...and then giving them to me...to us. </span><br /><span style="color: #333333;">May Your Kingdom come. </span><br /><span style="color: #333333;">May Your will be done...as above, so below. </span><br /><span style="color: #333333;">Yes. Yes. Yes.</span></span></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5534768459844114772.post-39890042680002578712014-02-28T14:36:00.003-08:002016-09-15T19:07:46.426-07:00My cousin, Barney, is a liar!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM6KzHTwv07MlrgLjR8vjso50UrV3dBu2Y-ZTBDEIWnMyqv0ZIoNiSl940kqKUkYnZBrPypfEXGuwAyr0W-F3vSAuFlKFRHgcWr0s_4O91QyWAYEdixWh0LHEfa119gThHNC7YtpECgSNE/s1600/Barney.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br /></a></div>
(Today's Kimberly story was "told" to me by Jeff Easter, one of my dearest, kindest, funniest friends. He has made me laugh on some of my saddest days and cry from laughter on some of my happiest. The other character in the story is my friend, Barney, who was always my family's version of 911, and a pretty funny guy in his own right--that's him in the picture. I love them both. I'm re-running this story in honor of Jeff's birthday.)<br />
-----------------------------<br />
"It's an easy job. All you gotta do is answer the phone."<br />
<br />
I should've known better. After all, my cousin Barney is a liar.<br />
<br />
I should've paid attention to the chill that ran up my spine as I thought of the shadowy, casket-lined rooms and the pre-recorded, macabre organ music piping out strains of "Rock of Ages." I don't even like that song. Nor do I care for the smell of carnations--the funeral bud of choice among lower-income Southern mourners.<br />
<br />
What if I got trapped in the embalming room? Or had to touch a dead person? Doesn't the Old Testament speak against such things?<br />
<br />
But, Barney kept assuring me, "All you gotta do is answer the phone!" (At that point in his vast and sundry career, Barney was apparently serving as Messmer Funeral Home's human resources director.)<br />
<br />
Truth be told, it was sort of expected of me. I was a 16-year-old Harden, and working for Mr. Messmer had become a rite of passage for us Harden men.<br />
<br />
Besides, I'd make three dollars and fifty cents an hour. I'd be rich!<br />
<br />
So, I said "OK, I'll do it."<br />
<br />
My boss was Mr. Messmer himself, a kind and portly man who had earned the trust and, therefore, the newly-passed members of most families in the Kimberly-Warrior metropolitan area.<br />
<br />
My first assignment was the Thursday night viewing for the newly-passed Mrs. Taylor. The plan was for Mr. Messmer to greet the grieving family, get them settled in and then leave me to "answer the phone."<br />
<br />
At 5 o'clock sharp, the mourning Taylors arrived en masse. There were tall Taylors, short Taylors, fat Taylors and skinny Taylors. There were ugly Taylors and foxy Taylors. Taylors in suits and Taylors in overalls. There seemed to be a thousand Taylors, all packed into the small confines of the parlor, which was unchangingly decorated in faux-wood paneling, naugahyde chairs and crushed-velvet drapes.<br />
<br />
Shortly before 6 o'clock, with Mr. Messmer long gone, a steady stream of grievers began arriving to pay their respects and to comment on how "natural" Mrs. Taylor looked--yet another reason Mr. Messmer was the regional undertaker of choice.<br />
<br />
At four minutes past 6--I noted the time because it was my first official duty--the phone rang. "Messmer Funeral Home," I said, with a sudden swell of manly-Harden pride.<br />
<br />
"Who's dead?" screeched the voice on the other side of the phone.<br />
<br />
Somewhat rattled by the irreverent inquiry, I blurted back, "Mrs. Taylor. She's being buried tomorrow. Thanks for calling." And hung up.<br />
<br />
Just then, a wiry Taylor woman, with a trail of what appeared to be dried snuff running down her chin, marched up and informed me, "There ain't no toilet paper."<br />
<br />
As I sat there, blinking at her snuff trail, the only thought I could muster was, "Is that my problem?...My job is to answer the phone. Barney said so." But Snuffy just stood there, chewing on something, clearly expecting me to solve the encroaching toilet paper crisis.<br />
<br />
Well, before I could get up out of my chair, both phone lines lit up. "One minute," I signaled to Snuffy....And there it was again...that screeching voice. Only this time it was angry and crackling, insinuating that I had hung up on her.<br />
<br />
After repeating the newly-passed Mrs. Taylor's arrangements--twice--I finally began making my way through the sea of grievers in search of toilet paper...all the while doing everything I could to avoid "Snuffy," who had stomped off in a huff while I was dealing with Screecher.<br />
<br />
As I maneuvered toward the mystifying no-man's land of the ladies' room, carrying an armload of toilet paper, I remember thinking, "I could be at home watching Gilligan's Island."<br />
<br />
Now, for some unfathomable reason, Mrs. Taylor had chosen to pass in late July, the very apex of the Great State of Alabama's annual inferno. Each time the doors opened to welcome the seemingly endless tide of friends, neighbors and church "family," the evening's hot, humid blanket rolled in with them.<br />
Who was this woman? How could one gain so many admirers in one short lifetime?<br />
<br />
But, apparently, Mr. Messmer's air conditioner was no respecter of persons and, on that Taylor-congested evening, it decided to give up the ghost. Within seconds of its final, sputtering, lukewarm puffs, I was sweating life a farm animal.<br />
<br />
Right then, one of the short Taylors in overalls reached out and grabbed my arm, practically shouting, "I been lookin for you everwhere. I think there's somethin wrong with that-there air condition."<br />
<br />
"Ya think, Shorty?" was what I wanted to say...right after a much-needed cussin fit.<br />
<br />
Instead, I strived to assume the kind countenance of a funeral home director, which seemed to work so well for Mr. Messmer, and told Shorty, "I'll see what I can do."<br />
<br />
By this time, the smell in the over-Taylored parlor was a hot, cloying concoction of body odor, perfume, spearmint gum, Aqua Net and those blasted carnations.<br />
<br />
I wound my way back to the desk where both phone lines were blinking...holding my breath and loosening my suffocating necktie.<br />
<br />
And...I kid you not...as if on cue..."Rock of Ages" began piping through the speakers. At that moment, I would have gladly traded places with the newly-passed Mrs. Taylor.<br />
<br />
As I sat there...phone lines still blinking...the ugly truth hit me. I couldn't call Mr. Messmer. I couldn't fix the "air condition." I couldn't stand on my desk and shout, "Will all you people just please go home?"<br />
<br />
We were stuck...together...me and those sweaty grievers...in that stinking, hot place of death. Hell took on a whole new meaning.<br />
<br />
At 8:35...with just 25 minutes to go...I thought I saw the proverbial light at the end of the proverbial tunnel...until I realized it was just a reflection off the sweaty forehead of the rapidly-approaching, panicked-looking Taylor woman.<br />
<br />
"May I help you?", I reluctantly asked. To which she responded by covering her mouth and speaking to me in low, hushed tones, as if we were sharing some long-held secret.<br />
<br />
"Umh," she began. "I really don't know how to...umh...tell you this. But, you see, Mrs. Taylor is my sister, and...well...y'all have too much 'stuff' up there," she stammered, gently patting her own well-endowed chest area. "Could you possibly take a little out?"<br />
<br />
What!...Could I what? That was definitely NOT in my job description. I had never touched a live woman's chest...I was certainly not about to touch a dead one!<br />
<br />
"I'll tell Mr. Messmer," I spewed, as I took her by the elbow and ushered her out the door.<br />
Forget Gilligan's Island. I'd rot in the Jefferson County Jail for murdering that lying, no-good Barney before I'd ever do this again!<br />
<br />
By that point, I had shed my tie and jacket--a certain violation of Messmer's employee policy. (Good thing I'd listened to mama and put on clean underwear because the pit-stained, blue Oxford was the next thing about to be shed.) But, just as I began unbuttoning it, I happened to glance at the clock and noticed that its little hand was on the longed-for 9. "Thank you, sweet Jesus!"<br />
<br />
Thankfully, one endearing quality of Southern mourners is that, except for the few disturbed outliers who threaten to fling themselves into their loved-one's casket for the night, they know when to call it a day. (After all, the food's back at the house.)<br />
<br />
So, at 9:01 sharp, the tired, hungry Taylors began emptying the foodless, inferno-like parlor. By 9:05, everyone was gone...except for me and the newly-passed, newly-endowed Mrs. Taylor.<br />
<br />
After tucking her in for the night, I snapped off the organ music--how could Rock of Ages possibly be playing again?--and, with neck hairs standing on end, beat a hasty path through the shadowy, casket-lined room and out the back door to sweet, blessed freedom....My cousin Barney is such a liar!<br />
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<em>For everything there is a season,</em></div>
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<em>a time to be born and a time to die....</em></div>
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<em>a time to cry and a time to laugh....</em></div>
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<em>a time to grieve and a time to dance....</em></div>
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<em>(from Ecclesiastes 3 NLT)</em></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5534768459844114772.post-43874793778275320782013-09-11T13:30:00.002-07:002013-09-11T19:27:17.755-07:009.1.1. (Twelve Years Later)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<strong><em>All of us</em></strong>. That's who remembers exactly where we were and what we were doing when we heard the news begin pouring out of televisions, radios, computers. <br />
<br />
I was sitting at my kitchen table pulling worksheet pages for Garrett's 2nd grade teacher, watching the last few minutes of Good Morning America. Charlie Gibson was the first voice that let me know our world would never be the same: <strong><em>"We're getting reports that SOMETHING has happened over at the World Trade Center."</em></strong><br />
<br />
That <strong><em>SOMETHING</em></strong> would consume our thoughts for days on end; would take the lives of almost 3,000 people across three different attack sites--fathers, mothers, sons, daughters, brothers, sisters, friends. <br />
<br />
It would give us new heroes, and new mottoes that captured the selfless courage of their last few seconds: <strong><em>"LET'S ROLL." "STAY CALM." "TELL THEM I LOVE THEM."</em></strong> <br />
<br />
That day would change how we live as Americans--our liberties, our fears, our policies. The resulting "War on Terror" would claim...is still claiming...thousands more lives to prevent a "second 9/11."<br />
<br />
As the mom of an almost-8-year old and 5-year-old sons...as soon as the horror I was watching on TV that day began to sink in, my first reaction was to jump in my van and go get my boys, and somehow try to keep them safe from this new terror-stricken world where we now lived. No one was sure that another attack wasn't imminent. It felt like it could happen anytime...anywhere. <br />
<br />
Across America, planes were grounded. Buildings shut down. Schools closed. <b><i>SAFE</i></b> was a word that lost its meaning that September morning. How could anyone be safe from monsters who flew people-laden jets into towers and Pentagons?<br />
<br />
People in New York lined up for blocks to give blood to survivors. Very little blood was needed. <br />
<br />
Few of us slept that night. We felt we needed to keep watch. <br />
<br />
As the days wore on, churches across the country kept their doors open for people who needed to pray, talk, gather. We took up offerings and held fundraisers. We dug deep into our pockets. In Knoxville, we raised enough money to send a new ladder truck to a fire station in New York that had given so much and lost so many; we named it the "Freedom Engine."<br />
<br />
Several days after 9/11, I was sitting in the stands at the baseball park with other nervous parents. We were trying our best to stay calm, or at least to put on a calm face in front of our children. As we sat there watching our ballplayers and retelling our stories, we heard the very first plane since the grounding fly overhead. We stood up and cheered! We waved up at that plane, with shouts of "Fly! Fly!" and "God Bless America!" (To this day, I wish those people on board could have heard us cheering their courage for getting on that plane and getting on with life.) Somehow, it gave us permission to try to do the same.<br />
<br />
In the 12 years since that terror-filled day, life has gone on. But, in so many ways, our world...our lives...will never be the same. In the name of "security," many of our liberties have been taken away. (Perhaps the moral is that too many liberties take away security.) I don't know.<br />
<br />
In these last 12 years, many of us have faced our personal "9/11s"--where life as we knew it collapsed, leaving wreckage that didn't make sense, questions that held no answers, events that caused the word <b><i>SAFE</i></b> to hold no meaning. They left us grief-stricken--questioning ourselves, our family and friends, our God and our faith in Him.<br />
<br />
I've looked out at that kind of wreckage. I've asked those answerless questions. I've questioned my God and my faith in Him.<br />
<br />
There isn't enough time to share all the stops made, setbacks encountered and lessons learned on this personal "9/11" journey I've been on. <br />
<br />
But...today... I can tell you that God saw it all, cared about it all, and has been faithful to lead me...us...OUT of the wreckage that, for awhile, felt like it might swallow us. <br />
<br />
For many of those months, I never...not one time...FELT this God I just gave credit to. My prayers felt as though they made it no further than the ceilings of the rooms where I prayed...begged... cried for God to somehow put this wreckage back together. <br />
<br />
During those months, which also saw my mama suffer a series of strokes that destroyed her balance and began this downward spiral into Alzheimer's, I dryly but desperately clung to words I had once written about in a Bible study I had taught:<br />
<strong><em>"Then Simon Peter answered him,<sup class="crossreference" value="(<a href="#cen-NIV-26326L" title="See cross-reference L">L</a>)"></sup> 'Lord, to whom else would we go? </em></strong><br />
<strong><em>You have the words of eternal life.<sup class="crossreference" value="(<a href="#cen-NIV-26326M" title="See cross-reference M">M</a>)"></sup> </em></strong><br />
<strong><em><span class="text John-6-69" id="en-NIV-26327">We have come to believe and to know that you are the Holy One of God'.” </span></em></strong><br />
<strong><em><span class="text John-6-69">(John 6:68-69)</span></em></strong><br />
<span class="text John-6-69"></span><br />
<span class="text John-6-69">Was any of it God's fault? No.</span><br />
<span class="text John-6-69"></span><br />
<span class="text John-6-69">Was God somehow punishing me with His "absence"? No. (I've learned that almost every follower of Christ experiences what Thomas Aquinas called "<em>the dark night of the soul</em>.")</span><br />
<span class="text John-6-69"></span><br />
<span class="text John-6-69">What was/is His purpose? Well...I'm still discovering that answer; it keeps unfolding. But, I will tell you that my desperate seeking for Him has changed <strong><em>me</em></strong>. For one thing, I've learned that faith is not a feeling. Instead, it is (in the words of one of my favorite writers) "<em>A Long Obedience In the Same Direction</em>" (a book by Eugene Peterson that I encourage you to buy today and read, and then read again.) Or, as Pastor Doug would describe it, "<em>Faith is faithful obedience to God's Word <strong>in spite of</strong> circumstances, consequences or feelings.</em>"</span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCUxvNhPJOEIdUsO0QuXZKiIiIf6aOW2y5LE8kdGwDwubthbxtoaZLPItFk6TbXsViom2fo4oICFYSfZx7pANZqjCAcu9E7saszP17vJ-bCx5qprcDZD8equcH8E4nwJl0gUSFwErLzYMt/s1600/Bracelet.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCUxvNhPJOEIdUsO0QuXZKiIiIf6aOW2y5LE8kdGwDwubthbxtoaZLPItFk6TbXsViom2fo4oICFYSfZx7pANZqjCAcu9E7saszP17vJ-bCx5qprcDZD8equcH8E4nwJl0gUSFwErLzYMt/s200/Bracelet.JPG" width="149" /></a><span class="text John-6-69"></span><br />
<span class="text John-6-69">Last year, for my 25th anniversary to the man who stood beside me during all the fallout...the man who wakes up every day and keeps doing the next right thing for me, for our sons, for his employees and patients, for his family and friends... well...he bought me this silver bracelet. </span>On the inside, he had the jeweler engrave the verse with these words:<br />
<span class="text John-6-69"><strong>"<em>Lord, to whom else would we go? You have the words of eternal life."</em></strong></span><br />
<br />
<span class="text John-6-69">That's the bracelet I wore this morning on the 12th anniversary of 9/11. They are good words. They are hard words. They were spoken in answer to a question from the One whom Peter followed, when so many disciples were leaving Him because of His "<em>hard teaching</em>." As He watched them walk away, He looked at those few who remained and asked, <strong><em>"Do y</em></strong><span class="text John-6-67" id="en-NIV-26325"><span class="woj"><strong><em>ou want to leave me too?”</em></strong></span> </span><br />
<span class="text John-6-67"></span><br />
<span class="text John-6-67">I'll be honest. There were days when I did...want to leave Him. But <b>"<em>to whom else would I go</em>"</b>? Even through all the grief and never-ending questions, I somehow knew my heart belonged to Him...that to leave Him would only multiply my heartache. So I stayed.</span></span><br />
<br />
More importantly...He stayed. He said He would. He promised to "<i>never leave us or forsake us</i>." But, sometimes, He asks us to believe that Truth...even when our circumstances and feelings shout at us to doubt it. <br />
<br />
Then...just like that...the dark night is over...our mourning has become dancing...and He has restored the joy of <strong><em>His</em></strong> salvation to our hungry, thirsty souls.<br />
<br />
And...if we're wise...we no longer take those moments for granted. We soak them up. Drink them in. Embrace. Dance. Laugh. Cry. Sing. Celebrate. Worship. <br />
<br />
Late last September...when our hearts broke wide open again...I found these words. I believe the people who died on that 9/11 of 12 years ago would <strong><em>Amen</em></strong> them:<br />
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<strong>"The best way to honor those we have lost is to live fully in their place."</strong></div>
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"<i>Made Me Glad</i>" by Hillsong has become my theme about this mourning-into-dancing journey: </div>
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<b><i>I will bless the Lord forever; I will trust Him at all times</i></b><br />
<b><i>He has delivered me from all fear;</i></b><br />
<b><i>He has set my feet upon a rock</i></b><br />
<b><i>I will not be moved, and I'll say of the Lord</i></b><br />
<b><i> You are my Shield, my Strength</i></b><br />
<b><i>My Portion, Deliverer</i></b><br />
<b><i>My shelter, Strong tower</i></b><br />
<b><i>My very present help in time of need.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i> Whom have I in heaven but You</i></b><br />
<b><i>There's none I desire besides You</i></b><br />
<b><i>For You have made me glad </i></b><br />
<b><i>And I'll say of the Lord</i></b></div>
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<b><i>You are my Shield, my Strength</i></b><br />
<b><i>My Portion, Deliverer</i></b><br />
<b><i>My shelter, Strong tower</i></b><br />
<b><i>My very present help in time of need.</i></b></div>
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If you have 6 minutes to listen to this AMAZING song, here it is. It also includes "Through It All."</div>
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5534768459844114772.post-78094036894970488832013-08-08T09:45:00.001-07:002013-08-08T09:47:03.079-07:00"Let This Be My Best Day...."<span class="userContent"></span><div class="text_exposed_root text_exposed">
<span class="userContent">So...as I've skipped across three denominations (so far) on my PresbyBaptiCostal journey through this upside-down kingdom, each one has brought new beauty, insights, "food and drink" into my soul. </span></div>
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One of my favorite surprises about being a <span class="text_exposed_show">Presbyterian was how much I grew to enjoy the congregational prayers we would pray together in unison--there's something rich and ancient-yet-timeless about the sound of hundreds of people...young and old...male and female...rich and poor...praying the same words to the same Father.<br /> </span></div>
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<span class="text_exposed_show">The prayer on this photo, which was cut out and saved many years ago...well...it's now taped to my desk. (In this new and challenging job, where that day's "demons" typically hurdle at me before I've sucked down nearly enough coffee, I need its reminders of WHO I'm praying to, HOW I'm to view ALL THINGS, and the fragile nature of life on this side of "the veil." I'm not sure whether Pastor John or someone else wrote it, but...after all these years...its words still touch the eternal in me.</span></div>
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</span><br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5534768459844114772.post-71984218258189032762013-08-04T04:53:00.000-07:002013-08-04T06:48:34.398-07:00So..."tongues" have "died"?So...of course, writing about Brother Thompson the other day made me think about his beautiful wife, Sister Thompson. When I was a little girl, I didn't know what to call the kind of beauty she had. These days, I would say she was elegant and grace-filled. Every now and then, she would sing a solo in church. When she sang "<i>The Love of God,</i>" at some point during the song, it was like she became so moved by this Love that human language was simply not enough, and she would begin singing in tongues.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by our friend, Marlon Rampy; <br />
words are possible because of Becca :).</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Now...before you just dismiss this thing called "tongues," let me share a story with you.<br />
<br />
A few years ago, for months, I had hovered very close to a place I can only call despair. A beloved friend had left in a way that seemed to take a large part of my soul with her. For months, I had prayed and cried, begging God to help me move on from this ever-present sadness and depression. But...it felt like my prayers made it no "higher" than the living room ceiling. Going to church was, well...to be honest...a burden--I just sat there and cried at the first few words of a song...which just led to worrying about what people around me thought.<br />
<br />
Then, one Sunday morning, as I was getting ready for church, I prayed this prayer at my bathroom sink, "<b><i>Jesus, you've got to help me today. I need to know that you see me, that you care about what I'm going through</i></b>."<br />
<br />
Well...that Sunday...<b><i>my</i></b> balcony seat in that Baptist church was taken; so, I had to sit in a different section. (FYI...you should keep in mind that, these days, I go to a Baptist church--it becomes significant a little later in this story.) When it came time to "<i>shake hands and greet those around you</i>," I noticed I didn't know a soul around me. But, I put on a smile, shook hands, and greeted away.<br />
<br />
That morning, Brother Doug's sermon was about living as a follower of Christ when life has pulled the rug out from under you. Needless to say, I was a puffy-eyed, snotty-nosed mess by the time of the altar call--had even considered getting up and leaving, but didn't want to embarrass honey (any more than my snuffling already had.). Then, Brother Doug asked for everyone who felt like they needed prayer to come to the altar. But...I didn't...just couldn't.<br />
<br />
(I feel I should remind you at this point that I was sitting on a Baptist church pew where I normally didn't sit...and had never met the couple sitting behind me.)<br />
<br />
But...as I sat there weeping...the man behind me leaned over, placed his hand on my shoulder...and began <b><i>PRAYING IN TONGUES</i></b> for me.<br />
<br />
Me...who had grown up listening to my Sister Thompson sing about "<i>The Love of God</i>" in some heavenly tongue...and hearing others pray in tongues my whole life! And...remember my "blackmailish" prayer earlier that morning--"<b><i>Jesus, you've got to help me today. I need to know that you see me, that you care about what I'm going through</i></b>."<br />
<br />
And He did. He orchestrated that entire Sunday morning...for me. On a Baptist church pew, I sat there and wept some more, and drank in that beautiful "other" language interceding for me. And I was taken back to the song my beautiful Sister Thompson used to end up singing in an "other" language:<br />
<br />
<i><b><span style="color: #990000;">"The love of God is greater far</span></b></i><br />
<i><b><span style="color: #990000;">Than tongue or pen can ever tell;</span></b></i><br />
<i><b><span style="color: #990000;">It goes beyond the highest star,</span></b></i><br />
<i><b><span style="color: #990000;">And reaches to the lowest hell;</span></b></i><br />
<i><b><span style="color: #990000;">The guilty pair, bowed down with care,</span></b></i><br />
<i><b><span style="color: #990000;">God gave His Son to win;</span></b></i><br />
<i><b><span style="color: #990000;">His erring child He reconciled,</span></b></i><br />
<i><b><span style="color: #990000;">And pardoned from his sin.</span></b></i><br />
<i><b><span style="color: #990000;"><br /></span></b></i>
<i><b><span style="color: #990000;">O love of God, how rich and pure!</span></b></i><br />
<i><b><span style="color: #990000;">How measureless and strong!</span></b></i><br />
<i><b><span style="color: #990000;">It shall forevermore endure</span></b></i><br />
<i><b><span style="color: #990000;">The saints’ and angels’ song.</span></b></i><br />
<i><b><span style="color: #990000;"><br /></span></b></i>
<i><b><span style="color: #990000;">....*Could we with ink the ocean fill,</span></b></i><br />
<i><b><span style="color: #990000;">And were the skies of parchment made,</span></b></i><br />
<i><b><span style="color: #990000;">Were every stalk on earth a quill,</span></b></i><br />
<i><b><span style="color: #990000;">And every man a scribe by trade,</span></b></i><br />
<i><b><span style="color: #990000;">To write the love of God above,</span></b></i><br />
<i><b><span style="color: #990000;">Would drain the ocean dry.</span></b></i><br />
<i><b><span style="color: #990000;">Nor could the scroll contain the whole,</span></b></i><br />
<i><b><span style="color: #990000;">Though stretched from sky to sky."</span></b></i><br />
<br />
Well...of course...after the service ended, I HAD to tell this man whose name I didn't even know the part he had played in Jesus answering my desperate, early-morning prayer. And, just like God, my sharing helped him--who said he often wondered why God had him--him, who has this "thing" called "the gift of tongues"--at a church which believes that, of all the gifts, that gift alone has "died."<br />
<br />
I'm just grateful it hasn't.<br />
<br />
After that Sunday morning, as I continued healing and moving on from my brokenheartedness, I would remember that "other" language prayer...and KNOW that Jesus does see me...does care about what I'm going through...for then...for now...for always.<br />
<br />
If there's one thing I'm learning, it's that, while I may try to fit God into a tidy little box, He just flat out refuses to stay there.<br />
<div align="right">
<em><b><span style="color: #990000;">I love the LORD, because he heard my voice </span></b></em><br />
<em><b><span style="color: #990000;">and my pleas for mercy.<br />Because he inclined his ear to me,</span></b></em></div>
<div align="right">
<em><b><span style="color: #990000;">therefore I will call on him as long as I live.…</span></b></em></div>
<div align="right">
<em><b><span style="color: #990000;">Gracious is the LORD, and righteous;</span></b></em></div>
<div align="right">
<em><b><span style="color: #990000;">our God is merciful….</span></b></em></div>
<div align="right">
<em><b><span style="color: #990000;">Return, O my soul, to your rest;<br />for the LORD has dealt bountifully with you.<br />For you have delivered my soul from death,<br />my eyes from tears, my feet from stumbling;<br />I will walk before the LORD in the land of the living….<br />What shall I render to the LORD for all his benefits to me?</span></b></em></div>
<div align="right">
<em><b><span style="color: #990000;">I will lift up the cup of salvation </span></b></em><br />
<em><b><span style="color: #990000;">and call on the name of the LORD….</span></b></em><br />
<em><b><span style="color: #990000;">O LORD, I am your servant;…</span></b></em></div>
<div align="right">
<em><b><span style="color: #990000;">You have loosed my bonds.</span></b></em></div>
<div align="right">
<em><b><span style="color: #990000;">I will offer to you the sacrifice of thanksgiving</span></b></em></div>
<div align="right">
<em><b><span style="color: #990000;">and call on the name of the LORD.</span></b></em></div>
<div align="right">
<em><b><span style="color: #990000;">(from Psalm 116, ESV)</span></b></em><br />
<div style="text-align: start;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: start;">
(*FYI, a footnote on the Hymnal page for "The Love of God" reads: "The words of the last verse of this song were found penciled on the wall of a narrow room of an asylum by a man said to have been demented. The profound lines were discovered after his death.")</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5534768459844114772.post-29605549124936173322013-08-01T06:05:00.001-07:002013-08-01T07:34:11.566-07:00A Mess of Greens....<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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It seems fittin’ to begin this new “page” of my writing journey by introducing you to the pastor who set the bar so high. To all my pastors since him, “<i>I’m sorry I’ve been so hard on you. Maybe once you 'meet' him, you’ll understand.”</i> (By the way, if any of you Kimberly folks have a picture of him...PLEASE send me a copy.)<br />
<br />
Summer always brings memories…the parades and crafts and pledges and prayers and songs of weeks spent in various-and-sundry Vacation Bible Schools…the peddler with his fresh vegetables and swinging scale and frozen Goo-Goos in a cooler of ice…trips to the ice house in Warrior…working in the garden with daddy. (Well, truth be told, daddy did most of the work—with hoe in hand and that ever-present Salem precariously dangling at the corner of his mouth—how he balanced it AND whistled remains one of the mysteries of life.)<br />
<br />
One particular day…two of those summer constants—daddy’s garden and Vacation Bible School—came together to teach me a lesson about just how easy it is bless someone down to the marrow of their bones.<br />
<br />
You see, when it comes to my church journey, those sweet years are filed away in my heart as “<b><i>The Brother and Sister Thompson Years</i></b>” at Kimberly Church of God.<br />
<br />
I loved Brother Thompson...and Sister Thompson too, of course. But I <b>L.O.V.E.D</b>. Brother Thompson! (Was there anyone who didn’t?)<br />
<br />
Truth be told, I don’t remember a single word from a single sermon he preached. What I DO remember is that those sermons were delivered with a passion his pulpit could not contain. Most often, he would take a microphone out of its stand and come down off that stage on floor-level with the rest of his little flock. He kept a handkerchief in one hand and would stop every now and then to wipe the sweat from his brow created by his deep emotions and passionate delivery. Brother Thompson had this beautiful, honey-coated voice…that would become wrung out with what I’ve come to realize was LOVE. (How funny—I remember all that…but none of his pulpit words.)<br />
<br />
The words I do remember were ones he spoke to me one morning on the way to Kimberly Church of God Vacation Bible School. You see, during Vacation Bible School, Brother Thompson also drove the “converted” ramshackle school bus our church owned. He’d drive all across Kimberly and even into parts of Morris picking up children so they could heed our evangelistic parade appeal to “<b><i>Come to Vacation Bible School!</i></b>”<br />
<br />
Me and my brother waited for the VBS bus in front of our house, where Stouts Road begins to curve to the right at Reno Street—not exactly the safest place for children to wait for a bus…but…I digress.<br />
<br />
One particular VBS morning, I was the proud owner of a paper bag filled with a mess of turnip greens from daddy’s garden. Mama and I had been promising Brother Thompson we would bring him some, since they were known to be one of his favorites. (We promised...Daddy picked.)<br />
<br />
As I stood there on the side of Stouts Road, I could hardly wait to give <i><b>MY</b></i> Brother Thompson that bag of greens…which—as I said before—I had NOTHING to do with growing or picking.<br />
<br />
When that bus stopped, grinding out of gear, and Brother Thompson pulled that door lever open…I marched up those stairs and…with a toothless grin so big it made my pigtails hurt…I handed him that paper bag, announcing, “<i>These are for you</i>.”<br />
<br />
And…his response was the only reward I needed. He kept that bus stopped…right there in the middle of that Stouts Road curve...pulled me into his arms, gave me a hug…started crying, and pronounced the most beautiful pastoral blessing I've ever received, "<strong><em>Brother Thompson loves you</em></strong>." <br /><br /> And THOSE are the words I remember.<br /><br />For the rest of his days at Kimberly, whenever the occasion arose, he’d tell people about the morning he was driving the VBS bus…and saw this pig-tailed, snaggle-toothed-smiling girl holding a paper bag filled with turnip greens.<br />
<br />
You’d of thought that bag was filled with money, instead of a mess of greens. But I guess there are some things worth more than money.<br />
<br />
That bag of greens still teaches me to this day—that even the smallest gesture (which we sometimes have very little to do with) can bless a heart.<br />
<br />
Eventually, Brother and Sister Thompson went on to other churches in Alabama. But…not before they left an eternal mark on Kimberly, Alabama. Our dear Rudy Sandlin, who died a few months ago, once said about Brother Thompson, “If he can’t get you to Jesus any other way, he will just love you to Jesus.”<br />
<br />
“Love you to Jesus…” What a legacy!<br />
---------------------------------------------<br />
"Let me give you a new command:<br />
Love one another.<br />
In the same way I loved you<br />
(said shortly after He had washed their road-dirty feet),<br />
you love one another.<br />
This is how everyone will recognize that you are my disciples—when they see the love you have for each other.”<br />
(John 13:34-35)<br />
---------------------------------------------<br />
"Oh, Abba, when words fail, help me to just love them to Jesus."<br />
---------------------------------------------Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5534768459844114772.post-84394953644610282612013-07-30T13:19:00.000-07:002013-07-31T04:13:27.025-07:00Re-Run of "Come to Vacation Bible School!"<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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All summer long...proud church members have been bringing food, money and clothing to the non-profit where I work. Before they unload the first box or hand over that check, their first item of business is to brag on the children who brought that food and raised that money--"<strong>THEIR</strong> children," they say, with a big smile and buttons bustin' with pride--children who were part of their church's Vacation Bible School.<br />
<br />
And...every single time they come through our doors...I'm taken back to my own sweet, gold-spray-painted-macaroni-covered-cigar-box Vacation Bible School days. <br />
<br />
So...I decided to re-run an old post about one of our funniest Kimberly Church of God VBS "moments." Enjoy!<br />
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Every summer, the most exciting thing to happen in Kimberly, Alabama, was the back-to-back-to-back run of Vacation Bible Schools.<br />
<br />
Now, Kimberly's pastors might never have agreed on such things as eternal security and being filled with the Holy Ghost, but they did agree on ONE thing--that the best way to nip juvenile-delinquency and WHEN-does-school-start-backslidin'-mamas in their proverbial "buds" was to keep Kimberly's children and pre-teens up to their eyeballs in Elmer's glue, macaroni, Kool-Aid and graham crackers.<br />
<br />
And while, to this day, they might not admit it, I'm convinced that on a pre-determined midnight each spring, Kimberly pastors would hold a covert meeting behind Sandlin's General Store and come up with a master plan that would spread the Kimberly-Vacation-Bible-School-marathon over June, July and most of August. <br />
<br />
What this meant was that, on just about any given summer Saturday, the respective church's congregation would gather in their parking lot and decorate their Chevrolets and Buicks and Ford pick-up trucks with balloons, crepe-paper streamers and homemade-poster-board signs. (Me and my brother were lucky--we had an "in" for both the Church-of-God and Baptist VBS parades.) <br />
<br />
Most years, our Mimi came all the way from Birmingham for the Kimberly First Baptist parade. And, our cousin Donald (who all us Kelley cousins lovingly called DonDon) always had the coolest vehicle--some years a convertible, others a VW van.<br />
<br />
Well, the excitement in those parking lots would build and build...until the Kimberly Volunteer Fire Department's lone engine pulled in.<br />
<br />
As the fire-truck driver (usually the pastor of that particular VBS) would give the siren a test run, kids and adults would start clapping and cheering. Then, with the pastor-firetruck-driver leading the way, followed by the Kimberly Police cruiser, driven by Officer Dingler or Deputy Bullhead; and, finally, by a line of festooned, kid-packed four-doors, we would begin our slow-but-sincere-and-exciting evangelistic appeal.<br />
<br />
Because it was a highly anticipated event...and because the fire truck and police sirens announced our arrival long before we actually arrived, Kimberly's citizenry would come out into their yards--some even lined the road--and we would hang out car windows and wave and holler<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
"<strong><em>Come to Vacation Bible School! </em></strong></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<strong><em>Come to Vacation Bible School</em></strong>!" </div>
(To this day, whenever I read or hear the Scripture, "<em>Go out into the highways and byways and compel them to come in</em>", I have a flashback to VBS parades.)<br />
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<br />
First, we'd parade down Stouts Road, eventually winding along Cutoff Road, before finally ending at Thunder Road, which--ironically--was right smack in the middle of the Morris Cemetery (but <strong><em>that</em></strong> fact never stopped us from "<em>compelling them to come in</em>.")<br />
<br />
It was at the cemetery <b>STOP</b> sign that LeahJewel Nail broke her nose. (As far as I can remember, hers was the only casualty in the history of Kimberly VBS parades.) In a recent re-telling, Leah told how the car in front of her had stopped to (unsuccessfully) retrieve a stray balloon for a crying pre-schooler. Leah had her head stuck out the back passenger window, in her words, "maniacally yelling, 'Come to Vacation Bible School' when the car in front of them abruptly stopped," and she hit the metal divider between the front and back doors. (OUCH!) To this day, her eyes get bigger and her voice raises a notch as she points to her parade-rendered "nosejob" which, to us admirers, just made her cuter.<br />
<br />
Now, for some reason, on just the other side of that cemetery <b>STOP</b> sign, the VBS parade would end--sirens would silence, kids would stop evangelizing, and mamas would start yelling, "Get your heads back in this car!" <br />
<br />
That is...until the next Saturday morning...when another pastor would become a fire-truck driver and another church's parking lot would fill up with festooned Fords. <br />
<br />
When I think about those summer VBS parades, I'm reminded of things exciting and wonderful and bigger than myself. <br />
<br />
Thankfully, VBS seems to be alive and well! But...I just wish I could have offered my boys a full-fledged VBS parade (and maybe a macaroni-coated, gold-spray-painted cigar box or two). I tried a variation of the parade one year. On the way to the first morning of our church's VBS (which is HUGE--think VBS meets Disney), I rolled down the window of my unfestooned minivan and hollered,<br />
"<strong><em>Come to Vacation Bible School! Come to Vacation Bible School!"</em></strong><br />
<br />
...They were appalled.<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
<em>"...When it comes to the church,</em></div>
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<em>(Jesus) organizes and holds it together, </em></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<em>like a head does a body.</em></div>
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<em>He was supreme in the beginning and</em></div>
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<em>—leading the resurrection parade—</em></div>
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<em>he is supreme in the end. </em></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<em>From beginning to end he's there, </em></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<em>towering far above everything, everyone. </em></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<em>So spacious is he, so roomy, that everything of God </em></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<em>finds its proper place in him without crowding. </em></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<em>Not only that, </em></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<em>but all the broken and dislocated pieces of the universe—</em></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<em>people and things, animals and atoms—</em></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<em>get properly fixed and fit together in vibrant harmonies, </em></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<em>all because of his death, </em></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<em>his blood that poured down from the cross." </em></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<em>(Colossians 1:15-20, The Message)</em></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5534768459844114772.post-53846145931806727422013-04-03T07:29:00.001-07:002013-04-03T07:29:32.626-07:00What if...just for these next 24 hours...I REALLY believed?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So….I need you to track with me for just a bit as I try to
connect the dots for the parable God painted AND read to me this morning. This
picture was what Hallie-dog and I looked up and saw when we
had just finished reading these words from Peter (that fragile stone, as
Michael Card calls him) and C.S.:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i>"We couldn't be more sure </i></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i>of what we saw and heard--</i></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i>God's glory, God's voice....</i></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i>You'll do well to keep focusing on it.</i></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i>It's the one light you have in a dark time</i></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i>as you wait for daybreak</i></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i>and the rising of the Morning Star </i></b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i>in your hearts."</i></b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i>(2 Peter 1:19, The Message)</i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">--------------------------------------------------------</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i>“….We believe God will one day GIVE US the Morning Star and
cause us to PUT ON the splendor of the sun. At present we are on the outside of
the world, the wrong side of the door. We discern the freshness and purity of
morning, but they do not make us fresh and pure. We cannot mingle with the splendors
we see. But, all the leaves of the New Testament are rustling with the rumor
that it will not always be so. Some day…we shall get IN.” </i></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i>(C.S. Lewis, The
Weight of Glory)</i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">----------------------------------------------------------</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So…then…after realizing He obviously had a theme for me today, I asked Him how I would live these next
24 hours…IF I REALLY BELIEVE all those words. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">And...some words from a long-ago-read poem came to me…which,
of course, I HAD to get up and find:</span></div>
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<b><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"If </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I REALLY believed I was free,</span></i></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i>My heart would leap in me for joy. </i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i>My face would shine bright as the sun, </i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i>If I REALLY believed I was free.</i></b></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i>I’d throw a freedom party and dance around</i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i>….into the late hours of the night.</i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i>I would gleefully tell everyone all about my story--</i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i>My captivity, my release and all about Who freed me.</i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i>If I really believed I was free,</i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i>I’d smile more and laugh easily.</i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i>There simply wouldn’t be much space left </i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i>In my heart for the grim, if I really believed.”</i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i>(Freedom, by John Randall Dennis)</i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">-------------------------</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Wow! </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Of course, I of all people--fearful, prideful, fickle, sometimes Pharisaical--realize this “call” to living and breathing and walking in the freedom and resurrection power of Christ is a lot to bite off in one
day…24 little hours.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But…what if, just for today, I…you…we…at least start practicing this
freedom, forgiveness, grace, peace, love, intimacy with God, as co-laborers using
the gifts He has given to each of us (not even letting the enemy get close
enough to whisper his dirty little lie that our gifts aren’t big enough or good
enough)? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">What if, just for today, we think and walk and talk as
though we <b>ARE</b> co-heirs in a Kingdom ruled by Him…His beloved...His child...His bride? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">A few years ago, I read the following words from a nationally-known, highly respected Christian counselor: <b><i>"If Christians REALLY believed they were forgiven, I'd lose more than 90 percent of my patients."</i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">What would our today look like if we <b>REALLY</b> believed?</span> </span><br />
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<span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i><span class="text2pet-1-1-2pet-1-2">"I write this to you whose experience with God </span></i></b></span></div>
<div class="chapter-1" style="background-color: white; text-align: right;">
<span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i><span class="text2pet-1-1-2pet-1-2">is as life-changing as ours, </span></i></b></span><b style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i><span class="text2pet-1-1-2pet-1-2">all due to</span></i></b></div>
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<b style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i><span class="text2pet-1-1-2pet-1-2">...the intervention of our God and Savior, Jesus Christ....</span></i></b></div>
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<span class="text2pet-1-3-2pet-1-4"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i>Everything that goes into a life of pleasing God </i></b></span></span></div>
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<span class="text2pet-1-3-2pet-1-4"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i>has been miraculously given to us </i></b></span></span></div>
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<span class="text2pet-1-3-2pet-1-4"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i>by getting to know, personally and intimately, </i></b></span></span></div>
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<span class="text2pet-1-3-2pet-1-4"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i>the One who invited us to God. </i></b></span></span></div>
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<span class="text2pet-1-3-2pet-1-4"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i>The best invitation we ever received!<o:p></o:p></i></b></span></span></div>
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<span class="text2pet-1-3-2pet-1-4"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i>We were also given absolutely terrific promises </i></b></span></span></div>
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<span class="text2pet-1-3-2pet-1-4"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i>to pass on to you—</i></b></span></span></div>
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<span class="text2pet-1-3-2pet-1-4"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i>your tickets to participating in the life of God </i></b></span></span></div>
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<span class="text2pet-1-3-2pet-1-4"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i>after you turned your back o</i></b></span></span><b style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>n a world corrupted by lust.</i></b></div>
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<span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i>Don’t lose a minute </i></b></span><b style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>to build on what you’ve been given, </i></b></div>
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<span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i>complementing your basic faith with good character, </i></b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i>spiritual understanding, alert discipline, </i></b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i>passionate patience, </i></b></span><b style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>reverent wonder, </i></b></div>
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<b style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>warm friendliness, and generous love, </i></b></div>
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<span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i>each dimension fitting into and developing the others. </i></b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i>With these qualities active and growing in your lives, </i></b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i>no grass will grow under your feet, </i></b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i>no day will pass without its reward </i></b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i>as you mature in your experience of our Master Jesus. </i></b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i>Without these qualities </i></b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i>you can’t see what’s right before you, </i></b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i>oblivious that your old sinful life </i></b></span></div>
<div class="first-line-none" style="background-color: white; text-align: right;">
<span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i>has been wiped off the books.</i></b></span></div>
<div class="first-line-none" style="background-color: white; text-align: right;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i><span style="color: #990000;">....We couldn’t be more sure of what we saw and heard--</span></i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i><span style="color: #990000;">God’s<span class="apple-converted-space"> glory,<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span>God’s voice….</span></i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i><span style="color: #990000;">You’ll do well to keep focusing on it. </span></i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i><span style="color: #990000;">It’s the one light you have in a dark time </span></i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i><span style="color: #990000;">as you wait for daybreak </span></i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i><span style="color: #990000;">and the rising of the Morning Star in your hearts.<span class="apple-converted-space">” </span></span></i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i><span style="color: #990000;"><span class="apple-converted-space">(2 Peter 1:1-9, 19 The Message)</span></span></i></b></span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5534768459844114772.post-70969742116132556722013-03-31T13:59:00.002-07:002013-03-31T14:38:21.227-07:00When it feels like it's still Saturday....<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So, this morning, I woke up early, cut my Sabbath "quiet time" short so I could make the 25-minute drive to Shannondale Nursing Home to get my mom ready and take her back to First Baptist Concord for Easter service. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Earlier this morning in a Facebook post, I had boldly reminded myself and anyone who chose to read it that "<i>a far-off battle</i>" has made all the difference, even in a world that <b><i>feels</i></b> like it is still under the control of a foreign, oppressive power. And, on the drive, I had been singing loud and strong: </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"<b><i>Hear the bells ringing, they're singing that we can be born again.</i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i>Hear the bells ringing, they're singing Christ is risen from the dead</i></b>...."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">As I walked through Shannondale's front doors, I gave my best "<i><b>Happy Easter</b></i>" to everyone in the lobby, then got on the elevator and hit the 5th floor button. But, for some reason, that elevator stopped on every single floor and, when the doors opened, this was pretty much the scene I saw on floors 1, 2, 3 and 4: </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">By the time I arrived on the 5th floor, my smile was gone, my song was silent, and my heart was heavy. It no longer felt like Easter Sunday--and the power of the Resurrection seemed far away. The faces I saw and the heart inside me felt like it was still some sort of perpetual Saturday. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But, as I stepped off the elevator and saw my mama's waiting face...already dressed in a winter sweater...I tried to push my sudden sadness aside. (The physical activity involved in getting my wheelchair-bound mama anywhere is a great distraction to whatever is going on inside my head at the moment.) </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">After getting her wheelchair loaded in the back and getting her in her seat and buckled in, she and I head toward the Easter hymns and the ancient greeting and response of </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"<b><i>He is risen!...He is risen indeed!</i></b>" </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Along the 20-minute drive, her frequent, repeated question began to grate: "<b><i>Today's Saturday, right?</i></b>"...to which I reply, "<b><i>No, mom, today is Sunday...Easter Sunday...we're going to church</i></b>." </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Well, we get there...and, miracles of miracles, there's actually a handicapped parking space...(so my mood begins to brighten). Then, a kind usher finds a pew where I can easily park mom's wheelchair next to my pew. Then, my two handsome sons actually find mom and me...and sit beside me on the pew. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">My emotions are always a bit ragged on Easter...overflowing with gratitude for the cost of my salvation and for the promise of eternal life because of the Resurrection. And, I don't remember the last time I made it through a Sunday service without wishing I had more tissues.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But...today...<b>this</b> Easter Sunday...was some sort of powerful parable that will probably take me awhile to "read." With my beautiful, gifted, Jesus-loving husband in front of me playing in the orchestra; my two beautiful, gifted, Jesus-loving sons on one side of me; and my beautiful, gifted, Jesus-loving, stroke-and-Alzheimer's-damaged mother on the other side...well...quite honestly...I was a puddle. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Then, as if God wasn't already speaking loudly enough, Pastor Avant began to talk about one of life's hardest "stones" to deal with--the "stone" of Alzheimer's. He read two incredibly beautiful letters from husband to wife...and from wife to husband...who were locked in the battle with this disease. Then, my youngest son, who was sitting closest to me, reached over and patted my knee, and....well...I just lost it...the kind of crying that's just plain old ugly. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But, service ended. I recovered. I wheeled mom out. My three beautiful, gifted, Jesus-loving guys and I took her to Cracker Barrel where she ate her favorites--beans and greens, okra and cole slaw. Then, I loaded her back in the van, and we headed to the place that has come to represent all that is "fallen" to me--sickness, brokenness, loneliness, dementia, death. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">On the way, she asked many times, <b><i>"When am I going to see the boys?"...."When am I going home?"...."Today's Saturday, right?"..</i>..</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And, at that point, it sure felt like Saturday...like that in-between time...when those first followers must have felt like the enemy had won...like their hopes and dreams had been nailed to the same piece of ragged wood as their Rabbi. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But, as I drove, I remembered two of Pastor Avant's words after he read those sad, beautiful letters--<b><i>"God remembers." </i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And, when my mama can't remember that it's Easter...when she can no longer remember the cross and the Resurrection... can no longer remember the words of the long-sung hymns...can no longer remember our names...her name...God remembers<i>.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 11pt;">And, even though...for now...she is locked in
some sort of perpetual-in-between Saturday, not remembering that it's
Sunday...not remembering that it's Easter...unaware of the Resurrection and all that it
means...one day...she will. His voice will remind her. His voice
will call her name--<b><i>Joyce</i></b>--in a way that heals and resurrects her
broken body and mind. </span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 11pt;">And, when she hears Him, all
the sorrow, hurt and hardness, which sometimes led her nearly to despair,
will be burned away by the joyful brightness of His love and light.</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.5pt;">"Love never
dies. </span></i></b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.5pt;">Inspired speech will
be over some day;</span></i></b><b><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.5pt;">praying in tongues
will end; <o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.5pt;">understanding will
reach its limit.</span></i></b><b><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.5pt;"> <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.5pt;">We know only a
portion of the truth, <o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.5pt;">and what we say
about God </span></i></b><br />
<b><i><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.5pt;">is always incomplete. <o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.5pt;">But when the
Complete arrives, <o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.5pt;">our incompletes will
be canceled….</span></i></b><b><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.5pt;">We don’t yet see things clearly. <o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.5pt;">We’re squinting in a
fog, </span></i></b><br />
<b><i><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.5pt;">peering through a mist. <o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.5pt;">But it won’t be long </span></i></b><br />
<b><i><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.5pt;">before the weather clears <o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.5pt;">and the sun shines
bright! <o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.5pt;">We’ll see it all
then, <o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.5pt;">see it all as
clearly as God sees us, <o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.5pt;">knowing him just as he knows us!</span></i></b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.5pt;">But for right now, until that completeness, <o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.5pt;">we have three things
to do <o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.5pt;">to lead us toward
that consummation: <o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.5pt;">Trust steadily in
God, <o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.5pt;">hope unswervingly, <o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.5pt;">love extravagantly. <o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.5pt;">And the best of the
three is love."</span></i></b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.5pt;">(1 Corinthians
13:8-13 The Message)</span></i></b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5534768459844114772.post-60779941733912944692013-03-19T06:42:00.001-07:002013-03-19T07:03:23.154-07:00"I Thirst for You"<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i>"I looked for love, but there was none;...for my thirst, they gave me vinegar to drink." (Psalm 60:20,21)</i></b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i>"....Knowing that everything had now been finished, and so that Scripture would be fulfilled, Jesus said, 'I am thirsty.' A jar of wine vinegar was there, so they soaked a sponge in it, put the sponge on a stalk of the hyssop plant, and lifted it to Jesus’ lips. (John 19:28-29)</i></b></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie6Vx2gzjzVIXR6im-HL-Y4gWXiPXZekoFMMhn4AXVemeGpZ162o6cjt5DzHN6LL3av2GoU_TC6k4p9VwAbBd5BkpAmM88lQUmRr2GwbxxJTw-eavVQuNJaHHYKvt75qwLK2yYVzBIXT6_/s1600/I+thirst+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie6Vx2gzjzVIXR6im-HL-Y4gWXiPXZekoFMMhn4AXVemeGpZ162o6cjt5DzHN6LL3av2GoU_TC6k4p9VwAbBd5BkpAmM88lQUmRr2GwbxxJTw-eavVQuNJaHHYKvt75qwLK2yYVzBIXT6_/s400/I+thirst+2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">These are the words this thirsty One longs for you to hear:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"I know you through and through--everything about you....Nothing in your life is unimportant to me; I have followed you through the years, and I have always loved you--even in your wanderings. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I know every one of your problems. I know your need and your worries. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And, yes, I know all your sins. But, I tell you again that I love you--not for what you have or haven't done--I love you for you, FOR THE BEAUTY AND DIGNITY MY FATHER GAVE YOU BY CREATING YOU IN HIS OWN IMAGE. It is a dignity you have often forgotten, a beauty you have tarnished by sin. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But, I love you as you are, and I have shed my blood to win you back. If you will only ask me with faith, my grace will touch all that needs changing in your life, and I will give you strength to (be) free from sin and all its destructive power. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I know what is in your heart--I know your loneliness and all your hurts--the rejection, judgments, humiliations....I carried it all or you, so that you might share my strength and victory. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I especially know your need for love--how you are thirsting to be loved, cherished, (respected). But, how often have you thirsted in vain,...striving to fill the emptiness inside you with passing pleasures--(which leave you) with even greater emptiness. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I thirst for you. Yes, that is the only way to even begin to describe my love for you. I THIRST FOR YOU. I thirst to love and to be loved by you--that is how precious you are to me. I thirst for you. Come to me and fill your heart and heal your wounds.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">If you feel unimportant in the eyes of the world, that matters not at all. For me, there is no one any more important in the entire world than you.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">....My Father already has a perfect plan to transform your life, beginning from this moment. Trust in Me. Every day ask Me to enter and take care of your life--and I will. I promise you before my Father in heaven that I will work miracles in your life. Why would I do this? Because I THIRST FOR YOU. All I ask is that you entrust yourself to Me completely. I will do the rest.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Even now I behold the place My Father has prepared for you in My Kingdom. Remember that you are a pilgrim in this life, on a journey home. Sin can never satisfy you or bring you the peace you seek....Above all, do not run from Me when you fall. Come to Me without delay. When you give Me your sins, you give Me the joy of being your Savior. There is nothing I cannot forgive and heal; so come now, and unburden your soul.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I THIRST FOR YOU. Open to me, come to me, thirst for me, give me your life--and I will prove to you how important you are to my heart. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">No matter how far you wander, no matter how often you forget me, no matter how many crosses you may bear in this life, there is one thing I want you to remember always, one thing that will never change: I THIRST FOR YOU--just as you are. You don't need to change to believe in my love, FOR IT WILL BE YOUR BELIEF IN MY LOVE THAT WILL CHANGE YOU. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">You forget me, and yet I am seeking you every moment of the day--standing at the door of your heart, and knocking. Do you find this hard to believe? Then look at the cross, look at my heart that was pierced for you. Have you not understood my cross? Then listen again to the words I spoke there--for they tell you clearly why I endured all this FOR YOU. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">....Yes, I thirst for you....All your life I have been looking for your love--I have never stopped seeking to love and be loved by you. You have tried many other things in your search for happiness; why not try opening your heart to me, right now, more than you ever have before. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Whenever you do...you will hear me say to you again and again, not in mere human words but in (your) spirit: "No matter what you have done, I love you for your own sake."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Come to me with your misery and your sins, with your trouble and needs and with all your longing to be loved (and respected). I stand at the door of your heart and knock. Open to me, for I thirst for you." </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">(The heart of Jesus Christ for you through the words of Mother Teresa)</span><br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5534768459844114772.post-34250080816921327602013-03-12T07:50:00.001-07:002013-03-12T07:53:45.113-07:00Right into God-forsakenness....<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEhOHWr9DZm-n7Ni7NTm1v4GUgP8lS9YApKojBTjj8QKWoimNpIPV413UnIqaoZn2FSo_ygck_xQstTBEmInSiu5Xi0PL6IobgdS0QIKtWOh3b4ERe-gVbM0V2on7AqE6VLkzRtn0SrosR/s1600/Christ+on+the+Cross.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEhOHWr9DZm-n7Ni7NTm1v4GUgP8lS9YApKojBTjj8QKWoimNpIPV413UnIqaoZn2FSo_ygck_xQstTBEmInSiu5Xi0PL6IobgdS0QIKtWOh3b4ERe-gVbM0V2on7AqE6VLkzRtn0SrosR/s320/Christ+on+the+Cross.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
For the past few years, I've revisited a Lent devotional that, with each reading, speaks to me in new ways, "Bread and Wine, Readings for Lent and Easter." But, this year...this morning...words fail to describe how the following words from John Stott and Peter Kreeft moved me.<br />
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I don't know why, but I believe I'm supposed to share them here...with you. Maybe you're in a dark place and need to be reminded, "No matter how deep our darkness, He is deeper still." (Corrie ten Boom).<br />
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Wherever you are...whatever you are going through...be reminded--God is with you...right there...right now.<br />
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<b><i><span style="color: #990000;">"I could never believe in God if it were not for the cross. The only God I believe in is the one Nietzsche ridiculed as 'God on the Cross'." In the real world of pain, how could one worship a God who was immune to it? I've entered many Buddhist temples and stood respectfully before his statue--his legs crossed, arms folded, eyes closed, the ghost of a smile playing round his mouth, a remote look on his face, detached from the agonies of the world. But, each time, after awhile I've had to turn away and, in my imagination, I've turned instead to that lonely twisted, tortured figure on the cross, nails through hands and feet, back lacerated, limbs wrenched, brow bleeding from thorns, mouth dry and intolerably thirsty, PLUNGED IN GOD-FORSAKEN DARKNESS. THAT IS THE GOD FOR ME! He laid aside his immunity to pain. He entered our world of flesh and blood, tears and death. He suffered for us." </span></i></b>(John Stott)<br />
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<br />
"Calvary is Judo. The enemy's own power is used to defeat him. Satan's craftily orchestrated plot, rolled along according to plan by his agents--Judas, Pilate, Herod, Caiphas--and culminated in the death of God. And, this very event, Satan's conclusion, was God's premise. Satan's end was God's means. God won Satan's captives--us--back to himself by freely dying in our place.<br />
<br />
It is, of course, the most often-told story in the world. Yet, it is also the strangest, and has never lost its strangeness, its awe, and will not even in eternity, where angels tremble to gaze upon things at which we yawn.<br />
<br />
(But), however strange, it is the only key that fits the lock of our tortured lives and needs. We needed a surgeon. He came and reached into our wounds with bloody hands. He didn't give us a placebo or a pill or good advice. He gave us Himself.<br />
<br />
He came. He entered space and time and suffering. He came, like a lover. He did the most important thing and He gave the most important gift: Himself. It is a lover's gift.<br />
<br />
Out of our tears, our waiting, our darkness, our agonized aloneness, out of our weeping and wondering, out of our cry, 'My God, my God, why have You forsaken Me?' He came, all the way, right into that cry.<br />
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He sits beside us in the lowest places of our lives, like water. Are we broken? He is broken with us. Are we rejected...despised? He was 'despised and rejected of men.' Do we weep? Is grief our familiar spirit, our horrifying familiar ghost? Do we ever say, 'Oh, no, not again! I can't take it any more!'? Do people misunderstand us, turn away from us?...<br />
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Is our love betrayed? Are our tenderest relationships broken? He loved and was betrayed by the very ones He loved....<br />
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Does it seem sometimes as if life has passed us by or cast us out, as if we are sinking into uselessness and oblivion? He sinks with us. He too is passed over by the world. His way of suffering love is rejected; his own followers often the most guilty of all; they have made His name a scandal, especially among His own chosen people....We have made it nearly impossible for His own people to love Him, to see Him as He is, free from the smoke of (prejudice), battle and holocaust.<br />
<br />
How does He look upon us now? With continual sorrow, but never with scorn....We, His beloved and longed for and passionately desired, are constantly cold, correct and distant to Him. And still He keeps brooding...like a mother who has had all her beloved children turn against her: 'Could a mother desert her young? Even so I could not desert you.'<br />
<br />
He sits beside us not only in our sufferings but even in our sins. He does not turn His face from us, however much we turn our face from Him.<br />
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Does He descend into all our hells? Yes. In the unforgettable line of Corrie ten Boom from the depths of a Nazi death camp, 'No matter how deep our darkness, He is deeper still.'<br />
<br />
Does He descend into violence? Yes, by suffering it and leaving us the solution that, to this day, only a few brave souls have dared to try....<br />
<br />
Does He descend into insanity? Yes, into that darkness too. Even into the insanity of suicide? Can He be there too? Yes, He can. 'Even the darkness is not dark to Him.' He make light even there,...though perhaps not until the next world, until death's release.<br />
<br />
LOVE is WHY He came. It's all love. The buzzing flies around the cross, the stroke of the Roman hammer as the nails tear into His screaming flesh, the infinitely harder stroke of His own people's hammering hatred, hammering at His heart.<br />
<br />
Why? For LOVE....<br />
<br />
(From this moment on), when we feel the hammers of life beating on our heads or hearts, we can know--we MUST know--that He is here with us, taking our blows. Every tear we shed becomes His tear. He may not yet wipe them away, but He makes them His. Would we rather have our own dry eyes, or His tear-filled ones?<br />
<br />
He came. He is here. That is the salient fact. If He does not heal all our broken bones and loves and lives now, He comes into them and is broken, like bread, and we are nourished.<br />
<br />
And, He shows us that (from this moment on), we can use our very brokenness as nourishment for those we love. SINCE WE ARE HIS BODY, we too are the bread that is broken for others. Our very failures help heal other lives; our very tears help wipe away tears; our being hated helps those we love....<br />
<br />
God's answer to the problem of suffering not only really happened more than 2,000 years ago, it is still happening in our own lives....All our suffering can become part of His work, the greatest work ever done--the work of salvation--of helping to win eternal joy for those we love."<br />
("Shared Hells" by Peter Kreeft)Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5534768459844114772.post-35151587588405040372013-03-06T05:41:00.001-08:002013-09-12T04:53:29.979-07:00They stood firm a little....<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh64ycAfL7BTu6zuikY9ZYexQ5nqxkfXoL2BM4bbFsy3Bl3yZElgN7S0QbQn1KtRc83dNGn78AVRRpcli6kwPzGFn9wZ_PUKEj3rMsjZHI3kVEfvX8j92uRiXiCf-e7q_UE0daub1-PsuI9/s1600/Mom+%2526+Dad.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh64ycAfL7BTu6zuikY9ZYexQ5nqxkfXoL2BM4bbFsy3Bl3yZElgN7S0QbQn1KtRc83dNGn78AVRRpcli6kwPzGFn9wZ_PUKEj3rMsjZHI3kVEfvX8j92uRiXiCf-e7q_UE0daub1-PsuI9/s320/Mom+%2526+Dad.JPG" width="238" /></a>To<span style="text-align: right;">day (March 6th), they would have been married 60 years. My mama and daddy. </span></blockquote>
This is one of my favorite pictures of them. So young, fresh, in love. In it, mama is looking uncharacteristically shy and is dressed in a white blouse, light-colored skirt and black, peek-a-boo high heels with thin little straps around her thin little ankles. My daddy seems to be the one in charge of the moment, dressed in a crisp, short sleeved shirt and snazzy, pleated pants with a trim belt--looking very "James Deanish."<br />
<br />
What I've noticed about this photo is the road they're standing on. It's dirt...with rocks scattered around...full of ruts...not a perfect road by any standards...especially for two young, beautiful people who look so fresh, so dressed up, so ready for life.<br />
<br />
This photo has become a picture of marriage to me...heck, a picture of life itself. We start out young, fresh, dressed and seemingly ready for life. Then, we stumble over a few rocks, get caught in a few ruts. But, usually, nothing too serious. And, eventually, we pick ourselves up and dust ourselves off--perhaps just a bit more cautious before setting off on our next journey.<br />
<br />
Then, we meet our "other." And, in our passionate, 'til-death-do-us-part-altered state, we just know the road is gonna be less rocky...less rut-filled. Or, at the very least, we believe we now have someone to move the rocks out of our way.<br />
<br />
But, truth be told, once the honeymoon wears off (usually quickly), this "other" only doubles the number of rocks and ruts. Their own rocks and ruts and their reactions to them somehow become ours. (And...to be fair...ours become theirs.)<br />
<br />
And right there is where the crisis comes: <b><i>"What are we gonna do about all these rocks and ruts?"</i></b><br />
<br />
These days, when I pick up this picture to dust underneath it, I find myself wondering, <b><i>"Would it have made a difference if they had known the road they were in for?"</i></b><br />
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I don't think it would have. That handsome young man loved that curly-haired girl. Not perfectly. Sometimes, not even well. But, he loved her. He did the best he could with the rocks and ruts he encountered.<br />
<br />
And she loved him. Not perfectly. Sometimes, not even well. But, she loved him. She did the best she could with the rocks and ruts she encountered.<br />
<br />
When the crises came and they each asked, <b><i>"What are we gonna do?" </i></b>They decided to just keep dealing with it all...one step...one rock...one rut at a time...together.<br />
<br />
They did not do it perfectly. Some days, they did not even do it well. Before they had ever met, life had already seen to it that they were each a bit "broken." War had taken its toll on daddy; and, at the tender age of 12, my mama's mother had died, leaving her with an alcoholic father and 5-year-old and 3-year-old brothers to help raise.<br />
<br />
I'm sure they would admit to stumbling and falling...wishing they had never spoken certain words, or taken certain actions. And, I'm sure each of them had many moments when they each wanted to just go off and find a new road, one less rocky, one less filled with those bone-jarring ruts.<br />
<br />
But...they didn't. They stayed. They "stood firm a little"... for better and for worse... in sickness and in health... until death did them part. There is something sacred about that right there. And I believe they would tell you that, on that road...together...they even found moments of joy.<br />
<br />
Last year, when mama was recovering from surgery, she experienced what the Celts described as "thin places," when this world and the next seem to be closer than we ever imagine. During one of these thin moments, my brother got to listen in on a conversation mama was having with daddy, where she told him, <b style="font-style: italic;">"Honey, let's go sit over there by that shade tree and sit down and rest awhile." </b><br />
<br />
One day, mama. One day....</div>
<div align="right">
<br />
<br /></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5534768459844114772.post-23081953052897827042013-02-28T06:20:00.000-08:002013-02-28T06:23:34.811-08:00Third re-run of "My Cousin Barney is a Liar"<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcaRgu68NGEELox_zqsf71NhvlVIexrCcP0ZnjeXuKLJFSDI2LqdJGRGpA-4iTEFmdCYle26NLcx7qvh-kDH1Cwwecou-UjBj6OUYhlvqzpZd9AUwo8hy4gv38AZ2shhufx0xbrGzBMblR/s1600-h/Barney+is+a+Liar.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" kt="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcaRgu68NGEELox_zqsf71NhvlVIexrCcP0ZnjeXuKLJFSDI2LqdJGRGpA-4iTEFmdCYle26NLcx7qvh-kDH1Cwwecou-UjBj6OUYhlvqzpZd9AUwo8hy4gv38AZ2shhufx0xbrGzBMblR/s320/Barney+is+a+Liar.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
(Today's Kimberly story was "told" to me by Jeff Easter, one of my dearest, kindest, funniest friends. He has made me laugh on some of my saddest days and cry from laughter on some of my happiest. The other character in the story is my friend, Barney, who was always my family's version of 911, and a pretty funny guy in his own right--that's him in the picture. I love them both. I'm re-running this story in honor of Jeff's birthday.)<br />
<br />
-----------------------------<br />
<br />
"It's an easy job. All you gotta do is answer the phone."<br />
<br />
I should've known better. After all, my cousin Barney is a liar.<br />
<br />
I should've paid attention to the chill that ran up my spine as I thought of the shadowy, casket-lined rooms and the pre-recorded, macabre organ music piping out strains of "Rock of Ages." I don't even like that song. Nor do I care for the smell of carnations--the funeral bud of choice among lower-income Southern mourners.<br />
<br />
What if I got trapped in the embalming room? Or had to touch a dead person? Doesn't the Old Testament speak against such things?<br />
<br />
But, Barney kept assuring me, "All you gotta do is answer the phone!" (At that point in his vast and sundry career, Barney was apparently serving as Messmer Funeral Home's human resources director.)<br />
<br />
Truth be told, it was sort of expected of me. I was a 16-year-old Harden, and working for Mr. Messmer had become a rite of passage for us Harden men.<br />
<br />
Besides, I'd make three dollars and fifty cents an hour. I'd be rich!<br />
<br />
So, I said "OK, I'll do it."<br />
<br />
My boss was Mr. Messmer himself, a kind and portly man who had earned the trust and, therefore, the newly-passed members of most families in the Kimberly-Warrior metropolitan area.<br />
<br />
My first assignment was the Thursday night viewing for the newly-passed Mrs. Taylor. The plan was for Mr. Messmer to greet the grieving family, get them settled in and then leave me to "answer the phone."<br />
<br />
At 5 o'clock sharp, the mourning Taylors arrived en masse. There were tall Taylors, short Taylors, fat Taylors and skinny Taylors. There were ugly Taylors and foxy Taylors. Taylors in suits and Taylors in overalls. There seemed to be a thousand Taylors, all packed into the small confines of the parlor, which was unchangingly decorated in faux-wood paneling, naugahyde chairs and crushed-velvet drapes.<br />
<br />
Shortly before 6 o'clock, with Mr. Messmer long gone, a steady stream of grievers began arriving to pay their respects and to comment on how "natural" Mrs. Taylor looked--yet another reason Mr. Messmer was the regional undertaker of choice.<br />
<br />
At four minutes past 6--I noted the time because it was my first official duty--the phone rang. "Messmer Funeral Home," I said, with a sudden swell of manly-Harden pride.<br />
<br />
"Who's dead?" screeched the voice on the other side of the phone.<br />
<br />
Somewhat rattled by the irreverent inquiry, I blurted back, "Mrs. Taylor. She's being buried tomorrow. Thanks for calling." And hung up.<br />
<br />
Just then, a wiry Taylor woman, with a trail of what appeared to be dried snuff running down her chin, marched up and informed me, "There ain't no toilet paper."<br />
<br />
As I sat there, blinking at her snuff trail, the only thought I could muster was, "Is that my problem?...My job is to answer the phone. Barney said so." But Snuffy just stood there, chewing on something, clearly expecting me to solve the encroaching toilet paper crisis.<br />
<br />
Well, before I could get up out of my chair, both phone lines lit up. "One minute," I signaled to Snuffy....And there it was again...that screeching voice. Only this time it was angry and crackling, insinuating that I had hung up on her.<br />
<br />
After repeating the newly-passed Mrs. Taylor's arrangements--twice--I finally began making my way through the sea of grievers in search of toilet paper...all the while doing everything I could to avoid "Snuffy," who had stomped off in a huff while I was dealing with Screecher.<br />
<br />
As I maneuvered toward the mystifying no-man's land of the ladies' room, carrying an armload of toilet paper, I remember thinking, "I could be at home watching Gilligan's Island."<br />
<br />
Now, for some unfathomable reason, Mrs. Taylor had chosen to pass in late July, the very apex of the Great State of Alabama's annual inferno. Each time the doors opened to welcome the seemingly endless tide of friends, neighbors and church "family," the evening's hot, humid blanket rolled in with them.<br />
Who was this woman? How could one gain so many admirers in one short lifetime?<br />
<br />
But, apparently, Mr. Messmer's air conditioner was no respecter of persons and, on that Taylor-congested evening, it decided to give up the ghost. Within seconds of its final, sputtering, lukewarm puffs, I was sweating life a farm animal.<br />
<br />
Right then, one of the short Taylors in overalls reached out and grabbed my arm, practically shouting, "I been lookin for you everwhere. I think there's somethin wrong with that-there air condition."<br />
<br />
"Ya think, Shorty?" was what I wanted to say...right after a much-needed cussin fit.<br />
<br />
Instead, I strived to assume the kind countenance of a funeral home director, which seemed to work so well for Mr. Messmer, and told Shorty, "I'll see what I can do."<br />
<br />
By this time, the smell in the over-Taylored parlor was a hot, cloying concoction of body odor, perfume, spearmint gum, Aqua Net and those blasted carnations.<br />
<br />
I wound my way back to the desk where both phone lines were blinking...holding my breath and loosening my suffocating necktie.<br />
<br />
And...I kid you not...as if on cue..."Rock of Ages" began piping through the speakers. At that moment, I would have gladly traded places with the newly-passed Mrs. Taylor.<br />
<br />
As I sat there...phone lines still blinking...the ugly truth hit me. I couldn't call Mr. Messmer. I couldn't fix the "air condition." I couldn't stand on my desk and shout, "Will all you people just please go home?"<br />
<br />
We were stuck...together...me and those sweaty grievers...in that stinking, hot place of death. Hell took on a whole new meaning.<br />
<br />
At 8:35...with just 25 minutes to go...I thought I saw the proverbial light at the end of the proverbial tunnel...until I realized it was just a reflection off the sweaty forehead of the rapidly-approaching, panicked-looking Taylor woman.<br />
<br />
"May I help you?", I reluctantly asked. To which she responded by covering her mouth and speaking to me in low, hushed tones, as if we were sharing some long-held secret.<br />
<br />
"Umh," she began. "I really don't know how to...umh...tell you this. But, you see, Mrs. Taylor is my sister, and...well...y'all have too much 'stuff' up there," she stammered, gently patting her own well-endowed chest area. "Could you possibly take a little out?"<br />
<br />
What!...Could I what? That was definitely NOT in my job description. I had never touched a live woman's chest...I was certainly not about to touch a dead one!<br />
<br />
"I'll tell Mr. Messmer," I spewed, as I took her by the elbow and ushered her out the door.<br />
Forget Gilligan's Island. I'd rot in the Jefferson County Jail for murdering that lying, no-good Barney before I'd ever do this again!<br />
<br />
By that point, I had shed my tie and jacket--a certain violation of Messmer's employee policy. (Good thing I'd listened to mama and put on clean underwear because the pit-stained, blue Oxford was the next thing about to be shed.) But, just as I began unbuttoning it, I happened to glance at the clock and noticed that its little hand was on the longed-for 9. "Thank you, sweet Jesus!"<br />
<br />
Thankfully, one endearing quality of Southern mourners is that, except for the few disturbed outliers who threaten to fling themselves into their loved-one's casket for the night, they know when to call it a day. (After all, the food's back at the house.)<br />
<br />
So, at 9:01 sharp, the tired, hungry Taylors began emptying the foodless, inferno-like parlor. By 9:05, everyone was gone...except for me and the newly-passed, newly-endowed Mrs. Taylor.<br />
<br />
After tucking her in for the night, I snapped off the organ music--how could Rock of Ages possibly be playing again?--and, with neck hairs standing on end, beat a hasty path through the shadowy, casket-lined room and out the back door to sweet, blessed freedom.<br />
<br />
....My cousin Barney is such a liar!<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
<em>For everything there is a season,</em></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<em>a time to be born and a time to die....</em></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<em>a time to cry and a time to laugh....</em></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<em>a time to grieve and a time to dance....</em></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<em>(from Ecclesiastes 3 NLT)</em></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5534768459844114772.post-68601029426397043732013-02-15T07:26:00.000-08:002013-02-15T08:35:11.715-08:00"The Mighty Yazoo" by Greg Easter<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">In our family, major purchases came from one of two places--Sears Roebuck or Western Auto. My daddy, Fred, had credit at both! And, as a United States Postal Worker, who delivered mail in Tarrant City, Alabama, his post office was a mere block from each. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />
On a special Friday payday, in July 1967, on his way home, daddy stopped by Western Auto to pay his monthly bill. He called from the store
phone and alerted my mama (Joann), my brother Jeff and me that he was on his way
home with “<i><b>something special</b></i>” in the
trunk of the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Plymouth</st1:city></st1:place>.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">After hanging up the phone, mama
guessed excitedly, “<i><b>Maybe it’s a new TV. </b></i><i><b>Oooh, won’t it be wonderful to watch
that handsome Dean Martin </b></i><i><b>and The Fugitive in living color.</b></i>” </span></div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">But I had a much better guess. It could
only be that gold-colored, 20-inch racer bike with butterfly handlebars and a
rippled plastic banana seat that daddy knew I wanted. I was already planning
how I would mesmerize my friends with wheelies, ramp jumps over small
Volkswagens and my sheer speed.</span></div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">My four-years-younger brother, Jeff, murmured
something about a swing set with ropes and a slide…something only meaningful to
juvenile eight-year olds. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">When daddy’s <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Plymouth</st1:place></st1:city> turned onto <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Manning Street</st1:address></st1:street>, I was perched and waiting.
From a distance, I saw that<i> <b>something special</b></i>
hanging out the trunk, held secure under a beehive of twine, plastic and pieces
of torn cloth. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But, my heart sunk fast. Daddy was
smiling way too big for that beehive to contain a bicycle. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Maybe it was its
bright, new shininess. Or, maybe a long-held dream just overcame him as he stood
there paying off his Western Auto bill. Or, maybe he just liked Jerry
Clower. But, whatever the reason, on that July-payday-Friday, daddy brought home
a <st1:place w:st="on">Yazoo</st1:place>. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Mama’s now-deflated voice spoke first, “<i><b>Fred,
it’s a lawn mower!</b></i>” Daddy began his pitch: “<b><i>Joann, this ain’t no ordinary lawn
mower! This is a <st1:place w:st="on">Yazoo</st1:place>! This machine is a
prime example of American Craftsmanship manufactured in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Yazoo City</st1:city>, <st1:state w:st="on">Mississippi</st1:state></st1:place>.
Honey, this lawn mower is the Cadillac of lawn equipment!</i></b>” But, </span><span style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Mama just disappeared inside, unimpressed. She'd have to keep making do with her black-and-white Dean Martin.</span></span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgupFy8xH-4GS92bwasIN5fQlnI9EhyphenhyphenB36_WrFvtM7sSoqqgaZc_d2m3agKAjvPgRfysNsraKScDrVVnsroMVSpbG3EVoL-gKIYLZYqyo5RPTsgl3jnvTAIUrphE8rQinn3TGJ1q6rS81zs/s1600/1967+Yazoo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgupFy8xH-4GS92bwasIN5fQlnI9EhyphenhyphenB36_WrFvtM7sSoqqgaZc_d2m3agKAjvPgRfysNsraKScDrVVnsroMVSpbG3EVoL-gKIYLZYqyo5RPTsgl3jnvTAIUrphE8rQinn3TGJ1q6rS81zs/s200/1967+Yazoo.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"The Mighty Yazoo"</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Daddy continued his speech on me: “<b><i>Greg,
this is one powerful machine, much better than our old Sears’ mower.</i></b>” After
a moment of grief over the death of my imagined stunts and escapades, daddy’s excitement
began to rub off. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">That new <st1:place w:st="on">Yazoo</st1:place>
had two large bicycle-sized tires on the rear, two smaller tires on front and, come to think of it, the handle even looked like butterfly handlebars.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">According to daddy, the extra leverage provided
by the large rear tires allowed a person to “<b><i>expand their boundaries into heavy
brush and even mow down small sapling trees</i></b>.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Although, as the oldest son, grass-cutting
duties belonged to me, it was only right that daddy got to take her out for a
test mow. After carefully cutting the front yard with straight lines and
90-degree turns, he ceremoniously turned her over to me. Manhood had arrived! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I mowed the front yard. I mowed the side
yard. I mowed the back yard. I </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">mowed all the way down the hill to </span><st1:street style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;" w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Stouts Road</st1:address></st1:street><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">. I was goose-stepping through that high grass like a German soldier marching into
battle. By the time I finished, it was getting dark, so I parked her under the house for
the night.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">That night, I lay in bed thinking about
my new Yazoo. In my mind, I traced <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Stouts
Road</st1:address></st1:street> from Kimberly Church of God all the way to <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Morris</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">Cemetery</st1:placename></st1:place>.
I made mental notes of all my future lawn-care customers. The cash windfall my <st1:place w:st="on">Yazoo</st1:place> was gonna earn me was unimaginable. Twenty dollars
a week was well within my reach. By next summer I could own a fleet of Yazoos.
The sky was the limit. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Next mornin’, I was up early--an uncommon
Saturday occurrence for me. Normally, I slept in, then woke up and ate a few bowls of
Krispy Kritters while checking on the latest adventures of Bugs Bunny and
Wiley Coyote. Our black-and-white TV carried two channels, and I
could usually squeeze in four cartoons before the Dialing-for-Dollars
scary movies started at noon. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But, that Saturday, I was on a mission.
Since I had cut our grass the day before, I started on my BamMaw’s
grass next door. Her yard was bigger and had more hills, but me and my <st1:place w:st="on">Yazoo</st1:place>
conquered a half-day job in less than two hours.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">When BamMaw returned from getting her hair
done down the hill at Margie Kelley’s beauty shop, she beamed with pride at her newly-cut lawn.
For a few minutes,<b><i> I</i></b> was<b><i> </i></b>her favorite grandchild. She bent
down--the smell of Aqua Net still fresh on her stacked-up curls, which were reinforced by
hairpins and a net--and kissed my sweaty cheek. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I was a
grass-cuttin’ superhero. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Onto bigger challenges.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">What happened next was…well…back then, I
called it a vision. These days, I realize it was probably a mixture of over-inflated
ego, dehydration and inhaled Aqua Net. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But, I suddenly “<i><b>saw myself</b></i>” mowing a path
from our backyard to Walter Kelley’s General Store. (Those Kelleys were
entrepreneurs.) <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So, I plotted my mission. If I wanted a
direct shot from my house to Walter's store, I’d have to mow a 100-yard-long path
through six-foot high weeds, and then mow across a corner of Sister Creel’s
hayfield. But, the sheer amount of time this shortcut would save me to get from
my back yard to Walter’s candy counter would be worth the
challenge. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Most certainly, this path would cause me and my <st1:place w:st="on">Yazoo</st1:place> to face and mow unthinkable heights. But, I believed it could be done. After all, daddy<i> </i>said that <st1:place w:st="on">Yazoo</st1:place> would allow me to <i><b>“expand my boundaries into heavy brush and even mow down small sapling
trees.”</b></i> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So…I rared up the front tires and began to
mow over high weeds. Ten, twenty, thirty yards…deep into the heavy-brush jungle.
In my dehydrated, Aqua-netted imagination, weeds towered three or four feet
above my head, and all sorts of wild things cowered before the power of my mighty
<st1:place w:st="on">Yazoo</st1:place>. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Eventually, Walter Kelley’s general store towered
in front of me like a welcoming beacon. We had done it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I shut off the mower and looked back over
my shoulder. Like God's parting of the <st1:place w:st="on">Red Sea</st1:place>,
I had parted Sister Creel’s hayfield. The Promised Land lay just across <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Stouts Road</st1:address></st1:street>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I pushed my beautiful <st1:place w:st="on">Yazoo</st1:place>
back home through the newly-parted hayfield, head held high. Mama greeted me. She
was beaming as she complimented and rewarded her industrious son. “<b><i>Take this
and buy you and your brother something</i></b>,” she said as she dropped a dime and a
quarter in my sunburned, sweaty palm. Thirty-five cents! That could buy a boy and
his brother an array items from Walter’s candy case. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">As I proudly marched through my
newly-conquered shortcut, tightly gripping that dime and quarter, I contemplated
how I would spend it. But, come to think of it, why did Jeff deserve a reward? I was
the hot, sweaty son. All Jeff did was sit on the couch and watch Lassie. Why
should <i><b>he</b></i> get any of my thirty-five
cents? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Still contemplating, I walked in the store and said “<i><b>mornin</b></i>” to Walter, who was leaning over the counter talking to Bo Waddell. Bo
sat at his usual spot, perched on top of an RC Cola crate turned on its side. They
were immersed in smoking Winstons and discussing how George Wallace and his
wife, Lurleen, were going to save us all. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Quickly, I surveyed the pegboard wall behind
the cash register that held a little bit of everything--including batteries for
your flashlight and, way up high on the top pegboard, a real transistor radio
sealed in plastic covered with a thin layer of dust. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">On the shelves, many of the canned goods held two or three price stickers on top of each other, cataloging the rising inflation and the length of time they had sat on the shelves. There
were loaves of Merita Bread, cans of <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Vienna</st1:place></st1:city>
sausages and small silver tins of Bruton snuff. The glass-domed cooler at the
back of the store held bacon, eggs, butter, those delicious Stewart sandwiches,
whole milk, buttermilk and chocolate milk. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The metal racks at the front of the store held
banana flips, honey buns, fried pies and all sorts of candy. Man, did I love those
flips and candy! Spoken by a boy who wore “husky jeans” from Sears Roebuck. And,
as if the icy-cold drinks in the dark confines of the CoCola ice boxes weren’t
enough, on hot summer days, those boxes were also home to GooGoo Clusters.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So…as you see, I had to be careful and
maximize my purchasing power. But, unbeknownst to Walter, I had become skilled
at beating the system. I had learned that, with thirty-five cents, I could save
three cents worth of tax if I made purchases of ten-cents or less, since no tax
was charged on items costing less than 15 cents.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">First, I purchased a Dr. Pepper for 10
cents. I drained the entire bottle in a single swallow. Now, with only
twenty-five cents left, I had to purchase my main course and still buy
something for that undeserving Jeff. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">As I stood there surveying my limitless
choices, it dawned on me. I’d buy the pack of pink
marshmallow/coconut/chocolate Snowballs. That way, I got two cakes for the
price of one—one for me and one for Jeff. And, dadgum it, I ended up spending
my last dime on a Dr. Pepper for the Lassie-watchin’ freeloader.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">After I completed my purchases, I retired
outside to enjoy <b><i>my</i></b> Snowball, leaving Walter and Bo inside, engulfed in their
Winston cloud, dreaming about the glory days ahead with George and Lurleen at
the wheel.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Life was good! I sat down next to Walter’s
gas pumps, leaning against the 55-gallon drum he had cut in half and filled
with water. Walter would dip tires in this mosquito-larvae-wiggly-tail infested
water to check for flats. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Sitting there, looking up that 100-yard-long
path directly to my back door, holding my delicious Snowball, I savored the
moment, reflecting on what a wondrous person I must be to have accomplished
God’s will by “subduing the earth” with my wondrous Yazoo. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I savored each fluffy, pink bite until <i>my</i> Snowball was gone. After a bit more daydreaming
about my greatness, I looked down and realized I had drunk Jeff’s Dr. Pepper. Mama
was gonna kill me! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Maybe I could say there were ants in it…or
that Bo Waddell had wrestled me to the ground for it…I could come up with
something. After all, I was the boy who had both subdued the earth AND beaten
the State of <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Alabama</st1:place></st1:state>’s
tax system.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">While sitting there trying to invent a good story, I took a big bite out of Jeff’s Snowball. Apparently, the devil
was now in me! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And, at that very moment, I looked up, and there, walking down <b><i>my</i></b> newly-mowed, shortcut, comes Cottontop
himself—Jeff—my undeserving, heathen brother.</span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq76qeCBfh9eWlgzrTL8Y1yAJ8DkJJ-0CcdtM1BSDnWCmMMW8EgSc8i8ho3yCtKykB_bDWIe885nUinvDrVRRVy4GpsZ_tOVs1qxoqx7LbJdkQEvJ8RAoF99vodO9-xg4Zzmso1RlAM5Q3/s1600/Cottontop.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq76qeCBfh9eWlgzrTL8Y1yAJ8DkJJ-0CcdtM1BSDnWCmMMW8EgSc8i8ho3yCtKykB_bDWIe885nUinvDrVRRVy4GpsZ_tOVs1qxoqx7LbJdkQEvJ8RAoF99vodO9-xg4Zzmso1RlAM5Q3/s200/Cottontop.jpg" width="136" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">"<i><b>CottonTop</b></i>" (aka Jeff)</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So, I shoved the remaining evidence into my
mouth. I tried to swallow, but dry cake and sticky marshmallow only lodged in my throat. It would not come
up. It would not go down. That Snowball was stuck. I had no Dr.
Pepper. I had no money. I was getting light headed. I was going to die! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I looked around, desperate, panicked. Then, I remembered the tire barrel I was leaning against. So I jumped
up and was just about to gulp down a two-cupped-handful of mosquito-larvae-wiggly-tail infested-flat-tire water, when God (or maybe it was
my jumping) caused that fist-sized pink conglomeration to burst forth from my
windpipe. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Evidently, it was not Jesus’ time for me to
go. I would live to mow another lawn with my mighty <st1:place w:st="on">Yazoo</st1:place>.
To eat another pink Snowball and drink another cold Dr. Pepper!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">....That is, <b><i>if</i></b>
Ol’ Cottontop didn’t kill me first for enjoying his.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But, what was I thinking--my mighty <st1:place w:st="on">Yazoo</st1:place> could handle him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">By: Greg Easter </span><span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5534768459844114772.post-50612511521922878842013-02-14T11:03:00.000-08:002013-02-14T11:04:15.926-08:00A Lenten love story<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjrraldLP2B6aWhor5AVuM2ckJHGQTiuxBfJNe6rIA7gs6OKcu0DjIs4UnX4BJEXSS0cRzoXJSvh2NzHlcoVQvoe9gcs5yY1IlmOWYDPLLs5M_oONxnaLK04E6y0qe_uSwYF0cnUCI1IJe/s1600/ashes_remember.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjrraldLP2B6aWhor5AVuM2ckJHGQTiuxBfJNe6rIA7gs6OKcu0DjIs4UnX4BJEXSS0cRzoXJSvh2NzHlcoVQvoe9gcs5yY1IlmOWYDPLLs5M_oONxnaLK04E6y0qe_uSwYF0cnUCI1IJe/s1600/ashes_remember.jpg" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The first Ash Wednesday service I ever attended was a bit of a comedy of errors. I'm sure everyone realized, "</span><i style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">She's never done this before</i><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">." (Frankly, I've decided Catholics and Episcopalians have strong synapses and amazingly good motor skills, because much multitasking is involved in their services--at least the ones I've been to.) The ability to juggle the bulletin, Book of Common Prayer, hymnal and pew altar at designated points in the service requires focus and dexterity! </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">At this busy (but beautiful) Ash Wednesday service, through song, sermon and prayer, the minister called us to repentance. However, I must confess that his only words I remember are the ones he spoke as he painted the cross-shaped ashes on my forehead: </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"<b><i>Remember you are dust, and to dust you shall return</i></b>."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Looking back, I realize the reason these words affected me so deeply was the frail, elderly couple sitting two rows in front of me. They “preached” me a crystal-clear sermon about just how quickly all of us "return to dust," and <b>how</b> we are called to live and to love in the meantime.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">You see, when it was time for me to go receive communion and the "imposition of ashes" (as they call it), I waited at the end of this couple's row to let them step in front of me. All the way out the pew and up the aisle, the husband took halting, shuffled steps, which seemed possible only with the help of his wife's tiny, mottled arm, which wrapped protectively around him.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I wondered how he would ever manage to kneel and get back up but, with her help, he did. While I did not see him take the bread and cup, I couldn't help but hear him because...every movement, every breath...was labored...costly...seemingly uncertain.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The two of them lingered there...kneeling at that altar...for several moments, with her frail little arm never unwrapping from him.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">As I watched them laboriously rise from that altar and walk back down the aisle and into their pew, I wondered what sort of devotion was required to get one’s self and one’s frail husband dressed and into the car…one’s self and one’s frail husband out of the car and into the church…one’s self and one’s frail husband up the aisle to painstakingly kneel at an altar to take the bread and the cup and to get back up again.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Watching the two of them, with the newly-painted ashen crosses marking their foreheads...well...it made me sob...and I bowed my head to try to pull myself back together.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">When I opened my eyes, I noticed tiny gray spots on the pages of the Book of Common Prayer, which lay open in my lap. I touched one of these spots, and it smudged. When I saw another one drifting down and landing on the page, I realized what was happening--the ashes from the newly-painted cross on my forehead were flaking off.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">As I tried to brush them away without smudging the pages, I realized, “<i>That’s where such determined devotion begins…in the flaking off…the flaking off of selfishness…the flaking off of "the old me.”</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And, Jesus' cross...the forgiveness and power found there...is the only way that “flaking off” can ever begin and can ever endure.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I've often wondered about that couple. I feel quite certain that was the last time those ashes were painted on his forehead...perhaps the last time he ever took the bread and drank the cup. But what a beautiful picture of a sacred, foot-washing kind of love he and his bride painted for us that night. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">In his book, "<i>The Voyage of the Dawn Treader</i>," C. S. Lewis also paints a beautiful picture of this "flaking off." One of the book's characters, Eustace, through pride, self-pity and greed, has taken actions that have caused him to be turned into a dragon. But, once the newness of being a fierce dragon wears off, he is miserable and very sorry for how he has treated everyone. Listen to what happens:</span><br />
<em><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"I looked up and saw the very last thing I expected: a huge lion coming toward me...It told me to follow...And I knew I had to do what it told me, so I got up and followed it. And it led me to...a garden. In the middle of it was a well, which was more like a very big round bath...and I thought, 'If I could get in there and bathe, it would ease the pain in my leg' (from the jeweled bracelet that had become more like a shackle).</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But the lion told me I must undress first....so I started scratching, and my scales began coming off all over the place. And then, I scratched a little deeper,...and my whole skin started peeling off beautifully...as if I was a banana...In a minute or two, I just stepped out of it. I could see it laying there beside me, looking rather nasty. It was a most lovely feeling. So I started to go down into the well for my bath.</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But, just as I was going to put my feet into the water, I looked down and saw that they were all hard and rough and wrinkly and scaly just as they had been before....So I scratched and tore again and (it) peeled off beautifully again and out I stepped...and went down to the well for my bath. And exactly the same thing happened again, and I thought, 'Oh, dear, how ever many skins have I got to take off?'...</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Then the lion said, 'You will have to let me undress you.' I was afraid of his claws, but I was pretty nearly desperate now. So I just lay down and let him do it.</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The very first tear he made was so deep that I thought it had gone right into my heart. And when he began pulling the skin off, it hurt worse than anything I've ever felt. The only thing that made me able to bear it was just the pleasure of feeling the old stuff peel off....</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Well, he peeled the beastly stuff right off...And there I was as smooth and as soft as a peeled switch and smaller than I had been. Then he caught hold of me--I didn't like that very much for I was very tender now that I had no skin on--and he threw me into the water. It smarted like anything but only for a moment. After that, it became perfectly delicious and as soon as I started swimming and splashing, I found that all the pain had gone....</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">After a bit, the lion took me out and dressed me...in new clothes....And then, suddenly, I was back here...</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Then Eustace asked, 'What do you think it was?'</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And Edmund answered, 'I think you've seen Aslan.'....</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Now, it would be nice and fairly nearly true, to say that from that time forth Eustace was a different boy. But, to be strictly accurate, he (only) began to be a different boy. He had relapses. There were still many days when he could be very tiresome. But...the cure had begun."</span></em><br />
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<b><i><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"Before the Passover celebration,</span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Jesus knew his hour had come to leave this world</span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">and return to his Father.</span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">He had loved his disciples during his ministry on earth,</span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">and now he loved them to the very end....</span></i></b></div>
<div align="right">
<b><i><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Jesus knew the Father had given him authority over everything</span></i></b></div>
<div align="right">
<b><i><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">and that he had come from God and would return to God.</span></i></b></div>
<div align="right">
<b><i><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So he got up from the table, took off his robe,</span></i></b></div>
<div align="right">
<b><i><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">wrapped a towel around his waist, and poured water into a basin.</span></i></b></div>
<div align="right">
<b><i><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Then he began to wash the disciples’ feet,</span></i></b></div>
<div align="right">
<b><i><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">drying them with the towel he had around him.</span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">When Jesus came to Simon Peter,</span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Peter said to him, “Lord, are you going to wash my feet?”</span></i></b></div>
<div align="right">
<b><i><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Jesus replied, “You don’t understand now what I am doing,</span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">but someday you will.”</span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“No,” Peter protested, “you will never ever wash my feet!”</span></i></b></div>
<div align="right">
<b><i><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Jesus replied, “Unless I wash you, you won’t belong to me.”</span></i></b></div>
<div align="right">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">(John 13:1-8, NLT)</span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5534768459844114772.post-46741100197410995732013-02-10T06:14:00.001-08:002013-02-10T06:14:33.234-08:00Rerun of "You Have to Breathe...."<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9I26ZePDBQYXcaXMMnhG1xiAXFACS15XCnyQxuNdjv49d_QsDvw5BriaPaqMcDwcWE910Y3N61vmT0YtAd_7MUjhgKGH2AqMvwBhDjQzCZKeAUWELNqr9uZ0dYarQy8nSiwjjoldxjw0W/s1600/Kimberly+Choir.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="217" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9I26ZePDBQYXcaXMMnhG1xiAXFACS15XCnyQxuNdjv49d_QsDvw5BriaPaqMcDwcWE910Y3N61vmT0YtAd_7MUjhgKGH2AqMvwBhDjQzCZKeAUWELNqr9uZ0dYarQy8nSiwjjoldxjw0W/s320/Kimberly+Choir.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
I don't remember the first time I met her. But, I'm certain singing was involved.<br />
<br />
Her husband had come to our little country church as youth pastor, and she was part of the bargain. She became director of the Kimberly Church of God Youth Choir. (I never asked her how she felt about that--as a self-involved teenager, I rarely wondered how adults felt.)<br />
<br />
One of my first memories of her is clear as a bell--she was teaching us how to breathe. <strong>"<em>Breathe as though you're trying to breathe air through a straw deep down into your belly</em>,"</strong> she instructed us as she stood there with her hands on her hips, demonstrating this technique. <strong>"<em>If you're raising your shoulders, you aren't doing it right."</em></strong><br />
<br />
She was smart enough to realize that you had to breathe before you could sing.<br />
<br />
And, boy oh boy, did she teach us to sing! (That's her in the picture above...at a moment when it looks like we're causing her to at least want to pull her hair out.)<br />
<br />
That group of awkward, pimple-faced teenagers ended up winning our church's State Teen Talent Competition, and coming in second at the national competition. (Losing to Mableton still sticks in our craw.)<br />
<br />
One summer, we loaded up on a bus and traveled all the way from Kimberly to New York City, where we sang on street corners and in churches and sang "The Cross Is My Statue of Liberty" at the DADGUM STATUE OF LIBERTY! (Now, how many people can make such a claim?)<br />
<br />
One year--I believe it was for our Easter service--she decided we needed to learn a musical titled "Celebrate Life."<br />
<br />
...We did...We learned it so well that we performed it more than 100 times at churches across the Southeast.<br />
<br />
It was a season of celebrating life that we will never forget.<br />
<br />
To this day, I can recall most of the songs' words. One of my favorites was "I Quietly Turned to You," which is the song sung by the woman whom Jesus healed from 12 years of hemorrhaging. My friend, Joy, usually sang this solo. (If I close my eyes, I can still "hear" her clear, young voice.) After Joy died several years ago, I'd find myself sometimes singing those words--<br />
"<em>There was nowhere else to turn, and nowhere else to go.</em><br />
<em>My body knew all the pain a body could know.</em><br />
<em>Then I quietly turned to you; I quietly turned to you.</em><br />
<em>Help of the helpless...hope of the hopeless...I turned to you.</em>"<br />
<br />
Then, there was the beautiful song about the last meal Jesus shared with those He loved most:<br />
<div>
<em>In remembrance of Me, eat this bread.</em></div>
<div>
<em></em></div>
<div>
<em>In remembrance of Me, drink this wine.</em></div>
<div>
<em>In remembrance of Me, pray for the time</em></div>
<div>
<em>When God's own will is done.</em></div>
<div>
<em>In remembrance of Me, heal the sick.</em></div>
<div>
<em>In remembrance of Me, feed the poor.</em></div>
<div>
<em>In remembrance of Me, open the door</em></div>
<div>
<em>And let your brother in....</em></div>
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<em>In remembrance of Me, don't look above,</em></div>
<div>
<em>But in your heart, in your heart, </em></div>
<div>
<em>Look in your heart for God.</em></div>
<div>
<em>Do this in remembrance of Me.</em><br />
<em></em><br />
Whenever we would sing that particular song, my eyes were drawn to the bathrobe-clad actors who played Jesus' disciples--Greg, Jeff, Bob, Michael, Kevin, Joey...others I can't recall now. I always wondered if they felt a little of what those 2,000-year-old disciples must have felt.</div>
<br />
I don't remember the exact date we stopped taking our traveling "Celebrate Life" tour on the road.<br />
<br />
By then, all of our lives had become a little more complicated.<br />
<br />
In the growing-up years since then, a few of those teenagers have gone on to sing in places around the globe. Some have stopped singing. Some have died, and are now <em>with</em> that Jesus they once sang about with such exuberance.<br />
<br />
Each of us has learned in our own way that life <em><strong>is</strong></em> hard, but God <strong><em>is</em></strong> good.<br />
<br />
Over the years, whenever kind, gracious people have asked me, "<em><strong>Where did you study music</strong></em>?," my response has been, "<strong><em>Marla Wilson taught me</em></strong>." They usually follow up that reply with, "<strong><em>Where does she teach?" </em></strong>And I answer, "<strong><em>She was my youth choir director at the Kimberly Church of God.</em></strong>"<br />
<br />
But, she was much more than that. Yes, she taught us to sing. But, more importantly, she taught us that music...singing...is a precious gift. She taught us that, because singing is a form of worship, we should approach it with an attitude of excellence. She was one of the first people to teach me about the role and importance of <strong><em>excellence</em></strong> in worship...and in life!<br />
<br />
She also taught us the difference between performance and worship, and that <strong><em>worship</em></strong> should always be at the heart of singing.<br />
<br />
Because of her vision for that little rag-tag group of singing teenagers...AND her and Jerald's faithful, hard work that vision required...we experienced people and places and things that opened our eyes and hearts to just how large this Kingdom of God really is.<br />
<br />
Last fall, she offered to reunite those now-middle-aged teenagers to come and perform "Celebrate Life" for my mom, one of the Kimberly Church of God Youth Choir's biggest fans and most consistent chaperones.<br />
<br />
But, the chaos of the season caused me to decline her sweet, generous offer. While I still believe it was the <strong><em>right</em></strong> thing to do, I'll admit there have been days when I've regretted having to make that decision. One of those days was when I learned that Marla has been diagnosed with some pretty major health challenges.<br />
<br />
When I read the sweet, encouraging notes sent to her on Facebook and CaringBridge by so many of her "kids," (forgive us, April,...we all know she and Jerald were just waiting for you!)...I realize that what Marla was building with each rehearsal, with each "performance" (I never liked that word), with each trip on that converted school bus...was something that will outlast <strong><em>time.</em></strong><br />
<br />
She was building Levites (if I might be so bold)....She was building disciples.<br />
<br />
So, thank you, sweet Marla, for teaching us to breathe so that you could teach us to sing...sometimes even in the dark.<br />
<br />
I believe the Bible passage I read today is meant for you and your beloveds--Jerald, April and Glenda--from your Abba who loves you:<br />
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<strong><em>But now...listen to the LORD who created you...</em></strong></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<strong><em>T</em></strong><em><strong>he one who formed you says,</strong></em></div>
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<em><strong>“Do not be afraid, for I have ransomed you.</strong></em></div>
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<em><strong>I have called you by name; you are mine.</strong></em></div>
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<em><strong>When you go through deep waters, I will be with you.</strong></em></div>
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<em><strong>When you go through rivers of difficulty,</strong></em></div>
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<em><strong>you will not drown.</strong></em></div>
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<em><strong>When you walk through the fire of oppression,</strong></em></div>
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<em><strong>you will not be burned up;</strong></em></div>
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<em><strong>the flames will not consume you.</strong></em></div>
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<em><strong>For I am the LORD, your God,</strong></em></div>
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<em><strong>the Holy One of Israel, your Savior....</strong></em></div>
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<em><strong>“But...it is nothing compared to what I am going to do.</strong></em></div>
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<em><strong>For I am about to do something new.</strong></em></div>
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<em><strong>See, I have already begun! Do you not see it?</strong></em></div>
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<em><strong>I will make a pathway through the wilderness.</strong></em></div>
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<em><strong>I will create rivers in the dry wasteland.</strong></em></div>
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<em><strong>....Yes, I will make rivers in the dry wasteland</strong></em></div>
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<em><strong>so my chosen people can be refreshed.</strong></em></div>
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(from Isaiah 43, NLT)</div>
<div>
And, for your birthday, here is a reminder, which I believe you'll recognize:</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<strong><em>He is alive! Jesus is alive!</em></strong></div>
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<br /></div>
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<strong><em>I waited patiently for the LORD to help me,</em></strong></div>
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<strong><em></em></strong></div>
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<strong><em>and he turned to me and heard my cry.</em></strong></div>
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<strong><em>He lifted me out of the pit of despair,</em></strong></div>
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<strong><em>out of the mud and the mire.</em></strong></div>
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<strong><em>He set my feet on solid ground</em></strong></div>
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<strong><em>and steadied me as I walked along.</em></strong></div>
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<strong><em>He has given me a new song to sing,</em></strong></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<strong><em>a hymn of praise to our God.</em></strong></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<strong><em>Many will see what he has done and be amazed.</em></strong></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<strong><em>They will put their trust in the LORD.</em></strong></div>
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<strong><em>Oh, the joys of those who trust the LORD....</em></strong></div>
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(Psalm 40:1-4, NLT)</div>
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</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5534768459844114772.post-64724914111372992572013-02-01T15:29:00.001-08:002013-02-01T16:11:11.843-08:00Lessons Learned...A Baker's Dozen <span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">So…a year ago today…mom fell and broke both legs--right
femur, left ankle. It happened here, at our home.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">We were getting ready to move her into a lovely assisted-living apartment. We had the furniture all in place, pictures and
curtains hung, clothes put away. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">She had spent the night at our house because I was taking her to the
doctor that morning to see if a change in medications would help her not
sleep so much. I had woken her up (from the downstairs study we had converted
into her “bedroom”) and helped her get to the powder room to get dressed. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">When I left her to go back to go get her clothes, she was
standing at the sink. Next thing I know, I heard this THUD…and my heart sank. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I sprinted back to the powder room, only to discover that
the way she had fallen had caused her to block the door. So, I just had to keep
pushing until my weight against the door caused her body to move enough for me
to squeeze through. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">As soon as I saw her, I knew her ankle was broken…badly…And,
she was extremely addled; so, I just assumed she had suffered another stroke.
(But they didn’t find a sign of one.)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">After unsuccessfully trying a few times to get her up off
the floor, I told her we HAD to call an ambulance. Let’s just say she did NOT
want that.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But…within a few minutes, they arrived. Thank God for
compassionate, capable EMTS and ambulance drivers--they were WONDERFUL! Before
that day, I had never stopped to think about the fact that they typically see
people at their absolute worst--injured, hurting, frightened, incoherent, soiled--and
they (at least the ones who helped us) respond with compassion, respect,
professionalism and humor. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Well, the next few days were a roller-coaster ride for
everyone. During many of those hours, we thought mom’s suffering might be
ending. In her semi-conscious state (from the drugs, trauma, etc.), she held
entire conversations with daddy, Mimi and other of “loves” who have made it
Home. The sweetest one was between her and daddy--overheard by my brother--when
she said, “<b><i>Honey, let’s go over there and sit under that shade tree and rest
awhile.</i></b>” </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But…she recovered from the fall and the fractures. Unfortunately,
there is no “recovery” from Alzheimer’s. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">However…for the most part…she is happy…content. (One blessing
of mom’s Alzheimer’s is she has forgotten all the people and things that have
caused her so much pain, frustration and sadness over these past few decades.) There's a lesson in that for me--about the happiness and contentment that forgiving and forgetting can bring. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyqTIle6UxRE-_-qsyl476ljnSc_QUp3DIkIAE-uIwT-lb20C0oSG7OqMnfSOzNC3M4E_UlwsiNaujZuAV0c7iXIcH01OOivdg7bJAKunBVCWS6aQepHmaG93zleeTOmgzMUUYzYe-gZNd/s1600/Kev+&+Mom.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyqTIle6UxRE-_-qsyl476ljnSc_QUp3DIkIAE-uIwT-lb20C0oSG7OqMnfSOzNC3M4E_UlwsiNaujZuAV0c7iXIcH01OOivdg7bJAKunBVCWS6aQepHmaG93zleeTOmgzMUUYzYe-gZNd/s400/Kev+&+Mom.jpg" width="300" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">This is a picture of mom and my brother, Kevin, </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">taken at the recent Christmas Eve service. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Earlier this week, I shared this upcoming “anniversary” with
a dear friend. She asked me, “<i>What have
you learned</i>?”</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And…that got me thinking, “<i>What HAVE I learned?</i>” I’m sure
when I think about it a bit longer, I’ll come up with a longer list. But, for
now…shooting from the hip…here are the lessons I’ve learned:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><u>1. You need to get
prepared. And…you really should have done it YESTERDAY</u></b>. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">If you’re the care-giving “child” of a parent or other
family member, you NEED to at least talk about a plan for WHEN is the time to get Power of Attorney. (And, from the day you have
Power of Attorney, carry that form with you EVERYWHERE you go, and make extra
copies of it for faxing to insurance companies, etc., because they WILL lose
that form the first two or three times you fax it.)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Also, you NEED to make sure you’re listed on EVERY SINGLE HIPPA
form at each and every one of their doctors, and each and every time they are
admitted to the hospital. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And, you NEED to figure out a way to get your head around
their financial situation--bank accounts, health insurance, life insurance,
etc. Accomplishing the above isn’t comfortable or
easy, and there's typically never a good time. But, the health
crises of aging generally don’t just slowly creep up on you. They’re more like, <b><i>“BAM!!! Here we are! What the heck are you gonna do now?”</i></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So…if they are resistant…try to enlist the help of a
good friend or family member whom they trust to go with you to have this
conversation.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><u><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">2. NOTHING about
Alzheimer’s is logical; let go of ANY expectations. <o:p></o:p></span></u></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Expecting a logical response to a logical question is pointless
and fruitless (except it WILL drive you BANANAS). No matter how many times or
how loudly you say the word, “<b><i>Remember,</i></b>” they are NOT going to
remember. Spit that word out of your vocabulary, and throw it in the trash. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">You have to realize that you WILL repeat yourself several dozen times during a
30-minute period of time. If you know this going in…it will help you keep that frustration "button" turned off. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><u>3. Get to know the
facility’s Social Worker and Business Office employees</u></b>. All these new,
confusing forms you’re trying to fill and obstacles you’re trying to navigate …well,
these people have been doing it 5 days a week, 8 hours a day for years. They are EXPERTS! Go to them FIRST; they will save your sanity!
Then, bake them cookies!</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><u>3. You MUST show
yourself (and others) lots of forgiveness</u></b>. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The drive to see mom is almost a 30-minute drive from my
house; so, sometimes--with a family and a job to juggle--even on the days when I had planned to go visit--it just
doesn’t happen. And, I’ve learned it doesn’t do anyone any good for me to beat
myself up about a missed visit.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b><u><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">4. There's this "#5"...that has something to do with "honoring."</span></u></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">This
is NOT an easy disease to watch. There are days when it is so tempting to just
not go. After all, less than 5 minutes after I leave, she’s going to have NO
memory of me being there. But, how can I claim to be a Jesus follower if, at
the same time, I’m “copping out” on her? Especially when honoring her made #5 of the Top 10 Commandments...I call this the
spiritual discipline of “<b><i>Doing The Next Right Thing</i></b>.”
(Personally, I think it needs to be up there with prayer, Bible reading,
fasting, etc.) John Mayer is right, “<i>Love
is a verb</i>.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><u><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">5. (Another #5.)
LAUGH!<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I cannot stress the importance of giving yourself permission
to laugh. As my life-long friend (who shall remain anonymous) advised me, “<i><b>You
should look for something to laugh at it in every nook and granny.</b></i>” Trust me…we
aren’t mean-spirited with our laughter…and, quite often, she laughs with us. But,
be intentional about doing so-- every day there is something about this disease
that could make me cry if I let it. Laughter is one of my ways of not letting
this monster win! It is taking enough--I will not allow it to take our humor!</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><u>6. When life takes
you to your knees, stay there</u></b>.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">This year has helped sweep away any idea of quick, clean,
neatly-tied-up answers to prayer. One day as I was praying, it finally hit me, “He
knows exactly the sadness and anxiety I’m feeling--I might as well tell him
about it myself.” And, I’ve learned He can handle it. Often these days, I
engage my imagination during my prayers (Hey…if it’s good enough for C.S. Lewis
it’s good enough for me) I imagine that I’m leaning my head against my Abba’s knee;
it’s truly amazing how much more “real” that helps me be.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Throughout this year, I often remember words from my very
wise father-in-law, </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“<b><i>Prayer doesn’t always change things, but prayer always changes us</i></b>.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><u>7. Remind yourself
often WHO God is</u></b>. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">In His Sovereignty, He has allowed this thing to happen--not
caused it or willed it, but allowed it. After all, we live in a fallen world.
But, He IS Sovereign. He is Love. He is Faithful. He does care. He IS With us.
And, one day, He WILL make everything whole, right, just. In the meantime, He
gives us grace and strength for the next step and has promised to transform
everything that happens to us into “good” IF we keep trusting Him. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><u>8. Take care of
yourself</u></b>. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">When we’re stressed, sad, depressed, it’s so easy to make
unhealthy choices…right when our bodies and minds need us to be at our healthiest.
So, drink more water; walk; take a multivitamin; get more protein; limit carbs
and bad fats; and BREATHE…deeply and often. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><u>9. Give yourself
permission to say NO</u></b>.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">No one can do that for you. If your NO makes someone mad or
hurts their feelings… well…to repeat some words that came out of my mouth several years ago (and which I and others have now used COUNTLESS times, “<b><i>They need
help that you cannot give</i></b>.”)</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b><u><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">10. It’s OK to
CRY.<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I find myself crying at the oddest things. I almost always
cry a little on my way home from visits with mom, especially if she’s been sad
or anxious. And WHEN will I learn to take tissues to church? </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Recently, some words found me that painted such a beautiful,
spot-on painful picture of this disease that I wept for a long time after I
closed the magazine. Well, here, I’ll let you read them too:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“….<i><b>So today my father is with us, but only in a half-life stage….I
can hold his hand and tie his shoes, button his shirt and take him for a walk,
but the essence of him, my real father, no longer resides (there). Each time I
see him, it takes me a moment to re-register his condition. This present
reality requires a painful recalibration of my heart, and I approach him with
shifting sensations of (love), devotion, horror and profound sadness</b></i>.” (Lee
Woodruff)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><u><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">11. LAUGH<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">(See #5.)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><u>12. Live Fully…Right
Now</u></b>.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It’s probably no coincidence that, during this past year, I’ve
been more intentional about learning to “celebrate” the simple. My mama is both a
reminder and a mirror. So, I’ve begun actually doing some things I’ve always said “<i>one day</i>” about--like playing piano again…and, heck,
I even auditioned to be a back-up singer in a band! </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Again, Lee Woodruff’s words say it so beautifully, <b><i>“(I’m
already) teaching myself to slow down….I stop at the top of a hike to savor the
view. I pay closer attention when my children have something to tell me. The
gift of fully understanding that you will die is to come to terms with how you
want to live.</i></b>” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><u><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">13. Do NOT look too far down the road. </span></u></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Shortly after mom was admitted to Shannondale, I looked WAY TOO FAR DOWN THE ROAD, and it took me to a pretty dark place. Jesus promises us grace and mercy and strength for this day--not for the imaginary "what-ifs" six months from now. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So...these are some lessons I've learned this past year. Trust me, I'm sure there will be days when I'll forget them. That's one reason I decided to write them down. You see, I've come to believe it's not that we QUIT believing so much as it is that we forget what it is we believe. So...this list is my reminder...for the days when I forget. So I can tell myself, <b><i>"Remember...."</i></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: right;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"Remember, therefore, </span></i></b></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">what you have received and heard;</span></i></b></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">hold it fast...."</span></i></b></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">(Revelation 3:3)</span></i></b></div>
</div>
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<br /></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5534768459844114772.post-64936241646976708702013-01-26T06:46:00.000-08:002013-01-26T06:46:56.352-08:00Quicksand!!!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimb3ISq8v2WmVxvJffs5Z9W8uTp5p4L7g-uNUUflvSRBBHlnkw8vqzGO71lgnjJGciMq8qePX5kvAF5gKxsEvH25KgEr-ieSqsuHJhII0pCKbQzncd0Vd1LQVrZTLDyQ05NDh5HHT4OeUS/s1600/Kevin+%2526+Lisa.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="232" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimb3ISq8v2WmVxvJffs5Z9W8uTp5p4L7g-uNUUflvSRBBHlnkw8vqzGO71lgnjJGciMq8qePX5kvAF5gKxsEvH25KgEr-ieSqsuHJhII0pCKbQzncd0Vd1LQVrZTLDyQ05NDh5HHT4OeUS/s320/Kevin+%2526+Lisa.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
Even though my cousin, Lisa, is only four months younger than me, it was my little brother, Kevin, who she ALWAYS got in trouble with. (That's them in this picture...plotting their next adventure...I'm sure of it.)<br />
<br />
First off, I should tell you that Lisa is the youngest of four daughters born to my daddy's brother, John Walter Kelley, Jr., and his wife, Barbara. Like all great southern men, my Uncle Walter had many names--Junior, Chief, Shug, FudgeMan--am I forgetting any? But, most of his nieces and nephews called him NooNoon.<br />
<br />
After serving in WWII, NooNoon came home and married his love, Barbara. He loved her 'til the day he died. (I'm sure he still does.)<br />
<br />
Like almost everyone in Kimberly, NooNoon and Barbara struggled to make ends meet. He worked at the local brickyard, and together they ran "NooNoon's store."<br />
<br />
Behind their house was a HUGE field. During most summers, this field was tilled and planted into a vegetable garden. It bordered NooNoon's backyard, my Uncle Sherill's backyard, my Uncle Paul's backyard, and the Kimberly First Baptist Church parking lot.<br />
<br />
One particular year brought a monsoon-like Alabama spring. It rained. And rained. And rained some more. And turned that field into a football-field-sized lake.<br />
<br />
Except for the Hoyt Kelleys and the Brady Kelleys, the rest of the Kelleys lived next door or back door to each other. (Oh, except for our Mimi..who lived in the coolest apartment EVER in downtown Birmingham--but that's another story for another time.)<br />
<br />
Some adult was always nearby. But, because it was safe-and-sound-1960s-Kimberly, the grownups usually never had a clue where us kids were unless it was time for supper. Such was the case on the finally-sunny Saturday when Lisa (6) and Kevin (4) went "wading" in NooNoon's flooded field.<br />
<br />
All of a sudden, from my Mama Kelley's front yard, I heard children screaming bloody murder! Mama Kelley heard them too, and came out holding her ever-present hickory. So, she and I and the hickory set off in the direction of the screams, taking a shortcut through Uncle Sherill's backyard. (FYI, for years, my Uncle Sherill kept a rooster leashed to a clothesline because he didn't like waking up to an alarm clock--but that's another story for another time.)<br />
<br />
Well, we get to the edge of that flooded field and...standing way out in the middle...as far as they could go without being on their way to the other side...are Lisa and Kevin. And they are STUCK. And they are FREAKING OUT. They keep screaming, "<b><i>Quicksand! It's quicksand! We're sinking!</i></b>"<br />
<br />
By this time, several cousins have appeared, and we're standing at the edge of the field trying to figure out if <em><strong>those two</strong></em> are worth saving. Finally, somebody (can't remember who) had the good sense to run to the store and get NooNoon (aka Lisa's daddy).<br />
<br />
Then, from somewhere, mama shows up--in a skirt and nice shoes. Well...she heads straight out into that quagmire. And...about 20 steps in...you guessed it...she gets stuck too. When Lisa and Kevin realize that mama is stuck...well...they just LOSE IT. (Seeing my mama get stuck is also all it takes to convince the rest of us that two fewer cousins might not be such a bad thing, after all.)<br />
<br />
But, just when it looks to my 7-year-old eyes like I'm going to be an only-child-orphan, NooNoon arrives. I can still see him trudging into that muddy thick mud...grinning...and hear him keep trying to reassure Lisa and Kevin that they aren't gonna die.<br />
<br />
He hollers to mama, "<b><i>Hey, DoeDoe, you OK</i></b>?" (Those Kelleys can sure come up with the nicknames.) His first stop is to get mama unstuck...which he does...except for her shoes. Well, mama gets tickled, then NooNoon gets tickled. Unfortunately, Lisa and Kevin do not get tickled. They are still FREAKING out!<br />
<br />
Finally...hand-in-hand...laughing the whole way...NooNoon and mama make it out to the two little screamers. And, with a muddy, sucking sound, NooNoon pulls Kevin out and hands him to mama. Then, he grabs up Lisa and, together, the four of them head for dry ground.<br />
<br />
In my mind, I can still see Lisa...the back of her little head...arms wrapped around her daddy's neck...holding on for dear life. And my little brother, desperately (but gratefully) hanging on to mama's hip. And NooNoon and mama...hand-in-hand...still laughing.<br />
<br />
....Mama never did find those shoes.<br />
<br />
There are times in this upside-down kingdom when <em><strong>I </strong></em>feel like yelling, "<b><i>Quicksand! It's quicksand! I'm sinking!</i></b>" All my futile efforts to get myself (and others) unstuck only make things worse, and only make me freak out more. In those times, what I desperately need to remember is to just keep calling out to "Daddy" (my Abba)...and to be still...and wait for Him to show up...And, when He does, to just lift my tired, little arms and receive His rescuing hug.<br />
<br />
So, "<b><i>Happy Birthday, Lisa!</i></b>" Your earthly father's love for you and your sisters was such a mirror of your Heavenly Father's love. I hope this story brings you the same heart-felt laughter that NooNoon and DoeDoe found that day in the "quicksand."<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: right;">
<em><span style="color: #660000;"><b>"It seemed like a dream, too good to be true....</b></span></em></div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: right;">
<em><span style="color: #660000;"><b>We laughed, we sang,</b></span></em></div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: right;">
<em><span style="color: #660000;"><b>we couldn't believe our good fortune....</b></span></em></div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: right;">
<em><span style="color: #660000;"><b>God was wonderful to us;</b></span></em></div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: right;">
<em><span style="color: #660000;"><b>we (were) one happy people.</b></span></em></div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: right;">
<em><span style="color: #660000;"><b>And now, God, do it again—</b></span></em></div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: right;">
<em><span style="color: #660000;"><b>bring rains to our drought-stricken lives,</b></span></em></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<em><span style="color: #660000;"><b>so that those who planted their crops in despair</b></span></em></div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: right;">
<em><span style="color: #660000;"><b>will shout hurrahs at the harvest,</b></span></em></div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: right;">
<em><span style="color: #660000;"><b>so that those who went off with heavy hearts</b></span></em></div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: right;">
<span style="color: #660000;"><b><em>will come home laughing, </em><em>with armloads of blessing."</em></b></span></div>
</div>
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<div style="text-align: right;">
<span style="color: #660000;"><b>(From Psalm 126 of "The Message")</b></span></div>
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5534768459844114772.post-11392127728738186382013-01-10T08:22:00.001-08:002013-01-11T06:12:37.012-08:00Little Lord Fauntleroy LIVES...<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So in the last post, I introduced you to business-teacher-extraordinaire, Wynema Vogel, who tried to prepare us for this thing called <b><i>life</i></b>...at 120 words per minute. And, as is often the case, something I wrote triggered another memory, one that mainly involves my cousin and friend, Donna. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">You see, Donna and I were members of a club headed up by Mortimer Jordan High School's business teachers--the <b><i>Future Business Leaders of America (FBLA)</i></b>. (Isn't that just a hope-filled title for a high school club?)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">As I mentioned in the last post, Mrs. Vogel was always pushing us toward excellence. That particular year, the competitions she took us to were held at the FBLA's State Convention at a hotel in Birmingham, which, for us small-town girls, was a BIG DEAL. One of my roommates for the weekend was my cousin-friend, Donna. Laughter was contagious when we were together; we had that "ease" which comes from playing hide-and-seek and laying in the living-room floor watching "Dark Shadows," while slurping dripping DreamSicles. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But...back to the FBLA convention. That year, in addition to all the typing, filing, timed-writing, transcribing, spelling and talent contests (which, one year, Joy and I rocked by singing a duet of "<i>Killing Me Softly</i>.") Anyway...t</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">hat year...in addition to all the above, Mrs. Vogel's son (and Dawn's brother), Greg, was running for FBLA State President. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">And, the Mortimer Jordan FBLA Blue Devils were determined to secure his victory. Earlier in the week, we had gone to the Vogels' house and designed door-knob-hanging flyers that insisted "</span><b style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">VOTE FOR GREG!</b><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">" </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And, we had come up with a strategy to deliver our message to every FBLA voter in the hotel--the night before the BIG VOTE, we would disperse these victory-bringing flyers on every doorknob in that hotel. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">My partner in this campaign was Donna. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">So, with flyers in hand, we stepped off the elevator onto our designated floor. Donna went left; I went right. Because it was late, the plan was just to quietly hang </span><b style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"VOTE FOR GREG!"</b><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> on each doorknob, then meet back at the elevator.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And...things were going as planned.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Until...</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I was leaning down to hang a flyer...when...all of a sudden...the door swings open.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And...there....standing in the doorway...i</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">s a FULL-GROWN man....</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">...wearing a Little Lord Fauntleroy outfit. Here I'll just show you what I'm talking about:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsuVSNJ8muVHizq2XehyphenhyphenfqbD7a14b9GM3xmd4J-AcbI9E2x_7XMTfdu6pnxIavsFqg_9w-xfSGrwnJ1-82oCmdh66RrcDr9vqTZxj8hLyefMg77TOXwhN7BHdJmmw_ZPXyLfmeVlaGpMbv/s1600/Fauntleroy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsuVSNJ8muVHizq2XehyphenhyphenfqbD7a14b9GM3xmd4J-AcbI9E2x_7XMTfdu6pnxIavsFqg_9w-xfSGrwnJ1-82oCmdh66RrcDr9vqTZxj8hLyefMg77TOXwhN7BHdJmmw_ZPXyLfmeVlaGpMbv/s200/Fauntleroy.jpg" width="138" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">....Did I mention this man was GROWN???</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Because my eyes were already looking down at the doorknob, the first thing I noticed were his funny, pilgrim-like shoes. Then, my gaze moved upward. While trying to process what it is I'm looking at...my first thought...kid you not...is, "<i>I thought Little Lord Fauntleroy was dead</i>."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Then...after quickly making eye (and hat) contact...my brain suddenly remembers he's holding something...so my eyes dart back down to that something. But...my brain can't quite make sense of it....Well, here, I'll just show you:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3lG_DcXYp01RzSnP2HpaTkA2K58F1ylVrrjwDfnvmOyo0-Uqsceqnxlo8kG7jhtmrHRMUZbLVtbZfnrrjzCc0cMGPcigf7HZj8V47OYPweIQR7qRf2K2E_Y_njPGb9AjWmD8UTwFLDKjq/s1600/Blunderbuss+gun.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" height="197" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3lG_DcXYp01RzSnP2HpaTkA2K58F1ylVrrjwDfnvmOyo0-Uqsceqnxlo8kG7jhtmrHRMUZbLVtbZfnrrjzCc0cMGPcigf7HZj8V47OYPweIQR7qRf2K2E_Y_njPGb9AjWmD8UTwFLDKjq/s200/Blunderbuss+gun.png" width="200" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">That's right...it's a gun...a Blunderbuss gun.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And...before my brain can kick into gear...and get the heck out of "Dodge," he fires that gun!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">At me....</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And...it was <b>LOUD</b>...as in</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">...<b><i>KABOOM</i></b>...</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">As I'm standing there looking at him...thinking to myself--"<i>so this is how I die</i>"--Little Lord Fauntleroy just smiles at me and closes the door.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And...I start backing toward the wall on the other side of the hallway...holding my soon-to-be-mortal-wound...with so many thoughts swimming through my head that I can't sort them out. But, the one that keeps bobbing to the top is: "<i><b>I have to find Donna. I don't want to die alone</b></i>."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">As I'm sliding down the wall, I look to the side of the hallway where I had last seen Donna... and, there she is...trying her best to <b><i>climb the wall</i></b> at the other end. When she heard that <b><i>KABOOM</i></b>, her flight instinct must have kicked in big-time.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And...as I'm watching her...my only thought is, "<i><b>Why is she trying to climb that wall?</b></i>" </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">But what I yell instead is..."</span><b style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>Donna, I've been shot</i></b><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Only then...when I say those words...do I look down at by stomach...where that Blunderbuss was pointing...only then do I realize I'm not bleeding...that I wasn't shot after all. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">That LOUD gun wasn't even real. Only then do I start connecting the dots and realize the man who had just "shot" me wasn't </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Fauntleroy</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">. He was just some weirdo who wanted to scare the pee out of a girl whose only concern was "</span><b style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">VOTE FOR GREG!</b><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Of course...in those few seconds, Donna, had given up on climbing that wall and had come to help me. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Honestly, I don't remember much that happened after that; after all, I had just been "shot." </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">(Hopefully, Donna can fill in some of the gaps when she reads this.)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I do remember me and her sitting in that hallway...realizing we were both going to live...(and were going to need a change of underwear). And, as usual, the laughter started. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Eventually, we stood up and ran to that elevator...off that hallway...no longer even caring if the people on that floor <b>VOTED FOR GREG! </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">After we dropped by our room for that change of underwear, we decided we better find Mrs. Vogel and tell her what had happened. I don't remember much about her response. But, I do remember that those big, blue eyes of hers got a little bigger, and that peaches-and-cream complexion lost a little peach. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">In the years since, I've sometimes wondered about Little Lord Fauntleroy...WHO WAS HE?...WHERE DID HE GET A FAKE BLUNDERBUSS?...AND WHY DID HE FEEL THE NEED TO SCARE THE PEE OUT OF ME (...and DONNA)? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">By now, he has to be pretty old. I sometimes imagine him sitting in his chair, thinking back to that night...when he "shot" a chubby girl with long brown hair who was just about to hang a "VOTE FOR GREG" flyer on his doorknob. And, I imagine him chuckling at the memory.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But that's OK...I do too. So does Donna.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I've come to believe it's our scary moments...our hard times...those days when we find ourselves wishing we could climb a wall...which create the very moments when--usually later...in the "looking back"--God breaks through and whispers, "<b><i>Psssttt...See! I was right there. And just look at the story it gave you....Look at the laughter it STILL brings. Just look at the richness and color it added to the book of your life</i></b>." </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I've come to believe this is at least one meaning of His promise to "<i><b><span style="color: #990000;">turn our mourning into dancing</span></b></i>."</span><br />
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<span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i style="background-color: #b6d7a8;"><span style="font-size: 16px;">"I give you all the credit,</span><span style="font-size: 16px;"> </span><span class="small-caps" style="font-size: 16px; font-variant: small-caps;">God</span><span style="font-size: 16px;">—</span></i></b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i style="background-color: #b6d7a8;"><span style="font-size: 16px;">you got me out of that mess...</span><span style="font-size: 16px;">.</span></i></b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i style="background-color: #b6d7a8;"><span class="small-caps" style="font-size: 16px; font-variant: small-caps;">God</span><span style="font-size: 16px;">, my God, I yelled for help </span></i></b></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #b6d7a8; font-size: 16px;"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i>and you put me together....</i></b></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i style="background-color: #b6d7a8;"><span style="font-size: 16px;">All you saints! Sing your hearts out to</span><span style="font-size: 16px;"> </span><span class="small-caps" style="font-size: 16px; font-variant: small-caps;">God!</span></i></b></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #b6d7a8; font-size: 16px;"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i>Thank him to his face!</i></b></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #b6d7a8; font-size: 16px;"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i>He gets angry once in a while, </i></b></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i style="background-color: #b6d7a8;"><span style="font-size: 16px;">but across </span><span style="font-size: 16px;">a lifetime there is only love.</span></i></b></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #b6d7a8; font-size: 16px;"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i>The nights of crying your eyes out</i></b></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #b6d7a8; font-size: 16px;"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i>give way to days of laughter.</i></b></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i style="background-color: #b6d7a8;"><span style="font-size: 16px;">I called out to you,</span><span class="small-caps" style="font-size: 16px; font-variant: small-caps;">God;</span></i></b></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #b6d7a8; font-size: 16px;"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i>I laid my case before you:</i></b></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i style="background-color: #b6d7a8;"><span style="font-size: 16px;">...</span><span style="font-size: 16px;">When I’m ‘dust to dust’ </span></i></b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i style="background-color: #b6d7a8;"><span style="font-size: 16px;">my songs </span><span style="font-size: 16px;">and stories of you won’t sell.</span></i></b></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #b6d7a8; font-size: 16px;"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i>So listen! and be kind.</i></b></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #b6d7a8; font-size: 16px;"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i>Help me out of this!”</i></b></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #b6d7a8; font-size: 16px;"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i>You did it: </i></b></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i style="background-color: #b6d7a8;"><span style="font-size: 16px;">you changed (mourning) </span><span style="font-size: 16px;">into whirling dance;</span></i></b></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #b6d7a8; font-size: 16px;"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i>....I’m about to burst with song;</i></b></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #b6d7a8; font-size: 16px;"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i>I can’t keep quiet about you.</i></b></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i style="background-color: #b6d7a8;"><span class="small-caps" style="font-size: 16px; font-variant: small-caps;">God</span><span style="font-size: 16px;">, my God, </span><span style="font-size: 16px;">I can’t thank you enough."</span></i></b></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #b6d7a8; font-size: 16px;"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i>(From Psalm 30, The Message)</i></b></span></span></div>
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0